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  1. being okay

    June 7, 2013 by kim

    For one child who is considering suicide:

    Sweetheart, I am so sorry you hurt. I would so like to hold you and rock you and kiss the top of your head and tell you there are voices so much stronger than theirs that you can choose to hear. That the world is so much bigger than their tiny minds. That you will be okay. Don’t go.

    I am forty-four years old today. I am a rape victim, a sufferer of bullying, the adult child of an alcoholic, an orphan thanks to one parent who blew his brains out last year and one who died due to his drunken idiocy, a chronic pain sufferer, an addict as a result, the mother of an autistic child, unemployed with zero opportunities on the horizon, I’ve lost my home, my waistline and my ego. And ya know what? I am happy as hell.

    I was playing cards with one of my best friends on the planet the other night. We have held each other’s hands through life and death, laughing through tears and making inopportune masturbation or Tarot card references for over twenty-five years. We were both not okay last year, as we walk remarkably similar paths. The other night we were discussing how actually okay we were, in light of everything we had gone through. We weren’t sure how we GOT to “okay”, but we were there and could appreciate it.

    In the past, I have not been able to take care of myself. I either waited for someone to do it for me, or I waited until I was so damaged and enraged that I could explode in a ball of fury, annihilating everything in my path, so that I would feel safe again. This, for the record, was not okay. I didn’t really get that, in any moment, I had the power to affect my own life and, well, not to quote at you, but to “change what I can.” I was a victim, a martyr, a rager, a stoic, an actor…. any one of which I thought could make people do what I thought I needed them to do to make me feel okay. Unfortunately, this meant that any cruelty, intended or not, cut me to the core. If someone didn’t react the way I thought I needed, I was destroyed. I was pretty fucking miserable.

    My people walk twelve steps, over and over. The first one is admitting I am powerless over alcohol. The work of this step expands and teaches me I’m actually powerless over pretty much everything, which is shocking when you’ve been raised to believe you are God. (If everything is my fault, it must all be my doing. If only God does everything, I must be God. That’s some solid logic, I tell ya!) When I confronted the fact that I might not be the Highest Power, it felt like I was giving something up. My machinations and manipulations I believed made the world dance on strings were hard to cut, as imaginary as they were. I lost my identity. Who was I if not the person trying desperately to make the reflection in your eyes something I could stand?

    However the transition into being Me… I have no clue how it happened. I just know I quit worrying about who I was to everyone else. I quit trying to read your mind to find out who you wanted me to be and then molding myself into that shape to receive the approval that would make me feel loved but somehow never really did, since it wasn’t really me being loved. My friend and I agreed that a year ago even, we were sitting in the tunnel, PRAYING for a train so at least we could see some light. Now we’re breathing air and wishing on stars.

    The only thing we knew for sure is that we didn’t quit. Now we are here.

    It’s not the perfect I thought perfect was. But it’s perfect and I’m IN it. And because I came out of that place, I know it and I know I can come out again. So….

    Whatever your pain, whatever you see in the mirror, whatever heartache you know, whatever name you’ve been called, whatever anger is eating you, I’m telling you, you can take power away from it and give it back to yourself again. It will happen if you don’t quit. There is no other option.

    I wish my father hadn’t killed himself. I am so grateful I did not make the same choice.

    Please stay here. It’s worth it. YOU are worth it.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: | 17 Comments

  2. Busting balls.

    May 20, 2013 by kim

    Yay, London! I’ve never been to London. I arrived here approximately 11:30 last evening, or 22:30 if you’re over here, (goddammit, really? I went into acting because I can’t do math and now I have to. I cry shenanigans!) and it is now 4:18 in the following afternoon or… wait a second, I need my fingers… 16:18. And I’m sitting in my room typing. The sum total of the city I’ve seen was a lovely little Indian restaurant last evening that gave me something scrumptious accompanied by a paste of nuclear fire. Had I known how delicious it was going to be, I probably would have blown the dude who left the establishment open for me to order. But I digress.

    Right NOW I am in my room. Why? Well, it’s like this. I woke up about six hours ago, still pretty damn tired, fucked around a bit, put on a shirt, and a screaming, searing, ripping pain shot through my shoulder. It’s been on the edge of something bad for a week or so, it got a little crabby after lifting things I’d signed all weekend, and for some reason that shirt was the final straw. I had two options: take the pain killers I brought for my guts, which I have rationed carefully and if I do so, then I’m going to be shit out of luck in a few days, or go back to bed.

    So here I am, freshly awake AGAIN, trying to do something as non-strenuous for my body until the pain killers kick in and I can move without screaming, “JESUS CHRIST, FUCK ME ANALLY!” which, I’m guessing, will not get me introduced to the parts of London I really want to see.

    Usually after a “Supernatural” convention, I write long love letters to the fans because I’m so incredibly moved. This weekend I fucking cried on stage at them, (Yes, saying thank you. I was tired and my smart ass demeanor cracked, okay?) and I do thank them and love them and will wax poetic later. But a lot of people said they were discovering this blog for the first time, (Hi! Welcome!), so I read some old stuff to see what they would find. I forget a lot of what I write. I noticed after clicking the “naughty bits” category that I was missing some really important information so I am gonna hurt a few egos, I fear. I’m gonna dash a few spirits. I’m gonna invite alternate views, because I think this is vital information and needs to come, so to speak, from as many parties as possible….

    HOW CAN A DUDE KNOW IF HE’S GOOD IN BED? (As always, not to be exclusionary but only because I’m writing from my viewpoint, this is for straight dudes. I really wish I had something to offer my gay friends, but I just don’t. Cuz I’m a chick and they’re already awesome.)

    A normal man cannot FATHOM the amount of bragging a girl hears about his prowess. They say we are more evolved than the rest of the animal kingdom, but men are pretty much birds without the power of flight. So… penguins. No, bad example. Penguins don’t complain about wearing a tux. But those sunrise tweet tweet tweets and peacock fans and collections of shiny objects are only a millimeter away from the guy who grins and, without a trace of irony, says, “Well that’s because she had my cock last night.”

    I was once asked by a guy I’d slept with how he could know if he was good or not. Unfortunately, this was before I knew how to have an orgasm myself, (not his job to find if I don’t have the map), so I had no idea what to say. This is to make up for that. Tim, I think of you fondly, I used you terribly, I’m sorry and I wish I wasn’t the person I was when we fucked. This is for you. I hope I’m not about to break your heart again. Because, this means exposing some traditional ways men have judged themselves that, quite frankly, are full of hooey.

    First of all, I’ve noticed a lot of guys simply rely on the fact that putting a penis in a girl counts as sex. If something happens to her, it was good sex. No. Putting your penis in a vagina, is not SEX. It is “intercourse”. And nobody in the world wants to brag that they had “intercourse” no matter how good. Nobody. Sex means something else must have happened. If you didn’t multi-task, you weren’t good. My husband, (AUTHOR’S NOTE: I NEVER EVER EVER WRITE ABOUT MY HUSBAND BECAUSE I RESPECT HIM. IF ANY OF THIS EMBARRASSES HIM, THEN HE SHOULDN’T BE SO GODDAMN GOOD IN BED.), I swear must be able to dislocate his spine from the places he manages to cover simultaneously. You have to have done something besides insert, pull it out, repeat. Even if it’s just getting your tongue in her mouth or allowing your butt to acquire fresh nail marks. To be a good fuck, you need to cover some ground. And bad news: finger-banging does not qualify as doing something else. Just because you put your finger up there doesn’t mean you can plant a flag. Multi-tasking means expand your focus, not the implement.

