If you think I'm sexy ....

I'm sitting here on my couch at almost 2:00 am wondering what the hell I should write about tonight. There's always my old standby, vaginas, but believe it or not, some people think I write about vaginas too much, and they'd like me to write about something else.

So I've been thinking what topic has bumped into me most often in the past few days. You'll be surprised to learn it wasn't vaginas, but feminism. And in particular, the part men play in those issues that concern feminists. And in particular, what men can do about it.

The first incident that stands out is one that happened on Facebook. A friend, fellow writer, and former colleague at the university where I used to teach posted something about a female writer he admires. He said she's a great writer and that she's sexy as hell ... and then he wrote a parenthetical disclaimer for his feminist friends to indicate he wasn't trying to offend.

Offend? Listen, if a guy -- or a woman, for that matter -- wants to tell me I'm a great writer and then follows that with I'm sexy as hell, I'm going to be anything but offended. And I am a feminist, but there's nothing wrong with thinking and saying somebody is sexy. Not one damn thing. My friend obviously admired several of the writer's qualities, and her sexiness was only one of them.

Who wouldn't appreciate that? I would. In fact, I'd say "great writer" and "sexy" are on my top 10 compliments a man can give me. Or a woman. Yes, it would make me blush, but in a good way.

I can see why men get confused though. Because some people -- feminists included -- have been known to confuse a genuine compliment with sexual objectification or harassment. Although I can't speak for all feminists (and certainly many feminists would argue that my status as a stay-at-home mom and homeschooler of many years would deny me the privilege of speaking for any feminists), I offer these examples to distinguish the difference.

Imagine man #1 posted something about me on Facebook: "Reticula's a great writer. I read every one of her blog posts at least 5 times. And she's sexy as hell too. She kicks my ass on the bike trail though."

Assuming he hasn't just walked right through a restraining order, this man gets a 

(screencrush.com)

As far as I'm concerned, man #1 can continue on in that vein indefinitely. Hell, take out a fucking billboard. Too bad he's probably married.

Now imagine man #2 posted about me on Facebook: "Reticula writes a lot about vaginas on her blog. Hee. Hee. Now that's one vagina I'd like to ...."

Doesn't matter what the rest of the sentence is. Much as I love vaginas, this dickhead gets a 

(sodahead.com)

One more example.

Man #1 says: "I love boobs."

Batman loves boobs too.

Man #2 says: "Did you see that pair of tits that just walked by. Man, I wish she'd come closer so I could make like a motorboat and ...."

Simon loves boobs. He hates man #2.

I'm going to write more about objectifying women as body parts in a couple of days. These are actually mild examples, but man #2 is still going to make the average feminist's head spin and spew pea soup. He needs to pipe the fuck down.

If anybody doesn't get my point with these 2 examples, just ask. I can come up with dozens.

Like I said, this issue bumped into me several times this week. And the prevailing idea is that it's time for men to stop making this a women's problem and start kicking some ass from within their own tribe. Or army.

For example, watch Lieutenant General David Morrison,  Chief of (the  Australian) Army, dress down his own troops. It takes him 3 minutes to kick the bar back up where it belongs.

Salute! This speech will make a difference, because General Morrison means it, soldier. I believe he will follow through. I haven't seen a high-ranking US military officer make a similar statement though, despite an epidemic of rape among our troops. Too bad it had to be an  Aussie who kicked some soldier ass.

And he's sexy. Mmm. Love a man in uniform.

This next video is longer, but it won't seem long when you watch it. If you're a man, please watch it. Let me know what you think. I'd love to hear your stories.

If you're a woman, watch it because it's time we taught this to our sons and held them to a higher standard, damn it. They need to battle something besides video game zombies if they're going to change the world. And, yes, I already taught my son this stuff.

Only a man could give this message: Men's violence against women is not a women's issue. It's a men's issue that cruelly affects women and other men. Men are the ones who can stop it. Women have had to call it out, and take the heat for doing so, but men have to stop it.

