I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. Choices I regretted instantly (cutting my own bangs, always), or later, after maybe seeing old photos (a tongue piercing, Christi, really?). One of my more recent mistakes — or let’s be kind, questionable choices — was last summer, when I decided the one thing missing from my house was another mouth to feed, preferably male. I mean, why not? I already live with 3 creatures so unlike me I’m not really sure how the human race continues on, let’s add one more, but this time, with fur.
Happy Friday! Got big plans for the day? Cool, cool, sounds good. Me? Oh, nothing major. Just having a tube put down my throat to take photos of my stomach. You know, like you do. Why, you ask? Because life is a cruel, ironic joke sometimes, that’s why.
If there’s one thing I have learned this week, it’s that people feel all kinds of ways about the South. The South has long been the butt of the rest of America’s jokes, and to be honest, I get it. I mean, we are basically the worst at everything. And it’s so freaking humid here that when you walk outside from May to September, you would swear you are walking around in Satan’s mouth after a night of chugging Fireball and eating Krystals. (Satan is probably Southern). And then there’s been this tiny little issue over that stupid-ass flag that will not die. Except now it’s finally coming down, which has so many folks OUTRAGED because apparently they are all history and political science experts who claim to know that flying the Stars and Bars isn’t RACIST it’s TRADITION or some other shit that I can’t even hear any more.
I am writing this post from the grave. Because last night I worked out so hard I think I died. Maybe? Is that possible? I mean, I’m sure it is. Don’t kids in Taiwan or South Korea die from playing video games too hard or something? Anyway, if they can die from playing Super Mario Bros, surely I can die by kettlebell swing.
That being said, even if I might be dead, it was TOTALLY worth it. Sure, I can’t really lift my arms today and I groan when I stand up, but I’ve reached the crazy point in my fitness journey where those things make me happy. Or I’ve suffered a stroke. I don’t smell toast, so I think I’m safe? Who really knows.
Like many Gen Xers, when news broke that Hollywood was making a Jem and the Holograms movie, I was thrilled. And super nervous. Because Hollywood can be the worst and Jem is the best. Maybe I’m not the target audience and the fact that I have even paid attention to this may be the saddest thing ever, but this is MY CHILDHOOD they are dealing with, and I don’t take that lightly.
Oh god, it’s Pi Day again, and literally everyone is LOLing at all the pie jokes while I’m over here rolling my eyes because math jokes are not my jam. Also because I think pie is the worst, which I said on Facebook today and basically got excommunicated by all my friends. Apparently not loving pie (or cheesecake, my other nightmare) makes me “weird” or “a criminal” or “worthy of death.” Which seems extreme, but everyone has something they are passionate about, and desserts seem like a good cause, so I get it.
Facebook turns 11 this month. Happy birthday, time suck!
Lately I’ve been having a Facebook issue.
Not a “what the EFF have you done to my timeline, now, Zuckerberg??” issue. More like a “What the EFF is this even all about?” kinda issue.
I’ve never been one to hair-flip off of social media when someone pissed me off. I enjoy social media, and for a while, it even paid the bills. But lately, I’ve been thinking about the relationships we form on Facebook and how that carries over into real life. The beauty of Facebook is significant, I think. Keeping up with friends and family, old and new, in a way that would never be possible 20 years ago. Celebrating our achievements and milestones together. Reaching out when times are bleak. Reconnecting with lost loved ones. Hell, laughing at George Takei. Those are all good and real things.
But then there’s the bad. So much bad, sometimes. Ugliness, drama, annoyances, VAGUEBOOKING. All of that can make us all SWEAR we are DONE with this WASTE OF TIME and we are NEVER logging back on AGAIN. Except, we do. We always do.
If you’ve been around me at all in the past couple of weeks, you’ve heard me say that. “I’m hungry.” Why? BECAUSE I AM ON A DIET FROM HELL.
Ahem. I apologize for that outburst. That was very unlady like.
Over the weekend, I attended a Happy Hysterectomy Party, and I’m sure many of you did as well. Tis the season and all. For the few of you who have yet to join the hysterectomy party circuit, a HHP (as they are known, obvs) is an event a woman plans to celebrate the upcoming removal of her uterus. Because nothing says “PARTY!!!” like having the center of your womanhood extracted. P!nk’s next album really focuses on this, I hear.
No, in all seriousness, this was a great event. A dear friend is having the procedure young, and was hit with the reality that the surgery represents more than just removing a troubled organ from her body. The uterus pretty much effects 90% of a woman’s lifetime in various ways, whether you have kids or not. So to suddenly LOSE this aspect is a little sad and a little happy. My friend decided that the best way to say sayonara to the old broad was to gather together some of her fave girls and have a celebration of womanhood and what that means to us. Yea, it sounds a little like a coven, and we might have burned some spices and other witchy things, but it was honestly a BLAST. The case of prosecco helped, as well. Give me enough bubbly and I’ll set anything on fire.
It’s time for me to say the things here that I say in my home, in safe place, inside my walls.
It’s time to say we have a problem. And I want to be part of the solution.
Tonight, I’ve been glued to my tv, watching the news about Michael Brown and Darren Wilson. I waited for the announcement that Wilson would NOT be indicted for shooting an unarmed man 10+ times, despite knowing in my heart that it wouldn’t happen.
It was never going to happen.