Women In Politics

I have something semi-serious to talk about. Sorry, I assume you came here thinking I'd be talking about Aunt Meryl at the Oscars, but I have an issue I'd like to bring up which I've been thinking about since Saturday. But Meryl would be proud of my seriousness. If it helps, imagine I'm in a sparkling gold dress and wearing turtle shell frames while we discuss.



AHEM.

Ladies and their periods--AM I RIGHT?

Just kidding. So I want to talk about women in politics. In a VERY general way, because if there are two things I know nothing about, it is politics and the people who care about them.

Joe and I just watched Ides of March. The one with the Clooney/Gosling half face. You know. So the premise of the movie--no spoilers--is that Clooney is a politician trying to become president, there is backstabbing and secrets, and things get real.

When the movie was over, I turned to Joe and made this observation:

All these characters are men. And they all lie and hurt each other and say all these really abrasively rude things to each other. They sneak around and do whatever it takes to win. But because they're men, it'll all just blow over eventually. They may hate each other inside but in general it's all, "OH WELL! C'est la vie! What are you gunna do? It is what it is. Six of one. Sleeping dogs. Don't count your chickens. ETC." And they'd all probably work with each other again. It's like there's no such thing as a burned bridge.

But I don't believe that's how women would work. After all the bad things happened, women would be mortal enemies, sworn to hate each other until the day they die. They couldn't work with each other! They'd barely be able to be in the same room as one another. MAYBE they'd be able to grin and bear it, but it would NEVER be water under the bridge. They would carry those transgressions with them to the GRAVE.

Hell, I myself got into a fight with one of my best friends about whether or not she was being passive aggressive, and it completely tore us apart.

I'm not saying that either way is right. I'm just making an observation about how the two genders deal with conflict. And with the way that politics works, with its inherent back stabbing, degrading speak, and coercion, maybe the reason there are so few women in politics is because they just don't play that way.

What do you guys think?

Awkward, Bloated and Sarcastic. Hellooo, Fellas.

I am officially the worst person ever.

Today I was wearing jeans, a short-sleeve shirt, and a short-sleeve blazer which I believe I found in the back of my sister's closet.

My boss asked me, "Why are YOU so dressed up?"

First of all, it's a sad state of affairs when me in jeans and a frumpy blazer looks dressed up. I really need to try harder.

Secondly, I wore dresses all week last week, SIR.

Really, I think what he was implying was, "Well well. Blazer, eh? Someone have an interview at lunch perhaps??" (I honestly didn't. And God knows I wouldn't have worn this blazer if I had, but that's neither here nor there.)

So, considering all these factors added to the fact that work is currently at Threat Level Midnight over here and I have no time for pleasantness I said, "Well to tell you the truth, I don't really fit these pants anymore and this blazer covers it up nicely. So I'm not actually dressed up. I just feel fat."

********AWKWARD SILENCE ALL AROUND**************

"...Aren't you glad you asked?"
"Heh heh...*sweating*...No."

I should have thrown in a PMS reference in there just to really seal the deal. God.

The Day

Okay, I need to emphasize that my last post is STILL true, that I am still in a good, happy place, and I plan on maintaining focus on that.

But can I PLEEEEEEASE tell you about my ridiculous day of EMOTIONS?!

So you know this scene from Friends when Phoebe is pregnant?


That was me today. I kid you not, this was the situation at work today:

Jamie made a joke about us all jumping out the window because we were so stressed.
Nok laughed and just went, "Haha...Asians." (She and Jamie are both Asian.)
And Megan and I burst out laughing. And within 3 seconds of that, I had to actually hold myself back from bursting into tears.

"Poor Emily!" you say. "What could have gone wrong that would make you so unhappy?"

And here is your answer: Nothing. ABOLUTELY NOTHING went wrong. The problem, in fact, is simply that today was The Day.

Ugnnnnnnnn, The Day.

I don't know about other ladies and their struggles with hormones, but here is mine: One day a month (yyyyyyyyyup) I have an emotional breakdown for no reason whatsoever. Poor Joe has been at the brunt end of a few of such days. They usually end in a for-no-reason fight or just with Joe begging me to stop crying and rocking myself and to get out of the corner and eat my macaroni like a big girl.

