The presidential election is less than 60 days away, and yet the chief complaint I hear from you is “no one has told me what they’re going to do. Everyone talks about change and no one tells me how they’re going to bring change“.
My friends, to you I say, bullshit.
Perhaps what you mean to say is:
“No one has tried to educate me on foreign policy with a 30 second commercial!”
“I can’t believe no one printed an economic stimulus plan on a yard sign!”
“I watched both conventions! It seemed more like a party rally than an in depth policy meeting!”
In which case I say, No shit.
Political campaigning is as much about name recognition as it is anything else. It’s utilizing branding and repetition in the same way that Colgate encourages you to associate their name with toothpaste instead of Crest. And honestly, what more do you expect from TV and radio ads and 30 minute speeches??
The American attention span is about >this< long, and today’s political process is as much a result of that as it is a cause.
What you seem to be ignoring is the fact that both candidates have been telling you for months what they stand for and what they’ll do - or at least, what they’ll attempt to do. But the real answers, the in depth answers that actually mean something, can’t be packaged inside a pretty ad or a TV appearance.
And quite frankly, you should know that.
If you don’t have your answers yet, it’s simply because you haven’t been looking for them. You’ve allowed yourself to become lazy and complacent, sitting back and waiting for public policy to be spoon fed to you. And then you complain when the candidates attempt to do just that.
If you are still undecided because of lack of information*, the fault is not with either candidate. The blame for your lack of knowledge lies with you.
If you don’t care, admit you don’t care. If you’re unsure because you’re waffling on which plan is best, then say you’re not sure which plan is best.
But don’t say you don’t know because you haven’t been told.
We only allow adults to vote in this country. You, as the voting public, have been told everything you could possibly want to know. You’ve been told about more than personal biographies and mud slinging. You’ve had access all along to more than speeches and one liner quips.
The question, 60 days from the next presidential election, is no longer WHAT WILL THEY TELL YOU? The question is, what responsibility will YOU TAKE in listening to what they’ve already said?
Get Informed. It’s a verb.
Sincerely,
One Seriously Pissed Off DECIDED Voter
P.S. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO KNOW? Information from each candidate starts behind the fold >>
I’m just under 5′2 and I wear a size 6. And I’m going to talk about my weight.
If you don’t think you can stomach that without the need to let your eye balls roll right out of your head, I suggest you stop reading now.
Still with me? OK. But you’ve been warned.
I went to the doctor yesterday for my required “Yes the meds are working, please give me more” check-up. I had barely walked through the closely guarded secret door before they threw me on a scale.
Oh yeah, I thought. This is why I hate doctor’s offices. That’s right.
137.5 lbs.
And while the nurse assured me that they would automatically deduct 2 pounds for my clothing and shoes (because sandals are heavy, people. Very, very heavy.), the image that seared itself into my brain was the digital gray on gray screen flashing 137.5
That’s awfully damn close to 140. Too close for comfort.
Much, much too close when I thought about how far I had come.
Hey. I saw that. Your eyes are rolling, aren’t they?
Listen. I get that 140 lbs is no big deal to a lot of people. Hell, 140 lbs is below goal weight for a lot of women. And I get that, I do. I also get that it is important - no, crucial - for a woman to be able to see the beauty in herself whether she is a size 2 or a size 20. And I also get that sickly thin is not only not healthy, but not entirely attractive on a grown woman.
I get that. I hear you.
Now please, hear me.
3 years ago I was about 40 lbs overweight. I’d just had my second child and I had to face the fact that the forgiveness society was giving me for my roundness because of a recent pregnancy was misplaced. I’d been carrying around those rolls for years before Emma was conceived.
40 lbs on a 5 foot nothing frame is a lot. Getting dressed in the morning had turned into a daily nightmare with me struggling to disguise myself underneath a carefully concocted costume of layers. I no longer recognized the face that stared back at me from pictures. Dressing rooms and floor length mirrors taunted me as I tried to find a shadow of Me in my reflection.
And so I made a decision.
I was done hating my body. I was done bitching and moaning and hiding from myself. I was absolutely sick and tired of my body coming between me and the rest of my life.
I started a low carb diet.
I didn’t go crazy, but I cut out bread and sugar and potatoes. I drank more water and even exercised on a regular basis.
