YOU GUYS.
OH MY GAH, YOU GUYS.
SERIOUSLY!
You know what I'm this flippin' excited about?!
TOWELS!
...
...
Yep, it's that ridiculous. And I know you're at least a little disappointed in me, but hear me out. About four years ago, I got these really cute towel/washcloth sets for my bathroom. Fluffy white towels with a striped border of one plum stripe and one hot-pink stripe. I had my very own twee little apartment for the first time in EVER, so I had liberty to decorate as fluffy-pants girly as I wanted, and boy howdy was I going to go all the way. Hence the pink-and-purple towels and the hot pink bath rug. I had visions, folks--visions of setting women's rights back two, maybe three hundred years with the sheer vapor-having, corset-wearing, lace-betrimmed, tacky-ass fluffery of my bathroom. Oh, it was going to have hot pink shit all over the damn place, and little Eiffel Towers and pictures of teacups with stupid shit like "Le Tea" printed on them, and potted African violets, and everything was going to match my pink and purple towels.
Needless to say, my visions did not come true, as we still maintain the right to vote. Part of the reason is because, after I acquired said towels, they stopped being in stock. Anywhere. I searched high and low in bath decor for things that would match those colors, but it's a futile effort, lemme tell ya. So I gave up and got some lavender towels and went on with my life, sort of. Every time I was in a Target or TJ Maxx or Bed, Bath & Beyond, I'd surreptitiously meander through the towel section, just to see if they had anything in those magical shades of pink and purple--particularly more towels, because something in my Southern belle nature just won't let me rest until all my damn towels match.
I'd given up. I'd started contemplating other color schemes, even. Until today.
I was in the K-mart looking for a pair of cheap, slutty shoes because my husband and I have actually started going on dates every now and again and you gotta keep that romance alive but still mind your budget. After being disappointed that K-mart, of all places, had nary a cheap, slutty shoe on the shelf, I wandered past the bath section on my way out. And there, right there, staring me in the face, were MY EXACT TOWELS.
THE VERY SAME TOWELS. STRIPES AND ALL.
THE ENTIRE SET, YOU GUYS.
FULLY STOCKED.
They had the bath towels, the hand towels, the washcloths, the bath mats, the toilet rugs, the whole frackin' shebang, in striped, in pink, in plum, in plain white--friends, they had it all! I just about fell over in sheer cottony delight. I would have done a victorious song and dance right there in the aisles, but there were people around, buying marked-down marshmallow Peeps, and I thought they might call someone to come take the crazy lady screaming, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! THEY'RE TOWELS!" off to the loony bin.
So instead I very quietly selected a few bath coordinates and nonchalantly sauntered to the checkout line, hoping no one else noticed how perfect and awesome my towels were (stay away from my frickin' towels, denizens of K-mart; I'll be back on payday). My inner Martha Stewart can rest easy for now.
And yes, I know this has all sounded completely, mind-blowingly silly. But at least I know where my towel is, a'ight? (And if you don't get that reference, drop what you're doing right now and go read this book. I don't care if you're in traffic; they'll wait. Plus, you'll be a better person for it.)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Oh Snap, Where I'm at Now?
Ahhh, the joys of interstate relocation.
That's right, folken, my husband and I have once again abandoned our former domicile for greener pastures; in this case, moving back to Asheville. And I have to say, as complicated and harrowing as moves can be, this one was cake. We've got this thing pretty much down to a science, as much as we've done it since we moved in together (woo-hoo, livin' in sin!), and a good bit of planning ahead and steady follow-through will turn pretty much anything into a much easier experience.
Speaking of planning ahead, I'm so relieved that I remembered to pack my thermal leggings. Over the couple of days we spent loading our truck and moving our stuff, Atlanta had its first bout of 80-degree weather for the year. It was truly beautiful, my friends, after a snappy (but not as devastating as last year) winter and breezy early spring. To just be able to go out in a tee shirt and shorts and not run back into the house desperately seeking a hoodie was pure bliss. Despite the beautiful weather we had, though, I remembered how Asheville gets around this time of year. Oh, she's a temptress. "Come on, it's 75 outside! Isn't it beautiful? Put those sweaters away; unpack your linen pants and go saunter around downtown all day! Let the sweet scent of patchouli and lady armpits wash over you, aaaaaaaaannnnnd BOOM, MOTHAFUCKA! 44 DEGREES AND HIGH WINDS! HOWDOYA LIKE ME NOW?"
