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!

Passing the Torch[ing Flag]

Memorial Day is a tough day for anyone who’s lost someone to war. I don’t know many people who aren’t touched in some way by the death of a friend/ loved one/ co-worker/ neighbor kid in battle. I know people, young people, who didn’t come home, I know people over there right now, and I know people that will be going back. It’s sad and senseless and most of us are trying to figure out how to properly grieve, let alone who to direct our anger toward.

Cindy Sheehan’s retirement is the top headline on CNN right now. And I totally understand why this is national news. Here you have this middle aged, middle income, middle-America kind of woman dropping her cozy life to become a figure head for all those bereaved mothers out there who lost a child to a senseless war. She was brave, she was inspiring, and she moved a lot of Americans with her vigil outside the Bush ranch in Texas. She became a symbol, a poster child if you will, for the anti-war movement, a movement I consider myself to be apart of.

So two years down the road, she’s announced she’s out. Can’t take it anymore, her son “died for nothing.” Sad. Really really sad.

As I read this article I’m starting to kinda see the progression from bereaved mother to anti-war activist and I feel very sorry for this woman. The anti-war movement did her wrong.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you before I begin this tirade that I work in politics for a living, democratic politics, and I know my way around a political machine. So when I say the anti-war movement did her wrong, I’m gonna be talking more about the mechanics than the spirit of which I totally agree.

I love a good protest, I really do. In college I marched downtown to oppose a misogynist running for office, I threw eggs at a cut out of Dick Cheney, and I participated in a “die in,” on the first day of the war back in 2003. I get it, I love it, and I believe it can be effective, if done correctly. The modern anti-war movement, though, is not effective. I wish it were, but it’s too disorganized.

In 2004 I participated in the “March for Women’s Lives” here in DC. It was a great week filled with Choice promoting activities and concerts and every time I got on the metro I gave a group of women directions to some landmark they were off to see before that evening’s big event. It was a great feeling of sisterhood and change making. The event was well organized; hundreds of thousands of women from across the nation gathered, and we sent a message. I felt apart of something.

The modern anti-war movement is a disaster, the complete opposite of effective and organized. I’ve been to some of the impromptu rallies, which while I feel warm and fuzzy are usually poorly attended and rarely do elected officials bat an eyelash at our presence. It’s sad, because the message is pretty simple and usually simple things should be easy to champion.

But activist are heading in the wrong direction. Storming the office of a Congressman screaming obscenities at their staff is highly ineffective. Organizing raid’s on the State of the Union Address and then creating a scene while being escorted out, is highly ineffective, and accusing both sides of the same thing wins you no allies inside the political machine.

I don’t want to demonize Cindy Sheehan or any other activist fighting for this cause. These people believe in something and fight for it on a daily basis which is more than most of us can say. I also can’t imagine what its like to lose a child, especially to such a pointless and nonsensical tragedy that this war is. But I also kinda feel like these whack-tivists misled Ms. Sheehan on how she could turn her grief into a movement and took advantage of her pain. Two years later we find Ms. Sheehan a tired, broken, thoroughly depressed woman who has not only lost her son, but her husband and her finances. At the end of the day she’s learned to not trust electeds of either party and believes that the system failed her, and worse yet, failed her son.

I feel bad for Cindy Sheehan, I really do. She dedicated two years of her life for a cause she believed in and she’s worse off than she was before. It’s hard to find your path in this world of politics. You’d like to think it’s fair and open but any seasoned, slightly cynical operative knows that it’s all about who you know and how you can manipulate them. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a little optimism streak in me that believes that everyday people can change the world. It’s worked in the past, and I think it can work in the future. But only if they people leading that movement know how to do it. Right now the leaders of the anti-war movement consist of a few famous people and mostly dirty hippies.

I decided a while ago that the only way to beat the system was to join it and I reluctantly hung up my protest bandanna (yeah, I had one, it was orange with the words “War Ends Nothing” written in sharpie on it) and shaved my legs again. And since then, I have enacted more change that I thought possible. I’m a player, with a cause. I have the ear of those in power and I champion the things I believe in. I still stop when I see a group gathering around a woman with a bull horn and smile. Cause in the end, it starts there, the activism. You don’t know who to talk to so you talk to anyone within ear shot, but eventually it has to progress into a movement of ideas, people, and politics, or else it ends there, on that soap box, with that burning flag as the back drop.

Good luck Ms. Sheehan. I hope you find some closure and happiness. The rest of us will keep trying.

Is that a Snake in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Today I was scanning through the Washington Post, New York Times, and the other liberal media outlets, and I came across this article on CNN. 

A man, Yahia Rahim Tulba, got on a plane in Cairo heading toward Saudi Arabia with 700 live snakes.  700! 

Now Mr. Tulba claims he intended to sell the snakes in Saudi Arabia, because apparently poisonous snakes are the new pink in Saudi Summer fashion, but luckily, he was stopped by two custom’s officers before the plane took off.  Apparently the other passengers were slightly suspicious of the wriggling and hissing duffle bag and had the flight attendants call the police. 

Now, just think for a second about those two custom’s officers who had to inspect this bag.  I imagine the incident went a little like this. 