    I’d also like to say, your endowment has nothing, NOTHING to do with your ability. Any guy who brags that he has a big dick really should be met with nothing more than, “So?” no matter what your locker room competitions would have you believe. I literally don’t give a fuck how big your dick is if you’ve got mischief in your eyes. Saying it’s eleven inches only REALLY tells me either you’re a liar or you’re insecure. Size might matter to some women, but it is not the only thing that matters and if you’ve been relying on it, you better up your game, dude. I mean, if you give a shit. If not, that’s fine, your dick’s a foot long and that must make you pleased as punch. I’m underwhelmed, though.

    Next, do not confuse how badly a girl WANTS to have sex with you with how good you were at it. I’ve been so lustful my eyes haven’t been able to focus and fifteen minutes later found myself faking a second orgasm with the hopes that he will just stop already. Yes, she may have literally torn the clothing off of your body, but that does not mean you were good at anything that happened from that point forward. If she refuses to let you put them back on again, or takes then from the floor and tears them more fully so you CAN’T put them back on, you may assume her ardor was justified and take it as a reflection of your performance.

    OH! This is one I’m baffled by. Your sustainability is not in any way shape or form an indication of your prowess. You can bang a hammer on a pice of wood for six hours straight, but if you never hit the nail, you just look challenged. Please please please stop talking about “going all night”. A real, live study I actually read and didn’t conduct myself by asking my drunk male friends stated the average time spent during sex after initial penetration was seven minutes. Seven…. minutes. And ya know what? I…. well no, I’m honest in this blog, but I don’t think it’s necessary to tell you how many orgasms I have had in seven minutes because it would be bragging on my husband. But seven minutes is sufficient in a pinch with somebody who has been in that rodeo before and starts you a couple runs ahead before teeing off. (I mix metaphors when I’m randy. Leave me alone. It’s been a few days and I’m realizing this may have not been a good topic for a girl alone in a hotel room.)

    And speaking of, if you have a penis and put it in women, at some point you have been lied to about an orgasm. The more willing you are to accept this, the better chance you have of being a rock star now. This is just me, mind you, but I think I speak for a lot of women that if you THINK you are an amazing fuck and a gift to any body lying beneath you, you probably have a thing to learn. Women are different. You are not a good fuck if you have preset choreography. Or, well, you’re not as good as you COULD be. How about that? If you are curious and wondrous, if you are respectful and enthusiastic, if you are willing to take risks and direction… you’re probably better than you think you are. But if you have the audacity to tell me you have a foolproof way of finding my g-spot when you’ve never even touched my neck, call me judgmental, but I bet you’re a lousy lay and I’d rather have an orgasm alone.

    Orgasms. Ah, orgasms. Listen, mother fucker… you don’t GIVE a woman an orgasm. We HAVE them. If I have used different phrasing in the past, allow this paragraph to clarify. Orgasms are not points. They are experiences. Yes, it is generally true that a guy who “experiences” a woman having many orgasms when he is involved is probably better in bed than a guy who says, “You can finish up alone, right? Ima get a sammie.” But if a woman has an orgasm, even if she has ten and they accompany a torrent of body fluids, THIS IS NOT A GUARANTEE THAT YOU ARE GOOD IN BED! For my money, ten orgasms are not as good a testimony to your abilities as one bout of breathless, hysterical, post-coital giggling followed by an, “Oh my God. Wow.”

    My pills have kicked in and I don’t want to waste them, so I’m gonna encapsulate some simple things. If a woman is fucking like a porn star, she’s probably not having fun. If I have enough presence of mind to worry about how I look, then you don’t have my full attention. True, this is as much my fault as yours, but please don’t think that makes you Rocco Siffred. If your partner eloquently says, “Oh, honey, I see stars, you’re so close and yes, I’m coming right now at this exact moment, it’s glorious, you’ve never been this good!” sorry. You’re probably not. However, if your partner is speaking Bajoran, that’s a good indication you’re doing fine.

    If all of her makeup is still on, her hair looks great, and she’s not sweating, you were not a good fuck.

    As with marathon sessions, acrobatic prowess does not guarantee your efficacy. If you’re picking positions to show off your strength, vast knowledge, (“Bet she hasn’t done THIS before!” Yes. And there’s a REASON!), or to tick something off of your bucket list, you’re not a good lay. On the other hand, if you find a good spot and then throw one of our legs over your shoulder so you can get at it even better… good on ya, mate! That’s the way to do it.

    In fact, that’s the short version. If you’re thinking of yourself, anything from stroking your ego to earning points you can use later on, you’re not living up to your potential. But if you honestly want to know if you’re a good lay because you’re too distracted to think of being a good lay while you’ve got your face buried between her legs, I’m guessing you don’t have to worry. If you really get lost in the weeds, ask for direction and we will be happy and impressed. If a gal says otherwise, that’s her own damn fault.

    I’m gonna go explore. And then I’m gonna go out and explore London. Ta!

    Category naughty bits | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

  3. where am i?

    May 17, 2013 by kim

    Oh look. Five hours left in a big tin can in the sky. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. I already took my ambien when I first got on and that shit scares me so I’m not taking more than one. Nothing but time to write and I’ve got jack shit to say. I could rhapsodize on the questions you’ve sent in to my friend Super Answer Lady Person, except I have no wifi and she’s still asleep. (Bitch is back in LA time zone where it’s still three in the morning and she is craaaaaaby when you wake her without coffee.)

    I fear this may just be a meandering illumination of the mind that is me in this particular time and place. That time is actually 3:45 AM and place is somewhere vague. Cloudy and white, up in the sky. I doubt it’s heaven although there”s a cute dude with a British accent sitting next to me also awake, so…. maybe. But my bet is more somewhere over the beginnings of the ocean.

    My one and only true goal at the moment is to keep typing long enough so Cute Dude thinks I’m doing something important enough to have warranted the tectonic plate shifting it took to get my laptop out in the first place. I’m window. He’s aisle. We are bulkhead, so everything had to go overhead. That alone should tell you how familiar he had to get with my ass, (what is the etiquette there? Which part of my anatomy should face my fellow traveller when crossing in front of him? I always think my butt, so he can grimace at will. Unless I’m running any risk of gassiness, then it’s face to face with an apologetic expression. Anyone else have tips on dealing with this?)

    ANYWHOOOOO, yeah. I had the great idea to use the power source at my seat to plug in my computer so I could also charge my phone which is down to eight per cent of its battery. I was feeding my ego last night by watching people get outraged over my character’s demise on “Supernatural”. Now I realize I MIGHT need to communicate when I land in a foreign country and my husband is scanning the news for bomb threats. (“I thought you were dead!” “Honey, that’s in Yemen!” “HOW DO I KNOW YOU WERE’NT HIJACKED AND LANDED IN YEMEN?!” He has a point. He really does.) Unfortunately, I needed help. Because the world’s power sources are not set up to make life easy for me. So I got up to contact a flight attendant, not wanting to disturb my at that point still pretending to sleep neighbor.

