Not really a jet plane. I'm going back to wordpress and changing the name.
Clearly I have commitment issues. You can find me at yeahandanotherthing.wordpress.com.
Hope to see you there.
Not really a jet plane. I'm going back to wordpress and changing the name.
Clearly I have commitment issues. You can find me at yeahandanotherthing.wordpress.com.
Hope to see you there.
I have said on several occasions that I don’t do serious topics on this blog, but every now and then I make an exception for something really important. This is one of those times. Today is Blog Action Day. I got involved with this project last year on another blog, and had decided if I was still writing this year, I’d do it again. I won’t go into a lot of detail about it here; you can take this link to find out more about it or to become involved. I’ll just say that today bloggers all over the world are writing about the same topic: Clean Water.
Let me start with a few facts:
Overwhelming numbers, aren’t they? The numbers get so overwhelming they start not to mean anything, and that is dangerous.
I knew from the time I heard this year’s topic that I wanted you to know about Memphians who are getting clean water to those most in need. It was a no-brainer for me to tell the story of my family’s church, Idlewild Presbyterian (PCUSA) in Memphis, and its involvement in the Synod of Living Waters and its global mission project Living Waters for the World. Living Waters trains members of churches (all denominations) and civic groups to go into communities and—with local partners—identify schools, orphanages, hospitals, and other locations with contaminated water supplies. The local partners are trained to install, operate, and sustain clean water systems.
Still doesn’t mean a whole lot, does it? I asked Idlewild member Buddy Nix to help me talk about Living Waters. Here’s what he told me:
My involvement came about because of Wil Howie (Wil is Director of Living Waters for the World) giving a talk at our Presbytery camp, Pinecrest, about the project to provide clean water to people who need it. I am a member of Idlewild Presbyterian Church and the church decided to set up a committee to become involved in this project. We first decided that Mexico and Ghana would be the two countries we would work in.
Then I attended the training session at Clean Water U, Camp Hopewell, Oxford, MS, to learn about the systems we were to install.
I became involved with Ghana and made a trip with some members of Advent Presbyterian Church in Memphis who were already installing clean water projects in Ghana. They introduced us to the Presbyterian Church of Ghana leaders who told us of places that needed our systems.
Our lives were immediately changed as we saw very young children walking long distances to draw water from a well and put it in containers on their heads to carry it home. This is the way they have to obtain their water for drinking, cooking, and bathing every day. How easy it is for us to turn on the faucet and get all the water we need. Our water is clean, and the well water they get is contaminated. This causes sick days for them and shortens their lives. Many suffer bad backs as adults because of all the heavy loads of water they had to carry as children.
Our systems need a source of water (rain water, sump pump, or municipal water), electricity, and a security system. This virtually limits the places where we can install systems to hospitals, clinics, schools, churches, and conference centers.
We had to meet with the administrators of potential places for installations, test their water to find out if our system could help, and begin work on a covenant to agree on who would provide what. We want them to feel like it is their system, and they need to operate it, maintain it, and protect it.
On our second trip to Ghana we installed a system and looked for new places to make installations. Follow-up trips will keep the same pattern. We check on systems we have installed, look for new potential sites, and complete covenants in preparation for the next trip. It has to be organized for sustainability, to keep the systems working and to continue into the future.
We experience the challenge of trying to purchase the equipment we need in Ghana and train the people there to handle their own installations and maintenance.
Buddy told me I might want to contact another Idlewild member, Jim Levernier. Jim was also gracious enough to share the story of his involvement with Living Waters. Here is Jim’s story:
After 20 years of general and 10 years of developmental pediatric practice I knew that I still wanted to focus on helping children achieve their potential. They are indeed the future. When I learned of Living Waters for the World (LWW), a mission project of the Synod of the Living Waters, Presbyterian Church, USA, I saw a way of helping thousands instead of just one at a time.
Often the statistic of children dying of contaminated food and water is quoted as the reason we need to help bring clean water and hygiene education to all peoples of the world. More than 30,000 die each week. It is a noble reason. But what about the children who manage to survive one after the other episode of dehydration from contaminated water? They grow up far below their potential in physical stature and mental ability. And what of the country that is deprived of so many bright energetic citizens and is instead burdened by many poorly productive hard to educate youth? And what of the world that is deprived of so many productive inventive countries and is instead burdened by those countries that threaten peace because of their inability to take part in a global society? Well now, THAT is a reason to spread clean water and hygiene education to all corners of the world!
