Singing Kumbaya

(September Song Project, #3)

(Warning: this should probably be subtitled #GetOffMyLawn! - so proceed with caution)

They corralled us into a meeting at work the other day.

One of those long and dragged-out team-building exercises that wastes time bandying about words like “empathy” and “compassion” in an attempt to make everyone feel warm and fuzzy about their job, so that we can All Be Successful.

Here’s the problem:

I’m not a warm and fuzzy person. Genetically, I fall much more into the "acerbic and aloof, with overtones of arrogance when annoyed" category. Nonetheless, I strive to follow my mama’s precepts of civility, courtesy, and respect to all. I try not to say anything if I haven’t got something good to say - and I firmly believe in giving a compliment when that something nice strikes me.

However…, I am a tech.
You hired me to fix machines, not to blow rosy smoke up your collective backsides. 

Fact of life: Sometimes you just have to suck it up and deal.

Corrollary: Actions speak louder than words.

Making us all successful is a noble goal, but it would stand a much better chance of succeeding if, instead of dictating rules and regulations for how we can make each other feel good, you simply pulled up your big kid pants and categorically made some of the hard decisions that will let us actually accomplish our tasks.

You want empathy?

I’m more concerned with why “honesty” isn’t on your list.

  Or “accountability”.

  Maybe even (going WAY out on a limb here)… “integrity”?

Someone’s cryin', my lord...

Damned Cuz I Did

So, the next step in that large and awful project that I’m attacking at a glacial pace was to remove the aged, vile 1950's pink, and barely functioning fixtures in the bathroom - which necessitated smashing the cast iron tub. Not a cool clawfoot tub, mind you, just your basic utilitarian tub. That doesn’t work correctly - and is a deeply unpleasant color.

Since this is nobody’s idea of fun, I’ve been stalling and moaning about this (to pretty much anyone who’d listen) for well over a year now. Sympathetic exclamations of “oh, that’s going to be a pain!” abounded - with nary a peep of an alternate suggestion.

Eventually, however, loins were girded, sledgehammers were wielded, and the tub was broken up and carted away. (At least as far as the demolition pile in my back yard.) Feeling flushed with triumph, I began to tell all and sundry about the demolition success.

At which point, the Greek chorus burst forth: 

“You got rid of a cast iron bathtub?!?” “Don’t you know those are the best?”  “You should never get rid of one of those!” “Why didn’t you just have it fixed?” “What made you do that?” 

“Oh, What A Shame!”

And then, in case I wasn't feeling harangued enough, the coup de grâce was delivered:

“That’s a mortal sin, you know.”

Wonderful.

You’ve heard the expression, “to hell in a handbasket”?

Apparently *I* will be going by way of a bathtub…

          ...an ugly, pink, broken one.

Does this make sense to you, ducky?

The Monday Grumble

Dear Meme Creators,

I have a bone to pick with you. 

I honestly appreciate your creative efforts, but please, I beg you... 

  if you’re tempted to use a big word, first make sure you’ve got it right.

Check the word, check the spelling.

          You undermine your own wit when you don’t.

Not to mention all the work you make for the Photoshop-less rest of us, who want to share your joke but cannot bring ourselves to promulgate sloppy writing. 

It’s a pain in the backside to convert this:                        to this:

Nor is this the first correction I've had to make.

Vocabulary ... Spelling

They matter.

So please get with the program, people.

Thank you.

*puts soapbox away*

In Which I Interrupt My Decorating to Vent

So, I got this wild hair of an idea for a Christmas decoration, which I have been frantically working on for days now… to the point that I’m in danger of becoming one of those people who can’t stop showing off the 86 million pictures of their latest pet project. (Don’t worry… you all are safe. It’s quirky enough that it would be identifiable if I were to post pictures here so I won’t be doing that.) 

I only mention the fact to explain that pictures are being shown around… 

        and just about every person I’ve shown them to has reacted with genuine surprise. 

                  “I had no idea you were creative!”

…

… …

… … …

How does one respond to that??

And more importantly, What the heck kind of impression am I projecting???

(I asked this of SP, who responded with, “What kind of obtuse weirdos do you hang with when I’m not around?” … An answer which cheered me immensely. :-D)

The Rush to Holiday

(file this under, "Peevish Girl Speaks")

I won't lie - it irritates me when stores have out their Christmas merchandise before it’s even Halloween... but I get it. Retailers have a financial imperative propelling them along and they need to take us with them if they hope to succeed. So I grin and bear it.