    I flipped the little curtain aside and stepped into the galley. I think I may have destroyed a potential love connection. And it was a shame. These were two of the most beautiful boys I’d ever seen and they were looking at each other not like, “It’s actually the four mile high club if you’re with me,” but more like, “You’ve adopted children? I’ve always wanted to do that!” But then I come barging in, scaring the pants back on them, asking for a power source. *

    This can’t be uncommon. This is a feature they actually ADVERTISE about their aircraft. So it shouldn’t have taken a team of engineers to figure out that we did not have the available adapters. We had the cables. We got the plug covering between the seats where the cables go finally taken out, (which is when my poor seat mate couldn’t fake unconsciousness any more, with everything short of soldering happening perilously close to his crotch). We learned that my own personal cable comes apart and exposes a little nubby thingie that is NOT the prong thingies, but still wouldn’t fit in the available holes of the cables.

    The sweet flight attendant offered to charge up my laptop up in the crew’s space, which was incredible since I destroyed his chance at true love, but I decided I’d just open this shit up and work till it died. It hasn’t yet. I don’t have a blog yet. The Cute Dude next to me has given up all hope of rest and is watching…. it looks like “Fringe” if I had to guess. I tried charging my phone off of my laptop, but that apparently only works if my laptop is plugged in. Plus, there’s no wifi, so I can’t publish this, so you can’t even get a message to my husband that I was safe last time you heard from me somewhere over the Atlantic.

    That was all just fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of trying to distract myself from the discomfort in my shoulder blades from sleeping the last five hours and the discomfort in my heart from watching my daughter cry as I left.

    For Mother’s Day, the kids all made necklaces for their mothers. It is a white-ish blob of what looks like silly-putty, with her finger indent in the center and a hole at the top for a string to go through. The substance hardened and voila! Jewelry! I have been wearing it constantly.

    I recently discovered that it turns a ghostly neon in the dark. This has provided my daughter and I with endless moments of amusement, but for some reason right now it makes me indescribably sad. I sit on a dark plane, musing over the most trivial of matters, and on my chest is the glowing reminder of the most amazing achievement my heart has ever known.

    I guess that’s called missing someone. So yeah. That’s a lot of words to tell you where I am right now. Right now I am sweetly sad because I am so grateful to have a daughter I wish I were near.

    Oh, and no, it’s not “Fringe” he’s watching, which is somewhat of a relief. I’m pretty sure I just saw either Matt Damon on his screen or, no, I think it was that boy who used to sell underwear who’s brother was a Backstreet Boy. New Kid on the Block. Whatever. Get me! I’m so Hollywood!

    *There was absolutely NO impropriety going on at all, I would like to state for the sake of the flight crew and passengers of this plane. Two hot guys were talking. That’s all. But that lacks a certain something I look for when writing, so I expanded on the situation for the purpose of your amusement. Creative license. I just wanted to be clear so nobody freaks out and notifies Virgin that their workers are decidedly not.

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

  4. sing it!

    May 10, 2013 by kim

    I believe I’ve mentioned that I was a tantrum thrower. I will not go into details again, but I grew up hearing the phrase, “Children should be seen and not heard,” as a regular mantra. I did my best to disprove it. I failed miserably.

    As I became older, I discovered that there were outlets available that afforded me the opportunity to be heard within socially acceptable parameters i.e. that wouldn’t make Dad crack me upside the head. I could join the church choir, for instance. Or a performance of my middle school’s production of “Teen! The Musical!” (which later was a bonding moment when I learned my soul mate, Laura, was performing the same thing at the same time, half a continent away. “On the telephone! Tell me what’s on your mind, on the telephone! I’ll be waiting for a message from youuuuuuuuuu.” Ah. Good times.) I sang like a little lark. I wasn’t the desirable feminine soprano, so I made up for it by learning to harmonize like a motherfucker. Yep. I found my voice and let it fly.

    I sang in every camp talent show. I performed a stirring and mesmerizing rendition of “By My Side” from GODSPELL at my high school graduation. I would not be silenced and I had a gift I was gonna share! So it was a bit of a blow when, in my first college vocal performance class, I heard the following words: You can tell she’s an actor, she LOOKED like she sounded great!

    I’m sorry, what?

    By the time I got to graduate school, a mere four years later, I was so terrified to sing that I couldn’t even get a single note out. So the teacher, in her infinite wisdom, had me lie on the floor while four of my male classmates pulled on my limbs, ostensibly to open up my diaphragm. I’m sorry, have I mentioned I’m a RAPE VICTIM? Yeah. Needless to say, I barely made it to the bathroom in time and to this day, the beginning of, “Starting Here, Starting Now” is a joke amongst old friends. (“Starting he-he-ehhhhhh ulp!”)

    I had been silenced. At least for that outlet. I didn’t deserve to sing.

    I eventually sang again. I booked a role as a singer for a children’s show and I made it a personal mission not to lie to the kids watching it. I wanted to overcome this fear, if only to tell them I did it. But I never regained that full-throated warbling that managed to drown out any doubts or insecurities about my reception.

    What is it about the idea that we have to somehow earn the right to be heard? Recently a girlfriend, a wise, smart, industry-savvy girlfriend, suggested I do a one-woman show. I recoiled at the idea. Who am I to stand on stage and assume I’m interesting enough to have people watch me? Let alone pay money for the privilege? That’s audacious! I despise people with that kind of arrogance. The very idea that they are important enough to command other people’s attention is ludicrous, even if they’re Charlie Sheen! And I’m not! Yuck! I don’t deserve to have a blog, let alone a show!

    Says who?

    I would like to remind you, dear reader, of how nice it feels when you read a bumper sticker you agree with. When you hear someone on television espousing a secret you thought only you knew. When you are forced, against all reason, to loudly scream, “OH MY GOD, ME TOO!” And I would like to remind you that no one on the planet can ever have that experience if somebody doesn’t believe they deserve to be heard in the first place. I remind you, because I need to remind myself.

    The CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch has recently admitted to exclusionary tactics. (Well, the quote is six years old, but it’s just NOW making news.) The stores won’t sell clothing in sizes they feel would be worn by unattractive aka fat people. They only want skinny, hot folks wearing their brand, and so they don’t supply anything in women’s clothing above a size ten. It goes a bit larger for men, but only to accommodate the “athletic build” that comes with the high school football jock. They doesn’t see anything wrong with tailoring their inventory to only include the folks who fit their image. Their tall, skinny, good looking, “cool kid” image. Fatties don’t deserve to be seen in their clothing. And by that, they mean fatties don’t deserve to be seen. Or heard, I would assume.

    We might go into a store because it will MAKE us into one of the “cool kids”, but very few of us waltz in believing we are already there. We are the awkward and the timid. We are the cellulite-laden and the gravity-challenged. Or we are the odd and the quirky. The maladjusted and the weird. We are the lovers of science fiction and memorizers of Klingon. We are the awkward and the inopportune. The often sad and alone. We are those who don’t deserve to be seen or heard.

    THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN THERE ARE OF THEM. WHY ARE WE BEING SILENT?

    How the fuck are the cool kids managing to dominate us? How the hell are the bullies convincing the nerds that they are stronger? This is what’s ludicrous, not the idea that I would have something to say.

    Open your mouth. Say what you want to be heard. There will be somebody who agrees and somebody who needs to hear it. The only person who can silence you is you, so goddamit, let that freak flag fly! (And don’t give Abercrombie and Fitch your money, please?)

