A ranty, funny, dead-serious intersectional feminist blog.

Humor

Choosing My Words and Introducing Rosie’s Phenomenal Insult Machine!

BULLSHITwordshurtbr

Trigger warning for discussion of multiple potentially difficult topics.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words can never hurt me.

A few years ago, I posted to my Facebook page a wish that parents would stop (or at least stop and think before) repeating this to their children. Words can and do hurt, I pointed out, and parents argued, “Yes, but this is a tool that maybe empowers them. Something they can say back to a bully.”

Ok, but it seems to me that two things happen when we give them this “tool” to wield: 1. We lie to them (because those words do hurt!) and tell them to go forth and lie some more. 2. We we tell them that their feelings are invalid or abnormal or both, and that they should hide those feelings from others. So the “tool” is a weapon to help them feel/seem stronger and they must hide the hurt lest they be seen as (or heaven forbid feel) weak.

This doesn’t seem healthy to me. The people my age who grew up using this “tool” became adults who often believe that words don’t have power and that people who claim to be hurt by them are either attention-seekers or whiners or both. In other words, the people who claim harm are either lying (because words don’t hurt!) or they’re weak. But…

Words hurt.  

privilege (1)Another symptom of this belief that words are “just words” is the fact that the idea of using “politically correct” language is a Bad Thing even among some progressives. While the term itself was coined as a jab, the “PC” movement was really just an attempt to create awareness of the harm some words do to people on the margins of society. I remember people joking years ago after making an off-color comment that it wasn’t “PC,” half-heartedly apologizing for the potential offense while effectively dismissing any criticism preemptively. Now there seems to be a culture of intolerance of tolerance itself which has spawned (or partly spawned by?) a misguided backlash against a misunderstood idea. Whereas the point was to remind people who gave a shit how simple (if not always easy) it is to choose words that don’t cause harm, the people who complain about it the most are ones who seem to feel persecuted because they have to worry that if they say something people don’t like then consequences might result.

Dude, it doesn’t affect you, so you don’t give a shit. We get it. But crying “WORD POLICE!” and “FREE SPEECH!” every time someone calls you out just makes you look like a jackass (and kind of a whiny one, at that). Because this is Earth and on Earth (say it with me now)…

freedomofspeech

As an activist, I have learned to choose my words more carefully partly because I have listened to marginalized people who express how though it might seem like a small thing to someone who doesn’t deal with it regularly, a single dehumanizing word is a drop in a bucket that collects those drops all day every day until that person feels like they are drowning in them. Recently a commenter on my Facebook page (one of the many dudes who stop by to tell me I’m doing my feminism wrong) said that focusing on microagressions like this is somehow detracting from work done in other areas. Yeah, no. Like drops in the bucket, these microaggressions become a part of a storm that beats people down until depression, anxiety, even PTSD result. When you consider that you could be a part of that storm or not, well…I’d rather not.

So many words we (we as individuals with varying levels of privilege and power, we as a society) use casually reinforce stereotypes or make insults of things that shouldn’t be insulting or trivialize things that are not trivial…the words we use to tell boys not to ever get caught behaving like girls and to practice strict masculinity at all costs (words which also tell all the girls who hear them that to be a girl is to be less-than); the words we use to tell girls and women that we are, as a group, unstable and prone to hysteria, not credible as witnesses to our own lives; the words we—cisbodied people—use to tell trans and nonbinary people that we don’t view them as quite “real” and that their role is comic relief, and the ones straight people use to tell gay people that who they love makes them abnormal; the words we—able-bodied and/or neurotypical people—use to dehumanize people with mental and physical differences, that paint them as everything from inspirational tragedies to animals to jokes; the words we—white people—use remind Black people that it is our privilege to go from birth to death with zero understanding of their experiences; the words we use to tell victims of sexual assault that if their attacker didn’t come out of a dark alley or if they drank or wore a short skirt, we will not believe them.

alisonrowan.com

alisonrowan.com

Words matter.

And so I am trying to be conscious of the words I choose and yes, it’s sometimes uncomfortable. Learning is hard. Growing pains. What’s the alternative? Ignorance. Stagnation. Regression. No thank you.

Still with me? Good. This is the fun part.

As a woman who is a feminist who is also on the Internet, words hurt me more than I let on, partly because of my social training and partly because I would rather laugh than rage or cry. So, as often as possible, I find a way to laugh or otherwise release some stress. Sometimes I make comics. Sometimes I write angry blog posts.

And sometimes (like since the baby anti-feminists found my Facebook page) I find that I need (ok, want—ok, no, need) to employ an insult in response to or about someone who is wrong on the Internet (usually some antifeminist with the privilege of being utterly unaware of their own privilege or a company or organization or website or…). When I do, I want that insult to hit only one target with zero collateral damage. I want an insult that sums up the problem behavior/person without participating in the dehumanization of marginalized people or perpetuating oppressive systems in any way.

In other words, I want a precision strike.

That’s why I created Rosie’s Phenomenal Precision Insult Machine. Behold:

Screen Shot 2014-12-27 at 10.38.30 AM

RPPIM takes terms from two columns and randomly combines them into one insult. You can choose how many insults to display in the upper right where it says “Amount.” Click “DO IT!” or refresh to generate new insults. I made this a while ago using RandomGen by Orteil and have shared it a few times, and friends have helpfully suggested additions. (If you’d like to do the same, use the comments or hit me up on Twitter.) It was mostly just a way to blow off steam and also a reminder that there are SO MANY alternatives to some of our go-to words and phrases. I love the fact that the people who tried it said it made them laugh and that they couldn’t stop clicking.

