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.