Photo of the Day: Little Miss Hattie

This is my cousin's adorable and utterly precocious little girl. She's 16 months old with enough energy for 6 kids. In other words, the cutest.




See more here. You'll be glad you did!

Photo(s) of the Day: Artsy Fartsy Christmas

I couldn't resist sharing more than one! Happy Holidays, all!






See more here

I have the Black Death

Once upon a time, someone I once knew that time once told me that sick Andrea was the funniest Andrea. I suppose it's probably true. When I'm sick, this dark, sardonic side of me comes out that I can usually suppress the rest of the time, when I'm a fucking ray of sunshine, all perky and bubbly and make people barf with the sweetness of my smiling disposition.

It's true. Don't laugh.

But I'm not sweet this week. I'm sick. So sick in fact that I have stayed home the last two days from work. I can't recall the last time I took two days off in a row that wasn't for a planned vacation, and I admit that being sick is such a waste of time off that seriously grinds my gears. Nonetheless, I'm home. Because I walked into the office morning whereupon my boss saw that I was the walking, coughing reincarnation of The Black Death and she promptly sent me right back home.

I'm not complaining, mind you. I looked like Death and I felt (feel) like Death. I probably sounded like that opening scene of Outbreak when some sap is hacking away and you're wondering why everyone isn't running for their lives because pretty soon they're ALL GOING TO DIE.

I really did everyone a favor by going home. I'm sparing the world an outbreak of The Plague. Or maybe TB. I've heard it's making a resurgence. And this cough is so bad, I do feel like Doc Holliday minus the jaunty mustache and deathly sex appeal. So at least there's that.

But if I have to die of Tuberculosis alone at home, at least I have two cats that are trying to heal me with their purrs. If it works, I'll market them to the naturopaths of the world.

Though, with as fat as Hobbes is, I'm not sure if the weight of him on my hacking chest is really helping. 

I do find it interesting that I've been wanting to blog for weeks now and even have a nice list of blog ideas, but have been entirely too busy to do so, and once I have time, it's because I'm sick so all I can talk about is phlegm and snot. 

Yay. 

4 hours until my boyfriend gets home. Must hang on until then. At least I have Netflix to sustain me, as I left my current book on my desk at work.  Again with the previously mentioned life ruling. 

And oh yeah. It's Christmas next week and I still haven't posted photos from Thanksgiving. I rule at life. 

If I live to Christmas. I've heard you can live quite some time with Tuberculosis. Send Robitussin. 

Photo of the Day: Fluffers

In case we haven't fawned over my boy enough lately.

See more here.

Photo of the Day: All the Changing Leaves

Because I can never get enough of those Fall colors.

See more here. 

On Manifest Destiny and The Consumerization of Thanksgiving

It's that time of year, when we gather all our kin and eat a ton of food and booze, and yell at each other because we really don't want to be together, and celebrate the hostile takeover of most of a continent, and then wake up the next day at the asscrack of dawn to trample all in our path just to get a great deal on a piece of shit "It" toy or a flat screen TV.

Yeah, I'm a buzzkill. I know.

Everyone knows by now that I'm not a huge fan of Thanksgiving, which I've gleefully and recently coined, "Manifest Destiny Day," which I think sums of the whole thing quite beautifully. But before I get to Manifest Destiny and how Black Friday is a gorgeous metaphor of that long tradition of taking what we want, a little recap on my tenuous relationship with the holiday:

I've never been much a fan of Thanksgiving food. Huge hunks of turkey? Not for me. Stuffing and cranberries and green bean casserole? Yucky. I like corn and potatoes, of course. Because potatoes are glorious, said the Irish girl. And somehow macaroni and cheese always made it into the mix, probably because I hated all the other foods and mac & cheese is also glorious.

Thanksgiving was never much fun in my house. I can count the good childhood Thanksgivings I had on one hand and I remember each good time extremely clearly. I remember splatter painting a table cloth (with permission) with my cousin. I remember eating homemade whipped cream. I remember my boisterous uncle telling a story, which involved wild hand gestures and the subsequent knocking over and splashing of cranberry sauce all over his new and very white house.

