Huh?

Last night I dreamt Lady Gaga and I were dating. While the details of the dream are plentiful, what stands out the most, besides her body being even more incredible in "real life", is Stef--yes, we are so close I not only call Lady Gaga by her real name but condense it--told me I am weird.

Huh? Come again? Lady Gaga and I are dating and I'm the weird one?

But really, LG didn't tell me anything. My subconscious, obviously up to something, told me I am weird. I went to bed thinking I lacked unusual qualities. I woke up wondering if I'm mistaken. So I confronted my subconscious, and the findings?

I want to bake myself inside a cake so I can eat my way out of it, but would settle for wearing a dress made out of cake.

I prefer to keep dildos safely tucked inside socks in the closet, but come vacation time, if there isn't enough room in my luggage, I'll consider using them as the heels of my shoes.

I have no desire to ride around in an egg, but I will sail in one if it takes me to Bora Bora.

I have never seen a smoke machine nor worn a full-body latex suit in a music video, but riding my bike behind the mosquito fogging truck wearing a pair of terrycloth shorts feels like a close second.

When I use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I can't look in the mirror because I think I'll see (little) monsters with their paws up, waiting to kill me.

I passionately play the piano but it sounds like a box of dead birds being dumped over the keys.

Huh. Wonder what I'll learn about myself tonight.

Holiday Haiku: Rick Perry

Memorization
Haunts even the best of minds
You are really screwed.

Unless you're wearing
a pancake breast plate, hugging
syrup is plain weird.

It's Caining (Wo)Men, Hallelujah

This is a joke, right? A man, running for a presidential bid, has women popping up and claiming he was sexually inappropriate with them, and the women are to blame? Their pasts are being combed over? Awesome. That's the kind of unbiased news I can sink my teeth into. 

What does Herman Cain have to do for his popularity to go down? Have an abortion?

Actually, yes. In his party, that's exactly what he'll have to do.  

Look, I know Herman talks like your neighbor who still can't figure out why all the Occupy Wall Street protesters aren't wearing Birkenstocks, a neighbor you admire, but if you keep ignoring the red flags, the regret you'll feel come this time next year is going to keep you from enjoying the Super Bowl.

Please, don't do this. Don't support a stupid, sexist blowhard to run our nation. This is a country! There won't be a hostess greeting our nation's problems at the door, asking if they want a booth or a table, because she quit after tearily explaining to her mother that Herman put his hand on her ass, squeezed, and said he had a saucy surprise for her, but she'd have to search his pants to find it.

In the restaurant business, this type of behavior is called "charming".

I know this is all a huge misunderstanding, Herman. The women "coming after you" misunderstood they were supposed to keep their mouths shut and take it.

Real Americans

A man, sitting behind a foldout table, was trying to get people to sign up for something or trying to sell them something, maybe shotguns seeing how one was laid out across the table.

A shotgun. In a grocery store.

Awesome.

My wife and I knew we didn't "belong" when we pulled into the parking lot. Well-used, massive pick-up trucks clustered at one end of it, hauling trailers containing ATVs, fishing poles, and stained coolers.

Never trust a parking lot without a Subaru.  

It was obvious the residents in the tiny agricultural town had never seen a real-life African American before. Maybe they thought "those kinds" of people only lived in the TV. Women with fuzzy hair stared intently as my wife, and I, passed their rusted shopping carts. A group of men, no doubt belonging to the trucks in the parking lot, all with the same sized rotund stomachs peeking out of camouflaged jackets and sticking out over dusty dungarees, whispered to each other while standing in line behind us. Their mesh, foam-fronted, stiff-billed hats bounced atop their heads as they loudly laughed. I didn't need to hear what they were saying to know they were talking about the biracial lesbian couple who dared infiltrate their Real America. I could feel their scorn shaving off my skin in thin layers.

My wife had seen a redneck before. She knew what she was getting into when we pulled into the parking lot. I did, too, which was why we sat in the car and discussed whether we should go in or not. But we lived in the United States of America, the land of the free, and we could go anywhere we pleased. And my wife wanted apple juice!

People who think they own places, go out of their way to make anyone different feel uncomfortable, think using their calloused hands to shoot animals makes them Real Americans strike me as ignorant cowards. My wife and I have a right to be here as much as anyone else. At least we have the guts to leave our bubble and explore different places. That's a Real American.

Caution: Dumbass on Board

I found my target: a four-door sedan, low to the ground, driving the speed limit in the right hand lane. The turn signal tick-tocked while I made my way into the left lane. My foot put pressure on the gas pedal. My bumper was inches away from side swiping the sedan when I saw a small, yellow sign hanging in the rear driver's side window that read Caution: Baby on Board.

Well, shit. Now what to do? I couldn't side swipe the car and force it into a ditch now. There was a baby on board. A baby!

Here's a newsflash, dumbass: you had me at Human Driving on Board. Now that there's a baby on board I'm supposed to, what? Put a spotlight on your car so it shines in a heavenly light? Your baby on board is spitting up all over its Onesie, shitting in its pants, and crying for reasons you can only guess. You have bigger fish frying than worrying if I'm going to come along and t-bone your car because I'm looking for something to fill in my day.

The sign is more about bragging rights, isn't it? You think because you created the "miracle of life"--it's no more a miracle than my having a good hair day--you're entitled over those of us who don't have a baby on board? You want to rub it in? Say, hey world, look what I did? A dick stuffed a vagina, sperm fertilized an egg, and I have a baby on board?

You want to make a statement? Fuck the sign. Tape your baby to the window. Let everyone see your Baby on Board. A sign is just a sign, but when one is faced with a baby drooling down a window, one is going to slow down. I promise.

Depending on Stupid

I had a discussion with a young man about natural resources. We eventually landed on shortages of water. He told me if there wasn't any water he would drink milk.

What scared me most about our talk was he was look-me-dead-in-the-eye serious. 

I shouldn't have needed to explain to him that without water cows would die. Seriously. How do people like him exist? Why do so many people in the world fail to realize everything is connected? Why is embracing ignorance the new pink?

It's because of Palin, isn't it?

It probably has more to do with people thinking the sun, oceans, animals, and Facebook revolves around them. What do polluted rivers, dirty air, melting polar icecaps, and animals going extinct have to do with them buying an alarm clock and a family sized Kraft Macaroni and Cheese from Walmart while posting the riveting details of their trip on Facebook?

I like to think those beating their chests while spouting their ignorance is their way of saving face. Being proud of being stupid keeps people from having to face up to the impact they're having on the Earth and others. Being proud of being ignorant keeps people from feeling too much about their fellow man and creatures. Being proud of not knowing anything lets Michael Bay keep making Transformer movies. 

Knowing how water and cows, melting polar icecaps and hurricanes, bees and crops, animal life and human life, Madonna and Lady Gaga relate to one other is important, regardless if stupid cares about it or not. So how about we strike a deal? I'll go see the next Transformer movie if stupid actually looks out its window instead of staring at its reflection in it. For the love of humanity, please, take the deal.

Our survival depends on you, Stupid.

Open Letter: Governor Rick Perry

Dear Governor Perry:

Bravo, Governor. It looks like the day of prayer you held on August 7th, asking for God's help with our nation's and states' crises, is working wonders. It may have taken a little time but nothing says "I hear what you're saying" like hurricanes and wildfires.

I bet we both can't help wondering how God could have spared those heathens of New York City - Hurricane Irene downgraded to a tropical storm...pathetic - yet decided to withhold water and then set your Good Christian state of Texas on fire.

I bet we both can't help wondering how all your state's damage is going to be paid for, too. 

You've said it yourself, Governor: government needs to be smaller. If you take a single cent of federal money, you're going to look like a horse's ass. Well, now, let's hold on a minute. You've already said Texas should secede from the union, that you don't believe in evolution or climate change, and social security is a ponzi scheme. What's that saying...if the (horse)shoe fits?

Anyway, in these trying times it's important to remember "real" Americans don't need handouts. All they need is prayer. Right, Governor?

Rick, I'm going to lay it out in your no-bullshit style: I think God is trying to tell you something. Stop polishing your gun, put the uteruses aside, and smell the smoke already. If you can't fully commit just yet, using the millions of dollars you'll raise for your presidential campaign to help the people of your state would show signs of good listening faith. Like the unemployed can pray for jobs, you can pray you get the nomination.

Good luck in the debate on Wednesday!

Whack-A-Muse

Hump-day Haiku: 2012

The twenty-second
Alarm clocks wake believers
What an awkward day

Calling all Christians
Levitate and return home
2012 flash mob

Doomsday destruction
Guarantees longer lines at
Walmart and Starbucks

Don't Mess with Mothers

My little hands don't ball into tiny fists over nothing. My nostrils don't flare for the mundane. My lips don't create an airtight seal over spilled milk. Something extreme needs to ruffle my ire for these things to happen. So, well done, ADT. You're next on the Asshole List.

ADT, the alarm/security system company, tries to feed the fear monster living under the bed. Their commercial is laughable.

