Friday List: A Loose List of Thoughts on British Royals

So today was the wedding of Prince William and Princess Kate.  I did not watch any of it or look at any of it any more than I had to. I looked at her dress because I do have an interest in these things and found hers to be quite lovely and tasteful. Diana's dress was very dated to me, too 80s.  I think Kate's dress will still look stylish in years to come. So good for whomever made that decision.

Good luck to them. I don't really believe in marriage, but I guess in the case of royals, it is unavoidable. I hope their marriage is less troubling than that of his parents.

I always felt sorry for Diana.  She was so young when they married.  Charles was old and ugly.  Sure, he was a prince, but old and ugly and he seemed very boring.  Mind you, these were my impressions as a young girl when I was really shallow about things like "old and ugly."  It seemed like from the moment she was chosen as his bride, she was already on some downward spiral to her death.

One of the things that squicked me out about the Diana situation was how they made such a public thing about her being a virgin. Given the level of invasion the press always had with her, I'm honestly surprised there weren't pictures of her virgin twat in the tabloids. Everyone always felt so entitled when it came to Diana, like every aspect of her life was their business. I bet there were people out there who felt cheated because they didn't get a piece of her placenta after she gave birth.

I'm happy things have changed enough to where the status of Kate Middleton's virginity was never discussed, because it is no one's damned business. I really hope the royals have learned from the last round of marriages and whatnot how to keep the press at arm's length so that people can have some level of private life.

Because really, William and Harry are far more gracious than they should be. The press chased their mother down and basically caused her wreck.  She died trying to get away from nosy reporters.  William and Harry are nice to the press, even though these people, in their selfishness and insanity, caused their mother's death. I know people will say that being a royal is a job, but dammit, people should get some time off from their jobs.....and even if it is a job, no one's life should be under constant public scrutiny. It's just damned wrong.

As I said, I wish Will and Kate well. I hope their marriage is happy and as normal as it possibly can be.

I also hope that she never has a lot of kids. The last thing we need is a reality show called Will and Kate Plus  8.

Seeking the Oasis: Amanda Palmer's Comment on Living in Rape Culture

When Amanda Palmer put out her song and video "Oasis," she received a lot of criticism for it.  People thought she was making light of rape, of abortion, and religion. She noted on her own blog, in frustration, that perhaps if she had cried a little and did the song in minor key, slowed it down, and made the whole thing so sad, people would be fine with it, or at least less upset. She's probably right.

I think they were missing the point though. Okay, actually, clearly they were missing the point.

First of all, every song about rape and the consequences that follow will always be tackled in a different way for the very reason that every rape survivor processes what happened to them in a different way.  Because of this, how we express this in art will come in an infinite variety of ways. Even though everyone who has ever heard "Me and a Gun" by Tori Amos understands to the core of their being what this rape was like, not every song about rape will be "Me and a Gun."

As dark and horrible as "Me and a Gun" is, "Oasis" is far more devastating.  Palmer tells the story in such a way that we can clearly infer many things about her protagonist. The girl is still in school, so somewhere between sixth grade and college, though she feels more on the younger side of that.  The girl isn't sophisticated. Her language is simple, as is her sentence structure and phrasing. In the video, Palmer's dress and body language is also indicative of someone rather young.

It's not the youth of the protagonist that is most haunting so much as how she processes the events in her life.  Where many critics believed Palmer to be "making light" of rape and abortion, I believe she does no such thing. Instead, she shows a girl who is surviving being a part of rape culture by finding more reality in music and loving bands than she does in what is happening to her.

The girl divorces herself from what takes place in her body. During the part of the video where the rape is shown, instead of being horrified, the girl looks both bored and disgusted by the man.  She acknowledges that she knows this isn't her fault.  She knows he is in the wrong. In fact, while it is never pointed out, the rapist is almost always present in the rest of the video.  The impact of his actions on her life never leave her, even as she chooses to focus on other things.

What Palmer seems to be saying is that rape culture is such the norm now that people are evolving to survive  it by abstracting the violent acts from how they define themselves.  "Yes, I was raped. Yes, I got pregnant from the rape and had an abortion. Yes, everyone found out about it and talked about me. Yes, I was shamed. But none of this is important. I have better things going on in my life."

Is Palmer saying this switch in priorities is the best response? Not at all.  However, I think she is showing that it is a response that probably millions of people have to sexual assault. They don't get angry. They don't get upset. They don't even really let it accept them emotionally, any more than it has to.  There is an element of shallowness to this, but of course, to many, shallowness is a very keen coping device for living without going insane.

By the end of the song, despite all the horrible moments the girl has gone through, she is joyous, because what was most important to her, getting something from the band she loves and making her best friend jealous about that, has happened. Everything else was just crap she went through in the mean time.

