Category Archives: feminism

All this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings

If you’re not a Twitter (or even a Facebook) person, you don’t get your news all in-a-flashy like we do, so you might not have found out right away. But Tuesday night, I was sitting around writing something up for another blog (you’ll see, it’ll be out next week) and flipping back and forth to my social networks. That’s what I do when I’m writing. Here, I’ll give you a glimpse behind the curtain. You like that sort of thing, right? You want to see the Great and Powerful Oz?

This is totally me, only less manly. And wizardy. And curtainy.

Here you go. I sit down to write, I open up the following tabs: Twitter, Facebook, Gmail, WordPress. Then I write for a while, and when I’m either stuck or bored or need a break or notice I have a notification in one of the tabs, I flip around and see what’s up. I know I could probably get work done a hell of a lot faster if I ignored (or refused to open) the other tabs (and when I’m in a hurry, I don’t open them at all, and wait to check them until I’m done – I’m not a complete moron about what drains my time) but I like that they’re there, and I like that I can see if people are trying to get in touch with me or if important things are going on or what-have-you.  

So I was writing and writing and flipping around and catching up on back episodes of Haven while I wrote (I have such a weird crush on Eric Balfour with his big old noggin it’s kind of insane) and flipped over to Facebook and saw a post that just said “Oh” and the link said Nora Ephron had passed away. 

And because I am a gigantic sap I totally started to cry. 

Listen, Nora Ephron was a pretty stellar woman. You all probably know her from When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail (the first of which she wrote, the latter two she both wrote and directed) and you might think “meh, romantic comedies, whatever, cheesity cheese cheese” but she was really kind of someone we can all look up to, and it’s a huge loss that she’s gone. 

She interned for John F. Kennedy. She was a low-level mail girl (imagine calling someone an ANYTHING girl now? the mind just boggles) at Newsweek back in the 60s. Why? Because they didn’t hire female writers and she wanted to work in publishing. Her just-for-fun satirical writing with some friends led to her first writing job, with the New York Post. It’s the writer’s version of being discovered at a soda fountain and going on to become a famous actress, I think. (Side note: the person who noticed her writing? The publisher of the Post? A woman. Nice job with the early integration, Post.) From there, Ephron became a well-known reporter, essayist, and humorist, writing for not only the Post, but Esquire, The New York Times Magazine, and New York magazine, as well as collecting her essays into a number of books. 

That’s her with the notebook. And RFK. Neat, right?

So she conquered journalism. She was a hipster feminist, WAY before it was cool.

Also, she looked pretty kickass while doing it.

What next? Well, in her personal life, she married, she divorced, she married again (Carl Bernstein, maybe you heard of a little thing called Watergate? The journalists who broke Watergate? Woodward & Bernstein? This is that Bernstein, and Ephron knew who Deep Throat was THE WHOLE TIME, yo), Bernstein cheated on her with one of her friends, she wrote a scathing screenplay about it (Heartburn, in which she says the cheating husband is “capable of having sex with a Venetian blind,” hee!) and she married again, to a screenwriter, by all reports quite happily. 

70s feathered hair makes me smile. Here’s Ephron and Bernstein before the Venetian-blind-screwing.

So. Screenplays, huh? After she helped Woodward & Bernstein clean up their screenplay for All the President’s Men (her version wasn’t used), her writing caught Hollywood’s eye. Not long after, When Harry Met Sally happened. (Oh, she also wrote Silkwood. So whenever I say I want to Silkwood-shower my brain after I see something especially icky? Thank you, Nora Ephron.) 

Without Nora Ephron (for better or for worse, because YES, I KNOW, it’s NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN) we’d never get the line all women are kind of secretly hoping some guy will say a variant of to us at some point or other in our lives: 

I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. 

Yes, yes, like I said. It’s irrational to expect this. But think about it. Don’t we all kind of want someone to love us not only despite, but for, our quirks? The things that we think, “huh, this is probably driving someone nuts” – someone noticing that? And loving it? That’s something, right? That’s your person. The person that loves you FOR those quirks. The person who notices all of our junk and thinks, eh, we all have junk. The person who wants the rest of their life to start right now, because they found you. Don’t you even say this isn’t a little bit awesome. Is it irrational? Yeah. But it’s also a little bit awesome and kind of true and I love it.

Or how about, “Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?” or “Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash. But I would be proud to partake of your pecan pie.” Or that they don’t make Sunday days-of-the-week panties, “because of God.” Or “Oh, but ‘baby fish mouth’ is sweeping the nation?” Or (sob) “I am not your consolation prize, Harry.” 

I know that it makes me a huge old girly-girl and I know that it’s creating these unobtainable expectations for romance, but I will always, always, ALWAYS want a When-Harry-Met-Sally romance on some level. Always and forever. I know it’s not coming, of course I do. The practical side of me is well-aware of that. But the side of me that still picks up wishing-pennies and refuses to step on cracks still holds out some hope. She’s optimistic, that one. 

Then Ephron decided, huh. I liked writing that. That went really well. Let’s try some directing, what do you say? 

The first one (This is My Life – heard of it? Nope, me either) wasn’t a home run. I love her a little more for that. If she hit it out of the park the first time, she wouldn’t be as relatable. Then: Sleepless in Seattle. 

Pair up Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan at the height of their squishy adorableness. Keep them separated for most of the movie. Throw in a ton of longing and heartbreak and the statistic (how much did THIS kill the women watching? I was in my early TWENTIES and was a little panic-stricken!) “It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!” The Empire State Building. “That’s your problem! You don’t want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie.” (I do. That is my problem. I ABSOLUTELY want to be in love in a movie.) Their faces when they see each other for the first time. “Magic.”  

Yep. Nice job, Nora Ephron. Add “meeting on the Empire State Building” to the “things all women secretly kinda want” list.  

Then You’ve Got Mail. Did everyone love this as much as I did? Or is it just me who was completely swept away in the whole New York City/bookstores and the love of literature/rivals/secret identities/falling in love without seeing each other’s faces thing? I’m ok with it if it’s just me.  

I’m going to quote the hell out of You’ve Got Mail. Listen, I tried to narrow it down. I just couldn’t. I love it so much. 

Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life – well, valuable, but small – and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void. 

I would have asked for your number, and I wouldn’t have been able to wait twenty-four hours before calling you and saying, “Hey, how about… oh, how about some coffee or, you know, drinks or dinner or a movie… for as long as we both shall live?” 

I love daisies…They’re so friendly. Don’t you think daisies are the friendliest flower? 

What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You’ve got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you. 

Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms. 

When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does. 

The odd thing about this form of communication is that you’re more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings. 

I wanted to be your friend…I knew it wasn’t…possible. What can I say, sometimes a guy just wants the impossible. 

And, the line that can make me cry just thinking of it, the line that I didn’t have to look up online for the exact wording because sometimes it comes to mind with Meg Ryan’s face attached, her hopeful, relieved, teary face, and I just get all weepy all over again because it’s just perfect: 

I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly. 

