Niqab vs. Rights (Men know best)

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http://www.alarabiya.net/articles/2009/06/22/76716.html

The burka, or face covering some Muslim women wear, is "not welcome" in France because it is not a symbol of religion but a sign of subservience for women, President Nicolas Sarkozy said Monday.

"We cannot accept to have in our country women who are prisoners behind netting, cut off from all social life, deprived of identity," he said. "That is not the idea that the French republic has of women's dignity."

"The burka is not a sign of religion, it is a sign of subservience," he told lawmakers. "It will not be welcome on the territory of the French republic."

Sarkozy told a special session of parliament he was in favor of holding the inquiry sought by some French lawmakers into whether Muslim women who cover themselves fully in public undermine French secularism and women's rights.

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Really?

It's 2009. Can men please stop now? Can they? Please? And I only say this because AS A MAN YOU HAVE NO FREAKIN CLUE WHAT HOLDS ME PRISONER AND WHAT DOES NOT.

For some woman it's the constant skin show. All the beautiful people paraded out half naked on bus stops, in magazines, on the sides of buildings, in their streets. It's these people that hold them prisoners of their own body. Manifesting itself through binging, purging, starvings, laxitive abuse and taking dangerous diet compounds that can and do kill them.

For some woman it's being told that they are less then a man. Something that happens often in a country like France where most men still dont know how to cook for themselves. I know. I married a French man. Although he can cook, many do not and many still hold old outdated ideas about who does housework and why. These ideals hold them behind their potential infused with a sad meloncoly that has no specific name.

And for some it's just dealing with people who are not us telling us what is good for us. It doesnt sound like a big deal, but men take that for granted. Boy do they. In almost every single aspect of our lives we have to defend our choices and why we should have the rights to them. In our schooling if we go into a 'science' subject we get asked why we want to study that. If it concerns our uterus god knows that's up for grabs by the first hothead that happens by. If it's our choice to stay at home, be amother, or work full time...or any combination it is scrutinized. Every thing we do down to the shoes we wear to how long we choose to breastfeed is second guessed.

So pardon moi Mr. Sarkozy if I'm just a little bit sick of this shit.

I know woman who wear the Niqab (what he is refering to as the Burkha). They are halarious woman. Woman who are not subjigated and opressed, but rather, dont want you in their space. Dont want you to get to know them. Antisocial? Perhaps. But their right? ...

Well the second you start making laws on what woman can and cannot wear it is hard to see where the line blurs. Iran imposed the hijab. Woman are allowed to be angry. But a country disposing of the hijab should be what?

Why is it that unless it looks like a Western and quacks like a Western it isn't Freedom? Have we learned nothing in the past few weeks? Watching Iranian woman in full hijab kicking, marching and fighting for their rights? Taking blows from batons with as much fortitude as any man on the streets? Did we not just see this? How did the hijab make her any more opressed. How would her not wearing it, make her any less bruised from Basiji beatings?

I know the niqab and the burkha (for whatever reason) can cause heated debate amongst woman of America. But quite frankly, if you wouldn't want some old politico telling you what you can and cannot wear, I suggest you stand up for every womans right. Even if you dont understand it and even if you dont like it. Because once one domino falls, they all fall in line...  

Done with the Sqabble

LadyVi Note: I’m aware that I’ve been waxing on lately about respecting dissenting opinions. From what I can tell most of the ladies here don’t really need a lecture. But what follows is simply an extension and summation of this ongoing, never ending “culture war” and why it needs to stop sooner rather then later:

I’m a sucker for end-of-the-world movies. Zombies make #1 on that list, followed closely by Alien invasion and natural disaster. There is something terrifying and oddly cathartic about watching every social norm we know it come to a grinding halt. To watch chaos rule. And while I may have a special Netflix queue carved out on this genre, rarely do I give the hyperbole of regular life much thought.

Yet, these days, I’m starting to get a nasty nagging feeling in my gut. I’ve spent a good portion of my life studying civil strife and policy. International conflict and resolution. I can talk for days on Iraq, Israel-Palestine, the Iranian power-structure. I find it endlessly fascinating. Also fascinating? When actual experts get shot down by the much louder cry of the commentators and “journalists“.

Take 9/11 and Iraq. Anybody who knew anything about the Arab world thought linking Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein was laughable at best. For many reasons (which I wont go into here), the two had a wild dislike of each other. The idea that Hussein helped out the hijackers or that he would in any way assist Al Qaeida or the Taliban in Afghanistan is just silly.

And yet more then half of Americans at the time of the Iraq invasion believed there was a link. No actual Middle Eastern Expert had ever mused such a thing. Nobody who spoke decent Arabic, studied the inter-tribal and inter-secular politics, and followed the tension ever came to this conclusion.

So why did everybody believe it?

Prop-prop-propaganda.

Simple as that. People laugh it off these days. They really do. But they forget that every single act of genocide in the modern world begins with propaganda. Every. Single. One. Every war, every act of terrorism, every dehumanization begins at this single point. Hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians are dead from it. Too many soldiers are gone forever due to it‘s sway. And right now, in America, the propaganda from both sides is out of control.

In one corner (Should we call it the conservative corner? Okay. We will.) we have pure insanity. We have humans that are still insisting that Obama is not a US Citizen. We have people who think the End of Times is swift on it’s way. We have a group of people who think that David Letterman raping you in the mouth--literally--is equivalent to an off color joke about Our Lady Palin’s daughter. We have a group of people who show stock footage of the SS marching while discussing the President. We have commentators that refer to everybody as Nazi’s. No really. Everybody, the left, the zealot liberals are all Nazis (that’s O’Reilly by the way). We have people staging Teabagging parties, buying up all the ammo they can find, and taking vigilante shotgun blasts at old men and security guards.

In the other corner (The liberal one) we have rising levels of paranoia. A fear that they will all be mowed down by some “conservative wing nut” for drinking their imported beer. They won the last election, but for some reason need to remain on the defensive. No sitting back and relaxing. There is a revolution at hand. It involves rednecks and lots of weapons. Fox News in all it’s banality needs to be shut down. No really. Fuck free speech. Fuck it. We don’t need it. We will throw it out the window if it means silencing the Glenn Becks’ and the Limbaugh’s and the O’Reillys. Because they are important enough to compromise our freedom for. All those Wal-Mart shopping, NASCAR watching, grit eating, ignorant, racist, homophobic idiots need to disappear into the oblivion of silence.

I’ll be honest. I’m somewhere in the middle.

I hate PETA. I like to shoot guns. I want free healthcare. I think freedom of speech is one of the most sacred rights a human can have. I think people calling for any kind of censorship need to go live in a country where insulting the ’leader’ can get you jailed. No really. 5 years. Watch your mouth.

I think animals should have rights, but I will kill a thousand bunnies for an Alzheimer’s cure. I don’t believe in the death penalty but sometimes I think war is necessary. I am an unapologetic feminist, but I think many feminist views that have no relation to actual reality. I reserve the right to wear a low cut shirt and a miniskirt to the opera, but frankly, if no judgment is involved I’ll choose the standard Islamic Shalwar Khamiz (it’s like pajamas all the time!). I am pro-choice but the idea of an abortion makes me sad.

I think most humans are this complex. I think most of us have opposing viewpoints raging within our own minds. We don’t all fit into that little, uncomfortable hole. We are misshapen pegs. And it is time to stand up and tell these insane vegans, rednecks, hippies, evangelical, art-majors to shut it. Shut it up. Be done. You are not helping. Nay. You are making things worse. Fanning the flames of each other’s holy crusade.

And it slowly makes it dangerous to speak out. I consider myself more liberal, but if I’m at a party with my liberal tree-hugging friends, if I so much as mention I blow of steam at the shooting range…oh the shame. The shame. “Don’t you know guns kill people?” they say, while bumming me a cigarette. If I’m with my parents having a conservative pow-wow and I try to reason that trying to control how ‘The Gays’ express their love is not only creepy but also inevitably pointless, I get yelled at by strangers. I get told I should marry a dog. Because that’s a logical conclusion.

This intolerance is not just annoying, it is oppressive. Dissent within a party is immediately quashed. If some Republican Senator refuses to humor the fool that is Rush Limbaugh then he must apologize. If the Clintons don’t back Obama they‘re on ‘the attack‘. It creates an atmosphere where there is little safety in real, solid individual thought. Understanding, and at the very least, respecting another opinion goes the way of the dinosaurs. And I’m not talking about love-everybody-world-peace-koom-bye-ya-drum-circle-hippie-peace. I’m just talking about not screaming at another human because they don’t agree with you. Instead, actually taking the time to consider why they might think that way.

I know.

Considering other opinions.

It’s crazy talk.

This is the real tragedy.

"Smile"

"What? You can't smile"
I kept walking.
"Why don't you smile? Jesus."
I did not turn around.
"You should be grateful that you woke up today. You should feel grateful. What? You stuck up? Can't even crack a god damn smile at me you stupid..."
I turned the corner.

I had walked up behind the man sauntering along just slow enough. When I passed him he told me to smile and I responded with my best bitch face. He got angry. He yelled. I ducked into a park with a number of people standing nearby. I walked straight for the nearest coffee shop and when I got in I looked behind me. He wasn't there.

Truth is, even before I caught up to him I knew he would be trouble. Something in my intuition let me know. What, exactly, I'm not sure. It might have been the way he walked. The way I felt he could sense me behind him and he kept slowing down. Wanting me to come up next to him. Before this I had already formed a plan. The street was about to diverge. If he took one way, I'd take the other. It was the plan. But he slowed so much that without stopping altogether I'd have to keep on. So I did. So I was told to 'smile'.

Smile at the stranger, honey. Because for some reason, unless women appear pleasant at all times, we're doing something wrong. Never mind they'd never ask such a thing of a man. "Excuse me, I know you're a stranger and it's none of my business really, but the look on your face is not particularly pleasing or friendly. Change it."

Smile.

And I wanted to whirl around. Oh I wanted to yell at him, "Really? Really, you creep. You think I should look pretty and nice just for your liking? What? You think you've earned it? You think that somehow you've been given the right to tell me just how my face should look? I'm stuck up because my expression doesn't match the expectation of what you think it should? How about instead, you go fuck yourself?"

But I didn't.

And I know why. Because that's what men like him do. They use words very carefully. They try to make woman want to defend themselves. To pick a fight. To pick a conversation. To get some more time with you. To lure you into engaging with them. Where it goes from there depends on what kind of man he is...

This was a very angry man. One that didn't take kindly to woman not doing what he wanted.

I didn't want to fall into that trap. So I walked on. And checked over my shoulder for the next four blocks.

It is one thing to have a drunken frat boy tell you to smile at a party (a mild irritation). It is quite another to have an unknown man on the street get upset at you for not showing your pleasure at his advances. This is not something normal, healthy, well adjusted men do. Even if it was a lame pickup, I've never met a non-violent man who yells at strangers for not reciprocating a come on.

I walk this route at odd times. I sometimes walk it at 5am when the sun is barley out. Sometimes at 11pm after a long work day. Being a woman I never feel very safe walking the street at these times. I am not hypervigilant. But I've learned to notice when things are out of place. I've learned to not ignore that nagging feeling. I have learned that sometimes you need to stare strangers in the face and let them know that you're on to them. Let them know that you're not going to shrink if they advance. That you are not passive. Nip it in the bud.

Today I couldn't do any such thing. He was already raging. He was already on the attack. He was looking for that confrontation. And I learned my lesson for the day.

Do not, under any circumstances, ever, give them what they want.

In Defense of Judgment

Call me a CrazyPants Mcgillicutty (no really, it’s okay, you’re not the first) but I’ve begun to notice a disturbing trend in the Great Blog Empire. It is the Thou Shall Not Stand in Judgment of Me war cry. I’ve seen it on many popular sites I visit daily. A writer expresses something rather personal, a commenter says something to the effect of “this is hogwash” and suddenly the shit storm breaks and rolls in with a bang. “How DARE u judge her” and “Who do u think u are” and “stop shaming” hit’s the screen at a fevered pace. Typos, thanks to rage fueled replies, dot the page. Text writing reigns supreme…and then…the insults.

And really, why all the anger? The interwebs are made to bring together those that would have never met otherwise. And truth be told, you are not even really meeting. Just throwing a sound bite into space. And its cool. I’ve read comments that make my day. I’ve read comments that have made me spit Diet Coke at my husbands computer--thereby angering him greatly. Comments are a good thing. But why all the umbrage?

Look, if you write a personal or emotionally charged story you have to expect and give some leeway to disparaging opinions. If say, you write about abortion. It’s hot button. People have vastly different opinions. Not every woman in favor of legal abortion agrees with each other, not every human repulsed by abortion agrees with each other. It is, the nature of the beast.

In person, if you find out a friend is disgusted by abortion, and you are not, you may have a reasonable dialogue. You may talk about what made you support it’s legalization. She will then, likely, give you the reasons she does not. The conversation might be calm or it might get passionate. They may not agree with each other, but they probably they agree on many things. Contraception, sex education, or abortions to save the mother’s life. This sort of discourse brings people together. You don’t have to agree with every single freakin political issue your study-mate Dora has. You just have to respect her right to own her opinions. In essence: just because you disagree you’re not making a judgment on her soul. You are making a judgment on her opinion.

Most reasonable humans understand this and follow these basic societal norms. But on the interwebs it goes flying out the window. Any shred of understanding one might have had while sitting across from one another at the breakfast table gets swept away. Opinions are stated as facts. People will tell you that your opinion is not valid since you’ve yet to live through it. Not that they’ve formed all their opinions solely on personal experience. But still, I promise you, start a firestorm and you will be told just that.

Recently I perused Jezebel.com. I was reading an article on Dr. Tiller’s murder. It was a sad day for me. My cousin once went through a late-term abortion. She was told, 8 months along that her baby would not survive birth. If it did survive by some miracle, it’s lack of development would soon lead to death. She consulted a 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th and 5^th opinion. She talked with her parents her in-laws and her husband. They decided that rather her go through the trauma of labor, it would be better to get this procedure. It was a terrible time for the family. She was heartbroken and felt as though she carried the death of all her dreams inside her. I could not even begin to understand how heartbreaking it was.

On the way to her appointment picketers called her a murderer. Asked her why she didn’t love her baby. Meanwhile, her father-in-law was carefully dismantling her crib back home. She had her procedure and has been mending emotionally ever since. But she is relieved she didn’t have to give birth to a still born. The entire family is thankful she had the option. So the death of this man made me shake my head. It’s personal to me. His death will cause more woman more trauma in the long run. It will cause more pain to babies, not fully developed and gasping for air. The commenters on Jezebel were angry and so was I. I wanted to read some hyperbole and rants. Then in the middle of the storm one woman asked if we could not “generalize all pro-life folks because not all advocated for such a heinous crime.”

