All About the Ladies

Warning:  SFW euphamisms (with one exception) and TMI to follow.

Ever since I read this Epbot post, I've had my ladies on the brain.  Apparently, so does the rest of the world.

My sticky-outy bits aren't that, well, sticky-outy.  They don't generally get in the way.  In fact, they have never gotten in the way.  But at a loud work event last week, when I leaned forward to shout in a coworker friend's ear, he zigged and I zagged, and the ladies collided with his elbow, spilling his drink down my front.  (Good thing I wore black, right?)  Without even thinking about it, my friend exclaimed, "Ohgodyourtits!"  Which from anyone else would be offensive but from my friend was just funny as hell.  Good thing it was too loud for anyone else to overhear...

Later, as I was attempting to find some new, properly-fitting underpinnings, I swung by good-ol' Victoria's Secret.  I'd already tried a bunch on at other stores, and had had some near-fits, so I had a pretty good idea of what size I needed, like that the band needed to be either a 30 or a 32.  The oh-so-helpful girl in VS sized me up and recommended a 36B.  Because apparently VS is trying to get into the hula hoop business, with the way that thing would be flying around on me.  And the cup size?  Would have been a lot like that "Fat guy in a little coat" bit from Tommy Boy.  Not what I want to think of in relation to the girls.  I think I'm officially done with that store.  I always knew their sizing could be a bit inaccurate, but that's just ridiculous.  I had much better luck at TJ Maxx, where I also spent a lot, lot less.

Finally, you may remember that I went to a con this weekend, C2E2 here in Chicago.  It was awesome.  I wore one of my Doctor Who tees, because it's an advertisement of what interests me and an invitation for other Whovians to come fangirl with me.  (David Tennant's hair, anyone?)  But of course I forgot I was wearing it, so when an artist in Artist's Alley mentioned he had some Doctor art a few pages farther along in his portfolio, I was surprised.

"How did you know I like Doctor Who?" I asked.

"Your shirt is made of psychic paper," the artist responded.  Very clever, right?

The person with me piped in.  "I just thought you weren't wearing a shirt!"



(True:  My dad reads this blog.  Hi, Dad!  Sorry, Dad!)

Order Matters

Not the Good Housekeeping/Martha Stewart-approved kind of order, obviously.  Anyone who has seen my apartment, or my car, or my purse can attest to that.  (Though I maintain that I'm visually organized--if I can see it, I can find it.  So it's not clutter.  It's visually available.)

No, what I mean is the sequential kind of order.  Specifically, the order in which one's thoughts leaves one's mouth.

So, when I was talking with a work friend about what a bummer is was that his band had missed the cut-off for entry in an industry battle of the bands event, I probably should have put my sentences in an orderly sequence, instead of blurting them out in the order I thought them.

Compare what I meant versus what I said:

True:  I am an accidental asshole.

Five Things That Make Me Stupid-Happy

5.  Ice cream and beer.

4.  Everything about this photo:

Via

3.  This painting of a chair that you can actually sit in:

Via

2.  The custard-filled, green-iced doughnut with star-shaped sprinkles I had for breakfast.

1.  The fact that an English teacher reached out to me to use this post as a supplement for her high school students.  Told you I was smart!


(True:  This weekend I am going to Six Flags and a con.  Happy dancing all around!)

I'm Getting a Bit Worried.

I've done nothing ridiculous in about a week now.

I haven't accidentally spoken out of turn or nearly killed myself with hilarious results.

I haven't experienced the absurd.

Is this blog doomed?  Am I done doing silly things and being egotistical enough that I think my happenings simply must be shared with the entire Internet?  Have I finally achieved adulthood?!





Oh, never mind.  There's the absurdity I was looking for.

Here's some more:

This kid has got it right.

And, here's a (sort of NSFW but absolutely hysterical) gif series of David Tennant and the Stress Ball.


(True:  Dear Internet,  I less than three you so hard right now.)

I Have My Chainsaw at the Ready

Because in the last five hours, I've been rained on, snowed on, hailed on, and nearly kited off by the wind--twice.

Because in the last day, I almost accidentally turned my car into a boat in an attempt to ford a river drive on one of the few streets that was still open.

Because my fifteen-minute commute has turned into a two-plus-hour one.

Obviously this is the beginning of the apocalypse.  And you know what always comes in handy in an apocalypse?  Chainsaws.


(True:  There are perks to living in a third floor walk-up.  Not only is my place not flooded, when the zombies come, I can take out the stairs and have an easily defensible position.  Now I just need to stockpile enough toilet paper...)


(Also true:  Women in post-apocalypse movies are never seen scrambling to find tampons in a world of ravaged supply lines.  Which is odd, because they do that often enough now, even with Super Walmarts on every corner.)

The Real Deal on "Real Beauty".... And Where to Actually Find It

Look.

We've probably all seen it by now, Dove's "Real Beauty" video, which means to show that we're much more beautiful than we give ourselves credit for.

And I think that is really, truly refreshing and wonderful.

It's also kind of manipulative.

