Thursday, May 30, 2013

Zombies, Zombies Everywhere and Not a Toe to Eat…

This morning I woke up from nightmares riddled with zombies and poorly organized 5K races.  Now for those who know, the more terrifying dream contains the disorganized 5K business, but that’s for another time.  The zombie bit, however, was understandably disturbing and somewhat sleep depriving.

Ever since I was young, I’ve had a deep love-hate relationship with horror.  Love it; can’t watch it. Watch it anyway; toss and turn all night with my mind rewriting an REM storyline much scarier than the original.  Because let’s be real, the predictability of horror these days kind of takes the punch out of it for some, and by some, I mean me.  Only even if I knew where the story was going while I watched, I still get punched with the unknown.  All night long.

Back to this morning…upon waking, I began ferreting out the reason my brain went wonky with my own personal sucker punches.  Lucky for me being almost intelligent, it only took a few seconds to figure out why my brain was so disturbed while simultaneously realizing a small victory of a fight almost forgotten: you actually can break zombie rules and have that breach work for you.

Here’s an offending clip similar to what I saw right before heading to beddie-bye:


These aren’t your ordinary zombies.  These are fast moving zombies.  Zombies don’t move quickly.  They don’t.  Ever.  Mostly because fast moving zombies are a major violation of zombie rules. 

You can be surprised by a zombie arm bashing through a window and pulling you through it.  They can have that sense of surprise and strength.

You can be tricked into thinking your relative, now zombified, is still in there, but find out you’re wrong because they bite a chunk out of your shoulder.

You can outrun a zombie…wait.  Not so in this new film.  This fact would have old school critics up in arms, believe me.  (If you don’t, read some of the commentary.)  Zombie rules are serious business.

Back, moons ago, I blogged the raging debate I had with my youthful, creative writing cohorts over zombie rules because another student had written a short story liberally busting up zombie codes of conduct.  I felt it was a particularly well-written story, and rule breakage actually made the story more believable, or at the very least, more entertaining.  I was basically told at that time that maybe I was too old to get it (fuck you, too, creatively-caged babies) and that “everyone knows you can’t break zombie rules.”  “It’s just not done.”  “It’s the poorest of form.”  “People have expectations”…yada yada yada.  *eye roll*

Back to speedy zombies you can’t seem to outrun and who can, en masse, overtake a city bus.  Breaking the rules makes this story scarier.  Or apparently it did for my brain.

It’s the element of surprise, people.  The unexpected.  Humans, in general, don’t like that whole unforeseen, total loss of control business.  It’s why movies like Halloween and Jaws scared the bejesus out of most people. 

I also suspect that’s why all we see now are copied themes and remakes of old stories that originally made money.  It’s an attempt to engage new blood to these classic horror techniques, except the shock factor is done and dusty.  Expected.  We know that as the sweet music is playing towards the roll of credits, the arm will reach up from the grave and grab the woman's arm placing flowers there.  We know when the person finally kills the monster that plummets over the cliff/balcony/stairwell that the body will be long gone by the time the protagonist leans over to take a look-see.  Those rehashed stories are certainly safe money makers, but BOOORINGGGZZZZzzzzzz. 

Perhaps people like the security conventional tactics provide?  We sure seem to like to know, and control, the outcome of things.  Fast moving zombies put us out of our element.  They make us more scared because we can’t determine where we’ll end up, or if we’ll survive.  Heroes of our own life, we’re not sure we have the smarts, strength, and speed to move faster and with more endurance than the most adept, threatening zombie in our world. 

Broken rules make us feel…unsafe.  Still, a broken rule is anything but boring.  Breaking the rules shakes people up a bit.  Makes stories scarier.  Or funnier.  Or sadder.  But infinitely more interesting.  That goes for the stories of our lives, too.

We’re forced to grow, to think more creatively with more cunning, compassion, and character.  Trained to follow the rules, we have to be courageous enough to step outside of the box while dealing with our own bus-dumping, fast moving, flesh eating “monsters” that’d sooner suck us into their daily catatonic abyss of blah than allow us to wrench ourselves free and become something far more intriguing to ourselves and the rest of the world.

I may or may not need to see World War Z in the theater, though if not, I suspect I’ll watch it on video at some point (best when my mate doesn’t have to get up early since he’ll be dealing with my catastrophizing dreamscape).  I’ll watch because I have a sincere appreciation for the disregarding of rules…especially of the zombie variety. 


And finally, to that guy from my English 415 class, wherever he is now, we were right, dude.  Screw the zombie rules!  Rule breakers unite!!!