If it makes me sappy and girly and silly, so be it. But I like the magic in this movie. I like that there are two people out there so, so perfect for each other, and they meet in the least likely of ways, and they, despite all odds, manage to make it work. I like that. So much. I like that it speaks to those of us who spend a lot of our time online – not the “ZOMG WE’RE GOING TO FALL IN LURVE” thing, but the making-a-connection thing through the computer, with someone you’ve never met, through their words and their thoughts and getting to know them through the minutae of their day, you know? I love that. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. The two of them really were the cutest together in these movies back in the day, weren’t they? 

She continued to direct (her last movie was Julie and Julia, which wasn’t that long ago) and write books. She had two children. She had a large group of friends and supported up-and-coming young writers and comedians and directors; many of whom were women. She believed that (unlike a lot of men, both then and now) women in comedy WERE funny, ARE funny, and if they had to work twice as hard to show that? Well, nothing wrong with a little hard work. She openly talked about (shh!) “female issues” – sex, aging, romance, motherhood, divorce – and she made them FUNNY. And RELEVANT. She made them so MEN wanted to read about them or watch them. MEN! Interested in WOMEN’S issues, can you imagine the HORROR? She reportedly had a huge cackle; if you made Nora cackle, you knew you’d done something really special.  

I would have liked to make Nora cackle. I have a cackle. I’ve been told the same thing, actually; that if someone hears my laugh in an audience, from all the way backstage, they know the show’s going well. I’m proud we have that in common. We’re not the type to be silenced. We don’t whisper; we roar. 

I love this. This is 80 flavors of adorable.

She believed very strongly in the power of the written word. From Hilary Rosen’s piece about her in the Huffington Post: “What do you do when your friend Nora Ephron dies? You cry and then you write about it. Because that is what she said to do whenever you told her a story that moved her or amused her. ‘Write about it’ she’d say. It was like Beethoven telling you to play a symphony or Billie Jean King telling you to serve the ball or Springsteen telling you to rock. She was the best of the best and when she said, ‘write’ she was telling you to engage in the noblest pastime she knew.” 

How can you not love a woman who believed in the written word this much? “The noblest pastime she knew.” Chills. Just, chills. 

From Lisa Belkin’s piece, also from the Huffington Post: “’Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim,’ she said in a 1996 speech to the graduating class of Wellesley College.” My college graduation speaker told us to make sure to save for retirement, I think. I’d have liked a speech about being the heroine of my own life. I try to be. I think I’m succeeding. 

And finally, from Arianna Huffington’s piece from the Huffington Post. (See, Nora Ephron didn’t really need to write anymore, and didn’t have time to, really. But when Arianna Huffington approached her about a new blog she was starting, Ephron did some research and realized that blogs were the wave of the future in writing and making that immediate connection. She made the time, because she loved it so much. She was a regular contributor to the Huffington Post and good friends with Arianna Huffington.)

Ephron and Arianna Huffington.

“Nora excelled not only as a blogger but as a blogging evangelist, spreading word of the medium’s particular value and making many converts. She quickly grasped that ‘one of the reasons for blogging was to start the conversation and to create the community that comes together briefly to talk about things they might not be talking about if you hadn’t written your blog.’” 

Savvy woman, that Nora Ephron. 

She intimated she was ill in her last book, but very few people knew she was suffering from leukemia. She played that close to the vest. I can appreciate that. I’d do the same thing. Who needs the sympathy? Life’s too short for that. She passed away on Tuesday from complications related to the disease. 

We lost one of the good ones Tuesday. She paved the way for a lot of women in writing and in comedy. She showed what we can do, us women, if we work together; if we refuse to take no for an answer; if we work our asses off. She wrote beautifully and told it like it was and she loved deeply and she laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed. 

Thank you, Nora. You’ll be missed. In your honor: I think I’ll write.


Consider this the slip that brought me to my knees

We were discussing Lent the other day on Twitter. I was cheering on some friends who are participating in Lent, while explaining that, although I find it beyond admirable whenever anyone goes through Lent, I no longer participate in the practice, because I am a stubborn ass when it comes to Catholicism. This brought up some curiosity as to why this is.

No, not why I’m a stubborn ass. If you could answer that question, you’d win the prize. I can’t even answer that question. Genetics? Nature? Nurture? My most influential role model growing up was (and remains) the most stubborn man I’ve ever come across in the history of ever; I’m sure that plays a part. My brain just being wired that way? I don’t know. I’m stubborn, and I can, and often am, a complete ass about it. There’s not a lot of rhyme or reason to it. I can’t often explain my actions to myself. Sometimes I even say, “Amy! Stop being such a stubborn ass!” TO MYSELF. It doesn’t often help. I just keep assing along.

No, why I’m a stubborn ass in relation to Catholicism was the question. I’ve touched on it now and again here, a few run-ins I had with various clergy members or things that have happened to me over the years in the church. There was the time I was kicked out of churchschool for standing up to the bully asshole priest who screamed at the Planned Parenthood employee; there was the time I was so mad at the games we had to play in churchschool I refused to participate, and therefore I became an object lesson for the entire congregation.

Neither of these explain why I refuse to go to church anymore. I still attended church after these occurred. I attended church right up until a little after grad school, actually. Then I’d had enough, so I stopped.

Now, before I start this, please bear in mind: I am not attacking the Catholic church, or any church, or any religion (well, except for maybe cults. I’m scared of cults. Or religions that are yelly about things. Or religions that get in my face. Other than that: you go, religion, you go.) This is MY PERSONAL TAKE ON SHIT. If you want to be an asshat and all “YOU HATE GOD” or whatever, you know what, go do that over there, or something, I don’t have time or energy to deal with your shenanigans.

It all came down to this: I could no longer attend an institution that was making me pray, on a weekly basis, for social issues to be resolved in a manner that was opposite to what I believed in.

Sure, there were other things. There was the time there a senile priest chased me out of the confessional screaming “GET ON YOUR KNEES AND BEG FOR GOD’S FORGIVENESS YOU HEATHEN” (wish I was kidding, you guys), there was the evil priest, for whom a special circle in Dante’s inferno is reserved, one where fingernails are pulled out OVER AND OVER AND OVER, who called my mom up at work and called her the Whore of Babylon (yeah, I know, right?) because she and my father refused to donate substantial amounts of money so he could get a new rectory; there was the time that same priest installed a rearview mirror in the confessional so he could see who was making confession even though it was supposed to be anonymous, I assume either for blackmail or gossip purposes. But those were individual incidents, and not indicative of the church as a whole. So I kept going.

Then there was the hypocrisy. I like rules. I approve of rules. I think, as a society, we could benefit from following the damn rules a little more often. But no one was following the effing rules of church, yet people were still GOING. People would be eating Egg McMuffins in their cars in the parking lot, then going in and receiving the Eucharist. THAT’S NOT THE RULE. You’re supposed to fast before you receive the sacrament. THOSE ARE THE RULES. People would only attend a mass here or there, usually the ones where you got goodies, like palms or ashes, and then be all, “Yep, I’m a good Catholic.” You attend ALL the masses and ALL the holy days. THOSE ARE THE RULES. People that I KNEW were horrendous human beings in real life would be at mass on Sundays. I’m pretty sure you were supposed to be at least ATTEMPTING to follow God’s teachings ALL WEEK LONG, not just piously showing up in church on Sunday. RULES. RULES. RULES.