And I lost weight. Damn near 40 lbs of weight to be exact. And suddenly getting dressed in the morning was fun. Taking my kids to the pool didn’t cause an anxiety attack because I had to get into a swimsuit.
The more weight I lost, the less it mattered what the fuck I looked like. It was freeing and liberating and empowering all at the same time.
I’ve kept most of the weight off for 3 years now. Sure, I fluctuate 5 lbs here or there from time to time. But for the most part, I’ve stayed on track.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I ignored the fact that my pants were getting tight again, because hey! size 6! technically still fit! I tried not to think about how uncomfortable it was becoming to be in a swimsuit. Because - well - it could be worse. Right?
Right. It could be worse. It has been worse.
But quite frankly, I don’t want to live my life by the “it could be worse” standard. Especially not when I know that I’m capable of better.
Watching those numbers pop up on the scale yesterday was a kick in the gut for me. I’d worked my ass off for three damn years, and then gotten lazy and cocky over the last few months. I haven’t gained back all the weight, but a good fucking chunk of it. And at this rate? It’s only a matter of time before I’m right back to where I started.
I can’t go back there. I won’t.
So, I’ve made a decision. Again.
Enough is enough. I remember what it’s like to be able to forget about your outsides long enough to work on the inside. I know how great it feels to be in control of your body, the sense of pride and accomplishment that comes from taking care of yourself. I know the inner dialogs that answers back to the quips that “it must be nice”, the reminder to yourself that “yeah, it is nice. And I earned this all on my own through a lot of hard work and commitment, thank you very much.”
Karl and I have already committed to one another to quit smoking this month. The official date is August 15th, but I’m going to be spending 24 hours in the car this weekend, so… um… let’s be realistic.
But Monday we start fresh.
Monday, August 18th, the kids go back to school and I take my damn body back. No more cigarettes. No more french fries. No more cheesecake as big as my head. No more mindless stuffing of the pie hole when I know it’s a cheap exchange for the long term results of taking care of myself.
Enough is enough. And 140 lbs for ME? Is enough.
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OK, so raise your hand if you’re thinking I’m a vain, shallow whore right now? GREAT! Then you’ll love tonight’s radio show! Avitable and I will be hosting another battle of the barbs on “Clearly, You’re Retarded” at 9pm EST. Tonight’s topic: Cosmetic Surgery (And all the other lengths women go to for the sake of vanity) Click here to listen live, poke fun at us in the chatroom, or download past episodes.
I wonder how many people won’t click through to read this post once they see the title in their feed reader.
I wonder how many people will read it out of morbid curiosity, but refuse to comment because “that’s just one of those things I don’t discuss with people”.
I don’t get that.
I’ve heard about The Party Rule. The three things you don’t discuss at a party are religion, politics and money. Because apparently it is rude and always leads to a fight.
People need to grow the fuck up. Seriously.
Why is it acceptable to discuss your sex life, your parenting tactics or your masturbation habits in front of complete strangers - but God forbid you ask someone “who do you think would make a good leader for the country?” Oh no. That will offend someone.
We’re becoming a nation of idiots.
And do you know why? Because we’ve gotten out of the habit of having intelligent discussion. In fact, we now go so far as to avoid it at all costs. And why? Because someone might think you are wrong?? Because someone might challenge your way of thinking??
Good! They should!
Your opinions and conclusions don’t mean shit unless they’ve been challenged - by you and by someone who thinks differently than you.
There needs to be a place for respectful, intelligent debate in today’s society. Especially if you live in a democratic society where your opinion - God help us all - actually contributes to the decisions that are being made.
We need to stop being so afraid of being wrong. We need to learn that there are more important things than being right - and that being able to have a discussion with someone who has enough respect for you to challenge you is anything but offensive.
And so… we’re going to talk about abortion.
We are not discussing whether or not abortion should be legal or illegal. We are not discussing whether or not it is moral or immoral. Although, we could.
What we will be discussing is what rights should men have in regards to abortion and pregnancy?
This should be interesting. I will likely call Adam a fucking moron before the end of the show. But I promise, I will be saying it with all due respect.