HOWEVER…

The radio station that started playing Christmas music on November 1st? 

Really needs to just stop.

Plain and simple, that’s just Too Early. I flat out refuse to sing carols on Election Day. Or to serenade my favorite veteran with a rousing chorus of Jingle Bells on November 11th… For heavens sake, not only is it not Thanksgiving yet, we haven’t even had Love Our Lurkers Days yet! (Comin’ atcha this Friday/Saturday!)

I’ll concede that Christmas music for Black Friday helps put people in the mood to buy gifts, but that’s the farthest I’m willing to bend. (Well yes, it’s also nice to have carols for Cookie Day - also comin’ atcha soon. But that,at least, actually takes place IN December…)

And relatedly, since I’m Scrooging out all over the place anyhow…

Can I tell you how COMPLETELY aggrevating I find it to be barraged by Christmas music in November, but there isn’t a single note of it to be found from Dec 26th until the following Halloween?

My Season of Joy extends through New Year’s. It does not stop when the clock strikes 12 on Christmas night - so neither should the music. *emphatic nod*

Thank you, I feel better now.

June is Peeves Month

OK, I made that up. 

But it IS true that my last “peeves” post was prompted by having to go around with my nose crinkling at the stench of June roses... and since those very roses are once more fouling the air around me and causing me to dwell on recurrent irritations, I’ve decided that I have more than enough peeves left over to support a further rant.

Plus, I’m in the mood to gripe.

(Or bitch-slap someone but I’m trying to rein that in…)

So here we go.

More reasonable/unreasonable/absurd/IRKSOME things that make me peevish:

1- Having a job that requires me to get up so early that I go to bed while it’s still light out.

I’m all for youthfulness, but I’d prefer feeling like a 20-year old, not an 02-year old.

2- Fake accents.

They’re rarely funny, few are convincing, and unless you’re unusually well-acquainted with the entirety of the foreign parts in question, you’re probably demonstrating geographical ignorance, as well. (Not to mention confusing your audience.) Texans don’t speak with a Bronx accent, a Geordie doesn’t have a Cockney accent, Catalan is not generally heard in Mexico. Need I go on? 

Just... please stop before I stab you.

3- Asking your IT tech, “How did that happen?”

Do you really anticipate understanding the answer? 

Plus, odds are good that it’s an ID-10-T error - don’t make us lie to you.

Just say, “Thank you” - we appreciate that.

4- “Where’s that at?”

The “at” is incorrect, inelegant, extraneous, and lowers your perceptible IQ a good 15 points.

Is “ignorant” really the impression you want to give to the world?

5- Road Hogs

Specifically, people with very large vehicles who would rather drive oncoming vehicles into a ditch than risk scootching in any closer than 3-ft from the edge of the road.

The yellow line is not there for you to drive on. 

Please learn some spatial guidelines before someone gets killed.

6- Squeaking Bras

Those of you who don’t wear underwires may not get this at all.

Those of you who do, can I have an “Amen!”?

I don't even know what to suggest to fix this tendency but I'd really like to see someone address it. I mean, it's bad enough to have your shoes squeak but when people start to think that your boobs need oiling, something is very, very wrong.

B is for...

Bromance

Can someone explain to me why this is even a thing?

"a close non-sexual relationship between two or more men"  

  (like, oh, I dunno, "friendship"???)

No, no. Wikipedia insists us that "the contemporary circumstances of bromance separate it from more general homosocial practices and historic romantic practices" ...

Yet follows that immediately with the statement that Aristotle's classical definition of friendship is taken to be the prototype of the bromance…

So…

The idea has been around since 330 BC -- but it's the nature of contemporary life that distinguishes the male friendships of today from all of those in all the rest of human history??

It's a stupid word that was coined to describe a bunch of skateboarders, for cripe's sake.

Can we please stop treating it as though it represents a valid social phenomenon?

(agitated? why do you ask?)

Boundaries

(This is kind of a rant, but it's been stuck in my craw for a while, so let me just get it out and then we'll move on, OK?)

A while back, I posted about declining a date with BG because I had a previous engagement with a friend to see the new Star Trek movie. I only meant it as a light little piece, so I was kind of surprised by some of the reactions I got off-post, where I took a fair bit of teasing about my priorities.

Most of it was in fun, I know that. But there were also liminal undertones of "The Shock Of The Better Sub" -- and that part bothered me.

