Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
word origin: laissez-faire
Laissez-faire is literally French for, "to let do."
Someone with a laissez-faire attitude doesn't interfere with the goings-on around him or her.
It has neither negative nor positive connotations; whether it's a good or bad attitude depends on the situation.
Someone with a laissez-faire attitude doesn't interfere with the goings-on around him or her.
It has neither negative nor positive connotations; whether it's a good or bad attitude depends on the situation.
inner dork: The Black Hole of Calcutta
Did you know the Black Hole of Calcutta is one of the most brutal sites of inhumanity in history?
The hole was actually a cell that was 14 feet by 10 inches wide and 18 feet long in an English fort in Calcutta, India.
In 1756 the British and the French were vying for control of India. They each were trying to woo the various princes with money, troops, and promises of power. Finally with tensions mounting an Indian prince attacked the British fort, captured its men, and forced 146 of the men into the tiny cell.
The night's heat was very intense and there was only two small windows for air.
By the next morning all but 23 of the men were dead.
The British swore to avenge the deaths and war broke out.
France was ousted, and the British Empire expanded to include India.
The hole was actually a cell that was 14 feet by 10 inches wide and 18 feet long in an English fort in Calcutta, India.
In 1756 the British and the French were vying for control of India. They each were trying to woo the various princes with money, troops, and promises of power. Finally with tensions mounting an Indian prince attacked the British fort, captured its men, and forced 146 of the men into the tiny cell.
The night's heat was very intense and there was only two small windows for air.
By the next morning all but 23 of the men were dead.
The British swore to avenge the deaths and war broke out.
France was ousted, and the British Empire expanded to include India.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
big pimpin' spending my g's...
South Sider and Newly Divorced Guy have commented several times, since last Friday, on the size of my balls.
Huh? What?
When it comes to approaching and meeting men, I really have no fear factor. I'll go up and talk to anyone. And have.
This is on my own, without prodding. If you triple dog dare me, stand back, balls are showing themselves. (I adjust and strut with pride.)
Personally, I don't see what the big deal is when it comes to approaching people. What's the worst that can happen? What, you might ignore me? Turn me down? Not be interested? Make fun of me to my face or behind my back? Never call me or return my phone call?
Who cares.
What's the best that can happen? We strike up a conversation and who knows where that may lead.
Last Friday I met five men. Now, 'met' meaning; we talked for at least thirty minutes and phone numbers were exchanged.
Now, I also met several other men where the conversation lasted mere minutes and they clearly weren't interested. Several others where we chatted for several minutes, but nothing more came from it. One who didn't even say a word back to me, at which point I made a joke about it. No, biggie. See, ya.
Who cares.
Moving on.
Next.
Now, when I told this attitude to the five men and also to SS and NDG, they all said the same thing, "Yeah, maybe meeting and approaching people is easy for you, your a chick. It's harder for guys. For us." But, even SS and NDG were amazed by my pimpin' skills.
So, I'll buy into the statement of, it's easier for women to approach men. But, I wanna know why.
So, why?
Mack Daddy, out.
Huh? What?
When it comes to approaching and meeting men, I really have no fear factor. I'll go up and talk to anyone. And have.
This is on my own, without prodding. If you triple dog dare me, stand back, balls are showing themselves. (I adjust and strut with pride.)
Personally, I don't see what the big deal is when it comes to approaching people. What's the worst that can happen? What, you might ignore me? Turn me down? Not be interested? Make fun of me to my face or behind my back? Never call me or return my phone call?
Who cares.
What's the best that can happen? We strike up a conversation and who knows where that may lead.
Last Friday I met five men. Now, 'met' meaning; we talked for at least thirty minutes and phone numbers were exchanged.
Now, I also met several other men where the conversation lasted mere minutes and they clearly weren't interested. Several others where we chatted for several minutes, but nothing more came from it. One who didn't even say a word back to me, at which point I made a joke about it. No, biggie. See, ya.
Who cares.
Moving on.
Next.
Now, when I told this attitude to the five men and also to SS and NDG, they all said the same thing, "Yeah, maybe meeting and approaching people is easy for you, your a chick. It's harder for guys. For us." But, even SS and NDG were amazed by my pimpin' skills.
So, I'll buy into the statement of, it's easier for women to approach men. But, I wanna know why.
So, why?
Mack Daddy, out.
please, do not put your seat in the upright position
I'm not a control freak. There's only a few areas in my life where I like to be in control, work ain't one of them.
Territorial on the other hand? Um, yeah. I have territory issues. (*raises right hand while standing. * "Hi, my name is PG and I am a territorialist.") ("Hi, PG.")
Anyway.
All last week and then today I have been filling in for someone. Therefore, since I am sitting in for another person, someone has been sitting in for me. Or, as I like to call it, I have been running to and fro for the last week between offices, computers, and phones.
Anyway.
After wrestling with my office chair all day yesterday along with the computer monitor, as I was back in my office, trying to get both back to where I want them so as not to have the hot shooting pains run through my neck, arms, and back, I was silently cussing the filler-ins.
Then today, as I am back filling in for the MIA person I sat and wrestled with the (not mine) chair all morning. As the, not mine, chair is completely different than my chair, for the life of my blood pressure and the pain that was starting in my left butt cheek, I could not get it to where I wanted it.
Finally, after 2.5 hours..no lie..I finally figured out how to adjust the back so I wasn't completely horizontal to the point of resembling a stick figure demonstrating the proper way to sit to be ergonomical. (I like to recline. I like to pretend it's a La-Z-Boy. Where's my remote?)
Then in my moment of glee and happiness it occurred to me, since I have a filler person in my position today, and I know they have messed with my chair and monitor because I saw them and at one point helped them with it, I will spend all day tomorrow wrestling with my chair and my computer monitor, again.
See, just because I feel I can mess with other people's chairs man, don't mess with mine.
(*Raises right hand while standing* "Hi, my name is PG and I have territory issues.)
Territorial on the other hand? Um, yeah. I have territory issues. (*raises right hand while standing. * "Hi, my name is PG and I am a territorialist.") ("Hi, PG.")
Anyway.
All last week and then today I have been filling in for someone. Therefore, since I am sitting in for another person, someone has been sitting in for me. Or, as I like to call it, I have been running to and fro for the last week between offices, computers, and phones.
Anyway.
After wrestling with my office chair all day yesterday along with the computer monitor, as I was back in my office, trying to get both back to where I want them so as not to have the hot shooting pains run through my neck, arms, and back, I was silently cussing the filler-ins.
Then today, as I am back filling in for the MIA person I sat and wrestled with the (not mine) chair all morning. As the, not mine, chair is completely different than my chair, for the life of my blood pressure and the pain that was starting in my left butt cheek, I could not get it to where I wanted it.
Finally, after 2.5 hours..no lie..I finally figured out how to adjust the back so I wasn't completely horizontal to the point of resembling a stick figure demonstrating the proper way to sit to be ergonomical. (I like to recline. I like to pretend it's a La-Z-Boy. Where's my remote?)
Then in my moment of glee and happiness it occurred to me, since I have a filler person in my position today, and I know they have messed with my chair and monitor because I saw them and at one point helped them with it, I will spend all day tomorrow wrestling with my chair and my computer monitor, again.
See, just because I feel I can mess with other people's chairs man, don't mess with mine.
(*Raises right hand while standing* "Hi, my name is PG and I have territory issues.)
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
I'll give you five bucks if you jump in
"Okay!" I say, giggling as I take off my shoes.
"You have to go all the way in. Completely submerged." He's totally kidding, but I think about it. Really think about it.
He walks away and I look at the fountain.
I look at the cool water as it beckons me. I imagine myself completely submerged under the water.
I walk over to the fountain.
The sun glistens off the pool of water.
I look up at the blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
I feel the coolness hit me as I dip my foot in. I watch the ripples move away from my toes.
The water goes up to my calves.
The shock of the cold water on my warm flesh makes my body tingle. The tingle races through my body as I slide down to my knees and lay back in the water.
I float there in the summer sun.
I plug my nose and dip my head back.
My hair floats around my head making it look as if an ink-well has been spilled.
After several seconds, I come up for air; slicking my hair back with my hands as I take in a deep breath as a look of complete childlike satisfaction crosses my face.
My skirt floats like a lilly pad out around me.
My shirt clings to my chest like a wet suit.
Goose bumps rise on my skin from the cool water as the sun isn't warm enough to make this a refreshing jump. It's been more liberating than it has been refreshing. Completely liberating.
I feel my arms and shoulders relax.
My heart slows down.
My mind stops racing this way and that.
I sit in the cool water with my skirt out around me. I sit there with a completely satisfied look on my face.
Completely at peace.
The fountain turns on and the sound of the water shooting up into the air snaps me from my daydream.
I smile at how relaxed I am.
The thought of, "Why not?" exits my brain as I start to slip off my shoes.
"You have to go all the way in. Completely submerged." He's totally kidding, but I think about it. Really think about it.
He walks away and I look at the fountain.
I look at the cool water as it beckons me. I imagine myself completely submerged under the water.
I walk over to the fountain.
The sun glistens off the pool of water.
I look up at the blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
I feel the coolness hit me as I dip my foot in. I watch the ripples move away from my toes.
The water goes up to my calves.
The shock of the cold water on my warm flesh makes my body tingle. The tingle races through my body as I slide down to my knees and lay back in the water.
I float there in the summer sun.
