I never expected events to turn like this when I first posted about Roseanne.
Truthfully, on that particular day, I felt completely devoid of writing material so I threw together a post on Roseanne and immediately started thinking about how we could coax the dog to dance for a future post.
But mere hours after blogging about the show, Netflix yanked it from its rotation. Which, honestly, made for great blogging. Anyways, we hate Netflix now.
But the plot thickens. The day after Netflix banished Roseanne, Roseanne Barr formally announced her Green Party candidacy.
Coincidence? I think not.
Ian's convinced the corporate wonders at Netflix are mad about Roseanne entering politics and thus dropped her show. I'm convinced my blog elevated Roseanne into the political stratosphere, making her a viable Green Party nominee.
As a candidate, Roseanne wants to end the money economy and establish a barter system instead. Which Ian and I would be fine with, since we will soon own chickens, eggs, and plenty of food crops. We also have a little white dog that Ian would love to use as barter.
Roseanne also wants to end the system of patriarchy in the U.S., saying, "Patriarchy is impotent and qualitatively unable to solve even the most
simple problems in the cosmos such as picking up their own socks or
placing a carton of milk back in the refrigerator after drinking from
it."
I can't think of anything more prolific than that. I highly respect any politician who explains or even notices man's incapability of folding towels or cleaning the bathtub.
Ergo, I feel it only right that Winiferd in the Burbs endorse Roseanne Barr as the Green Party candidate. And as for you, Jill Stein? Harley Mikkelson? Kent Mesplay? YOU ARE GOING DOWN.
Given my involvement with the political rise of Roseanne Barr, I'm hoping she'll hire me as her adviser. I will advise the following for her White House Cabinet:
Vice President
Dan Conner
Department of State
Aunt Jackie
Department of the Treasury
Showing posts with label Feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Feminism. Show all posts
Monday, February 6, 2012
Thursday, September 29, 2011
I Am Woman; Hear Me Snore
I am terrible at playing housewife. For one, I never cook. I also find cleaning house tiresome after working a 40 hour week.
I mean, God, people. How am I supposed to find time to Google pictures of hot, obscure rock stars (hellooooo, Win Butler) and watch blurry Youtube clips of South Park (despite having every single South Park episode in high definition) if I spend my free time cooking and cleaning?
It's called priorities, you know?
I consider myself an "eleventh-wave" feminist. Basically, I cherry-pick my feminist sensibilities based on whatever conveniences me.
You see, I can wear make-up and put dresses on the dog and yell for Ian to kill the slug in the bathtub, because as an eleventh-wave feminist, I embrace my femininity.
I am female, dammit! I don't burn bras; I love bras! I celebrate gender differences! I am soft and emotional! I am womanly! I do womanly things!
But the minute talk of cooking comes up? Like, cooking actual meals? OH, HELL NO. I AM A FEMINIST, AND I DON'T DO THAT SHIT.
Ian: "I always cook. You haven't cooked a single meal since I've been with you."
Laura: "You are correct."
Ian: "You don't even try to deny it!"
Laura: "Why would I try to deny it? I don't cook."
Ian: "What if we have kids? Would you feed them macaroni and cheese every night for dinner?"
Laura: "And chicken nuggets from the microwave."
Ian: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Laura: "Shut up; it's protein."
Ian: "I think I'm going to have issues with this."
Laura: "I'd nuke a can of corn, too. We can tell the kids corn's a vegetable, even though it's a grain."
Ian: "I'm not sure that's going to work."
Laura: "Hey, I can make milk. Have you seen how awesome these things are?"
Ian: "No complaints here."
Laura: "I'll breastfeed until the kid's 5 or 6. Then he can go on the reduced lunch program at school. And the reduced breakfast program. They make breakfast, too."
Ian: "............ I think I'm going to have issues with this."
Laura: "I bet I can make enough milk for you, too."
Ian: "Wouldn't breast milk taste bad?"
Laura: "No. I've read it tastes sweet. You'd love it."
Ian: "It's too bad you can't blog about this."
Laura: "Or can I?"