DO IT!

DO IT!

Words can do harm. But we’re not going to stop using them to describe bad behavior and the people doing bad things. So as long as that’s true, I’m going to make it a point to use fewer words that contribute to the problems in the world in the ways that contribute to those problems.

And I’m going to keep finding ways to laugh.


Note: As is often the case, I have made some post-publication edits for clarity.

PSA: Abusive commenters will be deleted and banned, so kindly piss off in advance. (Comment Policy)


Make Me a Sammich: The Comic #4 – Cubs at the Door

MMASCOMICheader

CubsAtTheDoor2

Yep, they’ve found me. Tiny MRA larvae. They’re not nearly as cute as baby slugs. ;)


The Kitten Setting: An Experiment

kitteh

This is how I will imagine trolls from now on….

Recently Mandaray told me about the Kitten Setting: a method for dealing with trolls on the Internet. I’ve been dying to try it out. Behold my first attempt at employing the Kitten Setting. For SCIENCE!

Kittehfied.

Kittehfied.

See the ongoing saga here (see warning below):

The Kitten Setting: An Experiment (with tweets) · MMASammich · Storify.

Now including…

Part I: FUN

Part II: The Troll Came Back…

Part III: Disappointment (sad trombone) [Warning: Contains porn.]

Part IV: The Silence of the Kittens

Part V: Kitten Claims VICTORY


Respectful discussion is welcome and encouraged. When in doubt, see the Comment Policy.


Desperately Seeking…Something

Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan

Susan…just in case.

After the events of yesterday, I thought we could all use some lighter fare. Love ya.

For months now I’ve watched as search terms and phrases appear on my WordPress stats page and I find myself alternately giggling, smiling, squinting, frowning, boggling, rolling my eyes, exclaiming my horror, and sometimes even feeling a little bit sorry people didn’t find what they were looking for. If you blog or run a website, you’ll know just what I mean. The search terms section of stats can be a useful way of showing you how your audience is finding you–but it’s also a stark revelation that some people trip over your site looking for something else entirely.

Here we see a list of expected (or at least unsurprising) terms and phrases all the way up to the last:

Click to enlarge.

Most surprising to me was not that the phrase appeared, but that during the specified time period FOURTEEN PEOPLE found this site looking not just for “ass” but… Well, I’m sorry, fourteen people. This is not where we keep all the ass. But I got you this:

This isn’t ALL of it, but it’s the best I could do.

I’m going to skip some of the most offensive/ugly phrases for now, because this is for fun, but trust me–they get pretty bad. (Though, not as bad as the ones I got on my much more polite blog about my sponsored kids. That was some sick shit.)

“her ass”

I can only assume WordPress directed them here believing they’d misspelled “harass.” How disappointing that must have been for…let’s see…SEVEN PEOPLE! Seven people, I refer you to the image above. One of those is bound to be female.

“jennifer jason leigh legs”

Not the person, just the legs. These three were probably not looking for a post about unshaven woman legs. Or maybe they were. Maybe someone told them, “Hey, I read a great blog post the other day about unshaven legs nightmares. It had a pic of JJL in it. You should totally Google it!” Three times. I Googled “jennifer jason leigh legs” and mostly what I got is a lot of “THIS SITE MAY BE HARMFUL TO YOUR COMPUTER!” And this:

Truly? This is a thing?

“sammich rosie”

Hey, that’s me! These people may actually have found what they were after. I’m sure they’ll let me know if they didn’t.

“pork rinds of the month”

Are there PORK RINDS of the MONTH? Why didn’t anyone tell me this? There really aren’t, right? This person searched from their phone using their butt as a stylus.

“treehugger”

Me, again!

“drunk hugging a tree”

’nuff said.

Could it be…Cindy Bear?

“yogi bear’s girlfriend’s name”

Does anybody know this one? I mean in case this person comes back. It might be important.

“why do some people say sammich instead of sandwich”

These two unfortunate souls have obviously never tried saying “sammich” out loud. (It’s ok that you just did. Everyone should.)

“stephen colbert doritos”

New flavor!

“dill mustache”

The name of my next band.

“creepy girl cheese”

#WINNING

“when a wife is rebellious to her husband”

New hit song by Percy Sledge! “When a wiiiife’s rebellllious to ‘er husband/Can’t keep her mind on makin’ dinner…”

Your wish is my command!

Your wish is my command!

“de-tachable boob-ies”

That’s right, people. Sing it with me.

“political correctness for a woman to make a sandwich feminism”

Of course, there are many variations on “make me a sammich” and “sammich meme” and “woman sammich” and “woman slap sammich” and fun stuff like that. But this actually seems to be a query as to what might be the politically correct (according to feminists) way to ask a woman to make you a sammich. In case this person comes back, I’m going to go with, “Hey, do you feel like making me a sammich?” or “I love your sammiches. Will you please make me one?” <–helpful

“jack nicholson not giving a fuck”

Now, THESE folks got what they came for. You’re welcome.

He really doesn't.

He really doesn’t.

That’s all for now, folks. May your search terms always yield the results you seek.

Love,

Rosie


When I Don’t Shave My Legs, I Have Nightmares

We are a hirsute people.

Not even joking: When I leave my legs unshaven I have dreams about the fact that my legs are unshaven in contexts where it is embarrassing or even horrifying. What the hell is going on in my psyche? Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of it, or at least unpack it a bit. (If you’re still with me after the headline and opening pic, the rest should be cake!)

