Monday, May 6, 2013
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Heather Von St. James, An Inspiration
Sometimes we get a dose of perspective. Not to say that what I write about isn't important, because it is, in it's own unique way. But it's true that sometimes theres more important things to read about. So, while I complain about ill fitting bras and panties and the lack of fair wages some women are fighting for their lives, literally. I was contacted recently by a woman who has fought a courageous battle with cancer. She was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer called Mesothelioma shortly after her daughter was born and fought hard against this rare disease. Her story is one of courage and triumph and she is an inspiration to women and cancer survivors everywhere. You can visit her blog here for more information. Here is a guest post from Heather Von St. James:
My journey
The term “it takes a village” is used frequently, but even so, I have recently come to truly believe it as a result of my own personal experiences. My daughter, Lily, was born on August 5, 2005 following a pregnancy that was fairly normal, all with the exception of an emergency C-section. Throughout the entire process, I was surrounded by my own “village.” This not only included my husband, but also his family, my own parents, and several friends. With life so wonderful, none of us could have expected the storm on the horizon.
I began to feel breathless, tired, and completely without energy about a month after I went back to work. These symptoms could easily have been dismissed as simply being related to being a new mother, but I still felt as though something was wrong. Consequently, I made the decision to see my doctor to try to find the root of the problem. After a series of tests, it was determined that stress was not the culprit, but instead, something far worse.
It was not even four months following Lily’s birth that I was diagnosed, on November 21, 2005, with malignant pleural mesothelioma. This is a type of cancer that involves the lining of the lungs. Generally, when someone is diagnosed with mesothelioma cancer, it is as the result of asbestos exposure. Although I didn’t know it as the time, I had come in contact with asbestos when I was just a child.
Without treatment, I only had about 15 months left according to my doctor. Naturally, my first thoughts during this terrifying time were not for myself, but for my husband and my young daughter. I realized I had to do whatever was necessary to be cured from this cancer to ensure they were not left completely alone in the world. Mesothelioma is extremely deadly, so we made the decision to obtain the most drastic treatment available. After talking with my parents, they agreed to watch the baby in their home in South Dakota while I received treatment. After they were settled, my husband and I traveled to Boston for the treatment. On February 2nd, I underwent a treatment known as extrapleural pneumenectomy under the care of one of the best mesothelioma physicians in the country. Through this procedure, the doctor removed my left lung as well as the surrounding lung tissue. I then went through another 18 days of recovery. This proved to be only one part of what would be a long procedure. I would require another two months of recovery before I could eventually undergo radiation and chemotherapy.
Being a new mother is always hard, but when you have cancer, it is even more difficult. I was eventually able to make a full recovery and I am happy to report I am now free of cancer. However, there is a good chance I would not be alive today if it had not been for my family and friends- my village. During this difficult time of our lives, our family and friends reached out to help us and my parents in taking care of our daughter. While undergoing treatment, I was forced to see some of my daughter’s important milestones through photos, but it was those photos that gave me the courage to keep fighting.
If I learned anything through my battle to fight mesothelioma, it is that life is fragile and should be fully embraced. Regardless of the fact that cancer can be deadly, good can still come from bad things in ways you might never anticipate.
Heather Von St James is a 43-year-old wife and mother. Upon her diagnosis of mesothelioma, she vowed to be a source of hope for other patients who found themselves with the same diagnosis. Now, over 6 years later, her story has been helping people all over the globe. She continues her advocacy and awareness work by blogging, speaking and sharing her message of hope and healing with others. Check out her story at the Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance Blog.
The term “it takes a village” is used frequently, but even so, I have recently come to truly believe it as a result of my own personal experiences. My daughter, Lily, was born on August 5, 2005 following a pregnancy that was fairly normal, all with the exception of an emergency C-section. Throughout the entire process, I was surrounded by my own “village.” This not only included my husband, but also his family, my own parents, and several friends. With life so wonderful, none of us could have expected the storm on the horizon.
