If you don’t know what these are, and were not instantly sent into a melty puddle of nostalgia while you jumped on eBay to see if your favorite one was being sold, then we cannot be friends.
If you live in Virginia, read the news, have your radar tuned to the feminist bat signal, whatever, you probably know all about the Delegate from Prince William County and his “oopsie!” about abortion and disabled children.
Here’s what he originally said, via The Washington Post:
“The number of children who are born subsequent to a first abortion who have handicaps has increased dramatically. Why? Because when you abort the firstborn of any, nature takes its vengeance on the subsequent children,” Marshall said.
“In the Old Testament, the firstborn of every being, animal and man, was dedicated to the Lord,” he added. “There’s a special punishment Christians would suggest — and with the knowledge that they have in faith, it’s been verified by a study from Virginia Commonwealth University — first abortions, of a first pregnancy, are much more damaging than later abortions.”
Of course, once it was reported that Mr. Marshall was blaming abortion for children with handicaps, or saying that a handicapped child is a punishment for abortion, especially if you throw in some OT Bible (represent, yo!) he backtracked and said:
“No one who knows me or my record would imagine that I believe or intended to communicate such an offensive notion. I have devoted a generation of work to defending disabled and unwanted children, and have always maintained that they are special blessings to their parents. Nevertheless, I regret any misimpression my poorly chosen words may have created as to my deep commitment to fighting for these vulnerable children and their families.”
Because, he’s a politician who got caught up in his religious fervor and absolute lack of knowledge or concern about anything regarding abortion except what God 1.0 has told him to think. The studies he is talking about are based on the dilation of the cervix during the abortion procedure.
Ladies, your cervix has absolutely nothing to do with the mental/intellectual/neurological/physical state in which your child comes into this world. It is the “neck” of the uterus that opens when its time to have a baby, or during your period. Cramps and labor pain are caused by the dilation of your cervix. When an abortion is performed, your cervix is dilated, just as if you were having a period, and there can be some damage caused by the instruments used during the procedure, but, again, your cervix has nothing to do with the state of your baby’s handicaps.
I realize Mr. Marshall does not have a cervix, and perhaps could benefit from a specialized sex talk, but I just can’t cut him any slack for his ignorance. He is being paid to be a moron, a dangerous moron. Women with disabled children will hear those words of him and blame themselves even more than they already do for their child’s issues.
Mr. Marshall, while I’m not in your district, I am a woman who highly believes that a man in your position should, at least, not be passing off “medical” information as something biblical to advance your own political agenda. While I am glad to see that a man can be just as misinformed as, say, Sarah Palin (yep, I totally played that card), it saddens me beyond measure that you are a man who could one day be speaking at a school function where I’d have to sit and listen. I hope this is the end of your political aspirations and that you live a happy life, guilt-free and well above the women who have to make these sorts of choices each and every day.
Happy Monday, faithful reader! You know who you are, sitting there with your coffee, refreshing my blog for my latest bit of wisdom. Which banner is your favorite, by the way, and can you please re-theme this bitch, because the pink is really starting to get to me and I don’t have time to do anything about it. April is only two months away. In two months, my life will cease to spin out of control and I may have a moment to breathe.
This is when I generally blog about my fabulous, or not-so-fabulous weekend so I can remind myself that I actually do have a life outside of my house, or that I need to get out more, depending on my state of hibernation. This is the first time in about three weeks that I’ve had nobody in my house except me. The silence… well, “golden” doesn’t say enough.
Without further ado, the weekend in review!
On Friday, I met Martini Lady at a bar and we saw two more bands: Kicking Norma (great stillettos!) and Rise and Fall (totally cute lead singer). Sadly, I don’t think either band, but Kicking Norma, especially, got the attention they deserved. The crowd just wasn’t that great, unless Baby Got Back was playing during the set change, and the drinks were watery. My legs are still sore from dancing, or maybe from furniture moving. Either way, Friday night was fantastic, yet again. Martini Lady cracks my shit up.