The sun is high in the sky. Light shines through the windows. What could go wrong on such a beautiful summer day?

Everything when a mother is left home alone with her young child.

Cue scary music and sounds! Unleash the masked men! Oh, golly gee. Someone is trying to jimmy open a window. There's glass breaking. My husband isn't home to protect me. Cue mother soiling pants. Cue mother turning into a heap of cowardice. Help me, ADT.

Bu-ull.

Shit.

The mothers I know wouldn't cower at being faced with an intruder, in the middle of the day, while their child is at their side. The mothers I know would grab the nearest weapon - preferably a kitchen knife - and chop up some dumbass-motherfucking-thief for dinner.

Hey, ADT! Stop showing women as prey, ripe for the picking, as dainty creatures that need to be protected. The mothers I know will jump off a building, into a tank of sharks, and swim through a sewage treatment plant to protect their children.

Rambo ain't got shit on the mothers I know.

Face it, ADT. You'd get there far too late.

Pee Pants

When it comes to using public facilities, I am a hoverer. This wasn't always the case. As a child I used to sit on my hands to protect myself from the ills accumulating on public toilet seats.

I was not the smartest child.

Now I am well into adulthood. Now I go into public restrooms knowing my legs can support my hovering for three minutes before thinking about getting tired. So "recent events" cannot be blamed on a lack of maturity or not knowing any better. "Recent events" cannot be blamed on tired legs either.

I was having dinner with my wife. It was our first time frequenting this particular restaurant. With my belly full, I made my way to the unfamiliar bathroom. Someone was already facilitating; I waited. The door opened and a child accompanied a woman out of the stall. My decision to not sit on the toilet seat was unwaveringly grounded. 

Upon inspection, the toilet sat higher than I was accustomed to. Instead of hovering at a 90 degree angle, or less, I was faced with hovering at a 110 degree angle, if not more. I was unfazed by the height. I was, after all, a professional.

I checked, double checked, and checked again that everything was aligned and then granted the floodgates permission to open. Something was wrong. Really wrong. What was that? Something...warm. On my skin. I gasped as the warmth started making its way down my leg. My hand slapped my leg in an effort to make a dam. I immediately sat down on the toilet. Gross, but there were bigger fish frying.

The stream got away from me.

I made a quick inspection and gave immediate thanks that I hadn't pissed all over the top of my pants. But the left calf of my pants took a direct hit. The dark, round spot on my khakis was impossible to hide.

Oh how I panicked.

A sense of urgency washed over me like, well, an out of control pee stream. No one could know what I had done. I had to act fast, get out before I was discovered. A-ah! No hand dryer! I used paper towel after paper towel to try and blot my pants dry. Hurry! But the wet spot made a mockery of me and my wad of paper towels.

What could I do? I had an opera to get to. The Santa Fe Opera. So I quickly washed my hands, twice, and walked out like nothing happened.

As tuxedos and dresses and ties and heels walked by me at the opera--it's kind of a big deal--and as I sat next to a man in a white suit who smelled like the men's counter at Neiman Marcus, I found it amusing that all that fancy was unknowingly rubbing elbows with a woman who wore her very best, thankfully dry, pee pants.

Angry Basset

Off my keychain dangles a small, plush Angry Bird. I know I'm a grown woman and such frivolities are generally reserved for the youth, but it was a gift. And I love it.

As soon as it was handed to me, I knew it had to be kept a secret from my basset. Small, plush, roundish toys are her favorite; a nice pair of balled-up woolen socks comes in as a close second.

Recently, I became careless. I grabbed my keys off the counter and held them in front of my body like a trophy. I failed to notice the basset was sitting in front of me. 

Big mistake.

The basset went from I'm-just-chillin'-at-my-mama's-feet to OH-MY-GOD-WHAT-IS-THAT-AND-WHEN-DO-I-GET-TO-PUT-IT-IN-MY-MOUTH! Her eyes widened. Her tail shook so hard she was on the verge of shaking right out of her fur. Then she started yipping and whining in her overly expressive excitement.

Shit. This was my Angry Bird. And I loved it! I tried to tell her she couldn't have it, that it was a gift, a gift not meant for her, but she didn't care. She wasn't buying it. Her insistence was relentless. Now that she'd set eyes on it, nothing was going to convince her that it belonged anywhere but in her mouth. She continued wagging and talking and hopping.

What could I do? It was my Angry Bird! I didn't want it subjected to a slathering of saliva. I hid the Angry Bird, out of sight, and broke her heart. I broke her heart while she was looking into my eyes. I broke her heart and couldn't forgive myself. Making matters worse, my wife, shortly after, was carelessly holding the keys, leaving the Angry Bird dangling in the breeze.

I saw the situation unfolding in front of me like a blanket being laid out on the grass for a picnic.

"Angry Bird!" I yelled as the basset jumped up like a great white shark lunging out out of the water for its prey. Thankfully the basset was not made for lift or speed and my wife was able to easily keep my Angry Bird out of saliva's way. The basset's disappointment abounded. She moped for days.



Ah...all better



But retribution would be hers. The basset's very own Angry Bird showed up at the beginning of the week. She got to parade it around the living room, growl when her brother (the mutt) got too close, and take a nap with it. She also snuck it outside. When questioned, she said it needed to use the bathroom.

Alas, I was forgiven.

The basset's backup Angry Bird arrived yesterday. It's a pig wearing a helmet. The box in which it arrived was opened in the car. The pig wearing a helmet went directly into the house without fanfare, and while the basset was distracted, it was hidden in a place out of her reach.

I have learned that the basset is only happy with what she has until she realizes secrets, like pigs wearing helmets, are being kept from her.

Is it Me?

I peruse a variety of blogs, most of which are wildly more successful than mine. And by wildly successful, I mean hundreds of followers hang on their words. Or at least more than thirty. Others' writing style and topics obviously speak to people.

What the fuck am I doing wrong?

Do I curse too much?

Maybe it's all the politics and personal chitchat I try to pass off as a form of amusement? Is it the gay? Do I share too much? Or, gulp, am I the kind of asshole who thinks there's no way I could be an asshole? I can't forgo what I write about; if I didn't share myself completely I feel like I could no longer call myself a writer.

So how do I appeal to a larger audience? How do I garner interest in my writing and hook more fans for life?

If I had money I could pay people to read. If I was religious I could pray for followers. If I was a butcher I could sacrifice a chicken. As a vegan I suppose I could stab a bag of flour and hurl it off my deck but I don't think that is going to get me anywhere.

I'd say my feelings are hurt but I'd only be saying it to add dramatic flare. My ego as a writer doesn't revolve around how many people follow me. The issue at hand is what if I get published and only twenty-seven people buy my book?

Writing. Career. Over.

Still, I'm grateful for my followers. To the twenty-seven of you out there, know you're exceptional, supremely intelligent. My ego at least knows that much. (Wink.)

Speaking for Jesus

If politicians, evangelicals, and Walmart shoppers get to speak for Jesus then I'm throwing my hat in to the ring too. And I know Jesus is saying, "Are you fucking kidding me with this nonsense?"

Jesus knows if he were alive today he would live on the streets. He would be out of work thanks to the bursting housing bubble; the modest one bedroom condo--close to the pool so he can do "that trick" the guy in 3B is always begging him to perform--he purchased would be in foreclosure; and thanks to a certain political party's view on the laziness of the unemployed, his unemployment benefits would have expired months ago, extension denied!

While we expect do-gooder prophets to live like paupers, even Jesus thinks this is extreme.

Believe me, Jesus is pissed. Not enough to turn in to an ignorant tea bagger (the political party, not the Castro party) but enough to take to the streets and preach his truth, occasionally teaming up with the guy in Times Square with "The end of days are near" written in childlike scripting on a piece of cardboard.

Gays (modern day lepers), the poor, the downtrodden would have a friend in modern day Jesus. His arms would be open to everyone, teaching love and forgiveness instead of persecution and entitlement, just as he did twenty centuries ago. For someone who preaches about helping the needy and the poor, Jesus would be appalled to get a front row view of the GOP's what's-mine-is-mine-and-everyone-else-can-fuck-off middle finger, especially when most of whom in the party claim they are governing in the name of his father.

Jesus thinks they missed the boat on messaging.

And Jesus thinks having so many people speaking for him is getting confusing. The messages are being misinterpreted. He knows the kind of weight his name carries and throwing it behind any ole idea, like someone's egotistical end of the world prophecy, doesn't make it legit. Stop saying, "In the name of Jesus" and following it up with bullshit like, "evolution is a myth." Jesus is well aware how evolution works and thinks fossils and carbon dating kick ass.

The next time you see a WWJD bumper sticker ignore the fact that the driver just cut you off. Focus instead on modern day Jesus and the fact that he's starving and being denied access to a McDonalds' bathroom.

