Oh, shut up

"If girls realized the consequences of having sex, nobody would be having sex."

Just shut the fuck up, Bristol Palin. There is so much wrong with this statement. First, it should be "unprotected sex" because that's what she had and that's why she got pregnant. Lots of teenagers have sex without any consequences because their parents aren't ignorant dumbasses who think preaching abstinence to horny teens will actually work. Or because those teens, despite government and parental stupidity in not providing comprehensive sex ed, figured it out on their own. Second, why just "girls," Bristol? It still takes two to make a baby. Sure, it's usually the female who ends up with the shit end of the stick when there's an unintended pregnancy that doesn't result in the couple actually staying together. And in my opinion, the statement that "nobody would be having sex" just adds to the impression that women can't be sex-positive and that sex is inherently bad. Shame! Shame!

Compare that to Monday night's Colbert Report with Megan McCain as guest. Sure, she may be one of those Republicans who need to go ahead and admit that they're really not already, but I liked quite a bit of what she had to say. She's pro gay marriage and she describes herself as sex positive. And she's ballsy in a good way. She talked about wanting to speak out about being sex positive after seeing Bristol Palin on her stupid "abstinence tour."

Ugh. Flaunting your baby as the bad consequences of getting laid is the most evil thing anyone could ever do. Not only is it unfair to the kid - who didn't ask for your dumb ass to have him - but also? Babies should not be a punishment. And the real message is "learn about how to PREVENT pregnancy, whether you're going to be knockin' da boots or not." Besides, is it some shocking revelation that when you have unprotected sex, you might end up making a baby? Are you really that daft that you don't know that's where babies come from? On some level, Bristol and Whathisface knew what they were doing. They were stupid teens in love, who thought they were going to get married and have a baby and be together forever. So, just shut it, Bristol. No one cares.

Your Daily Questions

I need answers, people. First, I have a physical problem. I've noticed that whenever I go on a long jog/walk (more walking than jogging, to be honest), my hands get all swollen. After awhile, it's super painful and I can't even make a fist. Today I went for a 4.5 mile walk along the lake after work and by the end of it, I had comically large hands. I tried walking with my hands above my head, but that kind of made me look like a crazy person. Plus I have a damn rotator cuff injury and it hurts to do that. I googled it and some psycho-runner site (like runners who run 100's of miles runners...freaks) went on and on about electrolytes and salt and blah blah, but then there was another answer I found that says it's because the blood goes to the legs and whatnot and the hands get all "wait, I want some blood, too!" and so they freak out and then they get too much blood and BLAM! all swoll up. (Whew! Crazy run on sentence!) I don't know what to think. Has anyone else encountered this? Can I do anything to alleviate the problem?

Next question: What does it say about me that I've stopped putting sheets on my bed and I'm just throwing a quilt down and lying on top of that at night? Is this a sign of depression or have I reverted to a college-age boy? Or is it just because the thought of changing the sheets hurts me? Because of the style of bed I have and my big, fat pillow top mattress, in order to put them on, I pretty much have to lift up the corners and I'd have to use my injured arm to do so. Lately the arm just makes me not want to do anything. Yet I can't seem to keep to the schedule of doing those stupid physical therapy exercises the doctor gave me. And the drugs work for a little while, but I can only take one pill per day and it sure as shit doesn't last anywhere close to 24 hours. Maybe I should just switch to regular Alleve, which I can take more than once per day, and see if it's strong enough.

Fuckety fuck fuck. Getting older sucks. I feel so frail and weak and lame.

Somewhere in between

I just found this Autism Spectrum Quotient test and I scored a 24. The average score is 16.4 and 80% of those diagnosed with autism scored 32 or higher. So, crack diagnosis = socially awkward. I knew that.