Because for one thing, were you to check page 37 of Jz's Handbook of Life, you would discover that, in my world, you do NOT blow someone off simply because a better offer is received, no matter who issued it. My mama would rise from her grave to bitch-slap me if I did that, and when I staggered back onto my feet, I'd have to bitch-slap myself -- because that is just not acceptable behavior.

Even disregarding the question of common courtesy, however, these comments got under my skin because they touched on a trope within D/s that I actually quite object to -- that the good submissive never says, "No" -- context be damned. 

That's just not how I (nor, thankfully, BG) see(s) it. 

To my mind, a power exchange is between dominant and submissive only.

Certainly, whatever two people agree to do between themselves is no one else's business -- but the key words there are "between themselves."

I may cede to my dominant all sorts of control over me but that control does not extend to any and all independent entities I interact with -- those maintain their right to autonomy.

So while I may be willing to change my pre-existing plans, if they involve someone else, the plans stay as is. My friends didn't sign up to be controlled by BG and I'm not going to play fast and loose with them as though they had.

Now certainly, we're just talking about a movie date here, so my rant undoubtedly seems excessive. But the underlying principle touches on an issue I have seen crop up often enough to concern me -- where subs stretch a "no limits" policy until it becomes virtually "no boundaries" --  and suddenly anything they've ever seen, read, or touched becomes eligible to be laid at their dominant's feet.

"Here, have my mother's credit card number!"

"Of course I'll give you the combination to the safe where I work!"

"Well, my friend didn't expect you to assault her, Sir, but that's OK, you are Master, after all." (I only wish this one were hyperbole…)

(OK, mostly exaggerations -- but the underlying message is the same as in statements I've actually read out there... and that message makes me crazy.)

Those are not your things.

The fact that you have access to them does not make them your things.

And things that are not yours are, by extension, not yours to share with anyone else.

Please stick to the stuff that is actually yours.

(thank you, I'm done now)

The Tenacity of a Bulldog

My grandma loved that expression.

And hoooboy, do I have tenacity in spades.

In fact, my dad once shook his head and said, "Nobody is ever going to make you do anything you don't want to…" 

My first thought was that he was just annoyed with me for being such a stubborn cuss. (Which, let's be honest, he probably was.) But there were also elements of pride and concern in that statement, too. Because Dad knew first hand how much of a mixed blessing that sort of intractability can be.

With it, you do have the courage of your convictions, of course.

However, there's a fine line between being tenacious and cutting off your nose to spite your face. Convictions can sometimes cause a person to overlook reality.

I know I'm stubborn.

I know I'm often idealistic.

I also know that no matter how many conversations I have with myself about what the wise person would do about the situation with BG -- hashing and rehashing the details, positing likely outcomes, strategizing the best plans of action -- I always circle back to that one fact that outweighs all the sensible courses of action:

"But I don't want to..."

I don't care what the wise person would do, apparently.

The ratio of good to sucky has not yet shifted enough for me to walk away from the best fit I've found in years -- even if it is maddeningly difficult. I still prefer to stick around and find out what happens.

Granted, I suspect I'm simply delaying the inevitable and I fully anticipate a resounding Greek chorus of, "Well, what did you expect?" when the hammer falls. 

In fact, I'll be joining in the singing. 

But I'll be doing it when I want to…  :-D

Real

I love this picture.

I don't know if these two are actually dom and sub or simply two people modeling for the shoot -- and I don't care. It's a wonderful picture and I love that they published it.

Because this is the human side of BDSM, something you don't always get to see here in Blogland.

I mean, I'm as fond of pretty pictures as the next gal…

But I also get really tired of all the posturing and tropes that so often appear in those pictures. "Inhumanly graceful submissive in attitude of serene acceptance"… "Nubile sub with pert boobs, runny mascara, and pleading eyes"… "Impossibly chiseled man wielding flogger"… "Bitchin' Domme in ridiculous shoes"… You know the stuff I mean. Fantasy stereotypes that have almost nothing in common with what actually goes on for most of us in our lives.

Sure, BG's the one in control, the guy tying the knots and dispensing the bruises. But that control is not gained through fear, intimidation, stern faces, or general bad-assedness. 

Nor does my submission miraculously make me nubile, graceful, or serene.

Rather, this is a relationship. There's give and take on both sides, there's caring, there's respect, there are real people here, doing real people type things.

Like laughing together, even at the darndest moments.

I want to see more pictures like this.

I Wanna Complain...

Dear Victoria's Secret,

We go back a long way, you and I -- which means you already know quite a lot about me...
That I am 53 years old, fairly tall, excessively fleshed, and with boobs that are sufficiently ample that even you don't offer a lot of bras that will contain them.

