MER MULLINS BLOGS AIN'T NOTHIN' TO FUCK WITH: Betrothed edition.

Hello!  How are you?  You look lovely today...is that a new sweater vest?  It's heaven!

You may not remember me, as my last post was over a year ago, but I used to provide you with witty ramblings of a self-absorbed twenty-something, as well as provide the occasional gentle chiding to the pop-culture phenomenons I find unseemly and hilarious.  I had taken a hiatus from all things blog because something AMAZING happened...

This dickwad shot me in the ass.  To be fair, it's an easy shot, even for a baby.

 

 

In any case, I know I have been missed.  YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO SAY IT*.

 

 

However, I did promise a betrothed edition, and how I came to that soon-to-be-uproarious conclusion requires a little bit of explanation.  For long time followers of my brand of blogging humor, you will know that the catalyst for the grand majority of my blogs is sitting in a movie theater, watching a modern-American film, and realizing that I have something to contribute to the blogosphere once my mind inevitably wanders.  In rare occasions, the movie is actually really good and makes me think of something that I would have not thought of had I neglected to watch that particular movie.

 

Depressing aside you should feel free to skip: 

I went and saw Silver Linings Playbook, and I found the movie, up until probably the last 30 minutes, extremely real.  Real not necessarily in any unfolding of events, but real in it's characters and real in the life of its own that a mental illness inevitably takes on.  I identified deeply with Bradley Cooper's Pat in his combined but often contradictory struggles to both assure his family of his progress past his breakdown, and perpetually beat back the sleeping dragon of his mental illness.  Once the diagnostic process in my own life had finally yielded a name I could call myself, and a list of symptoms made sense to me and my closest friends, I realized that handling stress would always be my largest obstacle.  That my life would be fighting the urge to shut down or run away from any stressful situation.  That whether or not the things that happened to me were my fault, the "post-traumatic" was over now, but the "stress disorder" would characterize my life forever.  That reassurances to my family or myself would always be qualified with the knowledge that within me something could always implode if the pressure cooker got hot enough.  It was the most miserable realization in my entire goddamn life.

Fin.

 

Anyway, watching Silver Linings Playbook made me think about things that are difficult.  Like, really really difficult to do.  Confronting your own mental illness: DIFFICULT. Making a movie about something personal that manages to be universal, SO DIFFICULT.  Lifting a thousand pounds, running a marathon, finding a prettier pair of eyes than those of yours truly....yadda yadda yadda-all things that are obviously difficult but seldom attempted.  However, there are comparably difficult things that as human beings in a social society must force ourselves to attempt every day, often fail, and are consequently punished accordingly.  I also will offer a plausible solution.  I now present to you the "Official Meredith Mullins Working List O' Shit that SUCKS (Seriously, shit sucks) Official List."

 

But seriously, good sir, try disappointing these eyes.  I DARE you.  Your soul will crumble.

 

 







1.  Finding the right way to comfort/rally behind/give your opinion pander to a friend who is in crisis.  There is really no good way to do this.  Either you are saying too much, saying too little, are transparent in your unabashed bias, or completely out of line for giving advice.  The only rule I have been able to swear by is that NOBODY wants to hear what they could have done differently, why they might be wrong, or why the bitch who pissed you off may have meant well, EVER.  What we all want to hear, as humans, is a resounding "BITCH, please. Fuck that bitch. She/he doesn't know you nor does she/he have any right to make you feel this way.  You are awesome/reasonable/perpetually correct when involved in feuds with other people and she/he better never forget it.  All hail you and your irrepressible awesomeness/reason/patience/saintliness," or, in short, "OH NO SHE/HE DIDN'T!"  So, tread lightly and with complements.  CAVEAT: Do not use this response when said friend is speaking of their significant other, because they will inevitably return to their significant other, awkwardly making you the bitch who talked shit.  DISASTROUS.

 

                                                   Who you are trying to be:

Who you come across as:                

The bitch got mad style, though.  Who else could rock a rope belt?

 

Solution? Fake a nosebleed.  Works every time.

 

2.  Writing a blog while Facebook is in another browser window.  It just can't be done.

 



WHAT?  Two notifications in 30 seconds!?!?!!  VALIDATE ME!  VALIDATE ME!

 

Solution?: One would think you could just cancel Facebook and be done with it.  However, how would you transfer adorable pictures of yourself to your blog with ease?  Could you live with yourself and your writing if things like THIS went un-posted?

 







You couldn't.  You just couldn't.

 

So, what to do? Abuse meth-amphetamines.  When you are up for 24 hours you will have time for it all: every snarky comment, every self-important diatribe.  The sky is the limit.  Well, the sky and a healthy heart rate.

 

Hold on, I have notifications pending...

