today i set chicken stock on fire, a good ending to the year I think.
i am pretty sure that my house now smells a lot like what a lipo clinic that got burnt down smells like and it is hella nasty.
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Monday, December 31, 2007
today
today i set chicken stock on fire, a good ending to the year I think.
i am pretty sure that my house now smells a lot like what a lipo clinic that got burnt down smells like and it is hella nasty.
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Wedding pickshurs
I dun got hitched. Here be the proof.Awww, we look so happy in this one. I love my shoes, he loves my boobs. Win win. Also I am subtly holding his tie straight. Dude has static cling issues.
I would like to say I am wearing white tights, but that would be a dirty, flithy lie. I live in Washington state, okay? It is very cold and wet here. It's like the dank cellar of the United States, only well lit and not creepy. Anyways, I'm a ghosite. Manwife has been asked if he is Mexican, so I don't know. Lithuanians are darker than Swedes, maybe.
Also, Yes...I have blue hair bits and have gargantuan bewbs and am chubby and wear super-glued glasses and have a couple of tattoos that are a wee bit old and need touching up and YES I am self-conscious about it. But here I am, anyhow.
now we's legal! no more illicit...erm...activities. It was weird to sign a contract, kinda felt like giving the deed of SSA over to this nerd-man. Pretty strange. As long as he loves me and my chins and my weird hair, we will be ok.
Bouquet with rosaries (not mine, trust), and detail of space-alien bouquet - very SSA-appropriate, I assure you. I liked the greenish lillies and the spiky purpley-blue flowers the best. Alien flowers, FTW
Hyde Park, VT (above) The Creepy Lady on the Landing Where We Got Married (directly above)
I had/have super, super excellent hair. It's like a punky Farrah thing goin' on here! Also note the bitchin' strands of pearls: kind of an asteroid belt of asymmetrical awesomeness, if you will. Round pearls are for bitches. I am also wearing dignified pearl earrings...right above my carved-bone swirly ones. IN YOUR FACE, CONFORMITY. I AM A UNIQUE SNOWFLAKE. 
No, really though...in all honesty, my extended family would've flipped the fuck out at this. Any of it. Mom, Dad, and Squidge, no prob. But still. Uptight squares whining about me is something I am glad I missed on this nice day. But I got to look how I damn well pleased, and it was fantastic.
Oh, and I am portly, not preggo. Just so you know. Looking a bit engorged with bb here. Maybe I ate a baby and forgot?
No, really though...in all honesty, my extended family would've flipped the fuck out at this. Any of it. Mom, Dad, and Squidge, no prob. But still. Uptight squares whining about me is something I am glad I missed on this nice day. But I got to look how I damn well pleased, and it was fantastic.
Oh, and I am portly, not preggo. Just so you know. Looking a bit engorged with bb here. Maybe I ate a baby and forgot?
Either way, Professor Manwife says it was a pretty good time.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
I have a question
Am I the only foul-mouthed woman who makes stuff? REALLY? I read lots of craft blogs, and everything's usually so fucking pristine and sweet that I'd be mortified to leave a comment that said "hello, this is beautiful, thank you for the free pattern" only to have these sweet little dumplings of twenty-something ladies to come here and cry or something. The marzipan from which they're apparently made from would be all disolve-ed.
I guess I could be called a crafter, I dunno, that's kind of a dumb term in my high and mighty fucking opinion. I prefer "bad-ass of fussy detailed art stuff". Or "rocker of modpodge and tiewire and torn bits of stuff". "Crafter" is stupid, you can craft anything - an essay, a table leg, a dish, etc etc etc!!!
I mean, I sew, I knit, I crochet, I make clothes, I cook, I bake, I collage, I do decoupage (NO, REAL FUCKING DECOUPAGE, NOT GODDAMNED CLIP ART OF POSIES PASTED TO A STUPID CHAIR OR SOME WANK, REAL. FUCKING. ART. now that we're clear...), I do assemblage, I make dismembered doll sculptures with glitter and neato wire globes. I write a lot. I am a master of being overly verbose, which could be a craft, too.
So what do I do here? Keep doing my thing and hope I attract likeminded, dirty-foul-sailor-potty-mouthed ladies who make stuff and write about it?
And no, I don't think cussing is crass when used in a conversational tone. In a scholarly work, absolutely inappropriate. When talking to one's peers, hell yes. Words are just words, and some are inherently more passionate than others when spat or cried out.
I close with a Lenny Bruce quote, really one of my favorites ever:
"Well, I was just trying to make a point, and that is that it's the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness..."
I wholeheartedly believe that. Completely and utterly.
Now off to paint my hair in blue chunks.
I guess I could be called a crafter, I dunno, that's kind of a dumb term in my high and mighty fucking opinion. I prefer "bad-ass of fussy detailed art stuff". Or "rocker of modpodge and tiewire and torn bits of stuff". "Crafter" is stupid, you can craft anything - an essay, a table leg, a dish, etc etc etc!!!
I mean, I sew, I knit, I crochet, I make clothes, I cook, I bake, I collage, I do decoupage (NO, REAL FUCKING DECOUPAGE, NOT GODDAMNED CLIP ART OF POSIES PASTED TO A STUPID CHAIR OR SOME WANK, REAL. FUCKING. ART. now that we're clear...), I do assemblage, I make dismembered doll sculptures with glitter and neato wire globes. I write a lot. I am a master of being overly verbose, which could be a craft, too.
So what do I do here? Keep doing my thing and hope I attract likeminded, dirty-foul-sailor-potty-mouthed ladies who make stuff and write about it?
And no, I don't think cussing is crass when used in a conversational tone. In a scholarly work, absolutely inappropriate. When talking to one's peers, hell yes. Words are just words, and some are inherently more passionate than others when spat or cried out.
I close with a Lenny Bruce quote, really one of my favorites ever:
"Well, I was just trying to make a point, and that is that it's the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness..."
I wholeheartedly believe that. Completely and utterly.
Now off to paint my hair in blue chunks.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
getting hitched
i hate flying, and on Sunday morning I'll be going clear across the country to Vermont. the place where maple syrup comes from. that, and Ben & Jerry's. I am from Washington state, the place where the pacific beats the shit out of the land, then sends us sideways rain to contend with and we are all ruggedly individualistic coffee addicts (yes, meant to be somewhat oxymoronic.heh).
