The Vagina Mooalogues

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

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/jun/15/michigan-politician-banned-using-word-vagina 

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…

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…

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…

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…

A New Sheriff in Town

Corporations are people, Mitt?  http://www.latimes.com/news/politics/la-pn-romney-state-fair-20110811,0,1863810.story  I’m not sure what disturbs me more…that you said it, or that the comment “earned [you] a sustained round of applause”.  Stupid is as stupid does?  Hmm.

Should it surprise me that you and your cronies at Standard and Poor want to fuck with the world economy, too?  Nope, it doesn’t.  But here’s why you’re all heading south…FAAAAR south my friend.  You aren’t allowed to criticize someone else, or pretend like you are deserving of some self-served, sleazy patting of yourself on your own back for any credit rating that’s been issued by people you keep in your back pocket, asshat.  http://www.seasonalmagazine.com/2011/08/s-downgrade-of-us-debt-5-reasons-why-it.html  Can you say conflict of interest?  *eye roll*

Yes, dear reader, it’s times like these that I am SO happy that at the end of my days I am going to Hell…

First, all the really cool (albeit poor) kids are going.  It isn’t going to just be those hateful dumbasses like Michelle Bachmann, George W., Rummy, Walker, and Mitt.  (Rumor has it that Sarah’s petitioning for Heaven…course that’ll probably go as well as her previous vice-presidential bid.  No worries, I’ll save you a seat, Pretty Princess…NOT.  You’ll stand and sweat like a lipsticked pig in the heat like the rest of us and like it.)  

Truth is, in Moo Hell, I don’t even want them there…which is precisely why they’ll be there.  And why I’ll be there to irritate them in retaliation.  Talk about a hellacious symbiotic relationship!  (You can’t be condemned to Hell and not have it be…well…Hell.  It’s the whole point of the thing.  No red wine and stuck with Pretty Princess Palin.  It’s the crystal clear definition of it...probably for both of us.)

But I'm not even talking about the evil minions that actually belong there; some of us will probably end up there due to stupid shit done whilst under the influence at some point in our lives.  (I’ve got stories…damn, one that comes to mind involves two besties from back in the day—both of whom shall remain nameless to spare the quasi-innocent—an unknowing chaperone—also nameless—and a pair or two of pantyhose used for questionable means.  What do you want??  We were in our twenties, married, bombed and ready for trouble.  But I digress…)

So, cool kids + booze-soaked sin = Hell-bound?  Check.  It’s nice to know, that in part, I’ll be amongst close friends.

Reason number two:  it gives me an opportunity to demonstrate my leadership abilities (and the fact that I really can be mean as…well…Hell). When I arrive, I am planning to tell the guy dressed in red to get the fuck out of my chair.  “You’ve been mishandling Hell, Beelzebub, and I’m gonna show you how it’s done proper, pally.”  Mitt?  Is your seat warm enough?  No?  I’ll turn it up, honey.  Michelle?  Meet your new wife Sarah.  I figured you’d be happy because I hooked you up with someone with which you have something in common.  (You’re both homophobic, antifeminist, political freak wannabes.)

Finally…y’all gotta know that with my love for heat I’m gonna decide how hot it’s going to be.  And it’s gonna be scorching, kiddies.  Just how Mama Satana likes it.  Those of you riding on my rocket sled with the super-duper turbo-boosters should be sure to pack light because Hell’s gone clothing optional (which, when I think of it, could be everyone’s personal Hell in one way or another).

Yeah, Me + Hell = Good Times.  Oh, and if a Mr. G. Reaper shows up, knocking with a special ticket for you, don’t let the turbo-boostered toboggan disturb you.  Light speed is the best way to go.  Everyone knows the anticipation of the ride is the worst part anyway.  Besides, if you’re reading this, no worries for you anyway.  You’re probably already in good with the new sheriff in town…

And the winner is??

What.

The.

Fuck???

I’ve struggled with sleep lately, but there are moments when my inability to catch my winks at night has the potential to create future nightmares of epic proportions.  So it is when I get to channel surfing and see a massive disaster like Toddlers and Tiaras.

When is it ever okay to dress up a four year-old like a hooker (fake eyelashes and heavy eyeliner, low-cutting, short-skirted dresses, and big, crazy, 80’s slutty-girl hair) and send her out on stage to win a supposed “beauty pageant”?

Crazy stage moms (and dads)?  They are in ample supply here, folks.  Many of them not that attractive themselves, you can see they are trying to vicariously live out their own pageant dreams through their way too young to be told to “shake your butt, but not like a stripper” children. 

Seriously??  Should a four year-old even know what a stripper is let alone know how she should shake her booty just right so the kid won’t cross that invisible boundary of decorum and good taste??

Look.  I’m not completely against the whole pageant thing.  I did the Junior Miss thing back in the day.  Thing is I was a junior…in HIGH SCHOOL.  There were scholarships involved.  But the point is that I was old enough to apply my own fake lashes, and I actually had real boobies and nice gams to put in the dress I borrowed from my friend Jill.  Oh, and let’s not forget that it actually was the 1980’s, so my big ole poof hair was era appropriate.

My problem isn’t the pageant idea; it’s when you take a toddler and dress her like a hoochiemama and try to pretend that the whole sitch isn’t a very messed up train wreck.  Let her look like a kid and have her do kid things because, well, she IS one.

Alaska just finished her striptease routine where she rips her jacket off and swings it around her head, all the while spinning and shaking her booty, but, naturally NOT like a stripper—even though she technically is acting out that role, all in front of the many grown males in the audience.  My mouth is agape.  (Not sure if this is because of the striptease or the fact that her name is perfect for the stripper she is playing out at the moment.  *shakes head*  I’m at a loss here.)

