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Delusions of Grandeur-y (Pt 1)

Part of the reason I decided to to start blogging...again is because I was summoned to jury duty. I received my summons at the same time one of my favorite bloggers (Yoonanimous, you need to be reading this) also was summoned to jury duty and blogged about it. I was all like "OMG we're civic duty twinzies!" in the comments of her blog. She gently encouraged me to stop trolling the comments section of her blog (never! I love it too much), and take my adventures onto a blog of my very own, which is what you're reading write now.

Anyway, I've always wanted to be on a jury ever since my mom was on a jury and she told me that she was being paid $11 a day. And this was back in '93, so we're talking about some serious cash here. At the time I had never even considered that being paid such astronomical sums was even possible. What couldn't an 8 yo buy with $11 a day? I submit that there is nothing.

In the intervening years, I've watched a lot of dramatizations of court proceedings on TV. I was/am an avid fan of The Practice, Family Law (Dixie Carter 4 EVER), Judging Amy (Tyne Daly is so boss), Night Court, and Judge Judy. Since I was summoned to serve at the criminal court, I had a feeling this was going to be a Law&Order situation (SVU? Only time would tell). Regardless, having spent countless hours watching L&O marathons* on cable, I knew Dick Wolf had trained me well. Between that and the fact that I had put down a deposit for law school on three separate occaisons ('11, '12, and '13), but didn't actually go; I knew I was really prepared.

*Note: You know how on USA/TNT/TBS they have those L&O:SVU themed marathons? Like L&O: Mistaken Identities weekend, or L&O: Femme Fatales. My dream job is to work for one of those bootleg stations and curate different Law&Order themed marathons. My first order of business would be a L&O: The Aughts: As told through the many hairstyles of Olivia Benson. I would argue that Olivia Benson was to the 2000s, what Rachel Green was to the 90's.*

Anway, if I had my L&O druthers, I would have a judge like Judith Light aka (Judge Liz Donnelly). Judith Light is one of those actresses that I like to pretend is always playing the same woman just at a different part of her life. Who's the Boss, Ugly Betty, or L&O:SVU: it doesn't matter, in my mind it's all the same Judith. So whenever I turn on the TV and I see her I like to say to myself "Oh there's that crazy Judith. What is she up to these days?" and then she tells me.

I've been a big Judith Light fan ever since her sitcom days. I always felt like she was, without question, the actual boss. Here was a woman wrestling with all the pressures of modern 80's life as an ad agency exec, mother, and shoulder pad-wearer, all while taking care of her post-menopausal sex dynamo of a mother. Tony Danza just rolls up one day with his David Cassidy-esque feathered hair and tries to usurp her authority. IMHO she should have Game of Thrones-ed his ass. But eventually she went on to flourish as tough, but fair judge in the NYC criminal courts; and I thought that I would really flourish as a juror with someone like her presiding.

Who's the boss?

She's the boss.

If Judith Light was off the table, I definitely wanted to go the Night Court route. It was pretty early in the morning when I finally made it to the court, and there were no snacks in the jury assembly room, so I could really have used some Harry Anderson-John Larroquette-Markie Post shenanigans to kick-start* my day.

*Note to self: Remember to create actual Night Court-based project to submit for funding at kickstarter.com

Would you pay good money to help Kickstart (TM) a Night Court-themed something?
Maybe a breakfast cereal?

Upon arriving at the Hall of Justice, I actually started to get nervous. I don't know if it was the four separate bail bonds...stores?...enterprises?.. IDK what you call a place that sells bail bonds; or the crack heads out front, but suddenly I knew this was some serious shiz.

I made my way to the aforementioned jury assembly room (you'll remember that I mentioned there were no snacks). It was filled with SFers from all walks of life. I knew that where I sat was going to be very important because that person would probably become my new friend. As I looked around, I realized the pickings were going to be slim, friend-wise. I spied on rather handsome gent, but then I realized that he was wearing a leather jacket and I swore I would never be friends with someone who would wear a leather jacket. I finally settled on a woman who looked like a trim Janet Napolitano. Everything was going great until I realized she had fallen asleep approximately 30 seconds after I sat down. When she awoke, she moved to another seat, leaving me totally vulnerable to whatever waste of life decided to sit down next to me.

