Saturday, October 31, 2015

Cry Babies


We watched Inside Out this week, and I think I cried ten times throughout the movie. As I walked to the bathroom for toilet paper to blow my nose, I said to myself, "This is why I haven't been able to watch Precious. I'd be a puddle of snot and tears by the time the ending credits rolled."
It reminded me of watching the Roseanne series finale with my mom. We sat on the couch under a blanket she crocheted, crying our eyes out. We were bawling when my dad walked into the house from the garage. He looked at us and said, "What the hell is going on in here?" We couldn't piece a sentence together, we just pointed to the TV, and cried some more. My dad quickly left the room.
It is a memory of my mom I cherish, a moment where we demonstrated our common thread simultaneously, something woven into us through lineage, we are brought to tears easily.

Last night I finished reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. A rad story about a woman who pushed fear aside and hiked the Pacific Coast Trail by herself. At 11 am this morning, I drove through In-N-Out because I needed a cheeseburger desperately after reading her describe cravings for burgers and fries, over and over.
Cheryl Strayed found herself on a personal quest to conquer the PCT four years after her mom's death, whereupon she looked to end her tailspin of self destruction; cheating on her husband, fucking a lot of dudes, and developing a mild habit with heroin. I say mild habit, because I think the heroin thing was played up a bit, a la the book A Million Little Pieces. Sheryl was not a hardcore junkie, she routinely used the drug for a couple months, after getting home from work. She was aware the entire time that it was a bad choice, nor a long term habit. Her goals were unfulfilled, she wanted to be a writer, and used heroin as a way to punish herself for not living up to her dreams.
I tried to explain this to my husband, that I didn't think she was as much of a drug addict as she felt, that she was being too hard on herself. She was twenty five years old, she described drinking her first beer on the PCT, had her first bout of sickness from drinking too much wine on the trail, that type of restraint is not the characteristic of a destitute smack head. He didn't get what I was saying, "Heroin is heroin. Once you go there you are hardcore drug addict."
"Let's just agree to disagree."
Sheryl's quest into the Wild, or wilderness, was brought on from having absolutely no idea what to do with her life. She was at a crossroads, and it was a time where she needed to prove to herself she has the cajones to accomplish anything she wants. She overcame fear. Maybe, if her mom hadn't died, she would have found herself do the same thing, on the same road, still needing to prove her strength. Instead of being a result of her mom's death, it could have been a result of marrying too young, or plenty of other things that make people go off track.
Sheryl deals with her grief while on the PCT, at one point reminiscing about giving her mom shit for reading sub-lit mystery books, the paperbacks that used to be next to candy bars at grocery store check out lines. Sheryl's professor told her that reading these books was a waste of time, so Sheryl turned around and told her mom the same, trying to make her mom feel as stupid as the professor made her feel.
I thought of how I once told my thin mom she should drink Slim Fast. I said it because I was such an unhappy person at the time, and I wanted to make her feel the same. I probably should have just punched her in the stomach, thats how mean it was, and how bad I feel looking back on it. For some reason my mom understood my obsession with bodies was a result of my waywardness, and she didn't tell me to shut the fuck up and get out of her house.
She got me back when she called me a slut one night after I came home late. She didn't know I was the only person on the planet who was a virgin, not really, but definitely in my mind. My friends were lapping me on the sex racetrack, and even though sex was always on my mind, I was ultimately too shy of a person to leap into making my fantasies a reality. Thankfully, because the let down would have been profound. My mom's fear of my purity was unusual, considering she had zero concern for any of her children's after school whereabout or escapades.
My mom is a strange person, but I love her. I read Jeanette Winterson's autobiography, a story of a troubled mother-daughter relationship, but that no matter how awful her mom had been to her, she was Her mom, and so when other people criticized her mother for the reasons she listed, she became defensive of her mother. She could be the only one to resent her.
Sheryl enters her anger phase while hiking on the PCT. On her mother's would be 50th birthday, she lists all the resentments against her mom. I think everyone has some sort of list of mom resentments, and even if the complaints are common, the list is unique since it's between two people. Like Winterson, I'm the only one allowed to criticize my mother's parenting, well, except for my brothers and sisters. Even if I confide in someone about something troubling my mom did when raising me, and they simply agree with me, then I get a nasty look on my face, thinking, "How dare you talk about MY mother that way." The resentments are so personal because they contradict the instinct to be protective of mom.
I'm lucky I can still sob over a SPCA commercials with my mom. We butt heads and have regrets, but we love each other, slut shaming and slim fast insults aside.

Friday, October 30, 2015

Song In Our Head




Kiki and I were walking through Target looking to get drinks for the house. I'm addicted to La Croix, and wanted to buy 80 cans, so I'd be stocked up till Christmas. She wanted lemonade. As we walked to the drink department, Kiki started singing, "Milk, Milk, Lemonade."
I knew she didn't know the next line of the song, which goes, "Around the corner fudge is made," because I stop myself before singing it. The song is highly addictive. I've only heard it once in my life, and its been playing in my head ever since. It's an ongoing layer of sound that is only muted when it's buried by more noise.
I looked around hoping no one caught her singing, since it would appear I play her for-mature-audiences-only songs about female evacuations. No one caught it.

This afternoon we made Play-Doh creations. A long serpent was coming out of the Play Doh press. I said, "It's going to be as long as an anaconda!"
Kiki said in amazement, "As long as an anaconda?"
Then I started to sing, "My anaconda don't want none..." I stopped myself, and finished the rest of the song in my head, "Unless you got buns hun." It was a nice reprieve from "Milk, Milk, Lemonade."

