Calif. bans Adidas kangaroo soccer shoes - U.S. Business - MSNBC.com

"The California Supreme Court has banned the sale of soccer cleats popularized by soccer star David Beckham and other goods made from kangaroo leather.

But the statewide prohibition — the only one of its kind in the nation — may be short-lived."

I would just like to say that kangaroos are the squirrels of the outback: kinda annoying, sometimes aggressive, overpopulated due to their known predators becoming scarce, dirty, and known to carry the Bubonic plague (okay, that last one is just for squirrels). But seriously... this is, like, if we made things out of squirrel leather (cringe) and Australia was all like, "Oh no! Cruelty to animals! Shame on you United States! We bannish thee (well, we banish thy squirrel-leather products)!" I mean, ew.

If David Beckham wants to wear rodent leather products, then let him.

Again. Ew.

Labels: california, david beckham, kangaroo, news

( 2comments )

at July 25, 2007 6:19 AM  jezebels said...

It's the certain size/cuteness rule. We like to go all self-righteous on people for killing things over a size and level of cuteness, like Panda bears or furry white seals. (You never really see anyone giving a shit about the blubbery, rubber tire looking grown-up versions being shredded in two by hungry sharks, but I digress) I do find kangaroos cute, but I agree with wearing them. It's their springy bounce I find endearing.

I would however sport some squirrel pumps. Very nice.

 

at August 6, 2007 6:52 PM  charlie said...

what is your banner from?

 

Hooray! I've been waiting for this for months!

I am going as Yuna (dressed in her Gunner dress sphere) from Final Fantasy X-2. I think I'm the only person I know who has actually finished the game--which is superb, by the way, I thoroughly enjoyed the non-linearity of the whole thing, which, from what I understand, thoroughly confused linear-minded males to whom Final Fantasy games are generally targeted. However, I thought the design of it was brilliant in terms of creating strong female characters and taking a series that is heavily male-centric and allowing female characters to shine instead of simply support. I also liked the way Spira is explorable in a web-like matter (but still triggers storylines in each different area that work independently, but also narrow towards the end to create a cohesive whole) instead of simply from point a to point b like in, for instance, Resident Evil 4. However, I will admit that the shortness/jumpiness of some areas can be tiring as not everything is entirely necessary to the plot, but that's what Final Fantasy is all about anyway (the side quests and epic storylines).

I feel like this game paved the way for Okami in two ways: 1) with areas don't have be explored linearly and 2) the incorporation of dress spheres that harbor specific abilities is reminiscent of the different brush strokes that contain different celestial powers. I know the dress spheres rub a lot of men the wrong way, which I find sad, because I really enjoyed that feature. The dress spheres reinforce a theory I have about Sailor Moon (that the performativity of femininity [in the form of fashion] is a source of power for women, as opposed to a sense of bondage).

Anyway, two days, baby! Two days! I've been wanting to go to Comic-Con since I was 18, but I never lived near San Diego and I didn't have the money to go specifically fly in for the event. And when we finally moved to SoCal, we could never work out the scheduling in terms of money (lack thereof in 2004), scheduling (Writing Program orientation got in the way in 2005) and last year we weren't sure when we were going camping, and B was sure he couldn't get time off for both Comic-Con and camping two weeks in a row, so we went camping instead.

In other news: Ralphs opened up a block away from us and life is sweet. My exact words to B were, "It's better than I dreamed it could be!" They have three different kinds of salad bars, soup bar, cheese island, sandwich center, and a fancy deli section. The seafood section has frog legs, giant jumbo prawns bigger than my hand, octopus, and lots of other yummy stuff. And better yet? They will fry your fish for you--free of charge. Because I usually like eating fish, I just usually can't stand to cook it because it's quite stinky. Not to mention the huge selection of items in general--this Ralphs is as fancy as the Ralphs in Beverly Hills, except, I dare say, in some ways fancier, but stocked much better. The Ralphs in Beverly Hills is fancy, yes, but it only has one salad bar (gasp!), but the bigger complaint is that they only have few different kinds of items, instead of lots of different kinds of items. So the selection of a normal grocery store + the fanciness of Beverly Hills (x3--this figured derived form the number of salad bars) = Happy Jilly. It's the first grocery store in downtown in 57 years. I feel lucky that we've only lived here for two years without one.

Now if I wasn't just so tired all the time... I went to the doctor a couple weeks ago to get some help for my carpal tunnel, my tiredness and to get some moles checked, but that was an aggravating experience. After talking about my carpals (they suggested that I do everything that I'm already doing, which is improve my posture whilst typing and continue to wear my Power Ranger Gauntlets that keep my wrists straight), I told them about my tiredness. But when they asked how long I've been tired, I couldn't directly answer. I have been tired since I started grad school, which I started in 2005. And I felt really tired this last Spring. I thought once summer started, I'd have more energy, but then I took summer classes, and felt tired all over again. Now that I'm out of class, I still feel tired. I've been sleeping. A lot. And I keep wondering when I'll have energy again. But then I realize I've only been out of class for two weeks (this will be the third), so maybe my body is decompressing or something. They drew some blood and said they'd call if there were any abnormalities (no calls yet).

Lastly, I wanted to show them some moles. I have had some moles appear as if from nowhere all over my body (including beneath my eye socket) in the last 6-8 months, but particularly worrisome, I have a funny looking mole on my hip, which has actual tissue beneath it and looks suspiciously like melanoma, but not the black mole melanoma, the sneaky kind with a white tip. It is getting progressively bigger beneath the surface of my skin, which is kind of scary. And being fair-skinned, with a history of melanoma in my family, well, I'm mildly concerned. My mom had melanoma, and she had a particularly big one removed from her hip which started to grow when she was 24. Although my mom had an advantage over me: hers was a black mole that actually started to split, so doctors took her mole more seriously. When I told the docs my family history and showed them the moles, they looked at me like I was a hypochondriac (which I am not--I just try to be aware of my body), and said they would "watch" the mole.

