Ode to a Douche Bag

You sit behind us,
All loud and proud,
Wanting everyone to know
You're something special in the crowd.

Your girlfriend sits beside you,
Hardly, nary a word,
As you continue to make sure
Your teenage voice is loud and heard.

We all start to get it,
That you're one of those guys:
Two inches of dangling fury
Hangs between your thighs.

Please do us all a favor,
Because the movie is about to start,
Shut your fucking mouth
Before the theater gets dark.

One more thing while we're at it,
Get your feet off the back of my chair:
Hot women are on the screen,
And I don't care what's in your underwear.

The truth of the matter is
You're just a douche bag at heart.
I feel sorry for your girlfriend
Who can't tell a gentleman and a douche bag apart.

Hump-day Haiku: Santa

Santa takes prozac,

As he is conveniently 

Forgotten for months.

Deceived small children

Think Santa grants their wishes.

Suck on that, parents.

Part-time mall Santas
Only make minumum wage.

Santa smells like beer. 

Who's the Dude?

If I had a quarter for every time someone asked me which one of us--my wife or I--was the man, it wouldn't amount to much, but it would be enough to go to Starbucks for a week.

The only response I have ever had to this question is neither of us is the man; hence, the reason we are lesbians.

I don't know why it is so hard for the straight community to understand that same sex relationships are just that: same sex. Believe me, no one needs to have a penis to make it work. And no one needs to be classified as the male role.

It's unfortunate that roles in the straight community haven't changed much in the last sixty-plus years. Some straight women have no idea what would happen if they got a flat tire and their only resource was to call a woman. It takes a man to change a flat tire! Who would take out the trash? Mow the yard? Wash the car? Change the oil? Chase off intruders? Oh, the anarchy of it all!

My wife and I share the roles that are divied up in a straight relationship. I wield a mightier shovel while she can carry a shit-load of wood. As far as the bedroom is concerned, one of us being the man would only make sex disgusting.

If you're still wondering which one of us is the man, there's nothing more I can do to help you. It's a shame, really, if you take the time to think about why it is you're asking in the first place.

Open Letter: Michael Vick, P.S.

Dear Michael,

Pardon my familiarity, but since we've done this before I feel like I can call you Michael.

So, Michael. You want a dog.

You had a good thing going. You really did. You should have kept your head down and continued your successful rise from dog-killing bastard to respectable human being. But your ego just had to go and do something stupid. I imagine your PR machine did everything it possibly could to keep you from saying something so completely asinine. People were starting to forget your crimes against the animal community. They were starting to see you in a different light.

Thank you for reminding us that you suck.

Much like it is not permissible for a pedophile to adopt a child, you should not be permitted to own a dog. My apologies if that sounds harsh, but come on. I mean, you didn't think you could actually say something like that and there wouldn't be backlash, did you? Oh, you did? Yeah, I guess I understand. You're starting to think you're something special again. Makes sense because a lot of people are telling you that very thing.

It's too soon, fucking asshole.

Whack-A-Muse

Nine Really Good Reasons

I am not the kind of person that watches as a disaster unfolds and thinks that will never happen to me. (Although, I can safely say getting trapped in a mine will never happen to me because fuck going into a mine.) In no way do I think I am exempt from experiencing any natural or man-made distaster. And because of this, I like knowing I am in shape. A healthy lifestyle isn't always about looking and feeling better. Sometimes, it's about the bigger picture.

For instance:

If I'm in a building that's collapsing, the odds that I can wiggle out from under something improve if my  muscles are strong, and I am smaller in size.

If someone comes into my place of work, guns blazing, there will be a lot of out of shape people behind me, acting as a bullet buffer, as I swiftly run away.

If I'm in a building that's on fire, and it's between saving me or someone twice my size, rescue workers will have an easier time getting me out. (I like those odds!)

If I lose my job and after months of trying to find another with no success I have to resort to joining the military, I will be a shoe-in.

If a superbug spreads throughout the land, my immune system, already functioning on a strong foundation, will be less susceptible to contracting any organ-eating, people-killing diseases.

If there is ever medical rationing, like in South Africa, being thinner and in good shape improves my chances for getting dialysis or other serious rationed treatment.

If I'm on a cruise ship, and it decides to hit an iceberg and sink, the life vests will fit me.

