Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Photo of the Day: Scenes from a Coffee Shop

scenes from a coffee shop

This is my favorite coffee shop with my favorite big mug of tea. Of course, this wasn't my favorite spot. Some skank took my fave spot by the window. But! It's okay. It's okay. I'm not completely evil. I'll get my spot back another day.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Smackdown: The Bitch vs. The Bliss

I realize I do a lot of bitching on this blog.  A lot of kvetching. I'm okay with this, firstly, because it's my damn blog and if I want to bitch about something, this is my space for that. I created this blog to express myself first and foremost and sometimes a form of that expression is the art of The Bitch.

And I'm quite an artist in this capacity, let me tell you. Very practiced. Accomplished even. One day I hope to be a leader in the field.

But that's not all I am. I used to write a lot about the little joys, the sweet things in life which I sought out and brought my heart joy. When I quit my cushy yet stressful job in order to move to Portland, one of the goals I set for myself was to seek my bliss as much as possible. I succeeded, too, for quite some time. Sought joy in the little pleasures, in food, in creativity, in people, in sex.

The sex was my favorite part. No, the food was. Okay, they were both awesome.

But with financial woes, a cat with cancer, psycho stalkers, and a tinge of homesickness (for the record, I miss my friends, and fam, and even the food, but I don't really miss California itself), I seem to have forgotten my bliss. Where has it gone? I'm not sure. I spend most of my days lately with migraines and my nights with nightmares.

I'm cranky more often than not. And while I am loathe to behave contrary to my emotions, while I believe wholeheartedly in giving myself space to feel how I feel, it's getting old. It's getting tired. I'm sick of being a bitch all the time.

I want to find my bliss again.

Baby steps on the bus.

I don't make much money. But what money I do make, I make by doing part-time writing and web content editing. I get to do it at home if I want and, let's be completely honest, working in my pajamas is pretty fucking awesome. But it gets old. And is not very joyful. And I start to go stir crazy cooped up in my house all the time.

So I've started venturing to my favorite coffee shop again. I get a huge mug of tea, find a table near a plug, turn on Pandora, pop in my earbuds, and get my work done. It's lovely really. It doesn't feel like working anymore. It's delicious.

That's where I sit now, as I type this but probably not as you're reading it. Music soothing my ears, tea soothing my cold bones, letting my fingers tap away while the world is warm and cozy.

The little joys.

Baby steps.

This Thursday, I get to cash in an airline credit and fly to Las Vegas see one of my best friends on the plant and her family. I'll get to see my little nephew, who is growing like some kind of chernobyl weed, before he reaches 6'5". And he's not even 3 years old yet. I've got the books I bought him all wrapped and a little toy dinosaur that I hope he destroys in 5 minutes flat.

I can't wait to hug my lovely friend and gossip with her and share our frustrations and joys again like we used to do for hours and hours when we were younger. I don't even care if we never leave the house. Except to get In n Out. Which is imperative.

Finding my bliss.

Next step: find a new lover. Someone flesh and blood who can make me remember what unbridled and uninhibited pleasure feels like.

Maybe he's not entirely right for me. But he's right for me right now. In my fantasy, he's fit but not obsessed. He's 36 and a fire captain (okay, like my dad was, I know! Daddy issues. shut the fuck up) and has excellent arm musculature. He has curls I can get tangled up in. His name is something old fashioned and safe, like Henry.

Or maybe it's not even a he! Maybe it's a she. I meet her out and about and can't help but be captivated. She's got shaggy hair, is androgynous, not too masculine nor feminine. She's utterly intriguing and plays sports but also knits. She's small but unbelievably strong. She's sweet and shy but is forward just with me. Her name isn't important because she has a nickname anyway. Nobody calls her by her real name.

Finding my bliss. The Bitch can stay. She serves her purpose. But The Bliss, she lives here too.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Song Sunday: Bruises

For Song Sunday this week, a song that's far too true for too many of us too many times. Plus, you know, it's bouncy. And who doesn't love Chairlift? I know I do.

Okay, so not in the mood for more intro so I won't bore you with my blather any longer. Enjoy:

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Sexy Saturdays: Awkward Starts & Sleep Sex


People? You have no idea how lucky you are today. Because today's guest poster is one of my favorite people on the Internet and I've been trying to get her over here FOREVER. I feel like I've know My Little Becky of i'll go eat worms since I've been doing this blogging gig.

I think we met on the Twitter and she was instantly sweet and funny and welcoming. She pulled me into the blogging fold (doesn't that sound gross?) and I know I can always count on her hugs and hilarious tweets. She's been uber supportive of my baby Jeté too. I just love her down to my panties.

If you don't love Becky yet, just blame me and my intro that cannot do her justice. After you read her post, you surely will. Then you'll journey over to her blog and love her sweet dogs and her man Chuck. Then follow her on the Twitter and get ready for the best hashtags of your whole damn life.

But first? Enjoy yo!

as one of the most awkward people on the planet, i can make anything awkward, including but not limited to the sex. yes. i do the whole, "pew, pew, pew! i'm shooting things with your penis gun!" "here, let me squeeze your nipple because you hate that and that's what makes it funny!" "all aboard the vagina train! we're going to vagina town!" i do it all because i can't help myself. don't get me wrong, when the sex is actually happening i'm taking my job seriously but that whole awkward start thing, i got that part down. with a side of extra of awkward.

it wasn't always this way, when we were first dating, there was no time for becky to be awkward because when we were together, we were either having sex or catching our breath after having sex. that first tidal wave of infatuation was followed by less intense waves but has yet to really be rivaled in its total unsurrendering domination of our sexual relationship.

i had a lot of practice in those early days but i'm not, how you say, "very experienced" in the sex, so maybe that's part of my problem. for some unavoidable reason, i have to make it weird for chuck because it's weird for me. we're certainly very compatible and if i can shut off the part of my mind that's screaming, "aaaaa! you're having sex with somebody! please don't mess it up! or if you feel like you're gonna mess it up, please mess it up preemptively!" then we have an excellent time in the sack because really, you have to try hard to mess up sex between us.

which brings me to, sleep sex. yes, sleep sex, chuck haz it. i want to say right here that we didn't really know what was happening in the beginning, we were all, "who started that?" in the morning. when then we realized that chuck was sleep sexing and then waking up mid the sex, i gave him full permission to sleep sex me. however, he has woken up mid sex rejection as well. apparently i'm a good sleep rejector, he'll be all, "i tried to have sex with you last night" and i'll be all, "no you didn't! i would have remembered that!" it's like we're a perfect pair. *romantic sigh*

but the sleep sex? hot. there's no awkward beginning. there's no, "i have a boner!" *wiggle, wiggle* no, "look at me, i have a playoff beard vagina!" it's just sex, hot, intense, uninhibited sex and i love it. sometimes i'll work it into my dreams, is there any dream better than dream sex? for me, there is not. and when combined with sleep sex, it's a match made in heaven. there's no other way to describe it other than unrestrained and that's my idea of a good time. it reminds me of the sex we had before i was bogged down by being this man's best friend which means we share everything, before he knew i burp sometimes, before he smelled my armpits after a weekend of mutual non-showering, back when i knew he thought i had naturally soft and shaved everything all the time. we might have lost some of that glossed over, magically perfect view and although i do love with all my heart what we have achieved now and have absolutely nothing to complain about, i still do love sleep sex for it's unbridled embrace of hot sex.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Some Bidness


Firstly of the mostly, I'm guest posting today over at Cat Chat. If you've been a regular reader, you know the story, but please go visit and tell Caren thank you for hosting me and Jeté.





Secondly, but not less importantly, Raw Photos submissions are OPEN!!

Theme: LOVE
This theme is completely open to personal interpretation. Make it personal to you and submit your best shots. 

Rules:

1. You have to have taken the photo [duh, don't be a jerk and enter someone else's photo. NOT COOL.]
2. The photo has to be a raw photo. What does that mean? That means NO PHOTOSHOPPING. You can screw around all you want with exposure and white balance on your camera, and we'll even let you crop the photo, but that's it. No changing hues. No intensifying colors. No adding aliens or unicorns. RAW PHOTOS, baby. That's what we're looking for. (Both digital and digital scans of film are okay)
3. You have until December 4th to enter a photo. You can enter up to two [2] photos per contest.

Submit here.

Now GO GO GO!

Thursday, November 25, 2010

On White Ribbons and Violence Against Women

So it's Thanksgiving is it? Well you all already know my opinion on this day. But it's turning out to be more shitty than I'd anticipated.

I awoke today with a splitting migraine that just won't go away. And to top it off, my roommate's friend who is over has a laugh that makes me want to rip my ears off. To be fair, the roommate warned me about the laugh, I just didn't believe how bad it could be.

So I'm up in my room with the door closed, wearing headphones, over medicating (just on OTC meds, don't worry), and feeling very stabby indeed.

I'm feeling like there's not much to be thankful for anyway. Migraines are a regular occurrence lately. My cat has cancer. I've begun the process of getting a restraining order from psychopants which hopefully I won't need but I take these things very seriously. I'm feeling homesick and cranky more and more.

