Friday, January 28, 2011

I feel the need for a rant, and it’s political, and I have a blog, and oh look! I even have a "rant" label!

So apparently a bunch of men in the House of Representatives have taken it upon themselves to decide, once again, that they know more about my body than I do (there are 173 co-sponsors, only five of whom are women*). This time, they have decided that: · If I go out and have a drink, and someone slips a drug in that drink to make me pass out, and they proceed to rape me, I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape". · If I become mentally disabled and incapable of telling a man “no”, it doesn’t count as rape and I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape". Also not allowed to decide how to handle their own bodies are women over the age of 18 who are victims of incest, because overnight you suddenly became capable of changing your life and all of a sudden it's not rape. Also, if I get raped and have been putting my money in a tax-exempt Health Savings Account? I can't touch that money if I want to get an abortion. Is this bill going to become law? It’s a pretty long shot, thank goodness. Would I even need the option to get a Medicare funded abortion? I sincerely hope not, and since I’m in a fairly privileged segment of society, the odds are long. But. That’s. Not. The. Point. The point is that the line keeps being moved for what is “reasonable”. And that line is moving closer to the extreme side. The point is that once again, people who will never be faced with this decision about their body are saying that I don’t have the right to make that same decision about mine. The point is that “forcible rape” isn’t even a legal term and isn’t defined in the law – which means it can mean whatever the hell anti-abortion people want it to mean. The point is that this will not change those mens’ lives in the least. The point is it could be disastrous for the two people whose lives it will change the most. *And to the women who co-sponsored the bill: If you stay out of my uterus’s business, I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?

Sunday, January 16, 2011

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. I had a plan: to me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.
That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz into the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.
That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.
That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.
That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".
That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.
That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.
And that's how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. I had a plan: to me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.
That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz into the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.
That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.
That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.
That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".
That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.
That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.
And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. To me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.
That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz in the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.
That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.
That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.
That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".
That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.
That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.
And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

Sunday, January 09, 2011

I

And right on time, we have another Alabama Winter Storm of the Century!
2010. This year, we're going to leave off that part about "So Far Because I'm Going To Need A Better One", because I think I've been tempting fate. I should have been more specific. I want SNOW storms. Winter storms can include ice, and Mother Nature finally found that loophole in my pleadings. It looks like that's what we're in for around here (loopholes, which in this instance is ice). Now, ice has some of the same positive aspects: it's getting The Professor and me a day off work; I get to have a celebratory beer at 3:40 in the afternoon; my favorite meteorologist will have a long-form weather special this afternoon. The negatives? Oh, the little possibility that ice will end all of this happiness as we know it. I went out to get a picture of something noteworthy, but so far the only thing noteworthy is my windshield, which is a solid sheet of ice. The driveway is on its way to becoming an ice field, but luckily I only had to take one step on it to get to the car. Knowing my graceful self, you might say "But, D! That's one step to many!" And you're right, I dared fate when I took that one step. Which is why I think I'll stay inside until it's all gone. The next time I step outside, Mother Nature will probably have teleported a polar bear to my front yard to teach me not to taunt her about Alabama Winter Storms of the Century. PS: Why in the world do I not have a weather label on this blog? I've been putting all of these under "domestic bliss"? The Professor could care less about my weather ramblings. I blame the wine I was probably drinking for the lack of motivation to create a new label. Just as I'll blame the beer I'm drinking now for the lack of motivation to create a new label. See? I'm consistent in my laziness!