idiocy
Please don’t forget – Tomorrow is Femme Writes Day!
Aug 4th
On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of August, we’ve chosen to write about Physical and Mental Abuse. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read previous installments, click here.
Tomorrow’s topic is Physical and Mental Abuse, which can really be ANY kind of abuse: sexual, physical, emotional, verbal, or any other kind of abuse you can think of, toward women. Yes, we know that men get abused too, but again, for now, this is FEMME Writes.
Since this is such a sensitive topic, we want to provide anyone who needs it with an anonymous option to post on our Femme Writes site. If you have something that you want to write down or get out there, but you don’t want to put it on your blog, feel free to send us an email to femmes [at] femmewrites [dot] com and we will post your story anonymously.
On the other hand, don’t feel like you have to talk about something personal. This is a really broad topic, and you can write about any aspect of it that strikes you. We just want to hear your thoughts.
Right now, I’m so sickened by the Dallas Chief of Police David Brown, I can barely stand it, so I’ll be writing about rape, in all its forms and varieties. I know this is Texas, but it’s very disturbing to me that the Chief of Police can have such a casual attitude about victim-blaming for rape. Personally, I’d like to rape him and then tell him it’s his fault.
I think a key part of the problem is that most (not all, mind you) men can’t even contemplate the idea of being violated by rape. That’s why it’s so easy to push the blame off on the woman’s skirt or the woman’s drinking or the fact that a woman walked somewhere by herself. The completely pervasive idea that rape is about sex is another huge part of the problem. Rape is not about sex. Rape is about control and power. Period.
I’m going to stop now, so I have something to talk about tomorrow, but honestly, I think this man should be fired. How on earth can any woman feel like it’s going to do any good to report a rape if the Chief of Police is just going to blame her for it? Your job, as police chief, is to protect and serve, not blame the victims of crimes because you’re an ignorant prick.
Viva Las Vegas!
May 19th
So as of tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be spending my weekend in sunny Las Vegas with about 37000 other bloggers for Nicole’s super awesome Bloggers in Sin City meet-up.
I know. You’re jealous. And you should be.
In case you didn’t already, you should go read my introduction. I even scared myself.
So in honor of the “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” attitude I will be adopting immediately upon landing at the airport, I thought I would disclose some completely ridiculous shit I’ve done in the last couple of months. I’ve been hiding it from you.
This one’s (partially) for you, @spicyem !
Completely ridiculous shit #1:
A couple of months ago, I was getting ready for work. Well, I mean, I get ready for work nearly everyday and I’m always late, so this was just an ordinary day. I was running late. I jumped out of bed and brushed my teeth. There was no time for showering, but I washed my face. Makeup? What’s that?
Right.
So I grabbed a T-shirt, pulled it on, and shoved my feet into some shoes. I was making pretty good time. About seven minutes between waking up and heading out the door.
I got my purse and keys, locked the door, and started making my way toward the parking garage. When I got to the stairs, I noticed a strange feeling on my legs. Like a draft. I looked down to discover…
I had forgotten to put on pants. Forgotten. To put on PANTS. And I was in the hallway. WITH NO PANTS.
I squealed a little and ran back to my apartment. Somehow, there was no one in the hallway. I put on some pants and went to work. I can only imagine what might have happened if I had made it all the way TO work without pants.
Completely ridiculous shit #2:
A few days after the “no pants fiasco of 2010,” I had to pack for an out-of-town trip. I got home from work and stripped off my shirt and pants (look, when I walk in the door, it’s pants off dance off up in my apartment), with the intention of putting on my pajamas. As my clothes hit the floor, I realized that I really needed to do some laundry.
Of course, being the responsible woman that I am, I immediately gathered up a load (ahem, which was strewn about my bedroom) and put it in the washing machine. So I wouldn’t forget and have to go out of town with no clean underwear.
Then I realized that I really needed to get the dishwasher going before I left town. I can’t stand to come home to a sink of dishes. Still in my underwear and bra, I got to work in the kitchen. For once, I didn’t bother to put on an apron. This isn’t the first time that was a bad decision and it won’t be the last.
While doing the dishes, I thought, “Oh crap. I need to get my trash together and put it outside.” We have valet trash at my apartment, and they pick up Sunday through Thursday. I knew if I didn’t get it the trash out RIGHT THEN that I would forget and come home after four days to a smelly apartment. And that dead hooker under the mattress is enough, right?
Not really thinking, I got my trash together, put it in the appropriate trash can and opened the door to sit it outside. Now, I actually have to go all the way out the door to get it in the right place. And I’m currently wearing my skivvies. My door swings closed automatically, of course (don’t worry, it doesn’t lock).
I stepped outside and immediately heard the voices of several men. I looked up to find five of them staring at me with my trashcan in my hands and nothing but my pretties to cover my lady parts.
Me: “Uh, hey guys. How’s it goin’? I’m not really wearing any clothes, so…I’m going to go back inside now. Okaythanksbye.”
I did manage to NOT whack my face into the door on the way in.