But, as fate would have it, Lauren, a new friend, sent me an idea for a blog post today that I just have to make time for before I pass out. A topic that I'm so passitonate about and I hope you are to.

Did you know that today is International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women? Also known at White Ribbon Day in many countries. This is an issue that affects every one of us, even if we don't think so. It's something that is never funny. Is never to be joked about.

I'll include some stats and details in a moment, but first, I want to tell my own story.

The timing for this is perfect really, as I made my Twitter private and took down a picture of myself that was garnering entirely too much unwanted sexual attention (just a picture of my neck and profile. who knew that would be so alluring?). As I get a restraining order. As I purchase pepper spray and refresh my self defense skills. As I cosidered making my blog private as well.

But you know what? Fuck that. I refuse to cower. I refuse to make my blog private. Who does that hurt? Me and you. Me and my desire to keep growing this blog and connect with more and more people and maybe someday get a name as a writer because of it. It hurts you, my lovely readers, who keep coming back and reading and commenting and sharing your lives with me. I've always maintained that I'm okay with anonymous readers and comments because it maintains the spirit of the blogging community, the spirit of freedom of self-publication, with no middle man blocking writer and reader.

So I will not be making my blog private. And I also think it's time to tell my own story of violence against women. You've all heard the story of my first stalker, I hope, which I made funny but which was very scary at the time. Thankfully, it never escalated to violence, but I took all the precautions I could.

But you've never heard the other story. The story I don't ever tell anyone. I was sexually assaulted in high school. By a boy I knew. I never told anyone at the time and have told a handful of people since. I wish I was braver back then and I wish girls felt brave enough now to tell their stories of assault.

It's important to me to note that I wasn't raped. I was assualted. I'm not sure why the distinction is important, but it is. But that doesn't lessen the emotional severity of that attack. It's motivated me to be a strong woman and do all that I can to protect myself. If I'd been a braver girl, I would have turned him in to make sure it never happened to anyone else. As far as I know, it didn't. As far as I know, he lives happily with a wife and child. However, it seems to me that someone who was that violent once can exhibit that kind of violence again.

I want all women to know that their strength protects other women.

This is what Lauren told me and I hope she doesn't mind me quoting her:
While it's not an official part of WRD, the backlog of rape kits in the US is something of my own personal cause. I am not a victim of rape but statistically I know somebody who is, and as a woman it's something that really upsets me. Every two minutes a rape occurs in the US and such a small number of those crimes are ever reported, even fewer are prosecuted. While there aren't any definitive numbers, it is estimated that there are several hundred thousand untested rape kits sitting in storage across the country. With kits dating back years and years, some are now past their state's statute of limitations and will eventually be destroyed. 
Undergoing a rape kit takes courage and strength for an already traumatized victim and storing those kits away untested, while the cases run cold is sending rape victims a terrible message. It says that they don't matter, that the suffering they endured doesn't matter, and that they don't deserve justice for the crimes committed against them. Unacceptable. The backlog is so beyond the scope of ridiculous that I can't even believe that it's still an issue...rape is one of those awkward topics nobody likes to talk about but unless we start how will things ever get better? 
Here is the official website calling for this cause : http://endthebacklog.org/index.htm

 Here are some statistics (source: http://www.rainn.org/)
  • Victims:
    • 1 out of every 6 American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime (14.8% completed rape; 2.8% attempted rape).
    • 17.7 million American women have been victims of attempted or completed rape.
    • 9 of every 10 rape victims were female in 2003.
    • While about 80% of all victims are white, minorities are somewhat more likely to be attacked.
    • In 2007, there were 248,300 victims of rape, attempted rape, or sexual assault. (These figures do not include victims 12 years old or younger.)
  • Every 2 minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.
    • Here's the math. According to the U.S. Department of Justice's National Crime Victimization Survey -- the country's largest and most reliable crime study -- there were 248,300 sexual assaults in 2007 (the most recent data available).
    • There are 525,600 minutes in a non-leap year. That makes 31,536,000 seconds/year. So, 31,536,000 divided by 248,300 comes out to 1 sexual assault every 127 seconds, or about 1 every 2 minutes.
    •  Reporting
      • Sexual assault is one of the most under reported crimes, with 60% still being left unreported.
      • Males are the least likely to report a sexual assault, though they make up about 10% of all victims.
      • 60% of rapes/sexual assaults are not reported to the police, according to a statistical average of the past 5 years.2 Those rapists, of course, never spend a day in prison. Factoring in unreported rapes, only about 6% of rapists ever serve a day in jail.
      •  Where:
        • More than 50% of all rape/sexual assault incidents were reported by victims to have occurred within 1 mile of their home or at their home.
          • 4 in 10 take place at the victim's home.
          • 2 in 10 take place at the home of a friend, neighbor, or relative.
          • 1 in 12 take place in a parking garage.
      •  When:
        • 43% of rapes occur between 6:00pm and midnight.
        • 24% occur between midnight and 6:00am.
        • The other 33% take place between 6:00am and 6:00pm.
      • The Criminals:
        • Approximately 2/3 of rapes were committed by someone known to the victim.
          • 73% of sexual assaults were perpetrated by a non-stranger.
          • 38% of rapists are a friend or acquaintance.
          • 28% are an intimate.
          • 7% are a relative.
        •  The average age of a rapist is 31 years old.
          • 52% are white.
          • 22% of imprisoned rapists report that they are married.
        • Juveniles accounted for 16% of forcible rape arrestees in 1995 and 17% of those arrested for other sex offenses.
        • In 1 in 3 sexual assaults, the perpetrator was intoxicated — 30% with alcohol, 4% with drugs.
        • In 2001, 11% of rapes involved the use of a weapon — 3% used a gun, 6% used a knife, and 2 % used another form of weapon.
        • 84% of victims reported the use of physical force only.
        • Rapists are more likely to be a serial criminal than a serial rapist.
        • 46% of rapists who were released from prison were re-arrested within 3 years of their release for another crime.
          • 18.6% for a violent offense.
          • 14.8% for a property offense.
          • 11.2% for a drug offense.
          • 20.5% for a public-order offense.
        Some informational websites:
        RAINN
        UN site for the International Day of Violence against Women
        UNIMFEM
        Stop Violence Against Women- Amnesty International
          So as not to end on such a sober note, here's a very lovely video produced in Australia for White Ribbon Day (some of these guys are quite yummy):



          I hope we can all pledge to end violence against women.

          Wednesday, November 24, 2010

          Photo of the Day: Frosty Cone

          frosty cone

          It got COLD here in Portland! And what did I awake to on Tuesday morning? A dusting of ice on my car and plants (my poor plants!) and sidewalks and everything. Isn't it delicious? I mean, except for the fact that it's on my car of course.

          Tuesday, November 23, 2010

          Hallowed Halls of Holiday Hatred

          I am supposed to tell a holiday horror story this week.

          And that? Well that's too tough for me. Because I hate the holidays, as you well know if you've been reading for any amount of time. So narrowing down one story is like picking out the craziest person at a Palin rally.

          Not all the holidays, of course. I like Halloween and New Years. I like my birthday. That counts right? Aaaaaaand that's about it.

          If you take my absolute detestation of family holidays and combine that with the historical and anthropological  implications of most of these holidays then add in the thousands of years I worked retail and you'd be better off asking me to think of a good holiday story.

          I have a couple, of course. I loved the Thanksgiving when I was little where Linds and I decorated the table cloth and proved ourselves quite talented artists with our strategic use of splatter paint. Hey, shut up, it was the eighties.

          The best Christmas story I have is when Linds, Lynnette and I were in Europe. They met me in Paris at the end of my stint abroad and we chunneled it to the UK and backpacked up into Scotland and back down to London in time for Christmas. It was a blast, even though poor Lindsey was sick as hell because of me.

          We exchanged cheesy souvenirs in our hostel and Lynnette and I took off to tromp around the city. Literally tromp. All public transport was closed for the holiday so we walked all over that damn city. It was so beautiful and sparse of people and tourists (and COLD!) and we saw London in a way we never would have if we'd been on the tube with tons of other people. We got a little lost and landed ourselves in a Turkish restaurant, one of the few places open, and it was the most delicious food I'd had before or since.

          Best Christmas ever.

          Most people dread the holidays because of the stress and the pressure of their families. I just downright refuse to participate. Sure, I make presents for my friends and fam and I buy gifts of books for my little nephew Ethan (who I get to see in less than two weeks!). And when and if I have kids, I'll suck it up for them.

          But for now? I hunker down in my house and do whatever the fuck I want all day. This was more of a treat when I worked full time, but now I'm sure it won't be that different from most days except that nowhere will be open. It's delicious. The genius part? Everyone feels sorry for me, alone on the holidays. Boo fucking hoo. What they don't know is I love it.

          First reason to hate the holidays: the insanity that happens to people in and around stores between Thanksgiving and the Apocalypse. I worked in that melee for too many years that I care to count. I worked the sunrise post on Black Friday. I worked Christmas eve AND the day after Christmas. I battled with perfectly sane people who turned into product-eating zombies ready to kill at random will for over a month each year and I lived to tell about it. More than I can say for many innocent bystanders. The aftermath was insurmountable.

