Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Why Am I Awake at Shit-Thirty in the Morning?

It's almost 4 in the morning.  This will probably be jumbled, and sucky.
I am too tired to care.


In the light of day, I was irritated.  I was angry, and wanted answers.
In the deep dark of night, however, I'm furious.  And frightened.  And I want answers.  And revenge. In the form of a bloody person limping toward a police car, with a defeated look on his face...

Last night, in the dead of our sleep, my family was ripped awake by someone slamming themselves into our front door.  Someone who must have thought it would be funny to break into our house.  Or someone who must have thought it was funny to try and scare an entire houseful of people.  Or someone who thought...whatever the fuck they thought.
My daughter was terrified.  I held her trembling body against me, as we sat in the dark, waiting for the police, and watching for the return of the creeps who invaded us.  We reassured her, as she voiced her fear of both the potential invasion, and the guns her father, brother and I were toting.  We reassured her that the police were on their way.  We reassured her that the assholes were long gone, and that we were safe.
And then a shower or rocks pelted our windows, and three nondescript people ran across our yard, disappearing into the dark.
Once the police arrived, questioned us, and set out to hunt for the door-busting, rock-tossing, running away-ing dickbags, my husband started out the door to check on our car.  He came immediately back inside, telling me to call the police again, because the people were hiding in the bushes across the street from our house, shouting obscenities at him.
What followed was three hours of hiding in the darkness, police surrounding our house, searchlights scalding the landscape, and trying to convince our daughter that it was safe to sleep again.

We think they caught one of them.  We listened to our police scanner as they searched the area, as they chased the group of them on foot, and apprehended one of them.  That person was later taken home by the police, so we are assuming it was a minor.
I don't care if he is a minor.  I sincerely want to pull his balls off, by way of his throat.

This is the second time this has happened.  I don't want to believe that it's the same group of people, and I don't want to believe that we're being singled out.  But I do.

And now, at ass-thirty in the morning, I'm awake, I'm afraid, and I'm furious.  The sleep I did get was peppered with nightmares, about flocks of people gathering in front of our house to do harm, and me trying to protect my family inside, as my gun malfunctioned.  As 911 malfunctioned.  As my goddamn mini-blinds malfunctioned.

Every noise I hear suddenly becomes a violent prowler.  The cat meandering lazily thru the kitchen becomes a murderous burglar, high on PCP, and hoping to gnaw the faces off of my whole family.


Our kids opted to sleep together last night.  Or tonight.  Or whatever the fuck "now" is.
They set up the big tent in our son's room, and hunkered down together in the relative safety and silence of our concrete basement.

My husband, who lived thru this ridiculous shit all the time as a kid growing up in a crappy neighborhood with crappy caretakers, finally dozed off about an hour ago.  About the time I started waking up from these asshole nightmares.

We are hoping to take a trip to the city this weekend, to visit a stray pitbull in need of a home,  in hopes of bringing home a dog, so he can patrol the house while we sleep.  Preferably while wearing a cape, and carrying a baseball bat.  Shut up.  He's my dog, and if I say he can carry a baseball bat, then by golly he can, and will carry a baseball bat.  Mother effers.

The whole thing has made me irrational.  The mother bear in me wants to protect her cubs.  Wants to find the scrotum sacs who did this, peel them like onions, and hang their skin from my fucking tree, to ward off other potential predators.
Part of me wants to pack up and move away.  To a secluded beach.  To Amish country.  To a crowded apartment complex.  To Jamaica.
Part of me wants to ignore it, and tell myself that it won't happen anymore, that we'll get answers from the police soon, and that our happy little lives will return to business as usual.

I want our daughter to feel safe inside her house again.
I want our son to be able to feel as if he can just be a kid again, rather than having to help us patrol our house like we're in some kind of goddamn apocalyptic movie.
I want my hard-working husband to rest peacefully at night, and not fear repeats of his wretched childhood invading his grown-up world.

And I want to sleep.  Without being awakened with fear and nightmares and paranoia.  Without feeling like a bad parent for sleeping, when there are lunatics on the loose, who hope to wreak havoc inside our house.