In real life, if I haven’t shaved and I suddenly need to go somewhere I’ll give myself a quick shave in the bathroom sink, or if the weather’s cool, throw on a pair of black tights. Fixed! In dreamlife I don’t have the luxury of preparing for a situation–I just AM. In my very favorite of these dreams (I’ll let you decide whether this qualifies as a nightmare) I’m sitting in a posh bar in a hotel during the Oscars. It’s like at a convention, where everyone is there for the event, but you hang out in the hotel bar and BS when there’s nothing better to do. In my circles, we call it BarCon, and it’s a treasured part of any convention experience. So, here I am at BarCon surrounded by dark wood and fancy dress, sitting next to Julia Roberts who is speaking earnestly to me about I truly wish I could remember what, and I look down at myself, and I’m sitting there in a tank-top and ratty shorts and my legs are bare and So. Hairy. I mean, not impossibly hairy, but what they look like when I go a good, long time between shaves. And I’m just…mortified.

“I really couldn’t be arsed.”

(The better Oscars dream was the one where I found myself in my hotel room with no idea how I’d come to be there, and called my mom to tell her “I’m at the Oscars!” Then I walked out into the hallway wrapped in my maroon hotel towel and ran into Sarah Jessica Parker who was also wrapped in her towel and we joked that it was embarrassing that we were wearing the same dress. Later I ran into Jennifer Jason Leigh, but she was in character for Dorothy Parker and couldn’t be arsed.)

Anyway, I had another unshaven legs dream not long after I quit my last job. In it, I was at work in a baggy t-shirt, shorts, and unshaven legs. (At this point I’ll note that I work at home and while I often wear pajamas or other loose, comfortable clothing at home, I really don’t wear shorts.) I was talking to one of our VPs and he didn’t seem to notice anything, but I felt so gross.

When I think about my life during the times I had these dreams, there are some similarities. I was without a full-time job, spending a lot of time at home, and not always bothering to get dressed or shave my legs or even shower some days. Was I missing the act of making myself presentable for the world? Did I feel guilty about not keeping myself “well-groomed”? Is this reaction something that is built-in or did media and culture rewire my circuitry?

Mo'Nique

Mo’Nique is clearly not having my issues.

There was a time as a young woman when I would never go out with bare legs–it was nylons or tights or nothing. I was ashamed of my fat, ugly legs and I wanted to hide them. I never, EVER, wore shorts (like even less often than I do now, which is almost never) because of that shame. When I was a little girl with scabby knees a teenager remarked within my hearing how remarkable it was that our legs were so ugly as children and got “nice” or something when we got older. I was pretty fucking hurt at the time and obviously I never forgot it, but I assumed that when I grew up I’d have pretty legs like the ladies on tv. But mine were fat and dimpled and spotty and just not. At some point I matured enough that it was ok to let people see my legs as long as they were clean-shaven from top to bottom. Nowadays if the weather’s warm I check and if it’s under a quarter inch, I’m good to go. But then, I’m nearly 48 and I’ve come to a point where I accept the hand I’ve been dealt in a way that never seemed possible before. I credit a lot of that to age and wisdom, but a good deal also to the love of a partner who sees *me* when he looks in my direction.

And something else has changed. Very recently, I had an unshaven legs dream, but in it I was still in the house, though dressed up and ready to go out. I remembered that my legs were unshaven and looked down and the hair was long enough to be visible. I was perturbed because I’d have to do something about it. That was it. That was all.

Maybe after nearly 50 years I’m finally growing up. At this point, I won’t fight it. Much.


I Shrunk* Rush Limbaugh’s Penis

Before

Look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but he brought it up. It’s not that I’m not proud of the fact, it’s just that I don’t like to boast and honestly, the guy’s got enough problems. He’s hated universally by smart people and loved only by those ignorant and/or lazy enough to eat the shit he’s spooning out. He railed against drug addicts then had to admit he was one. And now he’s publicly stated that his penis is 10% smaller than it used to be all because of evil FEMINAZIS. Well, what Rush didn’t tell you is that it wasn’t just any feminazi shrunk his member—it was me.

You see, I have this part-time gig as a Fairy Godmother. I’m like the substitute FG when your FG is sick or has to go to the dentist. Well, one day I get this call and I’m like, “No. Fucking. Way.” That’s right, my client was none other than Rush. Fairy Godmothers, as you know, show up when you have a problem you can’t solve on your own and only if you have equity on account with the FGG (Fairy Godmothers Guild). I have no idea what Rush did to earn that equity–I can only imagine he vampired that shit out of a little girl or boy who crossed his path one unlucky day. I was all set to call my supervisor and straighten everything out, when I saw Rush’s problem. He had Mitt Romney’s head wedged firmly in his anus. I fully admit I cackled.

“It’s not funny,” Rush said, and I bit down on a chortle. I had my professional responsibilities to think of after all.

“What seems to be the problem, young man?” I asked, and Rush sneered.

“Are you gonna help, or not?” Sweat beaded on Rush’s bright red face—he was clearly in some discomfort.

“Is it the size of his head that pains you, or the hairspray? I imagine it’s a bit…poky,” I mused as I walked around them, examining the problem from all sides. Romney crouched on the floor of Rush’s posh restroom next to the toilet, and Rush sat upon his shoulders. “How did this happen?” I had begun to form a theory, but wanted to hear it from the man himself.

“I can’t go anywhere without this guy’s nose up my butt-crack,” Rush moaned. “This time I got caught with my pants down.”

I nodded—sagely, I’m sure. I clicked my tongue. I sucked air through my teeth and made skeptical noises.

