I have a blog entry saved as a draft detailing the manifestation of my really horrible, terrible body image, but it was really emo and whiny, and I know that no one wants to read about it.
So I'm going to talk about 'Borat'. Steve and I rented it last weekend at his request. And there really wasn't anything funny about it. It was the most uncomfortable hour-and-a-half that I've had in at least a year. Really, just... ugh.
First, I really don't see what's so funny about making fun of an entire country of people. What's so funny about making them look like sister-screwing dimwits? Nothing.
Second, there was some really offensive stuff in that movie, even for Steve, and we all know how much men like the juvenile humor. The movie bashes Jewish people, homosexuals, and it even goes so far as to make innuendos toward incest. Like, father to son incest. Not.funny.
If you haven't rented it yet, don't waste your money. Because there's nothing at all even slightly humorous about even joking about having sex with children. Really. Disgusting.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Mean Girls
I finally acted on my overly-sensitive, over-protective mommy feelings this morning.
When I opened Bean's lunchbox to empty out anything she may have left behind and to pack her lunch for today, I saw a folded sheet of notebook paper. On the outside it read "To: 19 From: 24". All of the kids have numbers in the class, and Bean's number isn't 13. So I asked her what it was. She told me she found it on her desk. Inside, it read, "Don't tock to Samantha." I asked her who wrote it, and she thought it was Trinity because Trinity and Bean have problems.
I'm only hearing one side of the story, but Trinity is always telling Bean not to talk to her. Or that she's a baby. Or, my personal favorite, that she's dirty. Apparently, Bean is dirty because she wears the same pair of jeans more than once a week. She does that because I do laundry in the middle of the week, for pity's sake! I actually took a gift card that we've been saving that Bean got at Christmas to get her a new pair of jeans because she was so upset that if she wore the pair I'd given her to put on again that week, that Trinity would make fun of her.
Anyway, when I saw that note, I was livid.
Even if it wasn't meant for Bean and just mysteriously ended up on her desk, some other little girl was probably getting her feelings hurt. And that's not okay. I don't remember this kind of catty, nasty girl behavior until probably fifth grade. These girls have the rest of their lives to be torn down by other women (which is, by the way, extremely counterproductive in my opinion, since they should have a little fucking solidarity), and first grade is not the time to start.
We hurried to get our morning routine done so we could get to school early. When we got to school, I sent Bean to class and got signed in as a visitor. I asked Mrs. Higgins if she had a minute to talk, and I showed her the note.
I hate to come across as an overly-sensitive, over-protective hippie, but this just wasn't okay with me. At all. Mrs. Higgins told me that they've already had to talk about some bullying issues, especially the girls. Apparently, one girl has to go to a counselor once a week to help her deal with the more "aggressive" girls. I told Mrs. Higgins that I wasn't trying to be a "tattle-tale", but that I would want to know if Bean was being nasty. I said that when Bean comes home talking about someone being mean to her, I tell her to be as nice as she can be because sometimes these kids aren't very nice because maybe their parents or brothers and sisters aren't so nice to them at home.
She said they'd talk about it, and she thanked me for bringing the note. She also said that Bean is very sweet, very environmentally conscious, and that she loves me (Bean, not Mrs. Higgins).
The part of all of this that strikes me as incredibly ironic is that even though I hate that these girls are already cutting each other down, when I thought someone was hurting Bean's feelings, the mean mama bear in me said silently, "Huh. Well, at least my kid can spell 'talk' correctly."
I guess we're all mean girls sometimes.
When I opened Bean's lunchbox to empty out anything she may have left behind and to pack her lunch for today, I saw a folded sheet of notebook paper. On the outside it read "To: 19 From: 24". All of the kids have numbers in the class, and Bean's number isn't 13. So I asked her what it was. She told me she found it on her desk. Inside, it read, "Don't tock to Samantha." I asked her who wrote it, and she thought it was Trinity because Trinity and Bean have problems.
I'm only hearing one side of the story, but Trinity is always telling Bean not to talk to her. Or that she's a baby. Or, my personal favorite, that she's dirty. Apparently, Bean is dirty because she wears the same pair of jeans more than once a week. She does that because I do laundry in the middle of the week, for pity's sake! I actually took a gift card that we've been saving that Bean got at Christmas to get her a new pair of jeans because she was so upset that if she wore the pair I'd given her to put on again that week, that Trinity would make fun of her.
