Baby Feelings: Prepare To Laugh Your Tail Off

Sometimes I think I might change my mind and want a baby. It’s usually less the desire to nurture a human life and more the terror that the decision I made long ago to remain childfree is a mistake and I would be much happier choosing the crab cakes…I mean, having children. The thing is, I make terrible choices. I always order the wrong food and hate it, I stay up until 4 a.m. for no good reason even when I have work the next morning, and one time I got offered this opportunity for a  book deal, but I said no because I was too depressed and scared. So why should I trust myself not to turn 45 and be like, “OH FUCK” when I realize it’s too late? Probably because I don’t really like physically caring for anyone who isn’t a dog and having conversations with people I can’t swear with or have to humor in any way is a fucking CHORE for me (another reason I don’t have a career, btw). I never liked being around kids, even when I was one. That being said, I’m having weird baby feelings right now, most likely due to the fact that Joe and I have wedding fever and being in love makes you an idiot, my hormones have been going crazy recently, and pretty much all of my straight friends have babies or are pregnant. I think I feel sort of left out, which is no reason to have a baby, obviously, but I haven’t actually heard a compelling reason I personally should have one from the handful of people who think I should. Anyway, I decided to seek affirmation of my childfree lifestyle choice from the forum of a childfree website. I was happily reading the thoughts of fellow non-babymakers when something just started to feel not right. I began to notice a theme in many of their stories and profile pictures, something fishy, if you will. Then I looked at the sidebar and saw ad for:

 

Targeted advertising, eh? No. Nope. Nuh-uh. No way. That’s it, I’m having kids.

 

 

Heart Attacks, Healthcare, & The Time I Did Meth

According to this video, I am currently and am always having a heart attack.

This is terribly unfortunate because I was recently denied health insurance on the basis of my weight. I had a stronger emotional reaction to this rejection than I expected, partially because I never actually expected to be denied. I’m (relatively) young at 31, have no serious health problems, no penchant for cliff diving or anything risky or edgy at this point, and I don’t plan on doing anything expensive like getting pregnant EVER (which should be covered anyway, in my opinion, but just sayin’). If I’m feeling the symptoms in the video above, it is due to anxiety, which can obviously affect one’s health negatively in the long run, and I thought I could do something good for myself by seeking insurance coverage for my minor (by comparison) issues with that. I thought I was being smart and a good person by not lying about my weight (sorry about that, Driver’s License), but now it feels like I’m being punished.

Usually when the subject of obesity comes up among civil folks, two camps quickly form: those who advocate for size acceptance no matter what and those who are quick to inform everyone that they don’t hate fat people, it’s just that they are worried about us because we are probably going to drop dead at any second and are pretty much stealing the money directly out of everyone’s pockets with our expensive diseases (aka concern trolls). The issue of fat and health and whether or not the two can coexist has been debated at length and quite frankly I don’t want anything to do with it. I cannot stand it when people use concern as an excuse to shame fat people (that’s what it comes down to, pure and simple), but I’m also not a doctor or someone that likes reading doctor-y statistics, so whatever. I can only go by my own history of physical and emotional health as a fat person with a lifetime of baggage because of external and internal fat phobia. I struggle constantly with the disconnect of how I logically feel about body acceptance, my personal struggle with internalized fat phobia and low self-esteem, and my health issues and fears. The majority of past posts on this blog were written when I was at a much lower weight than I am now but starting to gain it back. When I was going through the archives recently, adding tags and such, I was kind of surprised and ashamed at just how much I talked about my weight and how I was absolutely planning on “starting a new diet asap.” I guess some parts were supposed to be funny and in-step with the whole Failure schtick, but reading now it feels embarrassing on two very different levels: 1) because I never want to feed into my own or others’ insecurities and body fixation/shame and 2) because I never did go on that diet. See what I mean about the disconnect?

Anyway, I thought it might be interesting to write briefly (HAHA) about a few of my adventures in trying to lose weight.

