My Bod

I'm going through a phase where I love my body. Quite often, I see those little twenty year olds with their skin tight, size zero clothes, and I think, Yup, I gotta tone up this booty. And deal with these kid roosts. (You know the ones, they're good for carrying kids, laundry baskets, anything that needs an upper hip hitch not to drop to the ground.)
But lately, those perky little thangs at the school/mall/beach don't do that to me. For some reason, everytime I catch sight of one, it brings out the Amazon Warrior in me. I just want to rip my shirt up, expose one breast, grab my bow and arrow, jump on my stallion (hehe, I said stallion), and go hunt me some deer. Then maybe hook up with Artemis for some bacon double cheese deers and a couple of pints on the nearest patio, my one exposed breast, still glorious post-breast feeding and deliciously large nippled, basking in the sunlight.
Hell, I'm 5'10''. If that doesn't qualify me to be an Amazon, I don't know what does.

I don't really know how much of Greek mythology is common knowledge, so if I've confused anyone, Artemis is the Goddess of the hunt, and protectress of the Amazon warriors, an all woman tribe of warriors who kicked some serious ass, and looked good doing it. With one breast out.

A Friend of Mine...

Maybe this is more common in the life of a student, and an ex-bar hound, but as far as I know, there are always those people in your life who fall between the friend, and friendly aquaintance categories. How do you define someone who knows your life story, the life story of all your closest friends and family, all your quirks and foibles, yet not your last name, phone number, or city of residence?
There's always that akward moment when you introduce those people to your defined friends, "This is my friend, so-and-so, you know, the such-and-such. So-and-so, this is Someone, my.....(quick retreat from committing) from class."
I gotta quit that. That fear of violating the non-sexualized relationship border sucks just as much as the sexualized relationship border. Difference is, honestly, if you like that person, and think of them as a friend, just go with it. If they think you're a fucking putz, chances are they'll find a way to absence themselves fairly quickly.
Course, this could fall over into the relationship territory too, but I'm just not willing to go there. Everyone's my friend, in my books, (if you're not, you'll know it), not the same with the whole boyfriend concept, no matter how much you know about my Tasmania freckle. Especially since there's nothing as silly as the term 'boyfriend.' Except maybe 'girlfriend.'
Need to find a new way to shorten the "This is the person I'm fucking and will promptly quit fucking, and potentially steal the favourite shirt of, if they begin fucking someone else. Oh, and they make a mean hashbrown," term.
Anyway, the point was, from now on I'm gonna quit scoping out the friend territory. If I like you, you're my friend. Not waiting for a precise definition to arrive. If you don't like that, sucks to be you, better move town, and get an unlisted number, while you're at it. 'Cause one of these days, my internet's getting cut, then I'm gonna have to hit the phone with these random thoughts.
Oh my.

Stuck in the House on This Hot Hot Dry Day....

It's one of those perfect summer days out there, at least perfect if you're out there. Not so much in here. But The Kid, a virtual reference source of all and any abstract disease has come up with yet a new one. She has hand, foot and mouth disease. I thought that was something you were supposed to kill sheep for getting. Nope, apparently it's something you gotta keep The Kid out of daycare for.
Most children get colds, or the flu, or the stomach flu. Not mine. She collects anything that comes with spots. And never the same thing twice. At least this one is just spots. No fever, she's bored, and pissed that she doesn't get to do show and tell today, other than that she's just spotty. (Not all over, of course, just on her hands, feet, and mouth. Think the name might be appropriate?)
So how the heck do you entertain a child that is not allowed to have contact with other children? Queen's park is calling, this is the perfect day for sitting in the shade, chain smoking and drinking coffee, while The Kid frolics in the water park, but guess what? Water parks come with other children. Could go to the Quay for hot dogs and ice cream, let her play on the tugboat (it's on land, built into the boardwalk for kids....) but there's that kid-friendly zone again.
Problem is, my little blue collar suburb is just to dang kid friendly. 'Bout the only other thing we have, other than young families, retirees, and students, is a healthy supply of junkies that congregate around the skytrain for a couple of months before we ship 'em all out to the next city over. Burnaby sends them packing back this way after a while, but it's an even balance. Like joint custody.
So anyway, I'm bored out of my gourd. One of those instant onset boredoms, you know, the one where you decide you ought to be bored, and ain't no way you're gonna do anything to rectify that. (Don't even try to entertain me, I will not be distracted from this boredom funk!)