Thank you, Dr. Jackson Katz, for a lesson in gender-relations common sense. You are my hero. And OMG, you are so sexy. If you ever lose that gold band on your left hand, you know where to find me.

Seriously though, neither General Morrison's nor Dr. Katz's videos would have gone viral this week if more men stood up to other men when they're verbally or physically abusing a woman. Or when they're talking about women in a way that is verbally abusive. Women can't fix that shit alone. It's too easy to make us either the victims or the ball-busting bullies, and then say we're PMSing bitches or man-haters.

I will attest that a lot of men stand by and watch other men behave terribly for reasons I don't understand. If I had to guess, maybe it's that they don't want to rock the boat or they don't want to seem like pussies or they don't want to lose a friend. Or maybe they just aren't the white knights a lot of them think they are. Yeah, that's a challenge, boys.

I'd like to hear your thoughts. Any experiences you'd like to share?

And ..... that's a wrap

I, like many other writers, will accept any excuse for not putting my butt in this chair and bleeding all over this keyboard. Last month I found yet another reason to make my muse Dolores chew her toenails in frustration: making a movie.

I was at a birthday party along with my friend Billy Montana one night, and he asked me if I would consider working on a movie he was making.

I said I'd never worked on a movie before and what would I have to do.
He said I'd do anything the producer told me to do -- like move equipment, dress sets, that sort of thing.

I was disappointed not to be asked to keep the casting couch warm. I asked what the movie was about.

He said it was a horror film.

Oh, I said. A horror film.

I should note that I do not watch horror movies. Not ever. OK, rarely. Stephen King is an exception because he's one of the best writers in the universe.

Otherwise, no horror for me. I'm still afraid the blob is going to roll down my street like a giant evil chocolate pudding and somehow consume me as I run screaming for help in my pajamas.  I had to stop watching The Exorcist when the girl crab-walked down the stairs ... and I was watching with my daughter. She finished it and then mocked me. Friday, the 13th? Chucky? Any movie about college coeds in the woods? Fuck no.

I have to be very careful what I put inside my head, because my head is a blob and what goes in grows larger, but never comes out.

But what the hell. I'm friends with all the actors. The set was mostly at Alex's house. It was only a commitment of a few days. I said, sure. I'll help. And just like that I was working crew on a film. A horror film.

I can't tell you what the film is about, although the NSA knew before Billy did, so I'm just going to hit some high points about my experience.

Alex's stairs

1. The producer didn't show up. I was surprised that was an option, but she crapped out entirely. So I did what Billy Montana told me to do instead. I helped set up lights, carried shit up and down Alex's scary basement stairs, ran out to buy bottled water and cigarettes, covered the windows with thick black plastic, watched the book for the actors (watched the script to make sure the lines and blocking was right), ran the fog machine, rubbed the glow-in-the-dark paint off one actor's shiny bald head with a wet wipe between takes, prepared testicles covered in black goo props, sat around on the casting couch and waited to be told what to do .... I did a bunch of various shit during those days of shooting.

And then, people, I ordered lunch. And guess the fuck what! That was like getting the golden ticket in the candy bar, because none of that other shit mattered one little bit. That's shit anybody can do. That's just being on the crew.

Ordering lunch though meant that I was elevated to .... wait for it .... producer! I am not fucking kidding!

I am the producer of a horror film. Who knew calling for pizza delivery and giving them Billy Montana's credit card number was such an important job?

2. What else can I say that's as exciting as that? Well, it was exciting watching the film come together. I like meticulous, detailed work, and the filming demanded intense attention to detail and physical and mental stamina -- even though we spent significant time just standing or sitting around waiting for the next thing to happen. The makeup for one of the characters took over 3 hours to air-brush on.

Billy shot some of the scenes over and over. And then he'd shoot the same scene from two or three different perspectives .... and shoot it over and over. For one scene, two of the actors drove up and down Alex's street at least 20 times, one of them drinking from a prop bottle of beer, as Billy filmed. We got a lot of curious looks from the neighbors.

