It didn’t take long for the cries of, why is she suing NOW?

Of What a selfish spoiled brat, only after the money! Of She just wants to ruin his career! Of She just needs the attention!

No, these things weren’t said where I’m going to link, but the implications are there in the question (no matter the asker), and it’s not hard to find actual people saying these things outright.

Thomas gives this idiocy the smackdown:

Why is she suing now? Maybe because someone is suddenly using the footage that she thought was long forgotten? Maybe because she feels cheated that Joe Francis gets to make a killing off of something she did when she was just 17, and that she got nothing for except a tee shirt and a few drinks? Maybe because, now, publicly identified as a sex worker and afraid she’ll never be famous for anything but being sexual for money, she thinks the best move is to try to get as much money out of it as she can? Maybe she doesn’t care if the whole world sees her naked at 17, but she thinks Joe Francis is a tool.

I don’t know the woman, but I can see a lot of reasons.

I think it’s rather indicative that no matter what sick shit a man pulls, we have to seek out some woman, somewhere, to blame for it.

So, what do the three presidential candidates have to say about disability?

Oh yeah. That. Doesn’t ever seem to be much of a topic, does it?

Michael Bérubé explains, in his somehow simultaneously meandering-but-crisply-clear manner.

What I found interesting is that this:

The nine-page .pdf, “Barack Obama’s Plan to Empower Americans with Disabilities”, says many of the same things Hillary does – about [...] hiring 100,000 people with disabilities in the federal government (except that someone needs to tell the Obama camp that it’s Executive Order 13163 Obama needs to reinstate, not 13173, which created an Interagency Task Force on the Economic Development of the Central San Joaquin Valley; reinstating 13173, whatever its merits, probably won’t do much for disability policy in the United States).

would benefit me either way! ¡Vive la valle central! God, I miss home.

Main Street and Church, Visalia, CA from Johnny J Lopez

Trying to turn around a situation so that it is about race instead of sex. (Or what have you.)

“If somebody said such-and-such about a black person…”

Cut it the fuck out. You are playing on the narrative that racism is dead in our society, which is a back-breaking load of rancid shit.

I understand the desire to try to communicate to people who might not otherwise understand how serious something is. But please find a way to do it without making things worse for our brothers and sisters living every fucking day as a gay person, trans person, person of color, person with a disability…

These systems of oppression are incomprehensibly large and they operate in different ways for different classes of persons. They are equally reprehensible, but that does not mean they all operate the same way, and that if something problematic about [x class] is not tolerated in society, [x class] must not have it so bad after all.

Check your privilege.

Husband and child, so to speak.

Husband was lying down next to Buddy in the same position: tummy up, back legs splayed, front paws held up to one’s chest begging-style, staring up wide-eyed but vacantly into the air.

He wouldn’t let me take a picture of the two of them like that. Spoilsport.

(Part of) a day in the life…

I write these bits and pieces because I want to fill out, flesh out, what it means to be — well, any of the parts that make up me, anyway. In this case, there is relevance to my physical condition; what it means to be fibromyalgic, disabled, living with an invisible illness, managing all of that in a balanced way.

Please note I haven’t had time to review and edit this. I am going to bed.

Yesterday I was scheduled to work 11-5pm. At least it was long enough a shift to allow a break — usually I wander around the mall (at the end of which is the camera shop that employs me) and window-shop just to get my mind off the sales floor for a bit. I look at the kitsch in Hallmark and imagine how I’m going to decorate my someday dream-home (which will be small and comfortable and easy to care for). I browse through the clearance racks at Dots — seriously, nice work pants for $5! — or talk to the people in the jewelry shops and food places who know us fairly well. I will admit to having hobbled down to the Bon-Ton one time and lay on the sample Sertas.

I was working with my manager that afternoon. I get along fairly well with her, although she has her faults, just as any other human person. She had called me in a panic that morning; our alarm codes were all changed recently, and she needed mine, rightnow, and after I read it to her she belted, “I’ll call you back later” and hung up. Apparently the alarm went off for a half hour, and the security guards and police were there, and the alarm company refused to turn the alarm off until she told them her alarm code — which she didn’t have — even as she offered to prove her identity.

She was, understandably, flustered.

But the day went fairly well otherwise, very steady, and the customers were good. (Retail folks know: there are Good Customers, who are open and amicable but don’t pry, who are patient and cooperative — and there are Bad Customers, who put you in a sour mood, because they don’t see themselves as working with you, but against you, no matter which position you see yourself occupying.)

I took one half of a painkiller before leaving for work, and another half two hours later, maybe half after noon. I took my midday medications around two-thirty. And maybe an hour later, I went on break.