If I'm in a plane crash, I can easily make my way down the isle, quickly climb over seats (if I have to), burst through the exit door, and slide my way down to safety like I won first place in a really fucked up obstacle course.

If an end-of-the-world event takes place, my strong legs and lungs will get me to the ark on time.

If, right about now, you're thinking, 'Fuck you, asshole!' remember, no one is making you eat those donuts. I'm just making a case for you to put them down.

Mouse Attack

When you live in the mountains, you assume certain risks: back-breaking snow, long drive times, gasping for air when you climb the stairs, and providing a safe haven for various critters.

I'm not afraid of mice, but I do not care for their dodginess. They jump out as if from nowhere, and I don't like those kind of surprises. Sure, they are cute, but their poop trails completely disgust me. So, my wife and I formulated an arrangement: I handle all pertinent spider issues, and my wife deals with all mice matters.

It's an arrangement that suits us very well.

Usually.

When you have two dogs and a cat, you don't expect anything to penetrate their border. The dogs sleep next to our bed, so if anything wants to come to the bed it has to get by the dogs first. Add in the cat, who loves to kill things, and one's peace of mind increases.

That's what I told myself for a long time.

Until one night...

My eye flipped open. I had just been sleeping so why was I suddenly awake? My heart was flittering, trying to clue me into something, but my brain had yet to catch up. The bedroom was dark. The dogs and my wife were present, but I felt eerily alone.

And then I heard it.

The squeaking of a mouse, in the house, in the bedroom. Somewhere. Near me.

Okay. Calm down. The dogs will handle it.

Or not, as I heard the snort-snort-snort of their breathing in and the aaaahhhhh of their breathing out. Snoring. Figures. My wife wasn't moving. How was it that I was the only one who heard the squeaking and was awake!

I lay so still that my legs started to cramp, my lungs begged for oxygen, and saliva filled my mouth for fear the swallowing would alert the mouse to my presence.

The mouse squeaked again. Its location changed. That little bitch was on the move!

Terror moved through me like water through a cracked dam. I said, out of the side of my mouth in a barely audible whisper, "_____? Are you awake?"

No answer.

I willed my wife to wake up. I sent brain waves to the dogs to snap to attention. My amateur techniques didn't work.

I was still laying still. On my side. My ear pressed into the pillow as I swore I could hear the mouse's little feet shuffling across the floor, assessing which one of us it was going to torture. I didn't want to hint it had already chosen me.

Then...

Oh.

My.

God.

I heard muffled shuffling through my pillow.

The little fucker was climbing up the side of the bed!

I glimpsed how heart attacks feel in the onset. Please, Baby Jesus, don't let it be true. My eyelids were closed so tightly they felt like black holes, swallowing everything inside them.

The muffled shuffling stopped. I didn't want to face what I knew was true. But I had to. I opened my eyes. The moonlight that had hinted its way through the curtains illuminated a tiny mouse body, inches from my face. I couldn't see its mouth, but I knew its teeth were bared and there was blood dripping from them. I couldn't breathe.

I screamed like a twelve-year-old girl and slapped the mouse off the bed with the back of my hand.

Finally! Household awake.

Movie Scripts

Say someone has know you for ten years.

And say this someone has not only known you for ten years, but has been married to you for those ten years.

Now, let's say you go to this person, and you tell them something like, oh, I don't know, something like someone is trying to erase your identity, or you're seeing people do some really weird shit (like turning into zombies or vampires), or someone is trying to kill you. Because, well, they are.

This person, who has known you for ten years, looks at you like you're confused. You're mistaken. Couldn't possibly be. No way, no how. This person tries to calm you. Tries to sooth you by insisting you're imagining things. Seventy minutes later, as your situation really ramps up, it's to the point where this person tries to get you committed or arrested or wants you to take drugs. Because, well, you're fucking crazy.

(Movies insist on using this stale, ridiculous model for building suspense; insist on putting someone in an absurd situation and have everyone they know and love disbelieve everything they're saying.)

But ninety to one-hundred minutes later, what do you know? It is revealed to this person that you were right all along. This person who you have shared a large part of your life with, who you have trusted and loved, is now on the same page because the computer is acting crazy, or they found a body in the freezer, or they watched as someone narrowly missed stabbing you in the face. Whew. What a relief. This person finally believes you. Arms are wrapped around you. Kisses land on your forehead. Let's go home is spoken.

