No remorse

There was a mosquito in the bathroom tonight. I know because I was in there washing off the funky scum of demoralization that was yet clinging to me from this miserable day.

After Labor Day mosquitoes are as classless as white shoes.

So I killed it. And I’d do it again if I could.

and then something shat on the NYT

Yesterday morning I staggered out the front door for the Sunday edition. I like to call it “Christmas” because here in our burgh the local paper and news stations are so bad you can’t even laugh at them.

So I put it on one of the dining room chairs and bumbled off to the shower.

Darling Husband and I decided (as we usually do of a Sunday morn) to slither up to the local cantina for the surprise brunch special (smoked turkey omelets and mango and coconut pancakes – but don’t get excited – it’s never as good as it sounds). So yeah. On my way out the door I go to grab the paper, and, whiff whiff. Snuffle. What’s that? “God, darling, I think one of the little monsters has had an accident here somewhere . . . EEWWWWWWW! Jesus on a biscuit.”

Shit on the wrapper. Big drippy gobs of it. The miracle is that, in my morning stupor, I didn’t A) step in it whilst in the drive; B) grab the paper by its shitty middle; or C) slime the chair with it. And yes, there in the driveway, a big pile of melty dookie. Darling Husband got out the hose.

Now, I ask you. Really. Why the NYT? In the square acre of driveway, why – no – how did it become a target?

I think there’s some degenerate Fox News asshole in my neighborhood shitting on the real news.

I didn’t know

that I love plain, non-fat Greek yogurt laced with tupelo honey

that I would enjoy standing up in front of people and talking about postmodern sculpture

that I would find the car keys I lost on the hottest day of the year a week later in an air conditioned bank

that finding things that are good would fill me up

so that I can deal with the things that are bad

Jesus Peddlers Be Gone!

Yesterday morning I’d just gotten my clothes on when the doorbell rang. Typically if someone comes to the door before noon, it’s one of the neighbors – totally cool – someone needs to borrow a power tool or an egg. No problem. So I open the door and these two conservatively dressed twenty-something women are standing there.

One of them looks at me and says, I know we weren’t expected (NO ONE expects the Spanish Inquisition!!!) but . . .

and then I looked down and saw that she was clutching a bible and a pamphlet that had the word TRUTH emblazoned across it. Oh, hell no.

I looked at her, smiled, and said “thanks, but I’m an atheist.” And promptly shut the door on them.

Rude? Perhaps, but here’s my defense, and I’m writing about it because I felt bad for a couple hours after and then did what any sane American living in the 21st century does. I completely rationalized it, and I think my position is totally defensible.

1. Soliciting is rude. I don’t know you, you’re on my property, and I don’t want what you’re selling. If I wanted it, I’d already have bought it. Or be saving for it. I’m not in the market for a magazine subscription, set of knives, or petty vindictive son of god whose dad hates shrimp, says you can beat your wife with a stick as long as its no bigger around than your thumb, and says men sleeping together is an abomination.

2. You are assuming, by coming to my door, that I am somehow in need of your godtastic intervention. Why would you think that? What is it about my house that screamed heathen! How did you pick me out of the crowd? Does that trick of sheep’s blood above the door get you people to pass over me? Bring me the bucket. I’ve always kinda thought I should paint my door red, that it would look cute against the color of brick I’ve got going.

3. This brings me to something else that I need to bitch about. Yeah. The fucking audacity of the typical white conservative fundy republican. For eight years I suffered through their brand of government. My civil rights have been compromised in the name of patriotism, and I had to cope with a President who was the laughing stock of the planet. Dude is just plain & simple stupid as the day is long. And now that we’ve got our guy in the big house, I have to endure the emails from people who can’t stand him.

For eight years I never sent a derogatory email about Chimpy. That would have been RUDE. People are entitled to their moronic opinions. And now that  my class-act brilliant guy is in the White House, these people are sending me emails about how he’s a terrorist and wasn’ t born here. And they’re showing up at my door peddling hate that they call Truth. I am so trying not to loathe these people. But they are making it hard.

So when I smile at you and say “atheist” and shut the door in your face, be grateful I didn’t call the cops and cite you for trespassing. Your god and your ignorance are really, really, really starting to get on my last fucking nerve.

My Calendar is like Play-Doh. I like to squeeze it.

So this afternoon I got so wigged about the lack of hours in the days ahead that I fashioned a five page, color coordinated calendar. It’s a marvel of Gregorian time keeping. As I was formatting with all the colors Word would give me, I realized the calendar is to the grown-up Justaddwonder as Play-Doh was to the baby Justaddwonder. All the colors, all the molding, all the squishing. And when I finished it and printed two copies (one for me and one for Darling Husband) I realized something. I felt like a giant weight had been lifted. As if I’d been doing nothing more important than rolling out pancakes for the EZ Bake Oven. (That’s about as evolved as I got with Play-Doh. I’m not spatially gifted.) And now I know, I mean really fucking know, that I barely have time to breathe in the next 4 months. All that project management has finally proven useful as I can reverse engineer just about anything. I’m just not given to doing it for myself – only used to doing it for other people who couldn’t seem to remember how long revision cycles took . . . my white board used to be the office touchstone. A color-coordinated touchstone. Hm. I sense a pattern.

Now my office is pretty. Girly even. No dry erase board (bleh). Just me and my can of goo. Thinking about Descartes, Hume, Hegel, Wolfflin, Wittgenstein, Warburg, Panofsky, Gombrich, Foucault, Barthes, Eco, Chomsky . . . and call me an asshole for mentioning what I’m doing with my time, but occasionally I even have to think about Kant. It’s not name dropping. It’s just what I do. Honest. And I shouldn’t share that with just anyone, I guess. Funny how it seems like serious issues call for serious references, and that maybe if we read people who have thought deeply about issues that have plagued society for centuries we might have a better foundation not only for gabbing about the problems, but for fixing them. God knows we went long enough with an illiterate asshole in the White House, and look where that got us. I’m personally thrilled that our new President knows who Kant is. Probably he’d even catch the reference to the panopticon. Since it seems like with things like Facebook around, that’s where we’re all living. But, oh, how I do digress.

And on that note, this blog might not see a lot of action for a while because my Gregorian masterpiece tells me I don’t have time for such idle pursuits. And sadly, I won’t have time to surf a lot of the sites I normally read. Wish me luck. I’ll surface again from time to time just because I won’t be able to help myself. I’ll need a break (whether I should take one or not).

Sorry, Y’all

Busier than  a one-legged bimbo at a butt kicking contest. Really.

