End of An Era or Something!

Exciting. This might be the last ever Blogger-driven posting.

I'm getting help in switching over to Wordpress! So, if anything goes hinky... all y'all know why. :)

Why Sarah Palin Scares Me

If you read me, and you're a fan of Sarah Palin? I'm offended by your ignorance, and the fact that you deem me entertaining yet take THAT THING seriously. Don't read me, please. It's insulting. And educate yourself.

She is ignorant, uninformed, inarticulate, and frankly, dangerous. If you support her? You are, too.

Let's talk about all the reasons I hate this woman. As much as I dislike that word, hate, this woman prompts that feeling in me for all the things she stands for, that I stand against. Few brands of people fill me with as much terror as someone like her.

For starters, rape victims were on the hook for part or all of the rape kits in her town of Wasilla. Her chief of police did it, and she never tried to stop it. Some reports state her town had the highest rape statistics in Alaska, which had the highest rape statistics in America. Now, there's no proof Palin ever argued in favour of keeping this policy, but she sure as hell never tried to repeal it -- which you'd think, as a woman, she might feel like getting on side of women, and as a mother, that she'd want rapists off the streets--whatever the fiscal cost. Gee, if you're not willing to spring for rape kits so you can properly investigate whodunnit, I guess the same rapists stay in business, huh?

On the question of whether she would allow a daughter who was raped by her father and made pregnant to abort the baby, she said she would "counsel" them to "choose life".

The woman believes homosexuality is a choice. In 2008. In the same interview I've just hyperlinked to, from CBS, she said:

But as for homosexuality, I am not going to judge Americans and the decisions that they make in their adult personal relationships. I have one of my absolute best friends for the last 30 years happens to be gay, and I love her dearly. And she is not my "gay friend," she is one of my best friends, who happens to have made a choice that isn't a choice that I have made. But I am not going to judge people.

A man was beaten severely here in Vancouver last week, his jaw wired shut, surgery required, all because he was gay and holding hands with another man. Gays attempt suicide more than others. Do you REALLY think they're going to CHOOSE a lifestyle that can result in such bashing and hatred? Do you really think they CHOOSE to feel compelled to be suicidal because they feel they've failed to change this thing about them? WTF?

She thinks Alaska makes one of the largest energy-producing contributions to America's energy bottom line. In fact, she thinks America can be the new Middle-East, that the oil's "there" and needs to be extracted. Um, no. It contributes 3% of the energy generated by the United States, and the US contributes only 3% of the world's energy creation, yet consumes 25% of it. So, she's no expert on energy just because there's a few oil wells in Alaska.

And I'm sick and fucking tired of the whole "Yay, working mom!" bullshit that's going on out there.

Where I come from, a mother who finds out her newborn's got Down's Syndrome, she's going to adjust her schedule and be there for her child more, especially when she's got three other kids. Where I come from, a woman has a daughter who's 17 and pregnant, she doesn't accept a position that's going to throw her daughter into the limelight on a national stage. Where I come from, when a teenager gets pregnant, the fingers get pointed at the parents to say, "Geez, why didn't you educate them better? Why didn't you talk about condoms?" instead of rah-rahing them for being so hip and supportive of their kid.

This mother-of-the-year bullshit has worn way thin on me.

Then we get to the topic of religion.

If you're a born-again Christian, not only might you want to stop reading this article, you should really stop reading my blog, because I think you're a fucking twit if you think the world's 6,000 years old. I think you're a fucking TOOL. No, REALLY.

Freedom to believe? Freedom to be stupid! Am I politically incorrect? On this? Fucking right I am. And it feels great!

Sarah Palin is precisely such a tool. She believes man and dinosaurs hung out together! She believes we coexisted! Then, after some "undisclosed" passage of time, dinosaurs just went poof and the world became man's. (She told one young Wasilla fella that she'd seen man's footprints inside dinosaur prints.)

She belongs to a church in Wasilla, Alaska, that should scare the fuck out of any "mainstream" Christian. They speak in tongues! The minister ADMITS and is PROUD OF driving a woman out of his community in Kenya because she was a "witch" -- or at least HE thought she was. Palin, like Bush, believes she's been tapped because God Has a Plan For Her. Really? God has a plan for an ignorant former beauty-queen who's got nothing to offer to the SERIOUS issues of the day?

This woman will be a heartbeat away from the presidency! After EIGHT YEARS of being ruled by a party that's been bending over for the religious right -- mostly because the discussion on "values" took the pressure off their failed war -- we have this right-wing nutbag who never even had a passport until last year, has no understanding of the world beyond America, standing behind the guy who wants to be The Guy... who has had cancer four times, who's got this disturbing new eye twitch, who's become visibly disoriented in public of late -- and there's FOUR YEARS he's supposed to sit in office? Alive? Good luck with that!

[Re: McCain's health: The media had only three hours to examine the more than 1,200 pages his campaign released from his medical file -- none of which were sequential or numbered, so the media couldn't even look at it in a cogent, organized way, let alone in depth. When's the last time you tried to read 1,200 pages of medical notes... in three hours?]

If you even think this woman is remotely qualified for this job, you're wrong. If she doesn't scare you, you're not informed. If you don't care, you're a fool.

Palin is of the Bush ilk -- "you're either with us, or you're against us" -- but anyone who's ever had any kind of a human relationship should understand that there are no black and whites in relationships. You can like someone but disagree with them. By ruling the country in black and whites, America has arrived where it is today -- ostracized by the world at large, constantly in defense mode, with a soon-to-be $11-trillion deficit, waging two wars, with an economy on the verge of bankruptcy, all because the government in power tried to distract people from the real issues by making governing about "family values" and not about what's right for the country and its bottom line.