When I returned, I had to jump right into things; my manager had three people to be helped and only one of her. And the amount of customers only grew. It was a blur for the following hour; I was juggling at least two customers at any one time. Maybe ten minutes before five, as I was talking to a twenty-something couple who had just walked in to look at digital SLRs, the older couple behind them insisted that they were “just” there to pick up — what, photos, a warehouse order? Those are quick to take care of — no — a camera. And I’ve learned as much in my time here: there is no such thing as a quick camera sale. We have a bundle of free crap, and some other valuable extras, that we have to explain to the customer. We may be a nationwide corporation, but we operate like a mom-n-pop shop; we explain the basics of working the camera for folks who don’t already have a handle on it, for instance. You don’t get that at Wal-Mart.

Anyway — they were obviously not happy to be waiting in line, so I left this couple handling two entry level SLRs at the front of the store to run back and grab everything they were picking up — which was not simply a camera. It was a printer, and a package of memory cards, and a bag, and a host of other accessories. And I started to wrap up the sale, explaining the Bundle of Free Crap to them, when one of my coworkers walked in. I called him over and handed the older couple off to him, asking him to explain everything to them and ring the sale up, saying — out loud — “I do have two SLRs out over here!”

I was flustered too.

The young couple was, in fact, a young family. It was their first time out with their ten-day-old son. He must have gone through four or five cycles of sleep and wake in his time there. They handled it exceptionally, for it being their first time; they would trade off holding him, or feeding him, or rocking him, while the other partner was talking to me. They were very gracious, and the sort of customer who is easy to talk to. It was obvious the husband was more invested in the decision than the wife (who, being a new mother, was also exhausted; he didn’t seem to understand why she kept going to sit down at the print bar) although they were both interested.

They ended up buying the Nikon D40, which is being cleared out — photography, just like fashion, has a spring line that pushes out the last season’s worth of product — and the zoom lens. I went through everything they would need (bag, memory card, filters…) with them, explaining it to them the whole way. At one point, my manager, who was getting her things together to leave — it being well after five at this point — teases me about my husband surely wondering where the hell I was. I had been avoiding saying anything, even though it had been on my mind the whole time, because you could tell these two were the sorts of people who would feel bad for it — and yes, they did.

I explained the damage protection and the rewards club; I explained the Bundle of Free Crap item by item; I pulled together the financing paperwork and called it in; I bragged about our brand new lab (which comes bundled with higher expectations for certain photofinishing products)… I don’t know how many customers had come and gone in that time, but it was a lot, and they were, eventually, the only ones left. My manager had gone. My friend/coworker/replacement was cleaning up the mess inevitably left when we get slammed like that, and don’t have the time to put everything neatly in its proper spot.

They left, happy, and thanking me profusely, around six-thirty. And once they were out of sight, my entire body fell slack, and I let out a long sigh. And I noticed –

It had been at least six hours since I had taken a the medicine I normally take every two.

– I felt the pain suddenly. I hadn’t even noticed, not that entire time.

And here’s the thing. There are a lot of times when I don’t notice the pain. That was my state for basically the entirety of my childhood. I had no reason to believe otherwise, so I learned to categorize how I felt as normal, because there was no outward indication that it wasn’t.

But when I finally stop doing, and let myself just be, the pain makes itself apparent, bit by bit.

That’s the problem with my early years. I never let myself stop. I shouldn’t have to stop, was my unconscious thought process, because there’s nothing abnormal going on to make me have to stop. And so I would force myself forward, no matter what. Even when I was sick. Even when I felt miserable.

And here’s another thing. I missed some ungodly amount of school days every year, from pre-K to graduation. But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t pushing myself to continue, attending school when I was sick and sapped, when I should have been home by any reasonable measure. It’s just that I was in such a condition as to be missing that much school even while I was putting forth such greater effort than most of my peers, even the most driven of them.

Enough of those other things.

I made my way to the back, where I kept my belongings, and called my husband to apologize. And after a quick chat with friend/coworker, I left for home.

OK: here’s one last thing.

Even after resting my tired body for the remainder of the day, and heading to bed early, and rolling out of bed a bit late — even after my husband helped me wash myself in the shower this morning — even after the painkillers –

I felt awful today. The first words I heard as I walked into work today were “You look tired.”

And I put on makeup today. For the first time in weeks. Even with three types of concealer over the dark circles under my eyes, I managed to look significantly worse than usual, in terms of physical condition.

I was slow and sluggish. I slurred when I spoke (quietly). I shuffled instead of walking. I sat down any opportunity I was given.

Understand this: I am a driven person. When I am not weighed down by the pain and exhaustion, I am up and moving, doing, always doing something. I throw myself into whatever I am doing. I don’t slack. I don’t dawdle.

I suppose, though, in the end, I am that way because of this weight I carry. If I don’t put everything I am into whatever I am doing, chances are it won’t end up done.