I didn't even bother asking what that meant. I already felt treated like a cow, shepherded to wait in a small (waiting room) stall. I seriously thought to myself: what do I need to see a doctor for if I have WebMD, apparently diagnosing myself and following their advice is just as effective. This was a waste of $30.

I don't know if I should go see a dermatologist. I feel too tired to go see any more doctors.

Comic-con! Woo!

Labels: comic-con, downtown, final fantasy, final fantasy x-2, los angeles, ralphs, video games, yuna

( 2comments )

at July 24, 2007 10:58 PM  Alex_Knight said...

Hey now, I finished FF X-2. I thoroughly enjoyed it. The only thing I didn't care for was the Yuna as pop-star idol. I rather expected her to be a strong leader.
Brother, however, was the man.
::sniffs:: I can't go to Comic Con, I can't go to Games Day... ::sighs:: Have fun and get pictures! Is B cosplaying?

 

at August 2, 2007 5:53 PM  Lindsi said...

If your dissatisfied with what your Dr. told you I would see someone else. I'm not trying to push it, but after what happened w/my mother-in-law and the crap I was put through in Cali I will never take it so lightly.

 

Your Score: Longcat

55% Affectionate, 37% Excitable, 20% Hungry

Protector of truth.

Slayer of darkness.

Loooooong.

Longcat may seem like just a regular lengthy cat, but he is, in fact, looong. For proof, observe the longpic.

It is prophesized that Longcat and his archnemesis Tacgnol will battle for supremacy on Caturday. The outcome will change the face of the world, and indeed the very fabric of lolcatdom, forever.

Be grateful that the test has chosen you, and only you, to have this title.

To see all possible results, checka dis.

Link: The Which Lolcat Are You? Test written by GumOtaku on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

Labels: quiz

( 1comments )

at July 23, 2007 12:14 AM  El Hombre said...

Because I'm at work, and that means bored.


Your Score: Sad Cookie Cat
62% Affectionate, 34% Excitable, 66% Hungry

You are the classic Shakespearian tragedy of the lolcat universe. The sad story of a baking a cookie, succumbing to gluttony, and in turn consuming the very cookie that was to be offered. Bad grammar ensues.

http://is1.okcupid.com/users/410/202/4102022445444324283/mt998786082.jpg

 

l am twenty-freaking-six today.

God, I'm old.

This post brought to you by my lovely bday present: my pda (a palmOne LifeDrive, on which I'm currently writing this post). This makes me very happy. I finally have an address book, a calender, and a scheduler all in one place. This will be very handy teaching, since I frequently need to rework lesson plans and conferences (no more multiple crossed out calendar books from the the USC bookstore anymore). I don't know why I'd ever need a notebook again with this baby since it has MSWord installed. I've already come up with two story ideas on the road and input them in this as easily as handwriting them. Plus, I have a Japanese/English (and vice versa) dictionary installed, as well as a couple books I've been meaning to read. I also installed some extra Japanese language learning programs since I'm continuing my study of the language in the fall. Oh, and it has my entire music library (complete with Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince in mp3 format) and still has room for 3 hours of video. I love it. And I love WordPress for having a pda specific login/post page.

But when I get up in the morning I shall assume my standard Oscar Wilde impersonation and mourn the day that makes me older by dressing in black. Or if I'm feeling sassy, my green-striped dress.

Oh, I bought the sewing machine I want -- overstock.com is out of stock at the moment, and I spoke to one of their customer service chat people and they couldn't verify when/if they'd be getting any more in, so I did some digging and found KensSewingCenter.com, where orders over $69 get free shipping (makes overstock.com's shipping of $2.50 feel like a rip-off!).

Labels: birthday, real life, real life lived through electronics

( 2comments )

at July 21, 2007 11:29 AM  Lindsi said...

Oh your going to looooooove your PDA! You won't be able to live w/o after too long, I know I can't. BTW- no more need for journals anymore? I was going to make you one this time instead of buying one.

 

at July 25, 2007 10:46 PM  charlie said...

well happy b-day! I thought I had your feed on my friends page, but then I realized that if that were true then you haven't posted in forever. so I checked this page. I've missed quite a few things!

Anyway, happy late birthday.

 

For a couple of months years I have wanted a sewing machine of my own. I want this one actually:



I watch entirely too much Project Runway and I've Got Nothing To Wear, so I foster delusions of making my own shirts, skirts, dresses, and costumes and quilts.

When I was little, my mom made each of her siblings a quilt for Christmas (for a total of three), each with a design that represented them (a flower, a surfboard and a hand airbrushing a rainbow). While I thought this was insanely cool, two of her siblings actually gave their quilts back to her (the flower and the hand airbrushing a rainbow--I never quite understood why, maybe they didn't like the designs after a while?). When I was 11, my mom finally made me a quilt and I loved it. But it was only a twin size quilt (which never really fit my twin size bed to begin with) so I've kind of outgrown it since I've been married (it really doesn't fit my queen size bed), but I still sleep with it every night, and it's the blanket I take around with me to sit on the couch with or at my computer everyday. So while it's not on my bed, I definitely still use it even though I would never willing decorate my home with pastel colors because it's soft, cozy and I'm able to make myself a nest out of my quilt.