LWW has always been about building relationships, providing systems and training to produce safe water and teaching health and hygiene practices in the spirit of keeping all that God made “good” as good as He intended. As LWW has grown and matured in its mission, our focus is more and more on listening to “local solutions”, considering economic independence for systems and planning for sustainability of clean water and continuation of education in each locality. Individual systems are now being grouped into “networks” to support one another and to allow individual mission groups to contribute to growth without the fear that their work not be sustained. LWW network coordinating teams will lend support and direct new mission teams where and when needed.
This is the sort of mission that truly fulfills my grandiose desire to “save the world”. I am not crazy enough to think that I can do this alone or that LWW is the only mission that can do it. This is a humbling task. However, if all of us who can will build sustainable systems of education and health to insure that most every child born in this world can develop to their full brilliant potential, then we just might save our world for those precious ones that live on after us.
Guys, if you know me, you know I can be a little—let’s call it cynical. But I have to tell you what keeps going through my mind after hearing those stories:
What if the next child to suffer diminished mental capacity from lack of clean water was the boy who had the cure for cancer?
What if the next child to die from lack of clean water was the one to lead her country to peace?
What if I had been the child to walk 20 kilometers a day to find clean water for my family rather than attend school?
Look, I know that not everyone has the opportunity to go to Ghana and install a water system. That’s okay. There’s plenty to be done here at home. The average American family of four uses about 400 gallons of water a day. According to the EPA, 36 states are looking at local, regional, or statewide water shortages by 2013. And let me tell you, if you think you can’t do anything about that, you are so wrong. So. Wrong. The fix at home isn’t a huge undertaking. Not keeping the water running when you brush your teeth can save eight gallons of water a day. I’ll tell you, that’s my habit to break right there. I am the worst offender. Household leaks can account for 10,000 gallons of wasted water a year. That’s a swimming pool by the way. Now, as my husband can tell you after fixing a leak in our bathroom last weekend, there may be a lot of cussing involved in the fix, but that’s not a reason not to do it. A leaky showerhead alone can account for a loss of 500 gallons of water a year, and most of the time it can be fixed with a twist of a wrench. These are not difficult, expensive, or time consuming projects. I mean, I’m pretty lazy and all, but I think I can train myself to turn off the water when I brush my teeth.
The availability of safe, clean, accessible water is a basic human right. It doesn’t matter if we’re Christian, Muslim, Hindu, or atheist. It doesn’t matter if we live in a city or a desert. It doesn’t matter if we are rich or poor. The need for potable water unites us. As Jim, Buddy, and all those involved with Living Waters of the World have shown, just a few people can make a huge impact. I thank you both for sharing your stories.
I've talked about this before in various places and various formats, but I'm going to talk about it again.
Clothing companies hate me because I am, as the kids say, plus sized.
They really hate me when it's time to dress up. They seem to like me okay for t-shirts and the occasional elastic waist denim pant? jean? What are those unholy creations? Other than that, they hate me. I was reminded yesterday how much they hate me when I had to go shopping for a black skirt. I went to A Major American Retailer specifically because, well, one, it was a free-standing store not in a mall, and two-- they are known for dressing the career gal and career gals wear black skirts.
But let me back up.
You see, I'd ordered a black skirt a week or so ago. I didn't really want one, but I found NOTHING appropriate to wear to This Thing I have to go to where they frown on you for wearing drawstring sweats and flip flops. Fascists. Anyway, my failsafe was this kind of nifty sweater/black skirt combo. Except my black skirts didn't fit anymore because they were left over from my gainful employment days when I routinely walked a 150,000 square foot building three or four times a day. In other words, my ass has gotten huge. I order this skirt and AFTER the order is placed, card charged, and order picking begun, I find out the skirt is on back-order and will not ship until after This Thing.
At this point, let me step aside to say that should be illegal. There is no reason to let me know an item is on back-order AFTER my order is placed. I'd have picked something else. You wouldn't lose the sale. Now, now you're going to lose the sale because you told me orders can't be canceled while they're "in-process" and so when that stuff gets here, I'll be sending it right back with a love letter inside.