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Pinch you!! That’s MINE…


*blink*
*blink*

To be honest, when I read the headline, I thought maybe this woman was making an example of her 13 year old son.  You know, the whole tough love bit?  The “you’re always taking stuff that isn’t yours so now I’m toasting your tart” parenting gem in an attempt to adjust the child’s offending ways?  I could get behind that.

Reading on, however, we find out maybe Tash isn’t going to win this year’s award for Sparkling Role Model nor Mother of the Year.  But what she might win is even better: the almost always coveted Ms. Most Crazy Food Obsession 2013.

Her intense love for the Tart may seem odd to some, I suppose, but not to me, although my wheat sensitivities and diligent calorie counting keep me away from the perfectly frosted, faux-fruit confection.  And while Tarts are crossed from my list, don’t you worry!  I have a whole collection of “speed dial 911 on your thieving ass” foods because I am a super-huge fan of eating. 

Anyway, here’s a few of mine that will get you tossed in the clink for such thievery:

1. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.  Chocolate and peanut butter.  Seriously simplistic, yet a delicately blended balance of sweet and salty.  Sneak a cup, and I’ll be visiting you at the hoosegow.  Two, and I might just let you rot there…forever

2. Chester Cheetah Puffy Cheetos.  Most perfect snack ever created.  Ever.  Puffies, due to their melt in your mouth quality, are far superior to the crunchy variety.  Healthy?  Of course!  Puffies have dietary fiber, protein, Vitamin A, and iron, too.  Just be sure to lick the cheesy goodness off your busted-by-those-blaze-orange fingers before you dial that one phone call.  You don’t know who’s dialed out before you, and you sure don’t want to waste any deliciousness…

3. Bacon.  Yes, I’ll admit bacon is an unusual food to find on a vegetarian’s send-you-up-the-river-for-stealing-my-grub list, but bacon is how we know that God exists, and sometimes we have to honor our connection to our Maker.  Besides it’s the “gateway” meat; everyone who’s anyone knows that.  It’s flawlessness in a greasy strip. If you’re lucky, the coppers will let you off for good behavior, and by that I mean you’ve fried up another pound.  Crispy, please…

4. Red wine.  Wine is too a food.  It’s fruit that’s been left in a cup to overly ripen.  According to the new food pyramid, one should consume at least two daily servings.  Steal my vino, and I’ll make sure you do hard time. It’s a matter of health after all…

5. Coffee.  Made from the coffee bean.  *smirk*  One needs to understand the clear and present danger regarding my devotion to my pot of black gold.  I won’t turn you in to the police for swiping my joe, but they won’t ever find your body either…

See, Ms. Love?  There are those of us out there who get your impeccably sound rationale for squealing your son out to the boys in blue.  This is how children learn where their boundaries are.  They learn what doesn’t belong to them, doesn't belong to them.  They learn that Mom is always right. And, well, they learn that batshit crazy folks aren’t always living on the next block but often sleep under the same roof.  No worries, honey.  My kids turned out just fine.  Your son will, too.


Hmm, I guess there’s going to be a real competition for the title this year, eh?  At least I look stellar in a sash and tiara… 

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

I am woman. Here me mooo...


You gotta love a chick with a mind of her own.  You gotta love her even more when she’s got a kickass killer body and more self esteem than a lot of women three times her 18 years have.


Zoe Smith, you’re my hero.  Seriously.

You see, I can relate to Zoe Zo Zo.  I’ve never felt limited to the lacy, sweet, stay-at-home-barefoot-and-preggers, serve-my-man type of feminine mystique.  Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been a bit intimidating to a lot of men (or so I’m told anyway).  I will tell you what I think.  I’m not afraid to be someone’s wingman in a fist fight.  I push a lot of weight in the gym myself, even at the ripe age of 46.  Course, I also embrace my inner sex kitten.  (Oh, and in the event you’re worried that I might end up a dried up, old spinster, quite early on I found myself a fearless man whose mad confidence equaled my own, and everyday we share new adventures.)

In our society post-bra burning era, all went well for a while. But what has been becoming glaringly apparent in the past few years is that we’re seeing a strange re-emergence of “anti-feminism”, a good deal of which is being perpetuated by females in particular.  If you aren’t in a slightly cleavage-bearing, knee-length dress, tasteful stilettos, a ring of Joan Cleaver pearls around your neck, hair perfectly coifed and nails all frenched out while being demure and subservient to your man, you’re somehow “unfeminine”.  That’s a mighty limited view of what it is to be a woman, that’s for sure. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I like having my nails done.  I’m not opposed to flashing some flesh.  And Lord knows of my love for a wicked set of heels.  I even let my man have the upper hand without a fight sometimes.  But it’d better be my choice to create that image of myself, not because that’s the prescribed notion of what makes me “beautifully feminine”. 

