the first horseman of the apocalypse

gaze upon the horror with your own eyes!

disturbing, yet soothing

Choice tidbits from Minneapolis' Star
Tribune article on My Little Pony fanatics:

"Tamara Forsyth, 22, isn't the type of woman you'd expect to dress up like a pink pony. Forsyth has tattoos and piercings and her haircut is post-modern shaved.

"She's very alternative, as you can see," said her mother, Anna Simmons, of Winona.

But on her long train ride from Beaverton, Ore., to Winona, Forsyth cut little pink hearts out of cloth and sewed them onto a pair of pink cotton pants. In Winona, while visiting with her mom, she fashioned a mane and tail out of pink yarn. She became a punk rock version of her favorite pony.

Crossing her tattooed arms, Forsyth announced proudly: "I'm Snuzzle."

A cynic might think a punker like Forsyth attended to poke fun. She did not.

"I love the ponies," she said. In fact, she has more than 300 of them, most collected in childhood. She was partly drawn to them because of her aversion to Barbie dolls.

"I hated Barbie," she said. "Barbie creates an unrealistic role model for young girls. But for a little girl to play with ponies? It's not like they expect to grow up and be ponies."

She still plays with them on occasion. "I set them up in scenes and take pictures of them."
Not all her friends appreciate her hobby. "One friend said, 'They're scaring me, man. They're staring at me.' " "

Uh, yeah. She sets her ponies up in "scenes??" Sisterfriend, don't act like everyone's not into the SM lingo. What a dirty, dirty pony lover.

Also a favorite - a boyfriend of a pony fanatic says:

"I figure, if it makes her happy, I don't have any problem with it," he said. "I mean, it's just a toy. It's not like she's collecting severed fingers or something."

Why do I feel like he's said that many, many times? Maybe repeated that last bit over and over to himself? Sorry dude, your girlfriend is a whack job. Hopefully she's hot, but still, kind of crazy.

I realize those comments come from a girl who knits obsessively and loves Latin - but I just think that further enables me to recognize a fellow freak when I see one!

soooooo dirty

compliments of my friend Rich:

You know that someone in the editing department had a good, long laugh over that. Dirty. I love it!

on my way to urban legend

Distressingly, I've had hiccups three times today. I know that statement ought to be filed in the navel-gazing-pretentious-wanker realm of blogging, but good jesus, when I get hiccups I get scared. I worry, am I going to end up like that mysterious dude who had hiccups for seventeen years or whatever? What a complete pain in the ass that would be. I would really like to avoid that fate, or at least, fueling that urban legend by becoming it!



Me, only I'm not a white dude in a suit. The Twilight Zone-esque background is thoroughly correct, however:

ah, ick

From cnn.com regarding Rep. Rick Santorum's (R-PA) new book:

In the book, Santorum makes the case that abortion puts the liberty rights of the mother before those of her child, just as the rights of slave owners were put before those of slaves.

"This was tried once before in America," Santorum writes. "But unlike abortion today, in most states even the slaveholder did not have the unlimited right to kill his slave."

Let's not forget the excellent noun, santorum, as coined by the lovely Dan Savage:

Santorum (n)
the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex

Rick is just so gross. I feel sorry for that frothy mix of lube and fecal matter - it's getting a raw deal by being hooked up with this asshole.

knitting is even tougher than i had hoped!

I want everything these people have to sell.

On a completely unrelated note, I've had so many salt water taffys today I can feel my eyeballs vibrating in their sockets. Apparently I should cut back. Duly noted, eyeballs, duly noted.

beautiful

Beautiful.

While our boy Karl may not have sold us out to the British, he sure as hell is worthy of a Benedict title if he did, indeed, gave out Plame's name in retribution for her husband's NY Times article.

Treason

(from yourdictionary.com)

1. Violation of allegiance toward one's country or sovereign, especially the betrayal of one's country by waging war against it or by consciously and purposely acting to aid its enemies.
2. A betrayal of trust or confidence.