          Now, lard help me, I may get another seasonal retail job. BUT, someone shoot me if I even think about going near a mall after this Wednesday. SHOOT. ME. Seriously. Do it. It's for my own good.

          Second reason to hate the holidays: even wonderful families turn into hyenas during the holidays and they don't have my mother. Even back when my parents would try to do Christmas right for me, any holiday where my mother is stuck in a house with a finite amount of people will only end in utter disaster.

          That especially includes Thanksgiving. Where my mom would insist on cooking the meal of the year but wait until 8pm to start cooking so we don't eat until Black Friday is actually over. I also hate Thanksgiving food. The only things I like are mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. And macaroni and cheese, which isn't traditional but is for me, asshole.

          Christmas always began with bickering and ended in screaming and tears from at least 2 people. Forget surprise gifts. After I figured out Santa wasn't real (a story for another day), I was taken shopping (or, later, given the ATM card) and told to buy what I want and wrap it up for myself.

          On the up side, I still get myself a special Christmas gift. Thanks, Santa!

          Aaaaand that's before my mom went totally off her rocker and started her all-out addiction to QVC. Then we'd just get whatever mystery item was still in its shipping box. No matter what could possibly be inside. You never knew! You just never knew! One year, I got a giant pez dispenser. Oh yes. Yes I did. Believe it.

          My dad is a good gift giver, though. It won't be expensive and it won't be wrapped well if at all. But it will have taken thought. It's usually a book because my dad and I both love to read. One year, we bought ourselves the same book. Good times. Good times.

          Third reason to hate the holidays: history is a motherfucking bitch. Christmas aside, because you all have to know it's not really about Jesus right? If it WERE, we'd celebrate in Spring. And you know it's really a Roman Catholic re-appropriation of Pagan holidays and symbols right? So in essence we're celebrating the subjugation of one religion by another? Right. So we can move on.

          To Thanksgiving. Christmas I can even get behind a bit because I like Yule and snow and twinkly lights and poorly-themed lingerie. But Thanksgiving? Really? Yes, let's celebrate the beginning of hundreds of years of persecution of a people and genocide. We might as well celebrate Hitler's birthday while we're at it.

          I loved a moment in Outsourced last week. Todd is trying to explain Thanksgiving and he says we're celebrating our gratitude that the "Indians" helped the Pilgrims survive the harsh winter. And Asha aks, "What did they give the Indians in return?" And Todd replies, "Um, less land to worry about?"


          Exactly. Thanks, native people, for helping us out! We'll celebrate with a feast! Then we'll take your land and slaughter you in many wars and give you small pox and force your children to learn English and abandon your ways and beliefs and we'll also teach you about the wonders of alcohol! But it will all be okay because in a few hundred years, you can open some casinos. Aren't you glad! Let's eat!

          Okay, okay, I'll stop. If you like Thanksgiving, have fun. Eat away. Enjoy your families. I'm well aware that people enjoy this holiday. I just think you should know what you're celebrating. If it's the food and maybe even family? Good for you. Have fun. Wear your Thanksgiving pants.

          But me? I'll be home, watching movies and reading and eating mac &cheese. And I'll be enjoying it.


          This post participates in:
          Photobucket

          Monday, November 22, 2010

          Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

          In an attempt to make more friends here in the Portland, or at least friends who also eat meat and/or love karaoke (because I love my vegan roommates and all, but really), I joined some meet-up groups. And Saturday night I went to my first event, a karaoke night in NE PoPo (my new nickname for Portland. you like?).

          See, I love the karaoke. If you've been reading since my birthday or since I lived in California, you're well aware of this. I loooooove karaoke.

          I was unsure what to think. I've yet to find a karaoke joint I truly love yet here in the port land, at least not like my old haunt in So Cal where Morgan and I would walk in the room and the KJ would put our names in. Good times. So I was hopeful that this would be the spot.

          Incidentally, back when I was dating Love Interest (remember, y'all? the dude from PDX?), we drove by this same joint and he made fun of it. So it's with great pleasure that I announce I had a blast.

          Let me just say right off that this place is intense! Not a bar that happens to have karaoke. This is a karaoke joint. With a big stage area and a HUGE catalog of songs (even though they didn't have two songs I wanted to sing). They had all the colorful regulars and flashing lights and a bubble machine and a dance floor in front of the stage. Super crazied out, I tell ya!

          Also, I was not sure at first. Everyone knows if you want to get some songs in, you gotta go early. And it was just me and the group organizer for a while. They were threatening to make us move to a smaller table from out cushy prime real estate by the stage when the rest of the group started showing up and I made a new soul sista with the most hilarious girl on the planet along with meeting some really cool people.

          I sang 3 songs. Drank two beers which is one beer more than this little girl can handle. Danced with a drag queen. Flirted with a hot lesbian server who has a girlfriend (sad face). Sold one of the rings I made and wore. And generally laughed until my throat was raw.

          So. Much. Fun.

          I will be going back.

          ~~~~~~~~~~

          Lesson for today: don't look for what you don't want to find. The other night, on a whim, I looked up my biological father on Facebook.

          I have no clue why it never occured to me before. I've know my birth parents' names since I was like 22. I think it never occured to me to look on FB because I really don't think about them that often. But I was searching for some other people who might still be too old to be on but thought I'd take a chance and the thought just popped into my head.

          But I didn't search right away. I thought, nah, I don't want to know and went to sleep. Except sleep I did not. So I got back up and opened up mac.

          I actually searched for my mom first but she has a super common name and I don't know what city she's in now or even where she lived when she gave me up. I'd spot a picture that maybe looked old enough but no dice. Oh well.

          Then I searched my dad. And there he was. Only guy with that name. And happened to be the right city as well. Crazy.

          He's well, not like my dad at all. At all.  I don't want to say anything cruel, but really.

          Oh and so I knew I had one biolgical sibling, two years old. Turns out? I have three. All sisters. One 33, 31, and 28. That means that I either had two siblings when they gave me up or the girl a year older is really a half sister or maybe a step sister I guess.

          I have to say, it's disheartening to find that out. I mean, I didn't mind the one sister and I knew the story there. But to think there was another kind of makes the story lose water. Kind of hurts my feelings just a smidge.

          Years ago, a friend of my dad's called him to say he saw me at a Dodger game and he wanted to say hi but didn't want to bug me with all my friends. My dad was like, she wasn't at a game.  Always figured it was the sister I'd never met.

          Recently, a friend who is a reporter took a photo in my former town and posted it on Facebook asking me who the hunky guy in the picture with me was. Except, it wasn't me in the picture. Looked a hell of a lot like me. I even thought maybe, but no, I don't have a purse like that. She looked that much like me. Right? Weird. So weird.

          And now there are two girls out there who potentially look like me. I know the third doesn't because her FB profile isn't private and...yeah...we have similar cheeks, but the similarities end there. And it would make sense that we have different mothers since my parents had split up. But isn't that weird? Maybe only adopted people get this. Try to imagine there are people in the world who come from the same gene pool, who potentially look just like you, but you've never met. So bizarre.

          Except I must go back to....these people are not like me at all. At least not from my dad's page.

          And I'm reminded that even though my childhood was tough, I am so glad I have the family I do. Not that there was ever any doubt. My dad is awesome and my cousins are like my sisters and I love them dearly. Not to mention the cool aunts (and even the crazy aunt in Vegas) and our circle of friends who were like family growing up. I had aunts that weren't really aunts and friends who were like siblings.

          And all I have to say is: thanks, parents, for adopting me. Thanks.

          Life is a funny beast. 

          ~~~~~~~~~~


          There was stressful event this past weekend that I fear I can't talk about not because of discretion, though that would be nice of me, but because I don't want to poke at rabid animals. You remember what happened Old Yeller right?


          By the by, why does everyone cry in that movie? I was always like, what the fuck is wrong with that dog? Somebody shoot it! 


          Yeah, I may have seen the movie too young.


          Anyway, I just want to make a declaration for my own peace of mind: dating and relationships are hard enough already without bringing your crazy all up in here.

          If you suspect you might be a nutjob, get some therapy before you go on a date. Maybe some medication.

          Also, don't tell girls you're available when you really aren't. That makes them want to punch you in all sorts of soft places. And not in a way that you would like, pervy.


          Oh and just one more thing: dating is like trying on clothes. Some things fit, others don't. The nice thing to do when something doesn't fit is to nicely and gently hang it back up on the hanger, put it back where it goes, and tell it it's not a bad pair of pants just because it didn't fit you, but will probably fit someone else's ass quite nicely.


          When a girl does that, tells you it was a bad fit very sweetly and nicely (even when she didn't have to), that is not cause to turn into a douchecanoe nutjob . Mmmmmk?


          So fuck you and the crazy you rode in on.


          I just poked the rabid dog didn't I? Eh, screw it. I own a baseball bat.

          ~~~~~~~~~~

          If you don't know, I've been looking for more work to supplement my current meager income. With Jeté's medical expenses and my own need to make money, I've been applying for both big girl writing and web content editor jobs and part-time retail jobs. I'll take what I can get and it's sad but true: one can only work in their pajamas for so long.

