Because it is Bloody and Because it is My Bridge

I quoted one of my favorite poems earlier today and while I understand not everyone is into poetry, this response came from one of the individuals present, “Even though it makes no sense,” after I mentioned how much I loved the quoted line. I thought to myself, of course it makes sense, and then myself rethought to myself, but why? See, I feel like much of poetry hovers in the gap of Paz’s, “Idea palpable, palabra impalpable,” and while a certain beloved lyric, line, song, painting, makes sense to us we can’t always explain why to ourselves, let alone others. This is where my love of literature, writing, poetry, and self-discovery comes into play, combines, and has a literary ejaculation in my brain. A dorkgasam. I am one of the lucky ones who can have multiple dorkgasams, sometimes one right after the other until I am exhausted and alone with only some crumpled up paper to show for it; my hands sticky with ink because my pen is spent. This particular dorkgasam had me contemplating Stephen Crane and this poem:

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said: "Is it good, friend?"

"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;

"But I like it

Because it is bitter,

And because it is my heart.

What supposedly didn’t make sense was, “Because it is bitter, / And because it is my heart.” This made total sense to me and I had a brief double-you-tee-eff moment. After I got over my internal acronym outburst I realized I was lurking in Paz’s gap. I am always trying to bridge this gap.So, this is what I came up with:

Your heart is, literally and metaphorically, a piece of who you are, what you stand for, and what you have been through. It is a common theme in all forms of art to refer to the heart as a representation of what has been done to you and how you feel. When your heart becomes hardened and bitter it may be difficult to remember what it once was, that it was once yours, that it (you) were not always "this" way, that it (you) once worked properly. But if you accept that it was once yours and that it is now changed, you gain a new power. You have the power to destroy it (eat it) and reintroduce it (consume it) thereby accepting (swallowing) the bitterness, the hardship, the changed piece of yourself as still being a piece of yourself. Don’t deny it or cast it out, it is your heart (your experiences) it is a vital component to who you are, no matter how it (you) has changed. It is like saying, this is who I am, who I have become, this is what has happened to me and this is the result, and although it’s not entirely delicious or beautiful, it can, at least, be good. And if a nude bestial creature can accept that, then I guess I can too.

Now, you may still not be convinced that the line makes sense. You may think that I didn’t bridge the gap at all and I simply threw a bloody organ from one bank to the other and called the blood spatter a bridge. Well, you may be right, but I am content with my bloody bridge… 

Here’s the Catchy Line That Draws You In

The paragraph is forming. Really, though, it’s been forming for quite some time. What I mean by this is more of a watered down, boring version of “the fire,” that was not started by Billy Joel. We may not have started the fire, and it could be called into question how long it has actually been burning (since the world’s been turning seems to be a bit of a hyperbole), but something is happening. 

This something is what I like to call the paragraph. Now, the lengths of paragraphs can vary greatly, and I teach writing for a living, so don’t fight me on that, but it is being written and it is a paragraph. This paragraph is what history books and anthologies use to introduce chapters, units, sections, or whatever you want to call them. They are usually meant to give you all the pertinent information to understand the surrounding social environment of the time period about which you are going to read. For example, an American literature anthology will give you a quick background on the Industrial Revolution, World War I, and immigration in order to introduce you to literature stretching from the Romantic period to the Modern period. They manage to accomplish this in a few, required by the syllabus pages, probably less than 20, and then they do it again when you reach a specific section of the book, or a specific author. Other books do it much more efficiently (we Englishy types can sometimes have a problem with over explanation).

I feel our paragraph taking shape. This idea became most evident as I talked to my students about #OccupyWallStreet and #OccupyPhiladelphia. Living in Philly, the latter event was in our laps in such a way I felt that I could not ignore its happening and continue to talk about MLA formatting while watching their heads bob. So, during class they enjoyed a clip from The Daily Show and they genuinely seemed interested. Although, when I mentioned they were living during a modern day revolution, a sweet girl looked up at me from the first row and asked, “Can we get extra credit for that?” Can you get extra credit for the fact that you just happen to live during a time of financial crisis, citizen discontent, and public demonstration. No. No, you cannot. What you can get is a discussion led by an eccentric professor (their label, not mine) who is trying to figure out what is going on and how to feel about it, and who is looking for your input and feedback to help her do that. 

This intro paragraph our children/grandchildren will read will, I assume, talk about the great debt crisis and financial downfall of 2008. It will mention how America began to tumble from great heights and how the world followed, with the exception of the Arab Spring. I hope that portion of the world, once considered to be the most chaotic, will rise and our grandchildren will not realize the cradle of civilization was ever anything other than a prosperous, rich, cultural center. What I am sure of, though, is that the description of today’s youth, let’s say 25 and under, will be somewhat like that of the “Age of disillusionment” after WWI. The individuals in America who are meant to be at their most idealistic, most dreamy eyed, most optimistic, are afraid, tired, and already sick of the world they live in. They have a “what’s the point” look on their face, and it’s more than a, what’s-the-point-of-writing-to-music-to-discover-our-soul-aren’t-you-too-young-to-be-a- hippie-professor, look. They know they won’t get jobs, or at least the ones they are able to get won’t pay their college loan bills, they won’t be able to get insurance, and they will most likely live with their parents until they're nearly 30 or later (if they’re lucky).

They know that the Boomers and our institutions have failed us despite all talk that we (as a country) have been working to build a better future for our children. We have not, did not, and they know it. Powers that be have been working to build a better future, retirement plan, and bank account for themselves with no regard for the condition it will leave the country in after they retire or die. The youth have seen the leaders of religious institutions, universities, corporations, and the government fail them. Where I once felt there were a select few in power that ruined it for the rest of the country’s administrators, the majority of whom really had the best of intentions, I now believe, as do my students, that no one in power can be trusted (or we are just overly skeptical to the point of biting cynicism). 

I'd rather not say that the loudest call for change is coupled with public urination, defecation, and the idealistic (maybe unrealistic) goal of a leaderless / demandless movement. And despite the volume of this call for change, it is falling on, perhaps, the deafest ears there are. But I just did say it, and I am fearful I believe it. Hope glistens in the eyes of my students, but it is clouded by confusion for a movement they want to believe in more than anything. They see it as their last option, to turn to their peers instead of their fathers, mothers, and grandparents currently in power.