The way I understand it, once the official report is filed, and all the pencil pushing is finished, we will receive more information from the police, we will find out if we can press charges, and we will, I hope, have some answers.
In the meantime, I'm unsettled.  And I resent these motherfuckers for making me feel that way.  I resent them for the vengeful and upsetting thoughts I've thought in their favor.  I resent their parents for giving birth to ugly, inconsiderate dickheads.
Fuck those fucking fuckers.
Bah.  I'm tired.  :p

Monday, May 28, 2012

When I rule the world...

I've decided that I'm going to rule the world.  Don't panic.  I don't mean like an evil genius or a maniacal dictator or something.  Nothing sinister.
More like a party planner, who has realized the party is starting to fail, and decides to bust out a conga line to save the day.
I'll be a really just world leader.  I promise.  Here's how...

First, I'm doing away with "marriage."
Don't get excited.  You can still have your husbands and your wives, and all the happy little legal benefits that come with such a union.  And you can still have your religious ceremonies and whatnot, to appease whatever god you worship.  But the only "legal" paperwork involved will be the paperwork required to apply for those marital benefits.
You can have one spouse, or three or six.  I don't care.  You can have a wife and a husband at the same time.  I don't care.  It's not my business what kind of arrangement you enter into with another consenting adult.  Build a commune of swingers.  Spread the love.  Or don't.  It's your relationship, it's your life, and it's none of my business.
And before anyone goes off on the ignorant "beastiality, pedophile" rant  (you know the rant I mean.  The one that sounds like "so, if someone wants to marry their dog, should that be legal?  Or if someone wants to marry a 4 year old, should that be ok, too?"
To answer that moronic, and logically ridiculous question, no.  Those things should not be legal.  Anyone who engages in sexual activity with anything or anyone that can not give their informed consent is a dickbag, and shouldn't be allowed to have sex anyway.   And I realize a vibrator can't give its informed consent, however a vibrator does not have a brain, a pulse, or emotions.  Use your brain, and stop asking me stupid questions.  Moving on...

Next, I'm making clothing completely optional.  Everywhere.  Yeah, you can even shop for groceries naked.  And before anyone gets hysterical and says "that's unhygienic,"  what sorts of gross shit are you doing inside your clothing, that would make it any more unhygienic than a cough or a sneeze inside a store?  Common courtesy, of course, is going to apply.  You're not going to be permitted to just scratch your naked ass, and then grab things off the shelves.  But that's not really a naked rule, that's just common humanity.  We don't dig in our noses, and then reach out to select oranges.  Well, the majority of us don't do that.  There's always going to be some asshole who can't seem to figure out the rules of common courtesy and restraint.  There's really not a lot I can do about these inconsiderate pieces of work.  So just wash your fruit, ok?  Alleviate any nutsack-contamination fears by washing your apples before you consume.  Problem solved.
And if you choose to be nude, carry a towel.  Nothing fancy, just a towel big enough to spread under your bum when you sit.  That way, the non-nude among us can feel confident that they're not sitting in a chair that previously hosted someone's naked ass.

And now that everyone is naked, and buying lots of fruit, I'm going to make marijuana legal.  And none of those stupid stipulations like "well, it's legal, but only if you have cancer, and only with a doctor's recommendation, and only on Monday thru Tuesday between the hours of 4:00 and 4:30, and only on a full moon."
Everyone can smoke pot.  Your kids' school bus driver can smoke pot.  Your dentist can smoke pot.  And they don't even need a medical reason to do it.
Of course we have the no-brainer rules in place, just as we do with alcohol.  No smoking and driving, no smoking while doing brain surgery, no smoking while circumcising babies...
Now that you mention it, that's another brutal and barbaric tradition that needs to die.  Circumcising (aka genitally mutilating baby boys) needs to end.  But that's an entirely different rant, and kind of weird to include with the pot-smoking ordinance, so I will move on before I am so distracted that I can't remember what I was talking about...
We all have cannabinoid receptors in our bodies.  Parts of us that are specifically designed to receive THC.  Telling my body that providing it with what it's designed to accept makes about as much sense as telling me it's illegal for me to eat food.  Not to mention, marijuana is a plant.  Should we make peanuts illegal, too?  Peanuts fucking kill people.  I once babysat a kid with a severe peanut allergy, and it was much scarier than the time I babysat a pothead.  It was also less funny...
If we can justify alcohol (which poisons the body, leads to drunk-driving deaths, domestic violence, and general douche-baggery) and if we can justify cigarettes, (do I really need to list the awesome effects of smoking?) then we can certainly justify marijuana.  I realize this will put a huge dent in the paycheck Big Pharma is accustomed to receiving.  However, it has occurred to me that I don't give a shit if a group of heartless gazillionares go broke when they can no longer force people to rely on their poisonous concoctions to feel better.  No thanks, Vicodin.  I'll smoke a joint, instead.

