Don't Judge

How many times have I gone away and returned, then gone away again only to return. I have no excuse. Check that, I have tons. But you don't want to hear them so I don't want to give them. I really do have a ton to say, so for now I'll leave you with this: my mind is in need of a serious brain dump. I'm not sure what form that will take, but for now, I'm prepping the hardwoods with plastic sheeting.

Obsessive? Yes.

If you ask any of my friends what part of my physical being I'm most anal about, there would be NO QUESTIONS. You would always get one consistent answer – the hair on my fat-cheeked head. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I have worked really hard over the last 10 years to scare the gray peons back into the inside of my scalp versus allowing them to play on the outside. Except that CPS called and said that I can't keep anything locked up inside my head house anymore. They have to be free. Fine. I just costume them in outfits that look much like the rest of the outside scenery. It's like follicle camoflage.

I have several women, who I see on a regular basis, who insist on leaving their house with wet, stringy, unkempt hair. Not just 'kind of' wet, but all-the-way, all-my-towels-are-in-the-wash, I-tried-to-drink-out-of-the-water-hose wet.

I can't, for the LIFE of me, understand how a grown woman – one who wants to get laid (I assume) – would get up in the morning and never once entertain the company of a blow dryer or flat iron. I understand a lack of styling, a lack of makeup, and even a lack of underwear, but I just don't get how wet hair makes you feel as if you are "put together" when you get in your car to travel to someplace where other people are.

There are many women, my mother and sister included, who don't use a blow dryer at all. That is totally fine with me, because they wait to exit their homes until they don't look like they just walked through a hurricane.

I know that I'm odd – that I'm one of those freakishly obsessive women who actually care about the fact that they might see Kevin Bacon at the coffee shop in downtown Chattanooga. Regardless, sopping, wet hair just isn't pretty. It makes you look like you said, "you know, I really wish everyday could be a 'just got out of the ocean' look kinda day." Keep it up and you'll soon be wearing your slippers to the office.








Oh shit, I know women like that too.

We are...

So, many of you have no doubt seen this video. Some of you, I trust, have not. There are many things in this world that break my heart. People going hungry, children without clean water, and assholes that abuse innocent animals are on my short list. But, above all, with every fiber of my body, I despise children, teenagers, young adults, adults and seniors who bully, belittle and shame those in this world that are different. 

This kid is one of the strong ones, at least for now. I pray and pray that he retains this strength through the remainder of his life. He will need it. Because for all the good we do, we are still a mean people bunch.

i'm over it, too

She's an Tony-award winning playwright and activist. She's written a piece that is both brilliant and sad, touching and infuriating. Eve Ensler pulls no punches. All I want to know is, where do I show up on Feb 14, 2013. I'm there. I'm so there.

As published by the Huffington Post, November 11, 2011. Find the original here.

I am over rape.

I am over rape culture, rape mentality, rape pages on Facebook.

I am over the thousands of people who signed those pages with their real names without shame.

I am over people demanding their right to rape pages, and calling it freedom of speech or justifying it as a joke.

I am over people not understanding that rape is not a joke and I am over being told I don't have a sense of humor, and women don't have a sense of humor, when most women I know (and I know a lot) are really fucking funny. We just don't think that uninvited penises up our anus, or our vagina is a laugh riot.

I am over how long it seems to take anyone to ever respond to rape.

I am over Facebook taking weeks to take down rape pages.

I am over the hundreds of thousands of women in Congo still waiting for the rapes to end and the rapists to be held accountable.

I am over the thousands of women in Bosnia, Burma, Pakistan, South Africa, Guatemala, Sierra Leone, Haiti, Afghanistan, Libya, you name a place, still waiting for justice.

I am over rape happening in broad daylight.

I am over the 207 clinics in Ecuador supported by the government that are capturing, raping, and torturing lesbians to make them straight.

I am over one in three women in the U.S military (Happy Veterans Day!) getting raped by their so-called "comrades."

I am over the forces that deny women who have been raped the right to have an abortion.

I am over the fact that after four women came forward with allegations that Herman Cain groped them and grabbed them and humiliated them, he is still running for the President of the United States.