Anyway, when I saw that note, I was livid.
Even if it wasn't meant for Bean and just mysteriously ended up on her desk, some other little girl was probably getting her feelings hurt. And that's not okay. I don't remember this kind of catty, nasty girl behavior until probably fifth grade. These girls have the rest of their lives to be torn down by other women (which is, by the way, extremely counterproductive in my opinion, since they should have a little fucking solidarity), and first grade is not the time to start.
We hurried to get our morning routine done so we could get to school early. When we got to school, I sent Bean to class and got signed in as a visitor. I asked Mrs. Higgins if she had a minute to talk, and I showed her the note.
I hate to come across as an overly-sensitive, over-protective hippie, but this just wasn't okay with me. At all. Mrs. Higgins told me that they've already had to talk about some bullying issues, especially the girls. Apparently, one girl has to go to a counselor once a week to help her deal with the more "aggressive" girls. I told Mrs. Higgins that I wasn't trying to be a "tattle-tale", but that I would want to know if Bean was being nasty. I said that when Bean comes home talking about someone being mean to her, I tell her to be as nice as she can be because sometimes these kids aren't very nice because maybe their parents or brothers and sisters aren't so nice to them at home.
She said they'd talk about it, and she thanked me for bringing the note. She also said that Bean is very sweet, very environmentally conscious, and that she loves me (Bean, not Mrs. Higgins).
The part of all of this that strikes me as incredibly ironic is that even though I hate that these girls are already cutting each other down, when I thought someone was hurting Bean's feelings, the mean mama bear in me said silently, "Huh. Well, at least my kid can spell 'talk' correctly."
I guess we're all mean girls sometimes.
Here's a picture of my girl doing what she does best. :)
Monday, March 19, 2007
Speeding in School Zones
Monday mornings are when I feel most ranty, so I'm going to start off today with a good, cleansing rant.
I was driving my daughter to school this morning, and we slowed down to somewhere between 18 and 20 miles per hour on her school's block because there's, you know, a big sign that states the school zone speed limit hours. And this lady came up so fast behind me that she was literally three feet from my back bumper. I was looking in the rearview mirror, and she was doing one of those hands-up-in-the-air-what-the-hell-are-you-doing motions.
What the hell?!?! We were in a freaking school zone! There were little kids walking around, crossing the street. Fewer things in life incite that kind of fiery anger in my heart than speeding through a school zone. Seriously. You have somewhere important to be? Leave five minutes earlier. If Bean walked to school, I would like to feel safe sending her off, not praying that she wouldn't get mowed down by some crazed mom in a minivan. What if it was HER kids? Would she appreciate that kind of behavior? Probably not.
P.S. Riding three feet from my bumper only makes me drive slower. Just an FYI.
(There is a vaguely 'meaty' flavor to the generic diced pineapples I'm eating. Gross. Sorry, Bean! Won't be sending these to school with you anymore. I had no idea!)
In other news, my ears are finally accepting my 10g jewelry. I'd post a picture, but I don't think anyone wants to look at my ears. I only have to do this one more time. One more time! And then I'm done forever, and I don't have to put my ears through anymore.
Well, in theory, I suppose I never had to put my ears through this in the first place. But I have. And Steve is actually being a really good sport about it aside from the random pirate jokes (which I don't really mind anyway).
I'm ready for summer. It was 73 degrees yesterday. I had on flip flops, a tank top, and jean capris. It was wild. A record high, probably. I'm trying really hard not to get too used to the weather, though, as I'm sure we're due for at least one more freak snowstorm before we're done until fall. But 73 degrees is just so PERFECT!
I've decided that, for now, no tattoos. They're freaking expensive! And I've been eyeballing the new Canon Rebel digital for a while now. And I'd rather spend a lot of money on that than tattoos. I'd definitely get more use out of it. Just thinking about the camera makes my hands itch, desperate for the weight of it. GAH! Soon. Soon. I'll put it on layaway with a generous downpayment. So, yes. Tattoos can totally wait. Besides. You get to a certain point when you're so punk, you don't need tattoos to prove it. ;)
I was driving my daughter to school this morning, and we slowed down to somewhere between 18 and 20 miles per hour on her school's block because there's, you know, a big sign that states the school zone speed limit hours. And this lady came up so fast behind me that she was literally three feet from my back bumper. I was looking in the rearview mirror, and she was doing one of those hands-up-in-the-air-what-the-hell-are-you-doing motions.