Sarah Palin? Dangerous. Wrong. In every fucking way.

Get real. Never has a politician been more wrong for a time and place than she is for America now. Dick Cheney in a skirt? Worse. At least Dick had brains.

A Perhaps Controversial Thought About the Birth of the AIDS Virus?

[I would normally post something like this on my other blog, The Last Ditch, but since it's about AIDS, which is sexually transmitted, I've decided to be a little bit of a shit disturber and post it here for a larger audience. I'm interested to hear your thoughts...]

I've been fascinated by the history of the Congo for some time now, thanks to the brilliance of Adam Hochschild's King Leopold's Ghosts and the history of the first real genocide, the slaying of ten million Congo Africans during the rise of the rubber trade and height of African colonialism at the end of the 19th/beginning of the 20th century.

10 million Africans slaughtered for rubber. Never mind the millions stolen and forced into the slave trade from other regions, or those slaughtered when colonial interests take over.

I'm fascinated by genocides. I'm more fascinated by the horrors of Africa today, though. The legacy of that death and brutality.

It's sadly funny, the justifications of whites and 'manifest destiny', how they felt Africans were "savages" who required a civilizing hand.

Now, Africa has descended into chaos -- Somali pirates, Darfur's genocide, South Africa's rape crisis, and list goes on and on -- and still you hear the pundits saying how Africa's just a different kind of place. They're uncivilized and brutal. It's the African Way, they'll say, in quiet, hushed voices that don't get a lot of airplay.

It's kind of like Bush saying the terrorists were in Iraq, so the war went there. And now, of course, terrorists are in Iraq. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Yes, Africa has become a savage place.

We talk so much about head-shrinking (the psychology kind) here in the west, how our little childhood traumas stay with us for a lifetime.

But how about the systemic slaughter of millions of your countrymen for a little thing called rubber? How about the legacy of foreign invaders who put the heads of your people on stakes along the river to remind you to collect as much rubber sap as you can? After all, Conrad's Heart of Darkness was a virtually-true account of legendary rubber trade captains, like Captain Leon Rom of the Force Publique, a Belgian military force in the Congo.

How long does THAT stay with a country? How long does THAT influence the society? How do you, as a people, get past knowing you were so devalued that a bucket of rubber was worth more than a life?

So... I think about these things sometimes, the societal ramifications of the ills of the past. It's the historian in me. And no place in the world has greater, more horrific, or even more recent ills and horrors than that of Africa.

And I find it interesting now, that the BBC has run a story this morning stating that it's the early 1900s, in Leopoldville, in the Congo, that now appears to be the birthplace of AIDS, when AIDS made the jump from primates to humans.

The rubber trade was at the height between 1885 and 1920, the very same years (1889-1924) they say AIDS made the jump. In the Congo. Where millions of Africans were brutalized, murdered, and forced into hard, brutal labour that often involved getting hurt or maimed as they tried to extract rubber for a growing rubber trade. (The main cause of the desperation for rubber? The need for bicycle and car tires as the transportation evolution began, oddly.)

Had these Congo Africans not been forced into this labour, would the virus have jumped from apes to humans? Had so much blood not been shed, and people not injured, in the jungles in those years, would AIDS have made the jump? Had the brutality of Western civilizations not been forced upon these people, would we even know of AIDS today?

Of course, the article focuses primarily on the growth of cities and how living in close proximity to one another would have been the main reason for its spread. But Leopoldville, now Kinshasa, was created as the hub of the rubber trade. It was Ground Zero for the genocide and slaughter of 10 million Africans.

It just makes one wonder, I guess, if we're really aware of just how evil some of the evil we do really is. And just how far-reaching the consequences of our actions can be.

I'm not saying AIDS is entirely the fault of Belgian imperialists. I'm just saying we need to take this into consideration. We need to think about just how much that may have played a role. We need to accept that there could be more to this story than we'd like to assume.

But it breaks my heart a little to think this disease that threatens the entire continent of Africa, thus the world, may be yet another consequence of imperialism. And it bothers me that our legacy of imperialism remains that dirty little secret no one really wants to talk about.

Gay Bashing in Gay-Tolerant Vancouver

Some of us Vancouverites are PROUD of how gay-friendly this city is. I'm straight, and I think the fact that we're one of the "gayest" cities in the world makes us, well, frankly, fun.

Yet even here there is intolerance. And if it's here, then we still have a lot of work to do in the world. And that's just sad.

Last weekend there was a gay-bashing. A few years ago a gay man was beaten to death and his killers are now free. This time, though, these fuckers are being charged with a hate crime.

Good. Here's hoping gen-pop makes the fuckers their bitches when they land their hating asses in jail. I'm told they like virgin asses there.

It's a few hours later, and... Sigh, I hate it when people are right (aka: when I'm wrong). This comment was just left by Sugarmag: "I share your satisfaction that gay bashers were charged with a hate crime, someone who would do such a thing deserves to go to jail. However, I really don't wish rape on anyone, and I don't really think you do, either. Not really."

No, I don't really wish anyone would be raped, even in this scenario. I guess I just let the venomous angst that this bullshit continues in 2008 (2008!!!) get to me, and in this liberal, gay-embracing city. What can I say? I hate hate.

