Spreading Misogyny

I get called a misogynist a lot. Granted, I hate bitches, but I would not go as far as to say I am a misogynist. I feel like that word gets thrown around too easily, like calling someone a socialist. Eventually, it starts to lose its meaning. Plus, I believe in equal rights, but unlike a lot of people, I am not mistaken about what equal rights really mean.

Women talk a big game, but when it comes to putting their money where their mouth is, they typically fall short. When most women talk about equality, they want to get the benefits from the gender roles they approve of, while sidestepping the gender roles that they find degrading, you know, like buying their own dinner.

At one point in time the women’s movement had a valid point. It was ludicrous to think unmarried women could not own a credit card. Doctors would require a husband’s permission to perform certain procedures. Women mainly went to college in order to find a husband. Even Jackie Kennedy said in an interview that she doesn’t concern herself with whom to vote for, that she just listens to her husband. Sure, her husband became the leader of the free world, but Jackie Kennedy was a trend setter, she was what women aspired to be.

During the wars, men were out fighting for our country so women were pushed into labor. Women worked in manufacturing plants and as nurses and secretaries, and as managers. They were given a taste of life outside of the kitchen, a life they needed to wear shoes to be a part of, a life that didn’t require pregnancy and sandwich making. This life was good.

I give props to the women that fought for the freedoms I take for granted every day. Good job ladies. But somehow this message became skewed.

Affirmative Action benefited white females more than anyone else (look it up!). So, when you hear these mid-western machinists complaining they lost their job to a black man, they are wrong.  They lost their job to a white female. Because of Affirmative Action, I no long have to get on my knees to get a promotion.

Women want equal pay for equal work. And that quip sounds logical. It sounds totally fair. When I think of it in those simplest of terms, I agree. But then a little thinking happens and I remember women are in charge of baring children, still. No amount of bra burning could change that fact. And the child baring process can be difficult and require a lot of time off. Women are allowed more maternity leave than men are given for paternity leave. Women also take more sick days. Women are also more likely to hurt themselves on the job and file for disability. Women also sue more. Sexual harassment charges cost companies lots of money. Women are expensive to companies, so it makes sense they would take some of that expense out of pay to their female employees.

I have accepted the fact that my male counterparts will probably make more money than me. I hope they have accepted the fact that when we go out to happy hour, they are picking up the tab. 

The Same Old Waiter's Rant

With all the books, blogs, and tweets about how difficult it is to deal with the general public, I am surprised people still need to be reminded to not be assholes to the workers that handle your food. The things I hear working in a restaurant are just astonishing. I do not know why it is necessary to remind people to act like a normal human when they are out in public, but apparently it needs to be said.

Here are a few rules to eating out.

1.      I do not care how old you are, bring your fucking ID. I am sick of having to kick you out because you are an asshole that goes into public without an ID. Honestly, who does that? How does that ever sound like a good idea? What if something happened to you while you were out? Not carrying your ID makes it really difficult to ID your body. So, in case of death, carry your ID.

2.      If you were dumb enough to leave your ID at home, do not get pissed at me for telling you that you need it to be in bar. It is not my fault you left your ID at home, that is yours. Figure out your life, dude.

3.      If your friend or family member was kicked out for not having an ID, don’t tell me you changed your mind on food, that you lost your appetite. You are not Ghandi up in this bitch. If you really have that much issue with the law, do something more productive, like writing your local politicians.

4.     Trying to bring your young children or anyone under the age of 21 into a bar is illegal. I understand your newborn is not going to be drinking, but your newborn is not 21 years old.

5.    Don’t be cheap. That means don’t get pissed because you cannot use your discount card on a holiday. And if you had read the back of your card or the agreement you signed, you would know your stupid card is not accepted on any holiday. Asshole. It also means don’t ask me how much things cost. If you want it, just order it. I am not a walking rolodex of prices. And if you and your friends need to split an eight dollar tab three ways, I think you should reassess your friendships.

6.      Don’t ask me if I am new. That is just rude. I do not go to your work and ask you if you are new. I don’t ask you if you are new to drinking when you order a blackberry mojito or a white peach sangria. I don’t ask if you are new to the country when you do not have your ID on you. So, if you could throw the same courtesy at me that would be great.

