Saturday, November 28, 2009

Girl Zines: Worth It

When I received this book in the mail and began to flip through it, my first impression was an overwhelming “oh, shit” feeling. I had agreed to review this serious, probably incredibly dry book on “doing feminism”? Me, one of the most lackluster feminists I know, whose knowledge about the women’s rights movements shamefully begins and ends with Susan B. Anthony? Yes, oh yes, that me had somewhat drunkenly begged to be allowed to write a review of “Girl Zines: Making Media, Doing Feminism.” Well, as a wise man once said, “Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” With that fixed doggedly in mind, I sat my completely unqualified self down and began to read the book.

To my great and delighted surprise, “Girl Zines” was ridiculously intriguing from the beginning. For those of you unfamiliar with zines, wiki or google them straight-away! The zines featured in this book reminded me most of journals, notes, and letters to and from friends. They’re not mainstream, they’re not “neat”, and the content is not edited by some white dude with a tie. The author managed to make clear even to this laywoman the import of zines to feminist work – these are young women just like me who are scribbling, Sharpie-ing, and glittering themselves onto a piece of paper, Xeroxing it, and distributing it. Really? I thought, is it that easy? In the foreword, Andi Zeisler says she’s never felt cool enough for girl zines: sister, I’ve never felt cool enough for feminism. About halfway through the book, Piepmeier offers this quote from Courtney Martin – “ We are not apathetic. What we are…is totally and completely overwhelmed.”

I read that and thought, you bet your ass I am! When it comes to women of different colors? COLOR?? God forbid I come right out and say talking about race makes this cracker crumble! The only thing I think when I open my mouth to talk about feminism in third-world countries is I’M A WHITE GIRL I’M A WHITE GIRL I’M A WHITE GIRL. I gave up on nurturing any riot grrl part of myself the first time I thought I’d offend somebody, and I honestly never felt like I had anything worthy to say. I read this book, and in reading it I found myself feeling pretty fucking empowered.

Making zines doesn’t take training. Making zines, at least the zines I’d make, would be barfing out inner chunks of myself onto the page. The zines featured in the book start conversations, they offend, they open up huge paths of possibility, and what the hell – turns out feminism isn’t scary. Turns out I could offend somebody in MY zine, then maybe she turns around and horrifies somebody in HER zine, and the next thing you know there is a smart, snarky, important conversation happening. Piepmeier says whenever she talks about zines in class, her students inevitably go forth and make their own. If that isn’t testament enough to the power of the media, I don’t know what is.

I loved this book, and I am grateful to the author, and I also really soon need to get internet back at the apartment so I can look up “hegemony” and “pedagogy.” If you’re like me in all of my ignorance, have you a nice search engine nearby while reading this book. I’m still itching to dig further into Girl Zines, with notebook in hand, but I did sign up to review it today so that will have to wait.

At any rate, this newly-empowered fat dyke bitch says buy the book and thank me later. Or thank Alison Piepmeier. Trust us, it’s more than worth it.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Martin Needs To Leave The City

This is not New York City. This is DC. I should not be acting the way I have been acting, but the longer I am here, the more it sinks in that no one is going to tell Alma that they saw me misbehaving. For an evil little shit like myself, this realization is positively intoxicating. Add to this potent sense of freedom some actual physical intoxicants and my friends, you have a problem. That being said, the stories that follow happened on the job, my veins humming with nothing stronger than home-brewed coffee.

I am driving my two precious angels home from school, singing gently with them and enjoying the delightfully crisp fall day. We have just gotten out of Dupont Circle when before us weaves an un-helmeted bicyclist*. I am forced to brake rather violently, and, startled, I give my horn a gentle tap to let him know that he is not alone in the world. He turns his head around and gives me a MOST incredulous and unpleasant look, which bothers me mightily, and before I know it I return his look complete with my tiny middle finger thrust up into the air. He makes a full, lazy circle in front of us, pauses in front of the car, and spits ferociously onto my windshield. With impeccable Southern aplomb, I smile graciously, flip on the wipers, and wave gaily to him as I wash away his inconsequential spittle.