Darling husband in in South Florida with the fam. I’m here building a prospectus, which I am trying not to blow out of proportion. Like, if they reject my prospectus, I can’t write the thesis, which means I can’t matriculate to a real school for PhD work, which means I will be stuck forever in middle management limbo (if ever ever ever there are any jobs again), which the NYT this morning predicts, um, NOT. No jobs for you or anyone else. I ask you, is “jobless recovery” not the biggest fucking oxymoron to ever hit a front page? What the hell? DO THEY THINK WE DON’T GET IT?

Let’s see. I’ve noticed that Goldman Sacks is handing out bonuses like Rough Riders at circuit party. I’ve noticed that DH hasn’t had a raise in a decade, despite the fact that stock shares at the Evil Data Empire continue to go up in value, and I’ve noticed that the price of kitty litter is completely out of control. I’ve had to downgrade to the no-brand litter that forms smog when I scoop. It’s so dusty in the cats’ WC I can write my name on the lids of their boxes.

Not that I would.

Because, ew. Gross. But you get my picture.

So if my prospectus sucks, I will never teach. I’ll never be able to subtly indoctrinate my students in the ways of liberalism and antipathy towards authority. I won’t be able to live a country/city existence. And my cats will suffer from black lung.

So I Labor on Labor Day weekend. I’m working like I want it. Like everything’s going to be a fight. (Because it is.) I’m even trying to work like I like it. As if it means something to me. (Because finally, I know it does.) I wish I’d had goals when I was 30 instead of 40-something. I ask myself almost every day, “what are you doing? Why do you think you can do this? Why do you think you deserve another chance?” The answer to all of the above is, “I don’t know, but I have to keep trying.” And for now, it has to be enough.

I gave up a sure thing to do this. All I had to do as University Administrator Cog X was continue pleasing everyone (very good at that), keeping my head down, and saying the right things. I gave all that pencil pushing, data analysis, retirement and decent paycheck up for no money and having to think really hard almost everyday. That makes me a lunatic. But I guess so does sun sign Leo, ascendant Aquarius with a Cancer moon, too. “Squirrel” is written all over my chart in purple crayon. And I guess that’s why I keep freebasing *EDIT – of course I meant base jumping. Not freebasing. But surely you got me there, right? I made myself laugh, at least* off career cliffs. Lunatics know this: jumping really isn’t about the rush of falling. It’s about the stepping off—the completely compulsive need stand at the edge and make a decision. To force yourself to action. To not do what you’ve been told by other people is right for you, but to do only those things your gut tells you are right. There is huge responsibility in taking up that challenge. And there are huge risks associated with it. But sitting on the edge is for the sane people. We’ve established I don’t belong with those bozos, and besides, every time I get stuck on the bus with them I start fantasizing about that movie Speed.

It’s better for everyone if I stay on my unicycle.

I’m so glad I got up early

And here’s why. Some radio hijacker reset my alarm to the local (heinous) rock station. Osama went into the cockpit and screwed with the frequency. And there was no Federal Marshal sitting in my radio with his glock ready to cap this musical terrorist. So much for latent theories of tiny people (including my self-appointed, musically omniscient Lilliputian Pandora rep) inside my radio intelligently designing play lists & crooning tunes only for me. (Did you catch the ref to ID? A theory on par with that of tiny radio people? I hope you appreciate my cleverness. Which would have evaporated for all time had I awakened to the slop throbbing out of my alarm.)

Had I stayed abed, I would’ve surfaced to the pop rock equivalent of a block of Spam congealed in its own jelly upended on a slice of moldy white bread. I can’t imagine why any station would still play this:

And it’s doubly ass chapping that some bourbon swilling, nicotine addled pop zombie with inexcusably bad 80s hair continues to make royalties off this excretion. (Apologies to all hairy, bourbon swilling, nicotine addled pop zombies who are still out there trying to do good by being very, very bad.)

Oh, and I meant to mention

Due to the start of the semester, Buckshot Fridays will be discontinued. I might have time here and there, but it’s doubtful.

I will give you this tidbit though, as it turned out a lovely pasta sauce. When I did my big weekly shop last week, I was cruising the magazine aisle. I picked up a copy of America’s Test Kitchen recipe card edition. Which was $8.

Yo. I’m not paying that for a magazine. So I perused and hit upon something that looked delish, and was veggietarian to boot. So I memorized the ingredient list, figuring I could work out the proportions on my own.

*I forgot – when you put the eggplant and tomatoes in, add, like 3-4 Tbs of red wine vinegar.*

(1) 1 lb. eggplant diced into small cubes

about a half cup green olives

about a 1/4 cup capers

a big wad of basil. I’d say like maybe 3/4 cup as chiffonade

three fat cloves garlic

a can of chopped Italian tomatoes. I drained them well as I didn’t want it soupy, but when I do it again I’ll use about a quarter of the juice. To bring the tomato-iness back up, I used a Tbs of tomato paste and some water.

In several Tbs of olive oil, saute the garlic, basil, olives, and capers. Once softened and fully aromatic, layer the diced aubergine on top and add the tomato. Let the concoction simmer until the eggplant reaches the texture you prefer. You can add the tomato paste and water at any time, with a little extra olive oil. You just want to make sure everything is getting well-combined and the eggplant is nicely coated with the sauciness. I served this with penne and freshly grated mozzarella and romano. I love how meaty the eggplant is. It’s very hearty, but still a very late summer dish.

First Day of School

Funny how even at 41, the first day of school is still a little anxiety producing. And I will have too much stuff in my book bag. Lots more paper than I need. My laptop, which I probably won’t even turn on. A bottle of water just in case of nerve-induced cotton mouth.

I hope the undergrads in the lecture portion refrain from texting during class. I loath that behavior. All their little screens lighted up, pinpoints of neurotic bright in the darkened lecture hall. GAH! I hate to sound like a fogey, but it’s like they were raised in a manger. It’s so rude. Like in the middle of class it’s just imperative that you let Jenny know how hungover you are and that Heather was a bitch during rush week.

Oh well. Despite my cynicism, I’m kind of excited. Here’s hoping SL has a full lecture prepared for today, and that it’s not just a here’s the rules thing. I’m looking forward to a little Northern Renaissance.

This is great. I love it.

Title of post: The Post Gay World.

Source: www.bastardlife.com: Dirty Little Secrets by Neal Boulton

I hit on a guy once at a bar and all he could say was, “but this isn’t a gay bar.”

“No such thing as a gay bar. I bring gay with me everywhere I go. If I’m there—it’s gay. …And I dare you to call me a fag.”

Love it love it love it love it. And in the spirit of the quote, here’s a little something for the fans:

If I'm there, it's gay.

Darling Men Love to Be Coddled.

