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On the heels of feeling offended the other day, I realize I wasn’t. Not in comparison to this…

Offense

1 a: obsolete : an act of stumbling b: archaic : a cause or occasion of sin : stumbling block
2 something that outrages the moral or physical senses
3 a: the act of attacking : assault b: the means or method of attacking or of attempting to score c: the offensive team or members of a team playing offensive positions d: scoring ability
4 a: the act of displeasing or affronting b: the state of being insulted or morally outraged
5 a: a breach of a moral or social code : sin , misdeed b: an infraction of law ; especially : misdemeanor

I am sick of the way women are viewed, lustfully, by men.

I just read this and this, as well as the comments, and now I feel like I need a trash can to vomit in or a burka for when I leave the house later or a hazmat detox rinse. Reading these posts and their twisted comments quickly reminded me why sexual humor, focused on objectifying women, makes me feel like I never want to leave the house or expose my innocent daughters to anything resembling a testosterone-filled life form.

I am floored that men involved in youth ministry, reaching out to hurting, confused female teenagers can find humor in a cartoon focused on lusting after women as objects. What’s next? Laughing as some guy gets his kicks, raping some girl who “asked for it” while on stage at church? WTH?

Yeah, this struck an extremely sensitive nerve with me and I am furious that the president of Youth Specialties can be so insensitive (especially given the fact that this isn’t the first time this subject matter was the basis for humor with him). I am outraged that men in a position of such trust can laugh along at the disgust of lust and it’s hindrance to our relationship with God. Some fools even brought the I.Q. low enough to laugh about the possibility of porn and Playboy being used in church at some point.

As a girl who was molested by an uncle when she was eight years old, molested by a brother numerous times as a teen, raped by a stranger at fifteen and having woken up numerous times from drug and alcohol-induced slumber only to find myself being taken advantage of by perverts, time and time again; I.AM.ANGRY, to read the contempt, the catcalls and jeering by these pathetic men.

As I read the definitions for the word “offense”, above, I couldn’t help but see that these callous men fall right into the category of causing a severe offense, in every sense of the word.

Of course this is based on a cartoon, but it isn’t the “cartoon” that is causing the sickening remarks and the snickering… it’s the real life story behind it. The truth of it, the potential of what that truth can/may become one day in a place of Holy protection and safety for the people suffering in painful silence and judgment. As long as this subject matter is laughable, particularly with youth workers, the hurdle of helping guys that are suffering with lustful thoughts and caring for the girls being viewed and treated as objects, will always be an extremely difficult challenge.

There is a person behind that skin that you want to caress and stare at all day and laugh at as she is being raped by praying preying eyes. A person, with pain and trauma and confusion and naivety on what makes her beautiful and what makes her desirable. A person that, when her beauty fades and her skin is barely hanging onto her bones, will wonder if she was ever truly respected, ever truly loved for who she was and who she now is.

I have a love/hate relationship with media and marketing. I see their ploys and sometimes laugh at the stupidity that, sadly, most consumers of the product buy into and sometimes I am amazed at the brilliance of the corporate schemes. My “favorite” is mascara commercials. The idea that mascara can actually “lengthen” your lashes, almost a centimeter(!), in the minute it takes to apply, is a RIDICULOUS claim. My jaw dropped while watching one of these imbecilic commercials because the model had FAKE EYELASHES ON!! How stupid do these people think we are?

I have always struggled with image issues and have spent a couple of decades convincing and reminding myself that some corporate man in a suit will not cajole me into believing that I need their product to be beautiful. It’s very hard to be a girl in this world and be ok with what’s reflected in the mirror. I’ve struggled with self-image issues since elementary school. The pain, anger and sadness I still feel can sometimes paralyze me. Marketing tells us that if we cut this, buy that, drink this, shake that, wear this, drive that, then we’ll be happy and successful in life. It’s a very weary process to wake up happy, every day, and still be happy when our heads hit the pillow.