*I do NOT have a problem with cyclists or pedestrians. I have a problem with HELMET-LESS people who expect everything else with wheels to be in complete control of their safety.

This past week, I took Buddy to school in a taxi. I should have known from the first that I had gotten a "dud" cabbie; he wanted to chat.

Me: Please take a right on P St.
Him: I like to take Mass Ave, you see, it is much faster this way and...
Me: Turn right here.
Him: (bitches allllll the way the Georgetown about his "faster" route)
Him: 6.75, please, oh, you have a twenty? Oh, see, I don't have change for that, can I give you this ridiculous amount that will ensure me at least a five-dollar tip for this awful, annoying ride?
Me: No. Hold on.

Here's where it gets fuzzy. I am sure I gave him a twenty. When he finds me fifteen minutes later, after I've dropped Buddy off, he is sure I gave him a five. This has happened to me before (generally IN the cab, though) and I do not care to be bamboozled this time. The following occurs right outside of Buddy's school in full view of the parents waiting there.

Him: OH I am so glad I found you, I have been looking and looking and see, (does the obnoxious I'm-going-to-talk-fast-and-bamboozle-you thing)
Me: Wait, what? (I know that I am fallible and want to make things right)
Him: (Does not shut up, not for one second, not even to take a breath)

I realize I do in fact have a twenty in my pocket, and offer it to him, whereupon he starts into the no-change thing again. He will. not. Shut. UP. I think that's what did me in, was the constant and unrelenting noise. I burst horribly into tears on Wisconsin Avenue and said in a most deranged way, "Would you PLEASE shut the FUCK UP for one FUCKING MINUTE???" Well, dear readers, he did! For a moment. He began to open his mouth again, and I, bamboozled and frustrated, grabbed his arm, grabbed the eleven dollars he was proffering, and said, "Let's let it fucking go, shall we? I don't have the fucking time for this. Have a nice fucking day." This said in a shrill, odd voice, as tears streamed down my reddened face to fog up my glasses. I then snurfled and sniffed my way away from him, shoulders hitching pathetically occasionally. The fancy folk of Georgetown looked away from the sad little sight of me in my Walmart shoes, brown cords with said cord rubbed away, and saggy little zip-up sweatshirt splotched violently with tearstains. And folks? For the first time, I wasn't surprised that my obvious distress made me invisible.

I'm not sure if this is a surface coating of rage and insanity or the more pervasive crumbling and blackening of my soul, but all the same it merits at least a casual self-study. Just nobody tell my mom, okay?

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Roof Work, Teeth, Pain & Spanish

My employers are having roofwork done on their condo this week. So far - so good. Buddy is in big boy school now and Squirk is the perfect age to throw in car or stroller and go a'venturing. I don't want ya'll to have to do math so I'll just tell you that Buddy is now three and Squirk is now one plus change. As I had hoped, Squirk is a complete bitch. She is feisty, stubborn, has a great sense of humor, and will pinch the fuck out of you if you tell her no. She is also, finally, at fourteen months, cutting some goddamn teeth (seriously, she was looking weird). We are still waiting on the hair, but I find that a little lesbi-spit and claspy barrettes work fine when sticking a bow to her almost-bald baby scalp. I don't want to leave Buddy out, of course; he is a fine young man, active, interesting, thoughtful, and thoroughly gay. Also may I say you have not lived until you have heard him sing "Blame It (On The Alcohol)". They are a frustrating delight, a terrible pleasure, and dearly loved by me. That being said...

Things generally go all to furious hell when Mom and Dad return for their progeny, but today was truly a sensorial treat. There's no air conditioning because of the roof work, and there's no peace because of the erratic BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG roof work, the echo of which is truly stunning. I hadn't let Buddy nap in the car today as I usually do, and Squirk is birthing - count 'em - THREE teeth right now, at the same time. It hurts to even think about it. Mom comes home and these things happen in the next eighteen minutes:

She comes in and finds that there are several holes in her ceiling that didn't USED to be there. Her son runs at her excitedly, head-butting her in the thigh. SHE bursts into tears, upon which Buddy pees himself and then bursts into tears himself. Not to be out-done, baby Squirk smacks herself in the teething mouth with Thomas the Tank Engine and begins quite dramatically to bleed all down her chin.

