On the daily I have battles with different Erika’s in my head. Future Erika, yesterday Erika, hungry Erika, drunk Erika…lots of Erika’s. But this morning I had the fortune of reuniting with 6th grade Erika, and boy, was she fun.
The problem is, while she was fun, nobody knew that’s what was happening and I’ve given at least one poor soul something to ponder on today.
Allow me to set the scene:
I was on the train, I had just sat down after squirming between the shoulders of two men that I am now perched below. They are deep in conversation when I notice that one of them has a very much untied shoe. Maybe it’s the mom in me, maybe I didn’t want to read a Buzzfeed article about a young man who lost a leg on an escalator, but my immediate impulse was to alert him to this tiny issue that could lead to a spectrum of troubles.
So…how could this go so wrong?
Have you thought about telling another adult, “Your shoe is untied” without immediately thinking “Made ya look!”
And thus, a completely unsuspecting girl cracked up laughing on the train. Alone. I couldn’t stop. People noticed. The man still had an untied shoe.
It took a few minutes to really get myself under control but once I did I couldn’t help but think, but his shoe is still untied.
Does an adult tell another adult that their shoe is untied? Does a stranger tell another stranger that their shoe is untied? I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW PROTOCOL! I ALSO DON’T KNOW THAT I CAN TELL HIM HIS SHOE IS UNTIED WITHOUT SAYING I MADE YOU LOOK. Or worse, not even getting that part out and just laughing wild eyed.
I wish it had been a short shoe lace but the thing literally looked like an ankle noose, just waiting for someone to step on it or a train door to close on it. I had a responsibility here. I had a life in a my hands. If I could just stop giggling.
In the end, I managed to sheepishly say “Excuse me” *far reach to lightly touch his hand because apparently touching his thigh would have been wrong* “Your shoe is untied.”
His shoe is tied.
I’m a hero.
You’re a fucking asshat, Sir.
I knew this article would be vomitous before I took a bite. And just to be clear, the following phrase will not be used in this post, “I’m not even a huge feminist but…” Because not only does it dictate that being a feminist is something to be ashamed of but it comes from the same place of “I don’t mean to be sexist but…”…and in case you’re confused, the place phrases like that come from are stupid and sequitur to saying something normally ill informed therefore creating an asshat out of you.
For reference, this article is about T.I. saying a woman can’t be president…and it’s more likely that a mythical creature would gain entry into the office before a woman would. I literally laughed out loud writing that, it’s fucking hilarious…He’s so shitty.
I know T.I. means nothing to our political coupling coming up next year, and while he’s an ignorant human being, it’s not him I have a problem with. It’s not him that I fear. It’s who he influences. It’s who looks at another man saying these things and decides they agree with him and reiterates and thus causes a chain gang of stupid, stupid, stupid words.
Before we continue, here are his words:
“Just because, every other position that exists, I think a woman could do well. But the president? It’s kinda like, I just know that women make rash decisions emotionally – they make very permanent, cemented decisions – and then later, it’s kind of like it didn’t happen, or they didn’t mean for it to happen. And I sure would hate to just set off a nuke. [Other leaders] will not be able to negotiate the right kinds of foreign policy; the world ain’t ready yet. I think you might be able to the Lochness Monster elected before you could [get a woman].”
Before we continue, here are all the “very permanent, cemented decisions” he’s done as a man…
- Manufacturing and Distributing crack cocaine (irrational, illegal)
- Battery of Law Enforcement Officer (violent, irrational or rash)
- Probation Violation (irrational, ignorant)
- Purchase and Possession of Automatic Firearms (violent)
- Possession of Controlled Substance (irrational, illegal)
And those are just on the record. I don’t know him personally but I’m thinking he’s not the best contender to speak about who should be president and why someone can’t. Especially if that can’t is simply that SHE HAS A VAGINA and that a vagina and the choices it can make are scary to him.