This paragraph, as it is slowly swyped on society’s collective touch screen, will, I hope, be proof read before it’s sent (don’t trust auto-correct). I want my students to be idealistic. To travel. To write. To dream. I want them to believe that the time is now, that they will have time to be cautious later. I do not want them to fear the future. I want them to live and learn about who they are as people before they obsess over where those people will find jobs. I want the paragraph to end with an enlightened turn around, not with distilled disillusion. And, by god, I want the paragraph properly cited in MLA format!

*Some of these ideas were conceived because of and adapted from a lecture given by Junot Diaz. Go, read his work. See him speak. You will be thankful you did.

Diaz, Junot. Writer’s Conference, Montgomery County Community College. Science Center Theater, Montgomery Co. Community College, Blue Bell, PA. 4 Nov. 2011. Keynote address.

Tamponade: This is Not a Post About My Period.

             I think I had a heart attack today. Yes, I know. Overdramatic. But I really thought I was going to die on the streets of Philly. If you know me, you know my heart aches. Yes, it aches in that liberal-hippie-do-gooder-kind-of-way, especially if you’re furry, cute, and abandoned. But, I’m talking serious, hey maybe we should call 911, kind of way. But I do not call 911. Ever. Why? Because I have no health insurance. The thought of the ER bill alone would send me into cardiac explodium. Oh, and as a side note, I just discovered there is something called “cardiac tamponade.”  When life gives you menstrual cramps make tamponade! No, I’m not sorry.

Anyway…

                I am writing about this because I have to express the utter helplessness that I feel when my money is the reason I might have to die in front of the neighborhood children. I hope their parents have insurance, ‘cause they're going to need therapy after witnessing their first dead body at the end of their hopscotch blocks. Money literally controls my emotions and level of anxiety. Is that showing a definite relationship between money and the all-encompassing term that describes an unanxious, comfortable, worry free, light-hearted outlook, i.e. happiness? Yes. Yes, it does, and the Beatles can shut the front door. I would rather deal with my life problems from my second story balcony where I can peruse my paid bills, my car full of gas, my fridge abundant with victuals and libations, while choosing whether or not I’d like to do some sort of entertaining activity.

                But, you may say, don’t you want satisfaction in your career, personal life, and intellectual pursuits? Yes, asshole, I do. But I am achieving that just fine and I’m still broke. What good is my dream job if I get evicted? Who cares about that conference paper, because I’ll never present it with no money to attend said conference. Am I being really whiny, forgetting to look at all the good things I have going for me? Yes, and you can shut the front door too unless you’re going to let me borrow a couple bucks. It’s just not feasible for kids to make it on their own in the same way our parents did. And by kids I mean people out of college and/or grad school who are still struggling. There are a lot of us. More than I think is reasonable. We might be able to stand on one of our own two feet, and hop around a bit if our college debt wasn’t trying to smother us. Is college worth it? Yes. Do I regret grad school? Never. Am I on the have pity on me and buy me a sandwich diet? Pretty much. Sometimes I just need to complain in a semi-public, and mildly cathartic way. I hate money.  Thank God Clank is a dog and not a human child. I'd probably sell him if he was. Or make him get a job selling tamponade.

If You’re A Creeper And You know It, Click on Search

                I’d rather not say I’m an internet creeper, but we all know that’s not true. I’m as much of a creep as you are, and don’t pretend you’re not. The whole world is one big community of creepers and internet looky-loos. I’m not sure how comfortable I am with this, but like you I can’t stop. I want to know what you look like before I meet you, before I trust you, before I have any face-to-face interaction whatsoever. Why? Because I can, and because it is so damn easy.

                Here are some of my creepy activities. I will google you if you make a reservation at my restaurant. Not all of you... just those of you who look filthy rich, who are total and complete jerkfaceasses, and those of you who look interesting. Sometimes I find out that you’re not just a jerkfaceass in my restaurant, but you’re also one of the top white collar crime attorneys with very good friends who have very low ethical standards. Does that change how I treat you, your service, or your meal? Sadly, no. Nothing will happen to you or your food. My smile and well-wishing comments as you depart will not be altered in any way. When you leave, though, you may be the topic of snide conversation, or the subject of a blog post. Neither of which matters to you. That’s ok. The thing about me is, though, it matters to me. I find satisfaction knowing that when you leave the room we know who you are, or at least who you are as a public figure. They may not be the same, but they probably have an influence on one another. When I leave a room I try (and I emphasize try because I know it doesn't always work out this way) to live in such a way that, either I have done nothing worthy of discussion, or if I have I hope it is positive…or neutral. I know I cannot always accomplish this, but it is at least a goal I feel is worth striving for.

                I will also FB stalk you if possible. This is ok if you have your privacy level set accordingly. Trust me, I’m not going to work that hard. But I will say that I have already FB stalked all my students for the upcoming semester. They all seem lovely…and are really good about privacy settings. But the most recent creep machine I have discovered is the public online PA court docket database. This has made me feel the creepiest and slimiest. Did I search the names of my roommates? Yep. Do I feel a little weird about it? Yep. Do I feel more comfortable that none of them have committed any recorded criminal offenses? Definitely.  Did either of them murder their last roommate and bury them in cement at a new construction site after cutting them up into tiny indiscernible pieces? Shit…

                Anyway…The face of how we interact has changed and will continue to do so. Although, I’m not completely convinced that we can only be immersed in technology and have our lives, vehicles, and photos constantly tracked via GPS before many of us turn away and finally shoot out the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg*. There may come a time when people decide it’s enough. They want privacy for privacy’s sake. I will admit (obviously) that I’m an internet creeper. Does it make me feel weird that so-and-so from elementary school randomly remembered my name and might be googling me as I type this? Hell yes.  Stop it. Do not google me. Go google yourself. In fact, it is a healthy normal practice to google yourself. Children google themselves, adolescents, and adults too. In fact, self-googling increases with adolescence. You and your partner could even practice mutual-googling as a fun and alternative activity to your usual…ok, that’s enough.

