Q. You went where?
A. Farmers’ market, like usual.
Q. No, after that.
A. Oh. You mean the least churchy church ever.
Q. Yeah.
A. Shocking even myself, yes. Then I liked it, shocking myself more.
Q. What the hell is up with that?
A. I dunno, but I also made a pumpkin pie, and three loaves of pumpkin bread. You should have some; you sound hypoglycemic.
But still, just on principle: fuck cancer. Fuck it tender with a chainsaw, baby.
I am not a huge stickler for political correctness, although after my youth in a distinctly guilty lefty-liberal family that could be easily misconstrued. I am, though, rather in favour of pissing people off for actual reasons, and not just because I’m uncomfortable.
So I do things like couselling Spanish-only-speaking patients in my deficient Spanish, and apologising for being unclear. I try really hard to pronounce people’s names correctly, and I luck out because of the convenient-for-me distribution of ethnic groups in the area. I don’t talk smack about patients who can’t pass easily after gender reassignment surgery. This, to me, is not political correctness; this is trying not to be a jerk.
I’m not a huge stickler for political correctness. I am also not a huge stickler for political incorrectness—a phrase which existed well before a former boyfriend accused me of mis-extrapolating it from a certain television show—because “political incorrectness” comes off to me as “being a jerk for its own sake”.
I have a white uncle who persistently refers to my mom, my sibling group and his children as “Orientals”, and we cringe every single time. His daughter, when she is not getting beaten up by the husband who seemed like such a nice boy, mutters about “rugs” whenever her dad talks about her ethnicity. Using “Asian” in this context seems like a logical deferral to the preferences of family members, and not the mandate of a politkorrekt enforcement organisation.
Terminology preferences change, and it gets confusing, and sometimes it gets less specific. But at heart, what’s wrong with the idea of trying to be courteous?
The BH needs new pants, and refuses to go shopping to try pants on, and I am not much of a tailor.
This means I am going to be phone-shopping tomorrow trying to find another instance of the beloved pants he has worn to shreds, because I can’t seem to find them on the Internets. Stupid Canada and their non-existent apparel labels!
You see what happens when I go looking for photos of Lee Adama’s big butt?
I have that song stuck in my head now.
I love your slanted walls and your A-shaped halls!
Maybe a dose of Katee Sackhoff will take care of it.
so much better than the one with Lorne Greene!
Nope.
Damnit.