Browbeaten

 For those who don't know, I'm in menopause.

I don't know why it's called menopause, by the way. It's meno-full-fucking-stop. My monthly flow isn't coming back, you guys. Neither is my youth, vitality, or natural lubrication.

I still have a sex drive, but the road is permanently closed, if you know what I mean.

The detour is DEATH, ha ha!

Anyway, I've experienced a particular physical side effect of menopause that no one ever told me about. Female Drunkards of a certain age, tell me if this is a thing for you, too.

I've lost my eyebrows.

I mean, they're not gone. No one broke in and stole them. They didn't fall off my face and get mixed with the dust bunnies under the sofa, never to be seen again because I don't know the last time I vacuumed under the sofa.

It's just that, apparently, whatever hormones are responsible for producing and maintaining those little strips of hair over my eyes have dried up along with those that used to make me bleed out of my hoohah every 28 days or so. Because my eyebrows, never actually lush to begin with, now resemble that streak of sticky soda you once spilled on the floor and didn't realize you hadn't cleaned up properly until it began to attract stray cat hairs and crumbs and look like something out of a petri dish growing in the doorway.

Or Minty, the Candy Cane That Fell on the Ground

We've all done that, right?

I think the last time I regularly went around without drawing in my eyebrows was back in the 90s. It's not that they looked great even way back then, but I was young enough and cute enough that I didn't care. Also, carefully groomed brows didn't fit in with the borderline hippie-chick aesthetic I was attempting to rock in those days.

But for years  I've had to enhance my eyebrows years to avoid looking like some kind of alien, or Florida Senator Rick Scott. Which I realize is redundant.

Gah. He doesn't even have the menopause excuse like I do.

And once I hit the menopause milestone, my already quite light and quite thin eyebrows simply gave up the ghost. I didn't stop growing hair in other places: not under my arms, or on my legs, or around my lonesome funhouse. In fact, I strongly suspect that most of the hair that no longer thrives above my eyes is trying to take up residence on my upper lip, where an old-lady mustache keeps threatening to sprout. 

But my eyebrows are sad, people. They consist of, like, 16 colorless strands that peter out to bare skin as they approach the outer corners of my eyes.  I used to have to tweeze them on a regular basis to maintain their shape and size. Hell, I even used to carefully shave them. They now sell cool little battery-operated gizmos that will give your eyebrows a precision trim. But old-school me just took my double-blade Lady Bic razor and scraped away at the delicate skin above my eyes, you know, in the name of beauty. If that's not a metaphor for GenX, I don't know what is.

We all wanted to be Molly Ringwald on the outside, 
but we were all Ally Sheedy on the inside.

Anyway, nowadays I carefully apply brown makeup to my eyebrows as part of my morning routine. It's not easy, because honestly I can barely see the skimpy hairs I'm attempting to darken and define. One of these days, if I'm not careful, I'm going to end up looking like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. 

Bring on that close-up, yo.

But you know what? That's OK. Of all the quirky physical changes that come with menopause (I didn't think it was possible to lose muscle mass in places where I never had muscles to begin with, for example), sparse eyebrows are among the least likely to constantly remind me that I'm advancing rapidly through middle age. Unlike, say, the jelly roll that has taken up permanent residence around my waist.

So...gals and guys, what physical symptoms of aging have taken you by surprise?

Sex, Politics, and Maybe a Frog

 The other day Drummer Boy and I were messaging back and forth about using R2-D2 as a vibrator.

No, really, we were. By the way, you do NOT want to do an image search for "R2-D2 vibrator" unless you're fully psychologically prepared for what shows up and also not on a work computer.

This is the most wholesome result I could find.

This is not a post about vibrators, android-shaped or otherwise.

Anyway, at one point DB made a joke about buying one second-hand (this is the last vibrator reference in this entire post, I swear), and I responded, "I'll just have to find a means of pleasure elsewhere."

My phone's auto-complete, however, suggested "means of production."

Communist memes are the best memes.

Hilarious. Of course, that got me thinking about how sexual and political philosophy so often are interchangeable. That is literally how my brain works, folks. But really, sex and politics do seem to be primal forces that collectively rule the intelligent apes that currently rule this planet. As the Great Grifter himself, Ronald Reagan, once quipped:

It has been said that politics is the second oldest profession. I have learned that it bears a striking resemblance to the first.

*stage whisper* He's talking about prostitution, you guys.

As a talking point it beats Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No to Drugs" nonsense all to hell.

It did make me give up pencils for good, though.

I guess the idea is that sex sells, whether the product is soft drinks or complex sociopolitical theory. Sex is a metaphor that works. Why else would Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. say this?

Democracy is messy, and it's hard.

Be honest: Does this sound like the representative form of government envisioned by the Founding Fathers, or like Bobby Jr. was being a chip off the randy old Kennedy block?

Going back to old Karl Marx, communism is a goldmine for political innuendo. The very phrase underpinning the principles of the socialist state sums up dating and relationships nicely:

From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs

The things we do to avoid growing old alone, amiright? Just kidding: Don't settle, you guys. There's a  perfect Communist out there for everyone. Or am I just mixing metaphors into a toxic sludge?

Sex, toxic sludge, and frogs.
There, I've hit the trifecta.