Not Thanksgiving, but I couldn't resist sharing one of the many matchy Christmas photos my cousins and I had to do.

But the rest were complete suckass. Usually my mom wouldn't start cooking until late in the day, because she's a world class procrastinator, something she'd find a zillion ways to blame on me or my dad or the dogs or maybe even the bird, while she also refused any help. Part way through the day, we'd all be starving and someone would pick a fight about something stupid, I'd be told I was an ungrateful little shit and go crying in my room and my dad would storm out the front door, slamming it and putting another crack in the door frame, and nobody would be happy. If we were lucky, we might be served dinner around midnight, which would undoubtedly be delicious (meaning the potatoes and corn and mac & cheese), and, while my mom was an excellent cook, I'm sure part of the deliciousness was due in part to our fasting the rest of the day's entirety.

So there's no nostalgia for Thanksgiving in me. There's no holding hands around a warm table filled with my loved ones declaring what we're thankful for. Most of my memories are of stress and tears.

And I also try to put aside that "giving thanks" means thanking the deity in the sky for whatever it is I supposedly didn't earn myself or didn't get by pure chance or serendipity or whatever. If I have things or happiness or love, I suppose I'm supposed to thank Someone with a capital S for it. So if I don't believe in said deity, can I just thank myself?

Then I worked retail. My very first real job out of high school was retail and I worked various sales and management positions for most of my twenties. Now, if there's one thing I am thankful for, it's that I never had to work at Wal Mart and come into work at 1am on Black Friday and dodge the murderous hoards all day. But I did work at malls and I did often have to leave Thanksgiving early (when I was still in contact with my madre) in order to get home at a decent hour to get enough sleep to work the next day at the asscrack of dawn and survive the utter madness that would ensue and continue for the next month.

Needless to say, Thanksgiving for me has, more often than not, signaled the start of stress.

And I still get all stressy thinking about it, even though I don't work retail anymore and I have had a few wonderful (small) Thanksgivings with my little cousin and I am starting to like the holiday season a bit (the lights and the winter and maybe even a little snow). And there are people I love who love this holiday. I get that. I can suck it up and make myself be social for a day and eat my gluten free mac & cheese and drink wine and participate in this odd day.

Le sigh.

I respect that plenty of people like this holiday. Though I'd argue that we should at least know what we're celebrating and it has nothing to do with the story we're raised on. I'll skip the retelling of the Thanksgiving story (because, long). You can read that here.

I do, however, want to talk about Manifest Destiny.

Now if that doesn't describe the entire history of the colonization of North America, I don't know what does. Sure, the term didn't come about until the 19th century, but the sentiment predated that by hundreds of years. We expanded beyond Europe. We took what we wanted and destroyed everything in our path. And we called it our duty and our destiny. And we called all men equal while millions suffered on reservations or in slavery or disenfranchisement.

I believe that's what therapists call justification.

I'm not saying we put aside this major tradition that so many people love; I'm saying let's learn the real story and at least acknowledge that our history is based on murder and subjugation and disenfranchisement and that an entire population of people still think of suffering on this day while we're stuffing our faces and being grateful for such abundance.

I'm just saying we have a little perspective.

So where does Black Friday and consumerism come in? Well where doesn't it? I know we're all lamenting the consumerization of this (and all, really) holiday(s), and no one hates the mentality and stress of it all more than I, but I also think it's completely natural given our history. Black Friday is SO Manifest Destiny!

It's our real life pageant play of colonization. We're not taking over countries and continents, but we each get to be little imperialists and conquer the shopping! Claim all the things! Take all the stuff and who the fuck cares who gets in our way! We deserve it! We were good all year! Gimme gimme gimme gimme!

All we're missing are flags.

It's not a decline in our civilization so much as a fulfillment of our longest traditions.