 

Okay.  Poke-back executed.

 

3.  Successfully execute a non-conflict producing response to what I like to call an "explaina-bitch," cousin of the Community popularized "explaina-brag," and not look like a total douche.  What is an explaina-bitch, you ask? The sentence, "Not to be an asshole, but your baby is ugly."  An extreme, yet illustrative example.  As I have learned, saying "BUT YOU'RE GONNA BE" is...not received in an awesome fashion.   The verbal diarrhea of the explaina-bitch has many cousins.  Probably most aggravating (especially to those of us still involved in the wonderland known as the service industry) is the "covert-a-douche."  For example, "I hate to be annoying, but can I get some more ice in my water?"  You hate to be annoying, sure, but you have DEFINITELY made peace with it, somehow. 



 

Truly, the Kesha of expressions.

 

 I have found the only polite response to this shart of an expression is silence, but if you are trying to avoid the inevitable awkward silence, there is always the comedic option, such as "I never hate to be an asshole," or, "I get paid to be annoyed."  This is tricky, because you must possess a level of charm that I just don't have, as even my sincerity often comes out as sarcasm.  So, what to do?

 

The solution: Roundhouse kick to the face.  End of conversation.

 

 

 





*Please feel free to say it.





 

 

 



 



 

 

 





Coming out...as annoyed.

In honor of National Coming Out Day (Weeeeee!) I am making the first part of this blog purple, and coming out to my friends and family, FINALLY, as extremely annoyed.  To continue.  


Between trying desperately to keep up with the Kardashians (how does anyone do it?!?!?!), failing that, and watching Friends re-runs, I have not posted my signature, extremely hilarious, excruciatingly entertaining, painfully funny blog entry in quite some time.  For that, I apologize.  I mean, with all that is going on in news and entertainment, the fact that I haven't written a funny blog lately is kind of like...the idea of me being in a karaoke bar with you, and not just rocking the ever living shit out of Shoop by Salt n Peppa, and thus bringing your heart crashing down so far you are looking up at rock bottom. 

                       I don't know what this has to do with Shoop, but the words "smooth black skin" seem to always draw me back to this picture.

But it has provided me with a great deal of fodder with which to play with, and thus, entertain you with.  And for that you should be quite grateful.


First off, I saw the movie Bridesmaids, and while it filled me with joy to see great actresses rocking a great script by a great female writer/actress, I couldn't help thinking that this is 2011, and this is the first time I have seen anything remotely true to what it is like to be a struggling, emotionally haywire, yet fundamentally good-natured and misunderstood woman (something I may knwo something about).  The narrative centers around some of the difficult, most-stress inducing months of her life, and her resultant, less than cool-headed response.  This is something we have seen AD-NAUSEUM with male characters in movies, with the John Cusacks of the world gaining international fame, money, and most importantly likability and emotional relevance to their viewers. It's easy for anyone, man or woman, to relate to these guys.  Complete emotional immaturity? Check.  Attraction and addiction to the wrong people? Check.  Decisions based on superficial, fleeting, and reactionary rationale?   Check.  Capability of securing a a booty call but not maintaining a loving relationship?  Check.  Penis?  Lemme...check...

       I'll distract him with my sexy eyes, and then the purple dildo is mine!  It'll match my doublet. 




I presume studios think of stories about men as having the capacity to be universal, while stories about women have a clear "target audience."  I suppose this is a contention that may have some evidence.  Plenty of women and men have told me that the Holden Caulfield is totally relatable, yet I can't say many men have felt the same way about Elizabeth Bennett.  I think Bridesmaids breaks that mold.  Anybody could relate to Kristen Wigg's character.  How many times have I had an actor from Mad Men as a steady fuck-buddy with a cute foreign cop following me around?  More times than I can COUNT.  I AM ONE WOMAN, PEOPLE!

In all seriousness, the movie does something I honestly haven't seen before.  And that is, for lack of a better word, AWESOME.  There are three movies I have always wished there was a female equivalent for, and this is a start.  Basically, I have always wanted a female-centered:

1. High Fidelity.  It is really kind of awesome to think of a nerdy, urban, hobby obsessed, self-defeating 30-something WOMAN tracking down her exes to figure out what is wrong with her.  However, it may not be as delightful as HiFi, considering the responses from men I see are either A) terror B) indifference (and thus, no response or C) man-sobbing and readiness to list every CONCEIVABLE flaw with this woman, complete with physical and sexual shortcomings.  It might lend itself to a nice moment of "Can't you just say 'Fuck You" like that chick in High Fidelity?"

