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#to everyone who followed me for podcast content im not sorry that i am also a trekkie i post what i want to lmao
beblebumm · 4 years
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lesbian mom
My sister told me I dress like a lesbian mom. With no offense meant towards lesbian mothers because as Chloe put it- if I was a lesbian mom, my style would be closer to cool. But because up to this point in life I have been straight and childless, I’m just an appropriator. Which I definitely don’t want to be by the way, but I'm an American and blind appropriation is the American way. Working on it. I’m in the kitchen in Cedar Falls finding all my last sporadic, traveled with items to shove in my XL backpack* by the time Chloe brings her new opinion up to her roommates, my family. “Cathy, don’t you think Maddie looks like a lesbian mom?” “a what? A lesbian? I didn’t hear you” ...and dad’s reaction: “oh.. did you get a surrogate then?” * (United and Frontier front like they will be strict about charging you based on the sizes of your luggage, but they won't be. Apparently my size of backpack does not count as a personal item (free) but instead a carry-on (not free). It's a glutinous excuse for a backpack. However, they don’t say shit to you when you show up on the day of your flight. In the words of my friend Grace: If it's on your back and not on wheels, you're fine. I have had to repack a backpack once, throwing on a sweatshirt and carrying socks in my hand to make it through. But you know what that was? Free.And Fyi- U.S. airlines alone made 5.1 billion bucks in extra baggage fees in 2018. Don't contribute to that mess.) * But anyways, to come to the defense of lesbian moms, I think I dress with the best intention. I don’t think I have bad taste, but I can have bad execution. It's not entirely my fault though, as I feel bigger boobs make a lot of outfits merge towards mother. Tops are always an issue because you have the possibility of looking tenty, and opposite that- the issue of looking too tucked in. It can make the attempted effortlessness come off as starchy. I also straddle this line of wannabe skater and NOT wannabe school teacher, meaning I would love to come across as someone who deserves to wear Vans and less like someone who is reading to your child over snack time. That one is harder to explain, but has a lot to do with stripes. I don't bother running all of this past her, but I told Chloe that if I was flat-chested she wouldn’t be saying this. She didn’t argue but offered to help pay for my reduction. My dad and I get in the car after I make an everything bagel with some onion flavored cream cheese. A Thomas brand bagel, of course. Because it’s the cushiest and you can find them everywhere. We love a processed carb. He drives me to the airport in his new-but-used Toyota Highlander, which doesn’t reek of cigs like his previous whip. He only likes this new car because it has a cassette player, but the low mileage is a plus. I just want to say that the Cedar Rapids airport is low entertainment. It’s a trade-off because you are through security in seconds, but you have to do things like chase after people to hand them their ID’s they left on the counter to help the employees out because we’re Iowa nice and when in the homeland you have to act right. And people wear really ugly printed leggings and foul footwear. Lots of camo and lots of Hawkeye logos, which I do not identify with despite it being my alma mater. I was caught in a very vulnerable spot with my thick and tall Doc Marten's, (not a good airport shoe but a good everyday shoe so what can you do) hunched over the ‘Get Your Shit Back Together Very Quickly Bench’ that comes after security, when I see this rushed looking, young nerd man in a long black trench coat. He LOUDLY and SO abruptly asks this similarly aged gal he was coming up behind whether her hair was red or blonde. She had long red hair with dyed blonde ends. She said “red?” and he says nothing but “HUMPH” without breaking speed at all. Why did he need to know that and also why could he not see that her hair was both colors? And if he cared so much to know, then why did he not respond? Did he think this was considered to be hitting on her?? Because practically yelling at her to inquire about her appearance is not cutting it. I wish for his sake I could at least call him a boomer but he didn't meet the age requirement. Whatever. She looked around for confirmation that what had just happened to her was so weird, which of course I gave to her by saying: “That was so weird.” The sole restaurant by the gates has Blue Moon so that’s redeeming. But it’s in a tin can which is not so good. I used to prefer a draft pour with an orange slice but I am partial to a cold bottle now, plain- no orange. It’s more consistent this way, as some places don’t clean their draft lines regularly and it shows. I met an icon on my flight today. I, of course, was assigned my usual middle seat as I am certain I paid the littlest amount of airfare out of everyone on the plane. Deals only. But as I step up to my row and make that apologetic eye contact with the dude who is about to have to move and let me assume my usual middle spot, the guy asks me if I want to switch spots with his son- WHO HAS AN AISLE SEAT. YEAH SIR, I DO. And this is how I was seated next to the only stranger I’ve had an extended conversation with on an airplane, ever. At least to the point where I was sure I wanted to be buddies with her. She was not stoked on the middle seat, but it’s the one she had in our row. The icon is named Erin and she said: “I’ve been ignoring people on planes for 20 years but you seem like an absolute riot.” I realized I also tend to spend a lot of time ignoring people on airplanes. I actually spend more time trying not to bother the people around me, aka holding urine in until I am nearly bursting because the awkward fumbling out of my usual middle seat is too much. I did, however, have slight banter with a guy sitting next to me on the way into Iowa from Denver on this same trip. All he wanted to say to me was that he had just been skiing in Vail or something. People love being able to say sentences like this, by