Just Make It Your Part-time Job!

Oh, my friends, here is the secret to being thin, if you’re genetically predisposed to being fat–just get three to four hours a day of moderate exercise.  That’s right.  Only three to four hours a day.

Where can you find this time?  Well, for starters, send your children to the orphanage.  You can’t work eight hours a day and then get four hours of exercise and sleep eight hours and feed and care for your children.  There’s just not time.  So, the children must go.

Unless you like your children, in which case, you could become a part of an Amish community.  When you’re subsistance farming in order to survive in a pre-industrial world, together as a family, you’ll all be thin, regardless of what your genetic make-up is.

No good as a farmer?  No problem.  Dr. Soren Snitker has you covered.  He even claims it’s not that hard.  Instead of taking the elevator, take the stairs.  Because nothing says “I’m a professional” like taking four hours out of your work day to walk up and down the stairs.  Instead of watching tv, take a four hour brisk walk in the evenings.  Or walk slowly away from your house for two and a half hours and then run back to your house in an hour and a half after you realize you’ve left your kids alone for four hours after dinner, again.  Walk instead of driving.  Assuming that the average person walks four miles an hour and that you’ll have to walk both to the place you’re going and home from there, you will need to live approximately eight miles from work, church, and the store.  Again, nothing says “professional” like showing up to work after a two-hour walk.  And nothing says “I love my family” like leaving at six in the morning to be at work by eight to your job, which is just a ten or twenty minute drive from your home.  Or, best yet, you could swim, for four hours a day.

No word from Dr. Snitker about whether it’s okay to drive to the pool or if you’re supposed to walk there instead.

Four hours of exercise a day.  I’m going to be laughing about that for the rest of the week.  Yes, America, just take up a part-time job, and you’ll be skinny in no time.  Ha, I don’t think I know anyone who can climb stairs for four hours a day without taking a break.  And I’ll probably never meet anyone who can do that, because she’ll be too busy climbing stairs.

An Open Letter to the People of Milligan College

Hello, People of Milligan,

Congratulations on discovering the joys of dancing and welcome.  Well, sort of.  You see, as flattered as I am to see so many of you here, it also kind of creeps me out, because, I, of course, have no idea why you’re here, seeing as how the forum from which you’re arriving is closed to me.

That’s fine.  I’m just left to wonder, are you here as a part of a class?  If so, I wonder how you all arrived at the notion that, in an interactive medium such as blogging, it is more appropriate to just read and discuss amongst yourselves.  Does that mean you subscribe to a theoretical framework in which the author’s intent and insight into her own motivations can be disregarded?  And, if so, how does that work with such an intimately autobiographical form as blogging?

But, if you’re not here as a part of a class, what brings you here?  And why don’t you comment?  I mean, it’s not like lurkers are required to comment (unless their names are Kevin.  Kevins must comment and be accounted for but that’s another story.), but when they arrive in an organized fashion, it’s nice if they mention why they’re here.  Are y’all tourists?  Should I be pointing out interesting landmarks you might not want to miss?

Just let me know.


Aunt B.

I Have to Marry My Dining Room

Okay, I can’t even keep track of all the folks I’ve threatened to marry over the years here at Tiny Cat Pants, but today I have see my future and it is the red walls of the dining room of my new house.  Mack’s wife helped me pick out the color and I was a little hesitant, to put it mildly.  But it is so beautiful.  It needs another coat, I think.  And yes we should have used primer (don’t even start.  I know.), but who can wait to slap a red like this on your walls?  Not us.

It’s a red that comes in somewhere between ruby slipper and old west bordello.  It makes me want to buy a gaudy chandelier.  And buy a corset and do whiskey shots while sitting on the lap of a man with his gun pressed against my thigh.  When you come into my dining room, you’ll have to listen to music that sounds like this.  And you’d better have money for the poker game.  And be sure to wear your frilly knickers because there will be can can dancing.

In other words, it’s awesome and excessive and it makes up for years of living with white walls.

The meeting with the electrician was also productive.  He did a couple of things that immediately endeared him to us–one, he seemed genuinely excited about the possibility of running the well pump off of solar power, though he decided we have too many trees around it to work; and two, he kept telling us stuff we didn’t need to bother to do.  Thanks to Beth for recommending him.  He is going to come in and fix our kitchen so that we can actually run appliances in it, including a dishwasher!

Otherwise, the Butcher is having folks over to paint tomorrow night.  I’m to buy pizza.  And continue taping, I assume.  I’m a taping fool, but I’ll do it gladly as long as I don’t have to tape the kitchen.  My bedroom is going to either be awesome or a disaster, but more on that later.

Well, It’s not Like Fear Itself is All that Small a Thing

I’m going to admit it, America, that one of the reasons I’ve been so happily focusing on my house and the transformation of the land it sits on into a landscape of woo-woo-y-ness, is that looking square at the world lately just scares the shit out of me.