My delusions of grandeur in my own quilt-creation fairytale are to make quilts for my family--but quilts that they will (hopefully) not grow out of: like queen size quilts without kitschy designs of surfboards or flowers, but an actual quilt, maybe a kind of patchwork design where one color flows into another color, like the spectrum tool on PhotoShop.

But the sewing machine is $139.99 -- I can afford to get it because I have some birthday money and Barnes & Noble finally sent me my affiliate check (five years later).

What I'm worried about is not actually using the sewing machine. Are my fantasies just fantasies? Because Laura and I found a store last week called DNA Clothing Co. and it turns out that I would like to spend my birthday/B&N money there if I don't get a sewing machine. And so I wonder: is it better to spend money on clothing I know I'll wear or is it better to get a sewing machine and try to make sure that I don't lose interest in this new burgeoning hobby?

Labels: clothes, clothing, fashion, hobbies

( 3comments )

at July 17, 2007 3:36 AM  Laura said...

If it were me, I'd pick the sewing machine, only because sewing machines last for years and are always in style. Plus I'm a crafty person and I enjoy being able to make things. It's the gift that keeps on giving!

However, I'm not sure if it'd be right for you, only because I wouldn't want you to have buyer's remorse 3 months after you've bought it.

Hmmm... but if you say you've wanted a sewing machine for years, why not buy one? If you don't buy one now, you'll probably keep on wanting it for who knows how many more years before you actually buy one :) I guess the question is if you're ready to buy one now; you'll buy one sooner or later. You could always wait until you think of a piece of clothing that you definitely want to make, like a Halloween costume or something.

If it were me and I really wanted a sewing machine, I'd either buy a cheap or used one to try the hobby out. THat way, if I didn't like it I wouldn't feel bad about getting rid of that sewing machine. What's stopping me is the fact that I don't really have time to start a new hobby, I haven't knitted in ages as it is :(.

I think you definitely want one. Ask yourself if you want one now or later. If you feel you can wait and don't have anything specific in mind that you'd like to make, go buy some new clothes. On the other hand, if you feel you already have a ton of clothes and need something to do with your hands, buy a sewing machine. Remember, buying a sewing machine means having storage space for it, along with sewing odds and ends and any cloth you plan on using. If you're going to make a quilt you'll have to buy enough cloth for the whole quilt and that could take up a lot of space depending on how thick and big you want it.

Man, now I want some yarn.

 

at July 17, 2007 6:10 AM  Lindsi said...

My mom gave me a sewing machine for my birthday a few years back... Always great to have around for mending and little projects but it doesn't get much use. I really don't see you sewing, it's kind of funny to think about, but if you do, you ARE making me a quilt! LOL I would treasure it. Oh and btw- I have failed yet again to mail something, surprise, surprise... I got half way to the airport and realized I left your stuff on my stampin' desk. I could have had Todd send it, but I wanted to package it nicely so not to get messed up, so your already late anniversary card will be even later with your soon to be late birthday card. Of which, happy birthday eve eve old lady! Luv ya!

 

at July 17, 2007 11:54 AM  jillydreadful said...

Thanks Laura! I appreciate your input. As for Lindsi, "I really don’t see you sewing, it’s kind of funny to think about, but if you do, you ARE making me a quilt!" You don't know everything about me. Back in Mt. Aukum, I used to make my own dresses and costumes that I never wore around anyone or told anyone about. I didn't even sew in front of my brothers. The last dress I made was when I was 17. It was made of a stretchy velvet material, but it was such a bitch to sew that it totally turned me off from sewing again, so I just stopped. Just 'cause I didn't like making the stupid gender neutral baby book, and don't really have any interest in knitting, doesn't mean I'm not crafty.

B says that he thinks the sewing machine would be a good purchase for me because now that I have given up web design for the most part, I don't really have any creative hobbies. I mean, I write, but it's more like my job now to be creative, so it's more stressful than fun a lot of the time. And he said that we could make room for the fabric I'd need to make quilts. He said the closet would just be better organized because right now it's not efficient. He's a doll.

Plus, my friend Charlie wants to make a sewing room in his bungalow, and the sewing machine has a handle and only weighs 10 lbs, so it would be portable enough to take over to his house where we could have delusions of being on Project Runway together.

 

Yesterday was B's birthday, and it was quite the fun day. We played Descent: Journeys into the Dark (a dungeon crawl type game). Then nine of us made our way to Cafe Sierra for the $40 Buffet of Goodness where we ate entirely too much (but I specifically only had 2 donuts all day to save room for the buffet).

The things I ate:

1. Lobster Thermidor (2 because they were nummy--I began the meal and ended the meal with this).


2. Red Pepper & Cherry Grilled Salmon (I think this was one of my favorite things I ate, I wish I would've had more).


3. Teriyaki Salmon (also very tasty).


4. Jellyfish Salad (jellyfish has a weird consistency, like glass Thai noodles but also gritty).


5. Clam Chowder (best clam chowder I've ever had--I only eat clam chowder at this buffet & PD's Mongolian Barbecue).


6. Peking Duck (this is not the Peking duck I've seen on Iron Chef and was sorely disappointed: the skin wasn't crispy and the meat tasted muddy).


7. Seafood Dumpling (2 these were delish)


8. Shrimp Dumpling (only had 1 of these because they're fairly large and I wanted to save room for other things)


9. Alaskan Grilled Escargot (only 1 because they were tough, the stomach-foot was still attached and they didn't have nearly enough butter & garlic)


10. King Crab Legs (2 nummy nummy goodness)


11. Giant Prawns (3, but the shells & legs were still on, so I had to deshell/devein them myself, which was easier than I anticipated)


12. Red Pepper Chili Lobster (parts of lobster were cut up and put on this covered platter, the meat was very soft, which was good, but it was hard to get at the meat in the first place)


13. Mango Pudding (I've had mango pudding at a restaurant in Chinatown and it was heavenly, at Cafe Sierra: not so much, kind of flavorless).


