To Commenter HelloKitty

I hate reading the comment sections of blog posts, but sometimes you just get sucked in: you read one acerbic comment, then the response, then the response to the response, oftentimes including comments on grammar and how this reflects the poster's (lack of) education, until you are scrolling through five pages of comments trying to find where the argument began - and breathe as you realize the activity is stupid and not providing further enlightenment to the original post or your day.

When those sometimes occur, damn it, you almost feel like posting a comment yourself. STOP! Never join the comment threads! Rather, post your thoughts on your own blog, the appropriate place for personal rants. Here's mine:

To HelloKitty, a commenter on the The 14 most hilariously effective signs supporting gay marriage post over at HappyPlace:

Please stop complaining that gay men are mean and make rude and bitter jokes about women. You claim you don't why they behave this way, as you are a kind and sensitive person, but maybe it's the fact that you defend yourself by writing "It's hard because straight women love the male body, but gay men seem to almost abhor the female body." Perhaps these gay men don't want you fawning over them because they are not attracted to you. Because they are gay. If they found the female body attractive they would not be gay. But they are, so they don't. If you stop telling them they are hot, they may stop telling you vaginas stink. Just a suggestion.

If the rude/bitter jokes and comments continue, I understand you may feel uncomfortable so I have another suggestion: stop hanging out with those people. If you know the one gay man who does not make rude comments about women, because he slept with one once, then by all means make him your go-to gay. Otherwise, stop hanging out at gay bars in the hopes that a man will turn for you. They won't (see above.)

HelloKitty, please stop claiming you speak for the silent majority of women. The majority of women have enough sense not to ask gay men to respect and love the female body because they know gay men are gay. If you are confused by this, please refer to my first suggestion.

Finally, if gay men make snide comments that seem "bitter" please remember the content of the original blog post: gay marriage, or the fact that gays (and lesbians, but you don't seem to know any of them) cannot legally marry. That is a right not afforded them, thus making them lesser citizens in the eyes of the law. That might engender some bitterness. If gay men (all of them, apparently) flaunt their sexuality, it is likely a show of pride in who they are despite the fact that they are persecuted incessantly by so many people - and in the case of marriage, the government. Those who are homophobic or protest gay marriage for whatever reason want homosexuality to simply go away; flaunting your homosexuality is shouting, "No, it won't!"

PS - Just to be clear, if a gay man says women are gross it's probably because he thinks they are gross. Describing the beauty of a vagina will only confirm his belief.

Kthx!

Catching Up

The close-call heart attack I had this morning was quickly remedied: Blogger kindly restored my cooking blog after I wrote to them that I had no idea why it would have been removed (because I didn't, though I suspected it was somehow related to the hacking of my gmail account) and shortly thereafter Cooking The Globe was back online with additional site moderation. Yay!

In other news, I have been unfortunately slack in keeping up-to-date with the news, be it international, local or personal. I blame it on the stresses of moving and relocating (which is legitimate enough: last weekend was the first time in two months Seth and I didn't have to go anywhere. I felt guilty not doing anything.) I also have no idea how to comment on the plethora of shit going on in the world currently so I will do what so many Americans do and simply ignore it. Weee, now life is simple!

Oh, except I am still writhing in pity and self-doubt as I attempt to write cover letters for potential jobs. I have finally written two sentences describing that I am, indeed, awesome; now I just two paragraphs detailing that assertion (nay: fact.) My lack of faith in my abilities amazes not only me, but my husband as well. Woe is me, I know.

On a positive note I have been learning Austin streets through the age-old tactic of driving around and getting lost; my kitty is adorable and will stick his face in mine in the morning, meowing, until I pet him - yes, that is adorable rather than annoying; and my friend Kerry and I solidified our undying devotion to the movie Showgirls with tattoos. Our love is eternal.

 

Pretty good silhouette on our legs, eh?

And there it is. Damn, I currently miss Uganda (and Africa in general) something fierce right now, though unsurprisingly, not Kuwait. Hopefully Seth and I will be able to make enough money to be able to travel a bit (albeit not at frequently as before.) Of course, I also hope I will get a job in the (near) future that will pay me to travel around the globe. How can I cover it without visiting it? There, I just gave myself a third excuse. I should add that talent to my list of awesomeness in those cover letters.

HIRE ME!

Happy New Year! and Goodbye Kuwait!

