Holey Wedding Announcement, Batman!

When I was in high school I had this friend, who wasn't all that good of a friend, after all. My senior year I finally discovered what kind of girl she really was. It was a sad time in my life, but I was so grateful when I went off to university and didn't have to worry about dealing with her drama (read: crap). A year later she came here too. Fortunately, there campus is large enough that I seldom ran into her. When I was fortunate enough to do so we both put on the oh-my-heck!-I-haven't-seen-you-in-ages,-how-the-heck-have-you-been? face. We then both felt the need to spend an hour or two catching up, only to eventually be relieved of the duty of maintaining the façade, and moving back into normal life.

Two years ago she got married. I know this because she felt the need to send me a wedding announcement. Dutifully, I pinned said announcement to my push-board, intent on sending her a card or something meaningless, but still acknowledging the wedding. Perhaps not unintentionally the pushpin ended up in the middle of her face.

Now, two years, and one kid, later the announcement is still on my push-board, awaiting the day I send a card, so that I can remove it with satisfaction of fulfilling the duty that has become the remnants of our friendship. Over the years the announcement has fallen (and been knocked) off the board countless times. Each time the pushpin inadvertently ends up in the middle of one of the three or four smiling images of her blazed across the front of the announcement. Each time the pushpin also, miraculously, misses the (satisfactorily) unattractive face of her unsuspecting (now) husband.

What I never counted on was a mutual friend (who has remained friends with both of us throughout the whole ordeal, as I never felt it was my place to tell her the gory details of the disintegration of our friendship, and I assume the other party in question didn't either) moving into my neighborhood. Correction, moving in two houses down. I also didn't ever anticipate her dropping in for a visit and discovering the impelled images of the other girl smiling back at her. Nor did I ever suspect that she would comment on the holes. She did. I casually mentioned that it had fallen a lot, and we must have absent-mindedly stuck the pins in, not paying attention to where the landed. I wonder if news of her disfigured face ever made it back to my former friend. Part of me hopes she knows. The other part doesn’t care one way or the other. Not that it matters anyway. I still have the announcement on my corkboard, and the pushpin is still holding it up, via her face.

Closet Comic Book Geek

I'm in a bookbinding class, and having the time of my life. One of our projects is to make a clam-shell box to put stuff in. I had this great idea to make a collage of pages from comic books and cover the box with that. And, make the box to keep comic books in. Brilliant, I know. The sad thing is, I don't really know any comic book geeks, and I'm not one. ExOfNote is, but I don't know if he'd like (or use) it so much (Brief aside here, ExOfNote and I are still amazingly good friends, so it's not at all odd that I would send my mother his direction, or make a gift for him, etc). So, tonight I was telling my roommate about this idea, and how, even though it's a totally great idea, I'm not going to do it. She got all excited and then confessed that she's a comic book geek, and can I make it for her, please?

So, I get to make it! I'm so excited! And amazingly glad I told her about it. Yay!

Mother's Intuition is Wrong. WRONG I Tell You!

My mother called me a few weeks ago and asked me to burn her a CD. She had specific songs she wanted, and no way to get them all. Additionally, I have all of her records (all L.P.'s), but haven't been able to find a good piece of software/hardware combination to convert all of these to a digital format (which she wants me to do). Not surprisingly, the songs she wanted were all to be found in her record collection. I gave her my ex's email address (we shall call him ExOfNote, since he is my most notable ex) and instructed her to ask him to do it. Lots of reasons for this:
He:
1) Has high speed internet at home which he isn't sharing with roommates or anyone else
2) Is always downloading stuff, so
3) Already has file-sharing software on his computer
4) Happens to live in a country where file sharing isn't illegal, so there are no potential ramifications for this behaviour.
Where as I:
1) Share my high speed internet with my roommate and the girls next door (let's all say "yay for wireless!")
2) Never download music, so
3) Don't have file sharing software on my computer
4) Currently live in a country where file sharing is of dubious legality.