Good times on the West Coast

A couple weeks ago, I got to spend some quality time with my favorite person, Amanda, in her adopted hometown of San Francisco. I get regular fare updates from kayak, so when I saw a round trip Austin-SFO ticket for $140, I jumped on it. Of course, I had to time my trip with the NNAF staff's West Coast fundraising tour and Amanda and I threw a kickass brunch to raise money and awareness for the Network. Unfortunately the whole thing coincided with a complete breakdown of my body, the culmination of weeks of stress and unhealthy habits. Congestion and flying don't mix, especially when your plane has to circle for awhile at that awful altitude where your ears are completely pressurized. So for the entire five days I had a ringing in my ears, stuffiness and intense pain. Good times! The morning of the brunch, when we had so much cleaning and cooking to do, I woke up and the pain on the left side of my head was so bad, I couldn't open my mouth more than an inch or two. No blow job face for me! Consuming vast quantities of mimosas helped, as did a muscle relaxer I took after I'd already done the fundraising pitch.

Not much occurred on this trip and the weather was pretty much like this the whole time:


Muggy, rainy, cold and wet at night. I didn't mind because if it had been beautiful out, I would have felt obligated to actually do stuff. Grey and wet was just fine with me. Also, my DSLR is acting up and needs to go in for repairs most likely, so if I was going to be stuck with nothing more than an iphone and a piece of shit point and shoot, I was glad I couldn't get out much to take photos.

Most of my time was spent getting as much friend face time in as possible. Fortunately most of my favorite people in the world all came together for the brunch. I finally got to introduce Amanda to Lynne, Sheila and Jill. Having those four powerful women in the same room with the lovely Elina, badasses Steph and Megan and all the other fantastic people who came to the brunch made up for whatever pain I was feeling. Even though most of it was a haze, I felt great having all those people around me. Unfortunately I was too out of it to remember that I had a camera. So zero pictures, which really bums me out.

The only brunch-related photo - tulips the day after

On Monday, the twitterverse was abuzz with talk of Star Wars Day, May the Fourth be with you! Uhm, how can we NOT go to Lucasarts HQ and take photos?

Amanda and her handsome roommate Earl

Yeah, so this photo is tiny. Whatevs.

Lightsaber!

Amanda relives childhood memories

The rest of my time was spent in the East Bay. I also got to spend time with Amanda's precocious and adorable nephew and niece in Alameda. Then we had a super-affordable and yummy sushi dinner in Oakland with Lynne. (Seriously - we got tons of sushi, tempura, a bottle of saki and beer for under $50. Hello!) The next day we BARTed out to Oakland again for lunch with Jill. Then it was back across the bay for the requisite shopping trip to H&M and that eve I had a glass of wine with Sheila and margaritas with Dan & Elina.

I could not have asked for a more perfect vacation - good times with good friends and not much else. On the last night, I blew any chance I might have had at feeling semi-normal for the trip home by dancing my ass off with Earl, Amanda and Gavin. I'd like to thank the makers of pseudoephedrine-free Walgreen's brand cold medicine and tequila for giving me the energy to party it up just a wee bit. I caught all of 45 minutes of nap time before my 6am flight home. Lesson learned: just sleep in and catch the next flight out. Work ain't gonna happen when you don't get any sleep the night before anyway!

Thanks, Amanda for being the hostesss with the mostest and for all the great time talking. I need to move out west. Can someone please find me a job so that can happen? K. Thx.

Amanda is v. proud of this plant

I'm going to be talking about sex in this post, mostly because I'm not getting any and I'm concerned because I'm kind of okay with that

(I'm also going to ramble on for a very long post, to make up for my lack of posting of late.)

People, I'm a mere three months out of a six year relationship. And I'm firmly convinced that long-term relationships are where sex goes to die. That and learning to feel sexy with a good 30 extra pounds that snuck up all of a sudden. Let's just say it's been awhile, even before the break up.

There are days when I feel like maybe what's lurking, what's keeping me always on the verge of a massive bitchfest and what is feeding the deep-seeded feeling of dissatisfaction with life is that I really just need a seriously good lay. Like professional quality lay. Like multiple orgasm, screaming, sweating, panting, rolling around, need to carbo-load workout lay. But while that may be the case in theory, in practice, I don't even want to seek it out. Let's just say right now there's a whoooole lotta sisters are doin' it for themselves.

