Well, it’s Women’s History Month! All month I will be hosting guest posts from kick-ass women (and the occasional man) about their lives, experiences, thoughts, reactions, etc. This post comes from @ThundarKitteh, an AMAZING Twitter follow! It’s rambling, it’s everything you can want and imagine from a tattooed, vegan, kitteh-loving, half-Arab DIVA. Enjoy!
O HAI, WIMMINZ!!! It’s our time of the month…er, sorry, it’s just our month…wait, what if they mean we are on the rag for a whole bloody month?! And it’s a 31-day month too! Those unbelievable bastards! *freebases chocolate while chucking tampons at said unbelievable bastards* Hey, we women have to multitask, right? Just a warning before you keep reading: I’m writing this as I go, so I don’t know what’s going to happen, so deal with it. Or don’t, I don’t care. Anyway, I thought I’d write a little something today, as it’s near the end St. Paddy’s Day (EST, mind you) and I don’t drink anymore, so really, what the fuck else am I going to do? And what would I rather be doing than providing copious amounts of babbling and bad jokes to people on a friend’s blog? To be honest, making out with Daniel Henney is what I’d rather be doing. I’m willing to bet you don’t know who he is. I’ll give you a second to look him up. No, it’s totally cool, I’ll wait. Trust me on this.
*cue Final “Jeopardy!” theme music*
Did you see him?! Did you see?! I KNOW!!!! Hey, hey! Come back, I’m not done here yet. Give me a few more minutes of your time and you can go back to ogling him. Whoa, whoa! Both hands on the keyboard, Missy! Yeesh.
Moving on…sorta. I’m trying to think of deep things to write about, but I know that if I do, I’ll end up going on and on about really dark stuff and probably regret sharing it when I wake up tomorrow (so it’s not that different from St. Paddy’s Day Past, now is it?), so instead, I’ll talk about my heroine, who’s really an anti-hero: Tank Girl. Yes, you read that right. See, I’m not the type of woman who likes high heels and glitter and getting my hair done (I’m half Arab, I need less hair…it’s…it’s everywhere! Thanks, Dad). So most women who are considered worthy of worship don’t do much for me. I figured out at a young age that it’s because they’re people, real people. And real people mostly suck. So my first girl crushes were Wonder Woman and Princess Leia. Why? They have their shit together, and you don’t mess with them. The problem for me was that Wonder Woman was too sexualized (yes, I noticed this as a kid because I was weird). While I don’t have a problem with that per se, it’s not me. Princess Leia vanished into decent science fiction novels, but it wasn’t the same. Where did all the badass bitches go?
Then I discovered the Tank Girl comics. This epiphany tasted like AWESOMESAUCE! Here you have a badass bitch with funny hair who’s stinky, owns a fucking tank and who’s boyfriend is a kangaroo-human hybrid. She levels whole towns in the deserts in Australia just so she can get a case of beer. Oh yeah, and sometimes she saves the world (usually by mistake). SIGN. ME. UP!!! Sadly, I realized that this is not a way to live, but I adore her regardless. I’m still trying to get to her level of “I don’t give a fuck”, and it’s hard for me, sadly I was born caring about the world around me, and have a PhD in Worry Wartology. Oh yeah. It’s awful. Actually, I have an M.A. in Classical Studies from Tulane, but who’s counting? No, seriously, who is? I suck at math.
Though I suck at math, I can tell you that I have 11 tattoos. Big ones, too. I’d get into what they all are and mean, but seriously, who gives a shit? It annoys the hell out of me when people say “This pink butterfly represents my desire to be a free spirit.” Or “This tribal tattoo represents my heritage…of my frat! High five, bro!” K. That’s cute, but honestly, I don’t care. As for my tattoos, I blame the Red Hot Chili Peppers for the initial obsession with my wanting to get ink in the first place. After I quit drinking and smoking (all cold turkey, all in the same year. Yay, me), I realized that tattooing releases endorphins, and gives you a buzz similar to the one you get by drinking, etc. Running and scuba diving apparently do the same thing, which is why you see so many newly-sober people doing one or more of those activities. Neat huh? See, you learned something.
