One year ago today I married a pretty swell fella.



I think I'll keep him.

In honor of the day (and because I'm feeling nostalgic and sentimental!), I thought I'd share our vows here.

( Read more... )

What a great day that was, and what a great year this has been. Can't wait to see what the next one holds.

Happy anniversary, Mr. Green. Thanks for marrying me.

When I was 17, I was sexually assaulted in a my high school library by a boy I'd never met. I was a library T.A., passing the time on a slow day by reading a novel in a private corner, and this person approached me, sat next to me, and began talking to me, which eventually progressed to him asking me inappropriate questions and sharing inappropriate information, which eventually progressed to him grabbing my crotch. What surprises me about this experience is not that I was molested by a stranger; that happens to countless women all the time and we all know it. What shocks and horrifies me more than the assault itself is that I did not remove myself from the situation when I began to feel uncomfortable because I did not want to be rude.

And then? I still didn't remove myself from the situation because I figured I had sat there and listened to him and answered some of his questions and so I was a willing participant and therefore obligated to stay and be degraded.

And then? Upon telling my best friend what happened, she had to literally drag me to the principal's office to report the fucker. I insisted that it wasn't a big deal, maybe I led him on, he probably just got the wrong idea. She insisted that WTF HE GRABBED YOUR CROTCH WE ARE REPORTING HIM. So we did. And it turns out he was already on thin ice with the school, so he was suspended for a year. And when I found out he had done this to other girls, I was so grateful to my friend for making me hold him accountable. (I had a really amazing high school best friend. She also saved my fingers once; remind me to tell you that story sometime.)

I'm not saying I blame myself. I don't. In the least. I blame a society that instructs women to be unconditionally friendly and polite while refusing to acknowledge the dire consequences that unconditional politeness may encourage. If a woman is approached by a man and ignores or rejects his desire to interact with her, the general consenses is that said woman is a stuck-up bitch. I mean, think about that: what the man loses if he is turned down is a tiny slice of ego and the possibility of getting laid tonight. What a woman loses if she opens herself up to his advances is potentially her physical SAFETY. Our culture deems it more important that a man's pride be perfectly preserved than that a woman protect herself from being raped. So, a woman in that scenario has two choices: Disengage and be labelled a bitch, a tease, an ice queen, or engage and hope her pepper spray is still in her purse.

When I am walking alone in public places, I generally do not make eye contact with men. I usually don't respond when they try to speak to me. I am absolutely aware of the fact that many of these men are probably good people with no intention to harm me in any way. I am also aware that my behavior may make some of them feel bad or hurt their feelings, and that's unfortunate, but honestly? I don't really give a fuck. Because protecting myself is more important than making men feel good. A man going home feeling like a loser because he got rejected is not on the same level as a woman going home with underwear full of blood because she got raped. One in every six American women is sexually assaulted at some point in her life. If one in every six men were attacked by a monkey at some point in their lives, you wouldn't see dudes going around handing out bananas to every monkey they see. They'd be on guard as hell every time they saw a monkey and we wouldn't blame them; doing otherwise would seem naive. Yet replace men with women and monkeys with men, and suddenly self-defense becomes an obstacle to skirt-chasing so it's deemed an unneccessary, overprotective measure undertaken by bitches who need to lighten up.

We shouldn't be calling self-protective women "stuck-up." We should be calling them SMART.

Tags: feminism

So hey, y'know how a bunch of delusional dumbasses have taken over the country and are screaming about SOSHULISM!!11! even though they can neither spell nor define the word, and they're biting people's fingers off, and they think death panels are like American Idol but with old people contestants and Simon Cowell wielding a euthenasia needle, and schools are boycotting a Presidential address about the value of education like it's a private screening of Debbie Does Dallas, and even children are like "Dude, it's not that serious", and it's all because our President somehow got the anti-American idea that maybe everyone should be able to get their leukemia fixed and shit without going bankrupt?

How do you deal with that fuckery?

No, seriously. How do you joyfully and gracefully and purposefully walk through your day when you know that the nation you live under is full of willfully ignorant brainwashed sheep? How do you not sob yourself to sleep every night? How do you not throw your baked potato at the TV when the news comes on? How do you not wistfully watch that monologue from Network over and over again? How do you cuddle puppies and laugh at 30 Rock and make pot pie and play frisbee knowing that nothing is okay and it might never be okay and it's all because people refuse to even entertain the notion of rational thinking? How?

