Please dont murder my horse, Congress

This makes me sick. Like TSA groping me in public sick.

According to an Associated Press story, while unsuspecting Americans were being distracted by that whole unemployment/economy-going-to-shit thing, Congress and Obama sneakily lifted the 5-year ban on funding slaughterhouse inspections.

The ban, enacted in 2006, had effectively ended horse slaughter in the US- something animal rights activists spent years fighting for.

Now, with the ban lifted, slaughterhouses are free to re-open and begin butchering horses for human consumption. In the US.

Naturally, the bill Obama signed, to which this was attached, did not allocate any money to fund horse meat inspections, so not only will taxpayers be forced to stand by and watch these precious animals be brutally murdered, we’ll be forced to pay $3 - $5 million per YEAR to FUND it.

Proponents of horse slaughter (probably the same people who tortured and molested kittens when they were children) claim slaughterhouses will make sure sick or unwanted horses aren’t abandoned or mistreated. They’ll just be viciously, slowly and painfully murdered instead.

Instead of advocating responsibility in horse ownership – or, you know, life in general – we should totally just continue to support the idea that problems can be made to disappear cheaply. At the low, low cost of animal lives, several million dollars and our humanity.

No longer actively ridden at 30+ years old. Costs $450+ a month in care. Will NEVER be turned into glue or dog food or meat for human consumption. Because I’m a better person than that.

My horse has given me 11+ years of companionship and love, and I owe it to him – despite the financial burden – to let him live out his life in peace and contentment.

Yes, owning a horse is expensive. Yes, you might have to make sacrifices in a tough economy. But NO, that does not justify murdering an innocent animal.

Go kill your own pets/companions, Congress, but leave our horses alone.

The dive bar

You could hear the slightly-flat, just a hare off-key Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring through the open windows before you even pulled into the parking lot. On the otherwise sparsely-lit road, even more deserted as most families hunkered down at home in a Thanksgiving dinner-induced coma, the squat building glowed with a purple-tinged cigarette haze.

We parked our leather-seated minivan at the far end of the parking lot facing the street – and a fast getaway – as far from the motley assortment of pickup trucks crowding the lot as possible.

Charming’s father seemed to recall that this wasn’t the only sports bar in town (despite Google’s assertion that it was) but was unable to navigate us to a safer cleaner more upscale location. So Charming and I, along with his father, Aunt and Uncle disembarked and headed for the door.

I thought it was a decent choice; how can you go wrong on $10 all you can drink night?

Fifty pairs of eyes turned our way as I ducked through the door, though my attention was already focused on the Ravens pre-show playing on the TVs above the bar. After handing our IDs to the bouncer, who was finally able to sound out “Washington, DC,” we made our way past the locals to a table near the back with a view of the TVs. We strategically positioned ourselves so Charming’s father received maximum poking with a pool stick during every game of pool.

A smallish older man, who probably secretly dreamed of being Robert Plant, and a tallish skinny kid with a keyboard and guitar were still enthusiastically insulting every living (and dead) member of Lynyrd Skynyrd, at max volume. An amazon woman in a flesh-toned graphic tube top that blended perfectly with her tattoos was sexy-dancin’ along with their efforts, against a backdrop of cutoff t-shirts, tobacco-stained jeans and mullets.

I assumed that the music would stop and the game audio would come on when the game started, since Ravens-49ers was being billed as one of the most exciting games of the season, with the head-coaching Harbaugh brothers facing off against each other for the first time. Sadly, I was wrong.

Drinks were procured, and we huddled at our table, careful not to disturb the natives. Well, except for Charming’s uncle, who plopped down at the bar and launched into a political debate with a weathered old German cowboy. Yes, we know he was German.

Midway through the game, a skinny white kid in glasses and a still-stiff new pair of Wranglers took up a post by the bar. He was with a friend, who was obviously relegated to the role of wingman, and was salaciously surveying the bar for anything vaguely resembling a female.

He landed his first conquest (and was lucky she didn’t land on him) – a 300+ pounder with frizzy curls and a belly pooch large enough to fit a growing kangaroo. His hands roamed freely over her mountainous curves, and when he slapped her ass, it sent a shockwave of cellulite rippling up and down her thighs.