Luckily, one of the clerks decided that it was time to get the show on the road. He explained that it was time for the juror orientation video, and walked over to the tube television, and slid the VHS tape into the VCR. This video could not have been made any later than the Mesozoic Era. We were greeted by a "former juror" who I can only assume had just unloaded his Conestoga wagon and was on his way to pan for gold with the other gold rush prospectors when he was selected for jury duty.

"We take crime just as seriously here in the California Territory as they do in the 30 states. After all, this is a post-Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo world we're living in," he wheezed. I swear I've seen daguerreotypes of more recent vintage.

Ok, so he didn't really say that. I don't really remember what he said because another potential juror sitting to my right was blowing his nose and leaving his snotty Kleenex in a pile on the coffee table between us. I was fairly certain that that kind of behavior would get him promptly ejected from service.

The clerk came back and informed us that the pay was $15/day plus $2 for transit costs...unless you're a public employee. WHAT!?! I work for the government. My 8 yo dreams came crumbling down right before my eyes. Jury duty, as it turns out, is not the ticket to fame and fortune I had thought.

Then the clerk started calling names and telling folks which court to report to. As the clerk read the first list of names, I heard one that sounded like mine. Could it be me? Did I just mishear the last name? I'd better check. No, not me? OK, time to regroup, pee, and think about how I really want a snack. Oh wait, next list. Nope, not called again.

Don't they see how justice flows through my veins? Maybe I should mention how I almost went to law school three separate times. Ah Ha! Called on the third list.

My fellow potential future jurors and I all filed down to Dept. 27 and sat in the gallery, where the judge and two attorneys were already waiting for us. A new clerk welcomed us and then said she was going to call 24 names at random for preliminary question...and my name was chosen!

Stay tuned for the next episode, where an actual trial takes place!

In defense of Pie, not that I should even have to

This is an old blog post from a long ago blog that I'm recycling (upcycling?) into this blog. Writing new content is hard. Don't judge, or do. 

Find the original article at http://www.slate.com/id/2296054/

J’Accuse, Mr. Heller!?!I am no doubt one of the world’s foremost lovers of pie. I am writing because I have been asked by the other lovers to stand as a bulwark of truth to shield our delicious pies against your malicious lies. Not since McCarthyism or the Salem Witch Trials, have innocents been accused of so much. I offer up a screenshot of my facebook page as proof that you’re article has whetted the appetites for revolution in stomachs across America (or at least among twenty-something yuppies in the DC-metro region).

To prove myself one who has lived his life in devotion of pie, I offer up this one anecdote in what I can assure you is an incredibly long resume: As a child, I always asked for apple pie in lieu of birthday cake, which I continued through my college graduation. My cousin, who threw me a graduation party, protested the pie on the grounds that you can’t frost it. Like two Cold War superpowers we fought via proxies (by complaining to my aunt and mother about what a pig-head the other was). Alas, mutually assured destruction was inevitable. She bought a disgusting Costco sheet cake, smeared thickly with white frosting. The orange and blue letters may have spelled “C-O-N-G-R-A-T-U-L-A-T-I-O-N-S!,” but they screamed “Fuck you and everything you hold dear.” Ever since that day I have been secretly funding Chechnyan rebels to put flaming bags of dog poop on her door step.

A family ripped asunder. Frowny-face emoticon.

“Was it worth it,?” they ask me. “Of course,” I reply.

Why? Because from a very young age, I rejected cake’s monopoly as the official dessert of celebration. No, you can’t put frosting or candles on a pie, but who needs that? Pie stands, time immemorial, naked -- clothed only in its deliciousness; such decoration would only distract and detract.

Which brings me to my first point: Pie’s plainness and medieval roots are not, as you suggest antiquated and out-of-date, but proof of the strength of its longevity. Other than war in the holy land, what else has been able to stand the test of time so unchanged? Consider other medieval innovations -- the catapult, chain mail, or chivalric love. Modern inventions eventually replaced them all (the Glock, mock turtle neck, and sexting, respectively).

What you see as anachronistic, I see as timeless.

Pie isn’t just delicious, it also has power. Consider the classic Tom and Jerry cartoons-- one motif repeated over and over again by its animators featured a freshly-baked pie cooling ed on a window sill. As the fingers of aroma take hold of Tom he becomes completely mesmerized and begins to levitate toward the pie, carried through the air by nothing but mouth-watering anticipation. Because of pie, Tom was able to defy the physical laws of the universe. That is its power, and it’s worth the risk of running afoul of a sadistic mouse who will take advantage of your pie-induced hypnosis to flay you with a pair of pinking shears.