I knew this day would come but I had no idea it would come so soon. As usual, my five year old daughter was dressing up in her Princess costumes when she told me and Jase that she is holding in her breath to make her tummy skinny. My heart sank, broke and cried all in the same moment. I’ve never shared my low self-image with my children so I thought they were safe, at least for a few more years, from this issue. So as not to alarm her and shut her down, I calmly asked why she was doing that and she said “to be like a Princess because all Princesses have skinny stomachs.” Now, along with my heart getting run over with a steamroller, I felt like I was going to vomit. I wanted to immediately run upstairs and collect all the Princess movies we had and toss them outside for a farewell bonfire. Obviously I don’t really “hate” the Disney Princesses, I’ve never met them so I don’t know them personally… Seriously though, their fake (not to mention provocative) image irritates me and is now making my five year old wish she had a smaller stomach. To witness my tiny, young daughter ALREADY feel like she wasn’t beautiful enough made everything in me want to scream and cry at the same time. We spent a long time encouraging her that she is gorgeous just the way she is and the way God intended her to be and that most REAL Princesses actually don’t have skinny stomachs. We pointed out that there would be something wrong with a real human being if they looked like the Princesses in the movies, they’d have to be missing guts and a heart. However, I still get nauseated and inflamed when thinking about how those movies have already negatively influenced her mind.

Out of all the things in this world that I am passionate about, the number one message that I want to spread is to ‘find beauty within yourself and everyone else.’ Outer beauty is what gives us false perceptions of good character, love and happiness. I’ve seen the most beautiful people, in the world, give a list of flaws they feel they have and share how unhappy they are. I’ve seen men and women transform their faces and bodies into unrecognizable beings, for the sake of “beauty”. Once the cutting and tucking begins, when (and why) will it stop? Once you see a flaw that needs to be surgical enhanced and you “fix” it, your body will continue to decay and sag and the surgeries continue until you become like Michael Jackson and doctors start refusing to work on you and you have to wear a surgical mask on your face because you look like Frankenstein now. Yeah, I’m ranting. I’m pissed at the culture of “beauty”. I’m angry that feelings of failure to attain beauty have cost the lives of so many young kids and adults. I’m angry that most Americans will reject people or accept them SOLELY based on looks and then reject those they initially accepted when they find that the “perfect” people really do have flaws. I’m angry that we feel we know someone based on their outer appearance. We feel that maybe the beautiful ones have it all together and have perfect lives and since we only see flaws in our own reflections, we feel we’ll never measure up. We end up living our lives as unhappy people because “the grass is always greener on the other side” and we’ll never be good enough.

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”

-Proverbs 31:30

Dove airbrushed commercial.

From elementary school until adulthood… so true.

I grew up with three brothers. It was inevitable that I would end up having more memories of playing with G.I. Joe and watching Transformers than anything having to do with Barbie. I do love to be a girl and dress up and sure, there is a pic or two of my younger brother playing Barbies with me, but that’s a post for another day.

I grew up climbing through the gutters, riding dirt bikes and a sweet little go-kart around my neighborhood with my brothers. Anything they or their friends could do, I’d prove that I could do it as well, if not better. Dirt bikes were, and still are, my favorite. If we were rich, we’d own one (or ten) and have a kick-ass trailer (that would double as our camper) to hold them all. I can still smell and hear the sound of the bikes and dune buggies from the dunes of Glamis, California. Those trips were amazing!

I had a flood of these memories pour over me as I drove home in my Jeep tonight. It was like this consuming passion of me needing some muddy off-road track for my Jeep or I needed to find someone with a dirt bike right away or I needed to find someone who owned a race car, with a five-point harness seatbelt, and own a race track so I could just zoom around it until the gas ran out. I just had this intense need for speed and/or off-roading.

The last time I was on a dirt bike was in Costa Rica in 2004. Sad, huh?! The Pastor’s son had some beat bike and I asked if I could ride it. It was the scariest ride of my life because, one.) I had no helmet and two.) the road was riddled with cantaloupe-sized rocks all over. It was a crazy ride but it did suffice for… well, 4 years. Well, it’s just not holding me over any longer.

As I sit in the cozy warmth of my home, I still have this thirst, this fierce craving and I don’t know what to do about it.

I need a dirt bike.

I really don’t like the phrase “shut up”, especially when used negatively toward someone. Sometimes, it seems more crude to me than cussing someone out. But I might have used it this morning on a particular lady who decided to verbally vomit a little in front of my son.

This is the first election, EVER, where Jase and I are actually excited to vote. I think I may have voted one other time in my life and Jase never remembers voting. I also decided to end the genetic affiliation of Republican, so I registered Unaffiliated. I finally realize that an entire group of individualized beliefs on issues are, collectively, neither right nor wrong.

Jase already got a chance to vote early this morning and was still able to make it back in time to bring our son to school and get to work on time. You’re Superman, Jase!