I began to feel breathless, tired, and completely without energy about a month after I went back to work. These symptoms could easily have been dismissed as simply being related to being a new mother, but I still felt as though something was wrong. Consequently, I made the decision to see my doctor to try to find the root of the problem. After a series of tests, it was determined that stress was not the culprit, but instead, something far worse.
It was not even four months following Lily’s birth that I was diagnosed, on November 21, 2005, with malignant pleural mesothelioma. This is a type of cancer that involves the lining of the lungs. Generally, when someone is diagnosed with mesothelioma cancer, it is as the result of asbestos exposure. Although I didn’t know it as the time, I had come in contact with asbestos when I was just a child.
Without treatment, I only had about 15 months left according to my doctor. Naturally, my first thoughts during this terrifying time were not for myself, but for my husband and my young daughter. I realized I had to do whatever was necessary to be cured from this cancer to ensure they were not left completely alone in the world. Mesothelioma is extremely deadly, so we made the decision to obtain the most drastic treatment available. After talking with my parents, they agreed to watch the baby in their home in South Dakota while I received treatment. After they were settled, my husband and I traveled to Boston for the treatment. On February 2nd, I underwent a treatment known as extrapleural pneumenectomy under the care of one of the best mesothelioma physicians in the country. Through this procedure, the doctor removed my left lung as well as the surrounding lung tissue. I then went through another 18 days of recovery. This proved to be only one part of what would be a long procedure. I would require another two months of recovery before I could eventually undergo radiation and chemotherapy.
Being a new mother is always hard, but when you have cancer, it is even more difficult. I was eventually able to make a full recovery and I am happy to report I am now free of cancer. However, there is a good chance I would not be alive today if it had not been for my family and friends- my village. During this difficult time of our lives, our family and friends reached out to help us and my parents in taking care of our daughter. While undergoing treatment, I was forced to see some of my daughter’s important milestones through photos, but it was those photos that gave me the courage to keep fighting.
If I learned anything through my battle to fight mesothelioma, it is that life is fragile and should be fully embraced. Regardless of the fact that cancer can be deadly, good can still come from bad things in ways you might never anticipate.
Heather Von St James is a 43-year-old wife and mother. Upon her diagnosis of mesothelioma, she vowed to be a source of hope for other patients who found themselves with the same diagnosis. Now, over 6 years later, her story has been helping people all over the globe. She continues her advocacy and awareness work by blogging, speaking and sharing her message of hope and healing with others. Check out her story at the Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance Blog.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Striking a chord...
Hi all,
I saw this on the About Face blog. It's called "Fat Bottomed Girls" by Kim Selling and it really struck a chord, so I'm sharing:
http://vimeo.com/21221916
Hope you got something from it, I know I did.
Roaring Grrl
I saw this on the About Face blog. It's called "Fat Bottomed Girls" by Kim Selling and it really struck a chord, so I'm sharing:
http://vimeo.com/21221916
Hope you got something from it, I know I did.
Roaring Grrl
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Okay, So I'm not a complete idiot
So it turns out I'm not a total idiot. I can manage my way through a small sewing project. Fuck yeah. Careful not to fall into the trap of thinking that I'm supposed to just know how to sew, or knit, or cook I have embarked on some projects in the last year and a bit. To be honest, I've been shocked at the results...
I have made this:
And now this:
Both projects were fun to make. Obviously one was considerably more time consuming than the other, but more importantly the quilt was a far more empowering experience because I was surrounded by other women of various skills and strengths in the sisterhood of the sewing pants. We borrow the tools we don't have from others, and each bring a find dish from home to share at meal time. For every question, there was an answer given and not just regarding the world of patterns and yarn.
I had some time on my hands this weekend and borrowed the supplies I didn't have and forged ahead on my with a small pin cushion project. It was great to see it finished in one day! It was proof that the $$ I dropped on my new sewing machine won't go to waste. But I did it because I wanted to learn a new skill, a new craft. Not because I felt as a women I should do it-or because I was less of one if I didn't. My interest in sewing is natural and honest, and goddammit bring on the sales Fabricland cuz I'm waiting!