What the hell?!?! We were in a freaking school zone! There were little kids walking around, crossing the street. Fewer things in life incite that kind of fiery anger in my heart than speeding through a school zone. Seriously. You have somewhere important to be? Leave five minutes earlier. If Bean walked to school, I would like to feel safe sending her off, not praying that she wouldn't get mowed down by some crazed mom in a minivan. What if it was HER kids? Would she appreciate that kind of behavior? Probably not.
P.S. Riding three feet from my bumper only makes me drive slower. Just an FYI.
(There is a vaguely 'meaty' flavor to the generic diced pineapples I'm eating. Gross. Sorry, Bean! Won't be sending these to school with you anymore. I had no idea!)
In other news, my ears are finally accepting my 10g jewelry. I'd post a picture, but I don't think anyone wants to look at my ears. I only have to do this one more time. One more time! And then I'm done forever, and I don't have to put my ears through anymore.
Well, in theory, I suppose I never had to put my ears through this in the first place. But I have. And Steve is actually being a really good sport about it aside from the random pirate jokes (which I don't really mind anyway).
I'm ready for summer. It was 73 degrees yesterday. I had on flip flops, a tank top, and jean capris. It was wild. A record high, probably. I'm trying really hard not to get too used to the weather, though, as I'm sure we're due for at least one more freak snowstorm before we're done until fall. But 73 degrees is just so PERFECT!
I've decided that, for now, no tattoos. They're freaking expensive! And I've been eyeballing the new Canon Rebel digital for a while now. And I'd rather spend a lot of money on that than tattoos. I'd definitely get more use out of it. Just thinking about the camera makes my hands itch, desperate for the weight of it. GAH! Soon. Soon. I'll put it on layaway with a generous downpayment. So, yes. Tattoos can totally wait. Besides. You get to a certain point when you're so punk, you don't need tattoos to prove it. ;)
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Domestication of a Heather
Lately I've been taking a lot of pleasure in the domestic part of life. I'm more efficient cleaning, I'm cooking and baking, I'm folding laundry and taking Bean to the library, getting ready to sign her up for soccer, doing homework, going to Brownies, making lunches, hosting sleepovers.
I'm turning into a soccer mom. And that used to scare me. Years ago, I used to tell Steve, "I'm not ready to be that person. I'm not ready to give up who I am to be a 'soccer mom'."
What I didn't realize at the time, though, is that I didn't have to get the mom haircut, sport the mom jeans, and turn into a suburbian Stepford mom-wife clone. I didn't have to change who I was.
Well, that's not entirely accurate. I think being more involved in my role as a wife and a mother these past few months has caused me to change who I am a little. But I shed the parts of me that needed to be shed. And when I realized that at the core, I am still essentially the same person, it was easy to change things and let go of things that aren't important... or that I can do differently.
My personal life, my home life, it's never been better, and that really impacts how successful I feel. How efficient I feel. How happy I am. I am really happy more often than not these days. I mean, I have my days where my mood plunges into an abyss, but that's a chemical thing rather than being directly proportionate to how things are going in my life.
I think I'm maturing, learning how to make the important things in my life a priority, and that feels awesome.
I'm turning into a soccer mom. And that used to scare me. Years ago, I used to tell Steve, "I'm not ready to be that person. I'm not ready to give up who I am to be a 'soccer mom'."
What I didn't realize at the time, though, is that I didn't have to get the mom haircut, sport the mom jeans, and turn into a suburbian Stepford mom-wife clone. I didn't have to change who I was.
Well, that's not entirely accurate. I think being more involved in my role as a wife and a mother these past few months has caused me to change who I am a little. But I shed the parts of me that needed to be shed. And when I realized that at the core, I am still essentially the same person, it was easy to change things and let go of things that aren't important... or that I can do differently.