But the filming isn't by far the end of it. Billy took all those scenes and shots home and will spend weeks editing, bringing the actors back in for ADR (additional dialogue recording), and then marketing it. It's a shit-ton of work, and this is a short film.

3. The director really does say, "Rolling .... and ..... action!" And he says "cut" and even, on the last day, "That's a wrap." It was just like a real movie just like you see in the movies.

One of the sets, the pizza, and me. I'm holding down the couch.
(photo credit: Alex Carmichal)

4. Almost everything we said sounded like something overheard at a porn shoot. "Just squeeze it until all the cream squirts out." "Can you bring in a wet wipe and clean off Bob's head?" "Just let that dribble slowly out of your mouth for this shot." "I didn't know this would be so sticky." I really wish I'd had time to write down the best of these. We laughed a lot. That helped me not take it too seriously because ....

5. This is going to sound crazy, but I was creeped out just watching the filming, and even more by reviewing the raw footage. The first day was the worst. Even after I went home, I felt like someone was watching me. This is why I don't watch horror movies. I couldn't have been further behind the scenes, I personally know and love all the actors, and it was still scary. I wouldn't be honest if I didn't admit what a pussy I am.

And the worst thing is that I didn't get to help with the gooiest, most terrifying scenes. I had to leave in the middle of the first day for a few hours to attend Melvin's funeral. I did see the raw footage though, and it was horrifying.

See what I mean?
(photo credit: Alex Carmichal)

6. Would I do it again? Fuck yeah! In fact, a group of us, led by the fearless Billy Montana, are going to compete in the Producers Guild of America Weekend Shorts Challenge. We'll have 48 hours to write, shoot, and edit a short film using specific criteria that we won't receive until the beginning of the challenge. More on that in September.

7. I can't wait to see the final product. Billy Montana expects it to be done and ready for a local showing in a month or so. I'll update then.

8. Finally, I was lying up there in the first paragraph. I don't really do things like this to avoid writing. I love writing. One reason I do things like this is because it gives me something to write about. And because I like the challenge of new experiences. And because I hoped I'd be invited to the casting couch. Maybe next time.

That's a wrap.

Wordless Wednesday: Hocking Hills

One of those days

It's been one of those days. Not a horrible day. Not a tragic day, thank you, grilled cheesus. If I were to be honest instead of whiny, I'd have to say some good things happened today. But it was still one of those days.

You know those days. right? I fired up the grill to cook some salmon and corn on the cob for Coraline and me, and just as it got hot, the skies opened up. Of course I overcooked the salmon because I couldn't keep a good eye on it unless I stood out in the rain.

And I've chased several big, loud black flies around my house all day. They defy me by never landing. Just fucking buzzing .... buzzing ..... buzzing .....

And fruit flies.

And a smelly dead blue jay on my sidewalk that's too far gone to pick up.

I started this morning by running to the grocery store for soup ingredients. When I do big shopping, I go back to the nice Kroger in the nice suburb I lived in for 20 years even though it's a longer drive. When I just need a few things, I go to the closer Kroger that looks nice enough from the outside, but doesn't live up to its veneer. The one where the employees all act like they hate the customers -- or would if they were to crawl out of their own dead-eyed apathy long enough to feel anything. Zombies are more courteous. Where the check-out conveyors are so dirty I'm reluctant to put my food down on them. Where the bedding plants and hanging baskets are kept inside the entryway instead of along the side of the building where they can be stolen. It's a little rougher in the close Kroger. 

And where a woman with three kids found it necessary, after yelling, "I said, 'Fucking keep up!'," to slap her 3-year-old across the face on their way to the pharmacy. And then a few minutes later to yell at her to "get her shit because [her] sister left [her] shit on a chair." Note: a child who is close enough to slap is probably keeping up as well as she can, but probably wants to stay out of arm's reach because she might fucking get slapped.