Now, you have earned my undying gratitude for carrying pants with 36" inseams.
Much, much love to you for that.
However, could you please stop with the swimsuit spam?!?

Alluringly presented or not, I'm NOT going to be buying one of these puppies. Women of my age and build have no business wearing bikinis. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's expressly forbidden in my beach's Rules of Membership.

You have 20 years of purchasing history on me -- NONE of which contains swimwear.
May I please request that you reevaluate the algorithms for analyzing your market demographics?

Thank you.
An Otherwise Satisfied and Loyal Customer

p.s. The UPS guy thanks you, too.  :-)

WHEN Is My Vacation, Again...?

(warning: this one's true but not pretty)

My astrological identity may be that of a crab, but I've always seen myself as more of a of jellyfish, adrift in the sea of life, bobbing with the current as it meanders through the seas...

Until, that is, the moment when my tiny cnidarian brain suddenly realizes, "Crap! I'm fathoms deep in water!" and I revert to panicking, thrashing, drowning human.

Unfortunately, in my distress, coherent thought and articulation fly out the window. So naturally enough, those around me are baffled, asserting that they just don't see a problem and why am I panicking?

Which, because I'm a contrary cuss (in a state of panic,) makes me yell at them. "DO YOU NOT SEE ALL THIS WATER HERE?!?"
     (but I forget to add, "and I suck at swimming")

So they answer the spoken.
"Well, you're the one playing jellyfish, what did you expect?"

Which, because I don't realize I didn't say, "and I suck at swimming", sounds like they don't care if I drown...
     aaaand ...
now we're both hurt and confused.

Oh, and let's not forget that I'm also furious with myself for panicking in the first place. Cuz, y'know, jellyfish aren't supposed to feel fear...

... I've had better weeks.

Eye Candy and a Gripe

Gorgeous, isn't she? (And, thank you, Tom!)
When you've looked your fill, however, please take a moment to read the words on the picture. (Yes, there are words there!) ;-)
Now, take that foolish statistic and compound it with this factoid:

Most stores, if they carry talls at all, don't carry them in anything larger than a size 12.

I'm 5'9" and straddle the line between a 14 or 16 -- TALL.
My shopping expeditions generally end in disappointment.
I finally asked a sales clerk why the larger-sized talls were always sold out . "Oh, they're not sold out - we don't carry them in the store. Unusual sizes are online or special order only."

However...
My BFF stands 5'0" and wears a 0 or a 2 -- preferably petite.
But SHE can find her size in a Tall.
There are a bunch of them.
I've seen them. (And spat on them.)

So, my question is...
How hard is it to understand that the taller you are, the bigger you're likely to be? (and vice versa)
Laws of proportion here, people!

If I had hips the size of my BFF's, I wouldn't have enough body mass to hold myself upright. A good breeze would topple me.
Biafrans would be sending me food...

If she had legs as long as mine, she'd have no room left for many of her vital organs. She'd bypass a torso and go straight from hip to lower breastbone.
Or be headless...

I understand that the fashion industry is busy promulgating an unrealistic ideal but business is still business. The bottom line is money. And wouldn't you make more of that by producing clothing that people can actually wear, rather than wasting your resources on pieces that moulder on the shelves, getting covered with dust (and spit)?

I know, I'm such a dreamer...

What WAS I Thinking???

I've mentioned before that the thought of having BG and SP in the same room makes me very nervous. Especially if I'm there, too! But even just on general principle, the thought makes me squirm. The two of them are far too alike -- yet with complementary strengths. A girl would need a LOT of intestinal fortitude to withstand them should they decide to team up …

So perhaps you can explain to me why …
hmmm ... I need to back up ...

BG is a very patient and determined man. A shade kinder than "relentless", he does NOT let things drop. At best, I'll get a reprieve.
And one of those is now officially over.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to:
"The Third Annual Campaign to Persuade Jz to Pierce Her Nipples"

Now, this is something about which I am totally undecided. I do like the way they look in pictures… But mine is not the sort of body one actually sees in pictures. I just can't bring myself to believe this would truly be an enhancement of any kind. (And do guys really like the look or is it just getting us to hurt ourselves for them that's the turn on?)

So in a moment of sheer, unguarded madness, I decided to throw the question out to SP. (I know, I know ...)

The first response was fairly neutral - he'd never thought about it.
Then -- he thought.
I received a second, more considered response -- which closed with the caveat that should I pierce, I would of course be required to go out in public wearing clothing that displays the outcome.

