sandramcdonald

One of my schools is on break this week, which is a good opportunity to catch up on writing.  And yardwork. Generally I hate yardwork, but this week have been seized with spring fever and have a few different projects going on in the front and back yards both.  It figures that the one week I get my gloves on, however, is also the week we have air alerts because of all the fires in Northeast Florida. 

In general, I'm a terrible gardener. I suck at pulling weeds or cutting things down because I feel badly for them. This is what comes from years of watching anthropomorphized Disney characters. When I do have to cut something down, I apologize. I worry about all the little bugs that are trapping in the leaves I shoveled into plastic bags for curb pick up.  I have ethical qualms about sending leaves off in a garbage truck to sit in a landfill, because I don't think my county actually mulches yard waste like it should.

Sometimes I find things that really make me wonder about the previous owners. The last couple had a penchant for throwing out potted plants.  I've found 4 or 5 pothos still growing in broken pots, and one red fern thingie.  Someone left lots of broken glass by the carport. Someone buried chunks of blue glass in dirt. The original owners threw ceramic tiles into the far corners - I only know this because they match the ones that came out of deepest layers of the kitchen closet that my dad and brother demolished for me last year. 

Someone burned things in the southeast corner.  Someone put up barbed wire and a wooden fence against the perfectly good white fence that belongs to the office park behind me. There's an old sprinkler system running under the backyard that hasn't been used in decades, which matches the satellite dish on the roof that likewise doesn't work. I always think the concrete area I turned into a basketball court is the cover of a septic tank, but the house was built in 1955 with city water and sewer, so probably not.  Maybe it's where the bodies are buried.

I can prune words in a story, but hate pruning things that want to grow toward the sun. 

I did a guest post at Heroines of Fantasy about feminism, warrior babes, Slave Leia's costume in Return of the Jedi, and generally missing the point . . . and the first commenter, a guy, said "I dunno.  I think it's all subjective."

Which is a classic way of sustaining any kind of prejudice: "it's all subjective."  When we say that, we avoid taking a stand, we avoid critical thinking, and we avoid any in-depth examination of the topic.  "It's all subjective," we say, waving our hand.  "Who can say?"  

I reject the notion that tweens dress sexily because they feel empowered by our society to do so. I hate a lot of fantasy book covers.  I think "being feminine" means you don't have to wear makeup, that you don't have to have big boobs, that you can be a boy, that you can be lots of things. I think The Handmaid's Tale should be required reading for everyone.

"I dunno.  I think it's all subjective."