this, won’t I?

So this weekend was lovely and sunny and warm, and when the weather is like that, Fred always gets a hankering to go somewhere and do something. Saturday we drove up into Tennessee and stared at the Mennonites (Fred’s got an entry about that here – note that he didn’t give me any credit for taking every one of those pictures. Hmph.), then got Subway for lunch and ate our sandwiches at Davy Crockett State Park, before driving back home. And also, I was bitten by a mosquito while we were eating lunch, so I fully expect to come down with West Nile virus. In fact, I note that one of the signs of West Nile virus is headache, and I recall with horror that I had a headache this morning. (The fact that I was deadlifting 100 pounds at the time has nothing to do with it, I’m sure. I feel so weak and ill. I can barely see. Mother? I can’t see you…) Yesterday, Fred decided that it was a good day for kayaking. Since he’s been bugging the hell out of me to try it for myself, I decided that I would. We first went to Point Mallard, since Fred had some success kayaking there last week, and found also that the water wasn’t as scary as the previous places we’d been. We got there, headed to the bathrooms, Fred unloaded the kayak, and then we walked toward the water. Fred stopped and looked around. “There are an awful lot of people here,” he said. “Do you think it’s some kind of reunion or party?” I looked around and pointed out the “Cost Cutters Party” sign. He sighed and cursed everyone for not showing up BEFORE he’d unloaded the kayak, and we headed back to the Jeep. Not that there’s anything wrong with other people being around, but there’s NO way I was going to get in the kayak with people watching, and Fred wasn’t up for being an object of curiosity either. We drove around trying to find a place to put in the water, but had no luck. Fred got grumpier and grumpier, and threatened to just give up and go home. Finally, he had a flash of brilliance, and we drove back over the bridge to the marina. We found a fairly decent spot to put in, I put the lifejacket on, and Fred held the kayak so that I could get in. After a little while, I did get in, and then he pushed the kayak into the water. “Bessie,” he said. “I don’t see any boats, but in case any come along, what do you do if they go by fast?” “Scream and hold onto the sides of the kayak,” I said. I mean, duh. That’s an obvious answer, right there. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “NO, you turn INTO the waves, so they won’t knock you over.” Now, how motherfucking stupid does the man think I am? I DID spend an entire summer working on an island (bet that’s something you didn’t know about me, eh?), and one of the many things I did was drive a small boat back and forth between the island and the mainland every single day, usually several times a day. And if there’s anything I know about dealing with waves caused by other boats, I know that the best thing to do is hold on to your ass and hope for the best. Anyway. Fred pushed me into the water, and I almost immediately let out a little scream and grabbed onto the sides of the kayak. Those fuckers are tippy, let me tell you. If you shift your weight just a tiny bit to one side, the kayak is more than happy to tip in that direction and act like nothing would make it happier than to tip my ass into the water. I mean, I can swim and everything, but who wants to go into the nasty river water? Remember, I grew up near the Androscoggin river, one of the 50 most polluted rivers in the early 90s, and so I’m a bit prejudiced against river water. I paddled around for a while, out a bit, back in toward shore, a circle to the left, a circle to the right, and then I paddled back in and declared my kayaking experience over for the day. It was windier than we’d expected, and I felt that I was on the verge of being swept 20 miles down the river. Getting out of the kayak was an experience in itself, believe you me, and I’m certainly glad there were no people around to be amused by me. I don’t know that I really cared for being out in a kayak, but I’m willing to try it again. Any new experience is scary at first, after all. While Fred went out in the kayak, I sat and read until a guy towing a catamaran came along and asked if I wouldn’t mind moving the Jeep. I did, and not long after, Fred decided he was done, and we headed home.