But to your other point regarding pie’s relative monotony -- It isn’t just flaky crusts and fruit filling. In what can only be considered pie-racism, you lump the entire pantheon into one unappealingly-described stereotype. So you don’t like cooked fruit in a pie shell, fine. I suppose everyone is entitled to their own opinion, no matter how misinformed it is (see: Sarah Palin, Paul Revere’s Ride). There are so many other wonderful varieties -- Boston Cream pies, custard pies, moon pies, or even pizza pies. There are more kinds crusts alone than colors in the rainbow: graham cracker, oreo, crumb-topped, latticed, and your much-maligned flakey dough-shell.

You’re right when you say that pie occupies a special place in our culture, unlike that of any other dessert. But that’s because pie can be and do almost anything.

What did Poison sing about? Cherry Pie. What does a fool eat? Humble Pie. What happened to vaudevillians who gave terrible performances? A pie in the face. What is worth driving your Chevy to the levy for, even if the levy is dry? American pie.

Yes, it seems pie can be all things to all people, except you Mr. Heller. To you it is nothing, and for that I feel nothing but pity. Putting on my Freudian cap for a moment, I can only conclude that your flailing and desperate attempt to disparage my favorite dessert is a mask for something more sinister. Were you molested by pie as a child? Are you now hell-bent on perpetuating the circle of violence -- a la Law and Order: SVU? At the risk of sounding insensitive to people who have suffered from real trauma, I can only advise you to lie back and relax, you might find that you actually enjoy it.

My advice to Mr. Heller: This summer, the next time you find yourself at a picnic table and your host slides you a slice across that red-checker table cloth you can just slide it down to me. I’ll eat it. You can have an extra scoop of potato salad, or whatever other nonsense you think constitutes dessert. You know why? Because, as you pointed out, “It’s Pie!”

To Pie: Keep on being your awesome self. Don't let anyone tear you down, but do let everyone slice you up and eat your face off.

I am a huge moron

I live in San Francisco, which is (1) an amazing city (2) crazy far -- geographically and culturally – from where I grew up in rural New Hampshire. First, picture the movie Footloose and the play Our Town; now (in your mind’s eye) decoupage pictures from both all over a mid-2000s green Subaru outback while wearing Birkenstocks AND wool socks AND cargo shorts.  Voila! You know have a pretty decent working knowledge of the first 19 years of my life.

So you can imagine my excitement when I discovered that someone from my high school had recently moved from my old home town to my new hometown. I found out about the move through some facebook stalking (naturally), and I debated for like a couple of weeks whether or not to reach out.

You see this person and I have at best a very tenuous connection. He is the much younger brother of an old friend of mine’s ex-girlfriend.

“What?” you say.

“Exactly!” I respond.

Way back when I was 16 -- which was, I’m sad to report, more than 10 years ago – I possessed a driver’s license AND access to a car. For those of you that took calculus, you know the first derivative of that equation equals friends. One of those friends, Anthony, had new/first girlfriend named Christine. Anthony wanted to spend lots of time with Christine, and, I can only presume, that she wanted to spend lots of time with him. To facilitate said hang outs, Anthony, Christine, and other friends would pile into my mother’s Jeep Cherokee and drive off into the night to do godknowswhat. Full Disclosure: Godknowswhat usually consisted of either:  nothing, loitering, or sitting in a restaurant and sharing one basket of fries between six people for approximately 11 hours.

Christine’s mother had other ideas.  She was basically the Tyrion Lannister of this whole situation. “Sure,” she’d say. “Have a great time.”

But she didn’t really mean it!

“Oh Christine!  I need you to watch your little brother tonight, but you don’t mind just taking him with you, do you? ” she sneered, “He loves hanging out with you.” Ok, so the sneer was really just implied. But she should have sneered!  Had she actually sneered, it would have been a really sneery sneer.  Like a Peter Campbell from Mad Men sneer.

Even though the question was addressed to Christine, it was Anthony who had to say yes. If he said no, he would give Mother actual evidence proving that he wasn't a nice guy; that he didn't care about her family; that he wasn’t that interested in being a true boyfriend;  and that she shouldn't waste her time with guys like that.

“Damn,” we’d think, outsmarted at every turn. At this rate Anthony was NEVER going to get laid.

