Aging gracefully

Since Zeeb went and let the old birthday swan out of the bag, yep, it's meh berfday.

However I've been lying about my age for so long now, I had to get out the calculator this morning to figure out which birthday it was. I discovered I am a full four years younger than I thought; what a nice present. See, I've always lied about being older. It started at fifteen, and having to memorize the name, address, and birth-date from my fake ID so I could pass the interrogations of correctly suspicious bouncers. But I kept it going, and boy has it payed off. Tell people you're five years younger than you are, and you'reng yourself up to all kinds of tongue wagging about how you haven't aged well. But add five years? Or more? Trust me, you'll get tired of hearing how great you look, what great shape your in, and the advances from little hipsters twenty years your junior looking to catch the older woman, yet-so-hot-for-her-age train.

It's a real esteem booster, let me tell ya. Just don't add too many years. Then everyone will gossip about what kind of (and how much) "work" you've had done.

Thanks for Asking!

To the person named Cein who wrote expressing confusion about the above graphical image:

I started blogging because I'm too poor to visit a therapist. And trust me, I need one. I'm sure you know of what I speak, judging how your letter, well, quite frankly screamed "anger issues".

However for those of us too poor to afford mental health care administered by a certified, trained professional, there is still an alternative--The Bartender. The only person on earth who--for the measly price of a cup of hooch--will attentively listen to you blather on about whatever nonsense consumes your stupid, meager existence. And nod like they give a shit even! But most importantly, strictly adhere to the barkeep's code of ethics to never utter your secrets to another living soul. Until you sleep with them, and then you've got to find another bartender to listen to your stories about your stupid affair with a bartender who blabbed your business all about town. (Lesson: do not sleep with your therapist bartender.)

So you see, since my blog is a form of therapy, and the only decent therapy available to the drunk and impoverished (coincidence? hmmm) is the bartender, the above graphic is a representation of that. There is the woman, me, sitting at the bar, buying drinks and going on and on and on (in posts such as this), looking over at you, the bartender, who is compelled to listen as long as I keep my glass full. I've never taken an art class or anything, but the way I drew the bar in what I think is called "perspective" it's supposed to convey that you are the bartender/therapist, and I am the customer/patient.

So that's it Cein! And Thanks For Asking!

I give you...Thanks For Asking!

This blog gets some strange email. Not just the stuff from fancy-pants literary types all in a snit over how I brutalize the English language with such abandon. Or their cousins, the punctuation police. Man, they're a testy bunch. I feel sorry for the writerly folks who find this blog. I do! Poor things...sitting in a coffee shop somewhere...laptop on the table next to their latte...smoke coming out of their ears because they happened to follow a link to my diary--and then had to be subjected to a sentence like this. Because, god, if you actually know how to use commas and dashes and ellipses and stuff, it's gotta be like nails dragging down a chalkboard. I can identify. I can't watch the house porn shows that set the home-owner amateurs loose to paint a room. *shudder*

Anyway those letters, though annoying, aren't strange. I'm talking about letters that, how do I explain?...there is no way to tell if the person is serious. If the person even exists. My bullshit detectors say the whole thing is a joke, that they're just being mean and fucking with me--but I'm never 100% sure. For instance, after a post I wrote going into great detail about our crazy ex-landlord, I received an email that said, in part: "...maybe you move up to new house and then you and fellow get married and he pay with your father."

Um. Okay. Now...could be someone mocking my situation, and the thick Russian accent of our former landlord (which I explained in detail), and the whole of feminism. Or it could be a well-meaning, albeit crazy and stupid person for whom English is a second language. I harbor no ill will toward stupid, crazy people, and have just slightest grasp of English myself, so I'd like to answer that person's email and thank them for their concern over my situation; if in fact they exist. But then, you don't want to play into the hands of a prankster either...what to do? What to do? Because contrary to what my potty-mouth and coarseness might lead you to believe, I'm actually a loving and gentle person. Bosom all filled with the milk of human kindness and such. Well, as much kindness milk an A-cup can hold.

So, I'll answer them here. They found me here, they can read their answer here. I won't post their emails...but think of it as part of the fun. A mystery.

Thus, I bring you...Thanks For Asking! Pay attention if you've written me a weird letter. If not, just go about your business. Or write me a stupid letter, whatever.

Momma don't let your babies grow up to be fuckwads

It does not surprise me that our politically motivated FDA would nix approval of an over-the-counter contraceptive without a lick of research, without so much as a fucking peek at the application; that's no big shock.

The surprise for me is WHY this drug?

I mean, we progressive-type lefty leaners understand the pro-life agenda against termination, both procedural and pharmaceutical. We don't agree with them, but we get their point. Because see--we're not huge fans of abortion either. No, it's true. Grab the first pro-choice person you see, and ask. Not one of them, not a single one will say they are PRO abortion. We simply feel it should be a legal option for women who--for a number of often times grizzly reasons--find themselves faced with an unwanted pregnancy. Which is why lots of smart people think it's a good idea to have safe, effective products readily available so one might NEVER GET PREGNANT IN THE FIRST PLACE! Because contrary to popular belief, we pro-choicers don't want to have abortions just as much as the pro-lifers don't want us to have them. Hard to believe, but true.

So what's their problem with Plan B? It's no more an abortion pill than a condom is a coat hanger; it's an emergency contraceptive that--if taken as soon as possible after intercourse--makes it 89% certain conception will not occur. Furthermore, it won't cause an evacuation of the uterus if you are already pregnant. So you couldn't use it for an at-home abortion even if you wanted to.

Now help me out here...doesn't that sound like a Godsend to the life/choice debate? If their problem with abortion is that it stops a fetus from becoming a viable human life, and the problem with morning after drugs like RU-486 is that it stops the chemical reaction that might eventually become a fetus that could become a human life (since life begins at conception); is the problem with Plan B that it stops an egg from being fertilized? Is the whole fucking PROCESS now sacrosanct? Oh, duh. What am I saying.

I have been stewing over the glut of blatantly Christian agendas all day--as I do whenever I read any of the horseshit coming out of Washington--and I continue to be amazed at their success...all the while evoking the intentions of the Founding Fathers...who came here to get away from religious persecution. My hope is that it'll backfire: if they get rid of pro-active, non-abortive contraception, and get rid of our rights to terminate unwanted pregnancy, it will leave only one option for 100% effective birth control: gay sex. Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it. I hear it's even all the rage with the anti-contraceptive, anti-abortion Christian set.