[Middle English, from Anglo-Norman treson, from Latin trditi, trditin-, a handing over ; see tradition.]

Now, while I'm not sure that he violated definition number one (unless he secretly loves theIraqi insurgents), he sure as shit is knee-deep in definition number two.

oh london

I heard about you, London. I'm thinking about you - I wish you guys the best of health and safety today and while you sort out this horrible mess.


I heard on the BBC this morning that the streets are filled with people, and that the feeling in London is dazed and surreal as everyone walks about in the streets without cars or buses, everyone on their cell phones, assuring their families that they're okay. That sounds exactly like New York on 9/11. I am so, so, so sorry to hear that scene is repeating itself. What a horrible history to repeat.

This is from that big design show in Milan this year. A knit fence. There are no words.

sweet.

You are DNA. You're a smart person, and you appear
incredibly complex to people who don't know
you. You're incomparably full of information,
and most of it is useless.


Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

pride and shoes full of blood

Minneapolis Pride was this weekend. It was surprisingly lovely - on Saturday I joined my father at Loring Park (he was manning the Multiple Sclerosis booth), and he and I walked all around, looking at the booths. He spotted and instantly feel into deep love of the Utilikilt, which I told him not to buy, "because Dad, you can't come to Pride with your gay daughter and go home with a skirt. You just can't. Mom'll kill me." However, I think he's slowly breaking my mother down into accepting the kilts someday presence in the family manor. Funny, considering this is a man who resolutely avoids pinks, salmons, purples, and anything vaguely "girly."

Sunday I volunteered for the Red Door Clinic and lured people in for the candy, and made them stay for the free HIV and syphilis testing. Really, really fun.

That said, aside from all of the fun and pride and condoms and whatnot, my feet declared war against me. ME, of all people. Don't I lovingly rub them nightly with that peppermint foot cream from Bath and Body Works? Don't I gently use my foot brush regularly to keep them clean and pretty? Don't I exclusively buy them Dansko and Born and other expensive shoes?

Yes, yes I do all that, but apparently it's not enough for the little fuckers. My sandals cut so deeply into my feet from walking around on Sunday, I have two angry gashes that require neosporin (or however that's spelled), bandaids, and flip flops (so nothing rubs against the gashes, neosporin, and the bandaids). Really, they look brutal and feel even worse.

I just don't know what to do with my feet anymore. They insist on cutting themselves like teenage girls and filling up their (expensive) shoes with blood. Maybe I should try counseling, or new peppermint lotion.

impossibly charming

I sincerely love my nieces and nephews.

However, because there are SIX of them (three girls, three boys), I'm always anxious before they come over. Frankly, I dread their arrival.

It always gets better once they burst through the door though. The youngest are twin girls, and it's just incredible how aware they are of each other. They're still babies, but they will reach out and hold each other's hand. If I'm standing next to my older brother (their father) holding Twin1 while he's holding Twin2, Twin1 will inevitably reach out and rest her hand on her sister's shoulder, or maybe pat her sister's back. It's so fascinating to see them doing these seemingly learned behaviors like holding hands and patting backs, and realize that it's innate. And admittedly, they are very, very good looking babies (I think being born via C-section and not through the birth canal helped to not squish their heads into weird shapes).

But if they start talking in some whacko twin language, I'm going to be seriously disturbed.

the silence

I work with a lovely, lovely woman. Let's call her Coworker. I like her so much, I even threw her a baby shower (more on that later). The one thing that really confuses me about her, though, is her conversation style. I expect pauses between speakers occasionally, but Coworker just waits for me to speak. All the time. Incessantly. She pauses so much our conversations become The Elizabeth Show, where I just blather on and on and on, make myself laugh, and work out therapy-like things. It's SO odd. I tried pausing once to make her speak when we were on the phone, but the pause went on for so long I just caved. I couldn't handle the expectant silence. Why? What is that all about? What is she waiting for me to say???