I’ve finally gotten around to moving my reading page over to robynanderson.com. It’s here, now. It took me all of about 5 minutes to do, god knows why I put it off for so long. Oh yeah. ‘Cause I’m a procrastinator! Speaking of my reading list, I note that after a kick-ass start in January, wherein I read 18 books during the month, my numbers have been heading downward, and in May I only read 11 books. (Yeah, I know. Y’all are saying “Bitch, I WISH I had the time to read 11 books in a month!” To which I say “Nyah, nyah, nyah. My life fucking rocks.”) I feel the need to explain that the reason my books-read number was so low for May is because I was trying to catch up on my magazine reading. And now that the spud is in California and then Rhode Island and then Maine for the summer (damn, the kid’s going to have some serious frequent flyer miles!) and I don’t have to do any of that pesky mothering stuff, I should be getting those numbers back up there. I know you were concerned. While catching up on my magazine reading (some of which I did this weekend), I came across last month’s issue of Playboy. (Did you know we subscribe to Playboy? Did you know that in fact, *I* subscribe to Playboy? Did you further know that Fred couldn’t be less interested in it, and that I get it for the articles, because plastic-looking women aren’t really my thing? Are you horrified and flocking to my notify list to unsubscribe? Did you know that if you subscribe or unsubcribe to my notify list, I don’t get an email, because I set it up that way?). In that issue of Playboy was featured Sarah Kozar, whom some of you might remember from Joe Millionaire. Here’s the thing. When I watched Joe Millionaire, I thought Sarah was a really pretty girl. I thought she was a tad bitchy, but very pretty. In all the pictures of her that I’ve seen since then, I’ve always thought she was gorgeous. But in her Playboy spread, she looked like a Barbie doll. All the character had been airbrushed out of her face, and she looked like a vapid piece of plastic. How anyone could find a picture of a bland, characterless woman – and we all know that her body’s been airbrushed to within an inch of it’s life, right? – sexy is beyond me, it really is. Which, of course, brings us to Carnie Wilson. I watched the 20/ 20 interview with Carnie Wilson Friday night, and it was interesting. Carnie always comes across as a bit flighty. I don’t recall exactly what her reasons were for wanting to be in Playboy, but I’m pretty sure it was along the lines of “I want to empower other women! To show them that it can be done!” (She also said “I’m not the Gastric Bypass Girl. I’m Carnie.”, and I’m going to save for another day my gripe about people who get loads of money to promote a product, and then whine about how that’s all anyone’s interested in.) Here’s the thing: I have no problem at all with women posing in Playboy, but if you’re going to do it, don’t pull some bullshit reason out of your ass to explain why. There are exactly two reasons for posing naked to be in Playboy: 1) The money, or 2) The attention. I guess there’s also 3) Because I believe it will further my career, but that really falls under #2, in my opinion. And, hell – I don’t think there’s anything wrong with posing for the money or the attention. If Playboy came calling and said “Robyn, we’re doing a series called Bitches of the Internet Who Write Incessantly About Their Cats. We’ll give you a million bucks”, I’d grab my suitcase and tell them to fire up the airbrush. It wouldn’t even take a million bucks, I’d do it for half that. Maybe even a quarter that. When y’all started emailing me and saying “Robyn, how could you do that? How could you pose naked like that?”, I would smile big, and I would say “I did it for the money, and I’d do it again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the pool boy to fish the Mercedes out of the pool again. Buh-bye.” I promise you – I wouldn’t blow smoke up yoiur ass about how it’s good for other women to see my plastic, characterless, airbrushed to death, because it would be INSPIRING for them. No, you’ll get the truth from me, I promise. During the interview, Carnie was shown several times recording a Diane Warren song, and at one point she sang something along the lines of “I don’t need you to tell me I’m pretty to know that I’m beautiful”, and what we’re supposed to understand is that Carnie’s a strong woman who has shed the weight and standing strong. But that’s not how she comes across. She comes across as someone who needs desperately to pose in Playboy so that she’ll get the attention that she craves so much, so that she can point to those pictures and pretend that that’s what she really looks like, and so that she can distance herself and almost believe that Now Carnie is in no way related to Then Carnie. And I find that sad.]]>