A couple of months ago I was contemplating dating. I even went on an accidental date - what at first seemed like an innocent drink that as the night wore on, confusingly began to feel like maybe it was meant to be something more. You know, you think maybe this new friend who so far has been someone you've dealt with on more of a professional and friendly level asks if you want to grab a drink on the way back to your car and as the night wears on, you find yourself asking, "Wait. Is this a date? Did I accidentally go on a date?"

That was followed up with what I thought was the invitation to an actual dinner date. But then we had to make a pit stop by the home of the immigrant women I had been helping (that's how we met - he was also helping them and translating for me) and we ended up spending almost three hours (and eating) there - three awkward hours where they all chatted away in their native tongues while I watched grainy telenovelas. Then we sat through a three hour movie filled with a giant blue CGI penis flapping all over the place. And throughout the whole night, I got no vibes that he was even interested. So I went from asking myself a week before, "Is this a date?" to "Is this a date?" The only encouraging sign I got was when he invited me in for a drink before I was to make the hour-long drive back home (oh yeah, he lives an hour away, so my sad ass was driving an hour for a really bad date). I sat on the couch, lots of open space next to me, and he sat in a chair, far away. And turned on the TV to re-runs of CSI: Miami.

Oh, but it got worse.

By this point, it's well past 1am and I was falling asleep on the couch. He woke me up to ask if I wanted a pillow and then told me to follow him to come get one. I was half asleep. Suddenly we're in his room and BLAM! He's all over me, octopus arms getting through my many layers of clothing - boots and tights, scarf, long-sleeved shirt under a dress with a sweater over that, all over undergarments. Yet somehow he's managing to get to flesh and he's got me down on a mattress on the floor, boner grinding into my leg, and I'm all HOLD UP! YOU HAVE TO LEAD UP TO THIS! YOU CAN'T LITERALLY JUST JUMP ME AFTER THE WORST DATE EVER! Okay, so maybe I didn't say that, but I did tell him explicitly that I was not down for the sex at that particular moment or even at all that night and that I was totally leaving. And I did.

I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

The next week we talked on the phone a few times and it was awkward, strained. He mentioned he'd be in town and maybe we could get together for coffee. I said okay, but when the date rolled around, I made up an excuse. Soon I stopped taking his calls altogether and almost never returned his texts. I didn't have the heart to block him on gmail chat, but whenever he'd message me, I'd say I was busy. But he's a nice guy so I tried not to be mean. I'd respond with a "hi, how are you doing" quickly followed by a "I'm really busy for like the next two months" line. I honestly don't think that's stringing someone along, right?

Like I said, the one (and a half, if you count the accidental maybe-date) date occurred two months ago. Phone conversations ceased about a week after that and I've limited the gchats as much as possible. There have been calls and texts I've never returned and I often go invisible on gmail now, or at least keep a consistent busy status open. But he persists. Up until today, he hadn't really asked me out again, so I was just thinking that maybe he just wanted to keep some sort of friendship going.

Yeah, I should know better than that.

Then today he asked me what I was doing tonight. I told him I was installing and then restoring and updating a database. On a Friday night. It's like the nerd equivalent of washing my hair. He asked me what I planned to do afterwards and I said that I had a research project due Monday and so my weekend would be completely taken up with work. That is not a lie, people. Although I ended up watching TV and then playing Wii Fit with Kelley most of the night, I really should have done that database thing. Now I have to do it all day tomorrow and then get to the research project. Okay, yeah, technically since I hung out I could have been available for a date. But NO DUH. Who says they're working on a database when they could go on a date if they really want to go on a date? NO ONE. Get a clue, my friend.

Then he asks if he can ever take me out for a drink or something. And here it was, my chance to shoot him down, clearly and honestly. Sorry, not interested. You know, in case the two months of my not responding to your advances didn't make that completely apparent. But, funny thing. I totally balked. Do I just like the attention? Is it because I'm too lazy/unmotivated/terrified to seek out any other dating prospects, so I'm loathe to so finally brush off the only one out there? Do I secretly want to go on a date with him? Do I just want to have some meaningless sex with someone who I know is interested, 30 extra lbs and all? But then, if he's this persistent now, imagine the stalking that would ensue if he got a real taste of my sweet poon.