When you’re a grad student/kept woman, and your darling husband has been slaving for the Evil Data Empire all day, here’s a good way to show him the love.

A) First, you bake a homemade chicken pot pie. When he smiles wistfully and says, “salad?” you comply with, “would you like cucumber on that?”

B) When he’s done with his dish, you ask him if he would like more. When he says, “I’ll get it, I need to get another glass of water, anyway,” you say, “Let me get get both.”

C) When he says, “man, a bath sounds good, I think I’ll take one,” you stroll casually to the bathroom, start and test the water, draw the bath, and put in generous scoops of Epsom salts. Then you infuse the bath with Dr. Brauner’s peppermint soap.

D) Place a hand towel, his reading glasses (that are very sexy on him), his water glass, and his book on the side of the tub.

E) Ask him if he wants the voyeuristic cat perched on the toilet lid to leave or stay. (Regardless, keep the door cracked for the cat, who has no couth and will scratch at the door if he thinks he’s being excluded.)

F) Peel him out his rumpledness. Gently push him bath-wards.

This is my no-fail recipe for sweet, snuggley bear man. Call me June Cleaver, but I like babying DH. I don’t do it all the time by any means; as often as not he’s fetching for me, but it’s really a joy to coddle someone, to pretend it’s 1960 again. To pretend my work hiatus is permanent and invest in a (new) apron. Pull out my pearls and a twin set. Get my mid-century housewife going. It’s just good to love someone, to feed and put someone in the tub, and to know that they appreciate it.

I love that he loves my cooking. He always smiles and makes the yummy noises when he’s eating my dinners. I wish everyone had that with their lover. Our friends Jim* and Gil* fell in love over Gil’s cinnamon buns. (The pastry, of course. Although all that bike riding has made for a cute ass.) Food made with love = magic. Surprise your mate with some fancy pasta, and then tell me I’m wrong.

*Names changed to protect the cinnamon buns. Gil has my eternal thanks for the black bean salsa recipe. People grovel for it every summer.

It Isn’t Le Procope, But It’ll Do

Yesterday I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon reading at the B_____ D__ Cafe here in Our Town. What is it about the cafe that’s more conducive to bouts of studious exertion than any other setting? I can’t read nearly as deeply in the hushed quietude of the library. At home I’m constantly distracted by this or that chore yet to be completed. But in the coffee shop, with the occasional whistle of the espresso machine and the gentle tinkle of ceramic ware as background music, I fall into a beta-wave place that must be reader’s meditation. People ebb and flow around my little table with the dim lamp on it; the sky outside churns and turns to afternoon squall; the ducks around the pond take cover; my cup wanes empty and waxes full; and I pass through chapter after chapter as if through open doors in a long hallway.

I’m sad when it’s time to leave, when it’s time to push myself through the keyhole into the humid world again.

Customer Service. Not.

I had a 2:00 appointment for my annual physical today. I show up at 1:45, get shown into a room a little after 2:00. I don my Brawny paper towel mumu and wait. The nurse comes back in the exam room 15 minutes later and asks me if my insurer allows more than one physical per annum. Do I look like a United Healthcare rep? I don’t know, but in this day and age of complete inflexibility signs point to NO, I’m thinking.

So she’s like, well, you’re six days early. To wit I responded, call them, because I’m not taking off this meat wrapper until I know I have to. I don’t relish the annual pap smear, and I want this shit over with, not to mention that starting next Monday my life goes into overdrive again. She comes back in (after getting me to retrieve my insurance card from my purse whilst wearing the paper towel—they don’t have the fucking United number on file?) and says, no, they won’t allow it.

I had to reschedule. This doctor’s office is ridiculous. They don’t send a reminder card like every other doctor’s office I’ve ever been with to remind you to schedule your physical after such and such a date. And apparently, they don’t even check the date of last physical while you’re scheduling to make sure you’ve made your calendar year. This is the same office that, when they put their out to lunch notice on the machine, fails to tell the caller at what time they will be back in the office again. So, I’m very responsible about my health and making sure I’m getting blood work and cancer screenings done. And I know I go in August. And they can’t even help me out with the day. That burned through an hour of my afternoon, and the only nugget of info I have is my BP numbers, which are good, but wouldn’t have been if I’d known I had to reschedule when she took it.

Is just a little professionalism too much to ask? God I miss the way stuff ran in Colorado. If it had just been a little warmer . . . I didn’t know how good we had it with the intrinsic ethos of professional courtesy that was the norm there. Sometimes stuff went in the dumper, but it was the exception, not the rule. The rule here is: It will be fucked up from the get-go. Anticipate delays, stupidity, laziness, and general ineptitude. If you experience anything less horrid than this, it’s a banner day. Mark your calendar and take a name because if you’re extremely lucky, you might be able to get that person again. But probably not, as competent people leave here as quickly as they can.

I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of Green Acres.

Why I Don’t Facebook; Why I Never Will

I have a bogus account. I’ll probably delete it soon. *DONE*

Here’s why Facebook can be the Great Satan: because other people do not have my impossibly high standards and filters.

Darling Husband and I sometimes roll with a crowd that is lots of fun. I love them all, but some of them I wouldn’t trust farther than I could throw my KitchenAid mixer. And that ain’t very far. For example, there are hot tub and pool parties where people get naked, which is absolutely fine; I have no problem with nudity.

But I don’t, haven’t, and won’t get naked or partially naked in this group of people. Although when at home, I am usually naked or only partly dressed, and when I was younger and lived in the Rocky Mountains I was nude in the woods and in hot springs a lot. But now that I’m older, have had Positions of Responsibility and plan to again, I certainly don’t go topless at parties.

And the ONE PERSON who cannot be trusted to use discretion with her fucking camera is the person who snarks about my “hang up” occasionally. Yesterday, as the flock was busily beading around L.’s dining table, this person had her laptop open (yeah, I know, unspeakably tacky at a party—I thought so, too), and the screen saver was randomly generating photos as those things are wont to do. Suddenly, friend S. looks up, and says, “oh my god, those are my tits!”

I repeat: OH MY GOD THOSE ARE MY TITS.

The woman who owns the offending laptop said, “oh – that didn’t get posted to FB – no worries” (the same woman who doesn’t get my reticence about baring my T&A and who, additionally, has been indiscreet about posting questionable photos to FB before). And friend S. is like, um, that’s not the point. I want you to delete it. So it did get deleted, but whoa. Only after the second request. And only after friend S. tried to do it herself but couldn’t cause she didn’t know how to work the Mac.