I am not really looking forward to a lack of decent coffee, and I must say that despite my mocking I do love having a coffee shop or cafe or coffee house (much different, thanks) every block or so. Not just Starbucks. We have great coffee places here. Even the shitty diners serve coffee that's better than ANYWHERE in the US, east of the Cascades. Bellingham, WA is almost as good as it gets, sitting right between Vancouver BC, Seattle, and the San Juan Islands. It's like Amsterdam, only with caffeine replacing the haschish and hookers.
so maybe coffee fear is replacing getting married fear a bit.
to be quite honest, I never expected to get married, let alone to any one person, or even a boy. I mean, willies are lovely, but boys get old quickly, what with the moldy dishes piled by the game controllers and the stiff, sweat encrusted socks, the farting continually during the night, the poor sense of fashion and lack of awareness on most hygiene issues..."what do you mean, 'one has to keep their toenails clipped?' Why?!" *facepalm*
Manwife isn't quite this bad, but I've had a good number of male roommates and live-ins that I have a good background in boy ickness 101. I mean, tampons left floating in the toilet I can handle. Deuces on the other hand....um.
But now I'm marrying one of these foreign humanoids? So weird. I don't have anything against men, I like them as chums much more than women. Women are mean friends, men are great. Very simple emotionally, and fairly straightforward (this is in comparison, of course. you men are still very complicated, rest assured).
Still. Very weird, this marriage thing.
So if you wandered over from my mommy's blog, Ms FN, you know I am getting married in like two or three days. No, I don't know which day. Isn't that great though? I mean, isn't it relieving to see someone who genuinely fears the crass commercialism of this pretty princess bullshit and focuses more on having a marriage rather than a wedding?
No?
Yeah, you and the majority of brides and women out there. I guess dads are into weddings too. Some sort of status thing at work there - look, my daughter's wedding dress cost more than a year's worth of mortgage payments on my house! Isn't that Spectacular?
I say...ummmm. No.
I am eloping to the other end of the country, as weddings are not my thing. No. Not at all.
I don't give a high holy fuck(™) about seating arrangements and cocktail/mingling hour or what band to hire or place settings or registries or what everyone should wear. I really. Fucking. Do. Not. And I guess that revelation was horrifying to many family (and future family) members. My aunt has one of those binder things FULL of wedding ideas. It's super god damned creepy, if you ask me. She's unmarried, her baby's daddy ditched her for some trailer trash (very sad, my aunt is a nice little catholic anglo saxon yuppie).
I went to a family event for my BioDad's side this past July, where all of the women except my Nana and her sisters were absofuckinglutely shocked/appalled to hear I hadn't put one iota of thought into my wedding, and even more horrified to learn that I just didn't give two shits if we handed out cold hot dogs on paper plates and sat on lawn chairs and everyone wore jeans at the wedding. So...you see what kind of fucktardery Manwife and I were up against.
I am not going to get into the future MIL reaction. She's a fucking nutjob, so her issues matter not.
So the plan is, fly into a ginormous fucking storm on Sunday, rest a bit, get married either monday or tuesday (no clue) wearing a simple champagne colored dress - not at all poofy or fancy or ornate or hideous, satin chinese flats with the little maryjane strap, have blue bits in my hair, and wear large, swirly bone earrings with my cosmic pearl array necklace (it's really bizarre and great; there are about ten wires bent into a wavy circlet, with the pearls kind of interspersed randomly. it looks like an asteroid belt. a shiny asteroid belt. shiiiiiiiinnnnneeeeeeeyyyyyyy). No 100 dollar hairdos, no fancy french manicure, no veil, no fake tiara...no. I also refuse to wear uncomfortable underwear for this. Modal all the way, bb. Wish I had my forearm tattoos finished to really look purty (and piss off manwife's uptight whiter than white family at the same time!), but oh well.
I don't really care what Manwife wears as long as it's clean and he's bathed in the past day. Then we'll do our thing at the awesome B&B at the old governor's mansion, have cake and booze, and hump like bunnies and be lazy the next day. Then we go to some fancy spa resort and get drunk and play in the snow. Booyakasha.
Completely off topic!:
I love this shit right here. I like Tori alright, but she annoys the fuck out of me, especially live. I hate the humping and writhing. I fucking loathe Kate Bush, but this vid is rad.
The talking dreadlock is fucking strange. In a good way.
I am not really looking forward to a lack of decent coffee, and I must say that despite my mocking I do love having a coffee shop or cafe or coffee house (much different, thanks) every block or so. Not just Starbucks. We have great coffee places here. Even the shitty diners serve coffee that's better than ANYWHERE in the US, east of the Cascades. Bellingham, WA is almost as good as it gets, sitting right between Vancouver BC, Seattle, and the San Juan Islands. It's like Amsterdam, only with caffeine replacing the haschish and hookers.
so maybe coffee fear is replacing getting married fear a bit.
to be quite honest, I never expected to get married, let alone to any one person, or even a boy. I mean, willies are lovely, but boys get old quickly, what with the moldy dishes piled by the game controllers and the stiff, sweat encrusted socks, the farting continually during the night, the poor sense of fashion and lack of awareness on most hygiene issues..."what do you mean, 'one has to keep their toenails clipped?' Why?!" *facepalm*
Manwife isn't quite this bad, but I've had a good number of male roommates and live-ins that I have a good background in boy ickness 101. I mean, tampons left floating in the toilet I can handle. Deuces on the other hand....um.
But now I'm marrying one of these foreign humanoids? So weird. I don't have anything against men, I like them as chums much more than women. Women are mean friends, men are great. Very simple emotionally, and fairly straightforward (this is in comparison, of course. you men are still very complicated, rest assured).
Still. Very weird, this marriage thing.
So if you wandered over from my mommy's blog, Ms FN, you know I am getting married in like two or three days. No, I don't know which day. Isn't that great though? I mean, isn't it relieving to see someone who genuinely fears the crass commercialism of this pretty princess bullshit and focuses more on having a marriage rather than a wedding?
No?
Yeah, you and the majority of brides and women out there. I guess dads are into weddings too. Some sort of status thing at work there - look, my daughter's wedding dress cost more than a year's worth of mortgage payments on my house! Isn't that Spectacular?
I say...ummmm. No.
I am eloping to the other end of the country, as weddings are not my thing. No. Not at all.
