Have a great week, if you have time.

I spotted this while in line at Albertson's the other day.  i scanned the all-caps titles and (maybe because I was at the store running errands and therefore taking time out of my workday, which I would have to make up later in the day, cutting out my time with my kids at and after dinner, which I was already feeling stressed and shitty about), the whole cover looked like a chore list, where the chores are impossible and designed to make you fail.

LOSE 15 POUNDS!

MAKE YOUR HAIR THICKER!

STOP DIABETES!

GET A PEDICURE!

MAKE CUPCAKES (but don't eat them, you fat thing, those are only for your family!)

MAKE WONDERFUL BUT TIME-CONSUMING CRAFTS WITH YOUR CHILDREN FOR YOUR HUSBAND

SO easy.

FEEL HAPPIER!

LOSE YOUR GUT, ALREADY!

DON'T FORGET TO STOP BEING STRESSED OUT!!!!!!

Wanna know what's gross about me?



Note the wide-eyed yet glazed look. 

 I’m an onychophagiac. Since birth, I’ve had my hands all up in my mouth—hell, maybe before birth.  As an infant I sucked my thumb, and my parents tried to solve the problem by putting a sock on my hand.  A few years later my dad would employ the same method to get my southpaw brother to turn righty (and he did!), but the sock didn’t keep me from sucking my thumbs, and it seems to have been a clear transition from thumb sucking to fingernail biting.  Maybe there was a period, in Kindergarten, where I chewed the shit out of my pencils, just to feel the give of the soft wood against my strong front teeth. But as longas I can remember, I’ve been a nail biter. 

                My mom tried things.  Some kind of junk she painted on my nails to make them taste bad—didn’t taste bad enough. She bribed me with a nail kit, or with a bright red polish I coveted.  No matter what, I couldn’t stop biting my nails.  Maybe it was anxiety as a kid—I also had insomnia and panic attacks—but as an adult it became second nature.  I’ve always hated it.  The feeling of plunging my exposed nail beds in hot water when I worked as a dishwasher.  The way my lips get dried out when I do it.  The throbbing pain when I tear the wrong piece off, which can only be soothed with a tight bandage over the fingertip.  The way my fingertips are starting to wrinkle, I assume from being damp my whole life.  Just the other night while I worked on an essay, I had to stop what I was doing and paint my nails, which I do approximately once a year, because I was distracting myself with my chomping. 

                My husband hates it when he hears me chewing my fingernails.  He also notes that I often stare into space, looking a little dull, let’s say, and chew on myself, as he calls it.  It drives him bananas, and every now and then he will sort of slap my hand out of my mouth.  Which pisses me right off. 

                And I can stop.  If I keep my nails painted, always painted, I don’t bite them.  One summer my friend got married and I grew my nails out for the whole summer.  It was a pain, but I kept them painted all summer long.  Oh, I can stop biting my nails easily. 

                But the thing is—OK, like right now my nails are painted still from the other night.  I haven’t bitten them.  My cuticles, on the other hand, are ravaged.  Hangnails abound in various stages of healing. 

                That’s one of the grossest things about me.  I chew my nails and pick fingernail chippings out of my teeth.  See, we're getting to know each other.  There are other gross things about me, but that's, like, second year material at least.  What’s gross about you?

Is anyone counting the waves?

I had an interesting conversation today on the Facebook.  A page that I follow, Evolutionary Parenting, posted an interview with Dr. Mayim Bialik (That’s Blossom, yo!).  Dr. Bialik is a strong advocate for Attachment Parenting, and she has a book out on the subject.  I read the transcript, and it was a great interview.  She talked about her parenting philosophies and why she chose to circumcise her son.  I found this part interesting:  Dr. Bialik said “I think especially in a productive and kind of feminist society it’s not valued to surrender that way to the needs of a child.”  I’ve read a little about AP, and I think it’s a sound philosophy involving co-sleeping, breastfeeding, babywearing, and basically listening to your child, learning them, and learning to respond to them in the way they need.  Not all of the tenets work for every AP family, I’m sure (I couldn’t co-sleep because I am a light and crappy sleeper and would not get ANY sleep if my baby was right next to me), but basically I think it sounds like a great way to raise a kid. 

