Farmer's Market and Thunderstorms

I was already planning on waking up sometime between six and seven, but it was really nice to wake up to a thunderstorm. Rain! Thunder! Lightning! More rain! And then I willingly went out in it to the Mpls Farmer's Market!

The farmer's market, by the bye, is simply amazing. Yes, there are some booths there that sell grocery produce, but most of the booths sell delicious, home (mn) grown fruits and veggies. For a very good price, too! For $20 I got ...

six cucumbers (grown in MN)

a bushel of sugar snap peas (grown in MN)

a handful of yellow potatoes (grown in MN)

a honeydew melon (grown in MN)

a watermelon

a quart of strawberries (grown in MN)

I sampled the sugar snap peas from all the booths that had them, and then went back to the booth with the yummiest tasting ones. I was going to do that with the strawberries, but it was obvious which booth has the best ones. (Ohmygod, yes, in-season, locally grown, non-watered down and grocery-storeized strawberries are one of the best things on the planet.) The woman I ended up getting them from, told me after I sampled one and told her I would be back that when I came back, they would be gone. And she was close! When I bought them another woman there was buying up quart after quart after quart of them! And I was there at 7am! I'll bet she sold out well before 9.

I wanted some rhubarb, but a) I only had $20 on me and b) no-one had any that looked decent. Ahhh, maybe next week.

an unexpected Tuesday

Where to start?

Monday night I started feeling ill, my roommate even noticed how pale and clammy I looked. Spent the whole night in agonising pain. At some point, I decided I'd go to the clinic in the morning, and ask my roommate to take me. Well, morning comes and it's pretty obvious that the clinic isn't going to be able to help me. So my roommate accompanies me on the bus, through the med school, through the hospital, to the ER. [Note to Fairview University: finding your ER sucked monkey balls. Please, please, please find a way to make it easier]

And then once in the ER, I spent nine hours there. NINE. Mostly so they could figure out if I was dying- and if I was, how quickly I was. Yeah, so they tuck me in the hospital room, and then give me morphine and saline. And then things get a little murky. They did give me magazines to read (trashy ones; I now know all the gossip on Jon and Kate), and then told me my bladder was swollen to the size of Lake Tahoe (I could have told them that- hello, pain!), but they weren't totally certain that was all that was wrong with me, because I was also hurting on my right side. And they wanted to do a pelvic exam to make sure nothing down there was also breaked, and I properly freaked out and holy cow were they nice about it. They didn't give me a xanax, but they gave me something like it, and I went to happy place.

Then the happy place was gone because they walked into the room (and WOW was I looped up on meds) and were like, 'ok, we're here to take you for your CT scan!' and I properly flipped out on the poor transport guy, who went and got the doctor, who was nice enough to explain that they wanted to make sure I didn't have a kidney stone or something, since y'know, there was pain. Well, as it turns out, no kidney stone, but the doc comes in and is like, 'oh yeah, your appendix. It is breaked'. At this point, it's been five hours since I've been in the ER, and I'm just glad they've given me something to justify everything they've been doing to me [I tried, very looped-up-ily to protest the CT scan]. So then the surgeon comes to talk to me, and tells me that she looked at the CT scan and saw that the tip of my appendix was very inflamed. However, she wasn't certain whether my appendix was inflamed because it was broken, or whether it was inflamed because my bladder swelling to the size of Lake Tahoe was fucking with everything else inside. So she said she'd have to consult her surgeon supervisor and then get back to me.

My roommate came, at some point, though I'm not sure when. At some point too, they gave me more morphine for the pain that was coming back, so everything got all fuzzy and happy all over again.

Two freaking hours later a different surgeon guy comes in and tells me they're not doing the surgery, that they're fairly confident that my appendix is not going to explode all over the place or anything and that YAY! I can go home. So then ER doc comes in, tells me he's giving me lots of meds, that he's pretty confident the infection has spread to my kidneys, so he gives me meds for my kidneys, meds for the bladder swelling, and vicoden.

