Why men don’t have home parties
It’s amazing really, what women do to each other and to themselves. This is how it generally goes for me. I get invited to a make-up party or some other kind of home party. I immediately start to think of excuses for why not to go. I suddenly become very "busy" if I’m invited in person. If it’s an invitation in the mail, I audibly growl a bit as I look at the calendar and notice I’m free. Then I contemplate for hours, usually days actually over whether or not I should go. "I’ll have to buy something," I think. "I don’t really need anything." In the end, I usually convince myself to go. The inner demons get the best of me by calling me anti-social, a home-body. They tell me I need a "night out." They tell me I’ll have fun.
So, I go. I sit there, in someone’s living room or dining room for hours, instead of having a nice dinner out, catching a movie, reading a book, playing with the girls, or catching up on sleep. I listen to things that make me want to roll my eyes. Because I’m polite, I don’t. I peruse the catalog or product set-up and try to figure out how soon I can go home, and what product I can buy that will cause the least amount of damage to the American Express. Which product will not make my husband roll his eyes? (I haven’t found one yet.)
This week, at one of these parties, I found myself wondering why women do this to each other. Each party has the same format. "If you book a party, you get this. . .(oohs, aahs). If you book a party, your hostess will get this. . . (oohs, aahs)." The "hostess" either looks around the room with pleading eyes or ends up finding her belly button extremely interesting during this little exchange. You start to rationalize each purchase. You start to rationalize booking a party. You want to be a good friend. You don’t really need that foot scrub, but it’s. . . just. . .so. . . damn. . .tempting. If you buy it, you can also pick a free product. "My God, what if there’s free eye cream! FREE EYE CREAM!" It starts to get to you.
Because of this scenario I once ended up hosting three make-up parties within one calendar year. All my friends and family filled their bathroom cabinets up with stuff they’ll never use; and I collected free gift after free gift that I’ve never used, and finally, at the last party, with the help of my relatives, I said, "No." I practically needed a 12 step program to do it; but "no" is a really great word, cathartic even. NO. It feels so good to say it ladies. Say it with me. . . NO. The fact that 99% of women can’t say this word when it comes to home parties is the reason why they are so successful. These parties feed off of peer pressure and the female flaw: the complete and utter inability to say "No" to a friend.
Can you imagine if men had these types of parties? Let’s imagine a tool party for men. Men gather on a Friday night during a basketball game or on a Sunday afternoon during a football game. (I know, I’ve pretty much lost you right here haven’t I? See why this would NEVER happen. Follow along though, just for fun.) All the men gather in the living room of the host. The party begins.
"I’d like to welcome you to Dan’s house tonight for this wonderful and exciting Terrific Tools party. I’d also like to thank Dan for asking me to be here tonight. Because Dan has hosted this party, he’s going to receive a complimentary drill bit set." (Hands set to Dan. Dan lights up with absolute JOY! The other men stare at the bit set for a moment or two. They start to think, "I want a bit set.") The party continues. "If you’d like a bit set, you can purchase one for $70 or (and pauses for effect). . . you can host your own party and receive one for FREE!" The men all clap, ooh, and aah. "Now if you decide to book a party tonight you will receive a goody bag, but I’m not telling what’s in it! You’ll have to wait and find out!" The men stare at the goody bags and let their imaginations run WILD. The presenter moves on to discuss the products.
"Did you know that the tools that you currently have are complete crap? Did you know that they are made from duck feces? Did you know that just by touching them, you are potentially putting chemicals into your body from the duck feces?" The men’s mouths drop open; they look at each other. One mouths, "Oh my GOD! Did you know that? I didn’t know that!" The presenter continues.
"Our tools are made from 100% pure liquid magma. Yes! It’s true. We drill in China to the center of the Earth. We get the best liquid magma through a revolutionary system that extracts the most durable materials on all of the Earth. We then put this liquid magma into the tool molds, and fly it in our specialized airplanes to the North Pole. Once there, we allow the magma to cool, creating the most natural but durable products known to MAN." (Men "ooh" and "ahh" some more.) Twenty more minutes of magma nonsense continue, as the presenter takes the men through the tool catalog page by page explaining why these tools are "the best," and "like no other." The men follow along, hanging on every word, even though they are all perfectly capable of reading on their own.