I want very badly to leave. Instead I walk over and pick Squirk up, checking the injury and then letting her bleed all over my clean shirt (I can't brag. The shirt was black.) Dad comes in, having gone to talk to the workmen about the various holes in his home. I hand his baby to him and think I'm good to go until they remember I speak Spanish. "You could talk to them, right, Martin?" he says. I point out that his baby is bleeding profusely from her mouth, take one of his beers, and head down the stairs. I walk outside, locate the workmen's generator, find every extension cord plugged into it, and pull them out. Seconds later two, four, seven little heads popped up from the roof. I send the foreman in to deal with the weeping bleeding hysterical family, apologizing profusely for the unplugging and making quite clear that I'm just an employee here too.

Thank God it's almost Thursday.


Thursday, September 17, 2009

Stycone Did It

And anything she does I kind of want to do to. Rock out, friend.

I'm back, sort of, I guess. I didn't have much to say for awhile but I'm feeling like I've got quite a bit to say now. I want to blog* more, simply because I feel more situated in myself when I do. And other stuff, like my PAYATTENTIONTOME complex, which is not so much a complex as a way of life. I've been thinking a lot about weight and women and moms and daughters recently, and the only thing I can think of to do with all these feelings is a) lose weight b) leap off a building c) do nothing or d) write about all of my options.

*God, seriously? Could we come up with a more faggoty word? No. I do not think so.

And that's that, and this is this, and here we go again, ladies and gentlemen.

Let us blog* once more.

*faggoty faggoty faggoty and is that even SPELLED RIGHT??

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Dear The Man

Dear The Man,

I hope you had fun towing my completely dead 1995 Nissan Sentra to your goddamn towing shop.  I suppose that (by the way, you suck.  You suck so fucking hard.) it was indeed on private property, and should not have been there.  I also suppose that it has been there for two and a half COUNT 'EM two and a half years, and not one single peep from you fuckers have I heard.  I think it's super-neat that you are only open from nine to five, the exact hours that most people work, enabling me to do absolutely nothing about picking up the motherfucker until the weekend - the WEEKEND YOU DIRTY BASTARDS.  Also, I have no money.  Also, it needs a new battery.

My lady-friend has sweetly informed me that the cost (without new battery, without adding in time spent, without adding in I-Don't-Have-My-Zoloft-Anymore emotional distress) is one hundred and forty-one dollars.  Did I mention I can't pay my rent this month?  Did I mention that that is because as a conscientious citizen I am trying to pay off my credit card?  GROWING PAINS PEOPLE.  Financial growing pains.

Also, speak up and speak some fucking version of standard American English when I call and ask you questions.  I can only take so much of half-muttered "What?'s" and sullen "Huh?'s" before I will become incensed enough to give the phone to my girlfriend, whereupon I will immediately march to the smoking-room, dramatically throw a lighter, kick the wall, and burst into tears.

Bad timing.  Bad fucking timing, dude.  Have a nice motherfucking nine-to-five day being the douche who helps make other people mad and sad.

Xo,
Martin

P.S.  Your karma is fucked.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Nanny Rules

To the parents who read this blog:  Please don't.  Nanny is going to bitingly criticize two of the most wonderful parents ever to walk the planet.  There's no way I can make this honest from me AND fair to parents.  So if you must read, read forgivingly.  Parents are great.  Childcare decisions are hard.  That being said I present you with

How Not To Piss Off Your Nanny 2009

1.  I have already covered this in an earlier blog, so I shan't be too long about it here.  I make sure I get to work on time, so that you may get to work on time.  Throw me a fucking bone here and get out the fucking door WITHIN the hour.  I don't think that's too much to ask.

2.  Read up, people.  You Cannot Reason With A Toddler.  Working Mom, I know you feel guilty leaving your little folks with me.  I know you don't want to leave until Buddy is "copacetic".  Unfortunately, the following does not work.

