Show Us Your Bosoms, You Filthy Menstruating Strumpet!

Full disclosure: I am not a fan of Hillary Clinton. I am not a fan of any of the Dems, except Mike Gravel, in a perverse way, because he's a loony. And this is not because I think they're too far left--just the opposite. But damned if this sexist nonsense doesn't make me want to run out and slap "Rodham-Clinton/Whoever'08" bumper stickers on the ass end of the first vehicle I see. Especially if the driver is listening to Comedian Rush Limbaugh (tm Keith Olbermann).

HRC's latest antics? Apparently, showing too much cleavage . Yes, according to those oh-so-pure-protect-me-from-you-evil-vagina-possessing-succubi good ol' WASP boyz over at the Wall Street Journal (link provided for the devoted financial moguls or the severely masochistic), namely one John Harwood, who whipped out some fine all-American she-asked-for-it rationalization by claiming that HRC was fully "aware of what she was communicating by her dress."

Oh, where do I even start with this one? Perhaps JH is an alien abductee/conspiracy theorist rendered hypersensitive to hidden communiques, particularly those of a mammarian nature? Or perhaps he is a strict Freudian who trained in Vienna under the auspices of the old master's daughter, Anna, and can divest multitudes from that inch of shoulder flesh HRC had the audacity to display? Or perhaps, just maybe, and I wouldn't want to unduly anger this fine specimen of manhood, being in possession of two X chromosomes as I am, JH is yet another example of frat-boy-who-never-had-to-grow-up brain droppage hogging the airwaves and spewing his ignorant poison all over the place?

Let's get some things straight, Mister Harwood. 1. Just because a woman shows a wee tad of flesh--or, hell, all-out cleavage, or even bare breasts, it does not mean, prima facie, that she is asking you to fuck her. Do not blame your penis for what your brain cannot and/or is not interested in learning to control. There are many, many reasons we show cleavage and/or breasts, and quite a few of them have little or nothing to do with getting laid. 2. "Dressing like a dyke" and all its permutations (and don't front like you haven't attacked Hillary for those sartorial choices)is not the grievous sin you and yours have set it up to be. Please stop treating it thus. 3. Having said THAT, do not diss us for dressing "like dykes" and then demand we show tit, and last but not least, don't call us bitches, sluts, and whores when we do, mostly to shut YOU the hell up.

Yeah, it's an old story, this sexual double standard. But it takes some of us awhile to become enraged. And I am so very sorry for that.

This Is Highly Irregular, Dave: Or Is It?

I'm sorry - but is anyone really surprised that these astronauts are getting loaded? I know we all have to gasp in horror here (pause to the sound of crickets) because they're flying space shuttles and the potential for big-time horror show catastrophes is astounding. A little fuck up in space - or trying to get there - could be the difference between life and death for not just the individuals involved, but the whole crew.

But when you think about it...I mean, c'mon. We're in a society where people think nothing of drinking a bottle of wine and getting behind the wheel of a car. Or popping their "prescribed medication" and going to work and (fill in the blank on this one; it could be anything from driving machinery to heart surgery, for chrissake). There are people who have access to "the red button" of various types of high-stakes gigs - and you KNOW some of those folks aren't completely sober on the job all the time.

One article said that a problem was: "Interviews with both flight surgeons and astronauts identified some episodes of heavy use of alcohol by astronauts in the immediate pre-flight period, which has led to flight safety concerns..."

So this issue for one part wasn't that they were drunk on the JOB, they were HUNGOVER. There's a big fucking difference.

Now maybe I'm just an asshole (pause for response), but if I had a gig where I had to get in a big tin can and fly up into space with a decent chance of burning up in the atmosphere in the process, you bet your ASS I'd be drinking. HEAVY. I'd probably be doing a lot of other things too, because there'd be a good chance I wouldn't be coming back. Then again, last time I checked, I didn't pass the astronaut exam and nobody asked me. Bastards.

Also, according to the BBC article, one of the incidents occurred aboard a Russian spacecraft. Uh - excuse me? I think that explains the whole thing right there. I have a lot of Russian friends, and those bastards can DRINK. Can we say dimi Vodki? Because that's about all I hear out of these guys. Ten bucks says this kid was a sober dude before he stepped aboard that Starship Drinkaprise...but after a few weeks with some professional boozehounds, our Spacekid Friday developed a thirst for cocktails.

And what's this about intentional sabotage to the wiring of a computer box? What the hell is that all about??? That's like something out of a really juicy sci-fi flick. Maybe they had a nasty critter on board and didn't want to bring it back to destroy earth? If that's the case, then they were doing us all a favor - and decided to have a few cocktails to pat themselves on the back.


Of course, this is all following the whole Lisa Nowak thing, which I talked about in March, so NASA is shitting themselves:

"Holy shit, Sir, we've got insane lovers wearing diapers and now we have a bunch of drunks in space! What do we do?"

"Let's start a war somewhere...get the people's mind off of it. I got a dartboard, map of the Middle East, and a few darts laying around here somewhere...whaddya say?"

Eh...I just shake my head and really have to say: are we shocked? I'm not.

I'm a Wildland Firefighter

Well folks, it looks like I'm a firefighter! Just finished my first week with the US Forest Service as a wildland firefighter on an Engine Crew. That means I'll be fighting the really big fires you see on TV.

