The marks of civilization

I've been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately, so I'm feeling rather snooty. I'm always affected in some way by the things I watch or read that I get really into. As a result of watching that show and of traveling out of Portland for the holidays, I've come to realize that there are certain signs that help me recognize when I'm in a civilized (or less civilized) place.

In Downton Abbey the marks of civilization include running water, electricity, and a telephone (or two, if you're really rich). Some of the characters also define civilized as having enough footmen to serve dinner without bringing the maids into the dining room and having spare valets available for overnight guests.

I am not content with running water, electricity and a phone. Those things are important, of course, but I take them entirely for granted and assume that even uncivilized places have those things. And I don't care two figs for having a bunch of servants. (To tell the truth, I would be made uncomfortable by the idea that someone else was to help dress me and serve me dinner, as Matthew was when he first came to Downton.) Even so, what I consider to be the marks of civilization are still heavily influenced by my socio-economic class and the customs in my particular geographic location.

The Marks of Civilization, According to Sione:

RE: "The Wingman's guide to sucking cock"

A couple days ago I Twitter-stumbled across this head-spinning blog post by "Wingman" on the proper way to give a blow job. I should have known what I was in for from the first paragraph, wherein he suggests that a man telling a woman "you're such a whore" is "the ultimate compliment." But what really got my attention was the line: "Sucking dick without swallowing is like taking your dog for a walk and not picking up its shit."

Before I launch into my critique, let me just say this: given my unfavorable reaction to this blog post, I considered not responding. I considered the fact that doing so would undoubtedly result in driving traffic to his site, which is a kind of support. I could have simply shrugged my shoulders--saying to myself, "Well, he has a right to self-expression"-- and vowed never to read another word from this man again.

But the fact is that his post reinforces some cultural messaging that I find to be particularly damaging, and if people don't speak up against messages like this, then the damaging ones are the only messages out there, and that's not okay with me. So I offer a different perspective for your consideration.

Let's leave aside Wingman's fallacious assumption that only women give blow jobs ("Anyway, ladies, follow these rules and no matter how much disdain a guy may have for you, he’ll think of you every time he blows his load"--or does he just assume that men already know how to give great ones?), and let's assume, for the sake of argument, that he doesn't mean for us to take his charming metaphor literally: that he doesn't mean to equate himself with a dog; his semen with dog shit; and another human being's mouth, throat and stomach with a plastic baggie made for the express purpose of receiving his sexual by-product. Instead let's discuss the gist of this metaphor, which is a sense of personal responsibility.

A morning story

This morning Milton is sitting in my lap while I type away at the computer. I have my coffee, the window's open, there's a nice breeze. Then there is a funny smell. Milton jumps off my lap and starts licking his anus, and I realize he has ass-jizzed on my leg. Really?!?

A lunchtime conversation

Today at lunch I sat with two male faculty members (F1 & F2) and two other female staff members (S1 & S2). This is my attempt at reconstructing part of our conversation.

F1: I've always dreamed of doing an art exhibit with children's art all hung up on a long row of refrigerators.

Me: Oh! You know what would be really cool? If it just looked like children's art but was really stuff like blood and guts and...dinosaurs raping people.

F2: Dinosaurs raping people? It sounds like you have a fantasy there. (F1 & F2 are sniggering.)

Me: That's f'ing disgusting.

F2: Did you say "f'ing"?

Me: Yes.

F2: That's as close as you've ever come to swearing around me.

Me: That's because you're here. (Pause while F1 continues to snigger at dinosaur rape fantasy accusation and F2 laughs at both accusation and almost-swear-incident. I can't bear to be outdone by F2's crack about dinosaur rape fantasy.) But you know, their tails are ribbed for her pleasure.

(S1 almost falls off her stool and covers her mouth with her napkin to keep food from flying out while she shakes with laughter.)

F1 & F2: What?

Me: I said, dinosaur tails are ribbed for pleasure.

(Awkward silence while I grin smugly and bask in the glory of my strange wit.)

F2: You have a very twisted sense of humor.

Me: Oh, come on! The point is the irony! I have a dark sense of humor, not a fantasy of being raped by a reptile.

Omfg: an update

Here are a few dishes that have been served up on the smorgasbord of my life lately:

A few nights ago I'm in bed with the dogs (my own, Milton, plus one of my mother's dogs, Grindel), Milton next to me at the head of the bed and Grindel lying by my feet. Suddenly I smell Milton's ass, which is never a good thing. I look over and he's licking it and I'm like "ew! stop it!" so he does but then I notice that there's a little brown spot of ass juice on my white comforter. Aaaaggh! Yuck! Of course I leap out of bed and go get a sponge to try to clean it off but it doesn't really work so I try to find my Tide eraser pen thingy and I can't find it so I grab a bottle of lavender deodorizer and spray the spot and then we all get into bed again only now Milton feels like he's in trouble so he's lying at my feet and Grindel is up by my head. So okay, fine, I turn off the light and we go to sleep. And in the morning I look over to see that Grindel has laid a little turd. Aaaaggh! WTF?!? Stupid dogs and their damned ass wars. Obviously got rid of turd and threw the comforter in the washing machine.

Last week I was on vacation from work. It was a stay-cation, which means I didn't go anywhere, but I did spend most of the time writing, which was wonderful. Finished a first draft of the vampire romance novella I've been working on for ages. I'd expected to feel more of a sense of accomplishment about that than I do, but maybe is just because I know I still need to do some editing before it's ready to be published.

Have been taking a creative non-fiction class this term and am really excited about some of the stuff I've been producing. Also have been awed and slightly discouraged by how good some of the other people in that class are. One of my favorites is Jeffrey Gardner, who (I discovered yesterday) writes poetry as well as creative non-fiction and has a blog too: Scribbling Truth with Crayons. Was checking it out last night and reading his stuff inspired me to write a few lines of poetry too, which is very cool.

And finally, here's an image that keeps popping into my head lately: that scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where he takes a leap of faith (video below). I know several women, including myself, who seem to be at the edge of a precipice lately. We have realized that what we've been doing isn't working for us and that we need to make some major changes to our lives. In my case I can see across the ravine to where I'd like to be (writing full time), but I have no idea how to get there...there's no visible "bridge," if you will, between the life I have now and the one I imagine. And so I have two choices: a) continue doing what I'm doing, or a slightly different version of it, which is tantamount to staying on this side of the ravine forever and ever, or b) take a leap of faith and trust that the bridge will appear.

So my leap of faith is this: I'm starting up a freelance business for writing, editing, tutoring and assessment consulting.

I'm creating a new life for myself. What could be more creative than that? What could be more thrilling or more terrifying than leaping out into the great abyss of the unknown?

Writer's constipation

If I had nothing to do all day but sit and write, I wonder how many pages I could turn out. I'm certain it would all be crap, or mostly crap, but producing crap is better than producing nothing at all.

Seems like I've had a lot of writer's block lately. Why is it called "writer's block"? Seems more like "writer's constipation": I know there's something in there. I really want to push it out. My body aches with the strain of effort, yet nothing comes. At most, a dingleberry or two.