And next, now that everyone is all full of dirty butt-fruit and pot smoke, I'm taking back control of my uterus.  And I'm giving every uterus on the planet the right to decide for themselves what happens to them.  Your birth control, your sexual activity, and yes, your abortions, are not my business.  They are no one's business but you, your doctor, and anyone you choose to involve in your uterine happenings.
Your religion forbids abortions?  Don't have one.
Your religion forbids birth control?  Don't use it.
But don't expect other people to conform to your beliefs.  What if someone invaded our country, and demanded that all the women begin wearing a burqa?  No bueno.  If their beliefs indicate that they cover their women, then let them have at it.   But if you don't want religious folks forcing their beliefs on you, then have the same courtesy for others.  If I don't pray with you before your meal, it has nothing to do with your relationship to your god.  And if I have an abortion, it has nothing to do with your relationship to your god.  You can tell me you don't like it, since you have the freedom of speech.  You can tell me that your god doesn't like it, since you have the freedom of religion.  And I can go have the abortion anyhow, because I have the right to both freedom *from* religion, *and* the right to what happens inside my uterus.
It's mine.  And I don't want your morals, your beliefs, and your god inside of it.
God isn't going to punish you for the things I do.  Move on.

You can attend church.  You can wear clothing.  You can abstain from marijuana and condoms and abortions.  You are allowed.
What you are not allowed to do is force your ideals upon the masses.  You are not allowed to use your morals and your beliefs and your religions to dictate the behavior of the rest of the world.  You are allowed to think that I am a heathen, and you are allowed to tell me so.  But making laws so that everyone is legally forced to conform to what you the hell does that even make sense?  Is god going to suddenly let me into heaven because I was legally forced to abstain from birth control?  Are you going to get some kind of heavenly medal because you kept me from legally taking a wife?
If I sit naked in my front yard, smoking pot and holding hands with my girlfriend, nothing changes for you.  If I marry said girlfriend in a backyard, full-moon, pagan ceremony, nothing changes for you.  If I have sex, using a condom that breaks, and then abort the baby, nothing changes for you.  You might not like it, and you don't have to.  But at the end of the day, your life is dramatically unaffected by this series of events, regardless of how much you disapprove.
And by all means, disapprove.  It is your right.

But the law needs to stay the fuck out of it.

And finally, Monday is chocolate cake day.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Cartoon Boobs

Dear Every Bra-Maker in the World, 

Fuck you.  
Let me explain.  

I don't enter into the "bra buying" business with hostility.  In fact, sometimes I am downright excited about it.  It's easy for a woman to be dazzled and reassured by the seemingly endless racks of frilly whatnots, lacy unmentionables, and delicate underthings.  With so many options, surely finding one for me will be a piece of cake.  It's like wandering into a candy store, for big girls.  With boobies.  

I typically start off by selecting several widths and cup sizes, to cover all the bases.  Everything from a C to a DDD, and in between.  Everything from a 38 to a 46, and in between.  If there is a bra on the rack that will fit me, I will find it.  And if I don't, it won't be for a lack of trying.  

