George is a Douche-Canoe.

Oh, did you notice me rubbing my hands?  Sorry, I can't help it.  They're not sore.  Sometimes my knuckles curl my fingers into stiff claws, making movement difficult and painful, but they don't hurt much today.  Today they're just itchy and tight with tiny blisters, and I'm feeling self-conscious.

I've gotten the blisters often enough now that what used to be tender skin on the sides of my fingers are now thick with calluses.  But the blisters creep farther and farther into "good skin territory" all the time, and the trail of hardening skin follows.

On top of my fingers, running along my nail beds.

The outside of my hands, slithering up towards my pinky and down past my wrist bone.

The web between my thumb and forefinger.

Starbursting outward from the center of my palm.

When the blisters dissipate, they'll peel off in thick layers, sometimes for weeks.

It's an itchy process, beginning to end, but that doesn't bother me so much as the fact that it's ugly.  It's not terribly noticeable, but people who do see it assume it's contagious or a fungus.  It's neither, just my body going just a little out of whack, but it makes me feel dirty and embarrassed.  Maybe a little ashamed on bad days.

I have an "undifferentiated autimmune disorder."  I call it George so that I don't have to be mad at my body for being gross, but at George for making me feel gross.  And I have it mostly under control; I haven't required regular meds in almost ten years, and have only had a handful of short, mild flares in that time.  The blisters are one of the few symptoms I can't kick.

It's really not so bad.  I know I'm lucky.

But today?  This tiny reminder that my body will never function normally?

It's fucking pissing me off.


(True:  I have a happy "Hops in the Right Direction" post for you tomorrow, courtesy of my friend/cousin Dianawesome.)

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.)