If you want to be even more cynical about sex and politics, surely political columnist Bill Vaughn wasn't really comparing the vice-presidency to cookies when he said:

The Vice-Presidency is sort of like the last cookie on the plate. Everybody insists he won't take it, but somebody always does.

He could have been talking about any meat-market bar or club on a Saturday night (pre-Covid, anyway). He also could have been talking about me waiting to get picked for dodgeball in my elementary school gym class, but that's another philosophical discussion.

In searching for quotations to fit this theme, it's possible that I stretched the boundaries of proper English to make them fit. Like this one from famed defender of freedom (and 1945 upside-down hanging champion) Benito Mussolini:

Democracy is beautiful in theory; in practice it is a fallacy.

I suspect this better illustrates my point when spoken aloud. Because "fallacy" sounds a lot like, well, "phallus-y." Democracy is a dick, basically. Look, I'm trying to push out content here. They can't all be gems.

Moving along, the late, great Molly Ivins once wrote this:

...it is not neat, orderly, or quiet. It requires a certain relish for confusion.

She was talking about democracy, but let's face it: If you've ever been married, you are totally forgiven for thinking it referred to your personal experience.

And here the even later and greater Socrates could have been talking about spouses OR the kind of untenable monarchal rule that inevitably leads to revolution:

If you get a good wife, you'll become happy; if you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.

I mean...he could, right?

OK, then, I'll end this somewhat tortured comparison with a last, admittedly cynical quote. This one is from English chanteuse Marianne Faithfull, who was definitely talking about sex but, let's face it, described every political philosopher from Voltaire to Bob Dylan:

Maybe the most that you can expect from a relationship that goes bad is to come out of it with a few good songs.

Right on. Never stop thinking, Drunkards. Also never stop fucking. Most of all, never stop voting.

And don't ever Google "android vibrators" on a work computer.

If I Said What I Meant

A male co-worker and I were talking about the resignation of Senator Al Franken today.

Hate Stuart Smalley, love Al Franken.

My co-worker said something along the lines of:

"So is this where we are now? That anyone who is accused of anything has his career ruined?"

I pushed back on this statement. But I also didn't push as hard as I wanted to. Because of the whole "women who advocate for women are radical feminists who probably should be permanently banned to the menstrual hut" mentality that I struggle against every damn day of my life. Male readers: When men self-censor their opinions, it's strategic. When women self-censor our opinions, it's tactical.

Let that sink in. OK?

Anyway, with your indulgence, here's what I would have said if I'd felt comfortable doing so.

"Dude. This is not about 'anyone who is accused of anything.' This is about men who have sexually harassed women being accused of sexually harassing women. If your default mindset is 'Bitches be making shit up' or 'Ladies need to understand how men are' or 'He's a good guy so he gets a pass on treating women as slag heaps,' then this concept probably is foreign to you.

"Millions of men interact with women every day. Those interactions may be friendly, productive, professional, cool, difficult, or hostile. Because that's how human relationships work, regardless of sex.

"But many women - like many members of minority ethnic, racial, and religious minority groups - are routinely, systematically assumed to be somehow less intelligent, less capable, less qualified than the default white male, based entirely on a biological trait over which they have no control. Even if you don't personally participate in this evaluation, you're not allowed to pretend it doesn't exist.

"Imagine if your capability for any particular task - and not just that, but your very opportunity to be considered capable - first had to pass the hurdle of whether someone of your gender could 'handle' it. Imagine if you were automatically excluded from consideration because someone was afraid they couldn't refrain from being 'offensive' toward you.

"Imagine if the people most responsible for your personal and professional success believed it was their right to charge you the price of silently suffering sexual bias/harassment/abuse in exchange for achieving what others get to achieve through hard work and merit.

"Now imagine that society is finally supporting you instead of the abusers. Believing you. Advocating justice for you.

"Can you understand that this historical moment is not the time for mercy? That there is no 'let and let live' mentality that applies here? That it's absolutely not enough to name and shame the perpetrators of systematic abuse of women instead of meting out real consequences?

"I understand that this new wave of holding men accountable for their actions is making you, as a male, uncomfortable. But let me assure you: This isn't about you being a man. This is about the segment of men who are abusive assholes.

"There are also women who are abusive assholes. Let me make it clear: I'm not anti-man. I'm anti-discrimination. Nobody gets a pass.

"But the last time I checked, Kevin Spacey, Bryan Singer, Al Franken, Roy Moore, and Donald Trump were all men.

"As a woman, I simply want justice. Blind justice, as our laws demand. Meaning that wealth, power, influence, or having a penis does not constitute an exemption from being a decent human being.

"No mercy for assholes. To use the popular parlance, I'm sorry if that triggers you.

"This woman is not apologizing for your discomfort."

Yeah, that's what I would have said.

Thoughts?

It's Not About One Celebrity

My thoughts on Kevin Spacey, you guys.

Full disclosure: I adore Kevin Spacey as an actor. From The Usual Suspects to American Beauty to Glengarry Glen Ross to House of Cards to Baby Driver to his famous imitations of celebrities like Christopher Walken and Bobby Darin, I think he is a monumentally talented person.

But Hollywood...and America...and the world...are having a moment right now.

