Postmodernizzzzzzzm

I totally get why people are fond of the term, "postmodernism." I do. I didn't so much obect to its invocation in the discussion on being post-gay or PoMo. Mainly, I simply got what the message was and moved on. Finding something in the Urban Dictionary, such as that, allows for a bit of technical misuse. The message made sense to me and I didn't fuss over it. But for the most part, and especially when I see someone trying to use postmodernism as the basis for their argument, I am annoyed at its use.

Why is this, you ask? Sit down and listen, minions.

I attempted, and rightly got my hand slapped, when I tried to slip this word into my thesis. Why would one do this? Simply, because it's the lazy way out of expressing what you are really trying to say. If you wax poetic about a postmodernist view, does your audience know exactly what you are talking about? No. If you resort to using postmodernism as your evidence or methodology instead of clarifying your thoughts and process...congratulations, you the author of a junk argument.

Here are some other views on the term:

Is it Postmodernism yet? Surely someone can define Postmodernism—or at least Modernism? That way, I could remember which one is dead and which is still fighting to save alive ~ John Haber.

Suppose you are an intellectual impostor with nothing to say, but with strong ambitions to succeed in academic life...
Isn’t it the whole point of [postmodern theorists'] philosophy that anything goes, there is no absolute truth, anything written has the same status as anything else, no point of view is privileged? Given their own standards of relative truth, isn’t it rather unfair to take them to task for fooling around with word-games, and playing little jokes on readers? Perhaps, but one is then left wondering why their writings are so stupefyingly boring ~ Richard Dawkins

Of or relating to art, architecture, or literature that reacts against earlier modernist principles, as by reintroducing traditional or classical elements of style or by carrying modernist styles or practices to extremes ~ Dictionary.com

Postmodernism is "post" because it is denies the existence of any ultimate principles, and it lacks the optimism of there being a scientific, philosophical, or religious truth which will explain everything for everybody - a characterisitic of the so-called "modern" mind. The paradox of the postmodern position is that, in placing all principles under the scrutiny of its skepticism, it must realize that even its own principles are not beyond questioning. As the philospher Richard Tarnas states, postmodernism "cannot on its own principles ultimately justify itself any more than can the various metaphysical overviews against which the postmodern mind has defined itself." ~ Pbs.org

Minions, read Nietzsche, read Heideggerread, read Foucault, read Baudrillard, read Derrida, (oh please!) read Sokal, read anyone you like and analyze the more tangible nuggets of what you are trying to understand. To use this catch-all term in a way that is devoid of thought and definition, you are using a junk term and instantly screwing your own argument.

Just so you know, if you are writing something and you think it's fabulous but it sounds like this:

Postmodern Essay Generator
(Refresh to get a new essay!)

It is junk to me and to your audience because you didn't say shit.

Reason # 5,603 I Love My Husband

After two days of fighting and many an instance of me calling him an ass to my friends for his ass behavior and him silently calling me an ass for my ass behavior, I get an email late Friday afternoon that reads:

Okay, let's start over.

Hi, I'm Mike. Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?


To which I, now disarmed and laughing again, replied:

I totally believe. So, nice shoes. Wanna fuck?

The Most Fabulous Thing

The most fabulous thing in the world is when you switch from wearing a thong with your only pair of beige pants that fit because your cottage cheese ass actually shows through the material to wearing a smoothing pair of silky no-line panties that in the mirror at home shows no hint of the dreaded panty line only to come home from work and hear your husband say,

"Baby, you can totally see your underwear today. I mean, you can see the tops of them and the line under each cheek. Did you know that?"

The Syllabus, ah, She is a Lengthy Bitch

Two things today:

First, the boys and I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory today. The kids loved it. They loved everything about it. Brett spent the evening in his room writing down ideas for new candies he's going to make as an engineer/chocolatier someday. Daniel helped him brainstorm and set up business plans for him. I liked it so much that I want to make love to the minds of Johnny Depp and Tim Burton. Depp is fabulously creepy and Burton's way of bringing the story to life is perfect.