the way. "Skiing in Vail". It's supposed to impress whoever they tell. Ok. But later on, he and I would exchange terrified eyes as we watched this awful moment unfold after an older fellow in the row across from us ignored all social rules and played his voicemails on full blast, speaker volume, for about 10 minutes. A young gentleman near us let him know that “We can all hear that!” which I would have never said but was also thinking. Obviously. The Voicemail Blarer says “Oh sorry” calmly but is very caught off guard. I thought- wow. That went well. But the Voicemail Blarer takes all of 30 seconds to stew before erupting. He belly yells that he is a “WAR VETERAN AND THAT IS WHY I CANNOT HEAR OUT OF THIS EAR WHICH IS WHY MY PHONE IS ON SPEAKER AND BY THE WAY IM ON THIS FLIGHT BECAUSE MY MOM JUST DIED AND I AM FLYING BACK TO IOWA FOR THE FUNERAL. PEOPLE LIKE YOU ARE AHHHHHHHHH KDFKSJDFLKJDFLJSDF”... I feel like the percentage of people flying to Iowa for funerals is probably a decent chunk. Either you're visiting your family or someone died. Just speculating. ANyways. The Mourning Vet Voicemail Blarer said some pretty harsh remarks towards the Complainer that I can’t remember because I was so nervous as a witness to this that my adrenaline was working overtime to suppress. I remember being proud of The Complainer as he kept very level and only said a couple words to defend himself followed by: “I’m sorry you’re going through that man but we don’t all need to hear your voicemails.” I see both sides of this interaction. On the younger Complainer dude’s side, it’s not socially courteous for the vet to be playing his voicemails out loud. Especially for ten minutes. I mean Larry David would have lost it. On the other hand, no one was insulting his status as a vet or poking fun at his late mother, but he has obviously been through more life and more challenges than I and plus he’s grieving. I don’t know. I didn’t mind the voicemails THAT much. Back to today- Erin is the second stranger I’ve met who inspired me this month. Technically this year, and technically this decade, too. Happy 2020. From what I saw, she’s a kick-ass, take no shit, lay it all on the table kind of individual. She had a natural openness about her and radiated warmness but is the type to probably gaurd herself just enough. The kind of person who you would hate to see sad. Born in cedar rapids, went to Iowa for Journalism, got her masters at Syracuse. Has lived all over- New York, London, LA (I think she said). Will not donate to her old sorority, Chi O, because she can’t affiliate with that anymore because it’s lame. But she’s loyal enough to one of her sorority besties to fly to Denver and sit with her while she undergoes a chemo treatment. She asks me about work and I say I have enough side hustles to equate to having a real job. She tells me I need a podcast and says I must have been told this before. I haven’t. But If I had one, I would have her guest star immedieately. She oozes content. Apparently, there’s such a thing as coaching people on how to talk on camera because this is her job. It can be split up into different categories based on the size of the screen. Phone, computer, TV, etc. She kept saying things about “inches”. I thought this was wildly specific, exactly the sort of job you wouldn’t think about until you thought about it. Niche. Hopefully future me is doing something niche right now. But only if I'm enjoying it. She also mentioned some clients she has that I should speak to so I can learn how to travel the world for free. I could have clung to her and never let go after she said this, as that would make my life and her encouragement inspired me. Before this though, we agree I need a credit card that rewards with airline miles instead of cashback. It’s third up on my “to-do now” list- which is different than my “to-do” list becasue that one is for things like making dentist appointments. For the things that should not be put off but can and will be. Until they can't. She asks what my sign is, which is Sagittarius. She said of course. She’s a Virgo. I have no clue what this means. People ask me this sort of thing a lot now though so I need to read up. This guy I met recently who works at Wax Trax Records told me not only extensively about my sign but about my rising moon and one other part of it that I can’t remember. Or is it your rising sign and moon sign as separates? Idk. He told me that every girl he knows has an ex-boyfriend who is a Pisces. True. Erin also told me she’s on some board in Iowa City that is currently discussing the ped mall. I had a lot to say about THAT, as I feel the ped mall has turned into wasted space other than maybe one and a half shops. She agrees. It’s not being utilized like it should be, we think. Too many frat bars. Apparently, her family owns the Bluebird cafes or used to, and I said "ooooooooh!" but that I could never get a seat in the Iowa City location because every hungover kid within a ten mile radius is trying to eat there every Saturday and Sunday morning. I also thought of the time they burned my friend Madison Wood’s toast and she sent it back. I didn’t tell her this though. I like Bluebird. And I hate when people at my table complain about the food. She tells me I'm too good to write for random freelances, which I have dipped my toes into doing. Pays like shit. I agree and listen to her tell me about someone she met when she was just one year sober (she is now ten years along) who pushed her to take charge of her own point of view. It sounded to me like she was inspired to trust and invest in herself. I liked that. As if I needed another excuse to stay out of corporate America. Right before she fell into meditation and soon to be sleep, Erin comments on my middle part and my “nice natural eyebrows” which is funny because I helped the brows out right before going through security. (By helped out, I mean makeup-ed. In the airport bathroom, too far away from the mirror, two different pencils- one chubby for careless shading and one skinnier to help the endpoints of my brow that is otherwise dead.) On the topic of my appearance, I tell her that my sister had just told me that I dress like a lesbian mother. She said she loves my sister.