Thursday, October 29, 2015

There Goes The Neighborhood

Mexican Moonstone earrings = Business Bohemian
This morning I woke up and felt uninspired, with nothing to write about. I had a job interview scheduled for the afternoon. The job is for a retail company I'm not enthusiastic about. They sling hipster shit at astronomical prices. It's where the merchandise at Home Goods start out. Think deer horns, macrame wall hangings and sophisticated bohemian lady clothes.
While Kiki was at school, George and I rummaged through my closet looking for an outfit that would fit the bill for the interview. I was frustrated by not being able to combine business and bohemian, having a Cher moment, where my shirt with seagulls was not there when I needed it. I decided to check out the company's website. The women looked like very tame versions of Stevie Nicks, and Stevie Nicks should not, cannot, be tamed. So I sat on the edge of the bed thinking, "Fuck it. I'm wearing this damn business suit, that makes me feel like I am playing in my Dad's closet."
I put on running clothes, and started to get George dressed, so we could run to Kiki's school for pick up. I looked out my kitchen window and watched my neighbor hobbling to my front door. George was still in his diaper, chasing me with a bottle of nail polish, hollering with excitement, "Paint my nails!"
I opened the front door, "Hello!"
"Ashley! My grandson he is going crazy. He won't stop screaming. He punched my husband in the head."
I brought her inside, and she explained that her grandson, who moved in with her two years earlier, was on one of his rampages, but this time he went beyond his normal crazy because he punched her husband, his grandfather, in the head. She told me her husband called the police, but after ten minutes I called them too, looking out the window, nervous my neighbor was being pummeled by his deranged grandson. George sensed the stress because he stopped chanting about nail polish, and glued himself to me like a quiet koala.
I poured her a glass of water, and she told me that her xantax can't keep up with the anxiety her grandson gives her. A pesky fly kept landing on her face and water glass as she was telling me about how they are at their wits end, and can't help him any longer because of his fits of rage, and he has to move out. I agreed, and consoled her as she told me more about how he is just as shitty you would imagine someone is who punches their grandfather in the head.
After a while, she said, "We have these flies too. My grandson never closes the back door."
The flies in my house are a terrible nuisance, who can even distract a woman reeling with anxiety because of her abusive grandson. I was going to complain about the flies, the god awful, relentless, shit eating flies, but figured it was a minuscule problem at the moment. The night before I sat in bed as my husband circled the room with a magazine, batting at flies. I'd shout, "The fly is over there! Get it! Get it!" Then pull the cover over my head, anticipating the fly being swung into my gaping mouth.
After sitting with my neighbor for thirty minutes, her husband came over. "Thanks, Ashely." He said, looking sad, with a cut next to his eye.
"No problem, at all." I said, wishing I had corrected them three years ago when they started calling me Ashley. He was quiet as he led his wife home.
I painted a quick coat of glitter polish on George's toes, and we rushed to the car, in a time crunch to pick up Kiki.
When we arrived home, I decided to abandon the job interview. I'd probably get the job because it's not the one I want. I called my husband and told him about the neighbors and he grew stressed, saying, "We have GOT to move."
I don't want to indulge in a move anytime soon, so I said, "We have to wait till the grandson who looks like an Al Qaeda recruit leaves, with his pit bull and broke down van that sits on cinder blocks in the street. Our property will have much better curb appeal."
He agreed, and suggest we watch the Colin Hanks Tower Records documentary in the afternoon. I told him I'd head to the theater early, right after the babysitter arrives, because I need to go on a run, apologizing in advance, that I will be a sweaty stinky pig during the film.
I parked at the theater and started my run, heading to the upscale neighborhood, Land Park. I gazed upon the beautiful Tudor style houses on the mature-tree lined street. There didn't seem to be any obvious elderly abusers. The leaves were raining down on me, and I couldn't help smiling as the unfamiliar iTunes playlist played one kooky song after the next, like Selfie, which might be the nuttiest song I've ever heard.
When I rounded the corner of the baseball field on the edge of the park, I passed a blue town car. I looked over into the driver's seat and there was a man masturbating, right there in fucking broad day light. I gasped, and moved my eyes to the sidewalk in front of me, not up to see what the guys face looked like. I'd assume he'd be mortified, however, there is the chance he gives a little wink.
When I ran up to the theater, my husband was sitting on the bench. We bought our tickets and snacks, then climbed the stairs to the back rows. As we climbed I said, "I was going to do a job interview today, only because I thought it would be exciting, get my blood pumping, mix up the routine. But today has been a fucking roller coaster. Wait till I tell you what I saw in Land Park!" Then I whispered to him that along the perimeter of the prestigious park, and it's architectural digest manors, I caught someone jerking off in their car.
"Really?!" He said shocked.
"Really! There goes the neighborhood!"

These flies...

Monday, October 26, 2015

Bridge School Benefit Drive Home


Saturday we packed up the car and drove to Mountain View for the Bridge School Benefit. After a debacle with tickets loading on the phone, and setting up our picnic space on the lawn, Kiki peed her pants. I learned a lesson on packing a change of clothes, but bought a souvenir t-shirt she wore as a dress. Two birds, one stone!
I spent a good portion of the time walking around with a restless kid. TVs were set up all over the place, so I found I had a better view of the stage while watching on a TV and chasing George around the biergarten.
I was able to watch Ryan Adams's set from our spot on the lawn. Ryan Adams played old timey favorites, Sweet Carolina and Damn Sam. That might be a Bridge School thing, but the artists performing didn't seem to shy away from their big hits. Often that can be a source of anxiety throughout a show, the end is nearing, and I'm consumed with trying to send them ESP messages, "PLEASE PLAY THE SONG, BLAH BLAH!!" I don't have the balls to shout, "Play me this song, now!!" because I'd be mortified if they said, "Shut your pie hole, missy! I'm not playing that song because I've played it ten thousand times, and that's my limit!"
During Adams set someone shouted, "Take off your shirt!" He started laughing, and jokingly made up a song about removing clothes. The person from the audience was being broadcast on the big screen. As Adams sang, the man removed his shirt, and did the helicopter with it while running up and down stairs. It was hilarious. A tits out moment, if ever, at the family concert. The most I could muster was lifting George's jammy shirt and beating on his bloated toddler belly like he was a super fan at a football game.