I’m also vegan. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the angry vegans. I developed an allergy to animal proteins at age 28. If I ate anything animal-based, I had heartburn so bad it would radiate throughout my chest and all the way down my left arm. I also would get all bile-y and acid reflux-y. I know, right? So, rather than have tons of tests done to confirm what’s wrong and be put on medication (I have no health insurance, btw), I decided that saner thing to do was give up animals and animal by-products. In three days all my pain was gone. If I eat anything with animal parts in it, the heartburn and acid reflux comes back instantly. I wonder if I could get a job testing food. “Is it truly vegan? This chick will find out for you.” I feel like I’d need a really outrageous hat for a job like that. Dunno why. *side glances at the Pope* Hey, if he gets one, I should too. I make no apologies for my weirdness, sorry.
So, what is it like being half Arab in a post-9/11 world you probably aren’t wondering? Well, to be honest, it is a bit ridiculous. And by “a bit” I mean “really fucking”. I have had some of the stupidest shit ever said to me in my life since that cursed date. Look, just because you see/hear/read a “special” on the news, doesn’t make you a fucking expert on Arabs, my dears. Hell, I don’t even consider myself any kind of authority, and I grew up overseas (mostly…I was born in La Jolla, then we moved back to Indianapolis cause my Mom hated SoCal, then we started travelling back and forth to Abu Dhabi (we’d go to school in AD and spend the summers and Xmas in Indy…again, weird, I know)). Anyway, all I’m saying is please stop parroting the nearly-100%-bullshit you see on TV about we Arabfolk and do something unheard of: Ask us questions, if you want to know more. You’d be amazed at the answers you get. You might even realize that what you’re hearing on the news is *gasp* racist! Here’s how to tell if something is racist or not. Like truly racist, not “saying Black Friday is racist”. No. No it isn’t. Anyway: If someone says something that sounds kinda shitty, replace the race/religion/gender/diet//minivan brand/whatever that they’ve said or written with your own. If you find it shitty and uncalled for, it’s racist. Yes, it’s really that simple.
Example: I worked for a while at a catering company in the baking section with two sisters who are your typical Indiana slightly trashy chicks; they have dad issues, a shitty mother, poor self-images, have recently found Jesus (he was on top the the fridge the whole time!), think highly of themselves to mask the fact that they should be on medication (or more medication, in most cases), but they mean well. I had the “privilege” of meeting the older sister’s husband. The next day, the other sister said to me, “[Blank] really enjoyed meeting you yesterday, he thought you were really cool.”
“Oh, well, thanks. It was nice meeting him too. He seems like a cool guy.”
“Yeah, well, he did say he was a bit surprised when he met you, cause you know…”
“Huh?” “Well, with you being Arab and all…”
“Oh, is it that I’m not all swaddled in fabric?”
“No, it’s that you’re…you’re pretty and Arab women normally aren’t pretty. Like, at all.”
OK, TIME OUT: What the FUCK do you say to that? I went with “First off, I’m not one of the pretty ones, you should see them. Wowza! And good-looking Arab women are just as gorgeous as other pretty women all over the world. I’ve never seen a race that has a monopoly on that.” I think I handled that quite nicely. I still want to smack her, though. Don’t judge me! I’m only human. It’s not like I really am Tank Girl. Hell, she’d have leveled that place.
Anyway, I’m prattling on more so than I intended (it’s an Arab thing), so thanks for reading this nonsense and stuff. Make sure to subscribe to Sarah’s blog because it is awesome, just like her! I’m not even kidding, I’d donate one of my boobs to her. I don’t care if it doesn’t work that way, it’s the truth!
Now you can return to the ogling of Monsieur L’Henney. Just make sure to put some plastic liner on your chair, don’t want you to have to explain why you’re stuck. See? I do care!