—————————————————————————————– AmyD asked me to post some information on a Vietnam Vet her family is looking for. I can’t tell
AmyD no - so here it is:
Charles R Stevens- Indianapolis, Indiana (from there)
Marine Corp
2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, Echo Company, Da Nang, August 1966-1967
Weapons Platoon, Machine Gun
Graduated from Camp Pendelton and served in Da Nang with Gene Bishop. They trained and graduated together, and spent 48 hours in Okinawa awaiting transit together. They were separated upon arriving at Da Nang Air Force Base, Gene Bishop and Stevens served together until Bishop was wounded in Operation Stone, in 1967 and shipped out to Guam, and then Oakland Naval Hospital in the States.
If you have any information that could help, please email amy at amysmusings dot com.
Before I get into the nastiness that is This Post, I should remind you that if you didn’t get a chance to listen into the radio show last night - you can download it here.
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I am normally a pretty happy person.
I laugh loudly and frequently. I generally abide by the Live and Let Live policy - up to the point where that policy leaves someone helpless and alone in the ditch with no one to speak for them. I haven’t believed in the black and white concept of Right And Wrong since I was about 19. I spend much too much time judging myself to get much satisfaction from judging someone else.
I try, on most days, to be someone that my kids can be proud of.
But then there are other days…
Days when the hormones spike…
Or I haven’t had enough sleep…
Days when the old familiar Venom comes back to me.
And on those days, I have a capacity for anger like none you have ever seen.
My best friend used to warn people that they did not want to fight with me. Not, she would clarify, because I would ever lay a hand on you. But because I would make you cry with the ferocity of my words. When backed into a corner, I would not hesitate to use every ounce of intelligence God has blessed me with to tear you to shreds. Nothing was sacred or off limits. If pushed to that point, every insecurity you ever had would be dragged into the light for me to sneer at.
And I have an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what those insecurities are.
The things your friends don’t mention. The thing you don’t even dare to tease yourself about. The one thing that torments you at night when no one is looking - the thing that you pray no one ever calls you on.
And you have it. We all have it. Our emotional Achille’s Heel that has the power to completely devastate you if someone should be so callous as to rip into it.
You’re probably thinking about yours right now.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to control the Venom. I’ve learned how to channel the sick intuition I have into recognizing when someone needs extra care and attention. I’ve learned how to use it not to destroy people, but to build them up when they need it the most.
And I’ve learned, most importantly, that just because you can unleash the anger - doesn’t mean you should. Or have to.
I realize now, on most days, that there are ways to fight back that still make it possible for you to face yourself in the mirror every day.
But once in a while…
I can still feel it crawl up my spine. My jaw clenches and my lip curls, physically readying myself to bare my teeth if need be. My brain clicks and pops and whirs, the angry neurons gearing up for battle.
I lay down and close my eyes, willing myself to keep it inside me. My teeth are clenched, my breathing shallow and forced. The Venom gnaws at me and I am desperate to unleash it just so that I can finally be free of it. So that I can once again breathe clean air.
I want to attack.
I want to jam my finger in your chest and tell you what a rotten fucking hypocrite you are. I want to leap from the high road and roll around in my sanctimonious self righteousness until I am covered in its self satisfaction. I want to scream from the roof tops that you are a spineless, sniveling shit and watch you cower in the face of your own mealy-mouthed bullshit. I want to demand accountability and make known your despicable character.
I don’t want to hide under the veil of doing the right thing.
I don’t want to shrink from your disapproval or your insistence that I be mature.
I don’t want to worry about the consequences or the repercussions or the damage a wrong move might do to my conscience.
On those days, I just want to drink in the moment and all the venom that it holds and allow my heart to pound as it courses through my veins.
Just when you think you have nothing to blog about…
Your 8-year-old son overhears you (OK, hears you because you were in the car rocking out with him in the backseat) singing that “I kissed a girl and I liked it!” and asks “why would a girl say she was kissing a girl? And she thinks it’s wrong and right? What is she talking about?” and you make the awkward moment go away by pretending like you don’t hear him, and then of course you mention it to one of your gay friends later who tells you that you TOTALLY FAILED AT PARENTING! and should have answered his question and it’s not too early to start talking about it because someone else probably already is and this gay friend of yours says:
“Hey, why don’t you ask your son tomorrow if he’s ever heard the word fag?”
