Safety First

After two days of training, a requisite wait period, and a hefty share of procrastination, I am proud to say that I drafted a mission statement, signed a contract, and earned my UC Merced Safe Zone placard.



From our website:

The Safe Zone Project is a two-part training experience dedicated to training allies for the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer / Questioning and Intersex (LGBTQI) communities. The training encourages participants to examine personal knowledge and beliefs about the in order to raise awareness and discuss ways to make safe and welcoming spaces for the LGBTQI community on campus and beyond.

Plus, the placard looks super pretty in my office.

In celebration of Hump Day ...

.. here are some pictures of people and things that made the most recent weekend wonderful.

My mom, who spent the weekend cooking cooking cooking so that I could have a successful Mary Kay party on Sunday morning. (And I did!)



The Republican and Nixon, who accompanied me home to San Francisco even though I abandoned them to host the aforementioned Mary Kay party and attend a stranger's wedding.



The OMG SO GORGEOUS flower arrangements at the wedding I attended. If I had made it to the end of the reception, I would have stolen all of them.



Jasmine, my date to the wedding, who kept me company while I avoided dancing and navigated the incredibly intimidating world of Spanx.



This weekend holds home improvement projects and some serious spring cleaning. And the weirdest part is that I'm actually looking forward to it.

The Handsomest Cat on 10th Avenue

On Tuesday of this week, I got a frantic call from my mom. Tiger, who has been in failing health for the last several years, was finally indicating that it was time for us to put him down. The appointment was in an hour, but I begged my parents to push it back so I could come home and say goodbye. I left work early, rushed home to walk Nix, and then took off speeding towards San Francisco.

But I didn't make it.

About an hour into my drive, just south of Modesto, one of the rear tires on my car blew out. I pulled off the freeway and waited for Triple A, all the while sobbing uncontrollably on the phone to my parents and The Republican about the amount of travel time I had lost.

By the time the tow arrived and had my car hooked up to his rig, I knew there was no point. I would never make it home in time for Tiger's appointment. I called my dad and told him I was having the car towed back to Merced to have my tire changed, and that I would call him when I got to the auto shop.

As promised, I called. And while I waited for my tire to be changed, my dad put me on the phone with Tiger, and I said my last words to someone who has been an inextricable part of my life for the last eighteen and a half years.

Tiger was the bossiest, grouchiest, most anti-social, demanding creature that I have ever met. But he was also sweet, snuggly, hilarious, and patient. (How many cats do you know that would let a seven-year-old tie them to a bedpost during a game of "pony corral?")

I cried myself to sleep that night, knowing that I would have given almost anything to be there in Tiger's final moments. But at least I know that my parents were there to comfort him as he passed on, and I take solace in the knowledge that he lived a long, happy life full of all the splendors and spoils this world has to offer.

Rest in peace, Tiglet. You'll be missed.

Whoever created this deserves a cookie.

... or maybe even a drink. Because if you're going to drink, I'd rather you do it in the house.

The Feminist Conundrum

I became a sales consultant for Mary Kay to play with makeup and make money. The literature and lectures you receive prior to joining Mary Kay speak to comfort, financial freedom, choice, and independence. So I was understandably taken aback when, shortly after joining, I was criticized for wearing slacks to a Mary Kay event.

Slacks.

Not capris, not jeans, not pajamas. These are pants I would wear to my day job as an academic professional, to synagogue (if I ever went), to professional conferences. They are not ratty, ill-fitting, oddly colored, or otherwise inappropriate. But I was told I was not to wear them to meetings, or any other Mary Kay events. Why?

To quote the email I received from my local director, "Mary Kay Ash started the [company] in the 60's when women always wore skirts, looked feminine and 'acted like ladies.' ['No pants'] is one of the very few MK 'rules.'"

Newsflash, Mary Kay: It's 2010. And though your skincare and makeup lines have changed with the times, apparently your definitions of "feminine" and "ladylike" have not.

While one could argue that "feminine dress" is equated to wearing a skirt or dress, it could also be argued that a huge market exists for women's fashion, including pants for women. These pants are specifically tailored to fit the female body, to ensure "feminine flare," and why on God's green earth isn't that acceptable to a company like Mary Kay, that is so passionate about promoting female choice and independence?

Additionally, the dictionary defines a "lady" as "a woman who is refined, polite, and well-spoken." While I'm not always these things in my personal life - The Republican has seen me belch and, yes, even fart, on more than one occasion - I certainly can and do turn them on in a public setting, like a Mary Kay event.

