In Which I Upset Everyone I have Ever Met, Probably

OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY, It's time for another one of Elly's insane rants that will probably make people mad at her because it dissects common things that lots of people do but look I don't CARE okay!

So hey, you know how all those winter holidays just happened a minute ago? (By the way, I wasn't dead, just computerless due to winter vacation shuffleage. I'll be purchasing a new machine soon, as my actual laptop is now a hunk of useless.) Yeah, 'member them? It seems like there is not a single year that goes by that this exchange does not occur in some manner.

Person A: Happy Holidays!
Person B: Man, that's so PC and lame. Just say Merry Christmas like you're SUPPOSED TO.

Or something similar, with varying degrees of hostility and/or declarations of "j/k."

So, I think we all know what's going to happen now.

No, don't leave. Come back. At least read the whole thing before you click that X button or leave an angry comment about my PC Policery. No, I'm not sure if policery's a real word, but it should be and so I declare that it is.

...This rant is all over the place, huh?

ANYway. The thing about being ZOMG SO PEE-SEE is that it is not intended to be about policing people's language for the lulz and a smug sense of superiority. (It's not INTENDED to be, which doesn't mean it never IS, but my rants on Gotcha Policing BS are for another time.) It's about not being a huge jerk who writes other people off based on the fact that they are different from you.

That in mind: Dear Christians who will say that YOU celebrate CHRISTMAS the was GOD INTENDED or the same thing in a way that isn't so overtly trollish, I am thinking you would kind of hate it if everyone you talked to all winter just said "Happy Hanukkah" with a sneering grin every time you said "Merry Christmas." On top of THAT, imagine that, all winter long, the radio plays maaaaaaybe three novelty songs about Christmas, and about a kajillion about Hanukkah. To say nothing of all the Hanukkah specials on TV, with not a one about the actual one you celebrate, unless they still air that Rugrats special. (I go with Hanukkah here because it's the most mainstream-ly known "alternative" holiday to Christmas, but feel free to substitute any other religious winter celebration you like, as there are a whole lot.) See, as it turns out, the Annual Christmas Smothering that starts ten minutes after kids go Trick-or-Treating these days becomes a lot more obvious and uncomfortable when one isn't actually, you know, Christian.

Let's keep that in mind, here. In America, there is this crazy little thing called "Freedom of Religion." In fact, some craaaazy hippies have interpreted this to mean they can also be free FROM religion, meaning that they can choose to consider themselves Atheist or Agnostic, and have no sort of god in their lives at all. Crazy hippies like me, let's remember. And since it is now 2010, which is officially The Future, and we have become a much more enlightened and intelligent society than we used to be, these people are no longer burned at the stake or even laughed at as quaint novelties (in public, anyway). And yet, while we Americans Of The Future don't blink an eye when someone tells us they are Muslim, or Jewish, or Pagan, or...Norse or something, once the weather turns wintry, so many of us are quick to completely write off the idea that they might have their OWN celebrations, that don't involve decorating trees because a shiny baby was born in a barn. That, in fact, maybe THEY have holidays that might have some tenets about hope and love and togetherness and all that crap that is touted in every Christmas special ever. And when someone says "Happy Holidays" in an attempt to not leave them out or make them feel marginalized despite not being able to tell on sight what holiday(s) they might celebrate, if any, it is kind of rude to sneer back "Merry Christmas," as if that were the only option.

For that matter, even if Christmas IS the only religious holiday you celebrate, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, completely non-denominational holidays based on the REVOLUTION OF THE ENTIRE PLANET as determined by the calendar commonly used in the modern world, are literally a week after Christmas. "Happy Holidays" is a much easier, more convenient and less messy way to wish one has a joyous celebration than "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year." This is to say nothing of typing all that, sweet diety of your choice in a handbasket.

And for all of those scared, or angry, or...whatever at the PC brigade for some supposed violation of your rights to free speech, I have some very simple points to make: One, no one is MAKING you be politically correct, and as soon as such legislation goes into place you can bet your bottom dollar that I will have no kind words for it. Free speech is free speech. But, you know, let me know when it becomes the law, alright? Two: You are still "allowed" to say "Merry Christmas" to people if you KNOW THEY CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS FOR EFF'S SAKE. And Three: It is a known law of the universe that as soon as one opens one's mouth to say they "aren't PC" anything that follows or is justified by this will make one sound like the bag attached to an object used by women to clean out their nether regions. Scientific FACT.

