Friday, January 27, 2017

The Implorables

Friends! How've you been?! Time flies when you're living in a real life reenactment of some bizarre dystopian novel!

I've missed you, but not enough to brave the soul-suck that is Facebook. I've really been enjoying not losing my damn mind in all my newfound free time, though honestly, this past week, reality has been damn near impossible to ignore. Sigh.

We went to Cancun in December. It was pretty. All-inclusive resorts aren't usually my jam, but I realized, when a generous benefactor is footing the bill, they are, in fact, a sublime way to vacation. I even read two whole books DURING THE DAY, if you can believe it.

Have Elf, will travel.
Chuck Ferry the Masculine Feminist.
This Blue Hawaiian goes great with my white guilt.
In all seriousness though. Read this book. It'll blow your hair back.
Jack was sick two days before we left - they thought he had appendicitis and ran a gamut of tests in the ER until 2am. Luckily he recovered in time for the trip, and enjoyed himself immensely. He drank more [virgin] "pina chihuahuas" every day than I did. Sadly, right before we entered the airport on the way home, he threw up e'erywhere. Then a few more times on the plane on the way home. By the way, did you know that United Airlines' policy is that you cannot throw away barf bags on the plane? Instead, you have to keep them at your seat for the duration of the flight? True story. Good times. Good times.

We got back to San Diego just before midnight on December 23rd to find that our dogs had chewed through the bottom portion of lights on our Christmas tree.

The big dog had scratched a hole in her ear and was bleeding. The little dog had peed on the carpet, and had deposited several little hershey's kisses of shit about the house. Big dog, not to be outdone, trampled through the dollops of doodoo and smeared them around the house. Mind you, they saved up a week of shenanigans for us, because the dog sitter had texted a photo of two non-bloodied, non-shit-stained pups to me several hours earlier. I cleaned up the mess only to realize that it was still spreading. I then realized that little Nacho's furry butt was basically a shit-sponge with which she was applying an artistic faux-finish to my floors. Charming.

So I brought her upstairs, thrust her into DM's arms while I undressed and turned on the shower, and then got into the shower with her to give her a butt-bath. We both started laughing maniacally at the image: jet-lagged, exhausted, showering, with a dog, using my fingers to comb clumps of wet poop from her natty butt fur... Having come into contact with every possible bodily fluid - not my own - in the last twelve hours. Does that ever happen to you? Where you make eye contact with your significant other in the middle of some outrageous circumstance, and become instantly, helplessly, hysterical with laughter? "For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and even when you have rivulets of shit-water running down your body, mingling with the blood, sweat, vomit, urine, and tears." But now that I think about it, it's times like these that true love really shines through.

Christmas was great though. Except the part where Jack started crying when he got a shiny new iPad because now he has so many iPads he doesn't know what to do. #whitepeopleproblems #ihavefailed

We spent New Years Eve with two other family friends and the kids had a great time. I'd purchased hats and crowns and horns - the last of which I immediately regretted - as did our host, who had just put her baby to bed. Whoops. Rookie manuever. Also, I'd gotten these popper things from Target? I vaguely remember having them when we were younger and thinking they were great fun. I had to show ID to buy them, which I thought was weird, but the Target checker waved it off and chalked it up to the great pussification of America. I didn't even give it a second thought. So, at midnight, or rather, 9pm Pacific Time, we gave the kids the poppers. I then provided a quick demonstration, tugging at the ends of the popper, which exploded and shot a freaking corkscrew at Colby's head. Turns out that instead of festive things like treats and confetti, the poppers were filled with things like scissors, handcuffs, and metal corkscrews. W.T.F. If there's a more fitting end to 2016, I can't think of it.

Now it's 2017. I wake up daily with a sense of dread and disbelief. It's kind of like when someone dies, and you keep forgetting, and then it hits you like a sledgehammer every time you remember again. This happened to me when I was in DC last week. I kept seeing this official inaugural schwag featuring DJT as the actual, real-life, no-this-is-not-a-sick-joke, President, and it literally took my breath away.