Nobody Gonna Break Her Stride...Nobody Gonna Get Her Dressed

So Ma got The Kid some new dresses for her birthday. She wore one to daycare yesterday, and when I went to pick her up at the end of the day, The Kid was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Went inside, got her dress, thinking that it'd been soaked in juice or something, but no, it was clean. Figured she must've just wanted to get changed, but no. She'd been flippin' up her skirt, over her head, showing off her body. So they made her change out of her brand-spankin' new dress that she'd just got the day before.
Come on, people, a pair of Dora the Explorer panties and an asexual little four year old body is so indecent you must not allow it to be seen in public? Don't go fucking with my daughter's body image!
Have you seen the way kids deal with being naked? They have this level of comfort with their own skin that the most hardened and practiced nudist will never relearn. If your ass is itchy, scratch it. If your belly's bloated out after feasting on a picnic dinner, take advantage of the oportunity, pick your belly button lint.
And you know what ruins that? People going around telling you that you oughta be ashamed, put some damn clothes on. Okay, there are situations where it's better manners to be clothed. I'm okay with that, hell, I generally dress myself every time I leave the house. And sometimes I even shut the curtains before stripping down when I get home. (Although I've gradually grown accustomed to the idea that no one ever looks up, the joys of highrise living.) But still, there is a difference between what constitutes good manners, and what is offensive, and worthy of punishment. Wearing clothing is good manners, in certain situations. Don't make it more than that. Certainly not with my daughter.

R: (tone of reproach used exclusively by those who care for children on those who have children) Yes, The Kid was showing her body again...
Me: (ain't gettin' no remorse from me) Yeah well, this is just a warm up. I'm taking The Kid to the gay pride parade this weekend, so good luck convincing her to stay dressed next week!

The Kid loves her body. Don't go fucking that up please, she has plenty of time to learn self-loathing later. Now fuck off.

Night of the Inane Comments

Englebert Humperdink's 'Quando Quando Quando' is a really good song to drink by yourself too. But only if you're drinking beer, and it's summer.

Tomorow I will:
Figure out why I can't work my spell check
Format the shit out of this blog
Add apostrophies where apostrophies oughta be
Clean my fish tanks
Stop hiding from my naturopath, and tell her I have failed
Learn how to spell necessary, without looking it up
Learn how to look things up, without having to recite the alphabet to myself

My Stepdad just called:
Sd: So, how're things going?
Me: Good. Pressure washers are gone, so I got the furniture and plants back outside, and I'm just in the process of reclaiming my balcony with cheesy tunes and beer.
Sd: Good plan.
Me: Yup.
Sd: Yup.
This is why parents remarry. Expand the personality profiles within a family, round it out.
Of course, brings back memories:
Me, age 16, shortly before being banned from the house for good. Just got home, been curiously absent from home and school for the last 48 hrs.
Walk in wide open front door, sliding glass door out back is also wide open. It's January. It's snowing.
Me: Hey Ma? You here?
My Mother: Hello! Good to see you!
Ma has a bottle of red wine in one hand, glass in the other. Glass is empty, she's drinking from the bottle.
Me: (dubious) So, how's it going?
Ma: Great! I'm just relaxing! Come talk to me! How have you been?
Leads me into the living room. Tchaikovsky is blasting on the stereo, my stepdad is passed out on the chouch, some unknown man is passed out in a chair.
Ma sits, cross legged, on the floor next to a plate of crackers and cheese. She's wearing one of those old fashioned, full length cotton nightgowns that you always think people's grandma's ought to wear.
Ma: Well, I got home today, and my husband had vanished, and you still hadn't reappeared. I figured everyone was out 'partying' (you can actually hear the quotation marks when Ma says things like 'partying') so I thought I'd throw my own party! And then my husband showed up, with company, and look! Now you're back too!
Begins mowing down on cheese, while humming The Waltz of the Flowers. Stops only to take a swig from the bottle. She still has the empty wine glass with her.
I figure this is probably some weird form of punishment, and hide in my room.

Gonna start my own religion one of these days. Figure I've created enough sayings that could pass as proverbs. That's all you need, isn't it?
Had a run in with God a while back. Sleeping one night, the head of my bed is directly under the window. Suddenly, there are two incredibly loud bangs on the window. At the same time, a voice in my head says, Make them stop fighting. Sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. Being an atheist, I decided to ignore the whole God talking to me part of the situation, and figure out where the hell the pounding came from. (I'm on the seventh floor. Not too likely it was someone outside my window.) Didn't find a source.
Told a friend about it the next day. Got a good laugh out of the idea that I'm the next prophet. (She was raised as a Catholic/Sikh. She's pretty open to new ideas.) Then she kept looking at me slantwise, considering the possibility. Made me nervous. Very nervous. Maybe I won't start my own religion. Might get around to making "them stop fighting" though, if I had a clue who "them" was. Course, by now they've probably quit on their own. Bored, you'd think.