Barely There? A Rare Photo of Me...Or, My Body Parts, At Least

Today, it seems, was the last day of summer for us Vancouverites. A Pineapple Express is forecasted to begin Thursday. (The dreaded "Pineapple Express" is any rain-bearing system that wanders up our way from the Hawaiian Islands. Usually packed with days and days of hard rains.)

Knowing it's the end of something good, I decided today was the ideal day to wear a short skirt on the scooter for the last time this year. There's something about careening at high speeds with warm fresh air breezing straight between your legs.

I waxed poetic about how lovely it would be on Twitter, and started getting peer pressure to post a photo or two.

I've never been the type to post photos of myself, mostly because of my stance on appearances being somewhat dubious in general, and also because I want to be read for my words, not because someone thinks it's cleavage-shot-day or whatever the fuck. Enough people are on that train, why should I jump on too?

But I suppose it's something of webevolution, you know? If one dug through archived pages of this blog, they could probably find a picture I posted a long, long time ago before I decided I wasn't going to go down that road.

Today, though, like I say. I felt like acquiescing to some peer pressure. I wouldn't start expecting this of me. It's just not my style. Everyone changes, though, so I'm not ruling it out, either.

I thought this was a better angle that it's turned out to be, but here's what you get -- me and my legs on me scoot before the last sunshiney warm day of summery bliss before the onslaught of a long, wet Vancouver winter.

Let's call it Half-Naked Tuesday, shall we?

What If Our Lives Were Movies?

I'm officially 35 today. Time flies when you're having fun.

As a result of my birthday, though, I've been thinking a lot about life and love.

I still haven't been bothering getting back into the dating after taking this month off of it, thanks to a persistent yeast infection that has me pretty frustrated (but is starting to take its leave of me), and some other things. But I want to get back into dating in the coming month and will probably start lining things up soon.

There's an assortment of men I've been sort of stringing along (for all the right reasons), and probably half have fallen away (not a bad thing), those who remain are a varied batch indeed. I may already have a favourite in that batch, but right now's not the time to be hedging bets, I feel. I need my life to get past this short chapter so I can enjoy myself again.

It had me thinking last night about real life versus the movies, and I thought how much simpler my life would be if it was a movie. Edit out this boring bit with infections and fatigue, splice together all the fun and crazy dates, skip past the lame ones that don't even offer comic relief, and then focus on the best of the good stuff when it finally comes down, and have all sex scenes be well-lit with great angles.

In the span of well under two hours in When Harry Met Sally, for instance, we skim over 20 years of preamble to their relationship, and finish with "Happily ever after?"

In real life, though, they'd have had to go through all those years, with all those days of wondering, "When will I meet someone that really excites me? How many more underwhelming people do I have to sift through?" They'd have to have the loser nights where they eat straight from take-out containers and drink out of the milk carton, all because they know just how "alone" being single really means sometimes.

Real life gets mundane for most of us. Romance and sex often offer more hassle than reward. But like addicts chasing that high, we keep going, we keep looking, we keep trying, if only because of the possibilities that exist.

As much as I'm not getting laid right now, I'm not worried about it. I'm confident in what I offer, what I can do, and what lays ahead. But I have a yeast infection, and that just doesn't mesh well with a dating life.

But they don't get yeast infections in movies. They don't deal with complicated schedules and conflicting lives and inopportune moments.

They get edited.

These days, my life needs editing. The boring and unsexy needs to fall away, the drama needs its big return. The soundtrack needs to swell and boom. The budget needs to get inflated in my favour. Orgasms need to appear and jump me from around dark corners, brandishing gifts and affections I can't imagine. "Climax" needs to occur in more ways than one.

I also need me some big investors. I need a producer and an expense account. I need the catering of craft services wherever I go.

There are so many ways my life could improve if it could only be a movie. Instead, I'm just another girl trying to make her way through a complicated life in a complicated job with complicated challenges to overcome, as I try to figure out just exactly how to get my mindset back into getting shagged by boys who'd probably really like to be providing me with that climax. But, of course, it's "complicated."

But, that, my friends, is the challenging conundrum of chronology. Unlike movies, however, we don't have to worry about the two-hours-to-resolve dilemma. No, we have months and years, requisite dry-spells and the raging rivers of a fast-moving life, through which faces and happenings interweave at unexpected intervals. And we have a complicated ensemble cast that even Hollywood could never comprehend.

Who's to say what will come our way in the weeks and months ahead? Unlike movies, we never have teasers about our future. There aren't obvious plot points that lead to obvious conclusions.

And I guess that's half the fun.

Is it Possible?: Sex in the White House? Without Infidelity?

Something I absolutely love about the Obamas is the intensity of their attraction to each other. It's so obvious. He lights up when he sees her. She totally adores him. But it's bigger than that.

Probably the best footage I've ever seen that represents their relationship was this footage shot behind the scenes while they both were seated on stage during some other talking-head's speech, and Barack and Michelle were holding hands. But it was different. He had this shy boyish smile, the kind teens will have when they're ogling someone they've got a mad crush on, as he looked down at her hand and kept tracing his thumb over it, outlining her fingers, playing with her ring, and squeezing it here and there. And he just kept having this little shy grin as the moment stretched on and on, totally unaware the camera was on him, just having this seemingly private-yet-public endless moment with his wife in front of thousands of people, while someone else apparently had the camera and the limelight on 'em.

And I just thought, you know, you don't see that in politics. You don't see romantic gestures with intimacy and immediacy. There's a reason so many political marriages are called marriages of convenience, or political unions. Passion doesn't seem to have been their primary motivation, most of the time.