And so, you do.
Well, eventually. But first you start out small.
“Devin, have you ever heard the word gay?”
The crestfallen look on his face gave me the answer before he managed to mumble, “yeah”.
“Really?” I’m fairly certain I failed to keep the shock from my voice. “When?”
“Uhhh, pretty much every day when they call me it.”
“Who calls you that?”
“Uhhh, like half the kids at daycare.”
“What the fuck do you mean half the kids at daycare? Where the hell are the adults I at that daycare that I am paying to make sure you are having a happy childhoood? Why in God’s name would a child ever say that to another child? How did you not ever tell me this before so that I could beat the ever loving shit out of these little brats? You give me names, Son. Give me names now and I will call down The Wrath upon the heads of these little son of a bitches!” I screamed in my head.
Outwardly I swallowed my tongue and clung to my composure.
“Do you know what that word means?” I asked him.
“No,” he shook his head, “but I know they say it because they think it’s the very worst thing they can say to me.”
CRASH. BOOM. BANG. That would be the sound of my son’s innocence shattering at my feet, along side my hope that he would remain untouched by bigotry and hate so long as he remained in elementary school.
“Sweetheart, gay is not the worst thing that someone can say to someone, but the way they are using it is very, very nasty. Gay means that a boy likes boys or a girl likes girls.”
“Uhhh… you mean like boyfriend/boyfriend or girlfriend/girlfriend.”
“Yep, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well that is definitely not me.”
The insistence in his voice pierced my heart as I watched him recoil at the idea of homosexuality being associated with him.
Don’t you hate it when you read a post where someone is bitching about something in the blogosphere and you think to yourself “Oh my God they are talking about ME!” and you want to run off to your own blog and write a raving post defending your own honor - except if you do you have to be all vague and discreet because if they are NOT talking about you, you will look like an ass and if they ARE talking about you they will just pretend like they’re not - and then when you’re all vague and stuff you will get 50 emails from people saying “Oh my God who are you talking about send me the link so that I can get all up in this new blog drama!!” and you go “Ack! Ack! No! No drama! Because I am probably just being stupid and now I feel like I am in junior high and Shit! Shit! Everything anyone has ever said about me is truuuuueeeee!”?
Me too. (See, this is what I love about you. You get me, Internets. You so do.)
I’m allowing myself this raving post defending my own honor anyway.
I recently read this on a blog that I frequent:
“I don’t have a personal identity crisis every four days so people can leave a message to get me to keep my chin up. I don’t secretly hate my marriage.”
I then read this about 24 hours later in the comments of the same blog:
“I am so sick of hearing about pedicures and diets and seeing people’s chest shot and hearing about pregnancy, like the stuff you were saying in your last post, or even the occasional supposedly “profound” post with commenters parroting “what a beautiful post, Bravo”.
Yuck.”
Allow me to suspend reality for just a moment and draw you in to a little place I like to call Britt’s Crazy Ass Brain. In this special place, when I read those words, the chatter immediately went to:
“Oh my God. Did he really just say that? He’s so clearly talking about me and the fact that I am constantly having something going on that I have to puke about on my blog. The marriage crack was pretty fucking low.
Wait a minute, and now someone is pissed about my hiLARious pedicure posts? And my brilliantly “profound” posts?!?! (Because clearly, if someone is talking about a “supposedly profound post” - they must be talking about me. Because I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH AN EGO! Stop judging me!)
Why would they say that stuff about me? Why do they hate me? Why am I such a cry baby pee pee pants drama queen? Why can’t I come up with something to write that will not offend or annoy or alienate anyone in the whole wide world?!?!”
Now you know why we don’t call it “Britt’s Rational and Hugely Mature Brain.”
I tell you all that to tell you this:
I am fully aware that my response is irrational. I am also aware that whether those particular statements were directed specifically at me or not, it doesn’t change the fact that it is a common sentiment among bloggers. It is all too often that you find one of us eager to berate the quality of another’s content. Nor does it negate the fact that I really, really badly want to say this:
Fuck. Off.
It’s not a “personal identity crisis” or an attempt to get people to tell me to “keep my chin up”. It’s being 28 years old, married and having two kids. I’m not supposed to have shit all figured out just yet. There is always “something” - because at this stage in a person’s life there is Always. Something.
