Cranky Fat Feminist Speaks

liberal feminist from the south who ran away to college in the mid-west, and quickly retreated back after my four years were up. trying to save the world one picture book at a time; attempting to live healthier to lose weight, but without giving up beer. challenging the idea that “big is beautiful” as well as what I’ve learned and experienced about women, gender, and feminism from my time in college as well as my time in West Africa. pissed about the apathy of the world, ready to create change one mind at a time.

I'd love any comments you'd like to share! And as always, I'd love for you to click on an ad when you're done reading, it's a simple free way for you to give money towards my student loans!


Showing posts with label drunk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drunk. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

[cranky] etsy sale!

I'm having a sale for all of my blog readers! When you check out on Etsy, use check out coupon code "FallFeminist" and get 20% off your entire order. The coupon code will expire on December 1st.

Cranky Homepage on Etsy
Cranky Store (in full) on Etsy

Featuring Fall, Pumpkin and Halloween Favorites!

Rogue Dead Guy Upcycled Mini Notebook
more notebooks and magnets!

Rogue Dead Guy Ale Coasters
 
Shipyard Pumpkinhead Coasters

Cerveza de los Muertos sugar skull coasters

Kentucky Pumpkin Barrel Ale Coasters

Terrapin Pumpkinfest Coasters
more coasters!

Cerveza de los Muertos sugar skull beer cap earrings
 
Shock Top Pumpkin Spice Wheat beer cap earrings

Boon Rawd red dragon earrings with small red skull
more earrings!

As always, I appreciate every purchase and every share! If you're looking for something similar but it's not in my shop, please send me a message so I can see if it's something I can make for you.

Additionally, if I'm not shipping to the country you're reading from, I want to know! It takes extra time to calculate shipping costs to countries outside the United States, so they are not listed for many items-- I'm more than happy to make sure you can get anything from my shop!

<3

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

[cranky] the boy's club that is my job






I've worked in the theatre production business since before I could legally be paid to be there. I started in community theatre, worked on every middle and high school production I could get my hands on, and created my own major in college to continue this work. Primarily, I'm a theatre electrician and lighting designer. Occasionally I work as a production manager, and previously as a stage manager. Since it's been over ten years I can do a little bit of everything, and I've even taught professional development classes for middle and high school teachers. I've done lighting design for local professional dance companies, symphonies, musicals, and graduations, as well as college musicals. Six years ago the minimum I was ever paid was $15 an hour. Right now I'm thrilled to get any gig working for less pay.


There is an international theatre union, IATSE (declining to share my local’s number and rat myself out…). While I live in a right to work state, we follow most union rules and are all treated the same. Except that I've discovered that the "girls get less work calls" rumor is actually the truth. Guys with years less experience than me are getting more work offers than I am. Guys with a much smaller knowledge base are getting more work than I am. Therefore, they do make more money than me.


Recently I found out that there was a huge work call at my local arena for a famous rapper on tour. A friend of mine that I helped get into my city's theatres was asked to do the show, so he dropped a previous commitment I helped him get so he could go do the union-run concert with "his boys" (his words). So not only was I embarrassed, I found out that the union preference is having a penis over having the most experience or hardest work ethic. What other evenings am I at home, bored, ready and eager to work, and not getting a call because I have a vagina and can't grow a caveman beard?

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

[cranky] so broke, so pissed

I can literally feel a stabbing pain in my chest. My two $25 birthday giftcards are gone. Who has been in the house since I recieved them? Realtors, prospective house buyers, my good friend "J," and my old high school friend and new friend-without-benefits "Jack." About a month or two ago I had a disappearing cash meltdown -- was Jack going through bags, to find my purse, to find my wallet, to take cash?! Twice? No way. Has Jack managed to walk off with giftcards that had been tucked away? Is that what he was doing instead of cleaning the kitchen after he made midnight dinner a few nights ago?

Previously the thief was my younger sister -- stealing keys, making copies, and sneaking in while we were at work to steal cash and sell-able anxiety meds (usually klonopin). I feel like the biggest fool letting someone into my home and having money disappear. There is $5.05 in my purse right now, all in coins. That's all I have. Along with no job and a student loan payment due in 7 days.

My sister has Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). She was diagnosed when she was 17. There is a list of 9 "symptoms"/behaviors and you have to have 5 to get your gold star... she has all 9. Very briefly... she was drugged and raped at age 14 setting her off into a downward spiral of shit; by 15 she had admitted to us that she was drinking heavily since nearly age 13 and she also thought she had a miscarriage without actually having had sex; by 16 she had her first tattoo out of a pay-by-the-hour motel and was dating a 31 year old man with 4 kids from 4 different moms; at 17 I took away her PTI freebie and she had to be processed at the state prison after she stole my identity and all of my money while I was out of the country, she was a member of the Crips, got checked back into the psych ward, and skipped town for several months with my mom (to this day, I'm not sure where they went), after they came back in town she was checked into a residential outdoor rehab center and was their longest ever patient-- turning 18 at the facility and choosing to stay. By age 19 she accused me of molesting her repeatedly as children, and now at 20 I'm forbidden from being in the same building as her, per my mother and grandmother's orders. J has seen her out at bars several times, and she's going to be 21 in a few months. She's claimed to be an alcoholic since she was 15, and now she's regularly drinking and driving and the only person that could possibly stop her is my mother who is afraid of running her off. She is capable of constructing entirely alternate realities, alternate stories, events, persons and then believing them whole-heartedly.