Secondly, I've been writing my syllabus for my first attempt at playing professor this fall. My class, Art History I, is now officially full. Oh, the expectations! I apologize now, if any of you are my students, for the red face and profuse sweating you may see on your first day of class. It will pass, I think.

Oh, but the syllabus. I feel I'm pretty laid back. Or, I FELT I was pretty laid back...that is, until I took a gander at the syllabus I had created. Holy shit do I have a lot on there. I mean, it's not particularly strict or anything but I apparently feel the need to spell out everything.

I've edited it, so I hope that helps. Now I simply hope that what I hand out will be helpful information. I always hated when I didn't know my instructor's expectations and Art History tends to have some different requirements, what with Chicago Manual Style and all.

I just hope I do a respectful job of teaching my students HUMANKIND'S ENTIRE HISTORY OF ART FROM THE NEOLITHIC TO 5 MINUTES AGO.

So, all you teaching mavens out there...don't laugh too hard at me. Have a drink with me instead and I promise to listen to every nugget of wisdom you care to dispense.

Baby Got Back

Mike started his own blog. I quasi pushed him into it since I made him a blog that he didn't like, so he got up and made his own *excceeelllllent*.

Now I can see into his mind, man.

Click HERE for Mike2.

God Loves Scarleteen

I found this site a little while ago and have poured all over it. Scarleteen is a response to the failing so-called sex education in schools. They believe in facts, not pushing abstainence nor saying go ahead and do it all day long. As a teen mom with a teen mom sister and teen mom friends, this is important to me. I feel teens are generally given a glossed over, simplistic version of sexuality which only serves to confuse or misinform them.

At Scarleteen, the authors are realists who are fully invested in teenagers as people. They also realize that:

"While many teens may not be having vaginal intercourse, they are often instead engaging in a myriad of other sexual practices, including petting, oral sex and even anal sex, and a recent study of those who have taken abstinence pledges has shown that those pledgers have identical rates of STDs and STIs as well as sexual activity, to those who have not pledged to abstain."

Their language is not demeaning and they provide information for "ALL aspects of positive sexuality, including birth control, safe sex and sexually transmitted diseases, masturbation and self-pleasuring, anatomy, diverse sexual orientation and identification, sexual and romantic relationship and communication tools, and care and compassion in sexual technique and practice."

Simply put, Scarleteen rocks.

Click HERE to see Scarleteen.

For all of you who forget you are not, I repeat, not having a puppy

This is today's Public Service Announcement.

For all of you who are now or plan to become pregnant someday, with the intention of giving birth to a human child, I implore you to please read through this website.

Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing

Having procreated with a man who thought our children were Norse gods at best and playground fodder at worst, I understand the push of a delirious spouse who thinks Thor is a fabulous name. Please, do not succumb to this pressure. In addition, do not listen to your inner voice that says you should name your sweet little precious daughter, Kaylee Madicyn, or your beautiful baby boy, Jasper Rain.

The low of every child's academic career is middle school. If your child is named with two apostrophe's and three y's and her name is pronounced, Sue, she will find out just how many unwrapped tampons fit in her locker. If your child's name sounds just right in Middle Earth, he will eat pea gravel more than once. And don't forget, you are not all of Irish descent. No, you are not.

Remembering that my child will go to middle school with this name is my Anti-Crazy.

Everybody Needs a Bosom for a Pillow

Today I was walking to my car from the office at the great historic home, wearing a skirt and sandals, looking intensely at the copper fittings on the building across the road that had bled a green patina down the limestone, when I pondered:

Is one supposed to walk with one's bare thighs mushed together in a semi-stationary postition, attempt to allow them to rub past the other only to cause chafing, or change one's gait to an odd crab walk in order to maneuver around the fat of the thighs?

Comments and suggestions are welcome.

Physically Inept

No, this is not a post about my inability to walk up stairs without sucking wind.

I have recently discovered how physically inept I am for my job.

I am allergic to books. The longer they sit on a shelf in the library or the older they are, the worse my loud sneezing and sinus clogging joy.

I get sleepy, really sleepy, when I read. Especially when I read German.

I get distracted easily. All those college students who enter the library? I've noticed them and the unbelievably short skirts they are wearing. Someone using the copier? Why yes, and they made 13 copies.