2. About a boy.  This one is way trickier.  I think most people would find a completely emotionally cut-off woman living off of her inheritance and deceiving men with a cool apartment and a series of lies might be a little upsetting, but I think it would be absolutely hilarious.  Of course she would have to fall in love with an actual good person in the end and come to some realization about...something, but HEY. In the meantime we will get some awesomely uncomfortable scenes of her lies unravelling at nice dinners, and the befuddled men who can't believed they were duped out of sex, but we'll know which ones are shitty when they just don't care.


3. Rushmore.  Sure, people might be a little creeped out by a fifteen year old girl practically stalking a male teacher, but after people were okay with The Professional, they need to fucking get over anything else.  That was a great movie BECAUSE it had unconventional expression of sexuality in it, not despite it.  Anywho, I would really like to see a dorky girl fall in love with her sweet, compassionate teacher and then go about her feelings in every wrong way possible.  You know...just because.  Not that it happened to me, personally...or anything.


But, despite the success of Bridesmaids, I will probably have to suffer through some more cinematic constipation, resulting in the Kate Hudsons of the world lamenting not being appreciated in their advertising jobs while Matt McConaughey won't marry them at the exact moment they decide they need to be married.  Or watch Carrie Bradshaw take the feminist movement back 30 years with Sex and the City 14.  Or maybe I should just accept that it is not the gender of the character, but the relevance of the character to the viewer's life.  It isn't about male or female, but good writing!  Yeah!  Who cares if the ratio is off, and I mean WAY off, as long as good movies can still get made, who cares!  That's what matters...good writing!  YEAH!


Or maybe I should just reconsider that penis...

                                                                     I do look damn good with a mustache.

5.

Ima shake you off though 
Get up on that horse and 
Ride into the sunset 
 Look back with no remorse 


Four years ago today, I, as a somewhat embarrassed and awkward (acne-ridden and a bit overweight) super-senior, started a blog with song lyrics, followed by an explanation. For reminiscence sake:


I've seen fire, and I've seen rain. 
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end. 
 I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. 
But I always thought that I'd see you, baby, one more time again. 


I think everyone experiences all of these things in their lifetime. Little did I know I would experience them all in the span of one, single year. 


I continued. I explained how strange it is to have a sting run through your body at the mention of a certain day of the year. My date is September 26th, 2006, the day when I jumped headfirst into a distorted world of psychosis, floated and dreamed and gurgled for meaning and beauty, so far from coherence it is amazing to think I freestyle swam with Phelpsian speed back to reality. Unsurprising, however, that I drifted in and out of that world for the remaining few months of that dreadful holiday season. In this essay I explain how the friendships I had built anew, along with the old ones that I had strengthened over the course of this nightmare were keeping me afloat, and I express my immense gratitude for this gift. I still acknowledge this gift as I did four years ago, but finally feel deserving of it.  


Rereading this blog, because the experience and reflection on it are still relatively precise in my memory, lacked a lot of surprises despite the odd comfort and affirmation it brought my afternoon. However, one sentence jumped out at me and my heart, eliciting compassion for my 22 year-old self, along with pride for my 26 year old one. 


"I would never say that I am glad that happened, but I will say that not everyone gets the opportunity to have such a profound test of friendship, and those of you who still brighten my everyday, who make my life blissfully worth living must know how amazing you are." 


It is odd that I thought I would never be thankful for the enrichment that moment brought my life, how it shaped me, how it not only tested my friendships but tested the deeply embedded strength I had pooled and kept on reserve for so long. And that strength won in spades. How amazing it was as well, despite all of the evidence and doubt coming at me from every direction, that I never imagined any other course of events happening, that I bet on myself against all odds and I came out on top. How amazing I was. 


Five years later I sit with new lyrics looping in my head, those of CocoRosie and the song Werewolf. Once again, because they bear repeating. 


I’ma shake you off though 
Get up on that horse and 
Ride into the sunset 
Look back with no remorse 


This song describes an incredibly painful journey away from a person, but while the pain seems to sear her, it is a journey and a song decorated with moments of pure and delicate beauty. Precious beauty, that without the stings and stabs of the journey itself would be depleted from the mind's eye and muted to a dull grey. I always felt abandoned by the people I lost during the death of my former life that this experience precipitated. Many people left my side for simpler, prettier pastures. But my journey was away from that day, not those people. I resented the day and refused to see the colors that had finally appeared after the day was over. I wanted to never think about what had happened again, and acknowledging the world it had opened up, no matter how gloriously beautiful the things I could finally dream about and see and think, would only remind me of the life I had lost. Speaking about what I had seen on my journey was not an option. I could no longer be the crazy friend everyone worried about. So I dove head first into the written word. 


