I wish we didn't have to lock up our virgin mothers.
I was thinking dark thoughts this week and it occurred to me that at least once in every decade of my life my heart has been irreparably broken - when I was a sad little girl, an angry teenager, a young mother, a grown-ass woman who should have known better, an exhausted almost-crone. I thought to myself, "Oh woe is me to suffer such regular, unrelieved sorrow. I really should write about it."
Then I smacked my coffee cup smartly into my front teeth, jolting my feeble mind back to reality. Heart-rending grief at least once a decade? You LUCKY bitch!
I wore my sequin dress and new glasses for a while. That's all I've got.
Like many people across the world, yesterday I took note of Senator Wendy Davis as she fillibustered Texas SB5. I checked several times. Yes, it is 2013 America. And, our brothers and sisters in Texas get to fight a battle from another century, from the deep, dark past, yet again. Oy vay. I grow weary of the patriarchy. All over the globe the rage against our mothers, our sisters, our daughters, and the sick, fucking notion that they are chattle, flows on and on and on.
Mrs. G offers her take on attempts to legislate the vagina here. I left the following comment and wanted to record it here, because not speaking out against sexism and attempts to legislate women's bodies is a grave mistake:
"Love you Mrs. G. As I watched Senator Davis yesterday, all I could think
was how desperately I wished our beloved Molly Ivins was here to offer
her hilarious and lucid commentary on the Texas lege. Texas is home to
so many great feminists. In the land where the swinging micro-dicks
shout down anyone without a big checkbook, women like Ann Richards,
Senator Davis, Barbara Jordan, Spinster Aunt Twisty Faster, and Molly
are too often the only rational voices of humanity in a screaming
mantastrophe of rage against women. Thank you for raising your voice in
defense of all the rights of all the pussies. I've reclaimed all the
words - quim, cooch, nunny, cunt, beaver, fanny, muff. Freud had it
wrong. The essential issue seems to me to be VAGINA-envy."
I know my Mama won't be happy about the swearing. She is an elegant, gentle woman. She is also my greatest role model, my touchstone, and an ardent, life-long feminist. She raised me to speak my mind. So, for fuck's sake, I am exasperated by impotent old men and their frightened bed-fellows trying to drag humanity back centuries. These people fear women and they are afraid to be held accountable for their own bullshit misogyny. I'm over it. And, of course, I'm not over it. Because, like that sneaky pile of dog shit your kid trailed into the house, the stench of sexism and the fear of the almighty vagina continues to stink and must be scrubbed clean and washed out-even if you have to do it over and over and over again.
Wow. I got no mojo flowing. The mayhem maker has us all chasing our tails as we await what will be. Cryptic enough for you?
It is hard to love people who don't love themselves. That sounds so obvious. Stupid platitude. But in practice, to love someone bent on their own destruction or even just too sick to see they are courting death, is an exhausting thing. Sometimes you want to stop loving them.You want to let them go. Sometimes you wish it was over. Sometimes you feel guilty for entertaining that thought.
I love my brothers. We are each so different. But when I feel small and vulnerable and overwhelmed, I can fall back into a time when it was we three sitting in the back of an old car listening to the radio and singing along with each other. The middle child so very earnest. The baby so affable, sweet, and beloved. And me the big sister bossing and trying to make sense of the chaos. We were together. We were not alone in the world.
This song reminds me of them just because we sang it out loud together on one of our many long road trips.
And for the one who needs it, some truth as I see it and a little hope:
Ugh. Not so pretty "new" interface for the bloggists Blogger.What fresh hell? Must everything be "updated"? I am having a lot of trouble with change right now and this just looks like more bad news.
Guess I should just jump in dear reader and start where I am. On a blank page.
Made a lovely visit to the Hulda Klager Lilac Garden with my own glorious mother and my beautiful baby boy. The gardens are open every year for a couple of weeks before Mother's Day to celebrate Hulda's legacy. When I discovered that Hulda lost everything in the floods of 1948 and had to start again at age 83, I was inspired to face my own neglected garden.
10 years ago, in a fit of rage, someone I loved took an axe to my own 100 year old lilacs in the backyard. They were at least 18 feet tall and 20 feet wide-a veritable lilac perfumed forest. I suspect they were just one more thing he could be jealous about.
My dear neighbor Hazel, who was born in the house next door, told me the lilacs had bloomed that prolifically all of her long life. My house is now at least 123 years old and the lilacs were here for most of that time. I have mourned them each spring and avoided my backyard (site of the massacre) for too long.
My mother bought a beautiful Sarah Sands lilac, hybridized by Hulda, as a gift for me. So, I'm putting on my gauntlets and heading out to do battle with a forest of blackberry and residual heartache. Wish me luck.
For Mother's Day I painted my fingers. Early in the morning, before the temperatures climbed into the very un-Portland-like high 80's, we walked over to the Cartopia food carts on Hawthorne and ate crepes in the sunshine. It was a perfect day.
I think that you are aware my dear reader of how deeply grateful I am to have been gifted the mother I have. To share two beautiful, sun-filled days with both my mother and my son in a single week was so lovely. I do hope your Mother's Day was just as sublime.
Today's highlight, in addition to planting peppermint, pineapple mint, and CHOCOLATE mint (who knew?!) was a kind comment left by one of my longtime blog-crushes Janelle from Ngorobob House: Life From the Hill. You, my dear reader Red Tara, can imagine my fan-girl excitement! She had posted to her blog this morning after a bit of a break. Reading her post made my morning, so I stopped by hers to let her know.