    My daughter sings the way I used to. It’s hard not to judge, for reasons that will become apparent when you listen to her. Don’t try to tell me this is easy on the ears. And don’t try to tell me it’s not AWESOME to hear. Click it. It will be worth it.

    IMG_2975

    Category general musings | Tags: | 14 Comments

  5. i did it all for the cookie

    May 2, 2013 by kim

    I think refined sugar has saved my relationship with my daughter.

    When I was growing up, my father was not a warm and fuzzy man. But he was very quirky and very loving, so he found his own special brand of expressing affection and pride in his children. He got us desserts. “Help your mom with the dishes, I’ll go get some ice cream!” “It’s Christmas, I know you love chocolate!” “When Willy Wonka is on, we celebrate!”

    However, the accompanying treats were, in order, an entire three-gallon TUB of Baskin Robbin’s Pralines and Cream, a ten pound bar of chocolate, and a mixing bowl full of MnM’s and bridge mix. When I went to college, he sent me off with an eight pound can of Hershey’s syrup. One birthday I got a television box full of different kinds of Nabisco and Hostess products. Because, dammit, if he was going to express his love through sugar, we were gonna fucking develop some diabetes! That’s how much he loved us!

    I’ll admit I enjoyed it. There’s something about a bar of candy you need to break up with a hammer and ice pick that is deliriously satisfying. Having enough baked goods to swim in? Come onnnnnnn. It was pretty damn cool. And I understood. He couldn’t tell us what he wanted to tell us. He didn’t have the tools to say, “Child of mine, I look at you and I see the part of me I forgot I love. I cherish your presence on this planet because I found my heart again when you arrived. The simplest act you do affirms that God has a place in my world. You are good and smart and beyond what I would wish for and I am astounded that I am so blessed to know you.” I know, without a doubt, that is what he meant. But he had a cunning, baffling disease that broke the connection between his ability to feel that and his ability to act on it. So we got sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.

    I am now a grow woman with a disease and a child of my own. I commented earlier that I had reached a weight goal I had been pursuing since the birth of said child. Well, I didn’t hop on that celebratory blog post fast enough and I’m back up again. Don’t worry, I’m not going to whine and bemoan my body. I am happy and reasonably healthy with my self-image, I can wear clothes I like and my husband thinks my butt is awesome. That’s not the point. The point is, the scale is visible evidence that I am not taking as good of care of myself as I know I can. Something is askew.

    I spoke with an ancient soul in a hot young man’s body recently about my relationship with sugar. He asked when I ate it and I answered, “When I’m bored.” We addressed that and I felt pretty good about the results. So this morning at eight o’clock, when I found myself in the kitchen eating the remaining half of a Whatchamacallit candy bar, I was a bit perplexed. “I’m not bored right now. I’m spinning five different plates already and I’ve only been awake for an hour and a half! Is it stress? Could that be it? Why am I eating this, albeit DELICIOUS, disgusting mix of wax, preservatives and corn syrup before I’ve gotten out of my pajamas?”

    Then my daughter came in and threw a fork at my face. I retreated to the bathroom to finish my remaining bites. She followed me, pounding on the door, then doing something that made the sick and dying dog yelp in pain when she couldn’t get me to open up.

    We have talked about how much I love that child. But she is autistic. The stereotypical image of the autistic child is that they are incapable of communicating. In my child, it manifests as an inability to distinguish when she has communicated effectively and react accordingly. She will spew a torrent of stream-of-consciousness dialogue, beginning with not wanting to eat her breakfast and ending with a parallel universe episode of “Go, Diego, Go,” in which he rescues Chris Wildcratt from a rampaging robot, then explode if I don’t understand that means she wants to wear her purple socks instead. Then try to bite me. Or…. throw a fork at my face.

    Then I go swallow a spoonful of Nutella.

    Holy fuck.

    My subconscious thinks she’s an alcoholic! And it is consoling itself exactly the way it learned early on – by eating some cake.

    I am really grateful for this response on my part, or might have never figured out what was going on. I’ve shared in some of my meetings that she has become my “littlest qualifier”, (that’s super secret code speak, by the way), but I didn’t quite understand how deep this went. And thank the God of My Understanding I did, because this could go horribly awry. I can’t learn her language when I am plugging my emotional ears with marshmallows. I can’t help her with her needs if I’m expecting her or baklava to fill mine. She’s five and has poor motor coordination. She can’t fill a glass of milk.

    No wonder she gets so pissed at me! Here she is, doing her best to get her brain to weave bits of dandelion fluff into a rope sturdy enough for me to pull her up, and I’m looking at it like it’s a licorice rope that bites. Scary!!!!! I mean, yes, it’s also scary to have a tiny being that has zero regard for anyone’s physical well-being aiming projectiles at my eyes. But it has to be even more scary to her, looking to Mom for some guidance and order to the chaos in her mind, and be met with a half-eaten Oreo.

    Fortunately, she’s a warrior. None of this seems to have dampened her spirit or will. I ask her if mommy loves her and she nods and says, “Yep.” So now it’s up to me to separate the tangle in my heart. This piece goes here, this piece goes in the trash. It’s covered in crumbs. This one should go on the bookshelf for further study; it may be art or a slightly melted mint.

    And yes. I am still gonna damn well treat myself to some Trader Joe’s French Vanilla ice cream with fudge sauce, caramel sauce and some candied pecans. (It’s called a Dirty Turtle. Add graham cracker crumbs and it’s a Dirty Tortoise because they live in the sand. I get REALLY into my desserts.) But if I get that urge at eight in the morning, maybe I’m gonna stop, remind myself that Daddy loved me as best he could, and try a little harder to listen to my kid. If it means ducking a little faster, I can do that. Because, not for nothing, I got married to this song and I choose to apply to both my husband and, now, my little girl.

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

  6. more (tongue in cheek no feminist rantings, please i know everyone is unique and special and sex shouldn’t be the goal for an evolved human being) tips to get guys laid

    May 1, 2013 by kim

    At this point it should be obvious I am deliberately avoiding commenting on the state of the world. I am. It sucks. I don’t mean to be blithe or irreverent or advocate ignorance by doing this, I hope rather to offer a brief respite from the insanity. A little shot of whiskey amongst the bitter coffee jolts. A whiff of cotton in the miasma of wet dog. An opportunity to use metaphors so bizarre, your brain can’t help but go, “I’m sorry, what?”

    I’m going to take this time and further expand on a topic I have promised you, dear single, straight, male readers.  I realize I haven’t ever gotten to the next chapter on how to help guys get laid. I kinda said, “Don’t be a dick and find a girl you like, ” and left it at that. I channelled your mom and told you to listen and be yourself. Fine fine fine. But what about the Secret Weapons? There have to be some, don’t there? Things that are irresistible? Aren’t there any of those?

    Yes. Yes, there are. I fear I may be betraying my sex to reveal them, but then I figure if you’re man enough to try them, you deserve to get laid. So, assuming you have already learned and perfected my earlier advice………..

    Let’s start with a dog. Yep. There is no faster way to get a chick’s attention than to have a puppy with you. It’s cliche and obvious. We see a dude with a cute puppy, looking around expectantly, and we KNOW he’s only out in public to get a girlfriend. That puppy probably peed ten minutes ago and just wants a nap, but there he is, pocket full of treats, going, “Good girl! Good girl! Go potty!” and it’s obvious the dog is a male. Doesn’t matter. We walk knowingly right into that minefield, because a puppy is worth it! Then we smile at you.

