Allison Unfiltered

Sex and tweeting: maybe being Republican ain't so bad.

Tonight on CBS news there was a story about a new congressional trend: tweeting *OMG STOP THE PRESSES*

How newsworthy.  Yawn.  I was more fascinated with the infomercial for Time/Life's Romancing the 70's CD set afterwards.

But I did laugh at this stat:  There's twice as many GOP tweeters as there are on the other side of the aisle:

53 Republicans : 34 Democrats.

Then Hortense over at Jezebel blogs that red states consume more online porn than blue states.  How surprising -- Not.

But this is snorfleworthy:

As Callaway notes, "Eight of the top 10 pornography consuming states gave their electoral votes to John McCain in last year's presidential election – Florida and Hawaii were the exceptions. While six out of the lowest 10 favoured Barack Obama."

Way to fight that stodgy uberconservative image, you silly red-staters.  Here's a terrorist bump for y'all.

Gender Guidelines for Newly Naturalized Earthlings

For some people gender is constructed during the flight to adulthood and for others, gender is something innate, an essential truth, a cross borne until a body's last breath.

For some people there are rules around gender as unbreakable as the cross on Golgotha's hill, and for others gender is a wet noodle molded, whetted, knotted and untied at will.

For some people gender is described with linguistic markers and-slash-or neutral words, and for others gendered words are blasphemy, damning them to erasure.

For some people, gender is Adam and Eve, one or the other, opposites attract, and for others, gender is a line drawn in the sand, us or them, we take care of our own.

And for still others, gender is something to fuck, to hide, to play God and demons, to erase, to deploy, to scalpel, to inject, to perform, to pervert, to switch, to traverse.

Flight or flee, for these, gender describes more and less, transcending he or she.

It's often confusing, and most of our guidelines just don't translate.
Remember: if othered or in doubt, masturbate.

Deborah Tannen would have a ball with me and my momsie.

You know your mom feels pretty bad for you when she e-mails you a story about a dog named Faith, born without two front legs who learns to walk like a human, and in the body of the e-mail she writes, "Don't lose faith."

Oh, the schmaltz.  Will you Hallmark Channel people stop scripting my mother-daughter dialogue, please?

But then again, this is the same mother who also e-mailed me yesterday to ask, "YOU? A PORNO STAR?!"

Good Goddess.  One of these days I'm gonna strap that woman down, inject her with some sodium pentothal, and ask her what she really, REALLY thinks of her first-born.

It's called Kept Woman Syndrome

Finished my workout and was picking L'il Red up from the gym's childcare when she said, "Restaurant?" The girl is obsessed with eating out.  Mea culpa.

"No.  We've eaten out enough."

"Please?  Restaurant, please?"

"No."

*whine*

"I don't have any money, anyway."

"Oh, that's okay.  Ask Daddy."

"Why?"

"Daddy has money."

"Yeah, right.  Mama's on her own.  Daddy ain't gonna pay for nuthin'."

"What?"

"Nothing.  Daddy's not home yet, we can't ask him."

"Oh.  Okay."

I have always loved Susie Bright

and I always will.

Virgin sex = the first pancake?  

Genius.

She's at Jezebel all week, and she's got a new book out that I'm going to get as soon as I can afford it and not feel guilty about the new shoes Leah needs.

'Cause "if she were Indian" doesn't quite have the same ring...

Ampersand never fails to make me think twice.  Today's post deconstructing the "replace the word ____ with black" school of criticism is no exception.

I know there's many times out there reasonably intelligent people out there in the deaf blogosphere have done this to justify why something is discriminatory. 

I know I've done it myself... but I don't know what I'm doing arguing about the anti-feminist sentiments of critiquing Britney Spears' parenting skills solely on the basis of showing her (very unremarkable) vagina to the paps in the first place (and yes, that's an outdated example, but it's still my favorite). 

Although... that's a bit of a different critical angle than the one Ampersand takes on, I think.  Still, Lord knows I felt stupid starting a sentence with "If Britney were a man..."

Anyway.  It's thought-provoking.  Go read.

At least she could still fit in my suitcase.

So I spent part of this weekend with a friend who is a single mother. 

Raised by a single mom, I've always worshipped single parents (yes, as much as we like to forget -- single dads DO exist) and thanked the Gods that I wasn't one.  I always tell people that the good thing about polygamy is that you don't have to raise a kid alone; the more parents a kid has, the better.

But recently it's become clear that I AM going to be a single parent.  It hasn't quite hit me yet, and it probably won't for some time.  Part of that is because L'il Red's dad is such an amazing co-parent that whatever other drama happens in our lives, it's hard for me to think that parenting will ever be any harder than it is right now, because when it comes to the girl, we work really well together.

Spending the day with my single friend was an eye-opener. 

Sure, learning to embrace my newfound singlehood has had its ups and downs, all completely selfish -- from "Holy Fuck, I'm never gonna get laid again, boo hoo" to "Holy Fuck, I don't have to fold his boxers anymore, whoo hoo!" 