He lifted her shirt teasingly, and barely-restrained rolls of back fat tumbled free. She still seemed somewhat aloof to his seductive ways, so he slid his hands into her back pockets – and in, and in… – as he nuzzled into the pillowy blubber between her shoulder blades.

Eventually she grew tired of Nerd Romeo, and wandered off, and he was back on the prowl. His second conquest was the lady in the tube top, though she didn’t take as kindly to the adventurous ways of his hands.

That, and she was more interested in rubbing the fat globules overflowing from her tube top against Charming’s arm. I was engrossed in the Raven’s game, but probably wouldn’t have gone to save him anyway – I figure it probably just made him appreciate me and my hygiene even more.

Nerd Romeo was not deterred by this loss, and was quickly back on the hunt, licking his lips and salivating over the bar’s 2-legged offerings.

His final conquest (that we saw) was a squat woman who closely resembled a bowling ball with a bad red weave. Earlier, this same woman had spent nearly 45 minutes locked in the only women’s bathroom in the bar. At least 3 of us were forced to pee in the men’s restroom, which didn’t have a lock on the door.

Her face was shellacked with a thick layer of white powder, and her red lipstick clashed neatly with the artificial color of the 80s perm on her head. She tossed her hair back and laughed coquettishly as Nerd Romeo tried to wriggle his fingers into the love handles under her white muumuu.

Tube Top rescued Bowling Ball from making a horrible mistake, calling out “She’s going home with me!” as she dragged her away. It was like an eerie preview of University of Tennessee sorority girls in 25 years.

The instant a Ravens victory was assured, we were safely ensconced in the van and heading back toward the house on the lake, and civility. Over leftover barbeque shrimp, Charming and I giggled quietly over our venture into not-so-polite society and looked forward to our return to DC and $9 cocktails.

As we headed out early the next morning to do some Black Friday shopping at an establishment that didn’t sell mounted deer heads, we passed the other, much tamer looking sports bar. It looked perfectly nice, but I wouldn’t have traded our people-watching for all the well whiskey or chain-smoking rednecks in the world.

Hope y’all had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Thankful I'm not a Duggar

Because copying the shit out of somebody mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery, I’m making a non-standard list of things I’m thankful for, a la K-Dawg at mid(twenty-something) life crisis.

Families and jobs and friends and a place to live (even if it is only slightly larger than a hamster cage) are all a big DUH when it comes to things we’re thankful for, but it’s the little things we should really take the time to appreciate.

So keeping in mind that I do love my family and my first-world life, here is a list of other really important things I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving:

1. Not having 18 (with number 19 on the way!) siblings. Way fewer people to hog all the good side dishes at Thanksgiving dinner.

2. Nail polish. Ever since my last hair dye job, my nails have been stained with a permanent brownish hue, and I try to keep it covered as much as possible, so people don’t think I’m a ditch-digger or a leper.

3. The smell of wet leaves after the rain. Between the unwashed homeless people and the ever-present trash trucks, there aren’t many pleasant smells in the city, so I enjoy it when I can.

4. The opportunity to ride this guy. He’s not my Windsor horse, but he’s awesome and god knows I need the exercise.

5. The opportunity to ride this (two-legged) guy. IfyouknowwhatImean. *Waggles eyebrows*

6. The fact that Herman Cain, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachman and Rick Perry will not get the Republican nomination. Jesus H., Republicans – this is the best you guys can do? Who’s your next candidate, Jerry Sandusky?

7. The fact that Mad Men will finally be back on TV in early 2012. Holygod I need my Jon Hamm fix. If you haven’t seen this show, go catch up on Netflix before it starts, and excuse me while I smoke a cigarette and wish I was Joan.

8. Those rare but lovely mornings when I wake up and the anxiety isn’t crippling my soul and I can function like the normal, reasonably content person I should be. Those days primarily occur on Saturdays and long weekends.

9. Getting to ride my bike to work [almost] every day. I’ll either stay in pretty decent shape, or I’ll get hit by a car and sue for lots and lots of money and hire a personal trainer/chef to get me in really decent shape. Either way, it’s a win-win. This is right up there with ‘win the lotto’ and ‘find a leprechaun’ on my list of top 10 ways to make a lot of money.

10. All of you funny bitches who keep me entertained every day when I’m supposed to be working.

Love you all, and happy Thanksgiving!