I stopped. I considered her opinion. How this might make her just as angry as it made the rest of us. I felt the need to apologize. I clicked to see the responses to her comment. “All anti-abortion people have a RESPONSIBILITY to stop these people” said one. “it’s people like you who cause the deaths of Dr’s like this” typed another. I was confused. Her request had not been out of line. I skimmed through a number of angry posts until I came upon another, “Banned. I love Hortense” (the moderator who I assume banned her).

Wow.

Banned? For asking to…not generalize? Really? Comments that followed, “Who is she to judge me and my uterus”. Yet she hadn't done any such thing. She had simply asked not to be lumped in with crazy Dr. shooting killers.  How about instead, you put away your umbrage for a second and listen. Listen. She is not advocating death, she is not involved in pickets, she is not calling you murderers and baby-haters. She is asking that you not insult an entire group of people that is vast and varied. Much like the pro-choice movement should expect not to be sweepingly generalized.

I sent her a personal message but I doubt she’ll ever get it. Then, a week later, I was banned. I’d gone and disagreed too. Passed an inappropriate judgment. But at this point I had ceased to care. What once was a place of hilarious commentary on ridiculous postings had turned creepy and cruel. I had seen the ugly side and I was none too pleased. Which is not to say that many of the woman on there aren’t still hilarious. There were plenty of people that didn’t call names, that didn’t judge so harshly. Who are still making hilarious puns and excellent points. But to silence woman who dissent is just so…anti-intellectual.

They don’t want that input unless it lines up. It is not our place to put our judgment onto stories they choose to share. Onto thoughts they elect to make public.

Except that it is.

And we can live in happy, snuggle land where humans do not judge other humans, and all opinions line up with the status quo (although this would be a tad dull). Where we do not shame other’s personal choices and ask hard questions. But this isn’t reality. When you share something, personal, hot button or emotional with complete strangers you can expect a response. And you can expect it wont all be kind or forgiving.

Rather then go ballistic when somebody poses a contrarian idea, it might be more proactive to, say, I duno…grow a thicker skin? Because the world is not always a place of Law and Order, Diet Coke and cigarettes (my idea of a fantastic night in). Sometimes it’s mean and judgmental and harsh. And more often then not, you’re going to have to suck it up and deal with it. Rather then creating a continually outraged society it might serve us better to learn that there are a lot of assholes out there. More often then not, we are those assholes. And it’s okay. The world has existed in this way since the dawn of time. As long as humans roam it will continue in its grand tradition of dickishness.

We could cry, we could ban, we could freak the freak out and hold grudges against screenames. Or we can just relax. It’s a blip in cyber world*. It’s not going to make the news. It’s not going to make the rounds. It’s okay to judge. It is okay to react. In fact, it’s downright normal. Even…human.

*which is not to say I don’t appreciate all comments on my little page. I love them. Even when they don‘t agree.

Repose

It was a hushed interlude. Before the sun had risen, before the prayer sounded. It was a time when stars still played in their navy blue sky. When a thin, slick wetness covered the earth. No lights shone through windows, no men walked down the dusty streets. At her perch, the fresh air bathed over her face as she quietly sat, looking out over the expansive neighborhood.

She savored these pre-dawn moments. Before the muezzin called the adhan. Before the most devout of men shuffled, half asleep, but full of devotion, through the streets on the way to the mosque. Before the scrap collectors began roaming by, yelling for housewives to bring out their unused wares. Before the children went racing out of their homes, meeting up with their friends and lining up for classes, singing the their daily anthems to their teachers. Before the motorbikes began zipping through narrow streets and the dull roar of traffic drowned out the birds. Before music blasted from balconies, accompanying woman during their daily chores. Before the sound of clamoring pots came from the room below, beckoning her to join.

Now was the time for her and the world to stay still. It felt decadent. As if she was the only witness to this breathtaking spectacle. The only one left on earth who could enjoy this moment wide awake. To smell the sweet scent of the hard, baked earth rising up and mingling with the sticky sweet stench of fruit and garbage. Not unpleasant and immediately identifiable. The smell meant she had returned. Back to the land of dates and sun. Tunics and scorpions. Donkeys and taxies, hijabs and abayas, gold and spice. Roasted meats and tomato salad.

She knew that sometime around seven, she‘d make her way downstairs to the house matriarch, Hanan. Together they would set out bread, jam, butter, hot milk, olives, coffee, dates and tea. They’d turn on the television and slowly and gently wake up the household. Family would shamble in one by one. All ready to eat quietly. “Sabah al Khier” they’d mumble half asleep, kissing her on the cheeks. She would wish them a good morning back. Then wait and watch as he strolled in last. Self assured, and full of smiles. He’d flop down on he cushions, rest his elbow on his knee and leisurely pop olives into his mouth.

He would smile at her. A secret smile. One that said “I missed you”. One she construed as such. But before she could relax in his company he would be off to work. She and Hanan would bring the platters back to the kitchen. Sweep the floor mats, brush the cushions. Turn on Emeriti soap operas and gossip about the neighborhood.

They’d bathe. The house had no hot water, but they made due mixing boiling with cold, sitting over the drain in the bathroom, and rinsing themselves. Hanan would busy herself with lunch. Preparing for her husband to return, her daughters to come in from classes. Meanwhile she’d watch programming, read a book, sew some clothes with one moment in mind. When he would get home from work.

Lately a pattern had developed. He’d get home, change, eat and ask her to accompany him outside. The household would smile. She was a distant cousin, with no blood relation to the man. They encouraged the match, nudging them closer together at frequently attended birthday parties. After the cake and presents, when the night would dissolve into Arab Pop beats and sugar-high dancing. Once they even got him to grab her hand and spin her around. Embarrassed, she nonchalantly let go and locked arms with a sister-in-law.

 On his motorbike they’d swerve and dodge and fly through the city. Her body close to his she’d watch old veiled woman make their way home, street performers practicing their art, and young men lounging on sidewalks.

Tourist buses, taxis, private vehicles and hundreds of other bikes roared all around them. Inches from her leg a giant wheel began to turn, then he’d cut left through the main square and past the food stalls. The smoke and lights rising high into the night sky, music blaring. Sometimes they’d stop for tea and sit for a while in the main medina. He’d look for music, she’d wax on about the differences between her present stay and her homeland. Their conversations came easily.

Then it was back on the motorbike and through the streets. Passing orange blossoms, fountains, palm trees, beggars, mosques, hotels, boutiques, olive trees, winding in and out of ancient city walls. The wind in her hair, leaning against his back, she felt alive. Every second seemed exiting and full of adventure. More roads, more turns of the motorbike. More time to stay in this country and live this life her grandparents had left behind so many years ago.

 Back at the house, she’d go to her room, he’d go to his. She’d fall asleep full of young thoughts. Girlish thoughts. On love and life and all the possibilities therein. Unaware and sedated to a reality that would eventually hit. One that would come like a typhoon and render quiet her fool’s paradise. But it wouldn’t come tonight. And so she dreamed.

 Pre-dawn arrived. The air became damp and fresh as she began to stir. Sitting up on her mattress she opened the window, pulled back the shutters and looked out over the neighborhood. The air felt new, the sky clear, the breeze so cool against her face. It was her moment. Her stillness. Her solitude from which she would one day draw enough strength to admit defeat. But today was not a day of endings. It was one to be savored. Stars danced, dew fell, prayer was sung, and soon the sun crept up on the horizon. She watched as it dripped the rose garden, the boulevard, the school, the mosque and the dun colored homes in it’s warm honey glow. And somewhere beneath her, the clamoring of pots.

The Joy of Women's Work Part Deux

Welcome back to the second segment of Women's Work! Here I shall be celebrating the various chores that are traditionally that of the ladies.  
 
For those that are new here is a quick recap: 
 
I've grown up with a rather comfortable existence. Lately I've found myself with more days off then days on. Not really too troubling as my job is just a layover on my way to Paris. However, it has left me with an awful lot of free time and not a lot of money to spend.  
 
It got me thinking, back in days of yore woman didn't have all this time (babies or not) to be watching A Haunting or Millionaire Matchmaker on the television. Rather, they did chores. We essentially do the same stuff they did today, only we've made it uber-efficiant through technology.  
 
I'm stripping it away.  
 
It's time to revisit the world of my grandmothers... 
 
Experiment #1: Gardening 
 
I live in a rather cramped apartment in the big city. There is not much here in the way of gardens. But I have a fire escape and some pots and some dirt. We're going gardening.  
 
To educate myself before this descent into leafy madness I visited the greenhouse at the University of Washington. My younger brother is a student (and avid gardner) so we planned a day and schlepped along for a botany class. 
 
As it turns out, there are a lot of plants out there. We visited the orchids, the tropical, sub tropical, arid and other various rooms. Each containing the most interesting of plants. And spiders. Eeeeek. I saw one hanging from a Banana tree. I screamed and ran. My brother couldn't stop laughing. This is when I knew: Gardening and me were about to have a Clint Eastwod style showdown. Because this apartment isn't big enough for arachnids. 
 
After my lesson in watering, times of day and how often to do it, my brother and I went to the nursery and he helped me pick out 4 easy-peasy plants. 
 
We potted them and watered them and stuck them out on my balcony for the day, but, he warned me, I needed to take them in at night. 
 
I am not pleased to report this: They have all died. 
 
Final Score: F 
 
Pro: They are pretty and they make your fire escape look wonderful. If you have a green thumb it is well worth while. 
 
Con: I am really inconsistent with plants. Turns out, I can kill a cactus. 
 
This was, indeed, a disheartening experiment to say the least. For my second I decided to go with something a little bit easier and a lot more super delicious. 
 
Experiment #2: Cake from Scratch 
 
Did you know that cakes are not from scratch if they come from a box? Apparently there is a group of humans out there who actually take the time to make a cake from little more then free floating materials in their kitchen. I thought I'd give it a go. 
 
First on my list: grocery store. I had to find this thing they call 'shortening'. Oh no. I'm not joking. This word was alien to me. On the list: shortening and cocoa and soda and sour milk.  
 
Disclaimer: part of womens work means using no new technological advances. When making a cake, this will kill your arms. 
 
So I'm in my kitchen, I'm sitting on the floor (don't worry, I cleaned it) and I have my ingredients. And I put the sugar, eggs and shortening in a bowl. And then I began to beat.  
 
And beat. 
 
And beat. 
 
Add cocoa. Yum. No really, it made my mouth water. Add some soda, add some sour milk, boiling water, flour, blah blah blah. And beat. 
 
And beat. 
 
And beat. 
 
This is truly a labor of love. I can see now, why people in these olden times did not get so fat. Making sweets is a pain in the ass. Hell, just stirring will cause you to loose more calories then you will inevitably ingest. Eventually a nice, rich, creamy consistency is formed and I'm having a hard time not just eating the batter and saying 'screw it' to the cake. 
 
But I'm on a mission. So I pour it in the pan, heat the oven, and bake it. 
 
My husband comes home, is delighted and offers to make dinner. 
 
Final Score: A++ 
 
Pro: Good arm exerciser, delicious cake, delicious cake, super delicious cake. Happy husband, happy wife.  
 
Con: none. 
 
After my yummy (new weekly ritual) cake I pondered just what I could do next. I needed something a little more relaxing. Something that conjured up images of my Grandma sitting around telling me gossip about the neighbors. I thought about baking rolls but I recently experimented with bread. 
 
Then it struck me. 
 
Experiment #3: Knitting 
 
So. My dear knitting needles. We meet again. I had bought a 'learn to knit' kit years ago. Since that time it has been collecting dust in my closet. I vaguely remember spending about 5 minutes trying to learn and then rolling my eyes and grabbing a beer. 
 
Not this time. I have determination on my side. I hasten to the Internet. Surely there are online tutorials! I grab my sticks. I grab my yarn. It's go time. 
 
How to create a slip knot: It took me 3 different YouTube tutorials until I found one I liked and understood. Yarn. It's so...easy to confuse. Eventually I get it, and I feel stupid. I know how to do a slip knot. Everybody does! They just don't know they know...silliness. 
 
How to cast on: Ack! Am i doing it right? I cannot tell! It doesn't look like the tutorials cast ons. Color me confused. But never fear--the Internet is full of people just itching to teach you stuff. I find a version (I think it's called sling back or kite or some mess) and it seems easy enough. Hold the yarn in your hand between your thumb and forefinger. Send the needle under the yarn by the thumb, under the yarn by the finger and pull it through the hole. Brava! 
 
Knitting stitches: Holy cajoles Batman. Knitting is not for the easily confounded. I watched every tutorial I could find. I tried so many times to get it. I yelled "What the hell!" so loud in my empty apartment my dog barked and my neighbor pounded on the wall. Bah. This is just ridiculous.  
 
Then. I hear the chant: Cross behind, bring it under and up. Son of a...I'm knitting! it's like magic just happened right here in my hands. It was amazing. Suddenly I'm going to town. By the time my husband comes home I've knit us a brand new pot holder. Hurray! 
 
Next day I could not get enough of this knitting. I researched techniques and trial. I dedicate myself to learning to purl, apparently the opposite of the knit stitch. 
 
So if you knit stitch then purl you get this beautiful flat looking weave. I work at it, I work at it.  
 
2 days later my husband has a pretty blue scarf and I have new pride. 
 
I am currently working on a similar scarf for my mother. 
 
Final Score: A- 
 
Pros: It's like meditation. You can do it while watching TV, it's relaxing, it's fun, and you see the fruits of your labor. Plus you can custom design your own accessories. That by itself is amazing. 
 
Con: Tricky at first, and your hands can start to ache. 
 
So ended my second escapade into the world of Traditional Ladies Chores. So far I feel incredibly more self reliant. I can knit a scarf! Next week who knows what! I can make cake from scratch. And it is actually fairly cost efficient when you compare it to boxed cake. Pssst, it actually tastes better too. 
 
And I've learned that plants are not to be trusted in my care. 
 
I'm finding these experiments not only encourage self growth but also are stretching my dollar. Dollars I'll need when I visit thrift shops in Paris. 
 
So feel free, fellow ladies, to give ideas for upcoming experiments. I always look forward to a challenge. 
 
Until next time. 

Dear Dick

Dear Mr. Dick Cheney,

That will be quite enough.

No really. It's time.

Look, I could understand your constant critique of President Obama if say, I don't know, you were a popular man. If your choices in the past 8 years were heralded as a success. If you hadn't helped drive this country into the ground in every conceivable way.

But here is the thing, and I'm doing my best to be polite here, but really, fuck it. Fuck it. You aren't really worth that much self restraint.

You lied. You lied to the American people about Al Qaeda link with Bin Laden. You lied about weapons of mass destruction. You lied when you proclaimed Iraq any sort of real threat. You lied when you said we weren't using torture. You lied when you swore to uphold the Constitution, you lied when you called America safer the it was before, and you lied about your involvement with the Attorney General and you lied about our safety while slowly striping American citizens of their rights.

