last days

The great David Schmader quoted from a certain skinny white girl’s very angry and upset post on CL about gettin’ upskirted (now gone): Last Days, scroll to Friday, August 15th. I will say nothing more about it for a long time.

Other than this: That skinny white girl was extraordinarily upset when she wrote the post Schmader quoted. And a couple more things: It’s not that well written, for one. Two, it might not be the most accurate depiction of the events. Just wanna say that now.

just one thing

This was just one part of my weird day yesterday: read my craigslist rant. Deleted.

mmm, salty

Headed to SLC in a few hours. Main objective: enjoy family. Secondary objectives: hike Ensign Peak and visit Antelope Island. Or, visit the lake in any capacity and see Park City. Or, relax a lot. By a pool.

(When I get back I will post photos on flickr, from this and other excursions.)

37 ex days

I posted this on that EX blog on day 37 of quitting smoking. That would be yesterday.

There are now huge chunks of time (read: almost 24 hours) where I don’t think about smoking a single puff. It’s nice, although what I really want is to not think about cigarettes at all. One of the reasons I quit was because I was tired of how much they ruled my day. It still feels like that sometimes. Like I can almost see the ghost of a Cigarette King in the corner of my mind, still wearing his jeweled crown, still sitting on his high throne, waving his matchstick scepter whenever I feel like I might be finally, really, actually over it. I want to break that matchstick.

36

That’s how many days it’s been since I quit. It’s saved me something like $200 and about 5 days of living, supposedly*. Most impressive stat, though? I’ve NOT smoked over 700 cigarettes in that time. Snap.

*According to this thing

monsters! and pants, and faces, and heads…

Remember the Smurfs? And how they would always say “smurf” things? I use the words “monster,” “pants,” “face,” and “head” kinda like that. Been doing it for a few years now. They can replace a lot, but context is everything. That’s how we knew what smurf meant: “Smurf your whole day long” versus “Smurftastic” versus “Hi, Papa Smurf!” And, as with everything, tone says a lot. Body language even more.

“Hey, while you’re in the fridge, grab that avocado for me?” Luc might ask me.

“You’re an avocado FACE,” I might reply with a big smile and the avo offered up — as if to say, “Here’s your avocado, Luc.” Or I might ask, “Are you going to be an avocado monster?” — that would be more like “So, are you gonna eat all that avocado? Also, are you sharing?”

These replacement words aren’t new for me. They follow one of my original verbal quirks: “meow.” Really more like “shmeow.” And that’s just the best approximation I can make with the written word. I went through a phase — a phase that lasted years — where I would make cat noises to express myself from time to time. And by “from time to time” I mean “every damn day.” Most people seemed ok with it — my loved ones are and have been accustomed to certain weirdness over here. Some even adopted it — I would have mini cat conversations with some of my closest friends. All you can really infer is from intonation, and even that’s usually just play. But whatever, it was fun. I would hiss, too. Still do. That’s actually a great way to show disapproval, especially when the situation you don’t like is out of earshot and you’re really just letting your old man know you didn’t like what just happened. Literally catty.

Anyway, now I have these other variations. If someone dishes out a witty dis and I blank on a real comeback, I default to childlike humor. “Well, YOU’RE an overly liberal FACE who doesn’t think enough about long-term MOSNTERS!” is something that might come out of my mouth.

They work for short, angry outbursts, too. Especially when directed at inanimate objects: computers, phones, traffic (not inanimate, but uncontrollable by you), etc. Just pick a swear word and add one of those replacement words: “Gotdamn faces!” “Fuck monsters!” Then change it up and replace the cuss word: “Stupid PANTS!” “Moronic HEAD!” It makes getting worked up more entertaining at least.

When something good happens: “Awesomepants!” When something bad happens: “Shittymonsters.” Your friend gets a promotion? “Congratulationspants, Miss New Job Face!” Maybe you’re relaying dramatic gossip: “She was a total freakout head!” There are SO MANY POSSIBILITIES.