Shame
I never forget I’m fat. I mean, how could I? It’s a constant focus within and by the world around me. Sometimes it seems like my (thin) friends forget I’m fat, though. Surely that could be the only explanation for someone having the audacity to inform me, breathlessly, mouth curled in disgust, how “omg sooo FAT” so-in-so has gotten, or showing me FatBooth pictures (that app has thankfully fallen from popularity, but one remembers these things when an acquaintance was so genuinely horrified by what she would look like fat that she nearly cried), or posting Instagram shots of oozing burgers, decimated pans of brownies, or sometimes even just a regular plate of food with the caption “Uh oh, my inner fat kid is coming out!” or “Being a fat girl again” or (my favorite) simply, “I’m so fat!” My own “inner fat kid” comes out every day when I get out of bed as my outer fat woman, a person who is haunted by past ridicule and is subjected to very real prejudice in the world. For the record, my inner and outer fat persons are not particularly partial to burgers or sweet treats and are resentful at the suggestion that only fat people eat a certain way or at all and thin people don’t. I shouldn’t have to feel ashamed for nourishing my body. I’m not that sensitive when it comes to jokes and I have one of the most off-color senses of humor, but shit like this wears me down after a while. How many “Oh, I wasn’t talking about YOU”s can a person accept in their lifetime? I cannot pretend that when you, even unintentionally, say cruel or hurtful things about fat people, you aren’t talking about a fat person “like me.” You are. I’m fat. That being said, I am obviously not free of fat phobia. My own internalized fat phobia does some pretty impressive contortionist moves. I don’t hate fat people, just myself. I love the fat positive movement, but I could never be that. Wow, she sure is brave to eat that in public where everyone is watching and judging her. I want another serving, but I know what people will think. I just love how hot Beth Ditto looks on stage when she takes her clothes off, but I could never do that, my body is disgusting. All of my fat friends are prettier than me, which is why they can pull it off. It never ends, and yes, it is as painful and tiring as it sounds. All of this shame is something I’ve tried to use as motivation in the past to try to lose weight, and it just does not work. It leads to deeper patterns of despair, desperation, and negative behavior.

“Diets”
I won’t bore you with all 20+ stories of me trying to beat (and measure and count and blend) my weight into submission using Weight Watchers, Slimfast, etc., starting from about six years old. The main thing using Slimfast taught me was that there is no way a shake is a full meal for me and that adding a banana to one of their chocolate shakes, while counter-productive, is damn delicious and banana+chocolate is the dream team. All I really ever got out of Weight Watchers was the terror of being dragged there by my mother and weighed in public each week and probably, deep in storage somewhere, several vintage sets of measuring cups, kitchen scales, and books emblazoned with the WW logo. Today Jennifer Hudson wails at me from my tv to say that if I want it, I’ve got it, I’ve gotta believe, believe in myselllllffff. I wish I could tell her that one of the main reasons I DON’T believe is that I DID believe on and off throughout the 90s and yet here we are. Oh well.

Diet Pills/Meth
Seriously. Meth. Okay, sort of. When I was in high school my group of friends and I met a group of older kids, Caltech students, and started hanging out with them. We found out that the school actually has a not-so-secret reputation for its wild parties. Apparently extreme science nerds need to cut loose somehow, and that somehow was with booze, weed, ecstasy, GHB, meth, and K. Someone told me they used their superbrains to make their own drugs sometimes, but I don’t know if I believe that. I do know that there was a hollowed-out electrical box in the wall of one of the dorms containing piles of condoms and clean needles, among other goodies. I never got down with any needles, but I was curious and self-destructive enough to try just about anything when the creepy ringleader dude gave my friend and I a tiny baggie of speed one afternoon. We took our first ever nostril-burning rails in our Catholic school uniforms as he stared lecherously, leaning back on his bed. It was totally weird because he obviously expected something other than money in return, so we got out of there fast. I remember feeling slightly euphoric for literally about four minutes and then feeling my emotions come crashing down as I walked along the sidewalk, wishing it would open up and take me inside. When we got home we put on a movie in an attempt to chill out, but I could not relax, laugh, or even smile. The movie was There’s Something About Mary, and to this day I don’t know if it was any good. I mean, I highly doubt it because I don’t find Ben Stiller very funny, and is the main gag seriously semen as hair gel? But it WAS sort of a 90s classic, never the less, and now I’ll never be able to appreciate it. We stayed up all night until the little baggie was gone, trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to ward off the terrible feeling of coming down. We talked in circles about everything awful under the sun and moon and damn near made a suicide pact. Somehow we made it through to the next morning when my mom picked me up and I’m seriously glad I can’t really remember that awkward car ride. Just before I finally fell asleep late the next afternoon, after trying to force myself to eat a piece of bread that tasted like poison in my mouth, my friend and I swore to each other in whispers on the phone that we would NEVER EVER try speed again. I hadn’t tried it to lose weight, just out of teenage curiosity, but fast forward a few years later and I was trying a diet pill for the first time, the original formula of Metabolife, which was packed with ephedra (a powerful stimulant which has since been banned by the FDA). I pretty much had a meth flashback and a total meltdown, so no, it didn’t help me lose weight, because I was only able to take it once. I had hoped it would give me energy and cut my appetite, but instead it just made me jittery and depressed. If you know me, you know if I drink even one cup of coffee I start having racing thoughts, pacing back and forth, and being generally intolerable. This “energy boost” doesn’t help me get stuff done or concentrate or feel invigorated. I’ve since tried caffeine-based diet pills and they have a similar effect. It doesn’t really suppress my appetite much, but even if it did (like meth and the amphetamine diet pills that some doctors still prescribe) it wouldn’t work for me because I hate that speedy feeling. I know a lot of people love it, but we all know that real speed and fake speed and even excessive amounts of caffeine can be just as terrible as or much worse for your body (speaking of heart attacks) than being fat, so there goes that method of weight loss.