And here is the kicker: You were never really in charge. Nope. You were the second hand man to a poor inept choice for leadership. In other words: You were never the President.

So after all this why on earth would you think your thoughts on 'security' would be in any way pertinent. In any way equal to that of our current elected administration.

You.

It's almost laughable. Your vision of security is torture (masquerading under the ridiculous stage name of "harsh interrogation techniques"). Torture that is being leaked in pictures and personal accounts throughout the Middle East. 'Techniques' that are taking young sixteen year old boys-- who's main interests revolve around cars, cell phones, and pop music-- and turning them into burgeoning terrorists.

Young men who really just want what everybody wants. Some money, a nice house, and nice people to share it with. Your actions took these men and filled them with more and more reasons to hate America. You poured salt on a giant wound, oil on a fire, and then rubbed cayenne peppers on their burning flesh.

Obama is a man who decided that rather then torture and create more holes in our policies, we will instead, mend. We will close Guantanamo Bay (a lawless prison with a laughable conviction rate), we will stop torture, we will refuse to be no better then those involved in this worldwide insurgency.

And you are doing what? Trying to go head to head with him on security? Please. Do yourself a favor and retire to Florida. Because if you think that anybody wants to hear what you have to say anymore you are wrong.

Rather, you are being humored. Like the old bitter crusted over scab that you have become. The Republican Party is deferring to you for no other reason then they have nobody else to turn to. I mean, after you who is left? Limbaugh? So in this corner we have a bitter old man who shoots his friends in the face, and in the other corner a drug addicted hypocrite.

The pickins are indeed, very slim. Again, this can be rendered back to your administrations dangerously inept policies on...well...actually... everything.

You eschewed science out of contempt and malice. You created a firestorm the Middle East has not seen for decades and you dishonored what it is to be an American citizen.

The practicality of torture is not even up for debate. Every single major intelligence agency in the world has voiced how it leads to little besides false confessions and political turmoil. Oh sure, some archaic governments still practice it regularly. But I want this country to be better then that. I want this country to rise above the basest instincts of war. It is the reasons these rules of warfare were created in the first place.

You, Mr. Cheney, have encroached on my rights. You have encroached on my uterus. You have encroached on my familial lands and now you are encroaching on an administration that was elected for the sole reason is that it is nothing like yours.

Go away. It is time. We do not need your guidance. We do not need your input. We need you to shrivel up with your rancid outdated ideas and leave us the hell alone.

In summation, Mr. Cheney, for the good of America and for the good of the world it is time to, quite simply, shut the fuck up.

Sincerely,

LadyVi

Plan B: Your Daughters in Peril!

Oh dear, it's happening again, again, again. Another misinformed man is commenting on woman's issues. Today's out-of-my-depth-commenter comes from CNN. Mike Galanos letting you in on Plan B and the dangers of letting 17 year olds have this "powerful drug". Shall we begin our skewering? Yes, yes I think we shall.

Mr. Galanos says:

Think of a 17-year-old girl. Most of the time she's a high school senior, still living at home with Mom and Dad. She still needs her parents in the tough times

Okay, Mike, you asked for it. Let us think of a 17 year old girl. Having been one myself, darling, I can assure you that if a condom broke when I was with my boyfriend I didn't need my Mom and Dad. No. I needed the pharmaceutical counter at Fred Meyers. In fact, the LAST thing I needed was my mom and dad weighing in on it. See my mom, a feminist from the 60's, would have certainly supported my decision.

However, my father would have given me a long lecture on the right to life. See, Mike, parents are often conflicted on these things themselves. Now imagine, because that's all you can do, being a 17 year old girl and dealing with two ‘role models' who cannot even begin to agree with each other on the situation. More confusing, more traumatizing? You bet. Especially considering that at 17 I was already sure on what my stance was on this whole ‘reproductive rights' business. Yep. Shocking as it may seem, I had already formed my own opinion on these types of matters. Did I need Mommy and Daddy's input? Not so much.

Furthermore we need to address the fact that not every child has rational and supportive parents. Many, many children live in fear of their parent or parents abusing them physically, emotionally and sexually. In fact, what makes you think that Plan B wouldn't be needed to stop a pregnancy brought on by incest? It's not fun to think about and it is sad beyond worlds. But it is a reality. So much so that it's one of the reasons we've waived the parent's right to know regarding abortions. To disregard this reality for thousands of young woman out there is disingenuous but worse than that, it's dangerous.

Mr. Mike goes on:

Some forms of birth control that require a prescription have levonorgestrel, while Plan B has significantly more of the synthetic hormone. Do we really want our daughters putting something like this in their bodies without a doctor? I still want Mom and Dad in on this.

Doctors around the world have studied the effects of Plan B on many different age groups. It has been carefully tracked and results tabulated. The findings? The danger of Plan B is on par with that of Theraflu. Sorry, Galanos, but I don't really think this one is up for much debate. It's just not a very dangerous drug. Sure it can cause a headache, maybe even nausea. But that's about it. I know. I've taken it. And while it's a pain in the ass, expensive, and not a lot of fun, I have more qualms about taking Advil PM.

And I understand wanting to be ‘in' on what's going on with your daughter. The best way to insure this is to create a bond of trust and open communication with your child. This way they'll feel like they can come to you and discuss these issues. But be aware that young women keep their fair share of secrets. It's the nature of the beast. If this makes you uncomfortable might I suggest not having children.

Let's not stop him here though:

Some argue that a girl can get an abortion without parental notification in some states, so why not Plan B? But just because those states got it wrong by leaving parents out of the loop doesn't mean others should follow suit. And the larger point is, society must help parents, not undermine their rights by keeping them in the dark on their child's life-changing decision.

Oh Mike. Don't you understand? Not all parents are of the modern Disney-Channel variety. Some parents are bad. Some parents cannot be trusted. And some parents NEED to be kept in the dark about their child's life changing decisions.

Furthermore children make life changing decisions without their parents all the time, starting early on in life. It's part of growing up. I'm sorry that scares you, but it's the way life tends to go.

But do tell me more:

 when we are cutting a doctor out of the decision to administer a powerful drug. Timing is essential to the drug's effectiveness, Plan B supporters say, so getting parents and doctors involved would unnecessarily delay the teen's ability to pop the pill the "morning after." Does it really take that long to get a prescription?

You have health insurance don't you Mike? Yes I bet you do. And to answer your question, it depends on the State. I was lucky enough to grow up in Washington State. A place that tends to trust woman when it comes to that whole ‘preventing pregnancy' thing. I was able to get birth control from the local woman's clinic at 16. I was also able to get Plan B there. When I was 18 I was able to buy it at the Pharmacy.

Let me also tell you this little tidbit: Once upon a time I lived in an Islamic police state. Yep. Sure did. And guess what? In said Islamic police state I was able to buy birth control over the counter without a doctor's prescription. That's right. The powers that be trust woman to make the right decision regarding their bodies MORE in these countries then in America. Swish that around in your mouth a little bit. Let the full implications of that hit you.

Back on track thought. Children, Plan B, Parents, Scare Tactics!

Don't tell me high school dynamics won't play in here. The boyfriend will talk his girlfriend into unprotected sex with the promise of buying the "morning after pill" the next day. Any 17-year-old boy will be able to buy this drug, just as any 17-year-old girl will.

Yes, this could encourage unprotected sex and that means a greater risk for sexually transmitted diseases.

Boys will talk girls into unprotected sex for many reasons. They have been doing so long before Plan B was available and my guess is they'll be doing so long after. They best thing you can do is support sex education in schools and also take steps to make sure your daughters understand that no condom means no sex. This may induce a few cringe-worthy conversations with the kid. But trust me, the reasons young girls don't insist boys wrap it up has very little to do with Plan B and  A LOT to do with not empowering them with the strength to ...wait for it...DEMAND a man do something for them.

What about the 17-year-old girl who may get Plan B for her 15-year-old sophomore friend? These are the kind of decisions high school girls will make.

Korman didn't stop there. He asked the FDA to consider making Plan B available to girls of any age. That's a slippery slope and what's worse, the ones who will fall are our daughters.

Probably will happen? In fact, it happened when I was in school. 18 year olds go to High School too. Has there been a rash of Plan B related deaths? Nope. Okay then.

And hold the phone: the ones who will fall are our daughters? Really? Being in charge of their bodies is a ...negative? I don't think so. What will actually destroy your daughters is the idea that they must have sex to be popular. That saying ‘no' isn't an option. That without sex appeal they have no appeal. That when it comes to needs they must put guys they like ahead of theirs. That will make your daughter die a slow death of self loathing. Plan B will create a bond between her decisions and her body. And yet this is your scapegoat?

Think of a 14-year-old girl taking Plan B without the love, support and guidance of parents and without the medical supervision of a doctor. Yes, teens have sex and difficult situations will arise, but should we open the door for our girls to go through this alone? That is not what is best for our daughters.

 STOP. Stop telling me what is best for all daughters. Because, quite frankly, you have no idea. I am sorry for the hundreds of thousands of men out there who have little insight into the intricacies of being a woman.  Truly I wish you did have more firsthand knowledge. But it is obvious you do not.  You are infantilizing woman. A seventeen year old is not a ten year old.

A seventeen year old girl is mere months away from being able to pick up a gun, be shipped to a foreign land, and kill strangers. She is mere months away from voting, from renting her own apartment, or going away to college. They are not little girls and it is about time we start treating them accordingly

.And Perhaps, just perhaps, if we start giving these woman a chance to make adult decisions with information, certainty and knowledge about their bodies, they can go out into the world much more prepared for the gamut of problems and issues that will most certainly come at them.

Think of a 17 year old girl...indeed.

You can read the column here:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/04/30/galanos.plan.b/index.html

Eight Ways the Maxim Editor Missed the Point

Sometimes, to spice up an afternoon, I’ll occasionally suffer fools. Today that fool is Keith Blanchard former Maxim editor (for 4 years, guys!). He decided to use MSNBC as a platform in which to tell the world just what he has (not) learned about woman! Oh fun! Note: there where 9 but they didnt all fit on the page. I took out the least insideous ones. Allthough still worth berating.

Shall we get started?

“Women like when you play with their hair. 

Not while she's in the front seat reasoning with the state trooper, maybe … but during sex for sure. This female-only erogenous zone is news to most guys. (For us, hair is nothing but a nuisance.) Men who figure this out, and learn to run their fingers through her tresses, can log major brownie points. And here's the key: They don't tell other guys, because that would give up a competitive advantage. If you don't say something — or at least coo invitingly when his fingers accidentally stumble through your hair — odds are he'll go to his grave never knowing.”

Men do too know. Not only do they know they like it too. I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t like their hair washed or stroked in some way. To act as though this is a news-worthy revelation is just silly. Silly and banal. After four years this is the opener to the grand speech on woman and their wants? Color me unimpressed.

“Arguments are ALWAYS about the relationship.

When it comes to fighting, women get a bad rap for being irrational and melodramatic. The real problem? Men foolishly think the thing you're mad about is the thing you SAID you were mad about. Let's say he's once again left his dirty socks on the floor. A 4-year-old girl would recognize you're steamed because he's taking you for granted. But an adult male will take you at your word. And — stay with me — if he thinks you're complaining about the socks, well, jeez, what kind of nagging, shrieking harpy are you? Do you want me to pick up the goddamn socks — is that it?

Men should figure out what the argument’s REALLY about BEFORE opening their big fat mouths, yes, but we almost never do. I know you're all holding out for us to magically develop intuition just because we love you, like the romantic leads do in the movies, but in the real world, that is a fantasy. Be direct and precise when expressing your frustration with guys and it will yield better results. Aww … isn't that sweet? "

What? That is….sweet? Hold the phone Mr. Love Doctor, it’s not sweet. It’s stupid. Not to mention the nice little backhanded compliment in there? “Men foolishly think the thing you’re mad about is the thing you SAID you where mad about”. Hahahaha! Get it? It’s your fault. You aren’t being direct. Nevermind that a grown man should be able to pick up his own shit. Nevermind that it’s annoying when somebody expects you to be not only their nanny but their lover and their partner and also their maid…never mind that. We should say it clearer. Oh! Because I guess expecting a fully functional adult is out of the question…

“Women have a raw deal.

This will sound like I'm just sucking up, but I'm not. We actually catalogued the details in one of the earliest Maxim pieces, “50 Reasons It’s Great To Be a Guy.” You know: “you don’t have to carry a purse around,” and “just one mood, all month long, ha ha!” and so on. Well, as the guys brainstormed, our list kept growing (“haircuts are cheaper!” and “more pay for the same work!” and “nobody is ever, ever looking at your ass!”) and it started to dawn on us that this wasn’t just a funny conceit: Biology and society have conspired to stack the deck unfairly against the fairer sex in dozens of ways. So, uh … sorry.”

Hold the phone. We have a ‘raw deal?’ because we have to carry a purse? Because we want better haircuts? Because you honestly think you’re not moody creatures (hah!)? And the fact that you think equal pay for equal work is even kind of the same as ‘carrying a purse’ shows just how ill thought out Maxim’s ‘lists’ are.  And I’m sorry but did I read that correctly? We are NOT looking at male asses? This reeks of that whole ‘pure female’ bullhonkey that tends to pollute men into a creepy Madonna/Whore complex. Oh we are checking out asses allright. Probably not yours, but if you think David Beckham or Antionio Bandaras isn’t oogled you are sadly mistaken.

And sure, woman have a raw deal in some places, but a fantastic deal in others. For instance, I would never want my most precious reproductive organ hanging precariously outside of my body all unprotected and soft.  Nor would I want to be as emotionally turbulent as a male, because, psssst! Anger is an emotion. To top that off I would hate to have to have such a fragile definition of my sexuality and perceived importance that I felt the need to defend and flaunt and tout it at all times. Sorry, fellas, but that sounds exhausting. And here is to disingenuous apologies. So, uh…sorry.

“Women want a simple, clean apology.

Men feel an aching need, when apologizing, to tell you WHY they screwed up, incorrectly assuming this information will be of some interest to you. But women interpret this as waffling; they think the guy’s trying to say: “Here’s why it’s not really my fault.” Mitigating factors can come later, maybe, but only after a solid, clean, “I’m sorry” with no strings attached. On average, it takes men seven years and three relationships to learn this one on their own. To speed up the process, be blunt: Cut him off and say “Could you just apologize? For once?” He might get mad, but you’re already fighting, so who cares; he really will start to absorb this once it’s brought to his attention. "

Totally. Who even cares about learning to argue like adults or opening the lines of communication. We are feminazi boner killers and we just prefer to cut a man off (figuratively) and demand an insincere apology. Because woman are so incredibly vapid and shallow that it makes us feel better. Hurray us!