                I wondered on the Facebook why Dr. Bialik would say feminist society doesn’t value surrendering yourself to the needs of your child.  I had thought, as a feminist, that I did value that.  I surrender to the needs of my kiddos every day of my life, happily.  The owner of the page and blog pointed me in the direction of a post she wrote last year, called “Feminism v. Mothering.”  It’s sort of a summary of what the first wave of feminism fought for, and how she feels the second wave (Betty Friedan, etc) got it wrong.  Instead of pushing to have mothering valued in a significant way to society, the second wave of feminists devalued motherhood by eschewing family for career:   

The crux of the modern-day feminist movement has been to fight for women to have the chance to make it equally in what they themselves have called the patriarchal society. By doing this, they have placed immense value on the traditional work of men, making it the pinnacle of success and fulfillment in life. Indeed, according to these feminists, the only way women can be fulfilled is to pursue one of these masculine endeavors; to not do so leads to depression and resentment.

See, I just don’t think that’s right.  I think, in this—what, third?—wave of feminism, us feminists are trying to be inclusive, not divisive.  I see us opening our circles to respect choices.  One of my favorite bloggers, The Feminist Breeder, is a perfect example.  She chose her blog name very purposefully, because she believes that choosing to be a mother is valuable and fulfilling.  I agree.  Being a feminist today does not mean you have to give up having a family.  It does not mean you have to give up having a career.  It does not mean you have to “do it all.”  It means you get to do what you want to do, and other feminists will respect your choices, regardless of whether they would make the same choices in your position.  That’s what feminism is all about to me—choice.   I want to be a great mother, a great writer, a great medical transcriptionist, and a great wife.  And I fail every day at something; but even if I chose just one of those things to be, I’d still fail every day, a little.  Because I am just one woman, one feminist, one mother, trying like hell to raise these little people to be solid grownups, and trying like hell to be a solid grownup myself. 

On choosing not to be an asshole

IWD

I used to be quite conservative politically in all the worst ways.  I was a misogynist.  I believed being gay was gross and that abused women should just leave already.  I told racist jokes and used racial slurs.  I’m terribly ashamed of all of that, and I’ve since become much less of an asshole.  But one thing I’ve never  been unsure about is reproductive rights.  I’ve been pro-choice at least since 7^th grade, which is when I remember having my first political argument.  My cousin Cindy said abortion was evil and wrong, and I said I didn’t think it was.  My reasoning was something about a mother resenting a child she didn’t want.  My cousin didn’t buy this and made fun.  “Oh, yeah, right, like the mom’s going to go Oh, I resent you, and slap them or whatever.”  I stood my ground though, because I knew what I was talking about.  I’ve been the resented child.

                I don’t know how my mom felt about children in general in her 20s, but I do know how she felt about girl children, and she didn’t want any.  She had a boy first.  Whew.  Then came me, and my grandmother’s warning must have loomed loud in her head, words I heard over and over through the years too:  “I can’t wait until you have a daughter just like you.”    My grandmother predicted I would be girl, and probably mom resented that implication, that she was about to get hers.  Who wouldn’t resent a barbed comment like that?  So out I came, female, and already I was a disappointment.  I know my mother loved and loves me, and that absolutely does not change the fact that she resented my femaleness. 

                So, predictably or not, my mom and I never really got along that well.  And I never forgot that she never wanted a girl.  I couldn’t, because she brought it up more than a few times during my childhood and adolescence.  By the time I began having sex, I had known for years that I didn’t want any kids.  Why take the chance that I’d have a kid like me, I figured. 

                Yes, I actually told myself and believed that I was a bad person, a bad child.  Somehow this translated to me having a fervent desire to not procreate, and I think this shaped my pro-choice views way before I ever started in with sex.  Back then, the right to abortion was about wanting pregnancy or not wanting it.  I didn’t want it, powerful bad.  And today reproductive rights is still about wanting pregnancy.  Every one of my children were wanted, even though not planned.  But before that, two abortions were what I wanted.  I didn’t know it back then, but what I wanted was to want pregnancy.  And when that happened, it surprised the crap out of me.  What my cousin could not and did not know back in seventh grade was that I knew about resentment, and I knew those ill feelings towards a child didn’t need to take the form of physical abuse.

                But just wanting my children doesn’t make me a great mother, and I’m fully aware of that.  What I want most for my children is confidence.  I want my daughters and my son to not only know they are wanted and loved, to never question that for a moment, but to instill that confidence in other young people, to be the kind of people who can buoy others in need because they have that strong sense of self.  I know some of this is up to chance and circumstance, but making sure girls and boys don’t grow up to be the kind of assholes who would restrict someone’s right to bodily autonomy seems as easy as not being that kind of an asshole yourself. 

