Worst Week Ever

Reasons, in no particular order:

My shoulder still hurts and I still can't reach around my to my back and hook/unhook my good bras. Wearing old, stretched out, grey bras that I *can* hook in the front and twist around to the back is depressing.

My uterus is trying to kill me. Any woman in or past their 40s knows what I mean. Younger women, I will spare you the painful news of what you have to look forward to. Dudes, you just don't wanna know.

I can't afford my student loan payments and had to get a forbearance, which only adds to my interest piling up and is not a real solution.

My cat Bennet, who's been ill all summer, reached the end of the road: that place where I had to take him to the vet and have the kind doctor end his suffering. It was just awful.

Oh! Also!

I forgot to mention my progress in my Year of No Gueros. Having inhaled all of the Sookie Stackhouse novels, I moved on to Kate Atkinson's intelligent thriller/mysteries. I've read Case Histories and One Good Turn, but the library doesn't have the next one, nor does Bookmooch.com. I found her male protagonist remarkably non-douchey for an ex-cop. Her book of short fiction, Not the End of the World was both comical and apocalyptic, if you can imagine it. There's a subtext of parental worry throughout all of her work, particularly fathers worrying about their daughters. Interesting. Also, she's making me want to revisit Edinburgh. I was only there for a few days and mostly we drank a lot, except for a trip to the National Gallery which is one of my more favorite museums. Anyhow, Edinburgh: I think I need to go back.

Also, Tayari Jones' Leaving Atlanta was short but deep and dark and she is one of those writers who remembers how children think and feel. Remarkable. I've got her next book in the mail to me directly.

I'm in the middle of Nadine Gordimer's The Pickup and I'm not so much in love with it. It's kind of slow, and, oh, I don't know, the complications of race in South Africa, why must they always be seen through the lens of an interracial romance? I find this trope tiresome. Her male protagonist, Abdu, is more interesting than her female protagonist, who's trying so hard to shed her privilege but so far, she just can't do it. She lands in his desert home, after he is deported, and asks where the bathroom is, she'd like a hot bath. In the desert. Sigh. Anyway, it's Nadine Gordimer and she's a Big Deal and so I will certainly finish this book, but I think I'm going genre next: Octavia Butler is up next on the reading list.

Mortality: bo-o-gus

Between my cats' various ailments, and my newly diagnosed bone spur, which seems to be the cause of all of this shoulder aching, I am a broke motherfrakker, yo. I have spent all of my money at the vet and the chiropractor, and I haven't even gotten the bill from the orthopedist, whose GIANT NEEDLE FULL OF STEROIDS really didn't help much at all. At least he gave me a Lortab prescription, which neither the chiro nor the massage therapist was able to do. I'm considering acupuncture because I fear the ortho's next recommendation will be surgery. I don't want some yahoo slicing my shoulder open and sanding down my bone.

I don't like this aging business, not one stitch.

Godwinned by the radio: Shouty White Men edition

So I'm tootling to work this morning and turn on NPR. I hear part eleventy-billion in a series called "Why Miss'ssippi So Fat, Y'all"? The discourse here has yet to be embiggened regardless of how much they talk about it on the radio. It's like everybody in the fucking state thinks it's all about french fries. I have yet to hear anybody mention the high cost of nutritious food, the link between poverty and poor nutrition, the genetic component, or the fact that we should be treating diabetes, high blood pressure, and actual diseases, rather than hassling fat people who may or may not be unhealthy. I actually heard the state health czar say that it was high time being fat was considered socially unacceptable in Mississippi. Because, you know, 'round here, fat people get all the love.

But I digress. Because what I really want to yak about is the snippet of Shouty White Man Radio I heard after I got disgusted with NPR. I flipped through a coupla stations and find a Shouty White Man talking about eugenics. Eugenics! Who knew Shouty White Men cared about such things, right? He mentions early eugenics, which were bad before the Nazis commenced to genocide, and I'm thinking - huh - is there now a Shouty White Man who isn't a total tool? [For those who like to skip to the end of the novel and read it first, the answer is no. I know you're shocked.] And then he says there are people making eugenics-type statements here and now! In the 1970s! In the 1990s! YES! [I will pass over in silence that it's no longer the 1990s.] They are comparing the value of babies and teenagers, old people and middle aged people! [And I'm thinking: is he talking about trial lawyers? Because that doesn't sound like eugenics to me. That sounds like those formulas that help juries decide how much to award survivors in the case of wrongful death.] I'm wondering if these new eugenicists are rising in Germany, or what? Where are they!? I'm on the edge of my seat. Y'all, you are gonna be shocked. I was.