The point of all this is that my pain is not a simple addition and subtraction problem. When I was helping that couple, I felt like I could keep going just fine. But I can’t trust that feeling. I kept going, in this case, out of necessity. But all that time on my feet, upright, good posture, being social, keeping my shit together — all of it without my pain medication — I couldn’t just make up for that by taking my medication (which I did) and resting for awhile. That shit builds up, even the smallest of it, and for every inch you add, there’s a mile more I have to go to make up for it.

If that makes sense.

I’ll leave you with something I have noticed over the years: if I’m not smiling, I’m not well. Really not well.

This was my 100th post. Cue confetti.

I may have an opportunity soon to get into photography. Not selling cameras or developing film. Actual photography. My friend/coworker does some portraiture and events on the side, but she’d like to develop that into a full-fledged photography business and has expressed interest in having me take part in that. I may be helping her with her next wedding (“Do you have any problems with it being a gay wedding?” Laughter.) just to get my feet wet. Given that I have had considerable anxiety about ever branching out into professional photography on my own — I don’t want to give someone subpar work on something that can’t exactly be re-done, like their wedding day, because I was a newb and made the inevitable newb mistakes — this would be perfect for me. Low pressure.

I am jonesing for a few new skirts. Full, swishy, longer skirts. (But not full-length — something more from knee to calf length.) Summer is approaching and I’ve always hated shorts, but jeans are going to be unbearable. Plus, the swooshy skirts are just so much damn fun. It appears the style this spring is to put pockets on the skirts again, something I think is awesome, because I don’t like to have to reach into my bra to pull out my chapstick.

Ahem.

Also, for the record. I don’t like chocolate. I don’t hate it — I can eat it, in moderation. It makes me very thirsty (let me repeat for emphasis here, very thirsty) and it’s not a taste I’m really wild over. However. My husband’s parents gave me a solid chocolate computer from Sarris’ for Christmas, and it sat uneaten for a couple months. And Oh. My. God. That is some divine shit right there. If there are any other chocolate non-fans like me out there, I seriously recommend getting your hands on some chocolate from Sarris (a local company, based in Pittsburgh, factory located in Canonsburg). You may find a renewed interest in the stuff.

Other popular food items I don’t particularly care for: ice cream, pizza.

Ever since I went off the birth control and started the Lupron (can’t really separate the two) I have been having these awful spasms in my lower back. It’s not tremors; it’s a single spasm, a strong jerk of the spine from somewhere in the upper pelvis area.

And it’s getting fucking annoying.

I used to have spasms all the time; back in middle school, I was having them daily. Back then, though, it was at the base of the skull. A couple years after I started on the trazodone (Desyrel, an antidepressant, though I used it as a sleep aid) (twelve years of age), my doctor put me on cyclobenzaprine (Flexeril) to reduce muscle tension, and the spasms mostly disappeared.

It’s both startling and outright painful. In the former case, it feels like a sharp bony hand reaching in through your skin and gripping your brain, like someone sticking a sharp needle filled with poison right in through the base of your skull. The whole body goes stiff and it takes a moment for me to crack my neck back into normalcy and free my head of the demonic interference. In the recent case, it feels much the same, except that it actually physically moves my body around, and jolts my very, very tense shoulders — the same shoulders I go to great lengths not to strain, because pain in the shoulders inevitably travels upward, and if there isn’t sufficient intervention (in whatever way — painkillers, heating pads, lying down to take the weight of gravity off my head and neck, etc.) ends in a disabling migraine.*

And I’ve had to explain this as best I could to my husband, who gets a kick out of sneaking up on me, that surprising me is ok, but when you marry a physical sensation to that startling, what I get is, for lack of a better word, an intense shock, and it isn’t painful in the immediate sense of the word (like getting a cut or a bruise) but it just does this thing to my nervous system, and it’s just as bad as outright “pain.” On the level, perhaps, of a sucker punch to the gut, or cracking your head off a wall or floor (when it’s not serious enough to concuss or make unconscious).

Maybe the problem is just that we don’t have a concept for that kind of “pain,” as a society, because most people have never really experienced it.

Whatever it is, I’m tired of it. It happens in bed, it happens at work, it happens when I’m doing the dishes or sitting here at the computer. Maybe it’s a reaction to the Lupron, maybe it’s an interaction with any of my numerous other medications. I’ll bring it up next visit to my wonderful gynecologist, but for now, I’m just sick of it.

*I use the word disabling quite literally here. When shoulder/neck pain and/or a headache become a full-fledged migraine, for me, I’m down for the count. I have to have a soft place to rest my head (and body), free of light or sound, so I can curl up and just wish for death instead of actually acting it out. I can’t scream, can’t cry, can’t groan, because the movement inflames the pain. You can tell when I’m headed that way, because I speak very softly, attempting to control my speech such that my mouth moves as little as possible. My shoulders, neck and head stay stiff, because any movement causes pain, and pain building up such that it becomes unbearable is the whole problem. There’s a point where there’s no turning back, and I have to just suffer it out, taking the painkillers not because they’re going to make me feel any fucking better, but because if I don’t, it’s never going to go away. I can be stuck in this situation for a day — it never goes away in mere hours — or for weeks on end, depending on how bad it is, how much I did, whether I can take the adequate time and have an adequate space in which and adequate resources with which to recover.