I wanted to strangle the other woman. Because that shit is a thoughtless betrayal of your girlfriend’s privacy. Just because you’re a fucking trust fund baby and never have to work again does NOT mean other people don’t have to protect their privacy, reputation, and public/professional persona.

And here’s the other thing. And I know I’m too sensitive because I was ever the outcast, ever the last one picked for anything. But Facebook can be a fucking cesspool of junior-high whisper campaign terrorism, a way grown-ups  somehow justify and perpetuate a social pecking order that should have died when they left the 9th grade. (Many of the 40-50 year olds I know do it so they can ostensibly track their kids. Uh huh.)  I just want to look at them and say, have you not fucking progressed past this yet? Are you still so desperate for group validation? Am I nothing but a number to you? Someone to up your fucking friend count? Get a goddamn life. If I have a party and you Facebook at my gig, you won’t ever be invited back. Ever. (I hate to give it the status of a verb, but there you go.)

I used to hand write lengthy letters to people, and of course with email, I don’t do that so much any more. The handwritten letter is going the way of the dinosaur (sadly, immature snippets that exist not for the benefit of communication but always for an ulterior motive [like "friending" someone] have taken over and will soon be so entrenched people will forget there was ever an alternative. Makes me think we deserve countries like China and India kicking our puerile asses). Anyway. I do still write thank you notes. And I do still obey some common courtesies.

1. If I don’t know you, and you’re not a high-profile blogger who gets a lot of traffic or has sponsors and such, I don’t link to you without asking first. When I say high profile, I mean if I link to you without asking you already get so much traffic you ain’t gonna notice me. And because my content is dodgy (read: opinionated and sexual), I tend not to link to non-dodgy or mild-mannered blogs. I’m thinking of creating a second blog that I would keep PG-13 so I could do that.

2. If people comment here, I always pay the courtesy of a quick response. Where I come from, that’s just polite. I obviously have time to write, and I don’t get so much traffic that I can’t do that. Then again, I’m not fucking obsessed with Facebook politics and feverishly counting my “friends,” so maybe I have more time than most.

3. This blog and anything I do recreationally on the Web are not attached to my real name, or any real information. If I do something so heinous that someone needs to get my IP, I will have broken all of my own rules for civil conduct and deserve to be busted for being a hypocrite, if nothing else. I work under the assumption that everyone I brush up against on the Internet has the same desire for privacy and courtesy that I do. I know they don’t. But that’s just my MO.

4. I never use the real names of anyone I know, rarely use place names (nothing more specific than a region, or perhaps a vacation destination), and do not post pictures of friends no matter how innocuous. I do not EVER want anyone to post a picture of me to the Internet, no matter how innocuous. I write about weight issues, sexuality and gender issues, school issues . . . this is my diary; it’s where I work out some writing kinks; it’s where I play with words; it’s where I get my bitch on; it’s where I explore my edgy alter ego. And while I own every opinion on it, I don’t want my face (one past the age of 6) plastered to them.

I do realize, however, that I’ve bought my ticket and I’m taking my chances despite all the self imposed regs I follow. I just wish people thought a little more before they felt free to share. If I share about you, know that I will never do so in a way that could identify or compromise you. Because no one but Darling Husband, Jacko, and Travel Buddy know of the existence of this blog. Very, very rarely(I’ve done it twice in however many years), I will extend an invitation to dialog with someone who I think looks like they would share my world view. But I never lose sight of the fact that the Internet is a black hole of strangers. And I would never give my real identity away. I’m not selling anything, and I’m not needy. I don’t have to troll the FB circle jerk to pick up friends; my social life is a bit more complex and rich than a mere body count can convey.  Exposure is not necessary.

Nor is it advisable.

Good night, and good luck.

Why You Want Me at Your Party

I will bring more food than you will provide.

Probably more booze, too.

And a theme, if you’ve neglected to provide one.

My girl L. is having the flock out to her house today for jewelry making and lime tinis. It’s summer. Limes are of the islands, so I suggested Cubans, black beans, and lemon tie-dye cupcakes. And a little Thievery Corporation on the hi-fi.

This is what Saturday looks like at my house so far (see below). I don’t know how I’m going to secure these cupcakes in my Beetle. But at least my Beetle is the right color: Gekko Green. If you hear of a car crash in north Florida wherein the victim is mysteriously found covered in shattered glass and the thickest, richest, make you want to come in your pants cream cheese frosting ever recovered from an accident (yes, they’d be licking it off the jaws of life shortly after my limp body was unglued from the seat), please send cash in lieu of flowers to the justaddwonder memorial fund.

I promise all the proceeds will go toward the next theme-challenged party.

Buckshot Friday: Yeah, I Skipped A Week. What’s It to Ya?

My Fuck Me Boots

Last year, between my personal trainer, Anton, my will of steel, and a lot of hot guy-on-guy picture gazing to keep me motivated, I lost 25 pounds. I turned 40, and I was desperate to be beautiful again.

I’m not beautiful. But I’d always had a sense of my own sex appeal, which I gradually lost somewhere between 30 and 40. In my youth, I could convince most men I wanted that I was hot enough for them to want me back. Whether I did anything but toy with them was not the point. It was the thrill of the hunt, the coy lick of the lips, the asking for a light and then sucking in the first draft with just enough pucker, just enough hollow cheek to be suggestive but not slutty. Some nights a cock tease, some nights a cock sucker. It just all depended. As a teenager, I spent hours walking up and down the hall in heels. Hours walking up and down the steps to assure I could do it with finesse. I’m not naturally graceful. But I worked on that shit, and I can still roll hips forward, loose in the joints, on top of three inches if I want to. I’d been so oft’ rejected in high school that I was determined to get my siren on for college. And that I did.

So last year I lost this weight and I felt fucking invincible. And I bought these boots.

Like buttah. I spent some bucks. They have a name attached to them I won’t drop, and it’s not important anyway as I would have bought them regardless of the price tag. I took one look at them and knew they were perfection. In the customer review section, one woman said she wanted to sleep in them. When they came in the mail, I  simply wore only them and a pair of black lace panties and a bra around the house for a couple of hours. It made my husband very happy.

They’re the perfect combination of Harley bitch + naughty prep-school dressage whore. Almost a three inch heel pops a girl’s ass up at the most flattering, jaunty angle. The silky leather shaft is generous and alternately clings and releases around the calf. When I wore them out, I did so with a pair of black lace tights, a gray knit dress that hits about 4″ above the knee, and a silver collar.

One of our friends asked me if I would spank him whilst wearing the boots. That’s when I knew I’d gotten it right.

So, I just got off the treadmill where I sweated for an hour trying to find those good looking, nipped in knees again. I’m coming back for you my lovlies, Mommy’s right here. I’ll see you in November.

