If you change the way you look at things, the things that you look at will change.

I wasn't going to write today.  When the allegations about Bill Cosby came out (he is not the topic of this blog, at all, so stick with me) I instinctually wanted to defend him.  He was a part of my childhood.  That child inside me KNOWS he couldn’t be this person that women are accusing him of being. 

Of course, the adult woman that I am now, knows that he absolutely could be.  That he probably is.  A rapist.  (I said it.) 

So, I just didn’t want to talk about it. 

THAT is the topic of my blog. 

Recently, I updated my resume, and my writing portfolio (it’s just a smart thing to have handy).  In my portfolio is a feature article that I wrote when I was 21 years old.  It was in a small magazine, and it won an award.  I was so proud of it.  To me, it was the best thing I’d written.  I hadn't read it in years, so a few weeks ago, I read it again. 

The article is about me, living in a house with other roommates, in an impoverished neighborhood of Decatur, IL.  I thought I was shining a light on poverty and racism in the city.  What I was actually doing was writing from the point of view of a privileged white girl from a farm town of 10,000 people, who thought she understood and empathized with underprivileged urban black people.    

My biggest problem with Orange is the New Black, is that it felt like I was watching a show where an upper class blond girl teaches Important Life Lessons to poor black women, and it made me pretty nauseous.  Now, that’s how this article, that I penned, makes me feel.  The naivety of this article makes me cringe.  I included it here if you want to read it to see what I mean. 

That’s not the only reason I included it here.  This morning I saw the news that the Ferguson police officer would not be indicted in the shooting death of an unarmed teenager.  I cried as I watched the riots.  I thought to myself, “I won’t be able to avoid this conversation today, but I am going to try to.”

I didn't want to talk about it.  The feeling of despondency overwhelmed me, and I wanted to ignore it.  I arrived at work with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, and I immediately ran into a co-worker of mine.  He didn't want to talk about it, either.  He had to.  It was consuming him. 

He’s right, you guys.  I’m wrong, and if you think you shouldn't talk about it, or just don’t want to, you’re wrong, too.  We can’t just hide from it, or smugly (or violently, while we’re at it) insist that we aren't part of the problem, because we are.  WE ALL ARE.  This isn't someone else’s mess to fix.  IT BELONGS TO ALL OF US.  Are you human?  Then you’re a part of this. 

I don’t understand what it’s like to be the people I wrote about in that article, and I didn't even TRY to understand them.  What I DID do was exploit them to advance my station, and I've been patting myself on the back for it ever since. 

I posted this article I wrote when I was 21 years old because I am a part of the problem.  I will talk about the Ferguson injustice today, because I am a part of the problem.  And while I agree with those who, at the core of their argument, are saying that these violent riots aren't the answer, it sickens me that you've chosen to care more about a burning 7-11 than you ever did about the murder of an unarmed human being.  

And maybe, by talking about it, and listening to other opinions about it, whether I agree with them or not, I will understand.  I might never be able to empathize, but I have to believe that the best way to extinguish fear (see also: racism, sexism, homophobia, classism, ageism) has GOT to be open conversation and understanding.  

Just TRY to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.  TRY to understand what it’s like to be feared for a physical attribute that you cannot hide, or for an orientation you were born with.  Hell, try to understand what it’s like to be automatically placed at an advantage for a physical attribute you cannot hide, or an orientation you were born with.  How that might put up blinders that you never noticed were so damaging to other people.  Or just ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU CAN’T EMPATHIZE WITH IT!  Admit that to someone today. 

I am ashamed of the tone of this article, and after nearly 13 years, I've removed it from my writing portfolio.  

Girly is GOOD.

Is it irony that Maya Angelou passed away in the wake of a tragic shooting in California that inspired #YesAllWomen tweets?  Probably not (I dunno; Maya probably understands irony better than I do).  It’s most definitely a big loss for my gender. 

We, as women, must continue to support each other. We must continue to work to change our social status, but it can’t stop there. Let’s also take some responsibility for the men we produce in our society.  Men, I am obviously speaking to you, too. See the soapbox?  Let’s do this:

Vulnerability is NOT weakness. 

Stop using the word “girly” to describe actions or activities that we should be ashamed of because they may be viewed as feminine.  Femininity is NOT. A BAD THING.    

Stop using the word “rape” as a metaphor for something else.  You take away the weight of this word.  It is not a joke.  And it sure as shit is not what happened to you when you lost at HALO. 

Stop telling your brothers, your sons, and your grandsons, to “be a man,” or “man up.”  Or at the very least, change what these statements mean.

Stop implying that strength comes from possessing testicles.      

Stop inadvertently teaching boys that, while women should hate themselves for being rejected by men, men should hate the women for rejecting them. 

We can support each other without offering the men in our lives the double-edged sword they are offered from a very young age: Respect women, but not the things they do or feel.  What kind of a lesson is that? 