Don't name your child Adolf Hitler, or I'll acid-rain-bomb you

Today marks the second time in [very] recent memory that I've looked at a headline and thought 'huh, that's actually kind of clever, Onion news writers.' Only to realize that this shit is real. The first time was when Westboro announced via iphone they were picketing Steve Jobs' funeral.

So I thought I'd share some of my favorite recent headlines that have made me wish acid rain to the genitals was an acceptable form of birth control:

1. Adolf Hitler Campbell Custody Dispute: Heath and Deborah Campbell Want Their Baby Back
Completely aside from the Chili’s commercial allusion (I want my baby back baby back baby back…), there is so much wrong in this story. If you haven’t been following, the ignorant famewhores parents who made headlines in 2009 when a food store refused to put their son Adolf Hitler’s name on a birthday cake have now had their newest little Nazi youth confiscated.

Little Adolf and his sisters JoyceLynn Aryan Nation and Honszlynn Hinler were removed from the home due to ‘domestic violence.’ I’d beat the fuck out of my spouse, too, if we were both that ignorant.

If this is what the new super-race is supposed to look like, I think I’ll pass.

2. Woman Gets Cement Injections In Butt
Ok, I know y’all want the honky tonk badonkadonk like I’ve got, but paying $700 to have a fake doctor inject cement, mineral oil and flat-tire sealant into your ass?? Just eat some damned biscuits and gravy or something.

Oh yeah, I’d tap that. Mainly to see if the flat-tire sealant really keeps it from leaking.

3. Fox News Viewers Know Less Than People Who Don't Watch Any News: Study
Isn’t this just a little bit like conducting a study that proves that monkeys can't type? Apparently, researchers at Fairleigh Dickinson University (I googled it, it’s real) found that even when controlling for partisanship (so not just all the ignorant nascar-shirt-wearing Republicans who are drawn to that shit like Jerry Sandusky to the boys’ locker room), people who watch Fox News are generally less informed about politics and more likely to believe misleading information. Good thing I gave up on the tee-vee and get all my news from Twitter now. DEMIandASHTONWHAT?!

4. Thieves ‘swarm’ convenience store
Seriously? How do you not see a group of 50+ teenagers – even if they have enough collective brain cells to stagger themselves – coming? ‘Oh, it looks like we are getting much business tonight! Must be lots of late-night studying going on, in this ghetto-ass part of Montgomery County!’
And honestly, I really fail to see how this is a problem. You have all these worthless dredges of society in one place, just lock the door and declare open season on ill-bred little jackals. Thank you, don’tfucking come again.

And that’s all the society shenanigans my poor, beleaguered brain can handle for now. Have you guys seen anything idiotically newsworthy lately?

Spiderman: Turn off the dark: A review: With lots of semi-colons

[As an aside: Fiance decided that he would like to be referred to as Prince Charming. We may have been watching Once Upon a Time. He can be Prince Charming until I get sick of typing it, then I’ll come up with something new.]

Last weekend, Prince Charming and I went up to New York with his family to see a musical. We were originally planning to see Book of Mormon, but couldn’t get tickets and ended up going to Spiderman instead. Saddest bait-and-switch ever.

But nonetheless, I was excited to see it, if only for the opportunity to wear my new Robert Rodriguez satin dress. Even if said dress did cause me to pull a Paris Hilton getting into and out of every taxi we took. Thank god for dark-colored Spanx.

We started with lunch at the Russian Tea Room. If you’re ever in New York and want to hang out with mobsters and semi-sadistic waiters, this is the place for you. This place is swanky, in that I’ve stumbled across the set of a 50s mob movie kind of way. Gold-plated ceilings, Christmas tree colors and gilt-covered everything. And there’s even a door guy to spin the revolving door for you.

The food was fantastic though – we had Blinis and Bellinis. One has alcohol in it, the other has caviar that cost more than a night with a fancy Russian hooker. Not that I’d know from first-hand experience, of course.

Then it was on to drinks at the Yale Club. I was sworn to secrecy by a league of elks (the 4-legged variety) upon entry, but I can tell you that this place is magical. Like Harry Potter magical with half-floors and computers solely dedicated to checking stocks. I may have said too much. I refrained from running through the halls yelling “Who ya with?! [Vee U!!]” but just barely.

The future in-laws were almost kidnapped by a “private car” [Libyan terrorists] on the way over, but we were able to get them back without a ransom, which is a good thing, because I don’t think future little brothers have a very high ransom value.