Wow. So he basically said, 'Hey, Rien, let's send you to a happy place for a few days, shall we?' and then I went home. I got home at 5:30pm. I got to the ER around 8am. And now I have happy meds, meds that turn my pee orange (freaked me out the first time it happened), and meds that make everything better. One of the meds, the one that turns my pee orange, says to avoid meat and dairy while on it. The other med says to avoid direct and artificial sunlight while on it. And the vicoden just says come to a happy place.

Also, last point! IF you and I are ever in a situation where adhesive might possibly be used on me? Don't let it be. I am allergic. No matter what. If it's got any sort of 'stick' to it, it will harm my skin. Even medical tape, which is only supposed to stick to itself, and not skin, will leave nasty red welts on me. (case in point: where they attached the gauze pad after pulling my IV out- she used cloth, medical tape and today I woke up and pulled it off to find welts. Also-also, the stuff they used to secure the IV- yup, I've got a nice red patch on my skin from that- that one actually took a thin layer of skin with some of it- which you can kindof see in the picture, but not really.)

snapshots

I watched the sun rise this morning over the city from my window. And I thought ... I could go outside with my camera and take a picture of how misty the skyline looks in the fading cold blue ... but I didn't. I stayed put. And y'know, then I got to thinking about all the pictures I've never taken. Of places, of events, of people. Of myself. There exists one picture of me with my turquoise and pink hair, and that's the picture that heads this blog. That's it. My hair was turquoise and pink for months, and I never bothered to sit and take a picture of it. In fact, in the chronology of my hair, very few pictures exist of it in the many many many different styles and colours I've had it in. Pictures don't exist of beautiful clouds, or parties, or the way my room looked before I rearranged it. Or for that matter, how the room looks now that I HAVE rearranged it.

I joke about the fact that during the year I lived in Hilo, I only took 23 pictures (ok, I just looked- there's 41- and that doesn't include the storm surf ones since I didn't actually take those). And there were some I could have taken, had I known the mountain was clear, but that's a different can of worms (she knows who she is and what she did). There's so much beauty in this world, in this life, that exists only in my head ... in fading memories, and in some memories so vivid I doubt I'll ever let them go. There is the sunrise over the badlands, at five in the morning- we were up at 4:30 to hike out and watch the land turn from black to pink and gold. I had my camera. I stood there with it, snapped a few obligatory shots, but then I drifted off from the group and sat on this little outcropping of rock and just ... watched. And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Nothing in a picture can describe the way the light crept across the dark bluffs like hope. Nothing. Light and airy and beautiful. There was the time in Hilo, on the mountain, thousands of feet up- breaking the cloud cover and looking at the stars. Really looking at the stars. Seeing the Milky Way and Mars and probably a few of the other planets. Seeing the whole of constellations. Wishing and wishing and wishing that we weren't on the 19th parallel, but 30 parallels up, so that we might see Aurora Borealis. That too, even without bands of colour dancing across the sky, is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

I saw my city glow this morning, at 5:04, and there's nothing to prove that it ever happened. But it was there, a snapshot now, and it was beautiful.

an emotional missive to men

You do not get to joke about rape to me. Not now. Not ever. I don't care the context, I don't care that you don't want to read a blog entry about rape that holds a particular slice of my heart. Fine. Don't read it. But don't come joking to me about how women look in all the wrong places for men. No, they don't. They look in all the right places. The problem is, the wrong kind of men are there.

Let me tell you something else: it's NOT a women's fault. Not here, not now, not ever. Not even if she's wearing a pretty dress, or plastered, or flirting with you. Know who's fault it is? The so-called man who decided he had a right to her body.

But do you know what? It might also be a little bit of your fault. For telling women it's their fault, for catcalling them, for making sex/rape jokes, for diminishing them based on their appearances, for not standing up to your friends, but especially for this- for continuing to propagate this cycle we have that seems to suggest that when a woman is raped or otherwise sexually assaulted, she must do everything she can to prove she wasn't somehow 'asking for it'.

