The green fairy and the morning after

The joy of living in the city finally dawned on me--cool crap happening everywhere. Last night my hubby and I went to an absinthe tasting. It was...amazing. The price of admission was very reasonable, and went toward a large amount of absinthe and a free Kubler absinthe spoon to take home. My favorite absinthe of the evening is a local Illinois creation, Sirene, by the North Shore Distillery. During the tasting they handed out small vials of the herbs used in creating absinthe, and to my taste, Sirene seemed to taste like the purer forms of the herbs. The Kubler absinthe blanche was also very good, but clear (as all blanches are). I guess the color shouldn't matter so much, but I like my fairies and my absinthe green. It had a very smooth taste, but nothing like the richness and aroma of Sirene. I think the Kubler would be a very good absinthe for popping your green cherry, while Sirene will take you to a whole new level. It's not even like drinking alcohol. After enough sips (oh yes, and it needs to be sipped) the wormwood oil, the main ingredient and the origin of the green color, lightly coats and numbs the inside of your mouth. It's a strange experience. And speaking of experiences--no, it will not make you hallucinate. Thujone (a chemical component of wormwood and a bone fide neurotoxin) is present in absinthe but not conclusively linked to psychoactive responses. For more information on the studies on thujone and its effects, read the Wikipedia article linked above. Bottom line: bad research led to absinthe getting a bad rap. Historically it is the only alcoholic substance to be singled out for prohibition. But fear not, the green fairy has returned.

Guh....not even 7 am and I'm writing about alcohol. The light of the monitor is almost enough to kill me. Later I'll do more research on where to buy absinthe-related goods. There seem to be several reputable sites, but I need to shop and compare before dropping $150 out of my financial aid refund to buy an absinthe fountain.

But for now, it is time to shower and go act like an adult...an adult with a very specific headache.

nothing good ever comes from drunk blogging

So that's why I'm blogging before I drink. Ha! I didn't get my college degree for nothing, you know.

This semester I'm studying the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 (or MMPI-2 if you're that kind of cool). Neat stuff. Apparently I'm a slightly neurotic control freak. Whatever. I just think I could've made a better test :P School is getting marginally better. The truth is, I find myself distracted by my old life. I wonder what's going on in Missoula right now. I think about how the mist looks tumbling down Mt. Sentinel at 8 in the morning when I used to be rushing to work. I think about all the people laying in the Oval, kissing and playing music as if 1969 never left. Life here is so loud. Wherever you are, someone is shouting. On the train, at home, at school--the noise is omnipresent. I miss mountains. I miss certainty. I miss feeling like I could come out here to the city and make it my bitch. I might complain about school or about Chicago, but the truth is, I'm most disappointed in myself. I'm not urban. I thought I'd find myself here, as if I was trapped in Montana but that the City of Giant Shoulders might free me. Instead, I find myself staring out at Lake Michigan, wondering if there's a better place for me on the other side.

Now then, I've stalled long enough. No school tomorrow means plenty of drinking tonight. Cheers to a morning of Alka Selzer and bad eggs.

physics makes us all its bitches

Seriously, I need to stop listening to "Gronlandic Edit" (by Of Montreal) on continuous loop. But that's another story.

Reason number #1 to hate public transit:
The guy who randomly begins making bird noises. Now I'm not talking about a pleasant little whistle here. Think giant egg-bound ostrich gargling Drain-O. There are some seriously unhinged individuals in this town. And they're all on the Red Line.

uhh...wtf?

Perusing the local paper, I found an article that was, well, deeply disturbing: At purity dances, virgin belles ring. Purity balls are, according to www.PurityBall.com, "a Christ-centered evening that encourages biblical values and strengthens the bond between fathers and daughters." That sounds innocuous enough on first blush, but I must say, my feminist leanings are all aquiver. Consider the quote: "It's like I'm devoting my virginity to my dad" (taken from the article above). Umm...I guess this sounds a little icky to me. But more than that, the idea that young girls as property and sex as a commodity are exemplified by this fine Tshirt, sold at purity balls:
Excuse me? "This Property"?! Not to launch into a diatribe (no promises) but this is ridiculous. It is also interesting to note that there is no Mother-son purity balls in which young boys pledge their virtue and virginity to their mothers. But then, that flies in the face of the idea, outlined in Purity Ball propaganda, that the act of sex and sexual purity is a gift a woman can give her husband.

I read this article the other night, and I keep coming back to it. I'm truly bothered by the issue. Now, this is not to say I promote wanton sexuality; I fully intend to educate my children, MALE AND FEMALE, about sex, about the importance of waiting until they are emotionally more mature, and about the emotional fallout from sexual relationships gone awry. But this isn't the same as treating my daughters like chattel, who damn well better keep their legs shut so that they don't ruin their marital prospects. Our sons and our daughters deserve to know about their bodies, about sex, about what we, as parents, expect from them, and what behavior our individual moral codes suggest.
But back to the article. At purity balls, fathers give their daughters promise or purity rings that the daughter will keep until her wedding, where she will return the ring to the father who, in turn, passes it on to the husband. First off, a promise ring is a ring exchanged to show the intent to become engaged. Now I love my dad, but I'm not promising to become engaged to him. Secondly, this smacks of the idea that a woman belongs to her father until she belongs to her husband (the ring as a symbol of ownership passed from one to the other). I, for one, belong to neither my father nor my husband. I belong to me. And as an individual, I am free to love my husband wholly, not as my owner or master, but as my equal and my companion. I just wish we could teach our children that sex is not a commodity, women are not property, and that relationships should not be based on a master-servant model.

More articles/information about Purity Balls:
Wikipedia.org entry
Generations of Light (originators of the Purity Ball)
Glamour Magazine article
USA Today editorial
Father-Daughter Purity Ball website

Pickleship 001

oh god...not again.

A fresh new blog to document the travels and travails of my new (wedded) life in Chicago. Or, maybe just something to do while Mr Muffins (the other half of 'wedded') is off being productive. To begin *ahem* SEX TOURISM: omigod. Well, now that THAT's over with. *cracks knuckles and passes out*