The Not-So-Healthy Diet and Exercise Plan
Several years ago I tried to go on The South Beach Diet but failed to lose even one pound or inch, despite the fact that I had followed it strictly for over a month. I had healthcare at the time and went to the doctor to be like WTF and was tested and diagnosed with PCOS. It had been so hard to lose weight even when I was genuinely trying my whole life that it was in some ways a relief to be diagnosed with PCOS, a disease that makes weight loss more difficult, among other symptoms. The thing is, even though it’s harder to lose weight, weight loss can help alleviate some of the other symptoms. I began a strict regimen of birth control pills, anti-androgen meds, generic metformin (a diabetes drug that can be helpful to some PCOS patients, but has several unpleasant side effects), exercise, and an extreme low-carb diet (as in not even fruit for the first month) all under a doctor’s care at first. Eventually I did start to lose weight, but I wasn’t exactly at my healthiest. I lost my health insurance through my mom and was no longer seeing a doctor. I was newly living away from home and was hanging out with two thin girls who were both very concerned about their weight, and we talked about it constantly, obsessively. I was getting thinner and thinner for me, but never “thin enough.” There were days I cheated on my diet and ate whatever I wanted, weeks I ate salads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and times where I wouldn’t consume much at all other than vodka sodas (low in carbs, you see) when I went out at night. I had a job where I was constantly moving and on my feet in addition to taking daily walks and spending feverish nights on the dance floor. I was such a hot mid-20s mess that I rarely remembered to take my medications then finally stopped altogether. For me, losing weight was a FULL TIME commitment and lifestyle change that had started for health reasons, but that was never the real issue. I wanted to feel better about how I looked and be more accepted, and people did treat me better, sadly, but it was never enough. I never got skinny, I never felt like I looked as good as my friends in clothes, I still hated my body, I still hated myself, inside and out. And I certainly wasn’t being healthy about it after the first few months, skipping meals because I was too busy and going out every night, not dealing with my real problems. I think people who find it easy to moderately difficult to maintain a certain weight really don’t understand that when they say “why don’t you just lose weight?” to someone like me, they are essentially saying “why don’t you devote just about every waking moment to looking a certain way and being my and society’s definition of beautiful and healthy?” I mean, I kind of feel like no one should be getting in anyone’s body business like that anyway, but it is particularly annoying to me as someone who has a condition that makes weight loss extra difficult.

So, this is where I’m at now. I feel defiant, like going on a diet and exercise plan would be me bending to society’s will. I don’t want to be shamed or bullied into doing something that could potentially be healthy for me, and losing weight definitely isn’t the answer for everyone’s health. It sure wasn’t the answer to my biggest problem, which was my absent sense of self-worth. I do want to make steps to avoid certain health pitfalls I know may be prone to because of my history. I feel like this time I could be trusted to do things right and for mostly the right reasons, but I keep going back and forth. Attempting to get insured was a big step for me, but we know how that ended up. It feels extra hurtful and crazy that I would need to lose weight to get health insurance but getting health insurance could be one of my best shots at losing weight, if that’s what I decide to do.

Ugh. Is it Obamacare yet?

The Failure Princess Reboot (there’s a shoe tie-in pun here, but let’s not)

I’ve been trying to think of a way to reintroduce this blog without having to admit that I’ve been a lazy asshole full of half-baked ideas, but in the spirit of lazy assholes with half-baked ideas, nothing is coming to me.