The mold and dust in my office at the fabulous old historic home is probably enough to slowly kill me. It makes me wheeze and sneeze so much that I'm taking 2 Benadryl every 3 1/2 hours. Refer back to section about being sleepy. 1 Benadryl is my usual dose, 2 knocks me out cold.

I'm incredibly clumsy. Seriously. My Mom would call me "Grace" as I bumped another shoulder into a door jamb. Please, let me hold the priceless object!

Basically, I'm a sleeping, sneezing, drugged, ADD-ridden clutz.

I should so be doing art history.

P.S.
Oh, and I get shaky and dry-mouthed when speaking in front of groups of people. I have 34 students signed up for my fall semester Art History I class.

Shit.

He picked that guy?

Curious who he is? He's no Sandra Day O'Connor.

"As deputy solicitor general under the first President Bush, he argued to the Supreme Court that 'Roe was wrongly decided and should be overruled (Naral)."

I'm outraged on behalf of your uterus and mine.

The Race is On

Mike's mom just called to announce the pregnancy of his cousin, Angie. Angie's older sister, Cyndi, just gave birth to a baby boy a few weeks before the arrival of Mike's brother's new son, Lake. Jamie is Mike's older sibling.

She noticed a parallel here. And only Mike and a younger brother, Jason, are partnered.

She said, "I'll let you and Jason decide who gets to go next."

*I hope it's us*

DTN Update

Never wanting you all to forget the joy that is my mother, I am bringing you the latest of the Drunken Teenage Nana, aka, the DTN.

This weekend a cousin from California decided to drive to Florida and back, seeing the country in a solo trip. Along the way, he stopped in sweet Missouri to visit my grandparents who called Everyone, you know, so we could oogle him and snap pictures. And then, the DTN arrived. In the latest uniform. Sucking back something she called "tea" but involved all the ingredients of an Amaretto Sour.

My mom came over in her new daisy duke, LOW cut halter, and no undergarments. She was doing fine, drinking two of her "teas" in about 10 minutes, and talking amongst family. And then, the latent-gay boyfriend came over. Since I am tired of speaking of him in code, I'm going to give you his name. Andy. There, now you have it.

So Andy of the latent-gayness and Larry from Three's Company hair strolls in to the room, and my mom immediately sits ON THE FLOOR to give him her chair. Not that I mind sitting on the floor or care if anyone else does, but I'll be damned if I move for the husband the instant he walks in the room. Andy's sunglasses pulled back his mane of hair like twin barrettes on either side, giving me the church giggles as I pointed it out to Mike.

Andy proceeds to monopolize the conversation with my California cousin, whom he has never met, while we all have to stare. Seriously, by all means Newbie, JOIN a conversation but please don't be an ass and control it. Andy asked his usual inappropriate questions that serve to belittle a person, embarrassing us all. These involve questions like, "So um, are you always going to work there or will you ever find a job that really means something?" All sentences are prefaced with, "So um..." My mom believes he is a genius and a fanstastic conversationlist. No no no. He told her he was surprised I was such a "good mom" since I was a teen mom. She was delighted. I called him a Fucker.

This asshat is a middle school social worker.

He has no social skills, he talks down to everyone, and he truly believes he is amazing and you are not. I can't imagine how effective he is with the kids he's supposed to help. I worry what else he wants to do them.

This weekend, my mother let him take my children to a go-cart place. Alone. Without her and without telling me. Now, seriously, any fool who is super eager to get your kids alone is suspect at best. He actually encouraged her to stay home, insisting that he'll take the kids alone. Did you hear me, he repeatedly insisted that he take them alone! OH HELL NO.

Please, do not a one of you connect my label of his latent gayness to my worry about him being a child molester. I am just trying to figure this man out and my labels may all be crap. I DO NOT believe gay people hurt children any differently than the rest of the population and I have reason to believe it is the straighties that your kids need to watch out for. Also, your children will not "catch the gay" from anyone either, you weird fundies.