They are advising President Obama on health care reform.

Yeah. THAT'S where Shouty White Man was going with this. And I roll my eyes, and slump in my seat, because it's true: all Shouty White Men on the radio are idiots. Sigh. He totally Godwinned the conversation from the git-go and I missed it. He's comparing health care reform advisors to the architects of the Nazi genocide. For fuck's sake, do the Shouty White Men have no integrity whatsoever? I can't take any more. I change the channel. And then, I need to know - who is the Shouty White Man - and I go back and find it's Glenn Beck. He's the one I hear is less of an asshole than the other guys, the one who's kind of "middle of the road." The one with compassion, because he cries a lot. No. He's a fucking moron, yo.

Pardon my absence

I have been reading Sookie Stackhouse novels in all of my available waking hours.

My year of no gueros.

Inspired by a post by my friend Joy (her blog is linked over there on the right), I decided I've given enough headspace to guero writers.* Who needs more fresh! manly! wisdom! from white dudes, I ask you? I'd been reading the latest Thomas Pynchon and was moseying my way through a pretty annoying T.C. Boyle book when I thought: fuck it. I will put these books down and indulge in some women writers. As it happens, I've been out of town a lot this month, so my year of no gueros, which was to begin June 1, has started off slowly.

I started by re-reading Toni Morrison's Beloved, which I had read in college in a giant hurry, and was completely bewildered by at the time. The book drifts, jumps, and skitters back and forth in time, space, and imagination without warning or clarity, but this time around I was able to make sense of it. I don't know if I was less aware of the sexual violence built into slavery when I read the book as an undergrad, and therefore missed it, or what, but somehow I had forgotten that aspect of the book. It was perhaps the least fleshed-out, most casual references to the horrific sexual violence experienced by minor characters that most took my breath away. The woman who spent her adolescence "shared by father and son" ("the lowest yet", she called it). The guards abusing prisoners on a prison farm. I could go on, but it's more than I can repeat. It is a powerful book, and a difficult read, and I'm glad I picked it up again, twenty years on, with a more finely honed feminist consciousness and the time to move through the book slowly, deliberately, taking breaks when I needed to catch my breath.

Having no time to go out and buy something new just yet, I picked Mansfield Park off the shelf. I also, clearly, needed something a little more lightweight. I keep hoping that I will find a character in MP that I like, but I just don't like anyone in it. Never have. The character study, the plotting, the witticism, all are what I love about Jane Austen, but there's just nobody to grab ahold of. Fanny's nearly spineless, and when she does have a spine, it's because of some overly correct moral compunction. I'm not into religious people. Edmund's boring, Tom's an ass, Henry Crawford an insufferable egotist, etc., etc. The women are mostly dull or vain, except for the abusive Mrs. Norris, who I want to whack with a stick. I think perhaps this is Jane's pointiest book. I won't go so far as to say it's actually *mean*, but it's definitely got an edge.

I'm nearing the end and in need of more fiction, and so I went trolling through Joy's blog for some contemporary women writers to track down. I'm pleased to report that I have books by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, Tayari Jones, and Kathryn Harrison headed my way. I've got some Kate Atkinson queued up but haven't ordered it yet. Book reports to follow, yo.

*I can't find the post I'm thinking of, but you should just go read her whole blog anyway.

so hot no one knows how to act

So I'm walking up to the door of my fave tex-mex joint here in Buttcrack yesterday at noonish, and this little brown mouse comes HAULING ASS up the sidewalk past me. I thought it was a bird or something. I mean, who sees mice running around on hot pavement in broad daylight?* WTF? Fortunately he cruised past the entrance and took off towards the dumpster. I think he was disoriented by the heat. His little toesies were probably fixin to blister from the hot cement. Normally I'm a steady proponent of the "mice aren't cute" school, but this little guy was kind of ballsy, and I guess I appreciate that in a rodent. As long as it's not at MY house.



