I’m late at posting this and need to:
Happy Anniversary, baby. I love you.
I can’t believe I lucked out with your ass. I can’t believe you wanted to marry mine. We were just a bunch of horny 20 year olds, most likely not even in love when we married, and look at us now. Mostly normal. How fun is that?
The Man, somehow sexy with a red beard and too much hair, in the Maryland summer sunset
This week, Anne sent me a link to a blog called PostSecret. I finally got around to looking at it. It’s, it’s…I’m speechless. I’m fascinated, yet it makes me cry, it reminds of myself and then of people I know, it makes me want to hug the world and comfort them, it horrifies me. It makes me think.
To see the site, click Here.
Please run over and read this article. Go Here. Go on, go on, I’ll wait.
What the motherfuckingfuck is that?
The title indicates this is not about “working mothers,” which I know is a highly personal decision for every mom AND dad, but the article is about “working wives.” A smattering of points that irritated me:
More and more married women are beginning to accept the pressures of a job as normal. That is unfortunate, because wives provide a good family balance for their husbands, who generally have a tendency to work too much and too long.
WHAT?? First off, saying men have a “tendency” to work too long and hard is insulting to men as it implies that they simply don’t have a choice…as if God made them to be assholes who put in too many long hours at the rough office with the hot co-worker and not enough at home. Second,women are not on earth to “provide” dogshit for anyone. Marriage/Partnership is give and take, a life journey together. Third, what is “beginning to accept the PRESSURES of a job?” Women have been working for all of humankind and just because paid work is the only valid kind work by this author, there must intrinsically be some higher “pressure” in a paid job? Bullshit, Dogshit, POOP ON THAT. Besides, my children have benefitted in ways I never predicted by my higher education and passion for my subject. They know what joy it can be to know and learn.
When wives shift their need for approval from the home to their work, problems generally follow.
What problems is he talking about? A sinkful of dirty dishes? An unmade bed? The author cites that a woman may feel a lack of closeness and blah, blah, blah…ya ever think a break is not so bad? I do feel a lack of closeness sometimes, and sometimes it’s hard but sometimes I need it.
This crap goes on and on and on spouting how God has established the man as the head of the household and she needs to make sure that her authority figure and loyalties do not get confused as she feels the pressure of her job. It says that the couple should have set rules for her income. It says that as women are getting their emotional needs met outside the home, the children become undisciplined. It says many working wives gain their husband’s approval to work by pressuring him.
Mike’s job is not pressure-filled. This is not the 1950s and he can’t pull the wool over my eyes that it is. We have guidelines for OUR income. If I am making all the dough (ha), then we have no issue with him staying home as the stay at home parent. And whoa, my “emotional needs” are met at work to exclusion of home? Am I that one dimensional? And of course I pressure him to do what I want. Why wouldn’t I?
Seriously, fucking holy rolling SHEEP blow my mind.
Thank you, Pussy Posse, for loving me like no other. I’m going to miss your hugs and kisses but I won’t miss your presence…Thank God for email and museum mugs.
Among other things I learned about me today (involving letterhead and Spain, it was cool), the one I think is most interesting is that I learned I’m a PoMoSexual. Good fucking God, I’m so sick of talking about so-called postmodernism (thank you very much, graduate school) that I would imagine myself running away from this label. I had figured I was Hetroflexible
a long time ago…um, let’s say when Angelina burst on the scene and I nearly left my husband to stalk her. But oh, PoMoSexual is interesting. Apparently, this isn’t new to many, many people but for those people, get over it. I’m running late as usual. Carol Queen first used the term PoMoSexual in the title of a 1997 anthology of essays, PoMoSexuals: Challenging Assumptions About Gender and Sexuality (Cleis Press).
According to a critic, Queen’s idea was that “in-between’ experiences prove that human qualities like gender and sexuality are far more fluid and mercurial than we tend to think. Bisexuality is not a fixed point on a scale but an aspect of lived experience, seen in the context of particular relations… Like postmodernism itself, it resists a stable referentiality.”