Okay, so now we're at the point where I'm inside this Major American Retailer and I go to the Women's Department for a black skirt. And I get it. IT. I. GET. IT. There is one--ONE--skirt in the entire department and fortunately it's black, and my size is one of the THREE they have.
What fresh hell is this?
So this Major American Retailer has a survey on the bottom of the receipt, and I go online and do the survey and say, you know, I'd totally get over the fact that NO ONE spoke to me THE ENTIRE TIME I WAS THERE-- INCLUDING CHECK OUT-- if you had more than six racks of clothes for me to choose from. I wouldn't care. In fact, I continue, your associates could stand at the door and fling poo at me. I'd be totally fine with that if you had any prints that didn't look like the dog threw Skittles up on double knit polyester.
I'M SAYING YOU COULD FLING POO AT ME IF YOU HAD CUTE CLOTHES!!
I don't understand. I really don't. If the average size is 14, wouldn't you think you'd want a lot of stuff in that size? I would think, if I really taxed my ladybrain, if I were a buyer I would base my runs from the most popular and work out. Now, I know this is not how buyers buy. And that's stupid. If I'm the head of a private label for a Major American Retailer, I might think, wow, this is a huge opportunity for us. We know that plus sizes tend to sell better at full price than misses, we know our customers come in a wide range of shapes, so why don't we do something crazy and make clothes for her? Clothes that come in other colors besides black and dog puke.
I am so, so tired of this shit. I mean, I'm 5'9". If I were a size 2, people would be holding me down and forcing feeding me pie. Look, it's not like I'm sitting around eating bon bons every day, okay? I exercise EVERY DAY. I have places to go that (unfortunately) require that I not wear sweatpants or (fortunately) double knit poly pull-ons. I have money to give you. Now.
Each time a plus size woman walks in a store and is greeted with the kind of psychedelic, vomitus dreck that's out there, that retailer is saying, We don't care about you or your money. We'd rather not have it. We don't need it.
If you can sew, have been told you have great style, and are interested in working for free for several years, hit me up. I'm seriously considering walking the talk.
'Cause I'll be happy to take your money.
I don’t get too much into serious stuff here. I mean, if you’ve read this blog before, you know that I’m better suited to telling stories like how my husband had to go to the mall last week and he texts me to say that it is totally different than the last time he was there, but he’s glad to know the floating ball is still there. And I’m like what floating ball? And he’s all, uh, THE TWO TON MARBLE ORB IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL THAT FLOATS ON A STREAM OF WATER TOTALLY DEFYING LOGIC AND POSSIBLY A COUPLE OF LAWS OF PHYSICS!! And I’m like, wow, I can’t believe I missed that.
Yeah, I’m better suited to that stuff.
I want to break from my normal banality to talk about something a little dear to me, which is the new Greater Memphis Greenline (GMG). For those of you not in the Memphis area, Our Fair City has just turned an old CSX short line railway into a hiking-biking trail system that, at this point, connects a part of (roughly) central Memphis with Shelby Farms Park.
I happen to live across the street from a section of this trail. I can sit in my living room and watch people on the trail. It’s basically in the backyard of the people who live across the street. Now here’s where I come to my point. I’ve heard a lot recently that’s just plain bitching about the GMG: Why don’t people who live near the GMG get 24-hour armed police protection from all the undesirables lurking around the GMG just waiting to eat our children? In three months, I’ve heard, the thing is going to be vandalized and become a home for junkies. No one here in Memphis understands how to use the trail. Why, back when I lived in Portland/Atlanta/Seattle/East Granola Heights, people just intuitively understood trail etiquette. Not like these hicks here. It’s not this. It’s not that. Why can’t we do the other thing?
You know what, stop. Just stop.
I have to tell you that I actually feel safer (not that I ever felt unsafe) in my neighborhood because there are more people around now. I live in a fairly active neighborhood to begin with, but now I see my neighbors and their kids out riding and walking all day, every day. The people I hear complaining about the safety of the GMG don’t actually seem to be people who live on it. We’re thrilled to have it. I mean, seriously, what’s going to happen? Roving bands of road riders are going to take over and force-feed me energy gels? Mountain bikers are going to tie me up and force me to listen to three hours of the hardtail/full suspension debate?