Let me tell you what gets me through the day though. This: These women and men and children, uniting, together, to stand up for what's right. And I got to be a part of it.

That guy on the bottom right is wondering what he got himself into ;) 
Some people say they don't "get it," and/or "women already have rights," and/or "other countries have it way worse" so what are we even protesting? Okay, first of all, just because other women in other countries have fewer rights and shittier lives than we do doesn't mean we should just throw our hands in the air and say "oh well" when our own rights are being threatened. In fact, horror stories coming out of Syria and Sudan and Afghanistan should make our mission at home all the more urgent. These places are cautionary tales of what can happen when human rights are subverted to an authoritarian will. Also, if I ever heard any of the above arguments from an actual woman suffering in one of these terrible places, I might stop to think, but because it is invariably tossed out by suburban white women, I am less than persuaded. The fact of the matter is, even America can be a scary, dangerous place for anyone who is not white. And/or straight. And/or male. Better than Darfur? Certainly. But c'mon, is that really the bar we're setting for ourselves?

Second of all, if you are okay with the fact that you, as a woman, make 75 cents on the dollar to white males (63% if you're a Black woman, 54% if you're Latina); if it doesn't bother you that women still do the vast majority of household and child-rearing labor, even when they work as much or more than their male partners; if you're okay with the fact that the United States is the only industrialized nation in the world without a mandatory paid family leave program; if you're fine with knowing that women of color are victims of domestic violence at much higher rates than their white counterparts, and face often insurmountable barriers in seeking redress or assistance; if it's cool with you that old white men who've never had a period, been pregnant, had a miscarriage, or had a baby are legislating our rights to our bodies; if it doesn't bother you that our LGBTQ, Black, and Brown sisters and brothers literally do not feel safe walking down the street, and are victims of hate, violence, and discrimination at alarming rates compared to the rest of the population; if you aren't concerned that our president is taking discriminatory action against minorities, not to mention an entire religion that makes up nearly a quarter of the earth's population, actions that are literally out of the Nazi playbook; if it doesn't bother you that immigrants, who make up over 10% of Americans and 25% of Californians, are facing threats to their homes, their rights, their families, and their lives, well,... hmmm. How do I say this politely? You're, uh... let's see... kind of an a-hole? Either that or you're completely and utterly oblivious, willfully or otherwise. But hey, that's your prerogative! Murrica! That brings me to my second point though: If you don't agree with the march, DON'T GO! That's the beauty of this great country! But guess what, freedom of speech and freedom of assembly are two of the actual pillars of American democracy so, with all due respect, back the eff off.

Finally: Privilege is when you think something is not a problem just because it is not a problem for you personally. Check it.

Anyway, that's a really long way of saying that the Women's March on Washington was one of the most meaningful, incredible, cup-runneth-over days of my life. And in addition to a million nasty women and bad hombre's taking to the streets for their sistren, I saw a little girl take her first steps in the halls of the Supreme Court, I got within drooling distance of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights; I teared up reading the Gettysburg Address, and I saw a young, adorable mixed-race couple get engaged at the Lincoln Memorial. All in all, this trip made me want to wave a flag and yell 'Murrica from the rooftops! There's hope for us yet :)

By the way, I thought I'd still blog despite committing social media harikari by getting off Facebook, but clearly I haven't. Nor do I intend to in the future. DJT has utterly annihilated my will to live blog, or really, do anything other than try to avoid the internet, hug my babies with fanatic fervor, and sit rocking in my bathtub with my paws wrapped around glass of bourbon until I eventually realize that the water's grown cold so I get out and repeat the process in bed. I guess, more accurately, the horror of a Trump presidency has galvanized me in the vein of "deeds not words." As Gloria Steinem said at the march, "Sometimes we have to put our bodies where our beliefs are. Sometimes, pressing 'send' is not enough." Nothing has brought this realization home like the first seven days in this reign of terror. I'll check back in periodically, but if you need me, I'm still on the Twitter, garnering an average of one like a week, and more importantly, in real life, making calls, knocking on doors, and walking in the streets. Hope to see you there!