Have you ever acted like a d*ck?

I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t pissed off at the time, but I was hardly going to hand over to them the power to ruin the rest of my day, let alone scar me for life.

I was a senior in high school in 1981. While at gymnastics practice, I experienced something somewhat akin to Christine Blasey Ford’s traumatic and life-altering sexual assault, except my reaction to it was decidedly different.

I had left the gym to go out into the lobby and get a drink at the “good” drinking fountain—the fountains in the gym were a half-assed affair where the water’s pathetic attempt at dribbling out necessitated a serious amount of slurping and sucking (remember: this was 1981, decades before everyone—not just we serious athletes—carried around a bottle of water). As I was walking away from the fountain to go back into the gym, two members of our varsity boys’ basketball team—at the time undefeated and the reigning heroes of the school—grabbed me and proceeded to drag me into the boys’ locker room. Based on the fetid odor of boy sweat, the team had just finished their practice and were occupying the locker room where I assumed they were showering and changing into their street clothes. I can’t tell you much more because as soon as I saw where the guys were dragging me, I squeezed my eyes shut and didn’t open them until the “ordeal” was over.

So, there I was, in my gymnastics leotard and bare feet, in the smelly boys’ locker room where—and I’m just conjecturing here based on all the whoops and hollers and stupid boy laughter—I’m sure all manner of male junk was shoved in my face.

Of course, I started screaming at the top of my lungs hoping someone outside the locker room would come in and rescue me because I did not want to open my eyes and see a bunch of my classmates balls-ass naked.

Soon after I started screaming, my coach Mr. D_____ came into the locker room. I could tell something was different because it became unmistakably quieter. Without a word to anyone, Coach grabbed me and proceeded to lead me out of the locker room.

And here’s the part that really sucked. He yelled at me because I allowed myself to fall victim to these boys’ prank. He yelled at me because I was out of the gym when I should have been practicing back walkovers on the beam. He yelled at me because I had the audacity to leave the gym to get a drink at the “good” fountain. He yelled at me because, well, because he thought this was all my fault.

What happened next? Sufficiently chastened by Coach, I hopped back up on the beam and continued practicing my back walkovers.

What didn’t happen next? I didn’t tell my dad because he would have come unglued and kicked somebody’s ass. I didn’t tell the boys’ varsity coach because I didn’t think it warranted that much attention. I didn’t tell any of my friends who the two guys were who dragged me into the locker room, or, if I did, my friends didn’t think it was important enough to tell anyone else. In short, it happened, and I got over it.

Thirty-seven years later, I’m pretty sure who one of the guys was; I don’t remember the other. If I were asked to testify under oath about the incident, I’d have to say it happened so fast that I do not remember who the two young men were.

Am I permanently scarred because of this incident? No. Why? Because I realized, even at the time, that these were boys being dicks. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t pissed off at the time, but I was hardly going to hand over to them the power to ruin the rest of my day, let alone scar me for life. Have you ever acted like a dick? I know I have.

Now, before you get up on your hind legs and cry out a fresh string of lamentations about how I’m a mother of two girls and how can I be so insouciant about this whole sordid event, let me reiterate, if you didn’t already draw this conclusion.

I was not physically hurt, nor was I psychologically hurt. Honestly, the worst part of all this remains my coach’s reaction. I’m nearly positive, though, if in his dotage he remembered this today, he’d chide himself for his poor sense of judgement.

I also realize that if this were to happen today, the fallout would be far different than it was in my small high school in 1981. The sh*t would hit the fan, careers would be destroyed, counselors would be on hand to provide comfort to all the victims, and most likely, two relatively decent guys who stupidly decided one afternoon to be a couple of dicks would lose everything. But, like my 17-year-old self, I refuse to be a victim.

If today any member of that championship team were to be nominated for a seat on the Supreme Court, you can bet this story would never see the light of day. You can also bet—based on the fine men each of those boys have become—that I’d throw my support behind any one of them.

What does that make me? I’d say it makes me a realist who understands the difference between the way adolescents act versus the manner in which adults should comport themselves. All I am asking is for perspective.

 

Finally, an app that makes you pretty!

… pretty different from what you really look like, that is.whatiwishireallylookedlike

I’m not sure what to think about this. While it’s true (and I’d be a big fat liar if I said otherwise) that I love this image of … um … me, I also realize that I don’t look anything like this.

Or do I?

Face it (pun intended) it’s kinda fun to look at an image of your best self and pretend it’s really you. I’ve never considered myself photogenic, but hells bells, if I looked like this, I’d be running for mayor or something.

I found this app on Facebook—you know, one of those “See what your movie star self would look like” or some such nonsense, and, of course, I tried it. Then I got really creative and dropped a screenshot of the image into Photoshop, got rid of the app’s identifying yellow arrow, and wham, it’s me.

Or a reasonable facsimile. Or just a facsimile.

I did this once with a picture of my sister Becky.  She’s always wanted to be a Disney princess, so I made her one. Here’s how it turned out.

cinderella
It’s Becky, I swear. Cinderella has blue eyes. Becky has green eyes. So there.