I plug my nose and dip my head back.
My hair floats around my head making it look as if an ink-well has been spilled.
After several seconds, I come up for air; slicking my hair back with my hands as I take in a deep breath as a look of complete childlike satisfaction crosses my face.
My skirt floats like a lilly pad out around me.
My shirt clings to my chest like a wet suit.
Goose bumps rise on my skin from the cool water as the sun isn't warm enough to make this a refreshing jump. It's been more liberating than it has been refreshing. Completely liberating.
I feel my arms and shoulders relax.
My heart slows down.
My mind stops racing this way and that.
I sit in the cool water with my skirt out around me. I sit there with a completely satisfied look on my face.
Completely at peace.
The fountain turns on and the sound of the water shooting up into the air snaps me from my daydream.
I smile at how relaxed I am.
The thought of, "Why not?" exits my brain as I start to slip off my shoes.
Monday, June 26, 2006
random act of kindness to myself
Personally, I'm a daisy and sunflower kinda gal.
However, I spoiled myself and went with the roses.
Most days, go with daisies and sunflowers.
Valentine's Day? If you're gonna go with flowers, don't do red roses. No, forethought. None. No, originality either. Just sayin'.
However, I spoiled myself and went with the roses.
Most days, go with daisies and sunflowers.
Valentine's Day? If you're gonna go with flowers, don't do red roses. No, forethought. None. No, originality either. Just sayin'.
my life is a reality TV show
However, it's one of those really good reality TV shows. You know, like that one on that one night. You know, that one on that one night about that one thing on that one channel. You know which one I mean? Yeah, my life would be exactly like that one if they made it into a TV show.
Friday night I went out with South Sider and his New Divorced Friend who I had never met. SS and I haven't seen each other in several months.
We met at the after work hot spot to do thing.
I'm drinking my beer and this girl approaches me.
"Hey, is your name, Party Girl?"
I hesitate. This could be good or bad. I don't recognize her at all. At all. Now, my name isn't one you can just pull out of your butt. It's not one of those names. I mean, c'mon. How many people do you know with the name, Party Girl?
"Hmmm, yyeeess." I say with complete and total hesitation.
Did you use to work at a local greasy pizza joint?
Again, total hesitation as she is still not ringing a bell. "Yyyeesss."
"Oh my gawd! We use to work together!!!"
"OOokkkkayyy." There isn't a ding or a dong of a bell going off for me. Nothing. This girl is totally in my face and I've got nothing.
I start diggin up questions. Maybe she has the wrong person. Sure, she knew my name, but hey, name out of butt can happen.
"When did you work there?"
She spouts off a time when I was there.
"What's your name?" (Blah.)
Still, I've got nothin'.
Pause,
pause,
pause.
"Take off your sunglasses, maybe that will help me."
Nope.
Awkward.
I am feeling very awkward. Need more beer. Want girl out of my face.
With a sip of my cool refreshment on my tongue, 'ding' "Wait, who were you dating at the time?"
She names the cool hunky boy who was a total boy-next-door-All-American-dreamboat.
"OH! now, I know who you are!"
She then proceeds to go on and on..." Yeah, we totally use to party in your apartment. Jello shots, you made the best jello shots. I even asked you for the recipe. You were so fucking cool."
Me, "yeah, that was like 10 years ago." I mean seriously, the amount of brain cells between then and now. See, the above reference of jello shots for any clarification. It goes on like this for way too long. "Jello shots, vodka, parties, so fucking cool, party, you were so mello......"
She leaves and we go to a bar. Outside with a ton of people. I met several strangers and tried to get Newly Divorced Guy back into the game. I tried to introduce him to many people. I tried to be a stranger approaching him to try and get him to start a conversation. His flesh was willing, but his spirit was weak.
Anyway, This is how my night goes: Person appears seemingly out of nowhere and is in my face, "Hey! Is your name, Party Girl."
Me: (Fucking 'A.) "Yeeaaahhh."
"Did you use to work at: (insert: bartending, waitressing, telemarketing part-time job?")
"Oh my gawd! I'm ....(insert: random common name of male or female that I use to work with.")
"We use to party at your...(insert: attic apartment, house, duplex, cute little two bedroom.")
"I haven't seen you in...(insert: five, eight, ten years.")
"Do you remember me?" (insert: look of, 'crap.')
"You made the best...(insert: any alcoholic beverage.")
"You were so fucking...(insert: any cool personality trait.")
Register me; still trying to figure out who the hell they are. Hoping the sip of cool refreshing beverage will make it all clear.
Finally the, 'ding' of, "Oh, hey, yeah. You're...(insert: random common name here.")
Repeat this entire scenario, let's see; five, six, seven times.
Apparently I throw the best house parties. I make the best jello shots (cherry jello with cherry vodka. Alcohol? What alcohol?) I am completely memorable and my name just rolls off people's tongues and I've killed more brain cells than I thought. Long-term memory? What long-term memory?
The night was very interesting. It ended with a, "Miami Vice" drug buy that I was unwittingly apart of. (As in, I was in the room, not that I bought the drugs.) The, "Miami Vice" circa 1986, not the hot new blockbuster movie, circa 2006. But that's all for another post.....
Friday night I went out with South Sider and his New Divorced Friend who I had never met. SS and I haven't seen each other in several months.
We met at the after work hot spot to do thing.
I'm drinking my beer and this girl approaches me.
"Hey, is your name, Party Girl?"
I hesitate. This could be good or bad. I don't recognize her at all. At all. Now, my name isn't one you can just pull out of your butt. It's not one of those names. I mean, c'mon. How many people do you know with the name, Party Girl?
"Hmmm, yyeeess." I say with complete and total hesitation.
Did you use to work at a local greasy pizza joint?
Again, total hesitation as she is still not ringing a bell. "Yyyeesss."
"Oh my gawd! We use to work together!!!"
"OOokkkkayyy." There isn't a ding or a dong of a bell going off for me. Nothing. This girl is totally in my face and I've got nothing.
I start diggin up questions. Maybe she has the wrong person. Sure, she knew my name, but hey, name out of butt can happen.
"When did you work there?"
She spouts off a time when I was there.
"What's your name?" (Blah.)
Still, I've got nothin'.
Pause,
pause,
pause.
"Take off your sunglasses, maybe that will help me."
Nope.
Awkward.
I am feeling very awkward. Need more beer. Want girl out of my face.
With a sip of my cool refreshment on my tongue, 'ding' "Wait, who were you dating at the time?"
She names the cool hunky boy who was a total boy-next-door-All-American-dreamboat.
"OH! now, I know who you are!"
She then proceeds to go on and on..." Yeah, we totally use to party in your apartment. Jello shots, you made the best jello shots. I even asked you for the recipe. You were so fucking cool."
Me, "yeah, that was like 10 years ago." I mean seriously, the amount of brain cells between then and now. See, the above reference of jello shots for any clarification. It goes on like this for way too long. "Jello shots, vodka, parties, so fucking cool, party, you were so mello......"
She leaves and we go to a bar. Outside with a ton of people. I met several strangers and tried to get Newly Divorced Guy back into the game. I tried to introduce him to many people. I tried to be a stranger approaching him to try and get him to start a conversation. His flesh was willing, but his spirit was weak.
Anyway, This is how my night goes: Person appears seemingly out of nowhere and is in my face, "Hey! Is your name, Party Girl."
Me: (Fucking 'A.) "Yeeaaahhh."
"Did you use to work at: (insert: bartending, waitressing, telemarketing part-time job?")
"Oh my gawd! I'm ....(insert: random common name of male or female that I use to work with.")
"We use to party at your...(insert: attic apartment, house, duplex, cute little two bedroom.")
"I haven't seen you in...(insert: five, eight, ten years.")
"Do you remember me?" (insert: look of, 'crap.')
"You made the best...(insert: any alcoholic beverage.")
"You were so fucking...(insert: any cool personality trait.")
Register me; still trying to figure out who the hell they are. Hoping the sip of cool refreshing beverage will make it all clear.
Finally the, 'ding' of, "Oh, hey, yeah. You're...(insert: random common name here.")
Repeat this entire scenario, let's see; five, six, seven times.
Apparently I throw the best house parties. I make the best jello shots (cherry jello with cherry vodka. Alcohol? What alcohol?) I am completely memorable and my name just rolls off people's tongues and I've killed more brain cells than I thought. Long-term memory? What long-term memory?
The night was very interesting. It ended with a, "Miami Vice" drug buy that I was unwittingly apart of. (As in, I was in the room, not that I bought the drugs.) The, "Miami Vice" circa 1986, not the hot new blockbuster movie, circa 2006. But that's all for another post.....
integrity
I'm sure it's because mine was called into question last week.
I sat down on Saturday night to watch a brainless flick. However, instead of popping in, "Better Off Dead" I watched, "12 Angry Men," and "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Both were exactly what I needed. One person standing up for the greater good.
If you've never seen either I highly recommend both.
I sat down on Saturday night to watch a brainless flick. However, instead of popping in, "Better Off Dead" I watched, "12 Angry Men," and "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Both were exactly what I needed. One person standing up for the greater good.
If you've never seen either I highly recommend both.
Friday, June 23, 2006
sticks and stones
Hatred, closed minded individuals, bigotry, belittling through words, name calling, intimidation through belittling, trying to control my space, absolutely postively without hesitation will not be tolerated in my life and that includes this blog.