A moment about finally acknowledging that the human experience - the business realm, the religious realm, and especially the entertainment realm - revolves around sexual discrimination and abuse.

Even if we could put aside for a single damn moment that the current President of the Goddamn United States is on record as boasting about his ability to grab women by the pussy...

...there is still the sobering reality that millions of men in power see fit to get their ugly, misogynistic, misanthropic rocks off by intimidating and exploiting people they perceive as beneath them.

I've experienced this in my own life...thankfully, to a degree less blatant and obstructive and violent than many others have endured.

That doesn't for a minute mean I downplay or dismiss the experiences of others. I accept and acknowledge the good fortune that has blessed me in this and many regards.

We all suffer in our own ways, which does not in any form diminish the sufferings of our fellow humans.

And I think if more people accepted that, we'd all be a damn sight better off.

Anyway, the flood of women (and men) coming forward about their experiences of sexual harassment/intimidation/assault is profoundly disturbing.

Also, profoundly inspiring.

And while everyone is innocent until proven guilty, I think we all should agree that it doesn't matter...

...what their name is...

...what their job is...

...what their reputation is...

...what their power is relative to anyone else's...

Wrong is wrong.

Abuse is abuse.

Silence is damning.

Complicity is immoral.

Assault is assault.

And protecting the reputation/career of any individual is less important than vindicating a victim of predatory behavior.

Maybe you don't agree.

You're wrong.

Protection of abusers at the expense of victims is so outdated. So pathetic.

Innocent until proven guilty, yes.

That's the American way.

But slut/whore/weakling until proven victim?

Let's shutter that nonsense right now.

If we can do nothing else to preserve what America is supposed to be about in 2017, let's show compassion and empathy to those who need it most, and stop automatically giving the benefit of the doubt to rich white men in power.

Full disclosure.

I am in love with a middle-aged white male. He is kind, respectful, and empathetic toward everyone he meets. I've seen that in action many times.

So don't even fucking say it can't be done.

We can all choose to be good. All of us.

Like or share if you make that choice.

Even When She Just Had to Crash (Yesssss)

Honestly, Drunkards, right now I have a backlog of blog topics.

Sweeeeeeeeeet.

I'd rather write about how Bestest Friend is handling her daughter's Senior Prom tonight. How the President of the United States bragged to the Russians about firing the Director of the FBI. How my mom is having heart surgery in five days.

Among other things.

Instead, I'm writing about this,because knee-jerk outrage sometimes helps us cope with larger, much more complex emotional scenarios.

So here goes.

Some Canadian college students have apologized for playing Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" at an event, expressing regrets for its "transphobic" lyrics.

Honest to effing Christian God.

You guys.

I don't remember exactly when, or how, I first discovered Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground.

My best guess is 1982-1983, which was a uniquely tumultuous time in my life.

I'm almost positive that my dear friend Trips had something to do with it (because she also introduced me to Bob Marley, the Cure, XTC, Talking Heads, and so many others).

The thing is, I have all of VU's official releases on vinyl, as well as all of their unofficial output on CD. I'm not unique in claiming Lou Reed and VU as major influences on my musical taste and societal attitude.

I'm just lucky to be included in such a rarefied group.

"Walk on the Wild Side" is a very special solo track from Mr. Reed. It was produced by David Bowie, and together they created a deeply haunting and affecting song. One of my favorite singles ever. Ever, ever, ever.

It is - famously - about trans people and others seeking a place in society.

It is - unabashedly - honest and non-judgmental about those people.

In the back room she was everybody's darling.

The fact that being inclusive and accepting of a minority like trans people can be twisted into transphobia by those who actually serve to silence alternative viewpoints...

makes me effing sick.

People who are different from me don't hurt me.

I don't understand why I (and like-minded others) have to keep broadcasting this opinion.

Be different.

I will be envious.

I will support you and love you.

Those who condemn you for being different...

Need to suffer the consequences of a global fuck-off, you bigoted twats.

I can't guarantee that.

But I support it.

Love is love.

And I love everyone reading this.

Please share that.

OK?

I Have Discovered the Phenomenon of Menunpause.

Today's word is:

menunpause n. (men' un 'pawz): the condition of going almost 12 cycles without a menstrual period, signaling the official onset of menopause, only to wake up one random morning with blood coming out of your wherever.

If there are any males still reading...sorry.

But dammit, I was so close.

Shut up, LeBron.

At 48, I realize I'm a few years shy of the average age of onset of menopause. Which is 51, which by the way I will never be 51 because I plan to stop aging next year, possibly by means of drinking snake venom or burning incense or something.

Chicken sacrifice, maybe.
This part of my life plan is still in the "research" stage.

But damn, I was ready to be menopausal. Perimenopause began a couple of years ago: hot flashes, female...um...dryness...skin issues. Yeah. Good times. Also, I gained a crap-ton of weight. Ugh.

Then, over the last year or so, I lost about 15 pounds. Granted, a good part of that was stress-related. You know, that whole selling-my-house, getting divorced, starting-my-life over stress. Hey, 15 pounds is 15 pounds. It wasn't anywhere near my fighting weight, but it was a bright spot in an otherwise dark goddamn period.

Shown here: 2015.