“Women don’t believe men’s wandering gaze is innocent.

Sure, you understand the argument that men are natural-born hunters, with biological needs that require us to peruse the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. You just don't believe it. So when you're out to dinner with a guy and glance up from the menu to catch him watching the mini-skirted waitress wriggle a coffeepot off the top shelf, you don't get how innocent this really is, because there is no hardwired female equivalent. I think in this case guys should stop trying to explain dogs to cats, and simply work harder not to get caught. And if you do catch him, really? All this proves is that he's truly, deeply heterosexual, and unlikely to hit you with a nasty identity surprise three days before your wedding. "

I’m so grateful my husband is so straight he looks at ass on a regular basis. How incredibly lucky I am to know that I won’t have to worry about him running off with his friend Mike. Hurray my marriage! OR maybe I could just hope for a guy who has the tact to not stare at Brandi Big Titts while I’m celebrating my raise or crying over my stupid boss.

And also let it be noted that almost every woman deals with a wandering eyeball now and then. Most of the time we don’t even say anything. But when you’re stupid enough to be embarrassingly obvious expect a verbal smackdown. If that’s a problem, well, perhaps sunglasses or not being in a couple would do the trick.

“Women dress up for their girlfriends, not for us.

Consider: All women are crazy for nice shoes … yet no self-respecting straight guy has ever noticed anything below his date's knee. The conclusion is inevitable. When a girl unbuttons her top two shirt buttons, that's for me, but everything else is for the ladies. Women can be highly critical of one another ("Is it just me or has Lois gained weight?" "What's Janet thinking with that TMI skirt?") and so have to remain cosmetically vigilant at all times. So keep asking us how we like this sweater or these pants or whatever if it amuses you to watch us squirm, but please know you're not really getting a second opinion; you're getting your own opinion reflected back in what he thinks you want to hear. If it were up to us you would just be naked, all the time. Honestly, seriously.”

Consider: I actually have a couple friends who aren’t too big on the shoes front. I also have friends that are much crazier on the purse front or the astrophysics front. Funny how people are different and stuff? I mean, with all those woman around imagine there being variation? What? That makes Maxim readers hurt in the head a little? Awww…poor dears.

Also something to take into consideration: I dress for myself.

“ For women, no date is over until they’ve shared it with their friends.

This is not trivial. Her girlfriends are sure to grill her in the morning — and their opinion matters. And a pleasant, unremarkable date does not a story make. The advice Maxim gave guys was: Make sure, at some point in the evening, to provide her with some heroic conversational hook she can breathlessly convey in the AM. ("He picked a fight with the maitre d' because he didn't hold the door open for me!!") Otherwise, she's left with "I mean, it was good, he was nice," and her friends will shrug, and she'll start rethinking your interestingness, and before you know it the whole thing will collapse like a soufflé baking on a firing range.

So ladies, if you like a guy and the date is heading down a boring path through no fault of his, feel free to step in and throw a wrench in the works just to see what he'll do. If he duds out it's better to find out sooner, and if you DO end up together, your "first date" story is going to live forever … so it'll strengthen your memoirs to make it a good one. "

After my first date with my now husband I remember that next breathless morning. Where I gushed to my friends about his love for travel and gin. Or wait…actually truth be told I had a much more How I Met Your Mother/ Barney Stinson approach. I called my friend the next day after getting off work and said something along the lines of “Guess who got lucky? What uuup!”

In fact, I remember no remarkable heroic story. Shucks. I don’t even remember him picking a stupid fight! Does this mean our date never ended? Because that is something then isn’t it?

“Women don’t want you to fix it; they want you to shut up and sympathize first.

Men suck at listening because we always try to skip ahead and solve your problem, like filling in the end of a stutterer's sentence. Why? Because we assume that's what you want. Sympathy is alien to us; no guy ever brings up a problem out loud (sign of weakness) unless he is asking for answers. So when you say, "This girl at work is such a bitch to me every day…" to us it has the urgency of "Honey, my car is broken down on I-35 and it's raining and this cell phone's about to die." So we jump up and throw the toolbox in the car; it's hard for us to absorb that all you want is, "You must feel so wet and frustrated! How's your hair holding out?"

Actually no. If I’m stuck on the side of a freeway and my cell phone is about to die I want my husband to throw the toolbox in the car and come get me. Absolutely. Right now.l End of discussion.

Le Sigh. I wish it wasn’t so easy. I wish he could make it harder to question and roll my eyes at all his ‘advice’. I wish that he would put more insight into his writing because this kind of banality is only okay for a school newspaper. I wish one day that somebody who wrote or worked for Maxim could actually surprise me with their ‘thoughtful insights’. But more than that, I wish he would stop spreading such trash and inaccuracies to men who might actually be interested in how woman work.

The Joy of Woman's Work

I have always been a very independent type lady. I’m none too fond of not having my own checking account. Money that is all mine that I get to say what happens to it. It’s about the most awesome thing on earth: being able to really take care of yourself, and not only that, treat yourself. This weekend I went out and bought myself a brand new wedding ring. It suits me more than a band. It’s not traditional, but it has a large jagged amethyst cutting through brown and white diamonds and I like it a lot so there. And…wait for it…it’s my money and I’m a’gonna do what I want with it.

Yet, as I mentioned in an earlier post, my hours at work have been cut in half. I am now a part-time worker. It’s not a big deal financially. I still have money and my hubby works and we’re by no means hurting. I can still make my half of rent. I can still spend my money on my diet coke habit. We will be fine.

But it’s left me with a lot of time to ‘look after the home’. This has put me in an interesting paradox. I am not the type to sit on my ass all day long. I am bound to do something, walk around the city or work out or clean like a crazy lady. Stuck at home for 3-4 days at a time, I’ve found myself wondering just how woman in the days of yore handled it. Without kids, without real work….how on earth do you get through day after day just…cleaning?

I mean, it takes me 2 hours tops to do the dishes and do the laundry and clean the bathroom and vacuum the rug and wash the dog…that still leaves me 4 hours to do my makeup put on a dress and fix a lovely gin and tonic for my husband when he walks through the door (HA! He would die if I did that. Literally die right in the doorway).

But that’s all with the help of modern convenience.  Sure if you’re using a machine to clean a rug it will go fast. And sure, if you’re buying your bread then a sandwich takes no time at all to make!  But what if you’re not? What if suddenly, things reverted back to the days of olden times? What if I ditched all those fancy machines? Then how much time would it take to do such chores?

Being a lady of experiments (you should have seen my baking soda volcanoes, for real) I decided to take on this challenge. I’m calling it the Bored Housewife’s Guide to Homemaking Olden Style:

Experiment #1: Baking Bread:

I ventured to my local supermarket to buy the flour and the yeast. The cashier asked me if I had a bread machine because apparently they have other types of bread flour that are for bread machines or something like that. I tell him no. Today I’m using these machines (I then held up my hands). He did not seem even mildly amused but I couldn’t help but snort laugh. It was a rocky start.

I remember watching woman in my family making bread. I know how it works. So I put the hot water in the bowl and the yeast in the hot water and stir and stir. Add 1 cup of flour. Stir. Stir. Add next cup of flour…stir stir. And I noticed a light sweat was forming on my brow. Good times! Working out and creating carbs. Fantastic.

So I add it all and it forms a dough. And let me tell you something right now: I have yet to find a more satisfying way of getting out my aggression (especially towards that unfriendly grocery clerk) then punching dough. It was fantastic. Slapping it down on the table, rolling it, punching it, picking it up, slapping it around a little. Kinda perverse actually but I think in a mostly healthy way.

So then I put the bread in a big bowl and cover it and let it sit for an hour. I watch some Melrose Place. It’s a good one. Allison totally married Brook’s father on the rebound and he is obviously some kind of crazy dude. Who gets mad on their honeymoon anyway?

So the bread rises just as it’s supposed to. So I take it out and slap it around a little more. About 5 minutes. Then I put it in the ‘baking pan’ and cover it and let it sit for another hour. I watch A Haunting on Discovery Channel. I’m scarred for life when it comes to shower curtains…

It has risen! I set the oven, stick the bread in and it bakes and smells DELICIOUS. I eat some of it, also very delicious.

Final Score: B

Pros: Takes time, good arm exercise, gets out aggression, makes house smell good, delicious warm bread.

Cons: A lot of down time between bread risings. Kinda dull.

Experiment #2: Doing the Laundry:

My husband is a kinda stinky guy. It’s okay. He’s cute enough. But man alive when he sweats you know it. Anyway—this always leaves us with tons of laundry to do. So I decide that instead of spending 8 dollars in quarters I’ll do it my damn self. I remember watching my grandma stomp her laundry. It’s that old country thing…I decide to follow suit.

So I fill up my bathtub (don’t worry, I cleaned it first) and put in some clothes and some laundry detergent. And I start stomping away. Good times actually. My feet feel pleasant, I’m holding onto a railing so I’m probably not going to slip and die, and I can feel a light sweat on my brow. I do this for about 15 minutes before stepping out, getting a big stick, and swirling around the mass of clothes. At this point the water has gone from a pleasant soapy bubble to a kinda gross murky brown.

I begin to drain the tub.

Then I get my plastic basket full of holes (a clothes colander!) and start rinsing my stuff. It seems like I’m wasting an awful lot of water here. But I am also not using electricity. So I’m not sure what the payoff is. I wring out my clothes (whoah, holy bicep exercise!) and hang it out to dry. It’s a sunny day so it doesn’t take too long. My clothes come back crisp and fresh and smelling of sun. A little stiff but nothing actually unpleasant. Not only have I burned a ton of calories, it has taken about 2.5 hours of continuous work to finnish about 3 full loads. I am pleased.

Final Score: B-

Pros: Great workout, clothes smell good, fun for your feet, takes a lot of time, weirdly satisfying, better then letting creepy Fred down the hall get a glimpse of my delicates.

Cons: I think it wastes water, kinda dangerous to clothes stomp in a tub, drying ability depends on sunshine and I live in a not so sunny climate.

Experiment #3: Cleaning the Floors:

Now this is something I’ve seen when I go back to visit the old family in the old country. After a particularly crumbly dinner in the living room my sister in law would get down on her hands and knees and literally sweep the rug. Afterwards the rug looked great. I have a small living room…fully carpeted. I decided to sweep it.

I get down on my hands and knees and start brushing. I can see tiny little crumbs jumping up out of the carpet and hair I had no idea was there start forming in the bristles. I sweep and brush and sweep and brush and change hands because my arm is getting seriously sore. This is fantastic! I start sweating EVERYWHERE not just my brow. Turns out brushing a carpet is really hard work. But those crumbs keep jumping out and I’m getting some kind of weird freakish kick from it.

Eventually I sweep all the crumbs and dirt into the kitchen and pick it all up with a normal broom. I take a moment, get a glass of boxed wine (because Lucy Ricardo absolutely would have) and take a look at my living room.

My carpet looks freakin amazing. No seriously, it looks as though I’ve deep cleaned the thing. Sure, there is still a weird stain from my spilt tea, but all the weird dirt and muck I got used to seeing there is now gone! I am incredibly pleased with myself. It took about 45 minutes to do and my house now looks amazing. I crown myself the rock star or homemaking, pour another glass of wine (because Ethel Mertz would absolutely approve) and sit down to watch Kathy Griffith make fun of Paris Hilton.

Final Grade: A

Pros: Free carpet cleaning, great workout, freakishly entertaining if you’re not icked out by dirt.

Cons: Might hurt carpet if you do it a lot. Probably bad on people with weak knees.

As it turns out, cleaning in this manner does take up a majority of your day. Not only that, it’s rather meditative and helps you get to sleep at night because you’re so freakin exhausted from sweeping and cleaning and kneading and ringing. While it is a fun diversion, I could never imagine myself making this a daily habit. Never imagine myself consumed by these exhaustive cleaning methods.

Still, once and a while it’s kinda fun.

So I’m taking suggestions from friends and family and all of you as to what sort of experiments to try out next week.  What should my next foray into woman’s work be? Sew a curtain? Create a kicky pants suit? Knit a blanket? Or let us keep it simple because knitting seems to require practice (of which I have almost none).  It’s okay, I make for a friendly guinea pig.

Ghosts and Gouls and Demons, Oh My!

Lately my hours at work have been cut. This isn’t as horrible as it sounds. I sort of hate my job and am planning on leaving in 3 months so I’m sorta okay with this development. Only working 3 or 4 days a week? Not as horrible as it sounds. Not to mention, I actually have energy to work out. Seriously, I’ve worked out every single day this week. It has been amazing. I feel all sorts of sore and toned and stuff.

But the big thing about staying home on the weekdays?  This is terrible. I almost don’t want to say anything but I KNOW there has to be other people out there with this same affliction so I’m gonna go ahead and put it out there:

A Haunting on Discovery Channel.

It’s terrible! And I cannot stop watching it. It follows families in a documentary/horror-flick style through their purchase and moving into a new home. Subsequent weird things happening and then, naturally, the realization that it’s not a little ghost girl but a demon masquerading as a ghost girl. And I can no longer sleep at night. But I’m not going to stop watching.

For the record on the ‘Ghost Issue’ I’m not 100% either way. I sorta think they could exist. A lot of people tend to think they do. But I am a lady who loves her science. If I wanted to geek out in a serious way and split the world into Moulder’s and Scully’s I’d most definitely be a Scully.  Constantly questioning my handsome partner’s wildly unfounded but convincingly intuitive allegations on the issue of the week. Without real definitive lab proof I have a really hard time with it. Yet…if I was really such a skeptic I don’t think I’d have such a hard time sleeping.

It is 1:24. At 3:00 my show will be on.

I’m going to watch it and then I’m going to do 60 minutes of pilates/yoga/ballet conditioning and then eat a sandwich and wonder why it still has to be so freakin frackin cold that I don’t even want to bother with the outside world.  Then I’ll probably take a bath and in said bath will worry about that creak outside the door because I cannot stop watching A HAUNTING.

It’s impacting my day in a not good way. And nothing you say will stop me from watching it.

Seriously. I think I need an intervention.

Oh La La

My French is abominable.

Now mind you, I am someone who is generally good at languages. I can speak two languages fluently (English and Arabic), and I can get by on my sorta, okay Spanish. Hell, I can even pull some Itallian out in an emergency.

But French? Wow. It is just very bad. It’s the accent, mostly…I think. It’s hard for me to get down. That and it’s so freaking wordy. Modern Arabic, while many consider it a hard language, is at least spoken and written mostly in shorthand.  ‘This is my new house’ is translated in to essentially ‘my house, new’. ‘The night is beautiful’ turns into ‘night, beautiful’. It’s not overly wordy, I like that. French? It seems like there is a lot of du-ing and le-ing and la-ing. Lots of extra letters…it’s all very confusing.