Walking to our son’s class, they had a conversation amongst other parents walking their kids to class. Kai said, “Who do you think Mommy is going to vote for?” and Jase replied, “The same as me”, Kai said, “Do you think she’ll vote for McCain?” to which Jase said, “Oh, no.” About 20 seconds later, a mom, eavesdropping while walking next to them, said, “Did he just say that he hopes she’ll vote for McCain?” Jase said, “No” and (here’s the little bit of verbal vomit) she said, “Oh. That’s too bad.”

Huh?!?

First of all, why is it necessary to speak your contrary opinion when you aren’t even a part of the conversation?

Second, why in the world would you basically tell an eight year old that it’s too bad that their parents didn’t vote another way?

[open letter to this strange woman]

Dear Woman,

Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself. Shut up and vote.

Sincerely,

Mother Bear

In an effort to save money, I called my mom to ask if she knew of any restaurants offering free meals for kids. She mentioned one place near us, that offered free meals to kids on Sunday from 4pm until 9pm. Thanks Mom!

To confirm, I called the place.

“Hi, do you all offer free meals for kids?”

“No.”

Confused, “You don’t offer free meals to kids?”

“Only after 5pm.”

Irritated, “Ok, so you do offer free meals to kids?”

“Yeah, between 5pm and 9pm.”

“Is that for today?”

“Yeah.”

To be thorough, “So, you all have free meals, today, between 5pm and 9pm.”

“Yeah.”

We arrived at the place at 430pm and since we’d never been there before, Jase went inside to make sure the menu was desireable. He came out and said it was good. To pass time, we drove across the parking lot to get gas and came back at 445pm. Jase went inside again to see if we could still order for the free meals even though it’s 15 minutes before 5pm. The hostess informed him that, at the start of September, the restaurant stopped offering free meals for kids on Sundays.

Oh the joy of living with human beings.

So, we paid more and ate somewhere better. Whatever.

I love animals and I need sleep.

For growing up in a suburb in San Diego, I was raised around a lot of animals. We had rabbits and cats/kittens, dogs/puppies, birds, a couple of ducks, an owl, a tarantula and a turkey. Even at over two feet tall, the turkey thought one of the ducks was his mom. Our beloved turkey met his fate of leaving our family after a neighbor walked into her kitchen to find him standing in the middle of it. A few weeks after giving the turkey away to a shelter, my mom asked them if the family that took him in were enjoying him, they responded by saying they thought our family pet was delicious. It was then my mom realized the poor guy was given away near Thanksgiving.

I always wanted to be a Veterinarian. I was always the mid-wife to our dogs and cats during labor and delivery and I always got the pick of the litter, almost always naming the pup or kitchen “Precious”. Yes, this was before watching Silence of the Lambs. I once saved a possum that was attacked by my three dogs. I walked up to the puncture-riddled, lifeless body to assess the damage and the damn thing freaked the hell out of me when it turned it’s face to mine and started hissing like a witch that just got it’s nose cut off. I figured I should probably do the thing a favor. Despite the puncture wounds, it was still ugly. So, I got a bucket and filled it with water. To drown it. I paced back and forth for quite a while until I finally realized I didn’t have it in me to kill a poor innocent creature, even if I thought I was helping it. So, I grabbed a pink towel from the house, wrapped the possum in it and loaded it into the trunk of my 1980 Ford Mustang. I had no plan, other than ditching it somewhere. Up the street from my house there was a nice shady spot under a tree so I pulled over and got the thing out and placed it, ever so gingerly, in the shade. I can imagine the confusion and alarm the neighbor across the street was thinking as he walked down his driveway toward me as I walked away from the bundle in a pink towel. After I explained the situation, he kind of smiled, in that, my-god-you’re-freaking-crazy kind of way and told me he’d take care of it. The next day, I drove by the spot and the towel was there but the possum was gone. Now, I imagine the thing healed and ran off into a field of pansies to start a hideous beautiful family and live happily ever after. But I still wonder if that neighborman had him some possum stew for dinner and left the towel in hopes that I would be steered in the direction of false jubilation. Although I don’t really care what happened to that possum, I do love animals, especially the domesticated kind.