          And if I do get more work, I bet my blogging schedule will have to adjust. I just won't have time to keep up the pace I've maintained here. Sad face, but true. 

          Unless one of you rockstars needs a content editor or writer. I rock lobster! Just sayin'.

          ~~~~~~~~~~


          The Raw Photos Contest is coming up again! woot woot! Start shooting now and submissions open the day after Thanksgiving and close December 4th. Click here for rules since I'm much too lazypants to post them for you again.

          The theme is: LOVE.

          Whatever love means to you. Maybe it's friends or family or a person or a child or a pet or a coffee mug or a book or a symbol or your surrealist interpretation of this crazy thang called love. Whatever.

          Submit photos here.

          Sunday, November 21, 2010

          Song Sunday: Solitary Gun

          Who else thinks we need more testosterone on this blog? Ooh ooh I do! I do!

          So I brought you some. In sweet, sweet song. Rogue Wave is one of my new obsessions. I love these guys. Music you can just fold into and forget yourself for hours. It's melodic and easy but moves with an interesting pace.

          Plus, ladies (and gay mens)? Zach Rogue, the singer? Super yummy. I want to rub up all over his beard. Get tangled in it. Yowza.

          Anywayyyyyy.

          I think you'll like this song. It's spunky yet sweetly dark. The video is pretty intriguing too in a slightly artsy, poetic way.  Enjoy!

          Saturday, November 20, 2010

          Sexy Saturdays: Sexual Connoisseur


          Iiiiiiit's Sexy Saturday! Wha? Again? Awyeah! I met today's guest poster, Lil Miss Butterbean of The Bee's Knees, not too long ago on the Twitter and like her instantly. She's one of those insanely sweet girls that you'd love to hate but you can't but because you love her so much. 

          Then she asked me to guest post for her during her birthday week and I was like, "Awwww! Hells yes! And maybe you want to write about The Sex for meeee! We can do tradesies." And she was like, "Absolutely! I have no problem writing about sex. It's all I do."Or something like that. I might be misquoting a teensy bit. And the rest was, as they say (not knowing who they are), was history. 

          I think you're really gonna love Butterbean. She's sticky sweet and funny as hell. She really is the bee's knees! After you read her fantabulous post, go follow her on Twitter and subscribe to her blog. You'll be glad you did.

          Enjoy!

          i've spent the last week and a half trying to figure out what i was going to write about. i mean, sex, obviously, but what part of the sex? should i write about marriage sex? pre-baby or post-baby sex? high school or college sex? wild, drunken sex or tame, sober sex?

          see, i like to think of myself as a bit of a sexual connoisseur. and by that, i don't mean a slut. i mean i love sex. seriously. like looooove the sex. and i've had a lot of the sex. no, not with tons and tons of people, but i've had sex tons and tons of times with the people that i've had the sexy time with. are you picking up what i'm putting down here?

          anyvajazzle, since andy asked me to guest post i've relived every sexcapade that i've had, trying to nail down the perfect story to tell you guys. and after a week and some odd days, i still have no idea which story i should tell y'all.

          should i tell about the time i had sex in a hay loft? no, that's boring, everyone's done that. what about the countless nights i spent in the bed of my ex fiancées pickup? nah, most of those were accompanied by booze, so i'd probably only be able to get to the point where i got my pants down around my ankles and then everything else would be blurry. what about the wonderful parent-free weekend i spent with my date after the senior prom? you guys wanna hear about that? nah, there's nothing exciting there, besides the fact that we did it 27 times in a matter of 30 hours. i was sore for a few days after that.

          let's see, what else could i tell y'all? there was my brief bad boy era right out of high school that's semi-steamy. he was at least 5 years older than me. (y'all will have to forgive my memory, i don't remember his exact age, mostly because i don't remember a lot about him. there were copious amounts of alcohol that were consumed in the short time we were together.) he had crazy tattoos and was almost 6 and a half feet tall. and he was hot. or so i thought at the time. we met one friday night in the sonic parking lot (i'm from a small town, this is how everyone met) and moved in together 3 weeks later. and we humped like rabbits. (side note: i'm seeing a pattern in every one of my relationships, after we start having sex, we have sex all the time!) we'd wake up, have sex, go to work, come home for lunch, have sex, go back to work, come home after work, have sex, go out for the night, come home, have sex, go to bed, have sex, fall asleep, wake up at 3 am, have sex. it was a vicious cycle. some days we'd call in sick to work and spend the day having sex. only stopping to eat or have a cigarette. (i smoked in those days because i thought it was cool. i was easily influenced) when we were at home i'd walk around in one of his button down shirts because he thought it was sexy. which led to us having sex. and the sex was ohmygah amazing! i'm talking body shaking, toe curling, headboard breaking awesome. the sex was so good, i decided i was going to marry this guy. despite the fact that he was a raging alcoholic and would pass out and wet the bed. sexy, huh? this went on for three very hot and heavy months. then one day, i found out he was also having body shaking, toe curling, headboard breaking great sex with someone else when we weren't doing it. where the hell they had time to do it is beyond me.

          after that i went a little wild and had my first one night stand. although, i'm not sure it counts as a one night stand since it was with someone i'd known for at least 4 years, and he was so nervous he puked. sadly, that was the most memorable part of the night. the sex was not. shortly after that i had a threesome. that wasn't interesting to me in the least. too many arms and legs and not enough doing the deed. maybe we were doing it wrong.

          about a year later i met the hubs. i knew he was the man i was going to marry after knowing him for 12 hours. we had sex for the first time after 48 hours. and let me tell you, what they say is true, when you're in love, sex is so much different and so much better. but, it was the same in the aspect that we did it all the time. we'd find any excuse to run off and have sex.

          five and a half years later we're still having sex, just not near as much. after having our daughter our sex life dwindled down a bit. it's more of a comfortable glow than a burning flame. but, don't get me wrong, we still know how to heat things up in the boudoir, it's just that we're exhausted at the end of the day, and we end up passing out as soon our heads hit the pillows. we still experiment and try new things, we just don't do it as often.

          but i have to say, after all of my sexual adventures, i'll take married, post-baby sex over wild, single girl sex any day. now, if you'll excuse me, i'm off to shower and shave, momma's gettin lucky tonight!

          Friday, November 19, 2010

          The Saga of Jeté: Chapter 4

          Well, here's what's up.

          Jeté is so sick of being sick. She has been moody as all hell. Clingy to me and Hobbes one minute then vicious the next. She has been picking on Hobbes, especially and the poor guy has no idea what the hell is going on. He just hovers and tries to make her happy.

          We went to see the oncologist again today to get her blood work done and tumor measured. And Té cried the entire way there.

          We got there and had to wait a fucking hour to see the doc. There are two nurses there (vet techs I guess). One is an angel. The cat whisperer. So sweet. Even her name is Cat. Té loves her.

          The other one is a royal bitch.

          Guess which one was there today?

          So I sat with my kitty in the waiting room as Bitchy McBitchypants eavesdropped on everything I said.

          Oh yeah, this other couple was there with their dachshund who has prostate cancer, the poor guy. They were very cool and kept me company. And Riley, their dog, really really really really wanted to play with Jeté. He acted sweet. He whined. He sighed. I thought he might have a heart attack. When the tech took her off for her blood work, Riley flopped on the floor dramatically. I swear I heard him sigh, I give up!

          So sweet. I rubbed his floppy ears as a consolation prize.

          Anyway.

          The good news: her blood work was completely normal. And the mass has shrunk about a centimeter. So that means she's responding to the treatment! Let's all give a huge happy hurrah!

          The frustrating news: the oncologist can no longer afford to keep her practice and is closing. Seriously. So I have to find a new oncologist. She gave me the info of the closest two, which are both a bit of a drive for me, but what the hell can I do? Gotta pick one by tomorrow.

          The bad news: when I was quoted the cost of the carbo, I asked over and over if it's the total cost for the whole treatment. Each time they said yes, of course, now sign here. Right. Nope. What I paid is the cost of one treatment. One. If Té gets all four treatments, I'm looking at around $1600 total. You guys helped me pay for the first treatment so thank you!

          Seriously. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

          But here's where I get all overwhelmed with this again. I'd thought I was just raising money for her surgery, but that gets put on the back burner and now I try to raise the cash for her carbo treatments. How the hell do people do this? Do they have ten grand in their savings accounts for just these kinds of things? Or do they just opt not to treat?

          BUT, the Etsy shop is still going strong and I'm adding new pendants soon as well as another pair of earrings. Should make awesome gifts so snatch them up now! For the new kids, all the proceeds go to Jeté's treatment. Also, the donation box is still up. Received some new donations recently. You guys are so incredibly generous; it blows me away. 

          So yeah. Frustrated. And overwhelmed. Again. Just when I think I have a plan and things are manageable, things get crazy again.

          Unrelated: psycho guys, stop finding me. I don't need your crazy. That is all.

          Anyway, that's all for now. Don't forget to come by tomorrow for a kickass Sexy Saturdays post!

          can I help you?
          The queen is ill and cannot talk right now. But she does thank you for your continued support.