Funny story, so I'm some punk college kid lifeguarding at a pool in the summer for cash and all the other lifeguards were applying to be firefighters. Not wanting to look like a wuss, I thought I'd apply too...guess who they called back.

So before I knew it, I ended up in Santa Maria, California, which is literally North of Nowhere. I'm from Los Angeles, so I might as well be in Africa with all the rolling grassy hills and waving, scattered trees. I'm in the Pridelands fighting fires!

I'm 20 years old and its my first time away from home, and I'm pretty much living out of a suitcase and surviving off Cinammon Toast Crunch and Turkey Sandwhiches. But other than that, I'm hiking up steep hills with a 45lb pack and a shovel in my hand, getting to work on Optimus Prime (the Engine), and hanging out with some really cool guys who are all brown eyed with big smiles and 20 too!

This is probably going to be some crazy adventure that I can tell when I'm old, or misadventure maybe, but I guess I should never call firefighting a misadventure (lol misadventure pass, get it...okay I know I'm lame).

If you guys want, I can start posting a blog or two about how I'm doing up every now and then.

Pardon Me, Officer, Dunkin Donuts Is Around the Corner - So Why Dontcha Leave My Ass Alone?: Trying to Sell Wares On Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg

Is this going to be a blog entry ranting about the cops? You bet your ass.

You know I've been harassed by them several times in my life (being a hippie in college in the Deep South was almost as much of a target as being an ethnicity in post-Giuliani NYC for the police, and I'm totally fucking serious) despite the fact that I'm "white", well-spoken, and generally abide by the law...when I'm not blatantly breaking it. But despite all of that, I've had friends who are cops, I support cops (hey man, when it's 2am and you're getting mugged, who do YOU wish was around to help out?) and when they are killed in the line of duty my heart goes out to them (the ones who aren't dirty, anyway) because these cats are putting their life on the line and their starting salary is 24k.

That's pretty fucked up, if you ask me. I bitch about how broke I am, and these dudes make less than I do.

So - the point of this rant is this:

Rosie and I were selling our wares (and no, I don't mean ass) on Bedford Avenue this weekend in the heart of Hipster Brooklyn. I live near there and have seen tons of young and old selling used books, clothing, furniture...you name it. She and I are both a couple of broke bitches, so I suggested she cart her ass over and hang out for the weekend to sell a few things and score a few bucks...if anything, enough to pay for the bands we were going to see that night. Perhaps it wouldn't be any real bread, but at least it would mean not having to dip into our pocket to go out for a night on the town. In the process we could sit, talk, giggle, and make fun of the tragically hip individuals that parade along Williamsburg streets as if they own the world and everyone in it.

So, I borrowed my neighbor's grocery cart and filled it with books and a few pairs of Doc Martens I had laying around and a jean jacket; Rosie had a bunch of cool dresses that her svelte self is too small for. Together we hit the streets, scored a cool spot under the shade of a tree, and we met a couple of cool people while we sat and sold. One dude, this guy named Chris, was really cool, and we hung out and talked to him. Apparently dude sells stuff every weekend. Thank God someone bought this cool antique box he was selling otherwise I would have bought it myself.

But I digress. The point of my rant, dear reader, is upon us.

Saturday was groovy. We made a some money. But Chris said that SUNDAY was the day, and since we still had lots of stuff left over and Rosie was going to crash anyway, we figured fuck it, why not? So when Sunday rolled around we were out again. But we had just laid our merchandise out for only twenty minutes, if that, when Smokey pulled up.

THREE cops emerge from the car and saunter towards us. Now, I don't know about you, but I really think that three cops vs. two women in flip flops selling books and sundresses is a little much, dontcha think? One of them (the SHORTEST one, of course - he screamed Napoleonic Complex) starts hassling me, demanding I.D.; I told him I didn't have any on me - which was true. My crib was a 15 minute walk and I just brought my stuff and some change. Then he wants my name, birth date, and address...so I give it to him. They start talking about writing us a ticket, saying we needed a vendor license to sell stuff on the street. Rosie and I were both so upset, I mean the point was to come out and try to make a few bucks, not get in the hole. So I tried to talk rationally with these guys and explain that we were just a couple of chicks who had a lot of shit and were trying to clear out a cluttered apartment and make a few dollars - uh...the truth.

After making us sweat for about five minutes, he comes back and says he's "going to let us off with a warning" but that we had to pack our shit and leave.

Now yes: it could have been worse. We could have been given tickets. Even worse, Rosie could have lost it and punched a cop and then we both would have been taken away.
*pause for small smile at the thought of him getting smacked*

But my main beef is that while they're there fucking with US, there are actual crimes being committed; some asswipe is sneaking into a woman's house and stealing her TV. Or raping her. Somewhere else, a nutjob is murdering someone.

At the very least, there are donuts these guys could be getting for free, I'm sure; Dunkin Donuts was about seven blocks away.

Why did they need to mess with us? Or anyone, for that matter, selling harmless stuff on the street? If they traveled someplace else they could find someone selling crack on the corner - give THAT person a hard time, don't fuck with us. I mean, hell - if you want me to go rob a liquor store, then maybe that's what I have to do...

And apparently, if you want to sell books you can do that without a license, but they have to be on a table, and stickered. What kind of bullshit is that? I'm going to bring a freaking table with me?