7.      Don’t hit on me. I know you think I am interested because I am being really nice and funny and smiling at you a lot, but that is my job. I don’t read into how well your file papers at you job, don’t try reading into mine. I don’t want your number, I do not want to give you mine, and I do not want to go out on a date with you. What I want is for you to order your drink, shut up, and give me a really nice tip. That is all.

8.      Don’t snap for me. I will ignore you. If you do this, you are obviously a fucking asshole. Dick.

9.      Don’t tell me you are in a hurry and then sit in my section for three hours. In fact, unless you are ordering copious amounts of food and alcohol and tipping me really well, I never want you to sit in my section for three hours. When you loiter, you are costing me money. There are other people that could be using that table. Go to Starbucks.

10.   When you are ordering your food, I do not need your life story. I don’t care if you are “being bad” by ordering the chocolate cake, just get the fucking cake and shut up. And don’t say you are “being bad” by ordering Iced Tea. That doesn’t even make sense. Ordering shots of 151 is bad; drinking Iced Tea is just…well, drinking Iced Tea. If you need to tell me about a food allergy, that is fine, but I don’t want to hear about when you developed this allergy and how hard everything is because of this allergy and I don’t want to hear about this “one time at this other restaurant”. I just simply do not give a fuck. You are a money symbol to me. That is all. Shut up and let me do my job.

11.   I feel like most of you reading this have already forgotten the rules, so please start back at the beginning.

Just remember to be nice to the person handling your food. While I have never personally done anything to taint the food I serve, I cannot say as much for people I have worked with. 

You are the Reason Your Kid is a Prick

I am tired of parents saying that if people do not have kids they are not allowed to judge. What a fucking cop out.

Remember being a kid and saying that you would never treat your kids the way your parents treated you? I think that went a little too far. There is a serious generational gap in the behavior of baby boomers and the current generation of children. Sure, there are a lot of differences in everyday life, like technology, but the differences in behavior really astound me.

My parents are Baby Boomers. They are part of the generation that experimented with acid and protested Vietnam, and went to college to avoid the draft. Their generation was historic and great. Their generation watched and participated as the world changed. They saw men walk on the moon, they saw Kennedy change history, they saw MLK move millions of people, they experienced Woodstock, they knew of Reagan the actor. My parents were part of changing the world.

The Baby Boomers were great. They were idealistic and empowered and active. They had energy and education. It didn’t hurt that the generation before them (their parents) had lived through the depression. My grandparent’s generation did a lot of groundwork for my parents. My grandparents made sure their children would be able to receive an education, if not afforded by them, afforded by the government, afforded through student loans at reasonable rates and through scholarships. They encouraged and empowered the Baby Boomers. People growing up and living through the depression knew how important government is, they knew how important voting is, they knew what it meant to be too complacent with the status quo and they passed that energy to my parents.

However, most people of my parents’ generation did not pass that same energy and mentality onto us. Maybe it is because they saw their protest do little to stop a foreign war. Maybe it is because burning their bras did little to further women’s place in society. Maybe it is because no matter how many people showed up to hear MLK, his message still got lost in the hatred. I do not know. But that idealistic fire got lost somewhere and disgusting complacency has been passed on.

Women fought to be allowed into the work force, and they got their way. And with women ever climbing that corporate ladder and divorce rates soaring and people continuing to breed like it is going out of style, the way children are raised is changing. Kids are not allowed to be kids anymore because colleges are starting to look farther back into a teen’s record in order to assure they are qualified to attend college. Getting a degree in General Studies is getting more and more competitive these days. So, at two months old kids are being put on the waiting list for Pre-School and football camp. And kids are not expected to respect their parents. With both of them being gone at work so often and fighting over custody, it is more about who can buy the child than who is a better parent. At some point it stopped being about the child’s wellbeing and started being about the parent’s bragging rights.

And so it starts. When their three year old is running around the Red Robin screaming at the top of his or her lungs, it is not about what a pain in the ass the kid is being, it is about how strong they are for their age with so much energy and what a great lung capacity they have. Fuck that kid and their parents. You want to know why my parents’ generation was so great? It is because their parents beat the shit out of them. Okay, maybe not literally, but come on!