Yes, there are some people acting like…wait for it…asshats on the trail, but I think that’s more because it’s new and people haven’t really gotten into an etiquette swing yet. No, you can’t walk or ride four-abreast. Move on. Yes, there are some aggressive bikers out there who can be annoying. But you know what? It’s as much that asshat’s trail as it is mine. With use comes rhythm. I’ve already found the people I pass early in the morning on weekdays are entirely different users than those on the weekends. We all find our rhythm.
Guys, use the thing first. Just use it. Listen to your broccoli. Listen to your broccoli, and your broccoli will tell you how to eat it. Use the trail, and it will develop. It will get extended. It will stay safe. But before we get into MEMPHIS CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT STUPID CITY WILL ALWAYS BE SECOND RATE BUNCH OF KNUCKLEHEADS, let’s just take a moment to use the GMG. Let’s address issues as we need to, issues that are there, and not get into this oh what it oh what if stuff. Be proactive, yes, but that’s different than being a grumpy puss.
In other words, quit yer fussin’ and get out! A nice walk will work off some of that aggression.
I blame the microwave for my bizarre attention span.
The microwave made me understand 30 seconds. Thirty seconds is a long time when you are heating a corndog, coffee, or TheraFlu. When it’s the time between your husband picking up the Twinkie box and then realizing his lovely, delicate flower of a wife HAD to have pounded back three of those devil spongecakes in rapid succession because this morning there were some left and now there aren’t? Thirty seconds ain’t so much.
I get positively stabby waiting for my hotdog to cook, but I am perfectly capable of spending two or three hours looking at freakish hot dog ads from the ‘50s and ‘60s. Downloading a new Twitter client takes forever, but I can take days—DAYS—agonizing about which of the more than 1800 Twitter apps I want. Printing pictures seems like I might as well be chiseling them out of marble, but I can swear I’ve only been editing for an hour; and I’m totally shocked when I look up only to see my husband standing over me asking, WHERE ARE MY TWINKIES, WOMAN?
How did it get to be six? What am I doing with my life? Why did I just suck back three Twinkies?
Technology has made me, as it has many others, ridiculously intolerant of glitches. For two days I have threatened to send my computer flying because a CERTAIN PHOTO EDITOR keeps crashing my system. After twice losing the pictures of grandchildren I am to be editing for my father-in-law, I started poking around to see what was wrong. Somehow I’ve missed a couple of software updates.
Thus begins the cycle of FIND UPDATE DOWNLOAD REBOOT UPDATE DOWNLOAD REBOOT. You know what I mean. All of a sudden I felt like me when I go to my parents’ or in-laws’ house. I’m getting snippy with myself: Whaddya mean you haven’t installed updates during the Obama administration? When was the last time you cleaned out your cache? I know it’s a picture, MOM, but I figured after fifteen years of owning one of them electric home computing machines YOU’D KNOW WHAT I MEAN WHEN I SAY JAY-PEG! AND QUIT DOWNLOADING EVERYTHING TO YOUR DESKTOP!
Right then? And you didn’t see this because, well, what sort of sense would that make? But right then I just lost an hour and a half. Doing what? Oh, gosh, well first I listened to this new song then that made me remember this other song I like, and then I remembered I wanted to check out this website, and that made me remember I was trying to make a necklace like the one I saw on this OTHER website that was just way too expensive, and then I got sucked into the Hatch Show Print gallery, then I realized, wow, that was a weird leap from necklaces to letterpress art, then I thought oh yeah, letterpress, I was going to do some calling cards for my mother, and wait, wasn’t I writing something?
I was saying that when the computer and I get into a battle, everything else deteriorates: I can’t find anything to wear to this wedding I have to go to. Oh, wait, I DO have someth…oh, never mind. My ass has gained a third-grader since I wore that. And then even though the phone hasn’t rung all day, right that second, everyone and their dog starts calling my cell and then the house phone because I didn’t pick up my cell. Then I realize not only do I have to buy a new black skirt (side note: WHY do all plus-size skirts flare out so horribly? They’re all so boxy. I have hips; I might as well show them off. My kingdom for a pegged pencil skirt), I haven’t gotten a present for the adorable couple. Oh, AND I have to go pick up my prescriptions, the price of which could finance a small European country (providing they were willing to give up government-provided fruit and cheese plates), but which I have to have SO I DON’T THROW THE COMPUTER THAT STARTED THIS WHOLE MESS THROUGH THE WINDOW.