Which is a shame, really. Because I’m about to move my bourgeoisie ass over to France. Yeah. That’s right. I’m moving to Paris.

See, once upon a time, LadyVi married a Parisian. We’ve been living in America for a while now but, as he brought up, we could have a lot more free time to travel and enjoy if we moved over to France. He has a secure job over there and a house and for the first few months I will be taking a lot of French classes and focusing on my writing. See what I can do with this habit of mine.

All I have to do now is hunker down, save up some money and wait until July when I can say au revoir to my stupid belittling job and spend my days strolling through Paris looking for my next muse.

 By the way, if any lovely PNN readers and writers have any experience living in Paris or learning the language of amore then feel free to share. I have a lot to soak up in a short amount of time so any help at all is met with more gratitude then you could imagine.

The only thing I think I’ll really, really miss? Not being able to watch Law and Order 24 hours a day. Seriously. It’s on right now. I love these shows. But that’s what Netflix Watch Instantly is for I suppose.

Now, if you will excuse me,  I must go practice my crepes.

Two Carats

“Its two carats” where the first words out of my coworker’s mouth. She stood there, smiling blithely and holding up here left hand.  I took a sip of my coffee; it was far too early for this level of superficiality. I smiled meekly, gave an uninspired “wow” and her face sagged down into irritation. Hurray for Tuesday mornings.

The next woman through the door gave her the reaction she had wanted from me. “Congratulations” and then “Let me see it” and then squealing, and then jumping, then fast chatter and I walked away. I was just not cut out for this.

Don’t get me wrong, if my friend Stephanie told me she was engaged I would die. Literally die. Because I know she’s wanted it for some time now and I know her boyfriend is thiiiis close to doing it. The anticipation is driving even ME crazy. But here is the difference: Stephanie wouldn’t care about the ring and it certainly wouldn’t her method of introduction in the morning. I know she loves him, adores him, and wants to marry him because of who he is as a human being. Maybe I’m reading into the ‘two carats’ comment, but it comes uncomfortably close to those “He went to Jared”/”Every kiss begins with Kay” commercials that make me want to throw my spaghetti at the television.

Because truth be told when you’re tiered after a long day at work, come home to find out your husband used up the last of the toilet paper, forgot to take the dog out and will be home just in time for you to cook him some dinner (lucky  you!) you’re not going to look at your hand and think about how pretty your ring is. I guarantee that one.

When you’ve been arguing for the past 2 hours of a 5 hour drive and all you want to do is pull him out of the car and throw him off the side of a mountain, that ring will not stop those thoughts. And when he gets snippy and difficult or just complains about everything going on at a particular moment and you want to duct tape his hands and mouth and leave him in a closet for about 4 hours—that ring will not stop you.

In essence, when it comes down to a real marriage, the ring means shit. Less than shit. It’s a symbol, but the point of a symbol is its inherent worthlessness. It is, instead, pointing you towards a greater and much bigger picture. That of actually getting along and not doing all those horrible things you will inevitably fantasize about at some point.

Truth be told, marriage is barely even about consistent devotion or lust. Those feelings come and go like the tide. Some days I think my husband is the sexiest thing God could have ever come up with. Other days I wonder why on earth he keeps such poor grooming habits. Why not take care of those disgusting man-feet? Some days I just wish he would be quiet for a few hours, and other days I love to hear him go on and on about whatever is bothering him at the moment.

The thing about marriage is that it really is about companionship. It is finding a great friend who helps satisfy you emotionally, physically and sexually.  It’s not about having a sugar daddy, or a fancy house or good looks. All these things are not nearly static enough to base a real relationship on.  It’s about his endearing qualities slowly turning annoying and his annoying habits slowly turning endearing.

She holds up her hand and smiles. Her fingers are manicured, her hair cut well, gold necklaces I know she didn’t buy hang from her neck. Her coat is designer, her turtle neck so very blue blood. She’s wearing the costume well but the hard lines in her face and her rural Texas accent betray her.  I look down at my simple gold band. The one without inscription or pomp or any sort of flair attached to it. I look back at her. “Congratulations” I tell her. “Married life is a trip.” She rolls her eyes and tells me they already live together so she knows what it’s like. “Good then” I tell her and I walk away.

But it’s not the same. It’s not even close. People who believe marriage is simply an expression of love will tell you this malarkey. But they are referring to a ceremony, not a marriage. Legal marriage means your credit is his credit and vice versa. It means the rules of property have changed forever. Your taxes will be different, buying a house incurs new responsibilities and suddenly this person has rights over you that almost nobody in the entire world ever came close to having. Everything from visiting rights to life insurance to loan approval will be impacted. Doctors start to treat you differently. Before marriage I asked my doctor for birth control. She told me she wasn’t comfortable with that because I was a smoker. After marriage her mind hadn’t changed on the birth control, but she promptly sent me to a specialist to get an IUD put in. The rate at which you need your ‘yearly exam’ changes to every 2 years. See, because now that I’m married, I’m no longer a dirty whore incapable of safe sex. Oh …things change all right.

She hustles around the room telling and retelling the story of how they got engaged.  It’s cute. It’s saccharine. It’s her moment. It is special to her. After all, he went Jared and its two carats. Happily ever after is most assuredly on the way.

Amanda Woodward at your Service

New exiting project time underway at LadyVi! I’ve decided to start a new regular column dedicated to advice in life, love, careers and spirituality. It shall be named: What Would Amanda Woodward Do or WWAWD, which when you sound it out seems a bit vulgar. But Amanda will just have to deal with that now won’t she?

For those unfamiliar with just who Amanda Woodward is might I suggest watching Melrose Place. She is a main character that was played by Heather Locklear in her heyday. Amanda burst onto the show as the boss of Allison (a particularly whiney and needy character) at D&D Advertising. She soon grew famous for her snazzy wardrobe, fabulous good looks, and amazing business sense. If there was a problem, Amanda had a solution. A good looking fellow, Amanda found a way to get them. And who on earth was the queen of completely snarky yet totally reasonable sounding retorts? Yup. And even if she makes a few missteps and ends up blown to bits Amanda Woodward is still the Supreme Queen of getting your way.

So from this point forward I will be taking your letters, questions, and inquiries for advice. From there I’ll be putting them into The Amanda Machine or TAM --Patent pending-- it is designed to compute an Amanda Woodward-worthy answer to any possible quandary you can punch in. So feel free fellow PNN readers and writers, should you have any issue you feel needs objective  advice, my machine is up, running, and making sarcastic quips as I type.

Le Liste du Shit

  Does the fake French title class it up at all? No? Ah well, moving on...I'd like to call this the weekly shit list, or the bi-monthly shit list, or even the monthly shit list. Yet I am fairly unreliable. So when I'm particularly bothered, one shall appear. In the meantime feel free to make up your own in the comments. Misery doth love company.

Moving right along...

5. AIG: They make me furious. Why are not taking some form of justice? Is it that hard to find out where these CEO’s live and TP the holy living hell out of them? I’m certainly not advocating for violent overtures but COME ON PEOPLE. If nothing else they ought to have daily reminders of what huge giant douchebags they are. Words are not enough. Let us cover their cars is salami.

While we are at it: Can anybody swindled by Bernie Madoff please take it upon themselves to remove all items purchased with stolen money from his wife’s house? It is not hers. It is theirs. Repo it. A few years ago my friend came to me about her ex boyfriend. When they were together she had let him use her Best Buy Card once, spaced out and never asked for it back. He used it, after they broke up to buy a television and refused to pay her back. We snuck into his house and repo’d that shit back immediately. He called the cops. We ‘dropped’ the television on the sidewalk. The policeman where not pleased, but we escaped with our giggles.

This is what you should do when people screw you over. Take it back. And if you cannot get it back then at least put sugar in their gas tank.

4. MOTHER NATURE: Seriously, what the hell? I get it. We did this. Now Ms. Nature is simply getting her just revenge. Oh and I am sure it smells oh so sweet from where she is sitting right now. But quite frankly, I cannot keep up with this many layers for this long. I’m tired of instantly sweating after I walk into my workplace. I am tired of frizzy rained-on hair. I just want, for once, to be able to walk out in something less then a large coat and boots and just…oh….take a freakin stroll! Seriously. Just a walk. Without freezing. Without chapped lips. Without that whole being miserable part. 

How can Madam Nature ever expect me to cut those inches off if I’m stuck in doors all day? Is that what she wants? A city of fat lazy slobs? Because here’s a hint Nature Queen: When the weather is nice I am more DISinclined to drive. Yeah. That’s right. I walk. Everywhere. So try laying off on the crap weather and I’ll hug a tree. Thanks.

3. MEAN TIGHTS: Yeah, I know that’s not technically a ‘real’ thing, but work with me here. Why on earth is it that you cannot find a decent pair of tights that do not give muffin top? Because if anybody, and I mean anybody has any tips or suggestions as to how to not muffin top when wearing tights I would absolutely love to hear it. If you know of any fantastic brand with some crazy nice wide waistband thing that even with a bit of chub, stays nice and flat I will love you forever. Seriously. I will send you a Christmas Card every single year. Swear.

Because I love the tights. I adore them. But what do I not adore? Constant and consistent fat rollage. And I’ve tried the garter belt a few times. All in all, I do not find it a stable alternative. That and it takes too long to get on. Nor do I particularly enjoy the tights with a waist band up to your rib cage. Those make me feel like I’m wearing a corset AND they always roll down anyway. So please, tight manufacturers and designers alike: Please make us normal ladies a decent tight. It really is the very least you could do to appease us here.

2. VH1: I can no longer be bothered to ever care if anybody will every find love out of a group of 16 bleach blonde, vapid, muscled up, lame ass human creatures that crawled out from god knows where. I cannot. And at first it was kinda funny. It was sorta like peering in on a trailer trash version of Melrose Place. But now, with so many out, I’m starting to feel as though these humans are not the minority. This is very scary to me.

I see these woman backbiting and cat scratching and grinding and these men shouting and fighting and cheating and I want to take my eyes out of my skull and soak them in bleach for about 36 hours. Or until they start to feel clean again. As I said before: 1 show? Funny. 2 shows? Hmmm. 3 shows? Scary. But the Love Bus? Tough Love? Ray J Something? Tool Mens? I Love Cash? I Love Drugs? Charm School? Real Chance? Not including all the sequels that is eight. Eight freakin shows about the same person. “Hi, My name is Britney…um…I’m not here to make friends…and I’m, okay. So like there was this one girl once I saw dancing on a table and I was like, whatever, bish and she was all dancing and so I totally went up to her and grabbed her by her weave and yanked her down and then stuck my tongue down her boyfriends throat and then her father’s throat and it was…just like totally this crazy night. So anyway, I can be crazy but I can be totally a sweetie too. Honey out, peace!” It’s not okay. It’s really not. Young girls are actually emulating this behavior and I should know because…

1. MY JOB: In a former life, LadyVi worked in the justice system. She would talk amongst the Judges and Lawyers and help people get their desired outcome to a case. It was good times. Satisfying times. Wonderful sparkling times…

But then layoffs happened and The Lady had to get a new job. The first job that was offered to her (she’s gots bills to pay) and ended up in her current position. Spa Bitch. Yes. Spa Bitch. Good times. Surrounded daily by the yammering of young girls either fresh out of college or developmentally arrested discussing the Rock of Bus, Ray J’s Erection, et all. They are the types of girls that would be on these shows. These are the girls that I thought went away after I got out of high school quite a while ago. Apparently, they still exist working menial hospitality jobs. Currently, I am in their ranks.

Except I am not one of them. Something that has become shockingly obvious to both of us as of late. I talk about wanting to go see Petra, they talk about The Real Housewives. I want to puke, they apply their lip gloss. It’s not on okay thing. Now they are getting uppity because apparently they have realized I “think I am too good for this job”. OF COURSE I DO! I’m not a moron. My life will not start and end on skincare lines and shimmer lacquer. And while I am damn glad I am fortunate enough to have work, I’m not going to pretend as though suddenly I find their endless inflection-filled diatribes about ‘Holly’ (from that one show about boobs) fascinating.

Maybe I’m a pretentious bitch. Maybe. But know what? If not giving a fuck about cheerleading 10 years after cheerleading has ENDED* makes me pretentious then…well…good! I can live the rest of my life with this realization and sleep like a baby. But right now I am smack dab in the middle of the hornet’s nest and the stings are starting to swell. Does anybody have any balm? Because I’m starting to fear anaphylactic shock.

*not that I ever cared about cheerleading in high school or college either.  

Perfection 2.0 or Why I Cannot Sleep at Night

Just because my veil blocks your senses, doesn’t mean it blocks mine. The veil is no blindfold. I see out; you are the one whose vision is obstructed. My senses are alive and have a field within to play, away from where your eye can penetrate. My sex is alive—what on earth makes people think that woman who veil do not take pleasure in eros? Veiling—with us—has nothing to do with aestheticism and self denial. My sense of beauty is alive. I comb out my hair and put on the rouge and the silk, among friends, in a woman’s culture curtained off from you, an outsider. Is that why you find the veil frustrating from your male-identified viewpoint, you who are used to woman putting out for your gaze? Because its aesthetic is the opposite of a strut, is that the secret reason why you take it as such an affront? –Mohja Kahf

Beauty, in American culture, is a multibillion dollar business. We worry about our hair, our nails, our skin, our lips, our eyes, our noses, décolleté, stomach, arms, thighs, calves, and any other conceivable part of our body. In this immense marathon where we seek the ‘ideal’ we also worry about the smallest of issues. Labia surgery is on the rise, just in case, you know, you’re are not porn star material. Waxing, bleaching, stitching, cutting, burning, tanning, scraping, and threading have become synonymous with means to a gorgeous end, instead of their origin as rather harsh and brutal sounding verbiage.  

Yet, what is it we are actually striving for? Even the Cover Girls and supermodels are airbrushed. If a million dollar corporation cannot find real, solid, ideal beauty then how on earth can we expect to? This logic, however, doesn’t stop us.

Starve, purge, expel, fast, cleanse, oh yes, cleanse those toxins. Your kidneys and liver, despite the hundreds of thousands of years of evolution to perfect them, have become woefully inadequate. Let us help Mother Nature and shoot water up our orifices and then vacuum out whatever might be in there. Whatever nature intended, nature messed up. Bottom line. We must purify and whiten and tone and deprive and work to reach that ultimate goal on that shining mountain. Work, will bring you happiness. Work will set you free.

But free from what?

More and more I’ve become convinced that there is a group of woman in cahoots with Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan and Hannah Montana that actually think that all these things will make them more desirable. It’s the validation conundrum and its given rise to a host of incredibly disgusting and ritualized behaviors that are not rotting away at something those first generation feminists worked so hard to create: respect and equality.