               

A day in MFA life

It’s a Friday and it’s raining when you wake up at 7:30.  You meant to get up at 5:30 to get an early start on work, but the rain sounded so nice and your bed and partner were so warm that you drifted off, thinking it’s Friday, that you’ve got all weekend to finish your work. At that gray hour you don’t remember the mound of graduate school homework you’ve got, and it seems reasonable to close your eyes again. So you sleep in, and the kids actually wake you up.  You make chocolate milk for one, coffee for yourself, and tell the oldest there’s instant oatmeal, or they can ask their father to make Malt-O-Meal when he leaves the toilet. 

She wants to know can she have chocolate chips in her oatmeal.  Yes, you say, because you’re feeling indulgent after receiving some food stamps.  She wants to know how many.  You think for a moment and then say “Nine.”  You’d been down to a couple freeze pops and a few items that didn’t really make a meal of any kind when your case had finally gone through the system.  You felt like shit that you couldn’t buy your daughter any new clothes for her first day of Kindergarten, but she looked good anyway and didn’t seem to mind.  You’re glad your kids remain young enough to be comforted by a chocolatey after-school snack, that they’re too young to know what it means to live below the poverty line.  To say you are grateful for the public assistance is an understatement. 

Your coffee’s ready so you trudge upstairs in your pajamas, because you know you have to go out later and you’ll shower then, so why bother with a bra and real pants now.  Working at home as a medical transcriptionist is fabulous and you know you’re lucky to be able to pick and choose your hours in order to get your master’s degree, to have a job already set up wherever you go.  Your son and daughter come in and out of your office, interrupting you and asking you to get them things from downstairs even though their father is downstairs.  You send them down to ask him most of the time, but sometimes you take breaks to give them a bath or make them lunch.   

Mary Tudor: Don't call her Bloody!

I can’t remember exactly when it happened, but for some years now I’ve been fascinated with Queen Elizabeth Tudor and, subsequently, the Tudor Dynasty, and my fascination keeps expanding.  I recently finished a really insightful and interesting biography called Mary Tudor, you know, “Bloody” Mary.  I picked it up at a library sale.  It was published in 1953, so I’m sure there have been other biographies, but this one by H. F. M. Prescott is supposed to be, still, a premier biography.  OK, there were a couple parts in the several rebellions where I got bogged down in names and places—you’ll have that.  

The thing is, Mary’s gotten this terrible reputation, but she was simply a human, specifically a woman, and she had little rights or respect, even as a queen, and her childhood was, in the least, dysfunctional and emotionally exhausting.  I love how Prescott explores that in as much detail as she does the actual events of Mary’s life—the events that both caused and were caused by Mary’s remarkable fortitude in dealing with her father and her brother as Kings of England, as well as her unmovable faith even if, as Prescott readily points out, she did not possess the political intellect and ingénue of her half-sister Elizabeth. 

What Mary Tudor did have was an iron will.  She didn’t always make the best or right decisions, but when she made a decision, she stood behind it, even if and when it blew up in her face.  And boy, did it.

Mary was 17 when her father Henry VIII made himself head of the church in order to divorce her mother, Catherine of Aragon, or at least she was that old when the deed was finally done—it took around four years.  Henry declared his current marriage was illegal/immoral because Catherine had married his older brother first, even though the Spanish-born Queen insisted her marriage to Arthur, Henry’s older brother, had never been consummated before his death.  Catherine fought Henry, and she was one smart cookie.  But when Henry was able to divorce her, he declared Mary a bastard and kept her apart from Catherine for years—even when Catherine lay dying, Henry refused to allow Mary to see her mother, and Catherine her child.

Mary grew up Catholic like her mother, and even when her father the king began to crack down on those celebrating Catholic mass, Mary kept on.   Through her adolescence and young adulthood, Henry had her moved from house to house, took away her most beloved companion/servants, and humiliated her by forcing her to sign papers admitting she was no princess, but only the “Lady Mary.”  Signing those papers was wrenching for Mary, as the “Spanish Tudor” was filled with pride and faith, and she never believed Anne Boelyn was truly Queen nor Elizabeth truly royalty.  Imagine the poor young woman, forced to write the words that her mother and Henry’s marriage was never legal, her mother therefore no queen and herself, no princess.  Writing it out in triplicate while the king’s messengers waited. 

 Renouncing her title, though, was nothing to Mary compared to Henry and then Edward VI’s attempts to take away her religion.  For a while, Henry turned his head while Mary kept hearing mass, and her brother Edward did the same, even when his Act of Uniformity made it illegal to use any but the Protestant prayer book, but eventually he attempted to stop her mass altogether.  It’s believed, though, that Mary kept hearing mass as secretively as necessary. 