But you can suck it, fickle mountain weather! I've got my longjohns, my leg-warmers, my fuzzy socks and my Fugg boots! I've got sweaters and jackets and hoodies galore! BOOYAH!
Still, I am looking forward to the gorgeous spring weather no doubt coming just around the corner in fits and starts. I know it'll show up soon, and then I'll wax my legs and shave my armpits and everything, and get outside and enjoy it.
What's on the agenda these days? House hunting, putting in some part-time hours on the old retail circuit in between coloring my comic pages, figuring out what I'm going to do with my hair next, and looking for a cat to adopt. Busy times, y'all, and I'll likely write entries about each of those things as they come up. But for now, I'll just be chillin' in the mountains with the fam, drinking excellent coffee again, being able (and willing) to walk places, and not taking my damn life into my hands every time I decide to drive. Ahhh...it's good to be home.
That's right, folken, my husband and I have once again abandoned our former domicile for greener pastures; in this case, moving back to Asheville. And I have to say, as complicated and harrowing as moves can be, this one was cake. We've got this thing pretty much down to a science, as much as we've done it since we moved in together (woo-hoo, livin' in sin!), and a good bit of planning ahead and steady follow-through will turn pretty much anything into a much easier experience.
Speaking of planning ahead, I'm so relieved that I remembered to pack my thermal leggings. Over the couple of days we spent loading our truck and moving our stuff, Atlanta had its first bout of 80-degree weather for the year. It was truly beautiful, my friends, after a snappy (but not as devastating as last year) winter and breezy early spring. To just be able to go out in a tee shirt and shorts and not run back into the house desperately seeking a hoodie was pure bliss. Despite the beautiful weather we had, though, I remembered how Asheville gets around this time of year. Oh, she's a temptress. "Come on, it's 75 outside! Isn't it beautiful? Put those sweaters away; unpack your linen pants and go saunter around downtown all day! Let the sweet scent of patchouli and lady armpits wash over you, aaaaaaaaannnnnd BOOM, MOTHAFUCKA! 44 DEGREES AND HIGH WINDS! HOWDOYA LIKE ME NOW?"
But you can suck it, fickle mountain weather! I've got my longjohns, my leg-warmers, my fuzzy socks and my Fugg boots! I've got sweaters and jackets and hoodies galore! BOOYAH!
Still, I am looking forward to the gorgeous spring weather no doubt coming just around the corner in fits and starts. I know it'll show up soon, and then I'll wax my legs and shave my armpits and everything, and get outside and enjoy it.
What's on the agenda these days? House hunting, putting in some part-time hours on the old retail circuit in between coloring my comic pages, figuring out what I'm going to do with my hair next, and looking for a cat to adopt. Busy times, y'all, and I'll likely write entries about each of those things as they come up. But for now, I'll just be chillin' in the mountains with the fam, drinking excellent coffee again, being able (and willing) to walk places, and not taking my damn life into my hands every time I decide to drive. Ahhh...it's good to be home.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Moms: A Body Acceptance Rant
Hey chilluns. I know it's been a while; Mama's been busy with her new job, her family, and packing up her humble abode in umpteen liquor boxes in preparation for The Big Move next week. (FYI, liquor boxes make the best moving boxes, ladies and gents; they're designed to be strong enough to port glass bottles full of liquid safely, surely they will hold your books and Yule decorations. Plus, they're small enough that even if you're a noodle-armed mini-chubber like me, you can still lift them, no matter what you fill them with. LIFE HACK.)
Today I want to talk about something that's really been burning my biscuits lately: the perception of mom bodies.
I'm so beyond sick of the stigma surrounding mom bodies! I'm tired of hearing it echoed over and over that "childbirth ruins your body." You can sense it when you hear discussions about the changes a woman goes through bearing children--the sadness that another lithe young frame is now all used up, busted, blown out, worn out, burned out, RUINED.