Before the ordering begins, the presenter gives the pitch on how GREAT it is to be a presenter. They talk about all the money the men would be able to make by becoming a Terrific Tools party presenter. They discuss how you could be driving a BRAND NEW H3 (once you sell $3 billion worth of tools and give up your first born child). Some of the men think, "Wow! A Hummer. I wish I could have a Hummer." (O.k. well actually, this part could be true.)
At the end of the presentation, the men line up to give their orders to the presenter. EVERY man has found something he has to have. The men line up in the dining room so as they wait, they can stuff their faces with cookies, sandwiches, and chips that have been neatly arranged by Dan. Each man spends twice the amount he had thought he would. Several of the men decide to have their own tool parties. After all, that drill bit set is "so cool," and it’s a "great deal." Dan is allowed to pick $200 worth of free products. He orders $600 worth of products. The party is a success!
This is completely ludicrous, right? But go back; insert any home marketed make-up name instead of tools, and change "men" to "women." Instead of duck feces, insert lamb sweat. You’ve now got something that happens on a daily basis. These parties don’t happen with men because men aren’t wired the way women are. They don’t care if they say, "No" to a friend or relative.
When a friend or relative calls and asks me to go shopping and I don’t want to. . . I go. When a friend or relative calls a man and asks him to go shopping. . . oh, wait. That one’s just stupid. Like when does that EVER happen? O.k. a wife asks her husband to go shopping. He says, "No." He doesn’t feel bad; he feels no guilt. He won’t contemplate his nay-saying for the next week. In fact, two minutes from the question, he won’t even remember his wife asked it!
People have built empires around female peer pressure and the fact that we just can’t say "No." I remember, after my third make-up party, the presenter asked me if she could ask me some questions. I was exhausted from ordering three times the amount of stuff I’d told my husband I’d order. I was spent from refusing to book another party. I think I may have even sweat when she asked about yet another party, and I hedged and looked away before finally saying, "No." So, of course, I was worn down. I said she could ask me her questions.
She started in on the whole "you would be great at this" junk. She told me how! much! money! I could make! Playing along, I asked her about the commission. She told me about the commission. This is when I finally woke up. I work from home, and am commission only. I work as a recruiter, placing candidates in salaried jobs. I make 70% commission, and not off the price of a lipstick. I told her so. In a smart tone, she asked how many hours I spent working. I told her I worked extremely limited hours; and I could work with my daughter on my lap. (I felt like I was gaining some momentum.)
"Well," she stuttered, "you can do this on weeknights and weekends. It’s ME time." "That’s not ME time," I retorted. "I work during day time hours and can work when my daughter is napping or playing with a friend. I can also work on-line at 2 a.m. if I need to or want to, but best of all, I don’t have to work nearly as hard as you do and I can make more money than you. I am NOT at all interested. My job doesn’t require me to use family and friends to make a living." I had her on her heels. She’d been bugging me about doing this for a while now. I was getting sick of it.
She said, "But will your job buy you a car???" She thought she had me here. She really did. The look in her eye told me so. "Honey, I can buy myself an XJ8 if I want to, in any color I choose, if I work hard enough and make enough money." (Let me just add here that I do not have an XJ8 and right now have no desire to work hard enough to even get one. Even if I did have the money for one, I’d never buy one. It’s more fun to drool over them and dream anyway. "Dream cars" don’t require gas or tune ups.) I asked her how much she made last year. She told me. That was the end of our conversation. That was also the end of my string of parties. My friends and family were EXTREMELY grateful. So was my husband.
I wish I was wired more like a man when it comes to parties like these. I wish I could say "No" to friends and family more easily. I wish I didn’t have to have the guilt that follows saying "No" when it comes to this kind of stuff. I also wish I didn’t have to now go through my cabinet full of cosmetics to throw out all the stuff that contains squirrel sweat and ladybug feet. Being a woman is exhausting.
Before you start writing me hate mail about how "I am a home make-up presenter and I love it, and everybody I know loves it and you suck and I hate you, etc. etc. etc.," let me just save you the time by telling you that if you enjoy it. . . good for you. I don’t; and it’s my opinion. This was meant to be funny, and if you can’t see that past the 4,623 shades of lipstick you either buy or sell, then that just means you’re in way too deep to appreciate what I’ve said. Seek professional help-hate mail doesn’t work.