Adrien is on MSN messenger right now. Guy I dated a while back. From France, goes the University of Monaco. Windsurfing instructor in his down time. Speaks three languages fluently, at least five in total (I don't know how many, he doesn't brag about it.) Terrified of my cat. Thinks my carpet's a living entity. Love that boy.
I'm pretending to be offline. Because of the time change, we don't end up online at the same time that often. But we have great talks. I just don't feel like having a great talk with anyone other than myself right now.
In Beginner Psych for Dummies, we learned some concept (which I forget the name for) which says that we look for too much meaning in the actions of others. If someone acts like a cranky bitch, we assume they're a bitch. Maybe they're just cranky that day. If someone doesn't call, we assume they're not interested/responsible/caring, etc. Maybe they're just busy.
Sometimes, as Freud would say, a penis is just a penis. (I'm sure he said that, he must have had a sense of humour. There's no way anyone like him could honestly take themselves seriously, is there?)
The skin on Adrien's back fits him like a wetsuit.

It's funny what we adjust to, and what we still appreciate. Four years and fourteen days ago, I was a pregnant, single, jobless, high school drop out, and living in a motorhome in a parking lot with no electricity, no running water ( which means no toilet), and a two foot by two foot hole in the ceiling.
Yet now, I'm doing my second degree (I count my associates degree as a degree), and I feel like that's normal. I have clothes that fit, and I feel like I'm entitled to them. I can eat whenever I want, I feel like that's just the way things work. Hell, I can even afford cigarettes on general principle, and I'm not awed by this.
But curtains? Man, I fucking love curtains. I still can't get over curtains. Close them, and ain't no one can see you. No worries about freaks watching you sleep, nothing. I love curtains. I still open and close my curtains every once in a while, just cause I can. I'm a curtain junkie. They gotta be opened in the morning, closed at night, rotate season dependant, and weather dependant. I have a more precise and intricate system for my curtains than most physicists for deriving new formulae.
Never will I ever take curtains for granted.

I used to go to Alabama. Never actually got there (coming from Canada, as a broke-assed teenager), but piss me off when I was drunk, and hell, Alabama, here I come. The farthest I ever got was to Vancouver, which, from my hometown, was four hours driving (or hitchhiking, in my case), then a two hour ferry ride. Don't actually remember the trip, just remember waking up at the ferry terminal in Vancouver, feeling like shit and very confused. Called my best friend, who I'd been out with the night before, she had no idea how I got there. Fortunately, I'd apparently (yes, looked that one up) planned ahead. Had six hundred pennies in my pocket. Exactly enough, in those days, to pay for the ferry back across. Got my friend to call home, convince my sister to tell my mother that I'd gone to the lake with the guys, wouldn't be home until late.
Don't know where my obsession with Alabama came from. It was so firmly entrenched that back when my dad and stepmother actually thought I'd graduate from high school, they'd planned on getting me a train pass to Alabama as my grad present.
I really wish I new where the Alabama fixation came from. It's such an odd thing not to know about oneself.

Okay, I'm quitting now. I have this holy terror that my computer's gonna crash before I post this, so I'm done.

