This and that

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Goodbye to Cousin X

I wish people would think about who they might hurt when they let loose their bigoted, repressive, cutting words on the world of Facebook. Real people read these words. Real people react with their real feelings. Their hurt feelings. Their feelings of despair. This goes out to all of my LGBTQ friends. I'm sorry for some of the shit you endure here. I'm sorry for some of the shit we all have to see here.

P.S. I love my baby brother with all my heart. Don't bake him a fucking cake if you don't want to. I'll bake him a cake, and I'll bake it with love. Keep your hate to yourself.

 I posted this on Facebook tonight. I was so pissed, and I wanted to make a vague statement about a conversation I had with my little brother early this evening, just as I was finishing up a ham dinner to eat with Drake and Montana, my son and daughter-in-law. We'd shared a good day: birthday brunch for Montana, a visit with her adorable 9-month-old nephew, a long hike along the river in a nearby state park with our dogs. While I grilled ham and mashed potatoes, they grabbed a quick nap before their 2 1/2-hour drive home.

I almost didn't answer the phone. I almost didn't even check to see who was calling, but I did, and when I saw it was my youngest brother, probably on his long drive home from Easter dinner at Mom's, I picked up the phone. I intended to just let him say "Happy Easter" and get right off, but instead we had this conversation. (Note: My brother is not on Facebook and never has been. For that I am grateful, for reasons that will become clear. Oh, and also, my  brother is gay. Not that that's any of your business.)

Bro': Did we talk about Cousin X the last time we talked or the time before? Did you say you weren't really in touch with her any more? Because I can understand why now.
Me: I don't remember talking about it, but it's true. We don't have much in common any more.
Bro': Yeah, well I have even less in common with her. You're Facebook friends with her, right?
Me: I am .... or I think I still am. I have her set on "show as little as possible without unfriending." Too much right-wing bullshit for me. Why? What happened?
Bro': I was at Mom's setting up her phone. I put her on my plan so she'd get better reception there.
Me: Yeah, any reception at all would be welcome, I'm sure. I didn't get any bars the entire time I was home for [her husband's] funeral last summer.
Bro': So I was setting up her phone, and I had to load her Facebook app for her. And I saw the kind of shit Cousin X posts on her Facebook. I couldn't believe it.
Me: I haven't seen anything from her in months. What did you see?
Bro': A bunch of stuff. Some really ugly stuff about Obama. And a post about ... well, about me. It said something like making a Christian bake a cake for a gay person is like making a black person bake a cake for the KKK.
Me: Wow. That's .... that's horrible.
Bro': Yeah. I .... I don't know what I ever did to her .... I don't know how she could compare me to the KKK. I didn't know that was who she is now. I won't keep you. I just had to tell you ... It hurts, you know?
Me: I know. It's awful. I don't even know what to say about it. I'm so sorry you saw that.
Bro': I was so upset I almost responded to it right there ...
Me: Yeah, but it would have looked like Mom was responding. Not that she wouldn't have supported you.
Bro': And then I thought I'd send her an email when I got home, but the further down the road I got, the more I realized it would be like teaching a pig to sing. It would waste my time and just annoy the pig.
Me: You're right. You're not going to change her stupid, bigoted opinions.
Bro': I know. I just want to ... I don't know. Tell her I'm a real person, someone she knows, and that's a vile way to talk about me and my friends and a lot of people she doesn't even know.
Me: It is. I just doubt you'd get any satisfaction from contacting her. Maybe ... but probably not.
Bro': I'm not going to. I decided to call you instead. I'll let you go now.
Me: OK. I'm just getting dinner on the table. Sorry.
Bro': It's OK. I just needed to tell you.
Me: I love you. Drive safe.
Bro': Love you too. Talk to you soon.

I have so much to say about this, I can barely think straight. I'll try to be concise though. Joining the KKK is a choice. A vile choice. Being a Christian is a choice. And the result of that choice sometimes results in vile actions, like posting shit like this on Facebook.