My personal life, my home life, it's never been better, and that really impacts how successful I feel. How efficient I feel. How happy I am. I am really happy more often than not these days. I mean, I have my days where my mood plunges into an abyss, but that's a chemical thing rather than being directly proportionate to how things are going in my life.
I think I'm maturing, learning how to make the important things in my life a priority, and that feels awesome.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Weekends are supposed to be for resting, right?
Well, resting, cleaning, spending quality time with the family. Yes?
Mine wasn't at all restful. Aside from a hellish pre-St. Patty's Day meeting we had at the pub where the servers aired all their grievances about the host staff (where we got no rebuttal), I had three little girls at my hous for about 18 hours.
That's right. My little one plus two. Bean had made friends with a girl in preschool, and now that we're on opposite ends of town, I occasionally have her and her sister over to spend the night with Bean. Besides, their mom is a young single mom of THREE children, and I know sometimes it's nice to have alone time.
I brought them home, and Taylor, my daughter's best friend, is afraid of our dog, Maynard. I don't understand how anyone can be afraid of such a loveable little guy. But she is. So while I was preparing spaghetti, there was much screeching and running and enticing the dog to chase them so they could run away.
After dinner, I thanked God silently for having a small family. The amount of dishes used for one meal for three children and two adults, OY! I set them up in Bean's room with a game and a movie while I worked out. After the workout, I got them popcorn. When they were done with popcorn, they wanted ice cream. And that's fine. Bean doesn't eat like that all the time, and it was all in good fun.
Well, the little buggers were up until midnight. And of course Steve crashed at 9:00 leaving me to stay awake to keep an eye on them. There were a couple of arguments and some tears. Oh, the drama of first graders!
When I woke up the next morning, it was to more squealing and, in a French accent, "I'm so sorry about zee belly hair." I should explain that. We imagine that Maynard, if he could speak, would use a French accent, and that he would apologize profusely for leaving his little grey stomach hairs all over the carpet.
I looked at the clock (6:30) and made Steve get up with the girls while I slept an extra hour since I wasn't feeling well.
Only I had forgotten about the time change. But I didn't. I just thought for some reason that it changed in the middle of the night between Sunday and Monday rather than Saturday and Sunday.
I didn't really sleep at all that next hour, though, so I got up to make cinnamon rolls. From scratch. Because that's what you do when you're vegan and can't pop a can of Pillsbury.
After breakfast and even MORE dishes, I tried to corral all the girls to brush their teeth. Taylor's sister just flat out refused, and I finally conceded that her mother would just have to make her do it later. It's harder than you'd think to try and get three girls to brush their teeth, get dressed, and get their things in order to leave the house.
We left 45 minutes later than I'd anticipated.
And after dropping them off, the house was in shambles, so I cleaned.
And now I'm wondering where my weekend went. I'm beat. Bean was beat this morning. The animals are still recovering.
I just have to hold on until Saturday now.
Mine wasn't at all restful. Aside from a hellish pre-St. Patty's Day meeting we had at the pub where the servers aired all their grievances about the host staff (where we got no rebuttal), I had three little girls at my hous for about 18 hours.
That's right. My little one plus two. Bean had made friends with a girl in preschool, and now that we're on opposite ends of town, I occasionally have her and her sister over to spend the night with Bean. Besides, their mom is a young single mom of THREE children, and I know sometimes it's nice to have alone time.
I brought them home, and Taylor, my daughter's best friend, is afraid of our dog, Maynard. I don't understand how anyone can be afraid of such a loveable little guy. But she is. So while I was preparing spaghetti, there was much screeching and running and enticing the dog to chase them so they could run away.
After dinner, I thanked God silently for having a small family. The amount of dishes used for one meal for three children and two adults, OY! I set them up in Bean's room with a game and a movie while I worked out. After the workout, I got them popcorn. When they were done with popcorn, they wanted ice cream. And that's fine. Bean doesn't eat like that all the time, and it was all in good fun.
Well, the little buggers were up until midnight. And of course Steve crashed at 9:00 leaving me to stay awake to keep an eye on them. There were a couple of arguments and some tears. Oh, the drama of first graders!
When I woke up the next morning, it was to more squealing and, in a French accent, "I'm so sorry about zee belly hair." I should explain that. We imagine that Maynard, if he could speak, would use a French accent, and that he would apologize profusely for leaving his little grey stomach hairs all over the carpet.