    It may be as obvious as air, but it works on the subconscious level. A puppy says you’re patient and kind. A puppy says you have a soft spot and you’re not frightened to show it. A puppy says you don’t take yourself too seriously and you’re not afraid of cleaning up poo. All of which are extremely attractive to us. (Babies poo. Not us. I mean, maybe if you’re into that kind of kink, but I was specifically saying it’s attractive to us because our subconscious registers the fact that you’d probably be willing to change a diaper.) An older dog is still good. It says you’re loyal and capable of long-term love. It says you’re probably athletic. Plus, you can train an older dog to go up to a woman and drop a frisbee at her feet. Done and done! Dogs are awesome ice breakers and any chick who won’t at least give you a courtesy smile is a cold bitch who probably doesn’t swallow. (Or allergic.) Let that canine companion open the door, get a laugh, and off you go!

    Now, a few words of caution with the dog as a prop thing: If you are only going to have the dog to score with chicks and don’t  also plan on loving it, you are fucked. Nothing turns us OFF faster than a pet that is obviously frightened or neglected. (So if you’ve just rescued a stray who is still wearing signs of street living, practice this phrase, “Please be patient, I just rescued him.” Done, done and dddddddone!) And for fuck’s sake, NEUTER YOUR DOG! Nobody is impressed with his swinging ball sack and it’s NOT empathetic to think, “I wouldn’t want somebody to cut mine off!” You know what happens when dogs don’t get to use their in-tact testicles by impregnating bitches? In about seven years, the balls turn into mushy, lumpy oatmeal and have to be removed anyway, possibly with a leg, and the dog’s life expectancy plummets. Their dingleberries are programmed to self-destruct if not in service. I worked in a vet’s office. I’ve seen it. So if you REALLY wanna be empathetic, don’t let him have dangling rice pudding between his legs. (And don’t even get me started on letting him out to procreate. Ninety-five per cent of dogs surrendered to shelters are euthanized. Fuck you for killing puppies. See? We are passionate about dogs!)

    A baby is sometimes touted as an ideal chick magnet. A baby illustrates your fine potential as a mate and proclaims that you are verile. And they are cute. My own personal opinion is that it should be a kid old enough to loudly call you “Uncle”. The bitches who hone in on daddies with babies who probably have baby-mommies at home are cunts. If you want women I heartily endorse fucking and leaving, well, get an infant and hit the park, cuz you’ll find one. BUT, if you want to get some points with the admirable ladies and in heaven, borrow your friend’s three-year old and take him to a grassy spot near a college campus. Pay attention to him. You will be swarmed after the first time anyone hears you say, “No, Aiden, we’re not going yet. Your mommy and daddy get to have a little more time together. Look! I brought the bubble gun!”

    It is important to make sure the kid actually LIKES you, or this will go horribly awry. (Chicks aren’t into dudes who they just saw arrested for kidnapping. And a bright little bundle of joy stuck with his least-favorite “Uncle” for the afternoon will learn very quickly how to scream, “HE’S NOT MY DADDY! BAD TOUCH! BAD TOUCH!”) All in all, not my top pick for a magic bullet. They are less predictable than puppies. Go with a puppy. Sadly, both are inclined to cover you with something foul-smelling and crusty at an inopportune time.

    A musical instrument is also actually pretty good. Unfortunately, this has the problem of failing epically if it is obviously a prop. As in, don’t fucking buy a guitar, learn four chords, then take it to the park and expect to clean up. A minimally talented showoff will only draw in the most still-drunk-from-last-night-and-probably-won’t-fuck-you girls out there. However, I was in the airport and I noticed a marginally attractive dude. He looked… normal. Balding, average height, nothing remarkable about his features. But he was carrying a cello case. I was entranced. Anyone who needs to take an instrument through airport security must really be an artist! Artists are cool and emotional and sexy. Men who play musical instruments are good with their hands! And tongues!

    Instruments make us intrigued, with the notable exception again being a guitar, possibly in a case covered with travel stickers and band names. We chicks are dubious about guitars. They’re too often used as props to try and sleep with us. (Although, I’ve heard there’s a very particular kind of girl who flies to a guitar case like a moth to a flame. If it’s all you’ve got, it’s worth a try. I promise not to let you see me rolling my eyes.) And bongos don’t count. Sorry. If you’re a genuine hippy going to a genuine drum-circle, you don’t need my help getting laid.

    So say you came unprepared. You didn’t set out today to draw your mate for life or the moment to you. You left your puppy at home, happily fed, and TOMORROW is your babysitting night. And your mom borrowed your saxophone, you didn’t want to know why. What’s a dude to do?

    Well the good news is, if you came unprepared, then you didn’t arm yourself with any of the sure-fire failures. You didn’t put on too much cologne, you aren’t wearing any brand of clothing that is emblazoned in rhinestones or yarn across your chest, and you’re not wearing lifts. (Some of us LIKE shorter dudes. We like to be face to face at all angles. And when your clothes come off, it becomes obvious you were wearing heels, which makes us suspicious.) But there’s gotta be a winner you can keep in your back pocket at all times, right?

    Again, yes, yes there is. No, it’s not a line you memorize beforehand. Only the terminally blessed can pull off something they’ve rehearsed with charm and class. And those bastards are so lucky they fall down and their dicks just land in somebody, so that’s probably not you. Also, you are rarely a good judge of your own humor. You’re probably a lot funnier than you give yourself credit for, but let US be the deciding vote on that. A guy who opens with a prewritten “funny” line is just screaming, “I’M NOT PLANNING ON ACTUALLY EVER PAYING ATTENTION TO YOU, BUT LOVE ME ANYWAY!”

    Eye contact. Just a little longer than called for. Now, this could go very wrong, very fast, so make sure you smile before you break it. Eye contact is not to be confused with staring. Staring is back to that energy of not caring how she reacts, you’re just gonna get a reaction. It’s creepy. Be present and actually make… contact. Eye contact that’s just a little too long with a grin says more, “I couldn’t help it, now I’m all befuddled, but getting to see you was worth it.”

    Once you’ve looked away, look back again quickly. This says you’re willing to be rejected. This says you’re open to embarrassment. This says she’s more important than your ego. Every woman wants to be worth getting shot down for! If she’s smiling, share the joke, then see what happens. If she’s looking away, eh, hope you’re not hanging out with friends that then hoot in derision and mock you until they pass out. Because they would probably be the reason you didn’t score.

    There. That’s a lot to digest. Lemme know how it goes. I got shit to do.

    Category naughty bits | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

  7. super answer lady person all for me!

    April 23, 2013 by kim

    Before I start to write, I often read the blog post I finished most recently to kinda get in the groove. I just did this.

    Holy shit. Sorry, folks. I swear I didn’t forget my anti-depressant. Jesus Christ, Debby Downer, thanks for making us all wanna go remove our ovaries with soup spoons! No, I get it. It depressed me too! Now I’m depressed again because I went and read it. And when I’m depressed, you know who cheers me up? SUPER ANSWER LADY PERSON! So today Super Answer Lady Person has agreed to devote an entire column to me and only me because I gotta get the fuck out of the doldrums if I want to have any readers coherent enough to continue to read through their bitter tears.