And while I disagree with why people get upset over this video, I do understand it. In fact, I think there is a primal part inside of us that is horrified by the message of this video.  Because even though society gets annoyed with rape victims and wishes most of us would just shut the hell up, society also gets very, very frightened when people don't play their parts. Rape victims are supposed to be devastated.  Of course they are. One of the primary functions of rape is terrorizing people into staying in "their place."

So when we see someone who has been assaulted roll her eyes and just move on with her life, it is unsettling.  It means this method of keeping people oppressed may stop working. Whatever will the rapist do then?

Bitchery and Snark..........Then Gratitude!

It's been a frustrating week.  There has been rain and more rain.  Loss of internet connection that felt like it lasted a million years (but actually only last 24 hours) was accompanied by the perpetual and predictable computer failings at startup. There is a need for house repairs (due to rain) and the rush to get said items for house repairs, only to find more items were needed, more money spent, and then the putting off of house repairs as it is too wet to complete them.

Panicking hurry-up-and-wait is my least favorite dance. Which is quite ironic, because it is a dance I find myself doing all too often.

I didn't go to therapy because things were too slick and nasty and wet and bridges were out and storms were still happening.  I spent the day cold and aching because I'm apparently becoming one of those old people who gets to relive all injuries whenever the weather is bad. I will now give out the world's most sarcastic yay.........yay.

On the other hand, I'm working on the goals I've set.....I'm doing reasonably well.  My paperwork has all gone as it should. The storms seem to be slowing down.  People love me and were concerned for my safety.  My house was not blown away by storms.....nor did any other houses mistake me for wickedness and drop onto me. Most importantly, I didn't have to go in the cellar.

Compared to most people, my last several days have been easy. My house isn't underwater or smashed by trees.  My pets are all safe and nothing has been destroyed by hail.  My sense of humor is even still functioning.

And yes, I know this post is random and complain-y, but when you're stressed out and tired, it's difficult to be clever and creative.  You know, assuming I am that normally.  It's still a post though, and every day I post is another bit of my thoughts out there for the masses.

All four of you. Hi!

The Tiny Room of Doom!

When my grandparents moved into this house back during the 1980s, they chose it for many reasons.  It had a large front porch, a work shop, large yard, and two garden spaces.  One of the things they liked most about the property was the fact that it had a cellar.

Now, for those of you who do not live in tornado country, when I say "cellar," I don't mean the underground story of your house or a place where roots are kept. I mean place located underground where you go when the tornadoes show up. Most cellars are well insulated, waterproof, and evoke feelings of safety.

The one located on this property, however, is none of these things.  It leaks, it is scary, and I don't think anyone has ever gone in there and felt good about it. Well, maybe one person, but I'll get to that later.

The cellar sits across the driveway from the house, which means any time you need to go into it, you will certainly get pelted by whatever is falling from the sky. Rain, hail, sleet, flying debris from wind, yup! You'll get hit.  As I've mentioned before, the driveway floods, so along with things hitting you from the sky, you also run the risk of slipping in the puddles or at being carried off by the current. Okay, that last part has never happened but eventually, I'm sure it will.

The stairway down into the cellar is insanely steep. And, okay, let's look at the logic of this.  Whenever you go into this place, it is A. Wet and B. Dark.....I think steep stairs are the last thing you need.  Though, it is not the last thing you will GET in the cellar because not only is it dark, nasty, and steep, but once into it, you have about a 70% chance that it will be flooded.  Because, yes, whatever drunk or insane idiot put this thing in, had no clue as to how to divert water from seeping into it.

Even when the thing wasn't flooded, it was difficult.  The floor is the world's oldest and nastiest concrete. The walls are uninspiring and sad rocks that seem to only be interesting due to their water damage patterns. My grandparents' idea of "cellar decor' consisted of two candles, a small shelf, one folding chair, and various milk crates to be turned over for seating.  If you've never been wet and sitting on a milk crate, let me tell you, it's not comfortable.

No one hated the cellar as much as my mother. One time when my mother, brother, and I were living with my grandparents, the tornado sirens sounded. We all put on jackets and hurried down the cellar. Once inside, we all scrambled for seating.  My grandfather had a flashlight in one hand and set it down on the floor to light one of the candles.  The light reflected on the wall just enough to show the rows and rows of slugs crawling on it.  My mother proceeded to scream, jump on her milk crate, and continue to scream as she did a little dance of disgust.  I don't think she ever went into the cellar again.

