This is my response to the GOP's redefinition of rape. Warning: this contains the explicit description of a sexual assault.

The night I was sexually assaulted, no one beat me to a pulp. I didn't go home with lacerations to my face. The man who raped me was a friend of a friend. My boyfriend was at the party with me. It was the weekend of the Fourth of July. We were shooting of firecrackers and drinking. I was 21.

I started to feel sick, so I was told by the host that I could lie down in his room. One of the guests came into the room and took his pants off. He placed my hand on his penis. I was terrified. As a young woman, I had been indoctrinated. Don't embarrass someone, don't make someone feel bad. I lay on the bed terrified. I pretended to be asleep. He used my limp hand to stroke himself. I said, "no, what are you doing?" He said, "Ssssh, it's ok. You know me." I was so upset, I bit my lip as tears fell from my eyes. I wanted to pretend this wasn't happening. I started to shake. The light went on, the host had walked in. "Whoa!" He said. I sat up quickly and ran from the room. I stopped my boyfriend in the hallway, "DO NOT LEAVE ME HERE", I said. I thought I was safe, it had only just begun.

I needed to find my purse. I searched the house. I couldn't find it. I walked into the kitchen where the host was, holding my purse. I was stone-cold sober at this point.

The host was holding my purse, "looking for this?" I went to grab my purse, I told him I was leaving. He told me he would take me home. I said I was leaving with my boyfriend. He said my boyfriend didn't deserve me. He said that I didn't need my boyfriend. He pushed me against the washing machine. I pushed him away. He pushed me back and started to kiss my neck. I said no. I pushed. He pushed back and turned me around. He pushed me over the washing machine and pulled my pants down. As I sobbed and said, no, no, no, no. He penetrated me. My thighs had bruises for days from pounding against the machine. The doctor in the ER said they looked like something that could happen from rough sex. I cried out when he penetrated me anally. I was crying and praying. I kept saying no, no, no, no. For the entire 15 minutes of my rape the only word I uttered was "no".

When he finished, he pulled up my pants. I was shaking, as I made my way to the door. He asked if he could call me. I was in such shock I must have said yes. As he left a message on my answering machine a few days later. I walked into the living room and asked where my boyfriend was. He had left. He had walked in during my assault and turned around and went home. Another guest drove me home. The whole way he derided me as I sobbed. Telling me I got what I asked for. You see, I was the only girl there.

Why didn't I scream you ask? Why didn't I yell for help? Why didn't he have to beat me so I fit the television definition of a rape victim? My rapist had a gun. He was a police officer.

The GOP says this wasn't rape. Do you agree?

From Simone de Beauvoir to Sex and the City



Letters to Sartre on Amazon



I've been reading Letters to Sartre, a collection of Simone de Beauvoir's letters to Jean-Paul Sartre during thirty-three years of their life-long love affair. The letters selected for this book begin in 1930 during Sartre's military service, continue through World War II and end in 1963. I haven't finished the book, but I am enjoying it.

The letters include the mundane of every day life, from meals eaten to friends seen. Yet, you can feel the loss of her partner in every word. The details that they were used to sharing when they could see each other nearly every day, are the ties that bind them when they are apart. 

In a letter dated, October 8, 1939 she is discussing the relationship between them as a couple and their loved ones. As well as, how people view corresponding relationships between their loved ones and those their loved ones choose to love. The "morganatic marriage" between the two philosophers allowed them to engage in love affairs with other people. At times, these extraneous lovers were shared between them. de Beauvoir's letters (as the book contains only her own) comment upon the behaviors of these people. She refers to the strain that some people were on her life, as she steadfastly proclaims her adoration of the same. de Beauvoir could damn and elevate as she saw fit. All the while, clearly intuiting the motivations behind their actions. Only Sartre and de Beauvoir were aware of the exact nature of these relationships and often provided alibis so that the other could visit a lover other than who they were seeing at the time.

The fascinating thing is that (so far) not once has de Beauvoir expressed any concern that Sartre would be taken from her in any way but the outcome of  war. These other women were no threat to the pure and exact nature of their relationship. Her self-containment was such that she didn't even believe it possible. The only thing she has yet complained of is losing days when Sartre is on leave to one of his lovers. Her confidence is astounding. As well as enlightening.