Validation. Seeking it through objectification of your own body to get the attention you need to make yourself feel special. I understand wanting to feel good. When I was in high school I really wanted guys to like me. But I certainly would have never sacrificed my wants or needs for a date. Still, to this day, I’ve met men who all but expect me to drop whatever vice or habit I had if they found it undesirable or indefensible. Tattoo? I hate tattoos! Smoking? I hate smokers. You drink diet coke? Well I don’t drink soda.  Well then…if that’s the case let me pour myself into that mold you’ve made for me. We all know how perfect it must be. Now excuse me while I take a moment to gag on my self respect.

Likewise, if a man had ever offered me a hat or a t-shirt in exchange for showing him my breasts or disrobing on a bus in full view of a camera made for mass distribution I would have balked. Possibly been arrested for assault after I, undoubtedly, would have kicked him in the balls. But the producers of Girls Gone Wild and other associated knock offs are not having trouble finding willing woman. Woman who will scream loudly, pound tequila and bare all in a crowded bar full of strangers. And if you don’t? If you refuse to objectify yourself at some strangers whim? Well then you’ve now joined the ranks of the “stuck up”.

It’s an interesting paradox. Respect yourself and you’re not one of those easy, breezy women who get all the attention. Show your tits and you’re now part of the in crowd. But what are the perks of this group of titacular woman? Well you’re breasts are now preserved on film forever. Your lady business could be seen by your boyfriends both past, present and future, his friends, your father, uncle, cousins and possibly a future employer. You’re now considered “easy going” amongst the douchebag set. Of course acquiescing to this title you must now realize that before you showed your tits and twats for…what was it again? Ah yes, a hat…you where just like the rest of us stupid woman out there. Stuck up and boring. Ya know, stupid like your mom, your grandmother, and chances are any future daughter you might have. But hey, nice trucker hat…

Now mind you, this is not an argument against nudity. I am actually a huge collector of nude photography for both woman and men. While I am disinclined to participate myself, I see no problem with taking it all off and baring soul for a shot. This does not, however, include titty trade magazines. Made for the same reason as GGW, still a step up because woman are actually compensated for their work; but still used to overly sexualize for male titillation. There is a vast and wide chasm between peroxide sexuality and true erotic depictions.

Which brings us to the crux of the issue: All of this work to achieve and hold onto and show off this ideal beauty benefits who? Certainly not woman. Young girls in their 20’s will balk at the 70’s edition of The Joy of Sex. They take one look at the hairy vaginas and underarms and turn away in abject horror. Yet this book is depicting real pleasure for a couple. These days woman are told to put their actual pleasure aside, although it’s not a difficult thing to do. Somewhere between the upkeep of our bikini lines and our bikini bodies it’s not hard to see how you wouldn’t have energy for anything else. So they cast off sincere female arousal for an easier synthetic version. One that doesn’t get ugly when you make your ‘O’ face. One that won’t get bright red cheeks, sweaty breasts and make squishy noises. The Joy of Sex has been replaced with the aesthetic of sex. No longer about our sexual pleasure, but the pleasure we can take in members of the opposite sex wanting us. But is this at all necessary?

Men have wanted woman since the dawn of time. Back before deodorant, before shaving and long before deep conditioners. Men have written epic poems and created splendid monuments to the untouched female form. They have gone to war, resisted death and gone against societal pressure all for us. Very little of their wanton behavior has to do with how we pluck our eyebrows. Nor have men evolved into creatures that now must have this. An engaging and attractive woman will still create a physical response in the majority of straight males regardless of how much of her body she is showing. Woman in the Middle East who choose to veil still get plenty of attention from men from both East and West. In fact, you could reasonably argue that NOT showing the body creates a seductive mystery much more powerful than any miniskirt could achieve.

So why all this fuss? Why are we woman putting so much effort into appeasing something that has never actually been needed or explicitly demanded? Why are we begging and pleading through our wardrobe and our implants for their approval and validation? How did this become so important to us? And why are we no longer focusing on the other huge equation of sex appeal: charm and wit? After all, the female and the male brain are still both the largest sexual organs in our body.  Sure, a man or woman can be physically attracted to another. But we all know that without that all important banter and humor the fun ends after the orgasm recedes.

We could blame the overly needy sexualized culture on advertising, Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian and the obsession with said vapid celebrities. I think this is partly to blame. But I think even more so is the lack of any real female leaders that are reaching out to the youth. There is not one woman in that age group that proudly and unapologetically owns her own beauty and sexuality. All are creations of the machine. There is not one Joan Jett, not one Harriet the Spy, there is no Janice Joplin. Add that to the instant fame culture reality shows have created and you literally have a recipe for disaster.

Study after study has shown that the only way the human being gains confidence and self-respect is by overcoming hurdles. By growing themselves outside of the box of what is expected from them. Without this opportunity, without the ability to get outside that cage of perfection and make yourself uncomfortable in the name of growth and self discovery how can we ever expect young woman to NOT grow up into a banal adulthood? What we need in America is a backlash, a revival of self respect and disdain for catty, perfection-focused behaviors.

Today it is fashionable to proclaim your own control over your sexuality and then star with 12 other women striving for the heart of one man. Usually not even a very interesting one. This all has to come to one crashing, burning, smoldering end. And women do not need to throw out their makeup and wear turtlenecks for this to happen. We just need to be able to realize what it is and call it out when we see it. Sure, learn how to work a pole, but do it because you actually want to. Not because you want to show off your skills at a club and get ‘the mens’ to notice you. Learn how to walk in 4 inch heels, but do so because you love the way a heel looks. Not because you need it to impress your date. I’ve known a lot of men in my life, but none have ever taken a girl home to mom because of her shoes. This is the bottom line: our quest for acceptance and love with the most imperfect of methods.

Imperfect because you cannot seduce someone into love. It comes when the basest of emotions and when the truest parts of yourself are laid bare. It comes from vulnerability rather than a perfected ideal and it cannot be tricked or manipulated. Until we are honest with what we are really after—whether it’s love, power, spirituality or all three—we can expect the drumbeat of debasement to continue in young woman everywhere. We can look forward to more rollbacks in female empowerment and more subjugation of our wants and needs. Bright futures indeed.

Battle of Pooch Hill

March is here and with the burgeoning of spring comes the clamor of woman cutting their portions and heading to the gym. Not that I’m judging, I am certainly included in the noise. Over winter I’ve put on a few more pounds then I planned on. My average weight is almost smack dab in the middle of ‘normal’. I’ve never been particularly heavy, but being a woman of curves, when the pounds do start to stack on it’s quite easy to go from ‘normal’ to ‘chubby’.

But weight is fairly easy for me to lose. Stop eating cookie dough ice cream at 11:30, check. Go to gym 3 times a week, check. Give it a few weeks and the excess is gone. But recently a conversation with my friend started me thinking about the supposed enemy #1 to the female form: The pooch.

Ah yes, my good old reliable pal. It’s been with me since about puberty, just hanging around my midsection padding my pants buttons. Sometimes it serves a decent function, if sitting particularly hunched you can often rest a bowl or diet coke on it. Under special circumstances it will even serve as handy drawer closer. I don’t really dislike it, but I don’t particularly love it either.

Yet I find this is not the sentiment of all, or even most woman. While I pinched le Pooch and then laughed off my friend’s remark she became somber. “What would you think if I got a tummy tuck?” she asked. “Would you judge me?” I stared at her, a little dumfounded. Tummy tuck? I shrugged my shoulders. “What do I know about that?” She stared back at me clearly unsatisfied. I changed the subject to baklava.

Unable to give any proper feedback at the time, later that night I referred to my husband. “What do you think about the pooch?” I asked.

“The huh?”

“The pooch!” I said again, gesturing to my own. “What do you think about the little squish of fat that’s there?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, thinking there must be some sort of catch. So I explained to him that my pal was thinking about a plastic surgery to get rid of hers. He suddenly flew into a fit.

“Don’t you dare get rid of yours!” He bellowed. I took a step back, a little aghast. I explained to him it wasn’t about me. It was about his opinion in general about The Pooch. He calmed. We sat. “I like it” he said. “I think it’s cute”. I told him I thought he was sweet and left it alone. Clearly he’s far too much of a gentleman to give me any untainted feedback.

Cut to later that night, we’re out with his friends and he starts telling one of them about our conversation earlier. Chiding me for even questioning the natural female form. Soon all the men at the table where listening intently as I started describing why a lot of woman have an issue with this particular part of their body. How we saw woman in tight shirts with no bulges and it gave us the occasional jab of jealousy. The men crinkled their noses, furrowed their eyebrows and stared into their beers. Soon one spoke up:

“All my girlfriends have had pooches. I like them”

“Actually, I never really thought about it, but it makes a woman soft and comfortable” another said, still staring into his drink.

“If they’re too skinny I always worry they’ll break. I like a substantial woman. It’s not like it looks bad” another opined.

Okay, okay, okay. So maybe these men where just being polite. I decided to ratchet it up. “But what about Selma Hayek” I say, “Would she be as sexy with a big old spare tire?”

“Do you think any man would not sleep with her because of a pooch? Shit, I wouldn’t even notice the pooch, I’d be too busy thinking that I was sleeping with Selma fucking Hayek” one of the guys laughed. The others around the table joined him with similar sentiments.

“Okay fine then” I said, determined to make my point, “What about Cameron Diaz. She’s very tall and slender, she would look weird with a pooch don’t you think?”

“Actually I think she could use one” my husband joked.

“No shit, girl is skinny”

“But Craig” I said, motioning to a husband of another good friend of mine, “Laura is skinny. She’s a size 2 at best and you love her body”.

“Yeah” he replied thoughtfully. “I do love her body. But if she got a pooch at some point, I wouldn’t be bothered by it. I’d think after something like pregnancy it would almost be a given.”

The men at the table continued to laugh about this apparent ‘issue’ for a good while longer. I tried to make my case on behalf of the pooch preoccupation but it seemed nobody would bother hearing it. Probably one of the few times in my life where I will argue a point, be rebuffed by everybody, and not be bothered one bit.

So there I sat, listening to some men discuss celebrity crushes, some men discuss favorite beers, before it all turned to men discussing sports teams and I completely zoned out. I didn’t need to join in. I had me a revelation. And here it is:

If your exersize and healthy eating habits get rid of The Pooch then that’s just fine. Fantastic even. But if they don’t, apparently there is no real reason to giving a frozen crap in hell. Because, as it turns out, nobody else does. Not to mention a tummy tuck and lipo are painful, expensive procedures that only offer a temporary fix. While finding a partner to love your body with all your perceived flaws is not only fun, it’s also apparently fairly easy, generally free, and quite rewarding in the long term.

And when it’s written out like that, the question seems to answer itself.

Viva le Pooch!  

Muzzammil is a Muslim, So was Aasiya

Muzzammil Hassan recently killed his wife, Aasiya Z. Hassan.  He was a public figure in the Muslim community. A moderate by all accounts that tried to build bridges in between the old and the new. His mission was to give a new face to Arab America. A particularly difficult high wire act that requires you respect the old world while conforming to the ideals of your adopted country.

Muzzammil Hassan beheaded his wife. He was a Muslim. And I suppose that’s all you really need to know at this point.

This is insanely frustrating for me. With the internet bouncing around terms like ‘honor killing’ and ‘Muslim domestic violence’ I cannot help but feel as though I’m trapped in the middle of this hurricane shouting for some kind of perspective.

Women are killed by their husband’s every single day in America. This is not an exceptional killing other then the fact that Mr. Hassan promptly turned himself in afterwards. But behead them or shoot them or strangle them or poison them, dead is dead. Period.

In this way, I feel the emphasis on his faith is just another form at fear mongering. Just another way that white Americans can turn to their brown neighbors and shudder at their barbarianism.

I go to Jihad Watch and other websites of its kind. Here I note that no matter how much responsibility we take, no matter how much we apologize for 9/11 regardless of our uninvolvement, no matter how many times we point to our loving fathers that didn’t beat us or our mothers...It doesn’t matter. Because somewhere in the Arab/Muslim world a woman is being hurt. And that woman will get the press. My sister the doctor? She will never have an article written about her and her personal choice to veil. Ever. Because Arab woman aren’t nearly as sexy when they are not portrayed as slighted victims.

I see these fingers pointing and I want to just turn them back in the other direction. Uneducated yokels who have literally changed the American vernacular forever to include their undergarment of choice: the wife-beater. They are going to stand on the sidelines and lecture me? Oh I most certainly take umbrage at that.

And yet my first thought at reading about Mr. Hassan’s brutal murder of his wife was “Great, thanks a lot pal. We in the community certainly appreciate that.” Even I was willing to blame him for adding fuel to the bigot’s fire. Giving people just another reason to belittle and shame a group that really doesn’t need any more of their shit. That just wants to exist like any other group in America.

A few years ago I went out to lunch with my then boss. As we ate we discussed the news. The most prominent item being the huge bust up on the polygamist compound in Texas. My boss looked into my dark eyes and asked me this: "Are Arab woman a lot like the polygamists? Where you’ve just been repressed for so long that you don’t even realize at this point there’s a problem?”

I just stared back at her. I had no idea what to say. My mind fell quiet to a buzzing that quickly turned into a thousand comments. A thousand times being asked if I get traded for camels. Shouts of ‘Araboo’ or ‘rag head’. A hundred times looked at slyly in airports. A million pundits misquoting and deliberately taking out of contexts quotes from the Qur’an. The news media showing picture after picture of wrapped up woman and shouting men with guns.

And then the flashbacks came. The flashbacks of my sister and I in our home in ‘the old country’ cleaning our floors. Unlike American homes, these are made of stone with drains in them, we’d pour buckets of fresh cool water all around us and dance and splash and slip around in it. Our mother would roll her eyes in good humor and mop around us. 

Later in the day our Father would come home and sit down in the salon. He would share stories of working at the University. He’d show us puzzles, tell us about the latest news, and ask us how our day went.

We’d play hide and go seek, or help our mother cook until our brothers and sisters all came home. Then we’d sit around a communal dish, joking about whatever was in vogue, and eat together. Sometimes, after dinner, we’d go out for a nice walk on the boulevard by our house. Jasmine and orange blossoms would float through the air mixing with the scent of roses that lined the sidewalk.  Young men and woman on dinky motorbikes would speed by as we strolled by fountains and mosques. It was gorgeous. And if I close my eyes I can still smell that street.

Then the present comes roaring back. My superior is asking me if I’m diluted into thinking I’m not repressed. My mouth falls open. I tell her about my sister the professor, my sister in law the doctor, my aunt the nurse, my mother the seamstress.  I tell her I was never beaten. I tell her that my father couldn’t care less if I wore a headscarf or not. That for every woman in my family it was a personal choice. I tell her that what I remember was not forced subjugation, but orange blossom tea on a beautiful evening.