Work on the Worst Part II or Fight Dirty
Sparring. . . gotta love it. In one 10 minute period of sparring this week, I think I said, "I’m sorry," about 15,000 times. I also blushed at least twice. These characteristics. . . apologizing and blushing. . . you wouldn’t think they’d come from someone who fights dirty, but I’m sad to report, they do. Apparently, Lil C has learned from her mother. The dirty fighter. . . it’s me.
It’s not on purpose. I truly think they are just a woman’s instincts. But because of these instincts, I told my instructor this week that I am going to buy him something special for Christmas. I’m sure you can figure out what it is. If my feet are going to continue to go jewel hunting, then he’s going to need some help. Not once, but twice my snap kick got way too close to causing some serious damage. It is not intentional at all. My instructor is a really nice person, the kind that makes you scratch your head and think, "Who do I know that I could fix him up with?" I’d like him to be able to have children in the future. Really, I would.
My first instinctual kick came up and under the gi jacket so much so that it sent the bottom of his gi jacket flying upwards violently. The owner of the dojo was in the room at the time, and both instructors let out a collective "Woah!" of protest against my offending foot. It happened in a flurry of activity. It wasn’t like I stood there, took aim, and went for it. It was purely accidental and purely instinct. I apologized profusely. My instructor laughed it off; but I think he was sweating a bit.
With the owner of the dojo, my modus operandi in the past was always to follow him around the floor kicking him in his butt. I’d aim for his stomach, he’d turn, I’d kick his butt. Literally. I guess the good part is that I could leave the dojo and say, "I really kicked butt tonight." The bad part is that in tournament fighting, I’d have zero points. Butts don’t count. Neither do the family jewels.
After the second time that the snap kick came close, my instructor stepped in and said to me, "Any other place but here, that would be a great kick. It’s o.k." I think he knew I was feeling pretty badly about it.
So what do I do to make up for it, to thank him for all his encouragement, teaching, and potential sacrifice? Instead of rolling my block up the outside of his punching arm to back-fist him in the helmet-covered portion of his head, I awkwardly rolled my blocking fist up and over his arm to clock him in the nose. I didn’t hit him hard; but I hit him hard enough to make him blink it off and I think his nose got a little pink from where my glove nipped him. Once again, NOT on purpose. I was trying to practice a technique he taught me about two minutes earlier. Once again, he stopped to tell me that it would be a killer good hit in a real fight. I know that it doesn’t take much to make some people’s noses bleed, though. Just ask my husband.
At a college formal thing, my husband (then boyfriend) and I were having a blast dancing to the 70’s music and were doing that whole spinning while grabbing each others arms thing. He spun me out and my elbow clipped him in the nose causing a gush of blood. I finished my spin, turned around dancing and looking for him and he was no where to be found. A few seconds later, I notice him holding multiple napkins to his bleeding nose. I had no clue I even hit him. When I hit my instructor tonight, I held my breath waiting for the blood. Can you imagine how I would have felt if I had done that? I am so thankful there was no crimson tide.
And so the sparring continued. He started by only throwing punches at me, forcing me to block and retaliate. Then he added kicks. When I got overwhelmed I would just walk away and laugh at myself. Nothing makes you feel more stupid than when you stand there and feel like you’re flailing around missing opportunity after opportunity to land a punch or a kick. It’s almost as bad as walking around with a "Kick Me" sign on your back.
When I was obviously getting discouraged, my instructor stopped to offer a compliment or two. "Why are you stopping?" he’d say. "You’re doing fine; keep going," and I would. He talked to me tonight about how I’ll eventually develop my own style and my own moves, and then it happened. . . I developed a move. I am so happy to report that I have my first signature move. O.k. maybe he sort of suggested it to me and I chose to adopt it and call it my signature move, but still, I have a move, people. This is progress.
My move is to place a kick to the solar plexus (stomach area). Then, instead of retreating or bringing that leg completely back, I kick again. It’s cool, and I feel pretty cool doing it. A few months ago (with a beach ball sized belly), I never would have even been able to balance to achieve the feat of getting off two decent kicks in a row. Tonight, I did and I’m feeling a bit proud of myself for that. Who cares that my hip cracks so loudly in the process that you could hear it next door! I kicked twice, in a row, without putting my foot back on the floor first. I’m practically Jackie Chan!
