I'm Too Lewd for Google...Mwahahahaha

I was toying with the idea of putting a couple of ads on my blog, and so I looked into the Google AdSense stuff (since it's affiliated with Blogger and so is likely the easiest foray into the great unknown).

Alas, it's not meant to be.

According to the email I got from the AdSense bot (which apparently scanned my blog for all things inappropriate), I'm not eligible for any ads because (GASP) I have "adult content" peppered throughout my pages.

I am utterly amused and tickled about my status as THAT inappropriate...particularly since I've also been considering adding a weekly "relationship enhancers" post to my normal random commentary. Partly to be less random on at least ONE day of the week, partly because I've recently resumed my role as sex therapist to friends (and acquaintences, and people I've never met who sit down with me at the grocery store deli over lunch), partly because another website keeps trying to get me to be a "relationship expert" in their stable of bloggers. Unfortunately, that site requires I link to my Facebook page...which is just never going to happen.

Anyway, I'd say Google AdSense just validated that option.

Excuse me while I snicker at my desk some more at the prudish company with "ogle" embedded in its name...

Could it be my labeling choices?

Perhaps it's my Cosmic Guide for Harlots?

Husband says it's true: I'm lewd and inappropriate for children.

I think that means I win.

Carpet Pooping...and Other Canine Adventures

As I'm sure you're aware (since for some reason my uterus post is the #1 read post on my blog, according to the internet gremlins who decided to count random pings from Eastern Europe as "read") I have no human babies. I have fabulous nieces and nephews whom I adore spoiling.

And two excessively large canines (whom I also adore spoiling, much to the frustration of my husband). I've posted about my demonic dogs before, because what entities other than children and pets can elicit the weird shit I say out loud?

Ok that's a lie...I say weird shit all the time out loud AND in my head. But I haven't yet said "STOP HUMPING!" to anyone other than my dogs.

I said YET.
Anyway, one day last week I got home an hour later than normal, and discovered a neatly piled poo on the carpet. I'm not sure if this was poop protest or simply too long without a potty break. I'm not even sure who did it, since they were both hiding (one under the table, one upstairs) when I got home. Sigh.

I suspect Chewy: there was JUST enough room between the poopy pile and the sliding glass door to allow for one 150 pound Great Pyrenees to lie against the glass and look out (as evidenced by the additional nose marks). Chewy is a master: he can poop on the carpet and leave it alone all day, but can't poop outside without dancing around in a ridiculous dog-poop-crouch-hop so he can bark at everything.

Leaves on the wind.

Ants.

Squirrels that live across the driveway (in the neighbor's crawlspace, which she bitches about every year at the association meeting but refuses to stop putting birdseed and squirrel food in her backyard like a demented Disney princess).

People four blocks away.

Did I mention wind?

In case you wondered, EVERYTHING is poised to attack at any given moment, and Chewy is ON THE ALERT. With wa-woos. And poop dancing.

Unless he's under the influence...


I'm busy with my drink here, people.



WHAT THE HELL IS THIS??

This will haunt my dreams. Proof the interwebz are possessed? You're welcome.


BEARLACC!!*

An alien contemplating its next victim?

A balding werewolf? (Team Jacob in 30 years!).

A SyFy Saturday night Creature? Really, who knows?

*Or it's a bear, after an unfortunate encounter with an overzealous barber and a set of industrial-strength clippers. Seriously, THIS is why animals wear coats. They look damn silly naked.

In case you're wondering, Han (my awesome nephew) utterly disapproves of these shenanigans.



DUDE! That smells TERRIBLE!

This post probably isn't as funny as I find it at midnight-thirty. I turn into a pumpkin at 10:30, so WHO THE HELL IS WRITING THIS CRAP? 

Clearly, I'm destined to write a cosmic guide for weird harlots.

Random search patterns resulting in people finding my blog this week:

homewreckers and harlots 
werid shit cosmic guide


Let's just ignore the misspelling of "weird" (would that be pronounced WEE-Rid?) since I'm assuming someone just fat-fingered their google search screen...although my blog is still recognized by google for both weird AND werid shit, and I think that's just neat.

I'm taking this as a sign, particularly since I found inspiration for a short story today from the story of Medusa's change from Gorgeous Gorgon to stone-faced bitch with snaky hair. I'm certain all three themes will go well together.

In other news, I was informed that Mossy Oak Break-Up Infinity is not available on the wedding scene. YET. Other variations of camo are, indeed, available for tuxes. I so wish I could go to that wedding.

No, no, you're pronouncing it wrong. It's "whOOre"

So I live in the Land Spring Forgot. Let's just get that out of the way: it's April something-teen and we're in the middle of yet another "shnit" storm (that would be Husband's word for the rain/sleet/snow shit that's currently coating the ground, and more importantly the roads, in a layer of slushy icy crap). This is not a weather-bitching post. Honestly, even a former Northern Minnesotan like me is fucking sick of the weather-bitching.

No, this post is due to a Facebook comment I read today. "Mother Nature is a whore."

