You know why I don’t like to talk about politics?

Because it makes me mad. And then it depresses me. Yes, I take the arguments personally. And not in the sense that I feel like the people I’m debating with are attacking me… I mean that, when I read about politics or argue about issues or even write my political opinions on my own blog, I can’t stop myself from lying awake at night and thinking thoughts like:

“Why in God’s name are religious middle-class people so interested in impeding poor people’s efforts to prevent unplanned childbirth?”


“How many people in my city would stand by and watch a neighbor die if it meant they could make $50K more per year?”


“If I really loved my kids and wanted good things for them, wouldn’t I just spend my savings on lipo and then find an old rich Republican to entice into marriage, since working my butt off and sticking to my principals obviously isn’t enough, especially now that gasoline and milk cost so much?”


“If Voldemort showed up for real tomorrow, would there even be three kids who wanted to fight him? Or would everybody’s parents be cutting each under in line under the sign that said ‘Join Deatheaters Today and Get a Free SUV!’?”

And then, I don’t get enough sleep. And then, that makes me cranky the next morning. And then, my crankiness has an adverse effect on my digestive system.

So, therefore, I’m going to stop talking about politics again, to keep my digestive tract stress-free.

Salon’s Broadsheet – You May Not Like It, but It Sure Brings in the Readers

Here is the comment I left on Salon’s “blog for women” today, after the entry in which they linked to yet another article about Those Crazy New York Women and What They’re Getting up to in Their Sex Lives Today:

Why do we keep talking about sensationalistic New York produced articles and television shows as if they have any resemblance to American reality? Who cares about what this writer’s anonymous sources say or what Maureen Dowd’s (completely contradictory) anonymous sources say?

I used to fantasize about living in New York… until I started reading Salon. Because, to hear it from Salon and the NYC publications they constantly reference, New York’s nothing but an echo chamber of stupid, shallow, upper-middle-class white people desperate to say anything that will get them attention and maybe get them laid.


God Please Help Me Find a Way not to Start Hating People I Don’t Even Know

(I have to call myself a moderate because, against all reason, I do still believe there is a God.)

Yesterday it finally got cold. It was 50 or 40 degrees. So, inside my body, as I got dressed for work, a complex chemical process was kicked off, the cold being its catalyst. And enzymes were formed that made me want to wear something new.

But I didn’t have anything new. (See: broke-ness due to principals and gasoline price increases, above.)

Okay, then, I thought. Instead of wearing my usual uniform of black pants and pastel sweater, I will wear black pants and a jewel-toned sweater. Because jewel tones say fall!

I dug my one claret (that means dark red) sweater out of “storage.” (You know – the shelf in my closet where I put things I don’t feel like hanging up.) I put it on. Yay, it still fit.

I looked in the mirror and realized that I have no business wearing red, especially now that I am older and color is oozing out of my skin like soy sauce out of a block of soggy tofu.

We were running late. I put on my worn-out-ass pink twinset and ordered everyone into the car.

At the Einstein Brothers’ Bagels where the elite meet to eat and double park, I saw a woman wearing the most beautiful lavender suede knee-high high-heeled boots.

“I love your boots,” I said. Because you should always convert your player-hate into love.

Then, I saw a woman wearing the most beautiful awesome outfit, okay? It was something I so would have worn, had I not been 70 pounds heavier than her and half as rich. From bottom to top she had on beautiful, beautiful black grommet-strapped mule-pumps, a pin-striped long charcoal gray pencil skirt torn into a fishtail-like hem, and a simple red v-neck over a white or pale pink shirt. She looked so awesome, I didn’t even mind that she was bending over to shake out her long, long hair and then wrap it up with a chopstick. (Hello, honey – all the well-dressed rich guys in there? Didn’t want you, just wanted to be you. Welcome to the Montrose, Houston’s premiere gay neighborhood, no matter how hard the Republican heteros try to take it over.) Because beauty is skin-deep, but well-dressed beauty is art, and I can forgive good artists their conceits.

All day, everyone around me looked cute as hell in their winter clothes, full knowing that they’ll only have a few actual cold days to show them off here.

So this morning it was still cold, and I pulled out my claret sweater again. “Come on, red sweater, come on,” I told it. “Look good on me today.”

It didn’t. Not even with a pin-striped skirt. Not even when I switched it for the slightly orange-er red sweater I had in my trunk, meaning to return it to Target once I’d realized I already had a red sweater and neither of the two looked good.

I can no longer wear red.

I have nothing else wintery to wear.

With the pinstriped skirt, I put on the same pale blue shirt I always wear. Then, on top of that, I put on my old-ass shrunken black cardigan from Lame Giant.

“Look kids,” I said. “I’m Harry Potter.”

(They didn’t say anything. They know exactly when not to respond.)

If you have to wear the same clothes over and over again, you may as well just wear a private school uniform, even if you’re 33 and plus-sized and a single mom of three. Screw it. I don’t care.

But I’m lying. I do care.

I wish I could afford new clothes. I can’t afford them yet.

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Posted in politics, pop culture, psychobabble, vanity, venting on 11/17/2005 02:39 pm

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