The only person who ever seemed to like the cellar was a crazy woman who moved in there.  Some years after my grandfather died, the abandoned rest home a few streets down reopened as a home for the mentally insane.  The people who ran it were awful and eventually, the place was shut down.  In the time before this happened, however, the neighborhood got interesting.

One of the women from the place wandered into the cellar and convinced herself that it was her home.  When my grandmother tried to get her out, she screamed at her and threatened her with a stick.  Gran called the police, who led the woman and her "bathroom bucket" out of the cellar. The whole time, the woman still insisted she'd lived there for years. I've often wondered what happened to her.

When my roommate and I moved in, I told him that under absolutely no circumstances would I be going into that cellar.  I didn't care if a tornado was knocking on the front door.

It would be impractical for us, actually. There is no way we could make it across the floodgate of the driveway and down those horrible stairs with four cats.  One or all of us would end up seriously wounded, and most likely, the "one" would be me.

No, instead, we will move into the hallway, which is the center of the house. There are no windows or other sharp things to hurt us and it's probably the most stable part of the house.

As for the cellar, my brother and his family go down there during storms. As I've written before, I'm good with that. I don't even mind if that lady wants to move back in, as long as I don't have to go down there for any reason whatsoever.  Ever.

Hail Hath No Fury Like a Little Cat Scared

The storms continued today, causing much depression in those who would seek hidden eggs and those who would picnic. My roommate and I had plans to do neither, deciding instead to just feast on cheapish Easter candy and enjoy the day.  We knew the enjoyment would be short-lived though. Even early in the morning, it was already very dark outside. Around seven, it went from darkish to pitch black.  That odd sort of foreboding one feels before a storm set in and we knew it was going to be an eventful evening.

Tonight though, we knew this for another reason as well. Alice, our little outside-cat-turned-part-time-inside-cat, walked into the living room and let out the loudest and saddest meow I've ever heard.  It was full of fear and panic.  As soon as she could be, she was up in my roommate's arms.

Alice, being a cat raised in the outside, is usually a brave little thing. Actually, she can be a bit scary.  She's quite good at killing things.  One time she left the head and guts of a rabbit on the porch.  We've seen her take on possums, dogs, and cats twice her size.  She isn't afraid of us at all.  She's always very vocal about what she wants and when she's displeased.

Storms though . . . storms are big.  Storms are lack of light and lack of warmth and full of stinging rain and dangerous chunks of painful hail. Storms can flood and freeze and summon winds that can spin into tornadoes.

Alice knows all this and has suffered through it. We don't know how old she is, but we know that before we adopted her, all of her life had been spent outside.  Sure, there are enough abandoned houses around us for her to have found some shelter, but that doesn't take away the fact that storms are scary.

My roommate held her and spoke soothingly to her.  When he had to get up for something, he transfered her to me.  I cuddled the little ball of shivering cat against me and let her bury her face against my arm.  She doesn't really like me as much as she likes him and tends to get away as soon as possible. During the storm though, she made no attempt to move.

As I held her, I thought about all the work my roommate has put into this cat.  How he coaxed her into letting him pet her, how he would talk to her and sit on the porch and let her get used to him. I thought about the night he finally brought her in, our little Christmas gift.  Of all the changes he's made in Alice's life, I think the biggest and most important is that she now knows she has People.  Not just a place to go and eat or a place to hang out when it's cold, but People who will listen to her. People who love her and will hold her when she's scared during the big bad storm.

Friday List (albeit, a day late): Easter Trappings

A lot of people are going to say a lot of things about the religious whatnots of this holiday.  The pagan rites, the Christian traditions, and all the things in the middle of a spiritual nature will probably be written about on blog after blog.  So I think I'm going to talk about the trappings of Easter, kind of a general overview of my memories and impressions of the holiday.

EASTER LIST ONE: THREE MEMORIES

Somewhere in my closet is a box that holds the two or three remaining pictures of me as a young child wearing Easter dresses.  Mind you, this was the 70s, so one dress is pink-ish coral and the other dress is pink-ish carnation.  My hair was far redder back then, so the whole thing looks rather horrible. There might be a picture where the dress is powder blue, but let's face it; no one looked good in that.

Easter was never a big holiday for me as a kid. I know I went to some egg hunts, but they must have been traumatic because I've blocked them out.  The only distinct memory I have of any of them is a plastic molded green basket and some sad Easter egg someone had stepped on. You know how that looks, just that kind of half-flattened shatter of colored shell that is still attached, but white can be seen underneath. Ohh . . . and some mud, because we all know that egg hunts happen on days when it is raining or it just rained.

Back when I was teaching college, I would sometimes go to the parking lot behind the local library.  I tended to enjoy grading papers while sitting in my car surrounded by nature.  This usually involved me going to the park by the school, but sometimes it would be really busy (or the geese would be more psycho than usual) and the library would end up being my destination.  There was no lake, but there were nice shade trees and most often, it was empty.