I was sure he would do it. However, time constraints placed by my mother dictated that he wouldn't have time to do it. Thus, I found myself subjected to iTunes and MSN Music to (legally, and with out spyware) obtain the desired songs for her. The result was a very lovely mix of music which I then burned to CD and sent to a friend of hers (for whom this CD was made), and then sent another copy to my mom. However, there was tons of room at the end, so I added some other songs that I thought she might like, as well as some songs from ExOfNote's younger brother and his girl friend's (that is, ExOfNote'sYoungerBrother's girlfriend's) band. Just 'cause I thought she might like it. Heck, I like them, and I don't even have to say that.

Mumsy finally got around to listening to the CD, and called me today to thank me for it, and also the extra songs. I told her it was really no problem, and by the way, that band she has never heard of is ExOfNote'sYoungerBrother's band, and I think she might enjoy some of the songs. To which she replied, "Well, that's good, since I'm not fully convinced he might not some day be a son-in-law." WHAT?!?! "I don't think you're over him, and I'm not sure you're ever going to be." Oh, great, thanks mom. I'm glad you have faith in my ability to move on. Sheesh.

Symphony Tickets Are Hard to Give Away

Due to a recent and rather abrupt relocation a family member of mine gave me some extremely good tickets to the Utah Symphony. There are only two catches: (1) I have to take a date, and (2) there is only one concert at this particular venue, so I can't change the tickets for a more convient day.

No problem, think I. There are plenty of boys who want to spend time with me, and I'm sure many of them would appreciate the symphony. Around 10:30 Wednesday evening (the tickets are for Thursday) I was 0 for 4, and waiting for number 5 to call me back. Each guy had some conflict or another. Two had to work (one of whom was DrummerBoy -- let it never be said that I'm too chicken to ask out a guy I like), one is trying to be more responsible and only go out on Friday or Saturday (I believe this one given his academic record which is in a sad state), and the last one had a meeting for work (which he actually tried to get out of, but his boss said no-go). Well, if I were any less of a woman, or had a slightly smaller ego (seriously not an issue for me), I might have been hurt. Luckily for me, it wasn't really a problem.

However, I did decide that five "I'm sorry, I can't's" is the cut-off, and I would ask my hot co-worker (who thinks I have a thing for him, ahh, so perceptive) to go with me. At 11pm, guy number five calls. No only would he love to go, but since I'm furnishing the tickets, he'll provide dinner. Yeah! A real date! My roommate declared it a good thing that I was turned down by all those other guys, because I "was meant to go out with him. See, this way [I] get dinner!" Ahh... I love her!

Who knew that amazing seats would be so hard to fill? I doubt it was the company they'd have to keep, since each guy asked for a rain check. Now, I just have to find events to cash in on those checks.

I'm a Culinary Genius

Monday I decided to be adventurous and make stuffed Artichoke for dinner. I found the recipe on the Web, and have absolutely no clue where it came from. However, being a lover of all things artichoke, and capable of making only one dish, I thought it might be expedient that I experiment. Thus, I did. And, let me just say: I'm a culinary genius! I ought to be able to find a husband just for that, if no other reason!

Ok, so here's the recipe, since we all know you're dying to try it:

6 Artichokes
8 oz bread crumbs
10 oz grated Romano cheese
1 bunch Italian parsley -- chopped
1 1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
1T olive oil

In a large bowl combine bread crumbs, cheese, parsley, salt, and pepper.
Cut tops, stems (so artichoke will stand by itself) and leaf tips off of artichokes. Remember to remove enough of the outside leaves.
Stuff artichokes.

Place stuffed artichoke in a crock-pot (or slow-cooker, which ever makes you happiest), and pour water in the pot so it's about 3/4" from the bottom. Drizzle olive oil over the top.

Cook for 3-4 hours on high, or 6 hours low.

Gingerly remove from crock-pot and place on to the side of the plate.

To finish off the presentation, I recommend a small serving of a light chicken pasta. If I may be so bold as to also suggest a certain pasta creation:

Create a light marinade of lemon juice (diluted with water), basil, and parsley.
Place (thawed) chicken in bowl, pour marinade over the top, cover and refrigerate. This should be done for a minimum of 3 hours (so, prepare this mixture before the artichokes), and probably no more than 8 hours.
Remove chicken from marinade, and grill (dice and sautéing is also an option), spray or brushing with the marinade as it cooks. Remove from grill, and dice.
While chicken is grilling, prepare angel hair pasta in the generally accepted fashion.
Toss pasta with extra virgin olive oil, basil, parsley and chicken.