“What?” Rush looked alarmed.

“I just don’t know…” I said.

“Don’t know what? You’ve got to help me! That’s what you do, right?” He was getting whiny now. Desperate.

“Look, Rush,” I said. “I’m not sure why I’m here. You’re not the sort of guy who normally gets help from the FGG–you know what I mean? You’re…well, not to put too fine a point on it, Rush…you’re an asshole.”

Rush sighed and nodded, and I could see the irony wasn’t lost on him. “What’s your point?”

“You sucked a freebie out of some little kid or lovesick prince. You crowned yourself king of the GOP—you did everything but send this guy an engraved INVITATION to your anus. Why should I help you?”

Rush smiled. “Because you can’t leave a job undone,” he said. “I read the fine print.”

“So did I, Rush,” I told him, sighing in a way that I hoped conveyed that this was going to hurt him way more than it was going to hurt me. “And you’re right. But I have certain…discretionary powers. Also, I can see the future, and one day you’re going to blame feminists for shrinking your penis on your radio show. You don’t want to lie to America, do you? I’m here to make sure you don’t.”

Rush’s face turned angry and beet red and spittle flew from his lips as he gibbered unintelligible rage. Finally, he managed. “You…can’t…”

After

“I can, Rush. So, do you want my help or not?” He didn’t say anything, but just then I think Mitt sneezed or something because he lunged and Rush’s eyes bulged out and he screamed “GET IT OUT GET IT OUT I DON’T CARE GET IT OUT!”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

*Or “shrank” it—whichever you prefer.


Tomorrow Jones #1

I backed this new comic on Kickstarter because it features a teen girl superhero bucking traditional stereotypes. Now the first issue is out, so I thought I’d share. Here’s a teaser from the preview:

Let me know what you think, especially if you decide to buy the comic. I’m looking forward to seeing how the story progresses.


Fabulous Prizes!

AWESOME, right?

Ok, first I have to show you these AWESOME new cards I just got (made by MOO). I know, crappy pic, but aren’t they AWESOME? And that’s only the front! Each one is personally autographed by me in Red SharpieTM! The reverse has…well, I’ll show you in a minute. These were a perk from Klout–a site some folks like to pooh-pooh, but dude, they send me free stuff all the time, and that makes them ok in my book.

I’ve also ordered TEMPORARY TATTOOS. I’m not going to show them to you because all I have is the artwork, and they’re not proper tattoos until I can put them on my skin*. When they arrive and I can, then you’ll get a pic. Promise.

I know, I know, you’re wondering how you can get your hands on some of this Make Me a Sammich swag. Well, firstly, winners of our Sammich Challenge will receive some as part of their Fabulous Prize packs. One lucky winner will also receive this:

And it will not be Brother #3.

It will not contain a sammich, because ew, prepackaged sammiches are gross. I think I must have suffered some pre-made sammich trauma as a child, because I simply cannot stand a sammich that’s been sitting around with its juices soaking into the bread and making it all soggy and smelly. I have been known to throw adorable little tantrums when people who love me forget this fact and bring me a nasty, mayonnaise**-soaked refrigerator sammich for lunch. In fact, I gag a little when I see someone in a movie buy one from a machine and eat it. Yuck! Do you have any idea how long that sammich has been sitting there being gross? A sammich machine should assemble your sammich right in front of you, dammit, or it’s nothing more than a garbage dispenser in my eyes.

Ahem. Moving on… If you don’t win a prize in our first contest, there will be others. But in the meantime, if you just can’t stand it, I will make it easy for you to request MMAS goodies. Stay tuned.

Scan that code! Do it!

Oh yeah! Here is the back of the new card. It has a little Klout logo (because they were free from Klout, but my next batch won’t have this, so these are Limited Edition! Woo!) and a very fancy QR code which makes them practically electronic. (It always cracks me up when I see promo cards made to look like iPhones that say “download our app” and then include a URL and no QR code. Duh, I say!) They’re also super heavy-duty cardstock with a satiny finish and the color is great. I heart them.

I’ve got some other goodies in the works, but hopefully this illustrates my good faith in the Fabulous Prizes department. It turns out gift-giving is one of my “love languages” according to a book my dad gave me, so I get really excited about giving stuff away. My neurosis is your gain!

Love ya!


*The great thing about temporary tats is that you can apply them to other surfaces, as well, meaning I can use them to make other cool stuff. There will be swag!

**Double ew. (W?)


I Suck at Contests!

Woohoo!

Woohoo! I totally suck at contests! That’s right, you heard it here first.

Ok, so it’s the last day of National Sammich Month (I apparently also suck at blogging because I did not cover nearly all the sammich stuff!) and the first Sammich Challenge deadline had passed. We have a number of very fine entries. I’ve even been collecting Fabulous Prizes for the winners! But I was only able to recruit one sammich judge, and who knew that Brother #3 would submit a sammich recipe so diabolical that the very thought of attempting it paralyzed me with fear? He did, that’s who. The fix was in from the start. But don’t you worry, my little sammich chefs, Rosie has your back. There can be only one Most Diabolical Sammich, to be sure, and B#3 has provided the winning recipe for that category. I’ll deal with him later. As for the rest of you, your recipes will undergo rigorous judging over the next day or two (by judges who owe me one thing or another and can’t say no) and I’ll announce winners in additional categories Real Soon.

And I’m really excited about the Fabulous Prizes. :D


EPIC FLAIL

I made this for you.