Spilling the Beans

Do we really know how much we want people to know about us? Everybody has their limits, their dirty little secrets, all those things that are for the select few, or never to be repeated again. We pick and choose who we will tell these things to, our horror stories, but how much do we really want people to know? Do you ever think that, deep down, we want people to know everything, to be able to spill our guts, lay it out on the line, and just tell the world to take it, eat it, love it, or fuck off?
Blogs and anonymity. How anonymous are we, really? You can post under a fake name, make your blog private, never comment on the blogs of people who know you, and who's readers may know you.
There are ways to begin a blog in a means that is entirely private, and are unlikely to ever be stumbled upon by those you know.
But then you have to ask, why? What is the point of a blog if you do not want anyone to read it?
So the question is (or the first question, anyway), how private do we want to be? What is it about faceless strangers that we are willing to let them in on our thoughts, lives, daily ups and downs, and yes, occational dirty little secrets? Things that we post anonymously, so that those we know, and care about, cannot see?
There are so many different levels of anonymity. Blog under a pseudonym, tell all your closest friends and family, and you are anonymous to that most feared mass, the casual aquaintance. Of course, if you then comment on the page of someone you know, you open yourself up to an unknown number of casual aquaitances, and those you know by name, but little else.
So how much are you willing to share? And why do you feel the need to share? And why in an environment where you can imagine your audience to be what you wish for that day?
Or maybe I've just answered all my questions. In a blog you can choose to share with whom ever you choose to be listening that day. As long as the viewing audience is unknown to you, you can create them at will.
Well, there's still one question left. When we write a blog, we can choose the level of anonymity we have, but there is always the fact that the reason we write a blog to others is that others affect our every move. And thought. So in writing, we allow that faceless mass in on the lives of those around us. Even if we use nicknames, or no names, someone may be out there who may be able to put two and two together, and, in spilling your beans, you have accidentaly spilled the beans of those who have impacted on you.
I guess what I'm getting at here, is that, although this page is anonymous, I have no intentions of hiding it. It was created anonymously to prevent people who have no need to know that I am still alive, let alone peice together where I may be and what I may be doing, from reading it. Those I know, I have no intentions of hiding from. I'm not good at being secretive. I am, however, good at hiding what I feel behind a rant about the news, or a good laugh. A blog gives me the opportunity to seriously be me, and take myself seriously. And in that, it gives me a means of explaining myself to others. When I speak, I have a lot to say, but learning to say what's important has been a difficult lesson for me, and one I've been very slow at learning.
But in losing anonymity, before it even began, I put others on the line. I suppose I'm mourning the loss of ability to say whatever I feel, despite the fact that I never really gave myself that option. It's open space until the end of the universe outside of that window, but I built the window myself, so now here I am. Holding a window up, bloody thing isn't even attached to walls, yet it's my obligation to be stuck behind it. And I did it to myself.

One elaboration; I have no intentions of saying anything behind anyones back that I would not say to their face. I highly doubt I will use this blog to bitch about others, unless it is a political rant, and, if I know you, I will respectfully state your opinion before (hopefully) tearing it to shreds. But I have had the need for those around me to be discrete before, and I would hate to be the one who ruins that needed discretion for others.

On Betty and Veronica

I woke up this morning with the realization that the only thing that kept Betty and Veronica interested in Archie was each other. Honestly, Archie is a putz. That boy shows no respect for the women he dates. He lies his way out of paying the tab at every turn, ditches one girl to go hang out with the other, and will go as far as to get his date to push his peice of shit car while he steers when it breaks down. He has no positive attributes that could account for the attraction; can't say it's looks, he's not so hot, definately can't say it's brains, and his conversation is made up entirely of cheesy one-liners. (You ever notice the girls get the 'yakkity yak yak yak' bubbles and Archie never does? That's cause he ain't got nothin' to say.)
So what attracts the girls? Well, with Veronica, you know it's the competition. Honestly, she's the self-centered, rich, high school hottie, like she wouldn't be all over Reggie if it weren't for the fact that she needs that conquest. The idea that Archie could potentially like Betty more than her, would drive her loopy.
But Betty's not like that, you say? Not sweet, innocent Betty, she's in it for love, the real deal? Sure, she thinks so. But how much time does Betty spend with Archie, without it being busted up by Veronica? The fact is, give Betty a solid week with just her and Archie, and she'd realize she's so not willing to put up with that shit. We are talking about a girl who can run a sweet kitchen, score a job at the drop of a hat whenever she's short of cash, get good grades, and still have time to sew a replica of a designer outfit in one comic frame. Seriously, she's not a fucking moron. She just hasn't had the quality time with Archie needed to realize that she's beyond that shit.

Yup. No deeper meaning, no moral behind the tale. That's it.

Happy Birthday, Kid!

The Kid at Christmas. It's her birthday party today, the big 4. Say Happy Birthday, ya'll!

