Sunday, July 31, 2011

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.

Monday, July 25, 2011

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.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

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.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

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’.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

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.

Monday, July 18, 2011

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!

Saturday, July 16, 2011

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!

Friday, July 15, 2011

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.)