*You know, "broad" daylight, as opposed to the other kind of daylight. Which is, um, uh... I don't know. Not broad.

Giant Hosta, Niagara Falls

hot.

hot.
omigod, hoooooootttttt.
seriously, it's hot here.

The American Funerary Ritual

So unsatisfactory. So morbid and creepy. So expensive. What a giant racket.

So help me, the person that decides to place my corpse on display will be haunted. I mean it. The people that show up and declaim that it looks life-like will also be haunted. Stick my hull on a boat, set it on fire, and float it down the river, yo. Forget this bullshit embalming, $4000 casket, crappy over-scented floral arrangement, rigmarole. Do not force my loved ones to stand over my corpse and smile and nod and shake hands for hours on end. Ugh. Hate it.

I went to the "visitation" for a colleague's sister the other day, is why I bring this up. I don't know who decided that the bereaved should be forced to play smiling hostess for hours on end, standing in the vicinity of the deceased, but it seems to me sadistic as hell.

I am grateful that my immediate family are as goobed out by corpses-on-display as myself, and we all plan to be cremated. My mom says she will haunt me if anyone plays "Amazing Grace," on account of she thinks it's the most depressing tune in the history of depressing christian tunes. Noted! The last funeral my brother and I attended, my uncle's, some terrible song started playing and we made eye contact because we both had the same thought: HOLY FUCK WE HAVE GOT TO PICK OUR OWN FUNERAL MUSIC BECAUSE THIS? IT SUUUUUCCKS!! Because we are music snobs, and heaven forbid someone play some cheesy-ass inspirational tune with no indie cred what-so-ever.

stupid reasons for eating meat

Here's a new variant I hadn't heard:

"Well, see, plants are alive, too. I have to eat living things to live. Therefore, I eat meat."

Because there's no difference between an apple and a cow. Right.

working on being an ally

Have I mentioned, maybe once or a thousand times, that I love Jay Smooth and his Ill Doctrine? Yeah. I do.

Economy check

In the last, say, six months, amongst people known to me personally:

1 local business closed (Mississippi)
1 systems analyst laid off (Illinois)
1 administrative assistant laid off (Connecticut)
1 local newspaper reporter laid off (Mississippi)

Just keeping track, you know?

PS

For the love of god, people, if you're going to name your daughter "Chastity" it has TWO FUCKING T's in it. It is not "Chasity". Christ on a cracker. Get a dictionary.

still not cromulent

There is a personality type that seems to thrive here in Dumbfuckistan, a peculiar combination of cocky and stupid. It's a lethal combination and it raises my blood pressure every time. I cannot, for example, eat at the local Applebee's because there are toxic levels of cocky+stupid on staff there. Not that it's even good food, but when you want to kill at least one employee every time you go to a restaurant, it's time to stop going. I think they hire the dumbest, highest, most ignorant, cocky little rednecks they can find. And you know what? This post isn't even about Applebee's. It's about my visit this noonday to a sandwich joint called Sweet Peppers. I ordered a vegetarian on ciabatta bread, an option clearly indicated on the menu. I get the "what the fuck" look from the cashier, who has no idea what I'm talking about. "You want what?" I point to the menu over her head and speak slowly and loudly:

THE VEGETARIAN SANDWICH ON THE CIABATTA BREAD. SEE? RIGHT THERE ON THE MENU?

She says, "Vegetarian wrap?" No, I want the vegetarian SANDWICH, SEE, RIGHT THERE, ON THE MENU OVER YOUR HEAD? Five minutes more of this, and finally she appears to have pushed the appropriate buttons on her touch screen, I order bbq chips and a diet coke, and we move on.

Ten minutes later, my lunch companions arrive, having apparently also needed five minutes each with Cocky McStupid to order their sandwiches.