On Crushes and Sluts

I've found through many years of post child reflection, that I've always been drawn to two type of men. The type, which I've avoided like the plague (and yes, they are a plague) I've mentioned previously, the Broken Hearted Nice Guy. Fortunately, I now find this type as appealing as pea soup when you have the stomach flu.
The second type I've been thinking about lately. Things always tend to come up in threes, and if my threes seem a little contrived, well, when you believe a superstition, you can always find a way to make it true.
The first point was that I ran into a prior crush the other day. I'd had class with him, numerous classes with him, actually, and it hadden't occured to me that I had a crush on him until the last semester before he transferred. He was a self proclaimed slut, and had an immense ability to downplay any positive attributes he may actually possess. And he did it with a hell of a lot of humour. Anyway, things went nowhere between us, we flirted, we traded derogatory comments, and then the semester ended, and he was gone.
I saw him last week, we had a good talk, and again he went on his way. Funny thing is, whenever we run into each other, it's always assumed we'll see each other around the bend, despite the fact that that may not, in fact, be true.
When I was younger I used to hate seeing people that I had previously been emotionally invested in. (I don't go half way: when I say crush, I love everything about you, even though I realize it will be over in a week, a month, a year). I hated that loss of emotion. Knowing that I'd want to grab a beer, but forgetting to get your new number, then shrugging it off with little concern. It wasn't that I missed you, I missed what I felt for you. I've never been in love, but I love awaiting the possibility of love.
As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that there is a certain comfort in those you used to need, but no longer do. I don't know how to explain it, it's kind of like visiting your childhood home that you moved away from twenty years before. Little recollection, little emotion, just a piece of your past that's there for you. Coming home to a place that hasn't been home since before you knew what home was.
This is what brings up the second of my threes. Addicted to Love was on the other night. I adore that movie. Specifically because of the one scene, where, after having ruined the life of her ex, Maggie flops on the floor with him and scratches his rash covered head for him. It's that letting go, the appreciation of shared history, that comfort that can only come from someone you know you don't care what they think of you, the knowledge that this will go nowhere. That, and the complete and total acceptance that there is nothing here for you, that you are not wanted, and that that's okay.
Here's where I get back to my attraction for sluts. (I refuse to use the term player, which seems to be the only male label for sluts, so if anyone's confused, I am talking about men here.) Once again, in my younger days, I used to have a common theme with sluts. They would find me, find interest, and I was having none of it. I was to darn smart not to recognize that type, I'd done my time, knew the game, and hell, I had a boyfriend who was great (not really, see type one..) and I did not cheat. Well if there's anything to pique interest, it's a complete lack of reciprocation. So you can guess where things would lead from there. Flirtation, gradually building, getting closer, as I feel guiltier until the catalyst: I would realize that I do not like feeling guilty for something I'm technically not doing wrong. Then, the telling of both men (the slut and the boyfriend) to fuck off, on the grounds that this would alleviate my guilt, hence making me a happy girl. Thing about this is that fuck off is never taken literally, and after some haggling and shuffling, I'd be with the slut. Then, after all those months of build up, a short relationship, and everything would end.
Now here's the thing: almost unanomously, the slut would end up happily married to whomever they dated after me.
So therein lies my love of sluts. To me, the true offender is the man that hides their nature, commits themselves to a long term relationship, and cheats, lies and steals from one they supposedly love. The type of man easily recognized as a slut, the one I adore, does not do this. They know what they are, and are comfortable enough with this to let others in on the secret. Sluts are people who are not so terrified of being alone that they will commit to a malfunctioning relationship. They don't need to be with someone, against all logic, but still appreciate a warm body on a cold night. They are not relationship avoidant, they are merely waiting for the right thing to come along, and do not see the need to slap on a chastity belt for the duration. I honestly can't find anything wrong with someone who is willing to admit to themselves, and me, that I'm just not the one.
So here's to the last (although first in actual time) of my threes: The other day, The Kid said to me, "Mommy, I like being broken." Certainly a less than usual start to a conversation. She continued, "Yeah, I like to have my heart broken." Well, what can you say about that? I was so proud of her in that moment, and hope like hell it sticks for life. And I've realized that I'm begining to be able to live by that philosophy. Once again, as I get older, I no longer try to waylay my attraction to sluts. Even if I know that nothing will come of it. Heck, now that I'm a mother and babysitterless, I'm unlikely to even get those three golden months out of the deal. But what can you do? I don't dislike sluts. I'm not offended by them, I would not choose to not be one of them, if it weren't for my daughter. (Double negative, have fun with that one.) And I am to old to waste time trying to convince myself that I don't feel what I feel. That's a recipe for emotional sea sickness, this disparity between what the heart feels and the mind insists must not be true. But I'm just along for the ride. I don't beleive that just because I want something, it must be mine, but I do know that deep down, we're all optomists, so I might choose to see potential where there is none. I'm okay with that. At least at the end, I know that it's not your fault, and hell, I'm not gonna beat myself up for falling to hard, to fast. It seems pretty strange that one of the biggest problems people have with themselves is their desire to share themselves with others. I can think of worse things.
So what it comes down to is that we're all just killing time, waiting for the right moment to come along. Some might use that time to try to create what isn't there, some might sleep with other's and not care, and if I choose to fill that time getting my heart broken by those I know I am not the one for, well, that doesn't make me crazy. All I want is to be secure enough to be able to take that jump, that leap from the highest cliff at the falls back home, and love the feeling of glacier water hitting your body.
That doesn't make me masochistic, it makes me alive. And I'm still learning.