Yeah, the pasta is my own creation, so the measurements are not exact. I just do what looks/tastes good! Good luck!

Oh, and never you fear -- this isn't going to turn into Granola Girl's Cookery Corner! Just when the mood strikes me.

Death by Charity

My roommate's fiance tried to kill me Saturday night. I'm sure it was unintentional... that's what they all say.

They had gone out to dinner and some other activity that was not a movie. When they got in he had some leftover salad that was proffered. It looked delic. So, I took a small bowl. Thankfully. He told me that said salad contained cheese, feta, he thought (which is notable because yours truly is very lactose intolerant – but I can sometimes manage cheese). Midway through my bowl I decided it tasted more like bleu cheese than feta (which is notable because yours truly is also allergic to penicillin and all things mold, but this allergy is less on the side of stomach pains and more on the side of death-like symptoms – where by death-like, I mean actual death.). So, I started avoiding the cheese (yeah, yeah, yeah, but it was a good salad!).

Yeah, well, about 45 minutes later his salad and my stomach got in a huge row. My stomach won. Luckily I was almost home from the grocery store as there is nothing nearly so sexy as vomiting on the side of the road like some drunk vagrant. I held out long enough to make it home and run to the washroom, thus saving myself the humiliation of public puking.

Sunday, when I saw him next, I mentioned that I thought the salad might have had bleu cheese, instead of feta. "Oh, yeah.” Said he, “I think you're right."

So, we see, he really did try to kill me. Luckily my stomach knew what was up with that and rejected the notion. He did feel bad for it, though.

If She Weren't So Hot I'd Cry

SurferBoy showed up to church today with a hot babe on his arm. She was the very picture of high maintenance, but I'm sure she's a wonderfully nice girl (she seemed so, from the brief interaction we had). When I asked him about her, he was all cute and blushy. Yeah. Way cute. I'm happy for him. Did I mention she's hot? Turns out she is. If I were a guy I'd be all blushy over her, too. Anyway, yeah. Good on him. I'd rather he go for a chick so insanely hot that I look all frumpy next to her, than some girl I could actually compete with.

Brass Bands and Trophy Wives

As I sit here in the student u. terrace listening to a quartet of horns play a variety of songs from West Side Story and a smattering of other songs I quietly eavesdrop on the 18 year-old fresh-snob sitting at the table across from me. Thus far her conversation has included the following "sentence": "I don't know, like, it's not going to make him ask you out again, and if he doesn't, like, ask you out again, it's not, like, worth it. You know? Vamos." Ohhh! Deep thoughts from an enlightened mind! I gotta get to know her better. I'm sure she has more deep gems just waiting to be brought to the surface.

This brilliant girl has previous to this passed judgment on the brass band and blissfully thanked goodness that "they don't allow, *edited out for stupidity and lame generalization having no basis in reality*, I mean, you know, this kind of music in church. ‘Cause they're so annoying. And, like, bad."

Sadly, this same woman of dubious intellect is a fellow student at this fair university. It casts a depressing light on our kind, and makes me wonder who her daddy knew in order to get her high school GPA and ACT score high enough to be acceptable for admittance. It makes me cringe to think of the shear waste of space and air that makes up this girl. I mean, really, let's, maybe (just maybe), think about expanding our horizons a little bit. That's why we're at university, isn't it? Oh, wait. Sorry, I was getting confused. We girls are here to find a husband. And, let's just say, she's going to make someone a lovely trophy wife.

Oddly enough, I always wanted my trophy spouse to be cultured and have a brain to show off in addition to just physique. I mean, yeah, hesh may be nice to look at, but I think it'd be more fulfilling to say, "Oh, yes, hesh is a beautiful specimen of perfection. But, hesh is so much more than just looks! I was so proud when hesh finished up shis dual doctorates in a year and a half. And, just wait until you hear shim sing. We’re going to Italy next year so hesh can apprentice for a few years with an Italian Opera-Master. Hesh is so excited!"