Anyway, yeah - it could have been worse, but it sure did bum me out that something as unnecessary for the cops to waste their time with became an issue. It's just total bullshit. Bottom line. And the worst part? I had to THANK them for not giving us a ticket. I wanted to kick 'em in the shins.

Playing Practical Jokes on Children

My niece, being one of only 2 grandchildren my parents have to enjoy, has been doted on her entire 11 years on this planet. She has always been a joy to be around and lifts the mood of any room she enters with her positive energy and wit. Since she's been old enough to enjoy the myth of Santa Claus, my older brother has taken up the spirit of the game with her, by calling her on the phone every year as Santa. He's a professional actor and plays the role well, with a jolly Santa humor that makes my niece feel like the most special little girl in the world, rather than a wee spud growing up amidst the cornfields of Iowa.

Well, a few years ago on Christmas Eve, my bro swiped my niece's elf doll and left a note beside the half eaten cookie and glass of milk saying that the elf was coming with him back to the North Pole and would return next year. Unfortunately, the next year Grandma performed Santa's duties and did not know about the elf. So last year, my niece wrote Santa a very heartfelt note (which she left with chocolate milk and cookies) asking why the elf had not been returned... was she not a good girl? Sadly, although my brother had the elf with him, he wasn't home in time to slip it in with Santa's bounty that morning.

Feeling horrible that this little girl felt she was being punished for some reason, I took the elf back to New York with me and hatched a plan. The elf's name is Elvedina (getting that out of my niece was a rather covert operation) and she now has a MySpace page (www.myspace.com/elfontour). Elvedina has been traveling the world and visiting all sorts of places (courtesy of the Museum of Natural History). She will eventually end up back in NYC and then journey with Aunt Martha back to the Midwest, where she will be reunited with my niece next Christmas.

I had misgivings about perpetuating the myth when she is at an age that it likely would have been over without all the theatrics of my crazy family, but my brother had a good point... isn't this the best way for her to find out that it's not real? I just hope she realizes we've played this game because we love her and wanted to be kids again for a while, too.

A Waitress' Hell

I hate the word "cunt." But tonite, I could use no other to describe this stupid bitch at the restaurant. It sux to be a waitress. I mean it hard-core SUX! People have no idea what it is to appreciate the opportunity to be serviced to through a course of a wonderfully delicious (did I spell that right?) meal. So night after night I usually experience one or two pain-in-my asses. Tonight was no exception.

Unfortunately, my partner in crime for the evening came to work sick, and after moaning and groaning for two to three hours about how he thought he was just not going to making it through the night, he finally agreed to go home. Ok, no problem. That left me to the opportunity to serve the entire restaurant, including a party that was planning to come later on. This party would be upstairs, mind you, and just to set up all the circumstances I ended up working two floors of tables the whole night. As good of a worker as I am (I deserve especially after tonight to praise my fat ass) I was killing out there: totally in control of all my tables, not missing one beat.

The night is dying down. The party upstairs, who is loving every aspect of the night including the food, the service, etc. decides they want to split the bill 11 ways. Oh no! This does not happen; that's too many little things to remember. No, it's just not gonna fly by me. So I kindly tell them, the bill cannot be split into individual checks, but I can give a grand total and people can leave someone money as a contribution. I run downstairs to look at the check, and just looking at the screen I saw a total. Thinking it was the correct total, it would include tip for a party larger than 6 people, I verbally told them the number. Then, because this woman was too drunk to figure simple math out (I wouldn't doubt she is too stupid when she's sober too), she asked me how much would that calculate to be individually. I gave an APPROXIMATE number. However, I decided to go get the check for them as a point of reference. I came back upstairs, realizing the total I verbally gave was different than that on the check (the total I gave before DID NOT include tip like I thought) I announced that i brought up the bill and the numbers were a little different but everything is explained on the check. Would you not assume at this point too that human intelligence would kick in and they would just review everything to make sure all their service was complete and just pay the bill?

Well never assume shit in a restaurant. Especially with large parties. This drunk-ass cunt (again I never before have used the word "cunt") comes sloshing downstairs and just can't comprehend the bill. To make an already long story shorter, she complained so much about $88 difference from my VERBAL total to the actual total that I ended up losing my entire tip from the party. That stupid bitch stole my money, and the funniest part is that shoe stole from her friends too. At one point earlier I went upstairs and announced on this cunt's behalf that I made a verbal mistake and would need to collect $10 more from everyone. No problem. But given the final closing deals, the cunt bitches to her delight about how she ended up paying $100 more than what she was supposed to. She's swearing she'll never eat here again, she's calling the owners to complain, blah blah blah. Finally, I just wanted her to get the fuck out of my territory so I said she can have her stupid tip back; I didn't want her blood money (can I use that in this context? I did anyway, so what). So technically she stole from me and her friends, assuming everyone gave the extra $10.

But lets move on to karma. Yes, I didn't make good money from the evening due to the cuntness of this whore, but she'll get her pay. I'm a firm believer that superhuman forces of this nature will make a balance among good and evil. What will this woman get? I do not know. I don't even wish anything on her (well, ok maybe I do wish something, but I'm not gonna say it out loud...it might haunt me) but I trust something in her life will occur and force her to stop and reflect on this event in her life and regret ever putting someone as nice as I am through such a horrid experience. So send your prayers, do an extra voodoo doll move, or whatever you believe in, please say something for my benefit. For the benefit of all us servers out there. We work damn hard to earn a buck or two.