There was one time, during my first attempt at college, that I was in one of the art rooms for my 2-D Design class (with my favorite prof in the world), working quietly on whichever project it was at the time, surrounded by fellow students working quietly on theirs. And the simple scratching of pencil on bristol, rustling of paper, adjusting of seats, the hum of the lights overhead — I was ready to throw up, and I knew I had hit that turning point, and I knew that I had to get my ass in my car and drive home right then, because five minutes from now I might not be able to drive safely, or at all. So I gathered my shit, quietly, stiffly and robotically — moving my body, and especially my shoulders, as little as possible — and left. Fortunately the prof had gone out on errand, because I would not have had the time or strength to stop and stand and tell him why I was leaving, and have him ask was I ok, and would I be ok and is there anything he can do and make sure you get this done or whatever — I doubt I would have been able to conduct myself safely in a moving vehicle if I had waited through that, and forced myself to speak, against every inclination of my aching body. I left, without saying a word even to my class partner, and walked as quickly as I could while exerting as little force as possible (do you folks know how fucking hard that is? when you’re in that state?) to my car, and threw my shit on the passenger seat and lowered myself down into my seat, and squinted my tired eyes the whole way home, and every step I took up to the second-floor apartment jarred up through my body from heel to skull, and I closed and locked the door to my room and fell down in bed, and I don’t remember anything after that. To tell the truth, I don’t remember anything after walking out the art room door, but I can tell you what I did because I know exactly how it goes, I’ve done it so many times.

And you know, I find it interesting that I cannot come up with an adjective that describes the intense sharp pain I felt in my entire body. I know aching, tired, sore, etc. but none of those describe that awful feeling, the tense and stabbing feeling over every inch of skin and miles deep below it. Granted, I’ve never been good at vocabulary.

It seems to be a common question these days.

I remember the first time I visited Nezua’s site and admired his serious design skillzzz.* And scrolling down his sidebar, I hit upon this image:

and stopped.

It seems particularly appropriate now.

Why am I a feminist? Because I don’t know how else to describe, concerned with issues of gender. Of course, gender is not the end-all-be-all oppression, as we all know. Thus, the genius of whomever thought up the term intersectional. But an intersectional approach has been around and widely practiced for quite some time now, and yet we find ourselves in this same rut. Concerned with issues of gender — for people who are white, het, cis, abled, etc. Concerned with issues of gender — for people who are dominant in every other way. Concerned with issues of gender — for those who have no other concerns to be concerned about.

But when so many of us live at those intersections, “intersectional analysis” can’t simply be a tool in feminism’s toolbox that gets whipped out to take care of us every now and then. It has to be the place that feminism lives at. Holly

So, I understand those who have become disillusioned with feminism after it has time and time again demonstrated itself to be on the side of the oppressor in any case where gender is not the only concern. What good are our words, our promises to do better, to try, next time!, when those promises are so quickly forgotten?

Myself? I have found an incredible community of women who are working to better the lives of those disadvantaged and battered down. I will continue to learn from them. And I will continue to explore outside my little privileged corner here, and learn from communities of persons who are working to better the lives of those disadvantaged and battered down in other ways. Whatever they call themselves. Because I think they’re worth listening to, learning from, and working with either way.

I think it would do us all well to take another look at that image up there.

*Of course, his writing is sublime, but my brain does not always allow me to process such rich text, as it were. So I would visit his site on occasion, but sometimes my brain is running a 3.2ghz cpu, and sometimes it’s running on 0.8ghz. In any case, dude’s a talented dude, and you’d probably be better served reading his artful writing than my half-baked babbling.

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

I haven’t written on the recent dustup. A lot of people have. (See Cara for example.)

And I feel those words. And I don’t want to be silent.

But at the same time, I don’t know that anything I say is what’s going to matter, in the end.

One funny thing I’ve noticed lately is that amid the constant clamor of honky chick “allies” enjoining unenlightened honky chicks to “listen” to women of color, it is harder than ever before to hear much of anything except honky chicks clamoring at other honky chicks.

So. Rather than involving myself again in this fight that will not die — I’m going to shut the fuck up, and start (and continue) reading what women of color have to say. And though I have no up to lift their voices, I’m going to let them do their own talking.

I’ve said it before: I have a lot to learn.

And it doesn’t matter how much you may *think* you support women of color; you can’t self-proclaim yourself an ally. That’s for the oppressed group to decide. Ico

This rings true, circumstances (and particular social class) regardless.