What it comes down to is that I’ve always assumed most people fell somewhere on the great line chart of gay/straightness. You’re either more gay or more straight, but I imagined that if someone amazing who fit you perfectly came around, you might get over the ridigity of your sexuality to experience a love like that. This, of course, could be all bunk and take what you will of it, but it’s what makes sense to me. I know some people identify all straight or all gay. I’m not that rigid. I’m happy to identify PoMo. Call it a delayed sense of teenage rebellion or whatever you want; I like the idea of resisting a stable referentiality when it comes to my sexuality.
In a nutshell, I love my husband dearly but I know that if Angelina calls me, I’m not snubbing her.
Our typically skittish yet oh so macho 1 1/2 year old cat, Ivan, is apparently depressed. That, or he’s absolutely pissed at us. He has this little, say, habit of peeing behind our bedroom door and playing Easter egg hunt with his poop under the basement stairs. We just thought he was a punk but online cat whisperers suggest he’s depressed and is attempting to garner attention. As IF he is lacking in attention. The moment we brought home this gorgeous cat, and by we I mean my sister and me as my husband stomped and whined at the idea of a cat in the house, Ivan has been the belle of the ball. In fact, my husband calls him “Princess.” Then again, the man does spew that sobriquet around quite a bit. He is and always will be true to his name, Ivan the Great/Ivan the Terrible. (Yes, we have a thing for tyrants. The other cat is named, Nero.) He is sweet and lovey, until he bites you so hard you see the baby Jesus before you pass out. He is soft and pretty but will cry at the back door until your ears bleed. He refuses to sleep in bed with us and only really likes Mike. However, he is spoiled rotten. Ivan the G/T has special snackies, a very particular brand of wet food although he is generally fed by carefully chosen dry food, he is the king of an old, orange triangle-shaped ottoman I wish I could throw out, he loves Mike and will only allow himself to be pet by him most days, we shove our corpulence under the furniture for his fantastico toys….you get the picture. We’ve tried making sure his litter is pristine, cleaning the area with bleach, and sprinkling paprika and red chili powder on it.
Well, the macho Princess is depressed and making it known around the house. Perhaps he would like a masculine title. Any advice is clearly needed. Help!
Musings of a Tyrant to Be
It has been 1,267 days
and LINDY IS STILL NOT ENGAGED.
Seriously, are they not perfect for each other?
First order of business:
I am officially part of the staff at nearly all major cultural institutions in St. Louis. I have the badges and parking tags to prove it.
What you were looking for when you saw the phrase, “dress like a woman”:
This past Saturday night, I went out with Anne, Lindy, and Anne’s good friend Aaron who was visiting from out of town. Aaron has a Prince Albert, the first and only one I’ve ever seen. His penis rocks, in a wow way not the biblical way. Enjoying a few fun martini’s at a great bar in town (yes, my Pussy Galore tasted like heaven, thank you very much) and then attempting to dance to Lil’ Jon all (fucking) night made for loads of finger pointing laughs. We are sadly the type who gets off laughing at others even though we would actually admonish you if we caught you doing it. Bad girl, no Pussy Galore for you.
The best part of the night occurred in the 4th bar of the night, when a slew of badly crossdressed men arrived. First of all, there is nothing any of us has against crossdressing or even feel phased by it in general. Secondly, I am too well aware that there are soooo many transvestites that are the epitome of feminine beauty and I can’t hold a candle to them. These men were not those beauties and dammit, it was funny. These were over 40/50ers most likely married to unsuspecting women, dressed in their grandma’s clothes and thick hose a la “Bosom Buddies,” and wearing the most hideously bad wigs I’ve ever seen…ever. Pure gold, funny no matter how tolerant one tends to be otherwise.
I had a great time with my sisters and Aaron, thanks guys!
It’s fairly common knowledge that my dad is not in the running for World’s Greatest Dad. Nor is he a molesting abuser. He is that special brand of apathetic, lazy Dad. The kind who truly loves you and misses you, but makes no effort to actually be your father or even someone you kind of know. I love my father, but he’s frustrating. My sister believes he’s the anti-Christ; I believe he married it. The jury is still out on that.
My first husband, the father of my boys, is a whole other brand of Dad. He’s a fun, loving Dad who’s a tad misguided in actual parenting. He’s their friend instead of a parent, he likes to see them and what not but he forgets to do things like encourage bathing and sleeping at night. He’s like that now but he spent several years growing up, several years away from the boys when they were toddlers. These days, he just allows them to watch him play the Playstation every other weekend, eat chips for dinner, and stay up all night. He has four children with three women.