I could probably explain the reasons why I'm generally a very long-fused person when it comes to temper, but that's a totally different (and darker) story. Can we just agree that usually I can take a lot of verbal (and otherwise) irritants before I lose my cool. Except for a few things which irritate the fuck out of me. Here's the thing, my Facebook feed is FULL of pro-woman, anti-sexism, anti-slut-shaming posts lately. There's one going around about a principal in a high school who threatened to call a senior's college and tell them how bad her character is and maybe they should rethink her future there. Because she didn't go to the abstinence-only assembly where the speaker said (per Huffington Post) "if you're on birth control, your mother hates you."

What I find silly is when the same people who support stopping the BLATANT sexism are so often those who participate in the more subtle, pervasive sexism in our culture.

Whore.

Let's review the meaning of "whore" shall we? Thank you, www.Dictionary.com for this:

whore

/hɔr, hoʊr or, often, hʊər/ Show[hawr, hohr or, often, hoor]   noun, verb, whored, whor·ing.

noun

1. a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, usually for money; prostitute; harlot; strumpet.

verb (used without object)

2. to act as a whore.

3. to consort with whores.

verb (used with object)

4. Obsolete . to make a whore of; corrupt; debauch.

 

So. One of the challenges of the English language is finding the right word to convey the emotional message to the reader. But this particular word is used SPECIFICALLY to express disgust in a woman's behavior.  Not a man's behavior. Only women, and only with the most demeaning intent. After all, you move further down the degradation ladder when you go from slut to whore, right?

 

Honestly, I've considered this topic before. I don't find anyone, male or female, engaging in "promiscuous sexual intercourse" as less "moral" or any less "respectable" as me. I find that particular trait to be the MOST idiotic thing to judge in a person... WHY would I care if someone is promiscuous? It is not a sign of moral weakness, no matter what the patriarchal religious tenets teach. It can be a sign of self-loathing, but not always. And I'm not going to assume I know what's going on in someone's head. Maybe they just really like sex, for crying out loud.

 

I don't care if anyone, male or female, chooses to have any sort of sexual contact for money unless they're forced into it (in which case I'd gladly . And I don't judge those who've done it because they had to (whether physically forced, emotionally forced, or financially desperate). Why would I? People do what they need to in order to survive, and not everyone's life is as fucking rosy or happy as those portrayed in the media (social or otherwise).

 

This particular comment was a "damn it, fucking snow AGAIN" frustration. But you know, on days like today, when the weather is utterly unpredictable, the ONLY reason I survive is because I have neat things available like indoor heat and grocery stores. Mother Nature could easily rip my head off, in every sense of the word.

If, as a society, we have no respect for even the natural/supernatural forces that we identify as female, are we not including sexism and contempt for the female at our most base and subconscious level? I suppose it's the Pagan-ness in me that gets irked at derogatory terms lobbed around, even though Mother Nature likely doesn't give a hoot what any of us think.

Plus, honestly, as a Pagan I'm pretty sure I wouldn't call any force in the world capable of burying me in any sort of natural disaster a derogatory term.

Dude, you JUST NEVER KNOW.

 

Ok so most of this post was a feminist rant. It's true. If you're going to ignore all the other things I said, at least pronounce the word the fun way. I mean really, using a ridiculous word deserves a ridiculous pronunciation, and for that I refer you to Captains William F. Call and Augustus McRae in Lonesome Dove... who say "whoore" (with the "oo" in the middle) as fact and in appreciation.

If whoore doesn't do it for you, try "Harlot" or "strumpet." Expand your insult ability: both are much more colorful words if you're going to go all Biblically judgmental on any female's sexual proclivities just because you're not happy with her behavior.

To contrast, the best weather-bitching I've seen all week was "everyone likes to sleep in once in a while. But I think it's time to get Mother Nature an alarm clock."

Seriously, Lady...it's cold here and I'm really tired of ice. I know you forgot about Minnesota, but could you send Spring now?

It was a Shark-Sarlacc...Sharklacc!

Last night I woke up seven times from nightmares.

SEVEN TIMES. Sigh. Who needs sleep, after all, when you can lie in bed and contemplate the ramifications of being swallowed whole by anything with stomach acid?

The first, and most vivid, is too fucked up to even attempt to psychoanalyze. But hey, if you have thoughts, feel free to share in comments. I was in a submarine (really?? I get seasick on calm waters) that had surfaced in a storm on some ocean. It was nighttime, and apparently I was the token drunk partying idiot on the boat because I was standing at the top of the stack (that's probably not what it's called...I was never in the Navy). Waving at the sky. No. I don't have any fucking clue why I would be in that position in a weird combination of The Perfect Storm and The Hunt for Red October. But there I was.

And then a wave hit and knocked me out of the top of the stack and I was holding onto the hatch handle, waving in the howling wind like a flag. That's right, I BECAME MY OWN FREAK FLAG.

Unfortunately, this made me a toothpick-sized snack for a megaladon (a prehistoric shark that's bigger than a blue whale...I watch too much syfy, ok??), which immediately swallowed me whole like a bad party appetizer.