Since the day I gave up monkey muffins, I have relied on writers who deliver the goods for my morning indulgence ( huge latte with honey and a google reader chaser). Janelle's blog is a favorite treat.
Another eagerly anticipated blog is Tania Kindersley's, Backward in High Heels. Like me, Tanya adores horses. She recently brought her red mare home to the far north of Scotland. I have been planning to write about her experience with a commenter who suggested that readers were bored with her new found passion for the red mare. That she was too single-minded in her posts.
I tried to leave the following comment on her post:
Tania I wish I had commented on yesterday's post. All day my mind was humming with sympathetic joy for you and the red mare and the pony and the pigeon. I don't have an eloquent way to express it, but this coup de foudre has been what finally grabbed my attention and made me a daily reader after a long time of just occasionally visiting.
I am fascinated by people's passions. Especially those of women, as we have for so long been told to keep quiet about personal delight lest we call too much attention to ourselves.
I, too, have loved a horse and part of the joy of these posts has been the stirring of my own sweet memories. But greater than that has been the (admittedly voyeuristic) pleasure of following along as you throw caution to the wind and ecstatically follow your heart's desire. We should all be so brave and so lucky.
Thank you for such tremendous pleasure and for the honesty of your work on the blog which has come to feel like a delicious present I get to unwrap each day.I am so grateful.
For some reason I couldn't leave the post but I wanted to put it someplace to remind myself that what we love, what we are moved by, is the fuel of life. I feel so bogged down in the 'shoulds', the 'what-ifs', and sometimes even, oh the shame of it!, the 'what will they think of its?' that I need reminders and fuel.
To the women and men who write about their lives and passions and everydays I can only say thank you. And, I love you.
That's all for tonight. I'll figure out this new blogger trip another day.
I am working away on some new projects. If I can tear myself away from reclaiming my land, I'll be back to fill you in on the details.
I left the comment below on Mrs. G's blog, but I wanted to put it here to remember. It fits in with a certain theme I'm vibing on. The comment was left in response to Mrs. G's request for thoughts on this video (which she said was sweeping the web and I had not yet seen-6 million viewers?):
So, Dad is quite angry. And he has a gun. And obviously, he is a parenting teenager newb. As the daughter of an angry man, I can tell you that public rants and humiliation do not forge strong parent/child bonds, healthy relationships,compliance with daddy's wishes, or respect.
We are seeing one angry dad's response to his child's teenage angst. Teenagers do that. They diss their parents. They feel "put out" by the demands their parents make. The are embarrassed and even disdainful of their parents. They can frequently be over-the-top asshats, cruel, thoughtless, and pissy mean.
This is normal human development. Normal = Not a shooting offense. Fear has no place in parent/child relationships. It is destructive to that which is most essential-trust. And, if handled correctly, (I liked to use long words about individuation and developing synaptic connections i.e. "your brain don't work so hot right now because you have a lot of synaptic connections to forge.") teenage asshatment can be talking points that enhance a teenager's sense of self and self-worth, which helps them develop connection and empathy, which makes aging parental ass-wiping highly probable (one among many of the highly desirable traits we hope to see in our offspring).
I don't advocate being a doormat for a kid, but I do believe we must show our children respect before we can demand it from them. Like all tough skills, becoming a tolerable human is a learned behavior. Takes trial and error and a very committed team routing for you to actually master the complex feat of growing up.
I have 2 beautiful adult children who at times did equally stupid, insensitive things (just as I, too, did when young-probably still do as we save all our best bullshit for those we love and trust. Sorry Mama.). I believe that they have learned how to be remarkable adult people through loving, honest, SAFE, (no cigarettes, anger, guns -heaven help us!) and respectful interactions with adults they could count on to establish boundaries and listen as often as they talked to teenagers.
I feel bad for this family. Where do you go to talk things out when the level of aggression is raised to such heights? And how can a cornered kid make a graceful retreat or attempt rapprochement when they are not shown how to handle disappointing behaviors which, let's face it parents, our kids receive from us as well.
So, that was my comment on the video. It makes me sad to think 6 million people think this is ok parenting. I call shenanigans. This dude is an amateur who could benefit from some education. I can only hope he was arrested for deploying hollow-point bullets in a residential neighborhood and that his arrest taught his daughter a little bit about how not to handle her disappointment and anger.
Lately I've been feeling cranky. Any time I open my mouth someone is there to tell me I am angry. Every alert woman will have this experience almost daily. It's nothing new. Most of the time I just ignore it, sometimes don't even notice it. The offense I am committing is commonly called having an opinion while wearing a vagina. Hearing about how this makes me an angry woman, a wrathful goddess, bitchy, or the perennial "over-reactive" is so fucking boring.
I have opinions. I am an emotional creature. You could be so lucky. You could. And then, if you were, you would stop policing my words. You would hesitate before clamping your hand over my mouth and whispering "shhh!" in fear of the boogeyman who is around every corner just waiting to hurt a girl. You might, like me, occasionally call that boogeyman out. Yell " Bring it!" at him or point out to passers by that he is standing right there and they are walking too close and should tell him to go shower some of the stank off if he really wants to use stealth to scare.
I am not interested in compliance. I believe it is how we got into this mess. I am tired of being told how I feel or that the radical fact that I feel and then express my feelings is a problem.
My life, like everyone's life, will be brief. Too quick a trip to tiptoe around all this bullshit. So, I wear hip waders and get on with it. To those who would prefer I demur I say "Fuck you" and "You should try it sometime." I know that you are afraid that once you open your mouth all that will come out is a scream, but trust me, there is so much more you have to say.