Durrah (my sister and ATS mentor) and two of her friends (need their URLS!) came into town for an ATS certification all weekend, and crashed at my house. There was much revelry, laughter, henna and awesome costuming (I have the best brown eye flower ever… no, wait, that sounds wrong). There’s nothing like the chuckle that emits from your soul when you say to someone, “yeah, the troupe of belly dancers just left my house.” Ahhhh, good times.
My kids finally got their annual portraits done (because DDG keeps asking for them) and The Husband is officially living in his ManCave, complete with surround sound and brand new bed. I am happily trying to get as much reading done as possible so I can enjoy my 48 hours this weekend at my 2nd annual retreat, without kids or husband. Girl power. Rawr!
It gets even better, though. Yesterday, I discovered that sometime in the last month, someone threw a used condom on my back porch.
I know this because during Snowmageddon, we had no choice but to let our dogs poop/pee on the flagstone porch. Gross, yes, but there was nowhere else to take them, unless we let them puddle the sidewalk. So, my back porch was covered with dog shit and after a fight with Talker, I went out to take care of business. I worked in a Humane Society 15 years ago, this was really not much different. During my Humane Society nostalgia, as I was shoveling and hosing crap, I noticed a white balloon on the top of the cover of my daughters’ turtle-shaped sandbox.
No, wait, that’s not a… OMG ITS A FUCKING CONDOM *cry*
I told The Husband that I was proud of him for being safe, but that next time, I would appreciate it if he’d dispose of his prophylactics properly. He claims ignorance, but ended up finishing the poop-brothel job, so I’ll just smile and nod. I suppose in honor of last week being National Condom Week, I should be a little more understanding, but I’m not. Out of 30lbs of dog crap I shoveled, the only thing that really made me want to vomit was the condom. Gack.
Anyhoo, the porch is clean and all of my family has survived. I can see green grass again, albeit somewhat soggy. Back to work with me, but first, the SOTW! I cannot wait for this entire album to be released, even if the cover art is creepy as hell.
Let me preface this by saying that I am a Virgo, and its against our nature to speak of gross, poopy, bodily functions. I hate bathrooms, mine and public, and toilets make me vomit (which is pretty convenient, if you think about it). I also was partially raised by a very Southern-belle-esque woman who I refer to as “DDG” (Drunk-Dial Grandma). Southern-belle-esque DDGs do not speak of poop, either, even when they get ancient older. They may have cute poo-euphemisms, but for the most part, my family seemingly did not poop except, ironically, behind closed doors. We also did not vomit, “cuz tha’d make me throw up ta’ think ’bout it.”
In the first of a series of “coming out” blogs, I’m here to tell you that yesterday, I went to the bathroom at Friendly’s.
(Well, that was anti-climatic.)
As much as DDG doesn’t speak of feces, I don’t ever go to Friendly’s. I’ve lived in NoVa for six years now and I’ve been to Friendly’s three times, even though its a, well, friendly place to go, has ice cream, blah, blah, blah. I would love to love Friendly’s, don’t get me wrong. Its just that I will never get the traumatic video of my virgin Friendly’s visit out of my mind.
We had been in NoVa for like 3 minutes, maybe, upon moving here and my boys were hungry. There, glowing like that fish that tried to kill Marlin and Dory in the moonlight, was Friendly’s. It was perfect. The husband, Talker, Enigma and I walked in and were immediately freakified amused by the circus decor on the walls. Quickly turning to the ice cream counter, I could not help but notice the older lady working the scoop… because (and don’t hate me for this) she had the biggest hunchback I’ve ever seen. Wow, welcome to Northern Virginia.
We moved along and were seated amidst the circus murals and red, plastic booths. The kids’ twisty straws came out of the woodwork in anticipation of drinks and slowly, our server approached our table. He may have been dragging his leg behind him. The server (I’m calling him Floyd) gave us the regular introductory spiel, punctuating each and every word with a very loud inhale of Friendly’s air. He [breath] was [breath] talking [breath] like [breath] this while continually wiping the sweat from his brow and Claude knows where else about, it seems, to die before our very eyes before he got to our drink order. Please indulge my visual of a sandy-haired, chubby man who was breathing like he’d just been fucked by a blender, dripping sweat all over his little note pad upon which he was writing down the food I was surely not going to even attempt to eat. Northern Virginia is not fun. Send me back to Miami, please, and don’t forget the platanos.