Then finally it was on to Spiderman. We had fantastic seats about 10 rows back from the stage and center of the row, right next to a half-drunk grandmother and a 17 year old kid from Hong Kong who kept claiming he was a 40 year old businessman with a 7 year old son. Whatever, dude, everyone knows Asian people don’t age.

The lead actor may have actually been Rider Strong, circa Boy Meets World. But less talented and a lot skinnier.

I rest my case.

He acted with a lisp – which if it was authentic, is awesome, good for him – but it was really freakin’ annoying. Especially when I’m giggling into my jacket because “Boy falls from sky” sounds an awful lot like “Boy farts from sky” when not properly enunciated.

The female lead was a lot better at singing, at least. Her dancing looked a bit like me, one glass shy of really cutting loose – that awkward, almost out there, but not really in the moment kind of dance-floor spasming.

Patrick Page as the Green Goblin totally stole the show. Like, actually – I think he may have sold all the ridiculously overdone costumes and elaborate, electronic set design to a street vendor in a back alley for a couple hundred bucks.

But by far, the best actor of the night was… Bone Saw McGraw. The giant blow-up doll. I’m not even shitting you. Do you know what kind of chutzpah (that’s Yiddish for balls) it takes to use a blow-up doll in a multi-million dollar Broadway production? Bravo, Julie Taymor.

Some of the effects were totally cool – like the unfolding buildings and the constantly-moving video panels – and having actors teetering precariously from wires 2 feet above your head really increases the ‘wow, I could actually die tonight!’ factor of the production.

Overall, it was like a high-impact train wreck, or like watching Rick Perry in a Republican debate – you were enthralled, just not always for the right reason.

But by far, I’d have to say the highlight for me came before the show even started: Drunken Nana stared boozily at Hong Kong Teen, then leaned in and demanded to know why absolutely everyone in North Korea is named Kim. It was a magical night.

And then I stabbed myself in the cuticle with a fork

For a few brief moments this morning, I looked pretty good. Not great, maybe, but put together, you know?

I very rarely look even semi-decent at work, since I bike in and am not allowed to use the showers here. I generally end up rinsing off my armpits and re-applying deodorant in the 4th floor bathroom handicapped stall. Not that it’s a long bike ride – I just sweat like the proverbial whore in church.

So driving to work this morning should have meant very little exposure to the hair-wrecking rain, and very little pit stain-inducing exertion.

When I left the apartment, my hair was straight and shiny, my makeup carefully applied, and my freshly dry cleaned pants were, oddly enough, both dry and clean.

Then, the day started to happen.

The garbage cans (possibly still containing the poor squirrel who died so poetically across our back walkway) were blocking the garage door, so I had to get out and move them. Which meant ducking between the globs of dirty city-water oozing off the underside of the door.

It wasn’t actually raining at this point, but it had been raining, and the air was thick with frizz-inducing moisture and impending doom [Sorry, thought I was in a Twilight novel for a second there].

Then I had to wrestle with the deceptively heavy cans to move them far enough away that I could back the truck out. Or into the garage wall. Sorry, Permanent Boyfriend.

Finally, the truck was out, but the garage doors wouldn’t close.

Now my hair was really starting to frizz. So I wrapped a scarf around my neck/hair to hold most of it down, and threw on my North Face rain jacket ($10. eBay. Because it had some stains on it. I am awesome at bargain-hunting).

I started sweeping soaking-wet leaves and assorted city gunk out of the line of the garage door, which of course meant splattering it all over my lovely grey Banana Republic pants. It would have been a valiant sacrifice, except the door STILL wouldn’t close.

So I started wrestling with the garbage cans again, assuming the door sensor was somehow picking them up. Apparently that wasn’t it either. But those new dirt splatters really added to the overall I-may-be-a-homeless-person effect of the outfit.

Eventually I gave up and had to manually close the door by dragging on the cord (cue North Face hood sliding off and the door dumping a solid handful of gutter-water on my head) and then duck under to escape (cue streak of dirt on the one exposed area of my sweater).

So now it’s 8:41, I’m going to be late for work, I may or may not be crying from frustration (you had to know my makeup, which I almost never bother to wear, was not going to survive this) and I look like I’ve just gone 3 rounds with a human-sized sewer rat. And lost.