So yeah, I’m pretty. In less than a week, I walked out of my apartment without all my clothes on TWICE.
Completely ridiculous shit #3:
Men? You may want to stop reading here. Seriously. I promise. This is about tampons.
Somehow this week, I had completely forgotten that it was about that time. You know what I’m talking about, ladies. And it’s always nice to realize you’re bleeding AND realize that you’ve completely forgotten that it was about to happen (as though it hasn’t been happening for nearly 20 years now) (jesus on a poptart I’m old). But I wasn’t wearing white pants.
Anyway, I was meeting April and Natalie for lunch yesterday, and it was only like day TWO of the wretched thing, so before I left, I went to the bathroom to…change things up? I know some of you men are still reading. I’m trying to make this a little easier on your delicate senses, but it’s not easy.
Anyway, I tugged on the string and nothing happened. It didn’t budge. Mind you, I was wearing a tampon approximately the size of the Washington Monument, because, as I said, it was DAY TWO. Also known as, the worst day.
I tugged again. Nothing.
I’ll admit I could already tell this was a bad idea, but at this point I had no choice. I tugged harder. Pretty sure I gave myself a free and accidental pap smear, as I definitely lost some of my delicate lady parts on that tampon. Wonder if I can just send it to my GYN in lieu of an actual visit?
At lunch, I managed to smear a giant blog of barbecue sauce on my boob. I didn’t notice. April didn’t notice. Natalie didn’t notice. But my boss did!
Oh look! It’s a Tuesday rant!
May 4th
Dear people with children,
Yes, I know. You hear from me a lot. I guess it’s good that you’re used to it by now. RIGHT?
Obviously, I’m not talking to all of you. Some of you seem to have mastered the art of raising lovely, well mannered, smart, well adjusted children (I’m looking at you, Aunt Kim. Oh, and you, Mom!). But to the rest of you? What the HELL is going on out there?
Your children are not going to learn about things, if you don’t teach them. You really trust the education system in this country and their “friends from school” to do the job? I know it’s tough to raise a family and be there for your kids when you’re either a) a single parent or b) a two-income household or c) alive. You could make a tiny bit more effort, though, don’t you think?
And that’s just me talking to the people who have children and AREN’T idiots themselves.
Kids are going to do stupid things. They’re going to mess up. I get that. It’s part of life. But they don’t have to be assholes in the process (Fletcher? I’m looking at you for this one, you little climbing gym douchebag). And it might help to teach them about traffic. And sex. I know it seems an odd combination, so you don’t have to teach them together. Today, let’s talk about traffic.
Yesterday, in ONE intersection, I nearly ran over two children. TWO. And they weren’t together.
First, a child decided that the best time for him to cross the street was when the light turned green. And the best place for him to cross the street was not at the crosswalk. Oh no. Rather he chose to walk one row of cars away from the crosswalk. Between the cars. As the light turned green.
Because he was blocked by another car, I didn’t see him until he was about to step in front of my car. Which was also the second that I put my foot on the accelerator. I had to slam my brakes (I was only going about 1 MPH, but still) to avoid hitting the little bastard. The car to my left had already started going (because he didn’t see the kid either), so then the kid was stuck in front of my car, with nowhere to go. And I’m the one who got honked at for three minutes.
When the light changed again, I proceeded to accelerate through the intersection, only to see out of the left corner of my eye that a man (with his six-year-old son) had decided that his best bet in getting across this enormous intersection was to do it diagonally. That way, no matter which light turned green, he was guaranteed to be in someone’s way. Once again, I had to slam on my brakes and watch, as cars whizzed around this man and his little boy. No one else would stop, so he was stuck in the middle of the intersection until the light turned red again.
And yes, this makes all the other motorists assholes, too. But good grief, dude. Don’t put your kid’s life in danger like that.
On more than one occasion, I’ve seen parents cross the street with their children without making sure the children get up on the sidewalk first. The one that takes the cake, though, was a man with a stroller. He crossed the street, pushing his stroller, not bothering to use the crosswalk or wait until the light was red. Then when he got to the other side, he stepped up onto the sidewalk, and continued to push the stroller into oncoming traffic on the street until he got it to the intersection where there was a dip for wheelchair/stroller access.
He pushed. His BABY. In a stroller. INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC.
So parents, PLEASE. Teach your kids (and yourselves, clearly) how to handle traffic. Teach them to look both ways and wait for red lights and use crosswalks. I really don’t want to get charged with involuntary manslaughter because I mowed down your child at an intersection. I may not like kids, but I really don’t want to run them over. My car probably won’t make it through that.
Maybe children should have leashes,
Shine
Awkward encounters of the stranger kind.
May 3rd
**Please don’t forget that the next installment of Women’s Writes will be on Wednesday, May 5th. The topic is Reproductive Rights and Issues. If you missed it in April, click here for links to all our amazing contributors. Please see my post about it for more details or email me if you need more information!**
If you follow me on Twitter or read this blog frequently, you probably know that I often have really awkward encounters with strangers.
In one three month period, I was licked five separate times by complete strangers. Bizarre.