Oh, we see the beautiful celebrity moms with their healthy glow and baby bump, their oh-so-modest weight gain, and immediate shedding of those few pounds to regain their red-carpet bodies a few days after quietly slipping a precious infant out of their magic vaginas...or that's the image we're sold, anyway. Oh, we know that in order to look so good pregnant, they must spend millions of dollars and employ an army of personnel to make sure that they don't cave to a craving for pizza or even osmose the vapors from a glass of wine 50 feet away from them; that they employ personal trainers from hell and sadistic nutritionists after the magic birth to restrict their diets down to nothing but raw fruits and vegetables and pill supplements and keep them chained to the treadmill 24 hours a day in order to torture their post-birth bodies back into shape...because that's what the magazines tell us. And we despair, because without all that money and help and self-control, we're doomed to become fat, saggy, stretch-marked RUINS.
And it's that word, that awful word, RUINED, that really gets me. It insists that there is only one acceptable body, and that a woman who bears children, a mother, is permanently banned from it. That if you choose to have children, you're no longer able to be considered sexually; you've been relegated to livestock status; you're a brood mare, a breeding cow, or at the very least just plain gross.
What the hell? Seriously, what the hell? I know our society has an obsession with maintaining a preteen body, and that a post-birth body is symbolically the complete opposite of that, but this really takes the whole damn cake in the Pissing Me Off contest. GUESS WHAT, PEEPS? WE'RE ALL GONNA GET OLD, IF WE SHOULD BE SO LUCKY. We will gain weight; our skin's collagen will just give out eventually; gravity will do transformative magic to flesh we didn't even know we had; we will get wrinkles; we will no longer be 21! THE HORROR.
And as someone who is planning on getting knocked up in the next year or two, yup, I know what I've got in store. I will get stretch marks; I know this because I already have them from frickin' puberty (oh shit, where did these baby-bearing hips and giant fluffy boobies come from?!), and I do not care. My tummy will not have the same snap it used to, and I give not one shit, because I plan on getting a little heavier as I age anyway; my frame happens to be of the sort that looks better with a little weight on it, despite what social messages say. My boobies will probably not go too far south, because they have some amazing staying power even at the retarded huge size they are now, but even if they did, so what? And yes, I will probably wear sweatpants a good amount of the time, and may not take the time to brush the spaghetti out of my hair before I go to the store, but you can bite my chubby, baby-bearing ass, public. My body will not be RUINED, it will just be different, and it will be frackin' magical for having produced LIFE, and for surviving what is still one of the most dangerous human activities outside of extreme sports or bear-fighting.
My stretch marks are my tiger stripes, and my floppy milk tits will be my fertility badges. So back the fuck off.
Today I want to talk about something that's really been burning my biscuits lately: the perception of mom bodies.
I'm so beyond sick of the stigma surrounding mom bodies! I'm tired of hearing it echoed over and over that "childbirth ruins your body." You can sense it when you hear discussions about the changes a woman goes through bearing children--the sadness that another lithe young frame is now all used up, busted, blown out, worn out, burned out, RUINED.
Oh, we see the beautiful celebrity moms with their healthy glow and baby bump, their oh-so-modest weight gain, and immediate shedding of those few pounds to regain their red-carpet bodies a few days after quietly slipping a precious infant out of their magic vaginas...or that's the image we're sold, anyway. Oh, we know that in order to look so good pregnant, they must spend millions of dollars and employ an army of personnel to make sure that they don't cave to a craving for pizza or even osmose the vapors from a glass of wine 50 feet away from them; that they employ personal trainers from hell and sadistic nutritionists after the magic birth to restrict their diets down to nothing but raw fruits and vegetables and pill supplements and keep them chained to the treadmill 24 hours a day in order to torture their post-birth bodies back into shape...because that's what the magazines tell us. And we despair, because without all that money and help and self-control, we're doomed to become fat, saggy, stretch-marked RUINS.
And it's that word, that awful word, RUINED, that really gets me. It insists that there is only one acceptable body, and that a woman who bears children, a mother, is permanently banned from it. That if you choose to have children, you're no longer able to be considered sexually; you've been relegated to livestock status; you're a brood mare, a breeding cow, or at the very least just plain gross.
