In her 61st suggestion, Maggie instructs us to collect some of our best ever blog posts into a list. Here's mine:
She'd call all the time, asking us to run to the store for her, and later to come up and rub her feet.
As far as I am concerned, good work ethic means taking pride in the job you are doing, getting what needs to be done and done well, and doing things that need to be done without being specifically intstructed to do so. Period. Busy work does not require good work ethic.
Well, I'm not going. Not because I don't think things might not be more pleasant elsewhere--they certainly might be. Not even because I don't believe the sky is really falling right now, I think we're just in a trough and things will get better again, even if we have to endure four more years of Shrub first. Because this is my country and goddammit they are not going to chase me out!
About a year ago, I was talking to my mom on the phone. Often, mom's phone calls can be summarized in list form: "Who Died," "Who Got Sick," "Who Had a Baby," and "Who is Pregnant" are the usual categories, with a fair sprinkle of "Who Got Married" and "Who Got Divorced." This was a "Who Got Sick" list.
I've wondered quite a bit, over the years since this happened, if it showed a lack of self respect that I didn't quit on my own. I've also wondered if, given the time to think it over, I would have quit on my own eventually. I'd like to think I would have, but I was 14, you know? I've also come to realize that of all of the things that were yelled at me during this experience, it wasn' being called a worthless cunt or a stupid bitch that dug the deepest--it was being told that I have no self-respect.
I'm fat, but I'm not part of their tradition. My arms may look just like my mom's, but she wears her's without a thought, as part of who she is, while I try to hide mine. I don't revel in the things my body can do, and I certainly don't use it to make my living. I eat with shame, guilt, petulance, but never gusto. And I wonder, since I'm never going to be skinny, if I can learn to be fat like them?
Which, of course, made me think of my cervix. Because really, who were more into cervixes (cervi?) than 1970s feminists?
I loved Cash's booming voice and Willie's smooth one, and it took me many more years to realize that Kris Kristofferson really doesn't have much of a voice at all. I really believed Waylon was a cowboy, and I was more impressed than scandalized when somebody told me The Hag had spent time in the penitentiary. Looking back on it now, I doubt my parents intended me to see these men as heroes, but I certainly did.
My friend T. recently asked me for a list of my favorite feminist books, to use for a book review website project he's putting together. Unable to contain myself with the joy of this task, I put together a fairly comprehensive list (though I edited it down quite a bit). It was so much fun, I thought I'd share it here.
There are people, I'm sure, who will argue that books about romantic relationships (always heterosexual, always ending in marriage) are just what woman want to read. I don't buy it. I think that's what we're taught to want to read, from Jane Austen through Jennifer Werner. And it's not enough. We're selling ourselves short, both as readers and as writers. Relegating ourselves to chit lit. Which is downstairs, by romance.
That may well make me the crazy dog lady, but so be it. There are worse things to be.
And that your dog, no matter how great you think s/he is, is not an exception to this rule.
As far as I know, she died in the state mental hospital. She never got to mother her babies. She never got to make her own decisions. She lost her freedom, and then she lost part of her brain.
The topic of this pain doesn't go away. It peaks and wanes, but it's always there, and not just as a reason for House's drug addiction, but as a topic in and of itself.
We're killing ourselves with our own consumption. Creating these mountains and mountains of trash that isn't trash at all, until we're all buried under it, and all the time buying more and more new stuff.