Hump-day Haiku: The Santa Fe Opera

Is there a buffet
So many old white people
Out after sunset

A fancy affair
Tuxedos and evening gowns
Oops to the khakis

Romantic setting
In the hills of Santa Fe
Getting laid tonight

Hump-day Haiku: Amy Winehouse

I love Back to Black
Mix The Supremes with Nina
You've my attention.

Troubled and messy
Familiar with Janis and Jim
Two albums only

I will always be
Wishing for the next project
That will never come

Good news for execs
Death does wonders for business
Album sales liftoff

Hello?

I've heard of it. I've seen it happen on television, usually after the girl living in the penthouse apartment tells her boyfriend she's sleeping with one of her roommates. You think it will never happen to you. You're nothing like those people on the Real World. But then, something happened. BAM! The words being spoken suddenly stopped. 

You sat there, waiting.

While you waited, the idea filters through your mind, like water through a pasta strainer. Nah. You push the thought away, knowing adults don't treat each other that way.

You wait, hearing nothing but crickets.

Son-of-a-bitch, there was no doubting it now. Yes, that really did happen. The angry click made you its hang up bitch, inviting you to the party of done.

Dun, dun, duh, du-un.

The melodramatics of it all dropped your stomach like driving too fast on a hilly road.

You started asking yourself questions that weren't previously in your Rolodex: Did you have it coming? Who were you talking to because you no longer recognized them? How long did you have the phone up to your ear waiting for someone to speak? What was proper after-you've-been-hung-up-on protocol? Was there a support group you could join?

After your internal system settled, you felt it starting in your toes, wiggling up your legs, fluttering over your belly, winding around your head, finally exploding out of you like puss under tightened skin: laughter.

You were sure this wasn't the response the disconnected party intended, but you couldn't help it. You hadn't seen the likes of these Dial Tone Theatrics since...well...never. And you've always been a fan of the theatre. So you wondered why the Real World girl got so angry when her boyfriend hung up his phone and flipped her the middle dial tone finger. It was a spectacle at its Alexander Graham Bell finest, and unlike the people of the Real World, sometimes you had to wait half your life for a ticket to the show. Now, finally, you get to tell others it was worth the price of "admission".

Gang of Dicks

The Gang of Six (working to solve our nation's debt crisis) look like they should be giving a waitress a hard time at a roadside Cracker Barrel. One look at them and their who-just-farted expressions and I know these are the men I want in charge of my nation's credit card. 

I find confidence in a group of men who all part their hair on the same side.

But seriously, they look like they need a calculator to figure out the tip.

Is it too much to ask to get a vagina in the gang? I'm not asking for half a dozen Beavers to build a damn the Johnsons can't penitrate; I'm just asking for one. Two would be better, three would be miraculous, but one is necessary.

Or is it too creepy to have a vagina at the table because it could be bleeding? I know how squeamish a penis can get around a tampon.

Women have come a long way, but not far enough. There's still no room at the old white dick's table for a vagina. If you're a woman and you've ever waited tables--it doesn't have to be at the Cracker Barrel--you know what I'm talking about: Sitting down is never part of the agreement.

Sports Fan

I took the US women's loss in the World Cup rather hard. Not because I'm a overzealous patriot. Not because I'm related to one of the players. And certainly not because I have dreams of playing soccer for the US National Team. It's because I'm crushing hard on Hope Solo.

Now that that's out of the way, I can move on to the US's unbelievable win against Brazil. It was a phenomenally epic, goose-bumps-all-over kind of win. That win made me believe Abby and her fellow teammates were coming home with the cup. But it was Hope Solo's stomach playing peek-a-boo during slow motion replays--Hope landed on the ground as her shirt ever so slowly slid up and away from her stomach--that made my inner sports fan hold on to the arm of the sofa and grunt like a Neanderthal.

Come to think of it, maybe that didn't have anything to do with my inner sports fan.

No matter. I love women who get dirty. Women whose muscles gleam and pop when they run. Women who push physical and mental boundaries. Women who keep going after defeat.

Come to think of it, I love all the women on the US Women's National Team.

They put on one hell of a World Cup show. The sweaty, gritty, ten-heart-attacks-in-two-minutes drama they provided is what makes me a sports fan. Glimpses of Hope Solo's stomach is this sports fan's I-just-swallowed-my-tongue bonus.

No Complaints

When people ask me the obligatory How are you, How are you doing, or How's your day going, my mind often floods with responses:

Happy to wake up next to the person I love but still incredibly pissed I can't marry her. How's your third husband doing?

Sad to see the space shuttle program come to an end. Do you think space exploration is for godless heathens?

Shocked that a United States governor has scheduled a day of prayer and fasting in order to "offer spiritual solutions to the many challenges we face in our communities, states, and nation." That's going to work, right?

Bewildered that the crazier the words out of a person's mouth, the better presidential candidate they make. Now that Trump's out, will you be voting for Bachmann?

Missing Anthony Weiner. Have you sexted with your congressman today?

Wondering if strangers will knock on my door again this weekend to find me wearing my favorite t-shirt with a hole perfectly placed over my right nipple. Does God send His people to your house, too?

Excited the US women are playing in the World Cup final. If it were the men, do you think we'd have gotten the day off of work to watch them play?

Loving reading books better than the one I wrote. But if mine gets published you'll still buy it, right?

Alas, my inner smartass usually responds, No complaints.

Hump-day Haiku: Debt Ceiling

Spoiled rich white men
Hijacked the economy
To prove they're pouting.

They will hold their breath!
Unreasonable tantrums
Belong in Wal-Mart.

Grow up already:
Countries aren't Rent-A-Center
Pay our goddamn bills.

Teammates

I have discussed before that writing is a lonely profession. That's why it's befuddling when some writers dismiss other writers so easily. There are wonderfully open and kind writers out there. There are also writers that seem to think my agentless, unpublished, no MFA degree ass is unworthy of their time and attention.

Golly gee. You sure do look mighty special, standing in the thick of the published heap.

The fuck you do. Regardless if someone has published thirty books, one, or none, the only thing that separates us is us. Bestseller lists, BookScan, Amazon, reviews, etc. separates our work, but that's as far as it goes. What writers think about other writers is what keeps us from being kind to one another, especially when one writer thinks their merit is better than another's.

Writers drink different cups of tea. Writers are vulnerable. Writers struggle and succeed. When you do away with genres, styles, blurbs, agents, publishers, etc., we're all the same. Characters come to us and we can't deny them their stories. When someone can't recognize that in me, the smartass in me wants to tell them to go play in an oven, but the writer in me wants to lift them up even higher.

I can't help it. We're teammates even if I am, currently, only the water girl.

Open Letter: Michele Bachmann

Dear Mrs. Bachmann,

My apologies for interrupting your conversation with God, but this is important. Before you decide to say or do anything concerning slavery, please, consult me first. You're painting yourself as an ignoramus whose ideas on our nation's history play out with nary a bad guy. I'm embarrassingly familiar with Whitey's Golden Years: 80 B.C. - 1964, but nowhere else in history does a document allude to our Founding Fathers working "tirelessly until slavery was no more in the United States." If I know it's not true, you, as a presidential candidate, should also know it's not true.

And then - my god, Michele - you shot yourself in your pretty white foot when you signed the First Leader pledge that stated "slavery had a disastrous impact on African-American families, yet sadly a child born into slavery in 1860 was more likely to be raised by his mother and father in a two-parent household than was an African-American baby born after the election of the USA's first African-American President." That part of the pledge has been removed, but not before you signed it.

I've heard racists claim they're not racist and then turn around and say something racist thinking their self proclaimed non-racist status protects them from their stupidity. Still with me?

I'm starting to think you actually do believe Washington and Jefferson would have freed their slaves if only there hadn't been so much work to do.

For the love of the melting pot, let me help you.

Here's the plan. Stick to what you know: God's mind, obeying your husband, monitoring uteruses, and the present. Leave the history lessons to the professionals. I know, Michele. I know. This kind of rhetoric raises crazy cash from some seriously scared white people, but I implore you to stop talking out of your ass.

And stop insisting you'll ban gay marriage if elected president. Don't go there. Pandering to the lowest social denominator isn't going to help you this time. People are in the shitter. You need to take into consideration that our nation is socially evolving, Michele. Even if your campaign has been intelligently designed.

Good luck in the primaries!

Whack-A-Muse

Seven Things

Months ago fellow blogger Melanie McCullough tagged me in a "Seven Things About Me" post and it was up to me to turn around and do the same. Bless Melanie's heart, I was touched. Thankful. And frozen.

Insert hyperventilation. These things make me nervous. So let's start there.

One: Being included in chain mails scares me. Not because I think breaking the chain will lend to a burning sensation when I pee, or give me horrible luck for the next ten years, or force me to watch every season of Big Brother, but because I feel pressure to perform. Performing makes me uneasy, which I realize is ridiculous considering if I ever break into the writing world this expectation will increase tenfold.

Two: At the age of eight, I vomited in a movie theater's bathroom sink while waiting for The Empire Strikes Back to start. Combine that with vomiting in my dinner plate after a loud clap of thunder and one might say I was a nervous child.