I looked at the clock (6:30) and made Steve get up with the girls while I slept an extra hour since I wasn't feeling well.
Only I had forgotten about the time change. But I didn't. I just thought for some reason that it changed in the middle of the night between Sunday and Monday rather than Saturday and Sunday.
I didn't really sleep at all that next hour, though, so I got up to make cinnamon rolls. From scratch. Because that's what you do when you're vegan and can't pop a can of Pillsbury.
After breakfast and even MORE dishes, I tried to corral all the girls to brush their teeth. Taylor's sister just flat out refused, and I finally conceded that her mother would just have to make her do it later. It's harder than you'd think to try and get three girls to brush their teeth, get dressed, and get their things in order to leave the house.
We left 45 minutes later than I'd anticipated.
And after dropping them off, the house was in shambles, so I cleaned.
And now I'm wondering where my weekend went. I'm beat. Bean was beat this morning. The animals are still recovering.
I just have to hold on until Saturday now.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
"Hey, girl! Hey! You! GIRL!"
My ass felt like it was conforming to the shape of my office chair the other day, so I decided to take a walk during my lunch break. It's been really lovely lately, and fresh air always helps me re-focus at work.
I about halfway down the block I hear, "Hey! Girl! *whistle whistle* Hey, Girl! *insert inappropriate, immature language here*"
I, in very colorful language, without giving this guy the satisfaction of even looking in his direction, told him to grow up.
When I was younger, I'd usually blow it off. And you'd think that with age, I'd learn to let this roll off of my back the way I let other things roll off my back. But I got angrier and angrier.
First, what women would actually respond to that? Show of hands? Anyone? Really?! No one would actually walk up to a total stranger acting this way and say, "Take me home with you now, please, GOD!"??? Astonishing. Really. Even if I wasn't with someone who is funny, smart, hot, articulate, and caring, I would never in a million years even think of responding to behavior like that.
Second, what makes men think it's acceptable to talk to women that way? I am someone's MOMMY. Would they want someone talking that way to their mother, to the mother of their children? I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the answer to that would be 'no'.
Anyway, I would've had to pass back by this guy on my way back, so I had to go out of my way almost 10 minutes just to avoid him. I shouldn't have to do that. No woman should have to be made to feel so uncomfortable that they go out of their way to avoid someone on the street in broad daylight.
It's absolutely amazing to me how many men still obviously view women as second-class citizens. Or property. Or eye-candy put on this earth for their amusement.
And it really upsets me that my daughter will have to deal with this.
I about halfway down the block I hear, "Hey! Girl! *whistle whistle* Hey, Girl! *insert inappropriate, immature language here*"
I, in very colorful language, without giving this guy the satisfaction of even looking in his direction, told him to grow up.
When I was younger, I'd usually blow it off. And you'd think that with age, I'd learn to let this roll off of my back the way I let other things roll off my back. But I got angrier and angrier.
First, what women would actually respond to that? Show of hands? Anyone? Really?! No one would actually walk up to a total stranger acting this way and say, "Take me home with you now, please, GOD!"??? Astonishing. Really. Even if I wasn't with someone who is funny, smart, hot, articulate, and caring, I would never in a million years even think of responding to behavior like that.
Second, what makes men think it's acceptable to talk to women that way? I am someone's MOMMY. Would they want someone talking that way to their mother, to the mother of their children? I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the answer to that would be 'no'.
Anyway, I would've had to pass back by this guy on my way back, so I had to go out of my way almost 10 minutes just to avoid him. I shouldn't have to do that. No woman should have to be made to feel so uncomfortable that they go out of their way to avoid someone on the street in broad daylight.
It's absolutely amazing to me how many men still obviously view women as second-class citizens. Or property. Or eye-candy put on this earth for their amusement.
And it really upsets me that my daughter will have to deal with this.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
I want it so badly that it made me cry
The other day in an online group that I belong to, a woman asked what we would all be doing career-wise if we could do anything in the world.
I want to own and operate my own vegan coffee house/bakery/pastry shop. More than anything. I want to get up at 4:00am and work with espresso, cinnamon rolls, pies, coffee cakes and cookies. I daydream about it every day. Every single day. I've never had a dream that I've wanted that badly.