Who I’d Go Gay For (or, For Whom the Lesibell Tolls)

LATE BREAKING THOUGHTS (I can’t believe I left Susie Bright and Toni Collette off the list. My god Toni Collette is hot. Her name even melts me like good soft porn.)

Okay, so I’ve never been with another woman, but I’ve definitely thought about it. Were I a 20-year old, not in a monogamous relationship college kid, I would definitely experiment as circumstances allowed. Men are my thing, yeah. I would say on the gender bell curve on any given day I’m 85-95% hetero. But there are women who intrigue me a lot.

There’s this Australian TV show where the host asks major celebrities who they’d go gay for. Don’t know the show, and I saw just an outtake on YouTube. Hugh Jackman, whom everyone wants to be gay, but whom I do not believe is gay because he seems so incredibly well-adjusted that he would just say if he was, said he’d go gay for Clooney. And if that’s not one of the prettier mental pictures I can get going I don’t know what is. Just Clooney/Jackman snogging would be enough to send me dashing to the shower. And not to turn on the cold water.

But whom would I go gay for. Hm. There are some women I know that I think are fabulous, and while most of them are hetero and married like me I love them and can see where it’d be fun to play. And then hit the erase button so things could never get weird. But in fantasy land, I think my list is a good one.

Parker Posey

Drew Barrymore (I know, too young, but seems like she’d be a lot of fun)

Julianne Moore

Helen Mirren (who has the body of a 30 year old and the face of a beautiful wise woman)

Annette Benning

Meg Ryan (before she fucked with her lips)

Ellen DeGeneres

And the most fuckable thing to come out of Hollywood in years: Scarlett Johansson. She’s sex on a stick. Rent Vicky Christina Barcelona and drool. Gay, straight, or otherwise, there’s something for everyone there—the threesome Woody Allen put together: Scarlett, Penelope, Javier—well, I’d do any of them in any combination.

And okay then. Yeah. Penelope Cruz solo, any day of the damn week.

Theorycitis

Vischer

Warburg

Nietzsche

Panofsky

Freid

Freedburg

Greenburg

Gell

Belting

I am drowning in dead white men. No no, wait. That’s not exactly true. A few can still be warmed up but aren’t quite animate. Like Dick Cheney, who is also cryogenically frozen, when you need someone to say something either A) (in Cheney and Warburg’s case) laughably full of ca ca or B) completely indecipherable to the human ear, you just pop them in the microwave for 75 seconds and EH! VOILA! Results may vary depending on wattage.

For example, yesterday I decide to thaw some Freedburg. He usually makes for a nice bisque.

WRONG!

When I pulled him out his container was cool, but he scalded my fucking tongue. Now I have that creepy after you burn your tongue and it feels 3 sizes too big sensation. Like maybe I inadvertently traded with a cow or something. It’s unpleasant and I want my own tongue back.

Did I bite off more than I can chew? Are my eyes bigger than my stomach? Is the message really the medium? Fuck if I know. Can you get a whole meal out of the microwave, anyway? And what does any of this have to do with a giant Bean in Millennium Park? That thing is definitely not microwavable.

Maybe I’m cooking up a theoretical recipe for disaster. I’ll get back to you on that one. I’ve got some Nietzsche on defrost and I need to flip him so his edges don’t get charred.

Sane or Fat?

Apparently those are my choices.

I upped my SSRI from 5 to 10 mg last week, and I’ve already gained four pounds. Back in the 90s, when I first tried the stuff and it totally blissed me out while simultaneously turning me into a tub of lard, I didn’t care. I was so fucking anxious over everything I was about to have a stroke, and the relief I got from it was worth it. Well, fast forward to 2009. A decade later. I’m not having any of the other lovely side effects except the rapid slow down of metabolism and concomitant weight gain. And this time, while feeling so much better I hardly know where to start raving about it, I DO care about becoming a tub of lard again. This shit slows my system waaaaaaaaaaaay down. Par example, s’il vous plait, Tuesday and Wednesday: four hour nap and three hour nap, respectively. Yeah. This from the woman who hasn’t napped since 2001 because every time I try, I freak out thinking my hair is on fire. That is, there’s something I need to do that’s not getting done and either I or someone else is going to die due to my lack of vigilance.

The only thing I have to say to anyone depending on me this week? Meh, good luck. Hope you’re not on fire. My ass is so relaxed I might have to roast a marshmallow on ya.

Mmmmm s’mores.

The other thing that used to happen was I drank like a fish on the stuff. Girl just wanted to have fun. And I had such a rummy Friday last week I was pretty much drunk all day Saturday, too. No, I’m not proud, but damn it was entertaining; I didn’t even know I was getting bruised. So I guess the first thing my fat, happy ass has to do is put down the pina colada.

And put on the gym shoes. This morning I used Splenda in my coffee and measured the 1/2&1/2 with a tablesppon. Go me. 40 calories down, 760 to go. Did I mention I hate dieting? At least I used to. Apparently I love everything now, except my scale.

Man on Wire

This film chronicles Philippe Petit’s path to the high-wire walk he made between the World Trade Center towers in August of ‘74. It’s a wonderful documentary, and the amount of footage they had from the early 70s, when Petit and his friends were dreaming up the performance, was amazing. These guys filmed so much of their planning—and the film maker artfully wove the old footage into the interviews with Petit and his accomplices—that it really turned out a riveting, dramatic  sequence. The emotions everyone invloved in the project harbor to this day bubble to the surface and ultimately, to me, that’s what makes this film such a lovely piece of work.

Petit was on the wire for about 45 minutes. What he did was . . . magic. Watch this film and be breathless.

Returning to My Roots

I haven’t posted anything to Lovely Obsession lately, which means I’ve kinda been unfaithful to the blog’s raison d’etre. Naughty, neglectful me. So, in the spirit of booze and boats (and it’s been a big weekend for both down here on the forgotten coast), here be three scrumptious offerings that capture some sweet summer frolicking.

I love it when boys snog for the camera. It’s so pretty.

Sshhhhhhhh . . . I’m READING

I.

Hope.

I.

Don’t.

Fucking.

Detonate.

With.

This.

Golden.

Fucking.

Grenade.

In.

My.

Hand . . . .

A Home at the End of the World

I rented this one - and it’s fantastic.

This is what people should be like. This is the life people should try to have if it’s right for them. And then when it’s not right anymore, well, it’s sad. And life, basically, is a progression of sad peppered with moments of happy that you better take note of.

That’s just the way it is; I didn’t make the rules.