Three: I was in a play where my character walked across the stage naked. Twice. This also meant I walked across the stage naked. Twice. A few weeks after the show closed I was outside doing yard work. Two women walked by and pointed at me. "You were in that show, right?" one asked. I still - especially when I'm in the open-space produce section of the grocery store - wonder how many people have seen me naked.

Four: No one can ever, and I mean EVER!, grab the front of my neck. If someone knows how I feel about the front of my neck and decides it would be a slap-to-the-knee-riot to pretend to grab the front of my neck, I will rip them in half and bathe in their organs. (Newsflash: it's not funny, asshole.) I can't lean my head back in the car. When I sleep, my chin is tucked towards my chest and the covers cannot rest on my neck.

Five: I think I may have been strangled in a past life. And I never want to have a threesome.

Six: Thankfully, I don't embarrass as easily as I once did; otherwise, one of my most embarrassing moments would have been last week when my butt mistakenly made noise in a room full of people I didn't know.

Seven: My most embarrassing moment was during a farting contest with my cousins while in an amusement park. I went above and beyond and a little shit came out. (But I won, right?) I told my mother, as she scrubbed my unmentionables clean, I was sick to save face. Sorry, Mom; I felt fine.

So now I pass the torch to five of my fellow bloggers. Thank me, or don't; do it, or don't, ladies. No worries. For me, it's simply about sharing the love.

1. Sally Hepworth
2. Claudia C.
3. Johanna K. P.
4. Karolyn Sherwood
5. Angela Kulig

Hump-day Haiku: ExxonMobil

A spill here, spill there,
You are a prince among men.
Royalty is vile.

Off the chart profits:
Five million bucks an hour!
Here's your boom and pads.

Accidents happen;
Lying about the impact
Makes you a fucker.

Mrs. Mustache

Yesterday, my wife and I were having a general discussion. I was sitting down, at my desk, in front of a large window. She was standing, leaning against said window. While I was talking, I noticed her lips pursed and veered off to the side. Her eyebrows furrowed. She visibly, loudly exhaled. The sudden changes in her face made me stop talking. She quickly filled the silence I left by saying, "There's something about this light..."

Oh, this light? I thought. Something about this light makes me look positively radiant? beautiful? magnificent? This light makes me shine and reminds you how grateful you are to have me in your life? Yes, there is something about this light, isn't there my heart, my love, my life?

"...that's making your," she paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's making your mustache...I don't know. It's really kickin'."

Hmm.

That's interesting.

What to do. I did the only thing I could think to do: I spoke in a French accent and twirled my mustache between my fingers, which was fun for about ten seconds. Until I realized I was twirling my mustache.

"So, it's come to this, has it?" I asked.

"Yes," my wife replied. She went on to explain that her face doesn't just happen. Apparently, she shaves her mustache once a month. I had no idea.

"Am I going to have to shave my face every day?" I asked nervously.

"No. You can bleach it. Some people bleach it. Or you can grow it out," she replied.

There was a long pause. We looked at each other. And then we laughed. We laughed harder than we did when she needed a handful of times to get the car out of the driveway, but not as hard as we did at the wedding.

Apparently, I've been letting my mustache grow out without even knowing it.

It goes to show you can have the heart of a thirty-year-old all you want, but the hair is coming. It's coming for us all. It won't be denied. It will take over. All you need to worry about is if you want to shave it, bleach it, or grow it out.

Eat Shit

Somebody hold me.

This has to be a joke, right? 

As long as I don't know what I'm eating and it tastes good, it's okay by me. I hear statements like this more often than Anthony Weiner sends a sext.

Is that right? Ignorance is bliss, you say? Then, please, allow me to be the first to introduce you to the human shit steak.

Oh yeah. You heard me correctly. Human. Shit. Steak. I wish I was making up stories, spinning yarns, yanking chains, but like the child whose small intestine was sucked out by a pool drain, this shit (pun intended) is real.

In an industry - factory farming - where feeding humans animal feces is acceptable - to those of you who say cheeseburgers are good and you can't taste the shit at all, I ask you, who tastes the bay leaf in a marinara sauce? Doesn't mean it's not there - it comes as no surprise that a way to make us eat our own shit has been discovered.

Reports say the human shit steaks taste like, well, steak. You think!? Who would eat a human shit steak if it tasted like human shit!?

I raise my glass to those who think ignorance is bliss. I'm not going to be the one responsible for shattering the illusion, telling you animals and their shit tastes just as good as the proteins found in your own shit. All I'll say is, Cheers and enjoy.

Another Weiner Joke

Back to this, are we?

Pardon me while I recover from the gulp! - please - and gasp! - whatever - of another man in a position of power doing something sexually shady with women other than his wife, and lying about it before coming clean.

This narrative is as fresh and exciting as another season of Survivor, as another Hulk movie, as another wiener joke. If political figures were novels, Congressman Anthony Weiner's would be rejected due to a flooded market of similar stories containing dirtier dirt, like pay-offs and prostitutes.

Facebook messages are the equivalent of a pinch on the ass. They pale in comparison.

While Mr. Weiner's apology did lead to tears - poor Anthony. I bet he broke down after he sent each salacious text message, too - the melodrama still wouldn't be enough to garner publication.

You want to make a scandalous splash these days you tap your foot in a bathroom, hire a boy to carry your luggage in an airport after taking a trip together abroad, fall in love with a foreigner, or pay off an entire family. Sexting is child's play, Anthony. You get that woman on all fours, thump your chest, and leave a stain on the dress.

That's a proper scandal, dumbass!

The picture of you on the sofa with a cat beside you where you so "cleverly" announce you're with your pussy...laaaaaame. Next time put your dick on a cutting board, pack vegetables - small vegetables, like baby carrots; you don't want competition - around it, and announce dinner is ready.

If you're going to get busted, and it's only a matter of time before you do, make the reason you lose your job count. Do something deliciously naughty. Put a belt around your neck. Take a picture with a finger up your ass. Release a sex tape where you're giving it to Michele Bachmann. Or actually meet your conquests. Do something that doesn't reduce you to another Weiner joke.

Hump-day Haiku: Sarah Palin

History will show
Her bus tour was a warning
Russians were coming.

The last time I checked,
Million dollar home owners
Weren't average folk.

Go ahead, Sarah;
Tell the United Nations,
"Doggone, you betcha."

Pure Panic

Last night, as the last of the sun was setting, I got sleepy. Twenty more minutes and I would be heading off to bed.

I rounded up the babies (dogs), let them out, brushed my teeth, flossed, and headed downstairs to the cool offerings of the bedroom. With both babies tucked in, the wife kissed, the cat on standby, I slid into the sheets, pulled the comforter up to my chin, and prepared myself for sleep. I was tired; it was sure to come quickly.

BING!

My eyes popped open. I could feel my heart beating in my head (that can't be right, can it?). The cavity of my chest filled with a playground full of screaming children.

Here we go, I thought. It's been awhile. Time to think about my imminent death.

Why does it always happen when it's dark and quiet? Why can't it happen when I'm sitting in the sun? Or watching 30 Rock? Or "doing it" with my wife? Oh no. It has to hit me when it's creepy and eerie and dark and scary with nowhere for me to hide.

What will it feel like, the moment right before my brains stops working? Where will I be? Is my wife there? Has she died before me? Oh-my-god this is really going to happen! It went on and on and on.

I finally thought, It's not happening now. Calm the fuck down.

Calming the fuck down did help.

Still...

I'm exhausted this morning. The sun is out, I'm watching 30 Rock, and "doing it" with my wife. Life is good. I think that's my problem.

Baby Gate (Guest Blogger: Pickle)

(Today's post is brought to you by a guest blogger: Pickle the Cat.)

I'm used to a certain lifestyle.

I expect my mothers to keep feeding the birds so I can snag one every once in a while, bring it into the house, and unleash an unholy hell for them to walk into later. (The expressions on their faces kills me every time!)

I expect to be able to drink out of the sink to my heart's content.

I expect to be able to jump into the bathtub after my mothers have showered so I can leave dirty Pickle paw prints all over the white porcelain.

I expect to come and go as I please. (My mothers know I don't want to go out in the snow, but I'll never give them the satisfaction of being right, so I go out there anyway just to prove a point. It's none of their business why I was only out there for two minutes. I'll never answer their ridiculous "well that didn't last long, what happened" questions.)

And I expect the baby gates to be in their strategic places so I can shake that mangy, menacing mutt, Parker. He's always up my ass. It's exhausting.

This morning I thought the whole family was getting out of bed. So I walked upstairs, waited by the sliding glass door for my mother to let me out, rolled around in the driveway a few times, and then got to thinking. Only one of my mothers came upstairs. So I took a shit under the deck - hopefully in a place one of them will step in when they decide it's time to bring up more firewood - and waited at the sliding glass door to be let back in. All the waiting I do around here is downright frustrating.

I was delighted to find my favorite mother was still in bed. I walked down the steps to the bedroom, feeling pretty good about the developing situation.