I mean, God, people. How am I supposed to find time to Google pictures of hot, obscure rock stars (hellooooo, Win Butler) and watch blurry Youtube clips of South Park (despite having every single South Park episode in high definition) if I spend my free time cooking and cleaning?
It's called priorities, you know?
I consider myself an "eleventh-wave" feminist. Basically, I cherry-pick my feminist sensibilities based on whatever conveniences me.
You see, I can wear make-up and put dresses on the dog and yell for Ian to kill the slug in the bathtub, because as an eleventh-wave feminist, I embrace my femininity.
I am female, dammit! I don't burn bras; I love bras! I celebrate gender differences! I am soft and emotional! I am womanly! I do womanly things!
But the minute talk of cooking comes up? Like, cooking actual meals? OH, HELL NO. I AM A FEMINIST, AND I DON'T DO THAT SHIT.
Ian: "I always cook. You haven't cooked a single meal since I've been with you."
Laura: "You are correct."
Ian: "You don't even try to deny it!"
Laura: "Why would I try to deny it? I don't cook."
Ian: "What if we have kids? Would you feed them macaroni and cheese every night for dinner?"
Laura: "And chicken nuggets from the microwave."
Ian: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Laura: "Shut up; it's protein."
Ian: "I think I'm going to have issues with this."
Laura: "I'd nuke a can of corn, too. We can tell the kids corn's a vegetable, even though it's a grain."
Ian: "I'm not sure that's going to work."
Laura: "Hey, I can make milk. Have you seen how awesome these things are?"
Ian: "No complaints here."
Laura: "I'll breastfeed until the kid's 5 or 6. Then he can go on the reduced lunch program at school. And the reduced breakfast program. They make breakfast, too."
Ian: "............ I think I'm going to have issues with this."
Laura: "I bet I can make enough milk for you, too."
Ian: "Wouldn't breast milk taste bad?"
Laura: "No. I've read it tastes sweet. You'd love it."
Ian: "It's too bad you can't blog about this."
Laura: "Or can I?"
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Guinifred's Great Escape
Ian: "I'm going to buy a guinea pig."
Laura: "We already have a hyperactive dog and a cat that eats us out of house and home. Plus Spottswood. Why should we add another animal to the mix?"
Ian: "I'm going to mate her and sell the babies."
Laura: "Makes sense."
Ian: "We can start a guinea pig farm, and they can live in the backyard. Winnie can herd the guinea pigs."
Laura: "She'll burn lots of energy that way."
In late December 2010, Ian bought a guinea pig, a beautiful chocolate brown one with caramel colored swirls on her back.
Laura: "Have you thought of a name yet?"
Ian: "No. It usually takes a while."
Laura: "What about Hazel? I like Hazel."
Ian: "I worked with a Hazel."
Laura: "What about Clementine? Pearl? Adele? Margot? Elizabeth? Charlotte? Do any of those strike you?"
Ian: "I like G. Money. Or The Situation. Or Snookie."
Laura: "Those are a bit... avant-garde.
Ian: "I was kidding."
Since the guinea pig remained nameless, I began calling her Guinifred, a play on Winifred. The name stuck.
I also called her Hamster, but not to be funny. I'd never had a guinea pig, so she was all hamster to me.
Laura: "Aww. The hamster looks cute."
Ian: "Guinea pig."
Laura: "The guinea pig looks cute. Aww, she's eating her carrot. Are you hungry, little hamster?"
Ian: "Guinea pig."
Laura: "Are you hungry, little guinea pig?"
Having spent months raising a puppy with distinct psychological and social needs, I felt concerned about the guinea pig's emotional state.
Laura: "Is she bored? Is she lonely? Is she happy?"
Ian: "Guinea pigs are simple creatures. They only want food, water, and a cage."
Laura: "Guinifred seems bright. She looks really alert."
Ian: "I agree. I guess I bought an intellectual guinea pig."
As Christmas drew near, Ian asked me to look after his cats and guinea pig while he visited his mother in Alabama for the holidays: "Just feed them once a day."
I was cool with looking after the cats. Cats are easy. I've had cats. But I felt nervous caring for the guinea pig.
Laura: "If something happens to Guinifred, I'll buy you a new one. I promise."