I mean, it's awesome to see a 14-year marriage with passion, and in public. They've publically admitted they have a great sex life. They still have "date" nights, and regularly, even during the campaign. He's religious about getting home for family Sundays, even during the heated campaign he's been waging. Their two kids giggle and laugh, openly admitting that they love it when their parents cuddle and kiss in front of them, and they're not ashamed at all about their parents' romantic life.

Michelle Obama said it pretty great when asked if she was worried about fidelity in politics: "I never worry about things I can't affect, and with fidelity ... that is between Barack and me, and if somebody can come between us, we didn't have much to begin with."

Spoken like a woman who believes in her relationship. And seeing the adoration in his eyes when he speaks of her? Why the hell shouldn't she?

In a day and age when the standard relationship is being redefined by 90% of society because they largely can't make them work, or don't think they CAN work, it's fucking stellar to see someone, anyone, in the public eye have a real, true, obvious love affair that's been going on for well over a decade.

I'm tired of hearing of people who've made their marriage work after a decade but only because they opened their beds to open relationships. I understand that, but I want to believe that one doesn't need to compromise in that way, that the "one true love" isn't just some illusory fairytale we tell our children to keep them from shagging before they're ready.

I don't want to be married. I don't want kids. But I want to believe THAT love is possible, with or without legal union. The kind of love where two people stay charged and passionate and in love with each other in every way they can be. I believe in that love. I always have. I think it's rare, I think it's something few of us will ever be lucky enough to find, but I love the dream of it. And I love the possibility, even the reality of it, as demonstrated by this amazing couple.

Seeing it there, real-live-in-the-flesh, and maybe even in the highest office in America, on the news, every day... what a positive thing for love as a whole.

We, as a people, as lovers, as romantics, we need to see that. We need to know it's possible, it exists, and it can be perpetuated. That it can last in the face of one of the most challenging jobs in the world. That work and responsibilities can be overcome by love and communication when they're done right.

Because god knows no one else has really been demonstrating the possibility of that of late, not really. Especially since Paul Newman, who was never accused of infidelity, and who loved and lived with Joanne Woodward more than 50 years, has now left this realm.

I say, let love win. I would love nothing more than to see THAT relationship in the news, and often, over the next four (dare I say eight?) years. And for far more reasons than just because it'd be "nice".

[That it'd come with sound economic and social policy? Holy icing on the cake, Batman.]

The End of An Era: Godspeed, Cool Hand Luke

Paul Newman died overnight at the ripe old age of 83.

When it comes to Hollywood stars, they just didn't get better than Paul Newman. The best of 'em, he never let it go to his head. Probably more famous for his salad dressing and tomato sauce, the guy was a different kind of idol.

In a vapid, pointless society like Hollywood, where it seems weight and fashion matter more than anything, Newman never subscribed to being ordinary. He had a Porsche 356 engine put into his VW Bug, for god's sake. He wore a beer bottle opener as a necklace.

He was a bad boy who wasn't bad. He gave $150 million to charity. He helped kids. But he celebrated antihero and loser roles in his movies, rather than pursuing the roles of perfect goodlooking people (like Tom Cruise often does, for instance). He embraced that side of him and we loved him for it.

If there's a Hollywood guy I wish could be emulated more often-- from the blue eyes and the incredible ass to the heart of gold and the mischievous smile-- it's Paul Newman.

Later, Paul. It's been real.

Some Pre-Birthday Thoughts on a Busy Friday Morning

After a couple months of everything in life feeling like it was a little harder than it needed to be, and life just throwing one sucker punch after another, it feels like the proverbial clouds have parted and ease is raining down upon me.

My week has been busy, as will the next few days be, too. My mind's not on sex, not on writing, so I'm just taking a moment to share before the craziness comes down.

Some family's coming to visit me this weekend, as I secretly suspect my aunt wants to shower a little money on me after having lost 45+ pounds this year. I was laughing on the phone with her last weekend, saying how I've suspended my weight-loss campaign (before McCain's "suspension madness") because I can't afford the clothes I need for my new body, let alone a skinnier one, so I've pushed the pause button for the last couple months. All of a sudden I get this phone call last night saying they're coming to town and seeing me for the first time in two years. I can't help but smell a shopping trip. (Please, Cosmos?)

Monday I turn 35. Wow! The end of an era. The end of being in that coveted 18-34 demographic. I will officially be out of the realm of cool. And I couldn't care less.

I've never understood these people who lie about their age. Why? Weren't they there for every waking day? Didn't they earn their age? Don't we all accrue our months and years? What's with the age shame? How many ways can I say "stupid"?

Come on, people, own your shit. I am a cool, cute, sexy, fun, youthful 35, and I fucking love it. 40 doesn't scare me either. I look younger than 35 and could easily get away with saying I'm 30 or even younger, but why? I've endured a lot of shit, seen a lot of things, in my 35 years. I wear my age with pride.

I do feel regret when I consider my age at times. I wish I was further in life. I wish my finances were better. I wish I'd travelled more. I wish, I wish. But that's the way life goes, full of surprises. Detours. While all my friends were getting their financial shit sorted in their 20s, in the midst of dealing with the death of my mother, I dealt with years and years of stupid, bad injuries and near-death accidents that left me for years in chronic pain, throwing money after pain management and treatment like you wouldn't believe-- thousands and thousands of dollars each year-- money that would never do anything to lay the foundation for a successful life that someone in their 20s should be laying.