And I'm over CNBC debate host Maria Bartiromo getting booed when she asked him about it. She was booed, not Herman Cain.

Which reminds me, I am so over the students at Penn State who protested the justice system instead of the alleged rapist pedophile of at least 8 boys, or his boss Joe Paterno, who did nothing to protect those children after knowing what was happening to them.

I am over rape victims becoming re-raped when they go public.

I am over starving Somalian women being raped at the Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya, and I am over women getting raped at Occupy Wall Street and being quiet about it because they were protecting a movement which is fighting to end the pillaging and raping of the economy and the earth, as if the rape of their bodies was something separate.

I am over women still being silent about rape, because they are made to believe it's their fault or they did something to make it happen.

I am over violence against women not being a #1 international priority when one out of three women will be raped or beaten in her lifetime -- the destruction and muting and undermining of women is the destruction of life itself.

No women, no future, duh.

I am over this rape culture where the privileged with political and physical and economic might, take what and who they want, when they want it, as much as they want, any time they want it.

I am over the endless resurrection of the careers of rapists and sexual exploiters -- film directors, world leaders, corporate executives, movie stars, athletes -- while the lives of the women they violated are permanently destroyed, often forcing them to live in social and emotional exile.

I am over the passivity of good men. Where the hell are you?

You live with us, make love with us, father us, befriend us, brother us, get nurtured and mothered and eternally supported by us, so why aren't you standing with us? Why aren't you driven to the point of madness and action by the rape and humiliation of us?

I am over years and years of being over rape.

And thinking about rape every day of my life since I was 5-years-old.

And getting sick from rape, and depressed from rape, and enraged by rape.

And reading my insanely crowded inbox of rape horror stories every hour of every single day.

I am over being polite about rape. It's been too long now, we have been too understanding.

We need to OCCUPYRAPE in every school, park, radio, TV station, household, office, factory, refugee camp, military base, back room, night club, alleyway, courtroom, UN office. We need people to truly try and imagine -- once and for all -- what it feels like to have your body invaded, your mind splintered, your soul shattered. We need to let our rage and our compassion connect us so we can change the paradigm of global rape.

There are approximately one billion women on the planet who have been violated.

ONE BILLION WOMEN.

The time is now. Prepare for the escalation.

Today it begins, moving toward February 14, 2013, when one billion women will rise to end rape.

Because we are over it.

M.I.A.

So, work travel has made it difficult for me to keep up – not just with the blog, but with many things.
On my plate right now:

• moving Biased Baby clothing line off of cafepress.com and onto Etsy. This will allow me to cut my prices in almost half and hopefully build the business more. I already have an Etsy page, but it doesn't contain my clothing line. I've gotten all my business licenses transferred to Tennessee, so as soon as my wholesale purchase certificate is processed, I'll be up and running. It can't happen fast enough.

• Masters Program work. I just got my seventh A, meaning my 4.0 GPA remains intact. This program is kicking my ass, though. When I was in college, I was in the fine arts program, so the time spent in research and writing was never this intense.

• Keeping up with things at work. It's not glamorous, but it's the truth. There's so much to do, sometimes I just stare at my desk, dumbfounded at where to start.

• Missing my husband and babies. So, the kids have been @ Mike's for 3 weeks because my travel schedule was so crazy. Mike, as you might remember, is a 4th year Veterinary Medicine student and lives elsewhere. It's nice that his school schedule afforded me the ability to leave the pups and kittens there, but my house is such a sad, pitiful place to come home to. The quiet is deafening. I might have to bring in a random cat and have it crap on the floor, just so I can think that the big, fat cat is back at home. Thankfully, I get to pick them up next weekend and see Mike for a solid 3 days. I won't know what to do with myself.

So, I've got a TON of stuff to tell you guys – Europe trip, New Orleans trip + tragedy, new Biased clothing spawned by the Occupy Wall St movement and some cool pics to share. I'll be back tomorrow, promise.

rant - be warned

The last time I checked, we were halfway through 2011. That's a decade into the new century. That's 91 one years since women were given the right to vote. That's 45 years since the Civil Rights act of '64. Considering that we, as a people, have afforded rights to both women and blacks for such a long period of time, I have to say that I'm disgusted with the internet banter that is highlighting during their newscasts regarding Chaz Bono's appearance on Dancing With the Stars.