On the drive home, with the kids sleeping in the back, I gushed over how awesome it is to watch successful artists doing a charity benefit. The performers don't collect a fee for the show, and all the money goes to The Bridge School. I brought up the Kardashians for some fucking reason, and how their unabashed worship of money is another film people need to see through when interpreting media. Then, in a don't get me started, but I was just getting started, moment, I moved on to Caitlyn Jenner, bringing up an article I read the day before on Germaine Greer, and how her opinions on Trans Women will likely result in withdrawing from speaking at Cardiff University. Greer said she believed Caitlyn Jenner's motives were to take the limelight from the Kardashians.
Regardless of Greer's opinion, I am befuddled by the whirlwind Jenner was able to embroil herself in, and how I found myself more annoyed by her than anything. The reason why Jenner pissed me off is because Trans people did not emerge on the scene in 2015, but because a rich, white, middle aged man, who used to be an olympic athlete, and is better known as the father figure in America's harem, comes out as trans, all of a sudden we're given a Vanity Fair cover story complete with boudoir photos of Jenner. Should RuPaul have been on Vanity Fair before Jenner? Ummm Yes. (That Umm was under 1 second long.) The coverage on Caitlyn seems indirectly superficial, where the apex of Jenner's transformation is achieving a Cindy Crawford look. From the pictures, it seems the definition of a woman is skirts, high heels, long hair and lip gloss, and thats about all of it.

I watched a John Waters interview where he laughed saying, "We should be able to make fun of Caitlyn Jenner, for starters, she's a Kardashian." It's so true. In a sense, what Water's is saying is, Jenner being hands-off in the realm of comedy, and social critique, is political correctness gone mad, so get your heads out of your butt, and treat her just as you would treat any person in the limelight, with microscopic scrutiny.
After Jenner came out, I read a tweet from Lena Dunham that said something like, "Damn girl, I wish I could drive a stick shift in heels." Dunham was referencing a picture of Jenner stepping out of a sports car wearing stilettos and a pencil skirt. The tweet seemed demeaning to women because it implied a male superiority. I realize this Greer approved analysis of Dunham's tweet was not Dunham's intention. Dunham is an active feminist and supporter of LGBT rights, so I'm reading into her tweet much deeper than was intended. Thats the problem with fucking political correctness gone mad, it's a double edge sword.

There doesn't need to be a stone wall constructed in front of someone who decides to engage in debate, having thoughts counter to activist agendas. The lack of discussion, or allowance of free thought only stunts development. Perhaps its the hard party lines that have led Americans to feel disenfranchised by politics, and political information is being passed on to the masses through the voices of a handful of insightful comedians. Were allowed to talk about things, question the norm, even examine a liberal agenda, without it meaning your pro gun, anti abortionist who wants to take away welfare and social security, lock all criminals away till they catch a form of illness in a middle ages prison facility, and no one should pay taxes.
Needless to say, the coverage of Caitlyn Jenner's transformation gets under my skin, and by voicing this opinion, it doesn't mean I am against Trans, or non-liberal. We'll see how Cardiff receives Germaine Greer. I think the most important thing to do when considering someone and their belief system is to think, "Are they a good person, doing good things, making the world a better place?" Even if you have to bring the Kardashians into it.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Alien Light


Last week I woke up in the middle of the night, and saw a light glowing in the backyard. I didn't have my glasses on, so my mind went to worst case scenario; aliens.
I retreated back to my bedroom because I have no desire to make alien contact. I learned this after watching one too many (which is one) Unsolved Mysteries about The Allagash Abductions, and regretfully reading an article about a person who woke up from a horrific nightmare of being probed and prodded, and looked down to see she was wearing lavender underwear that don't belong to her. Later finding out the underwear belong to someone living on the other side of the country, who also woke up disoriented and bewildered, not wearing underwear that belong to her. A snafu that surely led to an alien loosing it's job. The firing manager, says, "Sorry, Freddo, but this position is all about the details."

When the sun was up, and I felt certain a space craft wasn't in the yard, I walked out to find the kids' flashlight laying in a puddle of rain water at the bottom of their water table. What a relief, and what an amazing flashlight!

I'm going to go watch videos about kittens to scrub alien Googling from my mind. Now I know what to do next time I'm looking to stay awake and get things done. I'll google search alien abductions. I'll be up all night cleaning my house, reading books, catching up on the Rom Coms with low Rotten Tomato scores I've been putting off. So tonight, when I go to close my eyes and I'm greeted with images of men cradling alien babies, I think I'll start by cleaning the neglected baseboards. Who am I kidding? Crappy Rom Coms, here I come!




Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Dreams Of Making A Pizooki


I read its common to eat a lot of sugar after quitting booze, and I'd say, thats spot on for me. My newfound love of milk shakes and frequent baking with the kids has increased sugar intake a thousand percent. I'm filling in the void for millions of beer calories with millions of cookies, ice cream and cake calories. It's not so bad, and I guess, softens the blow. The kids are happy because we spend a good portion of our afternoon making a disaster in the kitchen trying to master the Pizooki.
At night, I'm having frequent dreams that I'm out getting wasted with old friends and family. I wake up, unsettled from having just raged in my dreams, then realize I don't have a killer headache, and I'm not coming to from blacking out.
In my latest dream, I'm at a bachelorette party in Las Vegas. Under the bright lights of the adult playground, I gaze longingly at a fridge full of beer, and my sister says, "It's okay, Alicia. Go ahead and drink. It's just for tonight." With mild hesitation, I join in, grabbing a can of cold beer.
I told my sister about the dream, and she laughed, saying "Oh my god, I would say something like that!" After forewarning me to stay strong under those circumstances, she filled me in on similar dreams she is having.
My sister isn't drinking because she is pregnant, and funnily, she's also having dreams of kicking back beer like Janis Joplin. She wakes up feeling guilty, and then realizes, "I have nothing to feel bad about! I was not actually getting my fetus drunk, just dreaming about it!"
I imagine a fetus has a similar tolerance for IPA as me, he'd probably get a drip of alcohol in his blood and try to punch himself out of her uterus. After accomplishing whatever self destructive war path he was set on, he'd ball hysterically, thinking how nice things were, and now he's out in the real world, and can't go back.
At this point the baby is overcome with defeat, and it's nice to give him words of encouragement. "You've come a long way, baby. And you have a long way to go!" The baby tokes from his lit Virginia Slims, shaking his hanging head, looks up, squinting from the bright sun, and breaths in his new world.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

What. The. Hell.


