I am a Nasty Woman

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

January 20, 2017.

January 21, 2017.

What a week we have had.

What a historical, monumental, and breathtaking (in all the ways one's breath can be taken away) week, that we have had.

A week where I thought of my future daughters, knowing that I will teach them about these times. Knowing that I will say This is where we were when I was young and may you never experience anything like it.

A week where every woman I know said “Will you be joining the marches? if so, call me, I'll be there.”

A week where, my entire gender got together and said NO MORE.

While I am filled with silver linings, I remain without words. Through writing, I find my voice, but in more difficult times, it becomes difficult to access. So today, I will let someone else speak for me:

On inauguration day, Ashley Judd brought me to tears, as she recited the following poem, “Nasty Woman” written by 19 year old, Nina Donovan. If you have not read, or heard this poem, I encourage you to take the time to do so now. 

I am a nasty woman.
I'm not as nasty as a man who looks like he bathes in cheeto dust. A man whose words are a distract to America; Electoral College-sanctioned hate speech contaminating this national anthem. I am not as nasty as Confederate flags being tattooed across my city. Maybe the south actually is gonna rise again; maybe for some it never really fell. Blacks are still in shackles an graves just for being Black. Slavery has been reinterpreted as the prison system in front of people who see melanin as animal skin.
I am not as nasty as a Swastika painted on a pride flag. And I didn't know devils could be resurrected but I feel Hitler in these streets-a mustache traded for a toupee; Nazis renamed the cabinet; electro-conversion therapy the new gas chambers, shaming the gay out of America turning rainbows into suicide notes.
I am not as nasty as racism, fraud, conflict of interest, homophobia, sexual assault, transphobia, white supremacy, misogyny, ignorance, white privilege.
I'm not as nasty as using little girls like Pokemon before their bodies have even evolved.
I am not as nasty as your own daughter being your favorite sex symbol-like your wet dreams infused with your own genes.
But yah, I am a nasty woman!
A loud, vulgar, proud woman.
I'm not nasty like the combo of Trump and Pence being served up to me in my voting booth.
I'm nasty like the battles my grandmothers fought to get me into that voting booth.
I'm nasty like the fight for wage equality. Scarlett Johansson: Why were the famous actors paid less than half of what the male actors earned last year?
See, even when we do go into higher paying jobs our wages are still cut with blades, sharpened by testosterone. Why is the work of a Black woman and a Hispanic woman worth only 63 and 54 cents of a white man's privileged daughter?
This is not a feminist myth. This is inequality.
So we are not here to be debunked. We are here to be respected. We are here to be nasty.
I am nasty like the blood stains on my bed sheets. We don't actually choose if and when to have our periods. Believe me, if we could, some of us would. We don't like throwing away our favorite pairs of underpants. Tell me, why are tampons and pads still taxed when Viagra and Rogaine are not? Is your erection really more than protecting the sacred messy part of my womanhood? Is the bloodstain on my jeans more embarrassing than the thinning of your hair?
I know it is hard to look at your own entitlement and privilege. You may be afraid of the truth. I am unafraid to be honest. It may sound petty bringing up a few extra cents. It adds up to the pile of change I have yet to see in my country.
I can't see. My eyes are too busy praying to my feet, hoping you don't mistake eye contact for wanting physical contact. Half my life I have been zipping up my smile hoping you don't think I wanna unzip your jeans.
I am unafraid to be nasty because I am nasty like Susan, Elizabeth, Eleanor, Amelia, Rosa, Gloria, Condoleezza, Sonia, Malala, Michelle, Hillary. And our Pussies ain't for grabbin'. Therefore, reminding you that our balls are stronger than America's ever will be. Our pussies are for pleasure. They are for birthing new generations of filthy, vulgar, nasty, proud, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Sheikh-you name it-for new generations of nasty women. So if you {are} a nasty woman or love one who is, let me hear you say hell yeah!

-Nina Donovan

To all the Nasty Women I know and the men who love us, Hell Fucking Yeah.

Things I'm Still Learning: When to Change a Razorblade

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Fact: I have been shaving my legs for nearly 20 years and still haven't a clue as to when I'm supposed to change out the blade.

Do you change it after every use? Every 4 uses? On a Weekly basis? Perhaps Monthly? And what constitutes as a “use”? Ever since bald became the new playboy bunny, we've all been running around shaving up to our eyebrows like, “Am I sexy now??” And I don't care who you are or what your hair gene-pool looks like, that's a whole-lotta-use.