    I have a lot of things I don’t personally understand in this world. Many would send us right down that fucking rabbit hole of WHY IS THE WORLD LIKE THIS? with alarming speed. But some of them are more, “Uh…. wha?” and it is a few of those I shall lay at the feet of my muse and hope that the golden edification she sprays onto me hits you with some of the ricochet. Or something like that. I get delirious when I know she’s showing up and my prose gets pretty garbled. Okay! With no further ado….

    Dear Super Answer Lady Person,

    What’s the deal with big trucks? I’m not talking Monster Trucks, that’s a whole spectacle I can, weirdly, understand, but what’s with the big street vehicles that look like they could crush a condo and come roaring up behind my poor Prius with a sonic boom? They are unwieldy, look hard to get into, can’t get good gas mileage, and are too far off the ground to even be any good at helping friends move. I’m confused, please help me.

    Love, Kim

    Dear Kim,

    VROOOM! VROOOM! VROOOOOOOMY VROOM VROOOOOOOM! Shut the hell up, whiny little twat. You TOTALLY get it. You know when you stop in the fingernail polish section? And you grab that thing that is sparkly and unnecessary but it makes all your lady parts tingle with the awareness that this is going to help you tap into a portion of your identity that has been a secret lover up to this point? That you will finally have a toy that not only offers you endless hours of amusement but expresses to the world the shining kaleidoscope of your inner child screaming, “Wheeeeeee!” Some people have that with a truck. Do not judge them for it. For the time they are in the cockpit, so to speak, they are conquering heroes and avenging angels and Batman all rolled into one. They can see for miles and have the raw, brute power at their beck and call that they would like to unleash on the world every waking moment. They’re having fun. People deserve to have fun.

    Unless they’re four feet from your bumper doing seventy. Then tap the breaks, let them ram you and sue the fuck out of them. That will be fun for YOU.

    Dear Super Answer Lady Person,

    Why does everything have to be a “thing”? Why do I have to be “gluten-free” and “non GMO”? Why can’t I just eat healthy? Why can’t I just get my dogs from the pound? Why do they have to be “rescues”? Why can’t my kid just be weird? Why does she have to be on the “autism spectrum”? And why did you call me a twat? That wasn’t very nice. Jus’ saying’.

    Sincerely, Kim

    Dear Kim,

    I know. You’re right. It just came out. I sensed a bit of condescension with your question and reacted to that. Sorry. And I’ve had a tough few months, ya know. I mean, yes. You know. I’m you. But I digress into an existential quandary. Your question: why is everything a “thing”?

    Here’s the deal. What you do is about you. What is a “thing” is about everybody else. Most of the really important things in life, like religion and parenting, come with questions that won’t be answered for sure until it’s too late. Nobody will ever be positive that they are talking to the right God or following the right breast-feeding manual until the results are in and the outcome is sealed. So we flock to others to reaffirm our beliefs, because presumably, the more people who think something, the more likely we are to be right. (HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA. Oh, that’s rich. Humans. What cards.) So you decide to eat organic corn because you’ve read that the other stuff might give you cancer or break out in rats with extra ears. Whatever. You’re a little vague on the details. But you want to make the right choice for your family and your body. HOWEVER… that shit is expensive. That gives you pause. Is it worth the money? Does it really make a difference? Is it the right decision? How do you know?

    Well, you don’t. So you can do the best you can, make a choice that’s the most in line with what you know you want and go on, or you can look for some reinforcement. Ideally, it would be reinforcement for what you already want to do. So you TRY TO CONVINCE SOMEBODY ELSE TO DO IT! And since it’s really fucking hard to convince somebody to do something just because you’re doing it, you turn it into a “thing”. Now everybody is gonna do it, so you know you’re making the right decision!

    Let people have their “things”. You can even join in their “things”. I know you, and you’re likely to avoid a decision just because it is a “thing” as a matter of fact, and that’s just as dumb as doing something just because it’s a “thing” in the first place. Look at your needs, do your research, and make a decision. If things don’t feel right, you can always change your mind until you’re dead or your kid is grown.

    Dear Super Answer Lady Person,

    Is there any merit to the idea of Spirit Animals?

    Love, Kim

    Yep. Sure is. Humans are verbal. As a result, we are one step removed from our nature, as it were. I mean, except for your kid who is a zen master, but that comes with autism lucky you. Spirit Animals allow us to identify and relate to a part of ourselves that is pure experience and character. Our primal desires and fears, our strengths and weaknesses. And they’re cool.

    You, for instance, have often spoken of your Inner Fluffy Bunny. You’re close with that. It’s actually your inner deer. She’s one of your totems and is gentle, loving, kind and has big fuckin’ brown eyes. However, we don’t just have one Spirit Animal, so your raven and weasel often make fun of your deer. Which is fine because her loving nature understands that they do so because they are uncomfortable with living in unconditional love and would rather operate in the world of jest and sparkly shit. Awesome. Your spider is too busy making shit and your bear is napping. She will wake up when there’s actually something that needs doing.

    How do you know what your Spirit Animals are? Good news! You pick ‘em! Sure, there are decks of cards and expensive weekend retreats that involve dubious herbal supplements and sweat, which are great tools if you want. But there’s no guarantee you won’t end up with the same results and picking animals is cheaper and easier. Any animal you like will probably express something of you. And it IS something of you. We don’t see anything we don’t possess. Lots of kids, for instance, like tigers because they are so fierce and exotic. Children, on the whole, are not it would seem. But they ARE. They have a strength that is untempered by responsibilities and ego. They are pure potential and carnivorous joy. If a sweet, lisping, blue-eyed angel tells you her Spirit Animal is a tiger, honor that shit cuz somewhere in her really is the capacity to rip your throat out.

    Don’t judge your animals. One of the sexiest dudes I know happens to be a meercat. True story. He’s just kind of nervous and likes to see any threats that might be coming from any direction. And don’t judge others’ animals. I still want to kick in the head the first guy who claimed to have an affinity for dolphins, being the arrogant, self-righteous, smug asshole who so WASN’T like a dolphin that he was. But there must have been somewhere in there a little shred of grinning grey magic, or he wouldn’t have been drawn to them.

    So take a trip to the zoo or the aquarium and bond. Get familiar with the animal kingdom. Connect with it. And let it express some shit you might not be able to with human words.

    Dear Super Answer Lady Person,

    That was a really weird question to answer. Why did you pick it?

    Love, Kim

    Dear Kim,

    Because it amused me. And come on…. made you grin a little, didn’t it?

    Dear Super Answer Lady Person,

    It did. Thanks.

    Love, Kim

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

  8. don’t have children

    April 22, 2013 by kim

    I’m very sad right now. I feel I should warn you.

    I love my daughter so much it hurts. I think she is the funniest chick I know and I want to grow up and be her. I literally would die for her and she represents everything in this world that is beyond words. She makes me love myself, my life, and my husband more than I ever thought possible. This is not going to be a piece about how hard she is, (VERY), or how tired I am, (VERY), or how lucky I am, (you know the chorus, sing along….VERY). I love my daughter and am happy I have her. But see, I wanted her.