                The less I’m googled by others the better. But the less there is of me out there to be googled the less I need to worry about it. But, alas, I am a prolific photo uploader and fb-sharer. It is almost compulsive. Why do we do this? Is there a need to feel connected to others while sitting in our underwear at the dining room table typing blog posts while no one is home? No, that’s probably not it. I am worried about kids who know nothing other than a life on the web. Babies are born every day whose face will never not be broadcast over the web. They will literally grow-up in front of everyone. Now, we know that adults rarely make good decisions regarding what they put on the internet whether it is in the form of photos or comments or status updates. Just thinking about it has me yelling at my ovaries already, grounding each and every one of my potential children. I may just slip away from the internet and a public persona entirely…wait, did you see the picture of Clank I just put up??

Shit…

*Who??? Google it.

A Post Post About the Boss Boss

                This post has been a long time coming. Not because I haven’t posted for a while, which I haven’t, but because I’ve slowly been formulating this idea in my brain for quite some time. Actually, what I was formulating was a massive book on the subject. I was figuring out the title of the book, the book jacket, what I would wear when I was interviewed by Jon Stewart after my book sold a flagillion copies…ya know, preliminary brainstorming. But now I have come to my senses, kinda-sorta, and decided to just blog about it. Maybe a few blogs because one posting could never be enough to encompass all that is…dunDunDUN (and believe me, I’d really rather not say this) MY BOSS!

                Ok, so now if you know what I’m talking about you have either groaned instinctively, laughed out loud (for real, not that acronym bullshit), or done the voice (“Eh, what this? Blog? Is that like a sexual things?”) And if you don’t know to what or to whom I’m referring don't worry. I’m about to help you.

                I work at a great restaurant with great people. The management staff is, and has been, very supportive. I mean that not in a swooping in and taking an order disrupting your entire flow kind of way, but as in they cared about my progress in grad school, and would ask about my life with a genuine twinkle of interest in their eyes. The food is also damn good. Anyway, with all pleasantries aside, and with all due respect, my boss is a 66 year old Italian man who is good at what he does and has been around the block. He knows that he knows what he’s talking about, and he knows what he wants and how he wants it. The problem is the rest of us do not.

                I will give you a brief example. Your name is, oh I don’t know, let’s say, Jim. Your name is Jim. You are the first person to arrive for the dinner shift. You are virtually alone in the restaurant with with Boss. You hear him calling Stephanie. You don’t know Stephanie. Maybe she’s new. Maybe he’s on the phone.  Oh, no…wait, he’s looking directly at you wondering why you’re not responding. Finally, you give in. Your name is Stephanie, Jim. Or Todd, or Edith, or Bort. Any of these could be your name. Any name, any name at all, could be your name. And while we are on the subject of names I will give you a very brief Boss to English dictionary: Flashlight = a lighter, a lighter = torch, pruning shears = pliers, sputnik = fountain birthday candle, and “Eh, da thing dere” = whatever he is pointing to or is closest to you. When you say, "Hello." He may respond with, "What happen?!"

                He frequently doles out advice along with directions for the day/evening. He will chide you with, “Don’t tell your father how to make children” or reprimand you for conversing when you should be working by saying, “You can talk to da girls when you see da chicken take a leak.” He reminds you that he is calm and ready to take on the night (and you should be too) by saying, “I am the tiger of the forest. I no scare of lion. I no scare of bear. I no scare of little bird that come to pee on my head.” He means not to worry if 400 people all walk through the door and demand to be seated. You should only worry if zero walk through the door, because "You cannot make a customer. Only God can do that. But you can always make a table." Good thing God has a carpenter in the family because I'm gonna need more tables if he doesn't quit making customers at 7 o'clock on Saturday night. But the best piece of advice that he gives, regularly and as often as he can, is the good ol’ appropriate in all situations standby of, “No push push in the bush bush.” Figure it out for yourself. It's a literal statement.

               
       All that aside for now because there’s more, oh, so much more… I wanted to show you my interpretation of one of Boss’s directives. It is as follows:

  The complete and detailed instructions. "Play with this paper, please." That is it. Do not try to over think it, like maybe there was an arrow, or maybe it was taped to something else that, within the context clues, made sense. Nope. That is it.

So...we started off with something easy.

 But then I thought we should aim a little higher, play a little harder. This paper was good for more than just a simple airplane...

                                                              A Boat.

(I wanted to say "A goose" Jim Carrey style but that was too hard to make in the
short window of time I had to do this while
still looking up to say, "Have a good night! Thank you!.")

 But then I realized who we were dealing with. He expected more from me, I was sure of it. What could he have meant?!?! He always says, "There are two things most important of all: God, work, food...and sometimes drink." So out of those two things he so deftly counted there was only one thing I could really do. Since number one is God and he's got the toughest job of all, which is making customers, and I can't do that, the next best thing was number two. Work. If only God can make a customer what can I make that would benefit the work the restaurant is doing while still following his directions??

 I MADE A TABLE!!!!

                                                           Task owned. 

The boss is pleased.

Sex You Can Touch

                There’s a thin line between a classy joint and contracting Gonoherpasyphilaids* from a fork. Classy joints and seedy establishments may be difficult to differentiate, but I have a surefire way to put your pure (or perverted) mind at ease. The difference is in touchable vs. untouchable sex. Makes sense, right? Well, that’s what I thought too. Here is what sparked my penetrating thoughts on sex you can touch and sex you cannot.

                In the August 2011 issue of Philadelphia Magazine** Patrick Kerkstra writes in, “Atlantic City's Last, Last, Last, Last, Last, Last Chance”:*** 

The whole scene is a collection of pawnshops, low-rent sex stores, bail bondsmen, abandoned buildings and vacant land, broken up by an occasional local restaurant or retailer. And everywhere there are people like Jimmy—on the hustle—who  make their beds in run-down boardinghouses or under the Boardwalk.

Kerkstra is commenting on the stark and sudden contrast of AC’s residential area to its resort area. He mentions that while strolling by the construction site of a new casino a SWAT cop told him he needed to get out of there unless he wanted to be hit by a stray bullet. His article discusses the various ways that AC fell from great heights, and ways it is possible to return to those heights. What I thought was interesting was that both the fall and climb had something in common. He writes:

The city needs more entertainment, more dining, more beach- and Boardwalk-centered-activities, and more sex appeal.