I don't give a high holy fuck(™) about seating arrangements and cocktail/mingling hour or what band to hire or place settings or registries or what everyone should wear. I really. Fucking. Do. Not. And I guess that revelation was horrifying to many family (and future family) members. My aunt has one of those binder things FULL of wedding ideas. It's super god damned creepy, if you ask me. She's unmarried, her baby's daddy ditched her for some trailer trash (very sad, my aunt is a nice little catholic anglo saxon yuppie).
I went to a family event for my BioDad's side this past July, where all of the women except my Nana and her sisters were absofuckinglutely shocked/appalled to hear I hadn't put one iota of thought into my wedding, and even more horrified to learn that I just didn't give two shits if we handed out cold hot dogs on paper plates and sat on lawn chairs and everyone wore jeans at the wedding. So...you see what kind of fucktardery Manwife and I were up against.
I am not going to get into the future MIL reaction. She's a fucking nutjob, so her issues matter not.
So the plan is, fly into a ginormous fucking storm on Sunday, rest a bit, get married either monday or tuesday (no clue) wearing a simple champagne colored dress - not at all poofy or fancy or ornate or hideous, satin chinese flats with the little maryjane strap, have blue bits in my hair, and wear large, swirly bone earrings with my cosmic pearl array necklace (it's really bizarre and great; there are about ten wires bent into a wavy circlet, with the pearls kind of interspersed randomly. it looks like an asteroid belt. a shiny asteroid belt. shiiiiiiiinnnnneeeeeeeyyyyyyy). No 100 dollar hairdos, no fancy french manicure, no veil, no fake tiara...no. I also refuse to wear uncomfortable underwear for this. Modal all the way, bb. Wish I had my forearm tattoos finished to really look purty (and piss off manwife's uptight whiter than white family at the same time!), but oh well.
I don't really care what Manwife wears as long as it's clean and he's bathed in the past day. Then we'll do our thing at the awesome B&B at the old governor's mansion, have cake and booze, and hump like bunnies and be lazy the next day. Then we go to some fancy spa resort and get drunk and play in the snow. Booyakasha.
Completely off topic!:
I love this shit right here. I like Tori alright, but she annoys the fuck out of me, especially live. I hate the humping and writhing. I fucking loathe Kate Bush, but this vid is rad.
The talking dreadlock is fucking strange. In a good way.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Sner! Snerrr! (snow)
Today it snowed! About goddamned time too, the sky's been grumpy and slumping low and pee-grey for about a week now.
This is my patio, hello snowy bbq!
So what have I been doing to stave off cabin fever, wedding dementia, and toddleritis?
(warning, picture-heavy)
errrrrmmmmm....it's another cyclops cookieZOMGOMG!!!
truly, that is a heinous peen cookie. and it was delicious.
bread! I made wholesome, delicious bread!
Still. You'd think someone with an M.E. background could figure a damned sewing machine out.
That's a finished elephant (its legs even move and whatnot! AMAZING!) and a duck I am going to finish as soon as I fix my goddamned sewing machine. I stitched the elephant almost entriely by hand, and the wing for the duck is machine stitched and hand-embroidered. Let's hope my little sisters don't gnaw the buttons off of either and choke or anything. Good god.
That's all for now, I've got pix of my log cabin pillow that I'm quilting and embellishing, but I'll post the whole shebang once it's finished I think.
16 days until I am a Missus and can no longer pinch other mens' bums (mostly waiters, eh eheheh).
15 days til I am the fuck out of this boring bloody town.
This is my patio, hello snowy bbq!So what have I been doing to stave off cabin fever, wedding dementia, and toddleritis?
(warning, picture-heavy)
* Bakin' stuff... *
monster cookies!!! yay!! one is cyclops.
monster cookies!!! yay!! one is cyclops.
errrrrmmmmm....it's another cyclops cookieZOMGOMG!!!
truly, that is a heinous peen cookie. and it was delicious.
bread! I made wholesome, delicious bread!
* Running the command center of toy making awesomeness *
That's an old Swinger touch-n-sew from the mid-seventies. The other day the little pattern disc popped out and made the top right compartment pop open and break my thread. Pretty rad. Also I keep losing my manual and I always fuck up the thread tension after winding bobbins so that when I go to sew things rusch up and tear my sewing. Luckily, I use test scraps of cloth to avoid fucking my work up.Still. You'd think someone with an M.E. background could figure a damned sewing machine out.
That's all for now, I've got pix of my log cabin pillow that I'm quilting and embellishing, but I'll post the whole shebang once it's finished I think.
16 days until I am a Missus and can no longer pinch other mens' bums (mostly waiters, eh eheheh).
15 days til I am the fuck out of this boring bloody town.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Eloping
Eloping is no picnic. It is almost as bad as fussy seating arrangements and picking out bridal party gifts and shit. Seriously.
Why would I bitch? An all expenses paid trip out to the eastern seaboard?! OMG! I iz ungrateful.
I will tell you why I can bitch.....
BioDad (as the credit card person): "I just got promoted to a ridiculously involved lead position at the company, and keep missing the inn's business hours with the 3 hour time difference, can you please help with the reservations in New York? Oh, and Vermont? Are you still going there? Can you look up flights, too?"
Manwife (hubby to be): "I want the ridiculously expensive titanium ring!!!" and "are we still eloping? where are our tickets? have you made any plans yet?" and "I wanna snowboard in Vermont!" and "Flying isnt that bad, stop freaking out!"
Future In Laws (supposed babysitters of the Squidge):"We can't handle watching our future grandson for an entire week. Even though he loves us and begs to stay with us. He'll be sad, we just can't do it. Hope you understand!"
SSA (frazzled lady of the manor and general badass): "AAAAAAAGH FUCK YOU ALL FUCK YOU RIGHT IN THE FUCKING EAR HOLLLEEEEE SHEEEEEEIT!" and "AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH! I can barely plan a car trip and vacation down the coast 120 miles! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKK" and "They're gonna lose my luggage, I know it. Those fucking bastards at the airport are gonna chuck it on a plane to Aruba. Shit."
But no really, I can barely drag out an atlas and plan a successful road/camping trip out to the Washington penninsula, and then maybe even plan driving down to oregon! I fucked that one up this year though.
And to top it all off, the job I got was so piss-poorly organized I ended up turning it down out of disgust and mistrust. Blarg. I've interviewed for another position, but have heard jack all since. Piss.