In the meantime I’ve been going through all of my old posts adding tags and cleaning up egregious spelling and grammar errors as much as possible, save for stylistic choices such as all lowercase letters and perhaps overly-liberal sprinklings of “duh”s “lol”s and “wtf”s. Not that I don’t still believe in the power of a well-placed lol, of course. I began the oh-so-poetic habit of using only lowercase letters in my writing sometime in my early teen years and had to train myself to write with proper caps when I started writing and editing professionally, which was a big step… Yup, and someday I will learn to tie my shoes properly without using double bunny ears and you’ll be the first to know.

Anyway, I’ve been writing professionally since around 2008 when I thought I’d found my dream job, but I was either wrong about that or somehow managed to fuck it up. Both are entirely possible within in the Failure realm. In any event, I do some freelance work now but am mostly unemployed. My person/boyfriend/partner/girlfriend and I will have been together for five years in October (July, really) and we are still sickeningly in love. This kind of sickening, life-affirming love and devotion is contrary to everything I stand for, but seeing as I regularly stand for being contrary, it works out! I have a Pomeranian and am a total crazy dog lady now. Remember when I was a cat person!? My former cat love was a weird thing I “discovered” while going through this blog, in addition to the fact that for some odd reason I used to spell catalog as “catalogue” and hooray as “hurray”, neither of which is incorrect, per se, but odd because I don’t know where I picked up those spellings or when exactly I dropped them.

Also, did I mention I am 31-years-old and live at home with my mother? I guess we can just get that out of the way and I should warn you that it’s actually no fun to judge or mock me for it because I do a damn fine job of that on my own. I’m not saying I’m funnier than you, but I have a lot more material to work with, and I promise I’ll lay myself bare for your entertainment, as always.

Actually, to be perfectly honest, I feel a bit guarded right now. I recently had an unpleasant exchange with a former friend (I threw the first punch, full disclosure, but she brought a gun to a text fight) wherein I was verbally assaulted with many of the same failures and shortcomings I tear myself down for internally but also find humor in. Making fun of myself and complaining about my “shitty life” has always been a coping mechanism, an art form, hell, even a pleasure of mine, but hearing someone else say the same fucked-up things that I think about myself then turn into jokes — only minus the joking part — kind of made me want to be nice to myself instead and not give them any more ammunition. I don’t know, I guess it just doesn’t feel that funny to be self-deprecating right now. I wrestled with the idea of using this blog to write in again partially for that very reason. I mean, do I even fit into the same cement shoes I did when I started writing as the Failure Princess? And what exactly is “failure”? I don’t have a job, any money, a living space of my own, a formal education, self-confidence, any sense of self-worth whatsoever… but I do have an amazing relationship, a wonderful dog, the kind of happiness I did not think was possible for someone like me, and all kinds of good things that are not that funny to write about. Luckily I also still have loads of good stories, a lot of opinions, and a taste for cheap booze, so we should be fine. Amanda: Failure Princess is alive and well.

These days, I don’t think those cement shoes exactly fit me anymore. I still carry them around with me though, like a party girl on a walk of shame, and maybe I always will. But maybe I won’t.

On the death of my grandfather

I have a mole on the side of my body, right between my right breast and armpit. It used to look like most of my other moles, small, flat, and brown, but it looks different now, and I’m kind of freaking out about it. Not because I’m scared it’s cancerous or anything like that, but because this mole is special, as my grandpa, Poppo, had the exact same mole in the exact same spot.

For those of you who follow this blog, but don’t know me in real life, my Poppo died at the end of this past December. If you do know me or read me, then you’ll know that this has been a devastating, however expected, loss. I won’t go into everything again (you can read more about him here and here) but he co-raised me and we were very close when I was growing up. For over a decade before he died, he suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease. In the end he didn’t really remember any of us except my grandmother, and he lived full-time in a special home for people with memory loss.

A lot of people aren’t close to their grandparents, so they don’t really get it, and they say or want me to say that he was like a father to me, but it wasn’t exactly like that. I never had a father, so I wouldn’t know what that means. Poppo was my best friend and one of the only people who has ever made me feel completely safe and loved. Years ago a sentence like that would have never appeared in my writing, because feeling safe and loved is not funny, or really very interesting as far as the big story goes, but getting older and trying to get healthy mentally makes you say and feel all kinds of things that aren’t super amusing. I have lived for almost my whole life genuinely believing that I just can’t seem to do anything right, but my grandpa’s love always got through to me. He never made me feel ashamed or ugly.