Last time I noticed Naomi Wolf, she wrote an article in Harper's Bazaar on how Angelina Jolie is what every woman strives to be. What started as an overgeneralization of women's aspirations, turned into a love letter to Jolie. I assumed Wolf was just temporarily insane, or perhaps she really was in love with Angelina Jolie. My mom seemed obsessed with Jolie at the time. I remember my mom calling me up to tell me about a dream she had where Angelina Jolie was twirling her long dragon tail. I laughed, and told my mom she is under the spell of a professional seductress, and she should lay off the Tomb Raider.

Then, yesterday I saw a tweet from Cosmopolitan promoting an article by Wolf. Cosmo took a break from their usual reporting on how to orgasm 15 times in under 20 minutes, or how to do Pilates while fucking, or what kind of clothes to wear if your body is unfortunately not akin to a salamander with cantaloupe tits, because they needed to answer the pressing question of our time, Do blondes have more fun? And who was the mastermind behind this scientific research, Naomi Wolf.

After picking my jaw up off the kitchen table, I dove into Wikipedia to try and understand how the woman who wrote The Beauty Myth is now slinging puff pieces to a magazine that, above all, propagates the beauty myth. Wikipedia revealed that Wolf's professional success has taken a nose dive in the last decade. She's turned into an extreme conspiracy theorist who has been ostracized by much of the journalist community.

Her craziness seems like my cup of tea; conspiracy theories, scientific vagina studies, and ridiculous over generalizations. However, after seeing the Cosmo tweet, I can't even indulge in her bat shit ideas because she turned into what she preached against; her radicalism totally negated. Who cares what the findings of her Brunette vs. Blonde study will be. I think I'd rather read the article on Pilates fucking.

The Circle

Transparent
The Circle is a book that lends itself well to the big screen. This book will actually be better as a movie.
Sacrilege! Can there be such a thing? Yes! When the story is interesting, thrilling, but the main character is too mechanical, robotic, where her thoughts cease to reach a depth that make her seem believable. A movie will be able to depict this story without relying on the inner thoughts of a boring main character.
The Circle is a modern 1984 Orwellian outlook on the world, and its social media consumption, paving the way to a passive population and an ultimate monopoly controlling all information. Mae, the main character, easily turns to the dark side without having to go through the Winston Smith beat down. She is absorbed by The Circle through fame, but how this fame entraps the billions of other circlers, is not clear.

Eggers provides a great analogy for social networking when he compares it to eating junk food, arguing that a media binge is much like eating a bag of chips; the digital content is engineered to provide no nourishment, but keep the reader consuming, like empty calories, and just like after mindlessly eating a big bag of Doritos, you feel bad about it in the end, just as an hour on Twitter can leave one feeling diminished rather than filled up.
A couple weeks ago I removed Twitter and Instagram from my phone. I was a smart phone hold out because I thought my go-phone was good enough for me. Last fall, I decided to get an iPhone because of GPS. I was fed up with having to write down directions before leaving the house when iPhone GPS is so wonderfully convenient. After getting my phone, I went full steam ahead, and added Twitter and Instagram. My Twitter use quickly moved from moderate to out of hand, get a grip, you're an obsessive manic. I'm feeling much better about my usage now that it's limited to my laptop.

The book also highlights emergent neurosis when communicating through instant message.  The anxiety from waiting for a response, and writing messages that are so short they could be interpreted a number of ways, makes communicating ineffective, and shallow. I didn't think we'd come to this so soon, where emailing seems like a thing of the past, but it's so nice to engage in email correspondence. Reading someone's message, sitting on it for a week, thinking about what to write back, and then putting time into writing a reply. It feels more personal, emphasizing the real physical distance between the two.

The book also dives into digital presence, referring to a constant online presence as being Transparent. The Circle believes that if everyone lives transparent, then no one will behave morally corrupt. There won't be crime, people will eat better, and little indulgences, like porn, will soon vanish because no one will want to jerk off when there is a camera in their face.
This reminds me of Ashley Madison, and the idiotic people who believed a statement like, "you're data is impenetrable, no one could ever find out you're on our site!"
The naiveté of an individual who can't comprehend they leave "fingerprints" when trolling the internet helped Ashley Madison sell porn under the guise, "you're digitally cheating on you're spouse, and can't be caught."
The ironic thing is, plenty of married couples are ok with their spouse jerking off to porn, but they'd be annoyed knowing they are paying for porn when it's available for free, and it's being done under a deceitful guise.
Perhaps deceit is the thrill. That being told you're cheating on your partner when wanking to porn, so you're left feeling guilt, is the intention, because that guilt propagates the desire to be an exceptional family man or woman.

The Circle emphasizes that anything done on the computer is accessible, and what that means for the population, as our lives become more dependent on the internet, is not really clear, but we should all know that jerking off in front of a camera at this time in not smart, unless you're looking to parlay a reality TV show, then that's likely one of the first steps to take.

Bundred Billion? Hehe, catching a typo is so fun!


