Thoughts on Facebook

Dear Facebook,

You are a god. It must feel good to be you. Scratch that. It must feel GREAT to be you. Because, seriously, think about it, how many millions (billions?) of people are in love with you!? Seriously, so many of us are jealous of all the love you receive.

You are the new religion, binding us all together. Because of you, I can keep in touch with the friends and family that are oh, so far away. We can share pictures and connect/reconnect in almost any fashion we desire. Instead of calling Megan, to make a goofy comment on some picture she's recently been tagged in, I can just leave her a message for the entire world to see! It is as though you share your godly powers with me. And also her, because, you know, you've allowed that tagged picture to be seen by me and everyone else as well. Hell, in a lot of cases, people who may not even know her can see her! You are so awesome!

I remember this one time, I was mad at an old friend, but because of you, I was able to know everything she was up to, and had the ability to form a plan of attack. The feeling was indescribable. Of course, this has also been a tool used on me too. I mean, what goes around comes around, right? I deserved it when people spied on me and did hateful things. And that's only because I forgot I could set up my privacy settings. Boy I felt silly that day, I can tell you!

It is also because of you that I've witnessed people discover who their true friends are. Yes, that must make you feel all warm inside, knowing you can provide truths to people who reside in the dark. I know that sometimes, a comment might go un-deleted and the "wrong person" might see it. That's okay. Because of you, they don't even have to be pals anymore. And who would want to be friends anyway if so-and-so is going to say hateful things? So, friend A can delete friend B, and that should do the trick.

You're just so convenient. You're always the first to share with the world the scandals behind closed doors. You're the first to know about everything -- about break ups, (hey, sometimes even before the breakup-ee!), about farming, about birthdays, anniversaries, about, well, EVERYTHING! Sometimes you're even ahead the news -- while making the news, I might add.

Facebook, I am in awe of you. In awe of your grace, your ability to tell the truth, your almighty gift of connection. You are one of the only faiths left in this world.

I must admit that I for one, am in love with you. You are that extra mile of connective tissue that hold me together with those I love dear...and others admittedly, not so much, but we met that one time at some function, and now we can be friends -- all because of YOU.

Dearest Facebook, keep up the great work!

Thoughts on Fairy Tales, Nursery Rhymes, and other Fables

So, here I am, lying in bed with my four month old, reading a bunch of nursery rhymes. And she's smiling and kicking, and we're just having us a good 'ol time. And then we come upon Jack and Jill.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water, Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after.

I don't dare tell my four month old what I'm thinking (not that she'll understand) but she seems so happy looking at these goofy illustrations. I'm slightly disturbed, to say the least. Little Jack, climbing up the hill with a pail, has a crown on his head. A crown. (Laugh here). Okay, I understand the need to make the rhyme more innocent than it actually is, but if I'm not mistaken, the "crown" is not the crown a prince might wear. But a crown has that double entendre. In other words, the crown can be the top of Jack's head. His skull. However, upon doing further research, it is rumored that Jack is a reference to King Louis XVI and Jill, Marie Antoinette. The loss of Jack's crown, referring to the King's beheading, and Marie Antoinette's beheading following after. Either way, the rhyme is disturbing, and the meaning is diluted far enough for our children to be pleasantly placed away from it's historical context. (http://www.rhymes.org.uk/jack_and_jill.htm)

And what about Humpty Dumpty? First off, where did we get this idea that Humpty is an egg? No where in the rhyme does it say Humpty is an egg...or a man, for that matter. And the rhyme doesn't seem quite that protected for children, either. It seems to suggest a mortality of some kind -- we may go to the doctor, but he or she might not be able to put us back together again, boys and girls. In fact, this rhyme comes from the 17th century, regarding a cannon that made it's home at the top of St Mary's at the Wall Church in Colchester. When the church was hit and the cannon destroyed, the King's cavalry could not put it back together. Yes, I see where the egg came from clearly now. (Sarcasm)

These rhymes are fun, yes. And definitely something I remember from my childhood; the best of my memories. But it seems they are all lies, and some even scary. For instance, Ring around the Rosies. Holy hell, is this scary. No one told me this little song and dance referred to the black plague. And frankly, I'm not sure anyone in my family really knew. And who cared? I just enjoyed falling to the floor. And what about Santa Claus? I am quickly reminded of my first day in mythology class. We participated in the analysis of Burl Ives singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town". Frankly, it's completely terrifying. A strange man is watching us. Yes, he has presents and blah, blah, blah. But seriously, listen to the lyrics. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tREXSViRohU) This is a Hansel and Gretyl-esque story. (You know, luring the children to the gingerbread house with candy...same thing, only done up with pretty ribbons)

And there are other stories as well that were blunt honest, which, should be appreciated, as these are the stories that should warn children of the outside world. Cinderella, for example. One of the step sisters cut her toes off to fit into the glass slippers and at the end of the story, the sisters' eyes are gauged out by birds. BUT, do we see that in the Disney-fied version? Hell no. And let's face it, a lot of things are altered in Disney's world, forming a kind of Utopia for children. Which, for me, I feel, is good and bad.