So Mary’s emotionally tortured for over a decade.  To the point that she just wants to leave England and go to Spain, her mother’s country, where she could practice her Catholic faith and live in the bosom of her kin, a warmth she had not felt since her connection with her mother was broken.  She attempted to escape to Spain but her attempts were foiled by various things.  That’s one of the parts where I got a little bogged down in the details.  Edward died, though, and Mary knew she had to make her move.  Because Edward had not named his older sister as heir to the throne.  His advisers had convinced the teenaged King to name a cousin, Jane Grey, a protestant who they figured they could control.  Well, they were wrong about that, and that’s a whole ‘nother story, but Mary was bold and quick and decisive in this case and she got her crown. 

Right away when she became queen, of course, since they believed a woman could and should not actually rule, Parliament began to float potential husband ideas around.  The only two that got real consideration appear to have been an Englishman named Courtenay and a Spanish prince, Philip.  Mary waffled for a long time, but I think she probably knew she was never going to marry Courtenay. She’d been hurt too much by Englishmen already and I think she leaned towards a Spanish match from early on.  The people of England were pissed about that, though, so she had to appear to entertain the idea of a marriage to Courtenay.  She did marry Prince Philip though, and his father made him a King by giving him some lands to rule, I forget which ones exactly, but that’s not important here.  So the match was made:  Philip late twenties, would marry Mary, a decade older. 

Well, England was pretty pissed, and as Prescott said, “A lesser woman would not have dared pursue the marriage; a greater would have realized the folly of it.”  A caveat for Philip was that Mary had had to agree that neither would Philip be crowned king, nor would he have a say in affairs of state.  Philip wasn’t happy about it but he probably figured he could win over Parliament, or Mary, to such degree that he would get his crown and drag England into the war between Spain and France, a war England had been determinedly staying out of.  Philip never got that, though it’s not for lack of Mary’s trying.  And that’s consoling, because Philip’s failings as a husband were gargantuan.  He left Mary for two years, then came back to try once more to get England as an ally against France.  He came back in March of 1557, got Mary to declare war on France in June, and he was gone again by July that same year.   He stayed away most of the time after that, pouting that Mary was unable to move the Council in his favor with regard to the crown, and also that she wouldn’t either have her sister Elizabeth killed or marry her off. 

“While Henri [ruler of France] was belatedly striving to keep England out of the war, Philip was as bent on bringing her in.  If Mary could not bear him a child, if she dared not crown him, if she would not, without the consent of Parliament, give Elizabeth to his friend and dependent the Duke of Savoy, there was only this one thing left.  Philip’s determination to have it was proportionate to his resentment at the other disappointments.”

During all of this, of course, heretics were being burned at the stake by the hundreds.  Mary had started out quite lenient, even sparing the lives of those who plotted for her throne.  Eventually, though, Prescott points out that Mary probably felt so betrayed by England and the Protestants who she had thought would come around, so desperate to prove something to her husband, that she hardened her heart, and the burnings went on. 

Maybe we could call it
Veggie Vodka instead?

Oh, it was a sad end for Mary.  The poor woman wanted so few things—to unite England in Catholicism, to be a good, godly wife.  She suffered through two false pregnancies, which is heartbreaking in itself.  Her husband did not deign to visit her on her death bed, though he sent envoys to express his concern or, more accurately, to urge Mary once again to marry Elizabeth to a Spaniard with promise of succession.  To her credit once again where Elizabeth is concerned, she refused.  Prescott says Mary did name Elizabeth as her heir, though a historical website mentions that Mary failed to name an heir, and therefore Elizabeth succeeded, because Henry had named her in his will after Edward.

 Mary heard mass one last time and died in 1558, leaving a terrible legacy behind, one that seems unduly harsh if a proper 16^th century context is imposed.   “Perhaps no other reign in English history has seen such a great endeavour made and so utterly defeated.  All that Mary did was undone, all she intended utterly unfulfilled.”  And even if I’m an ex-religioso, I gotta love the way Prescott wrapped it up, with the whole bit about casting the first stone.  “If her enemies could have brought her, as Pharisees brought another woman, to Christ…He might again have stooped down, written in the dust, and then, looking up, dismissed them with the same unanswerable word.” 

Every Child a Wanted Child

Today is the 39^th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, and it’s Blog for Choice day.  I thought this was the appropriate time to share my second abortion story, because my second abortion didn’t involve complications or drawn-out denial or an abusive partner—it was a more typical experience, I think, and I think it’s just as important to share this story.   

