Is an ugly woman better off than an ugly man?

I’m always thinking, “Why?” I like to joke that I’ll be the one in heaven trailing around after God, asking, “Why did You do this or that THAT way, God?” (With Him getting pretty annoyed with me quite quickly… and pawning me off on some harrassed underling.) 

Pretty delusional to think I would merit any one on one time with the Great Almighty in the first place – or even merit the attention of an underling… but that’s all part of my overall need to ask, “Why?”

Today’s question is “Why would someone, born “male”, CHOOSE to become a homely woman?”

I’ve occasionally encountered folks who, for whatever reason, feel like they’re needing to “fix” the gender they were initially assigned. No personal feelings about this either way. But I guess this question shows how little I understand what gender identity means. I am “me”and that doesn’t seem to need any kind of quantifying. There are things that I like and things that I don’t – some I have control over and a lot more that seem like I don’t.
I decided a loooong time ago that physical beauty is one thing that will never be achieved by the body I have been given. There are pieces and parts I am quite pleased with (my brain is the best… except when it isn’t!), but vanity isn’t even possible.

All I could ever hope to achieve is “cute” (Never beautiful or even handsome – trust me!) 

Paul G, who sat behind me in 5th grade in EVERY class (curse you, alphabetic seating!!!) even Nick-Named me “Ugly” at the beginning of the year. I didnt even attempt to dispute it. We had recently moved to town, I was overweight, I wore thick glasses, had crooked teeth, and a whole lot of pimples due to early puberty… and was (& still am) painfully shy… the cool kids in the class also enjoyed making me the butt of many taunts.
Should I mention that I hated Middle School.

Am I evil for being secretly pleased when I learned he got killed in an accident shortly after graduation… and secretly hope he’s burning in hell with “Ugly” tattooed on his forehead?

Would I be happier with my physical self, if I were “male”? Probably not. 



I’ve been challenged recently with this difficult concept of where I stop and where others start.

There must be crossover or connection does not truly happen. We are just autonomous beings bumping against each other as we move along through this journey we call life.

Musing on The Plinth

Ah, they’ve gone and toppled “Silent Sam” in Chapel Hill. But the Plinth he stood upon remains still this morning.

I’m sure that One and All are just basking in Snowflake Bliss today… No more hate or angst – all is Right With The World, right?

Symbolism is a nebulous thing. A chunk of brass from many years ago was Threatening and Evil to So Many (or so it seemed?) It must GO! They cried! No one could do this legally, legitimately… It was Somebody Else’s Problem (Thankyou, Douglas Adams, for all your wisdom!) in the proverbial flesh (in brass, perhaps?)

So, The People took matters into they own hands, “outwitting” the Police guardians in the process.

I would bet a dollar that they are relieved to be done with it.

But the Plinth remains. What now, Oh Warriors of All That Makes Our Butts Hurt?

Does the Plinth not also offend? It was there from the outset. And the ground beneath. And the buildings around it. And the town around it. And, while the people who erected it are likely room temperature… their legacy lives on.

Tear all of them down! Well… at least any that offend.

#SilentSam, #ChapelHill, #UNCCH, #WhatAboutThePlinth

The Importance of Not Being “Earnest”

I’ve always sort of thought my first name, Karen, was just boring. And that I, by association, am a more boring human being as a result.

I found out Whoopie Goldberg was named

Caryn Elaine Johnson
once upon a time…

“Whoopie Goldberg” is infinitely more interesting than Karen Anything. And she even had the advantge of at least a brief “huh?” in potential visual/phonetic dissonence…

What would I have been able to achieve in my life with a more interesting label?

There were several Karens in my class in High School. There was a Burnout one – who was tall and bad-dye-job blonde and always seemed like she wasn’t quite sure why she was put on earth. There was Upper Crust Karen, who was almost in the Cool Kids category, except her family earned their status and wealth through running the local Funeral Parlor… and she earned her spending money playing background piano at Viewings… just slightly macabre, in my opinion. She changed her spelling to “Karn”… which made me secretly sure it was simply so people would be somehow better… more fancy than me and Burnout Karen.

Asked my mom why they picked that name for me, their first-born. She’s kinda muzzy on it when confronted with it directly. “I got it somewhere… I don’t really know.” She has said she had a grandmother named “Carrie” – but that combined with our last name – which has a “y” on the end… it was too sing-songy… I think that would have been preferable and certainly less boring 🙂

There was a movie made in the years before then… “The Red Shoes” – about a ballet dancer and her mad obsession related to magical Red Ballet Shoes… named Karen, I think. Based on a really horrific Hans Christian Anderson story about a Karen that danced her feet bloody due to magic red dancing shoes.
Sort of like being named for the Midnight Strangler or Son of Sam, I guess?

The 1%

Nothing so annoying as listening to people half my age planning a Dream House with the architects in our local coffee hangout…

I suppose we could build “our dream house”… but it seems like if we’ve lived without one for 35 years… we probably don’t need one at this point.

A garage and a sewing room would be handy. Alas.

At least ours is (finally!) paid for.

I doubt their marriage will outlast their mortgage.

Bitter, aren’t I?

Hallmark, You Have Failed Me

Alas, you seem to have no cards that can properly express, “Happy Birthday, You Ungrateful Bitch”.

It’s gonna be a loooong day. Oh, well. All in all, I guess I did the best I could. Perfectionism rears it’s ugly head in parenting, too. 

What if I’d fought just a little harder to express that the medicine they gave me for the pain was making me hallucinate that they had to remove your head to get you out of me? 
What if I didn’t cry for hours because the milk from my body was causing your tiny little body to turn yellow with poisonous bilirubin. And later, crying as I diligently pumped that same milk out every 4 hours and threw it down the sink, and gave you a bottle full of foul smelling soy crap… to give you a break for a few days. 

And later, as depression settled in, what if I found the words to break through to them that I needed Help, not their words, “C-section is such an easy surgery to recover from.” Or “Aren’t you glad you have a healthy baby?” 

What if you’d had a normal Mommy, not the one who was terrified that you, the most precious thing in the universe, could be harmed or taken away in a moment, because the world always seemed to work that way.

Happy Birthday