I have made this:
And now this:
Both projects were fun to make. Obviously one was considerably more time consuming than the other, but more importantly the quilt was a far more empowering experience because I was surrounded by other women of various skills and strengths in the sisterhood of the sewing pants. We borrow the tools we don't have from others, and each bring a find dish from home to share at meal time. For every question, there was an answer given and not just regarding the world of patterns and yarn.
 |
| Starting off...everything I need. Gave myself a small anxiety attack making the first few 'cuts'. Very, afraid of screwing this up! |
 |
| The first step...good grief, it worked! |
 |
| Second and Third steps went by so fast I didn't pause for photos-so here's the result. |
 |
| Not cool. Needed the internet and much meditation for the final stages. Very dramatic. |
Monday, January 9, 2012
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
If I wrote a book it would be about...
If I wrote a book it would be about being my mental illness. I would have no other choice because that it is the one constant thing in my life I have always come back to. I've just never known what it was it or what to call it. But last January 2010 that all changed when I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Mood Disorder and PTSD...
I recently read a book by Russell Brand called My Booky Wook. I thought it was absolutely brilliant! It also gave me a reason to pause and think about something very near to me. Some of the subject matter Brand writes about in his book hit a little too close to home for me to ignore. His book got me thinking about my writing, specifically that lack of it. It's no secret that my postings have been sparse in the past few months. At the very least they have been lacking quality-being random in topic and personal detail. There is reason for this of course; you can't be ashamed of what you haven't told people. Sometimes it's what you're not telling people that's the bigger story.
In truth, I've been scared to death to come out as diagnosed with a Mood Disorder and PTSD. Which, in contrast to the other things I've blogged about on here, is utterly ridiculous. To think about all that I have commented on here: sex toys, abusive mothers, body image issues, etc- and to not acknowledge my own mental illness is just silly. Sillyness I tell you! There is a stigma surrounding mental illness-due largely in to misinformation about it. Don't get me wrong, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest is a great movie and I really dig Jack Nicholason, but that's not exactly how it goes down in real life.
I, for one, have been sucked right into that stigma. Oddly enough I can talk about some of the most painful things I have endured in my lifetime, yet I have not been able to muster the courage to confess my diagnosis. I mean, it's not the plague for Christ's sake, but since I've learning of my disorder my life has changed and I have hidden it from others because I've been afraid of the reaction-plain and simple. I wasn't able to hide it from my employer, in part I think because I suffered a slight meltdown at work one day shortly after hearing some very stressful news about my mother:
I was able to finally catch my breath and wipe the snot off of my face. I got up off the damn floor and assured everyone around me that yes, I would be alright I was just having a 'bad day'. What a bunch of horse shit. I was ashamed, humiliated, and embarrassed for my actions. Worse, I thought with absolute certainty that my job was in real danger. Luckily, my coworkers and management thought otherwise and my lunch room antics were forgotten about before the end of the day. *Sigh*. I guess we've all had our 'bad days'. But I couldn't cope this time. I couldn't pull myself through it like I had managed to before. I couldn't put on my fake smile and nod my head in time with the others like I once could. This episode at work was proof enough to me that I was dealing with more than depression and that I was in over my head. This time is was worse than anything I'd ever danced with before. No, this dancing partner was not going to let go-and that's a very scary place to be.
So I drove myself to the medical clinic and asked for help. I went back on my antidepressants and unloaded all of the unnecessary stresses in my life.I started seeing a counsellor there, and was referred to a psychiatrist. I was able to meet with the counsellor twice a month which may not sound like much but for me it was enough to stave off the madness. We touched on things I hadn't shared with anyone, not even my best friend....my husband. That may sound awful, but when you hear voices in your head and you haven't slept in three days you can't be sure who you can trust. I came faithfully to all of my appointments and shared openly and honestly everything I was thinking and feeling. I was truly thankful to have a counsellor who cared and listened during those first few weeks while I waited to be contacted by the psychiatrist. Unlike in the movies, these things take time due to lengthy waiting lists, due to how many crackers are out there like me.
