Like all good things, Winesday had to come to an end. My friend and Winesday guest, Tammy, along with a delicious bottle of Cabernet and a few toys strewn about my yard, inspired me to make one more video for my video-sharing friends as we neared the end of our Winesday festivities. By popular demand, I’m sharing this one with all of you as well.
**Disclaimer for the humor impaired: No actual driving occurred in the making of this video. The vehicle used in the making of this video is a TOY and remained stationary, in my yard, the entire time. No actual turtles were harmed during the making of this video. I do not condone drinking and driving, nor vehicular slaughter of turtles, especially ninja turtles. No children were left home alone, as I was in my own backyard, and I don’t even have Cheerios. Even if I did, the dogs would get to them before the kids.
Yesterday, in a fit of boredom, some friends and I decided to amuse ourselves and each other with funny selfie videos. Hilarity ensued, especially when several, including myself, went the extra mile with costumes and exaggerated accents. After shellacking on a couple of pounds of makeup, throwing on my party wig and drinking a couple of glasses of wine, “Winesday chat” was born. A few of my friends suggested I parlay this into a vlog so, even though my beautiful makeover had begun melting off, I hope you enjoy my debut WINESDAY vlog:
Winesday Chat:
Stay tuned for the After Dark video I made later that night. COMING SOON! I’m considering a makeup tutorial but I hate to give away all of my secrets.
I love my life. Most of the time. I love my kids. Most of the time, I even like them. Most of the time, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but home with them. Okay. That one was a flat out lie. Life as a stay at home mom can be awesome. I get to witness every milestone. I watch my kids grow, centimeter by centimeter and inch by inch. I get to be with them for every triumph and comfort them when they are disappointed or in pain. I wouldn’t trade that for a minute. Well, I would trade it TEMPORARILY! AMIRITE?! They are loud and they don’t get along. Ever! Every day, I’m cleaning shit off of little asses and, the big asses are clogging the toilets every other week. They may or may not mention that the toilet overflowed because they used an entire roll of toilet paper and hopefully, I’ll notice the shit handprints all over the walls before company does. They want to eat, like EVERY FUCKING DAY! Several times a day! Give me! Give me! Give me!
“I need lunch money!”
“My creeper shirt is dirty and I want to wear it”
“She ate the LAST piece of bread and I wanted it!”
“It’s my turn!”
“He just had a turn!”
Look, sometimes my castle can feel like a prison. It can be so mundane and, at the same time, so stressful. The kids aren’t the best conversationalists, unless you’re into My Little Pony, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, play-doh, paw shaped clues, or zombies. The conversations are long winded but are anything but intellectually stimulating. They’re such lightweights, they’re no fun as drinking buddies. (for all you humor impaired readers, before you go calling CPS, that was A JOKE) The only thing that, aside from drinking wine over adult conversation, that I fantasize about is silence. Total silence. Not the kind of silence that makes your heart pound in your throat when you hear it, because the only explanation is that the kids are fucking shit up real bad or they are dead. I mean the relaxing silence that means you can pee or bathe with the bathroom door open because the silence is safe. I long for those times when I don’t have to drink a bottle of wine to relax enough to enjoy a glass of wine. I just want to sit in it. Unafraid. I want to do nothing but think random, pointless thoughts. The thoughts that usually pop up around 11PM when I’m laying my head down to go to sleep, but can’t because my brain has been saving up shit all day and opens the flood gates, resulting in me lying awake for hours, obsessing over what I should have said in the course of an argument 20 years ago.
So, here comes Mother’s Day! All over, husbands and children are preparing for Sunday. They’re going to get the same old shit they always get and moms are going to have to fake smile and act like they are so excited about the cliche gestures and bullshit gifts. Stop listening to Hallmark. Don’t listen to the television. Don’t let the radio DJ tell you what I want. Tell your friend or the neighbor or anyone else that gives you advice to cram it in their cram hole. Get off teh Google. All wrong. Now, I want you to listen to ME. I’ll explain some dos and don’ts for this Mother’s Day. Pull up a chair:
DON’T:
- Buy flowers. This also applies to birthdays and anniversaries.** This is a colossal waste of money, for starters. Why, why, why, are you going to spend $100 on a gift, so that I can watch it die over the next week? I can’t wear it. They serve no real purpose. As it dies, the leaves and petals wilt and fall off and, want to know what that “gift” has turned into? Another fucking thing I have to clean up. Thanks.
- Buy clothes or shoes. Unless you have been instructed specifically exactly what to purchase and what size, do NOT attempt this purchase. For starters, it’s very likely your style palette is very different from hers. Second, if you don’t know the correct size, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you’re playing with fire, son. Don’t think that you can just walk into her closet and grab something to get her size. Are you fucking new here? Unless she has never gained a pound during pregnancy, this is NOT a reliable system. Those pants may be the right size or they may be that pair she is hoping to fit into one day, probably in vain, or, worse, they’re her fat pants that she wore while pregnant, when she was too big for her own clothes but too small for maternity or the ones that she wore right after giving birth when she didn’t want to wear maternity. It’s a crap shoot. Walk away from this idea if you value your life.
- Get her a gym membership. Even if she has expressed a desire to join a gym, you DO NOT give a woman a gym membership as a gift. EVER! You might as well call her “Bessy”, throw some hay at her and start trying to milk her.
- Gift her cleaning gear/appliances. Yeah, I think that washer/dryer set with the steamer and drying table is pretty sweet. If you get me that as a gift, I’m going turn all of your shit pink and teeny tiny. Mark my words.
- Make a huge breakfast surprise. Unless you’re going to clean it up, which we all know you’re not. You’re really just dicking me with this “gift”. Serve me Shipley’s donuts in bed.
DO:
- Take the kids. Out of the house. Away. For HOURS. Maybe even the day. Hell, the weekend! That’s all. Best gift ever. Here is what I’m going to do while you and the kids are gone:
Not a fucking thing.
As a bonus, while I’m doing nothing, I’m going to do crazy things like:
- Eat all my meals and snacks without having to share a single bite or solitary sip of my drinks.
- I’m going to lay in bed, watching television or sleeping or playing on my phone, without listening for feet or fighting to signal when to hide under the comforter.