    I have recently become aware of a weird cultural war going on between those who have children and those who choose not to. For some reason, individuals in the former camp are making it their mission to convert those in the latter. “Have children!” they are championing. “It’s the best decision you can make! You’re selfish if you don’t! It will complete your life! HAVE A FUCKING KID!” I am here to tell you, don’t have a child if you don’t want a child. Don’t. It will destroy you as you know you, and if you don’t want one, the sacrifice won’t be worth it.

    Aha! I bet you think you know where I’m going NOW, don’t you? You think I”m going to talk about the freedom you have and how the truly selfish choice is to bring a life into this world to fill some need that isn’t a baby-shaped hole in your heart but rather an esteem issue in your ego. Or to make your mother in law shut the hell up. You think I’m gonna talk about Jeannie, who would make the BEST mom in the whole world. She is funny and beautiful, smart and patient, and travels the world saving animals. She has the kind of soul that elephants recognize and run to so they can stroke her lovingly with their trunks. And she doesn’t want children, so I’m gonna tell her that her light is better spread shining on all of creation’s children in its fullness than being dimmed for one. Well now I have, so I can get on with it.

    Having a child will destroy you because every child becomes yours, or you must destroy the feeling of empathy in yourself. At least, that’s been my experience.

    I used to be merely a dog advocate. Cats too. I cried big tears and turned off the television every time ASPCA ads came on, (which is why I am doing them now, by the way. I have karma to make up for.) But I was cool when Sally Struthers showed me pictures of children with flies in their eyes. They were like little aliens that I felt stirrings about, but could stay separate from. The naked babies with the big heads and exposed ribs were disturbing but not upsetting. The school shootings were the same. I related from an intellectual place of, “Wow. That sucks,” and moved on. I wasn’t calloused, I wasn’t immune, it just didn’t resonate with me.

    Then I had a child. That fucked me up well and good.

    Right now there are tears in my eyes thinking about the children killed in Newtown. And I mean ALL of the children. I am weeping for the broken, damaged child who was hurting so badly he had to take those tiny little lives in an attempt to purge his pain as well as the babies who died in fear and confusion. Oh, I’m fully crying now, thinking of parents holding bodies that are cold and empty. Then my brain goes to the little girl who hung herself, unable to bear the pain of classmates publishing evidence of her rape any more. A mother cut her down and then, three days later, had to turn off the machine that kept her breathing. And it really fucking hurts. I don’t know ANY of these people, but I know it hurts. And it wouldn’t hurt like this if I didn’t have a child.

    I see mothers who hate their children and it aches, primally and viscerally. A mother who sold her child for sex so she could have money to get high. A mother who kicked her daughter and then kicked her again to make her stop crying. A mother who tied her daughter to the toilet so she would learn to use it instead of her pants. It hurts for the children who look for the spark of God and unconditional love a mother can feed them and it hurts for the mothers, so angry and destroyed that they can’t find any trace of it in themselves. This shit would suck if I didn’t have a kid, but it is AGONY.

    I know there are people who function perfectly fine as parents. They order bombs dropped on other people’s children, knowing it’s clearly a vital and important act. There are parents who define little bodies as “acceptable losses”. There are parents who are not psychopaths who don’t care when little hands reach out for food, often only one to a child because the other hand is clutching desperately to whatever person is next to them, terrified of losing a fellow soul in the sea of life. I’m not talking about the crazy mothers who hold classmates down so they can be beaten. That’s some batshit stuff. I’m talking about people who had children and the switch didn’t flip in their lives like mine did. So it’s possible. You could technically have a child and still be fine, functioning in this world as if nothing had changed.

    But I’m telling ya, it’s doubtful. So don’t have a child. Look at how my mind works. I have to consciously tear myself away from increasing the pain and grieving a monster who would bomb innocent people in Boston because he, himself is a child. I have to look at my daughter, screaming in happiness and throwing the ball for the dog again, wearing her Rapunzel dress and rain boots, and insist that is what must occupy my mind. It’s hard work, because now that she’s here, there seems to be a piece of her in every set of eyes I see.

    And that fucked me up.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: , , , , , , | 14 Comments

  9. hair and the art of being a dame

    April 21, 2013 by kim

    I know a lot of dudes don’t get it. They don’t get it, and what is more, they WANT to get it. They may feel some level of guilt that is inspiring that desire, or a pure and utter awareness that we are all human and a large percentage of that population experiences stuff the other portion doesn’t, or they’re just curious, or they want a faster and more guaranteed way into our pants, but WHATEVER the reason, a lot of dudes want to get it. Why are we women all so pissed off? Why do we take a perfectly ordinary situation or comment and turn it into, (dun dun dunnnnn) SEXISM? Why can’t we take a compliment? What the fuck?

    I want to share with you. I am not claiming to represent the entire panoply of the feminine condition and we all know I am prone to a little bit of melodrama, (hahahahahaaaaaa! And understatement, apparently), but I think it will really illustrate what seems so simple and easy to dudes and is really quite insidious and insulting to us. If you don’t agree, well, then, go fucking find somebody else to help you understand.

    I wanted to cut my hair off. I like short hair on me. I think I look cuter, younger, sassier and hipper. I have a personality that suits short hair and I really only feel like myself when it’s lopped in some style that could vaguely be described with the word “pixie”. I had been growing it out at the behest of the agents I no longer have and the manager who wanted me to visually separate myself from the character I played on “The Suite Life” when I had short, blond, spiky hair. But I finally got fed up with being sad when I looked in the mirror and decided it was time for a change.

    I had to get permission from the people who represent me. Now I have an awesome group of people who help me work. My manager and new agents are fucking rock stars. I think a couple of them would honestly take a bullet for me, as long as it was in a major muscle and was of a small caliber. I love them and have a career because of them and I won’t hear a word one against them. What I am going to tell you is in no way meant to reflect negatively on any one of them, it is an illustration of how this world works. Because it could have come from anybody.

    I was told, “Don’t make it dyke-y.”

    Let’s examine this, shall we? First of all, I don’t know if you know much about lesbians, but I’m pretty sure the defining characteristic isn’t a haircut. I’m pretty sure that there are women who are in love with other women who have long hair, frizzy hair, purple hair, or no hair. The haircut doesn’t define the sexual orientation of a human being, so using sexual orientation to describe a haircut is just wrong. (I can’t honestly remember if “dyke” is an offensive term, so I didn’t remark on that, but if it is, I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure it is. It offends me at any rate.)

    Secondly, it’s just insulting to think you can generalize any group of people by how they look. Hopefully that goes without saying. But I said it anyway.

    But let’s look at the bigger picture. Say you are among the people who says, “But come on, you know what he meant.” Let’s say you want me to stop with my politically correct sensitivity and just take his goddamn advice. I’m an actress. It would be a bad idea for me to get a haircut that makes me “look” gay.

    Why is that?

    Uh……………..

    I am forty-three years old. I am VERY happily married. I have a child that takes all of my spare energy so I wouldn’t survive an affair even if I wanted one, which I never will since my husband is the most awesomely sexy and phenomenal guy and the best fuck on the planet. AND he happens to prefer short hair. The chances that anybody else will get to have sex with me is pretty much nonexistent.

