Month: August 2014

Breastfeeding. WTF is your problem?

breast feedI don’t get it. Well, maybe I do but I don’t want to.

I remember as a kid growing up, this was perfectly acceptable and expected. Sure, the moms were modest about it and didn’t just suddenly unveil their breasts and whip them out at the dinner table or in the middle of a cocktail party.

Most placed a blanket or diaper over themselves and nursed. Everyone politely looked away while she got herself and the baby arranged so as not to stare or embarrass her.

It was called MANNERS. You remember those, don’t you?

Some women preferred to nurse their baby in private, so there was always a spare room or place for her. Others did not or didn’t care.

But the bond between the mother and child was greatly respected. I mean, is there something more important than a mother feeding and giving life to her child?

Well, apparently there is…for some.

The more we try to hide something, the more stigma is placed on it being wrong. When that happens, now you’ve got people wanting to make a big deal out of it when it wasn’t a big deal in the first place.

Want to draw a lot of attention to something? Pronounce it as something secret and not to be seen.

The sheep will run to it and make a fuss. Convince people that a woman’s breasts are purely for sexual pleasure and then sell a lot of clothing to cover them up and expose them at the same time.

I cannot imagine anyone being offended by this perfectly natural and beautiful action.

But then again, I’ve never tried to make a living out of exploiting women.


“Do you need some help, sweetheart?”

I heard the words over my shoulder as I was squatting in the aisle of Walgreen’s. I was looking for some allergy medicine since I was tired of not being able to breathe or sleep for the last week. In the 59 years I had walked the Earth, never once had I gotten allergies until now. My entire family suffers from them but not me. Nope. Never had more than a little sneezing fit and watery eyes from time-to-time.

But not this year. Oh no. I had gotten hit hard in June, which lead to a bad case of bronchitis and a trip to the ER. My nose had been clogged for 2 weeks. It was impossible to eat without grossing everyone out with the snorting and coughing that I did. Shit, it even grossed me out but I still had to eat.

It was a woman’s voice, so my feathers weren’t ruffled as badly if it had been a man.


Do people really call strangers by that?

Apparently so.

I looked up and saw this woman smiling at me. Her skin was brown.  Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun. She had an accent but was still easy to understand.

I stood up and smiled. Her smile got wider.

I liked her. She was being nice.

“Yes, maybe. I need some allergy medicine but don’t know what to buy,” I said.

She nodded her head and pointed to a few. “These are all good and work the same, so any of them will help you sweetheart.”

I wanted to say something about the use of the word “sweetheart” but decided not to. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She wasn’t being condescending.

Just nice.

I was tired of myself and others having slight rampages about words. I was guilty of it myself and I had always prided myself on seeing what a person is trying to say and not focus on the words. Intent carries a lot of weight with me. Words? Eh, sometimes they are important and sometimes they aren’t.

She helped me decide what to buy. We chatted as we walked up to the register and she smiled the entire time. She was one of the most helpful people I had run across in a long time.

I thanked her as I left.

“You’re welcome sweetheart. Have a nice day,” she said and waved.

I waved back and smiled all the way to my car.

I liked her.

Taking breaks or I really mean walking away.


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I take breaks from all sorts of things.

Social media and men for starters.

Now I think I’d like to keep it that way.

You ever feel obligated to do something? You know, like you should be on Facebook, Google Plus, Twitter, etc? Or you should be dating because everyone else is? Or if they aren’t, they’re talking or snarking about it?

I will tend to only do things that I find enjoyable and then stop doing them if I find it boring or just a pain in the ass.

That’s how I feel about the above two topics. Just bored. Unfulfilled and a bit agitated.

I think I prefer it under the radar. Always have.

But I believe that a person should do what makes them happy (providing it isn’t illegal or immoral) and find their own way. Wasting my time with nonsense or people who don’t have enough manners to talk to you isn’t my idea of fun.

I’ll continue to write but I think I’ll just do it quietly and without any fanfare.

As far as men go?

I’m a tad tired of the hassle and wasted time. Not mad or apathetic, just not sure I’m cut-out for relationships. I much prefer putting my attention on what makes me smile and not what makes me want to throat punch people.

“You need to be taken down a peg or two, little lady.”