- I’m going to go to the bathroom, while NOT refereeing arguments and/or answering questions about why I won’t buy another phone app, which ninja turtle is the best or what happened to my penis.
- I’m not going to make cereal, pour a drink, make a sandwich or blow on food for anyone.
- I’m going to eat my meals and snacks without being interrupted and having to take a break to go get someone else a new drink or a condiment or to blow on a plate.
- I’m not going to have to play “find the poop smell”.
- I’m not going to clean up any shit (which reminds me, you need to take the dog too).
- I’m not going to watch any Dora or Blue’s Clues and worry about going to movies in the future, with a generation that has been taught that yelling answers and opinions at characters on the screen is normal.
- I’m going to have two free hands. With two hands, I’m going to be able to do so many activities!
Now you have the key to the perfect gift. These rules apply to any occasion. This is not to say that actual gifts are not acceptable. Feel free to leave the gifts on the table or in the bedroom prior to your departure. Anything along the lines of a case of wine, a Tori Burch bag, a Visa gift card, or spa treatments are all welcome additions to this stay-cation.
I don’t know what Husband’s deal is, but for the last week, he has been really pissing me off. He is doing it on purpose, too. He isn’t even trying to be subtle about his consistent attempts to irritate and upset me. The minute I wake up in the morning, he starts and every time he walks into the room, he starts again. I’ve told him in no uncertain terms to cut the shit out. He gives me this blank, deer-in-the-headlights, stare and acts all innocent, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. Okay, because I’m fucking stupid or crazy or something? He knows what he is doing. I know he knows what he is doing. Then he says, “you’re crazy”, totally projecting on to me because, obviously, HE is the crazy one since he takes such pleasure in driving me to the brink of insanity. It’s downright mean. Want a few examples of what an asshole he has been this past week? My pleasure!
- He comes and sits beside me on the couch the other day, so we can watch a movie. If he was breathing any louder, drywall would have been snowing from the ceiling and the police would have been at our door to issue a noise violation. He insisted he was breathing like he always did, but I’m pretty sure I would have noticed something like that in the last 13 years. He was breathing in AND out, every few seconds. I mean, COME ON!!
- He came home from work the other day and, when he walked in the door, he smiled and said, “hey, babe”. Can you believe him? I just said, “fuck you”, then he stands there acting all innocent and confused.
- I bought a few candy bars and put the bag on top of the fridge. He ate one. The motherfucker ate one. Obviously, he thinks I’m fat. JUST SAY IT TO MY FACE!
- The other night, he and my best friend admitted to me that they were sleeping together, had been for a while. and that he was leaving me to be with her. I cried and demanded to know how they could do that to me and they just laughed at me. Want to know what he says every time I try to talk to him about it? “OH MY GAWD, It was A DREAM!” Oh, okay. So, just because I dreamed it, that makes it okay?
- He brought me a Coke instead of a Dr. Pepper. Why does he hate me, right?!?!?
- He is constantly trying to convince me that sperm is a mood stabilizer and headache cure. I’ll try it if he does.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. When I get upset, he plays the innocent bystander and acts like I’m overreacting. In a week, he’ll start acting normal again. He’ll just sit on the couch and breath like a normal fucking person. He won’t say things like, “is there any more pot roast left”, in that tone that makes it very clear that what he means is, “you’re so fat, you disgust me”. Then, in about a month, he’ll start at it again I could almost set a clock by it. Did I mention that he always pulls this shit right before I start my period? Like he makes it a point to make the 4-5 days leading up to shark week a living hell. I can’t figure out why he continues after all this time. This game seems to make him as miserable as it makes me.
I know that when two people fall in love, it is so easy to get caught up and carried away. When you feel that connection, that love and that intimate bond that you’ve never felt before with any other person, you just know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’ve found the one. You get engaged and, sure, your family and friends are all really happy and you’re looking forward to committing your lives to one another in front of all of them and blah, blah, blah, but none of that can compare to how it feels to break the exciting news of your nuptials to the government! When I reflect on my marriage and what it means to me, it’s the tax benefits and inheritance rights that make me feel nostalgic and gushy. I’m just a hopeless romantic, I guess. I really value the sanctity of marriage and I know that if we, as a society, have any hope of preserving that, we are gonna need some more fucking laws. I can’t believe that people would think the government should just be issuing sanctification certificates (aka marriage licenses) to any pair of adults that holds out their hand. I’m tired of hearing all the whining about “equal rights”. This has nothing to do with rights! Marriage is between a man and a woman and GOD, end of story! Well, I mean, pending government approval, and proper government licensing and filing, and, also, correctly recorded on all of my income tax documents and filings, and some other shit, but other than that, MARRIAGE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICS!
You want more reasons? FINE! I’ll give you reasons:
The Bible says it is an abomination.
We have to defend traditional marriage.
It’s unnatural.
The majority of Americans don’t support it.
It’s a slippery slope. If we allow this, brothers and sisters are going to want to get married next.
Good enough? You can save all the arguments. It’s just gross to even think about. I don’t care what they said in the Loving v Virginia case; you will never be able to convince me that interracial marriage is acceptable! Wait, what? Oh, you were talking about gay marriage? Oh, my bad. Okay, HA, I got confused on the part where you were saying something about civil rights and then I saw that cute, little puppy go by and wasn’t paying attention for a second and that was when–anyways, that’s hilarious. You’re talking about gay marriage and I’m talking about interracial marriage…LOLerskates. Anyways, so you were saying about gay marriage? Oh—-well, NO! They don’t need to get married! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve! Of course, I have reasons!
The Bible says it is an abomination.
We have to defend traditional marriage.
It’s unnatural.
The majority of Americans don’t support it.
It’s a slippery slope. If we allow this, brothers and sisters are going to want to get married next.
The government needs to make laws, NAY, a constitutional amendment, as protection from any union that threatens to defile the institution of traditional marriage.