 It's only been 1 1/2 months since I've posted anything - nice consistency with covering the globe. The biggest news on 2011 (the five days we've had of it) is that Seth and I are leaving Kuwait, me in early February, Seth around the middle. At first both of us were worried and I was slightly panicked, but at this point we are both excited for a variety of reasons, including my mental health.

Seth has asked me if I am depressed and I have repeatedly answered "no" because I don't feel depressed, sad, lost - any of the "telltale" signs of depression - but if I take time to think about myself I suppose I have fallen into a certain state of melancholy. I sleep cat's hours, find it difficult to write my thoughts even on my personal blog (I have several half-sentences save over the last 6 weeks), hardly leave the apartment. I say to myself (and Seth) that I have become a better cook over the past few months yet if I am honest with myself I would say I use cooking as a crutch, as a reason to not leave the apartment to go for a walk; to not leave past four in the afternoon; to keep my mind focused on that one easy detail: what's for dinner. I began the Master Cleanse today yet am considering making broths for tomorrow and juicing my lemons early because I am accustomed to planning my day around food preparation.

I know it's my own fault, that another person may have written four novels and started two businesses by now, all while sculpting a nymph-like body; I end up, as my friend Kerry described, floating, which is probably why I haven't considered myself depressed. I am floating, no rising in exuberance or sinking in despair - just here. In 2009 I spent months trying to find work while possessing only a tourist visa and was overcome with rejection; I came back in 2010 and began the job search again but just didn't have the heart to give the search as much effort as I had before because nothing had changed except the year. So I floated. And then I turned 30. I never thought I would have a problem with turning 30, but leading up to my birthday and then on the actual day I was struck with the thought that I have peaked, that if I haven't accomplished anything significant with life by now then I have lost my chance. That may have caused me to sink a little.

Leaving Kuwait will be a needed change for me, so Seth, for our marriage - hell, for this blog. I completely abandoned my genocide series for no reason other than I lost the drive. Screw that: I can cover the globe from anywhere, including the eclectic land of Austin. Bring it, 2011.

New Tattoo, maybe New Direction

Not that a cupcake tattoo warrants a life-altering decision, but it may subconsciously signify one. I have several other tattoos and multiple piercings, but up until now I have always made sure to choice locations that are easily hidden by clothing. The tattoo on top of my right foot challenged  that a bit, but I rationalized it with  the possibilities of boots or dark stockings. Then a month or so ago I told Seth I wanted a silly cute tattoo, something that bespoke my personality but was more than a damn smiley face. Pie? Pumpkin pie? I knew that wouldn't translate into 'tattoo' well, with me ending up with some orange blob on some random part of my body. "What's that one, Sarah?" "Oh, just an abstract interpretation of the sun." Then 'cupcake' hit me though I think I first told Seth I wanted it on a hipbone or some easily hidden shit like that. Then yesterday I went with the roommate Ryan as he got his first tattoo on his calf and I said aloud, "I need to get a tattoo on some painless spots again (my stomach being the last site of pain; before that the top of my foot." An hour later I asked Mana if he would tattoo a cupcake on my hand. I don't question my mind or its rationality and neither should you.

I love my new tattoo. It is incredibly cute - I was squealing as Mana shaded in the pink and lilac - and at the same time silly. Seth likes it but admits that he never thought I would get a cupcake tattoo, especially one on my hand; neither did I. I think maybe subconsciously I am admitting I will never walk down the professional road I once had in mind for myself. Sure, the Foreign Service is still lightly on my radar, but that "Driving with a BAC level about .08%" conviction (which is legally different than a DUI, mind you) worries me that I will never gain the required Top Secret clearance. Regardless of clearance or even background checks, maybe some jobs won't hire me because of a silly tattoo on my hand. Then again, if a job doesn't want me because of a tattoo, would I really want the job? Probably not. And if one job doesn't want me then another one will. So I will embed cake in my flesh and eat it too.

Once I bake a batch.

On Fantasies

I enjoy MMA and watching UFC fights, particularly those with GSP - Georges St. Pierre - both because he is an amazing fighter and kind of nice to look at. I casually mentioned this to our roommate one day and he, being ardently against GSP, was disgusted. To annoy him I played up my interest, which is reality is slight. Now Seth playfully(?) becomes irritated when we watch an episode of the current Ultimate Fighter or he sees me reading a magazine featuring an article about GSP. Attempts to assure him that I am not fantasizing about the man go unheard, but Seth really should believe me: I don't indulge in fantasies because I am bad at them. Let me explain.