What's this shit? The door's closed!?

Why can't the idiots in this house understand that closed doors are my nemesis? Now, regardless if I wanted to go in a room or not, I have to because the door is closed and what if there's something really interesting in there, like a packing peanut, or a pebble from a pair of shoes on the floor next to the packing peanut!?

I waited. Twitched my tail.

I waited some more. Twitched my tail a few more times. Sighed. Put a paw under the door.

The door wasn't opening. Time to take a more drastic approach.

I started scratching on the door.

Nothing.

If some motherfucker didn't open that door, they didn't even want to know what they'd walk into tomorrow after work!

I intensified the scratching; added a few meows to let my mother know how serious this was.

Finally! The door opened. I was thinking to myself, 'It's about fucking time. I swear I'm getting sick of all this -' and then, as I'm tra-la-la-ing into the bedroom,

SMACK!

What the fuck was that!?

I was disoriented. I couldn't move. I stood there like a chump.

It took me more time than I care to admit to figure out one of the baby gates was overlapping the door frame by an inch. An inch!? And I ran my head, full speed, right into its wooden frame.

My mother wanted to laugh. I could hear it in the way her breathing changed. I would not give her the satisfaction of laughing at me, so I sucked it up and made my way over to the bed.

I waited for my mother to get back into bed and then curled into the nook her legs and stomach created for me. Her hand landed on my head. Ouch! It's a little tender there, lady! But she kept rubbing my head and my ears and, goddamnit, I couldn't keep the purring from happening.

Everyone's up now. In order to remind everyone who's in charge around here, I'm going to run in and out all day. Oh, it's coffee time? Time for me to go outside. Oh, your breakfast is ready? Time to let me in. Oh, you're settling in to read? Time for me to go outside. Oh, you're thinking about writing? Time to let me in. I can do this all day long.

That's what bitches get when they want to laugh at me.

Memorial Day

I saw my first dead body when I was twelve. It was my grandfather, and it was weird.

I want to talk to the person who decided it was a good idea to drain all the natural fluids out of a body, replace said fluids with chemicals, put makeup on the body, dress it up in clothes you'll recognize, and present it to you as a loved one.

Because, honestly, that shit is fucked up.

Am I scarred from my grandfather's viewing? No, but I could tell by looking at him it wasn't him. Not anymore. His skin was gray. The amount of makeup he was wearing would have made Tammy Faye proud. His lips looked weird, like they had deflated. Forget about touching him! You want to scare the piss out of a child? Take them to the viewing of a body. And then tell them they have to touch it.

That's why I say, Burn me. I don't need to take up more space and resources than I did when I was alive. Scatter the ashes or don't. I can guarantee you I won't give a shit. I won't be looking down from the sky wondering why you didn't buy the Guilt Me Into Turbo II, even though the mortician said it was the best casket on the market. And a real steal at $7000.

While, yes, I do want to give my vegetables the very best, there is no way in hell I'm paying $7000 in Tupperware for them to rot in.

The death business preys on people who are emotionally confused, emotionally hurting, emotionally vulnerability, and it's bullshit.

Anyway, this holiday weekend, let's remember what connects us: being alive. So let's not only remember those who are dead, but remember those who are standing right next to us. Memorize their faces. Because, one day, they'll never look like that again.

Hump-day Haiku: Oprah

A fat black woman
Dethroned the Phil Donahue.
Welcome, Ms. Winfrey.

A thin black woman
Pissed off the Texas ranchers.
Get it, Ms. Winfrey.

A living legend
Watched Tom Cruise jump on a couch.
Fairwell, Ms. Winfrey.

Slip of the Slur

Joakim Noah was playing a game, making millions of dollars, and then a fan started taunting him. His blood pressure started to rise. His face flushed with anger. He couldn't take it anymore. He unleashed, doing his best to degrade the fan by calling him a faggot. (See my own dealings with the word "faggot" here.)

Collective gasp!

Wait, wait, wait. Joakim "<didn't> mean no disrespect to anybody." He was just caught up in a heated moment.

I understand, Joakim. I know when someone starts to razz me in the grocery store and I can't take it anymore, I do my best to degrade them by calling them the N-word.

I'm just joshin' ya, Joakim! I don't call people the N-word. The only time I ever refer to the word is when I'm rapping along with NWA. (The bass really thumpa-thumps in the Subaru.)

Sucks you're taking heat, though. If people understood you don't usually talk like that - those words are reserved for your finest moments with friends - then everyone would realize your homophobia is a secret and "faggot" was a slip of the tongue.

You've said it's no indication on how you feel about gay people, but the way the word was so readily available makes me feel like you're trying to pull one over on me.

You know why I keep the N-word out of my mouth, regardless of how upset I am, Joakim? Because it's an indication on how I feel about people of color. Funny how we see slurs so differently.

You're anything but a faggot, Joakim. But just so you don't go getting The Big Head, you should remember, every once in a while, that you're a man who plays with balls for a living.

A Business Opportunity

I'm not missing out on the next wave of bat-shit. I'm going to be ready the next time an old white guy who looks like he's off his meds yells, "Rapture!"

I'm abandoning writing to work on my new prototype: Rapture Jeans.

You may be asking yourself, 'Rapture Jeans? Why would I want to sell everything I own so I can buy a $100,000 pair of jeans?'

Oh, ho, ho, ho! These are no ordinary jeans, my friends! Take a look at the benefits Rapture Jeans provide:

They are flame retardant.
They can be used as a floatation device.
They make your ass look good even when it's been bad.
They repel locusts, two-headed dogs, and homosexuals.
They speak two languages, including tongues.
There is an Applebee's in the back pocket.
They tear away and fold into a bible.

What an amazing opportunity! And you have a chance to get in on the ground level. The next time Jesus is descending, don't be unprepared. All you need to do is send me a check for $25,000 to reserve your very own pair.

To those of you who decline this special offer, good luck in your Levi's. Last I checked, Levi's didn't make anyone feel superior.

Injuries

I have had a leg injury for several months, and my running schedule has been spotty. This was my first week back to running every other day. This morning I ran three miles, outside, in under thirty minutes. Granted, it was only by three seconds, but I still met the goal I set out to reach. Is it a miraculous time? Hardly. Are there better runners? Absolutely. Are there worse runners? You bet. But no one else matters. I felt accomplished. I did what I set my mind to do.

There is a lesson in this way of thinking. I figured it out this morning as my beloved mutt set a ridiculous pace, and my lungs felt like they were exploding in my chest. From this point forward, this is how I will approach my writing. Form rejections, personalized rejections, I've-decided-not-to-pursue-this-project-any-further rejections may flare up an emotional injury, but they cannot take away the feeling of accomplishment.

I wrote a novel. And I'm writing another. How many people get to say that? (Considering all the writers I have met on Twitter, quite a lot, actually.)

Rejections are a part of a writer's life. When you have a goal - a goal you've been dreaming about for years - a rejection can feel like a kick to the stomach that you gladly lie on the ground to receive. As I struggle to breath, I'll remember that I still did it, and I am a writer regardless if I am injured for the rest of my life.

Asking Satan

Some people think I'm mean. That I'm a bitch. That my heart is lukewarm at best.

They are gravely mistaken.

I am the devil.

That's right. Pointy tail. Maroon skin. You can find my pitchfork moonlighting in a fat man's hand at the Olive Garden. My body is always a balmy 666 degrees.

Look. I refuse to smile and fake it. I refuse to pack my bags for guilt trips. I refuse to betray my integrity to spare someone's feelings. Does that make me flat-top, flat-face, flat-out, cut you, pinch you, poke-your-eyes-out mean?

Let's ask the real devil.

Hey, Satan? When someone gets flowers at work and I don't ooh and aah because I think they smell like cat piss, does that make me mean?

Satan: Unfortunately, no. It makes you a dog lover.

Hey, Satan? If smokers must keep their addiction - by law - away from others, is it mean that I think fat people shouldn't be allowed to eat at buffets?

Satan: Yes, but I see your point. You wouldn't believe how fast a refrigerator clears out down here after a tornado rips through the Heartland.

Hey, Satan? Is it mean when I ignore someone because they annoy the hell out of me?

Satan: Absolutely not. Once I see it's God calling I find the nearest gay to tell Him I'm out! 

Hey, Satan? Is it mean to comment on people's childish emotions and strange behaviors?

Satan: Not if you're talking about Rush Limbaugh.

Hey, Satan? Do you think we'll meet one day?

Satan: Um...this is always so awkward...yes, I do.

It's the gay thing, huh?

Satan: It certainly helps, but no. Remember when you called Newt Gingrich an ignorant motherfucker?

I do, and I stand by it.

Satan: Well, he called me last night and said he wanted yesterday's post removed (I knew it wasn't Blogger!) and asked if I could get my hands on you. I gotta do him this solid. He's great at spreading fear and hate, and my recruiting numbers are through the roof!

Satan? Do you think I'm mean?