Presumably, if I asked most people that now espouse these same reasons to oppose gay marriage, if they think it would be okay to ban interracial marriage again, they would say no. I’m sure it would be answered as if it were a ridiculous question, then they’d tell me that this is apples and oranges but it isn’t. It is the same thing. When even the arguments against it are the same, the best you could argue is that I’m comparing Galas to McIntosh. One of the main arguments made to oppose both scenarios regards the claim that marriage was established for the benefit of procreation. It is frequently invoked that, since same-sex couples can’t produce a biological child, it negates claims of any right to marriage. Should we apply this logic to heterosexual couples as well and make issuance of the marriage license contingent on medical documentation proving fertility? Persons found to be infertile or women beyond menopause are ineligible for consideration. Sorry.
Most opponents of gay marriage get up in arms about “redefining marriage” and espousing its merits, and importance of the government’s responsibility to uphold the principles of “traditional marriage”. Some are willing to compromise and are willing to allow gay couples to have “civil unions” but just refuse to share the word “marriage”. I think this is fair and reasonable because “separate but equal” has never let us down. Oxymoron, shmoxymoron! AMIRITE? So, like I was saying, one major hang up people have is the designation of “marriage” to be used in reference to an abominable union. This position is typically predicated on an implied trademark of divinity, contained in the part(s) of the Bible that provide the framework for traditional marriage.
I know this will surprise many of you but, believe it or not, I want to help, which is good because you need my help. You’re going about this all wrong, you see. I am, honestly, moved by your passion, respect and desire for traditional marriage. On the basis of religious freedom, if you feel that the word “marriage” should be reserved for those that subscribe to and emulate traditional marriage, as ordained in the Bible, your fight is justified. If you want to silence dissent, if you want to dominate the debate, if you believe the biblical tradition of marriage to be a protected institution and want irrefutable proprietorship of the term “marriage”, to be used only to refer to a relationship that meets the strict criteria outlined in the Bible, we have some work to do. I don’t know if you know this but we have gone so far away from the gold standard of traditional marriage, it is practically unrecognizable. Don’t worry, though! We’re going to write our congressmen, stage protests and write petitions and we won’t rest until TRADITIONAL MARRIAGE is the only kind of marriage.
Anyone unwilling or unable to live by the standards set forth in the Bible, NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
MUST PROVE AND PROFESS A BELIEF IN GOD:
Currently, any couple sporting opposite genitals and no more than a few common alleles, can go get married tomorrow. No one asks them about their religious beliefs or lack thereof. Atheists can get married. Even a Satan worshiper can enter into marriage! I think this is a huge problem and I’m stunned it has never been addressed. People are getting MARRIED in courtrooms and parks by JUDGES! Appalling, I tell ya.
No God? NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
SINNERS NEED NOT APPLY:
Obviously, we can’t expect people to be completely infallible, much less completely without sin, so we can allow for some wiggle room. However, if we are going to make the assertion that the sin of homosexuality disqualifies their right to marriage, we should probably consider spreading out the sin restriction. I mean, for fuck’s sake, if you’re a rapist, a pedophile, or a serial killer on death row, marriage is yours for the taking. We will draw the fucking line at a gay serial killer getting married, though? See! Bigger fish, people! Bigger fish!
You break a BIG commandment? NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO, GOT TO DO WITH IT?:
Traditional marriage wasn’t built on love. One of the major overhauls to traditional marriage happened when people fought for the right to marry someone of their own choosing, of their own volition. Traditional marriages were arranged marriages, motivated by men wanting to secure social and/or political rank. Reinstating this aspect of traditional marriage will really hit home the next time someone makes the argument, “homosexuals just want the same right as you, to be able to marry the person they LOVE”, because now you can say, ‘Wrong, bitch” as you tell them all about your TRADITIONAL marriage and how you met your spouse on your wedding day all those years ago and that you’re pretty sure that, one day, you might even learn to love one another. Maybe you won’t. Who cares, though! That’s not what marriage is about. This is business!
You want to marry for love? Too bad! NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
WHO NEEDS A SISTER WHEN YOU CAN HAVE A SISTER WIFE!?:
Traditional marriage doesn’t restrict men to just one wife. What kind of life is that? Traditional marriage permits men to marry as many women as they can support. Hey, if they can’t take on any more wives, they have the option to keep an unlimited number of concubines. Abraham had two wives and Solomon had 700, not to mention an impressive army of concubines. Adultery is a sin committed by women. Men have an eternal “hall pass”. Don’t ask questions.
You want a monogamous marriage? Well, you can roll the dice but you don’t have any guarantee, nor any recourse if you end up disappointed. Which brings me to my next point…
YOU GET ONE SHOT AT THE SHOW:
Divorce will be made illegal, immediately. Exceptions may apply but are at the discretion of the court. Any persons granted a divorce will be ineligible for future marriage.
You left your previous marriage because of abuse, infidelity, addiction, or general misery with one another? NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
The following items will also render persons ineligible for MARRIAGE:
Premarital sex. Virginity, in the form of an intact hymen, is a requirement of women entering into marriage. If, upon consummation of the marriage, there is no physical evidence of hymen rupture, the marriage will be voided and the women will be imprisoned and face the death penalty. Women who’ve engaged in premarital sex can seek companionship via concubine status (*this prohibition does not apply to men*)
If you’ve ever put a penis in any other orifice than a vagina, NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
Incest, though, gets a green light.
Or, another idea is, maybe we could just live and let live. If Joe and Henry want to get married, how does it threaten the sanctity of your marriage? How does it hurt you? I’ve never heard anyone demanding a law be passed to prohibit celebrities like Britney Spears and Kim Kardashian from being allowed to call their record-setting unions a “marriage”. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: The government CANNOT sanctify your marriage. I’m dead serious. You don’t need a death certificate to get into heaven, either, in case you were wondering. If your moral code makes no allowance for anything other than baby making sex, in the missionary position, why do you think you are obligated, much less allowed to impose those sanctions, religious or otherwise, on others? I don’t know if you’re aware but a man and a woman can achieve great levels of immoral kink that would make some people’s heads spin. A penis and a vagina are not, or rather should not be, how we measure the social value or implications of the family unit. I don’t know about any of you but, when I applied for a marriage license, no one asked me or my husband if he had intentions of putting his dick anywhere other than my vagina. We could use sodomy as birth control and we’d maintain the right to use the term “marriage”. Truth be told, I have no idea why the government is in the marriage business as it is. I’d happily support the argument that “marriage” apply only to the religious institution if, and only if, the government weren’t involved. That means, no government licensing, no tax benefits, no special legal recognition or treatment. If two people want to enter into a legally binding civil union, they don’t need the government to set the terms and make a contract. I’m sure people will read that and think its weird, even though they don’t think it is weird that it is no different from how marriage is currently handled, it just removes the third-party that only serves to tax your relationship, for better or for worse.