Maybe this is a weird connection. It reminds me of an episode of Sex and the City. Everyone shows up late at a restaurant for Carrie's birthday and she has already gone home. Charlotte goes to Carrie's apartment and scares her in the shower. After convincing her to join just the four friends for dinner, Charlotte takes Carrie to the diner. The girls are sitting around the table disscussing their relationships and Charlotte says, "Maybe we can be each other's soul-mates... guys can just be these great people to hang out with...". (I am paraphrasing.)      

       

It made sense to me. Why do we elevate other people to a status within our lives and psyche that gives them the power to damn us and how we feel about ourselves? Where is our self-confidence that permits another to live their life without our "control". Does it matter what a friend of a friend thinks of me? Will my relationship with someone deteriorate if they develop a new friendship or a love affair? If everyone were to leave me today, would I cease to exist? Is my worth and value caught up in the feelings of another?

These two cultural opposites, got me thinking the very same thing. What part of my value is determined by myself alone? Shouldn't it be all of it? From now on it will be.

Tattoo Gurl

This one was done the same day as my Buddha.

Last week, I was perusing (creeping) some other blogs and came across a blog about tattoos.  It was excellent, I highly recommend it. My sister is considering her first tattoo, so we have been talking about it a lot. She has these fantastical designs that she wants to put in absurd locations, a lot of our conversations have been tactical. We've talked about why I decided to get a tattoo in the first place, why I picked the tattoos that I have and why I picked the places I did. Then there are the usual questions that everyone asks:

Did it hurt? No, I enjoy being stabbed multiple times a second. It wasn't the tattoo itself so much as the sun-burny feeling and the itching that comes after.

Don't you think you'll regret it when your 40? Sure, if my skin is sagging because I didn't take care of myself and I look as though I have a 6 pack a day habit and a crack addiction. No, I won't regret it. Each of my tattoos was carefully thought out and planned. Unless I have some sort of Kafkaesque metamorphosis I should be fine. Though if that were the case I would have turned into a roach, so I don't think I'll mind the tattoos so much.

What if you marry someone who doesn't like tattoos? Well, if I my future spouse suddenly exclaims during the vows, "WHAT! You have tattoos! This is not acceptable! I had NO IDEA!!" I think we have some other problems that need addressing.

I like really simple designs, with character.

I hid my tattoos from my dad for a long time. I'm not ashamed and since it's my body and my money, I'm not all that concerned. However, I respect the fact that he doesn't approve so I don't throw them in his face. One afternoon a few summers ago, after we had been experiencing several waves of thunderstorms, my dad was standing in my crawl space which had flooded. The crawl opening is in our laundry room. Shanna and I call it "the dead body shoot". This put his head at shin level. I was standing in the doorway talking to him, when suddenly he exclaimed, "WHAT THE HELL IS ON YOUR LEG?!!" On my ankle sat a chubby, happy Buddha with a smug little smile. I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "oops". He was not amused.

Sure, my dad is old school, but gone are the days when only bikers or ex-cons proudly displayed their ink These days, your children's kindergarten teacher most likely has a butterfly tattooed on her ass, to commemorate that spring break in Cancun.To be a really sexy pin-up a girl, a few tattoos are a plus (if not a must). Tattoo parlours have their own television shows and tattooing has been recognized as the art form it has always been.

I started out small, I wasn't totally committed to permanent body modification. To be honest I wasn't totally committed to paying someone to inflict pain on me.  I was nervous that I would get sick of a particular piece. I had decided from the outset, no color and no locations that I couldn't cover. I quickly got over that. So, I got another and another and another. They got a little bigger and a little bigger. Now I am planning a half-sleeve, I've been planning it for a few months. Whats holding me back? Funds. Tattooing isn't cheap. I told my sister I wouldn't pay for her first tattoo. In my opinion, that's a big part of making sure that you don't make a bad decision. I don't know too many people that are going to shell out five hundred dollars or more to be pierced with a needle for hours at a time if they aren't fully committed to the outcome.

Tattoos are pieces of art. A piece of art that you get to carry around with you for a lifetime. If it's something that is important to you, you won't regret it. There are days when I see my foot and think, "damn, that's not going anywhere...". Then I usually smile, because it's totally original and fantastic. So, tattoo safely and with joy. If you're smart about it, you'll never regret it.


My birthday present from Shanna. Ouch! Foot tattoos hurt, like a m'fer.



