In Case You Were Wondering…

I saw this on a blog somewhere… I’m not sure where. Anyway, it was seven random things about the author and I found the concept sorta intriguing and since I am lame and have nothing poignant to contribute, I figured what the hell.

1. I’ve never had a cavity in my life. When I was a kid my Mom took my brother and me to a pediatric dentist and he put these sealants put on my teeth that supposedly prevented cavities, and I guess it worked because I’ve never had one. I’m freakishly afraid that I may have one now as an adult and would look incredibly foolish in front of the dentist when I start asking a billion questions. Plus that drill sounds scary.

2. I sleep with six pillows on my bed, and they are all for me. I like to surround myself with them so anyway I turn I can have a pillow to hold on to. When guests come over and need to borrow a pillow it can take me up to ten minutes to decide which one to sacrifice.

3. Tomatoes are foul and I will not eat them. I’ve eaten cow’s liver, but I won’t put a tomato in my mouth. They taste putrid and rancid and I don’t understand how anyone stomachs them.

4. Quitting smoking was the hardest thing I ever did and as happy as I am with my healthier life, I so terribly miss my life as a smoker. I really miss sitting on porches with friends and chain smoking for hours or using the old “got a lite?” line to flirt with guys at bars. That was nice.

5. I’m missing a bone in my pinky toe. It’s not noticeable to the naked eye, but I still feel self-conscious about it. Medically, there’s no outward difference, I can wiggle it and move it like the other toes, it doesn’t look deformed or anything. But still, I think its weird and worry that others will too. Can’t date anyone with X-Ray vision or they’ll know my secret.

6. When I was a kid I had a crush on Danny from the New Kids on the Block. Remember him? The older, uglier one? He had the rat tail? No? Don’t worry, no one else remember him either. But at nine I loved him and would have been his rock star wife. And after his career faded and he was forced to take a job selling insurance I’d start my own music career and be more famous than Debbie Gibson. Excuse me, Deborah Gibson. That was the plan at any rate.

7. I was nationally ranked in the Junior Riffle Tournament in 1993. I earned my expert marksmen achievement in both the prone and kneeling positions. My proclivity for deadly sports continued in college where I shot archery competitively. Lesson here, there’s a good chance I can kill you from across a football field so let’s play nice.

 

Drivers Beware, God is Watching You!

I’m not making this up. The Vatican has just released its Ten Commandments for Drivers. You can view them here if you’d like, but just in case your clicking finger is broken, I’ve copied them below.

 

Drivers’ Ten Commandments

The “Drivers’ Ten Commandments,” as listed by the document, are:

1. You shall not kill.

2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.

3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.

4. Be charitable and help your neighbor in need, especially victims of accidents.

5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.

6. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.

7. Support the families of accident victims.

8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.

9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.

10. Feel responsible toward others.

Wow. I mean seriously wow. Thank God the Vatican has told me how to be a good Christian driver.

I know now that I must give up my hedonistic ways. No more driving through school zones at 90 mph, smoking a cigarette and flicking the burning ember toward the little children fleeing from my vehicle for their very lives.

I guess spinning my tires in the Wal-mart parking lot would be a clear demonstration of my expression of power and domination, so can’t break number 5 again.

And the Pope is right, I should stop giving blow jobs for 10 bucks in the back seat of my Johns’ cars. From now on, they’ll have to take me down a back alley to get some of my sweet lovin. Just like the trannies do.

Thank you Vatican, without your clear and concise road practices, I doubt I would have ever truly known the wonders of Christian driving. Seriously, this is so much more important than trying to end hunger or advancing peace in the Middle East, or encouraging those of wealth to give to the poor… No, why waste your time on those complicated and foreign problems when you can solve road rage with one little piece of paper.

Twits.

I’ll kick you in the lugnuts

Scene: Its 11 am on Saturday its already a steamy 350,000 degrees Fahrenheit outside. My Roommates J. and P. are helping me change a flat…er exploded tire… I had gotten the previous evening.

J.: “Do you have a spare?”

Me: “I have no idea.”

P.: “You’ve got a jack though, right?”

Me: “Again, no idea.”

J.: “Well I’ve got a jack but we need a spare. Do you know what size tire you drive on?”

Me: “They come in sizes? Like dresses? I don’t know, medium?”

J. to P.: “It’s like she’s gone temporarily retarded.”

I’m the Fat Girl in Yoga Class

That’s right all you skinny bitches in the 6:00 am Yoga Class, the Fat Girl is here!

Every Thursday I get up before dawn and roam down to the gym for a 45 minute yoga class. Now, I’m a larger gal, and my size does draw quite a few stares as I march into the studio at o-dark-thirty, but I try to ignore them. I gain a certain satisfaction knowing that each of my fellow classmates look at me as an enigma. I’m sure they are waving through various thoughts of my impending failure, intrigued by my desire to take the class, and from a few of the women, probably admiration for trying it out. What they don’t know is that I’m awesome at Yoga.

Seriously if I had the time I could be a master actually. I get my chakras aligned and see out of my third eye and all the bullshit and I am hella flexible. The first time I did yoga I could tell the instructor wasn’t sure what to expect of me. She went through her normal routine and came by a few times to check my positions and each time nodded her head and walked away. Toward the end of the class we were doing a sitting stretch (remember the V-Stretch from gym class) and she called the classes attention to my flexibility and stretch form, asking me to demonstrate the position for the rest of the skinny bitches— I mean students.

So sure, maybe as I do the downward dog my stomach hangs out, or when I turn from my lunge my ass looks overwhelmingly huge, but you know what, suck it! Cause I’ve got a good 50 lbs on any of you and I’m the star pupil.