Cue music. Credits roll.

Are you kidding me? Oh, hell no, mother fucker! For sixty to seventy minutes I told you shit was messed up and you kept giving me you're honey-you're-not-right-in-the-head look, so you know what? You can suck it, jackass. I want a divorce. No, you don't get to keep the house. And you are so out of my will. You ruined us when it took you watching someone almost kill me to believe me.

Movies never take this likely response into consideration.

If someone in my life didn't believe me when I tearfully and hysterically told them I saw an old man run down a car and eat everyone inside, I would be pissed. It would not be the time to try and convince me I'm crazy. It would be the time to take up arms and band together.

Whatever, Hollywood. Keep giving us excuses not to believe or trust one another.

Hump-day Haiku: Christmas

Adult Jesus said,
When I am gone, remember:
Buy gifts from China.

You can keep staring,
But nothing's going to change.
That's my parking space.

Festive and merry,
Egg nog and brandy flowing.
Grandpa lost his pants.

Making It Okay

In 1986, I bought a diary (they weren't called journals just yet.) It was purple with lines of small flowers running perpendicular down the front and back cover. The pages inside were cream colored with lines that were meant to keep the writing tidy. (I didn't do anything tidily at the age of fourteen.)

I wrote about boring details I thought I would care about later: went over to so-and-so's house and blahdity blah. Hello, Snoozefest '86.

Towards the end of the diary, things took an interesting turn. I started writing as if I were a boy.

Huh?

As a fourteen-year-old, I didn't have an Ellen, a Melissa, The L Word, or pop songs (Katy Perry might have kissed a girl, but she didn't like it enough to do anything besides write a song about it) letting me know it was okay for girls to kiss other girls. The only logical thing my mind could come up with at the time was to write like I was a boy. Boys could kiss girls.

Elaborate plan followed elaborate plan as my mind conjured different ways to get Andy (Kerri Green) from The Goonies into dark, private places with me. Even then, I knew writing had to be more intricate than just putting down your desires. Desires had to be delivered delicately, in a package that suggested there was a lot more to it than just kissing.

At the age of fifteen, I stopped writing from the perspective of a boy and wrote a horrible "novel" about two girls who were orphaned and refused to be separated if adoption presented itself. One of the girls ended up killing herself because the other girl was going to be adopted and, thus, they would be separated.

Huh?

Good grief. Wake up and build a float already. The pride parade is only days away.

When we can step away from it, the things we tell ourselves in order to make everything okay are often times hilarious.

Tears, Running Down My Face

I don't look ahead in books for fear that my eyes will land on an important sentence that will ruin the experience leading up to said sentence. I just don't do it. My wife, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. She flips through the pages, not concerned with knowing what's coming in the journey.

Last night, as I read Portia de Rossi's biography, Unbearable Lightness, I turned the final pages to find pictures. There weren't very many, maybe three or four, but after reading about her struggles and suffering and then seeing it, right in front of me, proved too much.

My wife had already looked at the pictures. They came as no surprise to her.

I sat there, on the sofa, and tried to keep reading to my wife. I couldn't do it. The pictures were unbelievable. But the last picture. The last picture where her body said, "I am dying a slow and painful death," while her face said, "I'm having the time of my life!" sent me into a depressive tailspin.

I looked at my wife, cooking dinner in the kitchen, and tried to tell her that I might start crying, but my tears beat me to it. My wife soon joined in. We were both distressed by Ms. de Rossi's honest account on how she came to be knocking on death's door.

Ms. de Rossi's book was well written, candid; a cautionary tale of how food and weight fucks us up. But that's not what got me. It was the way she presented the material. It slowly unfolded, bided its time, shrugged its shoulders along the way. It eased me into her diet, her excercise routine, her craziness. She said anorexia snuck up on her and that's how I felt about how she wrote her story. It snuck up on me too.

Reading about her weighing 82 pounds and how she got there was shocking on it's own. But manageable. Once I saw the pictures, and my mind wrapped around what truly went on, I couldn't get a grip on myself. It was heartbreaking.

Thankfully, Ms. de Rossi is better now. But if I weren't at work, the tears could still easily fall down my face.