Jesus. And please. I don't need anybody to tell me I should have called CPS. What she did is loving and kind compared to what they have to deal with. It's not abuse. I have a degree in social work. I know when to call.

And don't tell me I should have said something to Mom. What I wanted to do was stand up to my full super-hero height of 10 feet, slap her, and say, "Bitch, I guess you don't remember what it feels like to be little and helpless and to have somebody enormous slap you up the side of your head in the grocery store. Well, I'm your guardian angel because I'm here to remind you so you don't raise yet another generation of child slappers. Are you keeping up with me or do I need to remind you again?" Because I would bet everything I own she already knows what it's like to be little and feel that slap coming down. And I also know anything I said would only make things worse for the little girl later on.

I couldn't wait to get home and make some soup.

Late, toward evening, my granddaughter Coraline and I took a walk down to the art museum where she likes to visit a giant black steel lion sculpture named Yee-oh (Leo), who gazes with royal imperiousness over the river, which Coraline calls earth juice. We go down there almost every Tuesday now.

Sitting under Yee-oh

When two other little girls about 5 years old showed up, she was delighted and ran over to play with them. They said "hi" and then ignored her like older kids often do toddlers. Shortly after, someone who might have been their mother followed behind them with an older girl and a boy who was maybe 3. The mother was bone thin, blonde and tan, in barely shorts and 5-inch platform wedges.

The girls sat down on a park bench, and Coraline climbed up beside them, laughing with unrequited delight. The mom, who hadn't said "hi" or even made eye contact with either of us, although she was 4 feet away, told the girls to get off the bench. She was obviously uncomfortable. Maybe the rest of her shorts were wedged up her ass with a stick.

They got down and she told them to stay off the stairs, the stone wall, the grass, and the bench again. She seemed to both want them to just stand like statues on the sidewalk and wait with her for someone who was apparently late, and to stay the hell away from her so she didn't have to deal with them. At one point she muttered to herself, "God! I am waiting here with 4 kids. I can't believe this."

She never did make eye contact, but she made sure her kids stayed away from Coraline (and any fun). It reminded me of the "your favorite color is the color of poop" experience I had with Elvira when she was about 3, which I wrote about here.

I suspect this time it was Coraline's many tattoos, her purple toenails and her rock-and-roll t-shirt. Or maybe it was my baggy capris and my utilitarian sneakers, but really, who knows why some people are exceptionally rude?

Also who knows why people do what stick-up-her-ass mom did next. She had been carrying the 3-year-old boy because he kept trying to walk away from her on this wide sidewalk with an acre of grass beside it. Because that's what kids do: they explore. And if you don't want them to because your shoes are too fucking high to follow them around, then you'd better stay home, sit them in front of the TV and put a stop to that running around nonsense. Otherwise, kids are going to play.

I digress. The little boy got about 3 feet from from the woman before she scooped him back up. I didn't see what he did next because I was collecting Coraline and getting her out of there.

As we walked past, the mom grabbed his arm hard and slapped his hand several times. In a low, mean voice she said, "Don't hit. Don't ever hit. Hitting is wrong!" And then she hit him one more time just so he wouldn't forget .... that hitting is wrong.

Again, I did not turn on her. My self-control today has been fucking phenomenal. Also I don't want to have to call my kids to come bail me out of jail. They'd never let me forget it.

However, in a passive-aggressive conversational tone I said to Coraline, who was beside me but ready to take off on the next adventure, "That's the stupidest thing I've heard and seen in a long time. I feel sorry for that little boy." She just ran ahead toward a big orange sculpture and called back, "Orange! Orange!"

I'm glad all she saw today was orange and Yee-oh and a river of earth juice and the wheels on the bus as it passed below on the street and a man walking a dog. And kids who, for all she knew, were her new best friends for a few seconds. That's all she saw. For now. Someday she won't be so innocent, and I'm not ready for that day to come. I don't want her eyes to ever be as jaded as mine are.