What the hell? Seriously, what the hell? I know our society has an obsession with maintaining a preteen body, and that a post-birth body is symbolically the complete opposite of that, but this really takes the whole damn cake in the Pissing Me Off contest. GUESS WHAT, PEEPS? WE'RE ALL GONNA GET OLD, IF WE SHOULD BE SO LUCKY. We will gain weight; our skin's collagen will just give out eventually; gravity will do transformative magic to flesh we didn't even know we had; we will get wrinkles; we will no longer be 21! THE HORROR.
And as someone who is planning on getting knocked up in the next year or two, yup, I know what I've got in store. I will get stretch marks; I know this because I already have them from frickin' puberty (oh shit, where did these baby-bearing hips and giant fluffy boobies come from?!), and I do not care. My tummy will not have the same snap it used to, and I give not one shit, because I plan on getting a little heavier as I age anyway; my frame happens to be of the sort that looks better with a little weight on it, despite what social messages say. My boobies will probably not go too far south, because they have some amazing staying power even at the retarded huge size they are now, but even if they did, so what? And yes, I will probably wear sweatpants a good amount of the time, and may not take the time to brush the spaghetti out of my hair before I go to the store, but you can bite my chubby, baby-bearing ass, public. My body will not be RUINED, it will just be different, and it will be frackin' magical for having produced LIFE, and for surviving what is still one of the most dangerous human activities outside of extreme sports or bear-fighting.
My stretch marks are my tiger stripes, and my floppy milk tits will be my fertility badges. So back the fuck off.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Wait, what? What am I doing? Oh...working!
Hey, y'all.
The last few days have been kind of a run-on haze. Sorry I neglected you, but I've been terribly busy. "Doing what?" you ask. Well, aside from feeding my family and taking the car to the shop and running everyone to and from work, and doing the grocery shopping, and finding time to wash a little laundry here and there, I've been working!
And not just any old job flippin' burgers, but actually doing a branch of my dream job. That's right, kids, Mama's currently engaged doing some new colors for Macon Man.
I've wanted to work in the comics industry since I was 12. I've always been into drawing and art, and since I was two years old, you couldn't hardly find me without a pencil or a crayon or a paint brush in my hand. Plus, my dad has been an avid reader and collector of comic books all his life, so there were always comics around the house. Heck, when I was five, my "imaginary friend" was Batman. I just never knew that people actually got paid to make comics, until my dad started sharing his comics magazines with me; there were interviews and industry news and how-tos in there that opened up a whole new world for me. I decided I wanted to be a comic book artist (a penciler, specifically, at the time), and started drawing sequential pieces, and when I was 12 my dad helped me put together a portfolio and took me to my first comic convention. It's been off into the wild blue yonder since then, pretty much.
My husband and I actually moved to the Atlanta area to advance my career. I dunno if you know it, but Atlanta's probably the second or third most poppin' joint for comics creators; there are all kinds of studios and independent artists and writers here; most of the guys and gals who show up for Dragon*Con in the comics section are locals. It's a very exciting place for young up-and-coming artists, between The Cartoon Network and all the veterans available to one.
But jeezum pete is it a demanding career. Sure, you get to make your own schedule and work from home, but you bet your sweet ass you'll probably be working 12+ hours a day to make that cheddar and meet those deadlines. And trying to be a Fake Housewife on top of that? Bring me a glass of gin and stand the hell back. Here's what's been keeping me sane.
Mama's Tips for Managing a Busy Independent Schedule:
If you find, though, that you wind up looking up from your work and thinking, "Hmm, maybe I should goof off on the Internet for a bit...nah, screw it, I'd rather be doing this," you might have found yourself a job worth sticking to.
The last few days have been kind of a run-on haze. Sorry I neglected you, but I've been terribly busy. "Doing what?" you ask. Well, aside from feeding my family and taking the car to the shop and running everyone to and from work, and doing the grocery shopping, and finding time to wash a little laundry here and there, I've been working!
And not just any old job flippin' burgers, but actually doing a branch of my dream job. That's right, kids, Mama's currently engaged doing some new colors for Macon Man.