It has no place in my life.
It has no place in my personal space.
It will not be tolerated.
It will not be left up for others to read.
It will be deleted.
You do not have power over me.
This is MY space.
This is just as personal a space for me as my home is.
This is a safe place for me to post my thoughts, feelings, rants, a place for me express myself through words.
DO NOT come into MY space and think you can get away with belittling me. With calling me names. With using intimidation. It WILL NOT be tolerated. It will not be left up for others to see.
If you go on an rant that I feel is inappropriate in any way shape or form and that has absolutely nothing to do with what I posted and has only to do with defaming me, my name, and my character, it will be swiftly deleted.
For me to post what I did this week and to open myself up, only to then have people come in and try and belittle me, to try and hurt me with words and names, to judge me, to accuse me of things that they know nothing about because they do not know me; WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
This is MY place and MY space. It is a safe place for me. I realize it is a public forum, no shit, it is a public forum that I feel safe in.
DO NOT attempt to take that away from me.
YOU will be the loser, not me.
YOU do not have power here.
YOU are not welcome here.
YOU will not violate my space.
YOU will not take away my power.
YOU will not control me.
YOU will not be tolerated.
YOU do not have a voice here.
It has no place in my life.
It has no place in my personal space.
It will not be tolerated.
It will not be left up for others to read.
It will be deleted.
You do not have power over me.
This is MY space.
This is just as personal a space for me as my home is.
This is a safe place for me to post my thoughts, feelings, rants, a place for me express myself through words.
DO NOT come into MY space and think you can get away with belittling me. With calling me names. With using intimidation. It WILL NOT be tolerated. It will not be left up for others to see.
If you go on an rant that I feel is inappropriate in any way shape or form and that has absolutely nothing to do with what I posted and has only to do with defaming me, my name, and my character, it will be swiftly deleted.
For me to post what I did this week and to open myself up, only to then have people come in and try and belittle me, to try and hurt me with words and names, to judge me, to accuse me of things that they know nothing about because they do not know me; WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.
This is MY place and MY space. It is a safe place for me. I realize it is a public forum, no shit, it is a public forum that I feel safe in.
DO NOT attempt to take that away from me.
YOU will be the loser, not me.
YOU do not have power here.
YOU are not welcome here.
YOU will not violate my space.
YOU will not take away my power.
YOU will not control me.
YOU will not be tolerated.
YOU do not have a voice here.
just askin'
Hey, can you tell me how to get to Funky Town?
(To be sung to the tune of, "Electric Ave." .....)
"I'm going to walk down to K-Mart and buy some shoes. They only cost a dollar."
Awesome! That means I can wear them when I get to Funky Town
(To be sung to the tune of, "Electric Ave." .....)
"I'm going to walk down to K-Mart and buy some shoes. They only cost a dollar."
Awesome! That means I can wear them when I get to Funky Town
Thursday, June 22, 2006
1/2 a gallon of beer on the wall
Me yesterday morning....
PG: Good lord, I'm tired. I went out drinking last night.
Co-worker: Oh, that's what I hear in your voice.
PG: Midnight to five, sexiness going on?
CW: No, just not awake yet.
A few minutes later...
CW: I'm going to grab breakfast.
PG: Grab me a bagel will ya?
A few minutes later devouring the bagel.
PG: I can feel my blood sugar coming back.
CW: Good.
PG: Blah, blah... I had four pints of beer last night...blah..blah..
pause...
CW: You had four pints of beer last night?
PG: Yeah. That first one went down really quickly. Three gulps and it was gone.
Third party: Well, that's not very impressive.
PG: Four pints in less than two hours?
pause
PG: I also didn't eat dinner. I had class and I have a rule about not eating past 7:30. I was going to get a hamburger, but it was about 10 minutes before the kitchen closed and I wasn't going to order a spit burger. So, I passed on the food.
Pause
No food past 7:30, but apparently I can have all the alcohol I want.
CW: Four pints= two quarts= half a gallon. You had half a gallon of beer last night.
PG: Pause
I don't like the way that sounds.
I like how four pints sounds.
CW: You haven't had anything to eat since that Moo-Latte yesterday around 2:00?
PG: Hmmm, no, I guess not.
CW: You haven't eaten anything at all and had half a gallon of beer last night?
PG: I guess not. Half a gallon. I don't like the way that sounds. I don't like the visual either.
Pause
Hmmm, all those times I've had one gallon and sometimes two gallons of beer, no wonder I left the bar feeling bloaty.
PG: Good lord, I'm tired. I went out drinking last night.
Co-worker: Oh, that's what I hear in your voice.
PG: Midnight to five, sexiness going on?
CW: No, just not awake yet.
A few minutes later...
CW: I'm going to grab breakfast.
PG: Grab me a bagel will ya?
A few minutes later devouring the bagel.
PG: I can feel my blood sugar coming back.
CW: Good.
PG: Blah, blah... I had four pints of beer last night...blah..blah..
pause...
CW: You had four pints of beer last night?
PG: Yeah. That first one went down really quickly. Three gulps and it was gone.
Third party: Well, that's not very impressive.
PG: Four pints in less than two hours?
pause
PG: I also didn't eat dinner. I had class and I have a rule about not eating past 7:30. I was going to get a hamburger, but it was about 10 minutes before the kitchen closed and I wasn't going to order a spit burger. So, I passed on the food.
Pause
No food past 7:30, but apparently I can have all the alcohol I want.
CW: Four pints= two quarts= half a gallon. You had half a gallon of beer last night.
PG: Pause
I don't like the way that sounds.
I like how four pints sounds.
CW: You haven't had anything to eat since that Moo-Latte yesterday around 2:00?
PG: Hmmm, no, I guess not.
CW: You haven't eaten anything at all and had half a gallon of beer last night?
PG: I guess not. Half a gallon. I don't like the way that sounds. I don't like the visual either.
Pause
Hmmm, all those times I've had one gallon and sometimes two gallons of beer, no wonder I left the bar feeling bloaty.
word origin: Semper Fi
The motto of the United States Marine Corps.
Semper Fi is short for semper fidelis, Latin for "always faithful."
The Marines are always faithful to; country, honor and one another.
My theory: Once a Marine, always a Marine. There is no such thing as an ex-Marine.
Semper Fi is short for semper fidelis, Latin for "always faithful."
The Marines are always faithful to; country, honor and one another.
My theory: Once a Marine, always a Marine. There is no such thing as an ex-Marine.
inner dork: What's an ox?
Quick, what's an ox?
Bet you're wrong.
Did you know.....
An ox is a steer.
However, a steer is a castrated bull.
A steer is typically slaughtered by the time he is sixteen months old.
An ox started out as a steer which started out as a bull.
An ox is then trained to work. After four years of work he is officially considered an ox. After four years he is usually put out to pastural labor for about fifteen or sixteen years.
....So, did you know?
Bet you're wrong.
Did you know.....
An ox is a steer.
However, a steer is a castrated bull.
A steer is typically slaughtered by the time he is sixteen months old.
An ox started out as a steer which started out as a bull.
An ox is then trained to work. After four years of work he is officially considered an ox. After four years he is usually put out to pastural labor for about fifteen or sixteen years.
....So, did you know?
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Calm
First, thank you for all the comments. Each and every one of them touched me in some way and made an impact on me.
For the comments of bravery, wow, never even occured to me that I was being brave.
For the comments about having a new found respect for me. Again, totally unexpected. I was really afraid the comments would be of sadness and sorrow and a, "poor is her," attitude. That I would be seen as a victim and that was absolutely what I did not, nor do I want/need. So, thank you. Thank you so very, very much for those words.
For the comments that my post could help someone else. Again, it honestly never even occured to me. However, if my story helped or does help someone else, then that made it all worth it.
For the comments about the rapes defining me. Of course the events have made me who I am and shaped me. The events effect me in some way everyday. Where I live: always on the top floor and only in small apartment complexes. I want to know my neighbors and I want to see who is coming and going. (As much as a person can.)
Where I walk: only in well-lit areas that I am familiar with and I walk directly in the middle of the parking lot or street.
When I am in my car: how I get in and out of my car; in one swift motion and I lock my doors as soon as I am inside.
When I pass a stranger: I always make eye contact and smile at them and/or say, 'hello.'
Who I let into my space (apartment, car): no one. Very, rarely, do I let anyone into my personal space. I am not going to allow a stranger, or for that matter someone I know fairly well, into my apartment. Actually, more specifically, my bedroom or my bed. If I have ended a relationship I want to have a safe place to go back to.
Dance clubs: I only go to gay dance clubs. I don't want to be harrassed and I don't want your groove thing grooveing against mine. I just want to be able to dance and enjoy myself without a hassel.
I absolutely feel calm today. If you would have asked me before the post if I was a calm person I would have answered, yes. However, I am so alright with the world right now. Calm. Inner calm. Inner peace. I know that sounds hokey, but that's the only way I know how to describe how I feel right now. Calm. I am exhaling. Deeply and truly exhaling. Cleansed. I don't feel like I have a secret or like I'm hiding something. Free. I feel free.
I am have also never seen myself so clearly. Me, myself, I, the person looking back at me in the mirror. Self-esteem is not something I am lacking in. Self-image is pretty damn clear to me. However, I see me. I see myself clearly.