Ian: "I'm sure everything will be fine."
Laura: "But, like, if anything happens, I'll find another pretty one and I'll buy her for you."
Ian: "Why are you so nervous about it?"
Laura: "I don't know."
The day before he left, Ian gave me simple instructions.
Ian: "You probably won't have to refill Guinifred's water bottle. Just give her food in the evening. And a carrot from the fridge."
Laura: "Wait. Aren't you going to cover her cage? You're just going to leave it open?"
Ian: "Yeah. The cover's too hard to take on and off. Like I said, guinea pigs are simple creatures. She'll just eat, drink, and sit in her cage."
Laura: "..... okay."
Attention readers: By this point you should have noticed some foreshadowing.
On Christmas day, I headed to Ian's to feed the pets. I dialed Ian after I entered his house.
We talked as I filled the cat's bowls. I walked into the guinea pig room and looked at the cage, eager to see Guinifred alive.
She was gone.
Laura: "EEEE-an! EEEE-an! The hamster's gone! OH MY GOD!"
Ian: "You mean the guinea pig?"
Laura: "GUINIFRED'S NOT IN HER CAGE!"
Ian: "Uh oh. I wonder if the cats got her."
Laura: "OH MY GOD."
Ian: "Look for her."
Laura: "YOU MEAN LOOK FOR HER CARCASS? OH MY GOD."
Ian: "She's probably alive and just hiding. Look in the desk area below the cage."
Laura: "OH MY GOD. OKAY. I'M LOOKING."
Ian: "See her?"
Laura: Wait...wait... I think I see her. She's not moving. WHAT IF SHE'S DEAD?"
Ian: "Pick her up and see."
Dear readers, I felt one hundred percent positive that poor Guinifred would look like this:
I was certain of it: Guinifred, left in my care for one day, had already deteriorated into a rotting, bloody corpse. I felt too terrified to fish her poor bloodied body out with my own hands.
Ian: "Did you pick her up?"
Laura: "No. I can't. She's probably lying in a pool of her own blood. And dead."
Ian: "Just pick her up."
Laura: "I can't."
Ian: "What's the big deal? I don't understand."
Laura: "I'm going to get my dad. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."
Ian: "Wait! What? You're going to get your dad? I don't understand..."
I hung up, hopped in my car, and fetched my dad. At Ian's, Dad carefully scooped up Guinifred from her hiding place, blood-free, breathing, and beautifully alive.
Dad: "She's just a little guinea pig. Why were you so scared?"
Laura: "Oh, just...corpse and... blood... and... snuff."
Dad: "Huh?"
Laura: "Oh, nothing."
I called Ian again.
Laura: "Guinifred's alive! She's alive!"
Ian: "Yeah, I figured she'd be alive. She must have escaped and gone on an adventure. Most guinea pigs just sit in their cages and eat."
Laura: "Trust you to buy the smartest damn hamster in the entire store. You couldn't choose a normal sloth one. You got the feminist one who decries cages and captivity and plots elaborate schemes for freedom."
We now keep the cover on Guinifred's cage. We have to keep a careful eye on both Freds.
Laura: "We already have a hyperactive dog and a cat that eats us out of house and home. Plus Spottswood. Why should we add another animal to the mix?"
Ian: "I'm going to mate her and sell the babies."
Laura: "Makes sense."
Ian: "We can start a guinea pig farm, and they can live in the backyard. Winnie can herd the guinea pigs."
Laura: "She'll burn lots of energy that way."
In late December 2010, Ian bought a guinea pig, a beautiful chocolate brown one with caramel colored swirls on her back.
Laura: "Have you thought of a name yet?"
Ian: "No. It usually takes a while."
Laura: "What about Hazel? I like Hazel."
Ian: "I worked with a Hazel."
Laura: "What about Clementine? Pearl? Adele? Margot? Elizabeth? Charlotte? Do any of those strike you?"
Ian: "I like G. Money. Or The Situation. Or Snookie."
Laura: "Those are a bit... avant-garde.
Ian: "I was kidding."
Since the guinea pig remained nameless, I began calling her Guinifred, a play on Winifred. The name stuck.