'Sokay being a housewife, money's just tight until Manwife's classes are over for the quarter (then he's on to night and online courses, wheeeeee! I get my lithuanian booty back!). And then after that, he still has to turn his paychecks over to me, for the bill paying and budgets and whatnot. I'm much better at finances than he is, by a very very longshot, but I still feel awful and awkward and shrewish taking all of his money and doling out a weekly allowance for it. So. Bloody. WEIRD.
So that is all the blog I have, sorry for the lack of wild Yankee mountain lady ranting, I has been BIZZY BEE:
I am making all kinds of crafty stuff: For my itty bitty sisters (Wibbo, 3.5, & Ms S, 2) I am sewing little softies - an elephant, a monster, a fish, and a bunny. I think they will also get pretty necklaces and dress-up purses.I am also crocheting a throw blanket, knitting a bag to felt, making my future MIL a necklace and pouch, and also embroidered log cabin pillows.
And then, I have two scarves to block, a Squidge to teach/entertain/keep in line, meals to make, laundry to wash/hem/let sit in wrinkly piles, and a hamster to wrangle - fucking rodent keeps escaping her "habitat" to try and live under the stove. Stupid fluffpile.
Oh, and running the universe, I do that too. No big deal. You know how we do.
Why would I bitch? An all expenses paid trip out to the eastern seaboard?! OMG! I iz ungrateful.
I will tell you why I can bitch.....
BioDad (as the credit card person): "I just got promoted to a ridiculously involved lead position at the company, and keep missing the inn's business hours with the 3 hour time difference, can you please help with the reservations in New York? Oh, and Vermont? Are you still going there? Can you look up flights, too?"
Manwife (hubby to be): "I want the ridiculously expensive titanium ring!!!" and "are we still eloping? where are our tickets? have you made any plans yet?" and "I wanna snowboard in Vermont!" and "Flying isnt that bad, stop freaking out!"
Future In Laws (supposed babysitters of the Squidge):"We can't handle watching our future grandson for an entire week. Even though he loves us and begs to stay with us. He'll be sad, we just can't do it. Hope you understand!"
SSA (frazzled lady of the manor and general badass): "AAAAAAAGH FUCK YOU ALL FUCK YOU RIGHT IN THE FUCKING EAR HOLLLEEEEE SHEEEEEEIT!" and "AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH! I can barely plan a car trip and vacation down the coast 120 miles! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKK" and "They're gonna lose my luggage, I know it. Those fucking bastards at the airport are gonna chuck it on a plane to Aruba. Shit."
But no really, I can barely drag out an atlas and plan a successful road/camping trip out to the Washington penninsula, and then maybe even plan driving down to oregon! I fucked that one up this year though.
And to top it all off, the job I got was so piss-poorly organized I ended up turning it down out of disgust and mistrust. Blarg. I've interviewed for another position, but have heard jack all since. Piss.
'Sokay being a housewife, money's just tight until Manwife's classes are over for the quarter (then he's on to night and online courses, wheeeeee! I get my lithuanian booty back!). And then after that, he still has to turn his paychecks over to me, for the bill paying and budgets and whatnot. I'm much better at finances than he is, by a very very longshot, but I still feel awful and awkward and shrewish taking all of his money and doling out a weekly allowance for it. So. Bloody. WEIRD.
So that is all the blog I have, sorry for the lack of wild Yankee mountain lady ranting, I has been BIZZY BEE:
I am making all kinds of crafty stuff: For my itty bitty sisters (Wibbo, 3.5, & Ms S, 2) I am sewing little softies - an elephant, a monster, a fish, and a bunny. I think they will also get pretty necklaces and dress-up purses.I am also crocheting a throw blanket, knitting a bag to felt, making my future MIL a necklace and pouch, and also embroidered log cabin pillows.
And then, I have two scarves to block, a Squidge to teach/entertain/keep in line, meals to make, laundry to wash/hem/let sit in wrinkly piles, and a hamster to wrangle - fucking rodent keeps escaping her "habitat" to try and live under the stove. Stupid fluffpile.
Oh, and running the universe, I do that too. No big deal. You know how we do.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Unemployment
...but not THAT kind of unemployment. Manwife is busy paying the state back after his last bout of lazy bastardry, so we don't go there. We don't "do" the govt money thing, it'll always bite ya in the ass later.
And no one likes an assbiter. The noise of ass-munching alone is enough to make me hurl shoes at the dog/tatopig/kitty/person. Ugh.
I digress.
Today is my second work-week day of unemployment, and it's fucking grand - not at all the pit of discontent and pus and bile and poorly made coffee that was the Aerospace Job. So I have been chirping all weekend, and all yesterday, I frolicked around the house. Yes, ladies and gents, FROLICKED.
Yesterday, I woke up at 10 am, wore my pyjamas around all morning, cooked, did laundry, drank coffee & paid bills, bought a new curling iron (mine broke in two, wtf is that about?!) then got two-for-one lancome lipsticks and new sable brushes, had lunch and some tea, went on a drive, went to the library, went to the head shrinker, picked up the Squidge (gooneybird for you nationites), cooked kick-ass pasta with homemade vodka sauce, played with the boy and the dude and watched tv, downloaded stuff for my sims, knitted, did more laundry, fed the hamster,
read the new Real Simple and went to sleep with a snoring yet toasty warm Manwife.
(this is the Manwife, at home in his native mountain habitat. See the Slavic scowl and predisposition towards woolen pea coats and authoritarian disapproval of photo taking...oooohh, ahhh. Ok, let's not feed it, or poke it with sticks, as it will get cranky and revoke our coffee privileges.)
And I frolicked and pranced about annoyingly the whole time.
Oh, and I momentarily lost my wallet, but who's counting? But I had good coffee! Those men I worked with in engineering, they may have their Master's in Aeronautical engineering, but they could not understand how a coffee pot worked or a bean grinder or coffee filters! GOOD SWEET LORD, GENTS! So I relished my mad coffee skillz. But no, there was no real relish. Ew, pickles and coffee. Ew ew ew.