Friends spent thousands on trips and toys, cars and homes, and I spent my money on trying to get to the other side of a world of pain. And I'm there. I don't live with pain anymore. I'm strong, I'm healthy, and I'm still improving. And I'd spend my money the same way if I had to do it all again. I'm still dealing with money, but I'm at the almost-end of all the financial catching up I've had to do, and I know it.

Our lives take the most unimaginable detours from what we would expect sometimes. And as hard as some of my detours have been, I'm still really pleased with where I'm at. I've done the best with what I've had, man. I've done the best I could. The best I could, for whatever that's worth.

So, I'm staring at that big 35, and I don't mind one bit.

Me, I think it'll be a fabulous year. Just fabulous. Here's wishing everyone a great weekend.

PS: After two years of my scooter underperforming, I think a friend finally solved the problem when we threw a new muffler and rollers into it last night. It finally goes fast, I finally have power, and I can finally stop feeling like a victim on wheels. I cannot tell you the combination of joy and relief that fills me with. You just have no idea. I'm so looking forward to riding to traffic court this morning. Yes, fighting the man, man! We'll see if I get my ticket & towing from May tossed out. Scooter running happily? One of the best birthday gifts ever!

Call for Gifts! Call for Gifts!

You people realize you only have four days left to get me a birthday present before I turn 35, right? I mean, SNAP, SNAP, here.

Time to get crack-a-lackin'! I mean, the ripe age of 35? Gifts cushion the blow, I'm told!

If you're having troubles choosing what to appease my voracious appetite for life with? Books are a great start. Or clothing store certificates. Or booze. We loves the booze. And PayPal is willing to accept your credit cards.

Sure, there are worthy things to contribute your money to... but why would you do that when you can give to me?

Oh, and confidential to Clay Aiken: Wow. I would have never guessed! Except for the fact that you totally epitomized "flaming closet boy" forever. Just saying.

[And if you think this posting is crass or selfish, come on, have a sense of humour. Or just click through to my PayPal account.]

A Little Political Round-Up: Good News!

I definitely get into the politics on this blog but you wouldn't believe how much I'm often restraining myself.

Lordy, have I got me some opinions.

But tonight I'm going to bed with this odd little thing. It's there, niggling. Deep, deep down, burrowed in the base of my belly, there it is: Possibility. A little thing called hope.

Here, in one of the darkest political weeks I can recall, like, ever, a niggle of hope. Maybe even a wiggle?

The Washington Post has announced, for the first time since Clinton's win for the White House, a Democratic candidate has broached the 50% mark in polls in the weeks leading up to the election. Obama has snatched a considerable lead -- nine points -- over McCain. 52% to 43%.

Colour me elated. Let me repeat: No other Democratic candidate, not Gore (who nearly took the thing) nor Kerry, has had more than a 50% standing in the weeks directly before the election since Clinton, and before Clinton? Well, how far back does modern memory extend, anyhow?

This is promising.

Add to this good news something else? Now, it might just seem like a great soundbite from an anchorwoman who's had just about enough bullshit, but what this is? It's a brilliant ploy to invite exactly what the McCain campaign fears, an unleashed Palin, into the fray. She had the audacity to say it was the "Palin-McCain" ticket. The veep's name never goes first, dude. I smell regret for an opportunistic and ultimately unwise choice for second-in-command.

Maybe I'm wrong. The coddling format of the debate to come with Biden certainly suggests she's on a leash.

So that's why I love this clip (and great article) of Campbell Brown ripping the McCain campaign a new one to "stop treating Sarah Palin like she is a delicate flower that will wilt at any moment." But then she throws down the gauntlet.

"...You claim she is ready to be one heart beat away form the presidency. If that is the case, then end this chauvinistic treatment of her now... Free Sarah Palin. Free her from the chauvinistic chain you are binding her with. Sexism in this campaign must come to an end. Sarah Palin has just as much a right to be a real candidate in this race as the men do. So let her act like one."

_________

This one's for all those college-aged kids who read this rag of mine. You guys probably all want Obama to win. They say college students always get stoked about campaigns, but their turn-out at the polls never meshes with the hype generated on campus.

You gotta put your vote where your mouth is, man.

Everything is at stake in this election. More than any election, really, in American history. What you do will literally affect the rest of the world. Every country in the world is waiting with baited breath for you to do your thing.

In a truly global economy, if the wheel that turns America goes off track, well, we're all ultimately fucked. Sadly, though: You're fucked the most. Don't get fucked. Not like this.

Put your vote where your mouth is.

Never has an election come at a more pivotal, immediate, here-and-now, do-or-die moment than this election now. Hollywood couldn't write this script. A war going on six years, encroaching 5,000 dead. An economy on the verge of a once-a-lifetime total failure. An energy crisis threatening your entire way of life (look at the gas shortages this week).

It's all so very now. You have change, the chance to effect a totally new course of action for your country...

And half of you college kids who say you're going to vote won't show up. Why? Shit happens. But you need to fucking commit. It's one day in your life, a day that can change your country's future for the incredibly positive if you do the wise thing and vote Obama.

It's a day you've known was coming for four years. And, what, something's gonna "come up"? You got a paper to write? Fucking take a notepad. Write it. But get there!

You need to talk to your friends and organize Voting Trips. Make a plan. Travel together, stay entertained. Plan ahead. Make it an event.

In 2000, every fucking vote counted. You don't think yours matters? Where's your head? Commit to voting. It's your future. Thank you.

(Click the image for a larger version so you can read the cartoon. :)

Sex-Toy Review: The Stubby G!

