Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Stoop 1, Kate 0

I just fell down on my own front stoop.

I wasn't drunk; hell, I wish I was drunk because that would be immeasurably less pathetic. No. Not drunk. Just me, though and through.

I took out the trash, and coming back in I put my foot on the stoop to step up; my foot slipped off; and I crashed to the ground. Thank god the neighbors didn't see me because between the state of my yard and my occasional fits thrown at the sight of Bennet's latest victim they undoubtedly already believe I'm a crank-addled lunatic. It's not even dark yet, I'm just a fucking klutz.

You know what? It hurts A LOT more to fall down at 30 then it did when I was a kid. I should know. I fell down a lot.

I still do.

Some days I'm really fucking tired of the whole me-ness of being me, you know?

Monday, July 30, 2007

On Anger

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend of mine at a party when he mentioned that he liked my blog. I was reasonably flattered, as I have assumed right along that in general the only people who would read it are those that have to, such as The Boy and The Liquor Fairy, and the occasional stalker who finds it by accident while trolling for victims. Also, I quite enjoy his meandering vitriol, which means that I count him in the .02% or so of the population whose opinions I don’t dismiss out of hand.

As we chatted, he mentioned that one of the things he liked about my blog is the fact that I’m so “angry.”

Hmm.

Even though I knew he meant it in a good way, my first response was to dispute that fact. “I’m not angry,” I protested, “I’m . . . not . . . I’m a pleasant person. I’m NICE.”

Who the fuck do I think I’m kidding? I’m not nice, I’m polite, and sometimes I can’t even manage that convincingly. Hell, I don’t even want to be nice. In fact, I am pretty angry. I’m not joyless or bitter about it, but I spend a decent amount of time in a state of low-grade rage.

Why? Well, god. There are just so many reasons.

I have been pissed about President Halfwit since the word go. I am pissed that he was elected the first time, and I’m REALLY pissed that he was elected again. He’s a fucking idiot of the first order, and I’m beginning to suspect he might be batshit crazy to boot. Do not even get me started on the rest of monsters in his administration.

I am tired of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights being read like lists of suggestions.

Speaking of the Bush administration, I remain pissed off at Ralph Nader. I will always be pissed off at Nader. If Nader’s teeth were on fire, I would not piss in his mouth. I will always, ALWAYS blame Nader for Bush. Every dead soldier in Iraq? Nader’s fault. As soon as the first woman dies after Roe v. Wade is completely gutted by those bastards on the Supreme Court, I’m sending him the picture of her bloodied corpse (which I feel certain will appear in the local paper or online). If he’s dead by then I’m taking it to his grave. I love a futile gesture as much as the next girl, truly I do. There is, however, a line between making a noble but futile gesture and being a megalomaniacal asshole.

While we’re on the subject of dead women, I’m sick of being a second class citizen. I am angry that we cannot manage to treat the decision to have a child as though it were anything but a flippant decision on par with picking a fucking handbag; one that is the exclusive province and problem of women. I’m angry that after all this time, people still talk to my boobs. I’m tired of a lot of things having to do with being a chick. I am sick of “women’s issues” being somehow different and inferior from regular “issues.” Hell, I’m mad that my first reaction upon being told that I’m angry was to insist that I’m not. I should be angry—I’m not stupid. My first reaction should not be to feel bad about that.

BUT, I have it lucky. No burqa. No child marriage. No dowry. I can leave my house. See a doctor. Go to school. I might be cranked about some of the bullshit that goes on in this country attendant on my having a uterus that goes on in this country, but at least I’m here. At least I don’t have a target on me, or a very low price on my head. At least I usually don’t feel expendable.

I am angry about reality television.

I am angry people who don’t have enough sense not to, at the very least, vote against their own best interest. Do you come from a LOT of money, preferably OLD money? No? Then why. The Fuck. Would you ever. EVER. Vote Republican? You stupid ‘git.

I am angry about those stupid health care personal savings accounts folks keep bandying on about it. The whole proposition of “People will choose more wisely if they are spending their own money,” is asinine. Yeah. I just randomly SPEND healthcare dollars. I go to the doctor because I love waiting and old magazines. I take birth control for shits and giggles, not because I don’t want to have a kid I can’t afford to feed. And when the time comes I need a mammogram? It will just be because I want to have my boobs mashed. Are there people who over-utilize healthcare resources? Sure, but most don’t. Most avoid the doctor unless they need to go, either for illness or for a checkup to prevent illness. Since most people don’t like waiting, co-pays, or needles, most people partake as little as possible in the healthcare system.