Coworker's baby shower: I knit her a simple lavender raglan sweater and a matching cloche-shaped hat in some cheapo superwash stuff. Cute, simple, easy. Now, I expected the ladies at the shower to react with something like, "hey, nice work Elizabeth! Wow, you knit that? Neat!" You know, the normal kind of response to knit gifts.

What I got was nice, but completely scary. One woman pounded on the table with the flat of her hand as she shouted, "EVERYTHING here today you will THROW AWAY, but THAT, THAT YOU WILL KEEP FOREVER." Another woman said in a hushed voice, "I hope my present isn't opened after yours. That is truly magnificent." Um, what? I mean, thanks, but jesus christ, ease up, okay? Coworker told me after the shower, looking at me dead in the eye, "When my daughter is too old for that sweater and hat, I'm going to mount it and frame it so she can see it when she's grown." What? What is wrong with these people? It's nice, I appreciate it, but holy fuck, it's kind of freaking me out. Everyone at work loves me now. Did I infuse that sweater with airborne crack? Apparently so.

The sweater pattern, by the way, can be found here. Please note its utter simplicity. If I had done fair isle, NO, intarsia color work, I have zero doubt someone would have shit their pants. Ew.

The hat is here. Again, so easy.

like the babysitter's club, but different

"I can't come to dinner right now, Mom! I've got my secret club meeting tonight! Don't worry, we're a club that's all about SAFETY, Mom!"

The Globe and Mail has moved their "Safe Sex Club" article into their big money archives, so here's the gist:

Small town Canada: Kids in the "Safe Sex Club" log into their computers, drop trou, and spank spank spank away for their respective safe sex partners.

Wow, back in my day, girls were all embarrassed about changing in front of one another in front of the locker rooms. I'm sure with the advent of the Safe Sex Club, that's all changed, right? Teenage body angst is gone? Yeah, right.

I always suspected the hot jocks and their hot girlfriends did shit like this. Sweet confirmation!

sunday night

On Sunday evenings, I tend to dread the thought of work in the morning. Right now I'm coming up with creative ways to get out of work:

1. I'm sick, "hack hack," i.e. The Classic

Okay, that's about all I have. Really, does one need more than that? I think not.

That said, I know I'll be rolling into the workplace. I need the money.

Although, frankly, I knew girls in college who used Craigslist to hook themselves out. Now if only if women would pay out like the menfolk...

Ehhh... maybe not.

i almost beat up the cardiologist... and that would have been the nicest thing for us all.

So a new, distressing development to all my lovely Graves' Disease stuff is that I'm getting crazy heart palpitations. Again. Now, there's been many Graves' symptoms that have been bothersome post-radiation - like the fatigue, the hair loss, the seemingly unavoidible weight gain. But heart palpitations? I'm sorry, but there are some body processes that should just work, and your heartbeat is definitely one of them. Logically enough, I decided to go to an internist and get this shizit all checked up and out. My mom, who just about knows every doctor in Minneapolis, told me to go to this one clinic. I checked it out, it looked good. She gave me some names. when I called the clinic, of course, those docs were booked until the second coming.

"But you can see Dr. Stevens. He's our on-staff cardiologist," the receptionist said (not his real name).

"Is he a more senior doctor?" I asked. I really wanted to see an old bastard doctor, one who knows what's going on.

"Oh my god! He's definitely senior," she laughed.

In retrospect, that should have bothered me. That should have been ominious. I just took it as a sign I was seeing some old dude. Christ, did I ever.

Dr. Stevens was 45 minutes late, but I was knitting and happily away from work, so I didn't really mind. Well, I did mind, but I really wanted to see someone about my heart. When Old Man River walked in, he was also Mr. Combative. I'm no dumbass. I know what's up with my Graves', my treatment, my body. I became Ms. Combative, and I thought I was doing rather well explaining myself and making myself heard. Apparently he thought so, too, because then he started with the, "You are a VERY well-spoken young lady. A VERY well-spoken young lady." I was sort of suprized and a little embarrassed, so I just said, "Um, thanks."