Couches and a Strangely (Un)related Topic

Tonight I showed my roommate the couch that I want to buy when I get my own place (rather than the nasty couch my landlord has currently furnished us with). She commented that it didn't really go with the decor of our home. I assured her that it was "my grown-up couch for my grown-up house, when I get my grown-up job." She laughed and exclaimed: "And, your grown-up husband!" The look of horror on my face did not go unnoticed, but, I pointed it out anyway. She laughed again and assured me: "Granola, you're much more of a feminist than I will ever be! And, I admire you for that." Wow. Niceness. The funny thing is, I consider her to be quite the feminist, as well (no, neither of us are womyn, don't worry); but, she's actually going to do something about it when she grows up. I totally admire that in her, I mean, the atrocities wrought against women and children in other countries are appalling, and while I plan on staying here, being increasingly grateful that I have all that I have, and encouraging those organizations that fight against such things, she is actually going to be doing the fighting.

I imagine that her (future) husband (they'll be getting married this summer) will be right along side her, buoying her cause. In reality, she has brought to the forefront of my attention many of the horrific things being done to women and children across the world. And, in all honesty, I would love to be out there, fighting for those children and women, but my own fears of poverty have lead me on a career path that can, in nowise applicable, be of any use. By the same token, it is women like her, who need women like me to fund them. Thus, I shall.

Control in a Relationship

In one of my classes one of the girls mentioned a career path choice that her husband had made. After telling various women she knew she found she was constantly faced with exclamations such as: "I can't believe you let your husband do that! I'd never let mine do that!" She discussed how upset it had made her, and the audacity of these women to announce such things. And, "excuse me, but, I'm not the boss of my husband. It's a 'partnership'!" While I agree with that as a premise, I got to thinking -- personally, I never would let my husband make the same choice as hers had. The question thus becomes: How can I control that?

Well, simply put, you recognize those things that you would not want your spouse to be doing, and don't marry someone who is predisposed to such an idea. For example, she didn't want to marry a doctor, so she didn't date pre-med students. I don't want to marry a man who does x as his career, so I won't date guys who have always wanted to do x. It's not a matter of "letting" one's spouse do something. It's a matter of not marrying the type of person who would want to do that which you wouldn't want your spouse to do. After all of that, she still bristled when I said, "And, no, I'd never let my husband do a similar career as yours. I wouldn't marry a guy who wanted to."

It really all boils down to knowing what you absolutly cannot abide in a relationship, and avoiding a situation where you'll encounter that.

SuperStores vs CurrentEmployeer

After a month in limbo I finally have a definitive answer as to whether or not my CurrentEmployeer is actually seriously considering offering me a full-time position or not. That answer came when my boss came to me yesterday and said, "Granola, what skills and qualities do you think your replacement needs to have?" Yeah, that's right kids, instead of straight up telling me that they have decided to hire a part-timer when I leave rather than offering me a spot, they just ask me to define my position. Oh yeah, does it get classier?

When all is said and done, however, I found out exactly what I wanted to know. I'm just kind of annoyed that I had to trick them into it.

In other news, I have decided that I would much rather work for SuperStores than BigNameCompany, so I really am headed down to the former Confederacy.

Brown Sauce -- What The???

So, my favourite englishman sent me a bottle of Brown Sauce and a 5 Euro note for my birthday. The 5 euros were a joke, since I told him I wanted one Meeelion dollars, and that was all he had to spare. But, let's get back to the Brown Sauce. It smells super vinegary, and tastes almost like someone added too much malt vinegar to their ketchup. But, a titch more bitter. My roommate declared it tasted akin to Worcestershire Sauce. Never one to let a condiment go to waste with out at least giving it the benefit of the doubt, I set out to give it a go-for.

My first test of taste was on a baked potato. Not too shabby.

Test number two was on mashed potatoes. I'm not sure I'm going to repeat that one.

I think eggs are next.

After all of this, however, I'm not sure it could ever fully replace Worcestershire sauce, for one, it's way too thick; and for another, though I love Worcestershire sauce I swore off it once I discovered it is made with anchovies. Sick! (So here's hoping it comes in a close second.)