          Photo of the Day: Drop Dead Gorgeous

          drop dead gorgeous

          It's been very stormy latey, getting cold, really feeling like November. And I must confess: I love it! So yesterday, when I drug my butt to a coffee shop so I could get some work done (when you work from home, it's so tempting to do nothing all day), I came across this bush/tree/whatever completely bare of leaves but sparkling with thousands of rain drops. Isn't it happy sigh making?

          Thursday, November 18, 2010

          On Love

          Love.

          I thought I'd tackled this topic before. But no, I'd just talked about The Sex and how it relates to The Love.

          I do believe in Love. Love with a capital L.

          I do. Just because my experience with it is limited, doesn't mean I don't think it exists. I've seen it.

          On of my best friends, Morgan, is getting married. And while she and her imminent husband (her term) may not have seen it, they had this meant-to-be-ness surrounding them from the start.

          I don't believe in destiny, but I do believe in timing and chemistry and compatibility and desire and these two have all that in spades. The spark between them was so strong even in the beginning that we all couldn't help but be fall in love with them as a couple.

          Morgan expressed some angst recently that friends and fam didn't seem to be surprised or excited enough when they announced their engagement or over wedding plans (I think). But I told her (and I can only speak for myself here) that I hope my excitement translated (I think it did as I squealed over the phone like an 8 year old girl who just got her Barbie Dream House) because I am so excited!

          But I was not surprised. Not surprised at all. In fact, I was comforted to know they were making this happen because if these two did not end up together, the world would implode.

          These two renew my faith in Love.

          I have loved. But have never been loved. I have been told the words. But known they were empty, despite the desire to mean them. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure I know what it looks like and I know what it doesn't look like.  

          I don't believe in destiny. I've said that. So therefore I don't want to be someone's other half. 1 and 1 make 2. We're not incomplete people searching to be whole (thanks, Aristotle). We're whole people all on our own. So I want someone who is great and happy all alone. Who doesn't need me to be happy. But wants me anyway.

          Love is not a filler of a void. I have to go back to the idea that you have to fill that yourself, love yourself. Otherwise someone else's love will just wash in and out of that cavity.  Because I think Love is complimentary.  I don't think you can truly love and appreciate someone else until you and appreciate yourself first. I don't think love can survive otherwise.

          Love is about balance. I can't be someone's idol and I shouldn't worship someone else. Imbalance just seems to me to be a shoddy way to begin. I want to find my equal. Someone who challenges me in a way I can reciprocate. Someone who loves me with the same force I do.

          I don't want to be anyone's doctor. I can't fix what is wrong with you. I can be a kickass listener and I'm supportive to a fault. But my job is not to mend your brokenness. You have to do that work yourself.

          Love is not an addiction. So many people struggle with addiction to substances, why is addiction to a person so encouraged? If it's not a healthy relationship, then it's not love.

          Love is between adults. I'm not looking to parent anyone and I'm not looking for a parent. I didn't get the mother I deserved, but I also don't deserve to replace her with a romantic partner and neither should my partner have to parent me. I have to learn to parent myself, to give myself the love my mother didn't.

          I think that bears repeating. Whatever love you didn't get in childhood is not the responsibility of a romantic partner.

          I feel like this post is getting preachy. Or pedantic. Or just lame.

          I feel like I'm not making my point well.

          Maybe my ideas about love are naive. Maybe ignorance truly is bliss. But each of those situations above? I've been in. And that's not love.

          Love is not a safety net, not something to fix our bruised and broken lives, not something to obsess over and cling to with desperation and fear. I don't think so anyway.

          So I'll wait, thanks, for that real thing. For the love that blows me away.

          Wednesday, November 17, 2010

          Adopted

          Adoption. What can I say about adoption without entwining my entire life into the narrative?

          You all know I am adopted right? Today is my adoption day. 30 years ago today my parents picked me up from their child services agency in San Bernardino, California.

          I am adopted. It is the least interesting thing about me, to be honest, but the one thing people never fail to find fascinating. To want to ask a million questions about. I don't mind, to be honest. I'm glad people want to know a real opinion from someone who's actually been there instead of just listening to the many TV psychologists who are pretty sure they know everything there is to know about the adopted child.

          And I can't tell you either, really. Because every adopted child is different. Every adoptive parent different. Every experience different.

          Except in the ways that we are all the same. And those ways are numerous as well. Usually included in our similarities is a fear of abandonment or either trouble trusting or becoming too trusting. Most fellow adoptees I meet have trouble in relationships because of a fear of not being loved. 

          But no one recognizes us for the way we are the same as the rest of the world. We are adopted first. But we're also stupid or smart, gifted or struggling in all the same ways as you. We fought with our parents and begged for shit we didn't need.

          Nevertheless, there is that big A over our heads and in our files: adopted.

          The one line I heard most growing up was: you're so special! I didn't want to be special. I just wanted people to see me as the same. Ordinary. By focusing on the special, I just always felt different. When, really, my life was the same as any other kid's.

          Minus the shadow my mother cast over everything.

          I don't want to talk about my mom much today, but I have to, at least a little. Because my adoptive identity would be different if my mom hadn't beat the crap out of me and threatened to send me back when I fell short of perfection, which was always. But it's important to note that biological kids have abusive parents too. You just never know.

          So my experience as an adoptee is certainly tinged with my mother's abuse, but I still have a positive opinion on adoption. I never once, not in all my thirty years, pined for the love of my biological parents. Not once did I imagine they were rich and would come rescue me. Not once. It's complicated to explain why and you'll have to sit in on a therapy session to really get it. But basically, even though my mother made my life hell, I didn't feel any connection to my birth parents. Not at all.

          You should also know that I knew a little about my birth parents. Not much. It was a closed adoption. I, however, had a cool social worker who told my parents a little more than she should have. So I knew the why of my adoption. Instead of my background being a big mystery, I had a story. There was no fantasy to concoct and I didn't feel the need to go digging. 

          It's also important to note that my dad was incredible and supportive of me my whole life. If you read this blog at all your probably know this. My dad and I are working through some of my resentment of him for letting my abuse happen and whether or not he knew. But that's between us. But had my dad not been such a good guy, I may have a different opinion on my adoption.

          Perhaps. I don't know that.

          And while the rest of the world loved to focus on my adopted status, my family and friends were actually pretty awesome about it for the most part. My cousins and I would forget, notice some similarity between us and say it must run in the family. Then we'd suddenly remember. Oh yeah! Not related. Hah!

          Except there was that time my Aunt Sandy decided to show her true colors. I was 19. My grandma was dying. My Aunt Sandy (who was my dad's sister in law) pulls me aside and tells me, "You know, you should know that we never thought of you as adopted. We saw you as part of the family." I just stood there, speechless, wanting to say, Oh yeah? Well obviously not since you seem to need to remind me of it. Never mind that she married in anyway. Bitch. Plus? Nice time to bring that up.

          My evil aunt and my harpy mother aside, my experience was fairly positive and I have a healthy relationship with my adoption today. I absolutely advocate adoption (Plus I loooove alliteration.).

          I endorse adoption fully. Kids need homes. I certainly see myself adopting one day. It may be the only way I get to have a child.

          I also love that adoption is becoming more mainstream, thanks to the rainbow coalition of Jolie-Pitt kids. As ridiculous as they are, they've opened doors. People are starting to drop their obsession with blood relations as the be-all end-all of family and seeing family as a much more fluid concept based on love and care and those who are most involved. I think that's awesome!

          But I also worry it's becoming a trend. Let's go get a baby from every country. Without thinking it through. Without realizing you're not buying a purse or even a pet. You're becoming a fucking parent. I can't stress enough that it's traumatizing enough to abandon a child once. But if that child gets abandoned over and over, that's just the cruelest thing I can imagine.

          I spent a good chunk of my adolescence and young adulthood obsessed with the psychology of adoption and foster care.  I did research paper after research paper in high school and college. I wrote and I wrote because no matter how I felt and how I wanted to decode that, there are millions of children pushed through the system who had/have it worse and who no one notices.

          Everyone wants a baby. But after 3 years of age, it's unlikely a child will be adopted. And that's when the parents release custody. Many parents in prison hold custody, trapping their children in foster homes. However bad you've heard it is, it's worse. In every county in the US. These kids go through hell.

          I had not intended this post to be a rant about the system or adoption. But once again, the writing takes a life of its own and writes itself. I can't remember the last time I wrote a funny post. Which makes me sad a little.

          I swear I still have a sense of humor, people. I swear.

          And that? That I wasn't born with. That I got from my dad who is the punniest dude I know.

          That's gotta be a point for adoption.  Right? Who else has an adoption story?

          Tuesday, November 16, 2010

          Photo of the Day: Grey or Blue

          grey or blue

          Remember that tree I showed you a while back? The one bursting with color and leaves? This is that tree now. Beautiful in a whole new way. It's finally cold enough to get away with scarves and mittens at night and that makes me oh so happy.

          Monday, November 15, 2010

          Not Funny, But Still

          My posts haven't been very funny lately. And so I was determined to write a funny post today. Give my new readers and sense of what I'm really like and give my faithful readers a breath of fresh air.

          But that won't be happening.

          Because I awoke with an intense migraine today.

          And I can barely see through the fuzziness to type.