I’m also proud of myself for another reason. Last year during sparring, I only saw one potential area to attack, the butt solar plexus. Now, I have broadened my horizons and am not afraid to go for the helmet (or an unsuspecting nose apparently). Last year, I was too intimidated to even attempt a back-fist to the forehead. This week I rattled off a bunch of them, so I think that can also be considered good progress.
Another bit of progress just from last week, is that last week I was focusing on my instructors face, trying to read what he was going to do. He told me to keep my eyes focused on the chest area and keep both legs and arms in view. I did that last night. I still wasn’t great at it, but at least I’ve trained my eyes to be looking in the right spot. (Now if only I could get my foot to go to more appropriate places.)
Tonight as I was leaving, I suggested to my husband that he and I get sparring gear so I could practice at home. Can you imagine that? Picture a nice day, our daughters playing in the sand box and my husband and I, geared up, sparring in the yard. Can you imagine how much fun that would be for our neighbors? I think I’d have an easier time sparring with my husband, especially when he’s on my nerves. It might actually be good for our relationship too. You know, take out some aggressions behind the safety of foam padding.
If and when we get this sparring gear though, one thing is for sure. I am getting shin guards. I have a bruise the size of a Ritz cracker on my right shin from where I poorly blocked a kick last week. This week I learned that you should really turn your leg to the side, blocking with the outer muscular part of your leg. Muscles make good blockers; bones do not. I’ve got the shins to prove it. You’d think after all the years of playing field hockey and getting nailed on a regular basis in the shins, they’d be tough enough; but my 30-something body doesn’t bounce back the way it did when I was in high school.
I think my biggest problem with sparring is that I am lacking the confidence I need to perform. Being surrounded by many students who are at least half my age doesn’t exactly help things. I noticed last night that I approach each kick or punch with a bit of skepticism in myself. I end up psyching myself out, fearing I’ll look silly or stupid, so I don’t attack it the way I should. I know that this will only get better with more practice. I’m just hoping my instructor continues to be willing to teach me, what with me threatening his future procreation abilities and all.
Forget Mommy Wars; I’ve got a new cause
"Mommy Wars" have been popping up everywhere lately. Here, here, and here are just a few of the people who are talking about it. If you don’t feel like clicking on all of the links, I’ll just summarize for you. They’re mostly saying let’s stop talking about it because frankly, it’s getting pretty old. Amalah had a virtual fist fight going in her comments section the other day about them. You can even go here to find a link to a petition to call a cease fire in the Mommy Wars. (Go sign, but come right back.)
The problem seems to be simple, at least for the Mommy Wars in the blogging world. For the most part, working Mom’s who get upset and offended are reading into what Stay at Home Mom’s are saying and vice versa. Of course, there are some really rude people out there; but the majority of women out there mean no one else any harm by what they say. I’m going to say one last thing about it, and then I’m moving on. If you are a mother, repeat after me: Whatever I choose to do with my life in regards to my children is my business and mine alone.
Every mother will always think that her decision is the best and wisest one. There will even be some who try to push their views on other people. There are MANY who will read or hear something completely neutral; and because they have made the opposite choice and are feeling insecure about their decision, will feel the need to berate a perfectly well-meaning person who meant absolutely nothing derogatory in her statement. This, unfortunately, is what a lot of women do. This is the reason why for the longest time my best friends were always guys. They lack the catty gene. It’s a good thing. I am NOT a catty person; and I don’t really get along with people who are. My female friends whom I hold near and dear are very much like me when it comes to the whole anti-cattiness thing (if that’s even a word.)
So, I’d like to declare a new war. . . one that all mothers: working at home, stay at home, working out of the home can agree on and relate to completely. It is the cause to unite all mothers under one collective motherly roof. . . against those who believe that all baby girls are born with braids, and all baby boys are born with buzz cuts. Let me explain.
The other day I took my daughters out to a store with me. Lil C, who is 6 months old, was wearing: a short sleeved lavender silk sweater, white boot cut pants with little purple flowers on them, and a white lacy bib. As I was checking out, an older woman came over and started talking to Lil C. Our conversation went like this:
Older woman: "A boy, huh?" (and nods in Lil C’s direction.)