All of this to say, the nightly ritual in my house goes something like this:
Husband: Goodnight, I love you.
Me: I love you too. But I hate everyone else.
Husband: I know you do, pumpkin. I know you do.
I’ve been back and forth with writing this piece. I haven’t known where to start, what to say, how to get my point across without shouting, cursing, or crying. I had sort of decided with this blog that I was going to venture into anything too serious, but I think this is important to talk about.
So I will.
Let me start out by saying that an hour ago I was furious. I was one step away from throwing expensive pieces of computer hardware across the room. I wanted to hurt someone. I went for a walk, took some deep breaths, and tried to patch together what I wanted to say. I hope this will make me clearer as well. It is important for me to get my point across rationally and calmly even though right now I feel neither rational nor calm.
This afternoon I read something that really bothered me. I’ll share it with you:
The truth of it is, calling the cruelty that kids show to one another, based on race or gender identity or class or any other imaginary difference, by a name like "cyberbullying" is a cop-out. It's a group of parents, school administrators and lazy reporters working together to shirk their own responsibility for the meanspirited, hateful, incomprehensible things their own kids do.
I actually was somewhat on the same page with this article until I got to that little gem. On one hand, I found common ground with the idea that bullying is terrible and we don’t really need to put cyberbullying in its own category. On the other hand, the sheer fact that one is not standing face-to-face with the person he or she is bullying, much like the white sheets of the Klan, give bullies a sense of invincibility that turns school yard taunting into something so savage, so vicious, and so devastating that it can and does become deadly. The position that giving a name to a very real phenomenon is shirking our responsibility to our children makes my stomach churn.
Kids are mean. Teenagers are horrendous. My idea of hell is that it involves being a fifteen-year-old girl for eternity. On the formspring page of one thirteen year old girl I know, someone had written that she was too ugly to be seen in public. She was just a dumb bitch. Yeah, there are some kids who would have said that to her face. This one didn’t. So you know what, I’ve got no idea if I’ve failed that kid. I’ve got no idea if I’ve shirked my responsibility to that kid because I don’t know who it is.
Cyberbullying is viral. It is instant. And in the case of six (that we know about) young people the past few weeks, it became fatal. Teenagers are like pack animals. There tends to be an alpha who sways the group. So what starts as one person calling someone a fag, turns into ten people calling him a fag. How many times have you asked a kid, “Why did you say that?” and she says, “I dunno.” You know what? She’s probably right. She probably doesn’t know. She just acted out of self-preservation to avoid the scrutiny of the pack. So then it turns into sharing embarrassing stories about someone on Facebook. It turns into posting embarrassing videos on YouTube. So am I still failing my child because I can’t get a video taken off a website quickly enough to avoid fifty people seeing it? Oh, but it’s only fifty people. Yeah, and then the other ten each of that fifty tell about the video, and then the other twenty those ten each tell.
I hear teenage girls talking about wanting a gay guy best friend to go shoe shopping with as if he’s some trendy accessory, a toy poodle to stick in a tote bag. I hear women in their twenties call each other whore or hooker—at work—as if those are terms of endearment. You want to know how many times I’ve heard that something someone has said online has contributed to a teenage suicide attempt? Do you? Because it’s going to take a while, so sit down.
And you know what? You can sit back and say that kids need tougher skins—oh, well, we played smear the queer every day at school, we beat the shit out of each other and we turned out okay. Buck up. Yeah, that may be. But your kids aren’t coming out quite as unscathed as you.
There is a kid out there—right now—who thinks he’s a freak. There are kids out there who think that because they are attracted to the “wrong” person that they are abhorrent, abnormal, sick, or worthless. Look, I felt miserable and alienated for years and I didn’t have the added pressure of having to come out to my friends and family. So I can’t call on my experience with that to say I know how hard that is. But I do know what it’s like to feel alone. I know what it’s like to feel like no one understands, cares, or can help. BUT IT’S NOT TRUE. All I know is that today, I went for a long walk so I wouldn’t put my foot through my computer. I know that sitting here writing this is letting me focus my emotions. What I know is that I WON’T FEEL LIKE THIS FOREVER.