Tags: despair, dumbasses
Current Mood: depressed

So let me get this straight, society. As a woman, I am supposed to get my hair cut every three months and colored once a month, my eyebrows and ladyparts waxed once a month, my legs shaved every day, facials once a month, manicures and pedicures every two weeks, and tan once a week. I am supposed to spend at least an hour every morning applying heat and chemicals and underwire to myself. I am supposed to work out for two hours a day on no more than 1200 calories. I am supposed to buy fashionable, figure-appropriate clothes every season, and update my wardrobe according to changing trends. I am supposed to keep things "spicy" (ew) in the bedroom by wearing lingerie and filling the bedroom with candles and rose petals and implementing the sex tips of women's magazines regularly. Not to mention that every aspect of my life that society perceives as an extension of myself--home, car, husband, children--is supposed to look like a magazine at all times. With a schedule like that, how the hell am I supposed to find the time to take a shit, let alone maintain a job? And if I don't have a job, how can I afford to eat? Those 100 calorie packs ain't cheap!

I do almost none of the above things--and the few I do are usually for my own benefit and not to fulfill a media-based requirement. Often it's hard to resist the magazines and commercials and the waxy, pubescent, glassy-eyed girls pouting at me from the bondage of trashy TV dramas. But whenever I start to feel like a Bad Lady because my hair resembles Joaquin Phoenix's crazybeard, my feet are troll feet, and my eyebrows are committing incest with each other, I remind myself that perfection would literally mean death--the death of my bank account, the death of my time, the death of my integrity as a dimensional person. All that time and money and labor, and for what? For Maybelline. For Jenny Craig. For the pleasure of frat boys who watch too much porn. Maybe that sounds dramatic, but I don't think it is. There's a reason every beautiful girl I know thinks she's not good enough, and it's not because she skipped too many Mystic Tan sessions that week. Beauty is an incredibly powerful and seductive industry. And the worst part is? We're already perfect. Without a cent, without a moment, with every pound and freckle in tact. In the words of Ani DiFranco: there is nothing wrong with your face. love is all over the place.

I can't resist pimping the wares of two of my most talented friends:

My dear friend Stacie (flightviolation ) is now, much to the delight of everyone who knows her, selling some of her paintings online. Please check out her site, but be warned that you may want to buy it all--her stuff's insanely gorgeous. In fact, she's letting us use one of her pieces for the next cover of Rattle, and it's going to be one of our best covers yet.

My dear friend Angela (browniegirl322 ) has restocked her Etsy shelves with all kinds of fabulous handmade accessories. Her stuff is so cute and chic, and it's also a great deal because it's both affordable and really well-made. I absolutely love this scarf I bought from her, and wear it all the time, even when it's way too hot to be wearing a scarf. If you like things that are awesome, check it.

Several celebrities who were at once point close to Michael Jackson have released statements expressing their regret over lack of closure. I was thinking about this the other day. We all know that we're supposed to tell the people we love or admire how we feel about them to prevent regret if tragedy strikes, but how many of us actually do it? I mean, in most cases, if a friend or family member of mine were to die suddenly, I'd be fairly confidant that said person knew I cared for them. But in almost every case, there's something more--sometimes much more--that I'd want to tell them before tragedy struck.

I was even thinking about sort of making a project of it, writing letters to everyone I know describing exactly how I feel about them. But isn't that kind of weird? I mean, if you got a letter from quiet_flame saying, "Hey, yourname, in case you die unexpectedly, I wanted you to know that I think you're really funny and pretty and nice, and I really liked that idea you posted about a senior citizen remake of Bonnie and Clyde featuring Betty White and Mickey Rooney" (What! It's a good idea, right?), would you be creeped out? Also, maybe the notion of someone caring enough about my silly little opinion to make such grand gestures necessary is completely presumptuous and arrogant. Still, it bothers me that we seem to praise people most after they're dead. Shouldn't we do that while they're still capable of appreciating it?

Speaking of things that bother me, I hate that women are considered accomplices in men's "inability" to control their sexual desires. Especially in religious circles, women are expected to dress modestly so as not to be "stumbling blocks" to their fellow believers, but even mainstream society is sympathetic toward men who verbally harass women who dress in a way they deem to be "procovative"--sometimes even toward men who assume a short skirt cancels out the word "no." The underlying idea here, I guess, is that male sexual desire is so strong--and willpower/sense of decency so weak--that men cannot possibly be expected to battle it alone. We have to help them not rape us. Male appetites are also allegedy stronger than females, so I guess us ladies should do our part by starving to death so dudes can have seconds. Fuck that, and give me back my fries if you wanted some you should've ordered your own. I mean, I can say with fairly significant certainty that penises are not wild dogs. They have no independent thought. It is totally possible for them to remain in the womb of their chinos when cleavage is in the vicinity. Also? Women have sexy thoughts too. We even have working genitals that feel tingly when they picture Hugh Jackman singing showtunes to them. Yet, somehow, we do not generally rabidly hump the first shirtless construction worker we see. We also do not demand that dudes refrain from removing their shirts at the beach because "they're asking for it." Again: rational adults capable of self-control.