Say I see a celebrity or some such whom I find attractive, maybe even interesting. "Oh, if I could get him in a room alone," I think, but of course I can't; that's the reason behind fantasies. Unfortunately, that's also the reason why mine fail. Sure, I concentrate I can have one great, steamy - er, romantic - fantasy, but after that they begin to unravel. I close my eyes to imagine a scenario and my rational kicks in: how the hell would you be meeting this person? At a party? How the hell were you invited to a party like that? Just in a bar? That sounds pretty far-fetched.

But I persevere, determined to go through with my scenario, until self-esteem issues arise: so why has this person noticed you? Because you look "natural", real face and boobs, aren't anorexic, have opinions that aren't vapid and shallow? How do you know his opinions will be any better? Do you seriously think you'll stand out? At this point I have two options: count my losses and look at some porn or stubbornly push on, determined to see this thing through to the end. This is usually a bad decision. At this point I have met my person-of-interest, which means I need to create dialogue with how I'd like this man to be while maintaining some level of honesty to his true character, which of course I know nothing about. I want him to be charming, polite, not pushy, wanting more than sex (I am a lady, after all), but with sexual tension so thick you can taste it. This is where it's get tricky, as though my imagination is fighting with my rationality over whether to continue the dream or not and it always ends the same way: maybe I play too coy or my would-be lover begins to demand sex while I politely decline, until he rejects me. I am rejected in my fantasy, ultimately in all of my fantasies. Try masturbating to that.

So, Seth, you have nothing to worry about. You are the only man on my mind.

By default.

Thirty Something

In thirty days I turn thirty and I don't know how I feel about it. It happens that my thirtieth comes at a time when I am at a crossroads: not working, not sure what work I should even be doing, except I know I want to continue to live abroad for a bit. In general I feel apathetic and tired, making thirty seem like it should either be a turning point or an emphasis on the lack of motivation in my life.

Basically, I am feeling full of cliches.

That isn't fair. I am almost thirty and it's not so bad; I bet I won't even notice the difference between it and twenty-nine. I am surprised to be reaching thirty because, come on, who ever thinks about thirty until you're almost there? When I was twenty-five I remember writing my age down on a form in a doctor's office and thinking, holy crap, I'm 25! Look at it, written there! Seeing myself write the numerical form of my age made it real for me, made me actually think about it. (Maybe I should write "20" all over the place.) Unfortunately, turning thirty tends to be less subtle; I can already hear my sisters' mocking voices welcoming me in my departure from youth. Does it have to be that way? Of course not, it's just another year.

And here's where I write a witty ending. I have always hated ending paragraphs (and openers, for that matter.) In college I would write the body of my paper first, then go back and figure out how I wanted the thesis to read. It would normally take me a whole say to try and summarize things effectively. I am not a summarizer. And that's what I've got.

Childhood Memories

Looking back at my recent posts it appears I haven't been "covering the globe" lately. The recent trip to England notwithstanding, I have felt largely unqualified to remark upon current events; been preoccupied with my cooking blog; and have been diligently perfecting the Great American Nap. It's exhausting. I mean to get back into the swing of things - the world never stops moving, history marches on, etc. - but first allow me some self-indulgence.

I enjoy, love, reading personal narratives and humor writing, especially when they are combined, such as the works of David Sedaris and Bill Bryson. I become lost in their prose and experiences and memories, such deep memories that leave me awed. How can these men remember (or reconstruct) conversations from when they were five? Or recall in vivid detail the spoon their mothers used to stir a soup on the evening of November 14, 1962? I lived through the entire decade of the 1980s, during which my mother (so she told me) spent hours putting together 3-course Chinese meals, but I don't remember even eating in the 80s. I don't think my brain began actively absorbing the world around it until I hit puberty. Growing into womanhood seems an appropriate time to become cognizant of the dangers and wonders surrounding you, but I can't help feeling that I've missed out on some important details. The only thing I can remember for certain is that I spent a lot of time daydreaming (pursuing the Great American Nap is, apparently, a life-long endeavor.)

Wait, I'm exaggerating: I do remember eating, once. For my fifth birthday I had a party at McDonald's and part of my meal was a hamburger with miniscule bits of onion on the patty. I refused to eat it, due to the belief that onions would either kill me or simply burn through my stomach and leave a hole in my torso, but my mother insisted that I take a few bites or the party would be over. I suppose three bites of a McDonald's hamburger is enough to get you through a decade. Or at least the 80s.