ABC obviously thought long and hard about Chaz's participation. I'm sure they discussed, at least behind closed doors, the conversations that would occur when they announced the members of the cast. They recognize Chaz as a man and have partnered him with Laci, one of the coolest chicks on the set.

Mothers are being interviewed saying things like "it is hard for us to explain to our children what transgendered means," and "we will not be watching because this is not the kind of moral behavior that we want our families exposed to." Really? REALLY? I'm guessing that you didn't have difficulty explaining why Lisa Rinna's lips look like they do, am I right? I'm guessing that you might have reminisced with your daughter about how "cute" Lance Bass was when he was in that boy band? But, I'm guessing that you skirted the conversation about Bristol Palin getting pregnant when she was seventeen, am I right? And I'm guessing that you avoided explaining why Lil' Kim was once in prison, yes?

Chaz Bono is living his life with honesty. If those mothers can answer my above questions with the same truth, then I'll shut up.

things I think on...

Last week all of my teacher friends in VA went back to school. They are knee-deep in school system bureaucracy and are already counting down the days until Summer 2012. I sympathize with them and hope that their year goes quickly, smoothly and without parental incident. 

This time of year makes me nostalgic and reminds me from whence I've come. I’m a product of the public school system and I still believe that education is one of the basic rights that we have as Americans. We have so often politicized and confused the blessing of knowledge with the right to learn. I think we lose sight of the concept that knowledge and ambition is what sets us apart from our peers – both inside the confines of the United States and worldwide. Our children should feel PROUD of their ability to receive a free education, even if the school they are to attend is less than stellar. I’d prefer that we have a country where all our schools are calibrated equally but it just isn’t realistic based on our current social and political structure. That being said, every child has the availability to some level of learning. Even the worst school systems function at a level that facilitates a modicum of knowledge.

But this is neither a political or philosophical conversation regarding public education. It’s actually a referendum on my own experience – and more importantly, the educators that shaped it. I’m attending my 20 year high school reunion in a few weeks and although I still can’t quite believe that I’ve come that far, it’s more amazing to me that the two educators who singlehandedly prepared me for life are STILL at the blackboard. I was in an interesting position during high school specifically, as my mother was a teacher at the school I attended. This was both a blessing and a curse on most days. I saw both sides of the preferential treatment coin during those 4 years of emotional pubescent hell. I was privy to information about the teachers who were her friends and I, at times, got out of trouble because of who I was. In the same vein, I was held to a higher standard of participation and behavior because my mother was an educator in the same school. Quite frankly, I didn’t have much of an issue with either and when I look back at things, I really made out okay.

With all honesty, I wouldn’t have an ounce of the confidence or poise that I do without two very specific persons. The first was my 9^th and 10^th grade art teacher and the other was my Speech coach. Funny enough, they were friends with each other and still continue to banter on Facebook as I watch in amusement.

Ms. A., my art teacher, was the driving force behind my career in the arts. I’ve often wondered where I would be in my professional career if it weren’t for the positive reinforcement that I received in her classroom. She had a way of guiding my artistic hand in a way that led to creative insight I didn’t know possible and she was the kind of teacher who wasn’t happy unless she made you laugh (at yourself or at her) at least once a day.

Although she only “classroom” taught me for two of my four years, she was my mentor throughout it all. I ended up attending her alma mater for my undergraduate degree and I know that my choice was a direct result of my admiration for her. There’s just something to be said for a person who builds you up and never once attempts to shorten the pedestal. She was that person for me.

Mr. P. was a different story. He was is full of piss and vinegar and created an atmosphere that forced you to improve because you knew that you could, not just because he told you that you needed to. My experience on the speech team in high school was the defining involvement of my time in high school. My closest friends were on the team and we traveled together 20 times a year. Our meets were as close as one hour and as far away as 9 – all by mini-bus or car caravan. On a rare occasion (once or twice a year), several of us were lucky enough to qualify for a National tournament, which actually landed us on an airplane. My first trip to an airport (on the departure side of security) was because of my success through this team. I was fourteen years old.

