Hot Dogs and Heroin

A conversation overheard between two hot dog stand girls on the corner of Church and Main Street in downtown Buffalo, New York:

TRIXIE: Shit, I forgot to bring you a cigarette. Where’s the bike messenger guy?

ERIN: He’s gone.

TRIXIE: Are you having sex with him?

ERIN: Not yet.

TRIXIE: Are you going to have sex with him?

ERIN: I don’t know.

TRIXIE: If you’re not, I will.

ERIN: I don’t think he’s like that.

TRIXIE: Yeah, right. What guy isn’t like that?

ERIN: He seems different.

TRIXIE: He’s got a penis, right?

ERIN: I assume.

TRIXIE: They all think with their dicks. He’s not any different.

ERIN: He might be.

TRIXIE: What are you on heroin?

ERIN: Actually, yes.

TRIXIE: You know what I mean.

ERIN: I’m serious. He doesn’t seem like other guys.

TRIXIE: Maybe he’s gay. (Pause) Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

ERIN: That’s not it.

TRIXIE: And you don’t think he wants to fuck you?

ERIN: No. And yes.

TRIXIE: What?

ERIN: I think he does. Just not in a mean or dirty way.

TRIXIE: There is no other way.

ERIN: Maybe there is.

TRIXIE: Whatever!

Technical Difficulties

The Single Mom hasn't posted anything in quite awhile and for this she apologizes. Due to circumstances out of her control, life has been a bit crazy and free time is very difficult to come by nowadays. Thank you for your patience. In the meantime, please enjoy the always funny, always smart and always wonderful posts that The Hipster's provides.

What's in a Name?

Hi, my name is Candy and I'm an alcoholic. When I was 12 years old I was at a party with some privileged high school kids in my neighborhood playing quarters at a dining room table with a cherry finish and smoking More 120's I had stolen from my mother. At some point four members of the high school football team decided I was the one they were going to keep making chug cups of Molson Golden. I held my own for a while, but then things started getting fuzzy. I didn't feel so good so I went into a spare bedroom and crawled under a quilt and went to sleep. When I awoke, I realized #72 was in the midst of taking my virginity. Lucky for me I didn't start getting my period until I was 13.

When I got to high school I decided if I was going to have sex, I was at least going to get something out of it. Occasionally that meant sexual gratification, but more often than not it meant drugs. Weed, hash, LSD, whatever the spoiled brats could get their hands on. When coke was involved, I had no problem pretending to enjoy fellatio. (Sometimes if I was really wasted, I actually did enjoy it.) When you're a long legged natural blond who's smart but just a little flighty and is known to have a wild side, you may not have any boyfriends, but you'll always have a lot of boys.

In college I tried to change my ways, but let’s be honest: once you’re damaged goods, you’re always damaged goods. Most people will always hold the past against you. Before I know it, I'm 25 years old making $400 a week double matting people's provincial art work and keepsakes at a small art studio on Elmwood Avenue. I realize I have to make some changes if I'm going to get anything in this life. Living in a small one bedroom apartment in a cool but dangerous section of town and wearing thrift shop finds and making necklaces out of guitar picks wasn't going to cut it much longer. That's when I decided I was going to become a different person and start spelling my name with an "i."

Candi immediately knew the only way to better her life was to get a man. And not just some loser who drove a Saturn. A man with real earning potential. He would probably have some flaws in the looks department, of course. (Candi doesn't exactly exude aristocracy.) But Candi's a hottie, especially when she wears makeup. (She's done modeling for a prestigious regional publication.) Even when Candi doesn't wear makeup, she has that cute, earthy look when her hair's down or pulled back into a pony tail. And Candi's really good at Scrabble, and even better at Boggle, which totally impresses most guys. (They think it's particularly cute when Candi finds words in French and then feigns like she totally forgot the game was being played in English.) Candi would definitely be a catch for the right guy who was looking for a devoted trophy wife to bear his children and boss him around (sometimes, not always).

Finding "Mr. Right" didn't take very long. Candi just went to a trendy supermarket in the Buffalo area a few times during the week after work and scoped out guys who parted their hair to the side and wore one or more of the following: barn coats, Ralph Lauren button downs, khaki pants, argyle socks, or black loafers. Candi would then check out the contents of their cart. If she saw grocery items such as pasta, jarred sauce, peanut butter, Wheaties, beer and lots of microwaveable products, she knew they were single and not just being "Mr. Nice Guy" shopping for a little honey at home with child. After she identified a candidate, she would pass by him a few times and smile. If he stopped at a particular section, she stopped at that section and said something to start a flirtation. "Why do they call them Grape Nuts if the cereal doesn't have any grapes or nuts in it?" "I love how they put peanut butter in the same container as the jelly now. Like can't people just open two jars?"