    But it would be a crime against my industry to let it look that way. I was pretty much told, “Doesn’t matter what the reality is, don’t LOOK like you won’t screw a man if he wants you.” That is the message behind not looking “dyke-y.” It’s not because I wouldn’t look pretty. It’s because it would make it harder for men to sexually objectify me and for women to visualize men sexually objectifying me, thus making it harder for me to get a job. And even if it WOULD make me less pretty, same thing! Why does it matter if I’m pretty? It doesn’t have any impact on my ability to act! It doesn’t affect my speech or intellect or imagination or memorization skills. The only thing it affects is whether or not I am deemed “do-able”. And not just by people who would hire me, but by people who would watch me. My chances of being cast would decrease dramatically if producers thought nobody would find me attractive, i.e. potentially featuring in shower super fun happy time if somebody had used up all their Jessica Biel quota.

    Hopefully at this point, some of the dudes I spoke of earlier are starting to understand a little bit. They’re realizing how much it must suck to have every choice you make and every scale by which you are measured to have some whiff of, “Do or Not Do” in a non-Yoda reference. But there’s probably a few thinking I’m exaggerating and saying, “It’s just a haircut and it was just a phrase.” To those, I continue to write.

    My sister has a post-Doctorate in bio-genetics from Harvard. She is a bona fide genius. She is in charge of an entire laboratory finding a cure for blood cancers. She is badass. And even at that advanced intellectual level, she has to take fuckability into account when she prepares a talk. She, however, has to approach it from the other side. If she makes the mistake of being too attractive, (an easy one for her, cuz she’s fucking HOTT!), should the top button have slipped open, should her pants be tight enough to show the status of her glutes, should her smile make any knees a teensy bit weak, her intelligence and worth as a researcher will immediately be called into question. Which could cut her funding. Which could put her out of work. Which could, and I am speaking literally, people, mean cancer will continue to exist longer than it has to. All because she is being judged on whether or not a penis that will never get anywhere near her might nevertheless entertain the idea and sit up a bit straighter at the thought. The thinking is obviously, if she’s hot enough to fuck, she’s gotta be stupid. See how we uncover that fully to mean Women Are Dumb? Yeah. It sucks.

    The value of a woman cannot be separated from our determined worthiness as a sexual partner. No matter whether that would ever in a million billion squillion years actually HAPPEN, it is seemingly a man’s right to at least think about it and judge us appropriately. Moreover, it is clear that I am EXPECTED to make that thought as comfortable as possible so I might be deemed worthy to work. If, God forbid, I were to appear not into men, if it seemed that, were the stars to align perfectly and the right words be spoken and the right nuclear bomb go off while I was on the right island with the right man and I STILL wouldn’t give him any, I could legitimately be considered not appropriate for my job.

    I have agreed to this. I agreed to it long ago, before I knew how lasting the ramifications were. But with this particular haircut interlude, a lot of the unwritten parts of the agreement became a little more obvious and a little more ugly. Or at least sad. So I thought I’d explain it so maybe you might understand a little bit better and we’d be a little bit closer to not thinking this way any more.

    I have cut my hair. It is sexy, but don’t worry! I have an ace up my sleeve. Thanks to my early employment as a veterinary assistant, I have a unique item listed under the “Special Skills and Abilities” section of my resume. It reads as follows: American and European dialects, stage combat (hand to hand, quarterstaff, rapier and dagger), horseback riding, whistling, and neutering cats.

    I figure if anybody does deem me fuckable enough to try and act on it, that last little tidbit will put them back in their seat. Yes, I can and yes, I have. Wanna hear how? I can show you, complete with gestures and sound effects!

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

  10. STAND THE FUCK DOWN. Then stand up.

    April 20, 2013 by kim

    Stand down.

    I have time to write today. I have musings and wry anecdotes. I have observations about kittens and haircuts. I have a celebration of a weight goal reached and a dead kitty to mourn. And the world has gone insane.

    I really really want to ignore the world right now. I don’t want to pay attention to the tantrums it’s throwing. But it seems to be spiraling. Like one kid in the day-care who goes apeshit and all the other kids tune in and think, “Yeah! Me too!” and pretty soon it’s raining applesauce and Cheerios and Miss Maria has to have a lie-down and let it go all Lord of the Flies.

    Stop being assholes. I know you’re scared and angry and feeling powerless and threatened. I get it. I am too. But being an asshole won’t fix that. I don’t care if you’re a fourteen year old girl who’s quarterback is accused of rape or you’re changing your pants because you walked past a backpack that someone left next to a trashcan, the wind caught it, it fell over and you pissed yourself. Throwing rocks and the word “cunt” won’t make you feel better. I swear, on the honor of, well, not me cuz I’m kind of a tramp, but the honor of my sainted mother who was all that is good in this world. It won’t make you feel better.

    Attacking when you feel threatened might feel like taking action, but I really really want you to stand the fuck down and think about what you’re doing. If you’re doing exactly what you feel is being done to you, you’re not fighting for the side of good and it’s only going to make you feel worse. Action and REaction are often two completely different things. Sadly, action often takes a lot more courage and is a lot harder to do, but it feels a lot better.

    A girl was raped, her pictures publicized, and she killed herself. People found out about this and put pressure on authorities to look into the case. They exposed information and asked for justice. They moved toward a SOLUTION. This is what action looks like.

    Other people put up posters calling the girl a “whore” and a “cunt” and expressed solidarity with the accused rapists. This, boys and girls, is REaction and being an asshole.

    I don’t want you to stand down indefinitely. I want you to tell me what the fucking point is. Are you tweeting about the need to close our boarders to foreigners because you have a cohesive plan to rehabilitate our economy and restructure our legal system? Or are you pissed at brown people? Look at yourselves and tell me how you feel. I see a lot of activists and I see a lot of hate and it’s easy to confuse the two in your emotions. I may think I’m working for the White Hats when I echo the screams of those who want to save your soul, but take a good long gander at Westboro Baptist Church and tell me…. don’t you think they’re assholes?

    The crazy is spreading. And it’s spreading because people are not only not thinking, they aren’t feeling. I’m not seeing empathy, I’m not seeing love, I’m not seeing hope, I’m not really seeing anything but fear from a huge portion of the planet right now. I don’t care what cause it supports, fear is fear. It is pointless. It SAYS it keeps you safe and makes you smart. It really makes you an asshole.

    We want to look for the good. We do. I point to the number of stories about heroes in Boston and Christians embracing Muslims in Egypt. I point to the number of times Mr.Rogers has been quoted to, “Look for the helpers.” But those things don’t sell papers and get reposted like bloody bomb victims, in spite of said victims imploring us to look for the peace. The crazy-makers and pot stirrers are never happier than when we are all freaking the fuck out, because we spend a lot of money and give up a lot of rights when we are freaking the fuck out. We are doing somebody’s job and acting on SOMEBODY’S interests, just not ours.

    Stop and ask yourself what would feel good right now. I mean, for me, it may look like stuffing my fingers in my ears and singing, “La la la la,” so I can have a chance to reboot. I support that for everyone who could benefit from it. But spewing vitriol doesn’t actually feel GOOD. It feels gross and angry. If you can take the situation and see a clear resolution, then you take steps toward that resolution, that would probably feel good. If you even HOPE that your actions will create a positive outcome and solution FOR EVERYBODY, that’s still probably gonna feel good. Follow that feeling.

    If you can’t, just stop being an asshole. Go be nice to somebody. Go pet a puppy. Go make a conscious decision to not further this insanity. THAT’S how you fight for the force of good. By doing shit that actually feels good. And the more of us who do it, the fewer chances the assholes will have to run the show.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

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