"I am an emotional creature. It's how the earth got made. I love love love being a girl." Thank you Eve Ensler.
I adore Roseanne. She is unapologetic. This is too rare in female form. Her show was a blast. I remember laughing to wonderful dialogue like this:
DAN: Ah man, we're screwed.
ROSEANNE: No Dan. We are so far beyond screwed that the light from screwed will take 1 billion years to reach the earth.
Roseanne isn't hung up on perfection. Life is what it is and what you make it in her universe. As a recovering perfectionist, I find this so inspiring. If you have breath and love, you are rich. You have it all. I ran across a recent quote that made me smile. I was comforted to know she is still trailbreaking with the best of them.
"I am old now: gray, wrinkled, tired, and bloated, and my joints ache, too. But I am ready to come into my full destiny—as my childhood dreams predicted—as a Neo-Amazonian Pirate Queen of my own vessel: firing cannonballs at the worldwide culture of patriarchy in the name of all that does not suck. I no longer fear moving on to a better existence than this one, which is, of course, no existence at all. Oblivion will be fucking sweet after a lifetime at the mercy of my hormones and my biological clock and the twisted logic that produced the craving for a dominant male sex partner. I’m quite thrilled to say that at this late hour, in my autumn years, I have at last found a man who is more savant than idiot, and with whom the sparse occasions of physical enjoining of souls is quite sublime."
- Roseanne Barr on life post-menopause
We need more unapologetic, fierce, and female voices in this world. Bless your brave soul Ms. Barr. You are a treasure.
As I approach my last birthday in my 40's, I suppose I am seeking out role models for the uncharted (by me) territory ahead. I have, of course and hallelujah, my glorious mother as torch-bearer. She gleefully reminds me that at 50 I can become a member of AARP. And then she laughs. I have another year and not quite a month until that milestone. When, the universe willing and all systems go, it comes I will be grateful. To be here is the gift.
"For example, we're on Sarah Palin's targeted list, but the thing is, that the way that she has it depicted has the crosshairs of a gun sight over our district. When people do that, they have to realize that there are consequences to that action," Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords said in an interview with MSNBC.
Looks like that target she painted on Gabrielle Giffords work a charm.
Someone should prosecute the wicked witch from Wasilla for murder.
News media note that the bitch removed her SarahPac graphic calling for the slaughter of people that don't agree with her crazazy-assed, morally bankrupt political positioning. Yeah republitard, let's split hairs. You will whine, "She only targeted their political campaigns."
We will watch and see you for what you are as you desperately try to distance yourself from the obviously insane person who committed these acts. Crazy is as crazy does and The Tea Bagstress and her strap-on legion of un-patriotic, un-American sycophants should be put away some place where they will be unable to hurt others. A little too late for the young girl, the federal judge and the 16 others reported killed or injured.
Fuck all y'all who scream about the right to bear arms. GUN CONTROL NOW!
I wanted to blog about making and cooking and the sweetness of life, because there is oh so much sweetness. I suppose my grief over the state of my "homeland" (in parenthesis because it sounds so 3rd Reich-esque) is what calls me to write about the great shame that is amreeka these days. So incredibly sad that in a nation filled with gentle, loving, engaged people working for the improvement of humanity our crazy feckers outshine us all.
Confession first: I voted for you! Once again for the man I swore I'd not vote for under any circumstance. I believe I said we were through. Kind of like me and my Monkey Muffin. Only I haven't cheated there. ORLY you say. "Did you not tell me you'd never vote for the blue dog again?What's up with that ?" You may wonder Mr. Wyden and dear reader. I know I still do.
See, like most of life, it's complicated. I had my nose pressed against the pavement, jackboot on my neck, facists surrounding me.
instead of inexperienced tall guys (thank you a million times over to every progressive Oregon voter for turning out) whilst voting by mail and every vote is a real and counted vote, when faced with the ballot, I caved.
So, I am calling out to you Mr. W and all those other strange people in Washington. The unemployed need you to stop the circle jerk and do something meaningful. Extending benefits for the long-term unemployed isn't an esoteric concept. Anyone can grasp that it is almost impossible to survive in this place without a dollar or two. And for the love of dog, it's Christmas!
We need to believe there is some function the American government still serves on behalf of it's citizens. Please demonstrate that real people hold some value, that you may in fact be wholly owned corporate subsidiaries, but that you still have human parts-including beating hearts and minds capable of empathy. Stand up to your minders or be subversive-whatever is required of you to do the right thing.
And, if one of you (yes YOU Mr. Wyden) goes home for a lovely Christmas break without ensuring this extension or, worst case scenario, standing nude on the steps of Congress holding a press conference surrounded by the homeless, hungry, and desperate citizens of this land of milk and honey, screaming out with righteous and telegenic indignation that REPUBLICANS DO NOT CARE HOW MUCH MISERY THEY CAUSE NOR HOW MANY LIVES THEY DESTROY, I can assure you that the next time I see your name on the ballot, I will not fill in the oval with a blue or black ink pen. Because, since we have always had such a frank and honest relationship, I feel O.K. telling you that Earl is starting to look pretty Senatorial despite the fact that he once tried to kill my daddy with a canoe on the Nehalem river.
Our President wants to cuddle with these rat bastards Ron. I do not understand why. Where is the change in which I can believe? Time to buck up and remember the wise words of my obnoxious father - dance with (and, since you still owe us a lap dance, for) the ones what brung you.