As I mentioned in the post, that is the most I have ever written or talked about what happened at one time. Mostly because I was always interrupted when trying to tell someone. Or someone would immediatly tell me their story and so mine lost relevance to me. If someone can't take the time to listen to me when I am trying to open up, then I am not going to bother continuing. If you interrupt me, I shut down. I close myself off and I shut down. Simple as that. That, obviously, was the first time I wasn't interrupted and I could say everything I wanted and needed to say. I hope, if you take nothing else from my post, that you remember to simply listen to someone when they try to tell you their story.
As soon as I wrote it all out and posted it I felt really, really good. Then after I shut my computer down and went back out into my living room, fear set in. What would you think? What would you say? How would you react? I wanted to get up and delete the post, but I made a rule for myself when I started this blog; complete and total honesty (not that I know how to be any other way) and whatever I write stays. No matter what. No matter how much I want to change something or take it down, it stays. It was honest and true of how I was feeling at that moment, so it stays.
One of the biggest things that came out of sharing, and maybe (probably) it's too early for this, but I compulsively read my story. After I posted it I read it over several time and several more times yesterday. Over and over and over again, I read what I had written. Sure with each new read I found new typos, but I've never owned my story. I've never owned my past. I've never owned what happened. It happened, but I couldn't and didn't want to deal with it immediately afterward. Every time I tried to talk about it I was interrupted. And it's not like I sit around my place and try to think about it on any kind of regular basis. Tuesday night I finally owned it. I wrote it. I read it over and over again, I owned it. It's not everyone's story, it is my life.
I was also asked, or it was said that I should, talk about the rape exam. I'm still not comfortable with that. However, part of what I find wrong with the exam is, I was violated by a man and a man was now going to examine me.
I was told to pull out my pubic hair. I had to pull out, comb, and cut my pubic hair (to collect for processing and to show the difference between being pulled out and falling out naturaly. For lack of a better word, to show how violent the rape was and to see if it was rape vs consentual sex) with a male doctor watching me. He (the doctor) was between my legs watching me pull out my pubic hair. That is the most painful memory I have about the exam. When I started to cry this caused the doctor to become aggitated and leave the room. It seems to me, only common sense really, that a female doctor, or two nurses (female) should conduct the exam.
Also, a week or so later I went to my family doctor for a follow-up exam. I had told the nurse why I was there. However, she felt the need to lecture me on STD's and the importance of practicing safe sex. I cut her off and explained, once again, that I had been raped. Did she really think this was the time to lecture me? She did not apologize for her mistake.
Then the doctor came in. He hadn't taken the time to look at my chart either, he also gave me a lecture about safe sex. Once again, I cut him off and told him to look at my chart. It's crap like that that makes me mad. It wasn't necessary, it could have been avoided.
Again, I know all of this is only a little over 24 hours later, but this is honestly how I am feeling 24 hours later. Last night I was utterly exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. I just wanted to go home and reflect. Unfortunately that wasn't possible. Instead I got home around midnight and collapsed into bed. I wish I could have taken today off to sit at home and reflect. But alas, I can't do that either.
For those of you who have your own stories to tell, please, always feel free to contact me and I will always be a willing, and quiet, ear. For those of you who have already contacted me, thank you for your words and for sharing your story with me. I assure you your story will be safe.
partygirl99@gmail
For the comments of bravery, wow, never even occured to me that I was being brave.
For the comments about having a new found respect for me. Again, totally unexpected. I was really afraid the comments would be of sadness and sorrow and a, "poor is her," attitude. That I would be seen as a victim and that was absolutely what I did not, nor do I want/need. So, thank you. Thank you so very, very much for those words.
For the comments that my post could help someone else. Again, it honestly never even occured to me. However, if my story helped or does help someone else, then that made it all worth it.
For the comments about the rapes defining me. Of course the events have made me who I am and shaped me. The events effect me in some way everyday. Where I live: always on the top floor and only in small apartment complexes. I want to know my neighbors and I want to see who is coming and going. (As much as a person can.)
Where I walk: only in well-lit areas that I am familiar with and I walk directly in the middle of the parking lot or street.
When I am in my car: how I get in and out of my car; in one swift motion and I lock my doors as soon as I am inside.
When I pass a stranger: I always make eye contact and smile at them and/or say, 'hello.'
Who I let into my space (apartment, car): no one. Very, rarely, do I let anyone into my personal space. I am not going to allow a stranger, or for that matter someone I know fairly well, into my apartment. Actually, more specifically, my bedroom or my bed. If I have ended a relationship I want to have a safe place to go back to.
Dance clubs: I only go to gay dance clubs. I don't want to be harrassed and I don't want your groove thing grooveing against mine. I just want to be able to dance and enjoy myself without a hassel.
I absolutely feel calm today. If you would have asked me before the post if I was a calm person I would have answered, yes. However, I am so alright with the world right now. Calm. Inner calm. Inner peace. I know that sounds hokey, but that's the only way I know how to describe how I feel right now. Calm. I am exhaling. Deeply and truly exhaling. Cleansed. I don't feel like I have a secret or like I'm hiding something. Free. I feel free.
I am have also never seen myself so clearly. Me, myself, I, the person looking back at me in the mirror. Self-esteem is not something I am lacking in. Self-image is pretty damn clear to me. However, I see me. I see myself clearly.
As I mentioned in the post, that is the most I have ever written or talked about what happened at one time. Mostly because I was always interrupted when trying to tell someone. Or someone would immediatly tell me their story and so mine lost relevance to me. If someone can't take the time to listen to me when I am trying to open up, then I am not going to bother continuing. If you interrupt me, I shut down. I close myself off and I shut down. Simple as that. That, obviously, was the first time I wasn't interrupted and I could say everything I wanted and needed to say. I hope, if you take nothing else from my post, that you remember to simply listen to someone when they try to tell you their story.
As soon as I wrote it all out and posted it I felt really, really good. Then after I shut my computer down and went back out into my living room, fear set in. What would you think? What would you say? How would you react? I wanted to get up and delete the post, but I made a rule for myself when I started this blog; complete and total honesty (not that I know how to be any other way) and whatever I write stays. No matter what. No matter how much I want to change something or take it down, it stays. It was honest and true of how I was feeling at that moment, so it stays.
One of the biggest things that came out of sharing, and maybe (probably) it's too early for this, but I compulsively read my story. After I posted it I read it over several time and several more times yesterday. Over and over and over again, I read what I had written. Sure with each new read I found new typos, but I've never owned my story. I've never owned my past. I've never owned what happened. It happened, but I couldn't and didn't want to deal with it immediately afterward. Every time I tried to talk about it I was interrupted. And it's not like I sit around my place and try to think about it on any kind of regular basis. Tuesday night I finally owned it. I wrote it. I read it over and over again, I owned it. It's not everyone's story, it is my life.
I was also asked, or it was said that I should, talk about the rape exam. I'm still not comfortable with that. However, part of what I find wrong with the exam is, I was violated by a man and a man was now going to examine me.
I was told to pull out my pubic hair. I had to pull out, comb, and cut my pubic hair (to collect for processing and to show the difference between being pulled out and falling out naturaly. For lack of a better word, to show how violent the rape was and to see if it was rape vs consentual sex) with a male doctor watching me. He (the doctor) was between my legs watching me pull out my pubic hair. That is the most painful memory I have about the exam. When I started to cry this caused the doctor to become aggitated and leave the room. It seems to me, only common sense really, that a female doctor, or two nurses (female) should conduct the exam.
Also, a week or so later I went to my family doctor for a follow-up exam. I had told the nurse why I was there. However, she felt the need to lecture me on STD's and the importance of practicing safe sex. I cut her off and explained, once again, that I had been raped. Did she really think this was the time to lecture me? She did not apologize for her mistake.
Then the doctor came in. He hadn't taken the time to look at my chart either, he also gave me a lecture about safe sex. Once again, I cut him off and told him to look at my chart. It's crap like that that makes me mad. It wasn't necessary, it could have been avoided.
Again, I know all of this is only a little over 24 hours later, but this is honestly how I am feeling 24 hours later. Last night I was utterly exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. I just wanted to go home and reflect. Unfortunately that wasn't possible. Instead I got home around midnight and collapsed into bed. I wish I could have taken today off to sit at home and reflect. But alas, I can't do that either.
For those of you who have your own stories to tell, please, always feel free to contact me and I will always be a willing, and quiet, ear. For those of you who have already contacted me, thank you for your words and for sharing your story with me. I assure you your story will be safe.
partygirl99@gmail
Monday, June 19, 2006
The hardest thing I've ever had to be honest about
So, I hadn’t really planned for this to be today’s post. I wasn’t sure if it was anything I would ever write about here on my blog. I thought maybe it might be pertinent, but I wasn’t sure if it was anything I really wanted to dive into. Actually, dive isn’t the right word. Well, maybe it is. I have to dive into my past and I’m not one who likes to look back. I like to reflect and analyze the past, see why I did what I’ve done. See why something happened, but to live in the past? Ick, no, thanks.
However, after the bravery of ePixie’s comment I decided there was no way I couldn’t share my story.
If one in six women have been raped, think of any random women you encounter on a daily basis and chances are one, if not all, have been raped, or have had a boundary crossed or been violated in some way shape or form. A boundary they had been set up for themselves that has been crossed.
Think of six random blogs by women that you read on a daily basis. Think of six women relatives. Six women co-workers. Six women you see on the TV everyday. Your nieces, sisters, aunts, mom, friends. One in six, if not all, have had a boundary crossed and been violated in some way.