I Call Bullsh*t

 Before I start, I need to thank Michelle for letting me vent on her blog. Best bff ever! Yup, so here we go...

I decided today that I would give myself a little treat. I gave myself an hour to get away from the ten thousand things I have on my to-do list. Probably not the most responsible decision I’ve made, but hey, sometimes you just need time to breathe. So I spent a chunk of my afternoon with a veggie burger and my very own personal guru. Lunches with said guru usually become one of three things: Let’s talk politics and policy, Let’s talk goals and dreams, or Let’s talk about you and your present issues (however big or small they may be). Today was a combo-platter…item one, followed by two and three. Once we got the State of the Union out of the way, we moved on to figuring out how my present issues are stopping me from reaching my goals. And by that I mean that I spent an hour with a veggie burger and my guru calling me on ALL of my shit.

Doesn’t sound like a treat? Well, somehow, it always actually is. It’s not like anything that she says to me is something that I haven’t already said to myself, so it’s never a shock to hear. But it’s always interesting to talk to her, because she gets me. Like, really GETS me. Sometimes I think she may actually be in my head somehow. Creepy. Anyway, she told me today that I’m a talker. Not in terms of, “Hey, you never shut up”, but rather that I talk a big game, but never follow through. True. She said that I talk that game in order to keep myself from having to feel anything; thought before emotion. True. And she said that I also do it to keep myself from ever having to actually commit to something. Also true.

So what does that all mean then? Well, Guru set forth a challenge for me, and I’m going to pass it on to you. I am supposed to catch myself every time I’m “talking my game”, every time I’m planning in order to avoid doing, every time I’m lying to myself. I suppose everyone has something that happens in his or her head that he should try to catch himself doing, whether it’s being unjustly critical of someone, unjustly critical of himself, making himself into the victim/martyr, or maybe blaming himself for things that are not his fault. Try to catch yourself. It’s actually pretty amazing how often we do this kind of stuff to ourselves. It’s also amazing how much space you’ll have in your head if you catch it and stop it.

There's your challenge. Try it for a week. Also, please feel free to call bullshit on me anytime. Really. C'mon, you know you want to...

                                                            ~Shanna

This is what my sweet, 

loving kitten thinks of bullshit.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.

Today would have been my grandmother's 76th birthday, she passed away last February. She was a champion of a woman, the strongest woman I ever met and my hero.

Charlene Diana Becker was born on January 25th, 1935. While in-utero, she had wrapped the umbilical cord around herself, causing her to be born with deformed feet. Successive surgeries attempted to fix her condition. During her recovery after one surgery, she developed gangrene. My great-grandmother had come to visit and could smell the flesh rotting. The surgeons wanted to remove my grandmother's feet. Her mother refused, her daughter would walk. The doctors saved what they could, leaving her with severely deformed feet. Every step she would take for the next 70+ years was excruciatingly painful. This, however, did NOT stop her from climbing the mountain in Medjugorje.

From L to R: Marlene, Charlene (my grandmother), Betty and Judy

She had her quirks. She was a little high-pitched in the vocal department and her hairbrushing skills could have been utilized during the Inquisition with great success. Each one of her grandchildren promised to be a doctor when she/he grew up so they could fix her index finger on her left hand, which was missing the portion above the first knuckle. (Also from her umbilical cord.) She would smile and say, "yes, you will". We never doubted it.

She always told us we were beautiful and smart. She showed us that she was strong.

Her first husband, my grandfather was an extremely abusive man. He abused her daily; emotionally, verbally and physically. She was barely 5'3", but she survived. She was able to leave him when my mother was 4 and my aunt was a 6 months old. It wasn't easy. It was 1962 and she was a divorcee with two little girls, not to mention her feet. Which was NEVER called a handicap. She never had a handicap sticker on a single one of her vehicles.

She worked every day, taking the bus in the cold and rain. She went back to college and she raised her girls, her second husband's son and her two children she had with him. She showed us nothing was insurmountable if you tried hard enough.

She battled cancer numerous times and we never heard her say, "why me". She took it in stride and set an example of strength and dignity each time. She passed of lymphoma which the doctors attributed to second hand smoke. My grandmother never smoked a cigarette in her life.

She taught us to give and not expect in return.

To share and to be joyful, to love and respect others. To be strong and to stand up for what we believed in.

