Caterwauling

Abstinence programs are being considered in my loving home state. The religious right is saying now that maybe we shouldn’t be teaching kids how to properly use contraceptives, especially at the middle-school level, even though such education led to a 30 percent drop in teen pregnancies.

My high school had the highest pregnancy rate in our entire county. And sex ed wasn’t introduced until ninth grade — one segment of a semester-long health class — and it was taught by two women who have probably never seen anything other than a plastic penis in their lives. It wasn’t enough, but I imagine it might have helped somewhat.

My mom had the best attitude toward sex — DO IT! She didn’t believe in forbidding me to do much of anything, and it led to my attitudes today of, “Well, I know I can have it whenever I can get it,” as opposed to, “*Shriek* It’s naughty, it’s dirty, so let me have as much as I can so I can rebel against parental wishes and societal norms!”

Of course, she had me when she was 16, so that kind of impacted me as far as, “Oh HELL no, I don’t want kids, especially at that age!” Mom, though, was one of those people who was meant to have kids — that’s what she did best, and she’s regretful that I am an only child, but at least she had the support and built-in babysitting services of my grandparents and great-grandmother. Most kids don’t have that kind of help when they decide to have babies of their own.

In any event, sure, stop teaching kids anything other than, “Sex is bad.” (That last line said in the voice of Mr. Mackey on “South Park” — “Sex is bad, drugs are bad, maryjuwana is bad, mmm kay?”) Don’t separate church and state. Pretend that kids really will listen to their gym teachers who are forced to teach abstinence as not just the best, but the only, way to deal with their budding sexuality.

And if they’re so fucking concerned about babies not having babies, maybe they can teach homosexuality as an option.

*off the soapbox again*

Last entry, we learned Baby Alex’s first words. Today, we heard Miss Baelen’s thoughts on her visit with Uncle Scott. So many cute kids around us, yet no inclination to reproduce ourselves. …

Alex said her very first words on Valentine’s Day. Appropriately, she said, “Blah blah blah.” And then she looked right at John, her daddy, and said, “Blah blah blah Da-Da!”

Even at the tender age of six months, she knows we’re all full of shit. 🙂

Shawn and I had plans to hang out on Friday the 13th to celebrate Bizarro Trailer Trash Valentine’s Day (i.e., bad food and titty bar attendance), but plans got thwarted and we ended up spending the wretched holiday together instead. And I have to say that last night ranked in my Top 2 Valentine’s Day festivities. 🙂

We started out at Chief Ike’s Mambo Room for a grotesque burlesque show. It wasn’t quite what we expected, but the bar was cozy and everyone there was ridiculously friendly. Lobster Boy served as emcee, but the only act we really enjoyed was some Brontosaurus trio who did a great remake of Sir Mix a Lot’s “Baby Got Back” — only their version is “Baby Got Sack,” an ode to big balls.

After lots of drinks (and Shawn getting mistaken for Justin Timberlake — not to mention, on Halloween, some people thought he was a member of N’Sync), as well as the girl selling Valentine’s candy killing herself to cozy up to him (and making sure to sit next to him during the show!), we decided to flee from the scene and indulge in a stylish late-night gourmet meal at Burger King.

All the other single people at BK must’ve thought we were just a horrible, unfortunate couple, because I caught all the women looking at me pityingly, like my guy couldn’t spring for a better meal. And what a horrid meal it was — I got the side salad, and the lettuce was brown and red from spoiling right in front of me. I cracked that these weren’t hearts of romaine .. this was ass of romaine. Disgusting. I would’ve done better sipping the ranch dressing straight from the packet instead of trying to ingest those rancid hunks of “lettuce.”

To punctuate our bad meals, once we were outside, I burped loudly and Shawn farted in agreement. Now, see, you just can’t DO shit like that when you’re on a “real” date!!!

To top off our trashy night, we ended up at Wet ’cause we needed to see naked boys.

The last time we were at Wet, we were so blazed out of our minds that all we could do was sit under the televisions and stare open-mouthed at the male-male porn that adorned their many screens — we were too fucked up to notice the real-live boys dancing on the countertops. Last night, we did actually have our wits about us to want to stab our eardrums with letter openers — when we entered, naked boys were actually doing karaoke … the first we heard was a horrid rendition of Evanescence’s “My Immortal,” but it got worse with two guys bobbing around singing Christina Aguilera and Ricky Martin’s “Nobody Wants to Be Lonely.” These are two of my favorite songs, and well, this killed it. Shawn asked the bouncer guy whether or not this was going to take up the whole night, and we were assured that it was almost over.