You must not leave Washington without first staging a meltdown of epic proportion on live tv and not just cspan 'cause I think I am the only one still watching it. Make some noise! Put on your pasties! Strip down and shake your groove thing. Not so much because I want to see you naked, no offense, but because it will in fact work at getting some sort of media coverage. You feel me?
What we have here is an empire in decline. Not necessarily a bad thing. We just have to adapt. If you want your serfs to keep feeding the machine, throw us a fucking bone.
I gotta go knit a safety net.
Do that thing you used to be able to do. Stand and deliver. I promise I'll love you long time.
On the way to deliver candles to a church, the virginal daughter (Birgitta Pettersson) of feudal landowner Töre (Max von Sydow) is savagely raped and murdered. But fate takes a vengeful hand when the killers unknowingly seek food and shelter at the girl's home. Will the grief-stricken Töre learn the truth about his visitors? Set in medieval Sweden, this disturbing tale directed by Ingmar Bergman earned an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.
Recommended based on your interest in Arrested Development, Season Two
Which is described as follows:
Arrested Development: Season 2
2004NR3 discs / 18 episodes
With George Bluth Sr. (Jeffrey Tambor) busting out of prison and never-nude "analrapist" Tobias (David Cross) running into the arms of the Blue Man Group, things have never been so bad for the put-upon Michael (Jason Bateman). But isn't that why we watch? The second hilarious season of this Emmy-winning series (narrated by Ron Howard) brings back all your favorite characters plus a few more, including rival magician Tony Wonder (Ben Stiller).
Really?
Hmmm...no. I still don't get it.
Are you saying that
is like
?
Now Netflix, I know you like to tell me you understand me. Pandora likes to mess with me like this too. Lull me into a false sense of belonging. Make me feel that I am deeply understood and completely accepted. And then, like any mad-hot relationship, one day I discover you don't know me at all.
Recently Pandora compared the musical genome of Husker Du with that of Peter Frampton. And now you pull this.
It is safe to say you are bugging me out. To further the creepiness you choose to characterize my viewing as "emotional and cerebral" (which sounds like you are suggesting I need therapy) and use this as a basis for recommending films. How does this "emotional, cerebral" tag fit in with my ardor for Shameless and my endless passion for SouthPark?
Matt and Trey are so pretty!
What was I talking about? Oh yes. Srsly Netflix you are making my head throb.
I have seen both the Bergman and the tv show and I can't find any common ground.
It's sort of like recommending Carl Rove based on my interest in Justice or British Petroleum (RAT BASTARTDS!!!) based on my interest in clean energy or Miley Cyrus based on my interest in Paul Robeson.
...seriously odd. I feel completely misunderstood. Or perhaps you know me so intimately that I have yet to discover parts of myself that would recognize such a meaningful yet exquisitely subtle correlation between Virgin Spring and Arrested Development. Ouch and Whoa...spooky.
Did you know you can buy an entire gulf for 20 billion american dollars? Then you can trash it beyond redemption and say "What?" like an arrogant dumbass when asked 'wtf?' Sweet Deal!
I'm speechless.
Almost.
Oh lawd dog! Speaking of dumbasses:
Give me strength.
Edited 6/19/2010 to add this picture of a rat bastard hypocrite. Click the preceding link for the CBS news story about how the rich like to relax on their yachts while the ocean dies. I guess it's a power thing. Don't ever doubt they are wishing with all their black hearts that it was you they were defiling.They don't really get off unless their victims scream audibly.
This is not about Johnny Depp or John Waters despite my undying devotion to both
Hello Dear Reader. Let me set the scene for you. Just past 6PM on a Saturday night in PDX. Everyone else is downtown getting ready for the Starlight Parade. Yours truly is obsessed with stitching Natalie Chanin's rosebud stitch and decides, after a long day's work at her own retail job, to head to Fabric Depot -hereafter (and occasionally prior to) known as Fabric Creepo.
My beloved Mill End is already closed for the day and it is a sewing emergency. I need buttonhole thread.
As usual, Fabric Creepo, you do not have what I need, but I find a few things I want. It is me, about 4 other customers and 15 staff members in the gigantic store. I pick out some stretch denim for a skirt I want to make and embroider. I just need a yard or two.
There is one customer at the huge 4 sided cutting station. Normally there is a line at each corner with 2 employees on each side cutting for 8 customers. Tonight, praise the Rose Festival Princesses, it's just little old me waiting for the sole employee who is assisting the customer ahead of me.
As I wait calmly for a few minutes I am approached by two different employees. Do these employees want to offer to cut my fabric? Hell no! Each of them has decided I need to be herded like the stupid sheep I am.
The first says, "You need to stand at the corner of the cutting tables." She then walks away. O.K. I move to the corner. Then moments later another employee sees me standing with the bolt of fabric in my arms by myself, still the sole customer waiting at the cutting station. She also decides I need to be moved and tells me " Please move closer to the sign with the arrow." Oh, the sign a foot to my left? That one? O.K.
A minute or so later the employee who has been helping the other customer wanders my way to tell me, "You need to be standing behind the sign."
O.K. ladies, throughout each of these encounters I have moved exactly where I have been directed. I have not made a single sound or strange facial expression. I have merely complied with your need to assert your dominance over me your obviously highly annoying customer.
However, I feel at this juncture that its my turn to give some directions. So I say, "I have now been asked to move 3 times by 3 different employees and still no one will cut my fabric." That's all. Said in a friendly, if somewhat ironic way.