The movie’s based on a novel of the same name by Michael Cunningham that I haven’t read, but seems he’s probably a pretty decent writer considering he won a Pulitzer for The Hours. This stars Sissy Spacek, Robin Wright Penn, Colin Farrell, and a guy I’d never seen before, Dallas Roberts, who puts in a terrific performance. As does Farrell, who’s one of my least favorite actors. (One of my favorite scenes is the one of Farrell and Roberts in the bathroom together. It’s heart wrenching, but the dynamic between the two is beautiful.) Farrell is so good in this though—he plays the sweetest, most endearing, gentle man.  Get this movie. I just finished it and am thinking about seeing if Darling Husband wants to relax in front of a flick. . .

Just remember—all the love is good. All of it.

Green Plaid Shirt

Netflix is really an amazing thing. That whole stream-it-to-your-computer-now is so gratifying.

Anyway. Regarding Green Plaid Shirt, let me go ahead and get my criticisms out of the way first because they’re trifling. Bad audio. If you’re going to stream to a laptop, use ear buds. And the soundtrack is horrid. Bad 80s after-school special crap. Otherwise:

Just get your Kleenex handy.There are a few moments that I really, honestly didn’t see coming. One dropped my mouth open. The other was the way it ended; I did cry.

I was moved by Tom Duane’s speech when I listened yesterday, and I was ready to remember the 80s. Or something. I haven’t lost anyone to AIDS, although in the last decade I’ve lost my Papa, my best friend, Bill, then my darling granddaddy, then my Mimi, then dear family friend Sandy, and then the mother I adored. Several I watched die. One death I cleaned up after. And I’m just realizing the collateral damage from those losses—friendships I’ve not been able to maintain. Phone calls that have gone unanswered. People who would like to keep loving me whom I won’t let love me. It would take something I don’t have to give. A rehashing that, even after a year and a half, I simply don’t have the will to engage in. I’m tired. And yeah, damaged. Death is not something that time heals.

There is no true cure. Time, that allegedly great anodyne, takes the broken shards and makes sea glass from them. One day you wake up, and when you remember, its not like a bleeding ulcer anymore, but you’re not healed. You’re just the walking wounded with a stomach full of blunted shrapnel. As anyone knows who has lost someone they truly, profoundly love, the time/healing platitude is an insult. But you only figure that out after time goes by and the healing miracle fails to arrive.

Rather than getting cured, you learn to live with the pain. And when you have strategies in place for that, the people you love return to life. That sounds unbalanced, perhaps.

Well, fuck it. That’s my truth. And I prefer it to some empty healing that would grant comfort at the price of forgetting.

I never gave much credence to the whole I’m becoming my mother thing—until she died. And now I see her in the mirror almost every day. And I like the way I look more than I used to. And I hear Bill coming out of my mouth, and I’m a little funnier, a little queenier, and a little more compassionate than I used to be. I call my cats by the pet names my granddaddy used to call me. And I look at the estate account and . . . and I can’t close it. What I’m doing with Sandy’s money, the money he left to Mommy, I have no goddamn clue. I’ll just leave it in her name until I can stand to get a statement that doesn’t have her name on it. It all hurts. And that’s just the way it is. Time doesn’t heal shit, and anyone who tries to tell you that it does either hasn’t lost anyone, or hasn’t profoundly loved anyone they’ve lost. You just learn to live with it—the amputations and the ghost limbs they leave behind.

Some days are better than others.

As many as I have lost . . . As many as I have lost . . . I can’t fathom what it would have been like to watch everyone I love die within days, or weeks, or months of each other, like so many people did in the 80s and 90s when AIDS raged without the cocktails they’ve developed to help keep HIV in check. I just can’t imagine. Makes me wish Tom Duane had been on the floor of the US Senate and not the New York Senate.

In Green Plaid Shirt, Guy asks Phillip what his first memory is. Mine is this:

I was two, maybe three.

I was in a room that doesn’t exist anymore, and that room was dark. But in it was a closet with closed, louvered doors in which a light had been left on. Warm, welcoming light was bleeding out through the slats.

As I awoke on my mother and father’s bed, I remember thinking very, very clearly that the light was so beautiful, and that I was completely and perfectly safe.

I don’t believe in God, but I believe in that light.

Until we meet again . . . my memories are safe in the light.

Tom Duane’s Righteous Rage

I wish we all had a Duane in our state.

Hold on. This is a bumpy ride.

Buckshot Friday: A Dose of Spleen; Book Selling; Hair Coloring

My Library Saga Comes to a Close

This won’t make any sense to the lurkers, so just skip it. It’s a self-indulgent rant.

But the library debacle is over. Not resolved to my satisfaction, and (who’s surprised, raise your hand?) none of my questions answered. This soldier gives the fuck up. I’m so sick of dealing with people who ARE the lowest common denominators in the Florida university system.

So, to the moron fucktards running the sorriest approximation of library I have ever seen—a dark, crumbling, moldering, rape-labyrinth housing the most out-of-date, pathetic collection ever assembled at a supposedly Research One-level institution, I hope you enjoy the asinine new Starbucks cafe they’re installing (whose construction will profoundly inconvenience those of us actually interested in obtaining some goddamn books). God forbid that money go into collections so we don’t have to borrow every-fucking-thing imaginable from other grown-up, heads-not-lodged-in-their-colons universities, or (hush my fucking mouth) go toward salaries so we could hire people under the age of 80 also in possession of a dash of higher reasoning skills.

But maybe the caffeine from the readily available, over-priced coffee will get you off your lazy, bloated, fumbling asses, circulate some of that fluid from your swollen ankles to your brains, and assist you in returning someone’s fucking emails or phone calls. I’m not holding my breath, though, because even if y’all mainlined Folgers we’d still be hard pressed to find a goddamn pulse. This outraged bitch has only one final thing to say: You better hope in this down-and-out economy I never have to work at that Starbucks.

Retail Book Selling: An Apologist’s View

Recently, I watched a movie called “The Secrets of Pittsburgh.” The film’s not anything to write home about – it was based on a Michael Chabon novel that was probably much better. The main character spends his last summer between college and his looming stock broker job working in a discount book barn. He says something to the effect that all he had to do to work there was breath and have a passing acquaintance with the alphabet. Probably true.

However.

I worked for an independent bookseller in Colorado for two years, and it was more rigorous than that. Used to be that book buying was an art, and as late as 1999, this store (which had been in business for 40 years) had book sellers who were marinated and smoked in the art of picking titles. Dick, the owner, used to love to tell the story of how he rejected To Kill a Mockingbird when it came out. Told the rep it would never sell. I guess you can’t peg ‘em all.