Into the dressing room, and I disrobe.  Usually a glance or two at my naked ladies, and maybe a quick shake (because, let's be honest.  How great does that shit feel when you've been harnessed like an overweight mule all afternoon?)  And then, to the trying on.
My mood quickly begins to decline, and before I know it, I'm nearly seething with rage, thinking my body is deformed, and that no bra in the world is *supposed* to fit me, because I am a disgusting freak of nature, as far as breasts are concerned.
Well, fuck you, Every Bra-Maker in the World.  I am not the anomaly.  You are simply lacking in, well, everything you're supposed to provide.  

First of all, measurement is pretty universal, amirite?  Forty inches is forty inches, no matter how you slice it.  So why in the hell does one bra measuring 40 around the band fit perfectly, while another of the same measurement slices into me like a fucking fetish corset?  Get yourself some accurate measuring tapes.  Or fire your bra-band guy, because he's cross-eyed.  

Next, bra cups.  What.  The.  Fuck?  First of all, finding cups without six-inch-thick wires to encircle my tits is a goddamn impossibility.  I feel like my tits are getting ready to be shot out of a cannon or something.  There really is no need for that much wire.  My breasts might be a little wild, but they certainly don't need cages.  Secondly, who decided that my DDD boobs need padded cups?  What part of this makes sense?  Who looked at me and thought, "know what that girl needs?  Bigger knockers."  I don't.  Really.  Even on a bad day, I don't need bigger breasts.  It's really ok to make a bra for me that is just fabric.  And while we're on the subject, sometimes breasts sag.  It's not flattering, or something any woman likes to brag about, but they do.  Some of them a lot more than others.  And when they do, all that stiff fabric in our cups just goes unfilled.  A deflated breast inside of a padded, stiff, and let's be honest, humorless bra, just lays in there, looking deflated and weird.  Like we've flopped our saggy boobs up onto a table, in preparation for our fashion debut.  I do not want table tits.  In fact, I don't know of any woman who does.  

And let me drive this point home, as well...
No.  Just, no. 
The opposite of stiff cups, weirdly-filled cups, and birdcage cups is NOT torpedo cups.  It wasn't attractive in 1950, and it's certainly not attractive now.  I don't want to stick my boobs in a tube.  I don't want them stabbing up toward the sky like weirdly filled sausage skins.  I don't want dangerous breasts.  Madonna can pull it off.  I can not.  I just want a bra.  Not weapons of mass destruction.  

And furthermore, these contraptions do NOT need to cost upwards of $80.  There is just no sense in that, and no matter how many times you have the super-helpful sales girl assure me that it's a "good investment", I will not be swayed.  This is not a good investment.  It's underwear.  If I want to make a "good investment" I will talk to someone who can teach me about the stock market, or setting up some kind of savings plan.  I will not look to my underwear to secure my future.  Holy shit, this is annoying, and pretentious.  

Just make me a bra, for chrissake.  With a band that fits, and cups that are gentle and non-invasive enough to cradle my ladies in a way that keeps me from looking indecent and frightening.  Cups that will lift me gently, keep bouncing to a minimum, and show my breasts as actual size, versus novelty size.  A bra that does not feel like a form of punishment, but rather a delicate, girly piece of functional clothing.  
It's possible.  I swear.  I see women everywhere, even fat ones like me, looking lovely, and seemingly held gently and comfortably by their bras.  

I am not the only fat woman in the world.  I am not the only large-breasted woman in the world.  I am not the only woman in the world with breasts that tend to favor a southward view.  Make us a bra, dammit.  

And make it pretty, while you're at it.  I'm not 80 yet.  So I don't need underwear that says I am.  
Hey there, big fella...

Fuck you, Every Bra-Maker in the World, for ruining my afternoon, and making me feel as if I have the weirdest, most impossible breasts on the planet.  Fuck you for excluding me from Victoria's Secret and Frederick's of Hollywood.  Fuck you for taking my money repeatedly, and never, ever, EVER coming thru with your end of the bargain.  

And while we're at it, fuck you, Herminie Cadolle, for betraying your fellow womankind with your obnoxious and cruel contraption.  Traitor.  

This message is brought to you by my currently cartoon-size breasts, and probably bleeding ribcage.  Cacique, you are the devil.  

As you were.