Officer 1:  “Sir, we’re gonna need to look in your bag.” 

Snake Dude:  “I don’t think you want to, I’ve got 700 snakes in here and several are pretty poisonous.” 

Officer 2:  “Look Buddy, my partner here asked you a question… wait… did you say snakes?” 

Snake Dude:  “Yeah, 700.  So I could open the bag, but I’m pretty sure at least one of Cobra’s has gotten out of their traveling case.  And well I’ve been jostling the bag a little bit; I bet they’re pretty pissed.  I don’t want to get bitten.” 

Officer 1:  “Uh, well we still need to look in that bag.” 

Officer 2:  “Are you crazy, no way I’m opening that bag.  Didn’t you hear?  700 snakes!” 

Officer 1:  “Ok ok.  Uh, here’s what we’re gonna do.  Sir, we’re gonna stand over there, way over there, behind that door, and you’re gonna open that bag slowly and tilt it toward us.  Once I’ve confirmed that you have snakes, you can close it back up.” 

Officer 2:  “You didn’t mention the arresting part?” 

Officer 1:  “Didn’t you hear him?  He’s got 700 snakes in there, I don’t want him to think we’re gonna arrest him, what if he throws them on us.  Once the bag is closed you can go arrest him.”

Officer 2: “Me arrest him?  No way man.  I’m calling for back up.”

You know you’re in Jersey when…

This past weekend, my old roommate got married.  She and her fiancé had been together for years, survived grad school and a stint in the Peace Corp. to get to where they are and I am really happy they made it there.  S., the roommate, rented this beautiful manor on a state park known for their spectacular gardens for their perfect outdoor wedding. 

So of course, it rained. 

I felt terrible, because S. deserved to have her perfect day.  Yet, the staff at the manor scrambled quickly and the guest were ushered into a lovely room and served champagne with strawberries while they fixed up another room and carefully moved the harpist.  Fifteen minutes later, the ceremony proceeded without a hitch. 

Now, this is why I love S.  The ceremony was ten minutes long, there was a pre-reception with two open bars and delightfully yummy hor’ deurves while the bridal party took their pictures.  Then we were ushered into a beautiful room filled with yet another two open bars, wonderful wait staff that brought my wine so I could double fist my pinot noir and gin and tonic, and a buffet you would kill to eat.  But the best, oh so best part of the wedding was watching these two Italian-catholic jersey-ites march into the reception hall to Journeys Don’t Stop Believing.  Classic. 

Four hours later, my date J. and I were shit faced, full of all the yummy-ness and stumbling through the rain belting our versions of Journey’s Any Way You Want It, Queens’ Fat Bottom Girls, and Bruce Springsteen’s  Born to Run. 

It was a good weekend.  Thanks S. and C. for knowing how to have a good time. 

Mother May I

Mother’s day is Sunday. In case you are a bad daughter/son you can still order flowers here and here. And if you can’t afford/ are too late to order flowers, at least pick up the phone and give her a call.

My mother has to work on Mother’s Day; she is a nurse practitioner working nights in a NICU and a hospital never closes and this year she has to work mother’s day. So instead of celebrating Sunday, my folks are coming up on Saturday and I’m taking her to lunch at the Cheesecake Factory (her pick) and shopping at Crate and Barrel (AKA: Mom’s crack). I wish I could do more, but I am still but a poor twenty-something living pay check to pay check. Maybe next year I can get her a trip to a spa, but for now pastries and throw pillows will have to do.

I wish I could say that my mother’s visit is what sparked this post, and I probably would have posted about the awesomeness that is my mother on Sunday, at the appropriate time, but an article on Cnn.com caught my eye.

Queen Nor of Jordan wrote a piece for CNN and I found it to be quite moving.

Nor represents to us something I think we all know, women are the peace keepers. Perhaps it’s inherent in our genes, a maternal instinct that makes us want to protect those around us. Perhaps it’s the way we are raised, encultrated to please and soothe, to find a non-confrontational solution to problems. Whatever the reason, women have been brokering peace for a millennia and I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon.

In her spirit of kinship and sister/motherhood I want to tell you a little about my mother.

I’m very proud of her. Unlike me, she didn’t have things come easy to her and she really had to fight to get her education. She worked when she graduated from high school, not able to afford college. She married young, supported my father while her earned three degrees and had two children. When I was in elementary school, she went back to get RN. She started working nights so that one parent would always be home. When I was in high school she decided to get her Bachelors, a life long goal that she would complete at the age of 44, two weeks before I graduated from high school. Still not satisfied, my mother went back to grad school in my senior year of college. This past December she graduated with a Master’s in Neonatal Nursing and just a month ago she passed her boards. She’s officially certified.

I’m so…incredibly …fucking proud of my mom. She sacrificed so much for her husband and children and more often than not put her own goals and dreams on the back burner to help us reach ours. I don’t know many women who can work 12 hour night shifts, prepare all the meals, get the house clean, and haul two kids around to football, ballet, music lessons, soccer, and sleepovers. My mother is miraculous and she is my greatest role model.

My greatest goal in life is to someday be half as amazing as she is.