Because I don't dream big. I know it's lame, but I'm the kind of person who doesn't dream big because in the end, I feel like it would be less crushing to not try than to have something that I want and love ripped away.
Wow. Seeing that in print makes it seem that much more pathetic.
But I was thinking about it this morning, and I was getting teary-eyed. Only I'm not sure if it's because I think it's unattainable or if it's that I maybe finally found what I want to do, what I'd be good at.
I have been at a job that doesn't appreciate me, that stresses me out, that threatens termination on a twice a year basis. It's fairly convenient, I can get my daughter when I need to. And there's always seemed like there is nothing here for me in this city. But I don't like it. It doesn't make me even slightly happy.
Anyway, I'm blathering.
So, yeah.
I want to own and operate my own vegan coffee house/bakery/pastry shop. More than anything. I want to get up at 4:00am and work with espresso, cinnamon rolls, pies, coffee cakes and cookies. I daydream about it every day. Every single day. I've never had a dream that I've wanted that badly.
Because I don't dream big. I know it's lame, but I'm the kind of person who doesn't dream big because in the end, I feel like it would be less crushing to not try than to have something that I want and love ripped away.
Wow. Seeing that in print makes it seem that much more pathetic.
But I was thinking about it this morning, and I was getting teary-eyed. Only I'm not sure if it's because I think it's unattainable or if it's that I maybe finally found what I want to do, what I'd be good at.
I have been at a job that doesn't appreciate me, that stresses me out, that threatens termination on a twice a year basis. It's fairly convenient, I can get my daughter when I need to. And there's always seemed like there is nothing here for me in this city. But I don't like it. It doesn't make me even slightly happy.
Anyway, I'm blathering.
So, yeah.
Friday, March 2, 2007
I'm a vegan elitist snob.
Okay, so not really. But, kind of.
There are a lot of common misconceptions about vegans. We're skinny, malnourished, we don't enjoy food, we're picky, and we think we're better than omnivores.
None of that is true. Well, okay. Some of us are skinny, but that's often because skinny vegans would probably be skinny even if they ate meat.
It seems that the simple act of stating that I'm vegan is enough to put people on guard and make them feel judged by me. The train of thought usually goes, "Well, if you're vegan for ethical reasons, you think eating meat is wrong and bad. I eat meat, so you must think I'm wrong and bad." That's not true. I'm married to an omni. Granted, he rarely eats meat at all anymore because I cook all meals, and I don't buy non-vegan food. I don't think he's wrong or bad. I look at his meat-eating habits the way I look at smoking. Kind of a nasty habit, but I don't find people unlikeable because they participate in it. Let's be serious. If I was only friends with other vegans, I would have ONE friend in my city, and that'd be more of an acquaintance than a friendship.
Here's where the elitist snob part comes in. No, I don't judge or condemn, but I do think my diet rules all. I feel like it is the best possible way to eat (except for the days when I'm being a total junk food hound). I am healthy, I am happy, and I would never ever go back to eating the way I used to. And I am raising my daughter to be as vegan as possible. And I'm telling her exactly why we eat the way we do. I don't try to scare her with macabre details, but I'm very frank about where meat comes from and that animals have to die to produce a burger or chicken nugget.
I often struggle with thinking, "So and so is totally compassionate! How can they not equate this with cruelty and slavery and pain and suffering?" But at the end of the day, it doesn't change how I feel about people.
I checked out a book I've been wanting to read from the library. It's called "Vegan: The New Ethics of Eating", and it's by Erik Marcus. It goes through all the cases for veganism, starting with the health benefits, moving onto the animal rights part of it, and finally the environmental havoc that factory farming wreaks. Steve saw me reading it and said something to the effect of, "Why is every book you read about being vegan?" I told him that veganism is a big part of who I am, and he told me that it's not all I am. While that's true, I liken veganism to Christianity a little. Well, they have some parallels, anyway.
When my mom became a Christian, she was excited and wanted to share it with everyone. She wanted to share what she learned, what she believed, and I think a lot of new vegans are the same way. Just as an overzealous Christian can come off as preachy, so can an overzealous vegan. Also, my mom tries to show the world what she believes through her actions, and I do that every day as a vegan. Every time I buy a cruelty-free, animal byproduct-free item, I'm showing people what, essentially, I am all about, what I believe.