14. Flourless Chocolate Cake (very rich and moist)


15. Tiramisu (was soaked with coffee, leaked onto other things on the plate)


16. Chocolate Raspberry Cake (I think the best dessert, even the whipped cream on top was good).


17. Chocolate Covered Marshmallow from the Chocolate Fountain (not very good, I think because the chocolate was semi-sweet).


18. Cotton Candy (3--I had to make up for all the baseball games I've gone to and never got cotton candy).

The highlight of the evening, though, was my brother, whom I'll call Leo (because when he was younger he either wanted to be called Leo or Zian from Kickboxer) eating a smoyster. What's a smoyster, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's a s'more/oyster combination. Earlier in the day, Laura was so happy that there were oysters that she grabbed three and brought them back to the table. B and I have had a previous horrendous experience with oysters at the Aladdin buffet (they smelled like sewage and tasted like feet and I think I still haven't completely recovered from allowing B to peer pressure me into eating one). She gave one to her husband, and they both said they tasted good. Then Leo asked Laura if he could have her oyster and try one for the first time. He ate it and said it wasn't so bad. Said it tasted kinda cucumber-y. B said aloud what I was thinking: that it was a conspiracy on the part of Laura and her husband and Leo to get us to eat something gross. B ended up trying one later and said it was not the gross experience of the Aladdin buffet, which I believed but refused to try. Later on, Laura and I were still eating like piggies while the other seven members of our party wanted to leave. Conversation turned towards the gutter, as it is often wont to do when you get a lively group of individuals together (most of whom are of the nerdish persuasion as we are), and the table began to scheme ways in which we could bring down the class level of Cafe Sierra. One strategy was B taking off his shirt and using it as a napkin. But it was a nice shirt. When I went back for my last lobster thermidor, our friend Andrew thought up the idea of a smoyster, and when I got back Leo filled me in. And then we started talking about how cool it would be to actually eat one. And as Laura and I were trying to bribe Leo to actually do it, I finally said the magic combination of words:

"I bet you wouldn't do it for a dollar."

See, in my family, we seem to have the Marty McFly complex, and we can't back down from dares or bets--it's a matter of pride? I don't know. I admit even I have this problem. I'm sure it's a disease to which there must be a cure, because George, Leo and I all suffer from this sickness. While on the freeway, you can't say, "I bet you wouldn't jump out of this car at 65 miles per hour," because, odds are, we might do it. At either 18 or 19 (I forget when exactly), B dared me to do exactly that and I undid my seatbelt and unlocked the door and pulled it open with all intentions of jumping out because I honestly didn't care if I lived or died, and B had to swerve and pull the door closed. I think the mentality here is, "I'll show you and won't you be sorry when I actually do it. Ha ha! Sucker!" I think we grow out of it, because when the magic combination of words are uttered these days my body doesn't automatically shut down and go into auto-drive and do the thing, but I have to say, it's a struggle not to.

So, of course, in the case of smoysters, there are logistics. For instance, how can you make a proper smoyster at a buffet without access to graham crackers? Two ideas were proposed: 1) use the ladyfingers from the tiramisu or 2) get a piece of cheesecake and use the graham cracker crust.

Leo went back and got an oyster, then he went to the chocolate fountain and put some chocolate on it, and opted for the cheesecake graham cracker crust substitution, in what I assume was a bid for authenticity. And the boy ate it. We have pictures/video, but I have to obtain them from Our Mike (since we had two with us yesterday: Our Mike, whom we've known for seven years and have Thanksgiving with and who is my hero because a couple weeks ago he brought me the final episodes of The Sopranos since we don't have HBO anymore, and, Their Mike, which is Laura and her husband's friend Mike, but who is also very pleasant).

It was so awesome. And now I have the memory of smoyster for always.

Labels: family, food, los angeles, restaurant

( 0comments )

Our Wii came in the mail today! Woohoo! We've got Wario Ware: Smooth Moves and Rayman Raving Rabbids. I'm so excited!

Labels: video games

( 0comments )

This is me as a character on The Simpsons. What would you look like?

Labels: television

( 1comments )

at July 12, 2007 12:24 AM  El Hombre said...

And I guess this is what I'd look like on The Simpsons. But more scruffy.

 

It's no secret that one of my brothers--whom I'll by his childhood nickname of George (he always seemed like a George to me, and after he starting playing baseball he hit home-runs like Babe Ruth and soon everyone was calling him George)--smokes pot, and has smoked pot, consistently, since he was 14 years old. He's 21 now.  He's spent a night in jail for it. He has what is called a "wet reckless" on his record, which means he was driving under the influence of marijuana, but that the judge was a nice guy and gave George another chance by giving him a "wet reckless" instead of a DUI--which means 10 years probation, and if he's pulled over for anything remotely reckless, he automatically gets 2 DUIs (which also means he goes straight to jail, car impounded, etc.). He continues to smoke pot. And he continues to drive. He's done weed for so long the THC is in the fat in his body, and he can't properly pass a piss test for jobs (being clean 3 days/a week/whatever does not work for him now). When he was 19 and on a camping trip with friends, two friends disappeared for a while and everyone worried. George was the only one who had a car (a truck to be exact). He was too wasted and high to go look for the missing people, so he let his friends drive. It had been rainy, and the friends who had been missing rolled their truck and the people driving George's truck (they were the least wasted/high of everyone there) rolled his vehicle, too. For a year, George didn't have a car. For a year, George's friends conveniently disappeared. As soon as he gets another truck, suddenly everyone is buddy-buddy with him again. Last year, George's friends started dealing heavier drugs, and he met a 15 year old coke addict who has been in rehab three times and now her parents have given up. She's one of those girls that gets "passed around" at parties in exchange for cocaine. Yeah, this is my 21 year old brother's "soul mate" (his words). In the last two months, George has had two friends die in car accidents (driving while high), and a friend of his has been caught counterfeiting money across three states. Oh, and his girlfriend has open sores all over her body from crystal meth. At least she's 16 now? Oh, and now he's doing coke and meth, too.