So, after some strong drinks to erase the memory of the auditory pain we incurred, we did get into the naked boys (as well as, of course, the porn) … particularly the hot buff boy who was dressed as a cop. Jesus Christ, he stripped off everything and went to the “shower” at the end of the bar and lathered up his muscles. Mmm baby! He was using Suave coconut shampoo as his lather, and the place suddenly smelled really good. I practically slid off my barstool, my panties got so damp at the sight of him. Damn, I never get guys like that!

Shawn was more engrossed in the Latin porn, and he made me laugh heartily when he said something to the effect of, “I haven’t done enough long-haired guys!” I have to agree with him on that one — any takers? (for me, that is!) 😉

Anywho, it was a great little night, and Shawn was a wonderful valentine. 🙂 I know we giggled and snarfed like fools, but I really can’t remember what the fuck we talked about. I asked Shawn to guest blog, but he declined. I’m sure he’ll supply the details (if he remembers any) in the comments. But all I can say is thanks for the laughs!

Melissa Etheridge could make me switch teams permanently if she’d write songs like this heart-wrenching ode for me. 😉 Although, arguably, her incredible songs have helped me to survive the past decade.

Happy Quirkyalone Day tomorrow!

1. Are you superstitious?

Somewhat. But it seems to work for me. I don’t fall for old wives’ tales or anything like that, but I do believe in not tempting fate, whenever possible.

2. What extremes have you heard of someone going to in the name of superstition?

My mom refuses to walk under anything hanging above her head. She’s paranoid that it will drop on her. God forbid she ends up in a sporting goods or toy aisle and sees inflatable swimming pools or bicycles or anything huge and rubbery, even if it’s 20 feet in the air. She has instant panic attacks and jets into oblivion. When we’re in the store, we have to try to spot these big items and avoid them at all costs (or drives far around them if they are outside). Once, in a Toys R Us, she looked up, saw a big stuffed snake, and I’m not kidding when I say she did a perfect split in midair and took off. I was lying on the floor spluttering and gasping for air, laughing at how cartoonish the moment was (it was like the Road Runner leaving the proverbial cloud of dust behind!).

3. Believer or not, what’s your favorite superstition?

It’s become a subconscious habit for me when I get in my car — I have to rub the crystal I have hanging from the rearview mirror. I’ve had it in the car since the day I bought it, and it’s a massive stress reliever for me, particularly as I am practically hyperventilating down the Brickyard 400 Beltway and other highways down here in which the minimum acceptable speed is 90 mph. I need all the good luck I can get!

The cute thing is that when I let my friend Paul drive my car, he always rubs the crystal before he gets going, too. 🙂

4. Do you believe in luck? If yes, do you have a lucky number/article of clothing/ritual?

I believe in luck of all kinds. For instance, I wore a cream suit to interview for my last job and a brown suit to interview for this job. I will NEVER, EVER wear either of those outfits AGAIN for the BAD employment luck they seem to have brought me!

My favorite number is 3. I love to wear black when I need to feel successful or confident. If I don’t get my nails done before an event, I feel naked and ashamed of my hands. I suppose all of this is my way of asserting some power over my personal space to allow me to enter others’ spaces and hold my own.

5. Do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?

As a card-carrying Gemini with Mercury rising, hell yeah I believe in it! When Mercury is in retrograde, my sanity shoots straight to hell. I do believe in astrological compatibility, too. Granted, you can be friends with or date anyone, but there are certain combinations of signs that are statistically more successful. I’m supposedly compatible with Aquarius, Aries, Leo and Libra but have mixed feelings about Sagittarians and fellow Geminis, and so far, that has been pretty much on the money. I’m attracted to Scorpios, though, for their strength and defiance. I typically avoid Cancerians unless they are on or near the cusp. Pisceans have always been in my circle of friends but not lovers — I love their poetry but that’s about where it ends.