Angry yet? Especially if you don't do any of those things? Good. You should be. I'm plenty angry. I practically have a checklist before I leave the house: things I mustn't dress, say, or do, lest I invite any sexual advances. Am I wearing proper clothing? (Remember, anything that might excite a boy, even the smallest bit, is not permissible, otherwise it's an invitation for sex.) Check. Am I not smiling at boys and holding conversation with them like I would to any other person? (Remember, inviting conversation is an invite for sex.) Check. Am I walking as unattractively as possible and not doing anything that might otherwise excite a boy? (Remember, even such an act as opening an umbrella can be seen as sexy, and thus as an invitation for sex.) Check. Am I not existing as a female? (Remember, even the very act of being female is an invitation for sex). Che- wait a minute. Damn. Still female. Can't go out today. Guess I'll go lock myself in my room. Maybe tomorrow I won't be female. Dammit! And I got everything else right too!

Though, this one time I did leave the house, checklist be dammed. I was 18 years old, and working at the main library of the college I was at. It was a fantastic job, on the top floor, and most of the people who wandered into my section were either there looking for a certain publication, or they were there to study (the lower levels were fantastic for socialising and group projects. My little corner of the library was wonderfully quiet- and had the added bonus of having decent chairs). For about two weeks I got to know a boy there who used my section to study. One night, at the end of my shift, when my section of the library was closing, he asked me what I was up to, and I told him I had to study back at the dorms. He asked me if I wanted to come back to his dorm and study, as there was no longer a decent quiet place to study in the library.

I'm going to stop there, but for all you men out there who think that women somehow are at fault here- where was the fault? Was it because I didn't know him? Because I only met him in the library? What if he'd been a classmate? What if we'd already lived in the same dorm and he was just down the hall? And oh goodness! I didn't even mention what I'd been wearing that night! What part of that, of that tiny sliver of that night, what part of that was my fault? Because if it had been you, none of that would be second-guessed would it? Because in the six years since that night, I've had many a person tell me exactly where I went 'wrong': didn't I realise that merely by talking to him I was giving him an invitation for sex? Didn't I realise that an offer to study was code for 'let's go fuck over at my place'? Didn't I realise that my shirt might have been a bit too short, or my pants a bit too tight? Didn't I realise I couldn't go off with any boy, none at all, no matter how much I thought I could trust them? Didn't I realise I must have been asking for it?

Man alive, all the things I didn't realise from that night, and we hadn't even left the library! Imagine all the things I didn't realise later. Imagine all the things I did. I didn't realise trying to remove myself from a dangerous situation meant I was playing hard to get. I didn't realise him wanting sex at any cost meant just that. I didn't realise saying-begging-pleading 'no' and 'stop' really meant yes. I didn't realise the loss of my virginity would come with so much force and pain and shame and self-doubt and loss of self-respect. How silly of me.

Now, some of you are reading this and thinking, 'No, no, not me. Not me at all. Would never.' You're one of the Nice Guys, right? And well, that was an easy situation up there, right? I mean, you ask a girl over to study after getting to know her, then you study? Easy, right? What if it's not studying? What if it's a party, or a date? And what if she's been having alcohol- lots and lots of alcohol? What if it's a party, and she's sober, but she looks smoking hot in that mini-dress and you've had a few beers so you start on making the lewd comments about how decent she'd be in bed? Even if you don't touch her, are you still the Nice Guy then?

Women get blamed a lot for being raped and assaulted while drunk. Women are also told to 'take it' from men (drunk or otherwise) who make sexual comments towards them. Most of the time those comments come when men have been consuming alcohol. From there things quickly deteriorate, and so much more often than I think men think to realise, misfortune befalls a woman. Coincidentally, it seems that men who have misfortunes befall them while drunk can blame everyone but themselves- 'Man, I went over to Kenny's party last night, had way too much to drink, and when I woke up this morning, someone stole my shoes!' And then everyone from Kenny to that kid you're not even sure was at the party is blamed. A woman is raped at Kenny's party and suddenly there's a litany of excuses for why it was her fault. 'She was dressing like a slut!' 'She knows what happens at party's like Kenny's!' 'She was drunk!' As if those are any justification for a man deciding what happens to her body when she lacks the ability to consent- or for that matter, not consent.