Sunday, October 18, 2015

Humanists

I'm about to try and sound smart. Eh hemmmm.
I've read a couple interviews lately where the woman being interviewed says she is not a feminist because she considers herself to be a humanist.
Say what?
This reminds me of when someone replies, "All lives matter," to the slogan, "Black lives matter." It's dismissive, patronizing, and elitist.
First of all, humanism is not disjoint from feminism; a humanist is feminist, but a feminist is not necessarily a humanist. This information is just a quick Wikipedia page read away, but when someone is convinced they are philosophically enlightened, they forget that information is read rather than magically beamed into their brain through divine thought.

I imagine Anti-feminist Humanists hosting Saturday night salons. They uncork fine wine brought up from their wine cellar, and haughtily snort, refilling giant crystal glasses sparkling under the dim light in their mahogany entertaining room. As she adjusts her ascot, indicating she's ready to say something smart, all mumbling and quoting comes to a halt, and eyes lock in on her. Then she clears her throat, holds up her glass, and says, "We are smarter than all other people because we see all problems as one problem, only needing one solution. So bottoms up! Let's talk about what that solution should be!"
"Hear, hear!!" The crowd goes wild.

As a humanist, I don't care about that skeleton's problems, per se. I care about All our problems.
Ohhhh. That's nice.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Tweet Your Business


There was a campaign called Tweet your abortion on Twitter. The purpose is to show the world you don't feel ashamed of your medical choice. The campaign was in response to the right wing rampage to eliminate Planned Parenthood where one of their platforms was that mostly all women regret having abortions. This is false, and I read plenty of surveys that say exactly the opposite (damn statistics) so many women used Twitter as a way to voice there is no shame in their abortion game.
I think it was a great use of social media to rebut a damning claim, but as a feminist, I find it pathetic we have to go to such deep levels of disclosure when trying to attain a fundamental right. People don't have to tweet their medical conditions to get care, and all sex related conditions are considered personal, so why must women need to divulge their medical history in a public manner in order to be heard. No one is forcing people with herpes to bound together and announce they require medical help for their STD. There shouldn't need to be proof that there is lack of shame, shame should be irrelevant in healthcare provisions.
So for all those women who are thinking, "This is bull shit, Im not tweeting my fucking abortion, and it doesn't mean I regret it, or that I am ashamed, it just means, it's fucking personal." You can take a deep breath because I agree with you.
There are factors from people's upbringings that can allow anyone to have wavering feelings about their choice. I for one am booking myself an appointment for confession on December 9th because, like my staunch Catholic Grandma said, "It's better to be on the safe side." She was affirming Pascal's Wager, and with the "Year of Mercy" appointed by the church, why not get a clear conscious because it's hard to escape religious tenants that have been drilled into your head since childhood.
I also think it might be good idea to book an appointment for confession if you drink primarily bottled water because I don't think any God who might hold you down for having abortion, is going to open the gates for someone who buys water by the pallet, or who buys those teeny tiny water bottles that hold two gulps worth.
My Grandfather, who was also Catholic, said to me, "I think that any God will accept any person who has lived a good life. Faith is not necessary for salvation."

Both my Grandparents said things that were not Catholic, shedding light on the ambivalence in damnation for someone who is not worshipping the same way as them. Walter Kaufmann says in Critique of Religion and Philosophy,
“What Pascal overlooked was the hair-raising possibility that God might out-Luther Luther. A special area in hell might be reserved for those who go to mass. Or God might punish those whose faith is prompted by prudence. Perhaps God prefers the abstinent to those who whore around with some denomination he despises. Perhaps he reserves special rewards for those who deny themselves the comfort of belief. Perhaps the intellectual ascetic will win all while those who compromised their intellectual integrity lose everything."
Kaufman is saying that my Grandma's idea will get you a special seat in hell. I'm not worried about Grams because even though she provided this advice to her grandchildren, she was of deep faith. If I take this line of thinking and apply it to abortion and sin, it seems Kaufmann thinks women who are ashamed and guilt ridden about their abortion and women who are completely unashamed will be free of sin, ultimate judgement, however, women who teeter on skepticism, but hit the confession booth for reassurance, well they're screwed. I hope a Twitter campaign comes along soon to alleviate this third group who keeps finding themselves in the hot seat, there are souls at stake here, we need hashtags, STAT!

Naturainteruptus


My sister called me after work, "You will not believe what happened when I walked to my car!"
The possibilities were too much for me to narrow in on one theory. "Oh, gosh, I don't know."
"I walked right into a fucking tree brach! It kind of hurt, but I just kept on going because I felt so stupid."
"Hahaha! I have a word for that! Naturinterruptus!"

I read a very cool article on Japan and Germany's extensive vocabularies. There are many words that are considered untranslatable because it takes a couple sentences to explain, however, the explanations are so common and relatable anyone can understand the meaning. I started an ongoing list of things that should be simplified by a one word expression. One word is "Impractidoggybag," which means wrapping up leftover food knowing you aren't going to get around to eating it, creating additional waste. Or "Foodsuponreturn" the happy sight of seeing your food has arrived to the table during the time you went to the bathroom.

Naturinterruptus came to me on a jog. I always start out my run by brushing the top of my head on low hanging branches on a neighbor's tree. I like to touch the tree with my head. I do this often when I'm walking under a tree, I pop my head up under a branch, hoping to make contact. These are thought out moments where I reach out toward nature, however, there are times when nature reaches out to us, and when were oblivious, it can be as brutal as a face smacking into the trunk of a tree.
Usually, these time are jarring because of the unexpectedness, but luckily the pain is muted by embarrassment, especially if contact occurred in a crowded place and there was an audience for your Naturinterruptus. The audience cringes as you compose yourself, recovering from feeling assaulted, but overcome with happiness you weren't blinded by a twig.