I will step up and say, I am one of those six. I have been raped twice. Wow. I’ve never seen it in print before. Raped, twice. (Breathe)
The first time I was 17. It was August, 1991 and right before my senior year in high school. I was out with my girlfriend and two other girls I didn’t know. We went out to a festival, and the night started out with a lot of alcohol.
I was separated from my friend. When I ran into one of the other girls, she said she couldn’t find the other girls (my friend included.) She offered to drive me back to my girlfriend’s apartment (she was older than I was and lived with her boyfriend.) She was supposed to wait for me while I ran inside to see if my friend was home and then I was going to come back out and tell her to either stay and wait with me or that she could go home.
She didn’t wait.
When I came back outside to tell her my friend wasn’t home, she was long gone.
I sat on the front step of the building waiting for my friend to come home and to give her a piece of my mind.
Before she showed, a carload of men showed up telling me they were looking for my friend to invite back to their apartment for a party. When I angrily told them she wasn’t there, they invited me into their car and invited me back to their place.
In my frustrated and angry state I got into their car. I believe there were five men and me in the car.
When I arrived back at their apartment I discovered no party, just me.
I tried to call my friend to come and get me, but alas, there was no answer.
Eventually two other girls showed up. They were the girlfriends of one of the men and one other was looking for a hook-up. Eventually more men showed up.
I hovered in a corner and tried to reason and think, but I had no idea where I was and I couldn’t reach my friend.
Leave and risk the elements of a neighborhood that I had no idea where I was and walk to my friend’s apartment when I didn’t even have any idea in which direction to head out? Stay and hold out the night?
I chose to stay.
I was raped when everyone went to sleep and I was lying on the living room floor. There were men “asleep,” at my feet, yet they all chose to ignore my screams, cries and reasoning. I believe one was very much awake and even laughed.
The next morning when I got up (I didn’t fall asleep. I waited for the sun to come up and called my friend once everyone passed out.) I called my friend and she came to get me. She knew on the phone that something happened. She tried to talk me into going to the police, but I realized the facts were stacked against me and choose not to.
I went about my life as if everything was normal.
I didn’t tell anyone for a week. I told my best friend, but I didn’t tell my boyfriend for another month or so and we broke-up very shortly there after.
I was to blame. I got into the car. I went back to the party. It was my fault. I knew, I knew this wasn't true, but I couldn't help but think it.
I contracted an STD which led into PID which lead into pre-cancerous tissue on my cervix, which lead to several years of tests, exams, and painful, painful lasting results.
I was raped when I was 17, yet the exams and tests lasted until I was 21. How could I ‘get over and move on’ when I was dealing with a constant reminder due to continuing doctor appointments and exams.
My best friend turned against me, and so did my boyfriend.
It ate at me. It changed me. I was extremely depressed and I was sleeping around in a very reckless manner because I simply didn’t care enough to care. I didn’t care about myself. I didn’t respect myself. I simply did-not-care.
I told my mom about what happened a little over a year after the fact. She tried to help me, but ultimately and it’s stupid to say it this way, but it was bad timing on my part when I told her. She was dealing with her own stuff and I was trying to deal with my stuff. Support, in the way I needed it, wasn’t there.
By the time I was 21 I had, ‘moved on.’ As much as someone can, I had. Self-esteem was back; attitude of conquering the world was back. The little party girl (healthy, smart, always aware of her surroundings, only has positive people around me, no glove no love, party girl) was back.
I was out living my life to the fullest and having a great, wonderful, and amazing time.
Then, when I was 23 I was raped in my apartment, in my bed.
I had met someone that night. We had chatted for several hours. He came up to my apartment. I made it perfectly clear, several times, that we would not be having sex. Under no circumstance would we be sleeping together.
He said he understood.
After several hours of talking in my living room, on my couch, he then pinned me on my bed and raped me. I don’t recall how this happened exactly. I know the bathroom was through the bedroom so I don’t know if I got up and he followed me, or if when I left the bathroom he was in my bedroom. I don’t remember. I don’t want to.
I do know I kicked, I hit, I screamed, I cried.
(…and breathe….)
I was on my period and was using a tampon when he raped me. Needless to say this lead to a lot of pain for several days afterward.
I knew I needed to go to the hospital.
I knew I shouldn’t be in the shower.
I knew I had to get out of the curled up ball I was in my tub and stop the water washing everything way.
I knew I shouldn’t go swimming at the lake the next day with my girlfriend and act like nothing was wrong.
I knew I shouldn’t clean my fingernails endlessly and unconsciously.
I knew I needed to tell someone.
I was raped on a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I went to the hospital late Monday night.
I went to work Monday morning. It was when I was on my way to my part-time job later that night that I could feel it eating at my brain and I knew I had to tell. I couldn’t go though this again. I wasn't going to let it run me or my life again. Not again.
My mom and older brother drove me to the hospital that night.
I sat and I sat and I sat and I sat in the ER exam room. Hour upon hour upon hour. Along with a doctor and nurse, a rape counselor also needs to be present.
There was a backlog in the ER that night.
Even though I called before hand and told them I wasn’t going to wait; I waited and I waited and I waited.
I’ve debated about this next part. How honest to be? I don’t want to discourage others, but I want to be honest. I need to tell the whole story. But, I don’t want to discourage others.
…
…
Fuck…
…
The rape exam is one of the most intrusive, invasive, heart wrenching, horrible, cruelest, victimizing things I have ever been through. That's all I can say. I really can't go into it. It's something I have spoken very little about and it's not that I am retreating here, I honestly don't see the point in telling it. I don't think it would serve a point and I believe it would only be pornographic and voyeristic.
I am sure there is a point behind everything they had me do, but I am at a loss as to the reason for it.
At one point, with the doctor, nurse, rape counselor in the room with me, I started to cry. The doctor, clearly aggravated, asked if I wanted him to leave the room. When I told him yes, he didn’t seem happy about this. The nurse and rape counselor concurred this my feeling about his reaction and apologized for him.
After that ordeal was over, the police came, two men. I had to explain everything. I use humor to diffuse situations and to keep my sanity. I told them this, but I was still afraid they would read it wrong.
I had all the info about the rapist, he was easy to find.
He was taken into the police and questioned. He told them he wasn’t surprised he was there. He confessed to being an asshole, but not to raping me.
When I went in to tell them my story, the police told me his. The above sentence is a direct quote.
I contracted an STD from him as well. This lead to more problems and I don’t believe I will be able to have children due to the damage from both.
I told my family. I told my friends. I told my boyfriend. I told my employer and took a leave from work. My parent’s took my bed away and I bought a new one. I was going to move, but I refused to let one person control my life that way. I wasn’t going to move. I wasn’t going to let him win. I told the police, I was ready to be torn apart by whoever chose to tear me apart for standing up.
There wasn’t enough evidence. It never went to court. I was devastated. I shouldn’t have taken a shower. I should have gone to the hospital right away. I shouldn’t have waited. Again, somehow it came back to me and my fault. Even though I knew better. It somehow became my fault.
I don’t normally talk about being raped.
This is the most I’ve ever written or talked about it at one time.
Not because I am ashamed.
Not because I want to hide.
Not because I believe I am victim.
But because I don’t want to be looked at any differently.
I don’t want to be over-analyzed.
I don’t want people to go, ‘ah-ha! Now all the pieces make sense. That is why she does what she does.’
I am not a mystery unto myself. I know why I am the way I am and why I do what I do. It really doesn’t have a lot to do with being raped. I was a little party girl before I was 17 and 23 and I have been since.
I have issues about a few things and boundaries when it comes to others. I draw lines and I don’t recommend that a person cross it without permission. If it is crossed, I don’t suggest crossing it again.
However, unless you are a very close person in my life, you wouldn’t have any idea about these lines or boundaries. There isn't a reason to know unless I feel there is.
I am perpetually perky always optimistic and slightly cynical (unless you ask Nick. Then he’ll tell you I am more than slightly cynical.) Happy, healthy, incredibly out-going 32-year-old woman who has been raped, twice. It does not rule my world. It does not define me, nor will I let it. I don’t think about it every second of everyday. It does still enter my mind. I am always aware of my surroundings. I am careful about those who I let into my life and who I choose to be close in my life and who I let in. However, don’t a lot of people do that?
Even now as I write this, I’m wondering if you all will look and think of me differently. Don’t. Please, don’t.
People say they don’t know what to say when someone tells them something like I just shared. Don’t say anything. Listen. Be quiet and listen. Don’t start to tell me your story before I am finished with mine. Maybe don’t even share yours. It’s not that I don’t want to hear it, but let me tell mine. Let me say what I need to say.
But, please, please, don’t look at me differently. Don’t analyze why I am the way I am. I am the person I am supposed to be and I am so awesome with that person. She and I kick-ass and I love her. I wouldn’t change a thing. Not a heart-wrenching, depressing, introspective, why did that happen, when will I be able to ‘move on,’ thing. It has all made me the person I am today, and I kick ass. She and I totally kick ass.
I am so happy with who I am.
Don't look at me or treat me differently than you did before you heard my story.
I am not a victim. Don’t you dare call me a victim.
I am not a survivor. What have I survived? Two nights. Sadly, nothing more than almost every woman I encounter has gone through. We all have a story. Take the time to listen to it.
It was two nights. Two nights have not defined my whole life.