Let's talk sex toys today. Specifically, I'll be reviewing The Stubby G.

First, I want to explain how a few things work for all y'all, since I know sex-blog readers see these reviews all the time, and, personally, I see that 95% of them are positive, so I could understand how review-readers might skeptically dismiss us one and all as rabid sex-toy fans who love everything that comes our way.

What you need to understand is, there are a couple different ways sex toy companies operate. Some will contact bloggers and go, "Hey, want to review toys?" and when our broke asses reply, "Dude! Yeah! I need me some O's!" they'll send us a box of toys, it gets opened, and inside is a bunch of shit they couldn't sell and now the poor sucker who opened the box is on the hook to review hundreds of dollars of piece-of-shit toys. I threw out the toys One Company To Remain Unnamed sent me a couple years back -- they weren't fit for my body, for reviews, for nothing.

There are two or three Big Companies, though, like Vibe Review, who don't operate under such stupid methodology, considering a sex toy isn't just something you foist on someone. Instead, these better companies, like VR, they'll say "Hey, wanna review toys? Choose what you like, and we'll start there!"

So, instead of getting some random-ass box of toys to review, folks like me are lucky and we receive toys that we actually WANT to review. See how that works? Toys we WOULD buy are the toys we are sent, so, you know these are toys that are up our alleys, at the very least. Hence why we're more likely to like than pan the products we receive.

Because, like you, The Purchasing Public, we too can log on to Vibe Review, see that there's 15 well-written four-star reviews that routinely have joyous glee peppered throughout, and think, "Hey, that looks good!"

Personally, I've been broke off my ass for a few years. Money's not something I take lightly, and I take my reputation seriously, too, so I won't be telling you to spend hard-earned dollars on toys I think aren't worth it.

In short: We luck out, get sponsorship, and if we're lucky, they send us a custom-ordered shipment of toys appropriate for us -- our tastes, and our bodies -- then we share our discoveries with you, and if you like what you see in our reviews and buy something by clicking through our review, we might even get a few bucks commission.

So, is that clear now? You get how this works?

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Today's pleasure-causing object for review? The Stubby G.

From the esteemed Fun Factory brand, The Stubby G's a g-spot toy that delivers. It gets four-stars on its Vibe Review page, and I think they're well-earned.

This is one of those good-to-go toys that arrives with batteries and lube in the box. Once you clean it, you're ready to rock.

I find that most toys who boast "ribbing" can be scoffed at quite easily. You'd think sex-toy makers thought every woman was the fairytale princess who could feel the pea under the stack of mattresses. "Oh! My lord! That microscopic ribbing will make such a difference in my orgasm! Yay for microscopic barely-there ribbing!"

Who's kidding who? Most ribbing is pointless. NOT, however, on The Stubby G. I mean, lord, look at this thing! When you pull it out or push it in, imitating thrusting, you KNOW something's moving in and out of you.

Which is kind of the point, isn't it?

Its curve is perfect for angling up and questing for your g-spot, and it's easy to rotate it for better contact. Outside, the fluted flange at the base provides great exterior stimulation, so when you're in deep, you're getting it in all the right places -- on the g-spot, the clit, and everywhere in between -- because the width and shape and design is just perfect for multi-pleasing fun.

The Stubby G is splash-proof, not waterproof, so you can toy about in the shower if you're into waterplay, and is made of phthalate-free silicone so it'll clean up well.

The vibrating power isn't anything wildly new or different. But it's strong. It vibrates. It's a graduated dial, so you seamlessly move through the several varying speeds, instead of clicking through, and that's always nice.

A word about the dial itself. There are women who write reviews lauding how great the dial is. Really? When I first opened The Stubby G, I liked the dial. I thought, "OH, that'll be easy to turn and use during play!" because the flower design on the dial is slightly raised, so you think "cool, traction" for lube-y fingers, right?

Wrong. I found the dial sort of frustrating, myself, when my fingers were all covered with lube and I was trying to toggle through speeds. I had to figure out the grip. Since I sometimes have problems with my right hand where it might get sore or seize up after too much working out, I find the dial pretty frustrating with wet well-lubed fingers, which are generally the case when we girls have to take care of bizness. I found this could be easily dealt with by having a box of Kleenex by the bed or something.

All in all? Definitely a toy that'll be living bedside in my Chosen Toys Box, for sure. Apparently I'm the only person who thinks Fun Factory dials can be improved, but hey. The rest of The Stubby G makes for good times, and that's what we're after. And it's what I've certainly had in playing with this stubborn little G.

Let's recap toys I've reviewed in the last while:

*I quite liked, and rated as a "buy", the economy-priced cousin to the Rabbit, the "Lovely Rose", and you can read my review here.
*Lelo's Gigi is a toy I love (still!)-- madly, truly, passionately, debauchedly. Read my review here. If you don't own a Lelo toy yet, you DON'T know what you're missing.

Click here for a Vibe Review 10% off coupon that expires at election time, but can be used without limit until then!

Don't Mind Her; It's Just Hormones

Men may balk if they see this is about periods, but they really should read it, methinks, for a little perspective.

Yesterday, during the afternoon of my Shitty, Shitty Day, I got my period. In the space of about 30 minutes, my eye infection suddenly started flushing itself out, and my emotions just totally took a chill pill. It was an amazing emotional about-face within about 90 minutes.

It's not that often that I get all homicidally tense with my PMS, but I was getting there yesterday as just one thing after another added up into a really crappy day. After I wrote my whining post, for instance, my website wouldn't load for me (making me think it was down) and I discovered I had a big (like 2-inch radius) infected bug bite on the inside of my knee. Plus an eye infection? Plus my just-verified cockroach infestation? Plus my yeast infection?

