Patty and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I felt invigorated this morning; I actually got up and worked out.  I’ve heard that many adults do that in the mornings, and it’s not as fun as eating cheese.  Still, I did work out.  In my adventures, which included a brief and slow run, I went to my car to grab a CD (yes, I still buy them) I bought for a friend.  To my dismay, the door handle was broken.  Until I can find the part, figure out how to take the panel off, and replace it, I’ll be climbing in from the passenger’s side.

After that fun discovery, I took a shower, did my hair, went downstairs to pick out shoes… That’s when I saw a steady stream of water coming down from the ceiling of my closet.  Nearly all my clothing was soaking wet, multiple items were ruined, and it smelled great (just kidding).

I started pulling clothes of the rod, and piling them in the next room.  I ran upstairs to grab pots and pans to catch the drips.  I removed every shoe, shirt, skirt, dress, box, that one stuffed beagle, and my carved wiseman who looks like Jafar.  I exhausted my towel reserves and paper towels while sopping up gallons of questionably-colored water.  I individually cleaned every damn shoe.  I did hours of laundry.  It was so fun… no.

In the midst of the mess, I called my landlord and he assured me that it had “never happened before” which totally helps me in this situation.  I mentioned that it was convenient that the last maintenance they’d done in my apartment had left sawdust all over my closet.  Isn’t it nice that they failed to clean up earlier in preparation of this coming disaster.

For the next few hours, I watched water leak from the ceiling, then inexplicably and inconceivably coming out of the floor.  Because this is such a high-quality apartment, the floors are uneven and so are the ceilings.  The linoleum seemed to be soaking in the water, then rejected it for being far too natural to live in the horrid floor.  Even the spiders started to run away.

When the landlord and his “boy” arrived, sans plumber, they first decided to paint one of the garage doors brown.  They never use tape around here, it’s all just nearly straight.  Upon sight, he forced me to hug him, called me “sweetheart” and said “oooooooohhhh” about seven times.  I cannot fully capture how intensely I dislike them; all the bitch in me rises up in my throat and begs to be thrust at their puny little minds.  I held back.  I needed to go buy more detergent anyway.

When I returned, they had managed to open the ceiling and promised to go get a real plumber and real parts.  I inspected the whole in the ceiling while they were out – so many spider carcasses!  Yay!

The plumber arrived, with the landlord and his boy, and they proceeded to run up and down the stairs, call me “sweetheart”, and not understand plumbing.  When they finally realized that the issue was an incorrectly installed fixture in the tub.  My landlord, being a creative deflector type, told me it was because I hung a sponge from the faucet.  He said that the water was deflecting there and going into the crack.  If I hadn’t used that sponge, no water would have gotten into the cracks and holes.  Wrong.  Water goes lots of places in showers.  The sponge wasn’t there very frequently.  I use the shower, not the bath, so the water comes out of a different spout – it’s amazing.  That’s not even a sponge, it’s shower puff, dammit.

The plumber explained that the issue was a wrongly-installed part and not the (f’ing) “sponge”.

My landlord literally said, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about this.  We’ve taken care of it.”

I repeated it back in my grown-uppiest voice, and then said, “You know that I’m a grown woman, right?  I’ll be sure to not ‘worry my pretty little head’.  I’d hate for it to get too full with ideas.  That’s for men!”

He stared blankly.  His boy laughed and appreciated the anger I was holding in.

I escaped to my computer where I was clearly working, when my landlord decided to start a very personal conversation with me.  Mostly, he was defending how great he thinks this place is, but he also wanted to push his fun opinions on me.  He asked about the guy I’d been dating when I moved in, I said that we were no longer together.  He then gave me tons of great advice.  He asked what happened, and how, and why, and so much more.  I said, “Yeah… I don’t want to talk about that with you.”  Then, it got weirder.

He said, “That’s too bad.  He seemed really successful.  You should really ask him to reconsider.  A girl would be lucky to have a successful man like that.  He seemed nice too, and he was pretty good-looking.  You should really ask him to get back together with you.  Seriously.”

With big and crazy eyes, I replied, “Wow.  That is so far over the line.  You need to stop talking.”