Yeah, I just called my poon sweet. On the internet.

So what is the larger issue here? I'm not ready to date. That's apparent by my complete lack of interest in it. And I'm beginning to think that I'm also moving toward a perhaps semi-long period of celibacy. Then why not just tell him no, not interested in dating or having sex with anyone right now? It's not like I can't be direct with men. Hell, in the past I have actively and explicitly recruited regular fuckbuddies. I've told men after a few weeks of dating that I don't want a relationship. I've told plenty of men how I feel. And I think it's obvious by the complete lack of excitement over this guy that I am not feeling it. Or maybe I'm just fascinated by his apparent cluelessness. I mean, after I told him that I would be working on a computer all night and then when he asked me if he could ever take me out and I replied, "uh, maybe. hey, i gotta run! bye" he still called me tonight. Hi, guy, if I decided to change my mind and wanted to get some, DON'T YOU THINK I WOULD HAVE CALLED YOU?

But do I really want to be celibate? Do I want to move into the Age of Internet Dates, which is clearly my most viable option now, in my mid-30's? Am I not answering his call and saying, "Look, you're a nice guy and very attractive, but I'm just not ready to date and I'm not really feeling a love connection with you," because I know it's a sure thing that I could leap back on the sex horse with this guy and maybe all I need is to get out the gate again? Am I more terrified of dating again, or of never dating again?

Here's the thing: prior to meeting Andrew, I had a series of emotionally difficult break-ups. I had avoided anything serious in my early 20's and then I fell madly and happily for a great guy...who I promptly cheated on and then admitted said cheating and then he forgave me but I was so self-flagellating that I totally sabotaged the relationship. Well, that and I wanted to go on a South American adventure and he wasn't game, so it had to end. Enter South American adventure and ill-advised romantic novelesque marriage to a guy who was entirely too young and entirely too much of a player. But, you know, hot, so whatever. Then there was the "safe" relationship with a wimpster who refused to ever publicly acknowledge that he might like me, despite me being MILES out of his league. I allowed myself to be tortured by him for a year and a half. And then Andrew rolled up and I told myself that this was it, no matter what happened with this guy, if it didn't work out, I was done with relationships. This would be my last one, and that didn't necessarily mean I'd spend the rest of my life with him.

I was barely 29 at the time and of course I didn't mean it, right? But suddenly I'm starting to feel like maybe I did. I like being alone. I like not having to deal with someone else's shit, not having to listen to them ramble on about their horrible day, not having to spend so much energy on them or having to feel guilty because I'm busy doing things that are important to me, not having to stroke someone's ego or apologize or agonize over or any of those things. Oh sure, there are certainly things I miss about being in a relationship. It sucks going alone to events or not having someone to bitch to about my awful day. I miss neck rubs and back scratches. I miss at least the potential for regular sex. But honestly, I don't miss those things as much as I like being alone.

This is all very strange for me. Am I damaged? Or is this just my fate? I know some older, single women who have been mentors and inspirations to me and they don't date and seem perfectly, wonderfully content. Some of them have kids and some don't. I'm not concerned about having kids and I know I don't want to give birth to anyone. I don't ever want to get married again. Then so what if I'm single at 35 and totally okay with that! Fuck you, Sex and the City, for trying to make me think that women my age should even be concerned with dating men until I find the perfect one.

Yeah, I'm going to have to tell this clueless, smitten boy that I'm not interested. Because it's clear what I want right now and it's not a date.

On the other hand, I'm going to have to step it up if I'm going to have more interesting blog fodder.

Adventures in Kidsitting

This afternoon I got to spend a little time with my coworker's second grader. I picked him up from school and then we stopped off to get a pizza before going to their house to play video games. On the drive, I asked him how mother's day was at his house:

"Well, I got a card for my moms and then my mom got my other mom a card and my other mom got my mom a card. We had lots of cards."