I love sex. It took a long time for me to get there, but I do. I love sex.
I own my sexuality.
I own my body.
I own my mind.
I own myself.
I respect myself.
I am awesome.
I kick ass.
However, after the bravery of ePixie’s comment I decided there was no way I couldn’t share my story.
If one in six women have been raped, think of any random women you encounter on a daily basis and chances are one, if not all, have been raped, or have had a boundary crossed or been violated in some way shape or form. A boundary they had been set up for themselves that has been crossed.
Think of six random blogs by women that you read on a daily basis. Think of six women relatives. Six women co-workers. Six women you see on the TV everyday. Your nieces, sisters, aunts, mom, friends. One in six, if not all, have had a boundary crossed and been violated in some way.
I will step up and say, I am one of those six. I have been raped twice. Wow. I’ve never seen it in print before. Raped, twice. (Breathe)
The first time I was 17. It was August, 1991 and right before my senior year in high school. I was out with my girlfriend and two other girls I didn’t know. We went out to a festival, and the night started out with a lot of alcohol.
I was separated from my friend. When I ran into one of the other girls, she said she couldn’t find the other girls (my friend included.) She offered to drive me back to my girlfriend’s apartment (she was older than I was and lived with her boyfriend.) She was supposed to wait for me while I ran inside to see if my friend was home and then I was going to come back out and tell her to either stay and wait with me or that she could go home.
She didn’t wait.
When I came back outside to tell her my friend wasn’t home, she was long gone.
I sat on the front step of the building waiting for my friend to come home and to give her a piece of my mind.
Before she showed, a carload of men showed up telling me they were looking for my friend to invite back to their apartment for a party. When I angrily told them she wasn’t there, they invited me into their car and invited me back to their place.
In my frustrated and angry state I got into their car. I believe there were five men and me in the car.
When I arrived back at their apartment I discovered no party, just me.
I tried to call my friend to come and get me, but alas, there was no answer.
Eventually two other girls showed up. They were the girlfriends of one of the men and one other was looking for a hook-up. Eventually more men showed up.
I hovered in a corner and tried to reason and think, but I had no idea where I was and I couldn’t reach my friend.
Leave and risk the elements of a neighborhood that I had no idea where I was and walk to my friend’s apartment when I didn’t even have any idea in which direction to head out? Stay and hold out the night?
I chose to stay.
I was raped when everyone went to sleep and I was lying on the living room floor. There were men “asleep,” at my feet, yet they all chose to ignore my screams, cries and reasoning. I believe one was very much awake and even laughed.
The next morning when I got up (I didn’t fall asleep. I waited for the sun to come up and called my friend once everyone passed out.) I called my friend and she came to get me. She knew on the phone that something happened. She tried to talk me into going to the police, but I realized the facts were stacked against me and choose not to.
I went about my life as if everything was normal.
I didn’t tell anyone for a week. I told my best friend, but I didn’t tell my boyfriend for another month or so and we broke-up very shortly there after.
I was to blame. I got into the car. I went back to the party. It was my fault. I knew, I knew this wasn't true, but I couldn't help but think it.
I contracted an STD which led into PID which lead into pre-cancerous tissue on my cervix, which lead to several years of tests, exams, and painful, painful lasting results.
I was raped when I was 17, yet the exams and tests lasted until I was 21. How could I ‘get over and move on’ when I was dealing with a constant reminder due to continuing doctor appointments and exams.
My best friend turned against me, and so did my boyfriend.
It ate at me. It changed me. I was extremely depressed and I was sleeping around in a very reckless manner because I simply didn’t care enough to care. I didn’t care about myself. I didn’t respect myself. I simply did-not-care.
I told my mom about what happened a little over a year after the fact. She tried to help me, but ultimately and it’s stupid to say it this way, but it was bad timing on my part when I told her. She was dealing with her own stuff and I was trying to deal with my stuff. Support, in the way I needed it, wasn’t there.
By the time I was 21 I had, ‘moved on.’ As much as someone can, I had. Self-esteem was back; attitude of conquering the world was back. The little party girl (healthy, smart, always aware of her surroundings, only has positive people around me, no glove no love, party girl) was back.
I was out living my life to the fullest and having a great, wonderful, and amazing time.
Then, when I was 23 I was raped in my apartment, in my bed.
I had met someone that night. We had chatted for several hours. He came up to my apartment. I made it perfectly clear, several times, that we would not be having sex. Under no circumstance would we be sleeping together.
He said he understood.
After several hours of talking in my living room, on my couch, he then pinned me on my bed and raped me. I don’t recall how this happened exactly. I know the bathroom was through the bedroom so I don’t know if I got up and he followed me, or if when I left the bathroom he was in my bedroom. I don’t remember. I don’t want to.
I do know I kicked, I hit, I screamed, I cried.
(…and breathe….)
I was on my period and was using a tampon when he raped me. Needless to say this lead to a lot of pain for several days afterward.
I knew I needed to go to the hospital.
I knew I shouldn’t be in the shower.
I knew I had to get out of the curled up ball I was in my tub and stop the water washing everything way.
I knew I shouldn’t go swimming at the lake the next day with my girlfriend and act like nothing was wrong.
I knew I shouldn’t clean my fingernails endlessly and unconsciously.
I knew I needed to tell someone.
I was raped on a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I went to the hospital late Monday night.
I went to work Monday morning. It was when I was on my way to my part-time job later that night that I could feel it eating at my brain and I knew I had to tell. I couldn’t go though this again. I wasn't going to let it run me or my life again. Not again.
My mom and older brother drove me to the hospital that night.
I sat and I sat and I sat and I sat in the ER exam room. Hour upon hour upon hour. Along with a doctor and nurse, a rape counselor also needs to be present.
There was a backlog in the ER that night.
Even though I called before hand and told them I wasn’t going to wait; I waited and I waited and I waited.
I’ve debated about this next part. How honest to be? I don’t want to discourage others, but I want to be honest. I need to tell the whole story. But, I don’t want to discourage others.
…
…
Fuck…
…
The rape exam is one of the most intrusive, invasive, heart wrenching, horrible, cruelest, victimizing things I have ever been through. That's all I can say. I really can't go into it. It's something I have spoken very little about and it's not that I am retreating here, I honestly don't see the point in telling it. I don't think it would serve a point and I believe it would only be pornographic and voyeristic.
I am sure there is a point behind everything they had me do, but I am at a loss as to the reason for it.
At one point, with the doctor, nurse, rape counselor in the room with me, I started to cry. The doctor, clearly aggravated, asked if I wanted him to leave the room. When I told him yes, he didn’t seem happy about this. The nurse and rape counselor concurred this my feeling about his reaction and apologized for him.
After that ordeal was over, the police came, two men. I had to explain everything. I use humor to diffuse situations and to keep my sanity. I told them this, but I was still afraid they would read it wrong.
I had all the info about the rapist, he was easy to find.
He was taken into the police and questioned. He told them he wasn’t surprised he was there. He confessed to being an asshole, but not to raping me.
When I went in to tell them my story, the police told me his. The above sentence is a direct quote.
I contracted an STD from him as well. This lead to more problems and I don’t believe I will be able to have children due to the damage from both.
I told my family. I told my friends. I told my boyfriend. I told my employer and took a leave from work. My parent’s took my bed away and I bought a new one. I was going to move, but I refused to let one person control my life that way. I wasn’t going to move. I wasn’t going to let him win. I told the police, I was ready to be torn apart by whoever chose to tear me apart for standing up.
There wasn’t enough evidence. It never went to court. I was devastated. I shouldn’t have taken a shower. I should have gone to the hospital right away. I shouldn’t have waited. Again, somehow it came back to me and my fault. Even though I knew better. It somehow became my fault.
I don’t normally talk about being raped.
This is the most I’ve ever written or talked about it at one time.
Not because I am ashamed.
Not because I want to hide.
Not because I believe I am victim.
But because I don’t want to be looked at any differently.
I don’t want to be over-analyzed.
I don’t want people to go, ‘ah-ha! Now all the pieces make sense. That is why she does what she does.’
I am not a mystery unto myself. I know why I am the way I am and why I do what I do. It really doesn’t have a lot to do with being raped. I was a little party girl before I was 17 and 23 and I have been since.
I have issues about a few things and boundaries when it comes to others. I draw lines and I don’t recommend that a person cross it without permission. If it is crossed, I don’t suggest crossing it again.
However, unless you are a very close person in my life, you wouldn’t have any idea about these lines or boundaries. There isn't a reason to know unless I feel there is.
I am perpetually perky always optimistic and slightly cynical (unless you ask Nick. Then he’ll tell you I am more than slightly cynical.) Happy, healthy, incredibly out-going 32-year-old woman who has been raped, twice. It does not rule my world. It does not define me, nor will I let it. I don’t think about it every second of everyday. It does still enter my mind. I am always aware of my surroundings. I am careful about those who I let into my life and who I choose to be close in my life and who I let in. However, don’t a lot of people do that?
Even now as I write this, I’m wondering if you all will look and think of me differently. Don’t. Please, don’t.
People say they don’t know what to say when someone tells them something like I just shared. Don’t say anything. Listen. Be quiet and listen. Don’t start to tell me your story before I am finished with mine. Maybe don’t even share yours. It’s not that I don’t want to hear it, but let me tell mine. Let me say what I need to say.