I finally made it in to work, looking like a disgruntled zombie with 1980s hair, and decided to treat myself to a hot breakfast to make up for everything.

I grabbed some eggs and grits, settled in to write this work, and promptly stabbed myself in the cuticle with a fork.

Because dried blood was the last finishing touch missing from today’s attire.

Screw you, too, Wednesday. Hope everyone else’s morning is going at least a little bit better…

Boredom means change

Hmm, trying out another blog design because ... well ... I just dont know what I want. Like that's a surprise or something.

Is this too pretty and girly for me? Im really afraid it's going to clash with all the cursing and Herman Cain bashing.

Essentially this is a waste of a post, but look! Cute horsey!

I do have real things to write about – like seeing the train wreck that is Spiderman on Broadway, and holyfuck do you know how expensive weddings are?! – but instead, I’m going to show you this:



Because how freakin’ adorable is that?!

That’s Quest, the new horsey I’m leasing.

He makes the most horrible mean faces until you feed him treats. Kind of like me before my morning Red Bull, but less squinty-eyed.

And so I’m sorry I’ve sucked royally at the NaBloPoMo posting every day thing, but … I’m sure I’ll be bored at work the rest of the week and have plenty of time to wow you with my linguistic prowess. Or something. IF YOU’RE LUCKY.

Herman Cain: He ain't a joke (he's the punchline)

I remember the good ol’ days of the Republican primary race, when all we had to worry about was a little extra child labor, a la Michelle Bachmann and a closeted gay man disguised as a homophobic moron. Now, for some reason, we have Herman Cain.

My personal theory is that Republicans think the only way to get one black man out of office is to replace him with another. This isn’t like switching the Darrins on Bewitched – one Dick is not the same as the other.

If there’s one good thing that has come out of Herman Cain’s inexplicable popularity, it’s the new-found acceptability of using “sense of humor” as an excuse. For everything.

For some reason your plan to fry illegals with an electrified border fence didn’t go over that well with the media? It was just a joke! (But not really.)

Accidentally claim abortion should be an individual choice? Obviously that was sarcasm, get with the times, people!

Women accusing you of sexual harassment and assault? Come on, can’t she see the humor in a little under the skirt action? Didn’t she learn anything while she was getting her MRS degree in college?

But this man is a double threat. Not only does he have the Republican party’s most advanced sense of humor (“I can see Russia from my house, ha ha!” LAME-o), but he can SING.

Check out this moving, almost tear-jerking rendition of “Imagine (there’s no pizza):”



How have we not elected this man to the highest office in the country yet??

He gets us, you guys. He understands that we the people can’t survive on tacos and Kentucky Fried alone. This is the man we need to sexually assault us, to strip us of our reproductive freedoms, and to teach our children that smoking is fucking badass.

Herman Cain in 2012, y’all, or the joke’s on you.

NaBloPoMo: Facing mortality at 13

The Prompt: Has anything traumatic ever happened to you? Describe the scenes surrounding a particular event.

I talk about this a lot, because it’s kind of become a big part of who I am and why I am the way I am.

People are always shocked to learn this about me, and often incredulous, because I don’t look like this happened.

Sometimes I feel like maybe I exploit it a little bit, because after all, I am mostly fine, but it’s so intricately woven into my psyche and my nature, that I don’t even know who I would be today if this hadn’t happened.

When I was 13, I broke my neck.

I started horseback riding when I was 10 years old. I had a friend at summer camp who was obsessed with horse racing, and I decided then and there that I wanted to be a jockey. So my parents got me riding lessons for my 10th birthday, and quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) hoped it was just a phase I’d grow out of.

I didn’t grow out of it – in fact, I got pretty good at riding and competing - so they gave in and sent me to a summer riding camp the year I turned 13.

I was never content to settle for easy, so when the camp got a new pony, I was desperate to try him. I eagerly traded in my comfortable-but-boring lessons on a steady older gelding named Rabbit for the opportunity to ride this pony – he was solid black, off-the-track and a chance to show off my riding ability. His name was Jet.

The camp counselors had some reservations about me riding him, which only made me more determined to prove I could do it.

They eventually gave in, and I had my first lesson on him on the flat (in the riding ring, no jumping). I’ll never forget the instructor grudgingly admitting ‘wow, he’s doing absolutely amazing for you.’