Detachable Boobies

I’ve come across a couple of really irritating ads lately. Maybe you’ve seen them. I wanted to write something about them, but they’re just so ridiculous, and while I was annoyed and bothered, I was not inspired. But this morning I woke up with a song running through my head, and that old Wanda Sykes routine snuck in there, too, and I knew what I had to do. I had to dig up the lyrics to an old favorite and breathe new life into them as I have done below especially for you. Why rant when you can SING?!

Detachable Boobies
(with apologies to King Missile)

I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
And my boobies were missing again.
This happens all the time.
They’re detachable.

[background singers repeat: “detachable boobies” (THIS IS YOUR PART!)]

Axe: “Office Love”

This comes in handy a lot of the time.
I can leave them at home, when I think they’re gonna get me in trouble,
or I can rent them out to Madison Ave, when I don’t need them.
But now and then I go to a party, get drunk,
and the next morning I can’t for the life of me
remember what I did with them.
First I looked around my apartment, and I couldn’t find them.
So I called up the place where the party was,
they hadn’t seen them either.
I asked them to check the vegetable crisper in the fridge
’cause for some reason I leave them there sometimes
But not this time.
So I told them if they pop up to let me know.
I called a few people who were at the party,
but they were no help either.
I was starting to get desperate.
I really don’t like being without my boobies for too long.
It makes me feel like less of a boobie-haver,
and I really hate the way my clothes fit without them.
After a few hours of searching the house,
and calling everyone I could think of,
I was starting to get very depressed,
so I went to the Hurricane and ate breakfast.

8 airbags! Classy, Mercedes.

Then, as I walked down First Avenue towards Pike Place Market,
where all those people sell used books and other junk on the street,
I saw my boobies lying on a blanket
next to a penis.
Some guy was selling my boobies.
He had got them cheap off an ad exec who had a whole bunch for some reason.
I had to buy them off blanket guy. My own boobies.
I took them home, washed them off,
and put them back on. I was happy again. Complete.
People sometimes tell me I should get them permanently attached,
but I don’t know.
Even though sometimes it’s a pain in the ass,
I like having detachable boobies.

[background singers repeat “detachable boobies” and fade out]


The Art of the Sammich

Tortured Sandwich Artist t-shirt

It’s a t-shirt!

Everything is a meme! I went looking for a “sandwich artist” image and the Google is filled with disgruntled Subway employees and jokes about job openings and the many ways to fail at being a Sandwich Artist (which is apparently what Subway employees are called when they’re in uniform). Well, sammich artist might be a crappy job, but it’s a job, and I’ll bet those artists get free sammiches. No shame in that.

In case you haven’t guessed yet, this is the Sammich Art post! Yay! When I first went out looking for National Sammich Month material, I was amazed and delighted by the number of sammich pics I found that can only be classified as art. There are SO MANY of them on sites like insanewiches.com and all over the web (click individual images for sources) so I chose a few of my favorites. Check it out.

Fire Sammich

Hot!

Aces sammich

Pair of aces with a parsley kicker!

Sandwitch!

Sandwitch!

Partridge Family Bus Sammich

Does this look like the Partridge Family’s bus to anyone else?

Lettermanwich!

Grinning Hat Man Sammich

The dill mustache makes it for me.

Scales Sammich

Hm…

Sammich Stadium

I had to include this one because wow.

Man sammich

Meet Art.

In case you missed it, I launched a Sammich Challenge yesterday and have recruited one sammich judge so far. If anyone wants to make sammich art for the contest and send it in, I’ll add a category and post the pics in a Very Special Make Me a Sammich Blog Post.

Anything is possible, people! Any! Thing!


Sammich Month: Celebrity Sightings

Hail to the Sammich!

I have to say I’m pretty disappointed at the Internet offerings for National Sammich Month. We’re pretty much on our own here, people, so bear with me while I wing it.

I know, I promised you Sammich Art, and it’s coming soon. But first, I need to tell you that Celebrities Eating Sandwiches exists. It’s by no means comprehensive, as I found many worthy pics on Celebs Like to Eat and on the Internet at large, as well. I’m not sure why people want to see/collect photos of celebrities eating, except perhaps for the unflattering expressions they often capture. I swear, if I was a movie star I would never eat anywhere but home or in private rooms. But personally, I’m glad these pics exist because sammiches! And people are interesting, too.

Danny Devito: One cool customer.

Sad Keanu: Apparently a meme.

Kiera Knightley is *really* into that sammich.

Jack Nicholson: Serious about his sammich.

Gaga: This one counts as art, if you ask me.

And now I’m going to leave you with another favorite sandwich recipe:

Scrambled Egg and Cheese Sandwich

  1. Slow-scramble two eggs (they’re so much tastier when you cook them slowly!). Shape into a sammich-sized square. (Avoid browning!)
  2. Add sliced or shredded cheddar cheese and cover to melt.
  3. Toast two pieces of bread, preferably on one side only.
  4. Apply a thin layer of mayonnaise* to the untoasted side of your bread.
  5. Assemble scrambled egg/cheese/toast into a super yummy sammich.
  6. You’re welcome.

*This is one of the rare instances in which mayonnaise is an acceptable ingredient in anything ever.


I Made You a Sammich

I made you a sammich while the Internets were down.

Happy National Sammich Month! We’ve had a bit of a hiccup here on Day 1, as the Internets at Chez Sammich decided to take the day off. I’m typing this into a text editor feeling very much like a post-apocalyptic survivor hoping that someone, somewhere, someday will see my words. There’s no way to know for sure. [Message from the future/past: I had to travel back and forth through time to bring you this article! Cool, huh?]