But that was on them, not on me. So I kept going. Good Catholic girl, parents raised me to attend church, I kept going. Not saying I didn’t miss a mass here or there, especially in college when I was too hungover to get out of bed on Sunday mornings, but I made an effort. I tried to do my best. I still believed in what the church stood for, the greater good of it all. I kept going.

Years passed. It weighed on me, more and more. But I kept going.

Then this weird new practice started, and that was when I drew the line.

At the end of every mass, right before we could leave, we all had to stand there while either the priest or a deacon or one of the readers stood up and read off a list of things the church, as a whole, was praying for that week. And we all had to put our arms and hands up in a Sieg Heil salute throughout. No, I’m not kidding. Did I have the only church that thought this was a good idea? There have to be some Catholics reading this. Did your church make you pray for things while Heiling? Was this a thing? Is this still a thing?

So the first time I looked around, trying to catch someone’s eye to share the delicious insanity of “hey, we’re totally doing the Sieg Heil thing, this is cuckoo-bananas, right?” but everyone had dead, dead eyes. Like a cult. Like a dead cult. IT WAS ALARMING. It was grainy WWII news-reel footage of Hitler youth alarming. I did not like it one little bit.

So I just stood there and refused to put my arm up. I wasn’t Heiling ANYONE. I felt like I’d fallen into a bodysnatchers movie.

Then the person reading started reading what we were praying for. Poor people. Cool, I could get behind that. At the end of each statement we were supposed to respond something. At this point, many years later, I have no idea what that is. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, it was “Let us pray.” I don’t know what it was. I barely remember what I wore yesterday. (I’m lying. I wore my Dr. Horrible shirt and it was AWESOME.)

So, poor people. Cool, cool, cool. I mean, I wasn’t Heiling, but I could say “Let us pray” to that. Fine. Then something for more clergy members, or whatever. Some things that I was completely down with and found to be not-at-all-objectionable.

Then we got (and I’m working from memory and imagination, here, so bear with):

“Let us pray for the homosexuals; that they see the error of their ways, and find God. Let them come back to God and realize that the only true love and marriage is that which is found between a man and a woman.”

WHAT THE HELL.

I mean, I wasn’t an idiot. I knew the church was totally anti-homosexuality. But they didn’t usually SAY it. Not in MASS.

I wasn’t “let us pray”-ing for that shit, no no, not me. Not with over half of the people I loved more than anyone BEING those damn dirty godless homosexuals. So I just stood there, refusing to Heil, refusing to let-us-pray.And kind of getting a head of steam, honestly. And an Amy head of steam is never a good thing. They usually boil over. Someone gets scalded.

Then some other filler shit, then we got:

“Let us pray for the aborted babies, who have been killed, through no fault of their own, by their mothers. Let them enter heaven, whether baptized or not. Let the government see the error of its ways and outlaw this barbaric practice.”

AW HELL NO.

OK, first you attack my best FRIENDS, then you expect me to Sieg Heil away my right to frigging CHOOSE? Nope. Not going to happen. HEAD OF STEAAAAAM. Also, separation of CHURCH and STATE. You aren’t supposed to talk about the GOVERNMENT in here. Yes, yes, that’s not what that MEANS, FINE. Either way. STOP BRINGING YOUR POLITICS TO MY ALTAR.

And everyone else around me, dead, dead eyes, were just standing there, arms outstretched, mindlessly, thoughtlessly “let us pray”-ing. Probably not even listening to what was being said. Not even thinking about what they were throwing their words behind.

That was when I realized: there was a very, very good possibility I think too much to attend mass anymore. Because I overthink EVERYTHING. The rules. What’s being said. What the things being said MEAN. Why we’re doing certain things as opposed to others. Why there aren’t any female priests. Why priests can’t marry. Why there is so much pedophilia in the Catholic church. Why we’re Sieg Heiling to social issues that are the VERY REASONS I choose which political candidates to vote for, or against.

But I thought, maybe this is just a special-occasion thing. Maybe this isn’t going to happen every week. Maybe this is going to happen once in a while, and you can just stand here and 1967 conscientious-objector this shit out and all will be well.

Nope. Every week. Every week the same old “pray for the dead babies” and the “pray for the godless gays” and me standing there looking around the congregation for someone, ANYONE, who wasn’t just Heiling away their soul and not finding a single kindred spirit.

So I couldn’t go anymore. It was over for me. Just, over. Done. Other than once or twice (once because the priest mentioned in the link above was in town, and I wanted to see him because I loved him more than almost anyone, and a couple times for Christmas when my parents’ wheedling became just waaaaay too intense, before I finally put my foot down) I haven’t been back since.

Do I miss it? Yes. I miss the gorgeous ritual of it. I miss the routine. I miss the rules. I miss the pageantry and the iconography and the stories. But the magic of it was gone for me. I can’t stand behind an institution that hates women and believes that homosexuality is evil. I can’t. I wouldn’t put up with it from a politician in office, I wouldn’t put up with it from a friend, and I won’t put up with it from my church.

The worst part is, I don’t believe this is what Jesus would have wanted his church to come to, were he here today. Jesus was a progressive dude. He was all-inclusive. Back in the day, he was friends with tax collectors and whores, who were like the dregs of society, you know? He was the original hippie. And you’re telling me that a church, founded on this man’s teachings, wouldn’t change with the times and accept all people, regardless whether their plumbing’s an innie or an outie or who they choose to bed down with at the end of the night? Really? You think I’m stupid enough to go along with that?

I’ve tried other religions, because I miss the magic. I really do. I miss the belonging and I miss the belief in something. But my heart will always be with Catholicism. See, that’s why I say, don’t even attack me, because this isn’t an attack on Catholicism. I LOVE CATHOLICISM. I do. I just don’t like where it is, as opposed to where it could be. And I can’t, in good faith (heh, pun intended) back that horse.

Do I believe in God, I suppose, is your next question. And that’s a huge one, right? One that most people probably don’t even want to discuss. Well, listen, if there’s ever been a place to discuss it, it’s here, so I might as well get it out of the way. I believe in SOMETHING. I think there’s something out there. I’ve seen too many things happen that are too coincidental to be coincidences. I think there’s some sort of master plan, sure. It’s nebulous, but it’s in place. Somehow. What is it? What the hell do I know, I’m not in the inner circle. Is the higher power God? Jesus? Gaia? Buddha? The Flying Spaghetti Monster? I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. I don’t know if there’s even a name on it, honestly. I just think there’s something. SOMETHING. And I respect the right of everyone else to believe – or not to believe at all – in their somethings, or their nothings. As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else, and as long as you don’t get too shouty about it.

So yes. I’m stubborn as hell. I won’t go to church with my family when I’m home, which upsets them to no end. But it’s not like they think – because I hate the church. It’s not that at all. It’s because if I enter a church for mass, I’d feel like I was a hypocrite, no better than that guy chowing the Egg McMuffin in the parking lot before mass. I can’t stand behind some of their most basic beliefs, so the church is not for me. If it changes? If they decide to change with the times, embrace the social issues that are dealbreakers for me? Stop railing against homosexuality, accept a woman’s right to choose, allow female priests, and allow male priests to marry? Then yes. I can see myself attending mass again. Because I do miss it.