Valentine's Day

DrummerBoy agreed to be my Valentine. Funny -- I have no clue what that entails. He was my Valentine for an hour, then I went home.

I'm a Geek, Get Over It

I saw a shirt that I want on Think Geek. Ok, I don't really want it, but it sure is funny. You can either go look at it yoursef, or just enjoy the text below:

Roses are #FF0000
Violets are #0000FF
All my base
are belong to you.

If you don't get it, ask and I'll explain (seiously, I promise I'll only mock you to my other geek friends), otherwise, enjoy it for what it is. *grin*

My Evil Plot

Grr! I was just glancing through my blog when I noticed that this entry was decidedly shorter than what I wrote last night. Thus, I have to re-finish it. I'm sorry the end was so confusing. I have no idea what happened. Sadness.

So, the interviewing I did with BigNameCompany was not, as I noted, done because I, necessarily, have any desire to work there. No, rather it was done in a rather systematic way, for a very distinct purpose. See, I love my job that I currently have, and I'm the only person who can do what I do. I know it, and my department knows it. We also all know that I am leaving in June to go work for SuperStores. They have finally commenced in worrying about what happens when I leave. At one point, however, my boss asked me if they were to offer me a full-time job, would I take it? I told him that if they offered me more than SuperStores, then I would consider it. That being said, I have heard nothing of promise. But, I do know that it is an option that they did consider at one point.

Here's where the interview with BigNameCompany comes in: if they offer me the job it'll be for more than SuperStores, and, they'd want me to start full-time immediately. Thus it serves two purposes. (1) I tell my current employer about the offer and watch the panic; and (2) I tell SuperStores that I got a larger offer, and if they want to counter it, I'll consider them.

If my current employer reacts as I want they will offer me a full-time position, for a pathetic amount, which I'll accept because I will be able to get my masters for free, and their lay-off policy is 'we never fire anyone.' If, however, they don't act I as hope then there are three courses of action: (1) I stay at the current job anyway, because I really don't want to work for BigNameCompany and in June go work for SuperStores; (2) I work for BigNameCompany, find I love it, and stay there until I finish up my masters; or (3) I work for BigNameCompany until June, when I tear out of Dodge and go work for SuperStores.

So many options, so few of them not overly evil. Muahahahahah....

Happenings of Note

Just when I think my week is going in conclude with nothing of overwhelming interest occurring I get to work and fire up the ol' gmail. 400 million new messages await me. (Ok, that's not true. I wish that that many people liked me. In all actuality, there were probably about 10 or 15, the majority of which were 'Office Spam.') Quickly, I scan through the list, deftly deleting those that don't pertain to me, or, have managed to slip through the filters and want me to 'show her [I] love her this Valentine's Day, with [my] enlarged manhood.'

As I scan the list I see an interesting looking email from a friend of mine who has recently graduated, and has a grown-up job with a (relatively) big name company here in Happy Valley (so big, in fact, that none of my siblings have ever heard of them). The gist of the email is basically telling me that his boss is looking to hire someone full-time, and he (my friend) thinks that I match the description (and will fit well with his team), and if I want I should send him my resume to pass on to his boss. Not averse to getting a grown-up job I open my resume, delete the part that says I want to work for Micro$oft, save it, and send it over. Later in the day said friend and I chat about the job, and do I really want to work for this company, considering their lay-off policy, which seems to be: "every quarter lay-off 500 people, whether we need it or not." At this point, gentle reader, you may have divined about whom I am speaking -- let's just keep that between you, me, and the fence-post, k?

All of the proceeding has transpired pre-2pm.

At 5:30 I extract myself from the depths of the labs in which I dwell to discover I have missed a call at 5:18. The message on my phone informs me in a friendly voice: "Hello, GranolaGirl, this is YourPotentialBoss with BigNameCompany; I got your resume from H.R., and wanted to talk with you about maybe coming in for an interview. The sooner the better, so maybe tomorrow or Monday. My number here is 555-5555. Thank you." herm... I go ahead and ring back, no answer. Thus, I decide to wait until morning to try again. Friday morning rolls around, and I call MyPotentialBoss. He's not in, so I leave a message. He calls me back, but I'm in class. Finally, class ends, and I ring him up immediately. He wants me to come in as soon as I can. I tell him the soonest I can come in is late in the day, or early Monday. We tentatively set up late Friday. I tell him I'll check my schedule and see if there is anyway I can come in sooner. If so, I'll give him a call.