YAY for you that you’ve lived long enough to never question yourself anymore. YAY for you that you know exactly Who You Are and What You Believe. I guaranfuckingtee you weren’t at that point before you hit 30.
This isn’t needy or attention seeking or over dramatic or “supposedly profound”. This is what life fucking looks like when you’re still searching for your bearings in an ever changing landscape.
And another thing.
I am so sick and tired of listening to people opine about what a blogger “should” or “should not” write about. Who the fuck do you people think you are?
There is a woman who takes pictures of her dog every day. And people love it. There is another woman who goes out of her way to ensure that her blog has no teeth - and it is exactly what lots and lots of people look forward to every day. There is yet another woman who posts random thoughts as they occur to her about completely varied and random topics - sometimes blowing up my feed reader 5 times a day - and people love that too.
There are millions and millions of blogs posted every single day and it doesn’t matter one iota of a fuck if you relate to it or not. Because guess what? Someone else does.
Say you’re “not into it” if you absolutely must add your insignificant commentary to the pile - instead of just moving on to something you are “into”. But your condescension and insults and feigned superiority is nothing more than self righteous bullshit. And it’s mean.
And worse, it has the potential to discourage people from enjoying what they should be focusing on - those connections that mean so much to them. The ability to be heard. How fucking dare you insinuate that someone doesn’t have that right? That one person’s voice is any less valid than the ones you choose to listen to?
And make no mistake - I am not talking about me here. I am blessedly past the point of letting one person’s distaste for me and my style drown out the voices of support and encouragement. But there are others with less support, smaller audiences, and less confidence in their right to be themselves - and I watch them cower under your self appointed authority.
I watch them try to pass it off as humor and nonchalance when they say “heh, sorry, I do that. Oh well.” and then vanish from their own sites for days. They scurry back into the darkness and silence like children, convinced that if they can’t do it “right” they shouldn’t even bother.
And for what? Because some self important ass can’t understand why one site is more “popular” than another?
Again I say to you, Fuck. Off.
Is it too late for me to add a disclaimer to this post saying “I’m not specifically directing all of this at YOU. But.. um.. yeah. You’ve hit a nerve.”?
I’m thinking of dropping out of my Mommy group because of their reaction to sex offenders.
I received an email via the group’s mailing list last week containing a link to a “new” tracking system for sex offenders living in the State of Florida. Basically, you go to the web page, type in your address, and panic ensues as you count up all the “perverts” who live within a 15 mile radius of you.
The email responses started immediately.
“OMG, there is one on my street!”
The hysteria was hard to miss as many of these women imagined rapists and child molesters prowling the playgrounds in their neighborhoods.
In an effort to calm what I considered unnecessary panic, I responded to the group and assured them that “not everyone listed on the sex offender registry is a baby raper. People have to register as a sex offender if they get caught peeing outside for Pete’s sake.” I encouraged them to do some digging before they egged the neighbor’s house.
I didn’t receive a single response to my email. Instead, I watched as emails littered with fear and lynching flew back and forth across the Internet.
“They should all be stuck on an island somewhere!”
“I can’t believe my neighbor! The world isn’t safe!”
“Screw the island, they should all be castrated!”
The last one I read warned that this was exactly why “you can’t ever let your kids out of your sight”.
*sigh* I shook my head and closed the thread in my inbox. I was frustrated that no one seemed interested in a voice of reason. I was disheartened to see how easy it was for the mob mentality to set in. I imagined rallies and marches complete with pitch forks and torches. And baby strollers.
And something about that didn’t sit well with me.
It’s not that I’m pro sex offender.
God knows, I would kill any son of a bitch who ever laid a hand on my child. The innocence of children should be protected, and the idea that anyone would violate that makes me want to puke. Ugh. I get nauseous just writing those words.
Oh no, get back here. Sit down. We need to talk. If you can listen to me rant about my hair and the trials of making guacamole, you can hang in here for a discussion on What Is Wrong With The “Pro Life” Movement.
First, some background information (ie, where the hell this is coming from).
I read a post a while back about a blogger who had an abortion. This was a decision she’d made a long, long time ago and she has since become a wife, mother, etc. etc. etc. She decided to post about it because of a post that she had read. She came out and said “I had an abortion, this was why, and this is how I feel about it”.