My point is, book selling used to be an art. Book sellers used to read voraciously, and any of Dick’s old timer employees could reference the most arcane and esoteric titles in their genre specialties. They had incredible depth of knowledge and respect for the written word. In the end, it really wasn’t Barnes and Noble or Borders that got Dick and his ilk. It was Amazon. Somehow, I don’t trust the reader reviews the way I trusted my colleague’s opinions. Amazon is kind of a cruel bitch.

L’Oreal, Because No Hair Job Is Worth $200

When I was a working girl, I’d pay that much for a cut and color. No more. Now, I do spend money on the cut – and duke the gal because she’s the only woman in this backwater who can cut my hair. I suffered for almost 5 years before finding her, too. My guy in Colorado was amazing and reasonably priced; we kind of grew up together. Sadly, we had a falling out over some diamond earrings left at his station; it was ugly, and I felt so betrayed. Before the incident, he would always schedule me as his last client of the day so we could drink wine and snark together while he performed his magic. Miss you Thad, you queeny, anal-retentive bitch.

Holding Trevor

It’s no Shortbus. It’s very mediocre.

But JB has a much bigger role. He sings some.

The story is uninspired, and the ending is super blah.

I’m disappointed that I can’t really recommend it. I just hate stilted dialogue. It hurts me. I could’ve delivered some of those lines better . . . sigh.

In 6 fucking hours I have to be at the goddamn courthouse for fucking jury duty.

As if I needed another reason to dislike my town. Now they don’t pay for parking under the courthouse. You have to park, no shit, half a mile away in an overflow lot.

This is the lamest place on earth. If we didn’t have a boat I’d be packing the boxes. Swear to god.

The Golden Grenade of Opportunity

So, I haven’t accomplished shit lately. What’s up with that? I have frittered and farted away two days. I can’t concentrate on my research even though I’m relatively certain I have an amazing fucking angle on my project. Like, an idea that is as creative, valid, and possibly as unique as those ideas other academics have when I turn green with envy thinking, “how the bloody fuck did they think of something that brilliant?” I was driving somewhere today and out loud said, “it’s an amazing fucking idea.” It just is. And its contours are holding up in my head, as well as in the bit of reading I’ve done so far.

I’m not used to being this smart person. I never, ever thought I would produce ideas the way I have in the last year. One of the papers I wrote last semester was just . . . really good. And I don’t say that shit about my shit. But the proposal alone got both instructors all a’twitter. This idea is so good it scares me. The last paper, the twitter-inducing one mentioned above, gave me the heebie-jeebies. There was a Saturday when I laid my head on my desk and went catatonic for a minute. Wondering just how in the hell I was going to pull it off. I’d tossed so many balls in the air so high that a week before it was due, I still didn’t have sight of two or three of them. But in my heart I knew I could stitch it up even if I didn’t have the pattern all laid out.

So I’m terrified of my big idea. Scared because its halo seems too hot to handle, because I’m not sure I’m the right person to do it justice. It’s like this:

Christmas Morning

Me: “But I don’t believe in Santa.”

Friend: “Well, check the stocking, just in case.”

Me: “That’s stupid. There’s never anything good in my stocking. Just stale candy.”

Friend: “Meh. Yeah, usually stale candy for me, too. But that’s an awfully big bulge in the toe. I think your stocking’s happy to see you.

Me: “You had me at bulge.” *Paws around in stocking; feels the curves of something that is not a year-old Snickers. Extracts . . . a golden egg*

Me: “What the hell is this?”

Friend: “That, my darling, is the Golden Grenade of Opportunity.”

Me: “Did you put this in there? Did you?”

Friend: “Nope, you did.”

Me: “I have no memory of that. Why would I do that?”

Friend: “Because some part of you thinks you’re ready to . . . GGO.”

Me: “I dunno. I dunno if I want to GGO. I might detonate.”

Friend: “Yep. That’s possible.”

Me: “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Friend: “Do you know how many people get a GGO in their stocking?”

Me: “Only the crazy fucks?”

Friend: “No. Although you are a lunatic . . . but really, only the people who might be able to handle them get a GGO.”

Me: “And if I really did put this . . . this GGO in my stocking, how did I determine I might could handle it?”

Friend: “Simple. It never would have shown up if you didn’t stand a chance.”

Me: “But . . . what if I fail?”

Friend: “That’s what the pin’s for. Pull it, and it all goes away . . .”

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

Email reply in response to a friend who thought maybe I hadn’t already thought these things through. Silly boy.

HIM: Home Safety=locks and dogs.  Let’s be frank.  If you must have a gun, you have to be mentally ready to use it.  That’s probably the hardest part.  You don’t get to wait until they’re actually doing something to a loved one for that will to surface, by that time they’ve already shot you or tied you up.  You have to be the one to bring a gun into the picture first, and be ready to pull the trigger at the right time.  Don’t shoot the drunk neighbor who was off by one house and came through your door!

ME: “Typically a 9 mm bullet shot out of a medium sized handgun will travel 2200 meters before it will fall to the ground. A bullet almost never travels this far before it actually hits something. So don’t test this theory because chances are you will shoot someone or break something.“ Source: http://hypertextbook.com/facts/2002/DomnaAntoniadis.shtml

I’ve inherited guns; thus, I own them. They are safely and responsibly stored. It is my responsibility to learn how to handle each and every one of those specific firearms safely, and I will.

If I have a gun in my hand, that means I have extracted it from its safe storage place for a specific purpose driven by sober thought, and I am mentally prepared to use it. I have never extracted one for the purpose of proactive home defense preferring, as you suggest, locks, an alarm, and two psychotic cats. I was brought up in a gun-toting family, and rules about guns (including the mental preparedness one you site above) were more inviolate than the Republican party and the Methodist/Episcopal churches, combined. (See how far I’ve come?)

If I had followed through after my training, I could have been CCW licensed. Would I ever carry? The circumstances would have to be just right. There have been times when, traveling alone at night on the interstate, I’d have been more comfortable with a holstered Glock in the glove box.

So, if I ever decide to pull a gun on someone in my own home, you can believe I made it available to myself in the first place because I perceived immanent danger of a life-threatening nature and that, to the absolute best of my panic-stricken ability, I’d already exhausted all of my other options. In the state of Florida, those are three of the five legal criteria for the justifiable use of lethal force. It’s been 4 years since I’ve taken gun safety and would have to look at my notes for the other two. But since I don’t foresee any riot action in the near future, I think I’m okay for now. And the potential for rioting and looting represent my threshold for breaking out guns for anything other than sport shooting, which I really have to be in the mood for.

Like beef stew and sweaters, I like to reserve target practice for the fall and winter months. Also, you can see more easily through the trees.

