clickmom

racism

I never go out. The husband and I rarely go out on a date. Since the baby-sitter that the kids actually prefer to me is home from college, we arranged a night. It was Friday, and I wasn’t particularly feeling well, but I forced myself to keep the bra on, (normally off by 7) and go, since I was the one who was dying to see the movie Crash any ways.

It was a really good movie. It was good from all standpoints. I took lots of lots of film classes in college and love to pick apart a good film. This one was very good. But SOOO sad, I am the girl who cries at commercials. I still get choked up when reading “Are you My Mother?” for the 125th time. I mean, the poor little bird could have abandonment issues!

Any ways, the movie is good , but sad, because so many folks are living this kind of angry hateful, disconnected life, and I cried for the entire running time of the movie, but when the Persian shop owner lifts that gun towards the hispanic locksmith while his daughter runs over to protect him, well, the whole audience heard me sobbing. I had a headache when the movie was done.

I admit to being a bit naive about the ways of the world as a kid growing up, and one of the benefits of my personal cluelessness was not realizing that people were just hating each other all over the place. Now, I am not filled with hate. It’s just not there. I remember my first realization of prejudice, my racist 6th grade teacher, just hating the minorities, and the poor little Turkish boy who moved in the middle of the year and didn’t speak a word of english. I remember trying to figure out why she was so cruel and sharp with them. It just didn’t make sense. They hadn’t done anything wrong.

At the time of the OJ Simpson trial I was still living in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Every morning I used to walk the 3 1/2 mile loop around the park, along with many other people of various backgrounds. Since I was a daily regular, I got to know the faces of the other regulars, light and dark, male and female, rich and poor. We would smile and nod to each other, and occasionally offer a compliment, “Looking good!” “Good Morning”, “Nice Day” or something like that. I loved my daily walk and looked forward to connecting with my group of familiars each day. The morning after the OJ verdict was announced I was walking listening to the radio and the DJs discussing race relations and all the assumptions people make, and all the interracial hatred that exists, and it occurred to me that the other walkers may think something about me because of the way I look, and they may assume I have some feeling about them based on their looks, and it just depressed me. I was down for days, because I had felt this bond and camaraderie with the other walkers that was about doing the same thing as them in any weather, day in and out and didn’t care what color or religion they were. It just stank.

The movie presents us with a reality of what is happening in so many homes and to so many people. Everyone should be required to see it , discuss it and learn from it. I’d show ot to every high school kid in the states. Maybe it can change a life.

What is art?

Yes there are some things I just don't understand. Today I photographed a towns Artist Studio Tour. Individual artists open their studios the public for the day, and the public can purchase maps with the artists locations and a brief description of each artists work on them. Then the map holders are free to spend a few hours travelling around visiting the studios. I met many intersting artists, who work to create real intellectual art and celebrate the beauty of the human form or nature, or even just have fun with color and design. It was a wonderful way to spend the day and I had a great time felt fabulous about the whole thing until my last stop. Tell me is this art? Are there redeeming qualities here?

more from medieval times

One aspect of Medieval Times that I neglected to mention to you, dear readers, was the “Museum”, which was a hallway filled with all sorts of medieval torture devices. They ask you when you enter if you want to go in the Museum, after they’ve told you to get there over an hour early, and you do because you are a rule follower, but then you realize you need something to do for over an hour until you are seated. Of course, the adults there that were not accompanied by children could imbibe in a variety of less than authentic libations, served in less than authentic cups. Then they sell you “museum” tickets for your whole family, including your four year old, and you get to the “museum” only to read the warning sign by the front door that the museum may not be appropriate for those under 18. Thanks, wenches.

There were things we know about in the “museum”, like chastity belts, stockades, and the stretching tables, and then there were other things that led me to believe that the whole entire population was on some sort of mind-altering substance. It was freaky. It was scary too, the thought that the folks who thought of these things were the ones responsible for upholding the laws, and not the criminals is disturbing. There is a fine line folks, a real fine line. In my opinion it was crossed, but hey that is just my 21st century point of view. Here is a sample of a mask that women were forced to wear when it was decided they needed to be humbled. Ummm.. Happy Halloween.

breast augmentation

Breast Augmentation. This is what I do not understand the most. I am not talking about women who get reconstructive surgery after cancer, or even those with none who want some. I am talking about those with perfectly attractive normal bodies who get those really disturbing looking, too round, mountainous,never move or jiggle, FAKE ones, that scream “I HAVE ARTIFICIAL BREASTS!!”

That being said I have tremendous breasts. BUT they are that way because my grandmothers both had ‘em too. Mine came in fast and early. I was a B cup in 6th grade, a C cup in 7th grade and by the time I got to High School I was busting out of the DD’s. Yes, the boys spoke primarily to my shirts, and plenty of guys who probably couldn’t ID my FACE in a line up offered to go out with me. The girls make jogging impossible. Unless jogging while trying to hold the girls down is your idea of fun. They also make buying bathing suits tricky, and all shirts tend to appear about three inches shorter on my front than on than on my back.

My graduation gift from college was going to be a breast reduction, but the surgeon informed me that I would likely be back for another surgery after having kids, and that he couldn’t guarantee I would be able to nurse. Thinking that children were around the corner for me, I thought I’d wait. And that is what I am still doing.

There the girls stayed, hanging out their DD’s, until my first pregnancy, 6 years after the visit with the surgeon, when at only 3 months pregnant I discovered that they actually manufacture bras that start with the same letter as the word Gigantic. It was an eye opening revelation. I recall standing in front of the bathroom mirror, in my new shockingly white G cups, and asking my husband if I still looked human. (No)

Then came years of nursing and two more babies, with more years of nursing, all of which kept them in G cups. I looked forward to the day when there would be no more pregnancies or nursing, and I could reclaim my girls, and see how far back down they would go, and much to my disappointment, they didn’t. They stayed the same, I was still packing G’s. So, no matter what the fashion, I continue to seek out tunic shirts.

Now, as you know I am 40, and a curious thing happened. All my favorite bras shrank at the exact same time, so I had to order more. And nightmare of nightmare, the girls are growing!! Aaaaagggghhhhh!! Sob, sob, sob. I’ll never see my toes again! OK, I am lying, they are growing, but they are kinda growing down as opposed to out. What? I breast fed three kids!

Seriously, the girls are annoying! It’s like getting tattoos when you are young, and then looking foolish when you are old. They were fun for a short while, but they bore me now. I have no use for them. I never stand up extra straight and push them out to attract a guy. I never unbutton a shirt to show a little cleavage. If I do that then crumbs just get trapped in the bra and fall out all over the bathroom at night.

They do so get in the way. For example, if I eat sloppily, nothing makes it past the nipple ridge of my shirt. It is like the shelf a pregnant woman gets with her big belly except higher. I actually bump into things with them, and like I said running is out. So is crossing my arms and so is lying on my stomach. So is lying on my back, because unlike the fake ones, these girls head straight down my sides towards my underarms, and that is not pleasant. Sometimes I even need to rearrange them when I roll over at night. And now that they have found new homes in bras that start with the same letter as the word Humongous I am starting to think about that surgeon again. So, I don’t get breast augmentations.