You shouldn’t be demanding laws to protect the delicate sensibilities of others. If you’re offended by gay marriage, don’t get gay married. Easy, peasy. I’m not exactly excited about anybody with functioning reproductive organs being allowed to breed but you don’t hear me calling for a government licensing requirement pending a moderate screening process, do you? If Adam and Steve or Ana and Eve love each other and want that magic government certificate, who the fuck cares? You don’t legislate the personal, intimate, consensual relationships of adults. If you want to get married once, 5 times or never, I have zero fucks to give. It doesn’t hurt me, it doesn’t even affect me. If you’re a pitcher or a catcher or a scissoring expert or celibate, if it doesn’t cost me money or get me pregnant, knock yourselves out or up. Have a fucking blast. Don’t steal my shit, don’t hurt my kids, don’t kill me and I’ll do the same in return.
I remember the cop, visibly annoyed with being burdened with the task of taking my statement, leading me into the tiny room and I remember the panic bubbling up when he shut the door behind him. I think he typed 5.5 words a minute. I told him the whole story. It seemed like we were in there for hours. Maybe because he took that long to type or maybe because the designers of that tiny room, with the door closed, made no allowance for personal space. It didn’t help that he was so obviously agitated with being assigned the duty of taking dictation from me. At 20 years old, the last thing I wanted to be doing was sitting in that shrinking room giving some strange man a detailed, minute by minute, account of the night that started out at a bar with friends and ended with two of those “friends” raping me.
The only time he spoke to me was to tell me to “hold on”, “go ahead” or to repeat something, except for when I got to the part about the blood running down my legs as I ran from the apartment. Without looking up, he asked, “were you a virgin or something”. I said “no” and he kind of shrugged, which made me feel like I had to defend myself and I started explaining how I’d only been with one person but he just said to get back to the story. I wasn’t prepared for the interview after he finished taking my statement, not that being informed of it would have prepared me for the line of questioning.
Were you drunk?
I was.
What were you wearing?
If the rest of you are wondering, I was wearing a mini pencil skirt and a black v-neck tee. The police took it at the hospital as “evidence”.
You didn’t have on underwear when you were seen at the hospital. Why?
I guess that “M” and “C” pulled them off of me in the process of raping me. When they decided they were done and let me go, searching for my underwear completely slipped my mind.
Have you ever slept with either of them before that night?
No. Evidently, though, if you sleep with a man once, he maintains the right to plant his flag when and if he feels like it and it isn’t really rape.
Have you ever flirted with them? Were you flirting with either of them that night? Were you dancing provocatively at any point?
The reality of this “investigation” really began to set in at this point.
If you were drunk, why would you go home with two men?
I told him that they were my friends. They saw that I wasn’t in any condition to drive and told me just to come back to their place for a while, get something to eat and they would bring me back to my car after I sobered up for a few hours. I missed the fine print. I took the invitation at face value. Fuck me, right? You still want me to disregard the notion of rape culture?
The thought of calling the police didn’t even cross my mind when I ran out of that apartment, bleeding and crying, without my panties or my purse. Even when “M” chased after me in the parking lot, asking me if I was okay and apologizing, I just told him to leave me alone. I just wanted to go home and sleep and never think about it again. I was even wracking my brain about who I could get to cover my shift in the morning because I couldn’t deal with work and I didn’t know if “M” or “C” was scheduled and I didn’t want to see them. At this point, you see, the logic of the rape culture was well ingrained into my head, unbeknownst to me. I realized that what had happened in that apartment was rape but I didn’t know who, if anyone, would believe me. Would they blame me? Hell, even I wasn’t sure if it was my fault. Why did I do those shots? Why didn’t I just drive home? What did I do to make them think it was okay? I said no. I said it over and over. I pleaded for them to stop. I was crying. They were holding me down. I’d never known anyone that had been raped (or so I thought) and so had no first hand knowledge of what it was like to report a rape. My biggest fear was that no one would believe me. The only reason I did report it was because they wouldn’t even talk to me. much less do STD testing on me, at the ER unless I filed a police report. I conceded and then my fears were proven to be right. “M” and “C” were given the benefit of the doubt from minute one. They had all the rights throughout the process. I was the one on trial. I was the one that was guilty until proven otherwise. The onus was on me to prove that I didn’t want to have sex or deserve to be raped. The focus of the “investigation” was my history, my character, my personality, my personal style, my social behavior and alcohol intake.
The minute the story of Steubenville went viral, I was–actually, there isn’t a word strong enough to describe my disgust. It is the standard treatment of rape victims by the media and society, insofar as the scrutiny and indignation being targeted to the victims. The biggest difference with this case and other rape allegations that get the attention of the media was the indisputable evidence against the accused, though. There were pictures of them carrying her seemingly lifeless body through parties. The rapists and their “audience” tweeted the photos and even details of the assault. There were videos from the party that showed this sixteen year old girl, naked and passed out as her peers assaulted her and, literally, pissed on her. Others parts showed witnesses sitting around, talking and laughing about the assault. The town didn’t rally their support for the sixteen year old victim. They didn’t plea for the public to grant respect and privacy to the person who was violated, debased and humiliated in front of her peers, who did nothing but, best case scenario, turn a blind eye, and, worst case, cheered it on and laughed. No one asked what upbringing or influence could result in these boys being capable of such a public, notorious show of misogynistic, callous, disregard for the 16-year-old victim. No one asks what influence would provide these two boys with such an emboldened sense of entitlement that would be required to publicly rape a girl, videotape it, make jokes, and share it all via social media? Or, how could all of the other teenagers at this party stand by and watch this happen and not speak up? Why didn’t anyone help her? Why didn’t anyone intervene or, at least, sneak away and call the police?