Yeah, this is another reason why I'm pissed at my mom: she allowed this to happen.

When we found out that George was doing pot at 14, my mom allowed it because at least it was only pot. She allowed it because she was too scared to lay down rules that prohibited that kind of behavior. She refused to deem it unacceptable. She was afraid that if she forbade him from doing it, he'd just hide it from her in the future--and then that would resort to him sneaking around and stealing. At least it was "only pot."

Seven years later, my brother has lost every job he's ever had because of his addiction. I say "addiction" and not marijuana because, generally, weed mellows people out. But obviously, he's done other drugs in the past and recently he's been doing the harder drugs on a regular basis (my mom found a perfume tester tube of hers emptied and the end severed to make a tube for smoking meth--you don't go to that amount of trouble if you're only doing it at parties), and his addiction makes his behavior erratic to the point where he was fired from his most recent job because his co-workers are afraid to work with him.

Wednesday, my mom found plants growing in the house. Thursday, she came up to visit and everything came out. Apparently, I'm the only one strong enough to do anything about this. At first, I tell my mom to swallow her fucking pride and call my dad and ask him for help. George always listens to men--he has a "daddy" complex--and so I say let's use it against him and call our dad. My mom won't do it.

I tell her this job is bigger than one person. If she won't call him, then I'll swallow the pact I made with my husband to never speak to my father again and plead for his involvement on George's behalf.

And then it occurs to me: this job is bigger than one person. It's bigger than two people. This fucks with us all. Especially in light of the fact that he's progressed to not just dealing (which he has done from time to time, selling parts of his stash for quick money) but growing: endangering the lives and livelihood of everyone with whom he lives (which includes my mom, my other brother, our grandmother, our uncle and his kid). And it doesn't fucking occur to him that this is not okay.

And it doesn't fucking occur to my mom to do something about it.  All she said was, "Get the plants out of the house by the time I get home!" What the fuck?? How about, "Get the hell out of here! You wanna throw your life away, don't take us all down with you!" Dude, if there are plants growing, California will waste no time seizing the house and assets and ask questions later, if you're lucky.
Jesus Christ. Just writing this is making me pissed all over again. But I need to get it the fuck out.

Friday = inter-fucking-vention. For George AND my mother. I mean, I let it rip on Thursday night and Friday on the way down to San Diego. The main points I try to get across: "You enabled this behavior. That means you have to make clear and firm boundaries about this. He either chooses drugs and his lifestyle or his future and his family." She keeps flipflopping around, "I can't kick him out. If he leaves, he won't be able to come back. Nonna won't let him come back. [Her brother and his kid who are currently living in the living room and have been for the last two years] will take his room."

"Then that's his choice," is what I say.

We all write him letters and put them in a notebook. He refuses to come home--he's on the phone with my mom for an hour screaming at her about how he refuses to come home unless she tells him what she wants. I was appalled that he talked to her like that. He spoke to her in a way that we would never allow anyone to talk to her. He finally does come home with a friend. And for a few hours, we systematically tell him what we feel. He gives up the plants (we disposed of them), but he refuses to say he's going to stop. And I look at my mom and say, "You need to say it. He needs to hear you to say it." And she won't.
Does my mom put down firm boundaries? Does she make him make a choice? Nope. What the FUCK??

Confronting George was the saddest and hardest thing I've ever had to do, because I wasn't just confronting him with his behavior, but I was confronting truths about my mom and myself that I have allowed to go on for seven years. I made a huge stink about George doing pot at 14 and demanded my mom do something about it. But she refused, and I was in DC. I was powerless. Whenever I argued with my mom about her lack of parenting, she hung up on me.

The two truths I confronted:

#1) That over the years, I have okie-doked the pot in order to have a relationship with George. We have never really gotten along, in spite of my best efforts. I have tried writing letters, calling, sending random presents, making sure birthday and Christmas gifts were awesome, and when we moved to California, inviting him up to stay with us and hang out (of which every single invitation was turned down). Nothing works. It's gotten worse since I've started a Ph.D. program and he throws that in my face. Like I could never understand what it's like to be him because "You're in a Ph.D. program. I'm not allowed to have an opinion" -- he said this on Friday. And might I just say that he had a male professor for a Criminal Justice class he took his first semester of college who said, "If you don't have a Ph.D., you don't have an opinion" which translates in my mind to, "Make the arguments I want you to make. Don't think for yourselves." Anyway, I do nothing but try to make George feel good about himself and I'm already highly self-conscious of getting a Ph.D. (it sounds snobby), so I just say I'm in grad school when people ask what I do, and I never talk about school or teaching when my brothers are around because I already know it's a sore spot to George. So I know in my bones I never gave him this impression. I emphasized male professor because George takes whatever men say as gospel and completely disregards women's opinions (and by women, I generally reference my mom and myself, but as his circle has expanded, he treats all women this way), even if those opinions are trying to boost his self-esteem. He says it doesn't count that we think he's talented. He says it doesn't count that we love him. He says we're supposed to love him because he's family. No matter how many times I have to tell him our dad is family, Nonna is family, but I don't love them. It doesn't get through.