The issue is this:
A man does not get to say a woman is irrational and that her choices as a person can’t be trusted because she has emotions. I have two holes in my apartment walls because of irrational emotions from a man. And that’s a very, very minor example of how men act irrationally (no matter how they justify their actions), based on emotion or the compression of. Women are more apt to express emotion in our daily lives but that does not mean we’re risks for positions of power. Someone please ask Obama the last time he didn’t feel something and base his actions on it during his Presidency. You think he’ll fist bump T.I. and say, “True brah?”. NO. Because T.I., you, you over there, her, and me- we have no fucking clue what it’s like to truly be president and what he bases his reactions on. Not to mention, when a woman is President she’s not entering the rodeo a lone cowgirl ready to pop her period pistol all over the fucking White House, just like our current male President isn’t. There is a cabinet of advisors, you stupid twat.
T.I., you’re just a dumb shart they couldn’t keep your butthole of a mouth closed long enough to think about what you were saying or how to apply your own life to negate your thoughts.
There is no truth to a woman being too emotional to run the Presidential office and if I’m really being real: Loch Ness is considered a girl, you stupid ass. So you pretty much said there’s no chance a woman will be president but a woman mythical creature can be….Further stating how dumb you are.
*Rant Mic Dropped*
Has anyone turned an ear to Hailee Steinfeld’s new song “Love Myself”?
At first listen, I figured it was a sassy song about being an independent woman because girlies love that kind of jam…but…what was that, Hailee? You’re turning the cliche upside down?
Instead of a call out to all the ladies, she’s calling out her own name….in her Skittle Diddle anthem of 2015.
I gotta say. I was surprised. I’m loving these Disney looking chicks sliding in some twisted shit. And Hailee is not letting me down.
For years and years I had a stigma against…Loving myself *winks at Hailee*…thanks to some girls in middle school and my black/white view as to what was wrong/right. But eventually lil Ewika grew up into a grown ass woman who knew better. And Hailee’s song comes upon of wave of accepting myself and loving myself (in every way, innuendo or not).
But let’s backtrack a little because while I’m all for rubbing out some good tunes, a few of her points bring me up short and should be cause for concern:
- She’s going to touch the pain away. This is totes cool if she means her emotionally scared soul courtesy of some douchebag. But Hailee, if you have actual pain down there I’d highly advise a visit to your GYN. Getting your solo on to mask it sounds dangerous.
- She’s screaming her own name. Now, in the most ravenous moments of my pleasure soliloquy I’ve never considered saying my own name. That’s some top notch narcissism right there…but uh…you go girl.
- She’s going to love herself until it hurts. Once again, I’m concerned for her health. Hailee, there’s good and bad pain…blink once if you’re meaning the good kind.
- She’s cool anytime, day or night. Totally. There’s no stipulation or rules on that…but just to clear it up to all the newbies meeting Little Red Riding Hood for the first time, there’s a time/place thing that should be followed so you’re not labeled “uncontrollable” or “too awesome”.
Well….I think we’ve all learned a few things today. And in the age for women uniting, I think a pretty good place to start is everyone nodding slowly when asked “Are you gonna love yourself tonight?”
Wellwellwell….We finally got to the brutal, strange, poetic and sometimes cliche ending to Season 2 of True Detective.
What did you think? *puts finger to your mouth* Sssshhhhh, this is my blog. I’m gonna tell you what YMWIK thinks.
And me think I detect something snarky. I’m not even mad about it.
With the strong dialogue and existential flow of last season people would still try to find something wrong with it. It’s our nature, humans are dicks. But I was surprised to find the biggest problem for other people wasn’t the anticlimactic and rushed ending…it was the lack of a strong woman role.
The story didn’t call for that. And guess what? Not all women in real life are strong women roles. I know plenty of petty beeyotches who wouldn’t know how to represent a real woman if their lives depended on it. So, why are we putting pressure on creatives to jam an ideal woman into every damn story? But alas…the hell fire of woman came raining down on Nic Pizzolatto and I believe he took it to heart.
And then took that heart and twisted the knife so deeply.
Let me front this by saying I’m not sure if I liked the ending last night. I won’t criticize his mind, he wrote what he wrote and if you think you could do better- by all means. But if he wrote his ending as a huge “fuck you” to all the people who complained about his lack of writing good women, then I’ll accept it. Writing is a medium for many things and it’s okay if that thing is to relay a snarky message.
I would like to think Nic started out saying, Oh yeah? You want a strong woman? Here they are, standing tall behind the bodies of men who deserved better than what they ended with. Back shots, desert deaths and “message not sent”. But your message, my friend, was received.