This is when shit started to get weird. Old Man River then said, "NO! You are a VERY well-spoken young lady. You're a decent person. And you know what? That's hard to come by these days. You're VERY intelligent."

I was definitely weirded out. He was super intense about all of this. I said, "Yeah, thanks. I'll pass it along to my parents." I didn't know what to say.

Then he said, "I'm going to listen to your heart now." He yanked my shirt up, pushed my bra aside, and laid his stethoscope on my heart. I was like, "Okay, old doctor. He's too old to be hitting on me, right?" It didn't feel sexual, it was just... fucking weird. Like, a little warning before you start pulling on my clothes? I usually get more warning from girls before we sleep together.

He listened. I'm sure my face was priceless. He said, "I can't really figure this all out in a 15 minute time slot. I'm going to have to give you a complete exam." I thought, what kind of exam? Why do I feel like he wants to give me a gyno exam, too? We talked a little bit more about my Graves' shit, and he said, "Okay, I'm going to call this in. Are you married? Single? What?" I knew he meant he was going to call in his dictation and that he actually needed my marital status because that's a part of that. So I said, truthfully, "I'm single and I live with my parents." He called his dictation in.

Now maybe it's time to recap some things:
1. When he walked in, I was knitting a baby hat. Very domestic of me, I know.
2. I was wearing a super cute skirt. Very femme of me, I know.
3. We've already established his opinion of me as a "VERY decent, VERY well-spoken, and VERY intelligent young lady."
4. I'm single, and like a good girl, I live with my parents.

I was cruising for what came next.

He got off the phone, looked at me, smiled, and asked, "So, you got a boyfriend?"

Instant ultra-discomfort on my part, "No, I'm not dating anyone."

His smile turned knowing, "But can you cook?"

I almost went ape-shit. I wanted to stab this man. I mean, he doesn't fucking know me! And do I cook? Fuck you, Old Man River!

I smiled sweetly, "Well, actually, I'm a lesbian, so things are a little different for me."

His eyes just about popped out of his fat fucking head.

"ARE YOU SURE?" he asked.

"Are you sure you're a straight white man?" I asked back.

He took a different turn at this, "You know, my niece says she's a.... (hands twitter) ....a lesbian, and I say, why classify yourself like that? Why not just be normal?"

Stabbing him was becoming a better idea by the minute.

I looked at him dead in the eye, and said, "I guess the ONLY thing that ANY of us can do is BE OURSELVES. I can only be myself. Can you understand that?" The "you total fucking moron" at the end of that was implied.

He stood up, walked out of the room, and didn't talk to me for the rest of the appointment.

Fuck you, Old Man. I win. Fuck you.

When I got home that evening, I told my mom, "Yeah, I saw Dr. Stevens today." She almost busted a gut and said, "What?!! That man should be retired. He's about 85-88 years old!"

Yeah. He should be retired.

I'm just glad I stood up for myself, that I didn't just take the shit he dished out. I don't care how fucking old you are, you don't get to treat me like a second-class citizen. And do I cook? Yeah, I eat pieces of shit like you for lunch.

(Billy Madison flashback, "You eat pieces of shit?" Too funny)

Even though the tenor of this post is self-rightous anger, I'm actually laughing as I write this. What an old bastard! I'm glad to have fucked with his head. Ahhh... bigots are so stupid.

i can handle random.

this quiz gets points for being so pointlessly random. it tells me nothing about myself or the world at large - but i was still compelled to take it, and even more compelled to post it.


You're a little gold key, and you unlock other
people's hearts. Your kindness and willingness
to be there for those you care about lets
people open up to you knowing they will be
accepted. People will rely on you, but be
careful not to give more than you have.