Stop teaching boys that friendship with a female is a last place ribbon, a consolation prize. Your daughters will internalize this message about their value too.
The media and the public consistently deny that there is any such thing as rape culture within our society. The assertion is dismissed on the grounds of our “civilized” society and the modern normalcy of women’s rights. The dissenters point out that we have laws and if they think really hard or have google access handy, they might cite cases in which those laws were even enforced. Many will condescend with the “you ingrate” tone and tell you to go live in the Middle East, “then talk to me”. The dam broke when the guilty verdict was handed down this past week. Trent Mays and Ma’lik Richmond reacted to their sentencing, breaking down into tears. The media responded with unmitigated pity and sympathy for the now convicted rapists. They might as well have fallen to their knees, sobbing and wailing, as they mourned and bemoaned the implications the conviction and sentence may hold for the future of the rapists.
An NBC correspondent opined, “In many ways, tonight stands as a cautionary tale to a generation that has come of age in the era of social networking.”
What the what? Evidently, Lester Holt thinks that the biggest mistake these boys made that night was logging into twitter.
CNN’s Poppy Harlow, I shit you not, said: “incredibly difficult even for an outsider like me to watch what happened as these two young men that had such promising futures, star football players, very good students, literally watched as they believe their life fell apart.”
Am I supposed to squirt a fucking tear, here? If anyone wants to watch where their lives fell apart, a good starting point would be the video and pictures of them raping a girl and then work backwards from there.
Candy Crowley contributed her sympathy, saying, “A 16-year-old just sobbing in court; regardless of what big football players they are, they still sound like 16-year-olds. . . . When you listen to it and you realize they could stay until they’re 21, what’s the lasting effect, though, on two young men being found guilty, in juvenile court, of rape, essentially?”
Rape, essentially? I want to punch a baby seal. Why don’t you ask yourself about the lasting effects this girl might suffer after, not just being raped, but being raped in front of all of her peers, having it broadcast across the world-wide fucking web and being relegated to drunken whore status by the media and court of public opinion.
The dialogue, in the aftermath of the sentence, was woeful, angry and ripe with indignation. What kind of world do we live in when studious, promising athletes can’t just go out and rape a girl without consequences? It seems every major network is talking about how much this will hurt Richmond and Mays. I’ve heard over and again that they were good kids, they made good grades, praise for their athletic prowess, and the potential ramifications these sentences hold for their futures. Conversations on the victim, who was also 16, might I add, revolves around the fact that she was intoxicated and descriptions of her provocative attire. I haven’t heard about her grades or her character. Any mention of her is basically a thinly veiled summation of a drunk slut. The boys were football players and good students. They are relevant. They had a future. It’s not that the victim doesn’t matter at all; it’s just that Mays and Richmond matter a lot more. The victim, on the other hand, has been dehumanized and objectified, by her attackers that night and, since then, by the media. She’s a nowhere bound party girl who woke up with a hangover and buyers remorse. One major flaw in this treatment of rape victims by the media and the public is that it perpetuates the notion that a situation in which, for instance, two boys carry a semi-conscious, inebriated, girl around, strip her naked, sexually violate her, and piss on her, all in front of a crowd and a camera, is motivated by sexual attraction and desire, rather than to completely demoralize and debase another human being for no other reason than they could. They performed for the crowd, they documented the assault, they blasted jokes, pics and details across social media. They acted with hubris. Now, the tears that are shed are shed, not for the child that was violated and assaulted, but for those who considered her and her body to be their entitlement. The moral of the story that these kids and others, including your children, will take from this, is that girls are responsible for sexual aggression employed against them. Despite the videos, the pics, the jokes, the bragging, the distribution of the photos and video of the rape between their peers, the victim is cast in the role of the villain and her attackers are the victims; led into temptation by her feminine wiles. It was out of their control, they were powerless to resist raping her when they saw her passed out in tight clothes. Yeah, I don’t know why anyone would be concerned with any so-called rape culture.
We indoctrinate our children into the rape culture, just as we were indoctrinated. Our daughters are told that they are responsible for controlling male behavior. In a rape culture, we don’t actually empower girls; we teach them that their sexuality makes them powerful and then we call them sluts and whores if they dare entertain the thought of wielding it. She will learn to, not only, accept being objectified but to be flattered by it, to seek it out, in search of empowerment. We teach her that female sexual agency is almost non-existent, except to satisfy the sexual agency of men. Girls will learn that they can give consent just by what they choose to wear. They will, one day, join the chorus of society, shaming female sexuality and sexual agency as immoral, abnormal and an invitation to rape. Rape culture romanticizes rape by treating it like an act of uncontrolled passion and sexual desire. In a rape culture, women are advised on measures they can take to prevent being raped. It covers things like hairstyles, fashion choices, and even goes so far as to suggest urinating or vomiting on herself, or telling an attacker that she has an STD. I’ve never gotten an email on “robbery prevention, with advice like, don’t wear expensive clothing or nice jewelry, don’t drive an expensive car, don’t purchase pricey electronics or have too big of a house. The message is simply, “don’t fucking steal” but, in a rape culture, a message of “don’t fucking rape” just never got off the ground. Rape culture teaches us to inquire about and critique what a rape victim was wearing. We learn to scrutinize a rape victim’s sexual history. We will judge her if she consumed alcohol or did drugs. We rationalize and justify rape on behalf of the offenders. We absolve them of responsibility and project it on to the victims by analyzing her history, behavior and choices. In a culture of rape, we don’t blame the rapist for raping, we blame the victim for the series of decisions and actions that ended with being raped. We perpetuate this culture when we say things like, “yeah, it is sad that she was raped but she shouldn’t have put herself in that situation”. Anytime you accept that there are choices women can make in which rape should be expected or accepted, you are part of rape culture.
What goes almost unnoticed is, if we accept all of that as fact, then we are also implying a belief that rape is a normal function of the male psyche. The urge to rape is part of a boy’s inherent nature, and they must make a consistent, conscious effort to stifle their propensity to commit sexual assault.