Satan: It's weird to say, but no, I don't. Any lesbian who carries her grandmother's purse when they're at the mall together is A-okay in my book.

Thanks, Satan.

Satan: Don't sweat it. Not yet, anyway.

Open Letter: Newt Gingrich

Dear Newt:

I'm sure you're aware you're a funny guy. To hear you say you want to lead a new morality slays me. And slaying me was probably your intent. After all, I am a part of the "gay secular fascism" that is looking to use violence to "take over the government" and "destroy traditional religion".

And we were getting along so well.

I know you've had a rough go of it. With your affairs and divorces and ethics violations, your morality line got muddled. So I understand why you would want to attack people like me. Gays are an easy target. We raise a lot of money when you start cranking the fear machine. And we take the focus off your egotistical fuck-ups. But, to be honest, I take slight offense, Newt. I say "slight" because if you were anyone but you I would be highly offended. If you were, say, Oprah or Obama or Justin Bieber - people worth their name - I would be devastated. But you, Newt Gingrich, are nothing but an ignorant motherfucker.

When you say gay people are violent and are looking to ruin traditional religion, there are people out there stupid and scared enough to believe it. So when I walk into an Applebee's (like that would ever happen, but go with it) and there sits one of your supporters, hitting on the waitress while his wife is in the bathroom changing his daughter's diaper, that Moral Compass is going to take one look at me, in my blue striped button-down shirt, red tie, and navy sweater - he hasn't even noticed my hair - and know that I am one of them - the gays! - looking to tear Jesus apart with my bare hands. And that may make him want to tear me apart with his bare hands. As our ideals and consciousness continue to evolve, those left behind get twitchy around people who, you say, hate 6000 years of their believed history.

Newt, I don't give a shit about Jesus. I give a shit about you talking like you're an expert on second class citizens and how our wish to be equal is somehow an agenda.

The only agenda I have is to be a published author.

If you don't believe me, come over. We can have a light lunch on the terrace (it's actually a deck, but you strike me as "that kind" of fussy.) You'll see there are no signs of violence, no plans for using violence, and that I'm actually not so bad. I'll tell you stories about how I carry my grandmother's purse for her when we go to the mall together.

In the meantime, Newt, lay off. You're no prince, no King of New England. (If you get the John Irving reference, I'll demote you from Ignorant Motherfucker to Motherfucker.) You have no more legs to stand on when it comes to being an example of morality. I hope you do run for president so your opponents get the chance to remind you of it, every day. 

Good luck,

Whack-A-Muse

Hump-day Haiku: Ayn Rand

Capitalism
is really working out for
sweatshops and assholes.

I could get on board
if we had a Hank Reardon.
We have Donald Trump.

How disappointing.
Objectivism only
looks good on paper.

Dirty Secrets

So, there's this commercial; perhaps you've seen it: A dad/husband has been up to something, something questionable, something never disclosed. This something has left him standing outside with a shit-like substance covering both his hands. He's standing by a clothesline; clothes are hanging, drying in the outside air. (This is a nice touch. In this age of excessive consumption, someone in the house is concerned with rising energy costs and possibly concerned about the environment.)

What a wholesome family. Well to do. Nice house. Nice yard. Nice clothes drying on the clothesline.

Dad takes a look at his hands, eyeballs the laundry on the clothesline, and proceeds to wipe his hands clean using a pristinely white skirt.

Noted: Dad is a douche bag.

The daughter, with her shit-stained skirt, goes to her mother. The mother shrugs her shoulders, laughs it off as if to say, Your crazy father, ha ha ha. He's such a card! The daughter adopts the same attitude.

Noted: There's something sinister, wicked, corrupt going on.

The mother does the laundry. The stain is erased.

The daughter walks by the dad, who is reading the paper, sitting in what I assume to be his chair, while the lady folk are cleaning up his messes. Not once does the dad take responsibility for his actions and not once are his actions questioned.

It's obvious what's going on here. Dad is a mean son-of-a-bitch, known to bust kitchen tables into pieces, throw lamps out of windows, and tear doors off of hinges. Dad can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants because no one wants to set him off. The nice house, nice yard is a cover for the fear and terror taking place inside.

What a great way to subliminally lets us know that domestic abuse must stop, and it must stop now!

And what a great way to let us know laundry detergent can erase a family's dirty secrets.

Spider Wrangler

It's Sunday morning. The house is quiet. Chores are being performed in various parts of the house.

An ungodly, high-pitched scream comes from the bathroom. I can hear the terror behind it. I know immediate action is required. There's a spider threatening a human.

I abandon the broom in my hand. I turn three times in place, transforming myself from chore-doing, comfy-clothes-wearing, every-day-citizen into the ass-kicking, name-taking Spider Wrangler.

I run into the bathroom, my two trusty steeds - basset and mutt - behind me. The human is pointing at her hand. In a voice so high the words barely sound English, she says, "It landed on my hand! It landed on my hand!"

My chest involuntarily puffs out. My hands land on my hips. My cape flaps in the breeze. "Where is it?" I ask, my voice echoing off the bathtub.

She points in a general direction, making high-pitched noises that cannot be decoded. But I'm the Spider Wrangler. I can use my senses to find the spider. After searching high and low, I ask again, "Where is it?"

"Right there," she says as she points. She is hysterical.

I see it. It's the size of a nickel and brown as an overripe banana. It's nasty, dirty looking. This spider wants to dance.

The spider and I make eye contact. I'm not one to take a life, but this spider is telling me it wants to bite every member of my family and drink a beer while watching the skin around the bites slowly die. I announce, chest out, hands on hips, "This spider is going in the toilet!"

The human, not bothering to hide her fear, says, "I have to clean the toilet!"

It's a good thing, as the Spider Wrangler, I always have a Plan B.

I bark out orders: Open the back door! Steeds, get out of the way! Spider, don't go anywhere! I run into the living room, retrieve a large piece of mail, and go back into the bathroom. Everyone clears out. It's just the two of us: Spider and Wrangler.

I hold the piece of mail down on the ground, offering the spider a chance to be the bigger person. He bares his teeth, says, "I'm not getting on that, Wrangler. You want me, you're gonna have to come get me!"

Oh, it's like that, motherfucker?

He cuts left, I lie the piece of mail down. He heads for the wall; I quickly slide the piece of mail down the wall, cutting off access. He starts to run behind the toilet; I lie the mail down in his path and he unknowingly climbs aboard. I take two steps; he launches off the mail. "Shit!" (As the Spider Wrangler I curse more than when I'm an average citizen.) I get him back onto the mail and step out into the hallway. He jumps off again. "You little fucker!" The human screams. She's frozen with terror. I take a quick look to see the backdoor isn't open. "Open the backdoor!" I say, my voice echoing down the hallway. The trusted steeds fly outside. The human is, I don't know what she's doing - she's standing at the backdoor making weird noises, like she's being pricked with a million pins. I use the piece of mail to try and flick the spider out the door.

Big mistake.

He lands behind the human's legs. He's making a getaway, using the human as cover. The human is on the verge of having a heart attack. She dances in place for a good long while, obstructing my view and approach. I use my left arm to inch her out of the way and get the little bastard back on the mail. In a combined effort, the human opens the screen door, I hold out the mail, and there stands the basset, right in the path of disposal. I take my eye off the spider for a second, look back down, and he's gone. I keep my cool, casually looking at the piece of mail, the basset, my clothes to see if, in one last vain attempt, the spider clung to any of these things to get back inside. I don't see him. My chest pops out. My hands land on my hips. I give the signal: "All clear!"

Shortly after, the human asks me if the spider rode back in on the basset. I tell her no; the basset is not the Trojan Horse.

Being the Spider Wrangler comes with great responsibility. The Spider Wrangler must speak with confidence, insist the spider is gone, and save the family at any cost.

Don't tell my wife I lost track of the spider. The gig will be up.

Remember When...

Rose, in the movie Titanic, told Jack she'd never let go: "I'll never let go, Jack. I promise."

Never, never, never ever would she let go. She promised. We all heard it.

What did she do next? She sure didn't take a good look around and realize there was plenty of room for both of them on that fucking door she was laying on.

Oh, no. She pried Jack's bluish white hand out of hers and let him sink. Really, Rose!? You'll never let go?

'Bo-o! Rose didn't mean it like that.' I can hear what you're thinking. Titanic was a treasure, breaking records and packing theaters. But, come on. I know it was meant to be a tear-jerking moment, but that shit was hilarious.

If my wife said those words to me, I'd expect her to cut my hand off at the wrist and take it with her, regardless of how holding my severed hand at Thanksgiving dinner was received.

We're so willing to fall for the stupidest shit sometimes. When it comes to engaging an audience and making them feel something, don't make characters write checks they can't cash. It comes across more as a what-the-fuck-was-that moment, distracting from the gentle tug on the heartstrings.

Remember when "you had me at hello"? That check cleared.

Hump-day Haiku: Paul Ryan and His Budget Plan

It's not couragous
to undermine the needy.
You're a chicken shit.

