New Adventures, or Lack Thereof.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

I've kind of enjoyed unemployment, which is not to say that I'm not looking for a new job. But having some time for homework, leisure reading, and drinking on weeknights (not that I didn't do all those things while I had a job - but now I'm fitting them in more neatly) has not been such a bad thing. I feel like I've actually had time to attend to my classes, which is good, because I haven't been doing as well this semester as I did in the spring. I'm actually playing catch-up in my Enlightenment class, which is something I've never done before - and I really like this class, but it just kind of fell by the wayside during the course of everything else that was going on. Grr. I hate feeling like I'm not in control of my academic success.

Other than in terms of morale, though, I don't feel like I've been hit all that hard by joblessness, yet. Actually, I found a pair of VS Pink pants at My Sister's Closet yesterday for $3! If I continue to bargain shop at this rate, I can maintain my unemployed state for YEARS, provided I don't drive anywhere or buy any of my own food. What's for dinner, Mom and Dad?

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Ode to My Eyebrow

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

Oh, eyebrow. When I was married, and for long years preceding, you were two. The great divide began in high school, as I admired my friend Rachel's brows. They were thin, arched, and ever-so-far apart. Mine were thick, straight, and gently grazed one another, right over the bridge of my nose. That I had an eyebrow problem had never occurred to me, but, upon the realization that other girls my age were not sporting a single brow, I was wracked with anxiety. How was I supposed to garner the all-important attention of boys with such an obvious beauty deficiency? So, I worked quickly to correct my newly-discovered facial quandary. With the help of a pair of tweezers, I achieved the coveted eyebrow segregation. Being clumsy and lazy in nature, I never did quite perfect the art of plucking, but, as the years went by, I slowly honed my skills. No one ever complimented me on my arches, but, if I made sure to maintain them consistently, nobody ever used my name and the dirty word "unibrow" in the same sentence, either.

My ex-husband was in the camp of those who think that a woman should have two distinct brows, even though he, himself, had only one (This was even true of him when he shaved the offending hairs, creating not two brows, as I can only assume was his goal, but merely one that was full and bushy on both sides and short and angry in the center.). Throughout the course of our marriage, I had dutifully plucked away, but, at about the time when we separated our bank accounts, the old beauty ritual had begun to wear on me. I had been mutilating my own forehead for years in order to find a mate, but now, my unpleasant marriage was causing me to ponder the conundrum of what the hell, exactly, a mate had ever done for me.

At the same time, in the world of academia, I had learned that a girl could have conjoined brows without being forced into solitary confinement by the rest of society. My revered exhibitor of this revolutionary notion was Frida Kahlo, whose eyebrow was a trademark aspect of her beauty and individuality. I decided that I was in a unique position to channel her free spirit by mimicking her iconic unspoiled brow - after all, what man had the right to tell me how to groom my facial hair? And so, it came to pass that I divorced my tweezers with my husband.

When I announced my intention to retaliate against fashion, I was warned by some: it might be hard to find a job, a boyfriend, or to talk my way out of speeding tickets. It was unsightly; I looked unkempt. What was I now, a lesbian? It was natural for me to want to poetically retaliate against my controlling ex-husband, but, come on! This was the real world, and a woman had to look good to get ahead, whether I liked it or not! Oh, well. My tweezers slowly worked their way to the bottom of my makeup bag, and my eyebrows regrew to their virgin state.

Since my fateful decision to "let myself go", I have caved, a time or two, to the pressure to be a nice, hairless American girl. Once, before a job interview, and once, before a big date, I winced as I removed the renegade hairs that make my eyebrow singular, instead of plural. But, for a long time since, my eyebrow has remained intact. I know now that there is no job I cannot do from beneath the fine hairs that shield my eyes, collecting dirt and other tiny particles that I am pretty sure my old friend, Rachel, is still trying to blink away. Likewise, I have also made myself comfortable with the deduction that any man who is interested in my other outstanding physical qualities will also have to accept my coupled eyebrows, socially unacceptable for my gender though they may be.

Those who thought that my au naturel eyebrow would instantly convert me into some sort of radical, self-styled she-man were as wrong as the ones who thought that I would start receiving speeding tickets (Zero tickets in over a year have actually led me to believe that my united brow is a good luck charm - either that, or I'm driving slower these days... and I'm pretty sure it's the former.). I still wear makeup, dresses, and the occasional thong. I have yet to burn my bra. But, even if I do decide that the bra has to go, there's not a damn thing that they can say to stop me.

In my opinion, my eyebrow and I never made much of a threesome, but the two of us make a great team. I suppose it's possible that a few men have been turned off by the hairs between my eyes, but, regardless, I'm still pretty sure that Frida Kahlo had the right idea. Now, if only I could grow a mustache.



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You'll Have to Ask Pickles.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

Today, I had a lot of things to say about how I lost my job, and, thusly, about attourneys, about the EEOC, and, basically, a lot of miscellaneous bitchings. I thought about putting these things in my blog. But, instead, I told them to Pickles.


There's a big, big story here. And it's full of the elements of my favorite kinds of stories: feminist issues. But I've decided not to spill on my blog about it. At least, not yet. Not until I've figured a few things out.

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Facebook Stalking for Dummies.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

I just thought about this tonight, although it happened a few weeks ago, and realized that I have some things to say about it.