I am the great mathematician, dividing my words into even, manageable parts with no remainder. That is my sanctuary and my prison cell. My vocal chords tighten, loosen, and then disappear out of my sensual consciousness. I am given sights, sounds and speech to squish, remold, and repackage; the raw materials become the description of humanity I intend them to be, "humanity" still being a persona I feel removed from, outside of. I swallow, close my eyes, and open them, waiting for the words to come to me. Waiting for their illustrative caress. 


In a dream I was a werewolf 
My soul was filled with crystal light 
Lavender ribbons of rain sang 
Ridding my heart of mortal fight 


I used to pray that this dream would come to me, make my experience clear, reveal my purpose from God and I would be healed. I would bask in the calmness and sanctuary of this knowledge. I realized something today. After the trauma of believing my friends were in danger the night before occurred and I escaped to my familiar, physical and mental sanctuary of my best friend, the new trauma was once again healed by the presence of Jackie, the sleep I finally got knowing she was near, and the cleansing and familiar bath I had taken in Jackie's house so many times before after so many traumas: that dream already happened. It was filled with crystal light, it had lavender ribbons pouring over my body and all around me, I no longer had to fight anymore. It was that day, September 26, 2006. I remember beauty emanating from every sight and radiating through me. I remember infinity opening itself up to me. I remember the power coming from my heart so forceful I doubled over: everything about me is exactly how it is supposed to be because it is exactly what it is at this moment, and every cell is throbbing to keep me alive because I am supposed to be. My purpose is Meredith Mullins. 


How lucky I was to have that moment open up to me like an origami swan, and how tragically beautiful that I am just realizing it. But how beautiful nonetheless. 
  
I don’t mean to close the door 
But for the record my heart is sore 
You blew through me like bullet holes 
Left stains on my sheets and stains 
On my soul 
You left me broke down beggin for change 
Had to catch a ride with a man who’s deranged 
He had your hands and my father’s face 
Another western vampire different time same place 
I had dreams that brings me sadness 
Pain much deep that a river 
Sorrow flow through me in tiny waves of shivers 
Corny movies make me reminisce 
Break me down easy on this generic love shit 
First kiss frog and princess 


I was so alone, begging for change, trusting whoever would let me. So much sorrow in tiny waves of shivers. 


What I am shaking off today along with the help of my freak funk power duo CocoRosie, is not the hatred towards those who abandoned me. That died long ago. It is not the experience itself, for I thank God for it. Its pained yet sweeping glory and artistry continue to reveal themselves to me, with the powerful symmetry, pattern and cyclical nature of my life being elucidated more clearly with every infinite moment, every expanding possibility. 


What I am shaking off, at long last, is the person that emerged through this day, this other self, who told me for the past five years that this day was wrong and something to be ashamed of, making me wrong and something in this world that just doesn't quite fit. This sieve of my clarity, this voice robbing me of my experience and peace of mind because it came to me through an unconventional path, through an often shamed road less traveled. This person is finally gone. Look back with no remorse. 

Oh in a dream 
My father came to me 
And made me swear that I’d keep 
What's sacred to me 
And if I get the choice 
To live in his name 
I pray my way through the Rain 
Singing Oh happy day

a day without pain

Excerpt from first session with therapist last week:

Me: I really don't like to talk about my feelings. In fact, in most relationships I have had, I have gone months before bringing up anything that is bothering me, and my boyfriend is shocked that anything is wrong to begin with. "You are so good at hiding it" they have always said.

Therapist: Well, if you are that good at it, it is going to be a test for me as a therapist. I am sure that some things will get by me. You will have to tell me if I miss something big.

Me: That is the whole problem, though. I bury things so deeply I don't even know what is making me upset. I talk myself out of whatever it is. Intellectualize my feelings. Then I am just left with the hurt, without the reason.

Coming out
I feel that writing anything that seriously explores my feelings or experiences that isn't a handwritten journal (with a lock and key and a Lisa Frank design on the cover) is not only difficult beyond all reason, but also a bit self-indulgent and whiney. Difficult because nothing I write seems original, everything seems trite and self-evident. When I pick apart the latest pop-culture phenomenon, or deprecate myself to hilarious results (as earlier blogs will illustrate), it is effortless. It is as if those thoughts were just bubbling at the top of my consciousness, and all I had to do was put them in a semi-coherent line. Also, with everything that is whined about on the internet, in the facebook culture of self-adverstisement, who needs more? However, I feel at this point in my life and personal journey of diagnosis, that this method of communication is the only way that I can express to my friends what I am really going through.

I am coming out. Not in the way that my former coworkers may have expected (Rollin and Patrick, I'm really sorry). I am coming out as a person who is in constant physical pain. Some have called in fibromyalgia, I am not sure what it is. But in the past few months, the spotty, extremely manageable pain has reached a point in which it is constantly in my body and on my mind.