Turning Medicare
into a voucher program?
Like kicking puppies.

It's great you work out
because you'll need stamina
to defend this shit.

Making Threats

I made a mistake yesterday. What was meant to be an I'm-bringing-the-heat-so-don't-mess-with-me kind of threat turned into an opportunity for others to mention the size of my hands.

Never say, I'm taking off the kid gloves, when you do, in fact, wear kid gloves.

When you wave to someone across the room as you're making your way towards them, and they greet you by saying, "Let me see your tiny hands!", you might wear kid gloves.

When you place your hand against someone else's hand and their palm is bigger than your entire hand, you might wear kid gloves.

When a baby grabs your finger and the only visible part of your finger is the tip, you might wear kid gloves.

When your hands can't grab anything off the top shelf because they...just...can't...get...there, you might wear kid gloves.

When a tourist asks to see your pointy ears and wonders if you tread lightly when you're loitering near a stream, you might wear kid gloves.

When you threaten to take off the kid gloves and you take off Hello Kitty mittens, you might want to choose your threats more carefully.

Fair Fight

Let's have it out already. Look, people,

I shave my legs, armpits, and nether region;
I don't wear patchouli, flow-y skirts, or jewelry with bells or turquoise;
I don't drive a Volkswagen bus;
I don't smoke weed (anymore);
I don't favor Burning Man over Bora Bora;
I love Tiffany and Company;
I love my iPhone;
I love J.Crew -
yes, I'm a label whore -
I still have my original copy of The Official Preppy Handbook;
I love going to the dentist;

so can everyone please stop comparing me to tree-hugging hippie weirdos? (Although, in all fairness, I do love trees. I climbed them as a child and maybe the hours of entertainment they provided was something I never got over.) I'm a vegan, not a hippie.

Oh! Oh! Oh! you're thinking, and I'm sure you do think you have me on technicality, because I used to be a hippie. Rest assured, I was only a hippie because I was lazy. It was never about the politics.

So stop it with the jokes, the criticisms, and the judgments.

Enough is enough. I know, I know, it's easy to make fun of something you don't and could never understand. Isn't that the fear talking, though? As you stuff animals and their unbelievable diets, their antibiotics, their horrible living conditions into your mouth, isn't it really the fear of not stuffing animals, their unbelievable diets, their antibiotics, their horrible living conditions into your mouth that makes it so appealing to make fun of people like me?

How about we strike a deal? You learn a little something about the food you ingest - I know, we're back to the fear again, but I promise information is nothing to be afraid of; it cannot hurt you - and then maybe we can have a fair fight. Because right now, your ignorance is so hysterical that every time I see someone stuffing chicken into their mouth - yes, there is poop in all the animals, I mean "meat", you eat - it's all I can do not to roll onto the floor, holding my stomach because it hurts from laughing. Your God-fearing ignorance of how His creatures are being treated is so hilarious it's all I can do not to slap you on the back in good, clean fun. And your ignorance of the diseases that are linked to factory farming animals and their by-products is so over-the-moon ha ha ha, it's all I can do to keep a straight face at your funeral.

And you feed this shit to your children. That gets the heartiest laugh of all.

Put up your dukes, 'cause I'm coming out swingin'.

Lady Love

I don't mean it like that. I'm talking to you, straight ladies.

It never fails in fictional depictions, when two women realize they are sleeping with the same man or one has been dumped for the other, the ladies go after each other. The man is permitted to stand on the sidelines, unscathed.

If only it was strictly fiction.

Let's take a moment and think about what this really means. A man, driven by his own desires - integrity be damned! - has his cake, eats it, has some more cake, and eats that one too. Yummy, yummy, two ladies filling up his tummy. Yet, for some reason, the ladies would rather blame each other. Is it because it's easier to fight with other ladies? Is it a situation where the ladies think if they blame the man he'll leave them both and, darn it, there goes another "good" one?

No more turning on each other, ladies! If the man involved was a respectable, honest human being, ladies would have no cause to hate each other. If all the ladies banded together, they'd feel better about themselves instead of feeling the need to tear each other down. 

Start with the man, ladies. It's his choices that set it all in motion.

Please, ladies, start lifting each other up. Stop settling for this idea that the man gets to call the shots, and stop fighting over him like he's a piece of shit and you're the flies. 

Hump-day Haiku: Birthers

Birth certificates
are official documents,
Fucking Idiots.

I know he's not white,
but people like Obama
are born here daily.

When star Donald Trump
is the face of a movement,
it should be fired.

Respecting Demons

I don't care how my wife feels about her; I'm a big fan of Courtney Love.

What? Courtney Love? Are you crazy?

You heard me. Big fan. Nope.

What my wife fails to understand - "I can't stand Courtney Love!" - is that there is a place for her, and other addicts, in the creative community. You don't have to like her screeching vocals. You don't have to like her acting. You don't even have to think she's a decent human being. But what's wrong with respecting her demons.

Her husband did point a shotgun at his head and pull the trigger.

I saw Ms. Love perform with her band, Hole, when I was still a baby dyke. It was, by far, the loudest concert I have ever attended (the ringing in my ears lasted for weeks.) The crowd - pushing and shoving and cursing and fighting - was rowdier than Libyan protestors. Ms. Love was, by far, the most fucked-up human being I'd ever seen in person.

At the time, I thought I was listening to a rock 'n roller argue with her fans, telling them to go fuck themselves and the like. At the time, I was a girl - high after smoking a joint in the car - continuously commenting on how wasted Ms. Love was as she stumbled around the stage, struggled to find the microphone, spent more time yelling at the crowd than singing songs. At the time, I thought I was watching a rock star do what a rock star does: get loaded and play a show.

Now, I'm older. Maybe wiser. Definitely more mature. Now, I realize I was watching someone in pain. Now, I can respect her.

If We Have To

If women have to douche, men have to carry penis wipes.

Having genitals on the outside does not exempt one from getting funky. I know what my foot smells like after being in shoes and socks all day, never mind the fact that I don't pull out my foot, piss out the end of my toes, and stuff it all back into my shoes and socks. There is no way in hell I would ever put my foot in my mouth after a long day. Or even after a short day. I don't ever want to put my foot in my mouth, but that's another matter altogether.

I propose penis wipes for men. Call them Big Dick Man Wipes. Men will flock to them, beg to use them, if only to silently brag while standing in line to pay for them. Men can flash them in the bathroom - subliminal messaging - before giving their junk a good polish. I don't want to hear it: they will come in floral scents. Or in any scent that grows in a field and has been sun-kissed. I agree: douche scents should come in motor oil, musty garage, pizza and beer, or pigskin.

Who am I kidding? There's no way men are going to think their junk isn't good enough. Isn't pretty enough. Isn't smell-goody enough. Their insecurities aren't shoved in their faces, every day, once they are born. So, fuck it. And fuck douching, too. If I had my way, I would clear every douche off every shelf, turn them into salad dressings, and give Hooters the exclusive right to serve.

Hump-day Haiku: Planned Parenthood

A majority
of swinging dicks told women
their health is paltry.

Defunding demands
based on out-of-their-ass facts.
Mother issues shine.

Washington assholes'
families have great health care.
Start budget cuts there.

Bad Babies

Yesterday, upon our return home from work, I let my wife out of the car in the driveway. As she made her way up the steps to let the dogs out, I eased the car into the garage, threw the iPod into my bag, gathered my lunch box, threw the strap of my work bag over my shoulder, penguined my way around the car—it is an extremely tight squeeze—and out of the garage. I closed the garage door and started up the deck stairs. I had just put my right foot on the deck when my wife appeared through the sliding glass door, meeting me before I could take another step.

"I need you to turn around, go into the backyard, and hang out with the babies."

I must have looked bewildered because she said it again. "I need you to turn around, go into the backyard, and hang out with the babies." She added, "I'll take your bags, but I need you to turn around, go into the backyard, and hang out with the babies."

Okay. Noted!

She met me where I stood, took my work bag off my shoulder, snatched my lunch box out of my hand, and headed back inside, closing the sliding glass door behind her.

I knew right then and there that some serious shit went down in our absence.

I took my wife's advice and headed back down the deck stairs, across the driveway, and headed up the back stairs that lead into the back yard. I opened the gate, and the babies (the dogs) lost their minds. They ran around and around and around, kicked up dirt and gravel, wagged their tails like they were trying to shake them off, and barked like it was 1999.

I was skeptical.

"What happened, guys? What did you do?"

The basset barked. The mutt wagged his nubbin.

English is not their first language.

After ten minutes, they settled down—being outside with mommy was starting to lose its charm and wonder—and I started to grow more and more concerned.

I made the mistake of crossing the backdoor and taking a look inside.

What the?...is that?...feathers? In the hallway. Feathers. Everywhere. Seriously. It was like the babies had a pillow fight, and the pillows exploded upon impact.

Oh, fuck me. I started to get that sinking feeling. That sinking feeling where my babies—their precious faces!—had done something I would have never approved.