I’ve been hard on myself for mourning so deeply. I can’t figure out why it still hurts so much, especially since he was so old and sick, so ready to go, and went so peacefully. But I suppose watching the person you love most in the entire world exhale for the final time doesn’t fit neatly into the definition of “peaceful.” It was harder in the end to watch him leave his earthly body because I had stuffed down my feelings about slowly losing who he was long before that. Just as my favorite mole is changing, I watched my grandpa change before my eyes for years and then had to turn away. It was too painful to see him, too difficult to accept that he was alive but not there to read my stories or meet the person I want to spend the rest of my life with (who reminds me a lot of him, by the way. Sometimes cliches work out). Of course, unlike the weird, raised, discolored mole (TMI), which I will probably have to get removed, my Poppo never turned into anything ugly. He was beautiful to the very end and beyond, from his last breath with most of my family by his side to the amazing pictures we shared at his rosary to the strength he gave my cousin to deliver his beautiful eulogy.

I know it will get easier, because there are more funny stories about Poppo than sad times, but I will miss him forever.

Well-armed

I wish there was a way to tell you this without sounding like I’m just picking on myself (which I normally do endlessly and without shame, so that right there should tell you something), but I have gigantic arms. Yes, I am a fat woman, but they are disproportionately large, even so. I’ve tried to imagine why this could be, and how surely there must be some kind of evolutionary benefit, but nothing beyond the ability to naturally hang glide comes to mind, and I haven’t thrown myself off a cliff. Just yet. This year I decided once and for all to try and love my body and accept the love that my partner has for it, but nearly 30 years of deep shame is hard to erase permanently, and the temporary relief that hard drinking brings is not without it’s own consequences.

Around 6 years ago, I lost a lot of weight (over 50 pounds), and I learned a few things. The first is that, sadly, it’s true, most people are way nicer to you when you lose weight. The second is that being thinner didn’t make me feel much better about myself, at least outside of the dressing room. The third thing I learned is that no matter how much weight I lost, my arms refused to join the party. Of course, now that I’ve gained back all that weight and then some, my arms are participating with glee, growing to proportions that ensure I will never comfortably wear such seasonal trends as tailored blazers or sleeveless shirts.

Well, when it comes to sleeveless shirts I’ve been giving it my all to get over this fear. I mean, everything in my feminist, fat-positive soul tells me I should be flaunting my voluminous limbs for all to see, but again, changing one’s lifelong feelings about themselves is no easy feat. I randomly had this idea that fully growing out my armpit hair would help me feel more liberated, but it’s not working and sort of itches. Now I’m too lazy to shave it because I know I’ll have to pre trim or risk busting my razor. Serious backfire.

On a backfiring side note: This Christmas I asked for a bunch of Jockey granny panties as part of my “No Ill-fitting Clothing or Shoes Campaign 2011″ [working title]. This was another total failure because it turns out that, while offering unsurpassed ass coverage, those underpants have these little side seams on the waist that dig into my flesh. Back to wearing thongs, I guess. I’ve always found them more comfortable, but I switched because I wanted to wear all cotton, plus I didn’t feel awesome about being THAT LADY in line at Target buying the 2XL thong three pack.

Anyway, usually with sleeveless things I wear a tiny black bolero of some kind and often I have to giggle/panic about how that looks. It’s not like it’s a fucking arm invisibility cloak. It’s two giant arm hams wrapped nice and tightly in black polyester! The thing is, I know the best and most fashion-forward look would be to get the fuck over it and realize that nobody gives a shit about my huge (I mean, seriously, enormous) arms. And anyone who does, including me, is kind of being an asshole.

target: women

i have been feeling like a bit of a bummer these days, so anything that makes me smile is much appreciated. thanks to one of my favorite blogs, gaycondo, i have been introduced to the hilarity that is sarah haskins’ “Target: Women” videos. she serves up brilliant comedic analyses on how the media, advertising specifically, targets women in bizarre and sometimes downright insulting ways.

this is familiar territory for me, as i think about this quite a bit, but sarah brings up some things i never really thought about before, like why birth control is sold as period control and not, um, BABY REDUCER. i guess it never occurred to me as a gay lady who takes birth control to control her periods (they are about 9-10 days otherwise) that most women who take the stuff do so to stay kidfree. with all the sexuality on tv, this is just kind of appalling. women have sex! FOR FUN!

here is the birth control video. it’s LOL funny, so watch at work with caution.

this one on chick flicks had joe and i both in hysterics over “friend-o’s” alone.

and finally, this one made me laugh a lot…

because it’s true, then days later i heard about this:

Splendafiber
splenda with fiber!!! fiber in your artificial sweetener. talk about a target audience.