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advice4smartgirls · 6 years
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hey people, first thank you for the amazing stuff you do with the blog. secondly, my question is about emotional burnout. i am extremely exhausted with people saying and doing awful shit all the time that i just started snapping left and right and the worst part is its being taken as a joke and gets me made fun of. acting like a complete fucking sociopath seems to be really cool to people (willfully being ignorant and awful to people who already have it awful) and it seems (cont.)
(cont.) like they kinda enjoy it in the “stick it to the man” type of way, when theyre literally just belittling and harming already marginalized and suffering people (how revolutionary) and its everywhere. im a girl in a stem field surrounded by awful men who constantly spew misogynistic homophobic macho shit. im in a debate society where most of the guys are awful ‘muh free speech!1" types. random people on the street, in comment sections, everyday everywhere and i am so. tired. (cont.)
(cont.) its like even when i try to take refuge with friends and family its always like 'why are you so offended? everyones so triggered these days lmao!!“ and its like…i am so exhausted of having to constantly explain that women, poc, immigrants, lgbt+, poor and disabled people are human and deserve basic dignity. i am so tired of these altright/neoconservative/redditor types and it seems like theyre everywhere (im from a country thats far less progressive than the us/west europe). (cont.)
(cont. last one!!) so i guess the actual question would be how do i heal from this? i am tired of constantly arguing. i feel like people are so unempathetic and lacking in self awareness that they dont even think about the lives of others and how the awful shit they do actively harms them. sorry if this is too vague, and thank you again so much for all the wonderful work you do with people, youve helped me out more times than you realize. what you do is really meaningful to a lot of people!
Hey, love. I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this. I was also a gender minority in a stem field for a while (though I changed my major), and I’m super proud of you for sticking with this despite how hard it has been! I know it can be tough.
The first thing to remember when it comes to emotional burnout is that your mental and emotional health comes first. You alone are not going to be able to take on every single problem all the time, to change the minds of all the bigots around you, and if you keep engaging in emotionally draining conversations with no time to recharge or take care of yourself, you will continue to feel this drained. There are a few things you can do. One is to just avoid these conversations as much as you can, at least for now. You are not personally responsible for changing all of these people’s minds. Avoid sensitive topics. If people make jokes/comments/etc., and you know saying something will lead to a long argument, it’s okay to ignore it. Or, you can say, “Please don’t say that around me” but if they try to follow up on it/ask why not/argue with you, tell them, “I don’t want to debate with you right now/can we just agree to disagree”/even just walk away from them.
Also, figure out some things you can do for yourself that recharges you – taking a bubble bath, listening to music, taking a walk, etc. Make sure to spend some time each day, or after a particularly upsetting interaction, taking care of yourself.
I’m sorry your friends and family are so un-empathetic. You could try telling them, “I know you don’t understand why this upsets me, but it does, and since you care about me, it would mean a lot to me if you could just listen/support me/etc.” I would also try to find some community that is more understanding of what you’re going through. Is there some sort of group you can join, a liberal political group, liberal church, some sort of women in stem support group, etc.? Can you seek out and make friends with other minorities in stem that seem to have more similar views to you? If there really aren’t those groups where you live, seek out online communities. Listen to podcasts where people voice opinions similar to yours or find other media content where you see views like yours reflected.
It’s important to stand up to bigots, but you can’t do that effectively if you’re burned out, so remember that it’s okay to take time to focus on yourself and your own needs.
