Material Trace of Deficient Socialization

I like to talk. I like to talk to people I know, people I don’t know, people I want to know better, and even people I don’t give a shit about. I’d rather talk to the guy behind me in the checkout line buying nothing but peanut butter and People magazines than stand silently by myself. I consider myself a decent communicator – unless I’m talking about something I actually care about. Then I dissolve into a sputtering, foul-mouthed wreck.

Case in point: I fucking hate littering. Like, a lot. If I see you tossing a cigarette butt out of your car window, I wish upon you nothing less than instant and explosive diarrhea. Alas, I can put it no more eloquently than than, “Hey you! Litterer! I hope you have a shitty day!”

The closest I’ve come to having a rational discussion about littering was on an “urban hike” (I don’t know why I put that in quotes; we literally walked 14+ miles through our city, which is the capital of Virginia and therefore a legitimately urban setting, with camelbacks filled with water and Lärabars) and she told me that friends had been giving her a hard time about tossing banana peels from her car window. As these friends live in Asheville, NC, a notorious hippie enclave, I got the feeling that she expected my reaction to be along the lines of “Damn tree huggers! Of course you should throw your food leavings from your car window!”

Her argument was that 1) banana peels are biodegradable and 2) who wants to drive around with a banana peel in their lap? While the logic of her arguments are admittedly sound, 1 + 2 does not equal C.
I had to move beyond my typical argument against littering – IT’S FUCKING DISGUSTING – and dug way back to Ethics 101.

“What if everyone threw their banana peels out of the window?” I asked. “There’d be piles of rotting banana peels lining every road in the country. The garbage would attract raccoons and possums and the roads would be cluttered with roadkill. The view would be ruined, marred by blackening banana peels and the odors of decay. You are an exceptional human being, Nameless Friend, but you are not an exception to the No Littering rule.”

Kant ruled the day, and my friend was convinced.

(This logic, however, rarely works on smokers, as they all throw their cigarette butts wherever they choose and have absolutely no shame.)

Some people are gifted with emotionally-resistant golden tongues and can express themselves eloquently not only despite of their very deep feelings on the subject, but perhaps because of these very same feelings. I was listening to a recently discovered podcast (Intelligence²) when a line delivered by one of the debaters prompted me to get out a pen a jot it down.

The discussion was about whether Tiger Moms were doing a better job of turning out successful children than Western parents. Arguing for the Tiger Moms was British writer and psychiatrist Anthony Daniels. He recounted personal anecdotes of French mothers arguing with their children in the shop around from his house, British kids yelling obscenities as they ran through the streets, and the abundance of trash he had observed concentrated around school yards.

“Each piece of litter, and there are millions of them,” deadpanned Daniels,”is a kind of material trace of deficient socialization.”

YES. “A material trace of deficient socialization.” Don’t you just want to repeat that phrase until it moulds to the contours of your brain like a favorite sweater? Fuck, those are some delicious words.

When you litter, you are basically acknowledging that you either have no idea how your actions might impact anyone else in the world, or simply do not give a damn. I would argue that littering is one of the most selfish, self-centered acts one could commit.

What makes littering unique as a social plague is that almost everyone is disgusted when they see anyone else doing it. We don’t high five each other for tossing a dirty diaper into the ocean. No one compliments the man chucking an empty big soda bottle from his window on a job well done. And yet we do it ourselves and sleep soundly at night, having justified our act of littering as a one off, or (perhaps more bizarrely) as a “green” act akin to composting, having returned a peach pit or orange peel to the earth to disseminate it’s carbon back into the environment.

So yeah, don’t litter. I really hate hating you.

 

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My favorite cuss

Shit.

I don’t know what to say so I figure I’d start with some sure-to-please profanity. Speaking of profanity, do you have a favorite cuss word? I’ve narrowed my favorites down to two: shit and dick.

Shit Dick.

If you drop a SD bomb on someone, not only are you adequately expressing your anger (“Look how mad you’ve made me! I said a word that would shame my mother and prompt her to add another tearful entry to her Evidence I Have Failed To Raise A Socially Acceptable Daughter journal”), but you are also conveying how absurd the situation is.

“No, I’m not 100% sure what a Shit Dick is, but I’m 87% you are it. Shit Dick.”

A funny thing happened on the way to work…

…I voted.

I hope you will, too, or face the scorn of Li’l Wayne.