The employee looks at me ( in a rather self-satisfied manner imho but I am trying to spare embellishment for the sake of absolute clarity here) and says, "Well, if you won't stand whereyou are TOLD to, we will think you are being helped and we will ignore you." Then she smiles nastily, walks away, and does just that.
Bitch please! Have I mentioned that I also work retail? It is a tough gig. I know. There is no glory, only guts and not always your own. I give tremendous latitude to retail workers because we see some pretty atrocious human behavior on a regular basis. I have been at no time during this visit unkind or, up until my first exchange with the 3rd clerk, verbal at all. Now I am rendered speechless.
I stood there for a few moments just stunned and heart sick that someone felt so small they need to wound a stranger. I must have looked like a deer in the headlights. I was immobilized by such a sense of grief.
She wandered back, took my bolt, and said "How much?" Still in a state of disbelief I simply said, "Two yards please." She cut it and I moved quickly to the bank of cashiers. No waiting there. No directions for location changes either.
However, as I tried to pay with my credit card, the cashier kept scrutinizing my signature and then looking up at me with a very puzzled expression (which probably matched my own). Then she said, "I'm going to need to see some ID please." " Going to need to" not "please may I."
O.K. no big deal. It is good to be careful about credit cards. And admittedly, a $9 dollar fabric purchase is probably the perfect crime. So, I hand her my license.
She takes a good long look at it and then, apparently horrified, a good long look at me. She does this not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES. THREE DOUBLE TAKES AT ME!!!
O.K. yes, my license picture could be better. I look a bit like a serial killer in the photo and at the time it was snapped I had long hair which was today curled up in two buns on either side of the back of my head. But lets take a moment to return to reality. A $9 dollar charge that has been authorized by the credit issuing bank. A woman wearing a blue linen jumper and birkenstocks (for the love of dog!) with a wallet full of id splayed before you, and your thoughts turn to what? Robbery?
Finally, I snapped.
I said, "Now I remember why I always vow never to shop here again." And she looked at me like I'd asked for the cash in her register. I asked if she need more forms of ID, a DNA sample, or if she and her fellow clerks would like to take a moment to see if they could possibly cook up any other ways to make me feel more uncomfortable. I started to flash on Jack in 5 Easy Pieces (you know the diner scene) and yet I was barely making any noise at all-still in shock.
The cashier just next to us asked if there was any trouble and the clerk said, "No. She doesn't want me to check her ID."
My head exploded.
Then I detailed calmly and concisely (with, I am certain, an embarrassing crimson red face of mortification) my experience of Fabric Creepo's customer service during my 10 minute visit for this newly interested employee.
She apologized multiple times for my "being made to feel uncomfortable" which was nice of her as she was blameless and yet took one for her ridiculously rude team. She gave me a comment form to send in to the company and a card with the address. So, I am grateful for her attempts to be kind when all around her a sea of retail workers seemed hell bent on making me cry.
I love textiles of all sorts. I think I have mentioned that I am a die-hard Mill End girl. They may not offer 35% off sales often, but they are near my hood and have everything I need when I need it. Their staff is made up of fellow artists who are professional, helpful, and kind.
They close shop before I am finished with my work day. This is an O.K. thing. Apparently, assisting fabric store customers is equivalent to hand to hand combat or bomb disposal. I believe stores should keep human hours and workers should have time to be home for dinner. When forced to work past 6PM on Saturdays, they can not be held accountable for their rage.
I can only visit The Mill End on my days off. I will bear that in mind whenever I am jonesing for buttonhole thread, denim, embroidery floss, or in fact, anything textile related. Mill End and Etsy only from here on out.
I promise you Fabric Creepo I will never darken your door again.
Now I'm gonna go have a good cry and maybe tell Johnny all about it.
The Bayou Buzz informs us that the State Bird of Louisiana, the brown pelican, is washing up in need of de-greasing as are her fellows the green heron and northern gannet. So BP, here's my take on your "little accident".
Here in 'merica we have a system of justice that is horribly flawed. We tend to lock up citizens of all colors other than pasty with a rabid proclivity unseen in just about any other culture. We also feel poor folks are guiltier and more deserving of prison sentences than rich folks. The persecution of Martha notwithstanding. Basically in the good ole us of a only professional athletes are allowed to commit crimes penalty-free. We love our rapist basketballers and wife-murdering football types. I mean honestly are crimes against women really even crimes?
That being satirically said (well, just the last question), we do have a justice system. And one thing that we try to do within this legal system of "justice" is ensure that penalties are designed to address and mitigate against crime. It is hoped that these penalties or punishments or sentences are a deterrent to willful misbehavior and in some instances even un-willfull or accidental, but no less egregious behavior.
For example, should I one day decide to hire someone to operate my forklift and neglect to provide them with safety gear and training, I would be held to account and found, at the very least in a civil court case, responsible for any accident and associated costs that befell my hired hand.
If through my negligence as a landlord who did not maintain working fire alarms and fire escapes, I was responsible for the deaths by fire of my tenants, I would surely spend time in prison for manslaughter.
And, I believe that if I was drilling a well for my neighbor and I had a device that would ensure that I could stop the flow or output of said well in an emergency, thereby preventing any damage to my neighbor's property and I chose not to deploy said emergency device due to my concerns about the convenience or cost of same- I would be legally responsible to restore my neighbor as closely as possible to pre-loss condition.
Now BP I am sure you are hearing a lot of "let the time fit the crime" talk right now. And truly how can any time fit this heinous crime? I am simply here to add my voice to the choir. And I am not as naive as my vacant stare would have you believe. I know you have a universe full of attorneys ready to defend your right to rape and pillage. Let's just imagine some person of conscience is driving the bus for a moment...