About two years ago, a man I'd met a year earlier was visiting some roommates of mine. He and I managed to hit it off, and I invited him over for a farmer's market dinner. Dinner went well, and we settled down to a dessert of cheesepuffs, chocolate ice cream, a bottle of vodka, and some films. I did five shots in under two minutes, and then proceeded to drink the rest of the bottle- he had a single shot. Look, I'm not proud of myself for it, not at all. We all do stupid things. Many of us have done stupid things while drunk (I've gotten enough of the calls and texts, and read enough Facebook status updates to know this very well). You tell me though- was my stupid choice a justification for what happened afterwards? If so, why? If not, why the bloody hell do so many of you go around and blame women for being drunk when they've been raped or assaulted? If all I'd done was drunk-dialed and posted sappy messages on Facebook, and he'd left me alone, we'd all have a nice laugh over how stupid I got while drunk. Suddenly rape is thrown into the mix, and it's all my fault. All of it. Didn't I realise I wasn't allowed to drink in the presence of a man? And alone at that? Well, shit, by the time I realised that, I lacked the capacity to make any decisions about what was happening to me. Did I deserve it, then? My own mother has told me that it's my fault for being drunk. Never mind him, over there, thinking that for some reason he's got some say over a drunk, incapacitated woman's body. Never mind him, thinking I was passed out and deciding that was the opportune time to have sex with me. But before I started drinking, didn't I realise what a bad man he was?

For both those times, wasn't I just looking in the wrong places? Can't look for men in libraries or your own home, it seems. But let me ask you this- if those are the 'wrong' places, what are the right ones? These incidents didn't happen in bars, and they didn't happen with strangers. One of them happened with someone I thought I could trust. Wasn't I wearing provocative clothing? Have I forgotten the checklist already? Dammit. Wasn't I just saying all the wrong things? What else was on that checklist? Oh, right. Shitfuckdamn, I existed. Wasn't that enough?

Absurd, yes?

Because it doesn't matter if I was looking in a 'wrong' place (still waiting to hear a right and wrong place are), or dressed 'provocatively' (I swear, I could wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt and still be provocative), or even if I said something, or did something to suggest, in any way, shape, or form that sex would be occurring that night. What matters is that I never consented. Ever. Sure, I'd consenting to kissing while drunk, but that doesn't matter either. Yes to one is not yes across the board. I never consented and two men decided that their wants overrode my desires not to be violated. That's all that matters. Period.

*

For those of you who think that you're that decent guy, that guy that would never do a terrible thing to a woman ever, ask yourselves- how many sex jokes have you made? How many women do you talk up their appearance to? How many women do you label based solely on the clothing they choose to wear? How many of your brothers have you listened to discuss in a vulger the antics of a night of sex and let it stand? How many of you have convinced or coaxed a woman to have sex after she's said no? Some of you have done none of this. Well, good on you, but don't come to me for any accolades. Someone, I'm not sure who, said it best when she said that "men don't deserve any praises for not-raping women: thanking them for that- for acting like how a decent human being should act- only increases they power they hold over women."

Some of you are decent men- not enough of you, but some of you. Now find a way to pass it on, yeah?

Defence of the Mayor?

"Well, he’s [Governor Pawlenty] gonna get his butt kicked by Barack Obama, but that’s another thing ..." Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Rybak.

Now, I didn't actually see the video until my roommate asked me to watch it and tell him what I thought. I called Rybak arrogant; my roommate severely disagreed and told me he didn't have to defend the mayor to me. Which, granted, he doesn't have to, but why not? Especially because he should.