Dating fellow Geminis has been a trip. Conventional wisdom dictates that Geminis will get along in conversation but have a crappy sex life ’cause their brains never shut off. Quite the contrary, in my case. Conversation was warp-speed and sometimes tiring, but their sexual stamina was what kept me coming (in all senses of the word!) back for more.

My congressmen — Sen. John W. Warner (R-Va.), Sen. George Allen (R-Va.) and Rep. James P. Moran (D-Va.) — got this letter from me tonight on the subject of a proposed constitutional amendment preventing same-sex marriage:

“Where is the punchline …

… because this has to be a joke.

I believe comedienne Margaret Cho said it best when she asked who on this earth would deny a gay male the right to have a bridal registry.

There are so many more important things to focus on than — god forbid — preventing gays and lesbians from having a union recognized by our country. Marriage, as it stands, isn’t really working, is it now? And marriage may not be in my future as a heterosexual person, but for those who are so fortunate to have found true love, let them get married. Let them have the partner benefits. We have so many millions of uninsured people in this country, and that includes many of my friends who have same-sex partners who have great benefits. Let’s worry about something real for a change, can we?

If I were Queen for a Day, I’d direct my taxes to only those causes I deem worthy. Using it to prohibit my friends and loved ones from having a relationship that is recognized by my state and my country is an abomination. Bush may or may not have won the war on terror, but this is one battle he is going to lose. And personally, if I don’t find the man of my dreams (if he even exists), then I don’t want to rule out my options of finding a happily-ever-after that doesn’t conform to whatever the religious right claims to be in the greatest fictional work of all time, their precious Bible.”

*hopping off soapbox. for now. *

There were a million things I wanted to blog about, but alas, work had to come first. Damn career, getting in the way of what’s important! 😉

Had the utmost pleasure of meeting Rocket Jones last night. I almost didn’t make it, after being partially asleep while I was driving to meet him and missing every convenient turn and getting stuck in Old Town rush-hour traffic. But the five-minute-turned-half-hour odyssey was incredibly worth it. It’s nice to know the person behind the brilliant prose on the website! The good news is that he will be in my neck of the woods a few more times till the springtime, and that means more intelligent (and crazy) conversations are in short order. 🙂

I went to bed early with a migraine last night and stayed home for the better part of the day doing editing. It’s amazing what a RELIEF it is when most of the work is turned around — I had full intentions on spending the night editing, but I arrived at my senses when I realized that nobody ELSE loses sleep over whether the paper is produced on time. I find myself waiting for submissions and letting our volunteer writers turn in their stuff at their earliest convenience … not mine. That’s the problem with working in a highly charged political environment — ya can’t piss off the help ya ain’t payin’ for. I’m still waiting for my least-favorite column to arrive (from the Queen of the Underworld, of course), but Angie did get me her stories and they were just about the only pleasurable reading I had this month, save for a good OpEd and Reader View that arrived earlier in the menstrual cycle that is my job.

The Queen of the Underworld is the asshole who wants to create and head an unnecessary advisory council whose sole purpose is to tell me how to do my job and through which hoops I need to jump at her command. *sigh* I told my boss that perhaps we need to concentrate on firing the old volunteers and bring in some fresh blood and that maybe if Queen wasn’t so busy dicking around with my sanity, she might write her fucking column in a timely manner. I mean, Angie’s stuff is sometimes late because she’s trying hard to track down coherent people to interview; the other people are writing first-person drivel that consists of nothing more than their over-inflated opinions of what they wish the world could be like. You’d THINK that they could write their 1,200 words of complete and utter nonsense that within a 30-day period! I mean, gah, it’s not like they are lacking in opinions — they delight in forcing their bullshit down the throats of the unimpressed masses!

No wonder my temple throbs uncontrollably during editorial deadline week. I usually budget two days to edit all the last-minute submissions and then work overnight once or twice to get the stuff to the designer on the day he’s expecting it. I swear, people have come to rely upon the two of us to perform miracles. (Angie nailed it: he is my Midol in the menstrual cycle of magazine production!)