Anyway, it took three weeks until Candi met a boy named John. They started their conversation in Aisle 13 - the cleaning supply section - went through the check out line together where they discussed among other things whether a tabloid story about a famous married actor being gay could possibly have any merit (John said I hope not because that's gross and Candi said it's possible but why should it matter) and then walked to her aging Ford Escort in the parking lot. Candi gave him her phone number and said "we should meet for coffee sometime." When Candi saw him get into his gas guzzling Land Rover, she knew he'd be perfect despite the fact he was an inch shorter than her and suffered from a mild case of adult acne. After Candi slept with John on the third date, Candi told him she'd only had three lovers besides him, two of whom were long-term boyfriends. (The actual number was closer to 50, but who’s counting?.) Candi told John that she had never had a drinking or drug problem, she was just someone who partied a lot at one time. Now that she was into yoga and watercolor painting, she didn't miss that lifestyle at all. At some point in the relationship, she tried to persuade John to be more environmentally conscious by trading in his vehicle for a Suburau Outback (but truthfully she really didn't care).

Today Candi and John own a charming four bedroom house on a tree-lined cul-de-sac in an affluent suburban neighborhood with a great school system and lots of boring neighbors who are sleepwalking through life (when they're not cutting their lawns, that is.) Candi has been a stay-at-home mom for four years watching over two kids – Isabelle, four, and Jack, two. Sure, Candi's husband doesn't know the difference between Mark Rothko’s style and Barnett Newman’s, and when Candi wanted to name their chocolate lab Raskolnikov, he had no idea who that was. At least he takes Candi to a nice restaurant every Saturday night while his parents baby sit and on one vacation a year to some place warm. (This year they're going to Disney.) John also works long hours peddling drugs to doctors. This means when Isabelle’s at pre-school and Jack's taking a nap, Candi has time to work on one of her watercolor paintings while listening to NPR or to sneak one of the three Marlboro Lights she has throughout the day. Sure her life could be a lot better, but it could also be a lot worse. If you don't believe me, just ask Candy.

Gone Daddy Gone

Joe Manson started losing his hair during his senior year of high school. A classic case of male pattern baldness if ever there was one. The gene ran in his family, so it's not like he didn't know it was coming. Still, when he started seeing clumps of dirty blond hair clogging the drain after an extra hot 15 minute shower in the morning, it made him feel sick to his stomach, like when his first love, Suzie Jones, broke up with him sitting in the passenger seat of his blue Chevette three weeks before his junior prom.

“I don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore. (Pause) I’m going to the prom with Kurt.”

“But I love you. (Pause) Why are you doing this?”

“Because Kurt’s a varsity wrestler. (Pause) You’re just you.”

Heartbreakers come in all different shapes and sizes. In the case of Suzie, the form was a cheerleader. Not one of the stereotypical, stunning blonde bombshells you see running around in many mindless teen movies, and not a varsity one either. She was just your average looking brunette with a perm and a pear shaped body - someone you could pass countless times and not even notice. Pompons, megaphones, splits, and blue and gold horizontally striped sweaters (tight but not slutty) have a way of making all the difference in the world, even when you’re only on the J.V. squad.

Normally a guy like Joe who wore flannel shirts and black concert T-shirts to school, with tight, faded Levi jeans and construction boots would never stand a chance of landing a girl with a modicum of visibility and status. But sometimes lady luck is on your side. Joe’s best and only real friend in high school was a bespectacled girl named Elizabeth with big dimples and ample breasts (which Joe pretended to never notice) who just happened to be dating a boy named Tim, the starting center on the varsity football team, and Suzie’s older brother. When Suzie needed a date for homecoming in October, which was only three weeks away, Elizabeth and Tim thought it would be oh so cute if she went with Joe.

With some encouragement from them and the proper assurances that Suzie was interested, Joe made out a list of things to talk about on a 3” x 5” card before placing the initial call. Surprisingly, there was an immediate connection between the two, and within minutes the 3” x 5” card which Joe held between his thumb and forefinger was insouciantly propelled with a quick, confident snap of his wrist towards his Realistic stereo that just happened to be playing side two of Rush’s “Signals” loud enough for Suzie to hear. (Joe decided to play side one - the better of the two sides - once the conversation got into a flow. Suzie only recognized one song - “Subdivisions.” She had recently seen the video a few times on MTV.) The next day Joe walked Suzie to all of her classes. At the end of the seventh period he asked her to the homecoming dance. At the end of eighth period he said what the hell and asked her out. When she said yes, Joe had his first girlfriend since Jamie Gilbert in 8th grade. Joe’s biggest fear was that Suzie would leave him after homecoming. She didn’t. In fact, three weeks after that dance they went to a baseball diamond behind a private school near where Suzie lived to make out on the infield grass.

