Ricky, you have some mansplainin' to do...

It was my senior year of college.  I had taken a fall down a flight of stairs, and had some pretty severe bruising on the inside of my left arm, and a ladder of less-severe bruises down my back.  Hurt like a mother, but nothing terribly serious.  However, within a few days I'd developed some hard lumps in the bruise on my arm--calcium deposits.

I took myself off to the campus health center, and the doctor happened to be in.  (He was usually available for a couple of hours, two or three days a week; the rest of the time the nurse was available.  And generally more helpful.)  I sat on the table, rolled up my sleeve, and explained that I was concerned by what I felt--

"Don't worry.  It's not cancer."

--which I was pretty certain was a series of marble-sized calcium deposits, and what was the best course of action to take to ensure I didn't pass them through my urethra.

"Oh.  Oh.  Well, warm, damp compresses should help with that."

Gee, thanks.  I'm so glad you were able to ease my fears about cancer of the bruise.  What color ribbons does that have again?  I'm sure I saw it on a rubber bracelet somewhere.

If you don't know what mansplaining is or aren't aware how commonplace it is for women to be on the receiving end of it (from whatever gender), I recommend checking out this link.

Kicking ass. (Where I'm neither the kicker nor the kicked.)

Hello?  Internet?  Did you miss me?

I now live somewhere new!  And it's not a cardboard box!  Isn't that exciting? 

Just kidding, moving is never exciting.  Unless you're moving because you won the lottery and are moving into a house with a pool.  For your puffins.  That'd be sweet.

But there are more dogs here, and that's pretty all right, too.  Oh, and some dude lives here, I guess.

Well, I could fill you in on what's been happening in my life lately, but it'd strain your suspension of disbelief, so just imagine that I've spent the last two weeks fighting crime with my trusty gorilla sidekick.

Good lord.  I've just become WordGirl.

Look, here's a .gif gift!

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This woman kicks some serious, literal ass.  I want to be her.

So, since I really have nothing to share but word vomit, here are some gems from the Internet:

This guy "Changes the Creepy Guy Narrative." 

Rape Culture 101  This is a fantastic piece.  The following is a quote that really struck home for me, since I do follow these "rules."  All of them.  And some more, like what CTA train cars to ride in after dark, and when to go to my storage unit, when to call someone to "walk" me home.

Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you're alone, if you're with a stranger, if you're in a group, if you're in a group of strangers, if it's dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you're carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you're wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who's around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who's at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn't follow all the rules it's your fault.


Here's another great post by the same blogger called, "On Sitting With Fear."  Actually, just go ahead and read everything in that blog's archives, okay?

This guy's name is Kim. He didn't get any interviews until he added a "Mr." before his name on his resume.  Are you shocked?

Millenials are ruining the world. Just like every generation before us.

I'm Still Not Dead

But I am moving.  Real posts to follow once the dust has settled.

Here's some stuff to tide you over....  (Pardon the lack of hyperlinks.  I'm in a hurry.)

http://dogbehaviorscience.wordpress.com/2012/09/29/100-years-of-breed-improvement/

(Wherein breeds from now are compared to the same breeds from 100 years ago.  Interesting read, and a bit worrisome.)


http://kateharding.net/2009/10/08/guest-blogger-starling-schrodinger%E2%80%99s-rapist-or-a-guy%E2%80%99s-guide-to-approaching-strange-women-without-being-maced/

(This article should be required reading for every single person upon reaching puberty.)


http://realtorstotherescue.org/

(Realtors who will help you find pet-friendly housing.  Yay!)


http://www.themilitantbaker.com/2013/03/things-no-one-will-tell-fat-girls-so-i.html?m=1

(This chick kicks ass.  I think I love her.) 


(True:  Moving sucks.)

Culture Shock

I spent several months in London while I was in college.  I was well-aware that some things would be different than I was used to, and they were.  Same goes for my shorter visits to other countries.

Chicago is four hours from my hometown.  Other than big-city-versus-tiny-town stuff, I figured most things would be the same. 

Chicago is four hours from my hometown.  It's the only place where I've experienced culture shock.

Like "gym shoes."  Did you know Chicagoans call tennis shoes "gym shoes?"  Clearly this is wrong.  No one else does this, Chicago.



Can you even see the tiny green dot that is Chicago?


And they don't call it a "bubbler."  Dude, it bubbles.  It makes bubbling sounds.  It's clearly a bubbler.



See?  One of those tiny states out east agrees with us, and that makes it totally legit.  Also, my European geography is better than my American geography.  At least I can tell the difference between Latvia and Lithuania, right?  That's what's really important here.  And also bubblers.

(Both these maps, and twenty others equally as entertaining, can be found here.  If you language is interesting and people are weird, it's right up your alley.)

Also, would you believe that I had cannoli chips for breakfast?  I didn't even really know what cannoli was before I moved here, and now I find out it's available in delicious chip/dip form?  Dude, it's worth moving here just for that.

On a less appetizing note, "Sally" is used as an insult here.  As in, "You're afraid of spiders?  You're such a Sally."  Because no Sally ever would smoosh a spider without cringing and squealing and probably crying of course.  Get it?  It's because she's a girl.