She still hasn’t changed her profile picture to this because she doesn’t want people to think she’s just this cute.

Becky gets annoyed with me whenever I change up my Facebook profile picture (which I do often) because she sees it as a pathetic cry for attention, which, admittedly, it probably is. And since no one else ever takes pictures of me, I take a lot of selfies, and sometimes those selfies end up looking better than the last selfie I took and, well, it’s a vicious cycle, y’know?

But I also don’t want anyone to think I’m hiding my true self with my creativity here, even though it would take yards of Spanx, some pretty resourceful and expensive hair and makeup magic, and a couple of well-placed shrubs to render me decent enough for a realistic full-body pic. The truth lies somewhere in between what you see above and this gem of a photo, below.

9-7-2017
Tried to be a passport photo

You see, this is the original me, the selfie that I took that I thought I could use as a passport photo (when what really happened is that I got to the post office and Cliff, the guy behind the counter, took a picture of me with dirty hair, no makeup, and a really pissed off look on my face that any respectable customs agent will undoubtedly interpret as a terrorist threat). However, looking at this photo, I’m not sure which is worse.

real passport photo
No admittance

I think the appeal of the Facebook app that renders your ordinary self into a smokin’ hot goddess is that we mere mortals rarely have the opportunity to make over ourselves into our fantasy selves. Because this is what this is, and it is what it is. The churched-up image might be pretty to look at, but it doesn’t begin to describe the wonderfulness of who we really are inside, right?

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Keeping up with why people care about Kim Kardashian

Why is it that we care so much about people we don’t even know?

 

Continue reading Keeping up with why people care about Kim Kardashian

A victory for women?

Abortion has become the scepter of the feminist, the talisman against oppression and male dominance, the badge of honor of the progressive left.

Hillary Clinton gleefully and smugly called it a “… victory for women!” Yesterday, SCOTUS ruled to strike down a Texas law requiring abortion clinics to become safer (thereby holding them to somewhat higher standards than a CVS Minute Clinic), calling it an “undue burden” for women.   Yes, according to the Democratic nominee for President of the United States, it is a victory for women that abortion clinics do not have to rise to the same standards as a facility where one might have their wisdom teeth removed.

Only we’re not talking about removing wisdom teeth, and therein lies the bigger issue.

The reason for the court’s ruling?  Should the Texas law have remained in effect, a number of sub-standard abortion facilities in the Lone Star state would have had to either be closed or refurbished to meet the higher standards of care—much like a hospital.  Physicians performing abortions would be required to have privileges at nearby hospitals in cases where complications may arise.  All of this regulation would, according to SCOTUS, make it more difficult for women to access health care.

I call bullshit.

The law would have limited the number of abortions in the state of Texas, so by striking down the legislation, SCOTUS has effectively sanctioned more abortions.  Obviously it’s not women they care about, it’s the issue of abortion.  Abortion has become the scepter of the feminist, the talisman against oppression and male dominance, the badge of honor of the progressive left.  They don’t care to know how the actual surgical procedure is carried out, nor do they concern themselves with the moral, ethical, or spiritual implications of abortion itself—no, what’s more important to them are the memories of their bygone struggle to attain and their present commitment to maintain the right of a woman to have an unborn baby viciously sucked out of her uterus.  It’s never been about women’s health care.

A victory for women?  Hardly.  A victory for the progressive left?  Absolutely.

Worst of all, a sad, tragic reminder that there remains a sector of our society that simply does not value life.

Sidebar:  For those conservatives who have decided not to vote in November because Donald Trump doesn’t fit into their milquetoast ideology of what a Republican nominee should look like, understand that the next president will most likely be nominating 3-4 justices for the Supreme Court.  Do you really want Hillary Clinton to be making those choices for you?

Don’t Cry for Me Hillary Clinton

The truth is, I just don’t like you.

According to conventional wisdom, I should vote for Hillary Clinton because she will fight for my rights as a woman.  She will insure that my daughters and I have access to free birth control, abortions on demand, and that we’ll soon be able to sue our employers because we don’t earn as much as men. USA ELECTIONS HILLARY CLINTON

Thanks, but no thanks, Hillary. Neither I nor my daughters need you in our corner “fighting” for our rights.  That would suggest that we’re victims.  If it’s all the same to you (which obviously it isn’t) we’d prefer that you not brand us as the hapless, helpless casualties of white male dominance and supremacy.

Because we’re not.

In fact, when I look back on my mother’s life, I’m pretty sure that she would laugh at the notion that someone like Hillary Clinton has her back.  No one needed to have my mother’s back—she forged her own destiny during her short time on Earth.  In today’s vernacular, she would have told Hillary Clinton to suck it.  She didn’t need a Hillary Clinton to tell her in 1951 that she could go to college, she didn’t need a Hillary Clinton to tell her in 1959 that she could have both a family and a career, and she would have been horrified by Hillary Clinton’s decades-old obsession with providing abortions, especially under the guise of “women’s healthcare”.

SayNoToHRC

But those in Hillary’s world want you to believe that without her, we would all be living in a 1950’s television sitcom nightmare where we had to ask a man’s permission to do what we all take for granted today.  Hillary Clinton had absolutely nothing to do with the evolution of women’s rights—she was born in 1947.