Fat girls unite! Yoga is a breeze.

Whatever you do, don’t lite a match.

Here’s the scene, it was Primary day here in VA and I had just returned home after a very nerve wrecking day monitoring the polls and results. My roommates J. and P. are sitting on the balcony with Mushoo, the shitzu puppy that’s taken over our lives. I walk out just as P. is finishing the worldest longest and loudest fart.

J.: “Was that your ass?”

P.: “Yeah, pretty impressive huh?”

J.: “Jesus Christ the force of that wind shock the balcony.”

P.: “What can I say I’m talented.”

J.: [wrinkling his nose] “Fuck, what the hell did you eat?”

P.: [takes a long drag] “Well honey, as I recall, it was you.”

J.: “Fair point.”

This is my life.

Why I’m Proud to fight for GLBT Equality

Note: I’d like to apologize for sucking at life and totally not posting here in well, forever.  I don’t really have an excuse except I’ve been hella busy.  Campaign season is here, and well it’s been kinda crazy.  I’ve been pulling long days and working weekends and really after working 70 hours a week, who wants to take the time to write something prolific and poetic for the world to read.  But none the less, I have returned to talk about a subject very dear to me.  I hope you will too. 

I have been a fag hag (or as I prefer a fruit fly) for all of my adult life and most of my adolescent life.  I’m not sure why Gay men are drawn to me, but I have a theory that I release some kind of pheromone that only gay men can smell.  Or perhaps it’s my very round bottom and sassy attitude that attracts them.  Whatever the reason, I have been involved in gay rights since before I could drive and lobbying lawmakers since before I could vote.  And I really don’t see that ever changing. 

This past weekend was Capital Pride.  I love DC Pride.  The whole weekend is a time of camaraderie and fellowship, celebration and… well… pride.  It’s the one weekend a year when strangers come together to share in something together.  It’s a great weekend and I’m very glad I have been able to participate in it for the last five years or so.  Midweek last week I got a call from a friend I haven’t heard from in a long time.  My old intern partner from our Human Rights Campaign days called me up and said he and his partner would be driving down from New Jersey for the weekend.  I was elated, I hadn’t seen I. in a very long time and I hadn’t seen his partner B.(who lives in Seattle) in pushing four years. 

Friday night, I. and B.  drove down and our friend S. who lives in DC and still works for HRC, came over and the four of us plus my roommates (gay men in a relationship…with each other) sat up until 4 in the morning watching movies, talking about Pride, our glory days as HRC interns, politics, music, boys (for me not them)… you know… one of those wonderful long nights with good friends and good wine that you just don’t want to end. 

I found myself pondering a lot of the same things with them that I did ten years ago and unfortunately, recognizing that not a whole lot has changed.  Hate crimes legislation is still no where to be found, nor is there an ENDA (employment non-discrimination act), don’t ask don’t tell is still kicking, and every time a state legislature or court does the right thing, four other states have a knee jerk reaction to pass constitutional amendments to ban everything including buying dinner for someone of the same sex.  It’s all so very frustrating.    

Saturday night, I went to Freddie’s.  If you live in Northern Virginia, head over there and check it out, think Jimmy Buffet meets drag queens and you’ll have a blast.  There were a lot of us out together.  Friends from college, high school, friends from work and organizations… gay/ straight… lots of people with the same concerns and beliefs, a true hodgepodge of my friends all out to celebrate Pride. 

It was karaoke night, Saturdays always are, and a few of my more gifted friends were taking turns belting their hearts out on the stage.  My friend P.  straight, activist, male (ha, bet you weren’t expecting P. to be a straight guy!)  told me while one of our friends were singing that karaoke at a gay bar is a lot like karaoke at a straight bar, but with talent.  I couldn’t agree more.

So, P. and I were sitting together while another patron sang “Strawberry Wine,” and two men stood up and started slow dancing together, the one that was not leading had this most amazing smile on his face, he was totally in love and it was beautiful.  P. leaned over to me, obviously looking at the same thing I was and said “Do you see that?  He is generally happy.  I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy.”  I nodded my agreement trying to catch the happiness vibe off this couple in front of me.  “Clearly sanctifying that relationship would be bad for our society.”   P. and sarcasm are like two peas in a pod, and his commentary on how demeaning our society is to GLBT people because of whom they love made me terribly sad… again.  As the song closed, the one leading dipped the one following and kissed him chastely and sweetly.  It was like a scene from a movie and their happiness cast this shield of contentment around the bar.  People were smiling and hugging each other close, it was a happy feeling, one I don’t feel too often. 

This couple faces a great deal of adversity.  They live together but in the eyes of the government they are strangers.  If one were to be in the hospital the other would not be able to visit like family members or make medical decisions for them.  They can’t file joint taxes, and they live under the constant fear that they could be fired from their jobs because they love each other. 

Yet, on Saturday night after a long day at the Pride parade, they stood in a little beach bar and slowed danced as someone sang the karaoke version of “Strawberry Wine.”  And they loved each other. 

I don’t know that couple who danced in front of me Saturday night.  I’ve never had dinner at their house or sat in the cubicle next to them.  I don’t know their kids (I was told by another patron that they have two little girls that they adopted from China) and I’ve never bought them a drink to ask about their day. 

Even though I don’t know this couple, I fight for them, as I fight for all of those living as second class citizens.  I do it for all the reasons I’ve listed above, but I really do it for that one perfect moment when two people look at each other with love and contentment and can truly be happy. 

We should all be so lucky.

Happy Pride!