I'm not sure who Cousin X thinks she's talking about when she compares a gay wedding to the KKK (the irony can't escape any of you), but if I cared to have the conversation with her, I would remind her that she's talking about real people. Real people who have the same human desires and failings, the same needs and feelings that she does. Real people who include her younger cousin  who shared holiday dinners and birthdays with her at my house for several years when we all lived close to each other and far from other family. A real person who used to think she cared a great deal for him. 

Apparently she does not. Does not care about him, and does not see him as a real person with the same rights she has.

You know what though? It's none of her damn business who he loves or who he shares a wedding cake with or even who he fucks. None. Of. Her. Business. Nor mine. Nor yours. Nobody's business but his own.

But since people insist on making my brother their business, let me tell you something about his weekend. He drove 10 hours to and from to spend Easter with our recently widowed mother. He's probably made that trip 25 times in the past year. Maybe more. While he was there he told stupid jokes, cooked, cleaned up, did several handyman chores that Mom needed done, watched some TV, set up her cell phone, teased his sisters, let a few odorous farts, laughed too loud and cried too easily, reminisced about those of us who weren't there, saw something cruel on Facebook that cut him to his soul .... 

Here's what he didn't do. He didn't discriminate refuse to show common courtesy to anybody, including straight people, who are not like him in that way that's so important to some straight people. He didn't rape any children. Most pedophiles are straight men anyway. He didn't shame any little girls who wanted to wear a suit for Easter. I doubt very much he compelled anybody to commit suicide, although if you've ever endured one of his farts ... I digress. And he did not post a quick, yet heart-wrenchingly cruel, quotation on Facebook about anybody at all, but especially not about somebody he thought might remember him with fondness, if not love. 

Who wouldn't want to bake this man a wedding cake? (He's single, btw!)

I have to ask: Are there really good people who think their savior rose from the dead on a day like this one a couple thousand years ago just so they could use the religion they named after him to crush people who don't love the same gender of person they love? Really? Is that what they got from Jesus? Is that what they distilled from his words?

From what I know of Jesus, he accepted everybody. In fact, I think that radical, liberal young rabbi would have been out there performing gay weddings if such a thing had even been a thing. Oh, I know he would have. He certainly wouldn't have been quoting John Hawkins' words of hate on Facebook.

I'm rambling. It's hard to watch someone I love step on a landmine like that one up there. It's hard to see people I love and people I don't even know try to defend who they are, who they were born to be. It's hard to watch people carry on conversations about them -- about them -- as if they weren't real live human beings who shouldn't have to defend their relationships to anybody.

So I'll stop rambling and say it again to people like Cousin X (who won't be on my Facebook friend list after this): Don't bake my brother a fucking cake if you can't treat him like a human being who has all the same feelings and rights as you. I will bake him all the cakes he can eat, and I will make them with love. You hit him today with your words, and you hurt him. But don't think that means you will oppress him forever. Your dehumanizing hatred is going to cause a backlash like you've never even imagined. A backlash of people loving and supporting and fighting for their gay relatives and friends, and yes, even strangers.

Wait for it. It's already headed your way. Bam!

Sugar shame FTW!

Confession time. Number 1: The date is April 4, and I'm already a post behind this month. I watched Gone Girl instead of writing last night. Doesn't bode well, does it? I'm not scoring very high in the self-control column of life because .... hold on while I pour another glass of wine .... because ...

Confession number 2: Remember I gave up booze in February? That was a rousing success, except that I didn't realize any benefit at all. Nevertheless, if I can get through the frigid month of hearts and cupids, you'd think I could get through March without sugar, right? Fuck, yeah!

The first couple of weeks it wasn't even that hard. No, really, it wasn't. I'd either eaten or thrown away all of the chocolate in the house. I had to stop eating my favorite health-food cereal because it has sugar in it, but I was fine. I ate scrambled eggs for breakfast and oatmeal with raisins instead of brown sugar. I didn't kill or even maim anybody. I was fine.

Except that once again I realized zero benefit from cutting sugar out of my diet. Zero. I didn't lose an ounce, and no, I didn't eat more of anything else to compensate. And I was getting more exercise walking the dog. The scale didn't budge. I didn't feel smarter or fitter or anything else. I just didn't eat sugar.