But, my kids were starving and regardless of this man’s imminent death, we remained still, hoping not to be sweated upon. Did I mention the drive from Miami to DC is about 19 hours long? The hunchback ice cream scooper was, by now, cackling at my need to flee the premises, and, I kid you not, I watched an 8-foot tall, 50-lb. woman woman walk across the back of the restaurant. I suddenly understood the circus theme. It was as if a traveling carnival from the Depression era stopped west of DC to earn some cash at a chain restaurant specializing in ice cream. All that was missing was the fortune teller.
(For those of you who know I read tarot, I’m kindly asking you to shut up.)
A few years ago, I ended up back at Friendly’s with a slight touch of PTSD, but ready to brave the circus elements for my friend and her three kids. Ironically, while the most bizarre things happened TO this friend as she traveled through NoVa, that visit to Friendly’s was truly nothing to blog about. So there. It was normal! Huzzah!
The third time’s a charm, right? Yesterday, in a fit of feeling bad for telling Sunshine she couldn’t have ice cream until all the snow melted (“I’ll NEVER get ice cream,” she said, pouty, as we drove through the 6-foot tall piles of snow in our neighborhood), I took she and Dozer to Friendly’s. The staff all seemed to be fairly normal, in their slow, chatty way (I’d like to eat my waffle fries now, please) so I breathed a sigh of relief and happily planned to order some weird “campfire” ice cream creation that the girls would love. Then, suddenly, Sunshine had to go to the bathroom.
Breathe, Melia, breathe. Its ok.
I had not noticed the elderly lady sitting to the left of me had gone into the bathroom first. I would have waited until she came back so that the bathroom was empty, both girls could go and we could get back to our food. Instead, we opened the door and walked into…
“Ooooooh. Ahhhhhh. Uh uh uh uh. Uhhhhh.” *pant* *pant* *pant*
We couldn’t just walk out of the restroom, because 4-year olds have absolutely no understanding of just how much better it would be in that moment if they went back to the table and peed their pants. There would have been a meltdown, on a bathroom floor (and my subsequent death by revulsion), so we shuffled into the ONE stall open (not even the big handicapped stall) and I did my very best to just keep them focused on the task at hand.
“Ahhhhhhhh. What is that? Ohhh. I need to get that fixed”
About that time, Dozer had taken notice and was trying to peek under the stall (ARE YOU KIDDING ME?) at the moaning, elderly woman who was either masturbating or needed another bran muffin (twitch). When I pulled her up, I noticed… (breathe)… the woman wasn’t even sitting; her feet were pointed toward the toilet! What the fuck she was doing? There were no sounds (twitch) of bathroom engagement, not even a colostomy sound (don’t ask how I know) (twitch). She was just standing there in her orthopedic pantyhose with swollen ankles making the most horrible sounds and statements that have ever come from a bathroom. EVER.
Sufficiently freaked the fuck out, I went back to the table, poked at my waffle fries and ordered ice cream to go. Fast. We went home and I curled up in a fetal position for a few hours. My DDG would have died before she created such a scene in a bathroom, that’s all I’m saying. Bless that woman’s (maybe she was an elderly man?) heart, but for the love of cheese, please don’t ever let me go back to Friendly’s again.
Wrap your packages, and swab the decks (or something like that!).
I completely forgot about this week, and I have nothing planned. I suck. But, please, read last year’s fun, because I like to live in the past. Maybe I’ll pull something out of my ass before the 21st. Hopefully, it won’t be a condom.
In honor of the 2010 Olympics… be safe, play hard, and clean up when you’re done. I wonder if those are Magnums, which, as we know, really aren’t any bigger than regular condoms, according to our 2009 Condom Week Winner