After my first abortion, I didn’t go on birth control because I wasn’t seeing anyone and I didn’t see the point.  A couple of years later I started seeing someone, and became pregnant again (no condom.  Yes, stupid.)  I told the father and he told me he was supportive of whatever decision I made.  I didn’t hesitate.  It is still amazing to me that through the years, though I’ve been willing to sacrifice a lot of things for a man, and though I’ve avoided confrontation with others by being passive-aggressive, I’ve always, always been able to stand firm when it came to my reproductive choices.  It’s not even difficult for me. 

The father accompanied me and I went and got my abortion, by the same wonderful woman, Dr. Susan Wicklund.  And this time when the nurse asked me at my follow-up visit if I was interested in a birth control pill, I said yes. 

I don’t regret either of my abortions.  I couldn’t imagine being tied to either of those men in any way.  I grew up positive I didn’t want to have kids, which probably fueled my pro-choice slant from early on, and I only changed my mind when I met someone who somehow made me believe I could be a mother, who just took it for granted I could be a good mother, when I’d always seen myself as someone who’d be terrible at and who would also hate it.   

My welfare is different

 The other day I was working at my medical transcription, typing typing typing away, when I got distracted by the Facebook.  Specifically, by a conversation started by a family member—a cousin by marriage.  In my tiny hometown in Montana, I’m related either directly or by marriage to juuuust about everyone.  But anyway, that’s neither here nor there.  The conversation, or what can be better described as a confusing and frightening narrative, started off thusly:

No food for you!

 "I was n store other day an a ma n pa n kid in buyn carton of cigs 2gal coke n rentn movies! Odd thng is they wur talkn 2 man bout needn food frm food bank an cuz they had already ben there ths mnth. The man askd if they had any cash? Nope pay day is nx week was there anser! Now they had money 4 pop movies n cigs tho! Heres the kicker... Payday as they cald it is actualy wen they get their welfare an disablity n food stamps.  Now it was all i cud do 2 get out the door wthout getn throd in jail!!"

Wow.  He was so upset, he almost got throd in jail, y’all.  Let’s ignore the terrible spelling, if we can, because I really don’t want to say that my cousin is stupid. Because I have no idea if he is.  But smart people are bad spellers too, so I’m not gonna jump on his ass too much about that.  Plus, he was probably updating from his phone, right there at the store.  Or perhaps he was so upset that he had to wait until he got to his pickup truck to clumsily and angrily tap his message. I mean, how upset do you have to be to almost get throd in jail?  I’d bet pretty upset. 

From there, my own brother decided to jump in.  My brother is super smart and quick-witted.  He’s also kind of a dick.  Here’s the rest of the conversation, salted heavily with my own pissed off outbursts.  Oh, and I’m giving them all fun pseudonyms.  So the starting comment was Cousin Elmer. 

Brother Buck:  Good thing YOU were going to work.  Somebody has to pay for these losers’ cigs and movies and food stamps.  By the way, I think jail time would’ve been totally worth it.

For the past seven years my family and I have utilized WIC, food stamps, and Medicaid. Now, I’m no Geometry genius, but I think that his equation is insulting to me.  Wait....yep, yep it is. 

People who use food stamps = losers. 

I have used food stamps. 

I = loser. 

Got it.  My brother thinks I’m a loser.  I’m feeling like ranting, but first, let’s keep listening as this unfolds:

Cousin Bocephus:  I’m with (brother Buck).  Should have asked him if he’d ever tryed suckin on a cig with a split lip.

Cousin Marcia May:  and they VOTE, too.  (angry face)

Brother Buck:  of COURSE they vote.  Can you say Obama?

Cousin Elmer:  u wnd bleve these peopl.  Peopl took food an clothes 4 kids 4 chrsmas...The man tels people he needs shoes n pants also. Wthout so much as a thnkyou!  Oh an house smokd up with leftys an one of kids has asthma! Berta may jus have a runaway! Wups

Hey, he knows what a lefty is?!   Huh.  Other than that, I'm confused.  Who is Berta?  Is she a ewe?  a cow?  A person? Where was Elmer that he heard this awful man expressing his need for shoes and pants, without properly prostrating himself before Elmer?  How does Elmer know the kid has asthma?  But let’s move on, because it gets sooooo much better.  And by better, I mean worse.  Way worse. 

Elmer:  Harry Schmerg postd 2day that iges 4 states drug tst b4 welfare! Shud b all 50 butgood that 4 do now

Buck:  I’ve heard the argument that drug testing welfare recipients is unconstitutional (mostly from people on welfare) If that is the case, then drug testing people who actually want to work for a living is obviously unconstitutional as well.