Much love,
Sophie
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viralhottopics · 7 years
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YA author Mindy McGinnis returns to the book world with new epic fantasy novel ‘Given to the Sea’
Image: Penguin Young Readers
Sometimes the best way to follow a hit novel is to switch things up and try something completely different.
Or at least that’s the case with YA author Mindy McGinnis and her latest book, epic fantasy novel Given to the Sea.
SEE ALSO: ‘All Our Wrong Todays’ is your next fast-reading, mind-expanding, science fiction romance
The novel follows four intertwined characters Khosa, Vincent, Donil and Witt as each struggles to confront fate and loyalty in the warring kingdom of Stille. At the center of the story is Khosa, a girl destined to sacrifice herself to the sea to save her village. After surviving an attack on her village, Khosa is taken to safety at the royal palace in Stille where she finds herself enmeshed in a love triangle or probably more apt, love square that could alter not only her own fate but the fate of her kingdom.
“I had this idea that writing fantasy would be easy because I get to make up all the rules, no research required. Not true,” explains McGinnis. “In fantasy, nothing is a given, nothing is assumed. I have to do a lot of explaining… and keep that interesting. I’ve written post-apocalyptic, historical, contemporary, and now fantasy. Fantasy is by far the hardest.”
The book comes fresh off the heels of McGinnis’ 2016 contemporary YA novel Female of the Species. The novel followed Alex, a teenage girl who seeks vigilante justice on the sexual abusers in her town. Female of the Species was much acclaimed at the time of its release for its exploration of feminism, sexual violence and justice. (The MashReads Podcast actually recommended it. Twice.)
It’s this juxtaposition contemporary YA to fantasy that may shock McGinnis’ fans picking up her latest book. Yet McGinnis teases that Given to the Sea contains something for all types of readers.
“There’s something for everyone here – romance, gruesome deaths, magic, sword fights, scary animals, and inevitable death.”
Given to the Sea doesn’t come out until April 11. In the meantime, check out a sneak peek of the book’s first two chapters below.
Image: Penguin Young Readers
Chapter 1Khosa
It is in my blood.
It is in my bone.
It is in my brain.
One day my body will betray me, dancing into the sea, my mind a passenger only. The water will close over my head and I will drown, my death bringing a reprieve for those who are not me. This is what Ive been born and bred for. The food passing into my mouth, the clothes covering my body, every breath I drawthese are smaller offerings, each a promise that I will endure, bear my own cursed daughter, and then succumb.
How that will happen I do not know. My mother suffered the touch of another at least once, long enough to fulfill her duties and bring me about. I know it was badly done. I see it in the faces of my Keepers, these people who care for me without caring. I hear the small things in their voices. They worry I will not be pleasing to the sea, that my mother and her chosen mate created something less than perfect. I understand their concern, but cannot share it. Why should I care if the tides rise again, if I am only a corpse riding the waves?
To live aware of your own doom is no easy thing. I spend my days at lessons, my body fulfilling the expected duties, though my mind is elsewhere. The Keepers are worried that I have not prepared well, have not set my face in the appropriate response to their commands. Happy, for instance, is an emotion I cannot be expected to parade, but they tell me it is necessary. Melancholy I excel at.
My mother and grandmother had other lessons, ones to please at table and dancing. Proper chewing, proper speaking, proper walkingonly expected, of course, when we are in control of our limbs. My lessons have taken a different course, my other instructors quietly dismissed once I learned all that was expected.
All except how to contort my stone face appropriately.
The Keepers have tried, their emotions chasing through their faces so quickly I cant keep up, my own trying to mirror what I see. They say to me, Pleased, but look nothing like it themselves, and I am easily confused on this point. So I often retreat, my mind escaping the room where I learn to mimic emotion, returning itself to some well-ordered facts absorbed from a musty book, its scent still lingering on my fingers, a source of comfort.
Their pages follow me through the day, their words imprinted on my mind. I know the history of my land better than the Scribes, better than the royals who rule it. I can recite the names of my predecessors, from the woman who gave birth to me all the way to Medalli, one of the Three Sisters whom the sea gave back after the wave that took nearly all. Seaweed was pulled from their hair, their locks drying as they worked alongside other survivors to rebuild what had washed away, not knowing they would be taken again, the first of the Given.
The sea waited until the sisters had married and had children of their own before it called for them, the price of its leniency the blood of their line. For the children went too, and their children after them, the first twitches of their childhood pulling them toward the water, the final coordinated movements driving them deep into the waves, the dance of death one their kingdom deemed the will of the sea. And so it continues. Their footprints in the sand not returning, my feet now itching to follow. Medallis linemineremains strong, the other two Sisters falling short, the last names in their column females who did not produce heirs, the ink that wrote them now faded with time.