No excuses, no complaints. There was no reason not to succeed. She was our greatest champion. No, she wasn't perfect, no one is. Her cards were dealt with more difficulties than your average Joe and we are all better for having known her.

To my Grandma. I love you.

It Goes Bump in the Night

Not believing in an afterlife, I feel a little hypocritical believing that something/one other than my two roommates might be residing in my house. However, like the portion of the populous that believes in paranormal phenomenon I have a fascination with ghosties, ghoulies and scary baddies. I do draw the line somewhere, I don't believe in orbs. I think they're dust. I once took a picture during a party and the amateur ghost hunter would swear we were suffering from an infestation of the body-less variety (the mysterious, circular things were the reflections of the flash off of the balloons). I digress...

We have some unusual activity, which has been experienced by various guests to our abode. (I welcome your comments, if you'd like. Charlene especially, as she refuses to use the W.C. because she swears someone is watching her. Our ghostie is a naughty tart.) The most enjoyable activity we have discovered recently is our plasmic friend's mimicry. Mostly in the form of the back door opening and closing. This happens at the most opportune moments, like when I am in the bath. Last week, my sister and I were sitting in our living room when we clearly heard the door open and close, then the tinkling of keys. As I was sitting directly across from the door I was aware that no one came through and the door remained solidly closed. Interesting!

This mimicry includes voices. Sometimes, my roommate will hear my voice in the house, when I am very clearly not home. Once, she heard what sounded like an old woman; scratchy and low, saying, "wake up". Right in her ear. My sister hears shuffling in the hallway, as if "he" was pacing. (The un-dead have lots of worries.) 

Occasionally, my paranormal friend will shake my bed violently. I'm not sure if this is because my friend fears that I shall oversleep, being late to work and then being fired which would make my ghostie homeless... Or me homeless. Either way, my ghost has a far reaching sense of the future.

I'm really not sure what this blog is about, I don't have any how-to's; how-to know if your house has extra, unseen residents or how-to evict the spectral. You can always google the answers. You can google just about anything, I've discovered. I just thought you might enjoy a little tale of the un-dead. I am also hoping that the scariness will prevent visitors. I'm a hermity grump.

BoDy ImAgE

So, as I've mentioned before, my cousin got married on NYE. I had spent the months preceding the wedding trying to lose some weight. I am a curvy girl who has always preferred books to aerobics, my cousin played softball in school. Not to mention her time on the diving team in college. I didn't want to look like a softball next to her in all the pictures. 

The pictures went up on Tuesday, I didn't look like a softball... I looked like a beach ball. With two basketballs shoved down the front of my dress. My curves are no more dangerous than Christina Hendrick's gorgeous curves. So, what's my problem? I can't blame society. I can't blame my mother, she's heavier than I am. Who holds the blame for my lack of self-esteem? Me.

I never wanted to be full of myself.  We all know those girls. The ones who really shouldn't be wearing that or saying that. Those girls may not look great but they have oodles of confidence. They strut, head held high and chat up whomever they please. While they were outside looking fabu, I was at home staring into the mirror listing my faults. My father insisted that pride was wrong and that to be prideful set you up to be torn down. I come from a HUGE Irish family where affection is shown via the masterful art of the put-down. I learned to become a wallflower. I didn't want to be the next one to be picked on.

All this perceived protection set me up to be unhappy and lacking self-esteem. A lack of self-esteem lead to me entering relationships and entertaining people that didn't deserve a second glance. The important thing that I have recently discovered is, I am all and everything. I go to bed with myself at night and wake up with myself in the morning. Me, myself and I. As long as I love me, it doesn't matter if someone else does. This is what I hope to impart to my sister, female friends and their daughters . We may not fit the box, but since everyone has a different idea of what is beautiful, why would we want to? Isn't it better to be a juicy, fantastic individual than a hungry, hollow shell? I embrace my curves and myself today. I AM GORGEOUS!! By the way, so are you!

My cat ate my vision board...

My cat, Isis, is a homicidal maniac. When she isn't trying to eat metal, she is chewing on my toes. I find this to be a reprehensible way to treat the person that saved you from a life of begging and flea infestation. However, I think she secretly resents the lack of freedom in her current existence. I could be wrong but since she doesn't understand English I cannot ask her.

I woke up the other morning and went off to take my shower.