Elmer:  I thnk that habitual welfare tards shud hav to wear similar outfits like convicts and actualy go bak 2 real foodstamps nstead of debit cards and gther n the mornin so real wrkn folk cn come pk em up and make them wrk 4 their wlfare!  Does that make me an ass?

See, he’s not stupid, he can spell and use “habitual” correctly!  Um, but yeah, Elmer, it certainly DOES make you an ass.  Well, I was thinking assHOLE, but yeah.  Pretty much.   I’m feeling super ranty...must hold off...a bit longer...

Bocephus:  here’s an idea, you always hear of people saying “I’m on welfare ‘cause there ain’t no jobs,” but there seems to be a never ending supply of community service projects.  If you sign up for welfare, welcome to the wonderful world of community service.  Since community is taking care of you, why not pitch in and take care of community.  Mow a lawn, trim a tree, serve lunch at senior center, at least then I won’t feel like my money is being wasted. 

Bocephus, again:  My JOB is right across the street from the food bank.  Once a month I witness droves of brand new vehicles with $5000 wheel and tire packages and $3000 stereos picking up boxes of donated food.  When I go to the grocery store, I end up in line behind the same people and witness them buying five carts full and paying with there foodstamps. 

Hmmm. Cousin Bocephus certainly spends a lot of time watching the people across the street—I mean, he knows them so well he recognizes them in the grocery store.  Does his boss know about this? 

Marcia May:  don’t know if I’d go so far as a “welfare uniform” Grud LOL but I DO think the baloney move to “save the self esteem” of those using food stamps is totally counter-productive.  You shouldn’t be usin’ em unless you NEED em and if you NEED em then there’s no shame in using em.  I would be ALL for the expectation of completing community service appropriate to the needs/abilities of the individual (wait...that sounds kind of like a JOB, right)...think that would thin the herd QUITE a bit...if people are going to be compelled work, they might just get the hang of it and figure it adventageous to pursue a job where they get paid in more than government cheese...also not opposed to the idea of compelling birth control...if you’re having trouble feeding the ones you got, you probably shouldn’t have any MORE right now



from ejmassa.com



Wait.  Wait.  My partner had some input here.  “What?!  She’s dissin on my government cheese?!  What the fuck’s she know about government cheese?”  My partner spent a lot of years on the Crow and Northern Cheyenne reservations, and he knows from government cheese.  I’m pretty sure my cousin does not know from government cheese.  When my partner (I’m gonna call him High Hawk since we’re all about pseudonyms here—but that’s actually his Native name) and I moved in together, his parents gave us some food, and among that was a box of government mac and cheese.  I cooked it up while High Hawk was at work.  I couldn’t eat it.  The cheese’s texture was something between milk and snot, it stuck to your mouth and filmed up your teeth.  High Hawk came home and ate a huge bowl of it.  Marcia May is, of course, using the term’s derogatory sense, an idea more than an actual block of hard cheese. A metaphor, even.  Marcia goes on to declare that if she was in a desperate situation, she’d be happy to comply with all of this.  Not only would she comply, she’d be “dadgum grateful to do it.”  Ooooookaay. Not buyin that shit for a second.  Walk a mile, lady, you know the saying.

Finally, Elmer declares that he has never gone more than six days without a job, ever.  So:

Elmer has never had trouble finding a job =

You and Elmer are both humans =

You have never had trouble finding a job

I’m getting super good at this math thing, I think. 

Now, I get to rant.  

Oops!  Wrong finger.



It is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS what I buy with my food stamps.  Fuck you for thinking you get to dictate what someone buys with their food stamps.  THEIR food stamps.  Not yours.  I don’t give a shit if you pay taxes for my food stamps.  I pay taxes for your firefighters and your police officers.  I pay for your kids’ schooling.  I pay for your farm subsidies, you know, welfare for farmers.  Yep, looked it up, and Elmer is on the welfare too.  In fact, a lot of my relatives are farmers who received subsidies, and a lot of them rail against welfare and the lazy bums who accept it. 

My brother, Buck?  Declared bankruptcy a few years back.  I’ve been there too, after I got divorced about a decade ago.  But isn’t bankruptcy a bailout by the government?  Isn’t bankruptcy another form of welfare? 

So my family’s probably not really against welfare.  They’re just against my welfare and your welfare.  Theirs is different.  They are different. 