The weird thing is, I NEVER realize that it's The Day until nearly the end of it. I just walk around for 12 hours thinking, "Why am I upset? Why do I have the urge to go home, snuggle with my new cat, eat chocolate chip pizza dipped in peanut butter and watch 30 Rock because IT'S LIKE LIZ AND I ARE THE SAAAAAAME!?"

Eventually I do realize what's going on. But there's no way to stop it. There's no way to stop the emotions. I just have to keep my head down, eat my chocopeanutpizza and wait until tomorrow, when things will be back to normal. Because how can I go around explaining it to people? How do I tell my male boss that I'm about to get my period, so it's not my insubordinance that is making me snippy about that edit he made, but rather the estrogen floating behind my eyes? And, anyway, I'm a grown-ass woman. I should be able to take a hold of my brassiere and suck it up. Because don't I usually pride myself in my cold-heartedness toward my own copy? Why yes. Yes I do.

But then he looks at me the wrong way and I end up curled up in the fetal position on his floor, cuddling old ads and wondering aloud "why no one loves me anymore??"

So that has been my day. Hopefully tomorrow will be better. As it stands, my new cat, Regina Phalange (yes, I am all about the Phoebe references over here) is helping me cope by laying on a nearby ottoman. I don't know much about her except that she follows me from room to room and meows/scolds me until I either lay down on the couch or the bed. I'm hoping she gets snugglier in the winter, like Charlie did. I think she will.

AAAAAAAAAAND I officially just wrote a blog post about PMS and cats. ANOTHER WIN FOR CRAZY WOMEN EVERYWHERE. God.

Reasons Why I Am Dying Today

Today is one of those days when I'm pretty sure I have a thousand horrible diseases. I find myself fairly convinced of my own imminent death on a regular basis. Today's prognosis:

1. Cramps. I am having cramps and I am not on my period.
What it definitely is: Polyps. Or cancer. Or appendicitis.
What it COULD be...I suppose: Gas.

2. Today I woke up and I was SO tired, even though I had 7 hours of sleep.
What it definitely is: Mono.
What it COULD be...I suppose: I'm unemployed and pathetically tired with anything under 9 full hours.

3. I almost fainted today.
What it definitely is: Heat stroke. Or regular stroke.
What it COULD be...I suppose: It's 90° and I was running. And I was overly concerned that I forgot to put sunscreen on my neck.

I'm just going to have to suck it up and move on with my (ever shortening) life. Specifically, I need to get myself off to the DMV because...yeah, no one cares. Got it. But maybe there'll be some hilarious hijinks while there that I can tell you all about! Won't that be fun? (Fun for you, I mean. Not me. See what I do for you?)

Strings of Thoughts, Loosely Pulled Together Into Sentences.

Are we all familiar with the story of the cheese knives? Well I'd take the time, if you're looking for something to fill your day with sunshine and rainbows.

I bring it back up because I used the Dreaded Knives. Not the ones Joe got; those are in my possession. The other ones. The ones purchased by the Man Boy. And after using said knives, I immediately cut myself on them. THEY'RE CURSED, I TELL YOU. And I even cut myself on a terrible spot- right on the tip of my thumb. What kind of band aid adheres to the tip of your thumb, you ask? No band aid. The answer is no band aid. So thank you, ex-whatever. A year after I so ruthlessly decided I wanted a relationship with someone who actually acted interested in me, you have still managed to annoy the hell out of me. Fantastic.

Anyway, now that that's off my chest...

Sorry about no post yesterday. Blame Jane; she needed me to act like I enjoy dogs (difficult) for an ad-type thing with an ad-type agency for a client-type place.

Yeah, if I ever become employed again, expect that kind of obnoxious anonymity on a daily basis.