Yeah, then I started thinking.  What are these little girls going to be like when they reach adulthood?  Will they ever believe that it’s okay to walk through their world without wearing make-up?  Will they figure that they have to use their looks/sex to get what they want in life?  Or worse, that what is important is how you look not who you are, particularly as a woman?  As a card carrying member of NOW, I find the whole thing most disturbing.

Well, I gotta flip channels again for my own sanity and safety.  Maybe comedy channel has something on that will make the disgust fade away, though I doubt it…

Brain cells? We don't need no stinkin' brain cells...

I lost brain cells last night, of this I am sure.

Okay, I should explain.  It wasn’t because I over-served myself (although in all honesty I did, in fact, drink a little wine—red, natch).  No. In my effort to transform into the ultimate corpulent, dumpy, slacker-loser, I have developed an addiction to watching inane television.  Why read a book and learn something when you can sit your ass all potato-style, drooling in front of the dummy box?  Make mine mashed oozing with sharp cheddar and butter (keep your damn healthy broccoli) these days.

My latest greatest distraction from participating in the real world is my weekly dose of “The Bachelorette”.  I’m so irritatingly invested in this stupid show that I sometimes find myself actually screaming at Ashley on TV, which we all know is not even remotely helpful since she can’t hear me.  I’ve even coaxed my honey into watching with me.  And while, if I’m being honest, he probably plays along because he wants to spend time with me (reads: he wants to get laid when the show is over), he does get hooked into my mental measurements over Ashley’s very poor judgment, too.

So there we sit, pooled in spit, when the realization hits that not only am I invested in the psychology of what is going on, but I have to own up to having a fave guy, though all I know about him is that he makes wine (which I’m not sure says the right thing about me…or maybe says exactly the right thing about me, depending upon how you look at it).  Don’t even know the guys name.  Heh.  Maybe I’m not as devoted a fan as I previously thought.  Gee.  What a relief.

What a variety of guys; all with some level of hotness, some smoking, but all playing a game.  Ash, sweetheart, I don’t know if you know this or not because you’re only, like, twelve years old, but guys like to compete.  Especially with each other.  Super-duper especially when it’s against each other for a girl’s affections.  But here’s the rub, darlin’…I don’t know many guys that aren’t almost more into the chase than the catch.  

You’re all concerned, Ash sweetie, (and you should be if you’re taking this whole bit seriously) that these guys aren’t being honest about their intentions and that they’re playing a game, which they are.  Duh.  So how in the world can you truly think that one of these men is seriously into you? 

Yes, they all want to woo and win you, but I’m betting that it has more to do with beating each other out of the opportunity to be the winner winner chicken dinner than it has to do with banging you for the rest of their lives. 

Honey, just deal with the historical facts.  Oh, sure, maybe one of these guys is excited to become Mr. Ashley, but if we’re being realists here, there’s a better chance of getting hit by lightening. 

Twice. 

On a sunny day.

It.

Is.

A.

Game.  *smirks*

When you look at all of the bachelor/ette shows, have any actually worked out?  Maybe that one way in the beginning.  I say take your fifteen minutes of fame and go the way that others have gone: pretend that you can act or something.  You’re pretty enough to make it on Lifetime or SciFi channel, I guess, and why reinvent the wheel with trying to become the next reality star?  Oh, wait.  You did that already.  Nevermind.

And for God’s sake, ditch this whole Bentley idea.  You think there’s a connection??  Really?  (Why are the young ones so bloomin' dense?)  Yes, I know that I get to see all the details of his extensive douchebaggery that you were unaware of, and he’s definitely a master manipulator, but come on.  The man is plant food.  Go with the wine maker guy (what the hell is his name??  Now I’m going to have to go look that up).

You know folks, all of it still leaves me at a serious loss though.  Not because I’m concerned about which guy Ashley will end up with, because who gives a shit?  It’s not like she’ll stay with the guy for longer than it takes to start a new season anyway, but because I’ve developed the horrible habit of wasting two hours every week on this dumb show instead of doing something productive, like reading or writing or doing my laundry.

Right now I’m write-avoiding by watching “The Voice”, but only after watching “America’s Got Talent” (though I find the title of the latter show somewhat misleading).  Point is that I keep doing things that keep me from doing the things that I want to be doing…or rather say that I want to be doing.

This got me thinking, which outside of drooling in front of the boob-tube is something I seem to be doing a lot of lately.  Maybe I don’t really want to be doing what I say I want to be doing.  But then what?  I could go for becoming a professional wine drinker, on account of the fact that I like my red, but I’d really like to keep the liver I’ve got because I’m kind of attached to it.  Transplants can be so…sketchy, and dialysis doesn’t really seem to be the way to go.

Television critic?  Lord knows I distract myself with enough of it these days.  Internet surf queen?  I’m beyond pro in that department, too.  See?  Now this is requiring WAY too much thinking and the confusion is impeding my ability to enjoy “The Voice” so I’d better shut up shutting up and get back to it.   

I mean, I have far more pressing matters to consider than my future anyway.  Rumor has it Bentley (the guy with a name fit for the dog that he is) is coming back.  Wonder what will happen?  If she lets him back and I was the nameless wine maker, I’d ditch her and go looking for his true match—a married woman in Wisconsin (or at least that’s what I’ve heard). 

You hear me, Ash? 

Don’t fuck up your chance to be with one of the guys who is sincerely pretending like you’re “the one” for the guy that’s pretending like he’s “the one”, except anytime he’s in front of a camera. 

Besides, FREE WINE, girl.  How can you go wrong with anything that’s free?  The fact that it’s wine…mmm…