People have made jokes about my laziness; my ability to sleep all day and supposed lack of desire to move whatsoever. I have laughed them off, shrugged them off. But let me paint a picture of a woman, who at the age of 21, exercised four hours a day. Appeared in plays. Had a gymnast's body and a cheerleader's attitude. Or even a woman who at 25 woke up an hour before work just to do ballet, walked to work, and then swam in the evening. Well, that woman was thrilled with every moment of physical activity her body would allow, addicted to it, even. And each time she felt enlivened by the cathartic movement of her body, movement that healed her troubled past, movement that represented hope for the future; each and every time she felt sage, she was quickly and violently met with the complete breakdown of her body: the ultimate betrayal.

And that is where I am right now. I miss that woman, that woman I was. But rather than desiring world-class ability in movement onstage as I once did as a 20 year old, or the creative spark that movement brought to my writing as a 25 year old, my goal is clear.

I just want that first day. I want that first day I wake up without pain. I want that day where I walk around, go about my day without noticing a knot in my hand that I can't rub out. I want that day in which I go to sleep because my body and brain is a normal level of tired, rather than that moment in which I finally make myself lay down, with the disappointment of what my body is capable of still buzzing in my head, my body aching beyond control, and the over the counter painkillers in arm's length. I don't even remember what it is like without the pain.

A day without pain is something the healthy among us take for granted; a given part of human existence. The trouble in their lives, or your lives, is real, but very different. Will I get into law school? Will she ever like me? Will I need to borrow money to make rent? Those types of problems I will face in their own time. But I am widdling down my life to something more manageable, as the great movie "Adaptation" describes. Just that first day, and I will go from there.

It is hard to describe to the average person what it is like to seriously dread getting groceries or doing laundry, not because of the tedious nature of those tasks, but for what it might do to your body. It is hard to describe getting so much joy out of dancing at a concert but knowing in the back of your mind what that could mean for the next day's mobility.

I am not equating my problems to the real horrors of the world. I am not asking for sympathy. I just am asking my friends for understanding, and making my goal visible to me and everyone who may care. I also want to begin to chronicle my struggle with this in some way, and maybe I one day I can compile a real resource for those suffering. But for now, once again, I just want that day.

The greatest and most wonderful blog you will ever read*

*today within the 10 minutes you are actually reading it.


Few of my blogs are anecdotal. While most writers opt to showcase their storytelling ability on their blog, I favor a much more spitfire, look how intelligent I am, 'don't you feel stupid' kind of approach. However I have been advised and feel it absolutely necessary to share a story from the past week that will not only entertain you, but cause you serious distress about my mental and emotional stability.

As you and everyone who has ever met me may or may not know, I have a serious girl crush. Okay, let me take that back. I have a SERIES of girl crushes really. One has taken center stage as of late, but she is certainly not the first.

Top Five Meredith Mullins Girl Crushes of ALL TIME

5. Mrs. Stoner. This doesn't mean a lot to people who did not go to Lago Vista HS, and sounds almost made up, but a)any teacher who I would create in a drug-monikered fantasy would be named Mrs. Boones Farm, and b)anyone who did go to Lago Vista HS, yeah, she was um...hot. Just hearing the word factorial now...mmhmm.

4. Britney Spears, when she was hot, was really freaking hot, so she deserves an honorable mention. However, this spot goes to Salma Hayek playing Frida Kahlo and absolutely then and only then. Because frankly, she is a shitty actress, but when she played one of my communist, artistic soulmates it made her a million times hotter.

3. Last Summer, Anais Nin became my literary girl-crush of all time, especially considering she was a Piscean writer torn by constant indecision and narcissism. I read her journals and realized this is much of what my journals would look like if I had a journal and were a better writer. When this girl crush reached it's terrifying peak, however, was when I found out that Anais Nin was played in a the movie "Henry and June" by that tiny little woman from Pulp Fiction who was probably my first detectable girl crush EVER. The movie is absolutely terrible, but it secured Anais Nin and Maria de Madeiros a spot in the "Top Five Meredith Mullins Girl Crushes of ALL TIME" blog list. For reference: http://www.imdb.com/media/rm2768997888/tt0099762


2. Gwen Stefani. It got to the point that I was attempting intricate drawings of her face. Granted this was high school. And I was sort of Ally Sheedy-esque in HS, spending most of my time reading and writing in my journal. And...drawing pictures of Gwen Stefani. Really, I have no excuse.

and...


well...

