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Powerful. Beautiful. Perfectly said.
Rape culture is when I was six, and my brother punched my two front teeth out. Instead of reprimanding him, my mother said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?” When my only defense was my mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him. Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.” As if it was my sole purpose, the reason six-year-old me existed, was to not rile up my brother. It’s starts when we’re six, and ends when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to not “rile him up.” Right, mom?
Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation, my father says that women who get raped are asking for it. He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City, with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”…
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Funny and true
- The bit where Carrie goes for cocktails in Sex and the City would be 2 for £8 pitchers at her local wetherspoons.
- Whenever Hugh Grant was being charmingly English, people wouldn’t actually be ale to understand him and the local veg man would shout ‘eh what you talking about mate??’.
- The Prince Charming never arrives on a steed or even in a limousine always on the Bus.
- The weird tablet written in ancient unused script would remain unread because you only actually have to learn 2 modern foreign languages at school.
- Nobody would be able to actually understand what Chewbacca says and he would have been dropped from the group for logistical reasons. Plus everyone would be getting annoyed with his hair.
- Peoples cars would never be thaaaat shiny, somebody would have written ‘clean me’ and then drawn a phallic symbol on the back of the really dusty ones.
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There was no option to leave a comment on this beautiful post, so I am reblogging it, with the comment “Brava! The truth you tell here is beautiful.”
I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”
Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this…
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Loved this post and it’s genuineness. I think many of feel the same.
On the morning of my 39th birthday, I was grateful for two things: my hair and my boobs.
There were other things too, of course – the way Sam buried his little face in my hair at 5:30 in the morning. The way he and Drew planned how to surprise me with breakfast and cake and presents.
But my hair and boobs were on my mind the most because in the week leading up to my birthday, one friend had to shave her head and another friend found out she might be losing her breasts.
I sort of hate to feel gratitude like this—it seems like such a selfish feeling. Like by being grateful I am saying that I am grateful that YOU have this horrible disease and not me. I am grateful that I have my hair, but too bad about yours. That’s clearly not what I want to…
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Holy Hannah I laughed out loud for real and spit tea on my tablet screen. Damn that was funny.
The nightly ritual of shutting down the house is well ingrained. I moved through the rooms, checking doors and windows, shutting off lights and set up the coffee machine. My last stop before bed was the bathroom. My bath is a huge, skylighted, claw-footed-tub sanctuary. It is filled with my most intimate photos from childhood and beyond. The light blazed on and sitting on my shower curtain rod was a gray squirrel. I screamed. It screamed. It leapt to the floor. I slammed the door. There was no way I was prepared to deal with a live animal in my bathroom at that hour. I crawled into bed and hoped for the best. The door was closed, the light off and hopefully it would have somehow managed to find a way out by morning.
Strange dreams populated the night, an eery kaleidoscope of visions that all involved wildlife and sharp…
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“What is a sanity blog?”, you ask. Simply put, it’s a place for me to think out loud about my life, my ambitions, my successes, my failures, and maybe get some feedback from the world at large. It is a tool for connecting with ideas and people beyond my little bubble, in the hopes of expanding my horizons and stretching some creative muscles. It’s a nonspecific, free flow narrative of my journey on this big blue rock.
I warn you, my narrative may bore you. But it may also make you laugh, or cry, and maybe make you think. If nothing else, I hope it entertains you as much as it does me, because, believe me, life in Casa del Wacko can be downright crazy at times.
Peace out til the next post….
So, I may as well begin this adventure with a little peek into my world.
I’m a bartender. I chose to go back to the service industry after being downsized out of a nice corporate job working for a good company several years ago. The economy at the time where I lived sucked ass, and there was very little chance I would find an equivalent job any time soon, so I made a call to a former classmate, and dove back into serving beer and burgers. I had always enjoyed this work in the past, so figured why not go back to it until things improved.
That was seven years ago.
I won’t lie and say this work is easy, because it isn’t. It’s physically demanding, mentally exhausting, and comes with its fair share of bullshit drama. The hours are long and weird, and dealing with drunks can seriously sour your view of humanity in general. And the money is as fickle as a crack whore. But….
It’s also a truly fun job. I meet some of the nicest people, have some of the funniest times, and have made some of my best friends in this job. You’re being paid to be the hostess of a party, where all anyone wants to do is have a good time. Even when it’s a “doctor is in” day, where I spend two hours on a dead shift listening to someone tell me their woes, it’s still a great day because I feel like my listening helped.
All that being said, it is challenging to be my age and do this work. Most of my colleagues are half my age, and can work 90 hour weeks without blinking. I can do the 90 hour week when we are short handed, but I’m wiped out for eons after because I don’t have the instant rebound from physical depletion that I once had.
Damn near all my customers look like babies to me and I fight the urge to ground them all and send them home for being out past curfew. And don’t get me started on twerking, hooker clothes, and creepy old men – I’ve seen enough of all three to last a dozen lifetimes. But I also feel like some of these young people have become almost family, and their energy and silliness brightens my day regularly.
All in all, it’s a great job and I love it, but I’m feeling very stifled by the fishbowl environment of the bar life. I feel like I don’t have time for hobbies and things that I used to enjoy, like spending a day at the park or the library – all things you do during the early part of the day, when I’m usually sleeping (I work nights). I’m also worried about building a nest egg for my own retirement, whenever that is, and I’m tired of the constant change in my life that’s being brought on by fickle roommates creating the need to move yet again.
I feel like my life is in a constant state of flux and it’s making me a little nuts.
So… here I sit debating what I want to do and tossing my worries out into the ether, hoping a little release will help lead me to answers.
Until next time, folks.
Gigi – keeping it real at the Casa del Wacko