Point is, my mother allowed Andy the Weird to take my away children in a car. I'm so freaked out. After brutal questioning of the children I have learned that nothing happened. However, as a child who was in the middle of being primed for molestation before the plot was found out, I'm not being lazy on this one. Maybe he's great and I'm paranoid. Fine. I don't care. Molesters often prime their targets and I know what that is like, even though as a kid I didn't know why Stepdad I acted that way. If for no other reason than Andy creeps me out and is a way too interested in inserting himself in my family and is way too familiar with my children than he should be at this early, early stage...

My kids are officially not allowed at my mom's without me until this man is gone.

Welcome, Lake!

Yesterday, Mike's older brother, Jamie, and his wife, Sherrie, welcomed their baby boy, Robert Lake, into the world. He is named after each of their grandfathers and will be called Lake. Baby Lake is absolutely beautiful. See.

Congratulations Jamie and Sherrie!!





Click on an image for more.

Dear Anne,

Dear Anne,

I adore you. I want the best for you. In light of this, I have found your wildest wet dream come true. Yes, I am in your head and I can see your wet dreams. I say, you are one twisted fuck. What were you doing with that Mr. Superpickle?

But I digress. In short, I have found the website for you.

"McSweeney's Internet Tendency" is your new boyfriend. This site is nothing but "Open Letters to People or Entities who are Unlikely to Respond." This is your calling. You are THE writer of open letters to those who need one. Please, oh please, think about contributing to McSweeney's. You know you want to say you gave it to someone named McSweeney. I saw it in your sick mind.

Love,
Melissa

2 percent?

Only 2 percent of women describe themselves as beautiful. That's what new studies are saying. This is horrible. Just scary horrible. I think all of you are beautiful, just for the record. Dove® and a few other brands are starting a new trend called, "The Campaign for Real Beauty." According to Dove's website, "Real Women have real bodies with real curves. And Dove wants to celebrate those curves." Yay!

According to one article, this could be a risky marketing campaign because "The "real beauty" ads still need to sell women on the idea that they need these products to become even better." Why do they mention this? Dove products are typically soap, hair, and skin products, not your run of the mill hide-your-flaws products. Most other news articles focused on the positive aspects of the campaign. Risky? Maybe. Timely? YES.

The first six women in the ads were women plucked off the street due to an inner spark or a flash of confidence. The ads are unretouched and the women are shown in plain, white underwear. They are gorgeous. They have mommy bellies, dark skin, pale skin, golden skin, thick thighs, etc.

I honestly don't care what Dove's motives are for running this campaign. Nope. Not a bit. They are doing it and that is meaningful for me.

I am not skinny. I am not model-beautiful or have long, blonde hair and a tiny upturned nose. I am normal. I've never been into living my preconceived statistical life. I'm learning how to call myself beautiful. We should all raise that pitiful statistic from 2 percent to a much higher number, counting more and more women who call themselves beautiful. If seeing real women on tv or in ads helps, thank you Dove.

Just so you know

For all the so-called education I've gained since the boys were born, I still haven't learned how to play certain games with them. Those games bear evil names like Pokemon and YuGiOh. As far as I can tell, to play these games you must fork over your meager allowance in exchange for cheap, printed paper. Next, throw all of your new pieces of paper in your closet. Haphazardly. Then, wait for the screaming harpy you call, "Mom." Finally, scowl as you pick up said pieces of paper and shove them under your bed. Wait for next round of harpy shrieking. If you have enough pieces of paper stuffed under there, you might get to see the rare blue-cheeked howler. For extra fun, leave them scattered all over the living room rug while insisting that you did, in fact, clean up all your things. This brings on the red-eyed, wailing banshee.

Is All I'm Saying

In case you ever want to study art or history, Ebay is NOT a reliable source of information. I repeat, Ebay is not a documentable source. Please do not bring me a piece of paper with the latest Ebay item on it and proceed to explain to me how some yahoo seller in Texas knows more about an object than the author of the catalogue raisonnée. On another note, anything with a hole in it does not mean its a vulva. No, it doesn't. I want it to mean that too, but it just doesn't.

Behold!