Not long ago I had a pretty decent Facebook convo with Bocephus about guns.  I asked him what he thought about being able to carry a concealed weapon into a bar.  Bocephus has a concealed carry permit or whatever, and he’s taken training, and he’s a responsible gun owner.  I’m not against guns.  If I thought I could have one in the house without it being a danger to my kids and also being able to get to it in time, I would.  My cousin Bocephus said he personally would never consider bringing his concealed weapon anywhere if he even thought he was going to drink, and he thought most gun owners were the same way.  I had to admit to myself that I’d never really thought that most gun owners might be responsible like he is.  Instead I thought of the worst case scenario.  So I told my cousin that maybe I was wrong about that, and that if most gun owners thought and acted like he did, we were in good shape.

And yet my cousins and my brother all fail to recognize that a LOT of people on welfare DO have jobs.  I actually am not on the welfare right now.  I graduated!  But like I said, for almost seven years I’ve needed help.  For all of those seven years, I worked full-time.  High Hawk worked, too.  I still needed help.  That’s what they don’t get—a lot of us are working as hard as we can, as much as we can, when we can.  And “there ain’t no jobs” is the fucking truth—more for some populations than others, obviously.  There are always some who will abuse the system, like the farmers who got paid to grow things they actually didn’t grow, and so the government had to start flying over to make sure welfare fraud was not being committed.  Like those who knowingly and foolishly take on too much debt and have to declare bankruptcy. 

And finally.  Even if you weren’t getting handouts too, pals, and even if I wasn’t working, you still don’t get to be supreme commander of purchases.  If I want to buy a bag of chips and ice cream for dinner, FUCK YOU.  I’m having Doritos and mint chocolate chip.  The reality is, you aren’t paying for welfare anymore than anyone’s paying for your handouts and everything else that taxes go to.

So fuck your segregation and forced birth control (I’m pretty sure sterilization of the poor would have made its way into the conversation if it would have gone on).  I hope someone follows you around and catalogues your purchases and activities and looks down their nose at you and judges you and then rants about subsidies and bankruptcy…and hypocrisy. 

Four out five parents agree: questions are a good thing!

The mommy wars are still raging.  Parents judge each other so harshly that it seems no one wins when it comes to a variety of topics like giving birth the “right” way, breastfeeding, free-range parenting, television watching habits, proper age for things like earrings, cell phones, walking home alone, issues of discipline, etc., etc., etc., and, of course, vaccination.  A couple of months ago I wrote a guest post  for The Feminist Breeder  in which I expressed my surprise that many of my cohorts in the pro-choice movement, who vehemently defend any woman’s right to choose, seem very much anti-choice when it comes to vaccinations, both for children and adults.  I am all for choice when it comes to vaccines.  I’m not anti-vaccine, but I’m definitely a skeptic, and have decided from now on to research vaccines and do what I think is best on a case-by-case basis. 

            When it comes to the HPV vaccine case, I have made my decision.  My daughters and my son and any future children I may have will not receive the HPV vaccine while it is my decision to make.  When they are old enough they may choose for themselves.  I have a real problem with the vaccine, and it’s not because of the way the virus is spread.  I have two  main problems with Gardasil in particular (not having read too much about Cervarix, a less popular HPV vaccine by a different company). 

EFFICACY.  According to WebMD, the vaccine is proven to be effective for at least four years, and maybe longer.  Long-term effects are not known.  (How could they be?  The vaccine only came out six years ago!)  So, it might last for five years?  Six?  Gardasil is now recommended for females and males from about age 9 to 26.  So if a person received the series at 9 years of age, they’re going to be protected until they’re 14 or so.  Then what, a booster?  A series of boosters?  According to the American Cancer Society, cervical cancer occurs mostly in mid-life, usually under 50 years of age but rarely in those under 20 years of age.  Multiple booster shots would likely be necessary to keep immunity up.  The vaccine works to protect against those strains that are most likely to cause cancer ONLY if sexual activity hasn’t begun yet. 

So if my nine year-old hasn’t had sex (cripes, did I just have to type that?  Ack!), they’re protected against four strains for at least four years.  If my child has begun sexual activity by the time they receive the injections, and they have been exposed to one of the four strains, “catch-up” vaccines may be useful in protecting against the other three strains.  But then again, they may not.  The American Cancer Society says “the independent panel making the Society recommendations found that there was not enough proof that catch-up vaccination for all women age 19 to 26 would be beneficial.” 

While writing this I attempted to find an article or piece of information discussing this discrepancy.  Why vaccinate our children for something they are not likely to contract until middle age?  Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait if the protection lasts for only four years?  I found nothing in my search for discussion about Gardasil’s length of efficacy.  I’m not satisfied with the gap here.  If I were to seriously consider this vaccination, I would want to know how long my kids would be protected, and they would also deserve to know if they would need to continue to receive boosters throughout their lives. 