I've wanted to work in the comics industry since I was 12. I've always been into drawing and art, and since I was two years old, you couldn't hardly find me without a pencil or a crayon or a paint brush in my hand. Plus, my dad has been an avid reader and collector of comic books all his life, so there were always comics around the house. Heck, when I was five, my "imaginary friend" was Batman. I just never knew that people actually got paid to make comics, until my dad started sharing his comics magazines with me; there were interviews and industry news and how-tos in there that opened up a whole new world for me. I decided I wanted to be a comic book artist (a penciler, specifically, at the time), and started drawing sequential pieces, and when I was 12 my dad helped me put together a portfolio and took me to my first comic convention. It's been off into the wild blue yonder since then, pretty much.
My husband and I actually moved to the Atlanta area to advance my career. I dunno if you know it, but Atlanta's probably the second or third most poppin' joint for comics creators; there are all kinds of studios and independent artists and writers here; most of the guys and gals who show up for Dragon*Con in the comics section are locals. It's a very exciting place for young up-and-coming artists, between The Cartoon Network and all the veterans available to one.
But jeezum pete is it a demanding career. Sure, you get to make your own schedule and work from home, but you bet your sweet ass you'll probably be working 12+ hours a day to make that cheddar and meet those deadlines. And trying to be a Fake Housewife on top of that? Bring me a glass of gin and stand the hell back. Here's what's been keeping me sane.
Mama's Tips for Managing a Busy Independent Schedule:
- Break it down into small tasks. You will go nuts if you don't. Crazy rampage nuts.
- On that note, make lists. A jillion lists. You'll feel accomplished as you cross off each item, and it will keep you on task.
- Schedule regular breaks. You gotta pee and eat, right? And if you spend too long on one task, you will find yourself getting burned out and missing the big picture.
- Make yourself stick to some kind of actual schedule. It's okay if it changes here and there; after all, most people have "weekday" and "weekend" schedules. And you gotta leave wiggle room for unforeseen non-work disasters. If you're the one at home all the time, guess who's taking the car to the shop?
- Go outside at least once a day, or you will turn into a horrible cave troll. And for that matter, get a little exercise daily.
- Designate a work space or work state. You love your family and friends, I know you do, but they need to know that just because you're home doesn't mean you're always available. You need to concentrate like mad for big chunks of the day, and like it or not, that means they need to leave you alone.
- It ain't a hobby any more; it's a job. Treat it like one. Be professional. Be responsible. Be accountable.
- Take the time to get dressed. Seriously, you would not believe how much more productive you will be in a pair of jeans and a comfortable but professional-looking sweater than in those ratty PJs. Slippers are always okay, though.
- Figure out what you need in order to concentrate, but don't let it turn into excuses not to work. You need your Pandora channel set to play mellow jazz hip-hop? All right (it's really a perfect working music, I kid you not). You need 30 minutes of cardio before you can get crackin'? Cool. But don't spend an hour looking for your lucky bobblehead, or rearranging your pencils, before you'll sit down and do something.
- Set realistic productivity goals for yourself, and surpass them as often as you can.
If you find, though, that you wind up looking up from your work and thinking, "Hmm, maybe I should goof off on the Internet for a bit...nah, screw it, I'd rather be doing this," you might have found yourself a job worth sticking to.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
What Mama Likes, Vol. 1
Jesus Christ on a whole wheat cracker. I really want to be an informed citizen, but it seems like every time I read or listen to the news of current events in the U.S., I develop a strong desire to have the ability to make my own head explode. I may speak at greater length about this later, but I'm just too upset right now.
So instead, here is a list of a few simple material things that made me happy today.
Pottery Barn pillar candles. I flippin' love candles for decorating. Any time you just want some nice, low, cozy and/or romantic light, nothing beats a lovely array of candles. I like grabbing interesting scents, and also just having a stock of big ol' candles that will burn long and last me a while. Pottery Barn's unscented pillars are on sale right now, and I was surprised at what a good price they were. Big-ass pillar candle for $6? Heck yeah. I mean, Target's candles of similar size are twice as much. Plus, they have free catalogs, so now I have material I can cut for my "decorating ideas" book.
Cover Girl's new Queen line. A line of products aimed at darker complexions? Color me relieved! And represented by Queen Latifah, no less? A gorgeous plus-size black woman being marketed as the face of beauty? Unlimited excitement!