So I was back on him the next day for a jumping lesson.

Even though we’d just had a fantastic lesson the day before, and even though this was exactly what I’d wanted, I had a queasy feeling in my stomach before the ride. I hadn’t yet learned to trust my instincts, and I was terrified to admit that maybe I’d been wrong in wanting to ride this horse.

So I saddled up, and off we went.

The lesson started off fine, and the queasiness ebbed some. Until we started jumping.

I quickly realized that Jet just didn’t know how to jump. He was young, fresh off the track and just didn’t have a good sense of his own body. He was game, but at every fence, he’d hesitate, awkwardly scramble over, and then drop his head nearly to the ground on the landing as he struggled to find his balance.

I’m getting sympathy pains in my stomach even now as I write about the memory of how I felt as we lined up to take our turn riding a full course. I remember watching the other riders go, and fixating on how each pair rode the first two jumps: a combination. There was something about that wooden fence to grey box combo that made my fingers feel tingly and my breath come a bit faster.
Most of the other riders put 5 strides between the jumps – I was planning on 4, even though Jet was on the smaller side, because I knew he’d get fast. In fact, I thought I might have to hold him a bit to get 4.

Then it was our turn.

We circled, then headed for the first jump.

Jet was keyed in on my nerves, and starting to pick up the pace, so I held him to a trot. The instructor wanted me to canter the course. She called out “canter!” and didn’t hear my breathless response that I just wanted to trot. Then she came toward us and clapped. We cantered.

I assume muscle memory took over and I made it into two-point (jumping position) over the first fence, but I really don’t remember, because I was already counting the strides to the grey box. My shoulders were aching and I was a bit forward from hauling back on Jet to slow him down.

We took 3 strides, and instead of the 4th I tried to insert, Jet took off.

I know I grabbed a handful of mane; I know I went with him over the fence; and I know the instant I realized the ground was coming at me just a bit too fast.

I can still see his head careening towards the ground as he tried to catch himself, and his knees crashing into the dirt as he failed to find his balance. I assume he managed to get his hind end under him, because fortunately he didn’t flip over and land on me.

I don’t remember the impact, but I remember suddenly feeling like I was trapped under air-tight glass. I could see the air above me, but I couldn’t breathe it. I can feel the instructor’s hands on my shoulders pushing me back down as I struggled to lift myself up toward the air.

Finally, my lungs seemed to remember their purpose, and I gasped in one short, raspy breath. Then another, until the black sparkles at the edge of my vision started to recede.

The instructor determined that I was ok enough to get out of the way of the other riders, so I got up and walked back to the barn. Someone else took the horse. They called my mom, a nurse, and the instructor had to leave the office where I was sitting because I could hear my mom yelling at them on the other end of the line about negligence and neck injuries.

My mom picked me up and drove me to the hospital, running every red light and picking up a police “escort” along the way, and the x-rays determined that I fractured the spinous process of C5. The fact that I tried to take a nap on the x-ray table determined that I had a concussion.

I was back on a horse within months (maybe just *slightly* before the doctor actually cleared me to ride) and back to competing within a year. My next, more routine spill off a horse made me reflect a bit more carefully on my injury.

I could have died that day, or even worse in my opinion, ended up a quadriplegic unable to do anything other than breathe on my own.

At 13, I came face to face with my own mortality. I started to worry more. Imagine worst-case scenarios. I needed more control over my surroundings to feel comfortable. Later on, I began having panic attacks when my control was challenged.

I broke my neck, and it nearly broke me, but every time I get on a horse, I’m conquering my fears and my passion for horses is winning.

And if I got a little extra scholarship money out of it – well, I think I earned it.

A lone religious nut

I’m a super-stressy, type A, hate my body, don’t like strangers touching me kind of person, so I would rather stab myself repeatedly in the eyeball with a needle, while simultaneously having someone saw my arm off with a butter knife, than go to the gynecologist.

And calling them ‘well woman’ exams just makes me want to punch someone in the face, because I have panic attacks starting weeks in advance, and they always end with me curled up in bed crying for hours or even days. Nothing ‘well’ about that.

So I started stalking crazy hippie sites doing research, and discovered that you can get a ‘birth control consultation’ at Planned Parenthood, with no forcible rape exam.