Lova ya Mom!

 

 

 

 

True Tales of a Political Operative: Getting On and Off the Crazy Bus

I’m a Political Operative, which is a fancy way of saying I campaign for a living.

For the last four years I’ve bounced from campaign to campaign working 80-90 hours a week for six months at a time. It’s a crazy lifestyle of living out of a suitcase, sleeping on couches, chain smoking, and profound enthusiasm… or profound disappointment. I’m not quite sure how I got into it, or why I thought it was the life for me, but none-the-less, I sit here today, blogging about it.

Crazy things happen on “the ground” (i.e. campaign). I once shared a two bedroom apartment with 5 other people. At the time we thought we were geniuses, saving hundreds of dollars each month by simply turning back to our former lifestyles as college dormitory residents. It would be brilliant; we’d get bunk beds for the living room and double up in the bedrooms, share laundry and cleaning duties… just like a small sorority. Naivety is a theme in my life and, well, this is no exception.

Anyhoo, I could tell you hundreds of stories… and I probably will. But today I want to share one of my more favorite true stories from the campaign field.

I was in Alaska for the ’04 cycle, working for the Knowles for Senate race in Anchorage. It was beautiful when I arrived in the summer, 70 degrees, sunset after midnight… the most beautiful place you’d ever seen… until winter. Oh by the way, winter starts in September in Alaska. I have lots of stories about Alaska, but I want to take you to the end of the campaign, GOTV weekend, Sunday actually, 2 days before the election.

Let me paint you a picture, its floating around 2 degrees BELOW zero. The sun is coming up in late morning and setting in mid afternoon. We have maybe six hours of daylight. It’s snowing… AGAIN. I have 33 volunteers out canvassing. They have to wear reflective vests (think construction workers) because it’s already dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. I also have to make them take breaks every 30 minutes because, you know, it’s below zero and snowing and I really don’t want to read headlines about Knowles volunteers found frozen with walk sheets clenched in their fists. Plus I like most of them and didn’t want them to die…most of them.

So far that day, one volunteer had been in a car accident, two had fallen in ditches that were filled with snow and thus undetectable and had to go to the hospital, a republican volunteer harassed a young female volunteer when they ran across each other in the same neighborhood and I had been bitten by a dog (didn’t break the skin but took a chunk out of my jeans). I had handled everything with poise and grace, solving problems on the fly in a cool and calm manner. I was super Field Organizer.

The house had burned down? no problem; three volunteers were eaten by bears? no problem; an angry mob has gathered to burn us at the stake? no problem. I was on fire… until all my very tired and very dedicated volunteers began to show up at the staging area I had set up. I had ordered enough pizza to feed and army and had the place set up for each of them to come and feel welcomed and appreciated for all they were doing to help elect one of the greatest men I had ever met.

As they started to trickle in, I became worried. The pizza hadn’t arrived and my attempts to call and investigate were met with empty promises of a “soon” arrival time. My volunteers were tired and hungry and I didn’t have anything to feed them. What was a girl to do?

A rational human being would look at this situation and not see it as a big deal, but after months of working 13-15 hours a day, seven days a week I had lost most of my ability to think rationale. That particular day I had woken up sitting at my desk with my forehead on my keyboard, having been to the office so late it wasn’t worth the trip home to get sleep. I also had the flu and an ear infection and I hadn’t eaten since the day before. Thinking back on it, I’m amazed I was still able to stand.

I flipped out. The adage “the straw that broke the camels back” completely applies here. I went into hysterics locked myself in the bathroom, completely convinced that Tony was going to lose because I couldn’t feed my volunteers.

I sobbed and panicked, gone completely bonkers for now really solid reason. I was lucky though, a good friend/ volunteer was able to take over and get the pizza there only 15 minutes late while I disintegrated in a blabbering pile of goo on the bathroom floor.

Eventually, I pulled myself together and managed to eek out the day with everyone fed and back on doors. I completed my walking goals and dispensed all the literature I was supposed to. I got back to my office around 9:00 that night, ready to face another all-nighter of turf cutting and packet making. Maybe if I was lucky I could finish up first and get the couch in the front of the office before anyone else snagged it. So sitting at my desk (by desk I mean a cafeteria style table I shared with three other people) and plopped down onto my metal folding chair I was greeted by one of my desk-mates and fellow organizers.

“How’d it go?” she asked me looking equally exhausted.

“Ok, got everything walked,” I responded deciding not to share my complete breakdown over tardy pizza with her.

“Year me too. But I had to ream out the coffee place, they stiffed me on those little creamers and a couple of my die-hard vols were asking for more… I told the guy I’m trying to win a race and that unless he wants us to lose because he was cheap on the cream, he should suck it up and do his fucking part.”

I stared at her for a few seconds completely unable to say anything. I thought that perhaps we’d all gone crazy and that this was going to be my life, obsessing over the obsolete because I have completely lost my perspective.

“Yeah, suck it up and do your part.”

The next day, when the pizza dude was late… again… I gave him a twenty dollar tip. It was my way of making peace with the cosmos. And hopefully giving up my seat on the crazy bus.