(True:  This photographer in Texas took photos of her daughter that make me feel better.)

(Also true:  Spellcheck thinks "bubbler" isn't a word.  But it thinks the same thing about cannoli.  So there.)

Another Not-Real Post You'll Still Really Want To Read

Look, I know, I know.  I'm the worst blogger ever to not-really-blog.  But I'm working through my lunch (except for these few minutes, obviously, but I can totally type this up faster than I could pee.  Which actually, I just realized I need to do, too.) so you'll just have to deal with it.

Anyhoo...  here's some content from other, better internet places.

Click here to embiggen.

I'm that horrible, unforgiveable person who doesn't RSVP.  Ever.  I mean, I've never RSVPed to anything.  But this one...  No, I wouldn't RSVP to this one, either.  But I would put it on my refrigerator.  As a side note, "please RSVP" is redundant.  The VSP bit means si vous plait, which means please.  Your asking your guests to "please respond please."  And if they're anything like me, they still won't.  Because they're assholes.  Or just forgetful.  (Those two aren't mutually exclusive.)



While this post is quite aleatory, and I feel a measure of huzun, it's not because I'm a noceur.  Though you could accurately describe me as frowzy, wifty, aspectabund, and in a near-constant state of fernweh.  If you too, "suffer" from logolepsy and desire a verbal smultronstalle, you'll love Otherwordly.



You know what's cool?  When little girls dress like superheroes.  You know what's even cooler?

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When an artist takes these heroes seriously, and makes them come alive in awesome 2D.


(True:  I really need to know what awesome Internet thing have you stumbled across recently.)

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.

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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.)

In a Surprise Twist, I Actually Survived

And mostly intact!  WhirlyBall was pretty much more fun than ought to be legal, although I did end up with some bruising on the insides of my legs that might raise some eyebrows if I decide to sport my Daisy Dukes this weekend.  You know, if I had any.  Or thought that was a good look for me anyone me.

But what can I say?  A center steering column in a bumper car leads to suspicious bruising.

In other news, overnight my voice has subsided to a subauditory squeak.  I went to lunch with some friends, and they spent the entire meal pretending (sort of pretending) they couldn't hear me, and the entire ride back mocking me.

I'd write up a proper post, but I have Frutti di Bosco gelato to eat, so you're out of luck.


(True:  I am wearing a ponytail today.  One of our salespeople came up behind me and pulled it.  To be perfectly clear, my ponytail is not an invitation to touch me, no matter how often we talk on the phone.  Especially from behind, without announcing your presence.  Geez, people!  Haven't we moved past this yet?)

Hops in the Right Direction: Let's be Better.

Prada has a strong body.  Her front leg has centered since I adopted her, and proportionally, her core abdominal muscles pretty much make her Arnold Schwartzenegger.  Her hindquarters have enough power to launch her up onto the couch.  She can run fast enough to almost catch a rabbit.  (And if that fence hadn't been there, she might have done it, too.)

But the fact remains that I am stronger.  I walk in a perma-shuffle around my apartment so I don't accidentally step on her, because I could hurt her so very easily. 

It bears repeating:  I could hurt her.  Easily.

Obviously, I don't.  My strength and size does not give me the right to hurt those weaker and smaller than myself.  Rather, I was always taught, and fully believe, that it is my duty as a decent human not only not to hurt those I could, but also to act decently towards others. 

The lesson doesn't just apply to tiny, fluffy dogs that have been closer to euthanization than they ever deserved to be.

It applies to boys who play football who rape a girl.  It applies to their peers, who stood by and did nothing.  It applies to the adults in their lives, who either looked the other way or didn't teach these children what it means to be a decent, responsible human being.  It applies to the media, irresponsible with their reporting.  It applies to the people outside the situation who have used social media to harass and blame the victim.  It applies to me, because I haven't spoken out earlier, more frequently, louder.  It applies to you, because we are all part of this culture and society that allow this to happen, that allow some people to think any of the above behavior is acceptable.

We can do better.  We can provide a good example of how to treat those weaker than us and those who are vulnerable.  We can speak up when we see something that is wrong.  We can talk openly and honestly to the young people in our lives.  We can start difficult discussions.  Why can ask "Why?"  We can offer victims a safe place to talk, and we can listen.  We can hold ourselves and others accountable.  We can well and truly--each and every one of us--do something to create a different, better future, where we all are decent--and most importantly, safe.

Whether it's to the four-legged, three-legged, or two-legged, I challenge you this:  Let's be better.



(True:  If you don't think rape culture affects even the lucky people who haven't been assaulted, think again.  And as always, be safe.)

Quick! I Need an Icepick!

I had a really clever idea for what to blog about today, but then the guys in my department started talking about the etymology of the Brazilian wax and I had to perform an emergency auto-lobotomy.


(True:  The word "I" comes from the Latin idem, which means "the same."  Because I'm unique.  Just like everyone else.)

The First Person to Make a Sandwich Joke Is Going to Get a Knuckle Sandwich Instead.