Once upon a time, when I went to John Brown, I was acquainted with this guy, by which I mean we saw each other in the cafeteria every once-in-awhile, and had about two mutual friends. We never hung out or really talked, but I saw him at a party once-in-awhile, so, at some point, one of us must have added the other to our Facebook, because there he was, a few weeks ago, IMing me. I ignored him, because I never really knew him, and he seemed pretty boring. He kept on IMing me though, so eventually, I was bored enough/drunk enough to listen to whatever it was that he had to say, so I IMed him back. You know, "hey," or something like that. And then it's like:

Him: "I saw your pictures, and it looks like you're a lot of fun."

Okay, well, this is a fair assertion, and not a completely weird thing to say. I'm thinking to myself, maybe he graduated and moved to Dallas, and is looking for someone to hang out with. So I reply with something like "Yeah, I'm more fun than you or your grandmother can handle." or something equally inane. And then...

Him: "So, do you drink?"
Me: "Uhm. Did you fail to notice the staple beer in my hand in almost all of my Facebook pictures?"
Him: "No. I wasn't looking at that (totally creepy winking face)."
Me: "Uhm, okay."
Him: "Well, as I said, I wasn't looking at the beer. So, do you drink?"
Me: "Yeeeah."
Him: "Are you wild?"
Me: "Define wild."
Him: "You know... with guys."
Me: "You mean, do I have sex? No. Of course not. I'm 22. I spend most of my time at home, knitting potholders."

There are SO many things wrong with this conversation, I don't even know where to start. First of all: nice way to point out that you were looking at my tits, asshole. Yeah, I know that my Facebook pictures are hot, but I also have, you know, a profile. With information about myself. That you could at least GLANCE over, before you make the mistake of going straight for the boobs. But, whatever. On top of that, the whole issue of wildness really confused me. Did he mean Girls-Gone-Wild wild, or just plain getting-wasted-and-passing-out-in-strange-places wild? No, apparently he meant a kind of wild I've never heard of - the kind where you have SEX. Since when is sex wild? Since you are lonely, horny, and newly-graduated from John Brown, I guess.

Anyway, for some reason, I allowed this conversation to continue. I basically asked why he was IMing me and saying this shit, if he wasn't even in the area (I had recently gained knowledge of the fact that he was currently located in San Antonio), to which he replied: "Do you not think I would drive up to Dallas for a good blow job?"

Um, yeah. Where did the whole blow job thing come from? Oh yeah, it must be because I'm a woman. We LOVE to give blow jobs. Especially me. The fact that I'm in a bikini in some of my Facebook pictures just automatically means that I must be a penis-hungry slut, and will totally suck any dick that takes the trouble to drive to Dallas for me. Or, you know, NOT.

And so, the conversation ended with him asking for my number, and me deleting him from my Facebook.

This is the moral of the story:
If you are a guy (or, hell, a girl!), and you think my Facebook photos are hot - great! Leave a photo comment. One that is at least a little appropriate, though, cuz, hey, I'm not fully-naked on there or anything, which means that it's not the best venue for you to discuss how much you want to teabag me.

But if you want to take it further and actually talk to me, you could at least bother to feign some interest in something other than my "wildness". Read my profile and talk to me about my favorite books or something, or, hell, ask me how my day was. Just remember that Facebook is not a DATING website, nor is it an adult-friend-finding website, and I am not there to solicit sex from you. So don't bother. And, if you do, at least be smart enough to tone down the creep factor for me at least a LITTLE bit, and avoid jumping straight to the conclusion that, because I have had sex with another guy before, I must therefore be willing to do it with you - ESPECIALLY if you drive all the way to Dallas.

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Hey, I'm just trying to reach my audience at their level.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

Some of the filler I made for this week's paper:

October is National Poetry Month!
To celebrate, try your hand at a Haiku. It’s a Japenese poem consisting of three lines, with five syllables in the first and third, and seven in the second. For example:

Seeking solitude
Carl’s ex-wife Tammy files for
Restraining order


Sometimes, I love my job.

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In which Obama wins the Nobel Prize, and Mandy gets free donuts.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

This morning, on my way to work, I got my car stuck. This is one of the hazards of living in a rural area and not owning a truck, and also of feeling free to park and drive in people's yards, rather than in their driveways. I was late to work, but, fortunately, not too late for donuts. Donuts are not a commodity I have ever purchased of my own volition, but when they're free, they seem to taste really damn good, for some reason. So, I had a donut. Then, I found out that Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. I'm not sure exactly how I feel about this, because I haven't been keeping up with politics like I should. Everybody seems to have an opinion, and my only opinion is that I'm tired of hearing everyone else's opinion. Granted, he probably wouldn't have been awarded the prize, had it not been for the fair comparison his trigger-happy predecessor cast upon him, but, meh.

So, my workday's highlights, again. I:
1. Ate donuts
2. Didn't care about politics or the Nobel Peace Prize


I think this qualifies me as a true American patriot. Where's my free gun?

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And some advertisement bitchings.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

I'm watching Intervention, and I noticed that there's a change in this commercial for some kind of lap band that I've seen a million times. Before, obese lady said: "I want to kiss him under the Eiffel Tower." and now she says "I want to fly to Paris with my husband."

You have to wonder why they changed this. I googled it, but I didn't get anything other than speculations. My guesses would be that:

1. We have to be sure that this guy is her husband, otherwise, it could be implied that they're living in sin. Oh, noes!
2. Kissing is almost as scandalous as not being legally bound to the person with whom one is living.
3. Flying is something that's hard to do when you're overweight, as opposed to kissing, which, I guess, is not.

I don't really care why they changed the commercial, in fact, because her fatass husband is standing right there, seeming to have no intention to get a lap band, try Weight Watchers, or put down the chips. Ugh. Maybe I should stop watching TV.

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