I’m a stubborn ass. I know that. I know that’s true. But I also know I don’t belong in a room of thoughtless people with their hands raised, saluting and praying for things that they aren’t even listening to, one eye on their watches, thinking about getting home for football. I have better things to do with my Sundays. I usually spend them at a theater. That’s a kind of a church, for me. More all-inclusive. More welcoming. And, if done well? Totally a religious experience.


The entire country’s overrun with sluts, seriously. It’s an EPIDEMIC.

Dear Mr. Limbaugh:

May I call you Mr. Limbaugh? I mean, I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous. I am a woman. With woman-parts. Should I call you Daddy? Sir? BIG Daddy? Pops? I mean, it’s all about you. I really just want you to be comfortable, here.

Oh, stick with Mr. Limbaugh? Sure. Sure thing. I know MY place. In the KITCHEN. Barefoot & pregnant. Am I right?

Well! Here we are, Mr. Limbaugh: you, with your fancy penis, me with my far-less-superior vagina, just hanging out. This is nice, right? Isn’t this just the best thing?

Oh, I should probably introduce myself. I’m sorry. How rude! I’m one of the approximately 12-15 million sluts of America. It’s so nice to have this chance to chat, isn’t it? I know, it’s weird, I’m representing, like, a LOT of women. Here, let me put it to you this way. The number of women I represent is 12-15 million, minus one, more than the number of women who would willingly, currently, let you sleep with them. And that one is debatable. I still don’t 100% understand the situtation going on there with your wife. I can’t imagine anyone sleeping with you on purpose. Maybe you roofie her, I don’t know. She’s wife #4. Maybe she’s just waiting for you to die? Patiently, PAAAAATIENTLY just lying there, waiting, waiting, waaaaaiting for you to die, you ignoring that bored look in her eyes as you huff and puff away? (“Hey, I always notice that bored look in their eyes, alright?” Name that quote, sir, I’ll give you a shiny quarter.) I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT GOES ON I AM THANKFULLY NOT IN YOUR BEDROOM BECAUSE IF I WERE I THINK IT WOULD GIVE ME PTSD. But, what do I know, anyway, just a stupid slut, am I right, Mr. Limbaugh?

Now, can I just first say, thank you so much for letting me know what a complete and total whorebag I am? I mean, I always kind of wondered? Am I? Am I a jezebel? And you let me know this week I was. Thank you. Thank you for that. Because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s uncertainty. And then you let me know I was a “feminazi.” I assume this is a little word salad you made of “feminist” and “nazi?” Aw! Aren’t you just the cutest thing? Aren’t you just a vocab champion? I mean, I don’t really see how me being on birth control, and being a feminist, also makes me a nazi. To me, it’s like you took two completely unrelated words and smooshed them together into a s’more and then stuffed it into your huge gaping piehole. Like if you took “pirate” and “automobile” and proudly presented the world with “piratomobile” and expected us to ooh and ahh. I mean, I do applaud your command of letters, I suppose. My toddler nephew also uses words, sometimes incorrectly? When he does, we gently correct him. WITH LOVE. Would you like me to correct you? With love? I bet you would! You’ve got the look of a man who’s drooled over a good slut in his lifetime about him, Mr. Limbaugh.

Well, let’s talk about your week, shall we? It’s been a busy one for you! First, you called a Georgetown law student a slut for publicly advocating that birth control should be covered under health care, not just for birth control purposes, but for health care reasons. Not only did you call this young lady a slut, you said you wanted her to post a sex tape of her sexual activities online; you said she was having so much sex she couldn’t pay for enough birth control for herself; and you said her parents would be ashamed of her. Among other things. Because if you’re anything, it’s verbose. Oh, wait, sorry, I should have told you: I’m a slut with a vocabulary, a brain, and a blog. Sorry. Probably should have spoiler-alerted you.

Then, when you realized you were losing advertisers, and advertisers pay for your Cheetos, HoHos, and Viagra, you apologized. But let’s be honest, here, Mr. Limbaugh. I’ve seen apologies, both good and bad, in my lifetime. And this was more of a “mom said I had to apologize, so I’m SORRY you were OFFENDED by my TOTALLY FUNNY JOKE, as if it’s MY FAULT you GREEDY WHORES don’t have a SENSE OF HUMOR” than it was a truly abject apology. Mr. Limbaugh, people are backing away from you as if you’re the loser in a he-who-smelt-it-dealt-it contest, honestly. And you’re the Emperor, all nakey-naked, “whee, lookit me! LOOKIT ME! I GOTS ME A DING DONG!”

Now, I did a little research, to see how many American women I’m representing. The twelve million is low. That’s just the number that take oral contraceptives. So let’s say that an additional 3 million use alternate methods – the patch, an IUD, the sponge, the…oh, Mr. Limbaugh, ARE YOU OK? I’m sorry, you looked a little queasy, there. Was it the talk of women’s contraceptive options? Oh, it was the idea that money for these is coming right out of your pocket? Here, sit back. Put your feet up. NO, don’t take your shoes off. I didn’t buy any Airwick spray this week. Just rest up. I’ll keep talking, though. You had your say earlier in the week. My turn now, Big Poppa.

Now, according to another website I found, there are 58% of those women who take their chosen form of contraceptive for reasons OTHER than just birth control. Regulation of menstrual flow. Control of severe cramping. Amelioration of migraine headache symptoms related to menstruation. Things of that nature. I’m sorry, you’re fading out on me again. Oh, it’s the talk of lady-business this time? You’d rather I didn’t use the term “menstruation?” What would you rather I…”monthlies?” You want me to call them “monthlies?” I bet you make your wife go into a tent in the yard once a month, because she’s unclean, don’t you, and because she might draw bears. Don’t you even josh with me, you big kidder, you. From one gasbag to another, I see right through you.

So that’s over half of us sluts who are using contraceptives for medical reasons OTHER than birth control. But we’re still sluts, right? I just want to make that perfectly clear. Because I’m liking this an awful damn lot, being a slut. I mean, I’m not even currently sexually active but BAM I AM A SLUT. That’s nice! And is my daddy not proud of me? I’ll have to ask him that, the next time we talk. Oh, wait, I’ve avoided bringing this topic even up with him, because you, sir, you and your misogynistic ways are the main cause of friction between my beloved father and myself. I’m pretty sure if we got going on my sluthood and such, he’d disown me. HE LOVES YOU JUST THAT MUCH. And I’m a little jealous, honestly. But what did I expect? I mean, I’m just a slut. Who ever loves the slut? The slut never gets to be the belle of the ball, am I right?