When I returned, Isis was chewing merrily (maniacally) on a corner of my vision board. A friend, who is a brilliant achiever of dreams encouraged me to develop my own vision board. So, I spent an entire weekend happily cutting and pasting glorious sunrises, peaceful yoga poses, a dress I could murder to fit into and Patrick Dempsey on to 4 cork boards. Which I then placed in an aesthetically pleasing fashion on my wall.

This behavior has apparently continued when I am not home or in another room, as I now have only a fraction of my dreams for the future left. Either Isis thinks I am a loser who will never acheive my goals... or the Patrick Dempsey goal is reaching a little high. I have decided against making a new one for the time being. Partly because I am sure that the crazed animal that we rescued from a mean life on the streets will simply contine to eat my dreams... and because I am really lazy.

Existential Nihilism?

I am trying to write a letter for my uncle. He will be attending a retreat this weekend and my aunt wants me to write him a letter. A Catholic men's retreat. I'm supposed to write something supportive and loving. I love my uncle. He might very well be one of my favorite people on the planet. However, I am at a loss as to what to say. The reason being: I have recently discovered that my life is much more enjoyable if I follow a philosophy of atheism. Or, as my roommate informed me today, a philosophy of existential nihilism. (I must admit, Kierkegaard's The Seducer's Diary is one of my absolute favorite books.)

 I just had what I like to call "a dark night of the soul". When I came out the other side, it was with a clear peace of mind. In those hours I felt very clearly that God did not exist. There was no question or guilty feeling. I have a hard time with the belief that life has no intrinsic value, but I have just as much difficulty believing that our humanity makes us more special or better than anything else on the planet or in the universe. I think that there should also be a philosophy of religious hubris. I truly believe that religion is a creation of man's desperate need to be more important than he actually is. Man created God to fill that hole that was left by what was perceived as a lack of love from mommy and daddy. Then man used religion to exploit those who were weaker and less educated.

Can you see my conundrum?

Passion and Politics

I am an independent Democrat. I vote Democrat because the Democratic party's views are more aligned with what I like to refer to as "causes of humanity". Some would call this "big government" or "socialism", I think it is more about helping people in need. I don't always agree with everything they do, but their causes are more aligned with my own. The shooting in Arizona over the weekend makes me want to become anti-political, period. I was listening to Bill Press this morning as he decried Republicans everywhere for fostering a climate of hatred and murder, as he denounced a caller with the patch-in "get off my phone pin-head".

Politicos are calling out Sarah Palin's Don't Retreat, Reload campaign which pinpointed Democratic districts using the cross-hairs of a gun-sight. Arguments and vitriol are flowing and in this development a major issue is being forgotten.

No matter who is at the core of this spreading of the cancer of hatred, people are losing their lives. A little girl born on 9/11 with a promising future lost her life. Because someone believed their life to be more important than another. Their message of hate and evil was more worthy of life than the breathing, joyful life of a young person. Why is this happening? Who is spreading this pervasive message of hate? Most importantly, why are we listening? No matter who is at fault here. Whether it be a school that failed to help, a person with a political stage or the store that sold the gun. Though, we know for certain it was the fault of a crazed individual with a terrible, disgusting message. We buy into the hatred every day, in our thoughts, words and actions. We kill with our indifference and we lose the message of love. No matter who is to blame for spreading hate, we are to blame if we listen.

Do you know what your soul is capable of?

This year I have only one New Year's Resolution. There are lots of things that I would like to do, I would like to be healthier, cut back on diet soda and prioritize my life better. These are not my resolutions. My only resolution is to be happy. So, no matter what choice I make, if it means eating chocolate instead of riding the bike, I win.

The best way I've found to be happy is to express love. It's hard for me to do this. Anyone who knows my history can understand that. If you don't you can find most of it here.

My cousin got married this weekend and I don't think I have ever seen a more beautiful bride. As I watched her dance with her father and her mother and brother look on with pride, I was so honored that she asked me to be a witness to her joy. I could have felt single and lonely (and OLD). I didn't because I was expressing love, fully and consciously.

It's scary to be vulnerable, to give someone a part of you and not know what they are going to do with it. It's a terrifying prospect to trust someone. Yet, if you don't do it, can you ever say you really lived?

So, my heart and my soul have teamed up on my head. Living outwardly via love and joy are my credo of the day. Have some of my heart... if you dare.