Delightful thing my roommate brought to my attention. It's a re-swizzling of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance," but it's about suffrage and it's way better than the original:
Just remember, ladies: Suffrage is swell, but the battle ain't over yet. Don't listen to Beyonce. Girls do not run the world. That is straight shit and everybody knows it.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Time for some fluff
No really, fluff! Check out these faux-furry bad boys:
What do we all think of these boots? I know, I know, they look kinda like Uggs (which, from what I hear, are not waterproof and become stinky after a while), BUT, these are waterproof and snowproof. YES!
I am in need of some rain/snowproof boots because I LIVE IN PORTLAND and the cuffs of my pants are pretty much always soaked. Not to mention my feet. Plus they just look sooooo cozy. ZOMG cozy. I would put them on and feel like a warm furry bear with opposable thumbs in a cozy bear cave next to a roaring bear fireplace drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream and teeny tiny marshmallows. It would be magnificent.
Special ladyfriend bought me a proper pair of wellies a couple of Christamasses ago but they don't fit right and we forgot to exchange them. These are waterproof AND cute, right? Or do we think the faux fur thing is going to go out of fashion really really soon? Or do we hate it in general? Clearly I need your sartorial guidance, internet. So tell me, should I get the bear boots or will I look like a giant dork? (Ha, as if I could help that. I was a mathlete, after all, dorkdom courses through my veins like radioactive rubber pants.)*
*Bonus points if you can name that quote.
I am in need of some rain/snowproof boots because I LIVE IN PORTLAND and the cuffs of my pants are pretty much always soaked. Not to mention my feet. Plus they just look sooooo cozy. ZOMG cozy. I would put them on and feel like a warm furry bear with opposable thumbs in a cozy bear cave next to a roaring bear fireplace drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream and teeny tiny marshmallows. It would be magnificent.
Special ladyfriend bought me a proper pair of wellies a couple of Christamasses ago but they don't fit right and we forgot to exchange them. These are waterproof AND cute, right? Or do we think the faux fur thing is going to go out of fashion really really soon? Or do we hate it in general? Clearly I need your sartorial guidance, internet. So tell me, should I get the bear boots or will I look like a giant dork? (Ha, as if I could help that. I was a mathlete, after all, dorkdom courses through my veins like radioactive rubber pants.)*
*Bonus points if you can name that quote.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Jerks on the internet, jerks in real life
As you might guess, I spend a fair amount of time on the internet. It's a pretty great medium for curating Important World News, tasty new recipes, and ridiculous makeup tutorials (little known fact: I’m secretly a drag queen). It also works pretty well for meeting new friends who share my interests, as opposed to the IRL version of meeting new people, which mostly involves proximity. Why leave things to chance when you can find new friends who are pre-approved by the internet as awesome, amirite?
As such, I like to host meetups – which are real-life get-togethers for internet people. I do dance ones, and queer people ones, and feminist people ones, and anything else that sounds interesting. Because, despite my misanthropy, I have this irrepressible urge to meet and become friends with people. I can't explain it, it's just the way it is. I organize monthly bar crawls, am doing Portland’s first-ever queer bar takeover this Saturday, and throw an obscene number of parties despite the smallness of my house.
This last Saturday I organized a lesbian bar crawl – it was fun as always, and I got to see some familiar faces as well as meet a bunch of really cool new people (WHY didn’t I get everyone’s phone number?! Oh, right – I was busy taking shots.) The night got off to a rocky start, though, and ended on a sour note.
The beginning: A handful of women (who had been confused by the invitation and shown up an hour early [admittedly my fault]) were quite cold to me and others when we arrived. I thought at first they may have been upset at the timing of our arrival – but they seemed to be having a good time talking to one another. After a bit of awkwardness, as we were gathering up to head off to the next bar, this pack of … ladies… announced loud enough for at least one person to hear that they were leaving because there weren’t enough femmes in attendance.
Leaving. Because. Of. Lack. Of. Femmes. Honestly, I think I probably brought enough femme for everyone (red lipstick, 3-inch heels, crinoline dress, checked stockings, flower headband, hairspray’d updo). But that’s beside the point. Here was a group of people who’d knowingly showed up to make new friends, and then decided to leave because some of the people in the group didn’t look as they prefer. They didn’t even TRY to talk to anyone outside their group, despite my frequent attempts at engaging them. Good riddance, I suppose. But I still just can’t fathom why of all the things there are to do on a Saturday night, you’d choose to go to an event designed for mingling with such a narrow mind. What a pack of bitches. And what a shitty switch from the usual “you can’t be in the lesbian club because you’re too femme” crowd. Frying pan, meet fire.