Despite my father and therapist telling me otherwise, I feel like the ultimate dumb shit for allowing money to walk out of my house. I know better. I know the signs, I know what to look for. I let my guard down, and I feel like an idiot. I think there's some chocolate box cake mix in the cabinet I can make, so I can save that $5.05 for something... no clue what...

Friday, November 2, 2012

[feminist] confession

Question: Why are you so passionate about women's rights, sexual victim's rights, and reproductive rights? You've never been raped or assaulted, you've never had an abortion, you've never been abused.

I have three best girlfriends. Among the three there have been two abortions, and two miscarriages. Today, two are married, one has two children and the other is expecting her first in a few weeks. The other is now happily single. I was the secret-keeper, the advice-giver, the voice and body of control and compassion. I've waited impatiently for pregnancy test results to show up in the tiny ambiguous window, I've seen how heart-wrenching the choice to have an abortion can be, I've seen how painful and confusing a miscarriage is.
My little sister was fourteen (I was nearly seventeen) when she was suddenly delivered home one Sunday afternoon by her then-best friend and her mother-- they pulled up in front of our house after calling to say she was sick, they opened the sliding side door of the mini-van, and my father and I pulled out a limp, wet, stinking child in a bikini. My father and I carried her up the stairs into the front yard as my mother called doctors to see why she was foaming at the mouth. I held my sister as she half-consciously rested against a tree, making sure she vomited to the side and not on herself, as my father went back down to the van to find out what had happened. The only answer they could give was that the bff and my sister had been at a guy's house, my sister had been drinking, and all of a sudden when they left she began puking. We live in a corner house, so we moved my sister around to the backyard, trying not to be seen as her breasts hung out of the bikini and she slipped in and out of consciousness. Eventually we laid her in a reclining pool chair that we had found a few weeks before on the side of the road, and hosed her down. She rambled on and on incoherently while smelling like a distillery.

Sometimes its really hard for me to forgive her stupidity, her choice of friends, her bad decisions. But she never in a million years deserved to have her drink spiked, her best friend turn her back on her, and to be drug up a flight of stairs and locked in a boy's bedroom while she was in and out of consciousness, and then to be slid back down the stairs and drug down the street to another house where my parents were called. What a sick power play, that this same boy has done many times over in our city since then-- his family has a great lawyer, and he has never even been brought into the courthouse for questioning, much less prosecution.

The evening after, my parents sat my sister down in the living room for a talk, and I was sent into the backyard. A bit later one of them came out and announced they were going to the ER and I couldn't come. They were gone about six hours, during which my sister had an incredibly painful and invasive rape kit that was never analyzed. She was questioned by several police officers who talked down to her. The doctors said that she definitely had something fucked up in her drink (how else could you foam at the mouth like a rabid dog?), but that it had already left her system and there was nothing they could do.

Since there was no stray hair, no sperm, no sexual evidence, there was no "proof" that she had been raped.

Since we didn't realize she had been raped when she arrived home that afternoon, and she was incapable of telling us, we didn't get her tested for drugs in time for there to be "proof" of that either.

When my father was five his father died of a heart attack. His older brother began sexually abusing him as a form of power... by the age of ten my father was able to fight back, and he turned on their little sister. When my sister was raped, my father nearly lost his mind. 

Who gets to dictate what is rape, who gets to dictate when and why women have abortions? Why is this a political topic of discussion? These are lifelong traumas, lifelong decisions-- these are personal traumas, personal decisions. I chose to run away from the south to go to school in the mid-west. But you can't run away from your past. So I am fighting for my future-- to keep my personal decisions, my personal traumas, personal. So that it can be my decision to press charges, my decision to have an abortion, and not someone else's.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

[fat] a new diet begins

I've joined weight watchers this week. The online food diary from last semester helped me figure out what I should and shouldn't eat, but somehow weight watchers feels more legitimate?

I have metabolic syndrome, meaning that I have elevated cholesterol, elevated blood sugar, a slow metabolism, elevated blood pressure, and a knack for not ever being able to lose weight. The carrots and hummus diet did nothing. The protein water diet did nothing. So now I'm on to the most legitimate thing I can find online. I weighed in this week at a whopping 220.5 pounds. Standing at just 5 feet and 6 inches tall when I bother to stand straight, my BMI tells me that I'm obese, and that my ideal weight is 125-155. That's 65.5 pounds to lose. And according to my doctor if I don't lose it, I'll be diabetic just like my grandmother. I inherited the huge boobs and bad blood, way to go.