Our chosen sister, Anne, has a father that was also apparently out to populate the world. He’s just as apathetic as our dad with just as evil of a wife, and just as frustrating, but with a couple of extra kids Anne didn’t know about until she was an adult. My sister’s daughter has a father who is an overgrown kid who is still trying to impress the cool kids. He was MIA for several years as well, but instead of coming back to her a tad more mature, he came back pretty much the same. My friend Christine has two daughters with her ex-husband. This is a guy who came to the birth of their second daughter with TWO black eyes and an 8-ball of cocaine in his pocket, regularly soiled his pants due to being impaired, and has spent a lot of time in prison for not paying child support (among a slew of other things).
This post is NOT ABOUT THOSE DADS!!
This is about the real dads I know. The amazing, non-biological parents and grandparents who have shaped and changed my life.
Dear Papa,
I love you more than anything. Thank you for being the best grandpa in the world. You are always there, always funny, and always my Papa. You can stick my head between my ears anytime you want. Without you, I wouldn’t be sane today. Without you, I wouldn’t feel so proud of my family and my parenting. Thank you.
*Biologically, Papa is my mother’s stepfather and has been since she was 14, my stepgrandfather.
—
Dear Mike,
Oh my god. Where do I start with you? You are the most amazing father I’ve ever seen in action. You have been there for diapers, potty training, wrestling on the floor, soccer games, family trips, heartaches and illnesses, math questions, life questions, and everything in between. The boys adore you. You are the reason they will grow into good men. I am proud to co-parent with you. Thank you.
*Mike is my husband, the stepfather of my children.
—
Dear Big Daddy,
Wow you are a great grandpa! The boys love the time they spend with you at the farm. They love riding tractors and tooling around in the ground with you. They know they are so loved and enjoyed it’s ridiculous. Thank you.
*Big Daddy is Mike’s father, my children’s stepgrandfather. The boys named him “Big Daddy” since he was the Dad for Mike and his 6 siblings.
—
Dear Jason,
Ashley is the luckiest girl in the world. You are so down to earth with her, which that little spitfire needs! I love when she says, “Boy, get my shoes!” You are there when she comes home from school, goes to bed, and to teach her how to be safe on her scary four-wheeler. Thank you.
*Jason is my sister’s longtime boyfriend. He’s been around Ashley her whole life and an active parent for about 6 of her 9 years.
—
That, my friends, is who I am celebrating on Father’s Day.
I don’t know if I’m the only nerd out there that has these issues, but every time I’ve graduated something I freak out that maybe, just maybe there’s a mistake and I didn’t actually graduate. I do this momentary panic during the time school ends and the diploma reaches my mailbox. I have done something like this every year since middle school, after the last day of class I always waited for the letter that stated I was NOT moving to the next grade. For every diploma thing, I just knew I didn’t really graduate. This year was no exception. Screw the honorable GPA, screw the assistantship and fellowships, screw the thesis (otherwise known as the MFB), screw the two years…I honestly thought I must have messed up somewhere and didn’t really graduate. Ask the coordinator of our program, Amy. She has the emails and voice messages that prove my insanity.
In general, I have a whopping case of “Imposter Syndrome.” A classmate identified this for me, about me, and I was floored. I have always thought I would be “found out” by others. I feel absolutely silly trusting my own intellectual work and can’t believe it when someone else thinks I’m doing good, quality work. I expect my superiors to realize that I am not as smart as I somehow seem…and then promptly send me out the door. I feel every success is a stroke of luck and I’ve been lucky to meet the right people at the right time. I’m just now dealing with this. Although for every success my first instinct is to revert to the Imposter way of thinking, I’m oh so slowly learning that hey, I did encourage some of this goodness come about. I’m not THAT lucky all the time; I work very hard to make the goodness happen. Read about the Imposter Syndrome: Here.
That being said, my DIPLOMA arrived today! All official with signatures and stuff. It says “Master” on it. I think they mean it. But don’t tell anyone about my inferiority, I absolutely must keep the wool over their eyes until I land a full time gig someday. With benefits.