Category: etc.

I need to know. Seriously.

I need to know if it’s wrong to think some of the clothes on this site for Islamic clothing are really pretty.

Like this tunic:

Or this one:

I mean, wouldn’t they look cute with jeans?

I’m scaring myself.

But look — all their pants are like sailor pants:

And everyone knows sailor pants look good on all of us dhimmis.

I’m scaring myself.

Okay. So I drank some wine and I have a low tolerance for alcohol.

Fine.

I also worked out on my trampoline for 45 minutes with 5-pound weights on each arm so I was lightheaded anyway and it seemed like a good idea to me, apparently, to add alcohol to the mix.

Whatevs. I’m not Solomon. This is not news.

Plus, it’s nighttime and it’s still 953 degrees here.

I’m just saying there are extenuating circumstances here that are to blame for this post.

Proceed apace, dhimmis.

Let’s pretend you’re a woman. Some of you won’t need to pretend here. Let’s pretend you’re a blonde. See second sentence above. Let’s pretend you have an in-law who only emails you to send you dumb blonde jokes. Let’s also pretend there is never a hello, how are you, or what’s going on with you included in these dumb blonde joke emails. And let’s pretend you think you generally have a really good sense of humor, but let’s also pretend that you find these emails — again, the only communication you ever receive from this person — uhm, annoying and a teeny bit offensive.

So in this completely pretend scenario, are you, the blonde woman, overreacting? Are you hyper-sensitive? Do you just need to, uhm, spark a doobie and chillax or get drunk on mulberry wine?

Because, you know, I think about these totally random scenarios that have nothing whatsoever to do with me or anyone I know.

It’s all part of my generalized mania.

Thank you for your input on this entirely hypothetical situation.

You know, the kind of thing that happened in the comment thread of this post is one of disappointing things — one of the down sides — of Internet community. Someone leaves a comment, gets questioned about the comment, responds defensively or cryptically or, in this case, both, and later decides he or she is being attacked and disappears into the ether — for good, one assumes.

It frustrates me. A lot. I asked said commenter no less than four times to please elaborate, please explain, I’m trying to understand you, but, no, she wouldn’t ultimately do it. I read and re-read what I said to her and asked myself if I was rude to her. I could have reworded things — I know I could have — but that’s the same ol’ saw for me, something I always beat myself up about. I guess I’m frustrated because, while on the surface of her initial comment there was kind of sympathy, sort of compassion, it seemed like it was mostly extended to those poor cows — actual cows — who can’t have babies.

I myself do not have compassion for childless cows. My compassion on this issue is reserved for humans only, creatures who can feel and understand loss. But maybe that’s just me. I’m heartless that way.

Interlaced into her comment, though, was a kind of creeping prejudice towards the childless-by-choice contingent. Not as blatant, perhaps, as Dennis Rainey’s, but nascent, cut from the same cloth, and it was that which I felt I should question.

I’m not trying to throw this particular commenter under the bus; it’s just the most recent example of commenters who don’t check their tone or who say careless things they’re ultimately not willing to apologize for or defend, as the case may be. I realize it’s hard. It’s hard always to know how we come across because it’s nearly impossible to be objective about ourselves. But perhaps a good clue is if you’re told repeatedly that your comments come across as negative or snarky or gloomy — or whatever — you might want to edit yourself, double-check a comment before you click submit. And if you’re asked, by more than one person, to clarify what you said, perhaps you weren’t clear to begin with or perhaps there’s an idea you left unfinished, something more to explore.

But don’t go running off. I realize it’s the Internet and nothing is easier than running off in a huff or tail between your legs, but that’s unfortunate. To be completely honest, I don’t respect that because behind all the words and comments you see on a blog are REAL flesh-and-blood people. People who, yes, do get hurt and frustrated by words on the screen. People who are left hanging if someone hurls accusations and then disappears. Life is hard enough, isn’t it, without recreating high school in the Internet? Let’s be the adults that we are. Answer questions. Be courteous. Follow through. Engage in civil debate/discussion.