Morning Vignette

Mom:  Okay, Mommy work time!
Buddy:  *apoplectic toddler fit*
Mom:  What do you want?  (let Nanny point out - he WANTS you to stay.  You can't.  Do NOT ask this question!)
Buddy: *continues fit*
Mom:  Do you want to go upstairs?
Buddy: *throws self on floor, screams 'UP, UP, UUUUP'* (they go upstairs.  'Oh!,' thinks the toddler, 'screaming = what I want!')

An hour later, at ten thirty am, NINETY MINUTES after they were supposed to be gone, the parents leave.  With the toddler.  To the playground.  That day, both parents left for work at noon.  I sat at their home alone staring blankly at the sleeping baby and suffocating the urge to quit.  In short, #2:  Your child is not in charge.  You are.  Be loving, be firm, be the goddamn adult.

3.  This is a bit extended from #2, but it's very important and hard even for ol' Nanny Flaps to do:  never, ever, never but NEVER end a MANDATORY request with the word "okay?"  Examples:  "It's time to go to school, okay?"  
                     "Get out of the street, okay?"
                     "Fingers out of the baby's eyes, okay?"
Again:  handing power to someone who's been out of the womb for less than two years.  Say "please" instead, for the love of God.

4.  Don't "help" me.  You're not "helping".  You're being a pain in the ass.  We work with the same two children in very different ways - you're a mom and I'm not, so I like to tip-toe around my utter contempt for your "method". Please don't force me to witness it.  Trust me, your child will stop that temper-fit the instant you leave his sight.  He will only escalate if you hang around "helping" by asking what he wants and getting him more special-treat-snacks.  Check out the differences:

When Buddy has a fit, you ask questions, you do what he screams at you to do, and you end up in tears too.  When Buddy starts up with me, I put him in a safe place, tell him to find me when he finds his Big Boy Voice, and I walk away.  I do not acknowledge him until he is done.  If he hurts himself flailing, I wordlessly, cuddle-less-ly check for broken bones and blood and, finding none, walk away again.  Guess what?  It works.

5.  People get sick.  Parents and caregivers ESPECIALLY get sick, children being the disgusting little nose- and butt-picking disease vectors that they are (okay, me too, but I wash my goddamn hands.  Sometimes.)  I understand that you'll have to stay home occasionally, and I respect that.  Please, though, if you're just going to sleep all day, stay out of the way of me and the kids, and understand that if I don't hear violent vomiting and defecating from you,  I will resent it.  If you're not completely incapacitated, roll out your sofa bed and plug yourself and your sweet babies into videos and give me the day off.

Evil Nanny Hint A:  Baby Tylenol knocks today's organic-food-only vegetarian babies out like eighteen beers does your author here.  They don't need it?  Here's a thought - that unnecessary dose that makes them pass out will hurt them a lot less than having a cranky, sick, or tired person take resentful care of them.

6.  Let me interject here and say that my lady-friend has pointed out that I favor this list-form because I have terrible trouble with transitions.  She's right.  I hope that you sweet readers still enjoy my blogging when I take an easier road.  I also hope that you parents aren't a-massing with torches and the like to come show the just-a-nanny-who-the-hell-does-she-think-she-is?? what's what.  You're right.  I'm sorry.  We're almost done!

7.  On the inevitable sick-ness of children:  colds?  Go to work.  Fever?  Go to work.  Constant, unrelenting diarrhea and vomiting from a two-and-a-half-year-old and an infant?  STAY HOME.  STAY IN  YOUR HOME, and let me stay in my home too.  Trust me, if you do not, you will find yourself using up the last of your leave to race home and save your shitting puking progeny from their also-shitting puking nanny.  Let's keep it in the family, please.

7a.  On Friday the last, every time I changed a diaper I changed an outfit as well, since the feces of the children was thoroughly non-viscous and streamed copiously from every possible end of their organic Seventh Generation Pull-ups and size three diapers.  All day.  I don't love your children like you do, and this brought me almost to tears and significantly lessened my enjoyment of my day.  Literally - deal with your own shit.  