It’s generally agreed, at least, that Pap smears remain a necessity even if a woman has had the vaccination.  Pap screening can catch atypical cells and precancerous cells, and the rise in the percentage of women getting regular Paps has led to better detection of atypical and/or cancerous cells, which has led to fewer deaths from cervical cancer. 

But wait.  So women should get Paps regularly.  Obviously.  Now, here’s an argument I have come across a few times, or something along these lines:  “Pap smears are great, but lots of women don’t get regular Paps!  This vaccine is here to protect them.”  Still, no one’s denying that Paps are still necessary, even with the vaccine.  My question is this:  If these people see women as neglecting their health screening, or being too busy to get in to see their doctor, why do they think these same women could make it into the office three times in less than a year?  I mean, getting to the doctor is getting to the doctor is getting to the doctor.  This reasoning is faulty. 

And so was Governor Rick Perry’s when he attempted to mandate the HPV vaccine back in 2007.  Perry mentioned that he could overlook the government encroachment on parents’ rights because he erred “firmly on the side of protecting life.”  Does Perry…wait.  Does anyone think that the majority of parents out there aren’t doing their damndest to protect their child’s life?  I mean, sure, there are crappy parents out there, crappy guardians, crappy grandparents, who don’t care much what happens to their wards.  But I stand by this.  Most parents are doing what they think is best for their child.  And when we’re informed, we can do that.  Lots of parents conclude that Gardasil or Cervarix is right for their child—but not all parents, and that’s their right. If we all know all the information, we should be free to take our own paths, right?  Right?  And even when folks don’t know all the information (I didn’t research anything my doctor told me to do before a couple of years ago), they still want what’s best and safest for their kids.  I did then, when I followed the recommended vaccination schedule, and I do now, when I will not be fully vaccinating my youngest.

SIDE EFFECTS.  Look, there’s a lot of stuff out there about how many people have been injured by or had reactions to Gardasil, according to the VAERS reports.  I’m aware that there’s no way to verify that the reactions were definitively caused by the vaccine.  Correlation does not equal causation and all that.  However.  For me and my kids, any risk of serious reactions is too high, especially when the vaccine has higher reaction/injury reports than other vaccines. 

Currently in California, the HPV vaccine is being offered to 12 year-olds without their parents’ knowledge or consent.  Now, if a person has talked to their child about the vaccine and decided it’s the right choice for them or the wrong choice for them, it’s probably no big deal.  The kid can say yes or no according to what they and their guardian have decided (unless, of course, there are attempts at coercion, which is not unheard of).  But lots of folks don’t have all the information and they’re trusting that the school administration would not do something to harm their children.  And I can pretty much guarantee that the school nurse is not giving the tweens information on the VAERS or length of efficacy. 

Another thing that surprises me about the pro-choice, environmentalist, eco-feminist crowd I mingle with online is that they don’t question the vaccine, and all vaccines.  We are people who question every single thing that goes into our kids’ bodies.  Some people don’t allow their kids to have sugar—others forbid sugar substitutes.  A lot of us try not to use unnatural food dyes.  We check to see if there’s BPA in our plastic.  So it makes perfect sense to me that this crowd in particular would wonder about each and every thing that is ingested by or injected into our children, especially vaccines. But again and again I’ve found that those who advocate for informed consent in almost every other issue, are not OK with me deciding not to vaccinate. 

Since when did doctors become so elevated?  Lots of comments on articles against the HPV vaccine mention that doctors surely have more knowledge than us moms, so we should trust them.    

Let me get this straight.  We often get second opinions when we’re not sure a doctor is right or when we feel more eyes are needed on the situation. We remain wary of C-section-happy doctors.  Why, then, should our trust be blind when it comes to vaccines?  As in all occupations, even those which require much schooling, there are bad doctors.  Ill-informed doctors.  Stubborn doctors.  Asshole doctors. 

I really love it when I find an article on vaccination that is reasonable and rational.  Sharon Begley wrote a great one at The Daily Beast, which actually argues for the HPV vaccine, but acknowledges the opposition’s concerns instead of writing skeptics or anti-vaxxers off as ignorant or selfish.  Over at Evil Slut Clique, you can find two separate blog posts with information about Gardasil.  Check those out, because that’s what a real conversation about the HPV vaccine looks like.  I just don’t have any use for articles that slam doors and hurl insults.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with asking questions about Gardasil and every vaccine and medication—actually, it seems just the opposite to me.  I find Gardasil’s statement on the website telling:  “Only a doctor or health care professional can decide if GARDASIL is right for you or your child.”


This article is cross-posted at The Vaccine Machine.