Wednesday, February 25, 2009

There will be packing/blood

I have lived in my condo for nearly 6 years. I used to have a grown-up job that required I wear grown-up clothes to work each and every day. As much as I profess to not be a collector of "stuff," I have collected stuff. I have collected books, DVDs, CDs, baking supplies, serving wear for dinner parties, the occasional bottle of expensive wine, margarita glasses and a small number of knick knacks. Much of this stuff is sitting in one of 3 piles in the corner of my place, awaiting a trip to Goodwill on Friday. I'm a little horrified by it all, and the money it represents that I spent.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Bush's War On Terror, Reading From A Disney Script

Last night, a couple of friend and I got together for what we named Drunken Disney, in which we celebrated my upcoming move and the end of my VHS tapes by watching my Disney collection. By consensus, we started with "Beauty and the Beast."

It's been years since any of us watched it, so we were kind of shocked when we listened to the lyrics of "Kill The Beast."

I mean, Gaston whips a mob into a frenzy for his own purposes to go kill a monster none of them have see whose not done them any harm; when Belle objects she's told, "You're either with us or against us" and locked in the basement; and while they march the mob sings, "We don't like what we don't understand/In fact it scares us/ And this monster is mysterious at least. Bring your guns, bring your knives/ Save your children and your wives/ We'll save our village and our lives/ Kill the beast." Kind of makes all that jingoism and disagreement-isn't-patriotic shit seem a little cliché, no?

Sunday, February 22, 2009

My work here is done

When I moved to the D.C. area in 1999, I settled in Arlington because it was easy to get to classes at Georgetown (yeah, I have an MSFS and I'm a blogger, let's not talk about it) and easy to get on Metro and because, unlike D.C. residents, Virginians get to vote. I cast my last ballot as a New Yorker in 2000, and Virginia and I made it official that December.

In 2001, I helped elect a Democratic Governor (Mark Warner) to replace an outgoing Republican Governor. In 2006, I helped elect another Democratic Governor and kick Republican George Allen's ass to the curb in favor of Democratic Senator Jim Webb. In 2008, I helped elect Mark Warner to the Senate and Barack Obama to the White House. My one electoral failing was that I never saw wife-beating, bribe-taking racist Democratic Congressman Jim Moran replaced by a Democrat I could be proud to vote for. But I did my part there, too. Some machines you can't fight, and the Arlington County Democratic one is apparently one of them.

But Virginia is now a decidedly blue state. So, my work here is done. Next week, I'm moving back to New York, where I'll (eventually, when I do the paperwork) be represented by Carolyn Maloney in the House, Kirsten Gillibrand and Chuck Schumer in the Senate, Michael Gianaris in the Assembly, and George Onorato in the State Senate. I'm even getting rid of my red loveseat before I go.

Crappy-ish Hour, now with movies

Tonight, I will be live-blogging the Oscars over at the Huffington Post with the inimitable Jason Linkins, revisiting Crappy Hours past and election night. We'll be joined by actual famous person and comedian Brad Taylor Negron, because apparently having one blogger with experience writing about politics and her own hooha and another blogger with experience writing about politics, the media and ignoring the first girl talking about her ladybits required the presence of someone who makes his living in the entertainment industry and making deliberate comedy. Those are some smart people over at HuffPo.

It probably goes without saying that someone's going to be drunk, right? And that that person is me? Anyway, if the name didn't ring a bell, this is the person that will be kicking my ass, comedically speaking.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Oh, the inside jokes on Twitter

From Ana Marie today, who had me lol'ing despite my cold.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Valentinian apathy

I suppose as a girly blogger it is incumbent upon me to weigh in on Valentine's in some way. Thankfully, the worst Anna did to me was have me liveblog Confessions of a Shopaholic with Latoya yesterday. Well, with Latoya, Caroline and rum, actually. Lots of rum. Followed by more rum. Rummy, rummy, rum.