Perhaps this shifting of our concept of womanhood is what needs to be at the core of today’s neo-feminist movement.  An understanding that by the sheer nature of having a vagina (holy shit, there’s that word again!), a woman can’t help but be feminine.

True feminism should be about expanding our choices as women, accepting every fluid aspect of feminine, thus widening our perceptions about what is appropriate for us as women both collectively and, even more importantly, individually. 

It’s about empowering ourselves with all the different ways that “feminine” can look, but then even more crucially, not judging one another for those very personal choices. 

It’s about not allowing some men (and I say “some” because I know plenty of men excited about women expanding their options and positive self-defining behaviors)—and their limited, often stereotypical notions of feminine—determine how women are allowed to view ourselves. 

It’s about affording ourselves a myriad of choices that increases our self confidence and self worth, that in turn, brings our whole society up a notch.

Look, I have a wide variety of female friends.  I have those that are “June Cleavers”.  They are completely and wonderfully fulfilled in their choice to behave in the traditional role of feminine.  I support and respect that.  I also have friends whose burnt bras came from Sports Authority rather than Victoria’s Secret.  These women are every bit as magically and perfectly feminine in their choice of expressing themselves as women.  I support and respect that, too.  Then there are my family and friends who fit into every nook and cranny in between.  The empowerment of feminine self definition is a deeply personal preference that deserves to be supported and respected by everybody.

Maybe that’s the big point Ms. Smith is trying to make then?  When we open our minds to the possibility that things can look differently (yet still appropriately) from what we currently perceive as “the way to do things”, we widen our own pool of choices as women (and men, for that matter).  Those additional options redefine societal norms of “feminine”.  Diversity means more shades of normal.  Now, how in the world can having more normalcy be wrong?

On the other hand, Zoe Smith may simply have been saying, “I like lifting heavy shit.  You don’t like it?  Cram it, fucko.  Because there are plenty of open-minded folks that do.”  And that’s simply the kind of attitude that makes me love her more.

Yeah, this feminist will be watching the Olympics this year, but not just for the gymnastics, swim and track events.  I’ll be watching to cheer on my new hero.  You go, Zoe!  Lift that heavy shift for me, for women, and for more ways to embrace femininity!  You rock!

Till we mooooo again…

Sunday, June 17, 2012

The Vagina Mooalogues


Apparently we are no longer allowed to speak of our body parts in medical terms in Michigan.

I’m going to do it here, though, at least before Wisconsin manages to outlaw it (which given our current, rich white-guy, misogynistic, majority legislature is only steps away from happening).  Ready???

Vagina.

Vagina, vagina, vagina. 

VAAAAAGGGGIIIIIINNNNNAAAA!!!!!

There.  I said it.  Multiple times ‘cause that’s just the kind of risk-taker I am.  Guess what?  No thunderous lightning bolts.  No supernova.  No Earth standing still on its axis.  The moon’s still waxing and waning.  Nothing’s turned topsy-turvy.  I did not go straight to Hell without collecting $200 (although when I get there eventually, I’m going to be in charge anyway so I hardly think that’s much of a threat).  The only thing that happened were that a few tight-assed crazies, who have hang ups with body parts that are sometimes used for coitus being mentioned at all, just had a cow.

So, in honor of their newborn calf—delivered via vagina, mind you—I shall moooo on this subject.

Saying the word “vagina”, the appropriate medical term for what is often affectionately referred to as a: twat, box, vajayjay, bajingo, bearded clam, bush, cha cha, coochie, cooter, hair pie, hoo-ha, love canal, meow-meow, muff, nanner, poonanie, poontang, privates, pussy, snatch, vag, and the ever-popular Elizabeth Regina—is apparently outlawed in the Michigan legislature because…huh.  Got me as to why. 

Maybe they have a problem with the beav?  Maybe someone is thinking Notorious G.O.D. takes issue with people speaking of their body parts utilizing solid medical terminology?  Better not say “breast” then.  Or “tibia” either. (Oooo…tiiiibiaaaaa, that sounds downright dirty naughty, doesn’t it??  *winkity wink*)

I’m guessing we don’t have to worry about God dropping the bomb for saying the word “vagina” because…well, She created vaginas.  And the inspiration to call them “vaginas”. And the inspiration to call them all the other sassy little nicknames we have for them.  You don’t bother creating something as perfect and wondrous as a vagina (right down to its little name), and then outlaw it from being discussed.  Lauded.  Celebrated even.  The idea of such insanity is just stupid.  And God isn’t stupid. 