So here I am, a single, independent woman, happily perimenopausal. The hot flashes have faded, the emotions have leveled (OK, somewhat), and months have passed since I last experienced menses. I am cautiously optimistic that my period is, finally, an actual literal full stop.

And then...

Well, over the last couple of months I've regained almost all the weight I lost. I'm eating well: almost zero sugar, lots of lean protein, as many veggies as I can manage. Still, I'm packing on pounds like a fucking Kardashian after a bad breakup.

Insensitive AF, but I'm pre-menopausal.
Bite me.

Normally I would have assumed hormones were the culprit. Except, you know, I'm thisclose to being in menopause, so hormones should no longer be an issue, right?

Sigh.

Yesterday was my day to spend with Drummer Boy. We had a Cowboys game to watch. We had Ro-Tel dip (WITH SAUSAGE) to eat. Precocious Daughter was with her dad for the day.

We were going to get freaky, you guys.

We were going to get Snorkledorf.
Look it up, millennials.

Then I went to the bathroom.

If any guys are still reading...women periodically (swidt?) wipe themselves and see blood on the TP. We know that we're not hemorrhaging, we're just having a visit from Aunt Flo. We can handle this because we are awesome. It means our period has started.

For several decades, our reaction is: ho-hum, time to break out the tampons/pads until my uterus has emptied itself of non-essential baby-nurturing blood and tissue.

Again, we are awesome.

On the rag RIGHT NOW.

But you know what? When you're a certain age, and Aunt Flo hasn't visited since last winter, you're not expecting a random wipe to reveal the 28-day curse. You're just...not.

Go ask Alice, I think she'll know.

So let's sum up.

I now have to wait until at least October 2017 to declare myself in menopause.

My tenuous truce with gaining middle-age weight for no goddamn reason has been broken.

I did not get laid yesterday.

I love being a strong, independent, self-sufficient middle-aged woman...except for the part where I still have to buy Kotex like a teenager.

Menunpause, you guys. Make it trend. Support my cause. Pity me.

Fuck.

Men Can Be C*nts, Too

Ah, the social media are aflame with indignation.

No, Mr. Vice President. Indignant, not hold-me-back-Imma-kill-him
enraged. Dial it back.

And what is today's source of approbation and feather-ruffling?

It's this charming article on some website you never heard of by some guy you never heard of entitled "Why I'll Never Date a Feminist."

Here's the link, if you want to experience several mildly revolted chuckles.

Yes, it's another piece bashing feminism, written by someone who manifestly has no clue what feminism is but has decided it must be the key to his inability to have a fulfilling romantic relationship with a woman, it simply must be.

I told her she was smart for a chick, and now
she's mad. Goddamn feminazis, amiright?

That's why the author chose the provocative, aspirational title "Why I'll Never Date a Feminist" instead of the infinitely more accurate "Why Strong, Independent Women Aren't Attracted to Me After Hearing Two Minutes of My Uninformed Blather About How Strong, Independent Women Are the Devil."

Simply put, this article contains so much misinformation, so many tired stereotypes, and such a high level of casual misogyny that I seriously combed the website that published it to make sure I wasn't being duped by an unusually convincing satire page. Nope, it's for reals, although it's the kind of website that puts up a poll like this one:

This makes the classic leading question
"Have you stopped beating your wife?" seem
nuanced in comparison.

Anyway, I'm just going to thoroughly trash all this guy's angry, creepy assertions about feminism and, really, women in general. Because after all, people who berate feminists are essentially publicly casting their vote for a feminine ideal that is submissive, weak, and inherently inferior.

By the way, at this point I don't give a damn if you agree with me or not. My dander is up, people. So up.

You guys. I think I finally found the tattoo I want.

Let's dig into this dude's clueless rant, shall we?

If you look for a reason to hate men, chances are you’re going to find it.
Boom. Opening line. The old "feminists hate men" canard. Truth bomb #1: Feminism has nothing to do with hating men. I suppose there are women who identify as feminists who "hate" men. But feminism didn't teach them that. Truth bomb #2: Feminism has NOTHING TO DO WITH MEN. It's about empowering women. Which includes not allowing men to make every damn thing about them. That's not how equality works.

Men’s Rights Activists have taken flight with a new philosophy called "Red Pill" which aims to point out how derogatory, hypocritical and vindictive third-wave feminists can be.
Ah, yes. "Men's Rights." The "All Lives Matter" of gender politics: Let's pretend that when people whose rights have been violated demand their rights, our rights have been violated EVEN WORSE. I wonder if feminists won't date you because you consider them derogatory, hypocritical, and vindictive. Naaaah, must be because we really are derogatory, hypocritical, and vindictive. Le sigh.

By the way, click on that Red Pill subreddit link at your own risk. It probably won't make you hate men, but it will make you question why angry, disrespectful tools are given free reign on the Internet.

Women are more likely to graduate college, they live longer, are less likely to die in the workplace, less likely to go to prison and extremely less likely to die in war-time combat.
All that sounds pretty pro-woman, right? Go Team She! Until you realize that this sentence is presented a evidence that "[the justice system] fails men." Again, these are all positives (with the exception of the combat statistic, because until earlier this year military women weren't allowed to have active combat roles), which have been turned into negatives because we're succeeding in all these areas for the sole purpose of emasculating men. Obviously women get no intrinsic reward from success; all that matters is outdoing those icky men.