And heaven forbid anyone say something to the parent of one of these juvenile delinquents. The first question is always “well do you have kids?”, as if that has any bearing on what an asshole their kid is being. Answer “yes” and you are fucked because you raised a child that doesn’t act like a complete prick. Congratufuckinglations. However, answer “no” and you are double fucked because you just don’t understand what is like to raise kids! As if you yourself were raised by a pack of wolves and just happened to assimilate into normal society, or as if you yourself was never a child, or as if you have never been around kids that do not act like selfish douchebags.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes young kids are just having bad days. I get that. I remember being a child and simply being a little brat and not remembering why. I was just in a mood. I suppose it is similar to me experiencing PMS, but as a four year old. However, I also remember my parents removing me from other people. I also remember my mother threating to beat me in front of God and everyone. Trust me, she meant it. That, my friends, is the key difference.

Now when someone threatens to beat their kids CPS is called. You know what happened when I threatened to call CPS? My mom dared me. I never called. I knew better.

I have a small idea of what it is like to raise children. I have this because, even though I spent a lot of time in daycare, my parents raised me. They instilled the fear of God in me (while managing to not be religious). I knew better than to have sex under their roof, do drugs, drink, party, generally act a fool. I knew there were consequences to my actions. For some reason, kids do not seem to have that same sense of responsibility or self-preservation.

I blame their parents, especially the asshole parents that justify their shitty parenting by saying ‘people without kids would not understand’. I remember being a child. I know what is acceptable. And sure, there are a few things I might do differently, at the end of the day; your kid is a fucking prick because you allow him or her to be, not because the rest of us don’t understand the difficulties.

Maybe, when your kid is acting out, think of how your grandparents or great-grandparents might handle the situation. Try to mimic that. If all else fails, I promise not to call CPS if you spank your kid for acting like a little shit.

You’re welcome. 

Got Milk?

There is a serious amount of people being hyper sensitive lately. I am not sure if it is the season or something in the water but, people are being whiney bitches.  Palin and others are complaining about the White House Christmas card, they are complaining about trees not being called Christmas trees, people saying Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas and they are complaining about not being able to breast feed in the middle of a Target.

For those that are unfamiliar with a Target, it is a store that is like Wal-mart, but caters to people who think they are too good for Wal-mart. They have everything you could ever want and most of it is made in the best country on Earth, China. They have clothes, cookware, bath towels, hardware, electronics, cosmetics, plants, furniture, and groceries. They have everything. The store is covered in red and smells like stale popcorn and White Cherry Slushy. I love it. But lately, Target has been in the news.

It seems that Target has a policy, separate from the law, on breast feeding. The laws state that a woman is allowed to breast feed in any public place; the law even allows women to have their suckled breast exposed. Gross. Target, does not seem to agree with this law and thinks breast feeding should be a private experience between a mother and her infant. Target, being private property, is allowed to have their own store policy about breast feeding. Their policy allows women to breast feed but not out in the open. And that has offended some moms.

Currently there are “Nurse-ins” being set up around the country at Targets to try and coax the company to change their policy on breast feeding. The woman stirring the pot is an upset mother about the treatment she received from Target employees while breast feeding her baby. Multiple employees asked her to stop feeding or to move to a different place so that she was not feeding out in the open. As a breast feeding mom, she was upset and embarrassed and outraged by the treatment she received. So she took her complaints to corporate. When the first person she talked to told her she should have taken her milky boobs into a fitting room she asked to speak with a supervisor. The supervisor said the same thing. Naturally, she went to the media.

This mother was covered while feeding her baby and pointed out the other customers wearing low-cut shirts were exposing more of themselves than she was, but no one had an issue with the girls in tight clothes and low cut shirts, nor did anyone seem to have an issue with the women on advertisements wearing nothing but their skivvies. She even pointed to Europe as the model we should follow.

I wonder if she should rethink any parts of her statement. Let’s us start with her baby being hungry. Hungry babies need to feed, that is totally normal. Wanting a child to have the nutritional value that comes with breast milk is also totally normal and completely understandable. But I do not understand why a mother would not have a bottle of pumped breast milk on them if they are going to be out and running around with their infant. That type of bonding with your baby is not necessary for a public environment.

The issue with advertisements of women in their bra and panties is laughable mainly because there is very little other way to advertise bras or panties. It is not like they have pictures of women fit for The Swim Suit Issue of Sports Illustrated in the hardware department. Those pictures are hanging from the ceiling above the department for undergarments. There are also pictures of men in their man-panties next to boxers and briefs. Relevant advertisements do not seem to have a lot to do with public breast feeding.