Also – you may have noticed that the URL has changed. BadMuthaFudruckers.com is now live! You may need to update your RSS feed (my Google Reader hasn’t figured it out yet). AND you can “like” this (or any post) by clicking the button below.

Now all I’ve got to do is write something “like”-able…

Just a quick note

National Pit Bull Awareness Day is coming up (October 23rd), and I’m blogging about it over here.

Are you in the Richmond, VA, area? You can meet Ernie and me at Ring Dog Rescue’s “Training People for Pits’ Sake” event next Saturday.

I’ll be the one wearing this:

I will also be wearing pants, and I will have a neck.

And as a bonus, here is an illustrated email exchange between my sister Lauren and I.

Ok, there’s more, but I have to get some work done. Stay tuned!

I survived: Part I

Whoo! I almost fainted Monday from the effort of posting, so you’ll have to forgive me for skipping yesterday. I was saving my energy for Hump Day!

Hump Day: in which I will regale you with tales of My Very First Running Experience.

Well, not very first. How about My Very First Organized Running Experience. You didn’t think I went in cold, did you? Please; I like to ease into things. I’m like the kid at the beach who is still only ankle-deep in the ocean after 30 minutes.

Part I.

Day before the race (Friday). I spend most of my day browsing pasta-heavy recipes in anticipation of my favorite aspect of long distance running: carbo-loading. I fell in love with this recipe (who knew Gordon Ramsey was a runner?) and headed off to the Teet to gather up the ingredients.

Pancetta was something outrageous, like $7.99 for 3 skimpy slices, so I decided to substitute with bacon. Confronted with the roughly 7 million varieties of bacon, I decided upon turkey bacon. Then my eye caught the package marked “50% less sodium” – into the basket it goes (this will later prove to be a mistake).

Oh – I forgot. Before my grocery adventure I picked up my pre-race packet which consisted of my Official Race T-Shirt Tank Top, Office Race Course Map, and – most exciting – my Official Race Number! It took a lot of will power not to pin that sucker to my business casual attire and stride confidently (and with perhaps unnecessary speed) through the produce aisle. Outta my way, suckers – Officially Registered Runner trying to shop over here!

Anyway, back at Casa Fudrucker, I set the pasta water to boiling and start cooking the “healthy” bacon.

Note to self: WTF, Sarah, it’s freaking bacon. Next time, just go for the real thing.

This bacon was the grossest thing I have willingly put in my mouth in a long time. It never quite got cooking right; no satisfying sizzle or pop of fat, and the pan remained bone dry. From start to finish, the three strips of whatever the heck it was changed only in color (darker towards the end, but that may have been some left-over crud from my less-than-stellar dish washing skills). It resembled nothing so much as weirdly smooth jerky. But hey, bacon is bacon, so I chopped it up the best I could (imagine trying to “roughly dice” a Fruit Roll-Up) and added it to the pasta.

I have never, ever, in my life, eaten around bacon. Delicious dinner FAIL.

Race day dawned slightly overcast and drizzly. I do not care because I have toast! and bananas! and peanut butter! I washed it down with Gatorade just as my running partner, Kristin, pulled up outside of my house. We walked the few blocks to the start of the race, high fiving each other every couple of yards.

“Yeah! We’re doing this! Vegas bab-I mean, Race baby!”

We got to the start line with around 2 minutes to spare; both grinning like idiots. The race began and we were off! Within the first 1/4 mile there was a pretty steep climb, and I started seriously questioning my decision. But after that there was a nice downhill run though downtown Wilmington, so I was golden. A woman with a veil on was running a few paces ahead of us. I thought that it was awesome that she was celebrating her wedding by running, but thought it was odd she was running alone.

“I wonder if people ever crash marathons?” Kristin asked.

My first water station experience was a bust; they were out of water, or hadn’t had water delivered yet, or something, and were handing out ice cubes. I was pretty pumped because we were about to start on our first bridge, and wasn’t desperate for a drink, but I took some ice cubes anyway. I hate eating ice, and spit it out a few yards later. I guess I didn’t want to make the volunteers feel bad; they looked so earnest.

The view from atop the bridge was pretty awesome; the random song playing on my iPod was Izrael Kamakawiwo’ole’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which was perfect. I could see the rest of the course from the apex of the bridge and felt a mix of excitement and fear. I said a quick prayer in gratitude that I had already pooped that morning.

