doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

Men always try to make women feel inferior because they can’t pee standing up. As if the ability to accurately aim a urine stream makes them far more advanced than those of us that have to sit. It never occurs to them that maybe women prefer to sit down in the bathroom. I suppose some women are a little envious of this natural difference, but for me, I’ve always rather enjoyed the sit-down method. When I’ve had a little too much to drink, nothing is better than plopping down on a toilet. Seriously, if I had to stand at a urinal, I’d probably pass out. But sitting and peeing is the most relaxing and wonderful thing in that moment.

Plus, even in sobriety, the sit-down method leaves our hands free to do so many other things. Bite our cuticles, rearrange things on the sink, adjust our ponytails. Our hands aren’t distracted by the holding and directing of certain organs.

Maybe it’s because I’m lazy, but I honestly much prefer sitting down. Actually, 99% of the times I pee, I’m glad I’m a girl. But yes there are certain occassions when a girl wishes she could just stand and get it over with: the nasty public restroom at the middle-of-nowhere gas station; the traffic jam with no restroom in sight; backwoods camping.

Or when you’re sitting in a restroom in the Phoenix airport, happily peeing after holding it all through check-in and security, and suddenly, without reason or warning, the automatic flusher activates and your nether region is being sprayed with public restroom toilet water. What can you do? You’re in mid-stream so you can’t stand up without dripping all over yourself and your clothes. You can’t make the flusher stop. You just have to cringe, get as much of your ass out of the way as possible, and wait for the toilet water to stop spraying.

Bu hey, at least I didn’t have to worry about other people sneaking a peek at my stuff over the indiscreet walls of a urinal!

In lieu of an actual prediction, since I didn’t watch the show tonight, I’m just going to say again how much I will hate everyone if I have to look at Katharine any more. If she wins, she’ll be all over magazine covers and on tv shows and everywhere I look, and I can’t handle that. The second I see her on the Today Show (and oh my god what if she does SNL?), giggling her fake giggle and smiling her fake smile, I might start a riot. None of us want that do we?

So how do we keep that from happening? Vote for Taylor!

No I didn’t vote, as usual. And no I didn’t even watch the show because I just don’t care. I just really hope all other Katharine-haters pull through for me tonight. Please make it stop.

PS..I’m off to Phoenix for work. Be back this weekend.

Okay fine, we didn’t really go on a cruise. You fell for it didn’t you? Actually that picture is from a cruise-ship-themed work function I dragged Brad to. But don’t you wish we had gone on a cruise because that would have made for much more interesting stories than I have today.

Guess what I’m going to talk about first? My ass. Again. I had Brad take a good hard look at it, he did some simple experiments, gave it some thought, and reported back that it wasn’t getting any larger. Now obviously he can’t exactly tell me my ass is growing because he loves me and wants me to keep loving him, and any sentence that includes “ass” and “bigger” without the word “not” in it would potentially put an end to those things. Yes, I have a smart boyfriend who knows the right answer: your butt looks great honey. But that means I don’t know the real answer. I do know that I haven’t felt the distinct jiggle again and I’m still faithfully courting x. I guess I’ll have to visit gramps soon and ask if my ass is getting roly poly-er.

Isn’t it interesting that I just picked up a book yesterday about a woman with weight issues? The Next Big Thing. Yeah, the next big thing: my ass.

Now before you run away, I have another part of my anatomy to discuss and it promises to be much more interesting. You’re expecting boobs aren’t you? Wrong. It’s a mole! I have a few of the lovely growths on my body, but the one we’re talking about today is on my back. I think it’s falling off. Well only a little bit, but are they supposed to do that? The top of it feels ever-so-slightly detached from my skin. The other day I was scratching an itch back there and raked a little too hard over the mole, and I think I did some damage. It’s not a very big mole, and I’m not in love with it or anything, but I kinda don’t want it coming undone. I think that would be bad.

Don’t forget to comment here if you’re reading! Do it. Please. Now. Just click it and comment. No seriously. Please!!

Last night was a bad night in Doahleigh Land. B and I were watching the Pistons and American Idol simaltaneously, using the Previous Channel Button method, and within just a couple minutes we saw the Pistons lose to Cleveland and Katharine move into the final two. After our joint effort to throw the tv out the window, we moped around the rest of the night. Why do we have to care so much about a sports team and a musical talent show?