Behold the fabulous bag. The bag that holds all my books for the upcoming exhibit, paintings research, and teaching materials plus tampons. The bag that says I'm-not-an-intern-any-goddam-more-
and-I-need-this-to-hold-my-shit-in-style.

On a side note: It would seem I'm allergic to Shang Dynasty jade.

The Greatest Grandparents in the World

This afternoon I brought my baby cat, Nero, and a few pictures we took of them over to my grandparents' house. I love visiting them, in part because they are so funny. My grandma told me a story about a friend of theirs, Merve, (who is part of the over 70 crowd) who went to a bar and met this woman with "great big titties." The lady (also of the over 70 crowd) asked Merve how many quarters would fit on her "titties" and if he would hold them up while others did the placing of the quarters. Merve happily complied. Grandma doesn't remember how many quarters fit on the womans "great big titties." I asked. But she did demonstrate exactly how Merve held those "titties" by holding up her own breasts. Then, Papa was reminded of another story of a woman with "great bit titties" who weighed them for him. He doesn't remember exactly how much each breast weighed. I asked.

The sweetest part of the visit, aside from my Grandma's sheer joy at playing with Nero, is that Papa and I went down to his farm to pick up sweet corn that he had planted. Papa is a longtime farmer who recently sold the family farm to a home developer. At least the houses they are building on his old land are absolutely gorgeous. He kept a couple of acres and this year he planted sweet corn for friends and family. We drove down to the farm, about a 5 minute drive, and he actually went into the field and started picking corn off the stalks. With lightening speed. In two minutes flat, he popped out of the field smiling with a huge armful of corn. My favorite part? Watching my Papa in the setting sun picking corn...for me. I felt very loved.

Update

Regular period-ness has graduated to something of a hemorrhage. Terrible cramps abound. Headache and backache. Weak and tired. In general, I feel remarkably poopy. Not sure what this means, but it sucks ass. I'm actually staying home from one of my best friend's housewarming party tonight.

At a Loss for Nothing

This month I had the slightest suspicion that I could have been pregnant. Now, we are not actively trying but it's been about a year and a half since I've been off the pill. We are not using condoms either. And we haven't gotten pregnant. It makes me worry that there could be a problem with infertility. I have a very big worry about that since we are thinking that maybe, in a year or two, we'll have a child together. I repeat, I am seriously concerned about our fertility. Yes, I know I got knocked up at seventeen and nineteen with buttery ease but now I'm pushing thirty and I'm using a different penis. Yes, I know that Mike is one of 7 children and fertility doesn't so much seem an issue in his genetic makeup. But, I'm curious as to why no pregnancies. Perhaps our sheepish attempts at the infamous coitus interruptus are just outstanding.

This month, I began the traditional boob hurting of PMS a full week earlier than usual. I was exhausted, getting light-headed, cranky (more than usual, okay), and had a slew of interesting problems. We wondered if I was pregnant. I normally have about three days of PMS enjoyment where I sport porn star boobs. Seven days of it made me a touch curious. I tend to deflate back to sagging mama boobs before I start my period. Nope, not this time. I actually bled just ever so slightly on the day I would have started. Next day was the same. Took pregnancy test...negative.

Now, when I was seventeen and pregnant with Daniel, I had nine negative tests. Even the Planned Parenthood test was negative. But oh yes, I was definitely pregnant with Daniel since well, he's 10 now. So, as far as tests go, I'm not always so trusting when I see a negative. When I was pregnant with Brett, I denied it. Completely. I was fucking fine, allright! I was in a deep, dark depression and absolutely hated my cheating (now ex) husband so there was no way I was pregnant. NO. FUCKING. WAY. However, at much goading from others, I finally took an at home pregnancy test. I was pregnant. That stick lit up like a Christmas tree to make sure I could see how pregnant I was. Five months pregnant, according to the OB/GYN. I felt the kicking the very next week.

This time, I took the negative with a grain of salt and waited. Early this morning, another negative. Just to clarify for me though, my body has taken to finally deflating the porn boobs and allowed for regular period-ness. For the first time, I am not immensely relieved at a negative test. But then again, I'm not a teenager this time. And I am crushed.