I love to talk to people about veganism. I love proving stereotypes wrong. I love sharing my food with people.
What I don't love are the debates I have to get into where no one wins. At the end of the day, I think the exploitation and consumption of animal products is wrong, and I won't be swayed. I hate how that sounds, but it's true. Yes, I believe there are exceptions, but no one is going to point to their eye teeth and say, "See, these are meant to tear meat apart" and have me chowing down on a ribeye with them.
I don't love the little stabs that people take at me. I don't love people turning their nose up at my lunch as if tofu or seitan or quinoa are unedible garbage.
I'm pretty sure everyone in my life thought this was a phase, initially. I'm pretty sure a lot of them were hoping it was a phase. But once I knew, I couldn't un-know.
The following video is of Neil Gaiman reading a short story called 'Baby Cakes':
There are a lot of common misconceptions about vegans. We're skinny, malnourished, we don't enjoy food, we're picky, and we think we're better than omnivores.
None of that is true. Well, okay. Some of us are skinny, but that's often because skinny vegans would probably be skinny even if they ate meat.
It seems that the simple act of stating that I'm vegan is enough to put people on guard and make them feel judged by me. The train of thought usually goes, "Well, if you're vegan for ethical reasons, you think eating meat is wrong and bad. I eat meat, so you must think I'm wrong and bad." That's not true. I'm married to an omni. Granted, he rarely eats meat at all anymore because I cook all meals, and I don't buy non-vegan food. I don't think he's wrong or bad. I look at his meat-eating habits the way I look at smoking. Kind of a nasty habit, but I don't find people unlikeable because they participate in it. Let's be serious. If I was only friends with other vegans, I would have ONE friend in my city, and that'd be more of an acquaintance than a friendship.
Here's where the elitist snob part comes in. No, I don't judge or condemn, but I do think my diet rules all. I feel like it is the best possible way to eat (except for the days when I'm being a total junk food hound). I am healthy, I am happy, and I would never ever go back to eating the way I used to. And I am raising my daughter to be as vegan as possible. And I'm telling her exactly why we eat the way we do. I don't try to scare her with macabre details, but I'm very frank about where meat comes from and that animals have to die to produce a burger or chicken nugget.
I often struggle with thinking, "So and so is totally compassionate! How can they not equate this with cruelty and slavery and pain and suffering?" But at the end of the day, it doesn't change how I feel about people.
I checked out a book I've been wanting to read from the library. It's called "Vegan: The New Ethics of Eating", and it's by Erik Marcus. It goes through all the cases for veganism, starting with the health benefits, moving onto the animal rights part of it, and finally the environmental havoc that factory farming wreaks. Steve saw me reading it and said something to the effect of, "Why is every book you read about being vegan?" I told him that veganism is a big part of who I am, and he told me that it's not all I am. While that's true, I liken veganism to Christianity a little. Well, they have some parallels, anyway.
When my mom became a Christian, she was excited and wanted to share it with everyone. She wanted to share what she learned, what she believed, and I think a lot of new vegans are the same way. Just as an overzealous Christian can come off as preachy, so can an overzealous vegan. Also, my mom tries to show the world what she believes through her actions, and I do that every day as a vegan. Every time I buy a cruelty-free, animal byproduct-free item, I'm showing people what, essentially, I am all about, what I believe.
I love to talk to people about veganism. I love proving stereotypes wrong. I love sharing my food with people.
What I don't love are the debates I have to get into where no one wins. At the end of the day, I think the exploitation and consumption of animal products is wrong, and I won't be swayed. I hate how that sounds, but it's true. Yes, I believe there are exceptions, but no one is going to point to their eye teeth and say, "See, these are meant to tear meat apart" and have me chowing down on a ribeye with them.
I don't love the little stabs that people take at me. I don't love people turning their nose up at my lunch as if tofu or seitan or quinoa are unedible garbage.
I'm pretty sure everyone in my life thought this was a phase, initially. I'm pretty sure a lot of them were hoping it was a phase. But once I knew, I couldn't un-know.
The following video is of Neil Gaiman reading a short story called 'Baby Cakes':
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