Did you know that you’re like 70% more likely to get a false positive from a pap smear, than an actual positive result? Which means more invasive testing, panic, oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-have-to-have-my-vagina-amputated-fear, all for what will most likely turn out to be nothing?

Yeah, the hippies know these things. We should learn from them.

I originally scheduled an appointment at the PP outside of town, because I figured it would be more private. ‘More private’ also turned out to be ‘more likely to result in my gang-related death.’ And they weren’t open on the day I scheduled the appointment for, which was fun, so I made a new appointment at the center downtown.

I was super vague, but managed to convince my boss that I needed to leave early today for an appointment. I biked through an Occupy DC march (damned vagrants – seriously? You think tents and chanting are going to bring about social change?) and finally arrived at the center.

The area was super crowded, so I left my sunglasses and bike helmet on, pulled the collar of my fleece up, and darted inside. Because that didn’t scream ‘I’m here to kill babies!’ or anything.

I had my appointment, got my year-long prescription with no physical assault or judgey-ness (seriously, if you hate pelvic exams – PP is the way to go) and was out of there in under an hour.

As I was leaving, there was an old lady outside holding signs. She tried to offer me brochures on finding religion and adoption. Thanks, but I’m just here to thwart God’s will with birth control, not to dispose of any unwanted cell clusters.

When I cheerily turned down her brochures, she yelled “God bless you child! I love you, darling!”

Thanks, lady – and I love PP, for their non-judgey-ness (I’m going to turn this into a word eventually) and their commitment to women’s health – because being treated with respect and having autonomy and the freedom of choice with your own body is truly a blessing.

Even more excited squealing!!

Alright, so I managed to fail at NaBloPoMo within 4 days, but I HAVE A GOOD REASON.

And not like a ‘I didn’t realize getting wasted and flying to Paris violated my probation’ kind of reason.

More of a big, sparkly, super-exciting reason:



Boyfriend is Boyfriend no more.

If you hate mushy stuff, you may want to go away now, because he was so darned adorable that I’m not sure I can convey it in writing without multiple exclamation points. You’ve been warned: lots and lots of gooey cuteness to come.

We're ENGAGED!!!!!

*deep breath*

!!

So we left Friday afternoon to head down to a B&B in Lowesville (go ahead, try to look it up on a map…)/Amherst, VA. We lost 3G cell phone service somewhere around Charlottesville, which may have resulted in my clawing at the car windows and mewling “threeee…. geeee….” in my most pathetic voice. Not that I’m technology-dependent or anything.

After 4+ hours of travel (which *may* have included a brief stop at a TJ Maxx), and with very little help from the Garmin - which gave up about two miles from the place – we pulled down a long driveway amidst lots and lots of cows.

We checked in and got changed for dinner, then decided to walk around the property a bit since we had a bit of time.

We made some horsey friends.



Stayed a safe distance from a large, somewhat disgruntled bull.



And repeatedly startled a whole bunch of peacocks. Sorry – no pictures of them – I was too busy hiding behind the boy. Damned flying things.

And then we were heading to the car, and Boyfriend stopped and looked kind of nervous. He was like ‘I was going to wait until after dinner to do this, but now I don’t want to.’

And my heart kind of stopped and things got all surreal, and I knew I looked super silly with too-tall boots on because they were warmer than heels, and an ill-fitting black ski hat kind of halfway on my head, but it didn’t matter. Because this was really happening to me.

And as the sun started to set, with our large, mildly-perturbed bull standing guard in the background, he pulled out a box and got down on one knee.

He opened the box and paused.

I started to reach for the ring, and then froze, waiting for him to ask.

And then he did ask, and my eyes may have leaked a little bit, and I nodded, and finally remembered to say “yes!” before throwing myself into his arms.

It was perfect, and sweet, and I’ve been staring at this sparkler on my finger and grinning idiotically pretty much non-stop since. I think I may have a cramp in my left shoulder from holding my left hand up near eye-level.

I am so unbelievably happy, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with this guy, but it does pose a slight problem. I don’t know what to call him for this blog anymore.

I can never remember the difference between Fiance and Fiancee (and I’m too lazy to look it up), so what do I call him?

Hope everyone else had a great weekend, too!

Please forgive the squealing that's about to take place

I didn’t like today’s prompt of the day (something about can you write with music), so instead I’m going to annoy you all with my adolescent squealing and gleefulness – I’m leasing a horse!