You might be surprised to know that I have nothing planned for today. I expected I would wake up and take to the Internets for inspiration. I can’t even access my bookmarks! Can you even imagine what this is like? It’s hell, I tell you. Luckily, I realized that I don’t have to be online to compose a post for today, or I’d still be pacing around my house wringing my hands and lamenting the unfairness of it all.

OK, so National Sammich Month starts today, as we’ve already established, and I’ve learned a few interesting things about sammiches in the past week, so let’s start with one of those. Apparently (hat-tip to commenter kyorlin), each state in the U.S. has an official sandwich. I promise as soon as I have Internets again I’ll get you the link. [Message from the future: State Sammiches!]

I live in the state of Washington, whose sandwich I can’t tell you yet because I don’t have Internets [Message from the future: “Smoked Salmon Sandwich: Smoked salmon, cream cheese, apples, on whole wheat.*”], in the city of Seattle, whose official sandwich is coffee. I don’t eat meat (except fish sometimes, not because I think it doesn’t count, but because I’m a bad vegetarian), so a lot of the sandwiches on the list would be difficult for me to recreate, meaning it’s a good thing that my plan wasn’t to make and report on a state sandwich or two every day in August. It turns out the state sammiches were submitted to the site above by readers, so you’ll have to let us know whether you agree with your state sammich. I not only agree with mine, I kind of want to marry it.

Ahem…moving on… Other sammich-related stuff we’ll cover this month:

  • Why is this site called “Make Me a Sammich”?
  • The Origins of the Sammich (and of the month)
  • Sammich Art
  • Sandwich Trivia
  • And much, much more! Probably.

I’ve been thinking about sammiches and which one I would call my favorite. Back when I ate meat, it was the French dip, hands down. I was a vegetarian for years before I discovered a good vegetarian French dip, and it is delicious, but I don’t think it’s my favorite. As much as I love girl cheese**, the thought of it doesn’t make my mouth water quite as much as the veggie sammich my mom and I invented as an answer to one very much like it that was *almost* perfect but not quite.

Elvis is thinking about sammiches, too.

Here’s our recipe:

  • whole-grain bread***
  • raspberry vinaigrette dressing
  • cream cheese
  • alfalfa sprouts
  • slice of preferred cheese (optional)
  • *Thinly* sliced veggies:
    • cucumber
    • tomato
    • red onion
    • avocado

I’m telling you, this is a FABULOUS sammich and now my mouth really is watering. It is way past time I made one of these. Try it and let me know what you think! In fact, the next time someone tells you to make them a sammich, say “Make ME a sammich! This sammich!” and give them the recipe.

*Sammiches like this one are why I am a hypocrite.

**I also just remembered an awesome sammich I used to have when I went to community college: grilled cheese with mushrooms and alfalfa sprouts. OMGSOGOOD. It might take my beloved girl cheese sammich over the top. I’ll do a taste-test and let you know. Oh yeah! TUNA MELTS!

***I recently discovered Dave’s Killer Bread, which is *totally* killer, and I can’t wait to try it with All. The. Sammiches.

[Message from the Future: Still no Internets! Posting from secondary basecamp while it’s still officially Day 1 per Pacific time. Whew.]


Girl Cheese Sammich

“It will be mine. Oh, yes! It will be mine…”

As we say goodbye to National Grilled Cheese Sandwich month and hello to National Sammich Month, I want to take the opportunity to tell you briefly about my personal relationship with grilled cheese sandwiches. You see, when I was a tiny, little girl…so tiny that the world was still a place of only beauty and wonder and no Bad Things, I believed that grilled cheese sandwiches were a special invention made just for ME.

Back in those days of yore, my dad (before he was a professional bass fisherman or a preacher or even a dad) was a pool shark. In Los Angeles, California, where he made his living in the pool halls as a young man, he was known as “Sixth Street Jerry.” In Long Beach, where he also played from time to time (and where he met my mom–in a pool hall), they called him “L.A. Jerry.” One of my earliest memories is going to the pool hall with my parents, where my dad would shoot pool (which I remember only vaguely) and my mom and I would sit in a booth with red seats and I would order a Girl Cheese Sandwich with fries (because that was the point of the whole expedition as far as I was concerned).

Of course, I had no idea why the waitress and all the adults made such a fuss over the whole thing. I just wanted my sandwich. And my French fries! But I imagine them now doing that thing grownups do where we know the kid’s about to do that cute thing they do, and they say, “Watch! Listen! Okay, Rosie, what do you want to eat?”

“GIRL CHEESE!” I’d holler, and they’d all “aww” and titter and pat me on the head.

And yes, I assumed that if my dad wanted a sandwich like mine, he’d have to ask for a Boy Cheese Sandwich, but he never did that I recall. Sixth Street Jerry was too busy bringing home the pork rinds, baby.

These days grilled cheese sammiches are still a favorite, and one of my comfort foods (along with mac & cheese), and I still pretty much always refer to them as Girl Cheese.

This makes up for everything! Right?

PS: I apologize for that terrifying image above. I really wanted to use an appetizing photo of a nice, melty grilled cheese to make your mouth water, but then I found ^that^, and come on, how could I resist? It would have been wrong–possibly immoral or even illegal–for me to not use that image in this article. So, to make up for it, here’s a photo of me just before I learned to say “Girl cheese sammich, please!” Love ya!


Your Friend Wil Says “Don’t Be a Dick”

Wil says: Don't Be a Dick

He means it.