I rub my fingers together, drawing the scent of the book pages from them as my male Keeper says, Sad. Sad I can perform, closing my eyes and picturing my name, Khosa, the ink slightly darker than my mothers name before me, Sona.
Dont close your eyes, he says.
I open them again to see my Keepers, their faces so easily read.
Disappointment.
Chapter 2Vincent
Im sorry you have to wait, my lord.
Not a concern, I answer the guard, but my eyes are on my hands, the clean nails freshly clipped, the smoothness of my palms interrupted by the lines that Madda insists hold my future.
In any kingdom other than Stille, the future of a prince wouldnt need to be read in his hands. It would be clear in his actions, the preparations taken to ensure he sits the throne well, does his duty, leads his country. Somewhere else I would be wed already, the announcement of my own child eagerly anticipated, the girl I keep on the side politely excused, with her pockets lined for her trouble. Instead I sit outside the throne room at the age of seventeen, awaiting my turn to speak to King Gammalmy grandfatherhealthy, hearty, capable. At his side, my father Prince Varrick, already gray and lined, but still sitting in the lower throne.
I shift on the wooden bench, and the trapman next to me slides farther away, the smell of sea salt rising from his clothes. Im sorry, my lord. Do you need more room?
More than enough room, I insist, patting the space between us.
Hes quiet for a moment, and the lady on the bench next to ours fills the hall with the clicking of her wooden knitting needles. One foot rests casually on the ball of coarse wool beneath her feet to keep it from rolling away as she works. Shes assured, content. As a citizen of Stille, she is entitled to speak to the king, and her turn will come. Eventually.
I look back at my empty hands and the lines that Madda the Seer wrinkles her brow at. Her answers to my questions are always vague and muttered.
Am I right to say my lord? the trapman asks. Is that what youre called?
The words it doesnt matter are half formed in my throat, but I choke them back.
The womans needles continue to click. Her hands are gnarled and work-worn, but her color is good, and the hat she is knitting small. For a grandchild. Or great-grandchild. They are lucky to have her. I tell myself these things every day: Stille is fortunate. Stille is healthy. Stille is strong. Years of peace and prosperity mean that the old linger and the middle-aged flourish, while the young inherit only boredom and aimlessness.
Just Vincent, I say, finally answering the trapmans question. No title necessary.
Youre of royal blood, the woman says, not glancing up from her work. It should not be taken lightly.
No… My voice fades away. I have no words to explain succinctly, only memories from my childhood when I was called the baby prince, and then the young prince, and now theres a hesitation, a slight pause before acknowledging my rank. There is no name for the third in line, one whose hands will wither with age long before they hold the scepter.
Ive come to hate the blank space before my given name, the deferential glance of the servants as they search for a title that represents nothing. So I make it easier for them, and for myself.
Just Vincent, I reassert. The old woman makes a disapproving noise in her throat and keeps knitting. The trapman smiles at me, his teeth even, strong, and white in a face lined with wrinkles.
Im Agga. He holds out a bent hand, gnarled from years of pulling in the crab traps, the lengthy ropes rubbing it raw. Even the trapmen dont go into the water, letting the tides carry out the traps. His skin feels of age and the scars of work, years of absorbed salt water pressing back against the softness of my own hands.
How is the sea, Agga? I ask.
He shakes his head. Eating the beach with hunger. Well be needing her thats given to the sea, and soon.
I will pass that along, I say. I dont add that my voice doesnt carry in the great hall, only echoes back into my ears.
Here to do it myself, Agga says, and I wonder if he followed my thought.
I saw when the last one was given, the woman says. She danced beautifully.
They all have, Agga says.
But their faces, they do… twist, the woman adds, her own mimicking the memory, a brief mask of horror that slides off easily as she counts her stitches.
Do they want to go? I ask.
Agga shrugs. Its their own feet taking them. No one in Stille makes them go. Were not the Pietra, feeding sea monsters with the flesh of their aged.
No. The woman shudders, dropping the first stitch since Ive sat here. Were not the Pietra.
Theres laughter in the throne room. It reverberates under the closed doors, my grandfathers hearty one underscored by my fathers, which has never ceased to produce goose bumps on my skin, even in a lifetime of hearing it.
Im sorry you have to wait, my lord, the guard says again.
Not a concern, I repeat, looking back at my hands, where lifelines extend forever, marching right off the palm.
Waiting is what Im good at.
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from YA author Mindy McGinnis returns to the book world with new epic fantasy novel ‘Given to the Sea’
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