You have annihilated an entire ecosystem, very probably destroyed the only coral reef left in this hemisphere, and devastated countless businesses - perhaps permanently destroying an entire fleet's lifetime of fishing. And you have only just begun.
Your willful disregard for the natural world and the human landscape which you are exploiting renders you unquestionably culpable. You did it. And you have the powder burns on your hands to prove it. We need to put you down for the benefit of humanity.
I am not a supporter of death penalties for people. However, as the Supreme Court so recently decided to elevate corporations to the status of persons, I am willing to re-consider my opposition. In this case, I want to see you spending every penny of revenue you will EVER generate on repairing the losses you have caused, on making restitution to the countries, the peoples, the animals, and the environments you have willfully destroyed.
And then, when your life as a corporation has been spent to the satisfaction of all of your victims, I want you put to death. I'm sorry, but I can think of no punishment to fit this crime except that you British Petroleum pay the ultimate price. And by you I don't really mean all of your executives and your investors whether they be rich white bastards, pension fund investors, or the governments of the world. Those losers just need to be rendered broke. But you BP - Corporate Person - no BP, no more.
Here's your mugshot you rat bastard
I know we could get a jury to convict and a judge to hand down that ultimate sentence. We need to establish a clear penalty for destruction on such an epic scale (because then perhaps we could apply the law to weapons manufacturers and crazed, war-hungry governments too-you know what I'm talkin' about- lawyer types call it a precedent).
After all , here in 'merica we execute developmentally disabled teenagers and innocent people. While you may have some fools believing you are a people, we all know you ain't an innocent. And I am O.K. with this little aberration in my moral code. BP I want you dead.
For the love of dog how can it be possible that it is again time for PLEDGE Week/Month? Why?Dog why? How many years is it really appropriate to replay Rock, Rhythm & Do Wop? Seriously! Frankie Valli is freakin' me out! Have Mercy!
I've not yet completely forgiven you for the whole soft ball lob from Jim Lehrer to George Bush during the Bush - Kerry debates when your rabid neoconservatism reared its ugly head (as an aside, how the hell you got to good old liberal Texan Jim Lehrer is a frightening thing upon which to speculate. He was so obviously and deeply affected. It aged him overnight.)
So, back to what I once was able to refer to as pledge week-now pledge month. Is your target demographic really the over 80 set? Really? Because I don't feel that old. I am a pretty regular viewer now that you have mended your ways and put a little Public back in public broadcasting. I think Frontline is amazing. I dig Art Beat. I watch Julia cooking with Jacques religiously -it is my sole religion come to think. Mr. Roger's owns me as we have discussed previously. Sewing with Nancy makes me sweat in a good way. Do not get me started on Masterpiece Theatre. Zut! I have never been the same since I watched Glenda Jackson as Queen Elizabeth in my first remembered Masterpiece Theatre viewing orgy as a wee girl in the early 70's.
Heavens! I could rave endlessly about my devotion to you. It is an awesome thing.
However OPB, despite my obviously overlooked devotion to you, you consistently and quarterly wound me. Honestly, I can not watch Victor Borgia one more time. Nor do I need a quarterly review of the Big Band Years. I am also worn out by Ed Sullivan and the Beatles. That's saying something, as I bear a deep and abiding love for all things Liverpudlian. I hold you personally responsible for permanently destroying the Beatles-induced frisson I've cherished MY ENTIRE LIFE.
Shall we talk aerial views of Italy, Scotland, Ireland, and Greece to uplifting, ethnically appropriate elevator music?
These shows are probably fab when the viewer is stoned beyond high. But sober, again, once is enough.
Oh yeah! Suze Orman can blow me. She and her helmet hair creep me out and pleez with cheez sister who in this third world nation we inhabit has the resources to set aside 6 months salary in a rainy day fund? She tells me at least 4 times a year that I am heading toward financial ruin. Always a heartwarming thought. Well Suze, excuse me but you do not inspire me to give OPB any more money than my basic membership because, as you remind me ad nauseam, I am on track for abject poverty. As I said, "Suze Orman blow me."
And Suze, what is with all the weird jackets girlfriend?
Also, if Wayne Dyer tells me about that butterfly that came and sat on him one morning whilst he lounged in perfect mental health on the lovely lanai of his house in Hawaii because he is highly evolved and therefore in possession of a beautiful Hawaiian estate complete with friendly winged insects one more time I will expire. Hey Wayne! A freaking GINORMOUSreddragonfly once landed on me and convinced me that life was worth living.
I don't show up in your living room 4 times a year to tell you about it.
As for Celtic Thunder, Celtic Women, and the Celtic Tenors - I get it. My name is celtic. It translates to warrior. And yet, whenever I observe that yet again you are inflicting Michael Flatley upon me
or those weird generic blonde and redhead waifs that sing Enya songs badly 'tis not my Celtic blood which rises but the Viking Berserker who dwells in my heart and feels the call of a good and frenzied pillage -perhaps at OPB headquarters.
Now, you may feel that I am overreacting. Certainly, there are people who adore repetition of all things celtic, baby boomerish, 1950's US gloryday-ish, rockandrolldowopish, and self-helpishisms. It must be working for someone. It is your go-to fundraising formula. But here's the thing OPB, allow me to one up your own rerun mentality.