Me: (Sighs disgustedly and forcibly looks at Lil C’s extremely GIRLY outfit and then at woman. Thinks in head, "Yeah, because everyone I know dresses little boys in lace bibs and purple flowers. Also, silk is the new denim, and by the way, you’re an idiot," but actually I say. . . ) Girl (with a terse eye roll).
Older woman: (as if she’s offended) "Well, where’s its hair?"
Me: (Thinks in head, "Yeah, because every female baby I know is born with freaking pony tails LADY, and actually THIS BABY is not an IT!!!!!!!! She is my beautiful baby girl and she has PLENTY of hair." But what I actually do is. . .) Glare at woman and walk away.
The same thing happened when Big I was about Lil C’s age. We were in a grocery store. She was wearing a pale yellow sun-suit with pink and purple flowers on it. An older lady said, "A boy?" and I had to restrain myself. It seriously gets under my skin. Why are all babies boys? I mean, I know that some people (o.k., I admit it, I) always call dogs or cats by one gender in particular. But that’s a whole lot less obvious. It’s not polite to look between the legs of anything, including a dog or cat; and it doesn’t count because animals don’t wear clothing (unless of course, we’re talking about Paris Hilton’s dog and then it’s probably pretty obvious what the gender is anyway). Later that night I told my husband what happened and how annoyed I was. He had a good solution for me. It goes something like this:
Older woman: "A boy, huh?"
Me: "Girl, sir."
It goes like this if the offender is male:
Man: "A boy, huh?"
Me: "Girl, ma’am."
I am so using this next time. So, this brilliant husband of mine goes along to karate tonight. We were working on sparring. I was working with my instructor and Big I was working with a 9-year old girl who has a very unisex haircut. To his credit, she also had a helmet on at the time; and he wasn’t present during the beginning of class when this girl was talking a lot, obviously a girl. As Big I stood there refusing to make a move, my husband encouraged her by saying, "Go ahead; punch, hit, you won’t hurt him." The girls mother was sitting next to him and offered a simple, "Her." Now, I can’t blame my husband here. Anyone could have make this mistake.
But with a baby, it’s a lot easier to tell. Even when you can’t, there are easy ways to find out. When I’ve been in a situation where you just simply can’t tell, I’ll say something like, "Aww, how old is your baby?" The mother will usually respond with, "He’s 6 months old," or "She’s 6 months old." The door is now wide open for you to say, "Well, she’s adorable." You didn’t know, but you found out without making the mother want to drop you in the aisle at Wal-Mart.
Here are some other clues that the baby you’re inquiring about just might be a girl:
- She’s wearing pink or lavender.
- She’s wearing a floral bib that says, "Thank Heaven for Little Girls" (Seriously, I had someone ask me if she was a boy while wearing this bib.)
- There is lace on any part of her body: socks, bib, hat, etc.
- She’s wearing a swimsuit, not trunks. Honesty, I had someone ask me if Lil C was a boy while wearing this:
It has a ruffle PEOPLE! A RUFFLE! There’s another one:
- Boys don’t wear ruffles. If the baby has a ruffle on socks, pants, shirt, swimsuit, dress. . . the baby is a girl.
- It may seem obvious, but if the baby is wearing a dress, the baby is a GIRL!!!!
So, are you with me Mommy’s? I’m sure it is equally annoying when someone identifies a baby boy as a girl. So, let’s all bond together with a common disgust for those who cannot tell the gender of our babies, against those who refuse to find out in any polite sort of way. Mommy Wars are exhausting: this whole gender war thing could be a whole lot more fun!
Everything you need to know about self defense, you can learn from my 6-month old
It has become abundantly clear in the last few weeks, that Lil C was taking some serious mental notes while in utero. She paid special attention during the many karate classes I attended while pregnant, and seems to have developed her own "action plans" in order to deal with potential threats, i.e. tickling family members. She has taken your basic self defense and turned it into a form of baby karate that I dare anyone to try to escape. She is downright wicked; and since she can’t really speak for herself as of yet, I’ll help her out. The following are her signature moves:
Ear-drum-shattering scream
When in the vicinity of an ear, emit sound from mouth that can only be described as deafening. Potential attacker (or tickler) will immediately forget his/her name and what he/she was doing in order to promptly cover ears and/or take cover, preferably in a sound proof room.