I shouldn't be upset. This really isn't the right time. I just graduated from drag school and I'm in the process of beginning my career. And that career is taking off in ways I couldn't have predicted. I'm researching, curating, and adjuncting in art history. I love it. I love my work. I would like to continue doing it for a while instead of quitting right off the starting blocks to breed.

Someday soon, we'll actively try and I hope this time of "less productivity than one would imagine on the Catholic method" is simply a fluke and not the harbinger of infertility issues. I am sort of mourning, but alas, it was much ado about nothing.

Oh shit, that explains EVERYTHING

As read on Overheard in New York:

"Get the RuFoucault Out of Here"

HS girl #1: I have a question. No. She gotta question, but she makin' me ask you for her because she embarrassed. What's "drag school"? Thas where you go to learn howda be a drag queen?
Teacher guy: What? Drag school?
HS girl #2: Yeah, you said you was leavin' us because you gotta go to drag school.
Teacher guy: Grad school. I am leaving you because I am going to grad school.

--Prospect Park BBQ

No WONDER grad school was frustrating, I was really in drag school. Ironically, it was there that I found my Pussy Posse.

Pubertish

Apparently, Daniel and I are going through something together. He's getting pimples and so am I. We're using the same salicylic acid products, reminding each other to use it. Funny thing is, my mom never gave us anything for our pimples. We just suffered. And popped. Oh did we pop the zitty landscape with glee. I'm attempting to keep my paws off his teeny pimples since I know the popping so ruins his precious baby skin. Like my mom did to mine. I never, ever had bad acne. I barely qualified for even using a product. However, since popping was encouraged and I just can't stop, I have visible pores that I hate. I should still have precious baby skin (I know, I'm nearly 30, shut up) but I have really visible pores due to popping. Did I mention the glee in popping? The joy in a well-popped pimple is indescribable. I pop now. I can't help it.

I draw the line at popping the child's tween pimples.

He has the best skin ever and I will not ruin it. I let his little pimples lay while I slather him with salicylic acid-y things and encourage gentle facial cleansing. My greedy fingers twitch at the sight of them, but my brain smacks them into submission.


Daniel and his fantastic skin


To change the subject so I can calm the twitching fingers, here are some pictures from the Fourth.


Brett's unveiled joy at the fireworks and two "buckets of fun"


Bucket of fun exploding


Farm

Missing (Updated)

I'm so sorry. I'm just so sorry. Thank you for your concern about Evelyn Miller. Her little body was found yesterday. Pray for her family, please.

Please stay abreast on the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children. Please, if you have information on any child you see here, contact the above address.

Happy Independence Day, Ho.

We just came home from the joy of the Fourth at the farm. Mike burned his hand. No, he didn't do it on a firework. Yes, it hurt. He's fine. The boys partook (from afar) in the family tradition of shooting fireworks and lighting random things on fire (soda cans, cupcakes, citronella fluid containers, etc.) in celebration of the independence of our country. I read up on Chinese jade and ate 4,001 Rice Krispy treats.

Leaving the children with the enemy

Last night, I bucked up and let the boys stay the night at my dad's house. My kids call him, "You-know-our-Grandpa-your-Daddy." My sister's daughter calls him "That-guy-who-brings-me-stuff." They don't call my stepmom anything at all, since she's never allowed herself to be Grandma. My dad asked if the kids could come over and well, since one of his faults is his famous absenteeism, I chose to let them go over there. They wanted to go, so who was I to say no. They had a blast and grew a touch closer to that part of my family, and for that, I'm happy.

We went over about 5ish and had dinner with my dad and stepmom, and my stepsister (also named Melissa) and her husband. My stepmom went through all her consipracy theories and what (tub of) vitamins everyone should take. The other Melissa is about 5 months pregnant. It was her wedding last May that made Lindy and I realize that's our dad is a wonderful father, just not to us. To the steps he's amazing. He's the best daddy in the world. Especially now, with Melissa married and a bun in the oven, I see how much of a good dad he is to her. A lot of it is basic jealousy and hurt that he isn't the same with us as he is with her and her brother.

I know that and I'm nearly 30, so I should be over it. But I'm not.