The evening progressed well after that, and everyone else was nothing but charming and lovely. There was much cider-drinking and cheese-eating and general loudness. Special ladyfriend ran into her straight friend on the way to one of the bars, and we had a straight male ally show up, and everyone welcomed both of them as they would any other nice people. Because that is what normal people do! It doesn’t matter what your gender or orientation or gender presentation is, there is a human being underneath all that shit who is probably funny and interesting and smart in ways that are different from you. Or maybe they’re an asshole. Either way you won’t find out unless you talk to them. Why the hell would anyone give two shits about anything else?
When we got to the last bar we split into two groups as there were so many of us. Unbeknownst to me, as I was busy laughing my ass off, someone on the other end of the room who had been with the original group of crankypants people but stayed behind, was going on a cissexist, transphobic rant. As I innocently ogled pole-dancing pictures on my friend’s phone and arranged people into ridiculous poses for photographs, this was happening. I didn’t find out until the next day when my friend who witnessed the rant, messaged me to tell me she wouldn’t be coming to anymore of this type of get-together. I don’t blame her, I wouldn’t either.
I’m not really sure how to police people’s behavior at something as casual as a bar crawl, especially when I am likely to quickly become too intoxicated to really notice anything but the fact that everyone is suddenly very interesting and hilarious. Until I figure it out, though, meetups may have to be in a holding pattern.
Except this Saturday’s meetup, of course. That’s already scheduled and is an unstoppable steamroller of queerness. If you live in or near Portland, you should come. Unless you hate femmes, not-femmes, trans people, or any other group of people for no good reason. Then you should just stay home and eat moldy waffles.
As such, I like to host meetups – which are real-life get-togethers for internet people. I do dance ones, and queer people ones, and feminist people ones, and anything else that sounds interesting. Because, despite my misanthropy, I have this irrepressible urge to meet and become friends with people. I can't explain it, it's just the way it is. I organize monthly bar crawls, am doing Portland’s first-ever queer bar takeover this Saturday, and throw an obscene number of parties despite the smallness of my house.
This last Saturday I organized a lesbian bar crawl – it was fun as always, and I got to see some familiar faces as well as meet a bunch of really cool new people (WHY didn’t I get everyone’s phone number?! Oh, right – I was busy taking shots.) The night got off to a rocky start, though, and ended on a sour note.
The beginning: A handful of women (who had been confused by the invitation and shown up an hour early [admittedly my fault]) were quite cold to me and others when we arrived. I thought at first they may have been upset at the timing of our arrival – but they seemed to be having a good time talking to one another. After a bit of awkwardness, as we were gathering up to head off to the next bar, this pack of … ladies… announced loud enough for at least one person to hear that they were leaving because there weren’t enough femmes in attendance.
Leaving. Because. Of. Lack. Of. Femmes. Honestly, I think I probably brought enough femme for everyone (red lipstick, 3-inch heels, crinoline dress, checked stockings, flower headband, hairspray’d updo). But that’s beside the point. Here was a group of people who’d knowingly showed up to make new friends, and then decided to leave because some of the people in the group didn’t look as they prefer. They didn’t even TRY to talk to anyone outside their group, despite my frequent attempts at engaging them. Good riddance, I suppose. But I still just can’t fathom why of all the things there are to do on a Saturday night, you’d choose to go to an event designed for mingling with such a narrow mind. What a pack of bitches. And what a shitty switch from the usual “you can’t be in the lesbian club because you’re too femme” crowd. Frying pan, meet fire.
The evening progressed well after that, and everyone else was nothing but charming and lovely. There was much cider-drinking and cheese-eating and general loudness. Special ladyfriend ran into her straight friend on the way to one of the bars, and we had a straight male ally show up, and everyone welcomed both of them as they would any other nice people. Because that is what normal people do! It doesn’t matter what your gender or orientation or gender presentation is, there is a human being underneath all that shit who is probably funny and interesting and smart in ways that are different from you. Or maybe they’re an asshole. Either way you won’t find out unless you talk to them. Why the hell would anyone give two shits about anything else?
When we got to the last bar we split into two groups as there were so many of us. Unbeknownst to me, as I was busy laughing my ass off, someone on the other end of the room who had been with the original group of crankypants people but stayed behind, was going on a cissexist, transphobic rant. As I innocently ogled pole-dancing pictures on my friend’s phone and arranged people into ridiculous poses for photographs, this was happening. I didn’t find out until the next day when my friend who witnessed the rant, messaged me to tell me she wouldn’t be coming to anymore of this type of get-together. I don’t blame her, I wouldn’t either.