(photo credit: healthydirections.com)

And I think I could have done it too, if only I hadn't gone to Steamy Cynthia's birthday party on day 14 and come face to face with Chicken Grrrl's concord grape pie. You've never heard of a grape pie, you say? Most people haven't. You'll just have to take my word for it when I tell you it's the most delectable pie .... flaky, buttery crust, sweet and tart and juicy. Oh, so fucking juicy. This pie rivals my grandma's black raspberry pie, and I don't take pie lightly.

I caved. Like an under-cooked souffle, I flopped into my soft center. I ate a piece of pie. Then I ate a bite of cheesecake that another friend brought. I mean I had to be fair, right? Even though he'd already left? And then a bite of something chocolate. And then another half piece of concord grape pie, because the train had already left the tracks and was plowing across the field.

I hated myself, but damn it, that pie was delicious. And that was the end of my sugar fast.

Confession number 3: It wasn't really the pie that ended my sugar fast. My sugar fast ended several hours earlier when I made homemade dark chocolate pudding to fill tiny shortcake crusts, because that birthday happened to be on Pi Day. I burned the pudding, so I had to taste it and make sure it was still usable. Right? I mean, what would you have done? Thrown it out untasted? Used it anyway? I had to take a little taste.

I ate 5 tablespoons of pudding. I know because I ate it from the measuring spoon.

The first taste was almost disgusting it was so sweet. I thought, This is it! I don't really like sweet foods any more. And then I took another taste. I didn't even think about it. I didn't even register that outraged voice in my head shouting, No! No, you fucking idiot! We said we weren't going to do this! Put the fucking spoon down now and stop eating the fucking pudding!

Apparently that voice wasn't in control. It rarely is. Poor thing. It just whines and cajoles and threatens and cries every morning when I step on the scale. It's not driving the train though.

I might have been OK if I'd used all the pudding in the cute little pies, and if I hadn't given in to the concord grape pie. But I did eat the pie, and I did have about 3 cups of pudding left. So the next day Coraline and I ate some for lunch. And we finished it off for dinner.

And my sugar fast was over. I failed. I've eaten sugar every day since, including the frozen chocolate chips in the freezer I ate earlier today.

I had to wonder why I could get through a month without booze, but failed so early and hard with the sugar. Of course more foods contain sugar, but I don't eat a lot of prepared foods. I cook for myself, rarely eat bread or other foods with hidden sugar. My sugar consumption comes primarily from chocolate.

It should have been just as easy though, shouldn't it? Even if I didn't get a reward for it, I still should have been able to just not put it into my mouth. Easy peasy piece of pie.

Here's what I think is the difference. If I hadn't been able to get through 30 days without alcohol, I would have considered that a problem. Like, I have a Drinking Problem problem. That scares me. No, that terrifies me.

But sugar is food. Or so I tell myself. That one voice in my head, the angel-on-my-shoulder voice doesn't believe it, but the silent-but-deadly train-driving devil on my other shoulder is more persuasive. Sugar is food. And chocolate is supposed to be good for you. Lots of antioxidants and healthy shit like that.

And it's not like you can really compare alcohol and sugar. It's not illegal to eat chocolate and drive. You don't have to be 21 to eat chocolate. People feed it to babies. It's in formula, isn't it? You can buy it at the check-out counter of any store -- no license needed to sell it. It doesn't make you do stupid shit like ... oh, I don't know. Fall down stairs. Wreck the car. Tell your secrets to bartenders. Ruin relationships. Sleep with strangers. Sleep with bartenders.

(I've eaten enough of it I don't want to sleep with anybody now, but that's another confession I don't even want to examine here.)

(photo: 5healthytowns.org)

Several people told me I was crazy to do it anyway. They said they ate sugar every day, so what's the big deal?

Yeah, what's the big deal anyway? 

The big deal is that I couldn't do it. I failed. I couldn't go without sugar for 30 days. Or I haven't yet. I didn't even try in April my shame was so complete.

So, there you go. My confessions. My red-faced shame. My failure. All right here in public for all to see.

Maybe I'll try it again in May. Yeah, that's what I'll do. And I'll make up yesterday's post too. Eventually. Before May 1.

I'd say don't judge, but go ahead and do it. I could use the company.