That said, I haven't really cared about Valentine's in a really long time. High school maybe? I used to deliberately wear green to announce my opposition to the holiday, since black was too emo-melancholy, which wasn't how I ever felt. I think maybe 5 people my entire life understood its significance (color wheel, anyone?). The allure of the day had definitely worn off by college, since I actually dumped a guy I was seeing on Valentine's Day. He'd pissed me off in the couple of weeks prior by rather publicly Tom-catting around (any guesses as to his name?) and he insisted on seeing me for the chocolate-flowers-sex exchange figuring I wouldn't end it on V-Day. He came over, got dumped, was asked to remove himself and his property and then I think I went over to JC's and celebrated with (one assumes) bourbon and cheap wine. And probably Abba. That was an awesome one, actually.

Since then, the stalker kind of ruined getting flowers for me anyway, I certainly don't need chocolate, I am not one for fancy jewelry and cards are just one more thing I feel obligated not to throw away even when I want to. It sucks for going out with friends because restaurants are full of couples who feel obligated to go out to dinner, bars are full of people waiting for their dinner reservations and "date movies" (i.e., chick flicks that I wouldn't want to see) are full of men pretending they don't want to lobotomize themselves (thank you, Carl, for that perfect phrasing). It's like a day designed to obligate people to show affection since, apparently, most people in relationships don't, which is a sad statement on relationships and capitalism that you need a day and an industry to instruct you to do that.

My plans for the evening basically involve a house party, drunkenness and getting to bed early enough that I can actually enjoy my brunch tomorrow. You know, like any other Saturday. As it should be.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

I <3 Claire McCaskill

They're getting paid there because someone else is stupid enough to pay them TO be there. And for the lobbyist circle-jerk that is attending hearings. But mostly the first one. I mean, to tell clients that they're paying their lobbyists to sit around with their thumbs up their asses exchanging meaningless emails with their friends about how stupid their clients are to be paying them to sit in some boring, stupid hearing will just result in further (if completely justified) unemployment.

I wrote a whole weekly column about that, actually.

All of that is to say that Claire McCaskill's Twitter is the most awesome Twitter ever. Yes, being a Senator really is as banal-exciting as she kind of makes it sound.


Yesterday, for reasons that are too long to get into (and, for once, actually don't involve alcohol) I woke up feeling very strangely. The best description I can think of is that I felt like I'd gone two days without sleep, taken an ill-needed ride on the Rotor and then had my brain dumped into a vat of Karo syrup. I was dizzy, I ill-coordinated, and my brain was firing (when it fired at all) slooooowly.

As I nonetheless got up and tried to peer at my computer to write my daily news thing, I realized not only was I peering at the computer with the focus of a half-blind elderly person and moving the touchpad with all the coordination of a toddler, that I could not for the life of me get what I was reading. Tim Geither? Oh, yeah, Treasury Secretary and what was important about that? It didn't connect to anything else. If I had been capable of freaking out, I would have freaked out but it turns out that freaking out requires higher thought processes. I wondered if my new inability to process information in my normal way was how stupid people feel, struggling against the stickiness to grasp basic concepts with little success. I felt as sympathetic as I was, in that moment, capable of feeling (sympathy? a higher emotion) to the kids I had to TA in economics back in grad school.

After twenty minutes of struggling to re-master the basics of current American political news, I called Anna to admit defeat. I would have cried in frustration, but it turned out I was incapable of that, too. I went back to bed: first for an hour, and then for three. I woke up slightly less dizzy and slightly more capable of higher thought and wrote a little (albeit frustratingly slowly) and then went back to bed for another few hours. Slowly, over the course of the evening, my brain returned to normal. I tested: I wrote something business-y; I wrote something funny; I replied to e-mails; I wrote a blog post. I made dinner without burning myself. I talked to my mother. I opened up the freezer to discover that, at some point (I'm guessing mid-dinner party Sunday) I'd stuck a bottle of white wine in there to chill, so it was half-uncorked, having dripped slushy wine into the ice cube tray.

When I went to bed, instead of sleeping, I found myself incapable of shutting my eyes and not having my brain wander into Worst Case Scenario-Land about my personal life. I freaked out. I then got up and shredded papers for 45 minutes to fall asleep. I had vivid nightmares, but at least I slept.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

I gotta ruin everything

My ex and I broke up in the summer of 2007, about 10 days before we were scheduled to attend a family wedding. We briefly debated not telling my family until after, but I said fuck it. Several dude friends offered to make the 7 hour one-way trek back home with me to spare me... something. I again said fuck it, and went on my own.