Last night I read my book in bed, and a fly was driving me bonkers by running its buzzing body into my head, the book, and my bedside lamp. I was too lazy to get up and try to murder it, but I gave it a couple body flailing hand slaps, that must have caused some damage, but he remained undeterred in bugging me. Whenever the fly got next to my ear I'd become less annoyed and more disgusted, imagining the fly laying eggs in my ear. After a couple times where the fly came so close to my ear I nearly punched myself in the side of the head, I noticed the fly sounds like a muffled kazoo.
I hadn't noticed a fly sounding this way before, and made a note in my "New Words" list, to think about this some more.
I think I know why my house is so dirty. Thats called having my priorities straight.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Red Oaks and PMS

Rest Day = Mess Day
Last night I finished Red Oaks, a brilliant Amazon Prime original series. I was smitten from the get-go, and by the end, completely enamored. The characters are so likable. Misty, looks exactly like Chelsea Handler, she'd be perfectly cast as Handler in a reboot of the My Horizontal Life TV show or as the starring role of a Lifetime Unauthorized Chelsea Handler Biopic.
I'm surprised how much grief this show gets from critics. I think critics should appreciate a comedy that doesn't rely on sarcasm thats served up so heavy handedly in most modern comedies. I found myself crying during the season finale because the father-son dynamic was so touching.

It's not hard to bring me to tears this week. I'm the walking poster child for PMS. It all started on Friday when a woman closely resembling a mole, called me an idiot in the grocery store parking lot. She waddled off with a Frappacino in hand, and I started breathing heavy, trying to hold back tears, but they came. I think I cried because I didn't quickly reply, "Go eat a dick," and felt like I failed in defending my honor. After telling my sister what happened, she told me, "You need to tell people like that to fuck off." I agreed, further acknowledging my shortcoming.
After talking to my dad, who said, "Some people in this world are grouch monsters. She took her bad day out on you." I was happy I didn't call her a miserable cunt because, even though my kids were oblivious to tears streaming down my cheeks, they would have undoubtedly heard me throw out some off the cuff potty language, and I'd be constantly reminded of it as I tried to convince them to stop screaming "CUNT!" whenever we're out in crowded, quiet places.
I'd blush, nervously saying, "Reclaim that words. Ha, ha," while power walking us back to the car, to go home, where we'll be quarantined until "cunt" is wiped from their memory. "I think you mean shunt!"
I'm just waiting for flow to get to town because my emotional depth is rubbing off on the kids, and making them act even more erratic. Yesterday we had a relaxation day because everyone was easily sent into a tailspin of hysterics. Kiki spent most of Sunday in her room crying, "I hate the word no!" and I'd poke my head in and remind her, "We don't say 'hate,' Kiki!" which would make her scream more. And George has a cold, making his tantrums snot filled. I'm constantly finding him standing on a wobbly side table that stands four feet tall in the corner of the living room. "This isn't the circus!" I say to him, picking him up from the table, causing him to convulse and scream. I have to lay him on the floor and walk away. He doesn't really know what the circus is, which might be making him cry so hard. The unknown can be so sad... Oh my, I'm starting to well up again.

Yesterday, our rest day, I felt like Wheeler in Red Oaks, wrangling his brothers and sisters before sending them off to summer camp. Rest day equates to me following the kids around cleaning up epic messes. Luckily, cartoons stop everyone in their tracks. We baked cookies, made soup and worked on halloween decorations. Kiki doesn't like any instruction, so her ghost looks like barf spray of Lisa Frank. Needless to say, it's a masterpiece.
Sadly, I binge watched the entire season of Red Oaks in two days, and now have to wait an entire year for the next season. Although, I think it's far better to have all episodes available at once, rather then being fed them one a week, it's such a bummer when the season finale ends. The 365 days till next season seems like an eternity.
Who am I kidding, season two will be here before I even realize it. Time goes by so fast. So fast. I should have had my kids at twenty, so I'd have an extra decade with them... Tissue! I need a tissue!
Our Ghosts, left to right, George's, Kiki's, mom's.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Baby Eating Clarice


Last night George woke up at 3am crying to go to the bathroom. I find this funny because during daytime hours his usual potty MO is to shout, "I have to pee!" Then rips his diaper off like Magic Mike removing his track pants, and pees on the floor, or runs to the back door, and to my astonishment, unlocks the knob, two deadbolts and the screen, then runs to the grass and pees.
George and I cruised down the hall to the bathroom, and I propped him on the toilet, but not far enough back, so his pee shot from where he was sitting, arcing three feet and miraculously landing in the bathtub. After recovering from the excitement of watching his pee shoot out of him like a garden hose, I put a new diaper on him, and tucked him back in bed.
We woke up and went to music class. I pulled Kiki from the car screaming, "My shoe is not tied tight enough!"
A friend pulled up next to me and said, "One of those days!" I had to shrug it off because it was an isolated incidence, we were actually having a great day. Then my friend, who was pulling her two grandkids out of the car, gave me a look like she was going to give me some hush hush top secret information, and I decided to lean in. She said, "You know that girl, Clarice?"
I said, "Sure. She's hard to miss!" because Clarice is our music class' Godzilla.
"Well, she just can't keep her hands to herself. I don't know whats wrong with her mom, but she doesn't ever pull her off the babies!"
My friend is right. Clarice acts like a baby obsessed little girl, running at babies with the intention of saying "gucci gucci goo!" from a respectful distance, but then she lunges, trying to pick the baby up, and eventually falling over on top of it.
Clarice's favorite target is baby Audrey, who is a tiny little girl, maybe a little over a year old. Audrey's mom has not reached a breaking point, which is going to happen soon, where she tells Clarice, "Get the fuck away from my baby before I spank your ass!"
Clarice follows poor Audrey around, smiling like she is going to devour her, as Audrey toddles at full speed with a look of horror on her face. Clarice always catches up, and Audrey always ends up crying. Clarice's mom must smoke two joints before going into class because she looks on the scene with such adoration, as if the two were peacefully stacking blocks, and every other parent in the class looks on cringing.
Maybe Audrey will surprise us one day, and flip around and eye gorge Clarice, but I doubt it, Clarice would probably eat Audrey's hand off as it came close to her face. Clarice has not tried to attack my kids because they aren't small enough for her to manhandle, but if she tried George could always show her his new potty trick. A golden shower just might stop her in her tracks.
It would never come to that because, unlike Audrey's mom who trusts Clarice won't go homicidal,  I'm skeptical of her. As Clarice came at George looking like she wants to chew him up, I'd intervene, jumping like Randy Man Savage from the baby gate surrounding the classroom, and belly flopping on top of her.