When I get to work and set about the business of deleting more Office Spam when I see an email from the course T.A. -- class is cancelled. Immediately, I call MyPotentialBoss and let him know that my afternoon is suddenly freed up. He asks if I can come in at 3. Done.

I race home, fret over what to wear, bless my roommate for offering me a ride, and show up, 20 minutes early. I tell the receptionist that I'm there, she rings him, and he makes his way down. At this point, allow me to spare you the boring details -- not that it would matter, after all, you've stuck around this far, haven't you? Needless to say, minus the question I answered with 'I'm not even going to attempt to B.S. my way through that one." I think I nailed it.

5:20 rolls around, and my friend rings me. 'Hey, gGirl, where'd you interview?' 'Um, BigNameCompany, you might have heard of them.' 'No, I mean, what team?' I tell him, I'm really not sure, the guy I interviewed with was named MyPotentialBoss, the code name for the project they are working on is NoneOfYourBusiness, and it sounds like it's really neat technology. 'Oh. Yeah, that's not my team. I don't know what happened, but that wasn't the job I put your resume in for. I guess my boss might still be calling you, so don't be surprised!' More pleasantries, and he signs off. Yes, friends, that's right. I applied for a job I knew nothing about, and interviewed for the wrong job, with a company I'm not sure I want to work for, will probably have another interview (this time for the right job, that I still know nothing about) and might even get an offer or two for my efforts. So many choices. The worst/best/evilest part of the story is yet to come. I first considered including it here, but this is getting much longer than I previously anticipated. Thus, my friends, I bid you good night.

Update

I was not really happy with the ending to my rant about 'womyn', so today I updated the ending. I like it a whole lot more. So, there it is. Enjoy. Actually, I seriously doubt many people stick through to the end anyway. :)

The Great Deal Breaker

In discussing past relationships with a friend of mine this weekend, we got to talking about that one thing (or collection of things) that is the deal breaker in a relationship. For one of my boys the deal breaker was his gender preference; for another the deal breaker was some choices he made that were taking him a different direction than I was headed. The deal breaker can be discovered in the first five minutes of meeting, or take years to actually come to the forefront. Deal breakers can be almost anything, and tend to be different for every person/set of people. Something that may be a deal breaker for me may be the deal sealer for another girl (she may actually love it when he assumes complete control over all decisions made). Similarly, what may be a deal breaker with one guy, might not be with the next. Perhaps he is just so amazing in every other aspect that I can overlook his habit of occasionally chewing with his mouth open. It really all depends.

This leads me to the introspective question of what tends to be my deal breaker with those whom I date. I can pinpoint one or two -- with the aforementioned fellows I found that my gender was the deal breaker for one, and my choices for the other. Those are really kind of obvious ones, but we each have them. If we didn't, any two people could get together and be perfectly happy in their relationships. Generally, however, I think we each have one overwhelming quality that is our unique and typical deal breaker. Rhetorically, I wonder what mine is. Feel free to not answer that. Oh, but you can tell me yours. ;)

Book List

Thus far this week the book The Picture of Dorian Gray has been addressed more than three times in my immediate vicinity. Now, three times sure doesn't seem like that much, but let's think about this for a minute. The book is fascinating, a classic for sure. However, not many people have read it, much less heard about it. So, having it brought up in my presence three times in one week is more than a coincidence. Thus, I think it may be about time for me to read it again.

It's funny, though. The last time that I had a book on the brain for an extended period of time when I finally picked it up I was unable to put it down. It took me two days to read The Handmaid's Tale. (If you haven't read it, GO, do so now!)

However, in honor of Black History Month, and the fact that I have never read it (despite being on my Books-I-Must-Read-In-Order-to- be-a-Complete-Human-Being list for the past decade), I'm thinking Dorian Gray is going to have to wait, and I should, instead, read Uncle Tom's Cabin, despite it's length.