I also called her Hamster, but not to be funny. I'd never had a guinea pig, so she was all hamster to me.
Laura: "Aww. The hamster looks cute."
Ian: "Guinea pig."
Laura: "The guinea pig looks cute. Aww, she's eating her carrot. Are you hungry, little hamster?"
Ian: "Guinea pig."
Laura: "Are you hungry, little guinea pig?"
Having spent months raising a puppy with distinct psychological and social needs, I felt concerned about the guinea pig's emotional state.
Laura: "Is she bored? Is she lonely? Is she happy?"
Ian: "Guinea pigs are simple creatures. They only want food, water, and a cage."
Laura: "Guinifred seems bright. She looks really alert."
Ian: "I agree. I guess I bought an intellectual guinea pig."
As Christmas drew near, Ian asked me to look after his cats and guinea pig while he visited his mother in Alabama for the holidays: "Just feed them once a day."
I was cool with looking after the cats. Cats are easy. I've had cats. But I felt nervous caring for the guinea pig.
Laura: "If something happens to Guinifred, I'll buy you a new one. I promise."
Ian: "I'm sure everything will be fine."
Laura: "But, like, if anything happens, I'll find another pretty one and I'll buy her for you."
Ian: "Why are you so nervous about it?"
Laura: "I don't know."
The day before he left, Ian gave me simple instructions.
Ian: "You probably won't have to refill Guinifred's water bottle. Just give her food in the evening. And a carrot from the fridge."
Laura: "Wait. Aren't you going to cover her cage? You're just going to leave it open?"
Ian: "Yeah. The cover's too hard to take on and off. Like I said, guinea pigs are simple creatures. She'll just eat, drink, and sit in her cage."
Laura: "..... okay."
Attention readers: By this point you should have noticed some foreshadowing.
On Christmas day, I headed to Ian's to feed the pets. I dialed Ian after I entered his house.
We talked as I filled the cat's bowls. I walked into the guinea pig room and looked at the cage, eager to see Guinifred alive.
She was gone.
Laura: "EEEE-an! EEEE-an! The hamster's gone! OH MY GOD!"
Ian: "You mean the guinea pig?"
Laura: "GUINIFRED'S NOT IN HER CAGE!"
Ian: "Uh oh. I wonder if the cats got her."
Laura: "OH MY GOD."
Ian: "Look for her."
Laura: "YOU MEAN LOOK FOR HER CARCASS? OH MY GOD."
Ian: "She's probably alive and just hiding. Look in the desk area below the cage."
Laura: "OH MY GOD. OKAY. I'M LOOKING."
Ian: "See her?"
Laura: Wait...wait... I think I see her. She's not moving. WHAT IF SHE'S DEAD?"
Ian: "Pick her up and see."
Dear readers, I felt one hundred percent positive that poor Guinifred would look like this:
I was certain of it: Guinifred, left in my care for one day, had already deteriorated into a rotting, bloody corpse. I felt too terrified to fish her poor bloodied body out with my own hands.
Ian: "Did you pick her up?"
Laura: "No. I can't. She's probably lying in a pool of her own blood. And dead."
Ian: "Just pick her up."
Laura: "I can't."
Ian: "What's the big deal? I don't understand."
Laura: "I'm going to get my dad. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."
Ian: "Wait! What? You're going to get your dad? I don't understand..."
I hung up, hopped in my car, and fetched my dad. At Ian's, Dad carefully scooped up Guinifred from her hiding place, blood-free, breathing, and beautifully alive.
Dad: "She's just a little guinea pig. Why were you so scared?"
Laura: "Oh, just...corpse and... blood... and... snuff."
Dad: "Huh?"
Laura: "Oh, nothing."
I called Ian again.
Laura: "Guinifred's alive! She's alive!"
Ian: "Yeah, I figured she'd be alive. She must have escaped and gone on an adventure. Most guinea pigs just sit in their cages and eat."
Laura: "Trust you to buy the smartest damn hamster in the entire store. You couldn't choose a normal sloth one. You got the feminist one who decries cages and captivity and plots elaborate schemes for freedom."
We now keep the cover on Guinifred's cage. We have to keep a careful eye on both Freds.
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