Social Climbers By Marriage

My Caveman
In all my years of hobnobbing, I can easily say people who marry way above their social class tend to be the most god awful kind of company who tend to be a terribly judgmental, chameleon of a character, saying things like "Nouveau Riche" in all seriousness when criticizing someone for having a quirky flare. It doesn't matter if this annoying character was born in the slums, they have developed amnesia of any time before consistently getting massages at The Four Seasons.

I had the pleasure of recently dining with a high society couple, and the non birth entitled husband kept nagging at me, "Come on, Alicia, come out with us and party!" I knew this invitation was more about his amusement rather than loving my company. Get beer in me, and I turn into a sailor back at port after having spent a year in an underground submarine. Enthusiastic is an understatement, and I'm easily categorized as "love me or hate me." People who have a stick up their butt, choose the latter. They find me obnoxious, and my wit buzzes past them, so instead of laughing with me they like to laugh at me. Me and this guy don't have anything in common, and although he finds me funny, he thinks of it as a competition on who can be funnier. I immediately knew it was an invitation to be Frank-The-Tank party animal, so he could have a nice chuckle at how I am just a tick above cave man, so I gracefully declined. (It sounded something like this, "I do declare, my temples are throbbing with a headache, I must rest upon a pillow for the evening.")

I've heard the phrase "There is nothing worse than a drunk woman," a couple times throughout my life and it's usually dispensed after a lady chugs five drinks and lets all her emotional baggage erupt in a room full of people. This is the stupidest saying in existence because it's obvious that there are much worse things than a drunk women, like a pedophile for example, or a drunk child, that would be horrible and sad, or how about a road raging maniac who goes around yelling at people, throwing his middle finger out the window, that guy is pretty damn awful. Rich snobby people are pretty fucking terrible, considering themselves of a higher caliber really because they have a silver spoon shoved up their butt.

In contrast, a person who climbed the social ladder on their own accord, not through a wedding band, is the most delightful company, inclined to I-don't-give-a-fuck characteristics breaking rigid social norms. It's like Bill Clinton and his panache for sticking stogies up an interns twat, or Miley Cyrus' assertive tits making their presence known whenever Miley's face is out. There is a Hillbilly Strong pride that comes along with defying the odds, making it from ground zero to the heights of the World Trade Center by being determined and happy.
A couple weeks ago, we went out to celebrate at a fine dining restaurant. The intimate tables glistened with shining giant wine glasses and enormous silverware. The host led the way to our table, and realized he didn't know where the fuck he was going so we circled back to the host booth, and he sorted out where we were going to dine. As he brought us to the right table and sat us down he apologized profusely. I could give two shits if he took us on a tour of the parking lot before bringing us to the table, so after his seventh apology, I had to hold back my urge to punch him in is stomach so he'd stop groveling like a pathetic idiot. He was acting like he took a dump on fine china and passed it to us, saying it's the chef's special, not that he walked us 20 feet without an ending point.
It never came to physical violence because he finally ended his self degradation by offering to buy us a round of drinks. After the spectacle, I couldn't help but camp it up a bit, and act like a hoedown was about to begin. My reaction to act like the entire charade was beneath me only demonstrates my immaturity, but seriously, old soul or new soul, rich bitch or poor slob, no one wants to listen to someone yammering on about how your entitled to a better parade. Well, there is one kind of person who does, and he'd sulk and scathe, lapping in the shower of gratuitous apologies, because he's entitled to it, and has the ring to prove it.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

BANNED




The other day I was watching Chalmers' Ted Talks in a lounge chair next to the couch where the kids were watching a cartoon. My recommended Up Next video was  titled "BANNED Rupert Sheldrake Video," so I clicked play. The talk is titled "The Science Delusion," and Sheldrake gives evidence of Constants fluctuating in physics. The constant's value is determined through averaging values found around the world. He was building a case that fixed constants are in fact fluctuating variables, and because science is never skeptical of common theorems, equations or principals, progress is stunted.
I could get on board with his argument, and thought of how I recently reevaluated ideas I was taught. After having kids my outlook on Evolution, as a basis for the beginning of life, changed completely, to where Evolution sounds more ludicrous than what many consider fantastical in religious literature. I am not much of an animal person, and maybe it's my inability to find their company anything beyond laborious that makes me unable to see them as equivalent. I can attribute them as having souls, or a level of conscious, but if we were all the spawn of a single celled amoeba, I would expect that another species should show some heightened intelligence, that is on par with human beings. For example, the fact that we have invented these systems, materialistic systems, like a washing machine, clothes, cars, and rocket ships, and there is not evidence of another species even devising a species-made weapon of defense, or constructed a mode to ease in how they acquire food. There is not even evidence of another species constructing something as simple as a hammer. Another thing that troubles me, is after millions of years evolving, no two species have learned the same language, or are able to easily communicate between each other.
I believe the evidence of evolving is substantial, and therefore believe in Evolution, but I think that human beings are the intention of evolution, there was meaning to Evolution, human life is far too amazing to not have been.
Sheldrake uses humor as a way to communicate his idea, and a funny one liner was, "scientists needed one miracle, and then they built all facts off of that," when talking about The Big Bang theory.
I think the point of the talk is to show how easily people accept common scientific Theorems, and seeing as how most people don't have the foundation to understand these principals, it is blind faith that keeps them grappling to them. Widespread acceptance somehow makes the word "theorem" evolve into "truth."