He gave you the women you asked for but the price was the blood of men who protected them.
Or maybe, a happier way to see it is this: maybe he started out feeling snarky but in the end found that a woman’s heart can bring more justice than a broken man’s mind. We are two separate genders who can co-habitat but whose inner gears work on different platforms.
Frank knew how to bring justice to those who worked hand and foot to fuck him over…but he didn’t have the heart to realize a life with Jordan, even if it meant running, would far surpass dying bloodied alone.
Paul had the mind to think he knew what being a good man was, but he didn’t have the heart to live a life he deserved. And in the end, no matter how tactical he was, he was lost in himself and a shot in the back was the only thing that woke him up.
Ray. Oh…Ray. You were the only one who gave the heart a chance but in the end it didn’t matter. He darkened his heart and his life in bringing what he thought was justice to his family. When he had the chance to serve true justice and had the mind to know how, a little red light shone from beneath his car. And the only justice left to serve was making sure Ani didn’t get the same short stick the men in this season had picked.
So we’re left with Ani and Jordan and one lil dude who has his life ahead of him. That little boy, Ray’s spirit resurrected but not his mistakes, is the cherry on top of a vengeful sundae that Ani best serves with a warm heart alongside Jordan. I once said I was sick of women’s strength stemming from the actions of men, but this is the exception. And if you still think Nic can’t write a true woman? You have no idea what a true woman is.
Sidenote: You name a character Felicia and we don’t get one damn “Bye Felicia”….for shame.
I contemplated documenting this through my humor goggles but in the end…I’m a true journalist and I can’t resist the urge to spin a story.
Last night Frankie almost died. I know, it’s hard to swallow but it’s true.
We were sitting there, eating dinner, having a chat when suddenly he made a weird noise. It kind of sounded like a wheeze that got punched in the throat. He then rushed to put his plate down and pointed at his throat.
The following series of thoughts/actions on my part won’t paint me in the best light but in my defense…I totally get the mindset behind people thinking gunshots are fireworks.
Frankie tries to breathe chicken and it doesn’t go well.
Erika (thought): Frankie stop.
Frankie punch wheezes again and frantically points at his throat.
Erika (thought): DID I PUT NUTS IN THE CHICKEN (why the hell would i put nuts in the chicken?)
Frankie stumbles around the living room making horrible sounds.
Erika (thought): Ok this is bad but I think he can handle it.
While I dump responsibility onto him it’s clear he can’t handle it.
Erika (thought): Oh shit this is real. Holy shit i don’t know the Heimlich. EDDIE IZZARD TAUGHT ME NOTHING.
Frankie is now looking terrified that I will just watch him die a slow chicken death.
Erika (words): Uh…Oh my god. Ok. Um. Ok.
Frankie pretty much resigns to the fact that while I’ve practiced in the art of Katniss, Katniss never had to give the Heimlich Maneuver.
Erika dives in and attempts the Heimlich. Erika feels really stupid and it’s not effective.
FRANKIE PROCEEDS TO DIE.
Erika (thoughts): just beat the shit out of him. JUST BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!
Erika beats the shit out of Frankie’s back and out comes chicken. The splat i’ll hear all of my life.
Erika (thought): Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiist. (and then the worst part) I had to physically cover my mouth so that I would not actually laugh hysterically like my body wanted me to as Frankie is hunched over and backing away from the light.
Erika (actually said out loud): What the hell happened! (wince)
Needless to say the laughing may have been more appropriate than a seemingly angry response.
When all was said and done…. Frankie lived. And we both immediately went on our phones to watch how to correctly Heimlich someone. And I laughed a lot because my body was determined to laugh away the panic.
Side note: Rosie took full advantage of her co-owner almost dying and attempted to consume the rest of Frankie’s chicken on the couch.
I had the great misfortune of watching Magic Mike XXL only once this weekend. Ideally, for research purposes, I would have preferred a few more rounds (twss) while I take an article of clothing off each time.
Oh, I’m sorry. This is a blog, not my fantasy diary.
There’s a point to this post, man boys. Don’t get your banana hammocks in a twist.
Ok, let’s get down to the good stuff (twss). It’s kinda hard to get this out (twss).