Drown them in Drool
No one can escape the endless rivers of baby drool that occur on any given day. But, get a certain baby excited and simple drool turns into bubbles and cascades of wetness that can serve as an oil-like slick to deter attacker/tickler from even approaching. If attacker/tickler is close enough, a hand full of that drool right in the eye will serve to "blur" the situation and disorient your attacker further.
The Quadruple Threat
If attacker/tickler gets within striking distance, hair pulling is always a great option. There are several ways to invoke pain and suffering with hair pulling. One technique is to grab only a small number of hairs (three or four works quite well). Before grabbing this hair, it is preferable to have enough drool in ones hand so that it will create a sort of gooey glue that adheres to the hair of choice, making a bond more efficient than even crazy glue. Another hair pulling technique is to grab at the roots. The best grabbing is done by reaching far apart with all fingers, then really digging in to those roots, followed by forming a fist around the root hairs. If creativity is lacking, just grabbing a handful in any old fashion will work. Once you have the hair in hand, proceed to pull at unpredictable intervals. If possible, bring the fists of hair to your mouth, thus rendering attacker/tickler unable to dislodge their hair from the grips of drool and fists of fury.
Now, everyone knows that this is called the "quadruple threat" and there are only two hands mentioned so far. The other two threats come from sticky little baby feet. If one can obtain hair and succeed in pulling attacker/tickler close in to the mouth area, it only makes sense to raise up those little feet of yours, spread those toes wide and grab more hair. You now have four points of attack, thus rendering your attacker/tickler incapacitated completely, and in some serious pain. Keep in mind, that if you are able to land just one of these threats, you will succeed; but for each successive appendage involved in the assault, you will multiply your success ten-fold.
The Skin Grab
This works best on arm and leg skin. An especially good location is the skin on the back of the arm, just inches from the armpit. The technique is much like in the quadruple threat. Use those sticky baby hands and grab some skin. Proceed to squeeze, twist, and if not recently trimmed, use those baby nails to really dig in. Incapacitation will occur within seconds.
This skin grab also works with the nose. Grab attacker/tickler’s nose tightly and twist. If you can jam a finger in the entrance of the nostril while doing this technique. . . bonus points.
The Eye Gouge
Nothing says, "I’m sick of listening to you reading this book to me," like a nice stubby baby finger to the eye. Make sure that your movement is swift and unsuspected for ultimate impact.
Remember, that while you are still little and deliciously adorable, these techniques will be viewed as "cute." If you can complete these actions with a smile on your face or emit a giggle-like glee from your mouth while implementing your attack, your victim will never see it coming; and the attack will be that much more successful.
Good luck!
Recipe for fun
Recipe for a night of fun:
- 1 willing 6-month old baby
- 3 dress up wigs (slightly knotty from excess use and being stored in wig bin)
- 1 5-year old princess fanatic
- A camera to catch the fun
Mix the first three ingredients and make sure you have ingredient number four handy. Results are as follows:
Lil C as "Snow White"
Lil C as "Cinderella." She looks really good as a blonde, don’t you think?
Lil C as "Pocahontas" or as Big I likes to call her, "Poking-hontas" (The wig itself looks more like Pocahontas after a serious windstorm.)
And finally, as Sleeping Beauty or as Big I calls her "Sleeping Booty".
I never would have let her big sister do this to her if it wasn’t for the fact that Lil C was having an absolute blast pulling her own hair. And since we could all use a break from having our own hair pulled in this family, why not?
In other fun this weekend, I received my first true hate mail. OH, the joy! When I wrote about the Duke Lacrosse team I was prepared for a dissenting opinion or twelve, which is perfectly fine. I have no problem publishing opinions opposite of mine. But, unless you’re going to mail me a check for the $8.95/month I pay for my typepad account. . . then I flat out refuse to publish comments that contain blatant name-calling, unintelligible garble, and other nonsense that only proves that you are not only immature, but also seriously lacking some reading comprehension skills. After all, it is my site; and as it clearly states on my "about me" page, if you don’t like what you’ve read than get lost. "No one is making you read this." So, instead of deciding to publish the rude comments in my comments section, I choose to do it here, Dooce style, with a bit of my own commentary. Here goes:
Original comment from "emmaline" or Darla O. (like her email says):
"you’re an idiot. you don’t know a thing about this town or what has gone on here. what happened at your university didn’t happen to you. i’ll say it again. you’re an idiot. shut your mouth about something you know nothing about."