But seeing this single mama in action, and realizing that this is what she does 24/7?  The constant need to be on call, the never being able to go on a quick errand, the being solely responsible for childcare while carrying on a successful career, having to take care of personal affairs like a will and a college fund on her own?  Wow. 

Of course, my friend tells me, there's pros to the whole deal.  Decision making?  Not a team effort.  No arguing.  A real connection to her kid, as opposed to a more complicated family dynamic.

I'm still gonna have to get used to this.  The thing is, I'm still at step one:

What do you mean, I can't use "I dunno, ask your Dad" anymore? 

See?  *headdesk* This is gonna be fun.

QueenAlpo, Style Maven... *snort*

I've gotten so many compliments on these earrings that I happen to be wearing in my current FaceBook profile picture (and also 24/7 in real life), that I feel remiss not sharing their source, especially since I'm obsessed with it.  My amazing mother-in-law gifted me with them this last Christmas -- thanks, Mom K!  

They're the wear everywhere hoops from lillyella's etsy shop, full of awesome whimsical little trinkets.  Need a gift for that femme in your life?  Look no further.

*ahem* Anybody in the market for gift for your favorite blogger? *koff koff* My inner horned toad is currently drooling over this necklace.

Top 5 Reasons to hate VPing

I've blogged elsewhere, years ago, about hating VPs, but this week my hatred has been compounded to the nth. 

I've gotten VP requests every single day of this week.  It's only freakin' Wednesday.  Goddess, take me now.   

And since I own one of the dinosaurs of the VP world, the VP100, this means major headaches for me.  It's prone to shutting off mid-call, to blurry images to the point I gotta stick a finger up in the air, telling my caller to shut up until the pixels smooth themselves out, and is just generally a major broomstick up my ass.

I put in a request yesterday to be upgraded to a VP200 even though everyone with a VP100 is technically supposed to be on some magical upgrade list somewhere already.  From what I hear, the rep I contacted can be slow in responding.  And I'm too brokeass to buy myself a nifty VPAD+, which I hear good things about, ooh la la.  So it looks like I'm gonna be stuck with this for a while.

I know it's the "new deaf thing" to do, to call each other up and finally get to chat to your hearts' content without needing to type everything out.  But you know what?  I'm a freakin' good typist.  Me know spelling and big words and how to use commas, yes, me good.  So to hell with it.

I've used up my VP tolerance quota for the year.  No more VP calls for me.  You wanna see my face?  Make an appointment with my secretary and let's have coffee.  In person. 

Don't live near me? Too fucking bad.

Without further ado, my Top 5 Reasons to hate VPs -- feel free to add your own:

5. Requires that you look halfway decent.  Which, for me, means I need to put a bra on.  But if I can angle the camera right, pants not necessary.  But, dang, to have to get dressed just to confirm that you're getting together this weekend?  PAIN IN THE ASS, HELLO?  And if I'm talking to someone I need to impress, well, shit.  Pull out the curlers and the lipstick.  This is gonna take a while.

4. Takes too much time.  See above.  And, ummm?  I know we're all excited that VRS is faster than text-based relay services, and it feels like a step closer in terms of access to telecommunications... But  9/10 times, an e-mail or IM will do, okay?  Work with me, people.

3. Not misanthrope-friendly.  If you're like me, you prefer to keep small talk to a minimum.  And duuuude... small talk seems to be all that exists out there in VP-land.  "Hi, how are you?  What's new? Tell me a story." La la la... gag me with a spoon and make me look stupid.  I was practically accused of being a bobblehead on Monday night just 'cause I was nodding endlessly and not saying much, even though my chat buddy really was being entertaining.  Well, ex-squeeze me.  I never thought I'd need to know how to sit in a room alone front of a TV and wax poetic.  Sue me.

2. Requires a totally different kind of eloquence. I'm a writer. You know what that means? I don't talk.  So take that, marinate on it, and sit on it.

1. Causes self-consciousness. Isn't it enough that I need to worry about camera angle, lighting, and whether or not my VP will let me stay the hell online?  Evidently not.  I need to worry about the way I sit, the way I sign, and to concentrate on seeming at least a little bit ummm... interesting.  And, hello?  I would like to reserve the right to lie my ass off, just like I do on IMs.  But since my face is apparently transparent, I'm robbed of that civil right.  Where's the march on the Capitol when you need it?  Plus, body language is totally up for interpretation.  Case in point: I was leaning over to pet Colin and looked up to see my friend squinting at me.

"What?"

"Are you TRYING to show me your boobs?!"

All the more reason to disbelieve everything I learned in science class.

Both my outdoor thermostats say it's 42 degrees.

So where the hell are these snowflakes coming from?

And why are they sticking to the ground in droves?

Crap.  This is gonna be one of those hide-in-bed days.

Next: a plague of locusts will come by my door to feast on this manna.