And I was hell-bent on getting a proof by tomorrow (seeing as though SOME employees get to celebrate a long holiday weekend — I never get to enjoy holidays or stay home on furlough days because they always seem to fall smack during production hell). And my designer, lovely man though he is, was intent on accommodating my crazy request. But at some point yesterday evening, I finally e-mailed him and said that I had come to my senses and that the Inner Bitch needs to channel her energies on the right people and not make him jump through hoops so I don’t get yelled at for only giving the proofers one workday to do their thing. He was grateful, and it made me come to some serious conclusions about how the volunteers need a whip cracked over them, whether or not my superiors may agree. In any event, there is something about my staff that makes me want to be a better mentor, a better person, a better champion for our sanity. Me, I kill myself to do things, oftentimes the hard way. And I would never expect people to give up their free time the way I do.

I have to bitch about INS CVS Pharmacy, or, rather, my experience there tonight. I was loading up on Advil Migraine and Tylenol PM (a sure sign you just shouldn’t fuck with me while I’m standing in line, right?), and some dumb bitch standing behind me was practically attached to me. At least she didn’t have a shopping cart, but every 30 seconds, she bumped into me. And the line hadn’t moved! I hope she doesn’t drive as horribly as she stands in line!

So anyway, I’m finally getting waited on, and when I grab my bag and turn to leave (the exit was literally three feet to my right), I ran smack into the girl. Not content to be firmly wedged up my ass, she also attached herself to my side. Um, it’s hard for me to LEAVE so you can get waited on when you’re BLOCKING MY FUCKING WAY TO EXIT THE DAMN BUILDING!

Tonight, I treated myself to doing laundry, watching Phoebe’s wedding on “Friends” and waiting for “ER” to start. The world is almost well again. For me, anyway. 😉

I’m fairly disturbed by Dr. Atkins’ death report. I love that diet, and to hear that he was obese when he died is frightening. Granted, the diet is impossible to stick to in the long-term, but in the space of overnight, the poster child for the diet’s success has now become its warning label.

In all fairness, though, I do believe that he gained significant weight while he was in a coma (although 75 pounds is a little hard for me to swallow). When I was in the hospital on IV fluids for four days last September, I gained 15 pounds (which I did lose. And gain back. And lose. And gain back at Christmas. And lose again — so far it’s gone for good). So if he were in the hospital for two months and he bloated at the same rate I did, 75 pounds doesn’t seem all that bad in comparison.

One reason the Atkins plan has been so attractive to so many is that it claims to give you good heart health while seeing fast weight-loss results, which is what keeps people sticking to the diet — it’s really hard to get discouraged when your clothes start to fall off of you. I never could figure out how your cholestorol starts to drop on this animal fat-friendly program, but let’s face it, at age 29, I’d rather look better than worry about what my innards are doing. 🙂

In any event, I’ll bet the South Beach Diet crew will start overhyping their products — this is their best marketing opportunity yet. And I keep meaning to start that diet anyway. I did, however, cut out sweets in late January as well as start drinking a lot of water, and I’ve lost 12 pounds doing just that. My idea of dieting used to be that I had to eat all the sweets in the house so that the cupboards would be empty when I was ready to start a diet. But you know that doesn’t work — when there’s not a morsel of food in the house, that’s when you get an overwhelming urge to drive through Popeye’s for some fried chicken goodness. 🙂 So I gave away the sweets or pitched them, and that, my friends, seems to have made all the difference.

OK, as an IKEA armchair critic, I am having a hell of a hard time figuring out who gets my vote tonight. Typically, the judges mix strong performers with mediocre ones during these initial audience-vote nights, but I have seen three out of six (so far) who are worthy of my vote.

I agree thus far with the judges that the male performers have given fairly vanilla performances. I know someone’s not going to make it if I find myself singing along with them (i.e., Erksine with “Open Arms” and Marque with a really good but not-star-quality “Wind Beneath My Wings”). But when I get chills (i.e., with Jennifer Hudson, Katie Webber and Diana DeGarmo), I know I want them to advance to the next round. I could listen to Ashley and like her, but in this pool of talent, she kind of falls toward the middle of the crop.

*commercial break*

Hmm, that Matt guy is kind of hot. Doability factor: 10. Song: 10 (one of my favorites: Marc Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis). Talent: 8 — he (or maybe it’s the Karaoke music) makes it sound like a showtune, and this is a soulful song. But his voice is okay — I think it could be stronger. Next.

Fantasia sounds like a nitwit in interviews, but we’ll see how she does, because the voice is incredible, even if I don’t enjoy watching her.

Hmm. I think I’m voting for Jennifer. Who are YOU rooting for?