You know Dove is owned by Unilever, right?  And Unilever owns AXE, which features ads that are unabashedly objectifying.  And Unilever owns SlimFast--and acquired Ben and Jerry's on the same day.  So while there are undoubtedly people behind the "Real Beauty" campaign that believe in what they're doing--Unilever has no trouble with doublethink.

The "Real Beauty" campaign is more than just this video, however.

Via

I first saw the above photo in a Dove ad in Glamor magazine a couple of months ago.  Isn't it wonderful, how it shows bumps and curves and even some aging?

It's photoshopped.  Per The Illusionists:

Well, in a New Yorker profile of photo retoucher Pascal Dangin (in the May 12th 2008 issue), reporter Lauren Collins questioned him about the Dove campaigns:

I mentioned the Dove ad campaign that proudly featured lumpier-than-usual “real women” in their undergarments. It turned out that it was a Dangin job. “Do you know how much retouching was on that?” he asked. “But it was great to do, a challenge, to keep everyone’s skin and faces showing the mileage but not looking unattractive.”

So, while this campaign is raising great awareness and discussion, I believe we deserve something a little more honest yet.

Jodi Bieber has put together a slideshow of un-retouched women, and you know what?  They are pretty damn beautiful.

Lindsay and Lexie Kite have a site called Beauty Redefined, where they teach healthy, realistic concepts of beauty--and most importantly, that we can be more than just beautiful. 

Or did you read about the Sikh woman with facial hair whose faith and empathy actually changed the mind of the Redditor who posted her photo to mock her--enough that poster apologized?

And here's the best place to find Real Beauty:  in the people around you.  Do the women around you, the women you love, look like the women in magazines and on TV?  Probably not.  But these are the women that are loving/laughing/living in harsh light, with no photoshop, no clever stretched camera lenses to make them look taller and thinner.  They might not always look their best.  And there isn't any damn thing better.


(True:  I need you to tell me what you think.  Do you love the Dove ad?  Does it's flip side weird you out?  What do you think of your body, and the bodies of the women around you?  The best thing that the ad has done is spark discussion.  Let's keep it going.)

Just Say No--to Scissors

Don't run with scissors.

I'm pretty sure it's a warning exactly nobody takes seriously.  I mean, sure, children probably should avoid the motion + sharp objects equation, but we grown ups ought to be able to handle it, right?  As long as we aren't simultaneously making stabby motions with them?

Not me.  At least, I assume not--I haven't actually had a run-in with scissors yet.  But last week, I split my thumbnail smack down the middle with an apple slicer.  Two weeks ago I took a chunk out of my index finger when I was chopping vegetables and missed.  I have a nasty scar on the knobby bit of my wrist from when I juggled a razor in the shower.

If scissors are a gateway cutting tool, I've skipped straight to the hard stuff.


(True:  Super glue is a useful tool to have in one's first aid kit.)

A Hairy Situation: Vote on It!

It's damp and disgusting out, and I have a date tonight.

So I have three options:

1. I can leave my hair "as is" and go out with Hermione Hair.
2. I can spend thirty minutes straightening my hair.  It will look nice until the minute I step outside--then it will return to its natural state, Hermione Hair.
3. I can apply hot curlers, which takes very little time (I can finish getting ready while they set) and will hold all night.  This option will give me hair such as an '80s porn star's dreams are made of.

I don't feel like making any decsions today.  So I'm leaving it up to your vote.  Comment below, and I'll go with whatever has the most votes when I need to get ready.  I'll even post a photo!  (Of my real face, people.  This is unprecedented.  And goes to show my brain is incapable of rational thought today.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Feet!

Just because I occasionally blog dogs doesn't mean I have all the answers.  I make no claims to being an expert.  Or even qualified to give advice, but it's the internet, and my blog, so I can do as I please.  Sometimes, I have a lot to say.

Sometimes, though, all I have are questions.

One thing I've been wondering about lately is feet.  I've mentioned before that I worry about Prada's feet--she can't afford to be down any more.  But is she?  Prada definitely dislikes having her feet handled, and more strongly than a lot of other dogs I've met.  But is that because she's a tripod, or is it just a quirk of her personality?  Plenty of dogs don't like their feet being handled, after all.

That then, leads me to wonder if perhaps tripods and other dogs with altered mobility are statistically more likely to have an aversion to their feet being touched.  There's anecdotal evidence that they are more likely to fear slippery floors, as Prada does, so it doesn't seem like such a stretch for the caution to extend from the dog's environment to their body.

Anybody have an anecdote?  Ideas?  A deep-seated need to tell me this is a stupid question?


(True:  If manipulating something with your hands is called "handling," I vote that manipulating something with your feet should be called "footing."  Or am I the only person who will try to reach something I've dropped  with my feet so I don't have to get off the couch?)

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Last weekend I went with some friends to the Field Museum and spent a couple of hours perusing the Taxidermied Everything exhibit.  Most of the animals I recognized.  Some of them caused what on God's good earth is that?! moments.  But those moments were all with really foreign, uncommon animals that you don't see every old day on National Geographic or, you know, at the dog park.

So this story about people accidentally buying 'roided out ferrets instead of toy poodles kind of surprised me.  Do people frequently see a long slinky-animal and think, "What a cute dog!"  And this has happened with a lamb being mistaken for a standard poodle as well?!