A personal rule of thumb I try to follow: If I wouldn’t say it to a person’s face, I don’t say it on the Internet. It’s a simple rule, but, still, the invisibility and anonymity of the Internet make baser interpersonal instincts so much easier to indulge. We have to fight it and I include myself in that. Obviously.

On another note: If you ever feel offended by something in the comments, something someone else says, honestly, I feel it’s their responsibility to manage that. Fortunately, that very rarely happens. Nonetheless, I don’t take ownership of comments I didn’t make. I have enough problems with my own mouth to worry about monitoring others, so please don’t expect me to apologize for that which I did not say. If comments ever get too ugly — that hasn’t happened so far, to the best of my knowledge — I’ll step in or shut them down or something, but we’re all adults here so I leave self-discipline to the individual selves who participate in this blog.

Life’s hard. Even harder right now for so many.

So let’s be kind. Practice it ourselves and encourage and applaud it when we see it in others.

Luckily, I’ve just fallen off my soapbox. Ahem.

People Google extremely random topics that end up bringing them here. Sometimes, they ask Google questions and their questions bring them here. When that happens, I feel an obligation to answer, to try to help as best I can. You know, to give the appearance of being a caring compassionate person and whatnot.

So here are a few from this past week:

~ Did Michael Jackson belong to a witch cult?

Googler, wasn’t there enough that was weird and sad and unsettling about Michael Jackson without wondering about this? But okay. Uhm, yes. Yes, Googler, he did. And he’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too. What a world, what a world, etc.

And scene.

~ My frog is pale — is that okay?

Well, Peaches, I see you found my live blog of “Frogs.” If that didn’t answer your question, there literally IS no answer to this question. Although, may I ask: Was your frog recently put in boiling water?

~ Where is the nearest commune?

This one touches me. This Googler clearly wants to get the H outta Dodge and I find it all rather endearing. I so relate to that. Someone please tell me WHERE can I go to get away from THIS. And, to answer you, Googler, well, the nearest commune is right here, on this blog. Here, as a matter of fact. All are welcome. (Well, unless/until I decide you’re not. It’s one of them-there tyrannical communes. Don’t be scared, Googler. Your life of toil and misery and indentured servitude to moi will last only until I tire of you, and the good thing here is I’m very fickle.)

There. Answers to seekers’ questions. Hope that helps.

I know that I, for one, feel all aglow with compassion and self-satisfaction.

“The Bachelorette.”

I watch it and I hate myself.

Quite honestly, I want to fling myself off a bridge every Monday night now. But after “The Bachelorette” is over. I blame it on my sister-in-law because she expects me to be up-to-date on these things so we can discuss, you know, the deep issues the show brings to light.

Like the f-o-o-t fetish.

Yup. Dude on the show has a major f-o-o-t fetish and he’s been FREAKING me out for three weeks now. That’s all he can talk about.

“I need to see her feet.”

Uh-oh.

“I can’t decide how I feel about her until I see her feet.”

Seriously?

“If her feet aren’t cute, I’m outta here. I can’t go on.”

Drama queen.

“Ohhhhhh … those are some niiiiiice feet.”

I feel icky.

“I need to touch those feet. I gotta GET with those feet.”

Uhm …. I’m confused.

“Those feet are like a 9.5 out of 10. Change the polish to a nice mango, and it’s a 10.”

Oh, okay. I’m less confused now. “A nice mango”? You’re gay.

But thank the blessed baby Jesus, F-o-o-t Fetish Dude got dumped last night and I really think he was more disappointed about losing her feet than losing her.

Although here I am, judging F-o-o-t Fetish Dude while I’m watching it all, so I’m pretty sure this makes me some kind of accomplice to a f-o-o-t fetish and means I need to rethink, well, everything basically.

Please forgive me for watching this show, talking about f-o-o-t fetishes, and for this entire post. I don’t feel good about any of it. I really don’t.

(Dashes in the word “foot” added thanks to Cullen’s comment. Don’t really want f-o-o-t fetish Googlers showing up here. Thanks for having my back, Cullen.)