Multiple Musicians Against Multiple Myeloma, This Sunday, 7/15

"Myeloma is one of the least understood cancers, and music is the universal language, so it's a perfect combination"
-- Lee Grayson

My late mentor/guitar teacher, a Long Island musician named Lee Grayson passed away from Multiple Myeloma in 2002 and Multiple Musicians Against Multiple Myeloma has a musical event (a non-profit which he started the year prior to his death) every year to raise money for the International Myeloma Foundation. Myeloma is a cancer similar to Leukemia, and they have yet to find a cure - hopefully stem cell research will prove useful, it seems like every day they are finding new things. I wish Lee was still around to see how far they have come.

Below I am posting the flyer and info about the event, which is held in Long Island, this Sunday, 7/15. It is an all-day event of music and raffles and merriment in the name of raising money to work towards a cure for this disease...a disease that took the life of one of the most amazing humans that I ever had the joy of knowing, and who helped create the person that I am today.

I will not be there - I have a family obligation that happens to fall on the same day, but anyone out in Long Island or who feels like making a trip out there for a good cause, I recommend it; you can also just go to their websites, listed below (both MMAMM and the Internation Myeloma Foundation) and you can just DONATE even a few dollars towards a wonderful cause.

Please help.



Sunday July 15 2007
The 6th Annual A Lee Grayson Production, Multiple Musicians against Multiple Myeloma
an event to benefit the International Myeloma Foundation (IMF).

Make a donation on line today! Go to: MMAMM's page on the IMF site

Where: Tupelo Honey Restaurant
39 Roslyn Avenue, Sea Cliff NY
(516) 671-8300 or www.tupelohoneyrestaurant.com
When: Sunday July 15th, 2007 RAIN OR SHINE!
12:00 am - 6:00 pm
How: $20 minimum donation at the door
children 12 and under get in for free!
Who: Contact: Naomi Margolin mmamm@aol.com or (516) 671-8300 for more info visit www.myeloma.org or www.mmamm.org
Why: Because Myeloma Sucks! A rare and incurable blood cancer counting for 1% of all cancers and 2% of all cancer deaths, all proceeds go to the International Myeloma Foundation â?" dedicated to improving the quality of life of myeloma patients, their loved ones and caregivers through education, research, support and advocacy.

This is the same cancer that has been brought to the publics attention with the diagnosis of Geraldine Ferraro, Mel Stottlemyre, Don Baylor, Ann Landers, Louis Rukeyser and Long Islands very own Roy Scheider, and Peter Boyle. The second most prevalent blood cancer in the United States, Multiple Myeloma is a rare and incurable cancer counting for only 1% of all cancers yet 2% of all cancer deaths. According to the American Cancer Society, There will be about 19,900 new diagnoses this year in the United States, almost a 25% increase since 2005.

The IMF is a non-profit public corporation, a tax-exempt 501 (c )(3) organization in the state of California and is the oldest and largest myeloma organization in existence, reaching members in more than 100 countries worldwide. The IMF is dedicated to improving the quality of life of myeloma patients, their loved ones, and caregivers through education, research, support and advocacy.

Lee Grayson, a Long Island musician and founder of this event, produced the first Multiple Musicians against Multiple Myeloma (MMAMM) several months before his death in 2002. His vision was to create an event that would not only raise money for the IMF but also create an environment where patients and caregivers could come together to share information and offer support to one another.

MMAMM is an all day-music festival perfect for the whole family featuring a line-up of some of Long Islands finest musicians. With at least 8 bands performing there is something for everyone including raffles, auction items, face painters and great food!

The IMF is able to achieve its mission thanks to the compassionate concern and generous support of private individuals, corporations, foundations and community events.

To date, MMAMM has raised over $100,000 for the IMF. We still need your help to make this years event a success.

**Please mail all donated items or checks to:
MMAMM c/o Tupelo Honey Restaurant 39 Roslyn Avenue, Sea Cliff NY 11579
**Please make all checks payable to: The International Myeloma Foundation www.myeloma.org
**Your support is tax deductible according to the non-profit 501(c)(3) code. The IMF's Federal Tax ID number is 95-4296919.

Will You Marry Me...Boy?

My older sister has been waiting 4 years for her boy toy to propose to her, and I keep telling her, but she doesn't listen. Chica should ask him already! But NOOOO girls don't propose to guys, that's like the ultimate in degrading right? I mean a girl is supposed to be "given" away like chattle to a man by her father. If a daughter doesn't take her husbands last name, she takes her father's last name, never having her own identity. Ain't that the way it's supposed to work? Well blow-me-down!

On Orango Island off the coast of Africa, it's the gals who chose their pals.

Heads turn as Olga Agusta Perreira, 18, approaches a group of young men on the island of Orango, off the coast of Guinea-Bissau. In this archipelago of 50 islands of pale blue water off the western rim of Africa, it's women, not men, that choose their husbands.

Apperently what the hipster girls of Orango Island do when they like a boy is bring him a steaming bowl of really well prepared fish, and the boy is powerless to refuse. Wow, imagine that, instead of a useless rock that you wear around your finger, you get a delicious home-cooked meal with spices and herbs and fresh fish! I mean c'mon guys, you're always talking about how it's not about what she looks like, it's about what she cooks like! And not only do women in Orango chose their husbands, they also build their own house out of palm beams and grasses, and only once the house is finished can the marriage be consumated. Man, who'd have known that cooking and cleaning for a woman would be so empowering?