I think the biggest kicker of her argument is looking to Europe as a model. Sure, Europe has no problem with public breast feeding, but they also do not have a problem with nudity on their beaches (or some of their streets), nor do they have an issue with prostitution, or drug use, or swearing (cunt, anyone?), or news anchors taking off their clothes for ratings. So, if this woman has an issue with lingerie advertisements in a store I am not sure the European model is the one she should be looking towards.

Not to mention, breast feeding in the middle of the store is awkward. Who has to be asked to do that in a private place, like a dressing room? Isn’t that something kind of personal, like pooping? 

If Santa is wrong, I do not want to be right.

Christmas is quickly approaching and now that I am an adult Christmas has lost some of its appeal. I remember being a child and having a hard time falling asleep because I was so excited to open my presents and I remember trying to stay awake so that I could catch Santa in the act of sneaking down the chimney and wiggling his chubby ass out of the wood burning stove; how would he get the door open from the inside? But, maybe he took the the hole to the chimney we had downstairs, he could easily just walk out of that fireplace. These were time consuming thoughts for a five year old. And I think all five year olds should be forced to ponder these very complex ideas.

Kids should be forced to talk to a red polyester clad fat man wearing a fake beard. Kids should be forced to sit on the creepers lap and they should be threatened with Santa skipping over their house if they do not behave well. This threat should not only happen during winter. This should be considered as valid of a threat in July as it is in December.

Some parents want to be considered trustworthy to their kids. Parents want to be super honest about everything from how babies are made to Santa. I think this is a huge mistake. Kids need to be lied to. Kids need to be told Santa is real and they need to know about the Boogie Man and the Easter Bunny. Realizing that sometimes your parents lie is a crucial part of development. It allows you to realize they are human. When a child becomes old enough they will know that sometimes parents lie in order to protect a child, like not giving the graphic details of child birth; saying a baby magically appeared because a stork dropped it off is much nicer and gentler than saying that eight pound babies giant head ruined mommies vagina forever. Likewise, saying Santa is going to leave a lump of coal is a nicer and easier way of getting kids to behave than threatening to beat them in front of God and everyone, plus there will be a lot less CPS involved. Honest parenting is an oxymoron.

Other parents find Santa to contradict the real meaning of Christmas, you know? Jesus’ birthday! I could get behind this train of thought if Jesus had actually been born in December. However, he was not. We celebrate Christmas at this time of year because somewhere along the line Christian leaders decided it would be nicer to confuse people by moving Christmas. This was their compromise. Instead of killing the Pagans, they decided to rape the Pagans of their holidays. Fair enough, I suppose.  So really, singing Happy Birthday to Jesus on December 25 is equally as ridiculous, confusing, and big of a lie as telling your kids an elderly man travels around the world in a night while breaking and entering in order to leave presents after ransacking milk and cookies. Plus, there is more proof of St. Nicholas than there ever has been of Jesus, mainly because we know for a fact that Saint Nicholas was a real person and therefore where the legend of Santa comes from.

If believing in Santa makes kids better behaved, what is the harm in that? Lying to your kids about Santa is not like lying to them that they were adopted. Nor is it any worse of a lie about their horrible artwork being very very good and worthy of a spot on the fridge. Depriving your kids of Santa Clause and all of the awkward crying that comes along with sitting on his lap and pulling off his beard is plain old bad parenting. Furthermore, parents need to stop acting like they are doing it for their kids. Parents that do not participate in the Santa lie are not doing it because they value honesty, or because they respect their child too much to tell them such a ridiculous lie, or because you are too religious and the idea of Santa seems more Pagan and anti-Christian than recognizing that Santa actually comes from a religious figure and Christmas as we know it as close to Pagan (without actually being Pagan) as one can get. No, that is not why parents do not want to fall in line; these parents that opt out of Santa are lazy. The Santa lie takes some effort, some manipulation, and eventually an awkward conversation when the child realizes Santa does not exist. This conversation might happen because this kid decided to celebrate another Pagan holiday and Trick or Treat at my parents house where my dad tells kids Santa is not real (this has actually happened. He is no longer allowed to open the door or hand out candy), or it might happen because your child eventually grew up and started to realize that a man flying around the world in one night committing felonies at every good girls and boys house is improbable. 