You know what will happen when people are forced to pay cash for their own healthcare, without assistance from insurance? Lots and lots of dying, punctuated with gangrene and tumors the size of grapefruits.

And finally (for now), I am angry that so many people don’t recognize the difference between “everyday” and “every day.”

Friday, July 27, 2007

Good Morning, Marmot

On my way to work in the mornings I pass by what I think must truly be one of the ugliest corners in North St. Louis County. A swath of brown, weedy grass to the right of the highway exit runs up to a rusted chain link fence. Beyond that is a patchy parking lot in front of a singularly unattractive building supply warehouse. Beyond that? A Waffle House, a Super 8 Motel, and some other unfortunate NoTell Motel.

The fact is, though, this particular ugly is more than the sum of its parts. Ever been to a crummy dive saloon and see some drunk dude down at the end of the bar with a bad case of summer teeth and B.O. who insists on telling unsuspecting neighbors his sad fucking life story; a story made all the more sad by the fact that all of his problems were largely of his own making? This street corner is that guy.

Or, it was. A few weeks ago I noticed some creature standing in the patch of grass. At first I thought perhaps I was seeing things and that it was time to stop drinking cheap gin, but no. My mom takes that same exit to get to work, and she had seen it, too. We even saw it together when we carpooled for a week.

I have seen him several times. Generally, the wee brown beastie stands majestically, if squatly, with his back turned dismissively on traffic. Instead, he surveys his vast domain—the weedy patch of grass—with a proprietary air. He is, it seems, busy. He cannot be bothered with us stupid humans and our stupid cars. He has all this ground that needs looking after.

After several days of wild and fruitless speculation as to the nature of the beastie (“Is it a beaver?” “It can’t be a beaver, can it?” “What do I know from beavers?”), it was finally determined that this particular critter is a groundhog. We think.

You know what, though? I don’t even care. On the mornings when I exit the highway and I see the fat little thing hanging out in the weed patch, it completely makes my morning. More even then coffee. Today was exceptional, as there was not one but TWO groundhogs doing that which groundhogs do. One was ignoring traffic, while its little friend waddled about in the background hunting for food or breaking in new shoes or whatever it is groundhogs do in the morning.

Good morning, marmot. It’s going to be a good day.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Kate Does Nothing Day

Last night, the woman at the grocery store didn’t recognize my eggplant. In a world of foodstuffs, I would have thought that the distinctly purple eggplant would have stood out. I was, it seems, wrong. She also mistook my cilantro for spinach, en error that I can’t even follow because one, the only thing they have in common is being green and two, the checker had just rung up the spinach that I did in fact buy. The spinach was easily distinguished by the large, white lettering that read “Spinach” across the front.

I then went home to make a meal for The Boy and me. Black bean burritos with fresh pico de gallo. This was meal was followed by a carbohydrate coma so profound that I wound up having to hide the pillow on which I dozed off because it was so sodden with my own drool. That’s the last time I add rohypnol to my black beans.

After our nap, we took Bennet for a walk. Bennet spent most of her time trying to trip and/or drag me while The Boy and I spent most of the stroll discussing the possibility for a series of children’s books featuring Bennet and my other beasties. Some titles:

Bennet and the Short Bus to Obedience School
Bennet and the Rolled-Up Newspaper
Bennet and the Remote-Control Shock Collar
Jack Does Nothing Day
Bella Destroys the World


and my personal favorite

Bennet Goes to the Korean Deli

Yes. I fully expect to go to hell. That’s okay, though, because my work life of late has done a fine job of preparing me for an eternity of suffering.

The details of the disaster are irrelevant, but I will paint a quick picture in broad strokes. I took a promotion for the opportunity to start up a new corporate department in a brand new facility. Our computer system is notable not only for the things it does not do well, but also for the things it does not do at all. I have spent the past seven weeks either doing nothing, doing nothing and pretending to do something, or testing the worthless software.