“Do you wanna touch?” Suzie said after about ten minutes, lifting her burgundy Izod/Lacoste pullover windbreaker. Joe moved his hands under her shirt (she wasn’t wearing a bra) and he was suddenly very conscious of the fact his hands were attached to his body. Through the years he had never given his hands much thought, except when he tried to teach himself guitar. At first he approached her breasts cautiously, like he was surreptitiously trying to sample a package of Charmin toilet paper and was worried Mr. Whipple might be peering around the corner. With a little help and direction, he got the hang of things pretty fast.

“You have good hands,” Suzie said after the feeling-up session was over.

“Who else has been up your shirt?” Joe thought to himself. He was Catholic.

Instead of saying that, he just smiled and said “thanks.”

Incidentally, Joe’s hair was completely gone by graduation, which wasn't so bad in retrospect. Along with the fact he played chess regularly during homeroom with a student who was eventually arrested for manslaughter, it was the only thing people remembered about him.

Little White Lie

Sitting on a wooden stool at a trendy coffee shop in Buffalo, I start to eavesdrop on a conversation between an intellectual looking Samoan named Leo who has his hair in a bun on top of his head and a bleach blonde girl in a hot pink sweater named Rose.

I just learn that one of Rose's friends recently passed the bar exam when a bespectacled young man of Indian or Pakistani decent waves to me in the window with a big smile on his face. His white teeth contrast nicely with his dark complexion. Now that he has my attention he points to a nearby mountain bike that's chained to one of the ubiquitous parking meters that valiantly guard our thoroughfare curbs. For a moment I don't know what he wants. Then everything clicks. I feel a rush of excitement, like when I guess the right answer in Pictionary or charades. He wants to know if the mountain bike is mine. It's not, but he looks so hopeful and excited, I’m not sure what to tell him. I hate disappointing people. Even strangers I’ll probably never see again.

It would be so easy for me to simply nod my head in that universally understood sign that means yes, right, yup, uh huh, and so on. It doesn’t cost anything, and no one would get hurt. Sure, technically it would be a lie, but he would feel good, I would feel good for making him feel good, and the world would be a better place because of my altruism.

Then I think of all the bad things that could happen if I say yes. He could come in and ask me crazy questions about the bike, like how many gears does it have, how much does it weigh, or how often do I ride. Then again, he could have one just like it and feel that qualifies us to be friends. No offense to him, but I’m a loner, like Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western or Clubber Lang in Rocky III. Plus, if he wants to go riding sometime, it would really put a damper on things if I showed up with the bike in my basement - a hybrid Huffy 12-speed I haven’t used since 1990. Worse, the person who owns it could walk out of the adjacent book store at the exact moment I’m telling him it’s mine. I imagine the disappointing look on his face turning to contempt as he glares at me for a moment before stalking off. I don’t want to be responsible for the guy losing faith in humanity.

I can see he’s starting to become impatient. His motioning back and forth between the bike and me has become more deliberate and theatrical. He probably thinks I’m slow on the uptake or dense, like fog in the morning or a tropical rain forest. My eyes momentarily drift off to his left where I notice two attractive girls smoking cigarettes. One has a short trendy hair cut, a nose ring and is wearing a puffy black down jacket. I like watching her smoke. The other has curly red hair and no jacket. I think she works at the book store. Her smoking style is a little rushed and her exhales are weak. She could use some pointers from her friend.

Well, this has gone on long enough. I decide to go for it and tell the guy what’s he’s longing to hear by shaking my head up and down and mouthing the words, “Yes, it’s mine.” He smiles and gives me the universal sign for “cool” by putting two thumbs up, and then strides off as happy as a first-time bride.

Now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I can go back to writing in my black and white composition book and drinking my plain cappuccino in a tiny glass mug with lots of cinnamon on top.

What's the Alternative?

Those unfamiliar with alternative medicine have probably never heard of Essiac, a natural remedy that has been used for decades to treat cancer. Rene Caisse, a Canadian nurse, heard about the formula in the 1920s. (Essiac is her last name spelled backwards.) At the time, she was caring for a woman who years before had taken a tonic prescribed by an Ojibwa medicine man for her breast cancer that was comprised of burdock root, sheep sorrel, slippery elm bark, wild rhubarb root and water. The woman said it cured her.