                Really? More sex appeal? But didn’t he just say that the residential section needed to be cleaned out of low-rent sex stores and whatever seedy business goes along with it? Interesting, I thought, AC needs less of one sex and more of another. The article continues:            

 Farther up the Boardwalk at Resorts, new owner Dennis Gomes is experimenting like crazy. He’s spliced a Boardwalk Empire retro theme (the waitresses are in skimpy flapper dresses; the dealers don green eyeshades) with explicitly sexual offerings such as a nighttime naked circus. Seriously…. ‘We have to be more like Las Vegas and do these kinds of new things,’ he says. ‘It’s not that you’re selling sex. You’re selling sexuality, and sensuality. It’s one of the ways we can be different from the convenience gambling venues.’

                I don’t see much of a difference other than location, monetary investment, and touch potential. Would I like to see a naked circus? Is that even a real question? Selling sex is selling sex. You can call it selling sensuality, but that’s like the difference between eating at a diner or a five star, either way you’re putting it in your mouth. Whether or not cleaning up the residential district by getting rid of sex shops just to dress them up and transplant them into the casino is a contradiction in morality or judgment isn’t really my issue (or maybe it is). My thoughts are concerned with the illusion of sex and the number of sequins it takes to produce that illusion. Classy people apparently want the illusion, but they don’t want to touch it, or if they do want to touch it they want it to cost a lot of money, and be able to take it back to their high rolling suite with room service so they can stay in while still eating out. Seedy people want the same thing, but they pay less and don’t need a casino or an audience.

                I don’t know the answer for AC nor do I care to figure it out. I do care that my drinks remain free while I poke at glowing screens hoping I don’t go over 21. I like AC. I would love for AC to flourish. All of AC. AC officials and administrators should concern themselves with all four miles of their little-big city and not just the miles attached to the boardwalk. If the residential community improves so will the resort community. Plus, you should just take care of your own. Your residential community lives AND works in the resort. Instead of hiding them lift them up so there’s nothing to hide.

                In the meantime I’m sure AC will be more concerned with their resort “To Do” list which includes untouchable sex, at least for now. Get rid of the sex in the city, slap a flapper dress on it, teach it to do cartwheels, and you’ve hit the sensuality jackpot. But there is really no difference in the sex they condemn and the sex they condone. So there are no actual sex shops in the casinos, yet, but just because it’s not hanging on a retail shelf doesn’t mean it’s not there.

*There is no evidence to support the claim that this STD even exists let alone its fork to mouth contractibility. Also, I do not take any responsibility for Gonoherpasyphilaids. Apparently, you can get it from NOFX.

** http://www.phillymag.com/issues/in_this_issue.html

*** http://www.phillymag.com/articles/atlantic_city_s_last_last_last_last_last_last_chance/

This is a Post About Vagina

                “You’re being a huge vagina!” is what I was told by a friendly bartender over the weekend. She was commenting on my poor drinking ability and the fact that Best-Friend was drinking more than me. Bartender even made a diamond shape with her hands and put it over her vagina to be sure that I got the picture. I got it. But my problem is I don’t get it. What is it about vaginas that make them synonymous with weakness? A vagina could certainly hold more alcohol than a penis if you were to try to fill them directly so what was she talking about?

                Vaginas are tougher and more versatile than their male counterparts any day of the week. They eject humans from them that are 10x’s their size. It’s like watching a snake eat a rat. There’s no way that rat is going to fit, and then, WHAT!?, the jaw unhinges and dinner. Vaginas are the same except in the opposite direction. I’d like to see a penis even attempt to do the same…wait, no, actually I would not ever like to ever have to witness that.

                My question is why are female genitals used to describe weakness? It has nothing to do with it. It is obviously a way for society to continue pushing a type of patriarchal dominance by saying women are inherently weaker. And women buy into it as well. Why? Because it’s funny. And it is kinda funny, but every time I laugh I feel bad about it. Really bad, and then I am compelled to say that I disagree with equating vaginas and weakness (just like I am now) and no one at a bar wants to hear about it. So, obviously I need to consider my audience beforehand, but then a sympathetic audience would already agree with me and they are not the ones that I need to talk to and…sorry, I digress.

                Maybe the phrase should be kept but the meaning altered. If you call someone a vagina it shouldn’t mean they are being weak, or scared, or whatever it means now. “Hey, you’re being a vagina!” could mean “You’re being a really sensitive person who has the potential explode with happiness,” or you could say it to someone who just got out of the pool, “Dude, you’re a vagina. Here’s a towel.” Or maybe if a person accomplishes a task that seemed way too big for them, but they pushed really hard and did it, you could say, “Oh wow man! How’d you do that? You’re a vagina for sure!” (insert vaginal high-five).

                It’s not nice to use words that describe inherent qualities about people to put others down. Calling things “gay” or “retarded” or “Jewish” while funny on South Park has real world consequences, and the people hurt by it aren’t silly cartoons trying to prove a moral point or make insightful social commentary. I am guilty also of using words in that way, usually for comedy’s sake, or because it is so common that it mysteriously becomes a part of speech without even thinking about it. But it is a step to at least recognize what you say both matters and doesn’t. Words are words and they might not have an overall effect on anyone, but then again…

                So begins the work of word reclamation. Marginalized groups often take words meant to hurt and turn them around using the word(s) themselves, thereby taking the power of the word(s) away. Does it always work? No. Anything said with the intent to hurt, demoralize, or shame is going to do just that no matter what. You could call me a dummy-butt and with the right tone of voice and hate in your eyes it might just burn. But reclaiming a word or phrase is an excellent way to ease the pain of the initial scorch.

                Maybe vagina could be the word for someone you love and care about, someone you want to feel good, or someone you want to protect because you don’t want just anyone getting close to this person. Maybe vagina could be the term for your best friend, your girlfriend, or your Mom:

 “Hey, what are you doing today?” “Not much, probably going to hang out with my vagina later.”

“Why are you so happy?” “My vagina and I are getting married! I’m so excited!”

“Hey, how’s your family?” “They’re ok, but my vagina is having a hard time adjusting ever since I moved out.”

                See, much better.