Then we come back to Muzzammil Hassan and the poor woman whose life he took. The idea of it being a cultural event does not compute and does not make sense with my upbringing within the culture.

Certainly there are old ideas in the Muslim community, just like old ideas in the Black community, Hispanic community, Asian community and White community about domestic violence that need addressing. Ideas that a woman could ‘deserve it’ or ‘bring shame’ or ‘act stupid’ or ‘talk back’. That a woman should know her place or that she should just not rile up a man so bad he feels the need to hit her.

But this is America. It is not Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan and every Arab/Muslim woman here knows it. We know we are allowed to drive. We know we are allowed to vote and we know that if a man hits us we can call the police.  Obviously Aasiya Hassan knew this as she asked for a divorce and petitioned for court protection. As she assumed, like so many white, black and yellow woman before her that it would help the police protect her. And sadly, like so many before her, it did not.

I feel nothing but empathy for Aasiya Hassan and her family. But to blame it on Islam or to blame it on her Arabness does absolutely nothing but dishonor her memory. Because if I recall, she seemed to me to be one proud, professional, beautiful, Arab woman. As are her surviving family members and those who will forever mourn her loss. To act as though this is somehow a liability is exactly what she wanted to fight against. In this way I believe we should honor her memory.

Predicting the Black Eye

With violence against woman dominating the headlines in recent weeks there has been a lot of ink about what it means to stay, or what it means to leave. I want to discuss something else. I want to talk about those little micro and macro red-flags that you get when you are dating somebody new. We have all had them. And in 20/20 hindsight it’s rather clear just what we were getting into. But going in, when the romance is fresh and the butterflies are still in the stomach, what can we, as woman, do to recognize when a partner is potentially abusive?

This, to me, is the most important part of a relationship. It is when we have that safe and easy escape. A clear cut and simple exit off stage left. Rather than months or years later when leaving comes with fatal implications. Every two hours a woman is killed by her significant other in the United States. Every two hours.  As I’ve sat here contemplating what to write at least one woman is now dead. It’s a wretched reality that we, yes we, have the power to stop. We just have to curb pop culture’s brainwashing.

From experience let me give you what I like to call ‘micro red-flags’. These are tiny little things that happen that will indicate a person’s disposition and just how they handle rejection, loss of control and insecurity.

1.       Intellectual name dropping.  Now don’t get me wrong. It’s great to compare books and authors that you two love. But when he starts to try to dominate the conversation with obscure or more abstract authors, particularly when they don’t even pertain to the conversation you where having, he is trying to show you his superiority.  And if he can impress you with his misunderstood genius then no doubt he can convince you of how right he always will be.

2.       Small snide comments about the ladies. “Woman drivers” or “woman directors” or “stupid celebrity sluts”. If you feel a need to defend your kind, even if it’s a small need, it’s because he’s stepped over a line. He has put you in a second class. No doubt it won’t be the last time he does so.

3.       Unnecessary Anger.  Getting more upset then any reasonable person would at a given situation. A driver cuts him off and instead of grumbling or gesturing like most upset drivers, he yells, screams, or tries to get the other driver back. The waiter gets his order wrong and he cuts him or her down to size, or berates the restaurant and causes a scene. If you feel that pit in your stomach that he’s acting in an inappropriate and embarrassing manner then you need to listen. Because if you think he’s going to treat you any better than that waitress down the road you are wildly mistaken.

4.       Constantly shifting plans and blame. This is something my abusive ex did constantly in the first few weeks of our relationship. I wish I would have caught on at the time. We’d make plans for 5. I’d say 5:30 and he’d mumble something. Then 5:30 rolls around and he’s nowhere to be seen. He shows up at 6 or 7 with a shtick about how he was around at 5 when we agreed to meet, but I wasn’t there so he ran some errands.  Putting up with such bullshit then shows him that you’re willing to put up with worse when you’ve invested more in the relationship.

5.       Backhanded compliments. They are vile. Run; do not walk, away from this creature. “You’re waist is actually small for having such a heavy bottom” or “I didn’t know you’d be the type to read The New Yorker”. Don’t waste your time trying to convince him he’s wrong. He knows he’s wrong. He’s manipulating you and he knows it. Arguing only shows him he’s good at it.

6.       Sympathizing with the Criminal. You are at his apartment and watching television. A story comes on about a teacher who had sex with his 15 year old student. He makes a remark that negates the teacher of responsibility, and then laughs it off as a joke. This is when you get up and go home. There is a reason this man thinks its okay to control and hurt woman. Because he plans on doing it to you.

7.       Small humiliations. He mentions in public that you have a spot on your ass loudly. He invades your personal space in some way that makes you uncomfortable. BUT he plays it off as though you are over reacting. This brings me to the big number 8…

8.       You’re a “cool girl”. No don’t worry, other girls are way stuck up but there is something so easy going and relaxed about you. So comfortable. Something safe. Something other woman just do not have. Let me translate this for you in case you don’t get it yet: “I don’t like woman. I have picked you because I think you’re probably easy to manipulate. In the future I will do little things to make you prove you’re easy going. To prove your ‘cool girl’ status. You’ll want to live up to that definition I have laid out for you. Further down the line I’m going to count on that compliance when I beat the ever-loving shit out of you.” –See? Not so romantic after all is it?

 Now these are things I wished I had noticed when the relationship was only a few weeks old.  Things that I know my gut told me where wrong. Things that at the time I knew where bullshit but simply brushed them off citing that “Every relationship is different”. This is true. But one thing every GOOD relationship has in common? Respect. If you are not getting it on a level that you’d want for your best friend, then you already know what to do. Leave. Now.

From mini red-flags it went into large indicators that he would become abusive in just a matter of time. At this point I had a warped perception of reality. I thought that if he was 2 hours late it wasn’t anything to freak out about. If he argued with me then I’d lose because his intellectual superiority meant that he knew better. To be certain he always had some life experience on any particular subject we argued about. He always had firsthand knowledge. He always lied…

Moving on to the major red flags that I ignored just long enough to get me smacked around:

1.       Isolation. He picked fights with all of my friends and family. But in every single argument he was believably the victim. He was sensitive about the subject and they had hurt his feelings. Or they had disrespected his household in some way. This lead to friends and family not wanting to be near us…which in turn left me isolated and vulnerable to abuse.

2.       Jealousy/Apathy. I would go out dancing and when I got back I’d be quizzed about who I talked to, who I danced with. The opposite of this would be me trying to make him jealous. Get a reaction from him. I would tell him a guy asked for my phone number and he’d respond “Well didn’t you give it to him?”

3.       Signs of Cheating. Clearly this guy is not someone who actually respects you. So what on earth makes you think he’s not going to cheat? Girls would call his cell phone and he told me that a friend of his from work gave a ‘fat girl at the coffee shop’ his number just to mess with him. When I asked the friend he had no idea what I was talking about. When the boyfriend found out I asked the friend he got furious. My blindness in this situation when I look back is frustrating beyond belief. I literally cannot believe how stupid I was. But, as I mentioned before, my reality of what was ‘normal’ had shifted.

4.       Punching Objects. Want to know why he punched the wall? Because he wanted to punch you but you haven’t been primed enough yet to take it. Seriously. That is the reason. He lost control of himself for a second and got it back right before permanent damage was done. Let me say this very clearly: Any guy who punches another object while in a heated argument with you will hit you. It’s not a matter of if; it’s a matter of when. I promise it will happen.

5.       Insults. Believe me, even if they start small at first they will get bigger.  Know what my husband does not do? Insult me. Ever. He may take issue with the way I’m acting at a given time. And he will certainly call me out on it. “Why are you being so unreasonable” he’ll ask. But know what he never calls me? “Bitch”. Ever. And if he did he knows his shirts and pants would be in a heap on the front doorstep the next day. That is the only appropriate response to a man that belittles you in such a way. Repeat: Only response.

6.       Humiliation. He will routinely try to do something to test your humiliation boundaries in public and amongst friends. Because if ridiculing your looks or demeanor is accepted by you as an okay or forgivable offense, he has no reason not to push that boundary further.

7.       Weapon Fascination. Chances are this guy will own a gun. Maybe two. If not a gun then probably he’ll have a knife collection or some brass knuckles. Something that your gut tells you is less about actual protection and more about wanting to feel in control of the house.

8.       Sad Tales of Woe. Oh this one is a guarantee. He will spin you the saddest tale you ever did hear. He lost a baby once right after it was born. He watched his friend die in his arms. His father beat him. His mother didn’t love him. He only has one ball. Oh the list will go on and on. Point is, he’s telling you right then and there that he is damaged goods. And you are deciding to help him. What you have failed to realize is that you cannot. He can only save himself. Nothing you can do will ever change that. And my bet is things where not half as bad as he says. He’s just bullshitting you for the sympathetic excuse you’re bound to make when he gives you your first black eye.

 Another thing you need to trust? Your gut. Stop checking your feelings at the door. You are having them because your core is telling you that something is not right with the situation. Here’s the thing about that core: It never tries to trick you and it never tries to hurt you. Something you probably can’t say about the abusive man you’re with.

When I was leaving my ex my gut told me that it wouldn’t be over. Sure enough, it was not. He’d show up unannounced and try to worm his way back into my presence. A few times I let him come in ‘just to chat’. And he’d chat and be perfectly hilarious. Then he’d leave like a gentleman. Later that week if I’d tell him I couldn’t talk on the phone he’d threaten to shoot himself right then and there. Here is what I am getting to: Your leaving him will not change him. Loosing you is not a big enough deal. Sorry. It’s just not. Most likely this guy has lost woman before you and yet he still acts like an ass. Believe this, you’re getting out of the situation won’t do anything to ever, EVER, alter his behavior. It just keeps you safe. This should be your #1 priority.

Your only real option is to cut off all ties with him. I slowly realized that the only reason he could hold me hostage on the phone telling me “I have the gun cocked, loaded, and to my head” was because I answered it in the first place. STOP ANSWERING THE CALLS. Don’t even listen to the messages. And it takes time. Know how much? It took me 8 months before he stopped calling me. 8 months of never once returning a phone call. 8 months of never listening to a message. 8 months of absolutely no contact. Period.

Learning to recognize the signs of future abuse where priority #1 for me after I left. They have helped guide me in future healthy relationships. I hope they can do the same for you. And I hope woman will all share their experiences in this field. What were their red flags? What did they wish they knew in hindsight? It's our job to help other woman, especially those vunerable to abuse. So lets do just that.

Maaaahmoud!!

Horrible, Horrible confession time:

So you know that President of Iran? The guy who is a Holocaust denier? Who hates Israel and probably any woman that doesn’t do as he says? Good old Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?

Well I have a giant crush on him. And I know! I know! It’s simply horrible. I disagree with everything he says and does. But I cannot help it. I love his weasely eyes and stupid chin. He just looks so charming. And I know me a thing or two about charming Middle Eastern guys. They’re the kings of charm. They’ll knock you right on out of your socks with their chivalry. And I cannot help but look at him and kind of want to smile.

I know. I just lectured on Rihanna and Chris Brown and now I reveal my huge crush on Mahmoud. But, let us remember now that I would never actually date the guy. I just like to hear him talk. And since I don’t know Farsi, I’m golden.

Anyway, the song I just posted is a SNL Digital Short by Andy Samberg and Adam Levine. It’s called Iran so Far Away. It makes me smile. I hope it makes you smile too.

When Memories Come Calling

 May God Protect You Wherever You Travel

I’ve never been good at compromise. Seems my life has always gone full blast or come to almost a complete standstill. I’m either going 90 in a rickety VW Rabbit through the Sahara, or holed up in my apartment with no lights on and a computer in my lap. Strange, then, it seems that my life has lately developed this sort of balance.

I stay home a couple nights a week and go out others. I travel sparingly to places nearby and hit up happy hour with my girls once a week or so. This so called ‘normal life’. I’m not quite sure it’s going to work. Full disclosure: I got married a little over a year ago. Since then it’s as if I’m working on bills, house, classes, reading and all related completely average things. And it’s not as if the Hubbs is resistant to all of these things I once did.  I tell him I ‘m going out dancing until 4am and he kisses me on the cheek and tells me he’ll see me around 4:30. I let him know I’m spending Saturday hiking and he makes me breakfast. I go on a cross state road trip and he wishes me bon voyage.

I feel this change is not something of his creation but a monster I’ve been cultivating all on my own. Two weeks ago I found my own travel journals tucked all the way in the back of my closet. I read through them remembering the excitement of being at London’s Heathrow Airport with no cell phone, nobody around who knew me and a ticket to Spain. Just me in a swamp of bustling travelers. I remember waking up early that first day in Madrid and going hunting for cigarettes. Oblivious to the fact that while I may be up at 7:30, clearly the country had plans to sleep in. The ferry down to Tangiers, Morocco where I immediately fell in love with the smells and vast culture that surrounded me.

From there I travelled throughout the country before flying over to Tunisia, briefly breaking into Algeria, being removed from Algeria (no visa, but I slipped through the boarder anyway). Then it was off to Italy, Holland…

Vietnam, Thailand, Korea, Belize, Guatamala, the list goes on. My friends used to joke as I touched down in my hometown that I was simply here for a visit. A guy-friend with a longtime crush on me used to throw up his hands every 6 months as I unveiled my new plan for seeing the world. “Well how are we ever supposed to have a relationship” he’d laugh as I brushed him off to trot the globe.

Yet I’ve been here in Seattle now for the past two years. I met my husband, did the relationship, got married, and have just…settled in. I care about furniture and making the apartment pretty. We have a dog. Yes. A dog. And I love it. I enjoy being stable for the first time in years and years.

But then MIA’s Paper Planes comes on my playlist and…

I fly like paper/ Get high like planes/ If you catch me at the boarder I got visa’s in my name

…my heart literally hurts. I was that girl. I took on the world and explored and did it on my own terms. By myself more often than not. Riding trains through deserts, staring out the windows at villages as they flew past. Eating Pho in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle after a long day floating down rivers and riding on elephants…

I haven’t lost myself. And I don’t feel as though I’ve settled for something less then fantastic. But that part of me, the wildly independent, high spirited girl that would spend all night in a Seville bar and stumble home at 6am needs her outlet. She needs to just sit in that sand dune outside of Zagora and marvel at the world again.

 I’ve tried to sate the urge with small trips around Washington State. Which, mind you, is a gorgeous state. We have Mount Rainer, the Olympic Rain Forrest, the Cascades…but it’s just not the same if I can understand the locals. If I cannot smell that sweet sickly smell of rotted garbage, hear the call of street vendors, and watch little kids running barefoot and speak tacky French while confusing taxi cab drivers. It’s just not the same.

