Beautiful Things to Look At

I was looking for pictures of watermelons and discovered Boris Kustodiev, who is a Russian artist from the turn of the last century.  Did I ever tell you guys about my brief attempt to learn Russian?  See, I went to some piddly high schools and I got to college and everyone had taken Spanish, so I was afraid to take Spanish for fear that I would be terribly behind, so I took Russian as my language requirement, because I figured no one would have a leg up on me there.

I also worked in the cafeteria with a lanky Russian and a cute Ukrainian.  I worked on the line serving food and they were the guys who ran you full dishes of, in this case, lasagna.  And that evening they were insisting that I practice my basically non-existent Russian skills.  They would not bring me more lasagna until I asked for it in Russian.

So, imagine, if you will, me, finishing up the pan and I shout out “Я кончу” thinking that I’m yelling “I’m finishing.”  “What?!” they say, in English, too, so I knew I was in trouble.  “Я кончу?”

“Oh, ha ha ha ha ha.”

Turns out, in Russian slang, if you don’t say what you’re finishing, you’ve just yelled out across the cafeteria, “I’m having an orgasm.”

Hmph.  The lasagna wasn’t that good.

Still, once you can say “пиво” in one Slavic language, you can pretty much make yourself understood in all of them, and that, my friends, is what’s important.

And if any drunken Russian three year olds want to talk about cows, cookies, milk, or vodka, I am ready to chat.

Anyway, where were we?  Oh, beautiful things to look at.


The Merchant’s Wife.  See?  Watermelon!


Russian Venus, which is, I believe, what is says right there on that piece of paper.

Speaking of women as gods, have y’all seen this?

I Almost Wish My Vagina Were as Mysterious and Powerful as Campfield Thinks It Is

You know how “sacred” has that sense of both “holy” and “cursed” in it?  That the sacred thing is something so powerful and weird and not of this world that it has to be set aside and only talked about under certain circumstances and in certain ways and that it has special powers able to tear at the fabric of society if messed around with too much?

It’s really hard, when looking at the legislation Campfield is trying to get passed, as a whole, to not get a sense of my vagina as some ancient, sacred thing–like the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark–that Campfield is trying to keep closed except under special ritual circumstances in order to keep it from melting the flesh off people.

How sacred is my vagina?

It is so sacred that parents should be able to keep their children from learning about what it does in school (HB0811).  So taboo that advertisements for it should be subject to a 25% sales tax (HB0809) and that, if you want to look at it, you should be charged an “amusement tax” (HB0810).  So mysterious and full of danger is my vagina that we must forbid kids from even learning that there are other things you can do with it besides have babies (HB0821).

According to Campfield, my vagina is so powerful and mysterious that it can fool a man into raising a kid that’s not his without his knowledge and trick him into paying child support for a child he isn’t genetically related to (HB0805).  My vagina has magical powers that confir legal personhood on the fetuses that die just north of it (HB0807 & HB0819) in some cases causing a person to be issued a death certificate before he or she has the legal ability to be dead.

But the most amazing power my vagina has, unbeknownst to me, is that it has the ability to defy the Constitution and make a nation appear between my legs (HB0817).  Yes, you see, in real life, if you are born in the United States, you are a United States citizen.  But in the fantasy world where a vagina has special, sometimes evil, powers, passing through it on your way into the world irrevocably taints you with the homeland of your mother.  You can’t even get a Tennessee birth certificate, because, even though it may have seemed to the doctors and nurses who were there, that you were indeed born in Tennessee, my vagina is so powerful as to make that not true.  We can’t be certain of where you were born.  We cannot issue you a birth certificate.

Fear my great and powerful vagina!  Step off, Stacy Campfield, or I will wiggle my hips suggestively in your direction!  Bow to me, Campfield, and quiver before its slippery pink awesomeness!  And then, run in terror!  Legislate against it all you want.  My vagina will simply wait for its chance to leap out of the dark and smother you with its magical powers!!!!!  (That’s right.  You’d better not keep the legislative parking garage too warm [HB0813].  It’s easier for a vagina to do its work in a warm parking garage and you never know when is going to spring.)

Bwah ha ha ha ha!

Campfield’s Anti-Fatherhood Campaign

Rachel wrote about Campfield’s nonsense last night, too.  And she noticed something interesting.  Campfield has submitted a bill (HB0807) that replicates state law 68-3-504.  And when I say “replicates,” I mean “is almost word for word the same in the short form” in that it requires all miscarried pregnancies later than 22 weeks to be reported, which is the law right now.

This is an ongoing trend with the Republicans and their social issues–make repeated laws that accomplish the same thing to… to what end?  A girl wonders.

And then your eye might drift to the second page of the bill and read:

(And I just have to warn you that we are about to enter a realm of such cruel jackassery that I almost cannot believe Campfield can walk around and look women in the eye.)

If the mother was married at the time of conception, birth or fetal death, or anytime between conception, birth or fetal death, to the natural father of the child, the name of the child shall be entered on the certificate as that of the natural father, except that where the mother though married has retained the mother’s maiden surname, then on sworn application of both parents, the child’s surname to be entered on the birth certificate may be the maiden surname of the child’s mother, or both surnames as the parents mutually agree.


If the mother was not married at the time of conception, birth or fetal death, or between conception and birth or fetal death, the name of the father shall not be entered on the certificate of birth, and the surname of the child shall be that of the legal surname of the mother. All information pertaining to the father shall be omitted.

Let this sink in for just a second.  Remember, we’re talking about people who miscarry pregnancies that are over 22 weeks along, meaning that the fetus is either viable or just about.  If you’re the father, you’ve been able to place your hands on the woman’s stomach and feel that child move.  And Campfield is saying that, if that baby dies in utero, if you’re not married to the mom, you’re not legally that baby’s father.  In the eyes of the state, you didn’t lose anything.

Imagine this.  Let’s say you have a woman you’re deeply in love with and you find out you’re getting shipped to Iraq.  You ask her to marry you upon your return.  While you’re overseas, she calls to tell you that the last night you spent together resulted in her being pregnant.  Now you’re even more excited about getting home and marrying that girl.

If she miscarries, Campfield says, “Fuck you.  You’re the dad of nothing.”

These are the Family Values Campfield’s trying to advance.  If you’re not going to play by his rules, he wants the right to turn your personal family tragedies into a chance for him to teach you a lesson about the importance of being married.

As far as he’s concerned, a family isn’t something you decide to be; it’s something the state gets to decide to let you be.  And, if you aren’t married to the woman you love before you start fucking her, you’re not a family and any kids you have with her aren’t yours.  If she miscarries, Campfield doesn’t even think you’ve lost anything and he wants the law to reflect that.

I Have a Bud!

NM said I couldn’t have daffodils until I had not only green above ground, but a bud that would then develop into a blossom.

Well, science folks with your science logic, I am delighted to report that I have a bud!  One bud among the green stuff out by the rose.

How soon until it opens?