Yesterday Wil Wheaton told the Internet what he wanted for his birthday, which is today. In case you missed it:

For my birthday tomorrow, I want July 29th to henceforth be known as Don’t Be A Dick Day: dontbeadickday.com#DontBeADickDay

— Wil Wheaton (@wilw) July 28, 2012

This immediately made me do that “I coulda had a V8” thing because duh, why didn’t we think of that before? I guess there’s a time and a season for everything, and ladies and gentlemen, what better time for the very first Don’t Be a Dick Day to occur? It’s as if fate herself looked down and said “Rosie, it’s been an intense couple of days what with all the seriousness. I think we should lighten up a bit, but let’s not forget this week’s theme, shall we? I know just the guy to talk to.” And she sent @wilw a DM and he was like “Holy Shit, why didn’t I think of that before?” (I’m speculating, but it sounds strangely plausible, doesn’t it?)

Your friend Wil was also inspired to create this handy flow chart to help people not be dicks. It’s a work of GENIUS:

How to not be a dick.

Genius, right?

Of course, the idea is not a single day upon which to practice not being a dick. Rather, it’s a day to raise awareness of the very real issue that faces us today. That issue, in case you haven’t guessed by now, is Being a Dick, and it’s epidemic not only in the US but around the world. Don’t Be a Dick Day is a day to celebrate not being a dick if you’re not one, and to help people who are dicks to see the error of their ways. Also, to help other people who aren’t dicks who know people who are dicks to help the dicks they know. As a friend of mine said today:

Remember don’t just don’t be a dick on Don’t be a Dick Day, don’t be a dick on all the other days, too! Thanks, Wil Wheaton!

Full Frontal (Wikimedia Commons)

With that, I’d like to ask you to join me in song. Here’s how:

  1. Play the amazing MC Frontalot anthem (first to Wil and his four-word philosophy, now to the day we spread that philosophy far and wide) Your Friend Wil.
  2. Open the lyrics page.
  3. Come back when you’re finished. Ready? Go!

Awesome, right? Just what you needed to get all fired up for the rest of the day. Now go forth and spread the Good News. Tell all the dicks, “Hey Dicks! You don’t have to be dicks anymore! You can be cool like us!” Show them Wil’s new website, and sing the song with them. Print out the handy flow-chart so they can keep it next to them when they type words on the Internets or fold it up and stick it in their wallets when they go out into the world. Being a Dick is everyone’s problem. But you can help.

Happy Don’t Be a Dick Day, everyone. You know what to do. And what not to do.


National Sandwich Month is Coming!

monster sammichI just learned that National Sandwich Month exists! Yay! (I mean, of course it does, because sammiches. Duh.) It’s like providence or something because when I found out it exists I just assumed I’d already missed it this year. And I did, in fact, miss National Grilled Cheese Sandwich Month which, according to Gone-ta-pott.com (Your Holiday Directory) is always in April. (Imagine anyone thinking otherwise.) July, however, is National Sandwich Generation Month, dedicated to people who provide care for both children and aged parents, which is nice, because that’s a lot of work. And National Sandwich Day isn’t until November! So, I didn’t miss those, which is great, but I haven’t told you the best thing of all which is that August is National Sandwich Month! Apparently, it’s always in August, but I never had reason to know that before now. I did, however, have reason to know about National Margarita Day and Cheese Weasel Day. I’ll let you make whatever judgements you will about that.

So, in honor of what we’ll refer to here at MMAS as National SAMMICH Month, I’ll be scouring the Internets for fascinating sandwich/sammich related stuff to tell you and show you. We’ll talk about the origins of the sandwich, and of the sammich, and of the title of this website. We’ll share our favorite sammich recipes! We’ll look at sandwich art (like the scary sammich monster above!)–because if you didn’t know sandwich art existed, you need to. It’s art. And sammiches. Duh.

Just ten days until August 1! Isn’t this exciting? I even added a countdown thingy just to the right, there. If you run across any sammich-related links I ought to know about ahead of time, please post them here. Ten days! I have work to do, people!


Image

Katharine Hepburn Kicked All the Ass.

I Love Katharine Hepburn

I love Katharine Hepburn so much. She was a feminist before most people knew the word existed. Did you know that she used to enter fancy Hollywood hotels by the back entrance because they didn’t want the proper folk to see her in pants? And she didn’t give a rat’s ass or any hoots or anything else. I’ve watched nearly all her movies (some more than once) and I think she was a great actress, but more importantly she was a great woman. She was raised (by a suffragette and a doctor who made it his life’s work to educate people about STDs–we’re talking the turn of the last century, folks) to be inquisitive and to speak her mind. She overcame tragedy (at 14 she found her older brother who’d hanged himself) and the resulting debilitating depression to become an award-winning actor who played some of the strongest, most complex female characters of her time. (Her performance in The Philadelphia Story as Tracy Lord, a spoiled socialite who awakens to the reality that she’s never going to be happy playing the role society has given her, is hilarious and heartbreaking.)

But as much as theater-goers loved to entertain the idea of women like Lord wearing pants and pushing the boundaries of ladylike behavior, her off-screen persona didn’t sit well with Hollywood and the slavering public. She was not your average starlet: smart and funny and strong, she didn’t like reporters or autograph hounds (famously telling one to “go sit on a tack”). And she was not one to be bullied. When the costume department took her pants in an apparent attempt to teach her a lesson, she walked around the studio in her underwear for the rest of the day. How kick ass is that? (Hint: Very!) And when a few of her movies flopped, they labeled her “box-office poison.” Did she quit? Did she roll over and die? Did she rail and flail against the unfairness of it all? No, she did not. I’ll tell you what she did. Actually, I’ll let Wikipedia tell you:

Hepburn masterminded her own comeback, buying out her contract with RKO Radio Pictures and acquiring the film rights to The Philadelphia Story, which she sold on the condition that she be the star. In the 1940s she was contracted to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, where her career focused on an alliance with Spencer Tracy. The screen-partnership spanned 25 years, and produced nine movies.