Anyhow. Saturday and Sunday were much the same, expect Saturday I was horrifically hungover after more free drinks than I could drink - well almost, I did drink them all. So we went to Taco Del Mar for fish taco and bean and rice breakfasts, coffee, and knitting while reading The Stranger (not Camus, the weekly in Seattle). We drove out to Ma and Pa's, played with the cranky Squidge and watched gearhead TV programs with Pa. Then we left, bought some embroidering floss and a felt knitting needle pouch and pawed the yarn at the craft store. Yes, WE pawed the yarn. Manwife taught me to purl.
Sunday, I honestly don't remember much. All tacoed out, we had crappy burgers at Fiamma Burger (I highly, highly highly disapprove of the grease soaked thin patties), and hung out and did laundry and made out a lot. Well, Squidge was napping while that went on, don't get the wrong idea here. :P
So....yeah! No discontent, no unhappiness...no...I don't know? Things are fine, I've already bought my damned Xmas presents because I am more organized than Martha Stewart like that, I already have my bags packed to elope, and tapped ye olde trust fund to pay bills during my short unemployment. No mess, no fuss. Though it did take me about three months to get up the gumption to actually QUIT my job. I liked what I did and love the people I worked with, so it was a rough choice, but I am extremely happy.
I guess that's how I run things? I plan? Like....compulsively? I do not flail as some would assume? I may be annoyed and stressed by it, but it works pretty damn efficiently.
Oh and here is the Batman costume Squidge helped me make for Halloween. Kid got a bucket and a half of candy for two hours' work! I am helping him eat it, no worries.
Awwwwwww, who's a happy little Batman? Yes! Squidge is. He painted the mask bit all by himself mostly only needed a bit of help with the globs of acrylic paint. He has a cape, but is holding it behind his back - I think it helps the element of surprise? I don't know, he is a bizarre little duck.
And no one likes an assbiter. The noise of ass-munching alone is enough to make me hurl shoes at the dog/tatopig/kitty/person. Ugh.
I digress.
Today is my second work-week day of unemployment, and it's fucking grand - not at all the pit of discontent and pus and bile and poorly made coffee that was the Aerospace Job. So I have been chirping all weekend, and all yesterday, I frolicked around the house. Yes, ladies and gents, FROLICKED.
Yesterday, I woke up at 10 am, wore my pyjamas around all morning, cooked, did laundry, drank coffee & paid bills, bought a new curling iron (mine broke in two, wtf is that about?!) then got two-for-one lancome lipsticks and new sable brushes, had lunch and some tea, went on a drive, went to the library, went to the head shrinker, picked up the Squidge (gooneybird for you nationites), cooked kick-ass pasta with homemade vodka sauce, played with the boy and the dude and watched tv, downloaded stuff for my sims, knitted, did more laundry, fed the hamster,
read the new Real Simple and went to sleep with a snoring yet toasty warm Manwife.
(this is the Manwife, at home in his native mountain habitat. See the Slavic scowl and predisposition towards woolen pea coats and authoritarian disapproval of photo taking...oooohh, ahhh. Ok, let's not feed it, or poke it with sticks, as it will get cranky and revoke our coffee privileges.)
And I frolicked and pranced about annoyingly the whole time.
Oh, and I momentarily lost my wallet, but who's counting? But I had good coffee! Those men I worked with in engineering, they may have their Master's in Aeronautical engineering, but they could not understand how a coffee pot worked or a bean grinder or coffee filters! GOOD SWEET LORD, GENTS! So I relished my mad coffee skillz. But no, there was no real relish. Ew, pickles and coffee. Ew ew ew.
Anyhow. Saturday and Sunday were much the same, expect Saturday I was horrifically hungover after more free drinks than I could drink - well almost, I did drink them all. So we went to Taco Del Mar for fish taco and bean and rice breakfasts, coffee, and knitting while reading The Stranger (not Camus, the weekly in Seattle). We drove out to Ma and Pa's, played with the cranky Squidge and watched gearhead TV programs with Pa. Then we left, bought some embroidering floss and a felt knitting needle pouch and pawed the yarn at the craft store. Yes, WE pawed the yarn. Manwife taught me to purl.
Sunday, I honestly don't remember much. All tacoed out, we had crappy burgers at Fiamma Burger (I highly, highly highly disapprove of the grease soaked thin patties), and hung out and did laundry and made out a lot. Well, Squidge was napping while that went on, don't get the wrong idea here. :P
So....yeah! No discontent, no unhappiness...no...I don't know? Things are fine, I've already bought my damned Xmas presents because I am more organized than Martha Stewart like that, I already have my bags packed to elope, and tapped ye olde trust fund to pay bills during my short unemployment. No mess, no fuss. Though it did take me about three months to get up the gumption to actually QUIT my job. I liked what I did and love the people I worked with, so it was a rough choice, but I am extremely happy.
I guess that's how I run things? I plan? Like....compulsively? I do not flail as some would assume? I may be annoyed and stressed by it, but it works pretty damn efficiently.
Oh and here is the Batman costume Squidge helped me make for Halloween. Kid got a bucket and a half of candy for two hours' work! I am helping him eat it, no worries.
Awwwwwww, who's a happy little Batman? Yes! Squidge is. He painted the mask bit all by himself mostly only needed a bit of help with the globs of acrylic paint. He has a cape, but is holding it behind his back - I think it helps the element of surprise? I don't know, he is a bizarre little duck.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Feminism should not be fundamentalist, or A Feminist Manifesto Of the Rational Lower Class White Girl
Hello, My Name Is Ms Oread LadypersonOkWhatever and I am Here to Turn In My Feminist License.
I am done with you, all of you, every single fucking one of you, at least the ones on the internet.
Or at least the ones that post. Lurkers I might be OK with.
I have never felt so alienated, disenchanted, and like the only person who believes in things like prudence and rationality and careful thought tempered with objectivity in the Twentyish Feminist Age Bracket or Group.
I can't be the only one, right?
I can't be the only one who thinks, "Wow, that's fucked up that guy called some women a Ho in a rap song, but it's your responsibility as a parent/thoughtful human being to say 'I don't agree with that, and I am gonna turn this off now and not give you my money' ". Because what I see is people like Tipper Gore and her ilk trying to get FUCKING WORDS banned.