It seems that the meanings behind rhymes have been lost, and truth hidden, no matter what form society has chosen to hide it behind. And frankly, I find it disturbing...and scary in a lot of ways. What do we do about this? I don't know. I just don't know. As a parent, I understand wanting to keep safe a child. But when you think you're saving them, are you really?

Thoughts on Poison Ivy

I'm not sure where it came from. I am not one to frolic through the woods hunting for mushrooms and wild game such as the infamous Bear Grylls. I do not celebrate nature in the way that ferries and nymphs do, seen in fantastical literature. This is just not me. I am the type who plays with my child, reads, and publishes stupid posts online. So, how this has happened, I do not know. And I always believed in the depths of my soul that I embodied some sort of super-human powers due to my twenty-five year immunity to the stuff. Twenty-five years, people. And here I am today, professing the evils of this three-leaved jezebel. I remember elementary school. All my friends had come into contact with the plant at some point in their youths. Apparently, I was just lucky. Because today, with much grief, I must announce that I am infected.

I remember my first scratch. Sounds crazy, but it's true. One night last week sometime. I took my right hand to my left arm and scratched. I didn't think anything of it. Just an itch. But something crazy happened. I noticed this hickey-esque bruising just beneath my skin's surface. Initially, I just thought I had scratched a bit too hard.

No.

In fact, this blistering, acid faced protuberance appeared. That's when I knew. I have contracted poison ivy. And I'm trapped. There's this insanity in my skin, I just don't want to stop itching. However, being a novice at this infection, I've learned that if you scratch "too much" or "too hard", one just bleeds everywhere. And now, what started at the inside of my left arm, has since traveled to both ankles and I'm beginning to feel it where? Yes, you guessed it. My face. Holy hell, Batman!

So, before I dip myself in acid to rid myself of the itch, I begin a quest. A quest on destroying this three-leaved evil. Oh, and believe me, I've found some very interesting theories on the destruction of these blisters. Some suggest using a hair dryer and "blow" the itch away. Others say take tons of Vitamin C, or use rubbing alcohol. My theory? Moonshine until I pass out and can't remember that I ever itched at all.

Thoughts on Mascots and Whores

Because I spend countless hours in thought, it should be a duty that I write more often. After all, it is a goal dear to my heart that I at least make a mild career as an author of some capacity. (Although I highly doubt poetry will ever be an option.) My recent thoughts are seemingly disconnected aside from the fact that both subjects are running through my head . . .

I begin with mascots.

Recently, upon watching Saturday college football, a friend asked me what a 'Hoosier' is. I began to regale stories of Hoosierdom from my fourth grade text book. Stories of which, are unimportant to this current rant. I began thinking. Okay, so, 'Hoosier' is a nice term for people from Indiana, sure . . . it's tradition. But, in all reality, how scary of a mascot is a Hoosier? No offense to North Carolina natives, but it's like the Tar Heels. I find neither a Hoosier or a Tar Heel intimidating. Ooooooohhh, you've got tar on your heels, how frightening! Yes, these state pet names are lovely, but somewhat goofy when naming teams. And there are countless goofy mascots. Campbell Camels . . . um, okay. At Catawba College, we once played a team called Presbyterian. Their mascot? The mighty "Blue Hose". (Long blue socks, not panty hose) At IU East, we once played the Concordia Seminary "Preachers". Wow. Also, I've heard of teams with "Monarchs" as their mascots. Draw your own conclusions here.

However, I think Florida has got it right. Florida GATORS. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm terrified of gators. They eat you. Why not have scary, super intimidating mascots? A shark is a good mascot, but why not be more specific? Why not the great whites? But the scariest mascot of all? Ohio State. Buckeyes. Ha, very funny, you say. But seriously, think about it. Yes, a buckeye is a traditional Hoosier-esque mascot. However, if you were ever to eat a buckeye . . . yes, you've just poisoned yourself. Deadly. One of those silent killers. Also, I think anthrax might be an intimidating mascot . . .

*****

Regarding my thoughts on the other topic -- Now, I don't know about my Northeastern High School buddies, but I find it incredibly interesting, this concept of "whoredom". The technical term for whore is someone who is paid to sleep around. Correct? Correct. I've studied enough to know this is true, and don't bother telling me I'm wrong. I'm not. However, the current loose term for a whore, I have since learned from someone near and dear is this: a person who sleeps around, having no self-worth. Also, I find it an easy term to use for we women who seem to threaten us in some fashion. Right, ladies? Anyway, I can "dig" the slang usage of the term. I guess. I do not remember the term being thrown around so heavily back home (correct me if I'm wrong, fellow Hoosiers). And perhaps that's because half of the Fountain City population is Amish. I do not know. Whatever the reason, I hear the term a great deal in the Rowan County/Davidson County area. Why is this? I do not know. It does not matter.