The day before the wedding, I went on a retail therapy mission with my fabulous cousin Stacey and my sister, and bought this ring and its matching (and vaguely pudendal) necklace. I wore it to the wedding -- where my mom had told everyone what happend to spare me questions at my request -- and when people asked me about it, I said, "This is my 'I don't need a man to buy me a rock' rock." Everyone laughed, and my $5 platic costume jewelry ring has been called that ever since.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Watching the Obama speech

Yeah, we're *totally * not talking about CK and the dude I set her up with.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Yeah, I'm still going to talk about Amanda Palmer's "Oasis"

I went to the D.C. book reading of Yes Means Yes last night, completing what is, in effect, the incestuousness circle of the feminist-y blogosphere (not that Jessica Valenti probably considers me a "feminist" blogger, but no matter). Although I obviously loved Latoya's presentation, Hanne Blank's was the best performance -- and I mean that both literally and completely respectfully -- of the evening. And, at the end, in response to Q&A, she asked the audience to stop pitying rape victims "because it disempowers them again, by putting you above them."

I think, as I supposed I've written more than once and for completely obvious reasons, that this would be an amazing thing. Very little makes me want to stop talking or writing about my sexual assault more than pity. I mean, is this the worst thing that's ever happened to me? It's not even the worst thing that happened to me in 2008. And I would far rather what happened to me happen then what happened to Brian Beutler last year -- I mean, on some level, he was violently penetrated too, and he nearly died from it. And neither of our attackers did or will do any time. But most of our mutual friends (I think we met once, and we were both drunk) kind of think he's a rock star and I'm to be pitied even though I'm the one with no permanent physiological side effects.

Anyway, between what has become my complete obsession with the Amanda Palmer song and Hanne's statement, I decided to try out, again, telling people that I'm the victim of a recent sexual assault. Hilariously, because I have a sick sense of humor, all I got was horrific pity. And it's not like I was crying or being really upset, I was making a concerted effort to tell the story as it happened -- a burglary gone slightly awry, an assault like any other. Someone told me I should have taken self-defense classes. I was like... um, yeah, thanks. Did that. Didn't matter.

Anyway, I've just realized that this is sort of why I like "Oasis." Yes, it's deliberately ironic and about a girl who can't deal with the reality of her situation. And, on the other hand, it's presented as this relatively normative and shame-free experience that isn't going to have this long-lasting effect on what she wants to be the reality of her life. And I guess that I identify with that. Yes, I was sexually assaulted twice in my life. And that doesn't define me or my sexuality. I've seen better days, too -- and worse ones. And I'm not going to let this stop me from being happy about stupid shit.

Friday, February 6, 2009

I concede

The other day, when I said Amanda Palmer's "Oasis" was catchy? Yes, I caught it.

I'm a little obsessed with it, her eyebrows and the hair color on the woman who plays "her best friend Melissa Mahoney who once was molested." That's the hair color I want.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

I'm kind of having a day

So Anna has graciously allowed me to make it "STFU Day" over at Jezebel.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

I probably AM going to hell, but...

I have kind of been in a shit mood for two days. Then Anna sent me this post by Jill, which is illustrated by this picture:
The following conversation ensued:

me: dude, well, i guess we know what to get you for christmas. the life of christ in pussy?
Jill: let's hope!
me: but only if you promise to call it "the life of christ in pussies"
Jill: oh i will.
me: and then we have to make some last temptation references
Jill: so good
me: i feel like this could be its own off-broadway show
Jill: i would see it
me: with pussy puppets
Jill: haha i love it
me: also, there is a really good joke to be had about the pussy riding an ass
Jill: oh JESUS (if you will)
me: the last pussy meal! the possibilities for ribald humor are pretty much endless
Jill: i hope they didn't over-eat... oooh.
me: see! wait! wait! did they lick their plates? are vaginal juices the blood of pussy christ?
Jill: you are SO going to hell.
me: yes.
Who says feminists are humorless? Also, if anyone knows how to buy the pussy Jesus plate, please let me know because Jill deserves a medal for getting me to laugh today.

Brain worm

I've had this song in my head for the better part of a week.