What sort of key are you and what do you unlock?
brought to you by No comments:

yes, i know, i'm psychic

in case you were wondering, "is it essential for me to see the drew barrymore/jimmy fallon movie fever pitch? will my life be a hollow shell without that romantic comedy in life?"

i'm here to say: no, my friend. it's not essential. it's not even recommended. drew barrymore has great hair and accessories, however. if you're really into hair and accessories and don't need plot or substance or even coherent thought in a movie, then by all means, go see it. but again, for everyone else - not essential.

thank you. consider my public duty fulfilled. i'll now go back to rogue knitting and setting things on fire. well, i'll knit. the fire part, not so much (not at all, actually). i sounded tough, though, right?

the best of youth

overheard coming out of best buy today:

16-year-old off-season snowboarder to his eerily similar looking off-season snowboarder friend:

"dude, milo's mom is still pretty hot even after them. i bet she could pop out a few more and still look good."

ah, youth.

loyalty comes at the worst possible time...

the countdown has started at work.

the weekend of july 15th i head to lovely ontario to find an apartment, tour my (my!) school, meet some professors lurking around.

i'm thinking about leaving the law firm around late-ish august.

naturally, now is the only time that i have ever, ever felt guilty for leaving a job. i've worked since the tender age of 15. in fact, i was so eager to work i got TWO jobs at 15. the first job - hostess at perkins. yeah, not so much. much to the manager's chagrin, i just stopped showing up for work. i hated that job, i was extremely frightened of the old, wrinkled waitresses who reeked of smoke and whose hands trembled. i can still hear his voice on the phone, exasperated, "i don't care that you quit, i just need you to tell me these things." sorry, perkins dude. the second job - dissembling computers for recycling. that was fantastic. the recycling plant consisted of me, some jaded hipster guys who read foucault and introduced me to things i'd never thought about (like pinups and penis piercings. obviously, i was way more fascinated by the pinups. go figure.), and juvenile delinquents court-ordered to do community service who totally hated me. i just liked ripping things apart and throwing shit around in bins. for a 15 year old, there are few finer things.

but i digress. my previous job was horrid. i was terribly sick with grave's disease but didn't know it, and thought i was just having a mental breakdown. not so fun. this job started along the same vein. i was still sick (pre-radiation), and the work was looking to be about the same thing - gloried file clerk.

but now, oh, now it's morphed into a lovely research gig where i learn about industries and companies and people and finances and write research reports for attorneys. that sounded somewhat dull, didn't it? i like it anyway. i like being asked by smart people, 'hey, what is X all about? what can you tell me about it?" then finding out all about it and defending my research. i like making senior partners in the firm acknowlege that i'm smart, that i'm thorough, that i know what i'm doing. i like arguing with litigators. i like using my brain and then pushing people around. really, what's better?

i wouldn't feel so badly, however, if i didn't already know that i'm leaving when my supervisor is all worked into a lather about my preggers coworker/friend who'll be popping out her baby in a few months. i know that i'm going to leave them short. i know they've dumped a shitload of training into my brain, and they're encouraging me to get my mba. they were really good to me when i needed to cut back my hours after my second dose of radiation.

i guess i just need to accept that i can't please them, that my loyalty is ultimately to myself. maybe this is all a sign that society has done a fantastic job of molding me into the type of woman who wants to please everyone, who doesn't want to make anyone mad, who doesn't like to upset her superiors. fuck that, i say! i'm going to grad school. i'm going to be a professor. fuck, i hope to be the kind of professor who has the reputation for being super fucking tough and super fucking smart.

now if i could only shake the residual guilt...

sigh.

i want, i NEED

this is the only car i've ever wanted in my whole life.

europe seems so far, oh so terribly far away...

valentine

have you ever had the kind of day where the news is dreary and the weather's miserable and all you want is to buy some happiness in yarn and shoes but you're completely broke?

that was yesterday.