Charming Charlie. I know you can't tell by the website, but this is largely an accessories store. The reason I like Charming Charlie is because I flippin' love ridonkulous, brightly-colored baubles that occasionally border right on tacky. And CC is stuffed to bursting with exactly that. Thank blob they organize everything by color. Also, nothing in there is out-of-question expensive; I don't think they have any jewelry pieces or sets above $25, so if you want to get a couple of things to jazz up an outfit, you can do it without going over budget.
So there you go--those are a couple of things that Mama likes. Don't forget to vote, and I mean in all the elections; local, state, and national.
So instead, here is a list of a few simple material things that made me happy today.
Pottery Barn pillar candles. I flippin' love candles for decorating. Any time you just want some nice, low, cozy and/or romantic light, nothing beats a lovely array of candles. I like grabbing interesting scents, and also just having a stock of big ol' candles that will burn long and last me a while. Pottery Barn's unscented pillars are on sale right now, and I was surprised at what a good price they were. Big-ass pillar candle for $6? Heck yeah. I mean, Target's candles of similar size are twice as much. Plus, they have free catalogs, so now I have material I can cut for my "decorating ideas" book.
Cover Girl's new Queen line. A line of products aimed at darker complexions? Color me relieved! And represented by Queen Latifah, no less? A gorgeous plus-size black woman being marketed as the face of beauty? Unlimited excitement!
Charming Charlie. I know you can't tell by the website, but this is largely an accessories store. The reason I like Charming Charlie is because I flippin' love ridonkulous, brightly-colored baubles that occasionally border right on tacky. And CC is stuffed to bursting with exactly that. Thank blob they organize everything by color. Also, nothing in there is out-of-question expensive; I don't think they have any jewelry pieces or sets above $25, so if you want to get a couple of things to jazz up an outfit, you can do it without going over budget.
So there you go--those are a couple of things that Mama likes. Don't forget to vote, and I mean in all the elections; local, state, and national.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Apparently My Totem Animal is...Oprah?
Okay, just had to share this. I generally have pretty vivid and wacky dreams, but it's rare that I feel like I'm being given a message of any kind, or even that my subconscious is trying to process something about my waking life. Last night was different.
I dreamt that my husband and I were chilling in some kind of rec center, waiting for something, when Oprah burst in with a camera crew and her staff. Apparently she was on some kind of "real women, real issues" tour where she just showed up at random places and surveyed real women live on camera. She plunked down at our table without warning and announced that, "Today we're going to be talking to Real Women about issues like health, diet, and holiday weight gain. What's your name, darlin'?" I gave her my name and she wrote it down on a form in what looked like a well-traveled back issue of her magazine. "And how much do you weigh?"
I found my Southern sensibilities quite thrown off; I hadn't expected Dream Oprah to be quite so brazenly forward. She kept asking me questions about my weight and eating habits, and, as is often the case in dreams, I couldn't do either of the things I really wanted to do--either get away or take her to task for her promotion of anti-scientific, quack-medical bullshit that's destroying people's health in America. Dream Oprah completely Mom Voiced me. And she didn't believe any of my answers to her questions about my damn eating habits. She just kept looking at me with that knowing look that moms and teachers and sitcom black women can get--"Mmmm-hmm...yeah right, honey; keep lying to yourself."
I'll admit it; I don't have the world's best diet, and I pretty much never frickin' exercise. It's not like I eat McDonald's for every meal. I do manage to get some fresh fruit and veg in there, more than one serving a day, even, and I try to stick to lean proteins. I avoid frying a good amount of the time, and I drink water or orange juice almost exclusively. I do eat refined sugars, though, and gad help me, I love booze. Yes, I should eat more whole grains and vegetables, and I really should get on some kind of exercise regimen. Even if I'm a "good size" (thanks a lot, judgmental media, for putting value requirements on something as arbitrary and variable as body size and shape!) I'm not truly healthy, because I don't do enough cardio.
So I guess I'll start making a better effort to be healthy. Okay, Dream Oprah, are you satisfied? Get off my ass now, ya billion-dollar-havin' bitch.