Matriarichal societies apperently still exist in pockets of remote areas around the world, and apperently also the concept of divorce is rarer in those societies! Kinda gives credit to the saying "happy wife, happy life," don't it? But as these traditional societies are being invaded by the modern world, the old ways of life are disappearing. Men chasing after women in these societies is an abomanation in their culture, but its happening more and more frequently, even on Orango Island.

Missionaries who go to these societies leave their "morals and values" there, and according to one local girl, "Protestant church has taught her that it is men, not women, who should make the first move and so she plans to wait for a man to approach her." OH GOD!...why is it always God that screws things up?

Man, all I know is that you boys better watch'aself, cuz imma learn how to make some freaking fish, and if you'll be "powerless to refuse." hehehe.

I'm a Horrible Auntie...Macy's Has My Money.

Photo: www.chessscotland.com

This coming weekend is my niece's birthday. She is perhaps one of the cutest kids ever to grace the planet - and no, I'm not saying that because I'm biased; she's a good-natured little girl, and you can see that even at the age of 2, she's going to take the world by storm - and she's going to do it with a smile. She looks like a little elf, for chrissake.

So, being Auntie D, I want to get her something groovy. I've been labeled "The Bookmaster" by my youngest nephew, which I think is baddass. He high-fives me and he and his brothers finally hit the age where reading was cool, so the fact that I always showed up with tons of books made it all okay. I want to give Julia (the little niece) books too, but I want to hook her up with some girlie-girl stuff too.

I am totally broke right now, but I did have (notice, please, the past tense used there) $100 on a Macy's charge card that I thought Oh JOY! I can just use that and score the kid something nifty at the Miracle on 34th Street!

Well, after I go to a doctor, I head over to Macy's with the card burning a hole in my wallet. I avoid the cosmetic counter (always my downfall, although the irony is that I hardly every wear makeup, even though I LOVE shopping for it), I avoid the purses, the shoes; I even avoid the perfume sprayers, knowing that if they suck me into their vortex, I might end up lost, covered in perfume, smelling like a French whore, and short about $300.

I am a determined woman: I am there for my niece. The only thing, though, is that I have to go to the bathroom, which is on the second floor. So, I go. No big deal.

I step out, however, and am suddenly accosted by a huge sign that reads SALE. Under said sign, are hundreds of adorable outfits for the summer. Now we all know that I have been bragging that I've lost 25 pounds (and still counting) and can finally fit into a few things and not feel like Shamu. So, just for fun...I start looking through the racks...

It's like slot machine addiction. "40% OFF!" "65% OFF" Racks upon racks of adorable outfits that three months ago I wouldn't have even thought to try on, I was suddenly curious to see what they would look like...

So, I picked, oh...about 7 items up and went and tried them on. And they all looked totally fucking adorable. I mean - sure, my titty was hanging out of one of them, but isn't that the way it's supposed to look?

Photo: www.rawstyle.com

Lemme tell you: my feeling is that if they say that 35 is the new 25, then I'm in my 20's; and I have to work this for as long as I can, because in about ten years if I try to wear some of this I'm going to look like a fool. No - wait, scratch that - Betsey Johnson wears whatever the fuck she wants to, she dresses like a teenager and she's past 60 - so scratch that totally. But anyway, you know what I mean.

So, I come out of the dressing room...realizing that I have not only found things I really want, but also that I can't afford to get them AND get my niece's gifts (which I haven't picked out yet). Hell, I already got her like three book-related items (two of them are WAY fly)...so I'm trying to justify this to myself as I edge closer and closer to the register. I stop. I put half the things back. I pick half up of what I put away. I put them all away. One woman almost picks something up and I nearly bark, "THAT'S MINE." and she slinks away, ready to call security. It's a tense situation.

Dear Reader: what did Auntie D do? I used the $100 on the Macy's card for myself. So, I'm going to have to come up with something else for my niece...which won't be hard. The kid has a larger wardrobe that I do. My brother and his family are relatively well-off, and the kids have more "stuff" than I could ever hope to know what to do with. My other brother told me that they secretly have a closet of gifts that the kids have never even opened...and the kids don't miss them because they have so much.

But my niece...well, she's the apple of my eye. All the kids are, but as I get older, I question whether or not I will be having children of my own, so I want to get her something cool. I will...but I don't think think that at the tender age of 2 she's really going to give a rat's ass - and to tell you the truth, spending a little money on myself to make myself look pretty sure made me feel good...and I could use some Feelgood right about now.

Am I a horrible Auntie? Nah. Maybe just a wee little bit.

Booze, Drugs, One Night Stands: It's What's For Dinner

So I'm standing in line at the bank yesterday morning, nursing a mild hangover, and I'm really absorbed in the program on the little television that they have hung over the teller's station; I realize that although they never have anything really good on, it's a nice way to placate the masses so they don't have a riot in the middle of the exchange of money and crappy muzak versions of "The Girl From Ipanema" that are floating in the lobby.

It suddenly occurs to me that I'm really into this program; it happens to be some really badly done cartoon, but I'm watching it like it's Casablanca. That's what happens when you do three bong hits when you wake up after a night of Jack n' Coke. I'm mildly aware that the only people in the room as absorbed in this engaging program as me are all under the age of five. We're all very similar; we're drooling, wide-eyed (mine are bloodshot, however) and oblivious to the fact that this is a moving line.