He said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I just don’t want a nice girl like you to end up alone.”

That’s when I asked him to leave.

In conclusion, I hate this apartment, I hate my landlord, and I hate sexist norms about women needing men.  I just wanted to not have wet clothes.  I just wanted to have the whole in my ceiling plugged.  I just wanted them to pay for dry cleaning.  I just wanted to go to work.

Great.  What a great day.

On Men’s Rights

With all these recent political debates going about women’s health issues and so-called gay rights (ahem, Equal Rights, ahem), I thought it was only fair to question the rights of white, middle class males.  Hell, I’ll question the rights of all males!  That’s what we’re doing now, right?  We’re just picking a group at random and taking away everything they deserve, or steadily denying their obvious rights.  Great!  Men are first on my chopping block.

Editor’s Note:

Before we get started, I want to clarify the point of this post…

I understand that this blog might seem largely anti-man; it is meant to be a heavy-handed metaphor.  When someone says, “Men shouldn’t have the right to vote,” people can easily react with, “Well, that’s ridiculous and stupid.  We would never take away men’s right to vote just because they’re men.”  That’s what I’m going for…  If it is easy to see that we wouldn’t want to deny men’s rights simply based on their manliness, I hope it is easy to see that others shouldn’t be denied rights on equally basic identities.  We’re not confused as to whether or not sex is a choice in a man, but we are confused about the “choice” of things like sexuality, marriage, and abortion.  Personally, I don’t care if someone thinks being gay is a choice or not, either way, the rights should be provided.  I get to choose if I want to be a liberal, or an English major, or a girlfriend.  I want to also choose whether or not I can become a wife of a wife, or the wife of a husband.

I attacked men as an example.  I do not think men are solely or wholly responsible for these issues that exist in American politics.  That would be highly irresponsible.  I believe that men are historically given more power, more say, and more of a share when it comes to politics and political movement.  That does not, however, implicate all males as guilty parties in some kind of conspiracy.  It simply means that men tend to have more power.  This is why I chose to use men as a group.  Of course men won’t lose their rights.  That will never happen.  That’s why I thought it could be powerful.  This post is not meant to actually assert that men are evil and shouldn’t vote; it is simply a reframing of what seems to be rather random stripping of rights.  Birth control, for example, is suddenly up for debate again, and I think that is just as ridiculous as denying men the right to vote. 

 

Men should not have the right to vote.

  1. Because a man’s place is in the army.
  2. Because no really manly man wants to settle any question otherwise than by fighting about it.
  3. Because if men should adopt peaceable methods, women will no longer look up to them.
  4. Because men will lose their charm if they step out of their natural sphere and interest themselves in other matters than feats of arms, uniforms, and drums.
  5. Because men are too emotional to vote.  Their conduct at baseball games and political conventions shows this, while their innate tendency to appeal to force renders them particularly unfit for the task of government.

Men should have to register all emissions of a bodily nature. 

These emissions could have fertilized eggs, and are therefore alive.  Thus, any time a man commits murder by ejaculating somewhere besides a vagina, he should have to report the lost lives to the government.  If accidental, the man will simply be shamed and forced to live with the guilt.  If his emission is a purposeful (likely porn-inspired) event, he will be prosecuted for obstruction of life.  He will be forced to wear wooden undergarments for up to one year per emission.

Since birth control has suddenly become so controversial, it only seems right that we protect the rights of sperm denied the chance to swim into a cervix to burrow into a lady’s egg, and possibly create a possibly viable fetus.

Men should be punished for thinking the below things are “always lies.”

Sometimes women tell the truth.  Not all women are trying to get pregnant.  Some women don’t want kids, and a lot of women don’t want them for a long time.  For a lot women, the words, “I’m not mad,” mean that she is not mad.

Men should have to write essays of explanation to everyone they bang, and to everyone they know about they people they bang. 

As a woman, if I choose to sleep with anyone, I am opening myself up to all kinds of judgment.  There are so many political ties to my vagina, and I believe a man ought to have the same level of political tape to get through for banging someone.

P.S. – Sarcasm is a powerful tool we use against powerful tools.