Also, to clear up some misconceptions you seem to be laboring under:

  1. You said that the women that wanted their birth control covered by health insurance were “having so much sex they were going broke.” I think you might be under the impression we have to take birth control pills like Tic Tacs, whenever we’re getting ready to get the hot beef injection. Not really how it works.
  2. The money for birth control wouldn’t directly come out of your pocket. I mean, I suppose, if you drill way, way, WAY down, pennies might come out of your sizeable income. But if you think about it, our tax dollars go for all kinds of wacky shit. Did you know that there’s an unrated version of Team America at my library? True. I totally put it on reserve so I can watch puppet sex next weekend because my internet people told me it was the best thing. Things at my library are paid for with tax dollars. So, in theory, if you think about it, fractions of pennies of your salary probably paid for me to watch puppet sex. But if you think about every little thing like this, you’re just going to get a massive heart attack and die. AND WHO WOULD WANT THAT SURELY NOT ME.
  3. Sandra Fluke, the student you attacked so heinously, is a LAW STUDENT. Let’s just wrap our minds around that, just for a minute. A LAW STUDENT. At GEORGETOWN. I don’t know if you know any law students. I’ve run across a few. THEY ARE BUSY AS HELL. There are classes, and there is a LOT of studying. I’m sure they have time for SOME of all the sex. But not all. Not all the sex. Because they’re too busy studying to BECOME LAWYERS. It’s not like they’re in correspondence school to become air conditioner repairmen. It’s LAW SCHOOL. You have to pass the damn BAR EXAM. Also, Georgetown’s not a school that gets advertised on the back of a matchbook cover, Mr. Limbaugh. It’s one of our fanciest of the fancy. I mean, it’s a given she’s a slut – what with the birth control, and how she can’t control her slutty, slutty mouth, am I right? – but she’s a SMART slut. I know, I was as confused as you undoubtedly are, that these two things aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s a mystery for the ages.
  4. You don’t get a say in everything that is paid for with your tax dollars. You want a sex tape to be put on the internet if your tax dollars pay for birth control. Tit for tat, right? So your tax dollars pay for homeless shelters, do you want a homeless man to come over and spoon you tonight? Your tax dollars also pay for soup kitchens, do you want to eat tomato soup until you explode? I’ll sign up for force-feeding you, I mean, if there’s a sign-up sheet. It’s the saddest when there’s a signup sheet but no one’s signed up yet. You feel like such a FOOL.
  5. No one calls someone slutty “roundheels” anymore. That made you sound like Grandpa Simpson.
  6. Are you aware of pharmacological markups? Like, if you figure it out, you pay, say, $10 for your co-pay, but your insurance agency is billed $40 so those pills cost $50 altogether but in all actuality the whole bottle of pills, including the amber plastic bottle with all the warning labels, cost probably $.0002 cents? Yeah, maybe we’re attacking the wrong people. How about birth control pill manufacturers make it more affordable for us to get it ourselves? Or make it affordable and available over the counter? That way we don’t even have to INVOLVE you, sir. Not even a LITTLE bit. Unless we run into you leaving the drug store on new porno mag day.
  7. Not all birth control, as my statistics show you above, is for all the sex. YES, any DAY now, I’m pretty sure I’m going to start having all the sex. My doctor says I can. And it’s ALL FOR YOU MR. LIMBAUGH. But it’s also for those of us who’ve been on it since we were about 19 because our uteruses are trying to kill us. And hypothetically? Those people have never, ever, not even one little teeny-tiny time, used it for birth control purposes. Because that’s why God made condoms. YES GOD MADE CONDOMS. What? Where in the Bible does it say that? I’m pretty sure “sheep” are mentioned a few times, and those sheep have skin, and I think there are sheepskin condoms. I JUST BLEW YOUR MIND. So the sluts among us, one of whom is writing this blog, who need birth control or they will be murdered in their sleep by their evil, evil uteruses – what exactly do you want US to put a video of on the internet? Heavy menstrual flow? Bending over groaning in pain from severe cramping? Sleeping 8-10 hours in climate-controlled rooms because of severe migraines? Adult cystic acne? No, pray tell, I need to know so I can start getting ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. Because – NEWS FLASH PILGRIM – you totally bought my birth control recently. You’ve been buying that shit for ALMOST TWENTY YEARS. I KNOW DIRTY DIRTY SLUT. Whoo!

Mr. Limbaugh: I’m so sorry you’re petrified of women. I really am. It must be so scary, considering there are 143.4 million, as of the 2000 census, humans with lady-parts walking around America. There are 5.3 million more of us than there are men. I mean, that’s got to be SO EFFING SCARY for someone who is so utterly horrified at the thought of women being equal to men that he has to make them feel less than, put-upon, and inferior, every single chance he gets. I mean, we’ve got you, comparing our reproductive rights to sneakers in gym class (because the two are so similar, I’m sure I don’t have to explain the similarities to my amazingly brilliant readers) and we’ve got your pal Santorum telling us that if he had his druthers, we’d all be forced to have God’s lemonade rape-babies. I can’t even imagine the nightmares that must swirl through your sweaty head at night: women WORKING ALONGSIDE MEN. Women IN POSITIONS OF POWER. Women POINTING AT YOUR DICK AND LAUGHING AS IF THEY WERE WATCHING AN ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT RERUN. Women who, if they got their shit together, COULD OUTVOTE THE MEN BECAUSE THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN THERE ARE YOU.

It has been so nice to have this chat, hasn’t it? Slut to moron? Whore to douchecanoe? Harlot to insecure gasbag with mommy issues?

Let’s do this again, shall we? You bring a pie. I’ll bring my command of the English language, my college-educated brain, and my vagina. Mr. Limbaugh. MR. LIMBAUGH. You’re looking pale again. I think you might need some smelling salts. Or maybe a sharp slap in the face.

All my best,

Amy, the biggest slut in all of Slutsville

(For two more takes on the insanity of the week, please check out Green Geek Girl and Books and Bowel Movements. *Smooches* to my ladies!)


Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

I know. I KNOW. I am so super-behind. It’s been a day. A TOTAL DAY.  I am so sorry if I caused you WORRY OR STRIFE.

So first I got to work and there was SO SO SO MUCH WORK. And we got new carpet but it’s totally swirly and makes you feel like you’re walking in an optical illusion and you’re going to pass out or maybe fall in a black hole if you step wrong, I don’t know. It’s weird. Wait. I will find you an illustration.

No, this totally isn’t it but I found it on Google Images and it make me laugh. Apparently somewhere someone illustrated a book with a photo of a carpet that was “reported” to cause symptoms of motion sickness and self-motion. If I felt like doing more research I probably could do so but I’m totally the most sleepy, no joke. I wish our office carpet would self-motion me right out the damn door. Why doesn’t that shit happen ever?

So then I worked and worked and worked and WORKED and then I had a doctor’s appointment at Doctor Ernie’s office because my uterus is trying to kill me. No, I’m totally serious. I thought of this this weekend? And I decided. MY ENTIRE BODY IS IN REVOLT. Yes. My body is revolting. HA HA HA.

No, seriously, think about this. Like, your body is like a little TEAM, right, and it’s all supposed to work together, for the most part? I mean, sometimes you break a bone or get an infection or something, but overall, it’s supposed to be this little army, all marching in time, following orders and such. MINE IS IN REVOLT. I have the health problems of a 85-year-old woman.