Clearly this is trivial, but I can't help laughing at the fact that I really don't know. All I do is shave and shave and shave until one day I get out of the shower and realize that my razor didn't do a thing. Or, barely did a thing, and I'm still coated in hair.
Then, I think to myself “I should change the blade.” And then I do something else, like brush my teeth or dry my hair, and forget all about it. Then by the time I get back in the shower to shave at a later date, the cycle just repeats itself.

Of course eventually, I do catch on (thanks, college) but it's not until I've turned that razor into the blade-equivalent of a safety pair of children's scissors, that I give in.

For the sake of research, let's look at the experts of my shaving past, and see what we can gather:

Razor Manufacturer: 

“Best to replace after each use but may be good for up to 5 uses.”

My Mom: 

“These blades are so expensive! Are you sure you want to start shaving? Your leg hair is blonde after all, I don't think anyone will notice.”

My a-hole-puberty-damaged-girlfriends circa age-12:

“______ is so weird, she doesn't even shave!”

“OMG I know, I saw her in shorts during gym class, um, ew.”

“I don't know what I would do without my razor and strawberry scented shaving cream, it's like, my life.”

“Oh yeah, me too. Let's get our Mom's to take us to Fred Meyer this weekend and buy more.”

Clearly I don't have great role models in this department (Sorry, Mom. You're still 50-75% of my fan base though so please don't unfriend me). 

Anyway, I turned out pretty OK. I mean, yes, Some days I have one hairy leg and one bare leg. Other days I have shaved armpits, while the remaining days, my razor breaks halfway through. And then some days I just cut myself, all, over. (ALL OVER, LADIES. CAPS LOCK. ALL. OVER). 

So, like, ouch. 
I guess I'm still learning.

What I know: Snow in the City (that can't handle snow) #Portland

Monday, January 9, 2017

Portland has been hit with a particularly rough winter this year. We've seen it all, snow, sleet, rain, ice, and of course, Portland's favorite winter pastime, panic, complete and utter panic. It's that time of year where we locals like to spin out our two-wheel drives and roll down to the local grocery store in search of food, water, and booze.

These past two days have been no exception.

This winter has been labeled “snowapocalypse” and I'm certain that whoever coined that term, did so while they were shopping at the grocery store.

Saturday morning, after the first snowflake fell, I got into my two-wheel drive and rolled down to the grocery store. Thomas and I had looked in the fridge that morning and thought well if we're going to be stuck for a couple days, we should get some chicken, maybe some veggies, and wine. You know, NO-BIG-DEAL. Until I actually got to the store and saw like, 300 rabies-infested locals tearing through the aisles. Or wait, I should back up. I almost didn't make it into the store because I got trapped trying to park.

How? You ask. Here's How:

I can't draw anything to scale. It's a physical impossibility.

I was following some Asshat in a Subaru going round and round in the lot, waiting for a parked car to leave. And after only a couple minutes, he just, stopped. And I thought stop? What are we stopping for? I don't see anyone backing up. And you know what? That's because no one was backing up. This guy just PANICKED and parked, in-the-road. I mean, we're talking a quarter inch of snow here and he's feeling validated to trap four cars so that he can get some frozen Annie's burritos and a case of beer.

So I was stuck.

Of course, I managed a way out, and as I continued my search to park, I did what any self-respecting (young?) woman would do: call her boyfriend to complain and when he doesn't answer, leave a voicemail anyway.

“What the **** is wrong with this ****ing city? I can't believe we thought this was a good idea. I hate this ****ing place. I swear to GOD if I don't find a spot- Oh Jesus lady, LEARN TO WALK. I mean **** Thomas, I can't even park- Oh. Oh shit, are those brake lights? C'mon Saturn, back up for Mama. Awe yeah....Uh, sorry bye.”

As I wedged my way into the store, I came across a scene of rabid humans; hundreds of them, ripping through the aisles, all sweating, and panting. Slightly aroused scared, I put my head down and grabbed the only cart I could find, one of those miniature carts with the two baskets, rolling through the entryway like an abused tumbleweed.