Nothing sells pizza like a rape joke
Say it with me:
Women have unmitigated, irrevocable governance over her body. If she is drunk and topless, she isn’t asking to be raped. There isn’t a situation or scenario that exists in which rape should be considered and dismissed as an acceptable or expected consequence. I have the right to walk down a fucking alley. I have the right to go to a party and drink. No one has the right to rape me. Men are not slaves to their sexual urges, void of conscience, humanity or empathy. They do not have to fight against a natural inclination to rape, abuse or dominate women.
Some new rape prevention slogans:
Don’t rape
Real men get consent
Consent is sexy
That’s a good start.
This was a previous blog but I’m linking for relevance:
I’m dedicating this one to my sister. She is due next month with her first child. Of course, she has spent the better part of the last 36 weeks being bombarded with advice, most of it unsolicited and, often, useless. If you’re a parent, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Within moments of going public with news of your pregnancy, anyone that has ever laid eyes on a baby has some pearl of wisdom that they MUST bestow upon you. I mean ANYONE AND EVERYONE. Your family, your friends, the lady behind you in the checkout line, the cashier at the frozen yogurt parlor. EV. REE. ONE. Perfect strangers will, without hesitation, inquire about your tentative birth plan or whether you plan on breastfeeding. They’re not just asking for small talk, either. To most of these people, there IS a right answer and a wrong answer. Are you pro-epidural? Well, if you didn’t know about it before, you’ll meet at least one person that will provide you a lengthy and detailed synopsis of “The Business of Being Born” and launch into a diatribe about inductions, interventions, floppy babies and the c-section rate in the US. Thinking about going unmedicated? Well, prepare yourself because best friends and strangers alike will laugh condescendingly as they place bets on how long it will be before you’re begging for an epidural because if they can’t fathom the thought of enduring labor past 3cm, the only people who could or would are either stupid or crazy. If you state your intent to breastfeed, you’ll hear about how they did it for a day or a week and, you’ll learn the hard way like they did, that it is too hard or too inconvenient or too gross. If you plan on using formula, you’ll hear all about its inferiority as a nutrition source, the evils of Nestle, and the words obesity, diabetes, and asthma over and again.
So, for her and anyone else interested, I’m here to cram my opinions, thoughts and advice on the subject down your throat:
PREGNANCY:
1) If you can’t see your vulva, don’t go blindly waving a twelve blade razor around the area. What has your clitoris ever done to you that would warrant threatening it in such a way? Get a professional or, at minimum, a spotter.
2) The two people who made the baby are the only people who get a say in the baby’s name. Rest assured, if you choose to share the name, there will be people who will hate the name and will make no attempt whatsoever to disguise their disgust. Often, they will offer you one or more alternatives from their mental list of acceptable baby names that, evidently, they have compiled for anytime someone is discussing the name they have chosen for their unborn child.
3) That man of yours that has been so wonderful, funny, charming–your soul mate, since the day you two met? Well, he is soon going to become the most selfish, worthless idiot you’ve ever known because any man who loved you, much less his child, would have taken the time to read those pregnancy books and would know better than to serve you a sandwich overflowing with three kinds of deli meats. If he’s anything like my husband, the asshole will cheat on you in your dreams all the time. We’re still working through that in counseling.
4) Someone, somewhere, at some point in time, declared that the bodies of pregnant women were public domain. Perfect strangers will approach you in the mall, in the streets or right out of a bathroom stall and molest you if you appear at all pregnant. I’m urging pregnant women everywhere to put their sore, tired, swollen foot down and reclaim their autonomy. Do it for yourself. Do it for womankind.
5) The father of your child will say something stupid when you are in labor. Trust me. It will most likely be one of the following:
a) “I’m so tired.”
b) “My back is killing me.”
c) “At least you get to lay in a bed.”
d) “How much longer is this going to take?”
6) IMPORTANT! IMPORTANT! IMPORTANT! Do NOT become tempted to get a mirror and check out your undercarriage for, at least, several weeks after you launch a new human from your birth cannon. TRUST ME! There are few things more traumatizing than holding a mirror to get a look at your south side and having a wide open, clear view up to your brain. I promise, it’s all going to go back to normal. Just give it more than an hour.
PARENTING:
1) You are not going to sleep. Not for a long, long time. Just accept it. Your friend that tells you about their baby that started sleeping in 12 hour shifts at the age 3 hours old is either a liar or an asshole for responding to your lack of sleep complaint with her supernatural tale, especially when she uses the “that’s so weird” tone. End the friendship. Don’t take the advice of the other friend and start giving your 3 week old infant cereal. Look, if you wanted to sleep, you shouldn’t have had a baby.
2) You aren’t cool anymore. You never will be. Just accept it. The most you can hope for is being “cooler” than some other parents. Your cool quotient will decrease in direct proportion to the number of children you have. You can be one of those, “I’ll NEVER own a minivan” parents but, trust me, unloading four kids from a Tahoe doesn’t make you cooler than the parent unloading three from a Sienna.
3) If you don’t already have some sort of crafty talent that can be honed into a business, you better get one. Get to the craft store, stock up on ribbons, glue sticks, tulle and glitter and get to work. You are going to have to have some merchandise to show if your vision of using Etsy and Facebook as a stepping stone to a bricks and mortar bow and tutu shop is ever going to come to fruition. If you lack the creative, artsy-fartsy gene, other acceptable mom businesses include fragrant wax warming systems and body wraps.
4) Before having a child, you would have sex several times a week, anywhere you wanted. That was BEFORE you had a child. Now, if you aren’t too tired to have sex, you’ll only have 5-10 minutes to make some magic happen. Oh, you always liked getting started with a little oral? Well, who didn’t? Now, your new favorite foreplay is called “who can get their pants off the fastest”. Foreplay is a thing of the past, as is sexual fulfillment and satisfaction. Your mood music repertoire may have included Al Green or Paramore but now the tune that will accompany your romantic trysts goes like: “D-D-D-D-D-Dora, D-D-D-D-D-Dora! Dora, Dora, Dora the explorer…”. Just accept it. Trust me, in no time at all, not only will that be like your mating call, you will also have a sexy (and I use that term loosely) little dance that goes along with it.