Took a turn you didn't expect, didn't it? Yeah, I didn't expect that one either. Even Syfy hasn't gone THERE yet (Pirahanaconda, yes. Freak-Flag-Person eaten by giant shark off the top of a surfaced submarine? nope). Syfy, feel free to use it in your next D shark movie.

And apparently Megaladon is actually the Sarlacc (I really can't help you if you don't know what either of those are...except to say you need more Star Wars and Syfy in your diet). If you recall from Return of the Jedi, those doomed to death by Sarlacc in the desert of Tatooine would be digested for a thousand years. Now presumably as a human being (albeit a drunk partying syfy foolish one who got eaten by a shark), I wouldn't last in anything's stomach for longer than my normal lifespan. But still. Acid burns. Fucking ow.
I would think it's NOTHING like being swallowed by a whale (Monstro!) and getting it to sneeze you out.

IT WAS A DREAM, people. One of many last night. I have an extra shot in my coffee this morning.

The last one (before I gave up on sleep and just got up)? Some random woman accosted me in the airport bathroom with scissors, threatening to cut my hair. Faced with a potential stabbing (or bad haircut), I grabbed the scissors and ran. And she screamed "NO RUNNING WITH SCISSORS: YOU'LL POKE YOUR EYE OUT!"

And that's why I decided to wear my Avengers underwear today...it's an uncertain and dangerous world out there, and I need all the help I can get.

I should probably stop watching the Saturday night creature features, but I LOVE them.

I am unamusing. You can skip this post.

I think I lost a close friend last week. Not in a sock drawer or to circus. Not to any nefarious creature or mob hit: just lost him. Stubbornness may have been involved.

And temper. I'm sure you're shocked and astounded that my temper would successfully push someone away. I am decidedly not shocked. Nor astounded. But I'm sad.

The loss aches. The list of people who truly know almost everything about me isn't long. The people with whom I feel comfortable being "me" without any pretense or mask...well, I can count that list on my fingers. I've been feeling not-enough for some time now, like I'm a fixer-upper with attic bats and cobwebs who could be a great best friend/love/wife/coworker if I could just be a little...better.

If I could be less of a "girl" and never let my emotions get the best of me. (God that is so unbelievably sexist and idiotic. As though men aren't just as irrationally emotional...hiding it and suppressing it doesn't mean feelings aren't there. Belittling and dismissing women for their emotional connection is just...ridiculous.)

If I could always be the rational one and stay in control. If I could keep myself separated enough to never get hurt again.

And the danger of that is to feel nothing. And in feeling nothing, you begin to care less and less about how those around you feel. And loneliness becomes all-encompassing, and your relationships suffer or fall apart.  And depression weasels in, ready to pull you into the pit.

I've been thinking obsessing some about this for days, mostly because I don't do cut-off-all-communication very well. Finally I finished the argument in an email that will never be sent, because it had to come out somewhere. Sigh. It took a while to put the twisted, convoluted mess of anger, regret and sadness into conscious thought.

I've felt...easy to walk away from, easy to disregard...for a while.

And then a most excellent blogger I follow (This Is How The Apocalypse Starts) posted a link to THIS (another fabulous blogger I now follow). I read it. I re-read it. I cried that unstoppable sobbing, gut-wrenching, snot-producing unpretty cry that leaves you exhausted but emotionally clean afterward. And then I read it again, and shared it everywhere I could.

Because I'm a little broken. I have bouts of depression that leave me watching tearjerker movies and balling for no reason. I randomly giggle until I actually wheeze, unable to breathe. I can be a responsible mid-30's person in one moment, an enchanted 5 year old the next, and a dirty-minded 14 year old the next. I'm overweight and too-often lazy. I'm terrible at saying "no" when it comes to money, energy and time. I have long patience on most things that drive people nuts and absolutely no fuse at ALL between happy and utterly incensed if you push certain triggers. I feel AND I think on a spectrum that varies, and I won't apologize for it. My emotions are an integrated part of my psychological makeup. I live with them day in and day out. They color my dreams. They flare and fade a thousand times a day, and most of the time I don't act upon them.

If that makes me "not enough" well, that's really not my problem, because perfection isn't my goal. Putting on the "right" face to interact with people who are supposed to be close to me isn't my goal.

Authenticity, in all its messy/joyful/miserable/awful/ecstatic glory: that's my goal.

This is not a corpse speaking...no really, I'm somewhat alive.

I've been offline quite a bit lately working on FINALLY finishing my first book (rough draft only). I'm not done, but I'm not dead.

Yet.

I figure I need to finish, because my excellent friend Sarah did a Tarot reading for me recently that was essentially a GIANT COSMIC WARNING that I'm "excessively fertile."

I suppose it could've been a universal-warning about an impending apocalypse babies, but I choose to think of it as a not-so-gentle-reminder that I have NOTEBOOKS full of characters and plots just waiting to break out of my overstuffed brainpan and ravage the world.

Also, I've been wasting time looking for a house to rent in Florida, because FUCK THIS WEATHER. Oh Minnesota, I will joyfully leave behind your backstabby version of passive aggressive nice AND your never ending cold.

Oh, you think I'm kidding?