I dreamt that my husband and I were chilling in some kind of rec center, waiting for something, when Oprah burst in with a camera crew and her staff. Apparently she was on some kind of "real women, real issues" tour where she just showed up at random places and surveyed real women live on camera. She plunked down at our table without warning and announced that, "Today we're going to be talking to Real Women about issues like health, diet, and holiday weight gain. What's your name, darlin'?" I gave her my name and she wrote it down on a form in what looked like a well-traveled back issue of her magazine. "And how much do you weigh?"
I found my Southern sensibilities quite thrown off; I hadn't expected Dream Oprah to be quite so brazenly forward. She kept asking me questions about my weight and eating habits, and, as is often the case in dreams, I couldn't do either of the things I really wanted to do--either get away or take her to task for her promotion of anti-scientific, quack-medical bullshit that's destroying people's health in America. Dream Oprah completely Mom Voiced me. And she didn't believe any of my answers to her questions about my damn eating habits. She just kept looking at me with that knowing look that moms and teachers and sitcom black women can get--"Mmmm-hmm...yeah right, honey; keep lying to yourself."
I'll admit it; I don't have the world's best diet, and I pretty much never frickin' exercise. It's not like I eat McDonald's for every meal. I do manage to get some fresh fruit and veg in there, more than one serving a day, even, and I try to stick to lean proteins. I avoid frying a good amount of the time, and I drink water or orange juice almost exclusively. I do eat refined sugars, though, and gad help me, I love booze. Yes, I should eat more whole grains and vegetables, and I really should get on some kind of exercise regimen. Even if I'm a "good size" (thanks a lot, judgmental media, for putting value requirements on something as arbitrary and variable as body size and shape!) I'm not truly healthy, because I don't do enough cardio.
So I guess I'll start making a better effort to be healthy. Okay, Dream Oprah, are you satisfied? Get off my ass now, ya billion-dollar-havin' bitch.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Stay Classy, Georgia
Well, we're down to the wire with moving preparations; the husband and I decided some time ago to forsake the Big City of Atlanta and head back to our own familiar burg of Asheville, and let me tell ya, I can't wait.
Don't get me wrong, ATL; there are things I will definitely miss. Your abundance of authentic ethnic cuisine; your super-sized Asian grocery stores and farmer's markets, where fresh produce and spices could be had for retarded cheap; your presence of black people in positions of power and influence; and yes, your plethora of big box stores. I liked knowing that I could go back next week and get the same bowl and cup set if I decided I needed more, and that I didn't have to make a snap decision to purchase because the item in question was one-of-a-kind, handmade, limited edition. I do support art, artists, and artisans, and I love that Asheville feels the same way, but I'm just not ready to create my home around hand-thrown, non-dishwasher-safe tableware yet. Especially not if there are to be young children around any time soon.
But I digress. There are things I am all too ready to get away from, and one of them is just...Georgia.
Georgia, darling...you are fucked up. You're like a young heiress to some old cotton fortune who moved into a trailer and started cooking meth, but still for some reason shows up for church every Sunday and has the audacity to be judgmental of the interracial gay couple you saw on Bravo yesterday. Whether it's barring people from buying beer on Sundays, or a school board so inept at getting their shit together that the entire system is threatened with loss of accreditation, or an insistence that underage prostitutes should be criminally prosecuted, you just keep showing your true colors, and, girl, they could use a wash in some color-safe Cheer.
Georgia, I am begging you: lay off the meth and the Jesus creeping, you're making us all look bad, and you're embarrassing yourself. Seriously.
I'm glad that Sunday alcohol sales looks like it's going to get a referendum soon. What the heck reason is there to shut down the beer aisle on Sunday? Oh...wait...religious motivation? Separation of church and state, my friends. I don't care if you think "people oughta be in church on Sunday, 'cause it's the lord's day;" not everyone believes as you do, and some of us don't believe at all. Hell, maybe I believe in Thor, and since mead is the beverage of the gods of Asgard, I think it ought to be mandatory to drink mead on Thursday, or Thor's Day, as it was called before it was corrupted by unbelievers. Doesn't mean I'm right, and it doesn't mean it should be official legislation, because it would be infringing on other people's rights in order to promote my religious agenda.