I’ve been sick lately. I can’t tell if it’s season-change allergies or a cold but going to bed at midnight and waking up at 630am just wasn’t working last night as I sneezed every minute and blew my nose every two. My wonderful hubby agreed to waking up with our son at 630am this morning and getting him ready and off to school so that I could sleep in. Currently, my parents live with us as they find a job and home after moving here in July, so our baby is sleeping in her crib in our room. When going to bed at 130am, I couldn’t stop reading blogs (!), I laughed at the irony that would most likely take place of my baby waking up at 645am and not letting me sleep. Sure enough, she woke up… at 645am. Having been up since 620am, I was ready to get my congested head back to sleep. I grabbed my body pillow, went into my son’s room and climbed onto his bunk bed. At this point, the floor was a perfect option as well. Anything to get me back to sleep before my body and mind realized what was happening and woke up completely, preventing me from sleeping again for the rest of the day. Finally settling in and drifting off to sleep, the soft cotton t-shirt sheets and pillow case lulling me to dreamland, I smiled as I realized the desire I’ve had (for months) to sleep in was finally becoming a reality. All of that came to a crashing halt as I snapped to alert-status and my blood pressure rose to the yipping sound of some pesky neighbor dog that decided now was the best opportunity to show some neighborhood squirrel that he had the mouth of a sailor. POS. I left my earplugs in my room. So I tried to start my dream process while I was still awake, maybe incorporate this pesky fool into my dream somehow? It just didn’t work. Every time the dog yipped (it couldn’t even qualify as a bark) my brain became a bowl of Jell-O stuck in a Japanese earthquake.

Then it hit me. As much as I love animals, I love sleep so much more and if I was within range of that mutt, he probably would have been given a swift kick in the chops. If I had a gun, I might have made that animal my target. If I had some cyanide, I would have flavored it’s food with it. Did this mutt not know that I am a busy mom to three kids, I never get enough sleep AND I am fighting a war with some head gunk AND my husband is finally able to help with getting the kids off to school so I could FINALLY GET SOME REST?! UGH!

Remembering my experience with the possum, I thought it much easier (and so much less painful) if I just moved back into my room. So, I did just that. Thanked God that I didn’t own a dog at the moment. Thanked God that I couldn’t hear the dog from my room and thanked God (yet again) that my baby daughter sings sweet lullabies to herself when she wakes up in the morning.

Ahhh, sweet, sweet sleep here I come.

Aside from wanting a dog just so that I can name it “Peeve”, I do have some real pet peeves. Tonight, I was introduced to a new one.

There’s just something severely annoying when trying to rush to a bathroom in a mall and having several mall vendors trying to chat with me as I walk by their booth. I was at the mall for several hours tonight and every time I passed by certain mall vendors, they nearly trampled me with conversation and their product, ‘Obviously I can’t tell that you are in a rush or that you have your children running ahead of you or that you are very eager to find the bathroom. However, all that aside, do you want to try this lotion? What phone do you have? Who’s your provider? Do you enjoy your plan? How much do you pay? Do you want to feel this lavendar-smelling pillow? Is your hair naturally curly? Do you straighten it? How long does it take? An hour and a half? Well, do you mind me straightening it in 5 minutes?’. Those last five questions were by the most annoying of them all. This one lady was still talking to me as I was about 25 feet from her and obviously in a rush while pushing a stroller.

Maybe it’s the fact that I have stranger anxiety or that I don’t like people acting like they are my best friend when I know they couldn’t care less about me or that I feel like I’m being used and trampled on just by giving them a platform for their speech. Maybe it’s that I don’t like my personal space invaded or that I don’t like offers to buy something that I was obviously avoiding anyway. Whatever the reason, they were, seriously, more annoying than telemarketers.

In “honor” of their rudeness, I give you J & J’s Possible Replies to Annoying Mall Vendors:

“I avoided eye contact with you for a reason.”

“Ever have kids? Obviously not. Try having some so that you can more effectively communicate to the people you are bugging to buy your product and when you realize how hard it is to be in a mall with three kids, get back to me.”

“If I wanted your product, I would have stopped to talk to you about it.”

“Sure, I’d love for you to straighten my hair in 5 minutes. You don’t mind if I pee in your chair, right?”

“You want to talk to me about your phones? Here, hold my screaming child and I’ll browse your selection for a while.”

“Oh, don’t mind my kids running down the mall aisle, far from me. Please talk to me for several hours while I ignore them and they get lost or kidnapped.”

“Let me start by saying that even if I was a millionaire or very interested in your product, I would NEVER buy it. Now, what do you want to try and sell to me?”