The thing about public speaking is this: the skill sets that are derived from participation in this type of activity are unmatched. There’s a confidence, poise and fearlessness that is established as soon as you get over the fact that people are really paying attention to what you are saying. Mr. P. was the type of coach that encouraged as much as he berated. But he also was one of my favorite people to be around and he had the quickest sense of humor of anyone I had met to that point. Much of my quick, reactive tongue, I have to think, was a result of spending 9 months a year with this man. I am still amazed by the things I learned from him and I’m thankful that I had the wherewithal to listen to him more than I poo-poo’d his feedback. I’m a confident businesswoman because I’m not afraid to talk. That fear was squelched because Mr. P. gave me no other option.

To say I’m grateful for these two humans is the understatement of my life. I hope that I’ve shown my appreciation enough over the last twenty years, but just in case…they’ll see this undoubtedly.

What does this have to do with my overly biased blog? Nothing really – other than being grateful that 20 years worth of students have been lucky enough to experience what I did with these two individuals. I pray those students paid attention.

wherein I burnt my eyes

for Jeanne

I’ve now lived in Chattanooga for 9 months. This seems like an eternity to a pregnant woman, but for me, it’s like I blinked my eyes and all of the sudden I’m in “aren’t you sa-waaayt” ville. POOF!

There’s much to love about this town, which I won’t go into now. You people don’t read this to hear me blow sunshine up the crack of anyone’s butt. You read this because I’m either guilting you into it or because you need a life (seriously). Either way, my web analytics meter thanks you.

I joke often about the number of toothless women that I see roaming Chattanooga and I’m personally convinced that they are imported from Alabama. It just seems too obvious, that the town that invented Krystal would be responsible for toothless people. I mean, how are they going to eat 4 mini burgers in one sitting? So the toothless part – no WAY they are Hamilton County peeps.

Enter this past Saturday night. I’m enjoying some free, riverfront blues with friends when I was elbowed by my friend in a “OMG, look down there” way. Before me walks a woman who is approximately 270 pounds and in her fifties.  Now, look here. Before you go making comments about weight and the fact that “I shouldn’t be chastising this woman because of her weight when I CLEARLY should be putting down the mint chip ice cream and picking up a shake weight,” you should know this – this post has NOTHING to do with her weight or her age. Those elements only set the scene for you so that you might audibly gasp along with me.

I’ve got this woman, clearly overweight and middle aged. She’s wearing a pale green, loose-fitting tank top and shorts. Nothing odd there, really – it’s 85 degrees outside and she’s a girl who likes to stay cool. Fair. It’s her movement, however, that strikes my girlfriend and I odd, because, as she passes, the front of her shirt appears to contain a set of waltzing, mushy, microwave burritos.  For reals, you guys – she came to this concert (where hundreds and hundreds of people are gathered), WITH NO BRA ON!!!! Nothing – no secondary tank, NOTHING!! To make it worse, she didn’t even accessorize with pasties or an intriguing piercing. I mean, the nerve!

So, the inappropriate gasp occurred, followed shortly by ANOTHER, even more eye-rolling gasp when she bent over to look at something. She’s in the second row (down front) and she bends over, facing the rest of us, who are sitting up above. Worse? She has NO CLUE that she’s making the men at the concert throw up in their mouths. So my friend and I have a short conversation about how awkward that was, how sorry we felt for her and how I’ll totally make a great blog entry out of this experience. The End.

Wrong. In the last five days, I’ve been overly sensitive to the no-bra incident – probably because of the tenderness of my eyeballs – you know, from the burn they experienced on Saturday night. I’ve now counted seven (yes, 7!!) women “of size” who are not concerned with strapping the girls to their chest for a day on the town. That percentage is just too disturbing for me. Not even Michele Bachman can reap those kinds of numbers. 

I’m trying to figure out – what’s the deal? Why the sense that this behavior is acceptable? I can’t imagine that it’s comfortable for them – to just let the girls dingle dangle all the way to their elastic waist line. And more importantly – what about us? What about our awkward glances? What about our uncomfortable gossip? What about our inability to get images like that out of heads at bedtime? WHAT ABOUT US?