But I Took a Selfie with James Franco, Plus I Don’t Live in Nigeria, So My Life is Still Pretty Awesome

The best part first, guys.  My parents’ good friends’ daughter is married to a guy who is besties with Chris O’Dowd.  Of course that makes us practically related, so on Mother’s Day weekend, when my mom, sis and I went to see Of Mice and Men in New York, we got to go backstage and meet him. 

For my friends who don’t watch movies (although I don’t know why we’re friends) Chris O’Dowd is the painfully adorable love interest of Kristin Wiig in Bridesmaids. 

So cute, right?? He’s playing Lenny opposite James Franco on Broadway.  O'Dowd was nominated for a Tony, and rightfully so.  He was wonderful. 

So, blah blah blah, we watched the play.  Play Highlights:

• Someone brought their pocket puppy, that started barking right before (spoiler alert!) Lenny accidentally kills Curly’s wife.  If you know the play, then you can probably see the irony in this. 
• If you don’t know the play, I overheard a teenaged girl sum it up for her mother after the play.  “It’s about these two men, and one of them keeps accidentally killing mice.” 
• That’s actually not a bad one-sentence synopsis of that play. 

After the play, we went backstage and waited in the greenroom for Chris.  He was super nice, guys.  He even apologized for keeping us waiting.  He immediately pulled my mom in for a big hug (he is a big dude) and a kiss.  While she turned red, I turned green.  We talked for a bit, and then let him be on his way, but as we walked out, Mom realized we forgot to get a picture.  I turned back and asked the stage manager if we could come back in, and before he could say no, James Franco literally ran into me. 

Four years ago in Vegas, I grabbed Patrick Stewart.  He wouldn’t take a picture with me, so I had to squeal like Brooke Adams and grab him instead. Totally logical.  This time, I was going to play it cool, dammit! 

Me [shaking and stumbling backward]: OMG, sup, James Franco!  Great show! So, can we take a selfie??

My Inner Monologue: Yeah. Smooth.

James Franco: Well, sure.

And he even held the camera.  **** you, Patrick Stewart!  (I don’t really mean that, like, AT ALL. But also?  I do.)

The rest of our weekend was great, too.  Which reminds me, check out this comedian, Sherrod Small. He is really funny. 

Now to the airplane ride home!  I left my mom and sis early because I had to be at work on Monday.  Lots of important work stuff happening blah-bitty blah shuffling paper around work.  It was storming in Chicago, so we had to re-route to Grand Rapids, MI.  We sat for two hours waiting.  I’m not complaining about that part.  It sucks, but the miracle of human flight is not always flawless.  (There’s a joke to go with this understatement, pertaining to recent events, but I think it’s still too soon, so you can just make it to yourself and try not to piss anyone off.)

After two hours, the captain assures us that we have clearance, so we’re just going to be towed into the gate for fuel, and off we go!  They strap us in and start pulling.  Suddenly, there’s a big “THUNK,” and then the plane rolls back a few feet.  Minor whiplash. 

Captain: Hey, all.  This is your captain again.  So….more bad news.  It seems the tow has pulled off a piece of the plane, so we’re gonna have to de-board after all.    

I hear groans all around me, but I do not groan, because I prefer to fly in an airplane that has all of its pieces. 

We de-board and look out the window at our broken plane.  Turns out, the piece was the NOSE OF THE FREAKING AIRPLANE.  I’m not an aeronautical engineer, but it seems like a pretty important piece.  You know what?  If the bathroom sink handle piece was missing, I would not want to take off.  The Butterfly Effect.  Look it up (but don’t see the movie unless you’re drunk.  Then go nuts).   

They tried to find us a bus.  It didn’t work.  I guess they were all out of buses?  An American Airlines employee got on the loud speaker for an update.  “Well, it looks like we won’t be able to find you a bus after all.  We will start looking for hotel accommodations, but this is going to be a lot of work for us to find 158 hotel rooms tonight.”

Oh my God, I am SO SORRY!  I had no idea that picking up a phone and talking into it numerous times would be so painful!  Can I get you anything?  You know, I wasn’t even angry, or really that upset until that woman took some of her shitty day out on 158 people stranded in Grand Rapids through no fault of their own except for deciding to book the flight.  Sometimes my job sucks, too, lady.  I have to get back to it in nine hours.  I guess it’s good that I don’t have access to an intercom system.

I decided to rent a car.  I am not nearly the only person who decided this.  At first, I was told they could only help people with reservations.  They were all booked up.  I got out of line, called Avis, made a reservation, got back in line, and got a car.  The attendant was fairly displeased, but that may have had more to do with what a smug asshole I was being when I got back to him.  My fault. 

Once I got to the lot, my space had no car, and I flashed to Planes, Trains and Automobiles, but honestly, I think I’d be OK sharing a bed with John Candy.  I mean, not now, but in the 80s he looked so warm and snuggly and it was rainy and cold outside. 

