Monthly Archives: January 2010

This song…

This song…

Makes me twitch.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFMNw3UFvRI

According to you
I’m stupid,
I’m useless,
I can’t do anything right.
According to you
I’m difficult,
hard to please,
forever changing my mind.
I’m a mess in a dress,
can’t show up on time,
even if it would save my life.
According to you. According to you.

But according to him
I’m beautiful,
incredible,
he can’t get me out of his head.
According to him
I’m funny,
irresistible,
everything he ever wanted.
Everything is opposite,
I don’t feel like stopping it,
so baby tell me what I got to lose.
He’s into me for everything I’m not,
according to you.

According to you
I’m boring,
I’m moody,
you can’t take me any place.
According to you
I suck at telling jokes cause I always give it away.
I’m the girl with the worst attention span;
you’re the boy who puts up with it.
According to you. According to you.

But according to him
I’m beautiful,
incredible,
he can’t get me out of his head.
According to him
I’m funny,
irresistible,
everything he ever wanted.
Everything is opposite,
I don’t feel like stopping it,
so baby tell me what I got to lose.
He’s into me for everything I’m not,
according to you.

I need to feel appreciated,
like I’m not hated. oh– no–.
Why can’t you see me through his eyes?
It’s too bad you’re making me dizz-ay.

According to me
you’re stupid,
you’re useless,
you can’t do anything right.
But according to him
I’m beautiful,
incredible,
he can’t get me out of his head.
According to him
I’m funny,
irresistible,
everything he ever wanted.
Everything is opposite,
I don’t feel like stopping it,
baby tell me what I got to lose.
He’s into me for everything I’m not,
according to you. [you, you]
According to you. [you, you]

According to you
I’m stupid,
I’m useless,
I can’t do anything right.

I mean, really, if you’re in a position where some ass is calling you stupid and useless, the absolute last thing that should be running through your head is someone else who is probably telling you the same things the ass did when you first met.

The song should have ended:

According to me
I’m awesome,
amazing,
Fuck them if they can’t see that.
And according to me
I’m beautiful,
incredible,
I don’t need their kind of crap.
According to me
I’m funny,
irresistible,
everything they ever wanted.
Everything is opposite,
I don’t feel like stopping it,
so baby tell me what I got to lose.
You’re not worthy of wiping my ass,
according to me.

Or something along those lines ;)

Eets Digit@l!

Eets Digit@l!

Eeeets Pros(e)!

Modern Sage shares her weird Candy Striped Grub drawing.

SocGradMama is pulling her hair out in Homework Hell(p)!

Equality and Justice 4 All tells us What Pissed Me Off This Week.

Are you Missing the Miraculous? Spectacular Me! says, “snap out of it!”

Calming Winds reminds us that no matter what happens around us, we can survive by Clinging to the Core.

Melia Lore is corrupting the youth with her feminist sex studies. Read all about it: Sex and the Melia.

The Official Hippymom Blog has a great Valentine Kid Craft Project for your family to try this month.

Wouldn’t You Like To Know what she’s watching on TV?

Luscious Decadence has come up with 10 Ways to Give Back.

Moves in Curves is Snowed In!

I don’t think you’re ready for this Jelly Jaunt on the Inside Life.

Gray Gaia is just looking for a reason to celebrate.

Don’t forget to sign up for the upcoming online workshops being offered at Hippymom.com during the month of February:

Tuning Your Senses

Scrapbooking

Freelancing

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby!

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby!

Are you noting the theme here? I can’t even type “sec” as in, “just a sec” without it actually reading, “just a sex.” Its becoming quite porny up in here.

Monday, whist folding laundry, I caught about 30 seconds of the Dr. Oz show. I don’t watch daytime TV (because I DVR DOOL, yo) so when I actually see one of the big talk shows, I get all snarky to hide the fact that I’m marginally interested in what they have to say. Except Oprah. No offense.

Dr. Oz said something about having three daughters and weird sex talks. Someone else said that they knew a girl at 11 who was having oral sex. 11. 11 is early, we all know that. I wasn’t horribly shocked, but then I realized that my 11 year old was… 11. Oy. Ok, its time to ramp up the sex ed talks. I’m ready. Bring it on.

A few loads of laundry later, I casually asked him if he knew what a condom was.

No.

Of course not. He’s 11. I asked what he was told about having sex and he said that they just told him to not have sex. Duh.

Yes, I agree with that. But, I am emphatically against abstinence-only education, and even if that was just a building block toward the “rest” of the sex education, its just a very personal matter to me beyond politics. My parents died from AIDS 13 & 14 year ago. This is one issue I will not back down from. My children will be those kids who tell your kids to wear condoms, and you can thank me later, because they are alive.

Ahem.

While at the book store on Tuesday, I saw a “boys book about body stuff” to help bridge the gap between what I was going to tell Talker, and what he had been told in school. I grabbed that book (in the afore-blogged children’s sextion, er, section) as I made my hasty getaway to the Tartmobile. I gave the book to Talker that afternoon.

The other book I had to get for me (reason #2 I was even AT B&N, aside from its sheer awesomeness in a truly nerdtastic sort of way) was Lady Chatterley’s Lover. That evening, I took the opportunity to start reading LCL while The Twitches were bathing.  I was on my bed, minding my own business and reading when Talker and his “boys” book joined me. I  tried to be discreet and keep the cover, well, covered (which, in hindsight, is ridiculous since I have other books laying around with “vagina” and “slut” plastered all over their covers), next to my 11 year old son who is reading about erections and body hair. Surreal moment in parenting #2855

He says, aghast, that since he’s seen his dad shirtless, he knows he’s going to have a LOT of hair (and I laughed because I’m just that bitchy). I mention that I do have a role to play in that (even if its just getting him waxed). Then I tell him that I don’t advise he try to shave his pubes and he’s all, “yeah, that just sounds like a bad idea” when I mention sharp razors near his penis. I, mother of four, was discussing body hair removal with my 11 year old son. Surreal moment in parenting #2856.