The halfway point of the race was the worst – we were running along the highway in a breeze-less tunnel of swampy marshland. The humidity was stifling. Smells like alligator pee, I thought, and even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually sniffed alligator pee, I’m pretty sure it smells like a mixture of ammonia and decomposing water plants. I spied a clump of kids with strange costumes and noise makers cheering up ahead.

“I’m going to make those kids give me a high five,” I panted to Kristin.

Upon approaching the kids, I arranged my face in what I hoped was a grin and stuck out my hand. The first child, a girl, was rolling one of those two-sided drum-thingies between her palms and couldn’t be bothered to stop to give me a high five. A second child, a boy in some kind of mask, ran away as I approached. His younger brother, also masked, just stood there and watched me slowly approach, hand out. I gave his hand a quick slap and dashed away. I could hear Kristin behind me getting high five’d as well.

“You know their mom is going to douse them in Purell, right?” she said. If I could have laughed, I would.

Stay tuned for Part II!

Good news/bad news: Monday edition


You know how when you get about 8 messages in your voicemail box, and you really, really don’t feel like checking them? So you don’t, and you get a few more, and wow, now there are 12, and you really should just listen to them and get it over with, but you still don’t, and then you have 15, wait, 17, holy f*ck 19 messages, and now your voicemail box is full and your mom sends emails to both your work and personal addresses to make sure that you’re still alive because she couldn’t get a hold of you?

Yeah, that’s about how my life is right now. And my voicemail box really is full.

First of all, Hemo is once again MIA. She pulled this trick last year and hung out with her Black Boyfriend and the other feral cats around the block for a month and a half.  She’s been gone for 2 months now, and I’ve checked all her favorite hang out spots around the house and the neighborhood, along with some very random places that come to me in dreams and leave me in a panicked sweat. So far I’m certain she’s not dying a slow death in my dryer, under the house, in the trash bin, or in the neighbor’s yard trash can. I’m holding on to hope that she’s somewhere safe, and planning on gracing us with her presence in the very near future.

Next up: I completed my first 10k earlier this month (I’m going to go with a good news/bad news format to keep you on your toes). My friend Kristin and I have been running together with the goal of running a 1/2 marathon in November, and on July 10th we ran in our first race. It was pretty awesome; the course took us over 3 of the bridges spanning downtown Wilmington. It was a semi-rainy day and most of our friends were out of town, but there were plenty of volunteers and other strangers to give me all the high-fives I needed to complete the run in under my goal time (I was aiming to finish in <90 minutes, and finished in <70!). I actually have some pretty funny stories about the run that I will share at a later date (haha, I didn’t fall down! teehee, my thighs rubbed together so badly I got a strawberry on my inner thigh! Hilarious!).

The kittens are still homeless. They are absolutely adorable, and Ernie’s fascination has abated enough where he no longer is curious about how they taste (although one day I came home to find the two kittens asleep in Ernie’s bowl. Note to kittens: don’t push your luck). It’s pretty cute to see them curled up with Ernie or Dex on the couch, but the thought of cleaning a litter box for the next 15 or so years makes me want to pull my hair out. I need them gone STAT.

I’m semi-professionally (or at least not-doing-it-for-free) blogging here. Well, I guess this is a good news/bad news item combined, because my blogging-by-the-seat-of-my-pants style on this blog doesn’t translate very well to blogging-on-a-very-specific-topic style over there. I feel like a lot of my writing is falling flat, and although I’m blogging! about pets! a lot of the time I don’t feel very inspired. Feel free to read and offer some advice/criticism/kick in the pants. WTF am I not doing right? What’s missing (besides the illustrations; pretty sure those aren’t going to make an appearance outside of this blog)? BUT – this gig has bought me a new laptop, pays for my internet access, and is flying me to Denver in September for the BlogPaws West conference. So, overall a win.

My air conditioner is broken. As in, it’s still blowing out (some) cold air, but it’s also leaking condensation inside of my house and all over my living room floor. It’s too hot to do much more than call my landlord, put down some towels, and be grateful that I still haven’t replaced the rug that Dex had his most recent diarrhea attack all over. As I was watching a mini-marathon of “Intervention” on hulu, I thought to myself, “wow, that meth-addicted prostitute who just got fired from her job at the bath house keeps a pretty tidy house.” I was surrounded by sopping towels, white fluff (Dex has just destroyed another comforter), and potting soil (one of the kittens knocked over one of my philodendrons). Low point of the week month.

I’m blogging again. At least, I am today.