It's soooooo obvious.

People who are more loyal to their gender and not their significant other don’t make good partners.
I have no clue what this even fucking means. "People"? Who the hell are these "people"? This person (who is a feminist, have I not made that clear?) is loyal to people who are intelligent, kind, supportive, and loving. Those traits are by no means exclusive to any gender identity. Neither is being shallow, bitter, and ass-faced dumb. By the way, the writer spends his entire article being "loyal" to his own gender. What's that about you "rejecting" feminists? Riiiiight.

It’s evident that gender politics is hurting our culture. More marriages are failing and women are reporting that they’re unhappier now than ever.

Oh, marriages are failing because of gender politics! Of course! It has nothing to do with both men and women repudiating the outdated notion that marriage is forever, no matter how miserable you are. Nothing to do with both men and women realizing that they can be independent and self-sustaining. Nothing at all to do with the fact that divorce rates have actually been steady-to-declining for years now, you lie-spreading asshole. And as for women being unhappier than ever? Speaking anecdotally, I'm a) happier than I've been in many years and b) recently divorced.

Maybe one day, men and women will stop trying to eliminate the lines between us and realize it’s the differences between the sexes that make romance, family and love an enjoyable experience.
And we finish with the classic fallback myth about feminists: That we want men and women to be the same. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I don't want us to be the same. I don't want to have a penis, and I sure as hell don't want Drummer Boy to have a vagina. I don't want to look like a man, talk like a man, pee like a man, because I'm not a man. I'm a woman. And I'm a feminist. And I love being with a man, in all his sweaty, ball-scratching glory. I love being with my man specifically, because he's an amazingly good person who happens to have naughty bits that complement mine. I think everyone deserves an amazingly good person with whom they're romantically and sexually compatible.

And I think no one should be with a hate-filled jackhole who blames an entire gender for his/her own feelings of insecurity and fear. Not cool, random writer of this ridiculous article.

Your mileage may vary. But this feminist thinks men and women who aren't complete assholes are awesome people.

The Haunted Dildo

This post is a bit different from my usual fare.

You've been warned.

I'm off the hook, legally.

So there's a difference between being in a committed relationship in your early 20s and being in a committed relationship in your late 40s.

It has to do with a) rabbits and b) fucking like same.

Googling "fucking like rabbits" yields surprisingly few
images of bunnies, FYI.

Let's just say that if I turned up pregnant right now, the Catholic Church would name a feast day after me.

But it's OK. I have a side piece.

It's eight inches long and takes two AA batteries.

What the hell were you thinking of?

Nah, it's exactly what you were thinking of. Oddly enough, I've never given my jittery friend a name, although I'm aware that's a thing. After all, Steely Dan was the name of a dildo before it was the name of a 70s alt-jazz-progressive-rock band.

I've never read it, either. I just get
the pop-culture reference.
I'm shallow that way.

Let's call mine Simon. For no reason. Seriously. Stop it.

Push all the buttons just right, and you win. LOL.

Don't pretend you don't have a Simon. Men, don't pretend your wife/girlfriend/sister doesn't have one. We don't pretend you don't have a hand and an Internet connection.

Anyway.

Tonight I was hanging out with Simon because I was otherwise by my lonesome.

Real talk, ladies...You know that sad sound when the batteries are running down? You know, when Simon's, uh, voice gets lower and slower, as if he has a cold or maybe is just in a really bad mood and doesn't feel like getting off the couch?

Yeah.

As a modern, independent, single woman of the 21st century, I make sure I keep a variety of batteries on hand. For the smoke alarm, the flashlights, and...friends. Like Simon. Who is just another Battery Operated-American struggling to reach his full potential.

I honorably discharged Simon's batteries and deployed two new AA soldiers who were sworn to Make Vibrating Great Again. It was a very moving ceremony. As in, I moved that shit right on in.

Here's the thing.

Right off the bat, when I pressed the "on" button, Simon began to talk in a very high-pitched voice. And very quickly. This manic babble was unfamiliar to me, but I chalked it up to the giddy newness of fresh batteries. Right?

What I'm talking about.

OK. But when I decided to give Simon and me a break, something strange happened. I pressed his power button and...nothing happened.

I couldn't stop my dildo from chattering. I pressed that button a half-dozen times, but his battery-powered electric monologue went on.

I was freaked out, you guys.

Just imagine that the ghost of Robin Williams
decided to inhabit your personal massager, ladies.

I removed one of the batteries, and Simon quieted down. But as soon as I put it back...drdrdrdrdrdrfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckdrdrdrdrdrdrdr.  Relentlessly.

It was like being with my ex, without the physical abuse.

OK, so...Simon happens to have another side. Specifically, another end, so as to be not a one-dimensional friend. And Simon II, as I'll call him, has a separate power button.

Not knowing how else to silence the manic sexual chattering of Simon I, I activated Simon II and his guttural, frankly frightening, two-headed chant. Then I pressed the button again.

Improbably...thankfully...both ends shut off.

I put Simon back in his room aka desk drawer.