Well, last week was no exception. And really, things have been fairly calm for a while. I haven’t been going out as much, and when I do, I’m usually with a group of girls, so it’s more difficult to talk to me. I’m completely okay with this.
While at Chipotle, getting a veggie bowl for lunch (no cheese or sour cream for me!), the man in front of me turned around and said, “You look really familiar. Have we met somewhere before?”
I said, “Really, dude? In the Chipotle line? Do we have to do this?” (See? I’m really pleasant!)
He said, “No, really. You look totally familiar, like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“I really don’t think so. I don’t remember you.”
He paused. “Do you…write a blog?”
OH SHIT.
“Uh…mmmmm…well, yeah.”
Mind you, my brain was like, “WTF? What do I do? This is AWKWARD. SHIT SHIT SHITSHITSHIT.”
He said, “THAT’S why I’ve seen you before! I read your blog.”
“Um, super.”
“You’re really funny. I read it all the time. Blah blah blahblahblah.”
At this point, I had stopped listening and actually started to panic. I was about to walk out of the line, right before the salsas.
I said, “Uh, thanks. I’m, um, glad you like it? Uh, I think…yeah, this is weird.”
So clearly, I handle myself well in such situations, eh? I made it through the line, got my food to-go and hauled my cookies out of there at top speed.
So I have to ask you guys this: Is this NORMAL? Has this happened to you? Is it okay to FREAK OUT? Oh, also, everyone say hello to the stranger who reads my blog and ran into me at Chipotle. If he’s still reading. Which he probably isn’t. Let’s face it, I didn’t exactly handle that like a pro.
Then. THEN. I went to buy myself a pair of Reebok Easy Tones on Saturday afternoon (I hope that link works. If not, please feel free to use Google). I had been wanting some, because if there’s one thing my ass needs these days, it’s a little more tone. (Okay, truth? I kind of love my ass. But who’s ass couldn’t use more toning?)
Anyway, I made my way to Lady Footlocker and they had a cute new pair of black and pink ones (Previously, I hadn’t bought any of them because I thought they were all a little…bland. And sparkly. It was an odd combo). I tried them on and they fit perfectly. They’re really comfy and I didn’t feel like I was going to fall over at all. Which is new, since normally I’m about the clumsiest person on the planet.
On my way out of the mall, I hear, “Hey!” (If you already saw this on Twitter, suck it up. You knew you were going to see it again, right?)
As usual, everything is about me, so I looked in the direction of the “Hey!”
It was a strange guy, probably in his 40s or so. He said, “Are you a model?”
I looked at him, kind of dumbfounded, for a minute. Then I said, “Uh…” (I know. I’m brilliant.)
He said, “Well, a plus-sized one, obviously, but you have that model look about you.”
Again, I just looked at him, though this time my eyes were a bit more squinty. I said, “No. I’m not.”
He said, “Oh, did I offend you or something?”
And the thing is, I’m not sure if he DID. I mean, truth? I’m not a size 2, so if I were a model, I would be a plus-sized one (though I sincerely hate that term). But is it actually necessary to SAY that to me? As a stranger? And with such snideness in your tone? No, sir, I don’t think it IS necessary.
I said, “Honestly, I’m not sure. So I’m going to walk away now.” And I left. Puzzled.
I’m continually astounded by the fact that strangers seem to think that it’s perfectly acceptable to say anything they want to me. Is it something on my face? Do I just look like I need to hear whatever it is you have to say?
It’s possible that I’ll never understand this phenomenon. If anyone has any ideas, I’m all ears!
This graphic really has nothing to do with the post.
Mar 22nd
Click the image for an exciting article from the magazine, posted by Modern Mechanix.
(I do understand that the following rant is going to make me sound bitter. I can assure you that’s not the case. I’m just tired of men being wimps about talking to girls.)
April and I were talking last night about…well, frankly most of it was too depressing to discuss with you. But we happened upon the topic of being the “funny friend.” The friend who guys choose to talk to because it’s easy. And by “choose to talk to,” I mean choose to talk to about our friends.
“Your friend so-and-so is really awesome. I’ve been in love with her since the day I first saw her. Do you think I have a shot with her?”
“I really want to get in so-and-so’s pants, could you hook me up?”
“So-and-so is so beautiful. Is she single?”
Guess what, Men. This is REALLY ANNOYING. Grow some balls and GO TALK TO HER YOURSELF. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man ask a friend about me. Not because men aren’t interested in me, but because it’s easy to talk to me. Or maybe men aren’t interested in me, I don’t know. They sure seem to be, though.
Frankly, I’m not here to do the work for you. When I like a man, I talk to him. Or I don’t. But I sure as hell don’t walk up to his friend and make him feel like dirt in the process.
Yes, she might reject you. Maybe she has a boyfriend. Maybe she thinks you’re a tool. Maybe she’s just not interested. Find out for yourself. The worst that will happen is you won’t get laid. Which just means you can move on to the next girl, right?
So do me a favor. Just ask her yourself. I have better things to do with the thirty minutes you’re going to spend telling me how hot my friend is. I already know.