I finally realized yesterday that it will require a miracle, a-hand-to-god-Gabriel-on-a-shaft-of-golden-fucking-light-comes-down-from-heaven-and-saves-our-asses-miracle, for this project to do anything but disappoint and frustrate for the first year or so. After that, ho knows? It might just be too late. I am at peace with it, though. I keep up my corporate charade, then I go home and complain to my wonderful boyfriend and drink myself into a stupor. Thus does time pass.

Adding insult to injury, though, today we have corporate muckety mucks come in. I suppose that this is to re-emphasize to us, the peons, the importance of lying to people outside the building. Fine. Something different at least.

Through it all, though, I’m going to keep a smile on my face by imagining the following exchange:

Muckety Muck: “So, how do you feel about being here at Exciting Corporate Startup?”
Me: “I wish my mother had aborted me.”

Sunday, July 22, 2007

They Don't Like You, Either

So Friday night, I went with The Boy to his younger brother’s wedding reception. The wedding proper had taken place 10 days earlier in Jamaica. The reception was a reception. The bride and groom were good enough to trot out their wedding finery for us—they looked lovely. There was food and dancing and, best of all, little girls in fluffy dresses who were all twirly-whirly as little girls at weddings ought to be.

And, like any wedding, there were representatives from the contingent of People Who Were Raised by Coyotes.

I am constantly amazed at people’s inability to comport themselves appropriately. It’s not about knowing which fork to use, it’s about knowing that one ought to make sure that one’s thong isn’t showing before one leaves to go to a wedding. And men? You haven’t been forgotten, this one’s for you. It also means that one ought not to converse with a woman’s chest.

Not one, but two men preferred to carry on their conversations with my tits than with me. They were not subtle, quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, they drew attention to their admiration of my breasts through their conversation. Not that I could follow what they were saying, forced as I was to watch the top of their heads as they gazed longingly into my cleavage.

What planet are these men from, where apparently there are no breasts? They reacted as though they had never seen anything like it.

I, literally, could not think to do. On one hand, I wanted to embarrass and shame these men. Why would they so obviously impose themselves and their sticky, yellowed eyeballs on me? Whatever would make them think that would be okay. On the other hand, though, I was not raised by lichen. I could not bring myself to risk a scene at another woman’s long-awaited wedding reception.

Besides which, what can you really do to affect someone who would act that way? Mace his ass? I’m at a loss.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

On Daughters

So, a few weeks ago, one of the men I work with took the morning off to go with his pregnant wife to her ultrasound appointment. It was the big one—the one that let them know what flavor of baby they were expecting. When he came it, he was all atwitter with having seen his gilled little offspring swishing around in his watery, temporary home.

No, I’m not using the universal masculine here. The happy couple will be welcoming a bouncing baby boy in some few months, he will be their second. My co-worker was surprised, as he and his wife were both convinced that this baby was a girl. That doesn’t surprise me. I suppose when a woman finds herself playing host to the most perfect of strangers, an unknown so complete that the first indication of its presence is a pee-soaked stick, there is a certain desire to ascribe some sort of trait to it; to give the growing bump some sort of identifiable characteristics.

As Co-worker was discussing this unanticipated penis-enhanced state of affairs, he mentioned that he wasn’t disappointed. He was, in fact, relieved. Relieved that he would not have to worry about fathering a girl; relieved that he would endure fewer sleepless nights and headaches. Relieved because boys are easier.

*sigh*

Now, I feel confident that if Co-worker were in fact expecting a girl, he would still eagerly anticipate the arrival of the little hitchhiker and then devote his life to doing everything he could to make sure she turned out happy and healthy and whatever else it is that parents want for their offspring.

I also feel confident that Co-worker gave little if any thought to what he was saying. Hell, the vast majority of people never give thought one to the trite drivel that spills from their mouths. In his mind, I’m sure that he thinks it’s an accepted truth—girls require more work and worry.

I was vaguely insulted.

No. Not drag someone down to HR insulted. I wasn’t even sufficiently annoyed to point out to him the stupidity I perceived in his statement. Instead, I just thought to myself, “Damn. Do men think we’re made of spun glass or something? What could possibly be so much more difficult about helping one’s daughter become a functioning adult?” I also wondered if he realized he’d discussed the difficulty of girls in front of several women. Women who, by definition, used to be girls.

Like so many things, though, the whole thing became crystal fucking clear once I spent some time really paying attention.