Just so you know, I hate Katharine. Every move she makes, every word she says, is another knife in my chest. I’m glad I have a boyfriend who understands my intense hatred and friends who feel the same loathing.

Aside from the injustices of stupid television shows, I have a few other things to complain about. Ya ready?

First, my body has been demanding far too much sleep lately. I used to fall asleep around midnight, sometimes later. And even though I hated getting up every single morning, once I was out of bed, I could make it through the day without desperately wanting to curl up under my desk for a nap. But the last few nights, I lay down to read, and the next thing I know I’m waking up and there’s Brad over on the computer or reading his book next to me. The light is still on and my book is tucked under my arm. It must be like 2am, what is Brad still doing awake? So I roll over to confirm the time, assuming I’ve been out for hours, and it’s only 11pm!

I don’t know how this happens. Or why. Even with my extra hours of sleep, I still have to tape my eyes open all day at work to stay awake. And that tape hurts, I’ve lost too many eyelash and eyebrow hairs already. I need to get this under control.

The other thing I need to get under control? My ass. Over the weekend, a few people (both of my grandpas to be specific…weird) asked me if I’m losing weight. Well, we all know how much I love when people do that. One of my grandpa’s even used the words “roly poly” to describe what I used to look like. Dear god was I ever roly poly? Why didn’t you tell me?

Anyway, I haven’t lost any weight. I’m still at “x” thank you very much. But if I’m looking thinner, then my weight must be redistributing. I’ve now determined that it’s all moving to my ass. My sisters and I are all somewhat booylicious, but my ass is definitely getting jigglier. I noticed it as I bounded up the stairs yesteday. I felt a distinct jiggle that wasn’t there before.

Now everyone who reads this and knows me in real life will be checking out my ass, that’s kind of weird. I’ll have to get Brad’s expert opinion.

I didn’t watch American Idol last night, can you believe it? Instead, Brad and I had a lovely dinner with his grandma, and I wasn’t even sad about missing the show. Without Chris, I just don’t care much anymore.

I caught the recap at the very end, so I saw about 2.5 seconds of all nine performances. I’ll just go ahead and make my prediction from that.

Seriously, she can’t be in the final two. I’ll never watch the show again if such an injustice occurs. Katharine, get up off the floor and walk away. Just walk away.

Don’t forget to comment on the post below!

I have to say, this book captivated me. Maybe I’m just a sucker for information, with which this book is loaded, but I got lost again and again in its pages.

When most people think “history of everything” they often think “history of mankind” and expect a story that starts with Neandertals and ends with the 21st century. However, Bryson truly covers the history of everything. At least everything that humans know. Or think they know.

Bryson starts with the instant the universe came into being, the size of the universe and its history. He stretches as far as the outer reaches of space and then dives deep into the smallest elements of matter. I now understand the makings of an atom better than I ever did in any science class. I understand a lot of things about science and history that I never quite got before because Bryson tells it in a way that I could understand. He avoids confusing jargon and explains, in simple terms, those things you’d otherwise scratch your head about.

One thing Bryson mentions throughout the book is the fragility of the earth and particularly humankind. We’re basically freaks of nature living in the only type of climate that could sustain us, and if the smallest thing goes wrong, we could so easily go away. Things flying around us in space with no predictable trajectory, unsteady climatic elements that could cause extremely hot temperatures or extreme ice ages, human-made products that are destroying our earth and our bodies, things below the surface that threaten to damage the earth before we have time to stop them.

Humans are just a blip on the earth’s timeline, and less than a blip in the vastness of time and space. Nobody but us cares if and when we perish, and it’s really only a matter of time. Even thousands or millions of years is little compared to the age of the universe.

I look at everything around me with new eyes now. Not that this book has become my new religion, but my brain is full of bits of knowledge that have changed the way I look at my surroundings. My food, my car, my blood, my desk, plants and animals, the earth, the stars. This book showed me the reality of my insignificance while at the same time opening my eyes to wonder of the things around me.

I’ll definitely read it again in a few years when the wonder has worn off.

My traffic for this site has been whack lately. The weekly graph looks like the Rockies (shut up, I’m not feeling creative with the analogies today). Up down up down. Which is odd because it’s usually more consistent.

Because of this, I’ve been getting curiouser and curiouser (I strongly believe that should be a word, mostly because it’s fun to say) about who’s out there reading. So to steal the idea from Brad’s recent post, I too am calling out the trolls.