My friend was visiting and I literally looked skyward and just bellowed at the rhetorical gods, "REALLY? I really needed THIS too today?"

My friend cracked up, as did I, but I sure as hell meant every word. Then he left, I got my period, and I suddenly felt mellow again. Poof. Like that.

So I think the only analogy a guy might understand about that is, "Take the exact opposite of the release from an orgasm, and that's that." Like, instead of a build-up of pleasure you can't take anymore, with PMS, it's a build-up of angst and depression and rage and confusion that can't be taken anymore. (Not by all women, and not all the time. But it can happen. Me, maybe 2-3 times a year?) And the release of the tension provided by the orgasm, the bliss that comes with, that's the emotional equivalent of what happens when the period arrives. Both literally and figuratively, after one of the high-pressure, volatile PMS episodes.

I've had times when I've been so angry and didn't know why, and then I've gotten my period and mentally go, "Yeah, okay, now I get it. Now it makes sense. [beat] I need chocolate."

And men, they sit around and flail hands at women on periods and go, "We don't get it!" Well, we do? We understand why we go completely mental? We understand why something as stupid as this invisible, intangible concept of hormones can be used as a justifiable defense against murder? We understand why we get needy and insecure and short-tempered?

We don't fucking get it. It baffles us. We spend our whole lives, practically, at the mercy of these stupid hormone things, batted about like toys in a toddler's hands, and we never, ever really understand how it can affect us, Sane Strong Women, to the extent that it does.

But we learn to accept it and even recognize it when it's happening. If I see I'm headed down Bitch Lane, I just try to clear the path a little, you know what I'm saying?

Maybe, just maybe, if more men stopped trying to understand periods and women's hormones, and just started realizing that it pisses us off and baffles us too, and just cut us a little slack when these phases transpire, life would be simpler for both of us.

See, this is when it's good to be single. Or else I'd probably be apologizing to someone today after a day like yesterday. Ha.

Fucking hormones. (But, then again, I had hormones with a side of staccato-fire reality. Never really a good combination.)

Today, however? Much, much better. Funny how that works. See? I'm not trying to understand it, just accepting it, and now I'm going to go make a frittata. Happy weekend, minions.

It's good to be On the Other Side.

My Bad, Bad Week:More Information Than You Need To Know

I couldn't possibly feel more unattractive than I do today. Except maybe if I had an 8-inch goiter growing out of my neck and crumbling teeth or something.

I have an eye infection that has my left eye with this just-throttled-by-Rocky swollen-bloodshot look going on. That's fun. Really.

Because that wasn't fun enough, I've also come down with a vaginal yeast infection. (I'm so not even thinking about men right now, or sex, or arousal, or orgasms.)

Throw in the fact that I've just found out these ARE cockroaches in my apartment -- German ones.

(My Twitters upon learning this were: "But it's official. They were cockroaches. German Cockroaches. SS cockroaches. Brownshirts. Bad! They should have been gassed. Karma!" Followed by, "Snell! Snell! Achtung, roach! Achtung! At least now I know their language. "Ich liebe gas!")

Fortunately poisoned-food has been dotted about my cupboards by a Professional Murderer of Bugs to help eradicate the vengeful little motherfuckers. Die! Die! Die! Don't even think 'bout comin' back 'round here!

Every now and then it's hard not to feel like life has decided to use you as a punching bag for a few days. "You like that one? Here, try this on for size! Suckah!"

But I'm laughing about it. This is shitty. I mean, it's comic-book shitty. It's comical. How can I not laugh? I've busted a gut over this.

And I assure you, humour's something I have. For the next 40 years of my life I'll remember that week I had cockroaches, an eye infection, and a yeast infection, all at once, and no money to deal with any of it. ($9 for cleaning supplies, $17 for prescription, and $17 for Canesten. There's the $40 I was taking to Value Village to find jeans and a sweater. Thanks.)

But the attractiveness thing? I'm living in a home infested with cockroaches, I have a yeast infection that's making me itchier than any human being should ever be, and I have an eye infection that leaves me sensitive to light and unable to do anything that makes blood rush to my head because the throbbing leaves me feeling like daggers are poking in my eye.

Sex is about the last thing I could give a fuck about today. Really. Arousal? I scoff at the notion! Take your orgasm and go, chump, because we're not on the clock 'round these parts, I'm afraid. My god.

And in a week I turn 35. I mean, could you LAUGH harder at this? Holy shit. I couldn't write it better than this.

It's like they say, though. This too shall pass. What's the big deal? One shitty week in a lifetime. A shitty week that comes with an "Oh, my god" gutt-busting story that'll let me rake in the laughs from folks for the rest of my life. I love telling stories like this.

Living them, however, is never as much fun. But that's the thing. Without living it, you get no story. It's the original catch-22, I'm afraid.

And this, this week, is how my cookie crumbles. What can I say? Fire the writer. A completely implausible combination of events. And to happen to such an unlikely protagonist? And you call that writing?

Pfft. Sadly, no. "Reality."

[insert weak chuckle here]

Grey! Grey! Grey!: Can't Wait!

Can I just say how much I'm looking forward to the start of Season Five of Grey's Anatomy?

Has Shepherd ended it with Rose? Are the sparks officially back with Grey? Has acclaim for their major medical breakthrough yielded exciting new times at the hospital?