I considered why this video was banned. I figured it was because of marketing. The "banned" video discusses two dogmas from Sheldrake's book where there are eight more. The word "banned" peaks interest in buying the book to see what more Sheldrake has to say.  I wondered how many more banned Ted Talks there are, so I googled "banned Ted Talks" and found two more videos, Graham Hancock's "The War on Conciesness," and Nick Hanauer's "Rich People Don't Create Jobs."

Nick Hanauer's talk was brief, it's only five minutes long, and his main point is tax the rich. We live in a time where rich people pay 15% and middle class pay 35% in taxes, and this does not cause an uprising because the middle class are led to believe rich people are responsible for giving jobs to the masses and therefore should not be taxed. The current state of divided wealth is incredible and I have no idea how the wool has been pulled so easily over our eyes, and people are still complacent with their dwindling wealth. Hanauer shows that as the rich get richer, the middle class get poorer, and the only way to alleviate this is by requiring the rich to pay a higher tax. I am not sure why this video was banned, perhaps this is the kind of information that unsettles the masses, and there could actually be an outcry resulting in positive change, although I'm doubtful.
I wonder how the middle class is so compliant in this tax equivalent of a cactus sodomy. The middle class has Stockholm Syndrome for upper class. I think the media's obsession with celebrity helps in upper class sympathy. Were inundated with celebrity culture, and it gives a false sense of appropriation; if I buy this Luis Vuitton, then I am one of them. I think it also serves as a lesson, that extreme wealth is at anyones fingertips, you just have to be hungry enough to grab it, and so people think, when I am in the position of being rich, then I don't want to have to give all my money to the tax man. The notion dispelled is rich people work harder than anyone to get where they are, and they should not be penalized for hard work, and because I am the same caliber of hard working person destined to be rich, I too will not be penalized when I am rich.

The last video, Hancock's War on Conscious was interesting because he was so open with how he feels like he communicates with a spiritual world. I usually think of scientists as atheists, who would consider a hallucinogenic experience no more than one's imagination running wild. I suppose Hancock's video was banned because it is pro-hallucigenics (used responsibly) and he pleads with the audience to wake up and stop being so passive as the world is being destroyed for ridiculous reasons, like frequently needing to eat cheeseburgers. The video, beyond his discussion on Ayahuasca, is about being conscious of how the world is being abused, and being conscious on ways to be a better citizen of the earth, and there will be hell to pay for those who do not wake up.
I was impressed by Hancock's story of Ayahuasca, but did not feel any desire to venture down that path of conscious exploration. My experience with hallucinogens were, for the most part, awful, where I spent most the time thinking people could read my mind. I was probably not doing it responsibly, but I'm terrible at using substances in moderation, or with intention. Thank goodness I wasn't a teenager during the 70's because I certainly would have died from jumping off a roof, convinced I could fly.

Speaking of destroying the earth, the other day I was listening to the radio and a NASA scientist was being interviewed because water has been discovered on Mars. I stopped in my tracks because it seems like a great time to find an untapped well, considering the water crisis. It will no doubt serve us when we have destroyed the air quality and need to harvest oxygen. It's very human-like to venture all the way to Mars when we run out of resources, rather than try to live within our means, much like using plastic utensils, and paper towels, that equate to ease in cleaning, even though these items are made half a world away, ride across the Atlantic, to the shipping trucks, then grocery stores, to households, then ultimately in a landfill. That plastic forks lifecycle equates to one second saved dishwashing.

This was my fist experience chasing the Ted Talks dragon, and I had a good time. I will spend an hour next time watching not banned videos, although I doubt I will have this much to say. That was a real doozie!


Monday, October 5, 2015

Circle Dream and Book

Resume the position.. It's like we never left
I went to Disneyland this weekend. It was a fun adventure, but I'm happy to be home. An hour after being home, I ordered groceries online, the kids put on Disney Junior, and I'm blogging, so once the food arrives, it will feel like we never left.
Friday morning, after taking off for Orange County, I received an email from the library letting me know my books came in. "Mother fucker, I missed out on new reading material for the trip!" I very foolishly thought to myself.
Not having any reading time on vacation shouldn't have been a surprise, since I know I sleep much worse on vacation. The kids insist on sharing a bed with me, so I'm buried under their bodies, barely able to get enough oxygen to stay alive. One kid lays over my stomach and another on my chest with their arm splayed over my face. Lights out by 8pm, or whenever we manage to get in the room, makes reading impossible, but its the only way to not be an unbearable grouch after George wakes us up at 5:00am.
This morning I woke up from a dream where I was eating myself out. It was very bizarre, and not even sexual. I was talking to somebody, it might have been my husband or sister, and then I realized I could eat my own box. I told them in some way, "Go ahead, I'll meet up with you," thinking it wasn't obvious I was going to further explore my newly learned trick.

My library is closed on Mondays, so we'll pick up the books tomorrow. One of the books I'm getting is Dave Eggers' The Circle because two hosts on NPR were talking about it last week. I resisted reading The Circle because Heartbreaking Work Of A Staggering Genius is one of my top 5 worst books, mainly because of that God awful title. The two hosts chatted up The Circle, and hooked me, so I figured I better read it before Danny Boyle makes it into a movie.
After I woke up from my dream, I tried to think of the meaning. I figured it had to do with The Circle. Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius is basically 375 pages of Eggers sucking his own dick, plus a circle reminds me of a snake eating its own tail, and eating myself out is sort of circular, I'm just starting in the middle, in an amazing feat of flexibility, and starting with my box instead of my feet shows my preference with diving into dessert before dinner.