My brain doesn’t work correctly and tends to run toward the depressive end of the spectrum. Oh, also all the migraines. Don’t forget all the migraines.

My thyroid pitched a friggin’ coup and we had to assassinate that little dictator and remove him from rule altogether.

My entire digestive tract seems to constantly hate me for some reason.

My tastebuds hate all but like, four things.

My balance is completely off, which I think is an inner-ear thing.

My eyes haven’t worked right since kindergarten.

I have flat feet. With weird crooked toes because I’ve broken most of them at one point or another.

I have allergies year-round, not just seasonally like normal people.

I can’t sleep without chemical enhancement and haven’t been able to since I was thirteen.

My blood is poison and I can’t even donate it because I have MAD COW DISEASE which I totally don’t have but the Red Cross thinks I do.

My pancreas kind of shit the bed a few years back, which has been a ton of fun.

My cholesterol levels are psychotic.

Also, whoever told you that your acne would clear up when you got out of puberty was a TOTAL LIAR. Ok, no, maybe it cleared up for SOME of you. Some of you lucky, happy, shiny people who have all the shiny happy clear skin the minute you graduated high school or something, I don’t know. SOME OF US ARE STILL WAITING FOR THAT DAY.

At one point I had kidney stones. Have you ever had kidney stones? I’d say I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy, but I totally would, so that would be a lie. THEY ARE A NIGHTMARE WRAPPED IN A CLOWN COSTUME OVERRUN WITH SPIDERS RIDING ON COCKROACHES.

BUT LISTEN. I totally still have my…um, I guess, liver? And…um…gallbladder? Those are handy things to have, surely.

And yeah. So anyway, my uterus has been trying to kill me since I was, I don’t know, thirteen? Fourteen? Something like that. So the last doctor (who you’ll remember was THE DEVIL) put me on the pills of insanity. The pills of insanity made me have the emotional intensity of a teenager for a week and a half every month. THIS IS NOT GOOD TIMES. Seriously. There was CRYING over NOT HAVING ICE CREAM SANDWICHES at one point. No one wants to go back to when they were fourteen with the mood swings. No one wants that.

So Doctor Ernie thinks he can fix it  – and, best of all, I CAN GET RID OF THE PILLS ZOMG – so today I went in to have a wee little procedure done. Oh, also it’s the “I can now have all the sex” procedure. So that’s nice. LINE UP GENTLEMEN. However, when reading up on this wee little procedure, I immediately became PETRIFIED because some of the warnings were “take at least four Ibuprofen NO MORE THAN THIRTY MINUTES beforehand and may God have mercy on your soul” and “you’re going to want to take at least a day off, maybe more” and “OH HELP ME OH NO NO OH NO” and such.

I have a pretty high pain threshhold. But one time I thought “meh” when someone told me I was going to be in pain and I would want someone to drive me home and I ended up almost going off the road because I almost passed out.

So I went into this SO SO SO SCARED. You know, of death. And also of passing out. And pain. Things like that. Just little things.

So I showed up and first they sat me down in a room and took vitals and were all, “why’s your blood pressure so high” OH I DON’T KNOW SCARED OF THE PAIN I GUESS and then they wanted me to pee in a cup. I HATE PEEING INTO A CUP SO MUCH. Also, I had totally just peed. No one told me I had to come in prepared for peeing. So I said, “I am not prepared to pee. Why do I need to pee?” and the nurse said, “we need to verify that you’re not pregnant.” So after I laughed so hard I almost knocked over the blood pressure machine, I assured them that nothing, even an Angel of the Lord, had been a knockin’ at heaven’s door lately, thank you very much, so we were good. They looked skeptical. I was touched that they thought I was already getting all the sex. I tried to explain that NO, I was THERE to be PREPARED to have all the sex, and I think they just told me they would do without the urine sample to stop me from talking. I WON THE URINE SAMPLE BATTLE YO.

Then I was ushered into a waiting room and assured that the Nurse Practitioner would be RIGHT WITH ME so just take off my pants. I wanted to make a fun joke like “Yeah, that’s what they all say” but mostly I just wanted this over with because ALL THE PAIN TIME WAS COMING. So I’m all pantless and shit and waiting and waiting and WAITING and no one showed up FOR OVER TWENTY MINUTES, what am I, made of PATIENCE? so I totally nefariously got my phone out of my bag and Twitter kept me entertained. There were only so many times I could read the “you need to be tested for HPV” sign on the wall. It didn’t even have any photos. Listen, LISTEN, if you don’t have the best Twitter friends ever I feel sorry for you. Ken sent me photos of both his dogs AND his socks that looked like cows, for example. These things kept me from freaking right the hell out.

OH WAIT! Holy hell! I have new Twitter! I HAVE NEW TWITTER! Can I show you the sock tweet now? MAYBE I CAN!

(SIDE NOTE: I, of course, did not TELL anyone I was going in to possibly experience all the pain because I don’t like telling people my business before it happens, only after. Because it seems like fishing for sympathy. Jim says probably I can just say, “I’m weird, very weird” and people will understand. I don’t know. I don’t think that’s the MOST weird. I just don’t tell people my personal shit beforehand because then they’re all, “hope you’re ok” and stuff and then you feel like a sad sack. I don’t want to feel like a sad sack. I want it to be over so I can make fun of it so then I’m in CONTROL of it. Or, as Jim so succinctly put it, “Just tell people you’re weird. Very weird.”)

Ooh, I’m totally EMBEDDING JIM’S TWEET NOW. I’m high on this new-Twitter power, you guys, I can’t even.

OK. Anyway, the Nurse Practitioner came in and was all, “oh! Sorry for the delay. TECHNICAL PROBLEMS.” You know. Because nothing makes you feel more comfortable about getting your bits prodded than knowing something’s going terribly wrong, am I right?

I’m going to leave out the icky gory bits. You know. Because sometimes LESS IS MORE. Ha! Ha ha. Like I’ve ever ever ever gone by THAT philosophy. WHOO. No, but seriously, I’m leaving out the ick.

I’ll sum it up with:

  1. It hurt. A LOT. But probably not as much as other things I’ve had happen to me or have had done to me so I guess it’s all relative.

When it was done, the NP came up and said, “So, on a scale of 1-10, how high is your pain?” and I totally snort-laughed because it made me feel like I was on Grey’s Anatomy. No one ever asked me anything like that before. So I was all, “Um…more than the time I dropped the hammer on my foot but less than the time I fell and bruised my tailbone? I’m really bad with numbers,” and she was all, “DON’T SIT UP I’LL BE BACK IN FIVE MINUTES.” Well! That was troubling. Of course me and my huge gigantic mouth wanted to know why I couldn’t sit up. Like, were parts of me going to fall off?

NO. Listen to THIS.

“Touching your cervix can cause a vasal reaction that can cause some patients to pass out in a delayed way, so you need to stay prone for at least five minutes.”

WHAT? That is NOT A MEDICAL THING I HAVE EVER EVEN HEARD OF. A DELAYED passing-out reaction? From poking around in my bits? This should probably be documented and people should be notified because it is FASCINATING. Also, it seems like it could have some sort of practical application, like you could use this and then leave and people would PASS OUT and no one could blame you or something. I’m sure the military is already working on this.