Being a Strong Woman and Not Giving Birth Through Your Chest

                I’d rather not say that my big plans this afternoon were not to write this, or anything…well actually I was working on a fiction piece about my first trip to the Asian market but that can wait…but instead I was excited to watch season two of Parks and Recreation while trying a new hair curling/twirling technique and discussing my progress and other interesting topics with Clank. But, while I was in the shower, unsuccessfully trying to remember the lyrics to the apple bottom jeans song and scrubbing the first layer and a half of my face-flesh off with peach-scented sand and beer bottle shards, I felt compelled to ponder a phrase that is repeated to me as a motivator, a pick-me-up, and (I assume) a statement of admiration (maybe?). Also, the words to that song are very difficult and I was getting sandy bottle shards in my mouth…

                Anyway, I am always told “You’re such a strong woman.” And yes, while it is true that I can almost lift a 25lb weight off the floor past my ankle, and I’m really good at carrying Clank in one arm, these people are not, although they should be, admiring my physical prowess. I think what they mean, if I deconstruct the phrase, the facial expressions, and the tone in their voices, is that “you’re strong a woman” really means “I can’t believe you don’t cut yourself.” It’s true. I don’t cut myself although I have been known to scream real loud and it kinda hurts my throat a lot, but that’s the most self-mutilation I have accomplished to this point. You see, my personal life has been less than ideal but not as bad as say, I don’t know…pick someone with a worse situation than mine. Good. See, at least my life isn’t that bad. Three years ago I got married a week before I turned 24. Two months later everything was destroyed. This all happened while I worked full time at an animal shelter and had to approve the euthanasia list, which, in the summer, could be as long as four+ pages. A year later nothing had changed. We were apart, and I was devastated because I’d built my life around the “him and I together” ideal.

                So, that being the state of things I applied to grad school, got in, and went. I moved in with my Aunt in the Philly area, three hours from the only town I’d ever lived in and still hoped things would work out. They didn’t. I finished school, got my degree, got some travel abroad experience, and have no idea where life is going. Add me to the list of a million other people, thank you, I’ll expect your sympathy card in the mail by next week.

                The point is I have terrible days where I have to let the sobbing, snotting, drooling, screaming, hysterical fits get the better of me. The anxiety bubble in my chest makes me feel like I’m 2 seconds away from being in Ripley’s nightmare at the beginning of Aliens. I do not feel very strong. In fact I usually feel like throwing up. But I am told, “You’re such a strong woman.” I’m not just strong, but somehow the qualification that I am also a woman makes the strong part more difficult/impressive(?). Which brings me to my main point, and the whole reason I’m letting my hair dry into a massive frizz helmet instead of laughing with Amy Pohler and creating cutesy little ringlets. What makes a strong woman a strong woman?

                I have heard people say they couldn’t have done school while going through a separation. Really? Yeah. You could. Really. You could. There’s worse. I’m sure of it. But it seems to me that people say this strong woman phrase for a few reasons. I will let you know the number of reasons when I’m finished typing/thinking them. One, they really mean stop whining/crying/complaining/talking in general. You can handle this, now shut up. This I think is true with people who have heard the story and are tired of it. They’re tired of my troubles ‘cause they have their own. And I’m tired of my troubles too. I wish I’d just get over it so I can talk about something else already. Don’t I understand that I’d really rather not listen to me for just one minute?? Two, is Mom. She says it because she’s Mom and she means it and she is a superhero who is immortal and gives the best hugs. So, yeah. Mom. Three, are other women who know the struggle and by building me up builds themselves/herself up and we build us up, and it is a very good thing. I do think that there is such a thing (or can be such a thing) as a feeling of community between women, and it’s great to be a part of that. I remember during the most difficult moments feeling so safe and at ease with female friends. You could say that it’s because we’re friends, but there’s a difference between “Hey we’re friends. Co-ed friends. We have common interests.” And “Hey we’re friends. Female friends. Because of this nature makes us bleed at the same time.” It’s just different. Now that you’re slightly uncomfortable I’ll continue…

                Women are strong because something devastating has happened and we did not crumble into a ball of tears, comfort food, and The Notebook? Are we supposed to? Is that what was expected of me? I poured myself a slightly above average number of drinks, leaned on my friends hard enough to cause scoliosis, and got my ass to grad school where I had a better reason to cry than my personal life. His name is Foucault.

                “You’re such a strong woman.” Thank you, but no…not really. I’m a woman who handles it. Sometimes better than others, but usually not. I’m oddly thankful for painful experiences. Without them I probably never would have traveled to Scotland or Belize and met amazing people. I’m also resentful that I’m “more like a real person now” because I’ve “been through something” as I was told by a friend who could learn to better phrase her compliments. And I’m also a little sad that strength comes out of devastation. I understand it. But maybe there needs to be a better measuring tape. The more you don’t kill yourself the stronger you are? I don’t know. I’d rather not say it’s good bad things happen, even to good people, but it can build character. It can lend hope and inspiration to others. It can also kick your ass to make changes in your life. It did in mine.

                I don’t know if society considers being a strong woman a special section of strength or if a man would be judged the same. Would he be considered strong or just seen as “taking it like a man.” I don’t know…but what I do know is that I think my hair may still be damp enough to twist, and every day that an alien doesn’t burst out of my chest is a good day.

112 Degrees of Kittens

                I’d rather not say that I am a heartless hellbeast, but I am. Ok, maybe that’s a little extreme but I’m pretty close. Yesterday in heat that would please most hellbeasts I had a wonderful little day planned with Wonderful-Friend. Wonderful-Friend and I were to pick up our first ever set of instructor books for classes we are teaching at a university in the fall semester, have a nice little celebratory lunch together, where we would, no doubt, laugh until we had six pack abs. Hooray for Wonderful-Friend and 6 pack abs! Instead, this happened…

                 Wonderful-Friend and her partner, Awesome-Friend, have a neighbor that feeds stray cats. Stray cats have lots of stray-cat-love and then produce lots of stray-cat-love-children. One of these children was filled less with love and more with maggots and Wonderful-Friend did the best thing and took maggot-baby to a place where it would not have to die baking on the asphalt (see, she is wonderful).