2) I used to think "understanding" meant helping, when "understanding" really means I stand on the sidelines as I watch George's life spin out of control. This was tough to admit. Because I wanted to be liked by him, I wanted to be close to him the way I'm close with our other brother, and I thought my being cool with pot could help that. And it just hasn't. I also tried to "understand" because my mom couldn't take my criticism of the situation. I kept telling her this is not acceptable, and she'd hang up on me or freeze me out. I "couldn't understand" because I "don't have children." (See how all this shit is connected? Fuck.)

To be completely honest, my general opinion on marijuana has drastically changed. I used to think that if you did any illegal drugs, it was wrong. But as I've become more educated, I've become a moral relativist, and with the small amount of research I've done, I now find it silly that marijuana is illegal in the first place. I just wrote a whole paragraph on how I think it's stupid that pot isn't legalized, but it's a totally different post altogether. Anyway, I don't necessarily think pot is the problem. It's his lifestyle. He has no ambitions. He has no motivation. He is generally attracted to all things criminal (he's said since he was a teenager that he wanted to be in the mafia), which I understand because I am, too, but I don't live it. Well, I suppose I do vicariously through The Sopranos and The Shield, but that's so not the same. But no matter how moral relativist I am, I cannot condone growing plants in the house because as stupid I think the law is, marijuana is still illegal and it's never cool to jeopardize the lives of others by your choices and actions. His friends are all the dregs of society that I wanted desperately to get away from in Northern California. In short, George has become my step-dad, Aaron, except with the master manipulation skills of our dad.

I don't know how much he heard. And this post sounds like I was really harsh to my mom and George, but I wasn't. They don't hear me most of the time, and they hear me even less if I criticize or if my tone of voice gets confrontational. So I had to have let my mom come to the conclusion herself that she enabled my brother (I am my father's daughter, manipulation comes easy). But after she said it aloud, I said that's why she needs to create strict boundaries. Because he's an adult now, she really has no power. Putting the boundaries down based on the simple fact that he has to follow them if he wants to live there is all the power she has, but she wouldn't do it. She's too afraid to let him go and let him rock bottom. Hell, she's too afraid of even giving the mildest hint that the next time he smokes, he's out of the house because if she says it she thinks he'll leave.

I'm so tired of pussies. I'm tired of being a pussy myself. I'm so tired of trying to be the person everyone will like. I've been able to let it go for friends, but it's harder letting it go for family. But on Friday, I did. While our youngest brother told George what he felt, I tried to stay out of George's line of vision. But he turned around and said, "What the fuck are you doing? You're family. Get over there." But I just said it, "You don't like me, and I'm trying to stay out of your eyesight so you can concentrate on what [our brother] has to say." He repeated, "I don't like you?" in a tone of voice that supposedly suggested ludicrousness to perhaps everyone else, but to me suggested that I knew the truth. And I replied, "Yeah. You don't like me." And he didn't refute it. He just turned back around. My mom recently told me that he doesn't like me because I'm getting a Ph.D. and I use big words and I try to make him feel stupid. Then she said not to take it personally, and that he makes himself feel inferior and that it's not me.

I wondered why she told me that, though. I understand that my mother tagged a disclaimer on the end, but really... I think it's because she likes the fact that he likes her and doesn't like me. I think she told me to hurt me, because why else would you tell your child that their brother doesn't like them?

Anyway... I just needed to get that out. Life gets harder when I confront truths about myself that I had previously left unexamined. I need a drink. Or maybe a joint. I know... how about some sleeping pills.

G'night.

Labels: california, marijuana, parents, pot, power, real life, stupid laws, uncomfortable truths

( 2comments )

at July 9, 2007 9:36 AM  jezebels said...

Oh, girl. I have no comforting words or anything of wisdom. My brothers are still so small, not even out of high school, I can't imagine. It would be impossible. A hard hard place for you. I'd say I'm sorry, but it's not sympathy, I'm not sure what it is. I guess it's just family.

 

at July 12, 2007 7:36 PM  Lindsi said...

I guess this what you were talking about on the phone the other day... why you couldn't make it up north. I'm sorry it had to come to this. I see why you don't care much for his GF. Hope it gets better. Miss you!

 

Part of this post was written in 2005 (May? I can't remember, the post has lost its original timestamp because I've read it and corrected spelling errors in it since then, updating the timestamp) and part of this post was written November 13, 2006. I have since merged these posts into one giant Super Post. These thoughts remained unpublished because I felt too self-conscious to publish them before. And, well, nowadays, I've taken to saying, "Fuck it," to the things (or people) that (in the past) I would have previously allowed some small smidgen of power over me. Of course, I do not say "Fuck it" to these people to their faces. But I no longer internalize the things that are said to me or done to me, but I do try to let people know that their opinions do not matter to me anymore. The only person whose opinion matters to me is B's. For far too long I cared about what other people thought too much. I think I did this because it was easier to try to please others than it was to please myself. Because I didn't really know myself. It was too scary to look inward. I didn't want to know the truth about myself. But having since realized this--that I did really care about what people thought--has freed me to the point where I don't feel so self-conscious about the truth anymore.