Anyway, they found me another car, and I drove home, avoiding a God damned MASSACRE of deer on the highway.  Like, did the Red Bull force them into the road?!?  It was horrifying.  And I thought to myself, I am not that deer.  I will be home safe and sound with my hubby (who is probably just as warm as John Candy) in three hours.  In fact, if this is the worst airplane story I ever have, *insert inappropriate and way too soon joke about recent airplane tragedy here* I am so lucky.  I just spent 27 hours (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA GEDDIT I MET JAMES FRANCO FINE THE MOVIE WAS 127 HOURS SHUT UP) with my sister and Momma in NYC having a great time.  This isn’t even a blip on my radar of bad things that happened to me.  When I really think about it, I don’t have any blips.  Now, bring it in, guys.  Just like I bet John Candy would have.          

Shot Through the Heart

You know that moment when Bon Jovi's Shot Through the Heart comes on the radio and you start laughing because when you were, like, 6, you were friends with a kid who used to fish his little boy penis out of his pants and play it like a guitar to this song?

Is it just me who knows that moment?

Earth Angel

Angel died today.

I wrote that sentence two weeks ago.  I had no follow up.

Angel is a cat we "fostered." And I'm using quotations for a reason.  One day after work, Larry said his co-worker needed to borrow our cat carrier.  Her grandmother was no longer able to take care of her 12 year old cat, and said cat was going to be taken to a shelter.

My heart bled immediately, all over; ask me about the stains in our car later when I'm done writing this blog. Good thing it was stolen.  I preached to him about Angel's immanent, pitiful death from my pulpit 9 inches away from the driver's seat.  He agreed that we could "foster" him, knowing full well that if I fell in love (also an 80% chance), he wasn't going to be just fostered by any means.  (And knowing deep down inside, that he would prefer that, too.)

We picked him up a few days later.  There was a struggle.  Most of you know what cats are, so I don't feel like detail is necessary here.  We took him to the vet, he took it like a champ, vet said he looked pretty awesome for a 12 year old cat, clipped his velociraptor talons, we brought him home yadda yadda yadda, he met our other two cats and one rabbit, it was smooth, he was so so so so so so very sweet, I fell in love yadda.

I have many pictures of him being hilarious.  If you don't have pets, or hate them or just hate cats, then get off my lawn, because you won't care about this blog, anyway.  His personality shined through immediately, like that old man who doesn't care if you have to clean his vomit up off your rug every other day.  Or the more literal description about the old cat you have.  He loved it when I knitted, and tried sticking his whole face in my yarn skein when I wasn't paying attention.  He was pretty irresistible to us, and to our company.  We still tried to push him off on our friends and family because frankly?  3 cats and a rabbit?  Entirely too many things that eat, shit and shed in your house.

Finally, my cousin Katie, (who already had a kitten named Spike and a gerbil named Buffy so, duh) said her family would take him.  We brought him to Thanksgiving and he made friends within minutes with the person I was most worried about him loving (not that she is not also wonderful and hilarious; it is just that she's 6...and wonderful and hilarious).  Katie and I were so happy with the transition.  He's the best.

After Christmas, Katie called to tell me he wouldn't eat at all.  She had tried everything.  Anything.  So she took him to the vet.  He stayed over the weekend, and the vet was optimistic that he would be fine.

He wasn't.  That Monday Katie called me in tears. Angel had lymphoma, and even if they could get him to eat with drugs, he couldn't last more than a week or two.  God, I felt awful.  Like, hi, hey, watch this adorable sweet thing that your kids love, die right in front of you, yay!  And, God.  I felt awful.  I loved him.

The vet's office called me after he had been put down.  They said they were sending Katie a keepsake, and they would happily send me one, too.  I readily agreed, in mucusy, blubbery tears that embarrass  me.  She said the keepsake was a plaque....and a lock of Angel's hair.

I was sick with a cold that day (which really leads me to give credibility to the whole E.T./Elliot thing!) so I laughed until I was coughing so hard, the receptionist on the phone had to wait until I was composed.  Those of you with furry mammals know why I was laughing.  Those of you who don't, don't come over to my house because you are deathly allergic.  I have tons of his hair.  Even months after he left.  So...Thank you?

I like to think that we covered everything that may have been on his bucket list.  I gave him a little of everything I was eating, so:

(1) Eat several different kinds of cheeses.  Check
(2) Look adorable enough to get some chicken wings.  Check
(3) See how that works when steak is on the table.  Freaking ChecK

(4) Experiment with catnip.

(5) Conspire for hours about how to to infiltrate the tank filled with water and chock full of delicious looking fish.
(6) Hear a white American 6 year old attempt speaking Spanish to try to find me ("Angel!  Como estas?!")  Check Check.

The list goes on and was fulfilled.  I miss him, you guys.  The keepsake came in the mail, and I laughed at it while tears filled my eyes.  I knew him for a stupid year.  (When Scout shuffles off this mortal coil, I will have to take a couple days off from work, and please come over; we are getting drunk at my house on a Tuesday.)