5) If the other moms in the neighborhood, at the park or in the play group ask: you are all gluten-free. This is like a cult. Conspicuously carry a bottle of gluten-free ranch to give your children with their veggie sticks. If the little blabber mouth slips about Shipley’s donut holes, launch into a tirade about your friend, now ex-friend, babysitting while you went to a last-minute doctor’s appointment and filling your child with gluten and red dye, despite her KNOWING that you were following the Feingold diet.
6) Privacy is in your past. Just accept it. Whether you are taking a piss or going over every inch of your face and body, tweezers in hand, looking for anymore out-of-place hairs like that one you found under your chin a few weeks ago, you are going to have a captive, and chatty, audience. They’re also going to tell everybody about what they witness.
7) Which reminds me: You’re going to start finding weird hairs in weird places. Few things will ruin a night out faster than going to the bathroom and noticing, for the very first time, a 5 inch hair that looks like a piano wire growing out of your neck.
8) You think you’re critical of your body? HA! Wait until that fuck trophy starts talking! That I have maintained the slightest degree of self-esteem is nothing short of a miracle. Every dimple, every zit, every flabby bit, will be identified and pointed out. It isn’t said with any malice. It is just an observation, said in either a question form, as if to wonder if you were aware or inquiring as to what the blemish or flaw is, or said just to point out, as if just letting you know it was there was pertinent.
9) Moms can be horrible to other moms. For some reason, this phenomenon isn’t prevalent between dads. It is just moms. They will judge you and every choice you make. Don’t listen. Don’t get sucked in. Don’t let them make you second guess yourself. You listen to YOUR instincts. You listen to YOUR baby. You do what feels right to you. These are miserable bitches. Their lives are so sad and meaningless, that their only source of validation is admonishing other mothers. I feel sorry for them because it is so obvious that they’ve never been introduced to wine.
10) You’ll hold your baby and cry because you’re so overwhelmed with love, you know you could never give this life up.
11) You’ll cry because you’re so overwhelmed, you think you would.
12) Now that you’ve provided an heir, everyone will stop asking, “when are you going to have a baby”. Don’t go getting comfortable, though. NOW, the question everyone will ask is, “when are you going to have another one”. If and when you have a second child, it is usually general curiosity about whether or not you plan on having more. Any more than three, however, and everyone suddenly shifts to wondering when the hell you’re going to stop breeding. Every person that says, “You know what causes that, don’t you”, seems to believe that it MUST be the first time you’ve ever heard that joke, even when they say it to you at every, single family function.
13) Babies grow up fast. Real fast. Don’t blink or, if you have to blink, take lots of pictures. You don’t need professional shots every half hour. The snapshots are the ones that you will really treasure. The ones with the story that you remember so vividly, even though it was 11 years ago and it was so insignificant to everyone else around. You’ll remember every stitch of his clothing and every giggle from that moment captured in time.
14) Pick your battles. If your two-year old son wants to play with a knife, take immediate action. If he wants to play with your purse, no one is going to get hurt.
15) You’ll eat so much crow after you have a baby. You’ve spent years judging other parents, listing out the things you’d never do or that you’d do so much better. It’s so easy to be a perfect parent when you’re standing on the outside looking in but minutes after your larvae comes screaming from your loins, reality is going to kick you square in the taco. Sure, YOUR kid is never going to watch TV! Then, one day, you’re going to want to take a shower or a crap and you’ll say YOUR child will only watch educational shows and only one a day. Then, you’re going to want to make a phone call or have sex with your husband or just a moment of peace and it all goes out the window. Of course, YOUR kid is never going to have any sugar. EVER. Then they will. Your kid is going to be completely conversational in sign language by the age of 6 months because studies show that they have a better grasp of language later and will complete their master’s degree in under a year. Then, if there is a God, you’ll wake up one day and stop worrying about stupid shit.
I don’t want to brag or sound like a health nazi but good diet and regular exercise are so important, which is why I do everything in my power to make both a priority. With four kids, it isn’t always easy but I find the time.
Okay, that’s not even a little bit true. I COULD make time for exercise but that would interfere with drinking wine and sitting on my ass. Ain’t nobody got time for that shit. It’s not like Facebook is gonna check itself, AMIRITE? Speaking of Facebook, just a little heads up to those of you who DO workout and feel compelled to post every time you workout, how many miles you ran, how many burpees you did and how many ounces of boiled chicken you ate: STAAAAAHHHHP! NO ONE FUCKING CARES! There seems to be some urban legend floating around that a workout won’t be effective unless you post the details of it on Facebook. Well, I’m here to tell you that the rumor isn’t true but I digress.
I won’t say I want to exercise because that would be a blatant lie but even if I did have the urge, I am unable. As it turns out, my aversion to physical exertion is partly due to psychological trauma, resulting from a past near death experience. There was a time that I wanted to exercise and work out. I would hear everyone talking about how wonderful it would make you feel. Runners who would wax poetic about endorphins and the “runners high” and how relaxing and cathartic it felt to run miles upon miles. I decided to give it a try. I got some running shoes and tied them on and I hit the track with excited anticipation of the stress reduction and euphoria everyone told me would result. After some time at a steady pace, I felt nothing. Okay– I thought maybe I was running too slow. I’m not sure of what the difference between jogging and running is but figured that speed is the determining factor and “running” was the goal, so I sped up a little.
Not too long after that, I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t feeling happy or relaxed. I wasn’t deriving any enjoyment from this in any way, shape or form. Instead, I was feeling HORRIBLE. My legs were hurting and feeling very weak, as if they would give out any moment. My heart was pounding, my pulse racing and sweat was pouring from my head. I sat down, gasping for air, my mouth dry, holding my heart with one hand and pawing at the overwhelming pain that was radiating from beneath my ribcage with the other. By now, my legs were shaking and I could feel that my face was completely flushed. I knew, then and there, that I was dying. As I struggled to breathe, I felt my heart trying to escape from my chest. My legs were as sturdy and stable as those of a newborn foal. My life flashed before my eyes. I hoped that my children would know that I loved them. I wasn’t even going to be able to say goodbye. I think my last words to them were, “you know that the rule is that you can’t talk to mommy until the wine glass is empty”. I gained a bit of solace as death loomed over me at the thought of my husband feeling an eternity of guilt for refusing my request to go to the convenience store to get me a Dr. Pepper the day before. All he had to do was get out of bed, put on his clothes and shoes, get the umbrella, find his keys (I told him that they were probably definitely in one of the seven spots I named) and go to the store that is only a few miles away. I even said, “if I die tomorrow, I hope you remember this and feel bad”. He just dismissed it, as usual, and said, “stop saying that all the time”. Well, this would show him. My biggest regret was that I wouldn’t be able to gloat. Because I would be dead. I managed to grab my phone and type “I told you so” as an unsent text to his phone. I’ve always hoped those would be my last words to him.