I’m not really sure how to police people’s behavior at something as casual as a bar crawl, especially when I am likely to quickly become too intoxicated to really notice anything but the fact that everyone is suddenly very interesting and hilarious. Until I figure it out, though, meetups may have to be in a holding pattern.
Except this Saturday’s meetup, of course. That’s already scheduled and is an unstoppable steamroller of queerness. If you live in or near Portland, you should come. Unless you hate femmes, not-femmes, trans people, or any other group of people for no good reason. Then you should just stay home and eat moldy waffles.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Mexican adventures
On the way out of the US, I had giant pointy metal sticks in my purse. I was allowed to carry these onto the plane. I then proceeded to pull them out and brandish them about hither and thither with wild abandon. No one bothered me a bit, and in fact they even brought me tea.
On the way back INTO the US, I was made to throw them away by a Rather Cranky Fellow. What were these sticks for, you ask? Perhaps for holding up the plane, redirecting it to a politically important location, and then landing it safely in order to have peaceful diplomatic talks in a mutually agreeable location? Commandeering it for a round-the-world disco dance party for me and 150 of my closest friends? For poking holes in important plane parts? Poking holes in important philosophical theories?
No, my friends, they were knitting needles. TSA even says I am allowed to have them on the plane. Mexico security, however, feels differently. Now let us all mourn the loss of my giant knitting needles and the boring scarf I was working on. Let this be a lesson to me: It is far cheaper to simply buy a scarf than it is to knit one. Although it certainly does kill the time on a long flight rather well.
This post brought to you by my favorite new word.
On the way back INTO the US, I was made to throw them away by a Rather Cranky Fellow. What were these sticks for, you ask? Perhaps for holding up the plane, redirecting it to a politically important location, and then landing it safely in order to have peaceful diplomatic talks in a mutually agreeable location? Commandeering it for a round-the-world disco dance party for me and 150 of my closest friends? For poking holes in important plane parts? Poking holes in important philosophical theories?
No, my friends, they were knitting needles. TSA even says I am allowed to have them on the plane. Mexico security, however, feels differently. Now let us all mourn the loss of my giant knitting needles and the boring scarf I was working on. Let this be a lesson to me: It is far cheaper to simply buy a scarf than it is to knit one. Although it certainly does kill the time on a long flight rather well.
This post brought to you by my favorite new word.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Six years of self-involved drivel!
Today marks the sixth anniversary of THIS BLOG! Amazing, eh? It's weird to look back on the stuff I was writing in 2006 and think about what was going on in my life then and remember how whatever topic I chose was sort of a proxy for how I was feeling.
It's rare I discuss actual personal life or stuff of that nature on here, because, well, some of you know me IRL, and as for the rest of you - if you don't comment, I have no way of knowing whether you're a real person or actually secretly scary monkeys from 4chan hell-bent on discovering my address and "lighting" crosses in my yard:
Anyway, why not take a little trip down memory lane in honor of this blog's birthday, eh? It first began waaaay back in the days of MySpace. Everyone had a blog then.
At some point, I killed that blog - I think it had to do with an ex. I transferred all the posts over here, and some didn't make the cut. Most of the "archives" that didn't make it were the fashion posts, as I didn't have the original pictures. Additionally, all the readers were people I actually knew - so I could post pictures of myself wearing dorky outfits asking questions like, "Does this blouse make me look washed out?" and get responses without wondering if I'd be recognized by psychos and set on fire (or, alternatively, mocked).
Many more posts didn't make the cut because they were too personal. This space, which started as a creative outlet and personal record, has morphed over the years into a space for political commentary and general whinging. Which is fine. Although sometimes I do miss the bully pulpit of personal offloading.
In any case, here are some posts of note from the Wayback Machine to celebrate the sixth blogiversary of this them thar internet home of ours:
- First public post! Complaints about hipsters, naturally.
- That "generous friend"? She is Special Ladyfriend now. NOTE TO SELF: The way to get girls (six years later) is by giving them cars. Ha! I kid, I kid. That thing stranded me in more weird places, I tell you what.
- This is what I do every day after work.
- ADD is a terrible thing to waste.
- Class anxiety: Here, here, here, and here. Oh and here too.
- Breedin! Breedin! Breedin!
- Shenanigans! Shenanigans! Shenanigans!
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Prop 8 overturned
Take THAT!
California is now back in the fight for status as "superior West Coast state."
Now if we could only fix this sh*t federally.
California is now back in the fight for status as "superior West Coast state."
Now if we could only fix this sh*t federally.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Travlin' Roundup
I finally had an aviation cocktail. Here's a picture:
I also saw this:
and this:
and this:
I do so love me some Frida and Diego. But especially Frida.
 |
| I had this here. |
and this:
I do so love me some Frida and Diego. But especially Frida.
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