I can't be the only one who thinks, "Jesus, rape sucks and I never want to endure it. If I want to make sure I am not easy prey, I should do cunning things like run around carrying a switchblade/mace/sack full of oranges to keep on the offense and endeavor to avoid finding myself alone in town drunk with scanty clothing on. Coz, well, there's a lot of crazies out there, and I don't like to be vulnerable." I don't think that's blaming the fucking victim, I think that's being a fucking safe individual who understands how to take care of themselves. Have you no street smarts? Do you not understand we are all still animals and this is indeed the fucking wild, ladies? It seems that way, because when I attempt to advocate the role women have as responsible humans on this planet, I get blasted for being a Paglia incarnate (I like her, she's got vim and vinegar and gigantic fucking brass balls, so...whatever). I don't blame anyone, I advocate being smart and safe, because you just can't count on everyone to be sane.
I can't be the only one who sees a naked lady in a picture and goes, "huh, I wonder why that image is shown that way; why can't she look like Carmen Miranda or Stalin? what do we have here???" Instead, I see the knee jerk reactionary screams of OBJECTIFICATION and SUPPRESSION OF WOMEN. Really? Fucking really? Are you that big of a prude? What if this is a picture of a nude woman with a book title scrawled across her stomach? Does that make it better somehow? Hm. I might be more worried by women being suppressed by a culture that is geared towards giving the most money to those with dangly bits between their legs.
I can't be the only fucking one who says, "You know what, I refuse to be a one issue voter. I am willing to sacrifice one goal and meet halfway with a politician in order to make incredible gains elsewhere. I have been fighting my whole life for things, and narrowing the field at all is great." What I hear now is "I love him, but I can't trust him to give power back to the states to make decisions on abortion or wages or assfucking". You don't think you'll be able to yell and protest loud enough so a small, state gov't can hear you? Don't you think a small battle against a state is more easily won that one fought against the clusterfuck bureaucracy of the United States? Really, now. Grassroots means nothing, I guess.
I am tired of narrow mindedness.
I am tired of the lack of strategy.
I am tired of upper middle class white girls leading the charge.
I am tired of people equating degrees with smarts. Yes, ok. You pay for one, you do some homework, you get one. Brava.
I am tired of college "intellectuals" thinking they know how to run things, because they once took a class last quarter on it. You, and two hundred or more others, chick. Many of us are educated. We choose not to be pompous. We choose common sense, and you can't pay for that with college loans.
I am tired of women who did not grow up with feminism and equality as their religion. I didn't get religion, I got the mantra to go out there and kick some fucking ass intelligently.
Right now, I am avoiding Feministing, where the women are shrill. They come hard, they come loud, and they come without thinking things through most of the time.
They come with no fucking battle plan. They come scattered, they come scared angry shrieking. They come ready to be worn out in five years time from fighting so hard so quickly. They lack the femi-ninja fu it takes to infiltrate, to slide in the cracks and expand until the foundation cracks and the white towers come the fuck down.
I am avoiding Jezebel, where the readers - supposedly educated third wave urban women - are vapid enough to see satirical articles selling the "Poor Diet" ( ie: you're poor, you eat ramen, you lose weight and your health sucks!), and then bemoan that they gained so much weight since being dirt poor, or that they purposely eat shit food in small amounts to keep thin. I am avoiding the commenters who would rather squabble amongst themselves and stroke egos than get down to brass tacks.
Is satire beyond our reach?
Is the ability to think on one's own lost?
Is it too difficult to pick up a book from an opposing view and give it a shot, even if just to learn?
Know thy enemy, ladies.
I see that, like our mothers' generation, it will soon be ourselves.
I am done with you, all of you, every single fucking one of you, at least the ones on the internet.
Or at least the ones that post. Lurkers I might be OK with.
I have never felt so alienated, disenchanted, and like the only person who believes in things like prudence and rationality and careful thought tempered with objectivity in the Twentyish Feminist Age Bracket or Group.
I can't be the only one, right?
I can't be the only one who thinks, "Wow, that's fucked up that guy called some women a Ho in a rap song, but it's your responsibility as a parent/thoughtful human being to say 'I don't agree with that, and I am gonna turn this off now and not give you my money' ". Because what I see is people like Tipper Gore and her ilk trying to get FUCKING WORDS banned.
I can't be the only one who thinks, "Jesus, rape sucks and I never want to endure it. If I want to make sure I am not easy prey, I should do cunning things like run around carrying a switchblade/mace/sack full of oranges to keep on the offense and endeavor to avoid finding myself alone in town drunk with scanty clothing on. Coz, well, there's a lot of crazies out there, and I don't like to be vulnerable." I don't think that's blaming the fucking victim, I think that's being a fucking safe individual who understands how to take care of themselves. Have you no street smarts? Do you not understand we are all still animals and this is indeed the fucking wild, ladies? It seems that way, because when I attempt to advocate the role women have as responsible humans on this planet, I get blasted for being a Paglia incarnate (I like her, she's got vim and vinegar and gigantic fucking brass balls, so...whatever). I don't blame anyone, I advocate being smart and safe, because you just can't count on everyone to be sane.
I can't be the only one who sees a naked lady in a picture and goes, "huh, I wonder why that image is shown that way; why can't she look like Carmen Miranda or Stalin? what do we have here???" Instead, I see the knee jerk reactionary screams of OBJECTIFICATION and SUPPRESSION OF WOMEN. Really? Fucking really? Are you that big of a prude? What if this is a picture of a nude woman with a book title scrawled across her stomach? Does that make it better somehow? Hm. I might be more worried by women being suppressed by a culture that is geared towards giving the most money to those with dangly bits between their legs.
I can't be the only fucking one who says, "You know what, I refuse to be a one issue voter. I am willing to sacrifice one goal and meet halfway with a politician in order to make incredible gains elsewhere. I have been fighting my whole life for things, and narrowing the field at all is great." What I hear now is "I love him, but I can't trust him to give power back to the states to make decisions on abortion or wages or assfucking". You don't think you'll be able to yell and protest loud enough so a small, state gov't can hear you? Don't you think a small battle against a state is more easily won that one fought against the clusterfuck bureaucracy of the United States? Really, now. Grassroots means nothing, I guess.
I am tired of narrow mindedness.
I am tired of the lack of strategy.
I am tired of upper middle class white girls leading the charge.
I am tired of people equating degrees with smarts. Yes, ok. You pay for one, you do some homework, you get one. Brava.
I am tired of college "intellectuals" thinking they know how to run things, because they once took a class last quarter on it. You, and two hundred or more others, chick. Many of us are educated. We choose not to be pompous. We choose common sense, and you can't pay for that with college loans.