Hillary Clinton’s attempt to feed all of us this misguided vision of herself as the great Mother of us all, the one who will deliver us from ourselves and make us better, stronger, faster, and richer is hardly born out of her instincts as a mother as she would like all of us to think.  She (like her opponent) recites a litany of meaningless platitudes that she thinks will win her the election.  But much of everything that Hillary Clinton says is worthless because (unlike her opponent), she has lied so many times about so many things that she has lost credibility.  It isn’t hard to uncover her lies—that is, if you’re being honest with yourself and you’re paying attention.

Granted, her opponent in this race is no boy scout himself; however, I’ll take my chances with him rather than risk America’s future on a woman whose campaign is built upon a teetering and not-so-brilliantly assembled house of cards.

If you’re at all on the fence about this come November, ask yourselves this:  If not Trump, then the presidency should go to the woman who funded her campaign with “donations” to her foundation (read: money laundering organization) from countries that sponsor terrorism and practice misogyny and basic human rights violations? The same woman whose obsession with keeping Planned Parenthood up and running and killing unborn babies exists under the false pretext of protecting women’s access to healthcare? The same woman who allowed four Americans to die needlessly in Benghazi even after Ambassador Christopher Stevens had repeatedly begged the State Department for more security?

I’ll take the lesser of the two evils, thank you. At least Trump committed his sins as a private citizen.

 

Standing Up for the Ladies’ Room

Must parents now worry about some creeper peeking over the stalls just because he says he’s feeling like a woman today?

According to that defender of liberalism The Huffington Post, Americans aged 18 to 29 favor letting transgender people use the restroom of their identity by a 2-to-1 ratio.

Additionally, according to The Huffington Post and the rest of the liberal media, only states inhabited by slack-jawed booger-eating morons would deny transgender Americans their God-given right to use the restroom that corresponds to their gender identity.

Tell me something:  If a guy identifies as a man on Monday, does that mean he can identify as a woman on Tuesday?  Or does it depend upon who he watches walk into the Ladies’ room Tuesday afternoon at Target?

Seriously, what the hell happened to common sense?  You want to know why “Americans aged 18-29” are okay with guys going into girls’ bathrooms?  Because they don’t have kids!

Consider this:  There are far more pedophiles among the citizenry than there are people who identify as transgender.  And while it’s true that parents should always accompany their small children into a public restroom, there are those in-between years when parents should and do let their elementary or upper elementary-aged children go into a restroom by themselves (especially when it’s a mom trying to shake a crying preschooler off her leg while attempting to distract her toddler from grabbing the Pez dispensers in the checkout aisle).

Must parents now worry about some creeper peeking over the stalls at their little girl because he claims he’s feeling like a woman today?

I could paint the various scenarios for you to consider, but really, folks—it doesn’t take a forensic psychology degree to figure this one out.   Our children should not have to face a member of the opposite sex while they’re using a public restroom, no matter what age they are.  Furthermore, children lack the maturity to process the absurdity of seeing a male in a supposedly female and private setting, or a female in a supposedly male and private setting.

And no, it’s not a “good lesson” in tolerance for our children.  Like learning about the intricacies of sexuality at too young of an age, the complexities of transgenderism are hardly a topic any parent should have to deal with on the car ride home from Target.

Look, like their mother, my kids were never wimps about things like this.  My husband and I taught them to be aware that there are all kinds of people in the world, which, generally, makes our world a pretty cool place to be.  We didn’t shield them from delicate subjects, but neither did we expect them to handle situations or concepts that were not aligned with their level of maturity.

Furthermore, if my daughters had ever reported to me that there was a man present while they went in to use the restroom, that man better damn sure be wearing a cup.

Does this make me a homophobe?  I don’t see how.  This has nothing to do with homosexuality; rather, it has everything to do with the media grabbing onto the tail end of an issue and running with it because Donald Trump hasn’t said anything stupid in a few days, and what else are they going to write about?

(That’s not necessarily true, though.  I had to laugh when I heard Donald Trump say he didn’t give a crap [pun intended] if transgender folks use the restroom that corresponds with their gender identity.  His children most likely never had to use a public restroom without their being accompanied by armed security and a retinue of nannies.)

So put away your rainbow posters and your LGBT placards, because this isn’t what this bathroom issue is about.  It’s about attaching an absurd concept—the “anything goes” restroom—to a cause that, frankly, I’m still scratching my head over.  My gay and lesbian friends are great people who appear to be living the American dream, as well they should.

And if you’re among the infinitesimal number of people in the country who identify as transgender—get over it.  If you have a penis, use the Men’s room.  If you don’t, use the Ladies’.  If you’re a “Dude (who) looks like a lady”, keep it in your panties until you’re behind a locked stall.

Using guilt to force the majority of Americans to bend to the will of a pocket-sized sampling of the population is hardly an example of doing the greatest good for the greatest number of people, no matter where or how you take care of your personal business.

I don’t know about you, but right now I have enough men in my life peeing on the seat.