So I'm torn. I hate the shopping and sheer madness of it all. I mean, does anyone honestly think it's sane behavior? And you won't find me anywhere near a shopping center on the worst Friday of the year. But I also think that maybe this is just a teensy bit karmic. Maybe our karmic punishment for all of the crimes against humanity our civilization has enacted on land is that we'll eat ourselves alive, both literally one day and figuratively the next, until there's nothing left.

But I'll still participate in Thanksgiving.

This year, Eminem and I will be trekking down to Northern California to stay with my older cousin and her family, mostly so he can finally meet some of my family, and I'm sure we'll have a good time. For one, my mother won't be there, which is always a good thing! Two, booze! Three, I love my cousin and her family and I'm confident they aren't the train wreck my immediate family is. Four, I'm armed with GF rolls from my favroite bakery and my cousin is making me a GF mac & cheese and I'm making these Reese's bottom cheesecake cups. Five, road trip with my man! Yeah!

See, I can have fun. I just like to be conscious of why I'm having fun and know what I'm celebrating. I don't think that's unreasonable.

Photo of the Day: Outside My Front Door

This is what I get to come home to every day.

See more here. 

Photo of the Day: Wet Leaves

Wet leaves are as much a part of Portland Fall as the rain itself. It also means that, however pretty, one must walk carefully so as to avoid falling on one's ass in the street.

See more here. 

Photo of the Day: Autumn Light

I'm finally taking photos again! Try not to die of shock.

I love Autumn. It's my very favorite and I can't believe I haven't taken more photos of my fave season this year, so I'm making up for it now.

Because I tend to migrate toward macros, I thought I'd play with light and shadow in some full tree shots. What do you think? Isn't this afternoon light just delicious?

See more here.

The Crazy Bunch

As a kid, I always loved the Brady Bunch, maybe because I was an only child who desperately wanted a houseful of siblings, though, let's be honest - I was also obsessed with Marcia and her gorgeous hair and bellbottoms and I pretty much spent a chunk of my formative years trying to look like her.

And, while I never had a houseful of siblings, I did have two cousins who were just like sisters (seriously, I'm soooo the middle child), and I definitely had a houseful of pets.

Where I'm going with this is that Eminem have our own Brady Bunch-esque house going on. Sure, we don't have children, but we do have two cats that used to be only children and a bulk of our days is consumed by those two furkids.

Truly. Merging the furniture has been surprisingly breezy. We've been able to mostly agree on decorating and style (aside from his occasional affinity for plaid). We've yet to have any huge blowout fights (though that's not really our style) and have survived just a few small tiffs with no casualties. We don't fight over the television. In fact, most evenings, he'll be watching some game on TV while I watch one of my shows on my laptop with my earbuds.

So no issues!

But the cats. Those rascals.

Hobbes desperately wants to be friends with Iggy, which makes sense. The only other cat knew was Jete and those two were the best of friends. In many ways, Hobbes was Jete's cat, while she was mine.



And now I'm tearing up a little. Dammit if losing our furbabies isn't painful forever.

It also freaks me out a little how much Iggy is like Jete.

He's smaller and has this cute munchkin face, but he's just as smart and moody and mischievous. He's also cuddly in a really demanding way. Saturday mornings, he'll often crawl right up into my face and demand attention and it reminds me soooo much of her.

So Hobbes has been surprisingly bold and brave about Iggy. He's doing everything he can to get Iggy to see how sweet and cuddly and harmless he is. But Iggy isn't so sure about Hobbes. Just when it seems he's warming up to my fat boy, Hobbes gets too close and hissing and head batting ensues.

They do seem to get along the water fountain, taking turns at the dripping faucet, but that's their only neutral zone as yet.

So Hobbes has taken a new tactic: making Iggy jealous. He's been sleeping in Iggy's fave spots, cuddling up to Eminem, and eating all the food. Well, he ate all the food before too.