 

of course you know, however, i WILL be purchasing this. i love a little extra boost of fiber. i’ll let you know how it works.

spanx

i’m still here, you know. i know some people read this every day and i’m sorry i am a bad blogger (friend? i’d like to think we are friends).

my life is so hectic right now, and yet nothing has changed except my job status, i now own a pair of very uncomfortable spanx, and i have put way more things into my vagina and ass since last time we talked.

oh yeah, i guess i officially have no shame. before it was like, “OMG, does she have no shame?” and now it’s like “SHE HAS NO SHAME!” but i don’t care because it’s a living. i feel like i am being more true to myself than ever. wait, i just realized that sounds like i am totally a prostitute. i’m not, even though it would be completely valid and okay if i was (but probably not okay with joe). actually,  as i mentioned, i work in a sex shop now.

it has taken over much of my life and i cannot figure out how to write about it, or even how to fit writing into my daily life other than the writing i do for work. writing about working and it’s many pains is one of my favorite things to do, but right now i love my job, and to write too candidly about it would be betraying a certain trust. i feel like it can, or must, be done for the survival of this blog, but i have yet to figure it all out.

anyway, re: the spanx, i only bought them because i had to go to a wedding. normally i shun spanx and other control top hosiery because, while we can all use a nip in the tum, i don’t really like restraining my bubble butt. it’s one of my few physical features i actually like, and although it seems to get flatter with age and weight gain, i still try to flaunt it as much as possible. i always thought they should make those things assless. the other reason i hate them is that they tend to roll down at the waist band, which, instead of a flat surface, bisects the tummy area and creates TWO distinct rolls. unsexy.

i decided to give these a go because i really needed a smooth back silhouette for the thin fabric of my dress, and these particular spanx promised to be high-waisted, thereby doing away with waist-roll and smoothing all the way up to the bra line. well, they work. the reason they work is that an ULTRA TIGHT band at the top goes around your ribs. it took me about 10 minutes to get them on and the whole time i was wearing them, i literally could hear my bones straining. now, three days later, i still have bruises on my ribs. i ended up taking them off halfway through the wedding because after the second time of having to painfully remove them and squeeze them back on to use the toilet, i was done.

i wish i could say that i am totally done with this torture device, but alas, i feel like they could come in handy at some point. plus, and i didn’t notice this until i took them off, the crotch is actually open. there are like, two overlapping flaps instead of solid fabric. could this convenient hole be what i think it is? probably not, but i’d be lying if i said i’m not entertaining the idea.

down UNDER

this might be my second post titled that. LOL.

anyway, as if we needed another reason why australia is so much more awesome than the usa, check out this commercial michael k. posted on Dlisted yesterday:

banned in the usa, of course! this is the kind of marketing genius we need. it’s a BIG FRIENDLY BEAVER. hillllarious!

anyway, speaking of beavers…

well, wait, i know most of you are waiting with bated breath (haha) for me to speak out on the recent injustice of Proposition 8 passing in my state of CA, but truthfully so many of my great blogging colleagues have spoken up so eloquently on the subject, i just don’t feel it necessary just now. i’m sure it will come up again because this is shaping up to be THE topic and THE civil rights issue of our time, but my sadness and anger has, through all the marching i have done (and will continue to do starting this saturday), turned into hope, real hope and pride in my community. it just doesn’t seem to warrant a rant at this time.