Let's break it down:

I think that right now, for being Mayor, Rybak the best person running for the job- he has experience running this city, crime is down, he has plans to revitalise downtown and get businesses/jobs back to the city, and I've met the guy, and he's a pretty decent guy. However, this could come back to haunt him (especially if he finishes considering a gubernatorial bid and winds up running). Also, it should be noted, and here seems like a good place in which to note it- it's not that I disagree with what the Mayor was trying to say. I think if he'd said 'You know what, I think if Obama keeps his momentum up, no-one's going to be able to beat him- especially not Pawlenty,' then I wouldn't have any issue at all. None. I wouldn't be making this post at all. My issue is the severe arrogance that was displayed by the Mayor, and how my roommate feels that doesn't warrant any sort of defence at all!

Anything- and I repeat, anything- can happen before the 2012 elections. Maybe the Republicans will regroup and embrace the moderates that have been sitting on edge, desperate for them to get their act together (please, please, please this!); maybe Obama/the Democrats will push their health-care reform package forward without enough bipartisan support and it'll go down in flames (it seems leading Republicans aren't happy with Obama on this right now). Maybe Obama's press coup comes to a screeching halt and the fallout is badly managed. Maybe maybe maybe ... I could go on and on. But it's only been four months and 19 days since Obama took office- that's a long time left in his first term to severely mess something up and lose favour with the American public. Combine that with Republicans getting their act together, and the next election could go either way. That's actually the beauty of politics, and anyone in politics themselves who doesn't understand that fact should get out- now.

If right there wasn't enough of a reason for someone to want to defend Rybak's arrogance to me, here's another one: I support R.T. Rybak. Quite a lot. I volunteer with his re-election campaign. Clearly I like the guy (aside from this whole arrogance thing, he's kindof a hard guy to NOT like). And if I- a supporter- find what he said arrogant how many others will as well? If you don't think his arrogance (whether perceived or actually is slightly irrelevant) is worth defending- especially to a supporter, why not? That's what I don't understand. Because look: the Democrats are seen as arrogant- again, whether they are or not is irrelevant- it's the stereotype held by their opponents. It's how Democrats come across- and it's really bad that they do. This, coming from me, an educated white-girl living in an extremely progressive city, who might consider myself a Moderate Democrat if only they didn't piss me off so much. Like with this. Holding the high seats of power only lasts for so long. Let's ask the Republicans how long ago it was that they had control of the House, Senate, and White House? And now look where we are. Political tides change- and they change quickly. Alienating anyone in the middle- or even anyone from the other side who could very quickly hold the power reigns, just strikes me as stupid. Especially when you alienate them in such a stupid way. (To be fair, it's not like the Republicans are without fault- see previous posts for that- but right now it's a Democrat who's pissing me off).

Knowing all of that, and looking at what Rybak said, you should jump to defend his actions- or at the very least, go through and explain why you think Rybak should be allowed to act this arrogant!

Unless there's something I'm not understanding about politics, and it's perfectly ok for those whose party is in charge to go off and act like superior, condescending, jerks? I know! Let's ask the Democrats from six years ago about that one!

Rummage Hopping!

Otherwise known as garage sales, for those of you not from my little corner of the world. I was back down in Milwaukee this weekend, seeing my parents, my sister, and some friends who still happen to live there.

It all started so innocently. Ali and I didn't intend to spend Saturday afternoon rummage hopping, but that's how it ended up. Quite by accident. I wanted to take pictures. Ali can't resist a 'sale' sign. (No, really, she can't. She will stop her car in the middle of the road, jerk it into a U-turn, and chase the sign down.) And it being a rather fantastic Saturday day, there were plenty of brightly coloured signs for us to chase. Most of them were bust. In fact, I think just about all of them were bust. Except for the one with the very lonely old woman who wanted to talk our ears off. We ended up getting candles and a coffee mug from her. That house was particularly funny: you had to follow a set of brightly coloured signs to get to her house, nestled in some winding sub-division. At one of the corners, another family had taken advantage and had set up their own rummage sale. (Crappy one, though. Ali and I didn't even stop. We could tell.)

I walked away with ... a Maxine coffee mug, a beeswax candle, a candle shaped like a castle, and two Avon body washes (some woman was clearing out her extra stock). And something else, I know I'm forgetting. Alas. All in all, it was a good Saturday. And Ali time! I do miss (and love) my Ali time!