Wanna know who is stupid?  The idiots in the Michigan legislature who decided to ban the female representative from speaking because of her audacious utterance of the totally magical word “vagina” in the middle of session.  Bad, bad representative!  How dare she use appropriate medical terminology in a discussion regarding the glorious kooka in the company of asshats with power.  *eye roll*

Representative Lisa Brown is a mighty smart cookie though.  I think she has it dead nuts (or perhaps more appropriately:  “dead testicles”).  If you aren’t allowed to say “vagina” in session, you shouldn’t be allowed to legislate anything to do with it.  Period.  *snickers*

Hey, and as long as we’re on the topic of appropriate labeling of random body parts…peeeenis.  Penis and vagina.  Vagina and penis.  There.  They’ve been said.  In the same blog.  In the same paragraph!  Twice!  Guess what, Michigan House of Representatives?  Not one damned thing happened.  Wanna know why?  'Cause God really doesn’t give two chunks of fecal matter about such things.  Only you nutjob dumbanuses in the majority making laws in Michigan care.

Well, I’m off to the gym to work my gluteus off.  Still missing me, Karyn?  I’m baaaack.

Until next moooo…

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Just Call Me Nike...

They say that goals are best met when shared with others.  Maybe that’s why we do the whole New Year’s resolution bit?  I don’t know.  Personally, telling people what I planned to do hasn’t really been working for me the past ten years or so.

SO…

…in an effort to start living in a space of greater integrity and authenticity, and to try to figure out something that will actually work better for me, here is my list of Non-Resolutions for the Year 2012:

I won’t tell you that this is the year I finally start drinking less booze, exercising more, and treating my body to the right foods.  I won’t say I will do yoga daily or get myself back into training for the sports I enjoy.  That this year I will lose that last 30 pounds or that sometime this year I will make peace with the fishies and stop eating them, too…nope, that’s not coming out of my mouth.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I plan to reconnect, strengthen and enjoy the relationships with people I most respect and enjoy.  I won’t additionally state that I plan to forge new friendships with people who have common interests.

I won’t tell you that this is the year I will try to be more positive and happy, even if I’m not entirely feeling it.  I’m not going to say that I’ll try to look for the best in situations and people instead of finding flaws.  Glass half full not half empty.

I won’t tell you that this is the year I’m going to brush off the dust of my usable Spanish and strengthen my ASL.  That I will take Swedish (because I’ve always wanted to learn it).  I am surely not going to say that I plan to create a bigger and better English vocabulary by reading and by studying words more often.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I write my first novel, my first non-fiction work, and/or a series of short stories.  I won’t add that I will actively try to find a place willing to publish my works and if no one will, that I will do it myself.  That I will engage my creative side by re-engaging long lost musical talent and newly found artistic tendencies.  That I will blog more regularly.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I begin some volunteer work with an agency that helps animals and/or the environment.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I plan to clear out the clutter in my house, my work, my relationships, and my life in general.  That I will only keep what truly works for me.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I’ll start making an effort to make my world and yours a better place for all of us to live.

I won’t.

I won’t because this is the year that I’m going to shut up and just do it.

Happy New Year everyone!  2012 is looking great so far…

Sunday, October 9, 2011

The Problem with Potatoes

I know this will come as a big shocker *eye roll*, but I’ve been a bit of a slacker as of late.

I could blame my former trainer for being an incredibly unprofessional loser that I had to fire.  I could blame the attacks that I’ve been under as a public union worker and the overwhelming, subsequent stress that goes with that.  I could blame Canada.  Hell, I could blame a whole heavenly host of beings/issues/distractions for me being a lazy mofo, but it all comes down to this:

I slack because it requires zero planning.

Planning requires thought.  Planning requires time.  Planning requires effort.  Planning requires…planning.

You know what doesn’t require planning? 

Couch potato-ing!  Well, unless you’re one of those people who plans what they’re going to watch while being spudtastic, since, for the most part, having regular shows requires having a memory that recalls what day and time they’re on the boobtube.  But that eliminates the fun of channel surfing.  No planning it is!