But at the end of the day, the spirit of Saint Nicholas does exist. People carry on his name, people give gifts, they are generous to strangers, and they try harder to be nice and lend a helping hand. As long as we are not talking about a 12 AM Black Friday sale at Wal-Mart, the spirit of Christmas and St. Nick is alive and well. That alone is reason enough to tell your kids that the mall Santas are helpers to the real Santa. 

Sweaty S&M

Like any normal girl I am completely irrational. Also, like most girls I have put on weight since I started dating my boyfriend.

In the year that we have been dating, I have put on just over 10 lbs. To give a little background on this, when he and I had met I was still reeling from a very hard break-up, my ex and I dated for about two and a half years. Needless to say, I took the break up pretty hard. I did not get out of bed and I did not eat, I just sat in my room, crying and writing sad things and listening to sappy music. It was like a pathetic 80’s montage, tears, tissues, puffy faces, and letters all over a messy bed with sad music playing in the background. Don’t worry; I am not trying to relive the break-up, I am trying to illustrate that I was a hot skinny mess.

When I met my current boyfriend I was a little underweight, only by a few pounds, but my close friends could see the weight loss and started to worry. I was starting to look like I had in high school, a prepubescent boy. But, somehow my boyfriend saw through all of that and stalked me on Facebook until I agreed to go on date with him (or at least, that is how I am going to tell it for now).

So since being comfortable in my new relationship and my fattening restaurant job, I have put on about 10 lbs. I am at a totally healthy weight for my height, age, and body type. I have a totally healthy BMI, and my body fat percentage is in the “fit” range. But, because I am a female, I am crazy and I have decided I should lose the 10 lbs I have gained since getting into this relationship. Most of the reason I want to lose the weight is that I simply feel better. I think I look better.

I figured the best way to start this new diet would be to buy a scale. That way I know where I am starting. I can track my weight loss, I can track my BMI, and I can track my body fat percentage. Also, I figured if I really knew how much I weigh (instead of just guessing, although I was guessing totally accurately) I would be more inclined to lose the weight.

So, today I started the weight loss journey. I do not plan on making any drastic changes to my diet, probably not eating at work as often. But today I really decided that I am going to be proactive in shaving the pounds. I sent my birthday twin a text letting her know I would be willing to try Hot Yoga with her. Personally, I do not like yoga, at least not the standard temperature yoga I tried before I had this brilliant idea. My twinny was excited that I was being open to working out with her. A few seconds after I send her this text about Hot Yoga, my friend from work sends me an IM on Facebook asking me to come to Hot Yoga with her. I told her I had just drunk a glass of wine but, took this coincidence to mean Zuckerberg thinks I should lose the weight also. Surprised by the serendipity of it all, I agree to try Hot Yoga. The place she goes to is running a special of 10 days for $20, so I figure if I don’t like, I am out $20, at least I know, and I can call it a day.

So I show up a few minutes early and fill out the paper work, hand them my money, and head into class. Walking in, I notice that I am out of my element. Everyone is spread perfectly apart so there is not a convenient spot for my yoga mat (previously reserved for Pilates). I wedge myself into a line that does not actually exist, in front of but still in between my friend and a stranger. Before class starts I have a minute to observe. I am able to observe the brick next me, the fact that I am the only person in class wearing socks and therefore extremely aware of what a newbie I am, and I am able to observe the thick stench of ball sweat, because when they say Hot Yoga they mean hot like the back seat of a Pinto on prom night.

Once class gets going I am led into strange poses in a foreign language. I am taught how to properly “Om”, I am sweating like a hooker in church, and I am told to relax, let my mind be free, I am told not to judge myself or my body, I am told to breathe. All this talk and alien language makes me stressed out. I get stressed at the idea of not being able to relax. Then I start to think about how working out is supposed to include being critical of your body, because that is why we are there. Then I remember the heat has made me dizzy and I feel as if I am going to be sick. I wonder if the other people in class notice that I am dying. I wonder how embarrassing it would be if I were to pass out in the middle of class. I remember that I do not do well in the heat; I am from Washington after all. My chest feels congested which is making my breathing more difficult. Then I hear that I am supposed to free my mind and just relax. This only stresses me out more.

