THE website for up-to-date info on the adventures of the Cult of the Sacred Chicken. You know you want to know, right?
In case you’re wondering about my qualifications, here is a list of my previous employment. An abbreviated resume, if you will.
· Blueberry raker
· Blueberry sorter
· Bean picker
· Sardine packer
· Household servant (kitchen maid)
· Library Assistant
· Assembly worker
· US Navy (Aviation Electronics Technician)
· Short order cook
· Information Operator
· Traffic Trunk Administrator
· Secretary (several times)
· Massage parlor (first as a receptionist and then as masseuse)
· Fast Food Automaton
· Porno movie projectionist
· Sign Painter
· Legal Research
· Taxi Driver
· Auto Detailer
· Document Control Coordinator
· Internal ISO Auditor
· Marketing and Public Relations Assistant
· Caregiver for Alzheimer patient
· Bed and Breakfast Manager
· Corporate Secretary for a non-profit
· IRS Clerk
· Temporary office worker
· Bakery worker (in a grocery store)
· Administrative Assistant
· Telephone solicitor (to my everlasting shame)
· Survey taker (still bad).
Seems like a lot, but I’ve had 65 years or so to do all this if you count from the age of about ten. Sometimes, I did other things to fund my existence that were not really jobs. This includes, but is not limited to:
· Wreath making
· Dog sitter
· Baby Sitter
· House Sitter
· Costume designer
· Nude modelling for art classes
· Sold one political cartoon
· Singing telegrams
· Wall Murals
· Artist’s Agent (London)
· Ceiling beam termite treatment (Majorca)
· Painting (interior and exterior walls)
· Singing on a street corner with a tin cup
· Selling my blood
All of this is the exact sort of curriculum vitae that the Editor and Publisher of a newsletter like mine should have. It’s not exactly a straightforward career path, I admit. However, this rich variety of experience has prepared me well for the multiplicity of tasks associated with being Grand Poohbah of The Chicken Sheet. In retrospect, I have had no experience that did not teach me something that was useful somewhere on down the line, despite how arduous and odious it may have been. It’s all been one long learning experience.
I Am a Person To you that may seem obvious, but I did not always know it myself. I remember, in fact, the very moment when I realized for the first time that I was a full-fledged human being, a certified member of the human race.
I was living in an apartment on Front Street in San Diego, California. The floor was wall to wall green shag carpeting. I was barefoot, crossing the space between the television I had just turned on to the couch on the far side of the room. Remote controls had not been invented. And it was black and white with only four stations to choose from. It was Evening News time and there was a clip of Betty Friedan giving a speech somewhere. I don't remember exactly what it was she said, but it hit me...this concept, the realization, a thundering epiphany. I am a Person. A Real Person! Not “just a woman.”
I was twenty-five. What was I to do with this insight? I looked back on the occasions when I had been a victim of my gender. I'd applied for a job as an electronics technician. It's what I'd been trained for in the Navy. The interviewer told me point blank he really couldn't have a woman in his shop. Even in the Navy, when an upgrade in rank for the completion of two years in college was offered, I'd gone straight to Personnel, transcripts in hand, only to be told it didn't apply to women. I've been passed over for promotion. “Men need to support families” they said. And for the rest of my life, my Social Security check will be less than it would have been had I been paid equally for the same work. My story is not unusual. It has happened to most women. Sometimes life isn't fair.
Still, the next day, I called this National Organization for Women, hoping to become a part of a societal movement towards equality. I was referred to a group that published a monthly tabloid. I got a copy of the latest issue. Buried somewhere in the middle was a poetry column which disappointed me. It was some of that “Roses are red, violets are blue” pap. Rather than complain, I saw it as a way to become involved and volunteered to edit their poetry section. Thus I was invited to an editorial meeting. That was revealing. Most of evening was spent on hating men. Several of the people there were talking about two guys serially raping women in the park and how it was happening on a regular basis, early in the morning. I suggested we bring baseball bats and lie in wait for these miscreants and when they made a move, we'd spring into action and beat the living crap out of them. There were no takers. It seemed they preferred to complain.
As the evening wore on, my boyfriend arrived to give me a lift back to my place. I could tell that this was tantamount to consorting with the enemy. Like it was verboten to like men AND work for equal rights. I decided that this NOW thing was not for me. Why cut myself off from nearly half of the members of my species? Sure, the biggest hurts in my life have come from masculine people, but so have many of my greatest joys. It seemed like my only course was to work on being the best PERSON I could be.
In the years since, I have thought much about this Inequality. Of course, it's worse in other parts of the world. Think burkas and being butchered to ensure you remain pure. It is true that men generally have some attributes which are superior to those of women. Like physical strength, for instance. They seem also to have an edge on mechanical aptitude, but that's just genetics, really. According to the Human Engineering Lab, it's a sex-linked trait. Men get that gene if only one of their parents carry it, but for a woman to get it, both parents must carry the gene. So, it's not real superiority. Just that more men have it by a ratio of three to one.
From a woman's point of view, I would like it if things were fairer, if my Social Security check reflected the decades I devoted to earning a living, and if I could feel safe walking out on a moonlit night by myself without fear of being accosted. I have been stopped on various occasions by the police who issued stern warnings about the risks involved in my predilection for an evening stroll in the quiet air.
Still, I like men. And in some respects, I pity them. I have my sex organs tucked up nice and neat inside, not hanging out like some forgotten piece tacked on as an afterthought. Sure, they may be able to write their name in the snow, but I can have multiple orgasms without stopping. I think that means I win.
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I love playing show and tell with my art so please feel free to call or send me an email to arrange a visit. I might even serve up some wine and cheese.