Is George a resident, or is he yet to take the test?

Callie and Dr. Hahn? Sizzling. Do they take a pity fuck with the lonely, "growing" Dr. McSteamy?

And so much more! Man, I've loved this show from the first commercial I saw before the pilot. I was so stoked when this first started airing. I'm glad to say it's never disappointed me yet.

One week, girls, one week!

A Little Reflection in the Morning

A year ago this week, I was hanging on with the grimmest, thinnest of threads, as I completed the last week on a job I probably never should have accepted.

I worked in close quarters with one of the most negative, depressing people I've ever known, for six long months. By the end of it, I'd gained 20 pounds and found myself being a constant complainer, just like that toxic person I was working with. I hated who I had become.

My old employers offered me my old job back, which was nice of them since I'd been a bit of a flake in the two years preceeding, but I guess I'm more charming than I know.

I promised myself, upon returning to my old job, that I'd take it with the intention of improving every area of my life.*

I've done that. Yesterday I was a bit down, thinking how much I've blown the last couple of months, fit-wise, and how much more I could have accomplished. This morning I'd been trying to tell myself that, sure, I could have accomplished more, but what I have accomplished is pretty darned good.

But remembering this week last year, that really put a grin on my face. The closer I got to my last day on the job, the more and more I realized how much I was doing the right thing. I just up and realized how much I hated being around that toxicity, and how much I loathed feeling like my life was owned by work. My entire life had become devoured by my job.

In fact, that was true even to the point that they had found out about my blog, and not once but twice said, "Well, we know you blog about sex. This isn't good. We're not sure what we think yet. Don't ever write about work. And be careful what you write about."

The first time they said something, I thought, "Well, I need the job... I'll see what happens." But the second time they said something, I thought, "Gee, I wonder if the old job still wants me back." Within 10 days I gave my notice.

There's something hugely empowering about opting to leave a situation that's hurting you, and immediately getting into a situation that helps you, regardless of what that situation may be.

So it's a year later. I'm still broke, but I got a token raise on Tuesday, which is great considering I've been only an average employee for about three months now as life has been pretty stressful off hours and all, but hey. Finances are sorting out, I'm back on page fit-wise, and I've completely eliminated all the toxic people from my life. This is good.

It's nice to sit back now and then and realize just how far you've come in a year. Change, day-to-day, feels slow and tedious. Baby steps don't seem like much until you get to the end of the block and turn around for some perspective, right?

It's been a good year. And, again, I feel the winds of change stirring. Dating's getting interesting, money's sorting out, a bit of freedom's coming my way. And I'm actually happy to be turning 35 in 12 days. I'll finally be out of the 18-34 demographic. It was so much pressure being so coveted by the marketers. ;)

Gonna be busy the next couple days. New stuff'll be up on the weekend. Check back.

*My job offers only security. No promise of advancement, no possibility of big money, no changing of responsibilities, ever. But when I walk out that door, work stays at work. I go there when I feel like it, have flexibility not only in when I work but how much I work, and can completely make work fit my life. They don't even ask for overtime, except for leading up to Christmas, and it's paid overtime, so how good is that? I'm incredibly fortunate. It's like being self-employed but without all the worry. When I quit there two years ago after five years of the same-old, my friend said "Well, I can see why you'd quit... but I can't see why you'd quit." It's one of those jobs. You could change... but why would you? Fortunately, I came to my senses.

The Business of Unhappiness

Body image. Stand any one of us in front of a mirror, ask us to reveal what we dislike about ourselves, and an unhesitating list would be quickly forthcoming.

Industry knows this. They count on it. All the way to the bank.

If you're happy about yourself, why would you ever spend all that disposable income on beauty products, clothes, and other distractions that keep you from looking inside, where true self-image resides?

I read a fascinating Huffington Post article on the economy of waif-thin models. It spoke of how having models thin is benefitting someone, somewhere, and until the public starts demanding differently, designers will kowtow to those in the industry who have everything to gain from keeping women thinking they need to be a size zero to four for any real chance at happiness in life. (I've written about anorexic models before and, as an overweight feminist, it's always been an issue for me.)

You ask me, I think that fashion will never show real women for the same reason that science will probably never really "cure" cancer. There's too much to gain from the downside -- illness and our discontent. The upside means people become healthy and well. If they're healthy and well, they'll be happy. If they're happy, they won't want or need as much. If they don't want or need as much, then how in god's name will industry get their hands on all that tasty money in people's pockets?

Your insecurities, people, are keeping industry going strong. Your insecurities are helping you contribute to the overall good of society. Productivity, consumer confidence, retail bottom lines -- they're all fed by your insecurities.

Why in god's name would you want to feel better about yourself? Is that really the Modern Way? C'mon! Don't smile on one another, don't love your brother, don't even love yourself! Piss, moan, whine, and feel shitty in the morning. That way, you'll feel like you need to "treat" yourself and swing by Starbucks for a Venti Caramel Macchiato, and why the hell not one of those tasty apple fritters? Then, you'll feel like shit for being so bad, you'll beat yourself up at work, and say you need to go to the gym. That'll cut into your day more than you'd planned, you won't have the time to cook properly, so now you got to go blow your wad on take-out. But the take-out's all cooked with oils and fats you can't even imagine, so what would be 450 calories if you made it at home's actually closer to 1,000 in take-out, and now the workout you just did's completely pointless. But that's okay, you're planning to buy a new pair of jeans and shirt on the weekend anyhow.

See? It's a cycle. It seems to work for you, it sure as hell works for i