“Oh really? Is that right?” I said. I heard the words behind me as we were walking to my car. We had just finished up an animal rights protest at a rodeo.

Yeah, you heard me right. Honestly, you really haven’t lived until you’ve pissed off some red-blooded American good ole’ boys.

We were walking back to my car after spending the day at a rodeo protest. We had endured being called every name possible and shoved as people walked by. One man had spit on me.

You learn quickly to not take the bait, ignore and keep talking. Some took our handouts; most sneered and kept walking.

I turned around and before I knew what was happening, my friend Jane was being intimidated by another man. A big, strong cowboy. He grabbed the sign she was holding and threw it to the ground.

And he was smiling.

Another man was walking up to me quickly. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening, but I didn’t need to. My body knew and it reacted. It sensed danger and tensed up. My heart was pounding and my hand gripped the sign I was carrying.

The parking lot was empty for the moment. We had been standing for 7 hours. My back ached. Jane and I were both exhausted. We told our other friends we were heading out and they said they would be right with us.

I backed away. I saw three of my male friends come around the corner. They looked up and saw what was happening. Soon they were running up behind him. I kept backing up and hoped I didn’t back myself into a car.

My usual response to a bully is to hit back harder and make sure they land on their ass before I do. But sometimes, you’re outnumbered and no matter how much you attack back, you’re going to lose. The trick to survival is to know when.

Two of my friends ran over and pulled the man away from Jane. She had also been backing up and now she was pressed against a car as the man continued to approach her. They threw him to the ground and kicked him. Another grabbed the guy that was coming after me, turned him around and kicked him in the leg and shoved him back.

It all happened so fast. Seconds but it felt like an eternity.

Jane ran off and I went after her. I found her crouched between two cars, shaking. She was too scared to cry. I looked back and saw the two men run off. Two of my friends ran after them and the third one ran over to us.

We were fine, just scared. I hugged Jane as we sat on the pavement, in trash, and gasped.

The men were gone. Jane didn’t want to come back the next day, but I insisted that we did.

We did and had ten body guards, all wonderful men who sneered at anyone who yelled at us. It was sometimes difficult to hand out our literature when you have 4 men surrounding you.

Instead of trying to convince us that it was too dangerous, my male friends circled the wagons and made sure it was safe for us women folk to speak up.

Most people would focus on the bad that happened and tell us it was dangerous. This is why I rarely tell anyone what really happens.

I prefer to focus on the good of the men who were there for us, protected us, and made sure we were still able to keep our voices going.

Why you were “friend zoned.”




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It’s not anything you said or did.

It has very little to do with your looks.

It’s not your income, the car you drive, the job you have, or any of the hundreds of things people think or say.

It’s very simple:

I don’t want to sleep with you.

I just don’t. No spark. No chemistry. No lust.

None and there isn’t anything you can say or do to change that. In fact, the more you try, the more I want to run.

It happens if and when it does. No particular logic or prediction.

It either is there or it isn’t.

You’ll never be able to tell by the words I say. I am polite and nice to everyone. I’ll smile, nod, laugh at your jokes and be as pleasant and interested as I can be.

I don’t flirt. I don’t know how to flirt. The last time I tried was a disaster. Still too embarrassing to write about, but suffice it to say it involved a plate of spaghetti in my lap, spilled ice tea, tripping and falling down, and snorting.

It was not pretty and I realized that this was an area I should just leave to the professionals.

I’ve been accused of flirting before. This annoys me. This is just the way I am and the fact that I am nice to you and make eye contact does not then translate into wanting to have sex with you.

If I’m interested, it’s the body language that gives it away.

I lean into you and not pull away.

I place my hand on your hand when you lightly touch my arm.

I let you hold my hand and smile.

Subtle signs (for me) as opposed to me suddenly making a left turn when you try to hold my hand.

I return your calls and text messages sooner as opposed to ignoring them or taking 3 days.

When the spark arrives, all I want to do is throw you down on the table and have at it. I’ll want to lock us up in a room for days, run up your credit card for room service and my mute my phone.

If it doesn’t arrive, none of that will be happening.

It’s not you.

It’s not me.

It’s chemistry.

Or in my day, lust.