                Despite the less than happy morning she had to endure we were still excited to get books and eat food. Two of my favorite things ever, books and food. Talking about books over food, BONUS! As we were leaving the Wonderful/Awesome household, there were two more stray-cat-love children baking in the sun. These two were not filled with maggots, YAY! But what should we do?

                I have to mention I worked at a shelter for about three years. This was a fulltime job. During kitten season it was an endless parade of citizens with boxes of the tiny results of crazy cat summer lovin’. 40 hours a week and about 3,000 cats a year you get a bit desensitized to not only the fact that there is yet another box of babes coming through the door, but also desensitized to them leaving in a bag out the back door. That is not to say that you don’t care or cry, you just get used to it. There are wonderful organizations that have the time, person-power, and resources to save these boxes of babies but shelters usually aren’t one of them. That is a different issue for a different day (go donate to your local shelter right now, gogogo!)

                So the question of what to do was really a question for me to figure out. Animal questions usually are. Friends call me frequently with pet ailments, when they find an animal, or when they have pet behavior issues they want advice on. I can either help or point them in the right direction, and I love doing it. BUT, I really wanted to have lunch and laughs. Double-but, there was no way I was going to leave the kittens outside. So, we took them with us. I grabbed a plastic container out of my car and put the love babies in it so they wouldn’t roll around in the car and I wouldn’t have to hold them the whole time. They curled up together and slept after screaming and trying to walk, which looked more like swimming because they can’t control their limbs.

                We still had to get our books. We pulled into the parking lot and just looked at each other. What were we to do with the kittens? We couldn’t leave them in a hot car. We thought about taking them inside but realized that might be a bad career move, “Hi we’re here to pick up our materials. We are newly hired instructors. This? Oh, this is just a plastic container of kittens. We are carrying them with us for the day. It was very nice to have met you, we will be teaching your students. Thank you and good day.” We decided to leave the kittens in the car, leave the car on with the AC going, leave the doors unlocked, put The Club on the wheel, and hope no weirdo would steal the kittens. Books retrieved, kittens safe. Right…but we still had the kittens and we were getting so hungry. How would we be able to save the kittens and save our bellies all before I had to go to work? Then I had the best idea. The shelters were just going to put them to sleep anyway and we were hungry so we just ate the kittens and went to Dairy Queen. I made it to work on time and all was well with the world. YAY!

(Keep reading for alternate ending)

                Wonderful-Friend called shelters and the answers were all the same. I sent a text to Savior-Friend who has a Savior-Mom. No answer. We were driving to the shelter where we knew what would happen to the babies. The closer we got the more worried Wonderful-Friend was getting. Just as we were about to pull into the shelter Savior-Friend called! We parked across the street from the shelter in a Dunkin Do-Nuts. In hindsight it would’ve been fun to take the babies into Dunkin Do-Nuts and try to give them to the do-nut workers. We should’ve said our GPS told us this was the shelter and demand that they take the children. Damn it! Good ideas always come too late. Anyway, Savior-Mom is currently bottle feeding the stray-cat-love-children every two hours. Hooray!

                I’m so thankful for Wonderful, Awesome, and Savior friends (and Mom) for making this desensitized hellbeast care enough to do more than drop the kids off at the shelter. Seriously, go donate to your local shelter! If you don’t it’s as if you’re killing thousands of kittens yourself. Ok, sorry, no that’s not true. See, what’d I tell you? Hellbeast.

My Bad Bar Skills, Bam-a-lam

              I’d rather not say it’s better to drink alone, but it is. Ok, maybe not alone but at least not in a crowded bar with a cover band that thinks a tambourine compliments every song from Sublime to Alice in Chains. It does not. Please tambourine responsibly. My issue is that I’m in my late 20’s and never really did the bar scene thing. I had a group of friends who preferred to sit around a bonfire and play their own music than do the bar thing. Anytime we did do the bar thing we usually ended up grouchy and back at home lighting a fire anyway. Now that I’ve moved and am on my own with different friends I still don’t do the bar thing very often. Here is why.

                There are three problems with my social skills or my person in general that make it a bad idea for me to be out at bars. First, and most obvious, I’m moderately tattooed. Why is this an issue? Well, aside from accepting the fact that I will always be donning elbow length sleeved shirts in the workplace for the rest of my life, there is something about my arm art that draws people in like bugs to a zapper. When you are tattooed you must resign yourself to the fact that strangers are going to touch, grab, stroke, poke, and otherwise grope, often from behind and by surprise. I once had a woman grab and swing me around while saying, “Whoa, let me see that! What have you done to yourself? Why?!” If you are unsure let me tell you, this is an impolite and inappropriate way to ask someone if you may look at their tattoos. So, please do not do this. Perhaps it’s because I’m a female and completely unintimidating, and my tattoos are flowers. If I were a skin head with demons vomiting swastikas and bloody eyeballs they more than likely would not touch me. So, if random people in malls, restaurants, etc. do this then you can only imagine what it’s like in a bar full of drunk people. For example, “Hey. Hi. Hi. I hafta see whatcha got there. Over there. Yeah, on yer, yer arm. Explain dat.” I give a very quick tat tour. “I like them. Yeah, I like that it has like meaning and it’s not like you know like meaningless.” I thank them and try to leave until the same interaction happens a few moments later, possibly with the same person.

                Second problem is me. I am nice. I make a conscious effort to be nice to people, smile, and be friendly…if I’m approached. Otherwise I am usually trying to avoid eye contact, but that’s a different issue. Moving right along. Smiling, being nice, and talking to people encourages them to keep talking, to invite friends to the table, and to never ever leave you alone. This is bad and I usually need someone to save me otherwise I end up making a lame excuse, “Hey my mom is calling me I gotta get my bike home before it rains, see ya!” And then I just move to the next table and pretend I’m a stool.