Less Redundancy, Please

I think I can summarize my last post, in a manner that is a hell of a lot more logical and concise. What I was trying to say was that the base liberal feminist concept of add women and stir is not enough. The Italian governments provision of pensions to homemakers is a start in the right direction, not an end in itself. Instead, it is part of the necessary shift in perceptions on the value of labour, whether it be paid or unpaid. The only reason unpaid labour is unpaid, is because we add hours to our week to do it. For those who feel all families should have dual incomes, such as Random, remember that once one is out of the home, that labour is sold to another, hence becomes paid labour. You can not argue that a babysitter is guarenteed to be more able to raise a child than that childs guardians. Hence choosing to stay at home is not choosing not to work, instead, it is self employment.

There we go. Still not terribly original and exciting, but a hell of a lot shorter than the last post. And I promise not to attempt to post while my daughters up again. Ever. It's so not worth it.

On liberal feminism, add women and stir, and why the number's won't add up.

Warning: while rereading this post, I realized it did not contain one single original thought worth reading, but I spent to much bloody time writing it to delete it. Read at risk of complete boredom. Feel free to mock me while doing so.
Recently at my favourite coffee stop at school, a debate ensued between a number of my friends and some random twit who doesn't even know what a budget is on the providing of pensions to housewives by the Italian government. No need to get into what I think of the concept, but I will anyway.
Random twit was arguing that households need two income earners these days, and that providing pensions to homemakers would be used as justification for women who should be working to stay at home. This is just a repeat of the 'any program creates a clientelle' right wing arguement.
Now, let's ignore all the points we could use for debate which are based on morality, common sense, or basic equality, and focus on why this doesn't work, from the household budget perspective, shall we? Random twit is working with the theory that the cost of living has risen to a point where households are unable to cope without a dual income. We'll give his credit for having the ability to parrot a well known statistic here, but let's now turn to reality. What random twit is forgetting about is the unpaid hours. People who do not live with their parents, at school part time while working part time for their spending money, know that it takes not just money, but time, to run a household. If children are involved, the time required increases dramatically.
Now, to simplify things, remember that time is money, and money is time. So for anything you do, you can either do it yourself, hence not earning money for those hours worked, or pay others to do it for you, hence earning money, but paying out money at the same time.
(Brief aside here, my daughter's taken up talking to me in Spanish. We're Canadian. Don't teach Spanish in daycare round these parts. No idea where she got it from, but she's decided that it's time I learn the language, and she's the right one to teach me. They do pick up some strange things, don't they?)
So the question here is not 'How much could you be earning,' but 'What, if any, is your profits after paying others for what you could do yourself?'
Seems easy, don't it? If you make $1500 a month, and pay the daycare $1000, then your take home earnings are $500. That brings an extra $500 to the household earnings (yes, we are working within the theoretical framework of the married, 1.5 kid family here). So basically, your time is worth more outside of the household than in. Except that the daycare doesn't buy your groceries. Or do your banking. Or clean the toilet. Or walk the dog. So now your left with a paid 40 hr. week, plus an unpaid ~ hr. week. (Sorry, don't remember the avg, I'll have to look that up and plug it in at a later date.)
Now we have to incorperate the economists worst enemy, those costs and benifits which do not directly translate into dollar amounts, the satisfaction and worth you get from either option. If by working 40 hrs a week, you are forced to do large amounts of unpaid overtime, in the form of household chores, the satisfaction you get out of that $500 is probably going to be minimal. The more exhausted you get, the less satisfaction you are going to get, until you reach the point that you'd bloody well pay someone $500 if you could just get a decent nights sleep. Suddenly, $500 doens't seem like that much.
For others, that $500 is non existent. If you work for minimum wage, (here), and have a child under the age of 18 months, and need to commute to work, you're looking at $1350 pay (if you can get full time, 40 hrs, every week), $900 for daycare, leaving you $450 to pay for transportation, which obviously ain't gonna cut it. Kid get's sick, day off. Work shift ends after daycare closes, need to pay a babysitter.
Okay, so I spent way to much time explaining what is pretty obvious, (to everyone except Random Twit, that is), now lets get into my questions about the pension for homemakers. What it comes down to is that who does what in a household ought to be based on who is the best person for the job. For those who are financially stable, this incorperates a hell of a lot of house hold activites. You're CEO of the company, don't take an extra day off so you can clean house. Hire a housekeeper. It's not lazy, it's efficient. You hate to cook, take the kids out for dinner. Maximize the time spent with them, rather than ignoring them while you slave over a hot stove, only to produce burnt kraft dinner.
Unpaid work is only unpaid because the person most competent for and suited to the job is the one living in the household, in that situation. (And in a perfect world.)
So now that we've agreed that the best suited person ought to do the job, why do people still laugh when I say I want a house husband? Here we get into the 'add women and stir' problem Basically, women are capable of doing anything that men are, but we still neglect the fact that what was traditionally women's work is just as important as paid work. When insisting that women get out in the work force, do what men do, we often neglect the fact that those who do what women do, whether male or female, are just as valuable as traditionally men's work. It's not just a matter of 'add women and stir,' we also need to 'add men and stir,' and maybe come up with a working balance.
And here's where it sinks in. I've just reiterated some basic feminists principles, and managed not to add originality, humour, or, well, much of anything to it. Gotta go back and add a warning, then give up all hopes of salvaging this post and hit my balcony before the pressure washers get to my floor. Yup, sometimes you just gotta realize that you've lost, and, well, just move on.