          I did want to update everyone on Jeté, however. Also: for the new folk, I never use the accent in her name because I am lazybones. Her name is after the ballet leap and is French in origin. Pronounced with a soft J like Jean Val Jean in Les Mis, the first e pronounced like uh, and tay. Jeté

           Also for the new folk: Jeté has vaccine associated sarcoma. 


          So, she had her first dose of carboplatin on Saturday (which is a form of chemo) and now we just hope it is effective. We see the concologist on Friday and hopefully it will be decreased in size enough to determine that the treatment is working. If it is not, we'll have to make another game plan. If it is, she gets treatments 3-4 weeks apart and up to 4 treatments total. 


          Then there is surgery. We want a surgeon to cut it out of course. That would be ideal. But cost is a factor. 


          If you read back, you'll know that there was some drama with her records and the vaccine companies. One vaccine company has agreed to kick in some money even though we have no proof it was their vaccine she was administered. This is incredible. They're giving us $500 which covers her first diagnostic biopsy (which the other vaccine company agreed and then refused to pay for) and part of the carbo treatment. 


          Also, thanks to you incredibly generous people, I'm able to pay for her carbo entirely. I cant tell you how much that means to me. You guys have been so supportive and opened your pockets without so much as shaking my hand. It blows me away. And whatever you've given, from $10 to $100 or a purchase in my Etsy shop has made a difference. Has helped me pay for this treatment. 


          So I need to raise the money for surgery. I'm looking at $3000. 

          Please tell your friends about my Etsy shop or shop yourself. I have rings and pendants and earrings. All cute stuff for Christmas too. I'm also learning how to make cloth flowers so hair barrettes will be coming at some point soon. All the proceeds go to pay for Jeté and her surgery. 

          Or if you prefer, the donation box is still up in the right corner of this blog. If you can give $5, it makes a difference. 

          If you can't give, please tell your friends or your readers or your followers on Twitter. 


          Thank you so much. Now let's all hope this treatment works!

          Sunday, November 14, 2010

          Song Sunday: Fuck You

          I've been really wanting to share a Lily Allen song for a while now and every week I can't decide on a song and share a different artsist instead.

          Well I've finally given in and selected my very favorite Lily Allen song. This song rocks hard and makes me giggle. I lurve it. Every person needs to hear it. Every person that's ever had a hateful thought in their head just needs to listen. It's irreverent and oh so right.

          This video is pretty interesting too and I love seeing the streets of Paris. Or just close your eyes and enjoy the lilty snark and biting wit all on its own.

          Saturday, November 13, 2010

          Sexy Saturdays: Blueberry Pancakes


          You guys? You are going to die when you read today's Sexy Saturdays guest post. It is pure awesome. I am so happy to host Lori of Shnerfle today. I met this gal a while back on the Twitter and we were instant BFFs. Dirty jokes were told. Connections to similar places lived rehashed. Pictures of her very deliciously hot little brother were sent. And I was in love. With Lori. And, okay, her hot brother too. Yeesh.

          Anyway, I love her wry sense of humor mixed with a humble wisdom that I am in awe of. She's not that much older than me, but I've decided I want to be her when I grow up. Would that be okay, Lori? Her blog is candid and witty and smart and her tweets are even better with a side of scathing. In other words? Completely awesome. Plus her kids? freaking funny and adorable. 

          After you read her fanbloodytastic post, go subscribe to her blog and follow her on the Twitters.

          Now seriously? Enjoy!

          When I was 17, I met the man I would marry. He was 18 and we were freshmen in college. As that was the case, we had very little in the way of discretionary cash and didn’t go out much. In fact, as we were teenagers and had newly discovered each other, there was only one thing to do for entertainment, and that was each other.

          In those heady days, we spend almost every moment together. And any moment that wasn’t occupied with class, food or basic hygiene was filled with sex. Morning sex. Afternoon sex. Evening sex. We fancied ourselves to be quite the experts in the field. Sure, there was some experimentation, but what we had in spades was enthusiasm.

          We did what young lovers do, and we ignored our friends and family in favor of sex. We cut classes to have sex. We left movies early. We found creative locations. And as we spent most of out days lost in each other, it shouldn’t have been surprising in any way when we were interrupted.

          Most often, it was his best friend who caused the trouble. You would THINK that he’d be happy his buddy was getting laid, but apparently, he felt that enough was enough. And he never knocked. Dude would just walk in the house and start yelling my boyfriend’s name. And we would scramble to cover ourselves before he walked into the bedroom. I wasn’t always successful, but he never seemed to mind. (Interestingly, this same guy found it pretty interesting when I nursed my babies. Gross.)
          You would think that I would have become accustomed to embarrassment and no longer blushed or became flustered when I got caught en flagrante. You would think.

          Until one morning, in the wee hours, as I stealthily slipped down the stairs of his house, shoes in my hand, borrowed t-shirt over yesterday’s jeans, heading for the door and my car and an equally stealthy entrance into my dad’s house. And then I heard her.

          “Good morning, honey! Would you like some pancakes? I have blueberry!”

          His mother was in the kitchen, making breakfast, for god’s sake, at five in the morning. She was entirely unsurprised to see me exiting her house at that hour.  I stammered my thanks and made a quick escape through the darkness to my car.

          As I drove home, I had to wonder, how many times had she seen this very act before? I was humiliated. Not that his mother had caught me, but that she seemed so used to it, that she could offer me pancakes. How many girls had she caught sneaking down the stairs with their shoes in their hands? How long had she known about me? And how long would it be before I could ever look her in the face again.

          It turned out that I hadn’t been the latest in a parade of sluts, as I had feared. She just wasn’t much of a sleeper, and had wanted some pancakes. The polite thing to do is to offer some to a guest, right?

          These days, if I ask my mother-in-law about that early morning greeting, she says that she doesn’t remember it. But she still makes me blueberry pancakes. And now? Now I sit with her and eat them.

          Friday, November 12, 2010

          in which I don't write

          I've been having trouble wanting to write lately.

          I'm stressed. And cranky. 

          I know the act of writing will ease my stress, but coming up with a topic is stressful too.

          I feel like I did during the end of each semester in college. During the semester, I'd whip out brilliant essays no problem. My mind would be whirling with topics and theses during class and I'd write like a maniac and out would come something I was proud of.

          But at the end of the semester, under deadlines and pressure and still had 4 novels to finish for that one seminar and 5 papers due, I'd lose any ability to even start a paper. I'd stare at the screen blanky hoping a brilliant thesis would pop out at me and I could work from there. If I could just get that one brilliant idea...

          Yeah I got nothing.

          I've got stress. It's looking like Jete's surgery will not be paid for by any vaccine company because her records are incomplete and we have no proof of which manufacturer's vaccine she was given. So that's 3 grand right there. And there's nothing I can do about it.

          But the donations keep coming in. Because you guys are amazing. I wish I could just climb through my computer and hug you! The original vaccine company is now refusing to pay for her biopsy that she already had and they already refused to pay for. But with your help, I just might afford that. 

          I even got copies of all her records so I could do my own sleuthing. There's nothing there.

          But I don't really want to write about that. I'm so tired of writing about that.

          She gets her first carboplatin treatment today. And then I'll be keeping and eye on her to make sure she doesn't have a bad reaction.

          But I don't really want to write about that.

          I had a complicated night last night. Went to Lissa Rankin's book signing which was super cool and nurturing and the feminine energy just filled me and warmed my soul. I love discussing sex and vaginas and gender theory. I need more of that. I have so many thoughts I want to write about from that experience.

          But then I had a dose of having to be the bad guy when I knew I was doing the right thing. But doing the right thing doesn't always make everyone happy.

          So life is complicated.

          But I don't really want to write about that.

          I need to be looking for part-time work to supplement my meager and temporary freelance gig. But there's always so much else going on. How do I find the balance?

          But I don't really want to write about that.

          There's a video roaming the internet showing high school girls falling as they try and jump over hurdles on a track. People are in stitches over these girls falling on their faces and getting up and trying again.

          But it just breaks my heart. These are just young girls. No athlete is born leaping over hurdles. These are not actresses. These are real girls! For whom high school is probably tough enough with other mean girls and boys and sexuality and periods and a myriad of shit that happens between the ages of 13 and 18.

          And now they have to deal with the entire internet laughing at them for just trying to do something at which they stumbled. Do we not think it was humilating enough to have fallen in the first place? But now the whole world is laughing.

          The same people laughing are the same people rallying against the bullying of GLBT teens. And I still stand for that cause. But how is this any different?

          These girls are being bullied by the world now. People everywhere pull up this video and laugh.

          We love to think we're so enlightened, but we're not enlightened. We're assholes. Ready to defend when it's popular, but quick to laugh when everyone else is laughing.

          Assholes. 

          But I guess I don't really want to write about that either.

          Then there's that pedophile how-to manual, which is on Amazon. I won't link to it. If you want to know more and hear more eloquent arguments, check out these posts by Late Enough and My Tornado Alley.

          I am the first to condemn censorship. i support pornography and banned books. So this is a delicate topic for me and one which I want to broach carefully.

