And I can’t spell. I’m sorry. There are some heavy things going on in the feminist blogosphere that I would like to adress… but basically I can’t right now. BFP and BlackAmazon, you are amazing, you are right to not put up with bullshit, but because I’m drunk I cannot say more at this time.
I was about to say some other shit but basically just go read those other ladies. I really cannot say a word right now except they are far more important bloggers than I am and you should probably be reading them instead.
Especially since it is taking every mental faculty right now I have just to spell. That is partly why they are more important. I apologize for being an asshole who doesn’t care about politics because my family is fucked up and I hate men with commitment problems and all those various problems that are comparably unimportant.
My friends James and Andy say hi to the blog world. Or ‘holla’ apparently. What can I say, I’m from the Philly suburbs. I’m embarrassing.
Can I just tell you that I hate dudes with a big long list of ‘scores’? And that this is totally insupportable considering certain personal attitudes? I just hate players. If I know you’re a player, you better work double time. I have to, so you have to. Oops I said that out loud. At least I’m still (mostly) spelling correctly.
It is freezing on the East Coast. That is seriously inherently obstructing my blogging progress. I would like to say things about relationships, and how 99% of them are full of shit, but how I know a few of the one percent that aren’t… and also some more about how marriage is 99% bullshit, but I know some of the… anyway, boring.
Drunkety drunkety drunk drunk drunk. Love, petitpoussin. Happy almost New Year’s folks.
I hate weddings. I hate them. In fact, I’m pretty Grinchy on the idea of marriage altogether (no offense, I mean, some of my best friends are married).
So last night, when I discovered the open bar to be accessible during the wedding ceremony due to its unusual setting in a large museum gallery, I very enthusiastically took advantage of this thoughtful gesture on the part of bride and groom. Then at dinner my favorite Rioja was the red wine on offer. Add in copious champagne toasts and my choice to mainline alcohol, rather than guffaw, during the band’s rendition of ‘Just the Two of Us’ (how can anyone sing that song?! Come on! Fucking Mini-Me, people, that is the permanent association with that song), and… by the time I got home, this Grandma passed right out.
Apologies, friends. Although really, half-coherent diatribes on the institution of marriage and wedding as consumer spectacle are probably not what the Drunk Blogger holiday required. So I resolve, this evening, December 30, to try, try again. In the meantime I will read some of my fellow alkies’ endeavors, to recommend to you later.
Happy National Hungover Blogging Day! I’m gonna go hang out with my grandmother. Yikes.
I just want you all to know that one of my oldest friends (for past 18 years) gave me a ‘feminist chocolate bar’ from Antigone bookstore in Tucson, Arizona. The wrapper features such chocolatey titles as ‘Our Bon Bons, Ourselves’ and ‘A Rumball of One’s Own’. In other words, it’s probably the best chocolate in the history of time.
You should also know that shrimp toast includes an ingredient called yam beans. This sounds suspiciously like ‘yameeeeeeeeeeeen?’ I’m not sayin, I’m just sayin.
I am in a room full of people talking to cats as if they were people. This is why I like cat people. They don’t do the scary baby/puppy voice thing. Although last night through my friend Miso I met an extremely friendly dalmatian.
Today I watched Clueless again. I can’t wait to say ‘I’m totally having a Twin Peaks experience’; or, also, ‘You don’t understand. This is an Aliya’. Oh, Alicia Silverstone. After Batman & Robin there was no helping you.
Drunk blogging will continue after I go to a fancy wedding later this evening and take advantage of the poshest open bar in the city of Philadelphia. In the meantime you can find other participants here.
Throughout the 1980s and early ’90s, women of all economic levels — poor, middle class and rich — were steadily gaining ground on their male counterparts in the work force. By the mid-’90s, women earned more than 75 cents for every dollar in hourly pay that men did, up from 65 cents just 15 years earlier.
Largely without notice, however, one big group of women has stopped making progress: those with a four-year college degree. The gap between their pay and the pay of male college graduates has actually widened slightly since the mid-’90s.
For women without a college education, the pay gap with men has narrowed only slightly over the same span.
But what could be causing this reversal? Anyone? Faludi? Bueller?
Like so much about gender and the workplace, there are at least two ways to view these trends. One is that women, faced with most of the burden for taking care of families, are forced to choose jobs that pay less — or, in the case of stay-at-home mothers, nothing at all.
If the government offered day-care programs similar to those in other countries or men spent more time caring for family members, women would have greater opportunity to pursue whatever job they wanted, according to this view.
The other view is that women consider money a top priority less often than men do. Many may relish the chance to care for children or parents and prefer jobs, like those in the nonprofit sector, that offer more opportunity to influence other people’s lives.
Hell yeah. All us kind, compassionate, nurturing women, who care more about healing the world than buyin ourselves a new Pimp Cup at Christmas. Who cares about paying the rent when we’ve got our sacred womanly birthright to uphold? Say, is it a full moon? Because I’m feeling really emotionally centered today, and, if I’m not mistaken, at the moment I possess a heightened perception of the needs and desires of others. Will write more later — right now I have to run down the street to a slightly shoddy duplex, where I sense a young girl isn’t getting enough attention from her father. I need to bring her some homemade cookies and convince her to pursue her true calling in social services when she grows up. Daddy won’t pay her enough, but maybe he’ll finally love her.
AKA, I am mostly out of commission for the next little while as I’m visiting family on the East Coast for the holidays. It is unseasonably warm here — about 60 degrees fahrenheit — but that’s still 20 degrees cooler than Hilo, so I’m freezing my ass off. Thanks to the holiday travel luggage gremlins, I am also currently without any clothes besides whatever’s gotten left behind over the last several transoceanic upheavals. So, as I sit here in my childhood home, rocking the dial-up in pink sweatpants, I would like to wish you all Happy Time Off From Work Slash Holidays (If You Celebrate Any). See you on National Drunk Blogging Day (the 29th), if not before.
And now, back to the cookies.
…otherwise known as the Carnival of Feminists, 29th edition, is up. Will update with my recs after I finish carefully biting off all of my fingernails (my Dlisted fix didn’t last long).
Thank you so much for Dlisted. Right now I have multiple deadlines converging on me like some newly-converted Scientologists, and you’ve helped me to get through this difficult time by laughing my ass off at some damn fools.
(Some highlights, since I know some of yinz are too lazy to CLICK ON A LINK: Continue Reading Dear Michael K,…
Not to be confused with dicks in a box. Although, like the steps to create that festive holiday gift, there are three of them.
One: Lloyd C. Blankfein. ASSHOLE.
[Stefan Zaklin/European Pressphoto Agency]
(Yes, that is the actual photo of this dude printed in the NYTimes. So clearly I’m not alone in thinking he’s an asshole.)
Homelessville?! Could it be any more obvious that JT is my soulmate? And I don’t even believe in that shit.
Justin, you had me at ‘soup-ba-doup’.
And you know that pun’s intended, okaaaaay?
One question: How exactly is it Tuesday and I am just finding out about this?! Did I not tell all y’all I don’t have a TV? And you were holding out on me. Amazing.