For instance, I felt self-conscious about people reading about certain topics over and over again in my blog (people complained that it was getting monotonous, and for some reason, I cared what these people thought and tried to self-edit). But in the spirit of following the need for my own self-expression, and in the spirit of Quentin Tarantino: fuck it. It's cathartic for me to write and it's also cathartic for me to publish these thoughts to the void and spectacle of (semi-random/semi-non-random) readership. Ever since I read Sharon Marcus's Between Women, all that stuff on lifewriting has given me a new perspective on blogging.

Lately, I have tried to be honest in all aspects of my life. I'm vain. I didn't realize that until recently, but I am. And not in that Gaston from Beauty and the Beast sort of way, where one finds empowerment in their source of vanity. Contrary to what I was taught as a child, and contrary to what society attempts to paradoxically sell to me, vanity is not necessarily a bad thing (isn't it strange that capitalism relies on people being vain but then society chastises vanity as a vice? But that's a whole 'nother post altogether). I remember my dad used to find my websites and try to hurt me by saying that it was just a "vanity" site or ... actually I have forgotten what else he called it. But I remember at 17, 19 and 21, (he seemed to find me every two years), the words hurt me. That's because I bought what my parents were selling: vanity as a vice.

Whatever.

Vanity gives me reality checks on my appearance and my self-worth. It means that after seven years with B, I still try to look attractive for my husband, as opposed to gaining weight and not shaving my legs. It means what I write is not quite good enough, and keeps me trying harder. So this is my blog, and if I use it for vanity-lifewriting-catharsis, then so be it. I just need to confront that truth about myself.

Plus, I like to chronicle my thought-process for self-reflection in the future. And the blog is a nifty form for that. I must do a lot of self-reflection because I have this blog and I have notebooks filled with my scrawl. It's a shame that I wasn't really interested in self-reflection until recently. Anyway, so now with the realizations I have made about myself over the last couple of years for my one long, Super Post:

So yeah, another post on the child topic. I figure I'd give a warning to the people who want out now before having to slog through my thoughts on this yet again This was written eight months ago... I am a different person now.

It's probably dangerous to post this on my website, especially since I think my mom knows my website address, but I'm going to trust the people who know my mom not to tell my mom, mmkay?

I'm really pissed at my mom.

And I couldn't feel more guilty about this.

I realized that I harbor a very real resentment towards my mother shortly after viewing Neon Genesis Evangelion. It shames me to admit this (the resentment, not that anime spawned this realization). I love her so much, and yet I'm so angry with her. And I'm mad about things that I'll never be able to talk to her about, because whenever my mom comes under any kind of criticism--or what she interprets as criticism, even though it never occurred to me that it could be misconstrued in such a way--she hangs up on me, or freezes me out. There is no reasoning with her if it means she's wrong in any way. She won't even apologize. She has never once apologized for any of the awful things she has done. But she lords the fact that I moved out at 18 and "abandoned" her over me every opportunity she gets--even though I've apologized so many times, some of them crying with guilt, and she says in an eerily calm voice, "And you know you can never undo what you did. That's what makes it so horrible."

All I did was move out!

Anyway... while this is not the only reason why I'm upset with my mother, it does add to the list of things I don't appreciate. But this is slightly off-topic. Let me try to bring it back.

In 2004, for a very brief moment, I wanted to have children with B.

Two Three years ago, my little brother graduated high school. I saw my father for the first time in four years, but didn’t speak to him in person. He called my mom’s house later that day and we attempted to speak to each other. I wanted to start fresh, start from that day and try to have a relationship. But instead, he wanted to bludgeon me with words.

I took my last beating from him that day over the phone. But B was my rock. He pulled me through. Not even my own mother could console me the way he did. She seemed to expect that this is what would happen and seemed to blame me for being silly enough to try with that man.

I love B. Fiercely. But I fell in love with him all over again that day.

I told him something, though, that day. I confessed something in my deepest hour of vulnerability. I kissed him and looked him in the eyes and told him that I did want to have a family with him. I felt it so deep in my heart that my bones ached with my conviction. It felt right and true, unlike anything before. I was seeing the world through this new sight. I had known hate for the last time, and now I would know only love. And I could finally be free. Free to feel that love I held for B, but still kept guarded even after four years.

I told him in that moment of ethereal joy, as he held me in his arms. I looked him in the eye and told him. The situation was not handled well in retrospect. I mean, the moment, well, there was no moment. B looked away from me. And how could I blame him? I mean, I can't. This was the girl who was walking off the kids-pooping-in-the-Kids-Dept-at-Barnes-and-Noble. But in that brief moment, I shoved those feelings into a corner and bricked over them Cask of Amontillado style. I justified it to myself in a multitude of ways. At first I pretended that he hadn’t heard me. And then I pretended that I had never uttered such nonsense. How stupid of me to have believed in such freedom.

Approximately a year two years ago (2005--a year after the day I confessed that to B in 2004), I realized that when my parents were our age (at the time I wrote this, B was 25 and I was 23--my parents share the same age difference, except in reverse gender order), I was two years old, which seriously shocked me. And the shock was palpable. But I think the shock was so real because I had buried "those feelings" so far down that I quite literally forgot they ever existed. (I'm very good at self-delusion.)

The first time we ever had a serious conversation about children was 2005 (we had been together for 5 years, married for 3 at that point), he brought up that day in 2004. He asked me if I remembered saying what I had said.

I lied and said no. I didn't even flinch at lying.

He said it was just as well because he hadn’t believed me at the time anyway. “I knew you’d just change your mind five minutes later! That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

I think that was the moment that cemented it for me. I had created such a pigeon-hole for myself, that not even my husband could believe a change of mind and heart. And so began my strange crusade of self-preservation. I never wanted to be that vulnerable again. I would justify and out-logic anybody on this topic. I would never let my feelings supersede reason. Never would it occur to me that having a child would be okay. I sought out books and websites and articles to justify my attitude. Thus began my fervent argument for CFBC.