And that’s really what I want to say. Sometimes it will feel messy an unfocused, like writing this does now. Sometimes it’s going to hurt, and I’m not going to lie about that.
But it won’t feel like this forever.
Here's a link to the Cyberbullying Research Center.
I left The Twitter several months ago. I didn’t so much want to, but like my honey <3 <3 IRL got all OMG!! :) When are you gonna GET IN THERE AND MAKE ME A SANDWICH, WOMAN?! And by “make me a sandwich,” I mean turn my Twitter feed off while we’re, you know, making with the marriage stuff.
NOTE: Right here is where my husband (aka The Ham King) turns and says, your boundaries are getting awfully thin these days, and I go, well, thanks, I’ve been working out, and he goes, uh, that was not a compliment.
Where was I? Twitter induced attention span of a oooh, did I just get a new follower?
What I was going to say is that since joining back up with The Twitter, I realize not how empty, shallow, and pathetic my life is—I totally came to terms with that years ago. What I have realized is that I should be more calculating in my tweets. And this is not actually because I’m in fear of broadcasting too much of my life to total strangers. It’s because, well, what if I get hit by a bus?
The fear of getting in an accident and not having on clean drawers has been replaced with a fear of what if that is the last thing I tweet? What if I get hit by a bus—it could happen—and my last update, in reply to a friend’s comment about being accidentally sexted, was
I have compiled a short list of tweets I am relieved were not my last words on earth (in no particular order):
And, finally, three that might have been helpful had they been my last tweet:
I had a friend who used to say that the more times you used “fine” to describe your day, the less fine it was. I find that to be true only about half the time. Generally, if my husband asks how I am or how my day was and I answer FINE with no other information, he takes a deep breath, turns on his heel, and burrows into this little space he’s made in the back of the linen closet where he proceeds to curse The Gods for ever putting him in the path of the crazy woman throwing crockery around the kitchen rather than just getting in there and MAKING HIM A DAMN PIE. But, you know, everyone’s experience is different and special.
This morning another friend commented that when, “Oh, that's hilarious,” is said in conversations between people who are not close friends, it usually means, "Oh, that is really not hilarious at all."
Being from The South, I am well aware of this phenomenon. For example, someone--Fanny Flagg? If not, it should have been--once said that bless your heart is actually Southern for go to hell. I don’t really go that far, but bless your/his/her/their heart is not, indeed, usually meant as the sincere desire for your heart to be touched with the special dew and unicorn tears of a true blessing. I often find it to mean something more along the lines of, Get on with your story, Myrtle, it’s terrible Wayne fell off the barn into that vat of hog innards, but I’ve got a roast in the oven.
In the Southern U.S., emphasis is everything. Sort of like Mandarin Chinese. The whole meaning changes with a shift of stress or arch of an eyebrow. BLESS. YOUR. HEART. is often super-secret-double-probation code for Jesus, God, if I have to hear about that damn weenie dog of hers piddling on the new rug ONE MORE TIME, I’m gonna stick hot pokers in my eyes and rip my ears off with Lloyd’s pipe wrench. You know, or something close to that.
Occasionally, like at bridge club, talk among my grandmothers’ friends would turn to things like how the new preacher at the Methodist church had a wife who wore diamond cocktail rings before 5 o’clock and that she had also been heard to order a double vodka rocks with extra lime at the Country Club—for lunch. My grandmothers, both of them, tended to respond to such talk by saying, I don’t know her very well (Ah don’t no huh verah well, in the case of my paternal grandmother). This was understood to mean that it might be true the new preacher’s wife was an alcoholic, social climbing tramp, but they would reserve judgment until they witnessed an event such as her falling face-first into the punch bowl at Wednesday tea after having been spied sucking back bottles of vanilla extract in the church kitchen.