But, please, please, don’t look at me differently. Don’t analyze why I am the way I am. I am the person I am supposed to be and I am so awesome with that person. She and I kick-ass and I love her. I wouldn’t change a thing. Not a heart-wrenching, depressing, introspective, why did that happen, when will I be able to ‘move on,’ thing. It has all made me the person I am today, and I kick ass. She and I totally kick ass.
I am so happy with who I am.
Don't look at me or treat me differently than you did before you heard my story.
I am not a victim. Don’t you dare call me a victim.
I am not a survivor. What have I survived? Two nights. Sadly, nothing more than almost every woman I encounter has gone through. We all have a story. Take the time to listen to it.
It was two nights. Two nights have not defined my whole life.
I love sex. It took a long time for me to get there, but I do. I love sex.
I own my sexuality.
I own my body.
I own my mind.
I own myself.
I respect myself.
I am awesome.
I kick ass.
soapbox rant:rape cases in the media and how the women and men are torn apart
I need to get on a soapbox for a second.
So, the Duke rape case. I'm not going to go into whether or not I think the men are guilty. That's not the point of this post. I honestly don't think that is the point of the media-brew-haha around this story either. What I do think and what is getting my panties chaffin' my ass is the fact that, once again, the women in the case are made out to be liars and are being accused of making false statements and once again their background, morals, values and what they have chosen to do for a living have been called into question. (Just to name a few other cases: Preppy Murder Case, Mike Tyson, Kobe Bryant, pick any Kennedy, and on and on and on...)
Once again the woman involved in the case is made to be the victim. Not the victim of rape, but a victim of the media. She is being torn apart. Her statements, her comments, her background, her person is being torn apart. I might add that is seems to be lovingly and joyfully torn apart by the media by all of those involved and not involved in the case.
Again, I don't know who is guilty of what. I wasn't there I'm not going to comment. The only people who really know what happened are the women and the men and I'm sure, as all people do and as all people are individulas; they all have a different take and a different spin on what actually happened and what took place.
However, every 2.5 seconds a women in America is a victim of sexual assult and one in every six women will be a victim of rape in her lifetime. Since the 1970's rape cases have (allegedly) gone down 85%.
I would like to take this time to say, I think these figures are crap. I don't believe rape cases have gone down and I don't believe it is only 1 in 6 women that are raped in their lifetime.
I do believe that rapes are, for the most part, unreported. I do believe the reason rapes have, allegedly, decreased is because women are not reporting them. I would like to say the reason cases are not reported is because women don't think they will be believed. I do think women feel they will be victimized even more by the police, the media, family and friends. I mean, aren't strippers simply asking to be raped? How much did she have to drink and well, she was showing a lot of cleavage, not to mention the short skirt she was wearing, so surely she was simply asking for it. She wanted it, forget about the brusies, black-eyes and screams of, 'no.' She wanted it. She enjoyed it. She asked for it.
So, why aren't women reporting? Why don't women come forth? Why don't women talk about what happened that night? Why don't they go to the hospital to have the exams, the photo shoot, the incredibly intrusive police report filled out?
Because she will be torn apart, she will be made to feel victimized again, she will not be believed, her character will be called into question, she will once again have to defend herself against the media, the men, the aligations, her family, and friends.
Oh, and if she should be willing to do all the above. You know, stand up for what's right, chances are the bag of rape evidence will simply sit on a shelf somewhere and nothing will be done with it. Yes, that's right. Sit on a shelf. Why you ask? Because there isn't enough staff time or money to investigate all of the rape cases that come into an average police station/hospital on an hourly basis. Most rape victims are not aware of this. They are told there wasn't enough evidence to go forward with the investigation. They are not told that the bag of evidence was never even opened.
So, the next time the media wants to jump on a bandwagon when it comes to a juicy news story that has all the jazz and pazzazz to catch headlines, think about it. Take 2.5 seconds to think about and remember that there is a person behind the story. The person has been through enough. That person has already been victimized enough. Stop and fucking think about it for 2.5 seconds before you jump to conclusions about what kind fo headline it will make.
...and off my soapbox.
So, the Duke rape case. I'm not going to go into whether or not I think the men are guilty. That's not the point of this post. I honestly don't think that is the point of the media-brew-haha around this story either. What I do think and what is getting my panties chaffin' my ass is the fact that, once again, the women in the case are made out to be liars and are being accused of making false statements and once again their background, morals, values and what they have chosen to do for a living have been called into question. (Just to name a few other cases: Preppy Murder Case, Mike Tyson, Kobe Bryant, pick any Kennedy, and on and on and on...)
Once again the woman involved in the case is made to be the victim. Not the victim of rape, but a victim of the media. She is being torn apart. Her statements, her comments, her background, her person is being torn apart. I might add that is seems to be lovingly and joyfully torn apart by the media by all of those involved and not involved in the case.
Again, I don't know who is guilty of what. I wasn't there I'm not going to comment. The only people who really know what happened are the women and the men and I'm sure, as all people do and as all people are individulas; they all have a different take and a different spin on what actually happened and what took place.
However, every 2.5 seconds a women in America is a victim of sexual assult and one in every six women will be a victim of rape in her lifetime. Since the 1970's rape cases have (allegedly) gone down 85%.
I would like to take this time to say, I think these figures are crap. I don't believe rape cases have gone down and I don't believe it is only 1 in 6 women that are raped in their lifetime.
I do believe that rapes are, for the most part, unreported. I do believe the reason rapes have, allegedly, decreased is because women are not reporting them. I would like to say the reason cases are not reported is because women don't think they will be believed. I do think women feel they will be victimized even more by the police, the media, family and friends. I mean, aren't strippers simply asking to be raped? How much did she have to drink and well, she was showing a lot of cleavage, not to mention the short skirt she was wearing, so surely she was simply asking for it. She wanted it, forget about the brusies, black-eyes and screams of, 'no.' She wanted it. She enjoyed it. She asked for it.
So, why aren't women reporting? Why don't women come forth? Why don't women talk about what happened that night? Why don't they go to the hospital to have the exams, the photo shoot, the incredibly intrusive police report filled out?
Because she will be torn apart, she will be made to feel victimized again, she will not be believed, her character will be called into question, she will once again have to defend herself against the media, the men, the aligations, her family, and friends.
Oh, and if she should be willing to do all the above. You know, stand up for what's right, chances are the bag of rape evidence will simply sit on a shelf somewhere and nothing will be done with it. Yes, that's right. Sit on a shelf. Why you ask? Because there isn't enough staff time or money to investigate all of the rape cases that come into an average police station/hospital on an hourly basis. Most rape victims are not aware of this. They are told there wasn't enough evidence to go forward with the investigation. They are not told that the bag of evidence was never even opened.
So, the next time the media wants to jump on a bandwagon when it comes to a juicy news story that has all the jazz and pazzazz to catch headlines, think about it. Take 2.5 seconds to think about and remember that there is a person behind the story. The person has been through enough. That person has already been victimized enough. Stop and fucking think about it for 2.5 seconds before you jump to conclusions about what kind fo headline it will make.
...and off my soapbox.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
I wasn't naked, I didn't have sex, I drank only a little yet, it was nearly a perfect weekend
...I know! I'm just as shocked as you all are!
Friday, I forgot to go to the store and didn't manage to remember until my stomach was a rumbling and a grumbling. I had one lone can of tuna and a carton of milk that expired sometime in April and not a lot more going on in my cupboards. (Sadly, that's not an exaggeration.) I was trying to decide which greasy pizza joint I should order from when the thought of calling up the parents entered my mind. Maybe they would take me out to eat. Mmm, maybe I should call them. Just as that thought had exited my brain, my phone rang. It was my mom and they were going out to dinner. Really? Wanna take me? Sure, hurry up. We're leaving now. Score!
Free meal and a margarita later.
Some chat time at their house while being attacked by the five-pound holy terror known as, Sadie, the new family dog, I called it a night and came home.
Saturday: Shopping with Mom, down in the new trendy downtown district. A free lunch and some purchases later I came home in the late afternoon. It was hotter than Satan's cock here this weekend and many of my friends had weddings to attend, (poor things.) I watched the William Powell and Myrna Loy movie marathon on TCM and called it a night.
Oh, funny moment of Saturday night. My neck, back, and right arm were hurting due to last week at work. I put on a lot (a lot) of Icy-Hot on my neck, back and right arm. Wow. When they say, 'apply only a thin layer.' They mean it. They aren't a joking. My nipples were rock hard. Rock hard. Now, why and how can Icy-Hot make my nipples hard? I have no idea other than the combination of the hot and cold absolutely surging through my body at a high and intense rate of speed might have had something to do with it. Wow.
Sunday: I did some gardening at my place. I went over to my parents for a BBQ. I made several blenders of margaritas and wondered how my Mom's blender has managed to still blend, chop, and liquefy since she received it for a wedding gift in 1969 in a lovely shade of avocado, yet I've had at least nine in thirteen years. (One of which caught on fire.) Anyway, BBQ, margaritas, and a water balloon fight with the niece and nephew. I've decided C-man looks like a 7-year-old
Kelso and when I called my 13-year-old niece Miss K, Hot Donna, my brother said that was disturbing. I realized he had a point and I went back to calling her, Miss K.
After several hours of sitting in the hot sun and drinking several margaritas, I came home. I exercised to try and burn off some of the BBQ. I called my dad and we actually had a decent conversation.