Welp, mini cart and I took off, while the panic in the air was palpable, we did our best to move as quickly as possible: Baby Carrots raw veggies yeah these are easy and umm... Broccoli bunches and bunches, just keep grabbing. Roast or steam. Whatever. Bag of Mandarins I'd rather get apples but there's way too many people in front of the fujis. Mandarins are good too, yeah that's fine. Wait, are these green? Fuck it there's no time. GRAB THEM! Bananas Natures gift. I'll take 6. Pasta and Pasta Sauce I could live on this stuff forever! Grab, grab, grab. Chicken Breasts How many should I get? Two in a pack... only two packs left....*sniff* Is somebody watching me? That's it, I'm taking both. Beer for Thomas and Red Wine for me Oh crap, it won't fit in the mini cart. Damn you mini cart! Box of White Wine fine. Gallon of water I wasn't going to get it, but then I saw a bunch of other people buying it, so, well, I am a sheep.

The line I had to wait in to buy my groceries was, um, it was kind of like... if you ever bought gas at Costco, during the recession, it looked kind of like that. Except now, no one was shielded by their own car, it was just lines upon lines of panic, out there in the flesh, all whining and sweating.

By the time I left the store, it had stopped snowing, and the parking lot revealed a number of vacant spots. So either the grocery store is a black hole (plausible) or the panic was over. However, judging by the cars, on the news that night, that I watched sliding sideways and backwards down a number of Portland hills, I'm forced to go with the former.  

And that's what I know about snow in Portland.

Is it Just me? Sick Days = Insanity

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

January 3, 2017 aka day three of “the plague”, 2017.

Yep, I've been sick every moment of this new year. I'm not sure what brought it on, but I'm guessing it's my body's reaction to 2016. Either way, I've been basically trapped in this cave of an apartment, slowly losing my mind, for nearly 72 hours. And I'm wondering, is it just me, or does everyone lose their mind on a sick day?

(Not to be confused with anger, this is how I smile when I'm sick.)

Day One: January 1, 2017

10:00am : What a beautiful morning. Hmm, throat hurts, head hurts. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

10:30 am : Man I don't feel so hot. *Makes Tea*

11:00 am : Online shopping. I guess this isn't so bad.

11:30 am : Netflix

11:32 am : Who am I? I guess I have friends. I mean, I think people like me.

11:45 am : *Looks in Mirror* Ooh whats that? I don't remember this that new? These undereye bags look worse than I remember. Is my ass sagging? Wait, I need a second mirror.

12:01 pm : *Lying on the couch* “Lauren, are you ok?” says Thomas “Huh?” *stares woefully at the TV*

12:20 pm : Must construct a plan to prove to Thomas that I'm not a giant loser, quick, before he notices.

1:30 pm : Gives up on plan. Fuck it, if he can't love this, he can't have this.

1:31 pm : Gilmore Girls

8:31 pm : Finishes Gilmore Girls

9:00 pm : Bedtime. I'll be better tomorrow, I just know it.

Day 2: January 2, 2017

10:00 am : OH MY GOD IM DYING

10:30 am : “Thomassssss I'm DYYYYIIINNNNNGGGGGGG”, it cries to her boyfriend. *Makes Tea*

10:45 am : Stares out sliding glass door. What is the meaning of life? Where are all of these people going? Are they happy? Am I happy? Do butterflies have feelings? Should I be a vegan? That squirrel looks so happy, I wish I was a squirrel.

10:46 am : “Lauren, what are you doing?” says Thomas “Oh nothing, Thomas, nothing at all....”

11:00 am : Stares in Mirror. Yep, My entire face and body are sagging. Why the fuck didn't I wear more sunscreen. Oh, because I'm basically albino, that's right. I'm an un-loveable, sagging, albino.

11:01 am : “Lauren, seriously, what are you doing?” it's Thomas again “Oh, uh. Just, I have to pee.” *slams door*

11:15 am : Watches every cooking show on Netflix and a documentary about high class prostitutes

9:00 pm : Finishes every cooking show on Netflix and a documentary about high class prostitutes

9:30 pm : Looks at phone, no missed calls or texts. I've lost all friendships. I am an island.

Day 3: January 3, 2017

7:00 am : *snorts* huh! Oh, gross, is that me? Agh, everything still hurts. *falls back asleep*

9:00 am : Wakes up. Puts on pants. Looks at bra, laughs.

9:01 am : Walks to sliding glass door. Squints. Ah, Sunshine. Maybe I'll go outside and- edges door open. Cold, Cold, Cold, Cold, Cold!! *Slams door shut*

9:30 am : *Makes Tea*

10:00 am : *Writes Self Deprecating Blog Post*

And that's pretty much where I'm at now. But if you'll excuse me, I have to go ponder my own ass in the mirror now.

Is it just me?