One day, I was out there grading papers when a group of people came out onto the grassy field in front of me. It was a group of children and their parents, probably teachers.  The children all stood at one end of the field and their parents stood in front of them.  As the children moved forward, slowly, their parents took pictures of them.  I realized they all had Easter baskets and this was some small egg hunt.  I also realized that more than likely, the parents taking pictures were stepping on eggs.

EASTER LIST TWO: THREE HATREDS

There are things I absolutely hate about Easter and most of them have to do with fake outs.  I hate the plastic Easter grass, which is basically the STD of the holiday.  Easter grass, beyond the general business of supporting eggs, is evil.  It gets everwhere. On your clothes, in your carpet, in the mouths of dogs, cats, and children, in your shoes, all over your car.  Even months later, you will find it lurking around.

I also hate the fake little plastic eggs.  You know, the ones that open up so you can put candy or money or drugs in them.  Half the time, they never close.  The other half of the time, they close at first, but open up during transport, spilling your candy or money or drugs into the evil fake plastic grass.  The only thing I like about them is the sound the make when they open. That sort of "shoooopk" sound. Love that. But not enough to make them worth it.

Third of all, and this is the most emotionally wrecking of all the things I hate about Easter, I hate chocolate bunnies that fake you out.  You see a beautiful choco bunny and then you take a bite in PSYCH! Empty! Or worse, PSYCH! Filled with bad marshmellow.  It's not that I dislike marshmellow as a rule, but when you're not expecting it and it's poor quality, the whole experience is troubling.

EASTER LIST THREE: THREE LOVES

Having bitched about all the fakery, I have to talk about things I do love about the holiday.  The first is the baskets. Oh yes, I know baskets can be cheaply made, pourly constructed, and sometimes just plain WTF, but quite often, it's easy to find beautiful Easter baskets that have a lot of character and beauty to them.  A few years back, my roommate bought me the most beautiful Easter basket.  I kept it in my closet for a while, but then felt it was too lovely to leave in the shadows.  Once I brought it out, it became a cat bed. I was fine with that though because the cat looked beautiful in the basket.

I love how the holiday is a marriage of Christ rising from the dead and the festival of Eostre, which is all about fertility rites. We eat symbols of life and fertility and have rabbits all over the place.  Somehow we combine this with chocolate and make the whole blood and death/spring time sex thing be innocent and full of Peeps.

Finally, and most of all, really, I love dying eggs.  Even as a kid, this was my favorite part.  I always wanted to get a kit as soon as they appeared in the stores and start the dying as soon as we got home. I always loved to set the eggs in the dye as long as possible to get really deep colors.  I would pull them out and marvel at the emeralds and deep reds.  Then, just for fun, I would leave some in just for a brief time and get pastels. I also love it when part of the color gets messed up and you get a darker portion. Ohh, how I love that!

So yes, a whole mess of Easter impressions . . . a day late, but I was raging about things yesterday.  But today I'm all snickery nostalgia and Peeps.  Happy Easter.

That Ugly Fat Bitch

Hello there. I'm that ugly fat bitch.

You know the one.

The one who is so huge you don't understand how it is that she still walks . . . not that she walks well.
The one who dresses in unflattering clothes . . . not that she could find clothes to flatter her.
The one who is in no way desirable. In fact, she makes you revolted by the look of her.

Yes, that is me.

And you know what?

This is the fun thing about it all. This is the part you will find crazy and possibly not even comprehend. This is the part that will go contrary to all the stereotypes, goes contrary to all the lonely fat girls standing at the edges of dances weeping big sad, salty tears because no one will ever love them.

The truth is, I'm happy you think I'm the ugly fat bitch.  I am not only happy, I'm weirdly overjoyed by it. It's like there is some kind of chemical that releases a spite-drug inside my system whenever men look at me with disgust.  It makes me happy that you don't want me, would ever want me, don't even connect me with your pleasure centers.

Why is this?

Well, I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the fact that I was raped as a child.

That's only part of it though.  The biggest part has to do with the fact that people act like they can own the  beauty of others. People act like they are owed beauty, owed their very own beautiful woman to love and show off to everyone else.  People act like it is a woman's duty to be beautiful, her one and most important sole purpose in this world to be an object of desire and inspiration.

And . . . I'm not doing that. I'm walking around as a big fat disgusting ugly bitch. Well, okay, waddling around. But you get the idea.

This doesn't mean I'm changing my mind about losing weight. I still plan on doing so, but keep in mind, I'm doing it to not be in pain.  Anything else is beside the point.