I am tired of women who did not grow up with feminism and equality as their religion. I didn't get religion, I got the mantra to go out there and kick some fucking ass intelligently.
Right now, I am avoiding Feministing, where the women are shrill. They come hard, they come loud, and they come without thinking things through most of the time.
They come with no fucking battle plan. They come scattered, they come scared angry shrieking. They come ready to be worn out in five years time from fighting so hard so quickly. They lack the femi-ninja fu it takes to infiltrate, to slide in the cracks and expand until the foundation cracks and the white towers come the fuck down.
I am avoiding Jezebel, where the readers - supposedly educated third wave urban women - are vapid enough to see satirical articles selling the "Poor Diet" ( ie: you're poor, you eat ramen, you lose weight and your health sucks!), and then bemoan that they gained so much weight since being dirt poor, or that they purposely eat shit food in small amounts to keep thin. I am avoiding the commenters who would rather squabble amongst themselves and stroke egos than get down to brass tacks.
Is satire beyond our reach?
Is the ability to think on one's own lost?
Is it too difficult to pick up a book from an opposing view and give it a shot, even if just to learn?
Know thy enemy, ladies.
I see that, like our mothers' generation, it will soon be ourselves.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
sooooo. sew? sou.
Well.
There's this.
And there's that.
This being complacency and That being fear, if you're not aware.
I tend to swing wildly between the two. I am a sometime pendulum thrown off whack, undulating and spinning and careening into objects before my movements slow and my discontented, jangly-limbed-jig slows to a tired Minette in the corner, and I am back to the beginning, waiting to get going again, moving slowly between one end and another. The ends and their means, I think. Most likely.
The difference between static and chaos.
There's this.
And there's that.
This being complacency and That being fear, if you're not aware.
I tend to swing wildly between the two. I am a sometime pendulum thrown off whack, undulating and spinning and careening into objects before my movements slow and my discontented, jangly-limbed-jig slows to a tired Minette in the corner, and I am back to the beginning, waiting to get going again, moving slowly between one end and another. The ends and their means, I think. Most likely.
The difference between static and chaos.
* * * * *
When I was younger, my artwork was never more than something I hoarded, something I hid, anticipating disappointment - that Spark of recognition would eventually fail to show, The Frown crept up slowly and pulled down at the corners of mouths like an insistent child yanking on a hand - and I would be worse off then before...
Before: a nervous wreck, finishing off a piece hoping someone would get it, someone would unravel it and thus me by immediately understanding the deeper meanings my zoned-out-zen-ed-out mind put forth.
After: a worse wreck, wretched and misinterpreted, misguided, apparently. Discouraged that an attempt to reach out in my own weird way was missed. Disappointed my quiet compatibility test was so horrifically failed.
By thirteen, I was accused of passing a friend's work off as my own...it was too good to be the bitchy creepy girl's, I guess. I refused to show anyone anything, ever. Under no circumstances.
At seventeen, I forced myself to enroll in a printmaking class. I gave myself stomach aches that lasted for days before class critiques. For what it was worth, I was satisfied to put forth a meaningless, empty and eventually mediocre effort, focusing instead on skill and precision. I was another student, mid level, not worth noting, not worth dissecting. I was OK.
At eighteen, I began a collage class that pushed and pulled in uncomfortable ways at my brain. I self medicated. I was thrust beyond my comfortable zone of Trite and Fail safe. I self medicated. I ended up making decent work, improving my skill, and unlocking that Bullshit Inner Artist. Because I self medicated, not because of the class. God, I hated that fucking class. Never learn assemblage from a weaver. Regardless. I created what was the best work of my life, seamlessly, and it was like breathing. I would "zone out" (ahem), get to work, and when what seemed like mere minutes would pass, I would look up, and know it was done. I gave the best piece of the lot to my fetus' sperm donor, hoping it would garner some praise. It did. In between bong hits and asking for money. I retreated again.
At twenty one, I picked up my x-acto again. I vented. I spewed forth bile on paper. I put down all of the anger and betrayal and unrest and let it go to the degree I was capable of. I heard, "obvious". I heard, "simple". I heard, "not very subtle, is it?". I heard, "that's uncomfortable for me". What was once on a wall was put into drawers. The bottoms of drawers, beneath the glues and pastes and torn-up Vogues and Flaunts. I tore up a 25 cent kid's book made out of tag board, peeled away the sugar-sweet tale and put my own down. I put down and chronicled, two pages at a time, my relationships. The "I like you, but not in that way". The ninety mile trips to Seattle to hear that I wasn't it. The mediocrity I settled for as a diversion. The brief sweetness, and my eventual dissatisfaction with being bored by it. I hid this in my closet, at the back, behind an amp and a box full of vintage faux fur and platform heels.
At twenty three, I dance around it. We tango without touching, we flirt and flick tongues across the room at each other. I meander close and sew a piece without a pattern, embroider freehand, crochet in wild colors in odd shapes and knit with bizarre texture and irregularly shaped buttons and baubles.
I don't touch my knives, my mod podge.
But I've been asked to.
How could I go back to that? After scoffing at myself, after driving my curvilinear talent into straight ruts to make it more acceptable, more palatable, less likely to be misconstrued? After I mock myself for even attempting to call what it is "artwork"?
Auggie, she chastises and quietly purses her lips. "DIY is not collage."
I know.
Before: a nervous wreck, finishing off a piece hoping someone would get it, someone would unravel it and thus me by immediately understanding the deeper meanings my zoned-out-zen-ed-out mind put forth.
After: a worse wreck, wretched and misinterpreted, misguided, apparently. Discouraged that an attempt to reach out in my own weird way was missed. Disappointed my quiet compatibility test was so horrifically failed.
By thirteen, I was accused of passing a friend's work off as my own...it was too good to be the bitchy creepy girl's, I guess. I refused to show anyone anything, ever. Under no circumstances.
At seventeen, I forced myself to enroll in a printmaking class. I gave myself stomach aches that lasted for days before class critiques. For what it was worth, I was satisfied to put forth a meaningless, empty and eventually mediocre effort, focusing instead on skill and precision. I was another student, mid level, not worth noting, not worth dissecting. I was OK.