BUT, my boy rich randomly sent me a copy of his school picture ( i should mention he's a teacher, not a student) and it totally made my day. rich and i met at NYU and even though he's in new jersey now and i'm in minneapolis - and he's moving to london next year and i'm moving to ontario - we have both judiciously agreed that we're destined to live together in a nonchalantly fabulous apartment while wearing amazing clothing, and hosting salons with witty, interesting people. i also suspect the pantry will be a popular place for torrid affairs. he's so cute.

i'd rather have continuous heart attacks than not knit.

these past few weeks have been particularly knitting intensive for me. i'm trying to finish up a surprise gift for a friend, and getting ready to start up a baby sweater for a pregnant friend at work. i also have heroic plans to decrease my stash, but that's in the distant future.

however, i thought that with all my knitting and typing at work i had pinched a nerve. my left arm was all annoyingly tingly. when it got to the point i couldn't ignore it anymore, i asked my mom (an np), "yo, mom, i think i either pinched a nerve in my left arm or i'm having constant heart attacks. what's going on?"

my mom played around with my arm and asked how much i've been knitting lately. i got all red and flustered... "um, a lot?" i told her.

she gave me a BIG eyeroll, "elizabeth, you're giving yourself TENDINITIS. stop knitting."

i told her that i'd rather have incessant heart attacks.

but now that i've given my hands a few days off, i'm diving back into the fray tonight. someday i'll have a digital camera to post my knitting victories, but when i'm done with my surprise gift i'll post the pic and the site where i found the pattern. it's lovely, i'm proud of myself!

autochthonous

this is my new favorite word. you can listen to a man's melodious tones pronouncing it here.

i really need to introduce it into spontaneous conversation.

from my word-of-the-day calendar:

autochthonous
adj.
1. indigenous, native
*2. formed or originating in the place where found

*Gaelic is not autochthonous to the Scottish Highlands; it was imported from Ireland after the fifth century, replacing the Pictish language.

Ancient Athenians considered their ancestors the primordial inhabitants of their land, as if sprung from the very soil of the region they inhabited. Autochthon*, their word for any true-born Athenian, itself sprang from auto-, meaning "self," and chthon**, meaning "earth." Nowadays, the English adjective "autochthonous" is most likely to be used in somewhat meaty scientific or anthropological writing (as in "several autochthonous cases of fever broke out in the region"), but it was a "bready" context in which it made its debut. Observed English literary critic William Taylor in 1805: "The English have this great predilection for autochthonous bread and butter."

nerdy word fun for everyone! yipee!

*elizabeth's comment: the second "o" has a flat line above it, but i can't get blogger to put it in for me.
**elizabeth's comment: "o" with that line again

you owe me.

here, let me save you a few dollars: solely based upon previews, "Herbie: Fully Loaded" is not about cars, or families, or whatever patently soothing moral they're selling.

SPOILER AHEAD

really, the plot can be summed up in nine words: "man, lindsay lohan looks hot in a tiny t-shirt."

you can thank me later. really, i feel i'm doing a public service. i just saved you gas money, ticket money, popcorn money, and god knows whatever else you spend your money on. unless, of course, that plot synopsis sounds pretty good to you. (then i'll see you in line at the theatre, you perv.)

hardcore, like me

feel it.

but margaret, why?

margaret atwood's "life before man" is the literary equivalent of taking a small, sharp rock and bashing it against your head over and over until your skull is an oozing, weeping pulp.

usually, i'm an ardent fan of atwood. i think her last book, 'the blind assassin,' is nimbly written. deft, even. it's smart. i usually dislike the 'book-within-a-book-within-a-book' motif; it's generally clumsy and confusing. but she held such command over her stories and her characters it was breathtaking. i was totally absorbed when i read that book, and i got that high that comes from reading something that really, really cooks. you know that high? i love that feeling. i had it all the time when i was a kid, but as i've read and learned and started pulling books apart, it doesn't happen with every book anymore. and i felt it with 'the blind assassin.'