Hopefully my lighthearted tone and reasoning skills of death will have reduced any negative feelings felt as a knee-jerk reaction to the introduction of the topic. Please feel free to not tell me that I am taking things too seriously once again, as I will point and laugh and either ignore you or send you links to some seriously 101 crap. However, any comments asking for legitimate discussion or clarification, offering agreement and a slice of Word pie, or even just agreements to disagree are perfectly welcome. Please, keep in mind that you are discussing t3h ev0l political correctness with someone who frequently makes jokes that her best friend (a WWII history buff for those of you who don't actually know her that well) is actually Adolf Hitler and her father is Josef Stalin.

ATTENTION LOLSMITHS

Unless you have something really mind-blowingly original--and I mean that with the utmost seriousness--please stop doing jokes that basically boil down to "Men and women sure are different huh lolololol". The same goes if you replace "men" and "women" with "white people" and "any ethnicity other than white people."

It is hack material and it is not funny anymore and seriously shut up about it. I will close the webpage, change the channel, close the book, or leave the area because you have made it apparently obvious that you are now out of material and must fall back on the same exact generic crap that every lame unfunny hack has done since THE DAWN OF TIME.

This goes double if the joke elaborates into "men like sex and sports and women like shoes and feelings" or some variation. (Apply your own racial flavor, if you so choose.)

That is all.

You were lookin' in the mirror and you wish you had some pot?

So apparently Amanda Palmer, who is awesome, had a falling out with her record label because she didn't want to cut out shots of her (incredibly hot) body out of her latest video, on the basis that she had a bit of a tummy and was thusly "not marketable" or some crap like that. This is fairly old news, so stay with me.

Palmer did what was right in flipping these jerkwads the bird, and they responded by refusing to promote her new album or single, I think. Details are hazy there. Palmer's fans and other people who can see the plain messed-up-ness of this nonsense have responded with The Rebellyon, which is comprised of many people sending in pictures of their own bellies with the knowledge that they all look amazing and are all beautiful and other hippie granola stuff that people will make fun of me for thinking.

I thought this Rebellyon was an awesome idea, and lamented its arrival being during the time when my real computer (with the webcam) is out of commission. Then, while perusing the subject further maybe about an hour ago, I realized: I HAD a picture of my belly, from a few months ago, when I was dying for snacks between shopping trips and thought it would be cute to take a silly little "SNAX PLOX" picture. So without further ado, I present my Belly.

And you know what? I'm quite proud of my little-kid-proturding tummy; moreso than I am of my bony hips because at least my tummy doesn't hurt immensely when I bang it on a doorframe. But I'd proudly take a picture of my bony hips (which are more like Shins Part 2, with how much covering they have) and post that on the internet if it meant something.

And I'd give you my toes, which I've always thought looked like men's toes on the basis that all the women in my life as a child (on my mother's side, mostly) had toes like my mother, and I had toes like my father, and all the pedicure ideas in magazines had toenails like me mother's to facilitate putting little mail polish pictures on them. I alas, have no room for such things.

And I'd give you my hands, which look, to me, at the same time like an old woman's and like a little girl's: worn from artistry and scarred from endless hangnails. (I was going to mention my warts too, but they seem to have mysteriously disappeared, which is strange because I have had the one wart for as long as I can remember, so I'm going to assume the wart fairy took them away.) My nails are never pretty; not since I stopped getting acrylics on them and went back to using my teeth for nail clippers and chewing off the polish whenever I do bother to polish them. They are, to my credit, almost always bizarrely clean, because I am so anal retentive about cleaning gunk out from my fingernails. (I used to come back from Painting and Ceramics classes with hands just as sparkling as they were when I walked in. There was probably paint or clay all over my clothes and in my hair, but MY HANDS WERE CLEAN. I put them in my mouth a lot.)

I'd describe similarly how I'd proudly display my bra-clad breasts, but my breasts are frankly my favorite part of my anatomy, so that would just be bragging. Suffice it to say my boobs are awesom and I heart them. (I do not heart the little lone black hairs that appear around my aurolae that bother me so much that I have to tweeze them away even if no one's going to be seeing them. WTF boobhairs; I am a blonde.)