But I did eventually meet with a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 in January 2011. Later, I was diagnosed with PTSD. I met with this psychiatrist only twice and decided that I didn't like him-so I fired him. Okay, it didn't actually happen like that but it sounds more interesting. I went back to my referring physician and asked to see another psychiatrist (tricky considering there are only two in our small little corner of the world). I was granted a second referral and that psychiatrist is a wonderful, kind, and most important, patient man. Patient because he never interrupts, and no matter what gobble-de-gook comes out of my marbled mouth he always stares back at me like it all made sense to him. Bless his heart. I think I love him. Just kidding. But he not the only one who has helped me realize I'm not in this alone. There are others who have helped me realize the lengthy journey ahead is not mine to swim through alone.
My husband holds my hand sometimes. Just a simple thing we do-and it means the world to me. When words fail me, when tears come-there is always the unspoken power that a man an wife share. This man has seen me at my worst. I have called him every name in the book. Even the really rotten ones. The hurtful ones no one should ever say. I've done it all to him. I've thrown things at him, including my wedding rings, and yet, he's still here. I eventually shared all of my thoughts and feelings with him and promised him I would never shut him out, ever. He still rubs my back when I'm having a 'bad day' and listens when I shakily tell that the noises and voices are back. He checks to make sure I'm writing in my mood journal every night before bed. He looks after the kids when I just......can't. He patiently explains to family and friends that sometimes I'm just not myself and makes no apology for it, ever. I'm sure many people diagnosed will tell you that they have felt shunned by friends and family when they share the news of their illness-it's an awful feeling. That fear is why I have kept quiet for as long as I have. Until now.
I have a friend. She shall remain nameless. She is the closest thing I've had to a role model my whole life. She is my best friend, she is my female heroine. She is strong, she is smart, she is funny and not afraid to turn that humour inward to laugh at herself once in awhile. She shares the same disorder I do. She is open about her disorder, and that fact (along with Brand's Booky Wook) is another huge catalyst for this post. Without courageous people like her, people like me would walk the streets trying to pretend that there is nothing different about us (wrong) and go to bed feeling ashamed of who we are (also wrong). I have turned to her on so many occasions that I don't know how I will ever pay the debt back. She has experienced first hand how frightening the initial diagnosis is, the stigma the illness creates, the side effects medications cause, and all the rest of it. She has lived. She's fought many a battle and been in the deepest and darkest of trenches, and I will truly never know her pain, only that I am fortunate enough to call her my friend.
There are many aspects to my illness that I will keep to myself for now only because there lots of sorting and filing in this head of mine yet to do before it will make sense to anyone reading it. I have since spoken with my coworker and management where I work and openly shared my diagnosis and that my aforementioned 'bad day' at work was most certainly due to my disorder. Who knew? More will come later when I'm ready for it to be out of my head and out there in cyber land. It's still very much a daily struggle as this is still a new diagnosis to me-even though it's a year later. I'm still in the process of finding medication that works best for me, and that has been a year long effort so far with no end in sight. It's exhausting. There are certain things that will make living with Bipolar more bearable. With a diagnosis, I have something to call it. Something to sink my teeth into. I can read about it, research it, learn about it. I now know why I shouldn't drink for starters. No shit. Like, why didn't I figure this one out before? When I drink I don't just like to party-no, I go all out and become the party. I can finally understand why sleep has escaped me throughout the years, as insomnia happens to be a huge warning sign that one's moods are shifting. I now know why I don't like changes in my routine or why risk taking became a sport during my early twenties. You know those scenes in movies where kids are standing up in the back seat of a jeep, speeding down a highway, in the middle of the night, with music blaring, speeding faster and faster...well....I really did that once...except it was faster. And now I know why.