This is totally weird, but its a dialogue, and that’s all that matters according to those stupid, stupid talk shows that got me in this mess to begin with. Neither of his father figures are going to tell him what I want him to know. I’m cool with that. He then closes the boy and tells me he’s ready for “the talk.”

This isn’t our first “talk,” but this is the first talk that will go beyond reproductive organs. This is sex. Ok, I can do this. I sigh, put down my book, close my eyes, and pray this comes out right.

I told him about condoms, I told him about vaginal, oral and anal sex, stumbling on the oral sex part (because I had not included the homosexual dialogue that spilled forth from my mouth in my brief rehearsal earlier in that moment). By the time I got to anal sex, I felt like a pro. Not a pro at anal sex, but a pro at… (GAAH!)  He even made the connection that anal sex can have a part to play in homosexual relationships. He. Is. That. Damn. Smart. Bottom line: I just want him to wear a damn condom.

Part of me, just wanted to plug his ears the whole time. The other part of me, simply wanted a drink to read my own book about the stress of puberty on mothers forced to have the sex talk with their sons because public school sex education is NOT good enough. I predict many, many conversations like this in my future and then, suddenly, I see myself as the dad from American Pie. This is who I’ve become. I just need the eyebrows.

The bottom line, for now, is this: take a shower, brush your teeth, wear deodorant and your retainers, and mom will keep your pockets filled with condoms when you’re ready. Oy.

Adventures in Feminist Sex Theory…

Adventures in Feminist Sex Theory…

It started out like any other trip to the book store. I packed up my daughters, promised them each a book, and we headed out to the “big” book store I wrongfully love called B&N. Why wrongfully? I’m pretty sure there’s a boycott attached to the store somewhere, something I once supported, and probably still do. And, while I paused for a moment to reflect upon exactly why I wasn’t supposed to go to B&N, I needed two more books for school and the book store that’s 5 minutes from me sucks.I have my priorities. Off we went.

We arrived (thanks to Dr. Nightmare) and headed to the kid section to find books so that The Twitches would joyfully follow me around, coveting their new treasures, while I figured out where mine were shelved. It was an awesome plan. I was on a mission, and two books awaited their fates within my grubby hands. Ready, set, go.

While The Twitches were oogling the Elmo books (ugh) in the children’s section, I saw the B&N computer. This is the computer that would verify what my earlier, online search had assured me of: the books I needed were indeed in stock, and I hadn’t just wasted time on a wild feminist goose chase.  “Hooray!” said the time management freak in me, gleefully stuffing more study/blogging minutes into our pockets.  I stroked the computer and typed “Jane sex” (the first word and a half of one of the books, not just a random Jane fantasy) and hit enter.

Nothing.

I noticed the computer was on the “kid book” tab, so I clicked “books” and again typed, “Jane sex.”

Nothing.

I looked around and smiled at the woman who was standing three feet behind me, hoping she was not waiting for the computer, and tried again: “Jane sexes it up.”

There it was, smiling and winking at me. It even had directions; it was waiting, nestled snugly between the bosoms of cooking and Christianity. Stoked, I click “print map,” because of my super power that enables me to get completely lost in my own bathroom, hence, Dr. Nightmare’s guidance to a book store that is 6.4 miles away and wait for the little receipt to tell me which way to head, but there was…

Nothing.

There was nothing. The screen stopped responding. Nothing printed. The Twitches have now wandered a shelf away to the train table and I can’t see them. The screen is frozen and all I can think of is that if I move from this spot to find my children, the computer will suddenly unfreeze and the screen, in 78 point red letters, will say something to the effect of:

And then, a piece of paper would print out with my name, address, phone number and the login for this blog. My life was over in that moment. OVER. DONE. I was headed to 11 o’clock news fame. GAAH!

I casually walked away from the computer, checking out the newest children’s classics and surrepticiously looked back at the computer screen, hoping to at least have a dramatic, slow-motion scene where I ran to clear those heinous words I had typed.

Nothing. It was still frozen, mocking me in its freezingness.

After a few more moments like that, I decided that I was just going to let the torches blaze and move on to actually find my own books and get the hell out of Dodge… in my Dodge. I looked back once more and saw the computer laughing at me. It was in on the joke with the produce scale, but I  moved on. I found my books, bought them and found my way back home thanks to Dr. Nightmare. Mission accomplished.

For the next three months, I have to somehow balance my in-depth studies of women’s sexuality in my normal reading places, like sitting outside of the school office, or at the playground, or my very own couch where everyone will eventually be able to read the titles of my books. Hilarity is imminent, so buckle your seat belts and grab a filty martini.  Its on, bitches.

The Days of My Lives…

The Days of My Lives…

Upon daydreaming about what I’ll be doing in fall I woke up to the knowledge that the last week was, in fact, spent screwing around and not focusing enough on what will be months of having my writing and thoughts criticized. Evidently, my entire study plan had to be reworked in order to not be too broad, and make sense beyond what I had already thought made sense, and contain more heterosexual authors (bwahahaha!) Perhaps taking on any new clients at this time is a bad idea.

The crowd says, “DUH.”

Yeah, thanks for that.

For the record, not thinking “gay” is hard when trying to find decent fictional representations of female sexuality. Most of the authors are bisexual or lesbian. I’m just going to let that knowledge stew around in my brain for a while as I go back to contemplating where I’m heading next.

It is time to focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. The study plan is done, now, and I am truly on my way. 17 books, 10,000 words, 3 months. I. Can. Do. This. Shit.

SOTW!

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwC22KZ1Eqg