Even You Can Help Make the World Safe for Young Feminists

So, tonight we went over the tentative schedule for Act Like a GRRRL!, discussed the amazing things our cooters can do when in the mood, and ate ice cream sandwiches.

I just want to state for the record that, even though my sexual repertoire consists mostly of trying not to choke to death on my own self and trying to refrain from calling up various folks and announcing “I’m having sex, right now.  Yes, with someone else!” I had intelligent things to say both about the G-spot and female ejaculation. 

So, that was nice.

Anyway, we’ve decided to put together a cook book of simple but yummy recipes and that’s where y’all come in.

Give me your greatest easy to whoop up dish that a teenager with little experience in the kitchen could manage.  And I will collect them and put them in a little handy booklet for the girls in Act Like a GRRRL!

If any of you have any questions about female ejaculate or your G-Spot, I guess we could try to cover that as well.

Ha, no, really, it hurts when I laugh, but damn the thought of a long discussion about food and sex just makes me happy.

Here, I’ll ask a question to get us started.  Ice cubes on your cooterial region.  Whose bad idea was that?  Or, maybe more appropriately, what am I doing wrong?  It seems like it should be all erotic and fun, what with the cold and the hard and the messing around down there, but I find it kind of painful and then you’re numb and then what’s the point?

Saving the World One Cooter at a Time

I’m off to have dinner with the folks who are putting together Act Like a GRRRL! this year.  I’m going to feed them cheese quesadillas and chips and queso.  And I am going to sing this little song:

I have a cooter

You have a cooter

We have cooters together!

All who have a cooter, all around the world, yes, we are girls, together.

At which point, my dad will sense the desecration of a perfectly fine hymn, but be unable to reach me, because I left my cell phone at home.  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, as the evil villains say.

‘Foreign’ Invasion

Brittney’s asking all kinds of immigration related questions over at NiT and David Oatney’s hollering about how “The feds are supposed to enforce immigration law and protect us from foreign invasion, which this influx of illegal aliens certainly is.”

Y’all, nonsense like this makes me have to put my head down on my desk.  Just for a minute, just until it clears.

America, from 1535 to 1821, this was the vice-royalty of New Spain.  Please take a look and see just how much of the current United States was covered by this.  Everyone who was living in this area at that time was, by definition, as a subject of Spain, Spanish.  In fact, your family could have been sitting in St. Louis and been French, Spanish, French again, and then United-States-ian all without ever leaving your home.

My point is that, while people from Mexico can certainly be in this country illegally, calling them ‘foreigners’ seems to me to be so intellectually dishonest as to cause me a headache.  That a man from Juarez and a man from Dubuque are from two different countries now is a fluke of history.  These are not people who are foreign to us.  These are people whose histories are entwined with ours and have been since 1492.

Also, yes, there are actual bad guys who mean folks harm coming over from Mexico illegally, but by and large, the folks who come here are unarmed civilians who are just looking for work and a better quality of life.  Calling them a foreign invasion makes you look like some kind of histrionic reactionary who doesn’t actually understand what an invasion is.

Listen, I’m a bleeding heart liberal.  I’m always going to stand with the downtrodden against the powerful*.  The thing that bothers me about illegal immigration is that we, as a country, seem to want to put all of the blame on illegal immigrants.  Let’s round them up and ship them off to detention camps in Louisiana.  Let’s have the cops check them against a database every time they pop up on the radar of the police.  Let’s continue to use language that makes it seem like illegal immigrants are dirty, disease-ridden vermin who are invading our country and ruining it.

And all this does is make it harder and harder for undocumented workers to receive anything like justice.  As long as their employers know they’re here illegally, those employers own them.  They can pay them whatever they like and do with them what they like, because, should they be found out, the unbearable cost of being separated from their families is on the workers, not on the businesses that hire them.

This level of immigration reform ought to be so damn easy.  If you are here illegally, you should be given a chance to rectify that.  Come forward, prove you’re contributing to society (either because you have a job or because you’re raising a family), get in the system, make restitution of some sort, pay some damn fines, and get right with the government.

And yet, our overwhelming desire for vengeance–How dare these folks sneak in here and steal our jobs?–prevents us from dealing compassionately with people who are here because we have jobs for them.

It should be on corporations to not hire illegal immigrants.  If that’s the law, that’s the law.  And if they can’t police themselves and if the feds won’t, the solution is not to turn around and punish the folks who just want a job.

My point is that we keep acting like these people, who work with us, who worship with us, who eat with us, who drink at our bars, whose kids go to school with our kids, are not like us, that they’re “foreign” and invasive.  But they are us; they are here with us; they share history with us.

Fearing them as a horde is intellectually dishonest and doesn’t actually advance any discussion about immigration reform.


*I hope.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll get a little power someday and embarrass myself with my rapid descent into corporatism.

Fine, I’ll Admit It

I’m still fucking sick.  It’s probably the same damn crap I’ve had since the Super Genius’s wedding.  I just can’t shake it.

Mainly, I can’t breathe and it’s making me grouchy and it’s negatively affecting my time with Mrs. Wigglebottom because I don’t have any energy, because I can’t breathe, and so I haven’t been taking her for walks like I should, because I can’t breathe, and I’m at the point where I suspect that a long walk, no matter how slow, might do me some good, but I feel so crappy that I’d rather not.

Still, I keep telling myself that I feel better now than I did.  I’ve been leaving that time I felt worse vague and undefined so that I don’t have to face up to how long I’ve just been feeling kind of crappy.

Because sitting down and admitting to myself that I’ve felt like crap for a month and that I’ve been on and off sick since last fall begs the question, why don’t I go to the doctor?

America, I’m going to be honest with you.  I would rather be sick than go to the doctor.

I’ll give you three guesses why and the first two don’t count.

I’m sick.  From the feel of it, I might have a little bronchitis.  I read what’s going on in the Nashville blogosphere–a lot of people have had a touch of the crud all spring.

But if I go into the doctor, it’s going to turn into some giant lecture about how fat I am.  I know this because every trip to the doctor, my whole damn life, has been a lecture about how fat I am.

Yes, from the time I was old enough to be lectured to about being fat, I have, indeed, been lectured to about being fat.  I get it.  It’s unhealthy; it’s gross; I’m going to die early; no one will ever love me.  Every weight I’ve ever weighed has brought me that lecture.

I get it.  I suck.  I’m not trying hard enough.  Don’t I understand the health risks, etc. etc. etc.

Yes.  I am not stupid.  I have heard you from the time I weighed 50 pounds until now.

And yes, I am being stupid, but god damn it.  I’m just sick.  I just need some antibiotics and something to loosen up whatever’s sitting in my chest.  I don’t need the lecture about how I’m a failure as a person and as a woman that goes with me showing up in your office.

So, I’m not going.

I am thinking about hanging out near the hospital and mugging pharmaceutical reps, though.