I don’t really remember if I ever actually said anything to this little brother. I do remember not being pleased at his presence. He was like 12, which was basically like a baby. 

Anyway fast forward 12 or so years, and this baby has moved to San Francisco. So you understand my reluctance at sending him a message. Not because I still think he’s a baby, but because I don’t think I was all that nice to him.

I hemmed and I hawed, but finally I resolved that I should send him a message. Yes, we had a more a détente than a friendship back then, but that was a long time ago. And he was the one that friended me on Facebook. It was a few years ago, and I remember thinking, “This is weird, but whatever” before hitting the accept button.

So I sent him a really nice message. It went something like, “Hey Michael: Isn’t this super random. Blah Blah Blah. Hope you’re settling in well. Let’s get coffee sometime.”

And then I waited. For fifteen days, I waited.

No response.

“What a little jerk,” I thought. I, in the spirit of kindness and generosity, reached out to him. I was willing to take time out of my very busy life to share my wit and wisdom with him. Why? Because I’m like a really good person, obviously.  And he just waved me off.

Well the joke’s on you buddy, ‘cause I’m keeping all of my knowledge to myself now.  Oh what’s that? You just woke up in a gutter, bleeding from the head? Don’t call me. I’m busy imparting my pearls of wisdom to people who didn’t ignore my facebook messages.

Then I happened to hope onto facebook and reread that message I sent him. As you’ll recall it began “Hey Michael…,” but there’s a problem because his name isn’t Michael. His name is Jeff. I got his name wrong. On Facebook.

If you’ve ever seen a Bugs Bunny cartoon, you may recall wherein Bugs Bunny lays a rake on the ground in front his enemy (Elmer Fudd, Daffy Duck, ect.) and when said foe steps on the mouth of the rake, the handle flies up and hits him in the face.  That’s basically me.

Not the Looney Tunes, but apt.

Most people get to live in blissful ignorance of the fact that they’re ignorant assholes. Not me. God granted me just enough awareness, so that I’d eventually find out what a jerk I am. It would have been nice if he gave me just a little more, so that I could avoid some of these situations entirely, but as they say “Shit in one hand, wish in the other, and see which fills up first.”

Post script: I sent another incredibly message, this one incredibly apologetic. Michael, err I mean Jeff laughed and said he meant to reply sooner, but life was hectic, and that we should get coffee soon.

Why I stopped blogging for a while

Once upon a time, like two years ago, I had this really original idea. I would start a blog where I would write withering prose and scathing criticism about all the things that I hate.  I scoured the interwebz for a first post idea, and I found it in a local news paper article:

5 months of fun in EuropeStudent enjoys dancing, food, wine and fashion during 10-country tour

TOWN — From the moment she landed in Switzerland as part of a 10 country, five-month tour across Europe, 21-year-old Person began living the glamorous life.
“We were suppose to fly from Switzerland to Hungary but the airport was closed in Budapest,” said GIRL, a TOWN resident who is a student at the University of STATE, on Tuesday.

Reeling from jetlag after a long plane ride across continents, GIRL said she and four other college students who traveled abroad with her started to fret, but that was before the airline offered to put them up in a hotel in Zurich for the night.

“We were put up in a five star hotel in Switzerland and had a great night in Zurich,” said GIRL, who joined PROGRAM so that she could tour 10 European countries, while earning college credits at University of Budapest.

According to GIRL, her European adventure began on Jan. 30, when she left AIRPORT in NEARBY CITY, and ended when she returned home on June 1.
“I had a harder time adjusting to coming back home,” said GIRL. “There was no transition going there. I jumped right into it.” 

In the five months that GIRLl spent studying abroad, she visited Austria, Croatia, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Holland, Italy, Romania, Transylvania, and Vienna.
It was hard for GIRL to decide which place she enjoyed most, so she focused on the places she had the most fun.

“One of the coolest nights we had was in Rome,” said GIRL, “We went to a nice night club. It was a girl’s night out.”

While waiting in line with her girlfriends to go into the nightclub, GIRL said a bouncer told them that a Roman soccer team was inside but none of the girls believed him. “”We thought it was a draw [into the nightclub],” said GIRL, but she was wrong. “They were inside. They invited us inside to the VIP.” said GIRL, “and they bought us expensive champagne.”

GIRL said that while all people from all across Europe treated them wonderfully, the Italians —especially the soccer team — treated them the best.