So, I’m starting a new charity. It will be called the SAG (Severely Awkward Gawking) Initiative and I’ll be accepting the following donations:

            • New bras

            • Used bras

            • Ace Bandages

            • Duct Tape

            • Saran Wrap

            and

            • Staple Guns

Until this epidemic is controlled, the donation box will remain open. Please, contribute to the cause. Help the women of Chattanooga bring stability back to their chests. Help them feel better about their lack of piercings or nipple jewelry. And for goodness sake, help me find another eyelid vision at 11 pm. Your generosity is appreciated.

rant - be warned

You know how little things happen in your day to day that irk you just enough that you pause? Now recall how a collective repeat of that thing causes your blood to boil, even though you know that getting worked up over it isn’t going to do anything other than cause you heartburn. It’s like my Uncle R. always says, “don’t let anyone live rent free in your head.” Make them earn that space, pay their rent for being there.

Yeah, well, I’m not good at lessons. Quick question – who knows what this is?





Correct, friends – it’s a crosswalk. You may find them adjacent to intersections, where you can safely cross from one side of the street to the other, pursuant to the traffic signal that is guiding the traffic. You may have seen them close to schools in your area, where a crossing guard holds up a small “STOP” sign in order for a pack of children to cross safely. Lastly, they occur across streets where people are crossing on a regular basis. There’s normally no traffic signal or blinking light – just the large, thick white painted lines that intersect the street.

So, here’s what’s stuck in my craw. The state in which I live, Tennessee, has no concept of the difference between a law and a suggestion. This state is a blend for me of Mayberry and the Wild West. They are sweet, polite and nice to your face but behind closed doors and car doors, there’s little regard for human or animal rights to be found. They spit, drink moonshine, take the law into their own hands, and worship ungodly things like the SEC. It’s pandemonium.

In my drive from home to work, I come upon a total of 5 cross walks that fall into the third category listed above…thick white lines that signify it’s safe for pedestrians to cross, but no traffic signals or cross guards to blow a whistle. The last crosswalk that I encounter is the one that links my work parking lot to my office. We park across the street, in a metal cage mind you (but we’ll get to that fun topic at another point). I’ve now worked at my job for 9 months and could count on both my hands the number of times that someone has yielded for me to cross the 5 lane road. I feel like I’m playing an eternal game of Frogger some mornings.

I would guess that I personally stop at one of these cross walks 3 out of 5 days a week to let pedestrians cross. Why, you might ask? BECAUSE IT’S THE FLIPPING LAW, THAT’S WHY!!!! Now, I’m far from perfect when it comes to obeying all traffic laws – particularly the ones that relate to my speedometer. But I’m most cautious of pedestrians because I would never want to be that girl who hit someone and watched them flip over the hood, like in the movies. I know, a Prius is so appropriate when it comes to movie stunt work in downtown Chattanooga.

This is how the law reads in the State of Tennessee:

PEDESTRIAN’S RIGHT-OF-WAY IN CROSSWALKS LAW 55-8-134

(a) When traffic-control signals are not in place or not in operation, the driver of a vehicle shall yield the right-of-way, slowing down or stopping if need be to so yield, to a pedestrian crossing the roadway within a crosswalk when the pedestrian is upon the half of the roadway upon which the vehicle is traveling, or when the pedestrian is approaching so closely from the opposite half of the roadway as to be in danger.

(b) No pedestrian shall suddenly leave a curb or other place of safety and walk or run into the path of a vehicle which is so close that it is impossible for the driver to yield.

(c) Subsection (a) does not apply under the conditions stated in § 55-8-135(b).

(d) Whenever any vehicle is stopped at a marked crosswalk or at any unmarked crosswalk at an intersection to permit a pedestrian to cross the roadway, the driver of any other vehicle approaching from the rear shall not overtake and pass such stopped vehicle.

[Acts 1955, ch. 329, § 33; T.C.A., § 59-834.]

Pretty self-explanatory, I think. I’ve thought of placing a letter to the editor in the local paper in order to remind people of the law. But that would mean that Wyatt Earp would have to stop reading the SEC sport section in order to educate himself on something that he should have been taught in driver’s education. Or, I could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he just moved here from another state where reading and driver’s ed is less prevalent because of the SEC sports coma. You know – Alabama.