Oh boy.  I worry about the state of humanity sometimes.

Let's face it:  it's pretty funny.  But at the same time, it's worryingly indicative of the casualness with which people acquire pets.  Not only are these people clearly not researching their desired pet, they can't even recognize the difference between the canine and weasel families, or canine teeth and the teeth of an herbivore.  (Let's not even mention any appearances of freaking hooves, shall we?)

Even at a step slightly less stupid, when people can actually tell a dog is a dog, there is the following list of dog breeds frequently mistaken for bull dogs:

• Alpha Blue Blood Bulldog
• Rottweiler
• Catahoula Bulldog
• Boerboel
• Chesapeake Bay Retriever
• Rhodesian ridgeback
• Presa Canario
• Patterdale Terrier
• Olde English Bulldogge
• Hungarian Vizsla
• Fila Brasiliero
• Cane Corso
• Ca De Bou
• A "Bully" dog
• Bull Mastiff
• Boxer
• Black Mouth Cur
• The Argentine Dog or Dogos Argentino
• American Bulldog
• Alapaha blueblood Bulldog
• The Alaunt
• The Bull Terrier
• American Staffordshire Terrier
• Staffordshire Bull Terrier

Is it stupid of me to think that if a person can't immediately recognize a good number of these breeds on sight, then maybe they should do a tiny bit of research before publishing an article or blog post, slapping on a label at a shelter, or--oh, I don't know--passing legislation?

How many of these breeds do you recognize?  Get the answers here.  I can tell you, I didn't do very well.


(True:  This is my second rant this week--sorry.  I'll try to be funny on Friday.)

Quick, someone give me something funny to blog about!

It's a Grisly Affair

When I was little, I thought Barbie was what being a grown-up woman was all about.  She was a doctor/veterinarian with impeccable clothes and hair who balanced her career, glamorous outings with Ken (or more likely, G.I. Joe) on the jet-ski, and possibly a family (a beautiful, silent baby) with ease and long vacations to Italy.

When I was little, I was stupid.

Here is what being an adult woman is really like:

• WORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKweekend.
• BILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSmoney?
• NO ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  THE KARDASHIANS DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  Stop judging my sweatpants.
• Uncomfortable bras, and worst of all, strapless bras.
• You only get your period when you think it's safe to wear your favorite underwear.
• I could go out.  Or I could stay in, gorge on pizza puffs, watch bad television, and be in bed before the ten o'clock news.
• That event so awful I won't name it here.  (But it involves stirrups and a vicious lie along the lines of, "It'll just be a pinch.")
• Wolf whistles.
• Grubby children pulling your birth control out of your purse in front of mixed company.
• Childbirth war stories.  (Seriously--can mothers answer me why none of you seem to have PTSD?)
• The expectation of the general populace that you just can't wait to experience that particular miracle.

And what women have to look forward to:

• Smashing, painful mammograms.  For years.
• Menopause and the accompanying misery.  For years.
• Death.

Surprisingly, I'm not saying being a woman is such a bad thing.  It's worked out pretty well for me so far.  I'm just saying, thank the ladies in your life for being seriously hardcore.  And that maybe women deserve a little something for tolerating all the shit we do--like the Permanent Fund Dividend in Alaska, where they give you money for living there year-round.

Because, fuck.

Via

(True:  Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms.  I am suddenly terrified of life.)

A First-Person Narrative

I'm eating hummus for lunch and I just stumbled across the terrifying words "Honey Boo Boo."

So there went my idea for today's post.  It must not have been very important.

So, here are some thoughts on my day:

Someone has been sitting on my chair.  Someone adjusted my chair.  My feet don't touch the floor!  Who has been sitting in my chair???  Jerk.

Someone once told me the hydraulics in swivel chairs are powerful enough that a malfunction could shoot the base all the way through your butt. 

If this is a promotion, why am I sitting at the short bus desk?  I had a bigger desk in third grade, and that had a flip top for storage.  This one just has a cartoon that says, "Weenie Hut Jr's."

At what point is it reasonable to ask for my borrowed pen back?  It's been twenty minutes.  And that pen is perfectly broken in.  Is the borrower at lunch?  Maybe I could steal it back.  Crap.  It's not in plain sight and there are too many people around for me to rifle through drawers.



(True:  No, this is not a real post.  I'd sell my left foot--that's my ass-kicking foot--for a nap.  And I'd be open to negotiation.)

I Have Landed in an Alternate Universe.

Which I realized on Saturday evening, at a Roller Derby after-party with professional derby girls and Canadians.

Let's face it, guys--I'm not cool enough for any part of that scenario.

On a related note, Canadians really are as nice as everyone always says.  At the bout, the emcee hosted a game of scavenger hunting musical chairs.  One of the items the players had to find was a Canadian coin.  There was one group of Canadian fans.  They very politely gave every participant money from their pockets.

Also, the half-time show was a professional hula-hooper.

I swear to god I'm not making this up.

And no, I wasn't smoking anything, either.


(True:  Have you ever seen Roller Derby?  Because you need to.  Also, where can I take hula hoop lessons?)