I just stopped by for a second is a tricky one. It can either mean, I want it to seem like I just happened to pop over with this recipe for stuffed peppers, but I really want to corner you for two hours about that family that just moved in down the street who keep a camper shell in their front yard, and could we get Code Enforcement out here to fine them? Or it could mean, I’m not going to stand here any longer than I have to, but it would be rude of me not to give you some of this squash that you know I’ve been growing because you spend all afternoon at your window watching every move we make, you crusty old biddy.
I think I speak pretty clearly when I need to. Were my husband here, he would be jumping up and down and trying not to start screaming about my rather elastic use of the word “clearly”. I’ll tell you this, I’d rather read between the lines of Southern politesse than to try to decode my father who likes to drop such gems as ugly as a turkey turd on a pump handle. What the hell is that?
The other day I noticed an odd add on my Facebook page. Between the FOODS NEVER TO EAT and OBAMA WANTS MOMS TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL ads was one that featured a picture of a pregnant belly. The ad read, “GET PREGNANT NATURALLY! NO PILLS! NO DRUGS!”
So when did Sex get an ad campaign? When did Sex realize it needed a brand marketing guru?
Sex: So, I’m thinking I need my name out there a little more. I want to make sure I stay relevant.
Account Manager: Ah, okay, but you’re Sex. Sex is pretty much on everyone’s lips, so to speak.
Sex: Well, in a way. I mean, Hooking Up’s so hot right now. There’s Quickie, Gettin’ It On, The Nasty, Knockin’ Boots. They’d be nowhere without me, of course. But they’re getting all the attention.
Account Manager: I see.
Sex: Do you? I don’t know, I just, I feel like Blockbuster right now? Like, am I relevant? I don’t want to end up like the Yugo or something. I have this recurring nightmare that people come up to me like, oh, didn’t you used to be Sex? Wow, you’ve changed.
Account Manager: You’re saying that you’re Sex and that you’re not relevant right now? I wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for you, dude.
Sex: I know, I know, Sex sells. But with all this online porn, and jeez, the sex toy business is huge…well, there you go, right there. Adult toys. Adult. Toys. Adult movies, adult bookstores, adult friends, for the love of Mike! People are just taking the Sex right out of it, and that milquetoast Adult gets all the press. Pregnancy? Oh, that’s the worst. There’s like no Sex left in getting knocked up. All these sperm banks and egg banks and in vitro fertilizations are taking me right out of the process. Right out. I was talking to Masturbation the other day, and…
Account Manager: Wait, you were talking to Masturbation?
Sex: Yeah, we’re pretty close. Anyway, he’s getting so much publicity right now. That crazy woman? That Tea Party gal? Jeez, I mean, she’s the best thing to happen to Masturbation in years. He says to me, you know what you need, Sex? You need a re-launch. And that’s why I’m here. I want to be re-branded! I want fresh, I want hip! I want a social network! Twitter, I want The Twitter! Oh, and a new website with hearts and flashing lights and lots of Comic Sans font, and…
Account Manager: Okay, let me stop you right there. I think we need to start by trademarking your name…
Sex: In Comic Sans?
Account Manager: …NO! Stop with the Comic Sans talk! We’ll do a casting call for The New Face of Sex!
Sex: Yeah! Like maybe with The Duggars!
Account Manager: What the hell, Sex?
Sex: Well, they have all those children using good, old-fashioned Sex, right?
Account Manager: I was thinking Christina Hendricks. Listen, Sex, I need you to trust me on this, okay? We’ve got to go with a what’s-old-is-new-again approach.
Sex: Retro? I like, I like. Martinis and Sex, am I right?
Account Manager: Something like that. But, look, Sex, if I’m going to run your campaign, I need you to do one very important thing.
Sex: Yeah, sure. Name it.
Account Manager: I need you to keep your mouth shut. We can’t have everyone complaining about that noisy Sex.
As usual, I've heard nothing from the MacArthur folks. I did have two calls last night from unknown numbers, so I suppose they could have called and not left a message. You know, insipid, barely coherent crap of this caliber DOES NOT WRITE ITSELF, PEOPLE. Piles of Cheetos and gallons of Coke Zero are needed in the production of this blog.
You know what it's like? It's like, oh, here, take this money to continue fascinating and important research on Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson, but when you write about holding your hair back with a thong, they're nowhere to be found.