How are your New Year's resolutions going anyway? Got any confessions to make? I didn't make any resolutions, except the February booze fast. Good thing, huh?

A question about undressing

(photo credit: babble.com.
*Comment below.)

I was just sitting here with a glass of wine in my hand and a bowl of popcorn-flavored butter on my lap watching a slim, pretty blonde woman in a movie squeezed into a pair of Spanx™ under her tight-fitting designer dress before she went out on a date, and my mind suddenly filled with questions. I suppose other women already have this figured out, but I will file this under reason number 803 why I don't date. (Or wear Spanx™.)

Here's my question: What happens when some degree of intimacy occurs? To start, what if they slow dance? What does a pair of Spanx™ feel like under her dress when he's got his hand on her waist when they're slow dancing? Or, what if she decides over her third glass of Chardonnay to have sex with him? It's not really the kind of thing where you can go to the restroom, strip it off and slip it into your purse once you see where the night is headed.

So let's say she decides to go for it anyway. They go to his place. They're making out. Their hands start roaming. He feels like a human (unless see below). She feels like something that's about to pop -- an over-blown balloon, maybe. And then he runs his hand up under her skirt and about 4 inches above her knees he hits the Spanx™. Not her warm, sexy human thigh. Not, further up, a pair of damp lacy panties. Just tight, unyielding Lycra. All the way up to her rib cage. At this point the thing has to come off, right? Because the goodies are secured under what is basically a big rubber band.

Getting into a pair of Spanx™ requires steely resolve and double joints. Getting out of a pair can't be called erotic. It's more like Greco Roman wrestling with yourself. I know. I tried to put one of those on several times .... and failed. It's worse than trying to pull up a wet bathing suit. And then there are the ugly gouges and red ridges that girdles -- oh, it's just a long, expensive girdle, let's stop kidding ourselves -- leave in soft flesh. Ouch. Not sexy.

So her dress comes off, and she's standing there in her bra and her foundation garment? Does that happen now that we're long past the 1950's? And then what? He tries to pull that thing down, but it's like stripping a sausage out of its casing, and they're both tugging and pulling and peeling, and it's rolling up and inside out, but finally it's off and ..... ? She pops out like the Pillsbury Doughboy™?

So now the date is going to see how she really looks anyway, right? He's going to see that she's not perfectly smooth like a blow-up doll, so the illusion will be destroyed as soon as the girdle comes off. Does he then get a chance to change his mind, to claim he was misled?

How does this shit work? Am I the only one who sees a woman getting dressed in a movie and has to pause the movie long enough to write a blog post about neo-girdles and first-time sex and how does underwear work these days?

Oh, and as if women's undergarments didn't present enough problems, men can wear Spanx™ too. Not even kidding. Here. Look if you dare.

(photo credit: wzlx.cbslocal.com)

I gotta tell you, guys .... and I will speak for all women .... no woman thinks the guy on the left needs that girdle on the right. Not only that, we all know that thing is probably going to roll as soon as he sits down and what's that going to look like? A big old roll of fat? Think about it.

And think about this: Could a guy even get any blood to his penis in one of those? Or would Woody just suffocate under all that Lycra?

I honestly kinda doubt Spanx™ for men are running off the shelves. But I can imagine a scene in a rom-com where a couple are trying to get busy only to be thwarted by their respective spanky pants. Look at the photo examples above. Do you see room for even a finger, much less a hand? Not very inviting.

And so far, I've avoided even bringing up the perspiration issue.

Maybe I've over-thought this hypothetical situation. Maybe I should narrow it down to just this one question: When do the Spanx™ come off and how? Somebody with experience needs to just tell me. Please. Don't let me die with this question unanswered.

*Note: I went searching for images of women in Spanx™ and was I ever surprised! I assumed these particular undergarments were for those of us who needed to corral our fat so it doesn't lump up and bump out under our sexy, clingy dresses. Apparently they're more often used to hold bones in place. I'm not gonna judge the weight or size of the women who model these, but I did not expect they were the size women who are buying girdles. If I looked like that I'd just walk around in a tiny bikini all day. Fuck the Spanx™.

Wordless Wednesday: Redecorating with pillows

(lookhuman.com/design/50520-floral-penis-pattern-teal)