Later that same week, many of us went to a Happy Hour to celebrate the monumental career mistake we all made by entering this particular job. Okay, that was the reason I was there and I won’t speak for anyone else. Whatever, doesn’t matter.

So anyway, there is a group of us sitting around the table. A woman with whom I work brought her husband along, and he was discussing his 17-year-old from a prior relationship. A different male co-worker (CW2) mentioned his own teenager.

As a matter of getting a acquainted, the Husband and CW2 sorted out the genders of their respective high-schoolers. Husband has a daughter, CW2 has a son. CW2 sort of laughed at the plight of Husband, pointing at him and saying “I don’t have to worry about mine. You do.” Husband communicated his agreement with the statement through his chagrined chuckling.

Schmuck.

So. This is all more of the “I am a guy/I used to be a teenaged boy, so I know how they think.” Apparently, because boys and men are lust-filled nincompoops, girls are harder to raise.

What. The fuck. Ever.

I will give CW2 the benefit of the doubt and assume that he has done what he can to teach his sons to treat girls and women with respect; that he has not in fact raised some little monster who after a few keg-stands will require a knee to the groin to take no for an answer. Rather, I assume that he just assume that it is the natural order of things that men are the hunters and women are the hunted.

Clearly, this dude has never seen me on my game.

Once I began spending time with men who could reliably identify and locate the clitoris, I was every bit as sexual as any man my age. While I will not argue that I always made the wisest decisions where men were concerned, I did always *decide*. No one ever “talked me into” sex. Frankly, I’ve yet to meet anyone that clever. Have men lied to me to get me into bed? I suppose so, once or twice I maybe even allowed myself to fall for it. Women do the same dishonorable shit, though, so this whole predator/prey mindset rings hollow.

I don’t want to hear about the catty nastiness of teenaged girls, either. Yes. Many, if not most, teenaged girls have a terrible streak of interpersonal nastiness. However, as I recall, the teenaged boys weren’t measurably better. They’re cruelty just took on a different form. Believe me, as someone who was homely and bookish in my early teens I got an up close and personal experience with the myriad varieties of teen cruelty.

The one thing I will give fathers (and mothers) is that their daughters are at much greater risk of being the victims of violence. Domestic violence; rape; murder, the trifecta of parental horrors and sleepless nights. All of these are much more likely to happen to daughters than to sons.

The solution to this problem, though, is not to welcome daughters with apprehension. Indeed, treating your little girl as though she’s made of fluff pretty much guarantees she’s going to be. If you treat them as reasonable and intelligent creatures, they’re likely to behave as such.

The other solution, obviously, is that parents to need to wake up and smell the 21st fucking century and stop this whole “boys will be boys and I don’t have to worry about my son” attitude. Maybe if parents of boys devoted a modicum of fucking effort to raising civilized human beings, the parents of girls could unload part of the burden of guaranteeing the next generation was not made up of uncivilized knuckle-draggers.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Extreme Elimination Challenge: Michael Vick Edition

I am not a sports fan. This won’t come as a shock to anyone who has ever talked to me for more than 15 minutes. I like to go to Busch Stadium once a summer or so to watch the Cards play, but that is mostly an excuse to drink beer and eat nachos. Hockey games are fun, but not worth the effort to actually procure my own tickets. Football bores me witless, although now that I’ve been divorced for a couple of years I no longer have an active antipathy to the game. On a boredom scale from 1 to 10, with a 10 being a 15 minute orgasm and 1 being a typical workday here lately, a conversation about sports rates about a 2 or a 2 ½. If I’m lucky.

So, the fact that I’m also going to wade into this whole Michael Vick thing really says something. It says, “I am sick of sports assholes.”

Having read the indictment, I would very much like for some enterprising reporter to figure out where the man was at the times alleged; I wouldn’t mind giving Vick the benefit of the doubt, assuming of course there is any doubt from which to benefit. I would hate to overstate myself or oversimplify the situation.

The fact is, though, I don’t much give a rat’s ass if he was actively involved in dog fighting or not, although the evidence in the indictment seems to point to the fact that he was far more than a passive dipshit who let his cousin freeload on his property. Best case scenario? Michael Vick is negligently stupid, buying property for a shitbum cousin and then failing to do anything to make sure said shitbum didn’t commit any felonies while crashing there. You know what? As a landlord, I feel that one does have some responsibility to make sure that one’s tenants don’t turn one’s property into a meth lab or a whorehouse or a dog fighting kennel.