I know of some family and friends that read semi-regularly, but that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Family, friends and strangers alike…tell me that you’re reading.

Leave a comment! I don’t get many comments, which saddens me greatly, so now’s your chance to come out. You can make up a fake name if that’s more comfortable. And your email address just verifies that you’re a real person, not a robot, so don’t let that intimidate you. Nobody else can see it and I won’t spam you. Promise.

Oh and your comment won’t show up right away, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t work. It just means I’ll read your comment before publishing it just in case you wrote about stuff like pron and sxe and other naughty things!

So come on, reveal yourself! (please…)

I’ve always wanted a professional massage. I have chronic back pain (I blame the big boobs), so the thought of a stranger’s hands rubbing all over me sounds pretty good in this case. As long as they keep it in the neck-shoulders-back region.

I dropped about a thousand hints to friends and family over the years about what a perfect gift this would be for me. A gift certificate for a massage! But nobody ever seemed to pick up on the idea, opting instead to buy me generic lotions and scented candles.*

Until last Christmas when Brad became the first person ever to understand how much I would love the gift of a groping stranger. So of course I couldn’t wait to set up an appointment and experience my first professional massage. A whole thirty minutes of intense relaxation. For free! I’d waited years for this and now all I had to do was call and make the appointment.

It is now mid-May and I have yet to call and make the appointment. At first I was practicing delayed gratification. I wanted to wait until I was in a lot of pain and would have killed for a massage. Then it became a matter of scheduling it around a good time–perhaps when I could take a day off work and really treat myself to a relaxing time.

But after almost five months, I realized maybe there’s something else going on. What’s the real reason I haven’t made an appointment when I’ve wanted to for so long? And today I think I figured it out.

I don’t know the procedure. Yep, that’s the problem. It’s an unfamiliar situation and environment to me, and I don’t do unfamiliar things very well. I try to gather as much information as possible before putting myself in new situations because otherwise I feel like a giant jackass. Such a giant jackass that I can’t even enjoy myself. And I don’t want giant jackassery to get in the way of enjoying my massage.

How naked do I get? Do I have an option? Will they tell me? Am I supposed to talk to the masseuse? How do you spell masseuse? Do I mention if something doesn’t feel good? Is it supposed to not feel good? Do I tip? How much? When? Where do my arms go? Where does my face go?

All these unanswered questions are keeping me from an enjoyable massage, people. So help me out! Have you ever had a massage? What’s the answer to all my unknowns? Please. Fill me in so I can finally get those stranger’s hands on my body!

*Actually no, that’s mean. I get a lot of great gifts and I love them all. I’m not a bitch. Yes I am, but shut up.

Somehow the word “feminist” has become as scary as the word “racist.” Everyone is dodging the f-word bullets and carefully preceding their unintentional feminist remarks with “I’m not a feminist, but…”

I don’t understand the scariness of that word or the determination to avoid being associated with it. When I was younger I had all these thoughts and feelings about the inequalities between the sexes, the injustices and long-standing degredation toward women, etc. But I never had the words to say or even understand what I meant.

Then I took a course in college called “Feminist Philosophy” and it finally gave definition to so many things in my heart and mind. Not that I had never heard the word feminist before, but I never heard all the other words and theories that went with it. I had finally found a place that I fit, and it all seemed so natural to me. Unlike others who try to hide from it, I was happy to embrace feminism! I admit that some of it seemed far too philosophical and/or radical, but the fundamentals of feminism rang true for me.

Everyone has their own personal meaning of feminism, and I think that’s why so many are afraid of it. They’ve created a definition for themselves that means “man-hating” or “self-riotous radical.” But my definition of feminism is simply that women shouldn’t be degraded, ruled out, denied, scorned or treated as less than just because they’re women.

If Miss A wants to be on the men’s wrestling team (assuming there is no women’s wrestling team) at her school, but she’s really bad at wrestling, then fine, turn her away with the all the boys that couldn’t hack it. But don’t turn her away without a tryout just because she’s a woman. If Miss K is up for promotion against Mr J, but Miss K doesn’t have as much experience or ability, go ahead and promote Mr J based on those merits. But don’t deny Miss K just because she’s a woman. Don’t degrade women, don’t patronize them, don’t assume they’re incompetent or incapable, don’t beat them or use them or treat them as sexual objects, don’t ask them to do the laundry or wash the dishes, don’t assume they want to change their last name or have your children just because they are woman.