I know I've been incredibly fortunate in life. Like Beatrice a star danced, and under that was I born. I’ve been able to travel while 70% of the world is struggling to feed their family. Yet the call of wanderlust is something powerful, seductive and addicting.

Regardless fairly soon around here I’ll be posting some old travel stories taken from my journals. Don’t worry; it won’t be a play by play on what I did that day.  It will have love, intrigue and the occasional arrest. Because, I suppose, what's the point of travelling the globe and seeing what I've seen without a good travel story every once and a while. Until then...

Role Models my Ass

As the press seems to be reporting, Chris Brown and Rihanna are back together and still in love.  Love. This is the operative word here. Because, frankly, if a man hits you he quite simply does not love you. At all. Not even a little. I don't care how troubled his childhood is. I don't care that he's misunderstood. I often feel misunderstood, but know what I don't do? Beat the person I'm with.

This may sound harsh and a little unsympathetic but having been in abusive relationships I can quite confidently quote Gavin De Becker that the first time you get hit you're a victim. The second time you are a volunteer.  This is, of course, barring any situation where a woman is unable to physically remove herself from the situation.  But do I expect sympathy for taking 4 months to leave after my ex was abusive? No. If anything, I expect people to roll their eyes. Because it was ridiculous and nobody could convince me otherwise.

Yet Rihanna? The woman is single, childless, can afford bodyguards and all the travel she will ever need to remove herself from the parasite that is Chris Brown.  She has absolutely no reason to return to a relationship where her ‘boyfriend' chokes her, hits her and leaves her on the side of the road. Any man that will put you in a hospital will eventually kill you.  And while it would be murder, it's a lot like doing 110 on the freeway while drunk and not wearing your seatbelt.  If you refuse to take care of yourself, you cannot rely on fate to save you.  

Oh and I can hear the harpies already..."It's about passion! It's hard for anybody to understand..." Yeah. Whatever.  I'm from a Mediterranean family. You want to see passion? Plate throwing is practically a sport amongst the woman.  But that certainly doesn't excuse anybody from ever hitting the person you are involved with. Ever. Ever. Ever. Full fucking stop.

I really, really hope this isn't true. Because if it is, I cannot help but hope that she loses all her endorsements. No, of course a woman should not be punished for being hit. BUT most women do not have contracts with Cover Girl. I don't really need my little sister looking up at her and thinking what an easy, breezy, battered role model she is. TruBlend makeup, helps cover up the bruises! And believe that my little sister does look up to her. Ugh. It's revolting.

The whole thing is just disgusting. I feel like I can't even listen to her music without associating her with the lameness that is this situation. There is never any good reason to be with somebody who hurts you. No reason on earth. I don't care if he or she has cancer. I do not care if he or she is an alcoholic or drug addict. I don't care they caught you cheating. I do not care if you just drowned their puppy in a tub (in which case you are the sociopath and they ought to leave).

Now comes the not so fun part: Watching the tabloids go on bruise-watch and waiting for her next hospital visit.

That Girl

Perhaps she’s a little vapid, and maybe everybody is right. Maybe every song she does sounds kinda the same. But guess who doesn’t care? Me. This may be some leftover fixation mixed with hate that filled me most of my youth. But between when Britney jumped on the scene in her stupid Catholic school girls’ outfit and Stronger I developed a full blown girl crush. I cannot help it. She rocks my world.

While people lamented Britney’s downward spiral into bad weaves, a few pounds and crazytown I seemed to be the only one sympathetic to her issue. She was brought into our collective psyche so we could watch her crash. Watch the virgin get deflowered and see the perils that came with such an impurity. Drama, crotch shots, bad husbands, kids, divorce and head shaving. In other words it felt like the collective media was pushing their own fucked up version of abstinence only on us while we watched a human being crash and burn.

This is something I can sympathize with. And regardless of her insomniac, pants less behavior I still liked Blackout. Oh let me tell you how many times the Significant Other wanted to turn off that CD player as it spun Break the Ice and Radar came off. But did I let him? Nay. I did not.

Then Circus. It makes me want to phone Britney, give her a ‘Hey girl hey’. I literally cannot stop listening to it to save my life. I love the videos so far, and the theme conjures up nothing but giddiness. The Circus? I love the circus? Hurray!

Perhaps it isn’t steeped in depth or fantastic overtures on the human condition. But I don’t always need a Fiona Apple. In fact, sometimes I want Fiona Apples to just stop. Stop and drink a god damn lemonade and get on with her day. Time and place and all...

But I digress, I just think it’s gotten far to passé and fresh to hate the woman. Because at the end of the day she’s making plenty of money. She’s the one with tributes to her on MTV, can get any cover in the world and is back down to a society approved size 4. And she did it all while promoting an album that’s still rockin the charts.

Whatever. I’m her cheerleader. And that’s fine with me. Street cred be damned. I was never that hard core anyway. She’s just camp. And quite frankly, I read enough serious news. I have enough swirling in my head without adding to the drama, I swear pretty soon I’ll be unveiling my ideas on the Middle East Peace Process (MEPP). No I swear, I will. But for now I’m gonna pour me a white Russian and pretend that things don’t always have to be that serious.

Word of the Day: Snapperfish

Today I got to sleep in. I knew it before going to bed last night (this morning) and made sure to stay up and watch every single Law and Order that came on television. This means, basically, I was up until the paid programs invaded every channel. So I sat and ate ice cream and played online puzzle games while wondering just who did done it…always shocked by a surprise twist midway through show. And oh how I do love the casts. From the original to CI to SVU. Vincent D’Onofrio makes my day. So does Mariska Hartigay and Sam Waterston. I quite enjoy them all. And there they were last night, paraded before me in a never-ending line of drama.

Fantastic.

Then morning came. And as the clock struck 11:30 and my significant other leaned in to kiss me good morning I lazily reached my hand up to his cheek and pushed him off me. He was not pleased. And nor was I. He was certainly trying to wake me up in the best way possible. Sure he was leaning on me a bit too much for my liking, and yes I was dehydrated and cranky. But still! You’d think I could be a bit more pleasant than just pushing him off me while grumbling in walrus language.

Then came the arguing and the unnecessary anger on my part. I realized that in the morning I am a Snapperfish. Friday’s Word of the Day. I snap when unprovoked. Actually, more often when I am unprovoked then actually wound up. Sure I may seem all peaceful, just laying there, not really moving and most likely snoring. But go ahead, try it. Wake me up. No pleasant surprise will follow. Instead a most vitriolic line of words will invade your ears, followed shortly by a move to get you out of my territory (i.e. bed).

The worst part is: how does one recover from being so snappy so late in the morning? It’s not as if I can blame it on lack of sleep. And I don’t believe in that oversleep hype some people sell so I cannot blame it on this either. Nor can I even claim umbrage because I was bothered in the middle of a sweet, sweet dream about busting an international sex ring. And since I rarely give my usual alarm such sass, it’s really hard to pass off the angry waking as just another morning.

Only one of two options really remain: Pancakes or sassing my cell phone alarm on a regular basis. Since I’ve decided that Snapperfish Me should only be pulled out once a week at best, I’m going to go with pancakes today.

But remember, it’s Snapperfish. And it happens.

Save the Indignation

Now I don’t mean to get all cliché here but I’ve run into a recent issue with the average white republican guy.  It’s a general term and it certainly does not cover them all. But this has been eating my brain for a while and should I not dispel this parasite I fear the worst.

And here it is: “I wish the Arab community would just stand up and let the rest of them know that extremism and terrorism is not okay” The average generic comment made by someone who a.) Does not read Arab news and b.) Is being dismissively bigoted.

So we are supposed to stand up and let the extremists know eh? Well as soon as I run into one, hopefully on my way to the grocery store as not to interrupt my flow, I’ll let him know. Dear sir? Yes you, in the kiffeyah, yes. You are not welcome. Wait…what is your feeling on Israel? Do you have a second to discuss with me your ideas on American military bases in Saudi Arabia? Okay then. Well, clearly you do not. But from what I can tell you seem quite extremist and I don’t appreciate it.

And the worst part? It almost always comes from a white guy.  So I have decided to create my own list of things I’d like the white guy to stand up against. Because as long as it’s the average citizens duty to make a statement, let’s work with it.

1.      Please stand up against rape. No, because a huge majority of rapes are done by white guys. And since you are white, and a fellow, I’d so very much appreciate it if you could reign in all those dudes that are seemingly walking amongst you and just…ya know…raping.

2.      Could you please curb the serial killers? For God sakes they are ALL WHITE. No really! I swear the vast majority here are disgruntled angry white dudes. And you have not been disenfranchised nearly enough to have this kind of rage against the machine. So please just calm down your fellow white guy. Have them stop dumping girls in pits and telling them to put the lotion on the skin. Just call a few of your white guy friends up and have a quick convo. Make sure they’re not planning or have become serial killers. Thanks!

3.      Stop embezzling funds. I know you’re all on top of the corporate ladder and the view is grand, if not a bit wobbly. But it seems you have a really, really hard time keeping your hands out of that corporate cookie jar. Could you just…I don’t know…let Mrs. Stevens in accounting keep her pension? Maybe not run your company under only after selling all your stocks? It would be a huge help.

4.      Kindly stop starting wars. Because the word in the street is war is hell. And unless absolutely necessary, I really think that’s a business we should keep out of. That whole Iraq thing? Bad idea. And if you white guys could have called your other white guys and let them know that it’s not acceptable to start wars off of bad intel, and then perhaps we could have avoided this whole thing.

5.      Stop hitting the hacky sack into my eating area. I just want to be left alone to enjoy my sandwich. But you cannot stop ‘accidentally’ hitting your hacky sack over to my general area and almost skidding into me. Not cool white guy.  And I know that this is a much lesser charge then my past 1,2,3 and 4, but it is still really annoying.

6.      On another light note: Could we agree that those fake pseudo-retro tight silk screened t shirts are a little douche? I think a consensus needs to be had here. They were cool once upon a time. That time was high school. So unless you are of junior, sophomore or senior status put the shirt back. No, just give it to charity. Or your little brother. You’re a real man now. Wear a real shirt…

7.       Maybe you could also stop imitating other races while we’re at it. I mean, I get it. I really do. You sorta grew up in the vacuum of culture where the only thing indigenous to you is veganism or football. But that doesn’t mean its okay to branch off and co-opt the huge jersey. Or the sagged pant or the bling. Now Eminem did it! But here is the deal with him: He’s talented. An asshole, maybe. A gay hater? Meh. But he can put lyrics on paper and create whimsy and rage with equal fortitude. Can you? No? Then might I suggest you stop? I know for those seeking a more creative outlet then indy rock or emo might be at a loss here…but…but…let me offer you a bit of salvation: just be yourself. There. Now you’ll be okay. I promise.

So those are just a few suggestions I have. It just seems fair that if you demand something of me then I get to do the same back. That way we can all live in a nicely copasetic world. I am looking forward to it. And hey, next time I spot a terrorist, or just a shady looking Muslim dude I’ll raise my little red flag. If I hear him shout something about infidels I promise I’ll challenge him on it.

In the meantime though, if you could clear up all that other mess that has gone wrong with the world while you were busy blaming the Arabs I’d reeeally appreciate it.

K thanks.

The Melrose Smoothie

So here I am in my steak-induced stupor. I am contemplating getting another diet coke from the fridge, I'm fairly certain my dog is over me and Melrose Place Season 3 is on. It's fair to say that I've almost completely removed myself from reality.

If I had any tonic for my gin perhaps the transition would be easier.

Because I am fairly certain the news media wants my brains to explode. It seems more then obvious at this point. With the domestic violence scandals, the beheading scandals, the Japanese rape-fantasy games, one or more of the Dakotas challenging abortion, again (again), the lack of jobs as a decent distraction and WHY WONT ALLISON LET GO OF BILLY! She is moving to Hong Kong. Land of the dumpling and fine silk. Time to mooove on. No, on the serious, move on.

And I found the most perfect recipe to help that occur:

1/2 cup frozen strawberries

1/2 cup frozen berry mix

1/2 cup of frozen peaches

3 teaspoons of flax seed ground

6 teaspoons of vanilla yogurt

1.5 cups of orange juice.

 It's the bestest thickest smoothie on earth. And while you are drinking/chewing it not only are you being all healthy--which I hear is important these days--but you won’t really be upset that you are alone, in your apartment, with your dog that clearly cannot be bothered, and you are watching season 3 of Melrose Place on your netflix DVDs.

It has a soothing quality. Because sometimes you need it.

Well thank the Gods then...

So, apparently the jury is in. Celebrities are great at relationship issues. No, really. They are.  Therefor celebrities and athletes (oh joy!) have decided to branch out and give you the help you and your darling dear need.

Thus seems to be the newest sentiments of Mr. Jerry Seinfeld. His new fantastic idea for a reality show is named...wait for it... The Marriage Ref.

So from the glitzy ridiculous land where cigarettes are more shameful then coke, 600 calories is a binge, a rape scandal is a Tuesday and a nose job is a rite of passage we, yes we. the undeserving public, get to receive marriage advice from the pros. Praise be!

Oh well but then as I am thinking about this whole mudled bullshit Seinfeld came on and it all suddenly made sense. It all came together as to why Mr. Jerry would actually think this is a decent idea.

It's not that I hate the show. It's kinda amusing sometimes in a banal kind of way. When I am playing Jewel Quest II and I want some background noise it is the show to have on. But it all makes sense. The level of hilarity and insight Mr. Seinfeld thinks he has on this culture of ours as he deftly takes on our most profound of issues. Airline peanuts! Taxicab drivers! A great sandwich! Oh do go on Mr. Jerry. Oh do tell me more about what is...up with that.

Every episode starts with his monologue. And I'm pretty sure it ends with it too. Then it goes into some silly problem. One that four unlikely friends will seek to solve, make worse, make ridiculous, then sorta solve, or at least move on to next said issue. This is fine. I actually like Elaine's character. Kramer seems a bit passé at this point but I suppose that the time he was groundbreaking funny (and a bit less obviously racist). Costanzia reminds me of my most unfavorite Aunt. So I prefer to pretend he doesn’t exist.

But the whole thing is like an indulgent bath in self importance and pomp. This is why it makes so much sense that he would think WE need the advice of him and his people so darn badly.

Oh puhleese Mr. Jerry, do tell me how do I fix this issue: I cannot make rent. Because I was laid off and my husband is an immigrant who just go the right to work in the USA a whole YEAR after we got married (yes it takes that long sometimes). So for the past forever we've been living off me, and now I don’t have a job. And unemployment simply will not foot the bill.

So Mr. Jerry, what can Kobe Bryant, Lindsey Lohan or Harrison Ford give me in the way of sound and reasonable advice? Rape it? Snort it? Escape it by running down a series of cave-like tunnels and out into the jungle where I can hijack and elephant and make it back to civilization?

Okay then.

Just checking.