She had no sooner hit publish when the shit hit the fan. To say she was attacked would be an understatement. She was beat over the head with the fact that she had “Killed a baby!” and she could no longer be the kind of person that the child she has now could “ever look up to!” She was told repeatedly that she deserved no pity, no compassion, and nothing but scorn. She’d made her bed, and now she’d have to lie in it.
(I’m not linking to the post or the blogger because, quite frankly, if you don’t already read her I have no interest in sending over any more haters.)
Some more background information (ie, what you should know before we go any further):
I do not believe Abortion is a Choice. It’s a baby, a life, and I don’t think any of us has the right to take a life away.
I also don’t believe Abortion should be illegal - and I vote according to that belief.
My stance on the legalization of abortion has less to do with my views on whether or not it is wrong and more to do with the reality of the social climate here in this country. Namely: making abortion illegal would do little more than further abandon a lot of poor, desperate women and children who already feel like they have nowhere to turn to. We are not, at this time, a society that is fit to care for unwanted babies and the women who find themselves pregnant with them.
And the “Pro Life” movement is a perfect example of that.
With a flagship name like “Pro Life”, you would envision a cause that is about hope and love and support. You would think this was a rallying cry for loving thy neighbor and cherishing each and every one of God’s creations. In a world that made sense, the term “pro life” would be synonymous with expressions like “sanctity” and “compassion” and “precious”.
But, no.
While there is a small slice of the Pro Life movement that wisely funnels their time, money and efforts into Adoption Services, counseling for pregnant women and healing for women who have gone through an abortion - the bigger, louder chunk is a nasty, nasty thing.
It is about black and white. Right and wrong. Condemnation and arrogance.
It is about waving signs and twisted, hateful faces screaming at would be “baby killers” as they shuffle into clinics.
It is about atrocious, deadly acts of violence against doctors and nurses who perform a medical service.
And (most appalling) it is about ripping to shreds the women that need understanding and compassion the most.
What astounded me the most about the attacks on this blogger was not the insistence that abortion was wrong. What I found most upsetting was the need to berate her for a decision that cannot, at this point, be unmade. I don’t care what your stance on abortion is, once it’s been done - it’s done. And no one should understand better than a “pro lifer” that what you’re left with is a woman who is probably steeped in her own regrets and pain.
And this is who you should be attacking? This is how you demonstrate the sanctity of life? By withholding forgiveness and compassion from the person that is left living?
It just makes no sense to me. I can understand the picketing more than I can understand the hate that is lobbed at women who admit to having had abortions. At least the picketers can delude themselves into thinking they might be able to prevent something from happening.
But once it’s done… it’s done. At that point, isn’t the best thing you can do… the right thing for us to do… to try to help those women heal?
And maybe, just maybe, turn our attention to what causes a woman to head to that clinic in the first place?
Instead of screaming about how “real” a baby is and at what point a fetus is “viable” and “not viable”, wouldn’t it make more sense to roll up our sleeves and figure out why these women find themselves so desperate that they honestly and truly feel like abortion is the only way out? Would the supposed “pro lifers” make more headway if they shed a hopeful light on a few more exit plans?
But, no. Instead they turn to fear and shame and hate as weapons of progress. They hope to bully the mind into changing and the heart into guilt ridden repentance. They wave a banner of Christian Righteousness with the assurance that their hatred will somehow be validated.
And then they wonder why no one wants to listen.
I have yet to meet a woman who can talk about her abortion without crying, or hanging her head. She didn’t do it because she didn’t think it was “no big deal”. She didn’t do it because it was “just a bunch of cells anyway”.
She did it because she felt like she had to.
She will talk to you about the nights that she wonders what she could have done differently. She might share with you the questions she has about what that baby would have been like, what she would have been like if she had given birth. If you’re lucky, you will hear her talk about the fear and the hopelessness and the panic that she wrestled with before making that decision.
And you will know, for her, that it wasn’t really a choice.
And if you really, really want to make a difference? You will stop fighting so hard against the rights of this woman or that one, and start figuring out ways to give those women - and their babies - a real chance, by giving them a REAL choice.
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