Also if you like Drew Barrymore can you please explain to me why. I mean there is a fucking shark on her head.

Did you know that everyone I know is either moving, buying a house, or having a baby, and all I am doing is yelling at my cats for rimming each other (don't click that)? Did you know that the world is full of steaming cups of hot mucus who honk at you for using the tail-end of the crosswalk .033 seconds after the light has changed? Did you know that someone just left a comment on my friends' link to an article in favor of gay marriage insisting she should not have to hire or rent property to people who are "against God"? Did you know that somewhere right now someone is kicking a puppy? Did you know that my vagina looks like Pacman today? Did you know that yesterday I got sick from eating too healthy? Did you know that I am tired of trying to find the magic and beauty in a single leaf floating down from a tree? Did you know that I just want a baby and a million dollars and a waterbed with fish in it and fuck the beauty of a single leaf floating down from a tree? Did you know that doctors appointments comprise the bulk of my summer? Did you know I have a brand new baby niece that I may never get to see because I can't travel? Did you know that I go about in pity for myself? Did you know that I wish I could just shut the fuck up and be content like I'm supposed to be and focus on the positive and be the change I want to see in the world and work hard play hard and give a penny take a penny and I don't know what the hell is wrong with me but for some reason I just can't do it I'm stuck being a sad lump of bile? Did you know that I am fine I am just a little bit cranky is that against the law? Did you know that I love you guys? Did you know I can't tell the Jonas Brothers apart? Well? Did you?


basically.

I'm not a religious person, as I've mentioned here before, but one thing I really like about religion is the communal aspect. Not just communal, I guess--there's an element there that you won't find at a city council meeting, and I guess it's a collective form of reverence. I love the idea of a group of people coming together to marvel at the world and to explore how best to live in it, of strangers bonding through gratitude and wonder and sorrow and hope. I guess that's the Unitarian Universalist Church's mission, and it may very well be successful--there's a chapter in my city and Tim and I have been meaning to check it out for a long time; laziness is our only excuse. But I really wish that such spaces were a fundamental part of the fabric of society the way traditional churches are.

I also find the non-religious community to be disappointingly indifferent to rituals, which are an important part of bonding--with others and with, in a sense, life itself. When you hold hands and say grace before Thanksgiving dinner, it's almost impossible not to feel a sense of peace and gratitude. The act itself invites those feelings. You're not going to get the warm fuzzies just digging right into the mashed potatoes, because that's a different part of your brain, the part that's in survival mode and just wants to eat and get through the day. Rituals and ceremonies and traditions facilitate a unique brand of awareness because they, in a sense, socialize introspection; they allow everyone to share in a common thoughtfulness. I think that's why I love holidays. Nothing is about what it really is--baking cookies isn't about the technical act of eating, it's about nourishing each other and delighting in creating something together. Everything becomes deeper, in a way that affirms that life is meaningful and precious.

Tim recently mentioned that he might start using the term "secular humanist" instead of "atheist" to describe our beliefs. I like to describe myself as an atheist for the same reason I describe myself as fat--I feel like it makes those words less taboo, challenges the way they've been demonized. But I understand where Tim's coming from, because while "atheist" implies a lack of belief, "secular humanist" implies a kind of faith. And I like that perspective. Because, really, a lack of faith in God does not imply a lack of any faith at all. I believe that the earth is an incredible place, beautiful and functional, fragile and resilient. I believe that humans are astonishing, capable of art and technology and love. I believe that caring for each other and the world is the best thing we can do. I have been told that because I don't believe in a higher power, my life must be empty, but it is not an empty life. It's a life of constant wonder and amazement.

And that's why I wish folks like me had more outlets for expressing those feelings. We feel them as much as religious people do, but we feel them mostly in isolation, or under the guises of other things--poetry readings, for instance, or yoga class. And that's fine. But I want us to have our own special place, a place designated for no purpose other than reverence. I want to walk into a hushed, dusty building with sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows. I want to run my hand across the top of a polished pew. I want the sounds of joyful singing and quiet weeping. I want to bow my head and hold someone's hand while I thank no one in particular for this world I love--a love as holy as any other.