“They like American women,” she said. “Italian women tend to be glamorous but they don’t dance. The Americans go in and party and have fun. We’re social, too.”

The college students also had a chance to hangout at beaches in Greece. “Athens was gorgeous,” she said, but not entirely safe - at least during the time GIRL visited in May.

“We were there when the Athens riots were going on,” said GIRL, referring to the rioting that took place in Greece in which three people lost their lives. “They were tipping over cars and stuff”

GIRL also visited a beach in Croatia.

“The whole coast is just stunning,” she said. “It rivals the Greek Islands.”
The color of the ocean was almost turquoise, but not quite, said GIRL. “They haven’t even invented a color for that water yet.”

Sampling food from across Europe was also lots of fun for GIRL — at least at first. “The Greek food and Italian food was to die for,” she said. “It ruined me for life.”

The Hungarian food, though, after a while, began to bore her.

“I was really excited about the food at first, but there’s not a lot of variety.”

The Hungarian wine was another story.

“Hungary is a wine region,” said GIRL. “You can get a great bottle of Egri wine for $1.30. Champagne was $4. We really celebrated.”

The college that GIRL attended abroad also helped to ensure the American college students enjoyed the European nightlife.

“Our school had a legitimate night club in it,” she said. “They threw raves for us. Instead of playing ld hockey, they’d have club events. The international student parties are unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”

So is the European fashion.

"Animal prints are insanely popular,” said GIRL. So are pants that are very tight at the bottom of the leg, but balloon out at the top.

“I thought they were hideous,” she said, “but I thought about bringing a pair back.”

"Perfect!" I thought. This is basically the most ridiculous thing, I've ever read. So I chugged a gallon of haterade. Posted the text of the article, names and places unredacted, and let my venom flow forth like lava over Pompeii. My response read like this:

I didn’t realize Snooki lived in X! The alcohol-fueled antics detailed in “5 Months of Fun in Europe” sound more like an episode of MTV’s Jersey Shore than an academic study abroad. Apparently drunkenly cavorting with strange men qualifies as an educational experience these days. One thing we do know is that a geography lesson probably wasn’t on the syllabus that semester: “she visited Austria, Croatia, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Holland, Italy, Romania, Transylvania, and Vienna” – Vienna is in Austria and Transylvania is in Romania. That’s okay though, because there isn’t a test to be on Girls Gone Wild.

I’d hate to believe that after spending five months in Europe, her most memorable experience was that time she ran off with the men’s soccer team. Upon finishing this article, the reader is left to wonder, “Did she learn anything at all?” This trip had everything: the five-star hotels, alcohol, VIP lounges, professional athletes, more alcohol – the only missing from this study abroad was studying. Unless, of course, that was the studying, which means Paris Hilton must have been assigning the homework.

Mean, right? Not even that funny. Mostly just really cheap shots at a totally unfamous girl that I don't know. But I posted it nonetheless. I mean how much harm could I do? I was just posting to my own totally unfamous blog that was basically private (Yes, this is the part where you go "this asshole is also an idiot").

The worst part, and thinking about it still sort of makes me sick to my stomach, is how easily I went right to slut shaming. Granted that article is absurd. This was a local newspaper, and subject of the article isn't even like a Lohan cousin or anything. She is completely anonymous to the world at large. Is it a joke? It has to be a joke, right? But who am I to publicly and smugly shame this girl about whatever antics and shenanigans she's decided to get up to? You don't know this yet, but I ain't no saint either. Now I've never run off to the Champagne Room with a European soccer (football? IDK) team, but that has more to do with the fact that I've never been invited. 

So how long did my post last? Two days. The subject of the article found my "private" (like no duh, right?) post and put me on notice. The comments below appeared:

Finding this blog post was a bit disappointing to me because I was hoping this “article” had disappeared from the face of the earth. There are so many inaccuracies and misquotations in this piece that I felt I should have written a letter to the editor to clarify what was said during my “interview”. I’m embarrassed that I was portrayed like bimbo but let me assure you, the writer of the article asked so many questions on the “fun” aspects of my study abroad experience, it was hard to get a word in edgewise about the wonderful and fulfilling academic experiences I had while abroad. The interview was quite long and the writer asked me questions such as “What do people wear over there?”, “Where did you like to party?”, and “What was the wine like?” Of course I answered these questions but as I tried to steer the conversation away from the party aspect and move to the actual substance of the experience (such learning about the rich Hungarian history from a professor who was also a member Parliament and taking every opportunity to visit museums, monuments, churches, castles, and any other cultural attraction of historical significance) the writer seemed uninterested and quickly turned back to gossipy questions. As for the inaccuracies and misquotations: 

1. I did not sign up for study abroad so I could tour ten European countries. I knew going into the program that school (as it always has been) was my first priority. I chose my program because it had an extensive business curriculum and all of my credits were completely transferrable. The traveling I did was a bonus earned after completing schoolwork. The way the program was portrayed in the beginning of the article misrepresents the entire academic basis of the program and why I chose to go abroad. 