I also managed to break one of Joe's mugs yesterday (I was seriously on a roll yesterday. I haven't even gotten to how I spilled red wine all over Jane's food...am I allowed to blame clumsiness on PMS? Because I might. Is that one of the symptoms Midol covers? I should look into this.) so today we're going to a pottery studio to make new ones, which feels very barfy couply, but also will hopefully be cathartic. Not actually because of the clumsiness, but for another reason:

I haven't been to decorate pottery since I took the boys I used to nanny during the summers in college. And it was TORTURE then. Because I didn't get to paint anything, only they did. And what a lovely job they did, too, as 4 and 5 year-olds. I'd be in the corner, biting my nails and trying to control my eye twitching as they colored the rabbit's ENTIRE head--eyeballs and all--black. That's...you can't...that looks....*breathe, Emily, breathe. Don't stunt their creativity as your teachers did you...*

So now I get to go and paint something myself with my very own hands. And it will NOT all be black. So there. Take THAT, 5-year-old boy with a heart of gold who is only trying to make something nice for his mother! TAKE. THAT.

Adventures in Gas Pumpery

I love living in the city. I do. Mostly because there are people EVERYWHERE. I grew up in a small house filled with people. So, while this bothered me growing up ("Emily, here's your first bra. Please try it on while your six-year-old sister sits and watches.") I've come to realize that I can no longer live without people constantly bumping into me. I don't even like when my roommates are gone. What, the TV all to myself?! What am I supposed to do with that, watch whatever I want? Laaaaaame.

But here's the other thing. I hate living in the city. There are people EVERYWHERE.

I borrowed Monica's car yesterday to go to my interview (and thank you all for your non well wishes, it went well) so last night when I got home, I went to fill up the tank. As soon as I got out of my car, another car pulled up behind mine. That's weird, just seconds ago, there had been open fuel stations all over. But I try not to think about it and get going on my gasoline adventures.

I swipe my card, it asks for the zipcode, and of course, it doesn't read my frozen fingers' 666001112266 as a proper zip code. So I cancel and start over. Then it doesn't read it. Then it reads it, but the nozzle won't fit right into Monica's gas tank. And it's cold as shit so I'm talking to all of these items as if they are my misbehaved children. "What's wrong now? You don't want to fit? Come on, I don't have time for this. I am telling your father about this when he gets home." etc etc etc. So finally all is going well...and a man walks up behind me.

"Excuse me, Miss." I turn around. The man is showing me his drivers' license and some other card. Oh, God. I'm trapped. But I'm also highly on edge from the whole commute + misbehaving gas experience. So I interrupt him and just say, "No. Please don't talk to me." in a very authoritative, I-didn't-know-I-could-be-that-aggressive kind of way. Which was pretty stupid because, as previously stated, I'm trapped. The man does a bit of a double take. I don't think he was expecting guff from the white girl with the Sebring. "Whoah, girl, is everything alright?" So at this point I almost want to apologize because I really didn't mean to come across that cruelly. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, take whatever you want. My iPhone? Here. I have some whole wheat crackers you can nibble on as well. Would you like my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly?"

But I've got a whole act going, and it seems like it might get him to go away, so I just go with it."No, I'm just having a REALLY bad day so if you could please just leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, Miss, something something two-year-old something something so if you could just help put a few dollars worth of gas in our car something something."

"No, sorry." So the man leaves. ICE COLD. That's me. ICE. COLD. All this nonsense about me being a good person because I volunteer? FALSE. I am a bad person who wishes harm upon 2-year-olds in the dead of winter.

So at this point I am dying to get out of there. I had put five dollars worth of gas in the car, which is about how much I had used, so I put the nozzle back, screw the thing back in, and I'm set to go. And the little credit card reader thing tells me, "Cashier has receipt." Oh HELL NO. I am not leaving this car. There are spurned people behind me and I don't know what they are like when spurned. Luckily, the words change to "Welcome" and I get my ass out of there. Then I irrationally start hyperventilating, thinking these people could follow me! They could break my bones! They could steal my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly! That's when I look down and realize--Monica's gas gauge has not changed AT ALL. I might as well have put nothing in it. That puppy is in the exact same spot it was when I got there.

And all of a sudden, I am sobbing. Just sobbing. The stress from the interview, plus the commute, plus that man, plus an earlier incident I saved you from involving my period--it all just came out in one giant sob fest while I turned Monica's car onto our street and attempted to parallel park through the snow banks.

Luckily, the night ended with Joe, Lost, Girl Scout cookies, and me singing "Chin Up" from Charlotte's Web, complete with dance moves and lunges.

So...pretty normal day, all in all.