At eighteen, I began a collage class that pushed and pulled in uncomfortable ways at my brain. I self medicated. I was thrust beyond my comfortable zone of Trite and Fail safe. I self medicated. I ended up making decent work, improving my skill, and unlocking that Bullshit Inner Artist. Because I self medicated, not because of the class. God, I hated that fucking class. Never learn assemblage from a weaver. Regardless. I created what was the best work of my life, seamlessly, and it was like breathing. I would "zone out" (ahem), get to work, and when what seemed like mere minutes would pass, I would look up, and know it was done. I gave the best piece of the lot to my fetus' sperm donor, hoping it would garner some praise. It did. In between bong hits and asking for money. I retreated again.
At twenty one, I picked up my x-acto again. I vented. I spewed forth bile on paper. I put down all of the anger and betrayal and unrest and let it go to the degree I was capable of. I heard, "obvious". I heard, "simple". I heard, "not very subtle, is it?". I heard, "that's uncomfortable for me". What was once on a wall was put into drawers. The bottoms of drawers, beneath the glues and pastes and torn-up Vogues and Flaunts. I tore up a 25 cent kid's book made out of tag board, peeled away the sugar-sweet tale and put my own down. I put down and chronicled, two pages at a time, my relationships. The "I like you, but not in that way". The ninety mile trips to Seattle to hear that I wasn't it. The mediocrity I settled for as a diversion. The brief sweetness, and my eventual dissatisfaction with being bored by it. I hid this in my closet, at the back, behind an amp and a box full of vintage faux fur and platform heels.
At twenty three, I dance around it. We tango without touching, we flirt and flick tongues across the room at each other. I meander close and sew a piece without a pattern, embroider freehand, crochet in wild colors in odd shapes and knit with bizarre texture and irregularly shaped buttons and baubles.
I don't touch my knives, my mod podge.
But I've been asked to.
How could I go back to that? After scoffing at myself, after driving my curvilinear talent into straight ruts to make it more acceptable, more palatable, less likely to be misconstrued? After I mock myself for even attempting to call what it is "artwork"?
Auggie, she chastises and quietly purses her lips. "DIY is not collage."
I know.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Notice
I am giving notice.
I am leaving for a cushy county job with benefits and everything, just like any human being deserves, along with pay befitting my skills.
I know this sounds ludicrous, as I am:
Female
Young
A mommylady
A mommylady
and last but not least
Not willing to shun my family for my work.
(Yes, my last talk with my boss, I was indeed criticized for all four.)
However, I feel that as a smart little cookie and hard worker with a child to support, I deserve all of those benefits and much, much, more. The sorts of "more" that were proffered as SSA bait, and then revoked. Yes. Things like raises and respect.
However, I feel that as a smart little cookie and hard worker with a child to support, I deserve all of those benefits and much, much, more. The sorts of "more" that were proffered as SSA bait, and then revoked. Yes. Things like raises and respect.
So long, evil aerospace entity.
I won't miss you, and you will be super fucked without me. Ta.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
This is just the way it is most of the time.
When bad things happen to other people, however much it may affect you or annoy you or whatever, it just isn't about you. There seems to be a chronic case of This Is My Pity Party and You Will Bring Punch for everything lately.
Well, I have never liked punch, and I only bring booze to parties, and then only when they have good music or good...herb gardens.
Drafting standards not up to your standards? Well, it's a personal attack, innit? The Engineering Establishment has taken note of your crap drawings and written an entire 1.800 page tome devoted to tearing your personal style apart. Those fucking bastards.
Children at school misbehaving? Well, Teacher person, they're doing it to spite you. Of course. That must be it. Couldn't be they're cranky they can't have recess because of the veritable monsoons outside. No. It's you. They hate you. I think that's obvious.
This is The YOU Show, and no one else's bullshit could possibly take precedence over how you feel about everything. I mean, that's what we're being fed throughout the age of Gen X & Y: we are all special little snowflakes, no matter how idiotic, whiny, self-centered, or just plain fucking stupid we may be. Have an opinion? It matters! Automatically! Isn't a culture of white privellege fantastic? It's like Kindegarten every fucking day, all day, no matter what! I do hope we all still get gold stars. Ohhhh and nap, that was great. I do miss naps.
Point is: Sometimes, no one wants the clammy little two cents that you've been working over in your palm until they are good and slimy and gritty with sweat. You will have to learn to deal with this, suck it up, move on and behave like a god damned grown up.
Seriously.
I mean, the great thing about the interwubs and the tards who opine on EVERYTHING you could imagine is that you can click away to a more amusing page. Which is why Ms Oread don't read dem dere blogs mostly. However...in the meat world...in real life, in meetings at work, in conferences at your child's school, you have to stand there, interact, smile, and nod.
It's a load of bullfuck.
And that, hah, is my opinion on whiny little choads.
Well, I have never liked punch, and I only bring booze to parties, and then only when they have good music or good...herb gardens.
Drafting standards not up to your standards? Well, it's a personal attack, innit? The Engineering Establishment has taken note of your crap drawings and written an entire 1.800 page tome devoted to tearing your personal style apart. Those fucking bastards.
Children at school misbehaving? Well, Teacher person, they're doing it to spite you. Of course. That must be it. Couldn't be they're cranky they can't have recess because of the veritable monsoons outside. No. It's you. They hate you. I think that's obvious.
This is The YOU Show, and no one else's bullshit could possibly take precedence over how you feel about everything. I mean, that's what we're being fed throughout the age of Gen X & Y: we are all special little snowflakes, no matter how idiotic, whiny, self-centered, or just plain fucking stupid we may be. Have an opinion? It matters! Automatically! Isn't a culture of white privellege fantastic? It's like Kindegarten every fucking day, all day, no matter what! I do hope we all still get gold stars. Ohhhh and nap, that was great. I do miss naps.
Point is: Sometimes, no one wants the clammy little two cents that you've been working over in your palm until they are good and slimy and gritty with sweat. You will have to learn to deal with this, suck it up, move on and behave like a god damned grown up.
Seriously.
I mean, the great thing about the interwubs and the tards who opine on EVERYTHING you could imagine is that you can click away to a more amusing page. Which is why Ms Oread don't read dem dere blogs mostly. However...in the meat world...in real life, in meetings at work, in conferences at your child's school, you have to stand there, interact, smile, and nod.
It's a load of bullfuck.
And that, hah, is my opinion on whiny little choads.
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