Some women appreciate some of those things (perhaps the laundry or the children), some women might deserve some of those things (perhaps some really are incapable of certain things), but don’t assume all women are or do just because some women are and do.

The real point of all this is to share something I read today. I love the repeated sentence in that piece: “If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work toward equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.”

Even if you’re afraid of the word, most likely you are a feminist. I know there are some people who can very honestly say they don’t have any interest in equality of the sexes, but most people do. Many of my friends and family blush a little when I casually call myself a feminist because I guess they’re embarrassed to be associated with someone who supposedly wants to hack off all men’s penises and burn them along with their bras.

But what they don’t know, and I’ve stopped trying to convince them of, is that they are feminists too! My sisters are feminists even though two of them would probably scoff at such a suggestion. My friends are feminists, though many probably hesitate to even whisper the word for fear that their leg and armpit hair would suddenly become impossible to shave. My boyfriend is a feminist, but I’m not sure he knows it. My dad’s a feminist. My mom, my roommate, my boss. All feminists!

I hope that someday “feminist” can be a strong word, a word of power and respectability. Not something embarrassing. The fundamentals behind feminism are so sensible and really quite ubiquitous in many people’s ways of thinking. Either we need to shed the negative stereotypes that have latched themselves on to feminism, or maybe we could shed the word altogether and start fresh. But no, I like the word. I just need to get the rest of the world to like it to.

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

I thought about predicting someone else since my track record is so bad. I thought maybe I should pick someone who’s sure to stay in hopes that I’d be wrong as usual, and the demon would actually go home.

But Brad said we should stay true to our instincts and not mess with fate. So.

Miss Katharine McPhee who tries too hard. You really truly deserve to be done this week. And that’s all I have to say.

(Aren’t you proud that I resisted all the fiery burning hatred this time?)

I’ve been having a bad few weeks because some things have happened recently that have vividly revealed my insecurities and I had a couple breakdowns this weekend which lead me to realize some other things in life that were making me unhappy even though I didn’t know they were there until I started talking about them, and then Brad was going to be gone tonight doing part of the thing that’s making me so insecure and even though he’s been really understanding and supportive the whole time I’ve been struggling, when I came home today I found him standing next to the exact thing I needed to cheer me up: a big bowl of chocolate ice cream with two spoons.

I feel much better now!

All those years of hearing about Gone with the Wind, all the talk about Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, I felt I knew them long before I starting turning the pages in this book. In 25 years of life I had never read the book nor seen the movie, only heard about this classic countless times. So I finally forked over a couple books when I found a torn and tattered copy of the novel at the local used bookstore. Fine, I’ll give it a shot. It sat on my bookshelf for a few weeks while I stared cowardly at it’s size. And when I finally dove in, I prepared myself for months and months of struggling through this massive period piece.

But…it turns out sometimes people know what they’re talking about. I was truly captivated by this book, and I could never really put my finger on why. Was it because I was fascinated by Scarlett? Maybe. Because I couldn’t wait to see what happened between Scarlett and Rhett? Somewhat. Mostly I think it’s because there’s hardly a dull moment. Even in the dull moments, Mitchell kept the story flowing. It’s not long because it’s too wordy or full of unnecessary narratives. It’s long because there’s so many elements to this story as it follows Scarlett through about ten years of her life–through marriages, children, war, riches and poverty, friendships, love and loss.

My only complaint is that despite 842 pages, I never felt like I quite understood who Scarlett was and how her brain and heart operated. One minute I was proud of her for being strong-willed and determined, for ignoring the social norms of the South in the nineteenth century that told her she shouldn’t run her own business as a woman or show her pregnant self in public. But then suddenly she was going on about how a “lady” would never do this or that, and how she longed for the way things were before the war when all she had to do was figure out what dress best flattered her eyes and which flighty compliment best flattered her beaux. Did I like Scarlett or did I hate her? I never really figured that out. And maybe that’s the point afterall.

Overall, I enjoyed Gone with the Wind and happily recommend it to anyone who likes to read a good classic. Or anyone who just likes to read really. Don’t be intimidated by the size. And please, please don’t just see the movie. I rented it recently and have watched about a third so far, and it really is true in this case that the book is far better than the movie. I may not even finish the movie because it’s sort of ruining for me the great experience I had with the book.