"Uh, excuse me, they called next like three times," a hipster behind me tries to sound as polite as possible despite the fact that it wasn't in her contract for her trust fund. I giggle, cough, and walk up to the teller and make my transaction, finding out that I have about $500 less in my account than I thought I did. Yet another thing to worry about. I also started smoking cigarettes again - not seriously, just a couple over the last few days, but now I have a jones for it, so I'll have to try to ignore it.

My brain then travels to the last 24 hours. Due to a myriad of reasons, there was a lot of alcohol, drugs, merriment, and revelry over the last several days in fact; but it culminated in my waking up on a Saturday next to someone whom I had to think twice about what their name was. I still don't know his last name; something that started with the first letter of his first name, which was...Steve? Oh, Christ. I have to ask myself: how the HELL did this happen?

Sure, I'm in my 30's, and any self-respecting (or not, as the case may be) woman has a couple of one-night-stands under her belt, mostly from her days at college where she found her legs pinned behind her ears like Bugs Bunny more often than not. Then again, the same thing could be said for a gal in her 30's, considering what our sex drives go through the freaking roof. Nobody told me I would be hornier in this decade than the last to THIS extent. I thought "yeah, yeah, sexual peak, whatever," but I had NO idea that I would practically be humping people's legs everywhere I go.

So back to this one-night-stand. Sigh. I won't go into details, they aren't that memorable, but what is memorable is the way that I felt this morning; like a jack-ass. AHA! I thought, as I rolled over and realized that 1) I didn't even know this guy and 2) We weren't going to exchange numbers -- now I know why I haven't done anything like this since college! Why? Because you feel kinda shitty. I'll tell you, I've had sex with more than one man in a day; with several men in a week; it all was on my terms and I felt fine with it...sure, we've all had lousy lays and people that we look back on and wish maybe we would have thought twice about, but for the most part I've enjoyed my swinging pendulum between monogamy with the right person and absolute abandoned sexual revolution.

But this experience left me feeling...used. That's really the only word for it. At least the sex was relatively okay, but being hungover bigger than shit didn't help with that "oh-so-fresh" feeling this morning. His attitude really made it the worst, though; I've had sexual partners with whom we never really hit it off, but there was some semblance of respect to some degree...and this guy was like "UH. Thanks - how do I get out of here?"

I just hope that somewhere, he has a really bad hangover and gets stuck in an elevator with screaming children and a man with really bad gas. And they're playing a bad Muzak version of "Every Breath You Take." Yeah...that's probably a rung of inferno that would be good enough.

To all my ladies

Ladies, we all know what us women really think of men. And I am certainly no exception to rule: all men are pigs! With this mindset, at least speaking for myself, I find it a steep up-hill climb to conquer the world of dating. At least 99.7% of the men I've dated have turned out to be the jerkiest people on the planet. I especially loathe those assholes who play their victims like a fiddle: on the first meeting they say all the right things to make a woman feel special enough that they should have fatefully met them at the moment through those certain people or circumstances. And then on the first date they spend money for all the right moves, make reference to all the right moves and then sucker their vicitims into a woman's most vulnerable spots. Only then, after the damage has been done and men have gotten what they wanted out of the date (sometimes sex, sometimes other things), do those 99.7% of assholes out there never call again.

But I'm not writing today on a sour note. In fact, I'm writing on the complete opposite side. Yesterday I happened to have been blessed to experience a most wonderful date with one of the .3% honest men left on this earth. I can without a doubt admit that the day was absolutely perfect in every way, shape and form. And in observation, I discovered that maybe this .3% are either clearly overlooked way too often and or they hide in places us women don't always look to. Think of it this way, where is the most popular place for two single people in our modern society to meet? Answer: The bar. A place where our consciousness gets placed on the backburner at the door only to consume massive amounts of alcohol in order to keep ourselves relaxed in crowded social environments. Not always a smart move by both sexes. Easy enough, I did not find this .3% member in a bar.

As much as I would like to spit out the details about this fateful date, I still have to play cautiously. It was, afterall, the first date and I could have easily been yet agian side-swiped unexpectedly from another diguising asshole of America. But I if you must know true facts feel free to contact me privately.

In short, Ladies, it's true: nice guys always finish last. As much as I have enjoyed, and still do to some extent, complaining about the dumbfounded male species I am also so glad I experienced a true gentlemen. I didn't think they existed anymore; I've always wondered whatever happened to chilvary! But yesterday I was clearly re-introduced to an idea I've long been waiting to witness. Chivalry does exist in this world but it hides timidly in the shadows of unexpeted places. So don't lose faith my fair ladies.

Rejected Hardcore (for being Hardcore)

You know, I know that rejection is all part of the game, I know that 1 in 10 people you ask out are going to say yes, but if you only ask 10 people out...ever...what if that one person says no?

You move on, of course. Don't dwell on it, tons of fish in the sea. We're all a bunch of flopping fish (apperently). Pop culture says there is someone for everyone, sometimes for every two or three. There's six billion people in the world, that's an even number, and even if it isn't, I doubt I'm that poor bastard who got stuck odd-one-out. Or am I?