                Third, I’m loud. I’m excitable. I’m hyper. I feed off attention. I’m a constant source of entertainment, or so I‘ve been told. I also like to knock things over, pick people up, yell, and otherwise make a fool of myself. This can happen quickly. Usually within the time frame of three drinks. Doing this in the privacy of a house party is one thing, doing this in public in the age of camera phones, videos, and Facebook is a terriblehorriblenogoodverybad idea. Thank goodness I have yet to completely embarrass myself in public (that I choose to remember). But, I thoroughly believe that people need to be uninhibited from time to time. Even moderation should be taken in moderation. People need to loose themselves if only to realign, rediscover, and reassure themselves of who they are, want to be, or are becoming. Is this dangerous? Possibly. If you lose yourself at the wrong place with the wrong people, say, for example, a company holiday party, you will definitely lose more than yourself come Monday morning. But, we all need to jump on a table and rock out to Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” every once in a while (I highly recommend doing this).

                For me, I much prefer the house party to the bar. I hate the music, being randomly touched, having to interact with unwanted drunks, and not being allowed to flip tables or break bottles. Although, if you want to buy me a drink I probably won’t turn you down, but then again you might be disappointed that it’s only one and I’m going right home. Also, I’ll complain about the music…just sayin’.

Everybody Down! He's got a...Pie?

             I cannot begin to say how excited I am about what happened to Rupert Murdoch today! Why am I so happy? Is it because I was appalled by the scandal? Well, ok. Sure. But scandals are like a buy one get three free deals these days, so ok. Yeah. Is it because I love to see security breaches and people attacked by surprise? YES! In this case, yes! Rupert Murdoch was hit in the face Double Dare style with a pie plate of shaving cream, or foam, or whatever it was. That is amazing!

                Why do I think this is amazing? Because in a world where security breaches mean that the death toll may not be finalized until the ruble is cleared, I am ecstatic that this was the method of attack chosen! Someone who was obviously upset, possibly personally hurt because of Murdoch’s scandal chose to embarrass him, and publicly display his anger and frustration in a relatively innocuous way. You know every single person in that room thought the absolute worst: blood, brains, death, paralysis, etc. But NO! Just surprise, fear, pie, face, relief. Laughs over dinner and drinks later tonight. Perhaps I am insensitive but seriously, this guy got through security and could have stabbed, shot, bit, eye-gouged, pummeled, or otherwise hurt Murdoch or his family.

                Imagine what a better world this would be if officials who did serious damage to their lives and others could be publicly humiliated without the bloodshed or violence that only make matters worse. Ok, so there isn’t always blood shed or violence, that’s good, but a pie in the face would make everyone feel a little bit better. At least I think so.

Children and Other Pets

I don’t know what it is about talking to an adorable dog, but it seems that when we do all rules of normal everyday speech are utterly forgotten. Now, take my dog, Clank. Clank is the cutest-wootest pug there ever was, yes him is. But when I talk to him something happens to me and master’s level English. Now, I know I am not the only pet parent this happens to. My Aunt, for example, like many other loving pet parents must uncontrollably rhyme when she addresses any of the household’s three dogs. I’m not sure if it is simply their puppy-wuppy cuteness or the fact that in the presence of our dear doggy-woggies we simply revert to a more childlike state. But come to think of it, when I was actually in a childlike state, say, childhood, for example, I can’t remember ever speaking like that for any reason. I never opened my Rubbermaid tub of Barbies and Barbie knock-offs – whose hair was only attached in the front so that when turned upside down they looked like they were simply wearing terrible wigs also purchased from the dollar store – and say “Hewhoa Barbie-warbies! Who wants to play dress-up-wess-up then be forced to have fake Barbie sex with each other before Mommy-wommy comes in and I have to throw your naked bodies under the bed-weddie-by?” Nope never happened, not the poor speech or the Barbie sex, I swear. Never.

Anyway, my point is as children we learn both our proper grammar and poor speech habits from the adults in our lives, and I do not understand the conscious decision to use the latter. Since dogs do not have an official language we can blather on to them however we like and they will do what dogs do. Find the blather that means “walk” or “treat” and respond to it accordingly. Going for a wittle walkie-walk is just as effective as going for a regular walk and no more exciting. The truth is we like it. We pretend it’s for the dog,  we do it to babies as well, but it is for us. The adults. The ones in charge. We do it because it is fun. Now, Clank, no matter how precious-wecious he is could care less, although he does enjoy when I speak to him in a frequency just below that of bat sonar, but that’s because he loves and finds everything I say incredibly interesting. It is like music to his wittle earsers, yes it is, isn’t it? It sure is! Him is mommy’s sweet snickdoodle-woodle-poodle-pie. Hims is such a good puggy-wuggy-buggy-boy. And, damnit. Seriously, it is impossible to stop. I don’t know when this happened to humanity. Was it the first puberty of the first sentient human? Observing children in a dance studio I noticed that whenever a Mom has a new baby in the lobby other mothers would coo, and ooo, and ahh over it and the other children would watch then imitate. Three year olds stroke the heads of one year olds and say “awww.” That’s not hard to see. Kids mimic adults. But why did it start happening in the first place?

                Maybe it’s because dogs, children, and other pets won’t look at us cockeyed when we speak to them that way. Try going to work or signing for a package and say “Fank you, bubby wubby” to someone, just once. We like to be silly. We like to not be adults. We can be silly kids around our pets and other children.  We can say what we want, how we want, without a look of rejection or getting punched in the face.  And for that, Clank, Mommy fanks you my sweetie-petey-puddin’-wooden-pie!

Secret Racists, Zombies, and Taxes

Are you a secret racist? I’d rather not say that some people are secret racists, but they are. In fact I would rather say it because they should be known for what they are. Not so they can band together and form some sort of subculture racist group, those are pretty well taken care of as it is, but so they can openly feel the shame that I know is in them. How do I know it’s there? Because if you are brave enough to call out a secret racist when they think they’re safe they always retort with “oh, I’m not racist or anything!” And they act completely taken aback that you would think that the comment they made about so-and-so, who happens to be acting just like a damned such-and-such, and probably does this-or-that thing too, is racist. I find it really amusing and incredibly fun to call out secret racists because it does the best thing ever. It embarrasses them. This is fun to watch because their faces change color and they stutter trying to find the right foot extraction method for their filthy racist mouths.