I don’t know if Vick was legally responsible to make sure that the bruised fruit from his family tree wasn’t engaged in various and sundry illegal activities on his compound in the sticks, but he was morally obligated to do so. It’s not like the cousin was found with a bong full of weed in the kitchen, or even a patch of weed out in the woods (neither of which would even make me bat an eye). Nope. He was found with a farm full of fighting dogs. Unlike, say, a patch of weed out in the woods, dogs make noise. They smell. They do dog things. If anyone ever visited the property, he or she would have to know there were many, many dogs there. The rest would not require Mensa level reasoning to figure out.

I assume Michael Vick isn’t retarded. I assume he’s just a bastard.

I would like nothing more than to see him kicked off the Falcons and bounced out of pro-football. He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t look at it as holding him to a higher standard because if one my Corporate Comrades was similarly worthless, I wouldn’t want to work with him, either. Of course, should my Corporate Comrades do something stupid, I feel certain the powers that be would be unable to suspend or fire him unless he was convicted of an actual crime. Just being a careless, callous cocksmack does not bar one from employment in corporate America.

The National Football League has different rules, though. They can suspend and dismiss their players for their behavior. Even if Vick were not ACTIVELY engaged in dog fighting (a claim which I don’t buy because my brain has not been replaced with paper bags and hairballs), his behavior was so outrageously negligent that it hardly bears thinking about.

Why doesn’t the NFL and their pro-league brethren, I dunno, make it a policy that players facing felony indictments are suspended pending trial? If they are exonerated, let them come back. Convicted? Pack up your cleats, son. Enjoy your life. For the bajillion dollars these dudes get paid to run, sweat, lift, and engage their god-given talents to chase balls around, it’s not to much to ask that they keep their questionably criminal behavior under control for the decade or so they get to play.

Sounds like a fucking plan to me. It's just another form of asshole tax.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

A Whole New Lease On Life

I have had a stupid day.

I sat at work, all day, while two 12-year-olds from the central office attempted to assist us with our supremely worthless computer system. Although it is now clear to me that this toad was foisted on them in much the same manner it has been on us, the unsuspecting end users, five hours talking about all this shit these cheerleaders don't know made me want to chew glass.

World news is unremittingly bad. Iraq is becoming an inescapable monster to which we feed American soldiers and Iraqis alike. Our fearless leader continues to be a halfwit. On the way home from work today I heard that Alberto Gonzales began his illustrious career misleading Senators all the way back in April of 2005 when he told them that, "There has not been one verified case of civil liberties abuse," despite the fact that he was in receipt of reports of at least six.

Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe he's just illiterate. Hey, it happens. Just look at President Retread.

It's hot. It's humid. I am fucking sick nigh unto weeping of home improvement projects. I'm tired. I'm crabby. I don't think my meds are working.

Just when I was about ready to say fuck it all, I visited The Liquor Fairy's site, which led me here, which lead me to this absolute gem of a message board post:

I am really excited to have this product over the counter. I was in the clinical trials years ago and lost 40 lbs in 2 months. I kept it off for years until I got off my food plan and quit walking.

I can tell you that my first experience in trying to cheat on this pill was very embarrassing! I went out to eat Japanese stir fry and had my first "accident" - (shall we call it "Alli-opps" now?) before I could get home. I had uncontrollable oily seepage...It looks just like spagetti grease for those of you who are curious.

You cannot get it out of your clothes so I would encourge you to use a panty liner until you find out how you react to the medication. If you are sitting down, whatever you are sitting on will be stained. . so be careful.

On the other hand, if you stay on tract w/ your food plan (low fat) you will not have any problems...or at least I didn't. Occassional gas but I learned when I could pass it (on the toilet)!

Another tip - get a bottle of Grease Release and keep it next to the toilet so that you can spray the bowl after each bowel movement... gets rid of the grease line.

Bottom line. it is kind of like Antibuse for the alcoholic... if you don't eat too much fat you will be ok but if you do, you will pay w/ unpleasant side effects.

I LOVE IT!


I have a new fucking lease on life, hand to god. At the very least, I can have chips and dip for dinner and not have to worry about shoving a tampon up my ass and having to clean my toilet with degreaser. Things aren't so bad, after all.