          Publishers have no trouble applying censorship as they see fit. If this were about free speech and freedom of the press, we'd see the word "vagina" on the cover of books more often. There wouldn't be banned books in any state. More writers of controversial subjects would be published.

          But this isn't about censorship.

          I also suspect that pedophiles don't really need how-to manuals. I'm willing to bet that these predators know just how to pick their victims and prey upon the weak and helpless.

          What I'm concerned about is what a book of this kind condones. Is Amazon really going on record condoning pedophilia? That's the message I'm hearing.

          When vaginas are censored and pedophilia is not, there is a disconnect. We've really missed what's important in our society.

          But I really don't want to write about that.

          I will do something, however. I'll be taking the Amazon ads off my site. And I won't link to Amazon products anymore. Just to ease my conscience.

          If you disagree, don't read. My blog has always had the most amazing and supportive readership. You guys encourage my foul mouth and range of racy subjects. So it bears saying that I'd like to keep it that way. I have a small readership, but an awesome one. Those who want to be mean or rude can go fuck themselves. They don't have a place here.

          I guess I could write about that.

          But I'm too cranky.

          Instead, here's a baby picture of moi:
          Don't be jealous. Not everyone can be this damn cute.

          I know I feel a little better now. How about you?

          Thursday, November 11, 2010

          Photo of the Day: A Treat

          a treat

          This is the treat I found on my doorstep the other morning. Tons of leaves have flooded the streets and carpeted the walks in oranges and reds. I just love it.

          Wednesday, November 10, 2010

          I'm not here

          Because I'm guest posting over at The Bee's Knees today! It's Lil Butterbean's birthday week and I was one of the lucky ones she nabbed to post.

          Well what are we still yammering on about over here? Get on over there and read my post!

          Tuesday, November 9, 2010

          On Writerlyness

          I don't want to write a new post today. I'm not feeling very writerly. All my jokes lately come in 140 characters or less so I'm finding it daunting to write anything of any substantive length at all that interests me, let alone might interest the chimera that is my darling readers of the Great and Powerful Internet.

          And while I struggle to make myself write a rambling post about nothing whatsoever, you all are busy kicking writer ass at NaNoWriMo. And no offense to your novel-writing awesomeness, but I fucking hate NaNoWriMo. Because that means most of my fave-oh-rite bloggers are busy writing their novels and I'm left to fill my time with actual productivity.

          Like I want to do that.

          But no worries about jealousy. I'm sure your novels will be awesome and be published and you'll take me with you on your book tours to manage your schedules, because I'm much better at being an organized, anal retentive planner than a novelist.

          You're a good writer, you say! You should try it!

          To which I say, I don't wanna! in my whiniest voice imaginable.

          Because I will most likely never write a novel. I'm just not a fiction writer. I guess I could pound something out (hehe. pound.) if I truly tried or was forced to. But it wouldn't be good. Why? Because I wouldn't enjoy it. Because I would hate every character and plot point and the denouement would be disastrous if I even got to the denouement before killing off all the characters in some poorly planned way because I was sick of them all and just had to make the damn thing stop somehow. 

          The thing is, dear Internet, I don't like writing fiction. And that's the first step, isn't it, wanting to tell a story?

          I love novels. And novellas. And short stories. And poems. And any kind of prose I can ingest as fast as my brain will process. I was a literature major. I have always been and will always be a bookworm. So I have much love for the writer. And those of you who can weave a glorious tale that worms its magical way into my soul have a special place in my heart. Your gifts do not go un-lauded here today.

          But I would like to commit literary sacrilege and say that the novel isn't the pinnacle of the writing world.

          Gasp! What? The horror! The horror! (Please tell me you know what book that's from.)

          It's a good one. It is. And the creative medium which garners the most dollars, to be sure.

          Nevertheless, why do we only see ourselves as good writers if we've published a novel? Why is that? Are not other forms of writing just as challenging? Just as moving? Just as poetic and soulful and gently told with expert crafting of phrase or subtle rhetoric?

          Does not the nonfiction writer still mold together an eclectic cast of characters in which to tell a different kind of story? Does not the essayist craft a piece of artful prose in order to move a reader, to stir a reader to think, to emote, to react? Does not the poet carefully cobble words of movement to create something powerful in its effusive lyric or free form rhythms? Does not the comic incite guffaws? Does not the journalist, the columnist, the reviewer, the blogger write?

          Are we not all writers simply by the act of writing? By utilizing our mastery of language? By taking words and fashioning them into something new and interesting or funny or powerful?

          Sigh. Yes, I got a little carried away. I apologize profusely.

          So no, I will not be writing a novel. Perhaps one day I will publish a collection of essays or poems. Or maybe one day my memoirs. Maybe I'll get paid to write a column. Or maybe I'll one day make actual dollars off of my blog.

          Or maybe I'll become a smelly pirate hooker. Who writes on the side, of course.



          This post participates in:
          header 150x150
          You were all major asshats last week and no one wrote a Word Up, Yo! post to help me get promoted in the Nerd Mafia. I'm pretty sure my current rank is Hit Man right now, so if I were you, you'd be fabulous, (obv) AND you'd not want to make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

          But not to worry, you have the rest of this week to try again. Write a recruitment post this week and get me promoted!

          To have a post count in the recruitment challenge it must:
          1. Use this week’s word.
          2. Link up to Word Up, Yo!
          3. Mention the name and/or blog of the person who recruited them (that's ME, bitches!) on one of the blogs of the Dons:


          This week's word:
          Eclectic
           

          Monday, November 8, 2010

          The Saga of Jete: Chapter 3

          Jete saw the oncologist on Saturday.

          I really liked her. She was kind, very thorough. She sat on the floor with her mug of coffee and told us the entire history of sarcomas in cats. I'm pretty confident she gave me pretty expert information.

          So I decided to go with a somewhat experimental treatment called carboplatin which, if I understand correctly, may not work but if it does, it has a better success rate than radiation. And if I can avoid irradiating my cat, that would be awesome.

          Also, I guess it has very few side affects. She may be nauseated the first 24 hours after dosage (and my Jete has a very sensitive stomach), but no other symptoms, hopefully.

          Plus, it's cheaper. It's under $500 vs $7-10 thousand. Right. And if it doesn't work, we can always try radiation.

          Te gets her first dose on Friday and then we wait 2 weeks before we can operate and try to cut as much of this sucker out as possible.

          The operation is around $3 grand, but we're still hoping the vaccine company will pay for some if not all of it. I don't know where we stand with that, but I'll be connecting with her primary vet on Tuesday most likely and I can figure out what the heck is going on.

          Meanwhile, Jete is pretty happy. She still has to wear a collar until her sore spot heals completely. But she seems like her old self. Very cuddly and lovey and playful. She even started picking on Hobbes again, which I take as a good sign. 

          You guys have been seriously kickass awesome with the donations! And with the buying of the cute items from my Etsy shop. Thank you so so so so much! You rock lobster! Jete purrs with her gratitude. I promise to figure out earrings soon, but in the meantime, I've added new pendants and a couple of new rings. So go check it, yo! Before you know it, Thanksgiving will have passed and you'll need to buy (yourself) cute Christmas baubles.

          Thanks so much for all the support. It means the world to have you guys here for us. The blogging world constantly blows me away with its unfettered kindness and loyalty. Love ya for it!

          purr purr purr

          Sunday, November 7, 2010

          Song Sunday: The Quiz

          How's about a little Hello Saferide this Song Sunday? Everyone loves Hello Saferide. And if you don't, you should. So get on that and get to lovin'.

          This song makes me happy in my heart. It's poignant in its simplicity. Unapologetically honest. I love a song that makes no pretense and captures a bit of life as it is.

          Enjoy!

          Saturday, November 6, 2010

          Sexy Saturdays: Size Does Matter


          Oh Sexy Saturdays.

          No guest poster today. I'll be telling my own sex story this week. What? Oh yes. Believe it.

          But what story will I tell? What story could I possibly interrupt the brilliant stream of guest posters I have shared with you thus far? It is a challenge. Yes indeedy do.

          Naturally, my instinct is to tell you an outrageous story. Something crazy. But if I tell you one outrageous story, I guess I have to you its bizarro counterpart right? Life is nothing if not balance.

          So here we go: the biggest and the smallest.

          I was maybe 22 or 23 years old. Living in Hollywood. I had just been through another nasty breakup and was rebounding hard. Then I met Adam. We'll call him Adam because I don't remember his actual name, but I recall it was something biblical.

          I met Adam in a bar, of course. But not just any bar. My bar. My haunt. My cheers. Where the bartender naturally always knew my name and gave me and my friends free drinks and got me drunk on my 23rd birthday on slippery nipples. Where the doorman was constantly trying to get down my pants, but I forgave that because I never had to wait in a line. Where I knew all the regulars and they knew me and I probably dated about 4 of them at one time or another.

          I had never seen Adam in my bar before. Come to think of it, I think I met him on Halloween. I was dressed as a devil and he was an angel. Perfect right? We made out. He had deliciously blond curls that I got my fingers tangled up in. And he had nice lips. I gave him my number and then forgot all about him.

          When he called, I had to pretend I remembered who he was until I actually did remember. I agreed to meet him for a date.