Nice Guys

There's been a lot of talk floating around lately about nice guys, and of course I just have to throw in my own two cents.
First of all, I believe the breakdown in the catagorizing of nice guys is multi-layered. At the highest level, is the nice person. Nice guys do not necissarily fall within the nice person category, and nice people are (obviously) equally as likely to be either women or men.
I do not like nice people. I have no problem with people who are capable of being nice, or who are likely to be nice on general principle, but I do not like people for whom nice defines their personality and character. The problem with nice people, is that to be truly nice, they must never err. To be truly nice, all one has to do is say nothing other than the occational please, thank you, and random innane comment on the weather. In this context, nice defines someone who either has no personality, no opinions, and little emotional involvement in the world around them, or someone who is so insidious or spineless that they will never reveal their true character to others.
Now, to go deeper. Nice guys are not necissarily nice people. This is a completly different profile, and despite the similar name, have little to do with each other. There are numerous postings lately (once again, you'll have to find them on your own, as I'm a newbie and don't know that others would appreciate me linking you to their pages) on the definitions of nice guys, and the different types of nice guys that are out there. I think what has been neglected is the most distructive form of nice guy, the broken hearted nice guy. This version of the nice guy is often incorperated into other nice guy profiles, but skimmed over, while I beleive this is the root cause of what makes nice guys more than whiney, self serving, and annoying, but down right dangerous. Broken hearted nice guys never know what hit them. They had a 'great relationship' until the point that they were dumped, the woman they thought they loved, who turned out to be an evil, self centered bitch, and a slut to boot. You know the woman is evil, because she broke up with a man who is a nice guy, and since he's perfect, she must be flawed. You can guarantee she's a slut because she is dating someone else before the nice guy gets over her. Of course, since the nice guy is incapable of moving on, she may have started dating half a year after the break up, but still, he's not over her, therefore she should not be dating.
To add to the sluttiness of the ex-girl friend is the fact that she slept with him, despite the fact that she obviously (as proven by the fact that she broke up with him) did not love him. The broken hearted nice guy never sleeps with girls he doesn't love. Never mind the fact that he's pretty convinced he's in love after the first date, this nice guy doesn't understand the concept of the new-relationship high, and will always assume it is permanent, long term, grammy-changes-gramp's-diaper-and-doesn't-even-flinch type love.
The worst thing about broken hearted nice guys is the rights instilled on them via having ownership of that broken heart. Phoning twenty times a day just to breath heavily isn't weird, it's love. Driving six hours, drunk, in the middle of the night, every night for weeks, just to peek in your mom's windows on the off chance that you might be staying there isn't sick and twisted, you broke their hearts. For no reason. Other than the fact that you are a slut, who was simply using them for (......?) (oddly enough, it never occurs to nice guys that you never did find a use for them).
Oh, and last but not least, although broken hearted nice guys may, unfortunatly, be easier to spot shortly after the breakup and before the restraining order, there is the one tell that they always have during the relationship:
BHNice: Gimme head
Girl: Nice come on. No. I need to be up in three hours to work.
BHNice: Why don't you love me anymore.
Girl: What? I'm trying to sleep here. You don't start work 'till two. You can sleep all day. I can't. I need to sleep.
BHNice: If you loved me, you'd give me head.
Girl: I have to open shop tomorow, I'm the only one on, and I'm working a split so I have to close at night too. Won't be off until 11. I Need Sleep.
BHNice: You don't love me. I don't know what's wrong with you.
('conversation' deteriorates into endless whining, possible snot encrusted crying, and girl finally leaves for work an hour early since its to late to sleep now any)
(repeat scenario as needed, preferably for a minimum of four nights a week)

Fuck, I hate nice guys.