BUT, i will take you on a small mini-rant regarding another injustice.

moist wipes.

first of all, let me be clear, i am part of the faction of society that hates the word “moist.” god almighty, do i hate it! i also never thought i would buy moist wipes. i have friends who always have a pack of moist wipes or baby wipes by their toilets and i would just think to myself, “really? triple-ply paper is not enough, huh? gotta have a wet bum, huh? i don’t get it.” add that to the fact that one of my main pet peeves, as you may know, is to be damp in any way unless i am showering or swimming, and there you have it.

well, as we are all aware, life tends to take one on different journeys and minds and hearts can always be changed. as it turns out, wipes are great to have around for pre- and post-sex freshening. at my work (oh yeah, i work at a sex shop now. more on that later. maybe.) we have things called like SexxNaps or CumCleen, but truthfully unless they are anti-bacterial and being used to clean toys and such, plain baby wipes or moist wipes do the job and are way cheaper. so, yeah, even though usually i like things with sex-related names or that smell like mango or have a specific purpose and snappy packaging (i am an ad executive’s dream), i have been feeling pretty thrifty lately, so i decided to head out to the local target for this wipe expedition.

i don’t usually buy generic brand products. i know it’s RIDIC and wrong, but i am a 27 year-old woman that has grown to know and love her Opti-Free brand contact lens solution and i know the CVS brand says “compare to Opti-Free” on the side and costs half the price, but i do not care! well, for some reason, i tend to make many exceptions to this when it comes to target brand. i don’t know if it’s because it is a name i trust or if it’s the clean, appealing packaging, or even the quirky commercials, but i feel okay with target brand.

as further evidence that i am rapidly turning into a memaw, my new favorite thing is reading ingredients and comparing prices on EVERYTHING, even wet wipes. as i did this, i discovered that the target brand actually seemed to have the fewest confusing ingredients (hydrogenated oils are in some of the other brands. i know they won’t clog my arteries from there, but still, do i want to rub them on my precious gem? not really) and were (duh) the cheapest. i decided to then check out some of the ones that are made specifically for women. this makes no sense, as the products are essentially the same, but i tend to be drawn to products for women. my old roommate ashlee made so much fun of me the time i got athlete’s foot from standing in the salon all day and bought anti-fungal foot creme for women. what? it was purple and had extra moisturizers! and she still stole it and used it all when she needed it. anyway, in doing this comparison between the wet wipes, i discovered that the target brand wipes for women have the same ingredients, fewer wipes, yet are more expensive than the general ones! and the packaging is far-less user-friendly! very upsetting indeed.

i mean, we all know these “for women” products are a ploy, even i know that, but i guess i expected better from the normally fine value that is target generics. i almost purchased cottonelle, always, or even loves baby wipes in protest, but in the end the low low price, simple ingredients, and e-z pop box of the target brand wet wipes won me over. maybe i will say “screw the man” and refill the box with unscented baby wipes when i’m done with them.

they say it’s the small victories.

signs

if you ask me, one shouldn’t look at things as “signs” of something else. it just gets very confusing, and more times than not, you end up losing sight of the big picture.

last night joe and i were having a… discussion about the fact that he is thinking he might want to move back to portland sooner than he thought after being done with school. i always said i could go there for a few years, but not forever because a) i love l.a. b) bad weather depresses me REALLY bad, and c) i am beyond close to my family. right now i am really loving my work, also, which is new for me and i am hoping to build a foundation from that.

the idea of not being with joe in the end hadn’t really crossed my mind,so the conversation really shook me.

when i got home, my mom told me my uncle had a seizure and we rushed to the hospital to be with him, my aunt, and my cousins. i took this immediately as a sign that i can never leave. i couldn’t even imagine being so far away at times like this, when my family does what it does best and rallies around each other for comfort and strength.

then, i thought of my aunt and uncle and how they are one of the very few couples i know who i truly admire. their marriage just really seems to work and after all these years they love each other so much. one would be incredibly lucky these days to find that in their lifetime, and if i truly feel i have found it, which i do, i would be a fool not to hold onto it for dear life, to go to the ends of the earth for it. could this be a sign?

truthfully, all i care about now, having just gotten home from the hospital, is that it seems my uncle is making a full recovery from the incident last night, and all i hope for is that the following tests show that he is out of harm’s way.

but it does have me thinking. i’ve looked for love everywhere my entire life, hoped for it, prayed and wished for it. in searching for a sign, i always forget to see the path in front of me. this time i don’t know where it’s going to lead, but i do know that i don’t have to choose which kind of love i want, or hold it down in place. it won’t go away. it won’t disappear as long as i nurture it from within and point it in the right directions, i know this.

it flows back. it never ends.

what will the homo revolution look like?

well, my friends, i’m sure it will have many faces, but one of my favorites is this picture of my friend from the LA Times online.