My argument is this: why does everyone assume ONLY women are whores? Never have I heard, "well, that so-and-so is a big whore. He sleeps with at least three women a night," or "that Jimmy guy has slept with so many women, he's got s*it, Ajax couldn't wash off!" No, never, and I mean NEVER have I heard a man dubbed "whore". It has come to my attention that any man with the capabilities to enjoy the pleasures of women, is in fact called a "pimp".

Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass if you consider yourself a pimp. If you're willing to give it to the willing, you're a whore. Man, woman, goat, or dandelion. It makes my skin crawl when I run into a person who is so quick to give out judgment to someone they believe to be a "whore". Don't be so quick to hand out names to people. It feels a lot like guilt, to me, oh guilty one.

Also, a recent acquaintance who will never be a friend of mine, was discussing this very topic with someone and mentioned that any woman who was out doing "whorish" things, should be beaten. Okay, buddy, you keep that in the back of your head when you're out "pimping".

Entrapment -- a new short story

Below is my newest short story. Enjoy and feel free to leave any feedback.

Entrapment

He doesn’t know I know he’s been seeing her for the past week. But he can’t hide the red remnants I see on his collar; he can’t betray the luscious crimson hiding in the corners of his mouth.

I wonder how they met. I wonder if he sees her at lunch everyday.

I am better than her, and today, I’ll make him choose.

My car is parked behind the second set of apartments – where he can’t see it.

I reside in the bathroom. Door shut. In front of the mirror. I’ve bathed. Doused myself in an ambrosial elixir of pheromones.

My lips pulse, dabbed with a goddess-gloss in pink. Failure is not an option.

Carefully, I liquefy black lashes and press them to my own. They mold to one another, bringing the lust of life to my irises dancing.

My skin glistens with the flawless dew of desire.

I let my hair rest on my bare chest, the long dark locks encapsulating the prize beneath.

I hear the lust of appetite jingling at the door. It’s him. The letch fumbles into the kitchen.

Pause.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he says.

My entire being feels like leaping out at him . . . but I must force myself to calm down.

I wait.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three.

Quietly, I open the bathroom door, my body taut and stunning in it’s nakedness. He hasn’t heard me. And I catch him with her.

Confrontation. I clear my throat so he will see me. So I can make him choose me over her.

But he just stares at me. Stunned.

Seductively, I approach him, long legged and glorious. I throw my right leg across his midsection and gracefully slide into his lap. Gently, I kiss his neck while running my fingers through his hair. The heat from his body seeps into my bare skin. I ignore the tramp beside me.

He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Jess, I just wanna finish my cherry cheesecake.”

The Battle at Marathon

The Battle at Marathon

I stumble along Pepto walls

drunken

colliding with

ambitious blue collar workers while

fluffy obstacles

protruding from a

cellar act as

magnets for the weary.

My head spins in

a maze as the trumpet

seduces

a Varsity army.

Olympic gold

I race.

Vulgar swimmers compete

along the milky way

to claim a

totipotent monarchy.

Winner take all

I lock the vault.

In three weeks you’ll

wake up with

morning sickness.

Thoughts on Pre-Parenting

Let me just begin by saying that no, I have not written in a long time and yes, it is time to begin again. Life is an amazing thing. A month ago, my little girl was born . . . and before continuing into the meat of this blog, let me also add that there are absolutely no words to describe motherhood and my feelings toward my little girl. There is not a day that goes by when I don't spend countless minutes staring at her, wondering how something so miraculous could have been made by me. She is absolutely, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on. And until you have children of your own, it is impossible to know exactly how much you can love someone.

Now, having said all this, motherhood has only inspired my imagination. And it dawns on me, I have been primed to become a mother my entire life. And it's not just me . . . we all have in some fashion. Remember growing up? I remember baby dolls. I hated them. However, that is beside the point. Baby dolls. Most of my little girlfriends loved them. They got to play "mom". And as we got older, the dolls became increasingly life-like. What was once 100% plastic, soon became a plastic toy that became human when it wet it's diaper. But it didn't stop at baby dolls. Oh no. Not only were young girls targeted toward the idea of parenthood but prepubescent boys were as well. Take a look at the Giga pet. Oh yeah. Little pets of our choice . . . dogs, cats, monkeys . . . whatever. We were thrown into responsibility with a pet we had to feed and clean up, and play with. But unlike the less lifelike Cabbage Patch Kid dolls, the Giga pet threw us into a deeper reality--a scary reality. If we didn't feed our Giga pet, if we failed to take care of it, the pet died. And for many of us, this was the way with our actual pets (even though our parents typically did all the grunt work).

I find it interesting. We are preparing to become parents early on in our childhoods. And the funny thing is, I hear the media blaming the upcoming generations outrageous behaviors on the entertainment industry. I don't dare say that Giga pets cause pregnancy, no. I am merely stating that I find it interesting how the outside world primes us for whatever it feels we should be.