I had to ask, "Were you bad babies?"

Crickets.

Twenty minutes later, the babies and I were granted permission to enter the house. I could see remnants of what happened. A tiny feather rolled across the living room floor. A smudge here, a smudge there on the tile floor. A large wet spot on one of the dog beds. Water bowl, empty.

I used my deduction skills and figured that although she was nowhere to be found, the cat also played a part. According to my estimations, she was the Tarantino behind it all, catching the bird and bringing it inside to direct the dogs on how to finish it.

It sent shivers down my spine.

I saw a bloodbath. Birds flying, running for their lives, the babies teeth dripping with a mixture of blood and saliva as they hunted and killed and pranced their prizes around, trying to eat them, play with them, taunt them.

My wife tried to save me from it but my imagination couldn't help it. It turned me into a weird lesbian-animal-detective, searching for clues of suffering and unnecessary violence.

This morning, before my wife and I left for work, I had a heart-to-heart with the babies. I told them that, yes, they would have access to the deck again today. I explained that I feed the birds not for them to kill, but because the birds are hungry. And they know what it's like to be hungry. I reminded them that animals who don't live in the house stay outside.

I felt a little better, pulling out of the driveway, but English is not their first language.

Intentions

I don't intend on making today's post about politics. I need to calm down before I can approach politics from a rational mind these days. Politics are the guitar in my speed influenced rock-star hands, swinging into amps and onto the cold, hard stage.

Splinters. Everywhere.

I don't want to start whining about how Wall Street fucked us and how the middle class and the poor are expected to pay for it. I don't want to talk about cutting funding for programs that help those in need when our revenue continues to decrease—welcome, tax cuts for the top one percent and corporations! We hope you'll enjoy your stay—and how that makes me wish I could breath fire.

So instead, let's talk about you.

How are you?

Feeling good?

Comfortable?

Good to hear.

What should we talk about?

No way, Jose. I'm not talking about that night in the salsa club when I threw up in the sleeve of my leather jacket. Try again. Nope. I'm not talking about the time I threw up in my cup at that house party either. What's with you and the vomit stories, anyway? Okay. Sure. We can talk about gas prices, but I warn you, I drive over fifty miles a day, and it is a touchy subject. I know! Where is all this green energy we were promised? Oh, yeah. It's being defunded as we speak. Infrastructure, schminfrastructure. Let's call the whole thing off!

I digress.

We could talk about Dancing with the Stars, but I don't watch it. I don't watch American Idol either. Sorry, I don't watch Jersey Shore, The Housewives of Big Cities, Grey's Anatomy, Two and a Half Men, or NCIS. Do you watch United States of Tara? Oh, you had to get rid of cable because food costs have increased so much? Well, we could talk about—

Your phone made a noise. It made it again. You need to go? Okay. Wait! Don't forget your $7.00 coffee in its recyclable cup that you'll end up throwing away. I know you bought a stainless steel mug but it won't fit in your Xterra's cup holders.

I get it. Inconvenience totally sucks. So does paying attention.

Hump-day Haiku: Swimsuits

Hairy chest and backs,
Flabby beer guts on display;
Shirts are trusted friends.

My butt is exposed,
The material is strained;
Dignity is lost.

Lounging on the beach;
The ocean is dangerous:
Big waves take small tops.

Sunroof

I hate to fly. It's not the actual flying that I hate; it's the parking, the walking, the checking in, the maneuvering through crowds of people, the security line, the waiting, the hours of sitting. Now pieces of planes are tearing off in midflight. So there's that, too.

I know myself well enough that if metal fatigue causes a piece of the plane I'm on to tear off, I will, undoubtedly, shit my pants.

It's not necessarily because the plane isn't holding together that I soil myself, but more so the hole that allows me to see outside, like I'm in Malibu and the weather is too to-die-for to miss. When I'm at 30,000 feet, the last thing I want is a view of, well, what am I looking at when I'm actually in the sky? Combine my newfound window seat with the sound of the wind and my heart could very well send a sharp pain down my left arm.

Then there's the drop in cabin pressure. I am not a fan of struggling to breathe. I try it every time I go swimming, and it hasn't taken hold. It's not worth having a window seat if I can't breathe and enjoy it. There's also the possibility I will pass out, in my shit-pants, amongst strangers, which raises the question, Can I come back from this?

This weekend, I plan on conducting experiments with my wife (surprise, honey!) to see if the flimsy seatbelt will keep me securely in place. Though, I imagine, if the force is strong enough it could unhinge the entire seat, rendering the seatbelt useless.

No one has been sucked out of the holes the metal fatigue has left behind, but I'm conducting the experiment anyway. Just like those conducting the emergency inspections, I want to be a part of the dog and pony show.

Beans and Franks

I want to make something very clear: if you're not a woman and you elude to working with a group of women as something you deserve an award for, something you're lucky to have lived through, you're an ass.

Over the weekend, I listened to a young man explain to his audience what had been keeping him busy: I directed seven black women in the play _____, was in the show _____, and then directed fifteen women in _____. Look at what I have had to put up with. Am I right? Tell me about it! Hardy-hilarious-har.

What's that, motherfucker!?

Can we be done with this kind of rhetoric already? The concept that woman are difficult in large groups to a member of the opposite sex is overdone. And it's insulting. It reeks of a man's laziness and/or inability to make a connection to anyone whose beans and franks he can't measure-up in a bathroom.

So, ha ha. You're a funny guy. But your beans and franks stole the show.

Family Members

When living in an A-frame house, bookshelves are impossible. My books are scattered throughout the house; huddled together on the few available skinny shelves, stacked on the floor upstairs, in boxes downstairs, piled in the middle of the coffee table, and on the stairs, spines facing the living room so I can see them.

Recently, my wife and I tidied the house in preparation for a house guest. (Knowing she will read this, I must make the following disclaimer: I read while she did most of the tidying. It's okay. Really. We have an understanding.) I glanced at her sideways as she approached the staircase.

She paused in consideration. "The staircase is no place for books," she announced.

I told myself to remain calm. It was no big deal. But really, what was she saying!? My books had been residing on the stairs for months and now it was no place for books?

"Where they gonna go?" I tried asking nonchalantly.

"Upstairs."

Upstairs? Upstairs!? Where no one goes to visit? It's Siberia upstairs! This couldn't be happening. My books were being banished.

Internally I felt anguished, saddened. I hung my head, watched my hands sit idly in my lap. I quietly mentioned, "Upstairs is no place for family members."

My wife: "What?"

Louder: "They're members of the family."

I knew how it sounded. I knew it wasn't going to grant my books the freedom to stay where they were, but I couldn't help it. There was no better way for me to describe how I felt about what was happening.

My wife didn't quite see it that way. She, along with an armload of some of my books, headed upstairs.

Oh my god. Do something!

I did the only thing I could: I pleaded. "Skippy Dies cannot go upstairs!"

My wife stopped. She placed the stack of books she was carrying on a step, sighed, and one by one - she's not cold-hearted - looked at a book, announced the book's title, and I sent them, individually, to their fate. It was my own Sophie's Choice.

My books are, plain and simple, members of my family. I may not remember every character's name, every plot twist, every bump in the road, but I remember how the words, the characters, the authors make me feel. I can look at a book I have read and instantly feel it. I love my books for their endless gifts.

Now, when I look at the empty stairs, I think of Skippy.

Captive Queen

For you dedicated readers, it comes as no surprise to hear I love Alison Weir's true account of Anne Boleyn's fall in her book, The Lady in the Tower. Whether my love is due to Ms. Weir's presentation of the material or my mild obsession with the Tudors and their barbaric behavior is indistinguishable. So when I stumbled across Ms. Weir's historical novel, Captive Queen, I was delighted to the point I started reading it in the store. I knew nothing of Eleanor of Aquitaine and was bursting inside - a miniature Fourth of July taking place in my chest - to find out more.

I gladly, eagerly dropped thirty dollars on the brand new hardcover.

I read aloud to my wife as we started our trip home from Santa Fe. We were both looking forward to Ms. Weir's story. My wife knew how I felt about The Lady in the Tower and, based on my recommendation, believed Captive Queen was a book we were going to immensely enjoy.

I didn't read far enough ahead in the bookstore.

When I read the phrase, erotic memory, my eyebrow raised. But I continued. Entwined bodies, rugged masculinity, flush with excitement soon followed. I could no longer deny what I had gotten myself into; it revealed itself page after page. Historical romance!? How I missed the true nature of the novel was unexplainable.

The novel has been cast aside and will, more than likely, never be finished.

This doesn't mean Captive Queen lacks merit. I have simply never been a fan of bulging packages, ripped muscles, or overt moisture. As much as I wanted to know more, I could not continue.

Still, I have no regrets. Captive Queen will sit on my bookshelf for years to come. And who knows. Maybe one afternoon I'll crack it open and give into the carnal pleasures Eleanor and Henry have to offer. But probably not. Because while Eleanor was imprisoned for a time, she got to keep her head.