I have to hand to it him; I never would have guessed my big lug would have been smart enough to come up with such a plan. And it seems to be working, sort of. Iggy hasn't warmed up to Hobbes, but he has warmed up more to me. He even slept on my side of the bed last night.

The jury is still out on these two, but I have hope that they'll be best friends soon enough.

Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Racist Halloween Costumes

Horrifying Pinterest shit is BACK! I had intended to link up a Halloween post before Halloween, you know, so people can learn something. But alas, my laziness and lack of time management skills won out and so you get this gem after Halloween. 

There were so many examples of racist costumes, mostly in the vein of "culture as a costume." If you don't know what I'm talking about, Google it. I'll wait. :) 

And, while the cultural appropriation costumes go back a long time (such a long tradition of racism to celebrate, evidently),  but there's an even more perverse issue when it becomes the Sexy Racist costume. At that point, we go beyond the problem of Sexy Halloween monopoly (meaning a woman cannot buy a pre-made costume that isn't uber sexified) and the devaluing of a huge, non-monolithic culture into one stereotype and we now sexualize that monolith, that stereotype. And that has huge consequences. 

See: above. 

I hope that made sense. I didn't want this to be a long post. I highly encourage you to do tons of research on the subject because there's SO much more to be said than I can articulate. 

Thankfully, I've spotted no Blackface pins, probably because at least costume manufacturers, while content to make money off of cultural appropriation and racism, seem to have some line they won't cross. That doesn't stop white people from taking it upon themselves to paint their faces to mimic another race every single damn year. Hey, people, stop it! Just stop it. No more blackface fullstop. 

Aaaaaand discuss. 

Grieving Sprocket

The other day, I told you that part of the reason I haven't written was due to my big move (yay!), but the other part is because I've been grieving and haven't wanted to write or take photos or really be expressive at all.

See, the beloved Sprocket Ink is no more. 

And I am very sad. I wasn't there the entire time, but I was there at the beginning and at the end and there's something sweet and sentimental about that. For about 2 years, I was happy to have a forum to write about news and politics, where I was never censored, where I felt a responsibility to talk about what I was passionate about and flex my writing wings.

And I was part of an incredible community there! I left the first time because, with the exception of a couple folks, I didn't feel part of the writing crew. When I came back, I found the greatest group of nerdy, lovable, witty, warm, and brilliant people whom I could always turn to whether I needed to rant about some idiot politician or just about work issues or some stupid facebook debate. 

I really hope those friendships remain with the death of our wonderful site. They're truly wonderful people.

So, as you can imagine, I've been very, very sad. I felt like I was laid off from the best job (even though I wasn't paid). Or I was going through a breakup, except my ex in this instance was gone forever, not living a new life with some hot girl he met in a bar (just kidding. that actually never happened to me). 

I've been truly grieving. And I'm glad I let myself grieve, because now I'm starting to feel myself again. And look at me! Writing again!

I also have a ton of articles over at Sprocket that I have no clue how to pull off and save. If anyone is super techy and smart at Wordpress, I'd very much appreciate the help. 

Some of the ex Sprockets have some ideas in the works for next steps and I'm really hoping to be a a part of that too. I'm not sure what I'll do in the meantime. I hope to write here a hellofa lot more, but I haven't decided if I'll write about politics at all here or just save that for an external site. I just don't know that this is the place for it. I might rant about world issues like racism or sexism, etc., but I don't know that I want my blog to be taken up by politicians and pundits and government. 

Time will tell, I s'pose. 

Bye, Sprocket. It's been too wonderful. 

Our House

Well hello, old friends, old buddies, old pals. It's been a thousand years since I've written, a veritable millenia, if you will. I have a bunch of good reasons for this, of which I may or may not write about in this post. I honestly haven't decided yet. Let's just all be glad I'm actually writing, shall we?

Yes, yes we shall.

The biggest reason I haven't written was that I MOVED! Into a house! With Eminem! Huzzah!