                This will most likely not work on a real racist because they have their horrible ideals deeply imbedded and in fact are convinced that they are right. Secret racists are more fun because they know what they are saying is wrong, and just when they think they are in cozy racist company you call them out and make them all icky feeling about themselves. This actually works on homophobes, sexists, and disablists as well. Although, I find it works only if you are a part of the oppressive group. For example, say you are a lady in a group of dudes. Dude says to other dude “Blah blah boobsboobs grab bang bang back door, heh heh heh, pig tails flip spank blech blah blah” and the other dude gives him some sort of male bonding gesture like a fist punch or a high-five or a creepy elbow nudge, and you (as a lady) say “HEY! I’m right here.” Or “She’s 14!” Or “That’s my Mom!” They will not care. They will look at you and say “So…heh heh boobsboobs.” But, if dude says to other dude, “Hey, not cool she’s 14” other dude will be embarrassed, if only for a moment. I have proved unsuccessful in stopping dudes because they just think I’m either jealous it’s not me (I’m not), I’m jealous it’s not me (I’m not), or that I’m jealous it’s not me (I’m not). Sometimes I really just think grown men shouldn’t make lewd comments about girls half (or more) their age, but that might be labeling me as a crazy feminist…I don’t know.

                The point is that being a member of the oppressive group is much more effective at making secret racists feel like the racists they are even when they back it up with their catch-all cover-up of “I’m not racist or anything.” Sometimes they try to convince you by throwing in classics like “but I have lots of _________ friends!” or “I love _____ people!” “I took two years of ______ in high school!” “My grandma’s part _____.” “I once shook hands with a ______ on the subway.” But none of their excuses work for me no matter how overly convincing they may be. And to be completely truthful I think it is just easier to be nice to everyone and to never approach people with preconceived notions about who they are, what they’re like, or what they do/do not do. It’s easier because you don’t have to think about it at all. And you are able to learn about people as individuals and not as prefabricated replicas of others.

                Although, there are certain groups of people that you can make assumptions about, and in fact, it might be better that you do. Zombies, for example, should not be taken as individuals. Do not try to get to know a zombie. Do not assume that it’s wrong to think that just because he/she/it’s a zombie doesn’t mean he/she/it won’t try to eat your brain, rip out your intestines, or eat your thigh like a renaissance fair turkey leg. They will. They will do exactly that and nothing different.

                Also, the red hat society. I don’t trust them. They are planning something at their meetings. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I’m not convinced that they aren’t actually zombies so the above paragraph applies to them as well.

                Hey want to hear a joke I made up?

Narrowly escaping zombie IRS agents is a-tax evasion!

You’re welcome!

Blog - Not a Mythical Muppet Beast or a Puke Sound

                I’d rather not say that I have succumbed to the social media monster and become a tweeter, blogger, facebooker, and whatever else is out there, but I do have to say it because this is my blog (Hi!), you can follow me @Mereannine (though I make no promises as to the witty or insightful nature of my tweeting), I have been on facebook since 2006, and I’m sure I’ll learn how to tumbl eventually just so I can sound social media savvy (sms if you will). My introduction to this blogging thing happened little by little. First, a friend of mine, most likely tired of driving down the road with nothing to listen to but my rhetorical analysis and commentary on the advertising across city billboards, the news radio, and the people we would see, said “You should start a blog. Then you could write all this stuff down.” I then proceeded to over analyze that comment and figure it was because friend had had enough and just wanted a little quiet. Or friend loves what I have to say and wants to be able to read it when I’m not there (Yay, let’s pick this one!!) Then not long after friend made this comment, brother said to me “Why aren’t you blogging. You’re witty. You’re a writer. Blog.” And because I have weird childhood issues with brother being better than me, hating everything I do, and judging me harshly to no end (all of which may or may not be in my head, brother is actually not a bad guy and is pretty supportive) I figured if he thinks I’m good enough to be labeled a “writer” and that I might even be “witty” maybe I should blog.

                So, here we are. Blog. I am blogging. Blog, blog, blogblogblog. That is so fun to say over and over and I think it should be the name of a giant muppet creature. Like Ludo. Ludo from the Labyrinth could easily pass as Blog. And as a side note to this side note, I was terrified for a very long time that the fire gang would find me and rip off my head (Chilly down, chilly down). Anyway…wait...Blog also kinda sounds like a puke noise. I'm sorry.

                My intentions for this blog are this: 1. It will occupy my time now that graduate school is over and I no longer have to stay up until 5am writing. Now, I choose to stay up till 5am writing. 2. It will be a pretty decent outlet for me to vent, report, analyze, criticize (In a constructive way, I hope), practice writing, and continue to be a thinker as much as I can be instead of letting my brain mush out on the internet looking at videos of pugs. 3. I can use run on sentences as much as I want because I love them and I can and no one is going to grade me although they may judge me. 4. I can write about Clank.

                A major reason for my birth into blogging bedlam is the fact that I am applying for jobs. The world has mutated so much since I was graduating high school in 2002. I don’t know if you realize how NOT long ago that was. None of the social media outlets exisited in 2002 and if they did they absolutely did not exist as the cyber-life overlords they are now. Social media pours out of the computer and into every aspect of our lives. Every business wants you not only to become a faithful patron but you must log on and “Like” them as well. You can follow tweets from just about any business. Pat’s Pizza Palace will tweet that they’re “Makin’ Pies. Smells so good. Come get you a slice.” (by the way that sounds amazing, thanks for the update Pat.) See?! But more than that businesses and corporations want to know that their new hires can tweetbookblogtumbl, they can do it well, AND that they can keep up with whatever new ways will be invented to stay connected. Employers don’t want to see my analysis of PTSD and bravery of war veterans as represented in film and literature. They do not want to know what I think Toni Morrison’s work has to say about memory repression, trauma, and race representation. They want to see my blog posts, they want to know I tweet frequently (although how often I tweet myself or others is no one’s business but mine), and they also want to know that, should I become a respected member of their team, I will not be fb posting photos of myself doing body shots in the company’s t-shirt. So, here it is. My attempt to answer the call for writers to become bloggers, social media elites, and responsible members of a cyber-community where everyone and everything simultaneously does and does not exist, and is connected yet held at a distance. This is my blog…

                Clank did the cutest thing today. Ok, so I was sleeping and we were snuggling and then he sneezed the cutey-tutiest puggie sneeze and used his paw to wipe his wittle face. AWWW!!! (you’re welcome cyber-community. You. Are. Welcome.)