Ten minutes after that, a sorry little sandwich arrives. It is missing three ingredients: red peppers, green peppers, and a side of ranch. It has four correct ingredients (lettuce, tomato, cheese, and cucumber). I'm calling that, what 55% accuracy? Not so good. I ask for the side of ranch. It gets there, eventually. I get up, look at the menu to be sure I ordered what I think I ordered. I send the sandwich back for correction. I see the dude in the kitchen give the waitress the stinkeye, like I'm an asshole for wanting the sandwich I ordered and why on earth would she cater to my arrogant desire for a correct fucking sandwich. Ten minutes later, the sandwich comes back with green peppers, but not red peppers. I know perfectly well that if I send it back again, it'll come with extra ingredients I do not wish to consume. I sigh and eat this sorry little sandwich and regret ever moving to dumbfuckistan. Again.

not feeling cromulent

Nor like embiggening the discourse. Instead, I feel ranty. Very, very ranty.
Why? Because I'm pissed off at patriarchy, at rape culture, pop culture, agritheomedicorporatocracy, workplace bullies, fake organic milk, ludicrous pollen levels caused by mass plantings of cloned male trees, animal cruelty, arrogant rude omnivores, whiny dudes, homophobes, beauty pageants, dude-centric "science", evo-psych pseudo-science, people who won't vaccinate their children, religion (ALL OF IT!), the sky, the earth, and everything in between. You name it, it's on my shit list today. I don't think men are fit for leaving the house without a chaperone, a muzzle, and a leash. I'm sick of their shit. I'm sick of the violence, the rape, the entitlement, the whining, the incessant fucking bloviating, and the owning and running every goddamn thing. They need a time-out, and a long one, and when they've carefully mulled over the reasons for their time-out, they might, maybe, POSSIBLY, be allowed to go open their mouths again. Asses.

Obligatory Bea Arthur post

One day in the mid-1990s, I was standing in the tiniest Kinko's in the world, at the corner of Broadway and Zimpel in Uptown New Orleans, waiting to buy a course packet.* On the tiny television, facing away from me, was a sitcom that sounded for all the world like a bunch of drag queens doing a campy send-up of a sitcom. I spent probably ten minutes listening, in fascination, wondering how on earth I had not heard that there was now a sitcom - a NETWORK SITCOM! - starring an entire cast of drag queens.

And then I heard, "Golden Girls will return after these messages." Ahhh. I see. It wasn't drag queens, it was freakin' Bea Arthur and the gang, with their excessive performance of femininity. Eye-opening, that was.

My other favorite thing about Bea Arthur isn't really about her. It's that my friend M. dressed as Bea Arthur for Halloween when she was in grammar school in the mid-70s. Which I think is hilarious. Perhaps I shall dress as Bea Arthur-as-Maude for Halloween this year. Where ever will I get such a wig, though?


Herewith, Bea and Rock Hudson (Rock! Hudson!) singing about doing drugs. This would never happen on network TV in this day and age. It's hard to imagine that the 70s were more progressive than the 'Oughties in some ways, innit?



*For those of you too young to remember a time before the internet and digital reserve readings and J-stor, a "course packet" was a xeroxed collection of readings for a class. Kinko's would bind them up and make a tidy little sum on these suckers. Eventually academic publishers decided that Kinko's definition of "educational use" had gone over the line, copyrights had been sullied, and the course packet went the way of the 2400 baud modem.**

** For those of you too young to remember the 2400 baud modem..... oh, never mind. Just pretend like I'm talking about an abacus or a slide rule.

Ligustrum

Ay, me. I am allergic to the entire state of Mississippi, but today, this weekend, I am, specifically allergic to Ligustrum sinense, the Chinese privet plant, an invasive species in North America.

Ligustrum, how do I hate thee? With my swollen sinuses,
my hacking lungs,
my itching eyelids.
I loathe your lurking presence just outside my air conditioning unit, spraying pollen into the air, up my nose, onto my car.
Yes, you smell sweet, poisonous, sickly sweet, with your disarming floral array.
My scratchy throat, my sneezes, they know better.
Antihistamines: drowsy
decongestant: dizzy
I nod out, leave incoherent messages, ramble instead of lecture.
Oh, ligustrum sinense, go home. Invade not these foreign shores, my Southern immune system, my head and my chest.