So for now, life is one day at a time. Sometimes two. Maybe three. Then the reality kicks in and I have to take it one at a time again. I have to force myself to slow it down. The urge to forget my illness is always there-tempting me like a box of Smarties. Sometimes I have to actually say 'slow down'. This speeding up of course is just one of several symptoms of my disorder. Knowing them helps to understand them and keep them from running my life. There are things I can maintain control of and work hard at. I keep all of my appointments, and talk openly with my husband about everything discussed. I read constantly about my disorders and keep a journal and daily mood chart. I take my medications as directed and contact my psychiatrist as soon something feels 'off'. I also abstain from alcohol and drugs because I know that it will do severe and permanent damage to my liver. But most importantly, as simplistic as it seems, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Each day, every day. I hug my kids as often as I can, tell my family I love them and try my hardest to remember none of this is my fault. That I didn't ask to be sick. It just is. I have to keep my chin up so that when I'm drowning I can call out for help.
Thanks for reading.
Roaring Grrl
I recently read a book by Russell Brand called My Booky Wook. I thought it was absolutely brilliant! It also gave me a reason to pause and think about something very near to me. Some of the subject matter Brand writes about in his book hit a little too close to home for me to ignore. His book got me thinking about my writing, specifically that lack of it. It's no secret that my postings have been sparse in the past few months. At the very least they have been lacking quality-being random in topic and personal detail. There is reason for this of course; you can't be ashamed of what you haven't told people. Sometimes it's what you're not telling people that's the bigger story.
In truth, I've been scared to death to come out as diagnosed with a Mood Disorder and PTSD. Which, in contrast to the other things I've blogged about on here, is utterly ridiculous. To think about all that I have commented on here: sex toys, abusive mothers, body image issues, etc- and to not acknowledge my own mental illness is just silly. Sillyness I tell you! There is a stigma surrounding mental illness-due largely in to misinformation about it. Don't get me wrong, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest is a great movie and I really dig Jack Nicholason, but that's not exactly how it goes down in real life.
I, for one, have been sucked right into that stigma. Oddly enough I can talk about some of the most painful things I have endured in my lifetime, yet I have not been able to muster the courage to confess my diagnosis. I mean, it's not the plague for Christ's sake, but since I've learning of my disorder my life has changed and I have hidden it from others because I've been afraid of the reaction-plain and simple. I wasn't able to hide it from my employer, in part I think because I suffered a slight meltdown at work one day shortly after hearing some very stressful news about my mother:
Scene: me: on the floor, head in hands, tears and snot rolling down my face
coworker: calmly talking me through worst day of my life whilst handing me endless kleenex
employer: walking into room, with genuine concern and fear on confusion on face
(all of the above taking place in staff lunch room.)
I was able to finally catch my breath and wipe the snot off of my face. I got up off the damn floor and assured everyone around me that yes, I would be alright I was just having a 'bad day'. What a bunch of horse shit. I was ashamed, humiliated, and embarrassed for my actions. Worse, I thought with absolute certainty that my job was in real danger. Luckily, my coworkers and management thought otherwise and my lunch room antics were forgotten about before the end of the day. *Sigh*. I guess we've all had our 'bad days'. But I couldn't cope this time. I couldn't pull myself through it like I had managed to before. I couldn't put on my fake smile and nod my head in time with the others like I once could. This episode at work was proof enough to me that I was dealing with more than depression and that I was in over my head. This time is was worse than anything I'd ever danced with before. No, this dancing partner was not going to let go-and that's a very scary place to be.
So I drove myself to the medical clinic and asked for help. I went back on my antidepressants and unloaded all of the unnecessary stresses in my life.I started seeing a counsellor there, and was referred to a psychiatrist. I was able to meet with the counsellor twice a month which may not sound like much but for me it was enough to stave off the madness. We touched on things I hadn't shared with anyone, not even my best friend....my husband. That may sound awful, but when you hear voices in your head and you haven't slept in three days you can't be sure who you can trust. I came faithfully to all of my appointments and shared openly and honestly everything I was thinking and feeling. I was truly thankful to have a counsellor who cared and listened during those first few weeks while I waited to be contacted by the psychiatrist. Unlike in the movies, these things take time due to lengthy waiting lists, due to how many crackers are out there like me.