As I continued to feel my body giving out, I moved to the bargaining stage and began swearing that I would go to church every week and I’d never drink or say a curse word again. As I began accepting my fate, I began to feel a little better. My breathing was becoming less labored. My heartbeat seemed to be normalizing. The nausea was subsiding, I wasn’t feeling as dizzy and my vision was returning to normal. I’ve always heard people say that, right before death, you are overtaken by a sudden sense of peace and calm. I closed my eyes and waited for the sweet release of death. I remembered that I had tucked a cigarette into my iPod band to smoke during the cool down and decided to use what precious little time I had left enjoying a few last drags. This is where it gets weird. A couple of minutes and a few drags later and I am feeling completely better. I carefully try to stand again and realize that I have begun regaining strength and mobility in my legs. They were still a little shaky but I realized I was able to stand again. My heartbeat was becoming regular and my body temperature seemed to be regulating as well. I couldn’t believe it! It was a miracle! I composed myself and considered whether or not I could make it back to my house by myself or if I should call 911. I decided to attempt it on my own. If nothing else, I wanted to hug my children one last time. I know everyone says that 30 yards is not a long distance but I’ll bet that they never tried to run that distance, look death in the eyes and spit in his face, before going back home. The round trip was way more than 30 yards. I’m no mathmagician but I’d bet it is close to double. I made it through the door and Number Two and Number Three, the two that greet me as if they haven’t seen me in weeks every time I come home from the store, jump up from the couch and run to hug me as I collapse in the foyer. “Mommy, you’re home”, they squealed as they begin to fight over lap space. All I can think is, I’M ALIVE! I BEAT DEATH! I knew after that workout and a near death experience, it was critical that I hydrate. Thankfully, I had a bottle of Chardonnay because the Cabernet would have done the job but is slightly less refreshing after a workout.
Moral of the story: Running will KILL you. I’m not sure if it was the offers of good behavior in exchange for my life or the cigarette that saved me. Since I completely reneged on the promises without being struck by lightning, I’m thinking it was the cigarette, actually. I mean, I know they say that they are dangerous and blah, blah, blah but those are the same assholes that say that running is healthy and makes you feel so good. Letmetellyousomething, if you think that is, as I have been told, a “normal” response to this whole fun run phenomenon, you are a sick fuck. A masochist. If someone interjects into a conversation that they like to run, walk away. If you see someone post updates about their run, delete and block them. I probably shouldn’t say anymore because they know I’m onto them and I think they’re monitoring my communication but, the world must know, the run lovers are a very persuasive cult. They will stop at nothing to recruit you. They’ll lie and promise you the world. When you almost drop dead from following their suggestions, they’ll tell you to do it again? Do it again? I almost fucking died! What is crazier than that suggestion is the fact that other people follow the advice! Don’t listen. Don’t engage. They’re unrelenting. Before you know it, they’ll have you on a vegan diet and mapping out your marathon training regimen. How do you know if someone has run a marathon? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you. (bahdumching)
A huge THANK YOU to all of my readers. This whole blog thing started as just a way to entertain myself and some of my friends. I never would have imagined it would have turned out like this. Whether you’ve agreed or disagreed, I want to thank all of you for taking the time to read and comment to share your thoughts. Now pop open that bottle and start chugging. I hope everyone has a happy new year! Tomorrow is Number Two’s birthday. I’ll be celebrating the first half of the day with cake and the second half of the day with fireworks and CHAMPAGNE, getting lady drunk, of course! Don’t ever change. Well, except for you–no, not you. You. Yeah. You suck. Fix that.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
About 55,000 tourists visit Liechtenstein every year. This blog was viewed about 730,000 times in 2012. If it were Liechtenstein, it would take about 13 years for that many people to see it. Your blog had more visits than a small country in Europe!
It’s not looking good. He seems to have lost hope of even making it to the end of the day. I’ve made my peace and, at this point, I am praying for death to just come and get it over with already. You see, Husband has a—-I can barely bring myself to say it out loud–a cold. THERE I SAID IT! I know what you are thinking! “A cold? That isn’t serious, much less terminal”. And that is true, for MOST people. The kids have all been dealing with this seasonal crud for several days and they are fine. What y’all don’t understand is that Husband doesn’t just get a regular cold. He gets attacked by the SUPER, HORRIBLE, KILLER cold germs. It is just much, much, much worse for him. He is in a fight for his very life.
All I can say is, whether it is caused by this crippling cold or my bare hands, he is thisclose to fucking death. I would, LITERALLY, rather have all four children come down with the stomach flu AT THE SAME TIME than deal with Husband waking up with a sore throat. One cough and the unspoken change of his status to INFIRM is not far away. Apparently, this also requires complete bed rest as part of the self-imposed quarantine in our bedroom. Any medicine touted to help his symptoms, rest assured, will be utilized but, undoubtedly, will fail to compete with the devastating magnitude of his man-cold. This man-cold is accompanied by a man-cough, which requires a degree of force that causes his entire body to contract so that the bed would move, suddenly and violently, intermittently throughout the night. It was like trying to sleep in a vehicle during an off-road venture. So, I’m left alone to deal with all the whining and crying and the kids aren’t much better.
GOOOOSEFRAABAA—GOOOOOSEFRAAAABAAA—I love my husband. I love my husband. I love my husband. Would a mercy killing defense stand up in court? I mean, he is suffering! It would only be an act of love to end such monumental misery. Okay, okay! Fine! I’m just going to hurt him. Just a little bit.