2. This was the sentence that made me think maybe the writer wasn’t paying attention to what I was saying :“In the five months that GIRL spent studying abroad, she visited Austria, Croatia, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Holland, Italy, Romania, Transylvania, and Vienna”
I lived in Hungary and became acutely aware of European geography (especially Eastern and Central) – I was IN Transylvania, Romania, and Vienna, Austria, I realize they are regions/cities within countries. Already disappointed with the article, this sentence made me nervous to see what else the writer had remembered or took notes on incorrectly. 

3. This was a quotation purely of the writer’s imagination. “One of the coolest nights we had was in Rome,” said GIRL, “We went to a nice night club. It was a girl’s night out.”
I do not speak like an 8th grader with a limited vocabulary. “Coolest nights out”, “Nice night club”… really? 

4. The article continues with the description of the night at the Roman club. I remember this part of the interview well as the interviewer was beyond fascinated by the mere mention of semi famous people following the question “Did you meet anyone famous?”Guess the part where I talked about my Hungarian Parliament member professor wasn’t exciting enough to mention….

5. Another completely untrue sentence:
“We were there when the Athens riots were going on,” said GIRL, referring to the rioting that took place in Greece in which three people lost their lives. “They were tipping over cars and stuff”
I told the writer that I was in Athens after the violence in Athens had subsided. Athens is a hectic city but I definitely didn’t see anyone tipping over cars…and stuff.

To be honest, I could go on dissecting the article and telling you what really happened but the more I reread this trash, the angrier I get. There is no flow or style to the article and the gross misrepresentation of my experiences abroad is offensive. You’d think after reading this that I could only speak in fragmented sentences and my best adjective was “cool”. It almost seems like the writer was creating a shallow fantasy Euro-land based on what she wanted to hear, instead of what I was actually saying.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to criticize something when you don’t know both sides of the story. I’d appreciate it if you’d remove this posting as it is offensive and hurtful to me and my family.

I would make a joke about how often she must Google herself to have found this post so quickly, but I think God would strike me where I type for that kind of hypocrisy. But there you have it, her response to my post was more articulate and more respectful of me than I deserved. She point-by-point defended herself against that article and my response.

The real problem in this who situation is that she even felt the need to defend her honor/reputation in the first place. At this point, not one, but two strangers used her implied sexual activity to vilify a fictional version of herself, AND WHO THE FUCK NEEDS THAT? 

I'm not really articulate enough to explain this because I'm not like a scholar of gender studies or anything, but there's a two-pronged issued here: she could either (1) Tell us to mind our own business, which will be taken as an admission of the story's truth, and suffer ridicule at the hands of strangers, or (2) she can deny it on its face, which is an admission that their is something wrong with what she was accused of. BOTH RESPONSES GIVE US AGENCY OVER THE DECISIONS SHE MAKES WITH HER OWN BODY. It's Hester Prynne all over again! Two roads diverge in a sexist wood, and whichever one you pick you're screwed.   

I feel like a monster. I could say something about how I'm a product of a sexist culture, but that's some serious bullshit. That's like when people defend slave owners in the 1860s because slavery was apart of that culture. Thaddeus Stevens knew slavery was a load of crap in 1860; so did the Quakers. The Qin Dynasty said did away with it like 2000 years before the Civil War. Even the Vikings abolished slavery in the year 1117. And may I remind you that their entire claim to medieval fame was how awesome they were at raping and pillaging. People know bad shit is bad right away, just because it continues to exist in a culture is not an excuse.

The real question is "Why, even though I know this kind of language is incredibly sexist, did I do it anyway?" The answer is that sometimes small people do mean things to make themselves feel big. By writing what I wrote I didn't expose her weakness, I exposed my own.

and I'm just really sorry.