But I did eventually meet with a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 in January 2011. Later, I was diagnosed with PTSD. I met with this psychiatrist only twice and decided that I didn't like him-so I fired him. Okay, it didn't actually happen like that but it sounds more interesting. I went back to my referring physician and asked to see another psychiatrist (tricky considering there are only two in our small little corner of the world). I was granted a second referral and that psychiatrist is a wonderful, kind, and most important, patient man. Patient because he never interrupts, and no matter what gobble-de-gook comes out of my marbled mouth he always stares back at me like it all made sense to him. Bless his heart. I think I love him. Just kidding. But he not the only one who has helped me realize I'm not in this alone. There are others who have helped me realize the lengthy journey ahead is not mine to swim through alone.
My husband holds my hand sometimes. Just a simple thing we do-and it means the world to me. When words fail me, when tears come-there is always the unspoken power that a man an wife share. This man has seen me at my worst. I have called him every name in the book. Even the really rotten ones. The hurtful ones no one should ever say. I've done it all to him. I've thrown things at him, including my wedding rings, and yet, he's still here. I eventually shared all of my thoughts and feelings with him and promised him I would never shut him out, ever. He still rubs my back when I'm having a 'bad day' and listens when I shakily tell that the noises and voices are back. He checks to make sure I'm writing in my mood journal every night before bed. He looks after the kids when I just......can't. He patiently explains to family and friends that sometimes I'm just not myself and makes no apology for it, ever. I'm sure many people diagnosed will tell you that they have felt shunned by friends and family when they share the news of their illness-it's an awful feeling. That fear is why I have kept quiet for as long as I have. Until now.
I have a friend. She shall remain nameless. She is the closest thing I've had to a role model my whole life. She is my best friend, she is my female heroine. She is strong, she is smart, she is funny and not afraid to turn that humour inward to laugh at herself once in awhile. She shares the same disorder I do. She is open about her disorder, and that fact (along with Brand's Booky Wook) is another huge catalyst for this post. Without courageous people like her, people like me would walk the streets trying to pretend that there is nothing different about us (wrong) and go to bed feeling ashamed of who we are (also wrong). I have turned to her on so many occasions that I don't know how I will ever pay the debt back. She has experienced first hand how frightening the initial diagnosis is, the stigma the illness creates, the side effects medications cause, and all the rest of it. She has lived. She's fought many a battle and been in the deepest and darkest of trenches, and I will truly never know her pain, only that I am fortunate enough to call her my friend.
So for now, life is one day at a time. Sometimes two. Maybe three. Then the reality kicks in and I have to take it one at a time again. I have to force myself to slow it down. The urge to forget my illness is always there-tempting me like a box of Smarties. Sometimes I have to actually say 'slow down'. This speeding up of course is just one of several symptoms of my disorder. Knowing them helps to understand them and keep them from running my life. There are things I can maintain control of and work hard at. I keep all of my appointments, and talk openly with my husband about everything discussed. I read constantly about my disorders and keep a journal and daily mood chart. I take my medications as directed and contact my psychiatrist as soon something feels 'off'. I also abstain from alcohol and drugs because I know that it will do severe and permanent damage to my liver. But most importantly, as simplistic as it seems, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Each day, every day. I hug my kids as often as I can, tell my family I love them and try my hardest to remember none of this is my fault. That I didn't ask to be sick. It just is. I have to keep my chin up so that when I'm drowning I can call out for help.
Thanks for reading.
Roaring Grrl
Apology not accepted Vinny G.
Yeah. I can' keep quiet on this one. Sorry Vinny G but your apology falls short. Way short. He wrote a song, or rap or something or other and posted it on You Tube. The song was meant to be a funny take on another song he'd previously written as TMZ pointed out on their website earlier today here. I mean, come fucking on. The whole thing is just another reason these kids should not be allowed to profit from their own stupidity. Here's a guy who lives in a house with other guys (pardon me for not knowing all of their names) during the taping of Jersey Shore and is a part of on going mistreatment of women. It's one drunk woman after the other who is led into bedrooms, jacuzzis', and of course the smooshing (fuck I can't make this shit up) room. And, as drunk as these women are, no one does anything about it. No one stops them and says, "Hey honey, you've had a lot, why don't we let our producers put you in a cab and send you on your pitiful way so you can barf your alcohol up and not have to endure the walk of shame in half an hour's time?"