1928 Kate (Wikimedia Commons)

(Hepburn and Tracy were also a couple. He was married, but estranged from his wife. Kate put her career on hold to nurse him in the final years of his life. Read about it in Tracy and Hepburn: An Intimate Memoir by Garson Kanin.)

And that, my friends, is how you do it Kate style. There’s so much more. Her film and theater career spanned six decades, and she lived 96 years. Here’s a photo of her from her Bryn Mawr days. That’s where she fell in love with acting, much to my everlasting joy. If this is your first introduction to the awesome that is Katharine Hepburn, congratulations. You’re in for a treat. Follow some links, watch some movies, and know this: it has never been easy to buck society’s stereotypes, and in a time when it was even less easy than it is now, she helped to pave the way for the rest of us by being an authentic woman in the face of pressure from all sides to act like a lady.

Thanks, Kate.


Links!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katharine_Hepburn
http://www.biography.com/people/katharine-hepburn-9335828


Sports Sammich 1.0

OK, back to the lighter side of things for a bit.

I thought about calling this post Sports Sammich 2012 because of how seldom I expect to write sports-themed posts, but with material like this out there, I can’t guarantee anything. So here’s a Sports Sammich for you, and we’ll see if you’re still hungry after.

This first bit is about equal pay, which is a thing for me, and I think it ought to be a thing for everybody else, too. Unless you’ve been listening to Fox News with headphones on for the past several years, you probably know that on average, women in the U.S. make about seventy-five cents for every dollar men earn doing the same work. For a long time we didn’t really talk about that, because you know, we’d made so much progress and it’s not polite to look a gift horse in the mouth or whatever. Laurie Anderson did, though:

You know, for every dollar a man makes
a woman makes 63 cents.
Now, fifty years ago that was 62 cents.
So, with that kind of luck, it’ll be the year 3,888
before we make a buck.

So, anyway, when I saw the headline, “France’s Gilles Simon says men should be paid more than women at tennis’ Grand Slam tournaments” I had to look. Here are the key phrases:

Simon [who is on the ATP Player Council] told reporters at Wimbledon in French that he thinks “men’s tennis is ahead of women’s tennis” and “men spend twice as long on court as women do at Grand Slams.”

He also said men “provide a more attractive show” in their matches.

And here’s a photo of Monsieur Simon providing “a more attractive show.”

I know, but come on, really? Talk about doing more work, sure, if that’s the case, but what kind of a guy… Wait, I’m getting an update…

One female player asked about Simon’s comments, 19-year-old American Sloane Stephens, said: “I don’t care what he says about anything. He hit me with a ball the first time I was a ballkid. He hit me in the chest, because he lost a point and lost the set. He turned around and slammed the ball with his racket and hit me … and I’ve never spoken to him since then.”

Yeah. That’s about what I thought.

Also in tennis, women in the WTA will be prohibited from excessive grunting on the courts according to a WTA spokesman. An article by the Washington Post was curiously edited before I could link it here to exclude a phrase stating that men are not  subject to any similar rules. Either this is part of some vast conspiracy to ensure that only men are allowed to grunt, or the copyeditor realized that the WTA doesn’t regulate men’s tennis. (As far as I can tell, W is for “womens.”) It’s also possible I read the line in this Fox News article which still states that men are not subject to the new rules yet. (According to the article, the WTA is pushing for a “sport-wide plan.”) Fear not, Tony Manfred at Business Insider assures us that this is not sexist. Women’s and men’s grunt’s are not created equally according to Manfred, but regardless of gender, “the ritualized, tactical grunting that exists in the game right now needs to go.” (Is he right? Or is grunting important to performance? I don’t know. Chime in if you think you do.)

WaPo continues:

USA Today reported the plan includes developing a device for umpires to measure grunting during matches, and a rule to set limits on how much noise is acceptable.

Yes! What’s called for here is a specialized grunt-detection device! A grunt-o-meter! I mean because measuring sound is a new science, right? It’s not like there’d be…say…an app for that.

Next up is the linkbait headline from the inimitable New York Post: New poll shows women would like to cheat on spouse with Tebow

I’m going to say it again: Really? Ok, I get it: different strokes for different folks. But I’m pretty sure I don’t know any women who would answer that poll “Tim Tebow.” Curious, I clicked. You’ll be as fascinated as I was, I’m sure, to learn that Tebow was actually #2 on the list behind David Beckham. A-Rod and Derek Jeter also made the cut. What kind of poll was this? Who were these women signing up to break their wedding vows with athletes? Then I went back and found the punchline:

According to a new survey released by AshleyMadison.com, the Jets backup quarterback ranked second on a list of athletes women would most likely cheat on their husband with.

I somehow missed out on the “phenomenon” that is AshleyMadison, “the most recognized name in infidelity.” Yeppers, it’s a dating site for people who are married but want to cheat on their spouses. So, among women who are married and want to cheat on their spouses, nearly half want to cheat with David Beckham, but not a few wouldn’t mind being unfaithful to their husbands with a guy who has vowed to wait for marriage before having sex. To that I can only say, “Um…”

Oh, also? Tiger Woods came in last. <sad trombone>