I'm left with two possible explanations for this incident

One: My dildo is haunted.

Two: I can't even have a successful sexual experience with a piece of plastic that exists solely to give me a successful sexual experience.

I'm leaning toward ghosts, for obvious reasons.

If you're really sorry you read this...I understand.

I'm More Worried About Weird Bathroom Smell Than Cross-Dressing Predators, Thank You

Based on the latest social hysteria/political hay-maker, I present the following.

**********

What I Worry About When Using a Public Restroom:

1. Is there a line?

2. Eww, what's that smell?

3. What if the lock on the stall won't close?

4. Is there a hook for my purse or do I have to put it on the gross floor?

5. Did the last person leave something nasty in the bowl?

6. Is there toilet paper?

7. Can everyone smell what I just did?

8. What if the lock on the stall won't open?

9. Will my hair look terrible when I check it in the mirror?

10. Does this place only have the stupid air dryers that never actually get your hands dry so you end up wiping the last bit of wetness on your pants and hoping it doesn't leave a big wet spot as you walk out?

**********

What I Don't Worry About When Using a Public Restroom:

OMG, is that woman actually a male sexual predator cleverly disguised as a lady so that he might attack me, assuming this freaking restroom will ever be empty save for me and him and also that I wouldn't simply grab one of his pumps and fucking beat him senseless with it or that no one else would enter while he's trying to overpower me while wearing a dress, because have you ever tried to do anything physically demanding in a dress, it's nearly impossible, and any female in reasonable physical condition could overpower a dipshit would-be rapist wearing women's clothes simply by kneeing him in the groin and running away because we're talking a public restroom, not the fucking Matrix, you know?

**********

Lawmakers: Please work on improving our schools and our roads and our health care. Stop making laws that hurt the 700,000-1,000,000 transgender people in our country, who are waaaaaay disproportionately and unfairly targeted by discriminatory legislation of late. They don't want to  molest your women. You're thinking of sexual predators. And it's already illegal for them to do what they do.

Stop making laws that blatantly curry the favor of one segment of the population over another. That's not American. It's a dick move.

And stop worrying about transgender people. As a community, they have a ton of concerns, and you are not helping with any of them. So go away.

I'm going to pick up a few things at Target now. I'm worried they might not have half-gallons of 2% milk in stock (those seem to sell out very quickly - what up, Target?). I'm not worried about who might enter the ladies' room on the off chance that I have to use it while I'm there.

See ya later.

America, Random Sex Toy Edition

This happened last night.

I picked up Precocious Daughter from school, and we drove home. Walking from the parking garage to our apartment, I spotted something in the hallway several feet away. When we got close to it, we saw this.

My cell phone takes pretty crappy pictures, so let me explain. This is a red, white, and blue lei on top of a pair of apparently genuine handcuffs. Just a-sittin' there in the hallway.

And of course I took a picture of it, because when you live in some frankly fairly swanky apartments and  a lei and a set of handcuffs randomly appear in the hallway, that's what you're gonna do.

But that's not all. About 20 steps farther on, we came upon this.

And my cell phone takes really crappy pictures, so let me explain that this is a pair of lime green fuzzy bunny ears. Also just chilling in the corridor leading to my apartment as if that is what one does when one is a pair of lime green fuzzy bunny ears.

Next to the bunny ears was a sort of wet spot, which PDaughter and I frankly refused to contemplate as we made our way to our apartment (and immediately locked the door behind us).

So there are probably a million reasonable explanations for the appearance of these unusual items in the hallway of my apartment building, right?

The most reasonable being that someone had recently enjoyed a very patriotic and festive sex party on my floor.

Or that the significant other of someone had walked in on said orgy and thrown their party favors into the hallway in a rather dramatic show of disapproval of such shenanigans.

But I have another theory.

I'd like to think that somewhere in my apartment complex is a person (I'm picturing someone who resembles Uncle Fester from The Addams Family, only with self-esteem issues) who possessed a rather large and eclectic collection of erotic aids for the enjoyment of his particular social circle.

But yesterday he got out of bed and thought, "You know what? Donald Trump is right. We need to Make America Great Again! And we need to start by not having wild sex parties featuring provocative naughty props, which might for all we know attract undocumented transgender abortionist welfare mothers. God Bless America, Amen!"

And I'd like to think that this true American then gathered up an enormous armload of handcuffs, leis, bunny ears, fleshlights, edible undies, and whatever else he had lying around to throw down the trash chute of righteousness into the compactor of true patriotism.

But of course, under the weight of dozens of ropes and ball gags and copies of the Dallas Observer, he inevitably dropped a few items as he made his way down the hall. And rather than give special attention to those few things, he pressed on, because America is not a nation that caters to the one percent.

And he righteously dumped his load of hedonistic pleasures into the trash, feeling - very Americanly - that getting rid of part of the problem was very much the same as getting rid of all of the problem, as long as you pretended the rest of the problem didn't exist. He bet that Bill Clinton felt the same way when he all but abolished welfare in the 1990s.

Anway, this American hero dropped a lei, a set of handcuffs, and a pair of fuzzy bunny ears along the way, and I took pictures of them.

If PDaughter hadn't been there, I totally would have snagged the handcuffs and stashed them away for future possibilities. Just saying.