I think it can safely be said that the values of femininity and ladylikeness don't preclude a Mary Kay sales consultant from wearing pants. However, the company's policy does.

So this is my dilemma. As a feminist, I am appalled that they would disallow consultants to dress as they pleased within the realm of professional attire. The policy reeks of heteronormativity and seems to exclude those who would be consultants but are male, consider themselves gender queer, or even those women who are traditionally feminine, but prefer not to dress the part. But as a consultant, someone who joined this private company by choice, I understand that the company does what it wants, dictates what it wants, operates how it wants. And wearing a skirt is the sacrifice I made by joining.

I just wish someone had been up front with me about this from the beginning.

Hello, gorgeous.

My camera broke. Like, broke broke broke. Not just "the side of the camera keeps falling off but it doesn't actually affect the mechanics." Not just "my LCD screen is jacked up." More like "the manual button that controls video vs. picture mode is stuck in video mode. Forever and ever. Amen."

Canon cameras are supposed to be the top of the line. The camera I had before this one was also a Canon, and it lasted me a good three or four years. It lasted through drops, tumbles, and one very serious accident involving a bottle of water. The only reason I upgraded was, well, to upgrade. And because this one was free. (Thanks, Mom!)

But with the way this camera has treated me over the last year? Forget it. I'm not convinced that Canon's products are getting better as time moves on, and so I have decided to move on.

Yesterday, I went ahead and purchased an Olympus FE 4000. Not only is the camera hot pink, but it has a freaking PET MODE. All of those blurry pictures of Nix I've been posting because he can't sit still for more than a millisecond at a time? No more. YOU WILL BE GETTING CLARITY, PEOPLE.

Now let's see some smiles.

Fetch

One of the other Pet Bulls members posted a frustrated rant about her five-month-old puppy who won't play fetch. I told her not to worry - her pup would grow into it. How do I know? Because Nix wasn't always the tennis ball-obsessed semi-athlete that he is today. Once upon a time, he was this:



Hey, at least he tried.

A Year of Nixon

Last night, in a fit of boredom, I decided to create the cutest montage you will ever see, ever. It chronicles Nixon from tiny sausage to giant beast of doom, and all the excitement and pillow lust along the way. Enjoy!

Valentine's Revisited

With our road trip on hold and two days to get our shit together, I fully expected that we were going to be spending the Valentine's Day weekend at home, snuggled on the couch with Nix while I moped about how I wished we had gone to Mendocino.

... Instead, we actually went to Mendocino. And it was magical.

The first stop was, of course, Egghead's in Fort Bragg. I remember coming here with my parents as a kid and being completely enamored with the Oz-themed decor and the yellow brick road that leads to the bathroom. (No, really.) This time, I found myself especially enamored with their pumpkin waffles (served with almond cream and bananas) and what the staff refer to as the "honeymoon suite" - a little nook with a table for two where The Republican and I were lucky enough to be seated for breakfast.





We walked along Main Street in Fort Bragg, stopping in every art gallery, garden gnome store, and head shop along the way. It felt like a stunted, cleaner version of Haight Street, and as a result, had this strange familiarity that made me feel like I was a teenager again. (In a good way.)

But I think my favorite store was Windsong Used Books & Records, where The Republican fell in love with the science fiction section and I purchased something that I felt my dad just HAD TO HAVE (even though he won't be getting it until his birthday in April). Other things I loved about Windsong? The "how not to be a shitty cat owner" section:



We also stopped at the Mendocino Cookie Company, where I had a Backpacker (also known as the GREATEST. COOKIE. EVER.) and The Republican tried a knock-off Orange Julius (creatively renamed "Orange Glorious") and was decidedly displeased. (For the record, I thought it was delicious.)





Fort Bragg also had other interesting things to offer, like a section of the largest redwood tree ever found in Mendocino County ...



... and a local ice creamery that boasts mushroom ice cream. (Yes, seriously.) It tasted kind of like pistachio.



But the best part of our trip? The baby-back ribs I had for Valentine's Day dinner. Though the angry, angry ocean comes in as a very close second.

One!

Nixon is one today! In celebration, he got his first share of big boy food and spent the day pretending to be comatose on the couch. I'm tempted to call the vet and ask if they didn't actually send me home with someone else's dog when we were there yesterday, but my friend Tina said Nix is probably just learning that "he really can't get away with being a puppy, because he's a dog now, with real responsibilities." Who knew a birthday could be such a reality check?