One thing I learned and never forgot is this: if you shoot a home invader, immediately call 911. Tell them someone has been shot. Never say you’ve shot someone. Ever. Calling 911 and requesting an ambulance will serve you well at the trial.

Okay. Enough procrastinating by the closeted redneck. I was in a sharing mood. Now, back to the books.

Giving It Away Is the Best Revenge

My family were and are worshipers in the Consumer Cult. The homes I grew up in – my own and those of both sets of grandparents – all had rooms through which one could not walk. I mean, really, in the case of my maternal grandmother, one could not open the door for a time as stuff had fallen to rest against it preventing access. These rooms were all known, rather darkly, as “the back bedroom.” My father, divorced from my mother who is now a year-and-a-half passed away, cannot move through his living room or open his front door. His wife (who now resides in a different town) had such a dowry of shit she didn’t know what to do with that when she and my dad pooled their shit, hers just stayed in boxes. Stacked in the living room. A fire hazard of denial and American neurosis.

Now that she lives two hours away, my Dad just shuffles around the boxes. It’s like they’re the ghosts of every bad Christmas decision ever made. I’m assuming that’s what he does still, as for years now when I’ve gone home my Dad and I can only meet in restaurants and (most recently and thank goodness) at my Godfather Mikey’s home to chat and catch up. (More later, perhaps, on my family’s insane relationship with restaurants.) Until Mikey offered up his Den of Cozy Normality, it was like my Dad and I were stuck in an Edward Hopper painting.

When my mother died (I can’t believe I’m typing those words; it still doesn’t seem possible), she left everything to me. My mother was an incredible person, and I can tell you that she’d bless the decisions I made about her things. I can’t really write about what I had to do, but I did what she’d have wanted me to do. I didn’t drown in it; her intent in leaving me everything was not to overwhelm me or make me feel obligated. As was her proclivity, she allowed me to choose for myself what I’d keep and what I’d let go.  I let go the vast, vast majority of it, keeping almost exclusively only the things she made with her own hands and the china, crystal, and silver that’s been handed down for generations. I have no one to whom I can hand those things, in turn. Those items will be sold for another family to enjoy if, after I’m dead, people still enjoy things like that.

My mother could not have foreseen the catastrophe that would play out with my grandmother only eight months after her death. The grandmother of the back bedroom one could not enter. Had she known, she might have left instructions for someone else to handle her estate, because shortly after putting everything my mother owned into a storage unit to be sorted, Annette had her health event.

My grandmother accused me of many things when I had to move her into assisted living (she’ not a nice person), and that’s why, although I see to her monthly affairs from afar, I’ve chosen not to engage her any more. She and her obsession with obtaining more and more stuff, her incredible selfishness, her American Princess complex, and her spoiled rotten heart hastened my mother’s death. I’ll always believe that. My mother was her whipping girl, and I was the next whipping girl in line. Mother and I used to talk about her and wonder what made her the miserable bitch she is. As Mommy was laying in the hospital bed that last week, there was a moment I looked at her and said, “she’s not going to have it as easy with me as she does with you.” My mother just looked at me. But I think she understood that I would abandon the post granddaddy filled for 50 years, and that she had assumed for the decade after his death.

So, in giving stuff away, you might think I’m getting even with Annette. But it’s not really about that, not really about revenge as this post’s title states. It’s about transcending Annette’s legacy. For every item Annette clings to, I want to give one away. Not sell it.

Give

It

Away

Because she will never understand why I don’t want to be roped the way she is. Why I don’t value things above people. Partly it’s her generation, but more significantly, it’s greed, entitlement, and control issues. I believe I have a lot because I freely give a lot. It’s one of the last superstitions I put credence in. As long as I can let it go, it has no power over me, and there’s room in my life for more of the important stuff. Love, experience, learning. That’s my mother’s legacy. That’s my inheritance.

The rest of it’s just stuff.

My Introduction to Dan Savage

Where have you been all my life, Dan?

I’m pasting the entire Q/A here because I’m awed by the answer’s succinct brilliance.

You Can Have a Boyfriend and Jesus, Too

Q: You were recommended to me by an acquaintance familiar with your column and podcast. Lacking other resources at this particular moment, I’ve decided to write to you. I’m a 20-year-old male, and as such have certain desires that almost all 20-year-old males have (desires of a sexual nature).

However, I’m deeply religious. Religion has been a source of strength in my times of weakness, a rock in times of storm, and above all a home to return to when I have lost my path. In the teachings of my particular religion, to indulge the particular desires I am experiencing will condemn me to fates too grotesque to mention. I’m rational enough to realize that there’s no way that I can “pray away” these desires. My question is this: How does one prepare for a life of celibacy and solitude (as that is what’s required of me to remain a member of this particular faith)?

Based on what my friend has told me, I know you have little respect for religious practices and beliefs. However, these desires aren’t exactly something I can talk about with other members of my spiritual community. And while I’m currently seeking counseling related to other issues, I was wondering what a so-called expert on sex and sexuality would have to say. —Clever Acronyms Escape Me

A: Get over yourself, faggot.

If it’s possible for you to act on your unnamed-but-easily-identified desires in an ethical manner—if you desire to do whatever it is you desire to do with consenting adults who desire to take their turn doing it to you—this so-called expert on sexuality thinks you should crawl down off that cross and find yourself a boyfriend already. (“Pray away” the gay? I’m guessing you’re Christian, probably Catholic.) And if you experience a moment’s anxiety the first time you stick your ass in the air—pull the Jesus stick out first!—just remind yourself that things have been crawling on top of each other and madly humping away for 850 million years. Sex came first, then humanity (200,000ish years ago), then religion came along tens of thousands of years after that. Which may explain why religion, when pitted against sex (really old) and human nature (pretty old), always loses. Always.

If you’re on the cross, CAEM, it’s because you put yourself up there. Which means you’re not some poor mortal trapped between a cosmic rock and an existential hard place; you’re just another closeted cocksucker with a martyr complex.

Look, kiddo, you get one life, one chance at happiness. If it gives you a spiritual semi to fantasize about a God who created you gay but forbids you to act on your emotional and sexual attraction to men, knock your damn self out. But you can have a boyfriend and Jesus, too. You just have to do what people have been doing since the first terrified idiot invented the first religion: improvise. Find yourself a new religion or sect (there are many gay-friendly Protestant denominations), or just jettison the bits of your current faith that don’t work for you. If you know anything about the history of Christianity—and it sounds like you don’t—then you know that the revisions began before the body was cold. No reason to stop now.

And finally, CAEM, there is no God—you do realize that, right? No hell below us, above us only sky, etc.