So I waited around all ouch ouch OUCH and then she came back and wanted ANOTHER number and I was all, “I don’t know, 3?” and she said I had to stay there for ANOTHER five minutes but Twitter kept me entertained so whatever. Then A DIFFERENT nurse came in and asked about my pain number and this time I was all, “ONE!” because I wanted to go home, I had blogging to do. But! This nurse said I could sit up, but then I had to stay SITTING for FIVE MORE MINUTES. ZOMG. I think I am more familiar with the landscape of this exam room than I am with my own bedroom at this point. So I was SO BORED and tweeting and then after about three minutes I totally got dressed and left and only KIND OF got dizzy one time but that was totally my fault.

SO. Now I have to go back in three weeks and get checked out again and then I am GOOD TO GO and also to have all the sex, probably with my newfound PUA skills from yesterday.

ALSO! So, in “the world is full of assholes” news, there are a lot of people who don’t want women to have access to birth control. Because it’s totally like killing babies, I guess? Or because it encourages sex outside of marriage for whore women (which begs the question, are these women having sex ALONE? Aren’t the men they’re having sex WITH just as to blame?) And one of my FAVORITE HUMAN BEING EVER Rick Santorum’s biggest financial backers said something the other day about how he didn’t understand why birth control was a big deal because back in his day (he’s like 102 years old) “gals” (ugh, I hate the word “gal”, it sounds phlegmy and it’s so demeaning) used to use “an aspirin between their knees” for birth control. I can only assume this means it kept their whore, whore knees together so they weren’t getting pregnant. ASIDE FROM THE FACT THAT IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO YOU MISOGYNISTIC PIECE OF SHIT, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I can think of three positions just off the top of my head where I could SAFELY keep that aspirin ensconced and still make me a baby. Use your imagination, Mr. Burns.

ANYWAY. Here’s the issue I have. BIRTH CONTROL IS NOT JUST ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL. There are people – I AM ONE – who use it because WE HAVE BROKEN UTERUSES. Without getting too graphic? Birth control makes us work on a regular cycle again. If we don’t, we run a very high risk of uterine cancer. So, Santorum and Co., are you telling me that I shouldn’t have access to something that would prevent me from getting cancer? Just on the off chance I might ALSO use it to have all the sex?

Keep your religious nose out of my cooch. No pun intended. Ew.

OH! OK, SIDE NOTE if you got this far. Also, yay for getting this far. Remember, back in January, I warned you all that it’s tax season and I might not post in a timely fashion, and some days not at all? IT’S HAPPENING. THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE FOG. (Sorry, that slips in there sometimes.) I’m swamped, I’m trying to run a show at my theater, and I can’t always come home and have a post ready for you the next day. PLEASE DO NOT FREAK OUT. I love you to pieces but sometimes life has to happen for me, too. And these take about two hours to write. Like, last night, when I got home from the theater, I COULD have written one? But I wanted to sit on my couch with Dumbcat and watch zombies eating people’s faces. SOMETIMES I WANT TO VEG.

I thank you so much for reading and I love your faces and I promise promise promise, like I said back in January, you are always on my miiiiiind, but it’s tax season. I’m sometimes shower-weeping with exhaustion. So no freaking out, tiger-lilies. Sometimes I won’t be here between now and the end of April. Sometimes I have to look after my own mental health. Find me a way to make this thing pay as much as my full-time job and you’ve got me posting every day on a schedule, but until then, I’m at the mercy of THE MAN. Also of MY OWN EXHAUSTION.

Also! Follow me on Twitter, if you’re on there. Link’s to your right, over there. If I’m not posting that day or I’m going to be late late late or whatever, I’ll try to let you know.

SMOOCHES AND LOVE. ALL the smooches and love. NO NOT YOU DING DONG JOE.


Besides, these boots aren’t made for runnin’.

Random crap today. I know, I’m totally about the random crap lately? Sorry. It’s that time of year. My brain’s going about a million miles an hour. Also, for some reason, half of the computers in the office are not working today, so I’m kind of petrified mine’s going to just shit the bed any minute now and then WHERE WILL WE BE.

Tonight I’m off to the theater to watch my first full run of Rumors before tech week next week. I’m very excited. It’s going to be awesome, and, well, “They’re YOUR friends, Jesus,” of course.

Also, do any of you work with the laziest person ever? Like, you’re working and working and working (yes, yes, I know at this EXACT MOMENT I’m not exactly working, I’m blogging, but let me assure you that I’ve BEEN working and I constantly keep stopping in ORDER to work) and you keep hearing the laziest person ever just walking all around the office having conversations about shit like what she watched on TV last night and how stamp prices are through the roof and then about an hour later she comes to you and she’s all “This is a TIME CRUNCH! I need this IMMEDIATELY! I’m ON DEADLINE!” and you’re thinking, “Hmm, maybe if you were a little better with the time management and the chatting, you wouldn’t be in this totally annoying pickle that I am not at all interested in helping you with at all?” Anyone else work with this person? If so, any idea how I can dispose of a body and not get caught? Awesome, thanks.

Listen, I’m pretty sure Dumbcat is plotting my demise. Last night I was all comfy-cozy in my bed and 99.9% asleep, and he was asleep next to me on my pillow, which he likes to do and I totally let him because I love his face, and then, out of NOWHERE, he got the heebie-jeebies and decided he had to get off the bed NOW NOW NOW, and he LEAPT off the pillow, used me as a launching pad, and hurtled into the dark of the bedroom, leaving huge claw marks across my throat. So that’s proof, right there, he’s attempting to murder me in my sleep, right? Like, today, I kind of look like I was assaulted in a dark alley by a madman. When I asked him what that was all about this morning (what, you don’t have human conversations with your cat? Well, you’re missing out, I’m telling you right now) he WOULD NOT ANSWER ME. Totally saucy, that hitman cat!

OK, RANDOM CRAP THAT I FIND INTERESTING.

I’m pretty sure the FBI has a folder on me somewhere

So I found this article yesterday where the writers at The Mary Sue were upset because Google Analytics, based on their search histories, think they’re men.

I see both sides of that. Yes, it’s sexist, sure, and it needs to be fixed, because it’s 2012 and women like things that have been known as “traditionally male” until somewhat recently, thanks, Google, way to get with the future. But it’s also early stages for Google Analytics, so they’re still learning. I don’t think it MEANS to be sexist. It’s a computer. And it’s only there to target what ads we see, anyway. And who even LOOKS at the ads? I wasn’t even aware that Google was putting ads up anywhere that were targeted to me.

So then I clicked on the link in the article and it showed me what MY analytics were. TOTALLY INTERESTING. Because there’s nothing anyone likes more than knowing what Big Brother thinks of you!

On my home computer, Google thinks, based on my search history, I’m 35-44 years old, female, and I like animals, celebrities, and “home pest control.” Ha! That’s totally because of my intensive Rough on Rats research. So, in other words, if someone locally dies of arsenic poisoning, the FBI’s coming to get me, aren’t they. DAMMIT. I blame Jim for this, I totally do. JIM! If I get arrested for murdering someone with arsenic based on my totally in-depth Rough on Rats reporting, you’d better come bail me out.