But as I watched Magic Mike, purely for pleasure pur…uh, purely for professional purposes, I came…..*wicked grin* to the conclusion that a certain song must have been crafted with science and possibly a little magic.
Once you discard the giggles and penetrate the eye candy- I found a rather interesting theory:
The song “Pony” could get the coldest fish nice and toasty. It’s has to be science. I’m not sure who Genuwine(?) worked with to set up this song but if science isn’t at play then magic is.
The second the song comes on, the moment that first techno bass “yeah” resonates through your bones…it’s on like Magic Mike’s package slamming into your face (this is in the movie, not part of my twisted hopes and dreams).
I can’t explain it. Even this morning, packing up fruit and bottles, the song comes on a playlist that does not contain the Magic Mike XXL soundtrack *cough* and I’m having to restrain from grinding against the fridge. I think my clothes blew off by sheer force of the beat, but I can’t be sure. *looks down to body* Nope, clothes still on.
But on a serious note…there’s nothing serious about this post. I’ve said “banana hammocks” and alluded to grotesque desires containing the song Pony. If you want to be enlightened with profound proverbs, move on. If you want to see the light thanks to being knocked out by an incoming crotch watch Magic Mike, I can’t provide that either. At least not over the web.
The point is this….as my friend said, “Men, send your girls to see Magic Mike and your night will be made about 2.5 hours later.” I can’t push this any harder (twss)…Tatum simulates the nasty as he levitates between the bent over forms of two women. And if that doesn’t do it, there’s a 15 minutes scene in the end that will have her clawing out of that theatre to live out the scenes with you the second she gets in the door. Oh, come on. There’s no harm in her pretending you’re the torso of Channing Tatum with the voice of Matt Bomer.
But if you don’t have the luxury of that set up, you can apparently pull out your magic wand and load up “Pony” on Spotify, pull the drapes (or don’t *wiggles eyebrows*) and let the magic unfold.
Your best night brought to you courtesy of a 14.50 movie ticket (and Channing Tatum’s crotch slamming). Saddle up for a wild ride, my friends.
Ladies. *tips hat, throws hat off stage right*
I’ve been observing a common trend in today’s girls, ladies, women and hoes. I commonly see it in the bathroom (in my defense I’m not literally seeing it, I’m not a perv….mostly) but it’s a technique that can be used in the wilderness as well. And, shockingly enough, it’s more appropriate behind your tent than what I’m seeing in civilization.
You know who you are….Squatters.
Squatting! Above the thing created to house you as you relieve yourself. It even comes designed with a bowl like feature below to catch the effects of um…like…the..you know..the uh..splatter. Of pee! Listen, I’m just the messenger, go with the flow.
I don’t know where this came from. I’d never seen it in my hillbilly days of growing up in Tejas and that says something. We have Wal-Mart there.
But suddenly, a maneuver made to pee in an alley after you hit “da club” or maybe in the seedy ass bar you ventured into after rumors of free pizza with every drink, has popped its squat in restrooms around the world.
Let me tell you a little story and then we’ll get into the science of it: My office restroom is spotless in the morning. Literally and figuratively. But by 3pm, it looks likes a group of male cats sauntered in, ripped up toilet paper and sprayed the porcelain seats of shame. It’s fucking disgusting. Pardon my potty mouth.
Now the science. I’m not doctor or scientist…but I have something far more valuable than “open heart surgery” skills: I can prescribe a hearty dose of common sense.
YOU CAN SIT ON THE SEAT AND NOT CONTRACT DISEASES. It’s science. I’m not going to quote it here because #google. Just take the energy you would have used hovering over a toilet seat and look it up.
Ladies…the screen of your phone is more diseased than the toilet seat. A phone..that you touch with your hands…that you used to wipe the sweat off your lip…that you then touched to a subway pole….is more diseased than a toilet seat. And in your “effort” to be clean, I now have to wipe up your pee everyday…or on most occasions, just roll my eyes and leave the fucking bathroom. I already have to wipe a lil hiney everyday, if I didn’t birth you I shouldn’t be cleaning up your piss.
Can we please go back to the good ‘ol days of ladies around the world sitting on toilet seats? I felt really weird writing that but I digress.
Leave your thigh work outs for the gym and stop spraying our bathrooms like cats in heat. It’s unbecoming.