Making America Great Again starts with exercising our rights. Remember that the next time someone wants to play The Easter Bunny Does Bondage in Hawaii.

God Bless America.

Goldfish May Have Been a Better Choice. Just Kidding. But Still.

I vividly remember the moment I discovered that the baby I was carrying inside me was a girl-baby.

Until that moment, I had always thought I wanted a boy, and only a boy.

But as soon as I found out I was having a girl, I couldn't imagine having - or wanting - anything else.

My baby was a girl. And all I wanted was to have a happy, healthy girl.

The implications of raising a female in the 21st century were totes lost on me, yeah. You don't think of that stuff when you're fighting massive peanut butter cravings and watching your feet swell to Flintstone size day by day.

Life is all about priorities. Don't ever forget that.

Be that as it may, I gave birth to a daughter. She has been, overwhelmingly, happy and healthy. My Precocious Daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to me, bar none.

Dear God: What the fuck? How do I even deserve this? Thanks and all, but...shit.

Now PDaughter is nearly 16. She's a straight-A student, she's a marching-band nerd, she's dealing with her parents' divorce with incredible grace, and she just celebrated a one-year anniversary with her very first boyfriend, who is an awesome kid from a great family.

And they're having sex.

Her father is livid. His grandmother, with whom he lives, is livid. I'm...uncomfortable? Because we did talk about it beforehand. Although I wish she had gotten on the Pill BEFORE becoming sexually active, I at least know she knew she could talk to me about such matters. Even if, you know, she didn't when push came to shove.

I remember the moment I went from being a virgin to being not a virgin. I get it. "Control" is not a word that necessarily applies in that moment.

I don't think her dad, or his grandparents (with whom he lives), understand. I'll let them come to their own conclusions and try my best to support them.

I just want these kids to be happy and healthy and not completely messed up by their families.

There's some personal stuff bound up in that, of course.

I just want the plumbing to work.

Am I Right or Am I Wrong?

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that making birth control pills available at no cost was an integral part of the Affordable Care Act aka Obamacare.

Something about Rush Limbaugh literally not understanding
how human reproduction works, right?

But at the time all of that was going on, I wasn't exactly thinking about affordable oral contraception. Back in the halcyon days of 2012, I was more worried about keeping my job, wondering whether the recession would ever truly be over, and pondering the state of my marriage than about the Pill, which I hadn't taken in many years at that point.

Also, way back then, I had the luxury of not having to contemplate the time when my Precocious Daughter would become sexually active. She was 12, and still into Pokemon, and laughed uncomfortably at the notion of being interested in boys.

So yeah. The cost of birth control: not on my radar.

Nope, no daily dose of hormones here.

But of course, that was then, this is now. Yesterday PDaughter got some horse pills to treat her UTI, and a little packet of pills to treat her, um, lack of desire to get pregnant while still in high school.

Remarkably, it treats the identical desire
in me, and I don't even have to take them.

Today I admitted to her that I have little recollection of when and how to use birth control pills, because I'm pre-menopausal and have cleared out that section of my brain to store more fear about when I'll be able to retire. I did remember enough to explain to her why she needs to take the row of beige pills, even though they contain no pregnancy-fighting hormones, so that she doesn't forget when to take the pink pills that actually block her baby-making glandular secretions.

It was actually her dad who took her to the drugstore to pick up her combination of meds, which I'm sure was terribly difficult for him, so kudos to him for not driving his car off the road on the way to the pharmacy drive-through. When I saw her today (her weekends with Dad run from Sunday afternoon to Tuesday morning), I had my first opportunity to ask PDaughter what the prescriptions cost.

The antibiotic: $1.86. Thank you, generics.

The birth control pills: Zero. Zilch. Nada. THANKS, OBAMA.

Hey, he's got two teenage daughters. Michelle herself
probably whispers "Thanks, Obama" into his ear
every night.

By the way, I welcome any and all debate on the wisdom of willingly and openly putting my 15-year-old daughter on birth control. Pro or con, I'd love to hear your opinion of my parenting skills based on this.

It boils down to this: I'm raising a young woman to be a strong, independent, productive member of society, and I'm doing what I think is necessary to ensure she becomes just that, without being deprived of opportunities or choices as to her future.

And I'm freaking thrilled that President Obama has helped me do it without financial hardship.

Disagree or agree as you wish.

I'm a realist. And a devoted mom. And a voter. And I act according to my principles in all these areas.

Am I right or am I wrong?

Life, Today

Oh, Drunkards.

The FOURTH contract on my house just fell through. My house has attracted every goddamn flaky buyer and realtor in North Texas. WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? JUST BUY THE FUCKING HOUSE.

My dad has sent me a bit of money to help tide me over until the stupid house finally sells. Also, he sent me a TEXT MESSAGE to let me know he has cancer.

Sure, why not?

My Precocious Daughter has a urinary tract infection, because she promised to tell me when she was going to become sexually active but didn't.

My almost-ex keeps calling me to pour out his heart and troubled soul, using the word "disaster" despite my explicit prohibition on that word. I have my own fucking problems, and having to listen to your problems is one problem I thought I was free of.