When, of an evening, I come home wired and tired from a day of trying to make impossibly unhappy people happy and all that I want is a cup of tea, my cozy bed, and a good Brit-com (and here we catch the author suffering from her own bout of regurgititous)
it pains me, nay, near slays me, to find that 12 weeks have so swiftly flown and once again I'm subjected to weeks of the same crap you've been slinging to solicit dollars for the last twenty years. Gee, next weekend I'll get to watch that creepy guy who bears a slight resemblance to Willford Brimley making Down Home Favorites and American Comfort foods on those weird cooking USA shows you love so well. And then, I'll have another chance to catch Celtic Thunder!
I have a proposal.
Please, please, please-the prettiest of pleases with brown sugar on top PLEASE just once could we have an all BBC Pledge Break?
We could start here:
Move on to this:
Add a dash of circus:
Revisit Grace Brothers and Mrs. Slocombe:
Kick it into high gear with my darling Inspector:
Schedule a week night with Basil:
And the Pledge Month climax could always be:
You would rake it in OPB! I swear. I'd beat Suze's projections for my complete financial collapse by instantly gifting my entire estate to you! Seriously squeeeeee!
I am a pacifist despite my inner berserker. But hear this OPB and let me be clear. One more of these and I may blow:
In addition to losing half of my hearing (Buh Bye stereo sound - you were nice! And I never told you how very much I loved you.) the last 27 days have been filled with:
My loved ones having "the" flu. Or maybe a flu. Or flues?
Prednisone withdrawal (mega-dosed to theoretically provide treatment for the sudden hearing loss) that is teaching me to stfu about junkies because I would lick a toad if it made my joints work better and stopped this melancholy. Thank goodness I discovered Matthew Good's Hospital Music just in time to get low-down and depressed. The Boy Come Home almost killed me. So lovely. "Strange to think we could have been so brought up by ourselves". Yep. I did just quote a song lyric. It's pretty serious no? Really lovely and sad. Not a good combination for a woman on the verge.
MRI to verify that no I don't have a brain tumor and yes I have health insurance and yet, I now owe $2,000.00 to Epic Imaging - AFTER my deductible and insurance payment for the thrill of it all. I know I got off cheap. It's the $1,800.00 tooth that has really capped (haha more like crowned) the week.
Root Canal. Enough said.
Driver's side door spontaneously falling off of my loyal truck Fidel. And it's really wet here. I need a door I think. So, I smashed it back on and now I get to take my debilitated joints, my melancholy vibe, and my throbbing face and fling them across the passenger seat to drive anywhere. Good times.
Post by SJ that has me thinking hard and my brain and heart hurt.
Today, after a very long day that saw most of my green and pleasant city washed away by wild deluge, I came home craving nothing more than my delicious, cozy, tiny bed...bliss. My needs are so simple. Sadly, my roof has decided to fail completely and directly over my bed which is now so profoundly sodden that it may never be cozy again.
I am not feeling well. I have been sobbing so hysterically. Awesome. I am a whiner.
Frida had it harder. Lots of people do. Dollface it sucks to be a grown up sometimes.
I may have mentioned that I no longer speak to, endorse, support financially, or would dine with Sen. Ron Wyden. At one time I would have given the man a kidney. Alas, no more. Blue dog, lap dog, old dog whatever...he needs to stand down. Now. As I have mentioned in my many letters to him, he is woefully out of touch with the interests and desires of his constituents. Unless of course, he has decided to come clean about the fact that his constituents are health insurance companies and big pharmaceutical corporations. Wtf Ron?
When Sen. Wyden's office stopped answering their phones (the day he signed with a bunch of republiwhatevers for a "slow down" on health reform) I spoke to someone in Sen. Jeff Merkley's office. I asked them wtf was up with Ron? They were as mystified as the rest of us. I asked the staffer to run down the hall or up the stairs or whatever and check to see if a pod had been placed under Ron's desk. We had a brief laugh and then much weeping ensued.
"Sage politicos" who wonk out regularly tell me that this is nothing new. How naive of me to think a good democrat is a democrat who gives a rat's ass about people. The pansification of my party is a fact. I am having a very difficult time getting over this particular grief. Heaven help us when all the good liberals start pocketing blood money from the evil empire. As that NRA bad boy told us, "Soylent Green is People!"
Who do I vote for now? Politicians with the strength of character to make things happen (which is why I voted for Hillary-she has the ovaries to take on the tough challlenges) have left the building. Apparently, the idiots, "consensus-builders" and criminals stayed behind to run the show in Washington. My kingdom for an FDR or an LBJ right now. I'd even endorse Elizabeth Tudor. At this point a monarch might be an improvement.
State Party Chamber Member of Congress TotalDescending Oregon Democrat Senate Sen. Ron Wyden $261,550 Oregon Democrat House Rep. Earl Blumenauer $44,500 Oregon Republican House Rep. Greg Walden $42,150 Oregon Democrat House Rep. Kurt Schrader $27,651 Oregon Democrat Senate Sen. Jeff Merkley $19,000 Oregon Democrat House Rep. David Wu $7,000 Oregon Democrat House Rep. Peter DeFazio $3,000
Seriously Senator Wyden? $261,550.00 in 2009 with a whole fiscal quarter left to report?
And Earl check yourself! More than the republicat! Dude, so not good.
"Dear k", you may ask, "Why do you torture yourself over health care reform and the fact that all politicians are corrupt? You are so boring. Is it because you don't have insurance?"
No, dear reader. After several years without, I now have a policy. But my son does not. And one in four people I meet do not. We are all (but the lucky few) underinsured. And it is a financial stress and prominent nightmare for almost all Americans.