i disliked 'life before man' not because the characters are unsympathetic. and i didn't mind the meandering plot. i objected to the idea that seemed to wind itself around every facet of the text, every action of the characters, every motive that was placed before the reader: there is no hope, that we survive merely because survival has become routine. i objected to the idea that there is no beauty, there is no joy, there is no real connection possible with another human being. if i were to paint a portrait of humankind based upon this book, i would have have an entirely black canvas. provocative, maybe, but really boring after awhile.

the symbolism was heavy-handed and redundant. two of the main characters work in a science museum. one, lashia, is obsessed with dinosaurs and loves to envision herself in the dinosaur world - but always as a spectator, never a participant. in one scene she imagines herself to be an acorn hanging on a tree. she's also torn between her jewish/ukrainian heritage. blah blah blah, we get it - lashia has no home, no land or even time to call her own, and accordingly, no sense of self. hit me with a brick next time - it'll be faster and i can avoid the library late fines. the other, elizabeth, is a manager at the museum, removed from the science but nevertheless entangled in this "cycle of life" bullshit. there's a cycle of life? really? hakuna mata, everyone! so that's what the lion king and a million other pop culture/religious messages were saying! wowzers! elizabeth was essentially sold to her aunt by her mother, her sister drowned herself in 2" of water, her former lover blew his brains out. elizabeth is a shell of a human being. so what does she do? she makes her ex-husband nate buy his access to their children! she lays on her bed like a corpse! she removes herself from life! my god, WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN??? these people have surrounded themselves with death, or death has surrounded them. they make no movement towards living. seemingly everyone either commits suicide or should or really really wanted to at some point. and nate, of course, is a lawyer-turned-toy maker who neglects his children. blah blah blah. again, color me bored. you know what? life does suck. it's messy and we hurt each other and we hurt ourselves. and yeah, no one will ever know us like we know ourselves. but that doesn't mean that there isn't love. it doesn't negate the good that we do (don't worry, atwood tries with nate's mother... aw, but that's stupid too).

i'm getting myself worked up. i'm reading ivanhoe now. and you know what? i LIKE reading a book where the author is clearly enjoying himself. and you know what's even crazier? i LIKE being alive in this world. argh, that book annoyed me beyond belief. atwood is usually more subtle than that. i found nothing in this book to redeem it.

and the real burn? because i had to drag myself through it, i now owe the library 3 dollars in late fines. fuck!

UPDATE: holy fuck is ivanhoe anti-semitic. jesus, i'm embarrassed to have read this book in public. i'm even more embarrassed to have said i liked it in a public forum. fucking gross. the fight scenes? good. the rest of the book? fucking horrible.

food with zero fights

i just had lunch with my mom & my sister at hell's kitchen, which is interestingly enough a family favorite. my relationship with my sister can only be described as tense. maybe contentious, even. she has an amazing lack of social skills, which translates to "i want you to love me and be my friend even as i'm calling you a fucking asshole bitch." um, psycho? it doesn't work that way. really. it just doesn't.

but, she went to med school and you know what you have to take in med school these days? bedside manner classes. they teach you how to socialize. what seems completely common sense to me was a much-needed learning experience for her. and you know what? it's helped her. she has friends now, which i've never, ever known her to have. never. can you imagine going through life totally friendless? how fucked up is that? she's no longer a total psycho bitch that i want to throw out a window whenever i see her. i mean, there are times where i have a sudden realization that i'm gripping my butter knife with white knuckles while i'm staring her down, but it's better than before where i had to actively, studiously avoid the butter knife.

lunch was better than i had thought it was going to be. having a job she loves and friends has made her less abrasive. she still sucks, but good lord, it's better than before. i could even eat with her! before she just made me want to throw up so badly that i couldn't (i know i tend to exaggerate, but that last bit is wholly serious).