I’ve noticed that some of these words have started to catch on in certain ways. Just wait, in a couple more years they’ll be the new rage. People will have hoodies that say “monster” and messenger bags that say “face.”*

*Also, after my college friend Joe posted a video I like, someone in his comments said they wanted a shirt that says “pants” — see? Already. Starting.

but then i’m all like

I’ve been sitting around in a state of mild paralysis all like, “Dude, I’m gonna start working again in less then two weeks? Ferreels?”

Then right after that I’m like, “Oh shit! I haven’t done ANYTHING with my time off!”

Then my logical brain bits are all, “Wait. You were supposed to: A) rest, B) take care of your back, and C) start taking better care of yourself in general. Let’s see here: no daily back pain, you quit smoking, you’re doing acupuncture, counseling, stretching, and you might have a teeny bit more self-awareness. I’d say that’s check, check, and check, old friend.”

Then my overly emotional brain bits are like, “Not good enough. Where’s the book you coulda wrote? All the blog posts you didn’t make? Where was the bike riding, kayaking and rock climbing you said you wanted to do? Why hasn’t the apartment been redecorated? Or at least painted? Nice 100+ day break there, girlie!”

I start to freak out but then I’m all like, “Dudes, I’ll let you guys battle this one out. I’m gonna go sit outside and read.”

fertile playground

I’ve been reading this one young woman’s blog for years. She’s written about her career (her blog got famous for her anonymous slicing of the Manhattan law firm (and lawyers) she worked for), her love life, herself — she’s written about all that, and more, and two bags of chips. Some of it’s really well done. She’s now a professional blogger for The Huffington Post, too. It seemed serendipitous that I set down my book Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health to look up at my RSS feeds and read her post Selling Your Eggs: No Big Deal?.

The female reproductive system seems to be a theme around me lately.

Note to females: Go get that book. Now. Note to friends and family: No, I’m not using the book to try for a baby. Just the opposite: I am trying to not get preggers. Also, that book is not about the “rhythm” method. And I should point out to those of you who haven’t yet clicked over to Opinionistas, that article is about more than just ovaries and eggs.

The book and the blog post made me realize something: Women are kinda messed up sometimes. We, as a generation, are woefully under-prepared to deal with our bodies and selves when we leave the nest around age 18. At least I wasn’t. Our mothers taught us what they knew, but that wasn’t always a lot. School didn’t fill in the gaps. It’s gotten to the point where we know so little about, yet feel so empowered by, our bodies that we are ok attaching odd values to them. And often not even to the whole body, but just small parts of it.

The book specifically made me realize the most women, like me, were sent out into this world with NO IDEA about what’s going on inside. That’s fucked up. There are little things I’ve wondered about for years and this book explains them. Very basic things, like, “Is there a way to know when I’m ovulating? It seems like there should be a way to know that doesn’t require swallowing a man-made pill so it can dictate the egg drop.” (Guess what? There is.)

The blog post made me think that there are hoards and hoards of women out there who are so repressed by social standards and generalized ideas that they don’t deal with their own emotions and the consequences of their actions other than by making jokes, both in the reproductive realm and elsewhere.

This next leg of feminism — what are we on the 3rd or 4th reich now? — is confused. I like the way the blog post had it:

We’ve reached a funny point in the whole feminism game. The new card to play is honesty, where taboos and dirty little secrets about sex, fertility, selling eggs, rape, abortion, etc. are no longer whispered behind closed doors or screamed through a bullhorn in front of 500 other protesters. Now, you chat about them as commonplace occurrences, blog about them, discuss them at panels in bars.

I’m not sure about that strategy.

At least my little a.m. readings helped me decide on one thing for sure: I’m not interested in selling eggs.

now i do

I was critical of the public’s reaction to Heath Ledger’s death. Now that I’ve seen Dark Knight, I am sad he’s gone.

grups

My friend Joe, one of the peeps we saw in Spokane, read my post about adulthood and thus thought of me when he stumbled onto this article in New York mag. I’m only part-way through it, and it’s a couple years old, but it’s still relevant. Who knows? Maybe this was everywhere when it came out and I just missed it.

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