Okay, so there was this guy. He wasn't tall or thin or sexy or really even that attractive, but he was nice...no, sometimes he wasn't even nice. You know those guys who you can't put your finger on why you want them, but you just want to hold them and be around them. That guy whom you can't stop thinking about what it might be like to kiss him, and then when you find out, it was everything you wanted and more.

I've had one of those guys since high school, and last week I finally made a move. I don't know what to say about it, no boy has ever looked at me the way he did. I really thought we had something, I thought maybe I'd found someone who'd accept me for who I am and look past the baggy clothes and short hair and tomboy attitude. I wasn't a bitch and he knew it, he knew I'd care about him and maybe even love him.

So he doesn't call for a week, doesn't answer my calls. Turns out later he was out of town, aight, I guess that's cool. "So let's go see Transformers," "let's go see Die Hard," "Let's go do SOMETHING?" "Do you even want to talk to me?" ..."Do you just want to pretend like last Thursday never happened?"

"Yes."

OUCH! MOTHER FUCKER after I freaking bared my soul to you, you really "just want to be friends?" And on top of that, you want me to "change and I'll like you." What was all that bullshit about "change is good, why not try growing your hair? You'd look really pretty if you dressed nicer," etc. Wow, well you'd look hot if you lost some weight and cut YOUR damn long hair you sorry ass hipocrite, you look like the guy in Knocked Up. I know I can't hold it against you for not wanting to pursue something together because it is your choice and your free will, but forgive me for being just a little bit emotional, I think I have like a 3 day grace period where I'm allowed to be wrong, and I'm planning on using all my 4 fouls. I know if you didn't care, you wouldn't have explained yourself but...

All you had to say was "no."

You know, I just don't know. I have to admit I knew this would happen. How could any guy want a girl who doesn't dress like a hoe? I mean c'mon the girl in Transformers was supposed to be still in high school, the producers could have at least put some clothes on her. Every girl in Hollywood is either a slut or a criminal, and every little girl in the world wants to be like them. That's why girls are giving blow jobs at 14 at my friend's school, and clothes company's make thong's for little girls.

It's not just that I don't dress girly, it's that I dress boyish. I wear Levi's relaxed fit at 34x34 with medium cotton t-shirts. I go back and fourth between Sketchers and Vans, and I own one pair of convers hi-tops. My favorite shirt is a boy's shirt with a picture of the cartoon character Vampire Hunter D on it. Where am I ever going to find a girl's shirt with Vampire Hunter D on it?! I just like boy's clothes. They're loose and comfortable and allow me to breath, I can do the splits in boys jeans, but I can't even fit my wallet in girls jeans! WHY do girls jeans even have pockets if you can't put anything in them?!?? Why do girls shirts even exist if you can see right through them anyway? On top of all this my hair is 3 inches off my head, it's good for wrestling, no one pulls it.

Okay, maybe I do dress like a guy, I pass regularly. I don't have energy to waste on "strong but still feminine," I'm focused on just being strong. Maybe I'm asking a lot of guys I ask out, but guys don't have to walk around naked just to get attention. I don't want men looking at me in that way, not before they know me, I just want to be comfortable in my own skin, and the way that society wants girls to dress today just doesn't make me comfortable. Don't I have a right to be comfortable? I feel like a sex object, this isn't fair.

If I have to dress skanky and grow my hair just to get the humblest of guys to go out with me, then maybe I really am that odd-one-out. Poor bastard that I've been feeling sorry for may very well be me. I know that a guy wouldn't want to hold my hand in public for fear of people thinking he's gay, but I'd dress nice and girly if we were going out on a date, how much public displays of affection do they really need anyway? I guess it doesn't matter. Guys want women, not part-time women, and I can't even call myself a woman without cringing and thinking of someone like Paris Hilton (god just shoot me). Well when it all comes down to how you're going to be happy, when society doesn't accept you, do you change yourself or change society?

At this point in my life, niether one is easier.

The Book of Gossipel: Good News Gets Zits

Backposted from Bone's Blahg Blahg Blahg, June 13, 2007:

"If you want unverified gossip passed on as truth, it is there. If you want a person's private fault reported as public fact, it is there, too. If you want the most inconsequential nonsense blown up into an earthshaking event, you will find no shortage of it." —Francisco S. Tatad

If you live in a small town like Berea, there is absolutely no shortage of gossip. In fact, whether or not you actively condone or participate in the gossip grapevine, you will likely find yourself knowing way more about other people's business than you even want to know. Perhaps it's unfair to condemn the small town as the only hotbed of rumorous ruin or the most fertile soil for salacious social swindles. I admit that it can exist and proliferate in any tight-knit community, cohort, or collective bound by closeness of proximity and/or endeavor; however, there's a special sort of gossip that germinates in a small town where everyone knows everyone over an extended period of time.

"In a town this size, there's no place to hide/Everywhere you go you meet someone you know/You can't steal a kiss in a place like this/How the rumors do fly in a town this size." —Kieran Kane

Throughout my life, I've been constantly surprised and saddened to learn (again and again) that most people are not as honest and forthright as I am or expect others to be. It's a long-standing naiveté that, in spite of my perennial pessimism about most things, I keep hoping will manifest in consistently open, respectful dialogue about reality rather than rumors. Granted, I cannot claim to be a perfect example of honesty and integrity in every action or aspect of my imperfect human life. But over and over, I am shocked and appalled (not to mention flabbergasted and bumfuzzled) to have my most heinous fear about humanity realized in the overtly obnoxious display of disrespect for the first-person narrative.

