Oy.

When it comes to all things Gerard Butler, Pamela Swain, aka GFW, et al, wins the cuckoo crazypants contest.

Hopefully tomorrow I have the time to tell you why.

Stay tuned...

It was a gator...

Sometimes, when you sign up to do something, it seems like the greatest, smartest thing you could possibly do.

Then when it comes to the follow through, you realize your folly-filled thinking. Well, I was signed up for the half, but going to try to bust out a quarter marathon anyway...on a broken toe (hope they don't have to remove it)...up 25 pounds from my last one...bloated and out-of-shape from all of life's amazing, middle-aged stressors.

*shrugs

When I die, at least they've say, "She's got spunk!"

That, or "What an idiot!"

Potayto. Potahto.

Score one for Love...

It's been a while, hasn't it?

Well, I've been busy...a relatively recent family death...dealing with odd psychic experiences with a celebrity drama along with dealing with that celebrity's WEIRD fan base...aging parent issues...but those are blogs for another time (stay tuned). Maybe you're asking what could possibly get me writing again after a year and a half hiatus? What news could be THAT mootivating?

Seriously important stuff. Joyously life-changing. Let me explain...

Just (what seems like) a short while ago, my very best friend Patty​ (you remember her? MY Patty?) and I sat talking about marriage...how she could never let herself think about what that would look like because we didn't live in a world where she could even imagine being married to her longtime partner, Pat. That the people of this country would never let that happen, at least not in her lifetime.

I remembered feeling violently angry on her behalf...on the behalf of every wonderful person I knew that loved someone with whom they "knew" they could never allow themselves to imagine "till death do us part" legally. People who loved a lifetime, but at end of life were locked out of hospital rooms and funeral parlors and probate meetings...who were told marriage had conditions and that Love had nothing to do with any of it. It was so wrong my anger was visceral.

I was furious with the folks who played some <enter in whatever bullshit justification you think gives you a right to treat others with an unfair, heinous disrespect> card to oppress those who love differently than they do. I never understood the argument that someone else's relationship had any bearing on mine, so in my mind this "if gay people are allowed to get married, that minimizes my marriage" bit really says that person's marriage is shit anyway. Seriously, if a total stranger's marriage (same-sex or straight) can minimize yours, perhaps you need to rethink your relationship. But, I digress. (You remember my rants now, don't you?)

Me. Patty. Chatting. I vaguely remember telling her I believed that things could change, that there were more of us straight folks out there who believed in true equality and LOVE, that ever-elusive experience that we should embrace however it shows up on our doorstep. I told her I had faith that someday in the not so distant future, I would call Pat her "wife". I explained that my son, Eric, told me that things were changing because his generation thought differently...that his "aunts" Pat and Patty shouldn't lose hope.

Last June, the most remarkable thing happened. After a hard-won fight by some very brave people, Wisconsin made same-sex marriage legal. Other states were passing similar laws, but not without legal battles won by fearless vanguards. Eric was proving that his argument, that equality being closer than farther off, was right. Thing was, the woman who used to sing the Black Sock song to him and his older sister couldn't allow herself to be fully happy for herself because she still had friends imprisoned by backwards laws in other states who weren't allowed to imagine being married yet. She was crushed that there were those who were trapped in states that still said, "Liberty and Justice for ALL...well, except you."

That brings us to today. I sit here typing at my desk...weeping. Happy tears, yes, but relieved tears, too. Relieved that the SCOTUS got it right. Many thanks to all the brave folks who refused to be told they were less than citizens simply because of how Love looked when it knocked on their door. You are true heroes. I honor your fearlessness in fighting for what is right.

And my bestie, Patty? She and Pat were married last June. I attended the most gorgeous reception ever for them last December.

But, my dearest Patricia, it's today that I truly congratulate you both. Today you're married anywhere you go in this country. Finally. Today we all celebrate. I love you, guys.

Until next time, kiddies...

MEMO

 http://www.clickorlando.com/news/deadly-spiders-found-in-uk-bananas/-/1637132/22809980/-/ylk0shz/-/index.html

MEMO

To: All Arachnids far and wide, but mostly the super-venomous ones that live in Brazil

From: The world’s most dedicated arachnophobe EVER

Subject: Get the fuck out of my banana

CC: God and everyone

It has come to my attention that you have decided to take up residence in people’s bananas.  What the hell is wrong with you?  Wasn’t it enough that you hide out in closets, under beds, in shoes, in basements and in every other damn “jump out and scare us (or worse, bite us)” place?

You can’t just drop in our pieholes while we’re mouth-agape sleeping??  You have to hide out in our bananas now?  What?  You got bored with the typical angle for spider attacks?  And aren’t there enough animals in Brazil to take down?  You have to resort to traveling to foreign countries to git ‘er done, you obnoxious overachievers??

You need to get the fuck out of my banana, mmmkay?  And by getting the fuck out, what I mean to say is…don’t get the fuck in it in the first place, not get the fuck out by hatching your brood all over my kitchen table.

No hurt feelings, okay?  I don’t hate you or anything like that.  Just…stay in Brazil…where I never have to visit.  Thanks.

MEMO

To: All people far and wide, but mostly the people who buy Brazilian bananas

From: A crabby crabberton

Subject: The importance of buying local

CC: Anyone who will listen, Brazilian wandering spiders

Buy local and this shit will only happen to people who are already familiar with dealing with super-venomous spiders that live in Brazil...AKA: Brazilians.  I'm just glad I don’t live in the UK.

The end.

PS. If you’re Brazilian and a wandering spider, remember what Dorothy said?  If you ever go looking for your heart's desire again, don’t look any further than your own backyard; because if it isn't there, you should, respectfully, stay the fuck out of foreigners’ bananas…well, or something like that...

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:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uBuKvxeLoQ

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!!!

Pinch you!! That’s MINE…

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/23/pop-tart-theft-inspires-n_n_3328113.html?utm_hp_ref=email_share

*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… 

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.

http://sports.yahoo.com/news/olympics--british-female-weightlifter-fires-back-at-twitter-bullies.html

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…