I'm not the best in the kitchen, and sometimes it seems the world intends to keep it that way.  Even if you disregard the multiple kitchen fires I swear I didn't mean to set, there's the fact that when I had someone over for dinner this weekend, the wiring to my kitchen light went out.  Because nothing is as fun as cooking* in the dark.

And then, later, I slapped some sauce and shredded cheese on a store-bought crust and called it a home-made pizza and felt all proud of myself until I started catching up on Geekologie and saw this:

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It's an octopizza, and it's just not fair.


(True:  But I do make a mean chicken pot pie.)

Tips for Talking to the Person Who Is Not a Doormat

Because I've worked part-time in a bar, I've had my share of opportunities to talk to new and interesting people.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's awesome.  As Bill Nye the Science Guy said, "Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don't."  But every once in a while, there's that outlier that doesn't make the experience awesome...

(There is a disclaimer at the end of this post.  Some of the below experiences are borrowed from other people.  If that much bullshit were directed at me, I'd explode.)


** Personal space.  This is particularly important in a bar environment, because you probably have beer breath.

** There is a limit to how many times you can call/text/email her after one conversation.  Disproportionate attempts at communication will make her wonder if you are a stalker.

** Don't get upset if she doesn't call/text back immediately.  She probably has a life.  That's a good thing.

** Don't tell her who she can/can't talk to.  Talking is a particularly useful form of communication, and often means nothing more than a pleasant (or sometimes unpleasant) conversation.  Holster the jealousy or be prepared to be punched in the throat.

** Grabbing her ass will not be taken as an invitation to come home with you.  It will be taken as an invitation to punch you in the throat.  Same goes for the old slide-your-hand-around-her-back-and-under-her-arm-for-a-bit-of-side-boob squeeze.  You are not being subtle.  You are being a dick.

** Buying her a drink doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  A long conversation doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  Trading phone numbers doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever, if you were still wondering. 

** If she says she has plans, you can probably assume that she has plans.  Accusing her of lying to blow you off will earn you a punch in the throat.

** And if she says she's not interested in going on that date you suggested, you can probably take that to mean she's not interested in going on that date you suggested.  Just a suggestion.  There is not always romantic subtext.  Sometimes, a conversation is just a conversation.  Try to force more, and you'll deserve more than just a punch in the throat.

** If she says, "No," or "Enough," or "Stop:"  No, you aren't going to change her mind.  She's had enough.  Stop.


Or, in other words, (Wil Wheaton's, to be exact), don't be a dick.


(True:  These are all experiences I've had, or friends have had, or friends of friends have had.  I've used the pronoun "she" because I'm a she.  And most of the friends/friends of friends whose experiences I've borrowed for this post are also shes (but not all).  Substitute pronouns as needed.  And you might notice that I'm giving these tips to a "you"--not a "he" or "she."  That's because dickitude is not exclusive to any one gender.  Neither are these tips specific to romantically-inclined conversations or situations.  Friends don't treat each other that way, either.  Get it?  Don't be a dick--whoever you are--to whomever you're speaking to.  End disclaimer.)

Judge, Jury, and Prescriptioner

Let me start this post by announcing that I am in my late twenties.  I haven't lived under my parents' roof since college, and I have been more or less financially independent since just a bit after that.

Also, my mom is awesome.

Also, periods suck.

Also, I hate my hometown drugstore.

Some years ago, when I did still live with my parents, I sat down with them to discuss the possibility of me going on birth control.  Because, you know, getting your period twice in one month is no fun, and also I'm a huge whore.  (I'm kidding on one of those.  I'll let you guess which.)  My folks, being reasonable and cool, agreed it was a good idea, and we never really talked about it again.

Fast forward to two summers ago.  I am visiting my parents for the weekend and realize I need to renew my prescription.  This is why I use a national chain drugstore--you can pick up your stuff anywhere.  My hair is growing out, and is a weird length where the only way I can get it out of my face is to put it in pigtails.

(This is probably when I should tell you that I look like I'm about twelve.  Especially when I'm in pigtails.)

I ask my mom to swing by Big National Drugstore on our way back from running errands, and of course it's no big deal to her.  She and I walk back to the prescription counter and I give my name and tell the pharmacist, a not-old man, which prescription I need refilled. 

He stares at me.  Then he flicks a glance at my mom.  Then he scowls at me.

"What's your last name again?" he finally asks.

I say it. 

"Can you spell that?"

I spell it, speaking slowly and clearly because I once worked as a receptionist, and hearing letters clearly isn't always as easy as you think.  He continues scowling at me, not typing or writing down my name.

"Can you spell that again?"

I do.

"One more time..."

(This is probably a good time to point out that I do not have a particularly long or difficult last name.  Sure, it's a bit on the Dutch side, but this is my hometown--plenty of other names like it.)

After he asks me to spell my name six times (I wish I were exaggerating), he finally turns to his computer and puts his hands to the keyboard.  He looks at me, waiting.  I spell it one last time. 

Very loudly.

Very slowly.

Very are-you-fucking-kidding-me.

He types.  He pulls up my info.  He sees my age.  He goggles and then finally does his job and starts filling my prescription.

(My mom held me back from throttling him.  Barely.)

Moral of the story:  Work more, judge less.

Asshole.


(True:  This.)