That moment in 2004 has haunted me--ever since I unburied it and truly began to analyze the situation. B had just seen me through a very traumatic experience with my father, and I guess I felt like I was loved more in that moment, and I loved him more in that moment than ever before, and somehow that love obliterated all fear in life. I had just graduated college. We had just moved across the country. We had been unemployed for four months, but I had just landed a job in the film industry (before I was disillusioned by said job). We were struggling, but insanely happy. I had never experienced such a lovely phase of existence before. Where dreams were coming true because we were taking risks, because we weren't giving up. Because we loved each other and supported each other through the good and bad.

But I felt really really stupid that I had ever let my guard down in the first place. I pretended that the moment never happened, that I never felt that way, that I never said those words. I buried those feelings. The next year, there was a brief pregnancy scare. I posted that my breasts were abnormally large, and other than getting sick a lot, being laid off at Aero Film was agreeing with me. Then Laura posted maybe I was pregnant, and B asked me when my last period was. I was 10 days late. It didn't occur to me that I could be pregnant. I thought I was just stressed out. We used condoms properly, for Christ's sake. B said I should take a test, and I remember crying and refusing to do it. I knew my body was just going through a rough patch and it'd work itself out. I pleaded with him to not make me do it.

He made me do it anyway. And it was negative. I felt validated. But a week later, I still didn't have my period, and I prayed to God that the test wasn't a liar, and that I'd get my period soon because I was actually starting to freak out a little. And how this wasn't a very funny joke, God. But I promised to laugh afterwards. I got my period the next day, and I felt relieved.

That was January. My militant march about being anti-children began around May when the full realization of the closeness of the call in January finally starting to hit me. B and I couldn't agree on where we stood. He was ambivalent. I was avid. Stalemate. Over the months of the stagnation, I would do research on both motherhood, being childfree and what it's like being on the fence. We went camping in August 2006, and the militantness of my stance disappeared. I could be ambivalent as well, and I had better things to occupy my mind with the semester starting in August.

So how is this, Neon Genesis and my mom related?

Well, as I watched Neon Genesis, I felt as though I was finally able to put my feelings and the experiences surrounding my father away--for the most part. I felt like the series helped me heal wounds that I didn't know how to deal with. As I severed those bonds, I felt lighter and freer than normal and I felt more optimistic about life again. I started to contemplate the new ambivalence I was feeling about children. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad? But still, "not so bad" is a far call from actually wanting them. Could I ever want children after .... well, everything?

I started to change my mind. I started thinking maybe I'd like to have a child with B. But then I realized that the child would be half me, and the me part isn't so great (I have a grandpa who actually murdered someone while in prison for grand theft auto). I don't think I could take any joy in it being half me. Plus, I think it'd be just one more area that my mom could use to lord over me as some sort of indicator that she's better at this one thing than I am. Like, how I could never be as good a mom as her because I will put my husband first, because I won't stay home, because I'll have a life outside of my children.

Even though I thoroughly support parents not putting their children absolutely first--I think the ideology of sacrifice we have around parenthood breeds the kind of self-centered children that populate the landscape today, which is not to suggest that children shouldn't be a parent's priority. They should. I'm just advocating that children shouldn't be a parent's only priority--I still think the ideology that my mom has raised me with (children are the be all and end all of existence; you'll never understand until you have your own; your child is your life; you won't love your husband as much as you'll love your children) will creep into my consciousness and give me a guilt complex. Especially because my mom literally sacrificed her life to raise us. Now, perhaps that's my own perception of the situation. I mean, she wanted to stay home and raise children and she got her wish. So is that really a sacrifice? (It only seemed to become a sacrifice after she divorced my dad and we were suddenly poverty-stricken.)

I've worked so hard to not be like my mom, that I realized that motherhood was never a possibility for me precisely for this reason.

And that's why I'm very angry with her.

But I'm also angry with myself. Because as much as I am trying to take the power people have over me away and use it for myself, I don't think I can do this with my mom. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to.

Labels: california, cfbc, childfree by choice, children, parenthood, parents, power, questions, the children question, tired, uncomfortable questions, vanity, whatever, women, work

( 1comments )

at July 6, 2007 9:38 AM  Jezebel said...

I don't even know where to begin, what words to start with that won't escalate into a comment rivaling your post in length, except to say those cliche words, "I know what you're saying, I know what you mean." Motherhood, my mother, using my childlessness almost like a weapon as I navigate a world that still finds me freakish for being married and choosing not to procreate, and then of course that tiny nagging internal voice that says 'Are you really THIS against motherhood?" And of course, that copper-tasting resentment against my mother, that despite what I can only describe as her best efforts to raise me, she still irrevocably damaged me. I see so many of us hurt by our parents, and I cannot convince myself that it doesn't have to be this way, that it is possible to raise children who love and respect you, not to hurt them, not to disappoint and damage them as I have been.

You can't hear it, but I have to applaud you. I still remain completely incapable of even thinking of any of this yet. The wounds of my father's abandonment. The guilt of knowing that my mother gave everything of her being, of her self over to being a mother, entwined it into her identity so thoroughly that nothing else of my mother exists, and knowing she receives so little from me in return.

It's a tangled mess of family life. I'm not ready to even write about it without being sort of paralyzed with a dull panic.

And as for the complainers on your blog who dislike redundancy, who bitch about the themes that run through it. Fuck them. These are our spaces. It is their choice to come in.