1. Maddow. Duh.

So hearing she was in town, I naturally went barhopping too um...find her. And drink. And the combination of trying to find her and excessive drinking had disastrous results. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I set out to find Maddow on Friday. After a hard day of reporting on the Katrinaversary, I figure Maddow the mixologist would be kicking back in the French quarter with a nice cocktail among friendly company. Granted, the only lesbian bar in the city that I know of, Ruby Fruit Jungle, doesn't exactly seem like her scene, but I figured maybe she would just like to make a gesture of unity with the NOLA dykes. No, I wasn't that hopeful. But after being at an adjacent bar and having a lesbian get my hopes sky high by saying she "heard" Maddow would be there and then me actually letting the word vomit of "I am not asking you this because you are an obvious lesbian" exit my mouth, I was ready to be rejuvenated by that goofy laugh and Elvis haircut I have come to love. But I waited and waited. And drank and drank. And she didn't come. And when somebody got word that that was who I was looking for, she said, "Is that Maddow?" and as my eyes darted in the direction she pointed, I started to tear up at the prospect of actually witnessing her visage. However, it was a ruse. And I realized that was probably the last drink I was allowed, and my roomate agreed, and I got to wake up to his naked penis staring at me from MY BED he was in with his man-friend, as I had crashed on the couch.

So for those keeping score:

Evil lesbian: 1.
Meredith: 0.

When you find yourself watching the Muppet Babies theme song...

Can that shape machine cook me up a middle finger?

It may be time to blog. Just maybe.

I feel that fans of my incredible and exciting theatrical body (of work...that is) should probably boycott my blog, simply because it is single-handedly, at this moment, delaying the possibility of me ever finishing (or really getting a respectable start) on my latest play. However, there are so few of you I feel it hardly appropriate to alienate anyone, so forget everything I just said.

A world of stupid and ludicrous has fallen upon world news and national politics, so I don't even really know where to begin. This is gonna be a long one, folks. Since the possibility for hatred is so endless, I will just start with a love letter, and then move comfortably into abject rage.

Dear Rachel Maddow,

...swoon.

Thank you. Thank you for being a voice of steady, tempered reason in the midst of a clamoring of reactionary, reprehensible (and another words that start with re-) voices. It is odd, but refreshing, to watch somebody I so consistently agree with who so consistently challenges me. Thank you for being unapologetic about your sexuality, but still wildly successful, proving that it (indeed) can be done. Thank you for not taking shit, ripping people's arguments apart, but never for a second being anything but classy and cordial. Thank you for openly hating Coldplay. Mostly, thank you for being someone I can watch in the national news spotlight and have their words resonate with me. It is such a simple thing that hasn't ever happened to me. Thank you, dearest Rachel, for keeping your hair so short and wearing pant-suits. This makes it much easier for me to imagine our wedding day.

Love,

The Incomparable Miss Mullins

Ah, I feel so much better.

However, without Rachel Maddow I might never have heard of the terrifying rise of the new right, and might be all the less terrified because of it. Here is my girlfriend speaking about the rise of this terrifying party:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wr86F9rsihU&feature=related

also this is old, but just hilarious:

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=OLsKt4O4Yw8#t=26

What the hell is going on? My main problem with the Tea Party is not so much that it is against the president's policies, or against government spending, or even that it fails to distinguish between social programs and communism. My problem, to be fair, is that I honestly doubt that the Tea Party exists for any of those reasons.

When Obama was elected, one of my Republican friends remarked to me, "He is going to get assassinated. People are just too racist." "That's ridiculous," I responded, "and it sounds like you are the one who is racist." (I do not really have the class of Rachel Maddow.) However, I think my friend was more correct than I could have ever foreseen. When I see these protesters, these back-woods looking, buck-toothed protesters shouting untrue information about "Obama-care," I feel that Obama's biggest contribution to date is showing us who we really are, and it isn't pretty. It is in fact probably the most horrifying realization of the last decade: America is not ready for a black president. If you don't believe me, look at this lovely little video displaying some of the most acerbic criticism (if you could ever call it that; more appropriate would be defamation.) If you are attention deficit like I, you can really just skip to the last image to get the full picture in one second, or just look at it here.

This is racism, folks. Pure and simple. Jokes about lynching are not funny, and it is becoming clearer and clearer that it really isn't a joke. My problem with these tactics is three fold.

1) If this were actually a legitimate campaign, they would make perfunctory effort to get their facts straight. They are basing their movement on the Boston Tea-Party, the famed anti-tax rally. However 95% of Americans have received a tax cut under Obama. No, really. They don't want excessive spending or excessive taxes. Well, guess what Economics 101 class: tax-cuts cost MONEY. I feel this is unequivocal proof that this is merely a political tactic to get Obama out of the White House because, like 10% of people polled in Pennsylvania in 2007, they are just not ready for a black president. When will you be ready, Pennsylvania? Five years? Ten years? When will watching our president sit their entitled black-ass on Air Force one be okay with you? There is something sickening and wrong about some "monkey" as he has been characterized, or "witch doctor" controlling their country. They warn us against Obama's evil plan to put us all into white slavery. Because, yes, I just can't sleep at night with that extremely legitimate prospect hanging over my head.