Also, animals I get, but celebrities? I don’t do a lot of searching for celebrities. That’s kind of a fail, Google.

OH! And, non-related, so SIDE NOTE, my mom was able to see the article about my great-grand-aunt, the ROUGH ON RATS MURDERESS, but she wasn’t able to scan it and PDF it to me because my great-grandmother super-glued it into an album totally angrily, according to my mom. But I did find out her name. I just did a search but Google doesn’t know anything about my relative, the murderess. That’s probably because the newspapers where I come from aren’t online yet. More to come, even if I have to hand-copy the damn article when I go home and retype it, or take a photo of it with my phone!

BACK ON TRACK. Then I clicked on the link on my work computer and it has NO IDEA how old I am here, but thinks I am female (well! I am glad Google is so sure of my gender!) and that I search mostly for things related to theater, shoes, makeup, and psychology. Theater and psychology, I get. Shoes? I don’t know the last time I BOUGHT shoes, let alone searched for them. Makeup makes me laugh because there’s this one website I check every day for what’s on television that night, and it talks about makeup a lot on it, but it’s not actually ABOUT makeup, so apparently Google thinks I’m big into eyeshadow. HERE IS WHAT I THINK ABOUT MAKEUP. Ready?

It confuses the shit out of me.

I understand the following: lip gloss, eye shadow, nail polish, eyeliner, and face powder.

I understand, but hate the hassle of: mascara and lipstick.

I do not understand, and do not even own: blush, that brown base shit you’re supposed to put on first before you put on makeup.

So! Google thinks I am a LADY who likes LADY-THINGS. Even though, I’m pretty sure I’ve shown, through my confusion by makeup above, that I am not good at this being a lady thing. It also totally got my age bracket right. That’s nice. Thanks, Google! That’s…kind of creeptastic! But I don’t care. I’m not reading your ads, anyway.

If you knew what I was thinking, you’d run away screaming

So I saw this today and thought, oh, crap, oh, no.

Then I thought, wait, it’s on Fox News, so it’s probably not true.

Then I found it ELSEWHERE. Oh, shit. And this article is FANCY. It’s like the HEINAKROON of articles. It has brain scans and EVERYTHING.

So apparently, scientists found a way to decode our thoughts and turn them back into the words they are using SCIENCE and BRAIN SCANS and BRAIN WAVES and THE FUTURE. I’m not even going to pretend I understand this. It’s totally confusing.

The only thing in this that sets my mind at ease is the sentence, “He played down fears it could lead to range of ‘mind reading’ devices as the technique can only, at the moment, be done on patients willing to have surgery.”

GOOD. I don’t want anyone reading my thoughts. Mostly because they are a MESS. All scattery and disorganized. My brain’s like the junk-drawer of thoughts. I don’t want anyone seeing that! That’s where I shove all the things I don’t want anyone KNOWING about when they come over to visit! You know, like when you have a last-minute visitor, and you’re all “DIRTY CLOTHES IN THE SHOWER NOW NOW NOW?” That’s my BRAIN. All dirty clothes in the shower and stacks of unread mail under the couch.

Yes, yes, I get that this is totally good news for stroke victims and Alzheimer’s patients. It’s also the freakiest. Gah. Keep out of my BRAIN, scientists.

And you thought a two-hour movie was bad

This is for @lgalaviz, mostly, but you all can benefit from the awesome.

So @lgalaviz doesn’t like musicals because they burst into song and this makes her suspicious because in real life, this doesn’t happen. I’d argue that real life would be SO MUCH MORE AWESOME if this did happen, but everyone has their opinions on how real life should or shouldn’t be a musical, so I’ll go with it.

SO, after I blogged about Breakfast at Tiffany’s and our Sarcastic Movie Night, one of my commenters (who I also know in real life and who knows everything about musicals – seriously, N. is the go-to guy if you have a musical question, I love that) asked if I knew it had been an ill-fated Broadway musical. When I told him I didn’t, he pointed me to the Wikipedia page.

Now, this is not too far out of the realm of possibility – think about it, it’s got all the hallmarks that would make a good musical, a romance, pretty sets, a light enough plot, etc. And worse mistakes have been made in the history of Broadway. I mean, they made Carrie into a musical in 1988 which closed after only 21 total performances. (I’d give my left BOOB to have seen Carrie the musical, seriously.)

Things that are awesomely horrible from this page:

It was written by Edward Albee, who also wrote, among many other things, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (and The Zoo Story, which I love, love, love.)

Mary Tyler Moore, Richard Chamberlain, and Sally Kellerman were some of the stars

It played four previews on Broadway in 1966 but never opened.

“On a daily basis, the cast was given new material hours before curtain time. Burrows’ departure (the original author) put a damper on the proceedings, resulting in low morale among cast members, and Moore was convinced Merrick planned to fire her soon after opening night.”

“It was not uncommon for the show to run nearly four hours.”

According to the producer, “he shut down the production ‘rather than subject the drama critics and the public to an excruciatingly boring evening.’”

“The show’s failure is legendary among theatre historians and buffs. It has been said that if as many people who have claimed to have seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s really had, it would have run forever.”

Here’s the listing for it on the Internet Broadway Database (YES, that’s really a thing, SHUT UP.) Look how fancy! Who are these characters? Who’s Jeff? Who’s Mags? This is confusing.

@lgalaviz! Can you even imagine? NOT ONLY based on something we kind of agree isn’t that great. NOT ONLY is Holly the only character left we recognize, other than her ex-husband, and Holly’s definitely the least sympathetic character in the show, other than racist Mickey Rooney. NOT ONLY a musical, which you hate. FOUR HOURS LONG! This is like all the things you hate most in the world, all rolled up into a ball! It would make you have an allergic reaction, with the hatred! AND, it was 1966, you couldn’t even use, say, your cell phone or something to distract you! THIS IS THE WORST.

I’m pretty sure hell for @lgalaviz would be having to watch this over and over and OVER.

OH SIDE NOTE. So I might not get Star Wars in time for our next Sarcastic Movie Night so we’re now trying to narrow it down to either St. Elmo’s Fire or The Blair Witch Project. STAY TUNED MY LITTLE JUJUBES.

OK! That was a lot of random crap, I am spent. OH. Are you all watching Justified? If you aren’t, you need to be. Get seasons one and two and catch up and then start watching season 3. Seriously, the performances on this show are amazing, and I’m not just saying that because Timothy Olyphant looks like this.

It's all about the hat. And the leaning. He does a lot of hat-wearing. And leaning. And shooting.

Honestly, as much as I love my Olyphant, this is who keeps me coming back every week.

He looks like a cartoon character, but he can act the face off most people on television. You'll see.

Just start watching. You’ll see. He’s HYPNOTIC, this guy.

Squee!

Also, AW! Timothy Olyphant and Walt Goggins are FRIENDS! This is ADORABLE, you guys!

They’re YOUR friends, Jesus.


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