All of this makes me wonder-I try to focus on this idea in class, but I am too dizzy and sick and sweaty to really hold it-who thought working out in this type of heat is a good idea? Who came up with this? And even more importantly, why do people do it? This is proof that women really are crazy. We can be sold anything as weight loss, or healthy, or relaxing, and it will become popular. The men in class seem less crazy to me, they get to work out while staring at girls in a position called Downward Dog. I start to wonder when working out in sticky humidity, stretching, breathing, and being calm while trying to tone up, started to sound like a good idea? And somewhere between the 100th Downward Facing Dog pose and the Tree pose, I start to wonder what the hell I am doing there.

The answer never comes. I just continue inhaling hot air humid while alcohol disguised as sweat drips out of my pores. I swear only 15 minutes has passed.

The instructor corrects my Downward Dog three times. She does not sweat.

I still think only 15 minutes has passed and I wonder how I am going to make it another 45 minutes.

After an hour and a half of stretching, balancing, breathing, and mostly sweating my hell is over. I pack up my yoga mat that had lain untouched in the trunk of my car for more than a year; I put pack my brick and rope, and I walked outside into the chilly fall weather.

My friend asks me what I thought and I tell her. She asks me how I did and I find this question strange because she was right behind me the whole time, she had prime view of my lopsided Downward Dog, but I tell her that I would definitely need more practice. I tell her that I hate it. I want to work out to get the feeling of working out, not be stressed about the fact that I cannot relax during my work out and that my work out is more like a guided meditation in awkward positions than an actual work out. But, she is not giving up and she will not let me. She swears that I cannot judge my experience on the first session; she says I need to give it at least three tries and backs this up by reminding me that I paid for 10 days. To her, being in hell is less important than $20.

For some reason, I agreed with her. 

A Pinch of Dysentery

What is it about getting older that you can actually feel death getting closer? This idea became very prevalent to me after riding just two rides at the Puyallup Fair. When I was a child I had no problem jumping from ride to ride and eating three elephant ears, two funnel cakes, a hamburger, a hot dog, an ice cream cone, a brick of fries, and at least one scone-I was a growing girl-then going on every ride that went fast, upside down, and spun in circles about a million times. The only thing that slowed me down at the Fair as a child was stopping to eat and my feet constantly hurting from all of the walking and running around.

When I went to the fair last night, my feet didn’t start hurting until the fair was almost closed, I could barely choke down one of the mystery meat burgers, and the scones, elephant ears, and funnel cake all seemed too sweet to stomach with the turbulent rides and screaming kids.

After just two rides, I was ready to call it a day. My head was pounding, my stomach hurt, and I am still surprised to I didn’t hurl in a nearby trash can. But, we had driven an hour to get there and paid over $80 for parking, admission tickets, and bracelets to get unlimited rides, I was not about to waste that money or an afternoon moping about my tummy hurting, so it was time to man-up.

I swear, I remember Fair food tasting better. Everything but the ice cream cone tasted like it was giving me dysentery on The Oregon Trail. I think the meat in the burger patty was the stuff McDonald’s turns away for not being high enough in quality. The burger came with nothing on it. We were not even given the option to put on lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, or raw onion. There were bottles of ketchup, mayo, and mustard on a side table next to the flimsy napkins and little packets of salt and pepper. But those were the only things you were allowed to add on to your burger, at least the only thing they didn’t charge a dollar fifty to add on. If you really wanted, you could have grilled onions and cheese. Because when I think of a delicious burger, I think of a bun, grilled onions, and mystery meat paddy. Sick.

After we were able to get our appetites back from that horrific experience (I swear, I don’t want to eat a burger for the next year) we tried a BBQ spot. I remember it was always so good, with the best ears of corn. They would always have juicy ribs, great BBQ pork or chicken sandwiches, or BBQ half (or whole) chicken. It is as American as food can get. So, we decided to go there, plus the prices are actually kind of reasonable. Once again, disappointment. Not the same type of colossal disappointment that we had from EarthQuake Burgers, but not as good as I remember. The sauce was heavy on the apple cider vinegar and the chicken was dry. The corn was still amazing and I actually liked the baked beans. But the meat and the BBQ sauce they sell in jars was subpar. And all of this made me wonder, is it the fair that changed, or just me?