Oops

Alright, gotta remember not to drink and type. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I don't beleive a person should have to wake up in the morning, roll out of bed and into a hangover, and have wake up call of, "Oh shit, what Did I Do?", if ya didn't even leave the house. Yes, I know, a person oughta be able to sit on the balcony and watch the sun set by themselves without feeling the need to get shitfaced in the process, but that person would not be me. It's not that I drink a lot, it's just that Jamaican rum goes beautifully with a sun set, and I'm an incredibly cheap drunk. Blame the kid, since having her, I never regained my alchohol tolerance.
Anyway, wish me luck, maybe the night passed with only a few random innocuous comments, and I've spared being added to the To Kill lists of anyone who's list I'm not already on.
Well, I can think of worse things than waking up with a blog page. And reading what I write has made me realize that a year of e-mailing, with little else in the way of writing, has done shit for my prose.
Just gotta turn off the computer before cracking the bottle next time....

So I hit upon a blog one day.

So I hit upon a blog one day. Didn't understand what the point was before that, thought that the idea of an 'online diary' was somewhat hypocritical. Isn't a diary supposed to be personal, and unknown to others?
Anyway, through sheer boredom, web cruising, and all that shit that'll get you into to much trouble (or not enough, as my case may be), I happened across a blog page that facinated me. The woman posting (whom I shall not link you to, on the grounds that I don't know her, and she doesn't know me, hence has not given permission) is identical in personality to one of my closest friends. Reading her blog is similar to reading the thoughts of my rather reticient friend, E.
Basically what I'm getting at here is that I ended up replying to one of her posts, hence creating a profile, therefor creating a blogspot of my very own.
I think what it comes down to is that I care to much about what other people think about me, despite the need to comment on their lives. If I could just leave good enough alone, I'd be stylin', but I just can't do that. Instead, I feel the need to tell every random person my opinion, and a grand Fuck You to concequences.
But no, I've got one of those idiocycratic natures, where I voice my opinion whether you want it or not, yet care what you think of me. Not a good combination.
So what I'm left with is a need to explain myself to anyone who I might happen to post a comment on the blog of, who may then check my blog to find out who I am that I feel the right to comment on their blog. So here it goes:
I'm twenty seven. That's what the blog has told me, based on my date of birth. I haven't been able to remember my age since I was twenty two. Don't know why, it just happened.
I'm a mom. I hate kids, only like them on a one-on-one basis, never gushed over a newborn, yet here I am, with a soon to be four year old the center of my universe. (And I haven't met a kid I disliked, except maybe that Connor, if he bites my daughter one more time, I'm gonna kick that little shit's ass).
I'm in school. That says so much, yet so little. I'm a student, was getting my BA, up until yesterday, when I realized that feeding my child was more important to me than credentials.
So now I'm at a cross-roads. I've decided to take the scholastic path that pretty much guarantees me employment, leaving me with the means to pay off student loans, pay rent, and possibly find the time to get laid in the process. Drop the BA, have a life for myself and my daughter.
Drop the BA, prove that single mothers are to fucking stupid to get a degree. (Because functioning ovaries are corrolated with mental ability).
So the end all and be all of my post is that I am impulsive, I drink too much coffee, I smoke too much, and I dropped out of university to get a trade-school-level-diploma-in-banker's-shit. And you know what? I feel good. I can raise my daughter. I can do her good. Fuck those who feel I should 'Prove a point, get the BA, show that single mom's can do it.'
Why? Because I am smart. I can do it. And I will raise my daughter well. I don't need a BA to prove that.
I will get a BA. And it will be on my own terms, paid for with my own money, because I want too. If I wait until my daughter graduates, well then I'll be fourty. In my books, that's the perfect age to choose a new career and get re-educated. So a big fat fuck you to anyone who I am dissapointing, and a big fat fuck you to anyone who thinks I should be their mascott, as the perfect single mother. I am who I am and I will do what I will do. My daughter comes first in my world, I come second, and the rest of you fall a distant third.
It's amazing how much the anonymity of a computer will pull out of you. This is so cathartic, I may take this up as a pass time, despite the fact that the whole purpose of this page was to convince curious bloggers that the comments I post come from someone innocuous enough.
So that's my current life story. I know that no one's listening, but if I should be unable to resist the urge to post on your blog, at least you now know where I come from.