More ranting about body acceptance

In my last rant, I complained about size zero and how I'm pretty sure that's a recent invention to make even skinny girls feel bad about themselves (by telling them they're a zero). Well, now I have further proof. I've been watching DVDs of the 1999 show Popular and in it, the skinny mini formerly anorexic blonde cheerleader is a "perfect size two." That's as low as it goes. Never is size zero mentioned, not even on the episode that deals with how they all hate their bodies and want to change and the ridiculous lengths they'll go to get thinner/buffer/bigger boobs/etc. And in that episode, the unhealthy, too-skinny ideal is a size two. So, 10 years ago = no size zero. I hate you, fashion industry, for creating such an evil size.

Now the fashion mags have created a new phenomenon: skinny fat. So even if you're rail thin, you can still be fat if you're not deemed to have a perfectly toned body. While I'm certainly not opposed to promoting fitness and especially weight training (which has great benefits for women as they age and it makes us stronger), some of us could have lifted til our hearts gave out and our gangly arms would have still been thin and shapeless. Yeah, I'm talking about myself. I wanted curves and muscle tone when I was a skinny teen, but it wasn't in the cards for me. I was long and lanky and there was no amount of exercise that could have changed that. So, according to the rags, I was "skinny fat." If that doesn't encourage body dysmorphic disorder, I don't know what does!

And it's not like I didn't give it a shot. In high school, when I had no control over any aspect of my life except my body, I was obsessed with counting calories and working out constantly. Some might call that anorexia, but it never got to the point where I was out of control or way too skinny. It may have happened, but I soon discovered beer and pot and it was a nonstop ride to Gatti Town. Despite my waning interest in any form of exercise and my utter gluttony in all other aspects of my life, I maintained a svelte figure for many years. Of course, I was also doing more active jobs like waitressing and often found myself dependent upon public transportation and therefore walking and biking more. I also had a great metabolism.

My mid-20's hit and the first signs of a slowing metabolism surfaced, although in hindsight, I'd gladly take that mid-20's weight over what I've got now. I spent a year in South America, walking a bajillion miles uphill daily and subsisting on vegetables, rice and lentils, and soon I was back to bobblehead high school weight. That lasted about 6 months after my return to the land of pancakes and breakfast tacos and soon I was filling back out.

I'm now at the point where I fluctuate between caring and not. And the more I care, the worse I feel. So, I'm leaning more toward not. The last six weeks have been so hectic that I haven't been able to exercise at all - or rather I haven't prioritized it at all - and I have been eating like crap. As a result, I feel like crap. Also, a couple months ago my pregnant coworker and I went to a conference and she encouraged me to join her in eating fatty stuff because "calories don't count when you're with a pregnant lady." I continued with this mental charade until I realized that my belly was looking a great deal like hers, and I don't have five months worth of fetus up in there. Also during this time of inactivity, I inexplicably developed tendonitis.

Well, I'm proud to say that today I turned over a new leaf. I had a healthy lunch AND dinner and nothing more damaging than a few M&Ms in between. I just went for a very long, sweaty walk and I already feel less bloated. And the scale? It's staying tucked away because for once, I don't want to feel discouraged. Now it's all about feeling healthy and comfortable in my own skin, no matter what size that skin is. And I may bore the internets with all this a little more than usual because I want to be more accountable for these changes, which means publicizing them. But I promise that does not mean any pathetic Bridget Jonesesque obsessing over every pound lost or gained nor whining about any of it. Screw it. I just want to be happy!

So, that's where I am. Believe it or not, this is the first time in over 2 weeks that I haven't physically felt like ass. Allergies and the congestion so bad I wanted to shoot myself in the head while on vacation have kept me from working out, but now I think that was just another in a long line of excuses. I think I needed to sweat it out! Ugh. And now I need a shower...

Decrepit

Good lord, y'all, I am FALLING APART. Yesterday I finally went to the doctor and in addition to my sinus issues, I have tendonitis in my left posterior rotator cuff. Then I woke up this morning and I can't move my head to the left. My head is still stuffy and painful and I'm going to get on a plane tomorrow. I'm expecting full misery and OF COURSE it's not a direct flight, so I'll have two chances for my ears to get miserably clogged upon landing. Should make for a fun vacay.