Yeah, moving sucks. I don't care if you're moving into an awesome house with a great guy with all kinds of rainbows and happiness and unicorn shit, you still end up with lots of boxes everywhere and won't know where all your stuff is for weeks and have to spend money making your house livable. It sucks and it's hard work and it eats up all your time and energy.

Despite all that, however, we are totally happy and the house is just beginning to feel like a home. We still have some boxes left and have a couple spaces to finish nesting and photos to print and hang and I have some crafty projects to complete, but it's just at the point where I feel good about it. I come home and feel like the space is really ours.

Here are some photos of the empty house. I'll share finished photos when it's all done. (please excuse this photographer for taking iPhone photos)

Happy Peoples

We're also decorating in largely orange and grey, which I'm sure has nothing to do with these two:

No we didn't decorate our house to match our cats. Shut up. Only crazy people do that.

Anyways, I suppose that's all for now. Le sigh. Apparently I get burnt out really easily these days.

Happy Halloween! More soon, I promise!

We didn't come from money

I've been just mildly obsessed with this song lately. Okay, the last month or so. At first, I was just enchanted by the totally delicious harmonies and really thought the lyrics were fairly meh, but the more I listen to it, the more I actually began to identify with it.

I also may have sang it at a little birthday karaoke fun last night and rocked it. Make of that what you will.

The other day, I found myself in a conversation with women I didn't know all that well and they were discussing how much they pay for their fabulous apartments and how worth it it all is and I just sat there with nothing to say, nothing to contribute, because I couldn't identify with these women in any way. I don't begrudge them their fabulous lives and I'm not envious of their fabulous lives; I just simply and truly could not relate.

I pay a fraction of what they do for my tiny little hovel and I have to work to make ends meet even then. But I'm oddly okay with that. I'm doing much better than anyone could probably have anticipated considering where I come from and I'm proud of how much I've done for myself.

Sure, would it have been nice to come from money? To have parents who paid for everything I wanted in life? I guess. That does sound lovely. But on the other hand, I have worked really hard and done some really cool things on my own. And that's pretty damn cool.

In a couple weeks, Eminem and I are moving in together, which is majorly exciting and nervous making and YAYchange! We found an insanely cute house to rent which is really a steal for the space and charm and HUGE yard we're getting. We will be paying a fraction of what many people pay for their wonderful houses and apartments in fabulous places, but that's just fine with us.

We have something better, something within our budget but still really cute and comfortable and (most important) with lots of privacy, because after years and years of apartment living, we cannot wait for the quiet that comes from not sharing ceilings and floors and walls with other people. We have a house! Once it's ours, I'll take some empty house photos for you all so you can see just how damn cute and also before I decorate the shit out of it. I already have tons of crafty plans for it and it's all nested in my head.

I guess my main point of all this is that people just live their lives how they can and so what? There's such a war waging in our culture over money. And rightfully so in lots of ways. But also, those who don't live in very certain ways, or who weren't born into money, are constantly vilified. And why? So those who have more can feel better about it? It's all luck.

Nobody chooses to be born into poverty and those who are born into wealth landed there by pure luck. I'm okay that I didn't come from money. Life wasn't as easy, isn't as easy, but it's mine. I've done it my way and made do and struggled and guess what? I'm okay!

And since I'm doing okay, I can work to speak for those who don't have anything. I can help where I can. I have a lot less than lots of people, but still a lot more than others. I think there's a certain advantage to that, to knowing what it's like to live on very little and therefore have a little understanding for those who still struggle.

This post wasn't meant to be so preachy; I just wanted to share that my life is good and even though we don't have all that much, we're still happy. Imagine that.

Before I leave you, I have to share that I posted two (TWO!) whole sets of new photos over at Double A Photography last week: Wilting Blooms and Little Buds. Here's a sample (Just click on the photos to see the full collections):

Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Nightmare Doll Eyes

I have nothing to add to this; it's just that horrifying on its own. Good luck sleeping tonight! Happy weekend! 

Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Slut Shaming E-Cards

What can I say? I hate slut shaming. This is not okay. Sex isn't bad and it doesn't make women "nasty." Can we stop shaming women who like sex? Can we already?

Ugg.

Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Sexy Time Cardiovascular Tattoo

o

I have absolutely no words. What's worse? The realistic heart or the fact that two people are having sex in it? That can't be sanitary.

Not to mention that this is presumably based on two real people- people who were in a relationship and who probably aren't anymore. I am very superstitious about tattoos and relationship or couples tattoos absolutely always with no exception curse the relationship.

And that also begs the question: who was this tat on?

that white lady who writes about racism

My bestie sent me this. Because she knows me well. 

If you read this blog or you read my posts at Sprocket Ink, you know that I tend to write about controversial topics. It's what I do. I like it, for the most part, but mostly? I just can't help myself. I have to do it. If I care about it, if it fires me up or pisses me off or makes my heart hurt, I have to write about it.

To be sure, there are lots of topics I miss out on. If I had the time, the will, and the energy, I'd be writing nonstop about horrible and sad things because that's how much goes through my brain. You all only see a tiny fraction of that.

And that's how I've always been. I was that weirdo in high school in the ninties, when everyone was wearing plaid and complaining about conformity, I was yelling about misogyny and inequality and the injustice of war. I also didn't wear makeup and only owned one bra. But that's how you affect a rebel look at 16. Now I wear red lipstick, own many bras, do my hair almost every day, and instead of yelling about injustice, I write about it.

Writing is how I get to express myself.

Which brings me to racism. I write about racism because it hurts me as a human, but I am not ever going to claim to be a victim of racism. Maybe if I land in an alternate universe where white people were enslaved and disenfranchised for a thousand years and still, regardless of accomplishment and strides in civil rights, have to fight against the privilege of the dominant race class, then I might be able to call myself a victim of racism.

But that's just not the case. I may be the subject of prejudice, which is not racism, and which I'll address later.

But I am a white woman and, thus, have some privilege. As Louis CK says:

That's white privilege.

I didn't ask for it and I can't escape it. It's the structure in which the society I live in has set and the only thing I can do is acknowledge it and takes steps to further equality the best I can. And sure, as a woman who was born to lower class parents, I don't have ALL the privilege. I can relate to some forms of bigotry (I am queer) and misogyny.

A commenter (Lateral Alice Moore) on XOJane said it perfectly and I hope she doesn't mind me quoting her here:

"...understanding one's own privilege is knowing when one doesn't have the right kind of moral sensitivity - due to a lack of particular experiences - to have an authoritative opinion on something."

I care about racism, but I need to understand my own privilege enough to know that I can't ever truly and completely understand it.

But the biggest point here is that I care about equality and racism because I do, because I'm a person who can see outside of myself and care about others who live different lives than I do.

In fact, I have to. I've been cursed with the caring. Sometimes it hurts the so much of the caring. And the lack of power hurts. Sometimes I get overwhelmed because there's so much wrong and I lack the power to fix any of it, let alone all of it. Sometimes I cry when I'm writing a piece because it hurts my heart so much.

And write about it to make myself feel better, if I'm being totally honest.

This popped up when I Googled "Racism." Um.

Is that White Guilt? Maybe. How do you know? I'm not consciously trying to right all the wrongs of my ancestors per se. But White Guilt must play a part. Maybe deep down I feel guilty for holding the privilege I do and assuage that with speaking out. I'd like to think that's not why. I'd like to think I'm not as selfish as all that. But I'm human and must concede I'm vulnerable to human natures.

I read this other piece over XOJane the other day (now I sound like a promoter for XOJane or something) about how white people are racist by being silent. I truly believe this is correct. When we stand by and let racism occur and don't speak up, we participate in it, we condone it, we allow it. I truly believe that we all have to participate in the conversation in order to fight the injustice of it.

Do we still blame the German and French and Polish people who didn't actively participate in the Holocaust but simply stood by quietly and let it happen? Of course we do. Harsh but too true.