Course the deal with mashing oneself into the sofa (or the Lazyboy) is that despite their deliciousness, potatoes are fattening.  Okay, not necessarily fattening until you add the butter, sour cream, and cheesy goodness, but what the hell would be the point of eating a dry potato?  Seriously.  Does anyone even DO that??

And the problem with fattening is that it does nothing to help one fit into any pair of pants that actually zip and/or button.  If I could be a professional TV watcher, sweatpants would actually be a plus.  (Comfort allows for full focus on Castle’s ass…I mean storyline.)  Alas, my full-time job requires that I wear appropriate attire (reads: not sweatpants).

In the process of running my first 5K in ages today, I had the epiphany that fattening equals bad.  No one should be this out of shape this early in life.  I needed a plan.  It wasn’t just that at 37:40 my grandmother (in her nineties) could roll her wheelchair faster than I was running.  No.  I’ve awakened to the fact that I don’t really like being a spud.  There’s more to me than that.  Or rather, I’d prefer there be less.

Oh sure, I can come up with every excuse in the book not to do it, but in the end, they are just that: excuses.  So, today I sent a message to one of my old trainers that actually got results (not the injuries that I’ve been plagued with since I stopped training with him) out of me.  Hope he responds. 

If not, I am not going to use that as an excuse to pile on more cheddar.  I am going to pull out my books on training and get myself busy following through on a plan. 

Because what’s that they say?  A rolling spud gathers no moss?  Hmm.  Yeah, I’m dusting the moss off my ass and hitting the pavement.  This girl with a plan is done with the couch…

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The Procrastination Equation...uh huh.

As Queen of All Procrastinators everywhere, I have to say that I don’t really do well in the realm of “get things done expediently”.  These days I suck at it actually.  I don’t mean to suck at it, but there it is.  Technicolor me.  The woman that can find just about anything to keep herself from doing things (reads: writing--among other things) that will propel herself forward to completion on a project (i.e.: the 52 stories I’ve started).

So when one of my real writer friends, Kelly (http://clickerbug.wordpress.com/  in case you want to check out her work), suggested I read this book about the real reasons for procrastination, I was all for it.  I mean, I needed to do something.  Maybe if I understood my own tendencies better, I could fix those gone wrong, right? 

Naturally, I went to the bookstore that very day that she told me about it, but they didn’t have it in stock.  Yes.  Yes, I could have taken care of things right then and there when the nice lady behind the counter asked me if I wanted order it, but alas, that would have been logical.  Reasonable.  What the normal Joette does.  Not me.  Oh no.  I was going to wait because I wanted it to come straight to my house if it had to be ordered.  Besides, I had other books that I wanted whose titles I couldn’t remember (and whose subject material was a bit sketchier than what’d be comfortable to bring up with a total stranger) so I thought it better to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

When I finally got around to ordering the book, it didn’t come as fast as I’d figured.  So instead of trying to force myself forward on a few projects what I did was wait (and play on the internet, my new favorite wastetime).

And I waited.

And waited.

And waited…until eventually, my savior, aka The Procrastination Equation arrived. *the crowd cheers*

*raises right hand and places left on a squirming pile of playing puppies*

I swear I planned to start reading it the day it found its way to my front porch.  Right after I finished reading the last Harry Potter.  And one of those dragony tattooey books that I borrowed from the library and renewed…twice.  Course I haven’t finished either yet.  But it’s only because if I get my drawers cleaned out, I may have something for the Goodwill Sale at Boston Store.  Course then there’s the fact that I’ve been slacking on catching up on facebook.  Haven’t talked to a few family members in ages and should probably give a shout out.  And then there’s the garage that needs cleaning.  Yeah, there’s something to be said for a clean garage.  And a clean car.  Winter’s coming, you know.  Did anyone notice how unruly the hedges out back have become?  Hey, why the hell are you all looking at me like that?

There’s gotta be something seriously wrong with the person who puts off reading a book on procrastination.  That irony isn’t lost on me.

And yes, there must be something seriously wrong with me since I’m still procrastinating the reading of it almost two months after it was delivered to my doorstep.  Well, not exactly true.  I started reading it.  Made it through the whole first chapter two weeks after the book arrived.  Now, I am putting off reading the rest of it.  Not sure why.  It’s been good so far…

Perhaps I have a problem, you say?

The only one I can see is this:  if you’re going to be royalty, you should have some sort of castle in the middle of a vast and mighty kingdom.  Rest assured I have one.  Now all we have to do is finish the construction on it.  I mean, it’s only been 10 years since we began. 

On the other hand, I could just go back to researching housing in Florida.  I’m looking to move there...someday