I was going to save this post for when I had some pictures to show, but I’m more excited than Herman Cain in a whorehouse.

I left my darling pony Windsor in Texas when we moved here, and I’ve been horsey deprived like nobody’s business since, so I scoured craigslist and found the perfect guy. So much easier to pick up a dude off craigslist when he’s got 4 legs and no balls.

His name is Namequest, which is kind of clunky, so I’m just going to call him Quest. And fuzzy boy. And handsome. And ohmigodwho’sthebestestponyEVVAARR!??! Well, second bestest. Windsor is still the very bestest.

But he’s gorgeous, and solid black with a star and a snip, and fabulously talented, and now I just need to remember how to be in shape so I can ride him.

Stay tuned, dudes – there will be pictures eventually, and lots more over-exuberant, childish delight. OHMIGODI’VEGOTAPONYAGAIN!!

NaBloPoMo: I'm doing this shit, and eating endangered animals (but not really)

Alright, since I accidentally posted yesterday without even knowing that it was NaBloPoMo (and since I didn’t know what THAT meant until today), I think I’m going to try this.

For those of you who are like me (aka too lazy to google that shit), it’s National Blog Posting Month, which is a challenge created to make you post every day for an entire month. I barely have the dedication required to brush my teeth every day for a month, but I’m going to give this a shot.

So today’s prompt is:
If you knew that whatever you ate next would be your last meal, what would you want it to be?

First of all, I want to know why this is my last meal.

Did they ease up on the rules on who gets raptured, so that somehow I’ve snuck into the next round? Did I *accidentally* kill Courtney Stodden in a freak bulldozer accident? Did Canada finally get sick of our shenanigans and launch a (really slow moving) nuclear missile that we can’t stop?

Or am I/we not dying? Am I just getting my stomach stapled so I can be anorexically thin and fabulous for my (hypothetical- he still hasn’t proposed) wedding (at least 4 ribs showing at all times!)? Because if I’ll be able to eat after this, just not full meals, that kind of changes things.

Wait, not really.

I think no matter what, there’d be bacon involved. And chocolate. Probably chocolate covered bacon. With a side of salted caramels. And screw the gluten allergy – bring on the bagels (and cake, and cookies, and brownies, and scones, and poptarts…oh god real poptarts).

Assuming I committed some delightfully heinous crime in a blind rage and this is my last meal, I’d draw it out as long as possible. I have the appetite of a very healthy horse, and the common sense of one too – I’ll just eat until my stomach explodes – so as long as there’s food in front of me, I’ll keep shoveling it in, and they’ll keep having to wait for me to finish.

If I made a really long, ridiculous final meal menu, I could draw it out for days. I could also ask for really obscure things, like DoDo Bird steak and girl scout cookies made from real girl scouts. Then instead of killing me, they’d either give up, or put me in the guinness book of world records and give me my own reality show: “Pigging Out.” I’m pretty sure that’s a foolproof plan.

Pass the bacon-wrapped cheeseburger, please. And the milky way bars, and the chocolate-covered almonds, and the chicken soup, and the sea turtle eggs, and the leg of an Abdulali's Wrinkled Frog, and an African Lion rump roast, and Caribbean reef shark skin…

Is anyone else doing this? Share your links if you’ve responded to this prompt – I’d love to read them!

Unintentional racism is fun!

So I had my free Washington Express paper sitting open on my desk, flipped to the page with the crossword puzzle. I got busy doing *actual* work (boo) and didn’t get a chance to look over at the newspaper again until almost noon.

Then I saw this house ad:



And maybe I’m a bad person, but my brain filled in the implied blank with “… because they’re black. And poor.”

Just me? Maybe? No?

I’m all for diversity in ads/photographs, but sometimes it’s the unintentional stuff that reinforces stereotypes.

Because I mean, really, a used love seat? Past college age, you don’t buy anything used that could potentially be covered in crusted-up bodily fluids.

You don’t know what those kinky rich white folks were doing on that thing.

Used table? Sure. Pre-owned bookshelves? Absolutely. Spooge-crusted mattress? Not unless you like second-hand chlamydia.

So maybe stay away from the in-house-designed ads, Washington Express, and just tell me more about this Paula Deen cooking tour. That sounds like something all us white Southern gals can really get behind.