Sunday Morning Nostalgia Crush!


The intro and outro to The Littles. I didn’t get to catch this one very often.

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Cat Therapy!


It’s been another shitty week, so we’re turning this into a kitty week! So here is a cat, who is trying to ice fish. Enjoy!

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The Fluidic Space Between

I found this not long after the whole Pence and later the Fiene fiasco. Again, we’re looking at a damn good read; head over and check it out. But what really struck me was this:

This attitude claims that the sexes are separated by a chasm of strict gender roles. Women are the ones who possess “kindness, thoughtfulness, sensitivity, support… the feminine virtues” (to quote Pastor Heine), whereas men enjoy “yelling at football players through the television set and laughing at noxious flatulence”. But this superficially self-deprecating attempt at comedy conceals a deep-seated and vicious sexism that hurts both men and women.

It insists that men and women belong to non-overlapping spheres, and that neither sex possesses the attributes traditionally ascribed to the other. This holds back women in all the ways noted, but it also diminishes all our lives, men and women alike, by cutting us off from half of our potential friends. Instead of seeing people you meet as interesting and unique individuals and encouraging you to explore how their interests overlap with yours, this theology insists that everyone fits into one of two rigid and cramped boxes and that each gender has only one thing to offer the other. But if you truly don’t enjoy the things your gender is “supposed” to enjoy, then what do you do?

There is so much truth in this. Prime and I are perfect examples.

Prime is an admitted romantic. He’s seen movies that would bore me to tears–Pretty Woman, anyone?–willingly. While yours truly just wants the explosions and giant robots. We do not line up with Fiene’s idea of gender at all. When it comes to entertainment, my tastes run more to the masculine side, while Prime’s are more of a kick in the feels sort. I get a guffaw out of dumb jackassery. I’ll yell at the ump while in Miller Park. Prime’s far more refined. We are absolute opposites on this. We always have been and probably always will be.

You know what? That’s just fine. Because in our own crazy way, we work.

We are two different people but we also enjoy some of the same things. We have shared interests. We don’t fit in the sharply defined lines of male and female. Because we’re human. We both have different tastes but we also have things that we both love. Baseball, Transformers, Star Trek, among many other things.

Yes, we are different but we love each other. In the end, that’s all that matters. That should be all that matters, really. As to why that has to be so hard to understand, I’ll never know.


I love ya, Prime. You’re the light of my life and the pain in my skidplate and I wouldn’t trade you for anything. Don’t forget it. ❤

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Morning Coffee: Cup Twenty-Five

morning_coffeeCurrent cup: Raspberry Chocolate by Michael’s Gourmet Coffee.

It’s time for another Morning Coffee post, where I pitch some word stew onto my blog and see if I can find anything of substance. Let’s get started, shall we?

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On Oklahoma City

Today marks the twenty-second anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing. My memories of this day are dim; I lived in North Carolina, so I didn’t know anyone personally who may have been affected. I do remember seeing the footage of the ruined building on CNN and Headline News; I remember the picture of the firefighter carrying a dying infant. Those are the clearest memories that I have of this day. Those and of a gnawing fear.

At this point in his life, my father was going through a bit of a mid-life crisis. It had started up roughly about the time of the Waco siege; to my father, the reaction of the federal government was over the top, far too aggressive. He felt the same about Ruby Ridge. He was certain that the government was coming to take away “our” guns and “our” rights. He and one of his friends often agreed on that point.

My father actually agreed with the militia movement. He supported it. He and my mother both were more than happy to paint the government and the Clintons with broad strokes; they were power-hungry and wanted nothing more than willing to trample over the little people like us. The government was evil, never to be trusted.

Which is why, when I heard about the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, I felt afraid. I was absolutely afraid that my father would tacitly approve of what had happened, that he would see this as a necessary evil and that the loss of life was unfortunate but needed. How else would the government learn to not over-step its boundaries?

I don’t remember my parents mentioning a lot about the bombing. I don’t remember a lot of conversations about Timothy McVeigh or any of his accomplices. I don’t remember a lot of anything being said about the entire incident or the accompanying trial. Mostly what I remember was my parents planning on moving to Alaska, away from the government and where you actually owned the land and din’t have to pay taxes. (What they failed to realize was the fact that without taxes, you didn’t have cozy services such as a fire department or trash collection.) They were talking about taking me with them and I was already resisting, as I had no desire to live in the middle of nowhere, with mail delivery only twice a year and no internet or television. Thankfully, that idea fell through and I ended up in the Great White North of Wisconsin, the land of cheese and beer and the Brewers.

It was around that time that my father went full-on libertarian, as well did my mother. So on that day, there were repercussions in my life; I just didn’t see them at the time.

It’s been twenty two years since that moment, when I stood in the kitchen, staring at the television in utter shock. I’ve changed since that moment, as have my parents. I’m still not sure if Mom and Dad changed for the better, though.

 

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The Same Old Story

As it was said by the judge yesterday, “You’re not a victim.” It’s the very first thing that well-meaning friends will say. It’s often been said by those in law enforcement as well. I should know; it’s been said to me before.

One of my friends was more than happy to try and silence me about the abuse my mother put me through years ago; when I posted about my mother, I was in the middle of my angry stage. The thing about mourning is this: there are stages to the grief. Some days, you feel angry. Other days, you feel sad. Still others, you feel a sense of relief, especially when you’re out of that situation. But on those days, you also feel guilty, too. How can you enjoy things when you were told that you shouldn’t, couldn’t? Even if you survived it all, walked away from it with minimal scars, why should you celebrate? Your immortal soul is at stake! Don’t you know that you are making god sad and angry?

It’s all about keeping up those appearances, about making things look better than they truly were. If you don’t, there are well-meaning people out there who will “correct” you for that mistake.

But we still see it, see the abuse. We admit that what was done to us was wrong. We speak about it, even when no one wants to hear it.

The stories aren’t very pretty at all. A lot of people don’t like hearing them. But they are ours to tell. And we will tell them, whether those well-meaning friends like it or not. We will speak because we must.

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Hype Train, GO!

As you probably know by now, there’s a new Transformers: The Last Knight trailer. So let’s get to the important stuff first, then we can talk about it. Here we go!

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