However, I never want to condescend to be the Great White Hope, which is the main thing that bothered me about the book and movie version of The Help. One white girl sees the light and saves all the poor, black women? Please. Life is much more complicated than that and I don't think I'm that special or powerful or whatever.

Like these two only I don't want to kill people. Obvi.

I do get a lot of flack. The responses I get from the racists I totally expect. Obviously when one calls out someone else, they're getting to get pissy. That's kind of the point! I expect the racists to call me names and make illogical comments. That's how I know I'm doing something right.

What I never expected was the flack I'd get from readers who question my motives, like I discussed above, saying it's out of White Guilt or that I think I'm the Great White Hope, for example. Is it a form of prejudice? Sure, though I understand why this happens. I just wasn't prepared for it. Why? I'm not sure. I sure didn't expect to be lauded and thrown up on shoulders and praised for my good works (barf). But maybe I thought my good intentions wouldn't be questioned.

And, if I'm honest with myself,  maybe I really was looking for approval in some way, some validation that I am doing the right thing, saying the right thing, that I'm a good person, that I'm not one of the racists by silence. Maybe I have been trying to separate myself from the despicable behavior of so many Americans today.

For example, in college, I took a Toni Morrison seminar. Before the class, I already loved Toni Morrison. I'd read maybe 4 of her books and I had the amazeballs opportunity to see her speak at the Louvre in Paris (she was a guest curator) and already thought she was like one of the wisest, most gifted speakers and writers I'd come across. So maybe I was already biased toward her books beforehand.

Demographically, the class was pretty split between black and white, with mostly women (though my college was mostly women anyway) and a black female professor. Our days were usually dominated by rowdy debate (which I love), but one day in particular stands out in my mind. I believe we were discussing Beloved and, after discussing a particularly horrifying description of racism, one white girl made a comment to the effect of (major paraphrasing from memory):

"I really don't want to hear about this. Why would anyone enjoy hearing this? It was a long time ago and doesn't affect anyone today."

And I was so  immediately offended. I was offended for Toni Morrison. I was offended for anyone whose ancestors were slaves. And I was offended for white people who don't feel that way! I expressed that I disagreed and I truly enjoyed Morrison's writing and that we have to hear about things like this to have any understanding of the past and in order to fight racism in the present. I do stand by my comment, but I have to admit that I was very motivated to not be identified with this girl and her insensitive words.

Was I scared of seeming a racist by association with her? Hell yes.

Am I always scared of saying the wrong thing or coming off as insensitive or condescending when I take on such a HUGE subject as racism? Totally! I am always very concerned about how I'll come across and take great care with my words.

All that said, however, my sense of duty to equality and injustice trumps all those fears and pitfalls and I simply have to use what I have (writing, the Internets) to say something. I have to. I cannot be racist by silence. I won't condescend to be the authority on the subject, but I will speak out and I will use my voice to make tiny chinks at the big ol' wall of racism.

And I will continue to push white people to speak out too, to show we're not all bigots and racists reveling in our inherent privilege. We can question the status quo. We can affect change without being The Great White Hope.

I don't say any of this for validation or reassurances; I say it because I have to, because it's been on my mind, because having awareness of oneself is crucial when you're discussing things that happen to others.

And the racists can bite me. Because who cares what they think?

Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Landscape Nail Art

WHY? Why why why?

How would you even live with this shit? Imagine wiping your ass. Just imagine. There's no way anyone even actually has nails like this and I hate Pinterest for making us think someone does.

That said, this photo is pretty cool.

Horrifying Shit on Pinterest: Engagement Announcement

Hey ya'll! I'm starting a new series on le blog with random pins I come across that are horrifying, mystifying, or just piss me off. Hope you enjoy!

Today's is a grammar annoyance.



"Were" engaged? Like you aren't anymore? Either this is the weirdest breakup announcement ever or a printer needs to be fired like whoa.