Take a moment to imagine what health security would feel like.
Doesn't that feel amazing?
What space would be freed in your psyche? In your wallet?
"Fascism wants Baptism coast to coast," according to Ken Kesey.
Death panels! Rationing!Unplugging Granny!Waiting forever for tests! No boob jobs on demand! Teeth like the English! (that one is just plain mean, most of my imaginary friends are English, and I think dentists contributed more to humankind when they also cut hair). How barbaric!
These fallacies have been brought to you by the same people who invented the fun summer pastime "Tea Bagging".
For the love of dog, if you can't google the name you pick for your latest great idea for political action you shouldn't be allowed to carry weapons and assemble. Do you hear me Dick?
I was so impressed when Heather Spohr, Maddie's mother, wrote about her insurance experiences and COBRA. She felt it was more important to tell the truth than to worry she might offend someone. That is an impressive ethic for a mommy blogger. And I don't mean to dismiss other mommy bloggers in any way. I am aware of the fact that many blogs are carefully edited to offend the fewest number of visitors. My strengths lie elsewhere.
This is not a political blog any more than it is a cooking blog, a yarn blog, or a blog all about how much I wish Maddie was still alive and I do so wish that. It's just that these things make up my day and fill my head and I believe they should be considered. I need to mark the point at which my political party broke my heart - right here and right now over health security for all.
Henceforth, dear reader, I am all about term limits and campaign finance reform and a socialist party wouldn't hurt us one little bit. I am great at sharing and I bet you are too. But I'll try to spare you that crap and write a little about my trip to the beach with my gorgeous Mum or my obsession with bias knit wash cloths.
9/24/09 Updated to add: Whoa! Anyone else notice the hits from Washington, District of Columbia in my little feedjit widget? And, the President sent me an email on an address I NEVER use for correspondence with the government. He hasn't written in such a long time. Wow! How cool is that? Or maybe it's scary? No, definitely cool.
So, I have a Pandora station for River Deep, Mountain High. I loves me my Ike & Tina. Well, let's be real here. I loves me my Tina. Ike was a disturbed man. And, in a lucid moment Phil made sure that Ike didn't perform on the song, nor was he allowed to visit the studio. He did, however, receive credit on the Dennis Hopper designed cover. Dennis was preparing to be Easy Rider High as we see here:
Alledgedly Pandora confabs with the music genome project to find songs with similar attributes.
Because it features a Bahamian woman singing? Whoa! Tina's from Nutbush, Tennessee.
The song repeats this unforgettable chorus:
Don’t touch that thing, your momma’s gonna know. Don’t touch that thing, your momma’s gonna know. How’s your momma gonna know? You’re belly’s gonna show.
Endlessly. I can not forget it. Once heard, this song owns you.
Not a violin in sight. No soaring "Do I love you? My oh my!"Interesting.
That "thing"you are not suppose to touch is a penis, dear reader. Honest.
A blog review, at the Washington Post ( here I use italics to indicate surprise. For news-conscious Americans, there are so few dependable sources. I count 4- the BBC, C-SPAN, the New York Times, and the Washington Post, but the Post has a problem, so maybe not the Post. After finding this review affiliated with their paper I can say we have 2 strikes, 2 outs, and no one on base. It's that close.), refers to the song this way:
"There are a few dozen compilations on the label that could serve as a perfect summer mixtape, so picking just one song is a tough task. But this slice of Funky Nassau from "Cult Cargo: Grand Bahama Goombay" was the first one that came to mind. This song just oozes sun, warmth and the carefree attitude that goes -- or at least should go -- with summer. It's got a meaningless sing-along chorus and a beat that never stops. "
Um, really? "Oozes sun, warmth, and a carefree attitude"? "Meaningless sing-along chorus"? Wait. For realz? Let's pause. Now breathe. O.K.
Dudes are odd. Forgive me, but I am going to just call this one: the reviewer at the Post is a dude. I know dudes. I even made one myself. Lovely creatures in possession of "that thing" we are not suppose to touch. Yet so very odd.
Most woman would hear a cautionary tale on this track...about not touching penises...Duh. And then, they would wonder about Sylvia. Did she ever touch one? If so, did her Mama know. If not, well yee haw for self- or birth control correctly applied to the encounter! Not exactly a breezy summertime theme for a song. Unless getting knocked up is your idea of summertime.
"Don't Touch That Thing" celebrates (here the italics are ironic) the fear and chronic worry experienced by every fertile heterosexual female at some point in her life. Because, let's face it, that day comes along sister when you feel compelled to touch that thing (no really, it does happen) and yet, always, Sylvia's words of wisdom ring in your mind. Even if you've never heard her sing them to you. Which is a sad thought for me because she sings a unique and memorable, I fear unforgettable, song. Even if you are in the mood to be a mama. It gives you pause. The whole sex , life, and death thing. The implications should you lose control or consciously decide to touch that thing. It's deep.
It is not, however, River Deep, Mountain High.
You can read another review of the compilation here. All this to prove my point.
River Deep, Mountain High is unlike any other song. There is no comparison. It is singular. Bold and dramatic. An orgasmic frenzy of orchestrated bliss. And complete. And I love it.
Thanks for keeping me wondering, dancing, and ovulating Pandora! As we are such new friends, I am sure this is but the first of many mind-bending encounters. The tip of the iceberg as it were.
I make things, read things, write things, want to travel more, am a mother, a daughter, a sister, an auntie, a terrible girlfriend, and a feminist. I am fortunate and grateful.