now, the scandal: i was always the pretty, gregarious, skinny sister. well, "skinny" is a relative term. but skinnier than her, anyway. and let's be real - that was an important factor for me. even though i realize it's completely sexist and an asshole thing to think, i was really smug about being smaller.

and then graves' disease hit me blindside. and not just, 'oh miss, you have graves disease, let's take care of that,' oh nooooo, i have the "JESUS CHRIST!" kind of graves' disease. do i ever do anything half-measure? oh noooo, and neither does my thyroid, apparently. two rounds of radiation and one terrifying throat closing episode of radioactive thyroiditis later, i've gained some weight. i'm within the "normal" weight gain of graves' disease/radiation index, but as i've gained my little weight, my sister started working out. what. the. fuck. now she's lost 40 lbs and is almost my size. i'm terrified. i don't want to be the fat sister! aaaahhhhh!

superficial? yes. sexist? yes. stupid? not if i feel this anxious about it. so even though i'm dead tired still from the radiation, i've been hitting the gym again. my lovely, german/norwegian farm-girl muscles have atrophied, which sucks beyond belief, but I MUST WIN.

god, that's psycho.

p.s. graves' info - and can i say that if you see anything about yourself in this description, just get checked. it's so easy. just do it. graves' blows. it fucked up my heart, it fucked up my eyes, it fucked up my entire life for awhile there. what a bitch.

ha.

I am: -3% Republican.

"You're a damn Commie! Where's Tailgunner Joe when we need him?"

Are You A Republican?

swedish domination

from today's minneapolis star tribune:

"The company, which said Tuesday that it plans to open a 23,000-square-foot store in the Mall of America early this fall, is both affordable and chic -- a place where even young women on student-loan budgets can build designer wardrobes."

"The company" is the mega cheap, mega chic h&m. in a way, i'm a little sad it's coming to minnesota. granted, it's lovely and affordable and i can get my fix of weird jewelry without going destitute, but it's just such an east coast store. minnesotans are practical. minnesotans aren't chic. i mean, socks with sandals is a completely respectable clothing option here!

this is why i'm sad - while minnesotans are not the most fashion forward kind of people, there's a freedom of expression and an healthier body acceptance here than in, say, new york. i'm afraid that the minnesotan style is going to be lost. i don't want to see assimilation forced upon women. i don't want to have the stress of not being cool enough, thin enough, high fashion-y enough like i had in new york. i could feel that anxiety peeling away the longer i was in minnesota.

in my mind, the differences between new york/minnesota clothing culture was clearly found in the YMCA women's locker room. in new york, the girls (smooth brows, toned bodies, even creepily on 45-year-olds) came in with short-shorts, low cut tops, high heels. they'd undress and immediately wrap themselves with their towel. the private shower stalls were always full, and women would quietly mill around waiting for one to open up (rather than shower in the open public showers). they'd dry off quickly, discreetly and whip their clothes on.

in minneapolis, on the other hand, the women would come in with their ankle-length skirts, socks with sandals, turtlenecks, sweaters with seasonal motifs. they'd undress, slip on their flip flops, walk into the sauna bare-assed. they'd chat with their friends naked. the private shower stalls were always unused. in fact, i'd wonder why the ladies had to put on their makeup and dry their hair naked. can't you even put on a pair of underwear?, i'd think. and their bodies were soft, doughy, wrinkled - normal. a lot of them are middle-aged and beyond. there was a complete lack of shame, of excusing the cellulite and lumps. and you know what? i didn't care either. i didn't care about my rolls and cellulite either. how amazing is that?

i'm worried that with h&m coming in, with this idea of chic chic chic entering the marketplace, that particular freedom is going to be lost. i don't want those ladies in the minneapolis locker room to get botox, or to slave away on the elliptical. i don't want them to be ashamed of their bodies like the new yorkers were. i don't want that pressure on them.

sigh.