"Gossip is a sort of smoke that comes from the dirty tobacco-pipes of those who diffuse it: it proves nothing but the bad taste of the smoker." —George Eliot

Not only do most people talk about things they have no first-hand knowledge about, but they also relish the opportunity to embellish on someone else's uninformed speculations and/or lies. And no one is exempt from being the center of this negative attention. At some point, each of us is a walking "wanted poster" on exhibition like a notice in the local post office for everyone to see and write graffiti upon. As people turn their gaze upon the "representation of you," some are inspired (or possessed?) to write some personal perception or overheard utterance. Somebody else comes along, reads it, and then writes their own opinion about the image (and the cumulative commentary) portrayed. In short order, you have become nothing but a tall-tale written by bored social insomniacs who are far more interested in defaming their neighbors than living their own lives and setting an example of what it means to be a good one (neighbor, that is).

"Whoever gossips to you will gossip about you." —Spanish Proverb

Then, new people come to town thinking that they've found their respite in an "alternative" community that is undoubtedly "enlightened" and above all that pretension and gossip found in other small towns. So depending on who they first meet up or interact with, what invisible faction they enter into, the newbies are quickly indoctrinated into a particular book of the Berea Bible that is built on gossip of the past, some singular Gospel According to Gossip [Insert Name Here]. Oh, and I could insert names; I could wield that power with a heavy hand (or torrential tongue as the metaphor were). And sadly, I have. For a brief period of time when I first came to Berea as a freshman (ahem—teenager), I actively and zealously promoted and participated in the willful manipulation of people's reputations and relationships simply because, for the first time in my life, I actually embodied the social power to influence people's perceptions. But I quickly terminated this hateful hobby upon seeing how devastating, demeaning, and destructive it was to both the victims as well as my own sense of well-being and integrity.

"Gossip is the art of saying nothing in a way that leaves practically nothing unsaid." —Walter Winchell

Of course, I've also been the victim of good-for-nothing gossip, the object of too much talk about naught. In fact, I've even high-tailed it the hell out of this small town (more than once) to escape the scrutiny, speculation, and not-so-savoir-faire of its "all-seeing" eye and loose lips. Small towns are supposedly the epitome of tight-knit community and support, an extended family poised to catch its relatives with open arms should they lose their balance, stumble, or fall. But too often, it's the opposite. At its best, it's a dysfunctional family with all the judgment, guilt, resentment, and jealousy that is commonly referred to as "love." At its worst, it's a pit of vipers (disguised as a safety net) ready to surround and consume the clumsy passerby who trips into the trap. A community, your family is supposedly there to watch your back, but instead it's usually too busy stabbing you in the back to protect it.

"No one gossips about other people's secret virtues." —Bertrand Russell

This interest in or obsession with others' misfortune (or the active manifestation of others' misfortune) unfortunately is not matched with an equal enthusiasm to spread the positive news or praise that some people actually bestow upon others. Given my distaste for ruthlessly relentless gossip-mongering, I now try to embody the compensatory role of what I call "Glenda the Good Gossip." I hear people say plenty about other people, and like I said, it's usually more than what I want to know. I tend to tuck most of it away, give people the benefit of the doubt, and only refer back to some unsolicited forewarning if my own experience finally corroborates it. But on the rare occasion that I hear someone mention what a good friend someone is, how thoughtful someone is, or how proud they are of someone's accomplishments, I make a special point to relay the good news directly to the recipient who might not hear it otherwise.

"Good gossip is just what's going on. Bad gossip is stuff that is salacious, mean and bitchy–the kind most people really enjoy." —Liz Smith

Needless to say, I'm very tired of this seemingly inevitable small-town bullshit and so invite (no, beg) my colleagues, cohorts, companions, and other colorful community characters to call it into question. I also offer a few words to the wise (or the wise guys that think they wise already…):

1. First and foremost, be careful what you say and who you say it to. I've learned through trial and error who I can trust with my innermost world (and they are few) as well as who can't be trusted with even the most innocuous of passing comments unless I'm prepared to have it broadcast throughout Berea. Sadly, you might find that your most willing and compassionate of confidantes is your biggest liability, so pay attention when someone is uber-eager to hear tragic news about anyone or anything.
2. Take anything someone says with a grain of salt—they might be having a hard day and acting a little more negative than usual; they could be acting out vengeance for a personal grudge; or they might be genuinely concerned about someone but basing it on a long conga-line of he-said/she-said as primary evidence.
3. It's okay to say you'd rather not hear it; you have a right to nip it in the bud if you suspect someone's sources or motives are not worthy of your attention. Likewise, consider your own motives and audience when choosing whether or not to pass on some juicy and/or questionable tidbit that has made its way through your auditory canals. Gossip is really hard to undo once it's done, and trust can be destroyed with even a casual statement dispensed with good intentions.
4. Finally, if you have a question or concern about someone, ask them instead of relying on faulty second-hand (or third- or fourth- or otherwise dubiously disremoved) information or seeking stats from someone else behind their back. From a personal standpoint, I'm a big girl, and I'm damnright honest enough to either tell you what's up or tell you that it's none of your business. And if I tell you it's none of your bees-wax, respect me enough to let it be rather than seeking another source to satisfy your insatiable curiosity. Because, you know, it will make its way back to me.