I’m pissed that the Clinton candidacy, first, and now the Palin candi…

Okay, let’s talk frankly now, just for a second.  I’m struck, lately, by all the pundits asking if it’s okay to go after Palin’s husband, if the media should be reporting on all the time he spends in the state house.  I mean, fucking duh, folks.  Do you really think anybody can run a state by themselves?  Shoot, people, anyone, anyone at all who looks with clear open eyes at the front of a church can quickly figure out that the necessity of keeping women from being ministers is rooted in the plain fact that one person alone cannot do all the things a church needs to keep things moving along and the easiest way to get the labor the church needs without having to pay for it is to make the only channel women have to ministry that of marrying a minister and aiding him in his vocation.

For the most part, that is still very true with politicians–one man alone cannot govern and fund-raise and host things and keep track of appointments and do al the things one must do to run for office and run the office and having a smart, capable, person working along side of you, being there, but kind of invisible, is pretty damn helpful.

And it is invisible.  We, for the most part, don’t see what is right in front of our faces and, indeed, it takes something like seeing Todd Palin doing the exact thing that many female spouses do to have it click that it is mighty strange–in general–how much unpaid labor female spouses do and the mixed reasons they have for doing it.

But, I don’t see anyone going “Oh, hey, isn’t it weird what politicians’ spouses do without being elected or having any kind of oversight, all across the board,” instead, we’re just fixated on Todd Palin.

I’m afraid, just to get back to my point.  I am really afraid that somehow McCain’s going to win.

Okay, just to get off-point for a second, too.  One of the things I see is that there’s this idea that feminists are the pissed off women and that women untainted by feminism are somehow still content and happy and if only those feminists weren’t ruining it for everyone by stirring folks up, things would be fine.

I think you see this, too, with Palin’s nomination–this idea that she somehow proves that conservative values rule, even though, of course, the fact that she can even be nominated for vice president of a major party is precisely because liberal values are insidious (in a positive way).

Anyway, I keep thinking about Palin’s speech at the RNC because I was viscerally repulsed by it.  I thought she seemed mean and snide and I am scared to death to think that in November we might decide, as a nation, that we need more meanness and snideness leading our country.

But I’ve been thinking about it, too, in terms of those women who would never, ever consider themselves feminist, who, in fact, think that feminists are all hairy-legged lesbian sluts who steal people’s husbands just so that they can abort their babies, who sit in kitchens all across America while the men are out in the other room watching sports bitching about how much those men suck.

I mean, I can’t sit here and tell you that I don’t harbor some man-hating attitudes.  I do.  I grew up learning them in the kitchens and church basements of the Midwestern towns I grew up in.  One of the things I appreciate about feminism is that I see now that it is disrespectful of men to let them think that everything’s okay between us when I am secretly seething with discontent.  I don’t believe men are monsters and I do believe that they are capable of changing behavior we find harmful.

I’ve been thinking about Arthur Silber’s latest post, about Oscar Wilde’s Salome.

I don’t like Palin, as I’ve said.  And I recognize in her that visciousness that women who play by the rules and still feel screwed get.  But it makes me feel uneasy to see how the sentiment agaist her bubbles from a place of deep ugliness.

I remember, and this has been ages ago, sitting in a circle with a bunch of women in undergrad, students and professors, talking about whether we would change our names when we got married (or maybe if, but back then the whole idea of it being an “if” as if you ever could choose not to be married was a joke) and the College Professor said that it never occured to her to change her name, that she had shifted paradigms and it just didn’t come up.

And that has stuck with me–this idea of the personal paradigm shift–where you are living in one type of world right along side of people who are living in a much different type of world.

And for me, this election season has been about me skipping gaily through the meadow towards some happy place, hand in hand with all the people of America, only to look over and find that, actually, my hands are empty.

That’s hard to take, over and over again.

Kevin Census

I’m sorry to keep harping on this, folks, but yet again I am struck by the fact that I know no Kevins.  When I was growing up, I knew a shit-ton of Kevins–Kevin Smith, Kevin Appleton, Kevin Hill, that Kevin whose last name I can’t remember, the Kevin who ended up in rehab.  I’m just saying that, when I was in elementary school, one in thirty (or fewer) boys were named Kevin.

And now?

I know no Kevins.  I can only think of Kevin Sorbo as an adult Kevin I’ve even heard of.

Have the Kevins disappeared?  Are there just no Kevins in the South?  What’s going on?

So, I’m proposing an informal Kevin census.  Here’s what I need: How many Kevins do you know right now?  What are their approximate ages?  And where do they live (in general, let’s not stalk or startle the Kevins until we can get a successful breeding program started)?

Report in in the comments below.