I'd take pictures, if it had a larger purpose, of my unshaven legs in the fur coat I'm growing on them for winter. Other than the hair, very light on the top half and dark on the bottom half, they're pretty much ideal as far as Western Beauty Standards (tm) go. Other than bringing me only to 5'2", anyway. I'd proudly display my weird knees. Does anyone have attractive knees? Knees are pretty bizarre in general; like feet or genitals.

If I could get all high-res and artistic, even, I'd take close-up pictures of my shoulders so you could see the details I love about them most. They're freckled and shiny from years of sunburn after sunburn; the results of loving the beach but also being largely Irish.

If I could show the Internet at large the details in my face and hair that show up in a mirror but no on camera, I'd love to. The very specific pattern the tiny hairs in my nostrils make when I check for boogers. The thousands of freckles that run together to make freckle blotches that blend into my skin until summertime comes back. The pores on my nose. The blackheads on the edge of my upper lip that I can't get rid of because they are in such a difficult spot to get at without giving myself a fat lip. The individual hairs between my eyebrows that make me self-conscious about unibrow possibilities and so, must be shaved with that little As-Seen-On-TV electric thing for shaving tiny areas. The pattern made by the skin on my lips, which is a lot more pronounced when they're dry. The "beauty marks" on my cheeks. My crooked bottom teeth. All my split ends. The paint or glue or tea or clay or lip balm that is probably in my hair, no matter how long it's been since I've used any of those things. (Paint is an especially bad offender; I've seen blue ends a full week after using paint.)

I'd show you these things (for a real purpose, not for someone's gratification) because I know I am beautiful. And you know what? You're beautiful too. No, shut up, I mean it. You're reading my blog, which means I probably know you personally and can attest to it, but either way, I think everyone's got something beautiful to reveal. And once you own that? Everything else follows suit. People can see it.

Also, cookies for anyone who gets the title for this entry and why it is applicable..

Please Do Not Pump Them Up. Please.

Alright, so coming up on two Saturdays ago, I went to go see the Rocky Horror Picture Show. (Alas, I was a virgin and everything.) Now, I’m pretty sure everyone with a functioning sex drive will agree with me that Frank N. Furter, for all his psychotic Meatloaf-eating and straight-kid-seducing ways, is pretty much made of sex. And if you don’t, I guess my only response is to stare slack-jawed and break my brain trying to fathom why. (Possible reasons: You have not seen the movie; maybe Tim Curry is eternally Nigel Thornberry for you; etc. These are okay reasons, I guess.)

And then, something strange happened. Instead of wondering how someone could not want to have this Sweet Transvestite break into their cheaply-filtered guest room, I wondered why I did. I mean, honestly, I’ve got no attraction for Tim Curry outside the stockings, pearls, and heavy makeup. It was then that I started to think about The Seventies.

I recently learned that, during the “lost weekend” in these aforementioned The Seventies, already-rather-pretty-boy John Lennon stole May Pang’s flower-decorated jeans because they fit him. Being a nerd for John Lennon, I thought this was maybe one of the greatest things ever. (Also, now that I think about it, it means that the dream I had long ago where George Harrison followed me home from Wal-Mart and permanently borrowed my pants because his were ruined in the rain makes a lot more sense.)

I have conjectured that everyone, deep down inside, somewhere in their heart of hearts, would totally do David Bowie. I stand by this conjecture, and will write off any evidence anyone can provide to the contrary as mere outliers and flukes that don’t usually occur in nature. No, I don’t care. Really. La la la la la, I can’t hear you.

I watch anime and have a fondness for Japanese pop culture. That...that’s really all I need to say about my love of feminine men, isn’t it?

I wonder if it’s a coincidence that I came across all these wonderful things (especially Japan) during puberty. I know that, as a child, I really bought into that “gender roles” crap, once I came to terms with the fact that they wouldn’t let me be a Boy Scout because I was Not a Boy. (I still want to go swimming in a lake with fish in it. No fair.) But, somewhere along the line my ideal guy changed from my pre-pubescent fantasy of some short-blonde-haired, blue-eyed, business-suited Soap Opera Hunk to my current, post-pubescent fantasy of a delicate-featured, long-and-silky-haired, glitter-covered Asian in tight leather pants and go-go boots.

Imagine if I hadn’t been exposed to glam rock and hippies and J-pop at such a formative age? I might have been dating some square like Brad Majors these days.

P.S. No, I hate Twilight, don’t even ask.