In which we learn about orgasms.
I should have moved the garden between the shed and the driveway. It would have washed away, yes, but it would have been in a sunny spot. The dog and I went out to the garden this afternoon and it was like standing under a big green canopy. Okay, it wasn’t like that. It was that. Being out in the back yard is more like being in a breezy open green room.
Which is lovely, don’t get me wrong. I just wonder how the garden is going to end up. Everything seems happy, though. Even the transplanted watermelon seem quite chipper. And everything looks a little better now that it’s had a chance to de-waterlog. Still, if we could establish a schedule where it rained every three days, that would be really great, since I have not yet acquired the lengths of hose I’ll need to get out to the garden should I ever need to water it.
And the mole is dead. I don’t know if he was the only mole in the yard. It seemed like we had enough damage for an army. But I took the dog out and there he was, flat on his back, paws in the air, fat, happy, and dead. I didn’t see any signs of foul play, but I didn’t examine him that closely. I’d like to think that he finally gorged himself to death. I, of course, screamed and told the dog to leave it alone. This, of course, caused the dog to immediately come over and sniff at it. I should have thrown it out, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.
And something seems to have eaten one of the buds off of one of my coneflowers. I mention this only because, unless we have giant rabbits, it seems too high off to have been a rabbit. I suspect something larger. And yet, the Butcher was home all day.
Unless the Butcher has taken up nibbling on my coneflowers. I may have to have a talk with him when he gets home from work.
And I tried some of the spinach. It had almost no taste. And a pea. It too seemed rather bland. I hope this isn’t a trend when they get more ready.
The Butcher is throwing me a fire tomorrow evening. I can’t stay long because I have to work in the morning, but if you want to wander by, you’re welcome.
Hello, Fellow Midwesterners. May we talk about the construct–“over to” for a few minutes? I use this all the time. “He works over to the Hall of Fame.” “She’s running over to the store.” “I was over to his house and he took off all his clothes.” And I learned it in the Midwest. We would go over to the bar in Keithsburg after work sometimes. Or over to the truckstop for dinner.
And, to me, it means something very distinct.
Let’s take the “I was over to his house last night and he took off all his clothes.” This is much different than “I was at his house last night and he took off all his clothes.” “I was at his house” implies that I was there in a somewhat formal manner and it is quite likely I was happy to see him taking off his clothing. “I was over to his house” implies that I was there in an informal manner and that, as such, I was likely surprised to discover he would take off his clothes in those circumstances.
But I think it means a little more than just a sense of informality. It also means, you might join the subject.
If you say, “I could use a six-pack,” and I say, “Well, the Butcher is at the store right now.” that means “tough shit. You missed your chance to get beer.” But if I say, “Well, the Butcher is over to the store right now,” I mean, “You could run over there or call him and catch him.” There’s a possibility of interaction.
Which is again why “I was over to his house” implies that his behavior is inappropriate. Anyone might show up.
And I have always assumed that this was widely understood, but now I’m wondering. Is this not a Midwestern thing? Is this just a quirk of rural Western Illinois?
Am I saying “over to” assuming everyone perfectly well understands the nuance but in reality, I just sound like I’m using two words when one would do?
Dear Representative Turner,
Of course, I am still pissed at you for the whole “I want my daughters to have a choice, but I’m going to vote for this piece of shit amendment because… um, for some reason…I guess because stripping rights from women is fun” thing earlier in the week. But I watched you yesterday take on Campfield and it was a thing of beauty. I was cheering for you.
My feelings for you are as follows: I want to send you beautiful flowers, in which there is a very gross spider. (This is metaphorical, of course. I’m not going to waste a perfectly fine gross spider on you until you shape up, sir!)
For those of you who were not following along at home, there was a bill that would strip funding from Planned Parenthood and give it to the county health folks in committee yesterday. Of course this was about punishing Planned Parenthood. How do I know? Because the county health folks didn’t want this federal money. Why, you ask? Because, if you take this money, you have to agree to see every person who comes into your place for the rest of the year, even after the federal money runs out. So, say that the Feds give you $100 and it costs you a dollar a person to see folks. If 250 people come to you, you have to come up with another $150 if you want to get any money from the Feds next year.
So, the county health folks are more than happy to not have to provide these services because it means they don’t also then have to treat the folks who can’t pay for it after the funding runs out. This is an issue in other counties.
You, dear taxpayer, might love that for the same reason.
But, of course, Planned Parenthood is where the Devil goes to get recruits. So, we must do whatever we can to destroy them.
But, this only applies to two counties–only Davidson and Shelby–because those are the only two places Planned Parenthood operates AND gets those federal funds.
Turner stripped the names of the counties out of the legislation, which then resulted in a huge fight because Campfield said that would render the legislation meaningless, and hilarity ensued.
Over at BitchPhD, M. LeBlanc is talking about the new pink Ouija board. For girls! And I have nothing to add to her supreme takedown of this whole nonsense, especially when she points out that Ouija boards were already for girls, Hasbro, you dumbasses.
Also, the funny thing about the Product Description, “now it’s just for you, girl,” is that the Ouija board has always been for girls. Not that there’s anything wrong with boys using it, I just didn’t know any who were into that kinda weird, slightly creepy, occult, navel-gazing crap when we were kids.
I don’t know, gentlemen, if you can ever quite get a sense of how annoying it is, first of all, to have everything someone thinks you might find even remotely interesting packaged for you in pink. Or baby colors. (Take a look at the tampon boxes and see how many of them are packaged in nursery colors. And yet, periods are the opposite of babies, pretty damn much. Not that I think tampons have to be packaged in black boxes with red and yellow flames on the sides, but damn, that would be pretty awesome to see just once. Something other than the soothing colors and flowers.) As if things for women need to be marked as such so that we know to use them and men know not to.
But it is especially annoying when you have something that is used by women (though not necessarily marketed to us), like Ouija boards and, oh, Dell computers (for another recent example), or power tools, that seems gender neutral, like, here’s something you can use and be competent at and your gender is not an issue. And then some marketer gets a sense that women are using these products so they could be marketed to women. But how to reach these strange creatures (who, keep in mind, are already being reached)?
We’ll make it pink and dumb it down. Now you don’t use the Ouija board to try to contact demons. You use it to find out what boy likes you. Now you don’t use a Dell computer to be able to work on your company’s budget from home. You use it to help track your calorie intake and plan meals. Now you don’t use a screwdriver to frame up a tree house for your kids. You use it to make a spice rack.
It’s like, they take the very thing you might find cool about it–that it makes you feel powerful and competent and like your gender is not an issue–and strip that out and replace it with this idea that you should not be afraid of these toys; they’re just new ways for you to address the same old girly needs.
It’s just so fucking tiresome. And I’d like to buy every pink Ouija board in existance and drive them in a dumptruck to Hasbro and dump them on the car of whatever idiot came up with this.
But you know, they’d just take that as a sign that there was a market for pink dump trucks.