2) If anything remotely comparable to this had been staged under the Bush Administration, the talk-pundits would be calling for allegations of treason. Okay, maybe that sign isn't treason, but it is certainly sedition. Let's look at the definition to see how it measures up:

Sedition is any act, writing, speech, etc.,directed unlawfully against state authority, the government, or constitution, or calculated to bring it into contempt or to inciteothers to hostility, ill will or disaffection.

Hmm...that sounds EXACTLY like what is going on. A picture of Obama being hanged scribbled with delight? But because this government is now ruled by the Democrats, no Republican pundit would dare to question the legitimacy or legality of such comments; instead, they support them! All we heard for eight years was how goddamn un-American we were if we just didn't want to suck George W. Bush's dick all day long, and now, people actually attempting to incite violence against the president and Democratic congressman is just downright cool with them! It is stunning what we are witnessing. But it is also FASCINATING how far it has been able to take them. Youtube Sharon Angle, or Tom Tancredo. Look at what they are saying. Exercising "Second Amendment liberties" is how she proposes to handle the Democrats and their excessive spending. Meaning...what exactly? How will guns help us solve this...exactly? Or Tom Tancredo. Advocating literacy tests for voters, because it is those gosh-darn blacks and Mexicans getting all uppity and voting this liberal black-Muslim into office. Yes, in a poll last year, 57% of Republicans said they believed Obama to be a Muslim. (I guess the "Hussein" in his name confused them.) If we get rid of those damn minorities, we get back the country! Woohoo!

3. I think because Obama is black, and this makes people so damn uncomfortable, he is not being given half the chance to do anything for the country since he hasn't turned a massive acquired deficit into liquid gold flowing down our nations waterways. Give him some time, people! We gave Bush 8 years to fuck everything up. I am probably one of the biggest liberal-minded critics of Obama I know, however expressing frustration is different than throwing up my hands after a year and a half and screaming "IMPEACHMENT". We accepted everything Bush did so blindly, because he looked and sounded like a president to us. He had a national crisis to lean on, and not supporting him made you un-American. That gave him free reign to do whatever the fuck he wanted, which unsurprisingly, was to pad some pocketbooks in Washington and get in better with the Saudis. Whatever, that's over (kind-of). But in a year and a half Bush stuck us squarely in the middle of two horrifically violent wars, spent taxpayers money like it was his "Super Sweet Sixteen," and we were still singing his praises. Hypocrisy, anyone?

In other news, I enjoyed Toy Story 3.

In other news, I know I am dead sexy, obvi. Natch. But what do you think I am going to do, driving men of St. Bernard Parish, when you honk at me or tell me to "shake that shit"? I have to walk 15 minutes from the bus stop to work everyday, and I have never been more harassed in my life. I don't think it is funny, cute, or flattering. I think it is gross. So since all of you are probably avid bloggers who troll blogspot for women you have harassed, I am issuing an order to cease and desist. If you actually think I am going to jump in your car, take of my shirt, and suck your dick because you managed to move your McDonald's accentuated arm from the steering wheel ALL THE WAY to the horn without collapsing from heart failure, then I admire your optimism, but no thank you. But really...how could anyone...morbidly obese or not...resist?

ACTUAL PHOTO OF ME IN ST BERNARD PARISH.

Drink it in.

R. I. P. Tyra Banks (Show). 2005-2010.

Three of my favorite boobs.

The Tyra Banks Show lived a happy, full existence on "network" (if you count the CW) television for five glorious and fruitful years. The Tyra Banks Show was a lover of contradictions, stereotypes, and mixed messages about female empowerment and beauty regimens. It leaves behind the profound mark on many young girls' self-esteem, and a legacy of pointless, tacky crap presented as fun, girl-power tips and mantras, all spouted from the lips of your average, neighborhood supermodel.  The Tyra Banks Show will be laid to rest on the CW-network where it spent most of it's later life, and viewings will be possible for the next year as a "Best of Tyra" will be aired for interested, loyal parties. Donations can be made in the Tyra Banks Show's name to Tyra Banks and her ever amassing empire, or just by the continued support of America's Next Top Model reruns, The Tyra Banks Show's closest and most personal friend.