See, I wasn't naked, I didn't have sex, there wasn't any dancing, I didn't see any of my gays, I didn't spend money I didn't have. If I had done all of those things it would have been a perfect weekend. However, it was a near perfect weekend and I'll settle for that. Near perfect is pretty damn good on a random hot and sweltering summer weekend.
Friday, I forgot to go to the store and didn't manage to remember until my stomach was a rumbling and a grumbling. I had one lone can of tuna and a carton of milk that expired sometime in April and not a lot more going on in my cupboards. (Sadly, that's not an exaggeration.) I was trying to decide which greasy pizza joint I should order from when the thought of calling up the parents entered my mind. Maybe they would take me out to eat. Mmm, maybe I should call them. Just as that thought had exited my brain, my phone rang. It was my mom and they were going out to dinner. Really? Wanna take me? Sure, hurry up. We're leaving now. Score!
Free meal and a margarita later.
Some chat time at their house while being attacked by the five-pound holy terror known as, Sadie, the new family dog, I called it a night and came home.
Saturday: Shopping with Mom, down in the new trendy downtown district. A free lunch and some purchases later I came home in the late afternoon. It was hotter than Satan's cock here this weekend and many of my friends had weddings to attend, (poor things.) I watched the William Powell and Myrna Loy movie marathon on TCM and called it a night.
Oh, funny moment of Saturday night. My neck, back, and right arm were hurting due to last week at work. I put on a lot (a lot) of Icy-Hot on my neck, back and right arm. Wow. When they say, 'apply only a thin layer.' They mean it. They aren't a joking. My nipples were rock hard. Rock hard. Now, why and how can Icy-Hot make my nipples hard? I have no idea other than the combination of the hot and cold absolutely surging through my body at a high and intense rate of speed might have had something to do with it. Wow.
Sunday: I did some gardening at my place. I went over to my parents for a BBQ. I made several blenders of margaritas and wondered how my Mom's blender has managed to still blend, chop, and liquefy since she received it for a wedding gift in 1969 in a lovely shade of avocado, yet I've had at least nine in thirteen years. (One of which caught on fire.) Anyway, BBQ, margaritas, and a water balloon fight with the niece and nephew. I've decided C-man looks like a 7-year-old
Kelso and when I called my 13-year-old niece Miss K, Hot Donna, my brother said that was disturbing. I realized he had a point and I went back to calling her, Miss K.
After several hours of sitting in the hot sun and drinking several margaritas, I came home. I exercised to try and burn off some of the BBQ. I called my dad and we actually had a decent conversation.
See, I wasn't naked, I didn't have sex, there wasn't any dancing, I didn't see any of my gays, I didn't spend money I didn't have. If I had done all of those things it would have been a perfect weekend. However, it was a near perfect weekend and I'll settle for that. Near perfect is pretty damn good on a random hot and sweltering summer weekend.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
when you comin home son.....
I spoke to my dad today for the first time in a couple months.
I wrote about his and my relationship a month ago telling how I had put our past behind us, which I have.
I am no longer angry.
I am no longer bitter.
I am no longer trying to find his love.
I am no longer yearning for him to be part of my life.
He and I are okay.
He almost died.
A year ago.
I tried to be in his life, but he was dealing with his, shouldn't still be alive and lost several days of his life and trying to get past it, so he didn't have time for me.
Okay.
I'm an adult.
I am busy.
I have dealt with it.
It seems par for the course.
He has called me several times and I didn't have the time to call him back.
I couldn't find the time.
I didn't want to have the time.
I didn't call him back.
He did a google search and found my work email and sent me a note.
I responded.
That was well over a month ago.
He sent me another email over the weekend.
I called him from work today.
He asked about me right away and this gave me a false glimmer of hope.
Then I asked about him.
Things are good.
Things are great.
He misses me.
He misses my brothers.
He wishes he heard from us more.
...and the cats in the cradle and the silver spoon little boy blue and the man on the moon...
He is working a new job this weekend.
He has gotten involved with community issues.
He misses me and wished I called more.
....when you comin' home son, I don't know when, we'll get together then, you know we'll have a good time then....
He is thinking about running for city council.
He stands up for the little guy.
He is thinking about getting involved in politics.
He understands that I am busy and I have a lot going on, how is school?
He sure does miss hearing from me.
...Well, he came from college just the other day, so much like a man I just had to say, I'm proud of you, could you sit for a while, he shook his head and he said with a smile....
He said with a laugh, that he is spending my inheritance on his new house.
He is doing landscaping and gardening.
He and his wife have never been happier.
He sure loves their new place, but he sure does miss seeing me.
...I've long since retired, my son's moved away, I called him up just the other day, I'd like to see you if you don't mind...
When I felt I had talked enough and had gotten caught up on his life.
I said, "It sounds like everything is going great for you."
He said, "It is, but I sure do miss hearing from you.
I sure do miss your voice.
I sure miss seeing you.
But, it has sure been nice talking to you."
but it's sure nice talking to you, Dad, it's been sure nice talking to you
The whole time I am talking to him, "Cats in the Cradle," is going through my head.
I couldn't help it.
As I hung-up the phone I started singing the song to myself.
Quietly to myself.
All the lyrics.
...and as I hung up the phone it occured to me, he'd grown up just like me, my boy was just like me...
....as I logged onto my computer tonight, I saw I had an email from my, Dad. He thanked me for calling and told me he misses me. But, it was sure nice hearing from me today. It was sure nice talking to me.
Love, Dad
With tears streaming down my face I realized I don't want to be like him.
I realized I don't won't to be like him....
I wrote about his and my relationship a month ago telling how I had put our past behind us, which I have.
I am no longer angry.
I am no longer bitter.
I am no longer trying to find his love.
I am no longer yearning for him to be part of my life.
He and I are okay.
He almost died.
A year ago.
I tried to be in his life, but he was dealing with his, shouldn't still be alive and lost several days of his life and trying to get past it, so he didn't have time for me.
Okay.
I'm an adult.
I am busy.
I have dealt with it.
It seems par for the course.
He has called me several times and I didn't have the time to call him back.
I couldn't find the time.
I didn't want to have the time.
I didn't call him back.
He did a google search and found my work email and sent me a note.
I responded.
That was well over a month ago.
He sent me another email over the weekend.
I called him from work today.
He asked about me right away and this gave me a false glimmer of hope.
Then I asked about him.
Things are good.
Things are great.
He misses me.
He misses my brothers.
He wishes he heard from us more.
...and the cats in the cradle and the silver spoon little boy blue and the man on the moon...
He is working a new job this weekend.
He has gotten involved with community issues.
He misses me and wished I called more.
....when you comin' home son, I don't know when, we'll get together then, you know we'll have a good time then....
He is thinking about running for city council.
He stands up for the little guy.
He is thinking about getting involved in politics.
He understands that I am busy and I have a lot going on, how is school?
He sure does miss hearing from me.
...Well, he came from college just the other day, so much like a man I just had to say, I'm proud of you, could you sit for a while, he shook his head and he said with a smile....
He said with a laugh, that he is spending my inheritance on his new house.
He is doing landscaping and gardening.
He and his wife have never been happier.
He sure loves their new place, but he sure does miss seeing me.
...I've long since retired, my son's moved away, I called him up just the other day, I'd like to see you if you don't mind...
When I felt I had talked enough and had gotten caught up on his life.
I said, "It sounds like everything is going great for you."
He said, "It is, but I sure do miss hearing from you.
I sure do miss your voice.
I sure miss seeing you.
But, it has sure been nice talking to you."
but it's sure nice talking to you, Dad, it's been sure nice talking to you
The whole time I am talking to him, "Cats in the Cradle," is going through my head.
I couldn't help it.
As I hung-up the phone I started singing the song to myself.
Quietly to myself.
All the lyrics.
...and as I hung up the phone it occured to me, he'd grown up just like me, my boy was just like me...
....as I logged onto my computer tonight, I saw I had an email from my, Dad. He thanked me for calling and told me he misses me. But, it was sure nice hearing from me today. It was sure nice talking to me.
Love, Dad
With tears streaming down my face I realized I don't want to be like him.
I realized I don't won't to be like him....
inner dork and word origin, in one: no man's-land
Did you know....
The phrase, 'no man's-land' comes from the Middle Ages. There was an actual no-man's-land, located outside the north wall of the city of London. This is the area where the bodies of criminals were displayed and since relatively minor crimes were then punishable by death, there were lots of bodies displayed which had been hung, beheaded, impaled of which served as a warning for other would-be lawbreakers.
Eventually the land around London was settled. Game preserves were established and the fields were cultivated, the only land that no man wanted were the former execution lands. Literally, no man wanted this land and that became the phrase to discribe this area.
Around 1900 the phrase was picked up by the military.
Now, if only we knew where the phrase, BFE came from. (Bum-fuck-Egypt)
The phrase, 'no man's-land' comes from the Middle Ages. There was an actual no-man's-land, located outside the north wall of the city of London. This is the area where the bodies of criminals were displayed and since relatively minor crimes were then punishable by death, there were lots of bodies displayed which had been hung, beheaded, impaled of which served as a warning for other would-be lawbreakers.
Eventually the land around London was settled. Game preserves were established and the fields were cultivated, the only land that no man wanted were the former execution lands. Literally, no man wanted this land and that became the phrase to discribe this area.
Around 1900 the phrase was picked up by the military.
Now, if only we knew where the phrase, BFE came from. (Bum-fuck-Egypt)
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