8.  To my lover, who put on a special television show just for me - Fucking fuck motherfucking Caillou.  Look this bald little bastard up - you'll regret it just as much as she's just about to regret her evil little joke.  

At any rate.  Again, sorry I'm not updating as much.  It's winter, and winter makes me want to do nothing more active than crack a beer and raise it to my lips.  I hope I didn't step on too many parental toes here, but lord did I have a week and I just needed to give a shout-out to all my blogging friends.  "Happy" winter - keep your Chapstick and thermal underwear close, and "enjoy" the outdoors, if that's the kind of pervert you are.  Goodbye!

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Gender

Put your balls on, ladies and gents. I got me a rant a-comin'.

I have been a nanny for a little over two years now - I began with a little girl who had a used-to-be-a-man-mom and a born-a-woman-mom. These "enlightened" folks, in the name of gender neutrality, allowed nothing pink, flowery, lacy, or otherwise traditionally feminine in Bear's life. When people asked what gender she was, Bad Mom #1 would say, "She is a girl now, but she might grow up to be a boy". When I took Bear to a conference they were having on oh BOY we're so ENLIGHTENED about GENDER let's use non-gender-specific pronous for EVERYONE, they slapped a sticker on her (her, her, HER!) that labeled her as a "hir". This of course is one of the aforementioned pronouns. Now, this, to me, is not gender-neutral. This is labeling (literally) your child controversially before she is in any way equipped to make that decision for herself.

Then you have the other child, Buddy, for whom I still care. (It is an unrelated but to-me salient point that Bear's parents are some of the lowest and most despicable people ever to reproduce) His parents, a woman-born-woman and a man-born-man, took a more traditional route. He's been in blue and trucks and plastic hammers since birth. Now, it is my opinion that children GENERALLY build their vocabularies on commonplace, familiar things. It is my belief that Buddy's love of trucks and back-hoes and front-loaders and fire trucks and cranes is a direct result of his being surrounded by such things since birth. What I hear from his mother (a woman whom I dearly, dearly love) is that he is "all boy". What I see from her is not only willingness but an earnest, heartfelt desire to see what choices her boy is going to make. She wants a wedding and grandchildren, whatever happens, but Buddy is going to have her support and love even if he chops his dick off and grows tits.

Now I really try to stay away from topics what might tend to sow discord, but I am terribly hormonal, read an email just now from Bear's mom about god-damn gender, and am heartily, heartily sick of feeling like my less-than-lesbian-community-approved opinions are un-welcome out of my head.

This god-damned email directed me to a website called - wait, no, I am not telling you what it is called because I would rather eat off my own labium than help that lice-ridden bitch in any way - any-way, it is basically gender-queer-ism for children. This, in itself, I do not mind. What gets your friend Martin's knickers in a real twist is the deprecating and derogatory manner in which they treat more "traditional" folks.

See, here is my whole entire point - because I do have one, friends, I do - when it comes to differences, the only way I think we can ever REALLY be down with each other is plain old-fashioned respect. As a Gay, that is the number-one thing I want from folks. You don't have to like it. You don't have to vote like I do. You can be a gun-toting, Hummer-driving, anti-abortion-anti-gay Midwesterner, and I will respect your right to have opinions and beliefs different from mine. I do not have to LIKE what you believe. I CHOOSE to respect it. That's the thing about rights, you know? We all have them, and I am not going to deny someone the very thing I'm trying to get from them.

And as for where the children fit in, I repeat - r-e-s-p-e-c-t. You got a gaymo, like Buddy? You got a straighty-poo, like his friend Maddy? You got a genderqueer, like that Riley kid? Well, cowboy, you RESPECT that child's sacred god-given right to BE who she or he or ze or hir IS. You RESPECT their right to make their OWN decisions about Who. They. Are. You respect your children, gays, trannies, intersexed folks, racially-diff-from-you folks, straight folks, and people who like dogs more than cats, or vice versa. Hell, I try and even respect people who don't like babies.

In case you think I'm getting all righteous on you, my one caveat on this is not respecting certain folks who take rape-of-respect to a new and deeply obscene level. So, you know, whew.

God, I'm tired. See you next time.