I can't lie, I was a fan of Tyra Banks at one time. I was fascinated by America's Top Model and the modeling process it explored, and I admired her for her business savvy and ability to captivate audiences with her fun, expressive personality. She even appeared on a celebrity episode of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" and was clearly the most intelligent, knowledgeable person there, even helping most contestants from the stands when they got tripped up on a question. However, our relationship in my head started to sour with the birth of the Tyra Banks show. My feelings towards her became less amicable at moments during ANTM, when her mental stability seemed tenuous-"I HAVE NEVER YELLED AT A GIRL LIKE THIS"-and reasons for eliminating contestants became completely ratings and not talent-based, disguised by arbitrary explanations-"You've just lost...it."  ANTM eventually devolved into an unwatchable, almost cult-like worship of everything that is Tyra, with her frequently making a fool of herself for attention, parading around in costumes, and talking down to the contestants as if they were feeble minded, needy children so far from "Tyra" in all of her supermodel glory (often not far off, but still offensive).

Also I can't forgive her for the tattoo of this image in my head:

This is this picture's second appearance in one of my blogs. For that, I apologize. Brazilian wax anyone?

However, the moment I really disliked her was the first viewing of her talk show. Not only was there no hint of this intelligent person I had seen before, but there was a dangerous, hurtful message being spouted in almost every episode: "Everyone is beautiful, but this is how you do it."

See guys, I am not fat anymore!!! But I was totally cool with it when I was, I am just reiterating...

Let me unpack why I hate this message. First of all, I am sorry, but everyone is not beautiful by society's standards. Some people are not beautiful by most people's standards. And who cares? The only time it is really financially or emotionally beneficial to be beautiful in society is when your career requires it, or you love someone and you want them to be attracted to you. Sure, beautiful people get favors and come-ons now and again, but if we really think about the average person's desire to be beautiful, it is related to acceptance from the people they want to accept them. Some people (including Tyra) want the whole world to be attracted to them in order to wallow in their narcissistic pit, but once most people exit puberty the general rationale concerning beauty is how it relates to your personal sexual and romantic fulfillment. Non-societally beautiful people get hired every day, form relationships, have friends...it happens.

So why is Tyra banks focusing on beauty? I am so tired of beauty being portrayed as the main currency and indicator of self-worth on her show. The fact is, some people aren't beautiful. And that's ok. Can we get over it please? Telling someone on her show born without eyebrows (and devastated because if it) is beautiful (a real episode I saw) really isn't the point, is it? Someone so crushed about the presence of eyebrows that she can't get out of bed doesn't need to be given fake eyebrows and told she is beautiful. She needs to get to the root of why her face is her only mechanism for judging her ability and self-worth. She could draw on eyebrows and still be crushed by what she is lacking. But why?

Well, because the second part of Tyra's very mixed message is her method for becoming beautiful. It starts with telling yourself just that: I am beautiful. Done. Now how can I really make myself beautiful to everyone else? Now that I know I am beautiful, how do I show it? Well, on one episode, Tyra really drives this point home with that insufferable bitch from the Millionaire Matchmaker, Patti Stanger. She tells you exactly what guys want. Hair a little past the shoulders, no more, no less.

"No girls with short hair? Let's look in our audience..."(paraphrasing)

A girl with short hair stands up.

Patti: "Well, you're gorgeous. But you really need some lip gloss."

Tyra:"Do you have some?" she nods. "Put it on right now."

That's right ladies, you cannot catch a man without the proper lip gloss. It's just that crucial, sorry. Because men aren't looking for a real connection and attraction to a vibrant, intelligent, opinionated woman...oh no. Lip gloss. As close as you can resemble Lady Gaga, the better. Makeup. That is how you snag a man. Also important, Patti continued, is letting them come to you. Never text them. Never ask for their number, give them yours. Don't talk to much on the date. Be the beautiful, mid-length coiffed, lip gloss-ready girl you can be. Cuz that is all that you can be.

Tyra is not alone though. This message is everywhere, from makeover shows to Dove's real beauty campaign. It often described with a feminist slant, "Because every girl deserves to think they're beautiful." Here is the message from Dove's website:

the Dove mission: to make more women feel beautiful every day by widening stereotypical views of beauty.

First of all,"widening" stereotypes? Howsabout no stereotypes, or not worrying about them altogether? Simply, what I am saying on this blog:

Telling everyone they're beautiful, and focusing on beauty, does absolutely nothing to weaken the stranglehold beauty has on popular culture. It only strengthens it. Why not a campaign for real compassion, intelligence, open hearts and minds? Why should we even care who is beautiful? Dove, you are not going to make me feel beautiful by trying to tell me what beauty is. It is the same oppressive force you are fighting against in a feminist disguise.

By the way Dove, I know this is not news to lots of people, but do you think we could "widen" that stereotype to include the women you are telling to lighten their skin in India? The owner of Dove and their real beauty campaign, Unilever, is responsible for this ad.

Yeah. Fair and lovely.