Went to Vegas last week with my parents. Stayed in a fabulous condo. Rented a convertible. Valet parking every time. Saw the Beatles LOVE show at the Mirage, during which I could not stop smiling. Watched horses ride across Red Rock Canyon at dusk. Gambled a total of $2. All in all, excellent vacation.

***

Yesterday, at a friend's house, I met a very smart and spunky little girl, who showed me how to catch frogs. It got me thinking about how adults automatically condescend to children, as if it is impossible to communicate with them without first establishing a hierarchy: Superior adult/inferior child. It is never okay to simply be two humans having a conversation. Tim says his father's refusal to talk down to him is probably the main reason he's smart and confidant as an adult. At sixth grade camp, we were made to sing Old McDonald. We were 12 years old! Some of us had already had sex. Not that we were ready for that, but damn, I had to make oinking noises when I had already read Shakespeare. Children shouldn't be thrown into an adult world before they're ready, but underestimating their intelligence is dangerous too.

***

I rarely talk politics here, but the murder of abortion provider Dr. George Tiller is really weighing on my heart. When women received the devastating news that their late-term fetuses were afflicted with health problems that would cause them to live very brief lives full of pain and suffering, they crossed state lines to receive compassionate care from Dr. Tiller. Now there is no Dr. Tiller. He was shot walking into his church. Risking his own life every day, enduring ceaseless attacks and harassment, to help desperate women when nobody else would--that was his crime. He was one of the few legal late-term abortion providers left in the country. Eventually, fundamentalists chanting "life"--the most perverse irony there ever was--will make them extinct. And women will be forced once again to bleed to death in back alleys. The criminal who killed Dr. Tiller didn't take just one life; he significantly contributed to the future deaths of countless women who will have no choice. My only consolation in this whole tragedy is that Dr. Tiller is finally at peace. I just wish his peace didn't have to come like this.

Well, I survived the party without crying at any point in the evening, so I'll declare it a success. Mingled non-stop with strangers for 4+ hours, which was really overwhelming for me, so I held up pretty well. It never ceases to amaze me how effortlessly good some people are at that kind of thing. You can ask them, "So, what do you think of the conflict in the Middle East?" and they'll instantly spout off some response that manages to be brilliant, witty and non-offensive at the same time, all while daintily nibbling questionable sushi, passing out business cards and mentally calculating the net worth of everyone in the room. Whereas I, when delivered a tough, thought-provoking inquiry like, say, "How are you?" will frantically wrack my brain for ten seconds, desperately sloughing through the random junk in my head, mostly donuts and bad puns and obscene images of Hugh Jackman, before coming up with some suave and enlightening retort, like "Um, keeping it real." (Yes, I actually said that.) I  think the high volume of conversations was actually a good thing for me, though. In almost every interaction I have, there's something I regret saying and obsessively beat myself up over afterward. This party was no exception, but there were so many conversations that I lost track of every stupid thing I said and thus had no ammunition with which to emotionally shoot myself. Also, I think someone took a picture of me scratching my nose. Hot.

***

People are always talking about how time flies. I feel the opposite. I've been alive for 24 years and each one was its own universe. Other people are flying private jets across their years and I'm trotting down a dirt road with a bindlestick over my shoulder. Time moves as lethargically now as it did when I was five years old, each season still weighed down with its own brand of drudgery. In a year, I will be a considerably different person. I will have cried about something I never expected to cry about. I will have read something that reformatted my brain. It's so strange to think that I've only known Tim for five years. Such a small number. What was I doing with myself then? How could anything have seemed important? Maybe five years from today I will wonder how I ever found significance in this moment, right now, writing in my livejournal in my pajamas and worrying about things that undoubtedly will be forgotten by then.

You know those people who are really zealous and perspire a lot and give things "110 percent" and are so energetic they're, like, throbbing with adrenaline and are always earnestly exclaiming about living life to the fullest and living like you're dying and living life out loud and giving it to life from behind like the whore it is, etc? Those people are so foreign to me. I just don't get that perspective, the metaphor as life as scaling a mountain or jumping from a plane or shoving 40 hot dogs down your gullet. To me, life is more like going to the botanical gardens with your family. The flowers are pretty, though not as pretty as the brochure showed, and it's hot, and your feet hurt, and your grandma keeps stopping every few seconds to read the information plaques, and the bottled water costs $7, and the landscaping really is nice, and hey look a butterfly. It's fucking boring. Slow and dull and made worthwhile by occasional beauty and joy. And that's fine. I don't want life to be an extreme sport. I'd rather my cause of death not be excessive puking. So can we stop it with that Tim McGraw song?

***

Remember when Paris Hilton went to jail? That was weird.