I compounded my mistake by protesting that I'd just look silly.

"Under no circumstances would silly be the correct word. No, I am more and more taken by this idea."

And the floodgates opened …

I have received pictures of boobs my size, with hoops.
I have received links to pictures of boobs my size, with barbells.
I have received pictures of the assorted add-on jewelry you can use.
I have received input on how this could enhance my nipples.
I have received a carefully thought-out schedule for increasing the diameter of the holes.
I have received detailed scenarios of piercing utilization schemes ...

I have forgotten that the friend can turn on a dime to become the Dom. 

I have opened a can of worms!

Help Me To Understand...

I'm sorry, but I haz a rant. It's a long-standing one that I can usually tamp down but not today. It's also a rant that I can pretty much guarantee not all of you will get. But it's driving me flippin' nuts, so here goes.

Over the years, in a variety of moods, over a variety of situations, in a variety of ways, I have wondered aloud to my friends about what would cause a guy to venture into my sphere, when it was so obviously entirely unsuited to him. (Does anyone remember Goat Man?)
The scenarios I describe vary. The answers don't.
Male, female, what have you, allowing for individual vocabulary,
I hear the same thing:
"Boobs" 
"Tits" 
"Bodacious tatas"

Great. Thanks, guys.
Can I just tell you how very much this unconsidered response makes me want to SCREAM!!!!?

The irritation has been building for quite a while anyhow but then Hal pulled this crap on me last night and it was the last straw. I snapped. I really did scream. (Poor Hal. He just doesn't realize he's worn me down to my last nerve.)

He gave me the same bewildered response that all my testosteronely-inclined friends have offered. "I'm only giving you a compliment! Why are you so bent out of shape?"

Why? WHY??
Here's a "why" for you:
Why on earth would anyone think I'd take it as a compliment to be told that the sole reason I'm dateable is MY CHEST????

Have I not a brain? A personality?
No, apparently not.

Face? Eyes? Smile?
Nope.

Humor? Kindness? Intelligence? Compassion? Joie de vivre?
Those either.

Rather, you have excised me from my humanity and turned me into something not unlike that giant breast that rampages through the countryside in "Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex"

Talk about frickin' objectification!






My buddy Bookstore Guy tells the story of having to weed the women's section at his store. He claims he had never really understood the amount of pressure and objectification a woman undergoes until he saw all those book covers, touting plasticism and unrealistic expectations, all grinning at him from the cramped shelves in one small section of one small store.

He says, "I went in a disinterested male ... I emerged a raging feminist."

Now, generally, I don't consider myself a feminist. I honestly think that people are people and that's just how I approach most situations in life. But sit at the receiving end of this crap long enough and indeed, the rage seeps through.

So, please. We are all more than our parts.
I beg you to remember this and speak accordingly.
Because I love you all.
I'd hate to have to hunt you down and kill you.   :-)
(*kiss, kiss!*) 

A Soapbox Moment

Sorry to go off, all, but this one's dear to my heart...

I learned from my Word A Day email yesterday that September 26 - October 3 is Banned Books Week, a "national celebration of the freedom to read."

(WAD referenced a superb letter written last year by a Chicago librarian in response to a patron's challenge of "Uncle Bobby's Wedding". Take a peek if you've never seen it. It's extremely well articulated.)

I'll try not to rant because you'll never stop me if I start. I'll just say calmly that censorship is anathema to me. I have enough trouble with anyone telling me what to do, even if they're entitled to. Having someone else tell me what I can read? - Unacceptable. Having them tell me what I can buy? - Yeah, right. Having them tell me what I can think? - I'm going in swinging.

Individual discretion should be the answer. Adults can decide for themselves what to read. Parents may decide for their children only. That should be it. No deciding for other people. A great many of us here talk about adult activities that would cause Anthony Comstock to faint dead away. But we play fair. Nearly all of us have some sort of caveat on our pages warning the underage or easily offended to move on. We do not subvert, we do not indoctrinate, we do not wish to offend. We just think out loud. If you do not like the subject matter, just stop reading! You have free will. Use it.

Do I think there are inappropriate materials out there? Heck, yes. Would I demand anyone pull them off the shelf just because I object? Not until I'm willing to let someone else make that kind of choice for me. Which will be when Hell freezes over.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go compile a reading list for next week to show my support. (Did you know it could include The American Heritage Dictionary? Banned twice for defining "objectionable words"! - Give me strength...)

Any of your favorite books in the list?