Also, he's selling some antique furniture he owns for a pretty penny, yet still wants me to know that he's in dire financial straits. Because let's make everything my fault until the end of time.

In conclusion: My dad has cancer. My daughter is having sex and getting infections. My spouse is using me as his emotional sounding board despite the fact that we are no longer a couple.

Oh, and I'm making $19 an article to write for an online magazine.

So it all evens out, right?

PLEASE you guys, tell me something that is going utterly right in your life. I need to hear it.

Finger on the Trigger

Note: There will be no illustrations accompanying this post. Use your imagination.

So I am a huge throbbing supporter of the #cocksnotglocks movement started by UT student Jessica Jin.

In case you missed it, Ms. Jin is calling for women (I mean, I guess men can also participate? Sure, why not, let's get the guys involved in this) to openly carry dildos on the Austin campus in response to the Texas law that will make concealed handgun carry legal at state universities.

Austin being Austin, i.e. a refreshing oasis of weirdness in a state that is otherwise utterly without a sense of humor about itself, the movement has gained considerable momentum, with thousands indicating they will pack their finest sex toys in solidarity.

Of course, Texas being Texas, i.e. a state so ridiculously backwards that "South Park" can't even find a way to satirize it, Campus (DILDO) Carry has come under attack by the very people who prove that a lot of mentally unstable assholes own guns.

I've read a number of the thoughtful, reasoned comments left on the group's Facebook page, all of which I'm sure were intended to provoke a productive dialogue on gun laws and social mores. For your benefit, I've summarized them all here:

"Y'all liberal sluts who can't get a man y'all cunts gonna get raped and wish you had a gun [incorrect form of "their"] Texas Jesus guns liberal skanks [incorrect form of "your"] *spits*"

I'm paraphrasing, of course.

If I haven't said it before, I'll say it right now: I know a lot of people who own guns. Never once has any of them pulled one out and pointed it at me "in fun," or cleaned it while my kid was visiting, or gotten in my face about my personal dislike of guns, or said "Hold my beer and watch this." I know a lot of responsible gun owners, is what I'm saying.

And I'm fairly confident that at least a few of them support concealed campus carry, which will take effect in August 2016. I vehemently oppose it, yet none of my gun-owning friends and acquaintances have called me out as a slut or wished violent crime to befall me because of our conflicting opinions. Not to my face, anyway. I'm sure people say all kinds of shit about me behind my back. I would, if I knew me.

I would never say that all gun owners are angry, misogynistic rednecks. I will say that angry, misogynistic rednecks appear to comprise a sizable subset of gun owners who feel a need to attack a viewpoint they don't agree with. I will also say that these trolling haters generally possess a third-grade command of the English language, which means they will struggle to persuade anyone whose own level of literacy is a notch or 15 higher. (Translation: You sound like a dumbass, bruh.)

Bottom line: I think the idea of carrying dildos on campus is hilarious. Let's find out who thinks sex is obscene but public shootouts are the 'Murican way. Let's talk about which device trades in fear and anger and which is all about smiles and fun.

I think such a discussion would separate the men from the boys pretty quickly.

Let's Do This

Here are some random things!

The photographer came to shoot the house today, and the pictures look amazing. Like, "that totally isn't my house, your camera is possessed by demons" amazing. Did I have an anxiety attack? Actually, I managed to keep my shit mostly together. Possibly I muttered under my breath and wrung my hands when Anderson was out of the room. But for the most part I kept myself in check.

Namaste, bitches.

Then Anderson told me what price he wanted to list the house at. At what price he wanted to list the house. Whatever.

Wait...do crabs have teeth?!?

Turns out demand is high, inventory is low, and people are throwing big piles of money at houses. Basically, if I get an offer that is insultingly low compared to the listing price, I will still clean the fuck up.

And then, at long last, I can shut up about selling my house. You're welcome.

Next up: Precocious Daughter thinks she's hilarious.

Hilarious and adorable. Yep, pretty much.

We were driving home from the store, and the lane we were in suddenly ground to a near-halt. Which was strange, since traffic overall wasn't heavy, and there didn't seem to be an accident or police activity up ahead. 

Turns out some random dude in a pickup truck was pulling a speedboat, and he decided it was imperative that he drive 20 mph with his flashers on.

How annoying.

Joaquin Phoenix speaks for me.

I expressed my annoyance out loud, and PDaughter said, "Well, it is a big boat."

And I said - because I have no filters - "You know what they say about guys with big boats."

And PDaughter shot back, "Big boats, big docks."

My jaw dropped as she cracked up. And lest I think she had just made a silly innocent quip, she added, "Man, that joke has layers."

Did my sweet little girl just make a dick and/or vagina joke? I think she did.

But...but...but...

And of course I had to laugh on the inside, because I'm the mom. 

Still...hehehe.

Next: I'm listening to one of my very favorite albums, Gerry Rafferty's City to City.

Yes, it's the album that has "Baker Street" on it. And "Baker Street" is one of my top five favoritest songs ever. But every single track on this album makes me deeply happy. And there aren't many albums that can do that.

What albums do that for you? I want to know.

Finally: Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

I'll spare you the re-creation.

This has been random things.

OK, I have to get up early tomorrow. Good night, Drunkards.

Namaste and whatnot.