A Comic for Womyn

This morning I was reading the comics, and in light of Tuesday's rant, thought this was a little more than slightly apropos. :D

A Movie I Can't Believe I Saw

My roommate made me watch this horrible (where by 'horrible' I mean poorly acted) movie last night. My favorite movie line is now:
"Are you having sex?"
"Grandma!"
"Grandma nothing. I diapered it, I can ask about it!"

Why 'Womyn' Piss Me Off

Ok people, let’s address an issue that I've been consistently ignoring in the hopes that it would go the way of the dodo-bird. Sadly, it has not, and a new, younger, generation is picking up on it, making it almost a *shudder* trend among those who claim to be liberated ladies (Can I still use that word and not offend any of those in question? Who really cares, anyway?).

Before I jump up-and-down on my soap box, permit me to take this one liberty: I consider myself a rather educated, liberated, self-determined, and self-sufficient individual. In addition to all that, I am also a woman. Yes, a female. A member of the fairer sex. One day, I even aspire to be a chairman of some committee or board. There are some girls out there, however, who are bound-and-determined that I shall no longer be any of these things, and shall, instead be deemed a 'womyn' and eventually Madam 'chair-womyn' or 'chair-person' of the board. Goodness knows what I shall be called instead of 'female,' I've been avoiding searching out such a definition, for fear that I may encounter uneducated mindless driveling propaganda from the nut-jobs who seek to perpetuate this movement.

Before you attack me and tell me that I it is my duty as a liberated womyn to look at the propaganda that I have been so consistently dodging, let me assure you, I have looked into your arguments, I understand the point of view of those who first suggested the changes, I even understand the motivation, I just don't agree with it. And, no, I'm not interested in visiting your Web site that is dedicated to telling suppressed womyn such as myself, why THIS CHANGE MUST BE MADE IMMEDIATLY, TO PREVENT THE SUBJECATION OF THE NEXT GENERATION OF WOMYN BEING RAISED UP TODAY!!!!1!!1!! Frankly, I don't care what you have to say. Why? Because you know, and I know, and now you know that I know, that all of the 'information' on your Web site (or blog, or on-line journal, or Womyn's Rights Page) came from one or more of the following sources:

1. Someone else’s' Web site, blog, on-line journal, or Womyn's Right Page
2. Your girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, or a similar source. Who we both know probably got their information from one of the above sources (either directly, or indirectly)

Additionally, we also both know that none of it came from:

1. Real first-hand experience of being grossly suppressed based solely on your gender. Other factors quite probably were present when you were being 'suppressed,' such as your:

(a) race -- I'm not dumb enough to believe that this isn't an issue anymore;
(b) sexual-orientation;
(c) what you were wearing -- just because you're a 'liberated womyn' doesn't mean you can wear hiking boots and ripped jeans to a fancy restaurant, I sure don't want your garb interfering with my dinning experience;
(d) personal hygiene -- see clothing, but extend it to be in reference to everything from my dinning experience to my hour next to you whilst riding public transit. You can dress like a hooker on the Metro all you'd like, just wash your clothes and shower before leaving the house, okay? I promise I will, too;
(e) language;
(f) demeanor; or
(g) maybe just the fact that the poor pock-marked kid working at the local movie house didn't give a rip if you were a 'woman' or a 'womyn' and just wanted you to move your liberated a$$ out of the way so he could clean up the popcorn you threw at the man next to you, because he looked at you wrong.

2. Your brain. Yes, I am accusing you of being incapable of independent thinking. Get over it. Go cry (or storm) to any of the above sources from whence you gleaned your information. She'll reassure you that you are, in deed, a brilliant womyn who is going to make changes in this world, and it's your responsibility to help those womyn such as myself who are so entrenched in our subservient roles that we need you to free us from such bonds.

In addition to that is the sad fact that while gender suppression does exists in this world, the people who are screaming about it wouldn't really know what it truly is, even if they were hit in the head with it. No, the women who really know first-hand are too busy trying to survive and make it day-to-day to worry about how to spell the word that defines their gender.

*Cough* and, that is why 'womyn' piss me off. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go back to earning more money than my male counter-parts. Buh-bye.