And yet, how will she change the world if she doesn't see it as it is?

Orange

Yes, it's been one of those days. Tomorrow night I'll be writing from the beautiful Hocking Hills of southeastern Ohio. I'm sure I'll have an entirely new perspective by then. For now, I'm going to pour a glass of wine and hunt down that last fucking fly that's been buzzing my head the entire time I've been writing this. That's something I can justify smacking.

A musician's life: volume 14

Monday nights are band practice nights for Free to a Good Home. Tonight Joe was off listening to somebody else play, so it was just Chicken Grrrl and me.

We were both feeling grumpy and over-worked and under-appreciated tonight, so we split most of a bottle of wine and vented before we even powered up the guitars and mics. I rarely drink while we practice, but I have to admit, a couple of glasses of wine make our mistakes so much funnier.

We're gearing up for our next big gig on June 23rd. It's a private party, so sorry, you can't come. Our audience will be enjoying a swimming pool and a hot tub while we play. And I know this time the hosts will feed us. That's a bonus we can't always count on.

You may not know this but musicians don't always get fed, even when everybody else is stuffing their faces and talking and laughing while we play. I've played quite a few gigs where I watched people chow down as I did my thing, and by the time we could take a break, not a crumb remained. And some were fucking potlucks I'd brought food to!

At one gig I played with my daughter's SO Rock Dad, we were promised a BBQ dinner, but we ended up with cold corn on the cob and whatever we could scrape out of the empty mac and cheese pan. We had fun playing though, got paid, and stopped for food several hours later on our way home.

I can't complain about Free to a Good Home's luck so far. The festival we played Memorial Day weekend was put together by the members of one of the bands and their wives, and it was fantastic. I guess they treated the bands -- we were one of six bands that played from 4:30 until after midnight -- like they wanted to be treated.

 Each band had a designated area in a big room right behind the stage where we could stash our instruments and equipment for the whole evening. Much better than storing guitars in hot cars.

A couple of the wives also supplied the band room with a big plate of Italian cured meats and  delicious, stinky aged provolone; bread; a crockpot of meatballs with sub buns; chips; fruit; beer on ice; and a bottomless jar of a vodka and lime juice concoction they call the Rubicon. After our set, one of the guys was passing around a bottle of maple Crown Royal, so we all took a swig of that too. We definitely found a ourselves good home for that gig.

To be honest, it was worth playing for the music and the camaraderie too though. I knew the guys in the band that put it on. I've jammed with them, and they're fun guys. But I also met a bunch of new guys. Oh, yeah. That's the thing about playing in a band. Most band musicians are men. Out of the 6 bands, Chicken Grrrl and I were the only women on the stage. Food is not the only bonus when you're a girl who plays a guitar.

And the music ... well, the music is really the reason for the whole thing. Like I said, I've played in all kinds of situations: with my stomach rumbling while I watched people stuff their faces all around me; in an empty parking lot; when it was so cold I couldn't feel my fingers on the strings and when it was so hot sweat was running down my back into the crack of my ass like the Mississippi River; when people were listening intently and when nobody listened at all; in bars so smoky I couldn't see the audience; when members of the wedding party were elbowing each other and me over my microphone so they could sing along; when I've practiced and once when I didn't even know 3/4 of the songs we played (nobody knew, and all I got paid was a lousy ham sandwich on white bread); and one painful historical festival where yellow jackets kept buzzing into the holes of my recorders as visitors milked a goat right next to me. Sometimes I got paid; more often I didn't. Kind of like writing, I suppose.

One thing I love about playing music is that I never know what's going to happen. I just practice until my fingers bleed, and then once I'm on stage it's all up to Miss Serendipity. I love it.

Free to a Good Home
(Photo credit: Alex Carmichal)

Note: I went 3 days without writing about sex. I have a will of steel. Suck it, naysayers.