          The date was nice. Chill. He had just moved out to LA from New York and didn't know how to drive which I thought was adorable. I decided at some point during the evening that I'd take him home.

          Back to my place we went and the making out was great. Very hot. Very steamy.

          What happened next I can barely describe.

          We were naked. He was on top of me and gyrating and groaning and obviously enjoying himself.

          But I couldn't feel a thing.

          He finally made his O face and collapsed on top of me leaving me to bewilderingly wonder, What just happened? Did we have sex? 'Cause you'd think I would have noticed that.

          Yup, ladies and gents. He was just that small.

          I did my best to be nice and say I enjoyed myself (well, the kissing was nice) and I think he went on his merry way confident that he'd sexed me up good.

          Hey, don't judge me. It's not like I faked an orgasm. I would never do that (Who wins in that scenario? No one. No one.). I just couldn't bring myself to ask, Was that it?

          I didn't hear from him for months. Until my phone rang on Valentine's Day. Right. Like I was gonna fall for that one.

          Side note: when you get desperate on Valentine's day and start calling every girl you know, they're on to you. We know your game. Save yourself some dignity and skip the pesky little holiday altogether. 

          *Ahem*

          Moving on.

          Rewind to July of 2002, the July before I met Adam.

          I was in New York with my cousin Stacey and we were out in the Bowery having a good time in the sauna that is the evening in July in Manhattan. Stacey's friend Carrie invited one of her friends along and he brought his baby brother visiting from Texas. We'll call him Texas because I absolutely do not remember his name and he was like 6' 6" and we all know they make everything big in Texas. At least so I'd been told.

          Texas and I hit it off. He was funny and engaging and smart. Turned out he used to work for Enron. Which I thought was interesting. And he thought I was pretty damn cute. Which I thought gave him points in his favor.

          So we went back to his brother's studio apartment a few blocks away. I knew I'd never see him again and so this was going to be my first deliberately one night stand. A tryst with a practical stranger in another city. I was very excited.

          Besides, my cousin's friend knew his brother, so I wasn't too worried.

          PS? girls can rationalize anything when they're horny.

          Fooling around was a challenge. Simply because the guy was so tall. I felt like I was climbing a wall just to kiss him. If I sat in his lap, I couldn't reach his lips to kiss him. Seriously, the distance between his crotch and his lips must've been several miles at least.

          So it should come as no surprise that he had the largest penis I had ever seen and have yet to ever see in my life.

          Huge. Frighteningly huge. Hulk huge. I felt badly for Betty Ross after that.

          Or Shaq's wife.

          I guess it was proportionate, given the sheer height of the guy, but dude! Seriously. Dude.

          No way was I having sex with that. No way was that freakishly large manwand getting shoved in my delicate vajayjay. Nope. Not gonna happen. No way in any hell I can possibly conceive. And I'm pretty damn creative.

          So no, we did not have sex. He was kind about it though. Wasn't all butthurt and, looking back, he was probably a little proud of himself. He was the guy who was so big the chick wouldn't have sex with him.

          Which seems foolish, if you ask me. I'd rather have the smaller dick and get to have sex. But I guess I'm not a man and so I'll never understand how that works.

          I've often wondered who Texas has had sex with since. Amazon women? Elastigirl? Betty Ross?

          See, fellas, size does, in fact, matter. We just want a nice, safe size that we can actually feel and some talent behind it.  Of course, I can't speak for my gay men friends. There might be a whole 'nother standard there. But I think I speak for the girlies when I say average is just right.

          In fact, the best sex I've ever had was with a very averaged sized penis. But that's a story for another day.

          Friday, November 5, 2010

          On "Real Beauty"

          Real Beauty.

          This has been a hot topic as of late.

          Real Beauty.

          What does that even mean?

          Real. Fake. What is beautiful? What isn't?

          Bah! Bah to all of it!

          There was that Marie Claire article earlier this month making fun of "fatties" kissing on television. That article made me sick, frankly. Sick. I don't think I should have to explain why.

          Then a blogger that I very much look up to and love and who writes about loving your differences wrote a new blog just the other day. I agree with most of what she said.

          That there's something to the idea that beauty is subjective. Real beauty, in my opinion, is in knowing someone. There's something to that. I have a hard time finding someone attractive until I know them. Until I can decide if I also like them.

          That it's a good thing that we're all different. Beauty is found in uniqueness. I believe that. Homogeny is boring.

          But this wonderful blogger said something I disagreed with and I don't think she meant to make this conclusion, but she did. She said that beauty is often in your power to stir someone's soul, to incite love. Romantic love.

          This is a lovely sentiment. Poetic even. But I can't think beauty can be measured by the ability to incite someone else to love you.

          Someone may recognize your unique attributes and that becomes part of that package that is love. I think, anyway.

          But goodness, no one has ever loved me romantically. I'm vain enough to realize that I must still possess beauty despite my inability to stir someone's soul.

          Then another blogger, one I don't read, but whose latest post was linked by a friend, discussed how women don't think they're beautiful and how it's really the fault of men. He went into a loooong discussion of this and I won't address each point. Some points I agreed with. Others not.

          Mostly I don't think it's that simple. I don't think we can pin down one reason or group of people to blame for the lack of self esteem in women. Or men for that matter. Objectification of plastic standards is only one symptom of a much more complicated illness, this lack of belief in our own beauty. Or the beauty of those real people who stand before us.

          I have loved deeply and saw absolute beauty in individuals whom my friends did not find attractive and who probably doubted their own attractiveness themselves. Because not only is beauty subjective, but often you need to know someone at their core, to know all of them to see their beauty. They are beautiful for every piece together.

          I have felt exquisite and gorgeous and an absolute delight. I have also felt ugly and unattractive and gross. Because it's not about a fundamental belief about myself as being beautiful or ugly; it's a daily process of life and experience and emotion and hormones and pheromones, etc etc etc.

          Real Beauty.

          There are days I feel beautiful in my sweats with my hair piled on my head. And there are days when I feel beautiful in a delicious dress and my hair just perfect and my makeup just so. Both of those images are me. Both are beautiful in different ways. And both can be ugly in different ways. I guess it depends who's looking, but if it's just me looking, who else is to judge but me?

          Some days I want to feel beautiful to attract a romantic partner. But some days I just want to feel good about myself. Want to pamper and remember the decadent things I like about myself. And some days I just want other women to appreciate my beauty in a completely platonic way.

          Case in point: There was a point in my life when I was going to fashion school and working in lingerie. I did not meet men, not straight men anyway. But I still dressed nicely for work. Still worked together fun outfits for school. Because beauty is not always about sex.

          Real Beauty. Most of what we think about beauty is presentation. 

          The idea of presentational beauty is not anything new. As I was getting into my Audrey Hepburn/Holly Golightly costume last weekend, I thought about the women who dressed like that on a daily basis. As I worked my hair into a simple updo that took me four tries, I thought of the women who could do that in a couple of minutes. As I applied my makeup and fake eyelashes (I'm nothing if not authentic), I thought of how many women in the last century didn't make breakfast before putting on their faces.

          Changing trends of ideal beauty are nothing new either. In fact, that's the oldest story in history. At least we don't bind feet or wear corsets any longer. And since even just the sixties? Our standards of presentation have dropped dramatically. You can thank first gen hippes and the grunge movement for that. By the time my mother was in high school, she was using barrel rollers and wearing nylons on a daily basis. When I was in high school? It was a good day if I did my hair at all and wore shoes other than flip flops.

          And yet? Doesn't it seem as if that ideal of beauty has become more and more unattainable? More and more unreal?

          What is real anyway? Is my friend who had her breast reduction to improve her quality of life any less real? Is the mother who gets a tummy tuck because she just can't get rid of that extra skin any less real? Am I less real with makeup? With my hair done? It's all superficial. But when did superficial become a bad word? Who is to judge? 

          Am I less beautiful because I have never been loved? I don't think so. If I had a dollar for every old lady who asked me why I was still single when I'm "so pretty!" As if there must be something else about me that's faulty. Because all men want is a pretty face. "Should be enough."

          Bah!

          I support the idea that we have to untrain our brains to stop seeing the plastic, airbrushed women towering over our lives as real. Steve Martin in Shopgirl wrote something to the effect of: I feel badly for men who grow up in Los Angeles thinking that breasts should look like cantaloupes.

          But we can't just blame Hollywood either. Or the fashion industry. Or advertisers. They do their part and it's a large ass part. But we participate in it. All of us. Men and woman. We're all guilty of the perpetuation that perfection and beauty can somehow be equated and we can't be beautiful if perfection isn't achieved.

          The perfect woman is a myth. A bald faced lie. And so is the fairy tale prince.

          How do we let go of these notions? I don't know. But we have to try. Don't we?

          Just expose our real selves and look for the beauty there, both superficially and to the very cores of our being. Hold that beauty in our hands, at the ready, for the moments we'll need it. And for the moments we need to be reminded of it.

          But most of all, we need to forget about our beauty, once we find it and nurture it. Tuck it aside. You won't need it anymore.

          Because life is not about beauty. I don't think it is. I don't. I think it's about this myriad diverse game of living and learning and experience and connection. Beauty is just one tiny piece of all that.

          Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...