Tag Archives: isms

The One About Slipping

I’m a talker. I will carry conversations. Lately, all I’ve wanted to do is sit in silence watching Netflix or sleep.

I know that’s not me.

So my sig-oth said to me awhile back that it might be time for me to seek some treatment (again). That’s his way of letting me know that I’m regressing. I can feel it. I think it’s the great divide between the forward thinkers and backsliders that’s going on in the States. There’s not a safe space here. And I’ve looked at all the cat videos I can stand.

I’ve done cognitive therapy. You sit and talk with the therapist who assures you that you’re living a guilt-free life. That works for awhile because logic. Problem is that the tangled brain/emotion/thoughts come back and, for me, it’s hard to hear her voice. Sounds crazy, right?

Right. Mental health issues. Crazy. Labels are great.

There are other options: meds, family therapy, group therapy, and exposure therapy. Fucking all the therapy makes you talk and I don’t want to do that. Feeling like a little chicken-hearted punk because I know I need to go, but it’s sure comfortable in my little zoned out spot on the couch.

 

The One About Saying No

As a chick and a parent, I’ve said no somewhere in the billions of times. I’m talking about this:

Bugger bugs.

“Stop.”

Bugger continues, upping their game and laughing.

“No, stop. I’m serious.”

Bugger kicks it into high and taunts.

I raise my voice, lay hands, force a stop.

Bugger gets feelings hurt and accuses me of overreacting.

Brothers, boyfriends, friends, coworkers, even my dad. It’s been omnipresent in my life.

Never really thought much about it other than to be annoyed. Today, being home sick and bored to tears, I watched a couple of movies. Guess what they both had in common.

Scenario One: The woman tells the man to stop because she doesn’t want to get into the water. He chases her, corners her, forces her over his shoulder before throwing her into the pool. The whole time she’s screaming for him to stop. She’s MAD when she gets out of the water and the man stalks off because he thinks it’s NOT FAIR that she’s angry. She runs after him and apologizes.

Scenario Two: The woman has had a traumatic past that has not been disclosed to the man. He puts on a mask and stalks her around the dark house. The whole time she’s backing up, trying to get away, and screaming for him to stop. When she slams the bathroom door on his hand in an effort to lock herself in, he’s pissed. She apologizes to him and explains her traumatic past as a way to make him understand her reaction.

No means no. All the time. Every time.

No, don’t want to go out with you.

No, I don’t want to be tickled.

No, you can’t have a hug.

No, I don’t like to be scared.

No, I don’t want to have kids.

No, I don’t want to get my extensions wet.

And no I won’t apologize to you for the response your actions wrought.tumblr_naqc5foddz1rxmno2o1_500

TL;DR: Stop making this normal. Reject it and don’t fucking apologize for asserting yourself. Thinking men are too fragile to be told no is a Rook mistake. Let them deal with it.

 

 

 

 

The Other, Other, Other, Other, One About the VA

It’s not enough that we have maggots. The Other Other One About the VA

Google auto fills “vet suicides at” with:

  • Phoenix VA
  • VA
  • Denver VA
  • Attempts per day

It doesn’t tell you about the one that happened in Albuquerque on the 22nd. Just like no one reported on James Ingram III setting himself on fire in a VA parking lot (The One About Ending It All) because apparently people pretend like none of this is happening.

All I know is what was reported by disabled veterans.org because there’s nothing else to find. I even checked the Albuquerque Journal‘s obit section and none listed the cause of death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head while standing at the doors of the Albuquerque VA hospital .

hlyygni

Reach out. I didn’t seek help – it was thrust on me. A friend made the appointment at the VA for me. It wasn’t my answer. Compartmentalization will break down. Seek help and/be the help. Anything less is a Rook mistake.

The One About Rogue One

Growing up, Star Wars was my thing. Had the action figures and  basically played pretend for years. Cut the head off of a blue mop handle and a green broom one. Got in trouble and SWORE never to do it again. Then endured the grounding that followed when Mom brought home red handled replacements.

Broken fingers. Bloody knuckles. Lumps to the head. Lightsaber duels were my first secret fight club.

Even made up my own character because Leia wasn’t badass enough – plus there was that slave girl thing. Ugh.

Saw Rogue One and LOVED it. Loved the story. Loved the homage to the 70s. Loved the set dressing. Loved the settings. Loved the characters. Loved that it was dark. But even with all the love, there was just something missing.

Chicks.

Group of evil scientists – all dudes.

Crowds – no chicks

Military /Rebel Base – Mon Mothma

Wait … no.  That’s it. Mon Mothma.

Squad of assassins, saboteurs, and spies – DUDES.