Well, if you want to get technical, really I didn’t open my mouth. I typed. And thanks for letting me know you think I’m an idiot twice, because really, once just wasn’t enough. So, because my kids were asleep and I didn’t have anything better to do; and because I thought it might be kind of fun, I wrote an email to "Darla." I let her know her comment would be deleted because name-calling is immature; and then I asked her exactly what was so offensive about the post. Her response:
"you really are an idiot. and you do need to keep your mouth shut about things of which you now nothing. pittsburg ain’t durham, and you’ve proved it with your unbelievably moronic post. if you had any guts at all you’d let posts be shown as they appear."
She certainly is fond of the word "idiot," yet there is still nothing cited about what exactly is so darn "moronic." As a former English teacher though, I felt a sudden urge to put this up on a chalkboard and start correcting things, but maybe her shift key just doesn’t work. . . or maybe. . . well, name calling isn’t nice so I’ll refrain. Then I asked her again, to tell me what is nonfactual about my post. Seriously, if something isn’t right, I’d like to know and correct it. (For fun, I also let her know that she spelled Pittsburgh incorrectly.) I got this:
"by the way . . there’s plenty that isn’t documented and factual in your moronic post . . .you have ignored the facts altogether as they have been reported here in durham. but i’m sure that doesn’t matter to you in the least, oh self proclaimed grammar goddess. then again, you’re an idiot from freaking pittsburgh who spends her time celebrating her physical aggression over other people. what can we expect. stay where you are. and leave our problems to us. keep your freaking, stupid, pitmouth shut."
Yeah, that’s what my whole site is about! I’m so glad she gets it! Physical aggression over others. Wow! I wish I had her reading comprehension skills. Hey, at least she spelled Pittsburgh correctly. Good girl. I’m so loving her use of punctuation too. Creative writing is certainly her strongest skill. Does anyone know what a "pitmouth" is? Just curious. And then:
"it’s YOUR blog that doesn’t allow anti-your-view comments. jeez. YOU are a coward. black belt or not. your a self absorbed coward. face it. and by the way, my 14 year-old niece could totally kick your ass on the mat, sista."
I’m so scared. Seriously, shaking. . . wait, is your niece the 14-year old girl at my dojo referred to on my about page? (Because in that case, I might be.) Now, it appears that emmaline/darla has some visual problems too; because prominently displayed on the site is my "current rank" which is not black belt. (What was I going to do? Call my site "Green Belt Mama" and then have to change it with each rank? It’s there because I’ll eventually be there, but now I’m getting off topic. . . ). Then, once I’d blocked that email address, because it’s not like anything she’s said is even intelligible. . . and frankly, I was getting bored. Then I get this. . . guess who?
"From: Norma Bates (email address not printed here but if you really want it. . . )
To: Black Belt Mama
Subject: the fact that you spell you’re inconsequential town correctly
. . . don’t mean that you can get mine right, blogging from so far away, you unbelievably smug person. You need to keep your mouth to yourself because you are totally uneducated about Durham."
Darla/Emmaline? Is that you? I thought so! I’d just like to point out a few things here. First, you don’t know where I’m from. Just because I went to Pitt doesn’t mean Pittsburgh is my home town. Maybe it’s Durham. Wouldn’t that just blow your mind? Second, keeping my mouth to myself sounds. . . just lovely, I think. Wait, what does that mean exactly? Third, in case you weren’t aware (or have otherwise been living in an underground bunker with no access to the outside world), the Duke lacrosse story is now a national story, which means anyone with a radio, newspaper, TV, eyes, ears, or a brain has access to the story. And finally, I would be willing to bet that the boys on the lacrosse team aren’t all from Durham. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that at least 90% of them are from out of state. And, if you’d like one more little factoid, the arrested boys are from NY and NJ. Since I used to live in NJ, it’s officially my business if I want it to be.
So there! I feel better now! Take that! (I may not publish name-calling comments in my comments section, but they sure do make for fun posting.)
And since recess is now over, I’ll be signing out. . .
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