And the whole child prostitute thing...what the heck, Georgia? Seriously, what is wrong with you? "If these 12-year-old rape victims don't get thrown in jail when we catch them, their pimps might start to think that it's okay to rape and prostitute children, and other kids might get the idea that sex is consequence-free!" Not even kidding about that line of reasoning. Wish I was. But unfortunately, I'm not. Really, pimps would stop pimping if we punished their prostitutes, guys. Oh, and when kids see middle-schoolers walking the streets as hookers and getting raped and beaten up, they get the idea that sex is consequence-free, so they should just start having it. This is the attitude of the Christian Right here in Georgia; way to beat some truly sad victims with the ol' Bible belt, guys.
Asheville has its own set of egregious woo-woo (I swear to Thor, if I hear the phrase, "You should try some homeopathic medicine" one more time, I'm getting my hammer). But the kind of dyed-in-the-wool crazy that comes with the brand of Bible-thumping Jesus creeping that seems so prevalent here is just so much more offensive to me.
Anyway; I'll leave off ranting for today. Mama's got some packing to do.
Don't get me wrong, ATL; there are things I will definitely miss. Your abundance of authentic ethnic cuisine; your super-sized Asian grocery stores and farmer's markets, where fresh produce and spices could be had for retarded cheap; your presence of black people in positions of power and influence; and yes, your plethora of big box stores. I liked knowing that I could go back next week and get the same bowl and cup set if I decided I needed more, and that I didn't have to make a snap decision to purchase because the item in question was one-of-a-kind, handmade, limited edition. I do support art, artists, and artisans, and I love that Asheville feels the same way, but I'm just not ready to create my home around hand-thrown, non-dishwasher-safe tableware yet. Especially not if there are to be young children around any time soon.
But I digress. There are things I am all too ready to get away from, and one of them is just...Georgia.
Georgia, darling...you are fucked up. You're like a young heiress to some old cotton fortune who moved into a trailer and started cooking meth, but still for some reason shows up for church every Sunday and has the audacity to be judgmental of the interracial gay couple you saw on Bravo yesterday. Whether it's barring people from buying beer on Sundays, or a school board so inept at getting their shit together that the entire system is threatened with loss of accreditation, or an insistence that underage prostitutes should be criminally prosecuted, you just keep showing your true colors, and, girl, they could use a wash in some color-safe Cheer.
Georgia, I am begging you: lay off the meth and the Jesus creeping, you're making us all look bad, and you're embarrassing yourself. Seriously.
I'm glad that Sunday alcohol sales looks like it's going to get a referendum soon. What the heck reason is there to shut down the beer aisle on Sunday? Oh...wait...religious motivation? Separation of church and state, my friends. I don't care if you think "people oughta be in church on Sunday, 'cause it's the lord's day;" not everyone believes as you do, and some of us don't believe at all. Hell, maybe I believe in Thor, and since mead is the beverage of the gods of Asgard, I think it ought to be mandatory to drink mead on Thursday, or Thor's Day, as it was called before it was corrupted by unbelievers. Doesn't mean I'm right, and it doesn't mean it should be official legislation, because it would be infringing on other people's rights in order to promote my religious agenda.
And the whole child prostitute thing...what the heck, Georgia? Seriously, what is wrong with you? "If these 12-year-old rape victims don't get thrown in jail when we catch them, their pimps might start to think that it's okay to rape and prostitute children, and other kids might get the idea that sex is consequence-free!" Not even kidding about that line of reasoning. Wish I was. But unfortunately, I'm not. Really, pimps would stop pimping if we punished their prostitutes, guys. Oh, and when kids see middle-schoolers walking the streets as hookers and getting raped and beaten up, they get the idea that sex is consequence-free, so they should just start having it. This is the attitude of the Christian Right here in Georgia; way to beat some truly sad victims with the ol' Bible belt, guys.
Asheville has its own set of egregious woo-woo (I swear to Thor, if I hear the phrase, "You should try some homeopathic medicine" one more time, I'm getting my hammer). But the kind of dyed-in-the-wool crazy that comes with the brand of Bible-thumping Jesus creeping that seems so prevalent here is just so much more offensive to me.
Anyway; I'll leave off ranting for today. Mama's got some packing to do.
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