In the Star Wars universe, there are only moms, displaced princesses, Mon Mothma, and Jyn. Even the droids are male.

I’m not even looking for more female speaking parts. But can’t we just be part of the regular everyday Star Wars background?

15391146_1849602588657058_6225150751269106551_n

 

 

TL;DR: There are females in the world. When you exclude us completely, it’s distracting. Some of us are even FANS. Ignoring us is a Rook mistake.

The One About the Starving Army

This isn’t anything new. When I was in, I knew guys that worked at Target on the weekends or delivered pizza every night. And these were guys that lived in the barracks with no family to support.

These kids, right out of high school, are sought after for new car loans and credit cards. They haven’t really been away from home before and wind up in debt. The dealerships know exactly how much car they can put a kid in because the servicemen’s pay is a matter of public record.

And don’t miss a payment. Don’t get a call from a collector that bypasses you and gets your CO instead. Don’t. It’s not good.

Now there are these soldiers with families. If there’s room, they live on post and don’t pay rent or household bills. But they also make crap. Basic pay for a private (E1 to E3) is 18,300 to 21,000 a year. Pay Scale

Civilian jobs around a post can be hard to come by. Just about every spouse is looking for one. There are a few stay at homes, but they usually are working another angle (Pampered Chefs, Avon, Mary Kay, home daycare) to help support the family. And then there are the dependopatomus, but I rarely saw them. Even when I was stationed on an infantry post for a bit.

There’s lot of education out there for these kids, if they’ll take it. But when they’re 18-20something the immaturity level is high. Not just in them, but in their spouses as well. Living on post can sometimes feel like you in the middle of a TV drama. It’s not an excuse, just a fact.

However, these families are finding themselves on food stamps. So think about that. You’ve got a solider with a family coming home at the end of the day only to go back out the door for his or her second job and worrying about WIC covering some of their groceries.

What can be done? I’m not that smart. I don’t have a solution. My suggestion is that if you have a loved one that’s thinking about joining, make sure they have a grip on their finances and understand how it all works.

There’s just something down right sad about soldiers on food stamps.

One of the articles I read is here:CNN Article

food_stamps_stats_5

TL;DR: Managing your bills is hard when you’re uneducated and underpaid. Get right with your money because anything less is a rook mistake.

 

 

The One About Normal White Women

http://frontburner.dmagazine.com/2015/05/11/the-crazy-women-at-the-kessler-theater-video-its-all-about-those-boots/

Oh my geez.  Are you kidding me?  Like Texas doesn’t have enough trouble with looking stupid (Thanks, Ted Cruz et al) and racist (I swear we’re not all like that), these women decided to go “slumming” in Oak Cliff and proceed to explain to a guy why OC was the hood.  I can promise you she does not represent me, nor does she represent anyone I’m friends with here in Texas or anywhere else for that matter.  I can also promise you that she has never actually seen any hood – except that of her SUV.

When she reaches out and touches the guy’s dreadlocks, that’s when I realized that he was a better person in that situation that I would have been.

But it’s clear now what the Texas legislature has to do.  Everyone needs to write their representative and call for a ban on fringe boots.  It’s the only way to keep the hood safe.

TL;DR: That woman doesn’t represent me and fringe boots are bad, OK?

The One About Writing In Public…

Working away from home today, so stopped on my way through Dallas to have a cup of coffee and a breakfast that wasn’t poured into a bowl. My server, a cute college kid named Cheryl, was friendly and chatted with me on and off.  While I ate, I doodled and made a few story notes. I got up to grab myself a refill from the community coffee bar and Cheryl had come by to clear away my empty plate. I made some asinine comment about Texas weather and I got no response.

No laugh. No smile. No nothing. And she didn’t come back around.

I got 0 goodbyes from her as well when I paid my check and took off.

I puzzled over it for the rest of my drive. I checked my comments for sexism, racism, and any other -isms. While I do my very best to live -ism free, I am not a perfect person. But, I couldn’t think of a damn one.

And then I checked the pad I’d been doodling on. It read like a psychotic’s to-do list.

  • car bomb – park in driveway for max damage
  • house fire – snipe emergency pers.
  • max casualties including school? research
  • stitch up with fishing line/tackle box in trunk
  • average blood loss before unconsciousness? research

And in all the corners, I’d drawn stick figures with XX eyes and broken limbs.

If I’d been her, I’d have gotten my license plate number and reported me. Cheryl, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I scared you. I’m really a nice person with a bad habit of writing in public.

TL;DR: Other people can read what you write in public.

Don’t freak out the norms. It’s a rook mistake.