Just saying'.
But no. Our little angel, self proclaimed 'good guy' from Jersey Shore Vinny G. feels he does enough for women because as he posted on his blog earlier he:
*Sigh* So, no Vinnie G. I don't accept your apology. I don't accept it on behalf of my nine year old daughter, nor do I accept on behalf of anyone else out there who is unaware of your stupidity. Stop while ahead. Take the money you have earned from the show and get a decent education, preferably one that includes some Women's Studies classes.
Roaring Grrl
Just saying'.
But no. Our little angel, self proclaimed 'good guy' from Jersey Shore Vinny G. feels he does enough for women because as he posted on his blog earlier he:
"I am 100 percent against violence of any kind. I work with many organizations to stop violence and bullying, and will continue to. It's something I strongly believe in. Very sorry to anyone I've offended."Really? Really! Oh, and in case any of you thought I was being too hard on poor Mr. Guadagnino, here is a sample of the lyrics:
"Oh you a fan? You wanna take a pic?I like your crack girl ... I wanna take a hit. Yeah I'm takin' it ... I'm a get you naked b*tch ... We can f**k and make it fit... boomin s**t and slatin' it. Actin' like I'm raping it ... f** k her til she fakin' it."
*Sigh* So, no Vinnie G. I don't accept your apology. I don't accept it on behalf of my nine year old daughter, nor do I accept on behalf of anyone else out there who is unaware of your stupidity. Stop while ahead. Take the money you have earned from the show and get a decent education, preferably one that includes some Women's Studies classes.
Roaring Grrl
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Laura Vandervoort Asks, 'Whose Skin Are You In?'
Boo Peta,
Laura Vandervoort Asks, 'Whose Skin Are You In?': Actress Laura Vandervoort stars in a sexy PETA ad—her body painted to look like a lizard's—to urge others to leave wildlife out of their wardrobes…
Laura Vandervoort Asks, 'Whose Skin Are You In?': Actress Laura Vandervoort stars in a sexy PETA ad—her body painted to look like a lizard's—to urge others to leave wildlife out of their wardrobes…
Um, okay. I'm seriously conflicted here. This ad by PETA really pisses me off. Not because I don't in PETA, but because the ad uses an image that objectifies women to sell their message. Much like the Pamela Anderson ad a while back this one poses the women in a sexual way that lends itself to gender stereotyping. Women are just here on this Earth as sexual objects; objects that can be bent, manipulated, and spread....for the purposes of men to stare at and drool over. Neither ad portrays women in an intelligent way, and i'm disappointed that an organization so worthy of the world's support for their cause could stoop to these levels. And while I support and their efforts to end the unethical treat I can't support this ad campaign. Boo Peta.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Empower women and change the world
Empower
poem by Roaring Grrl
Empower
Feed her, clothe her, keep her warm
nourish her soul and spirit
her life gives back
on and on
Teach her, mend her, heal her.
give her freedom to grow
her life gives back
on and on
Love her, nurture her, support her
let her dreams take flight
her life give back
on and on
Woman
This week I'd like to invite all of my readers to participate in the 2011 Girl Effect Blogging Campaign. You can go the Girl Effect page here to find out more about this campaign and details on how you can participate. Women have a powerful voice, and the blogosphere is one more way women can share their ideas and tell their stories to others worldwide.
Write a post and share it!
So, now I too have shared....as you brilliant women folk may have noticed by the above poem. My poetry is rare on here- as it's not my strongest area of writing (cough, cough, snicker). However, the message is simple and clear:
Empower a woman and you change the world.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Alison's getting a new office
It's Sunday morning and I'm too lazy to actually write in length about Alison Redford's new job; (in truth I don't know shit about politics) -but I thought I would share. Kudos Alison!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)