When Caisse’s aunt was diagnosed with cancer of the stomach and only given six months to live, she gave her the same concoction. Her aunt lived another 21 years. The aunt’s doctor was so impressed with the outcome of the treatment, he asked Caisse to work with more of his terminally ill cancer patients. Eventually, other cancer doctors requested she do the same. Her results were so encouraging that in 1926 nine physicians wrote a letter to Canada’s Department of Health and Welfare. It began with the following statement: “We the undersigned believe that the ‘Treatment for Cancer’ given by nurse R.M. Caisse can do no harm and that it relives pain, will reduce the enlargement and will prolong life in hopeless cases.”

Despite some opposition from the medical establishment and government health agencies, Caisse managed to continue treating cancer patients for no profit. A number of prominent doctors who heard about the successful results she had achieved over the years visited her clinic. One from California who did said the following in a 1937 report: “The vast majority of Miss Caisse’s patients were brought for treatment after surgery, radium, x-rays, emplastrums, etc. had failed to be helpful and the patients pronounced incurable or hopeless cases. Really, the progress obtainable and the actual results from Essiac treatments and the rapidity of repair were absolutely marvelous, and must be seen to convincingly confirm belief."

In the late 1930s, the Ontario government formally looked into the efficacy of Essiac. A doctor who was the final witness at the Cancer Commission Hearing said the following: "It is my privilege to do all in my power to bring cancer suffers this remedy, Essiac, which has brought relief and restored health to many in the past." Although Essiac had a great deal of support from patients, doctors and citizens, it was not endorsed by the commission, and a bill in the legislature that would have allowed Caisse to continue her work fell just short of passing. Caisse felt strongly that money was the reason. Researching and fighting cancer is a big business. If a natural option worked better than conventional methods, it would have had a drastic impact on the medical establishment's profits.

Years after Caisse died in 1978, there was still much interest in Essiac, and a Canadian politician was eventually able to get it legalized as a tea and not a drug in the early 1990s. That's why the tonic is readily obtainable today in a variety forms at health stores such as Feel Rite for people who believe in the power of natural healing.

We didn’t start the flame war, peeps were hatin’ on it ‘fore I left my comment...

I am extremely disappointed in you kids. I go away for a few days and what do I come back to? Beer bottles all over the lawn, cigarette butts in plastic cups and stoned teenagers eating cheetos on my couch. Did anyone even read the rules?!

So, there’s been quite the hullabaloo the past few days. Shenanigans, if you will. The parties involved know who they are (I’m one). There have been deleted posts (here and on Facebook), angry e-mails, angry posts, angry rebuttals, and snarky status updates. Well, it ends here. Everyone involved is now on double-secret probation – myself included.

The Hipster and I started this site to showcase our amazing writing talent. Oh yeah, and we also thought people could learn something from a differing viewpoint. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Maybe you’ll reinforce your current opinion and strengthen your argument. Maybe you’ll simply see the other side isn’t completely evil. We want to inform you and entertain you. Yes, even when The Hipster refers to himself in the third person.

That’s why we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing, for as long as you’ll allow us your attention. Hipster, I’d like you to restore your previous posts. Opinion is opinion - we all have our own, and you wrote yours in the tone you felt acceptable at the time. Of course the tone of our posts will change as time passes, but we shouldn’t hide what we have written in an attempt to appease the masses. I hope this site will also show the progression of our writing over time.

There you have it. We’ll keep on writing, and you keep telling us when you agree and disagree. We’ll try to be less dick-ish when presenting our respective arguments (unless we’re making fun of wacko’s – then all bets are off) and you guys try to keep us in line when we go off the rails.

As always, thanks for reading. We love you guys.

The Real Slim Shady

The Hipster has deleted the contents of several posts that he feels might have annoyed people. He's done some playwriting, and he was experimenting with a dark, cynical, sarcastic, edgy, egotistical voice that was heavily influenced by Ann Coulter and far too many Eminem/Slim Shady songs over the years. His goal was to get people thinking about socio-political topics in an entertaining way. However, he realizes if he's offending or annoying people with his style and tone, and the writing isn't balanced, he is not accomplishing his goal. He will only turn people off. From now on, his posts on this blog will be in a natural voice that is conversational and journalistic in tone. And, as an added bonus, no more speaking in the annoying third person!

Instant Replay

Copyright 2006 The Buffalo News
Buffalo News (New York)

HEADLINE: Home schooling offers many advantages

BYLINE: By Chris Stucchio

June 30, 2006 Friday
FINAL EDITION

Those who regularly follow the news are probably aware of the debate that rages between traditional public school and charter school advocates. Vouchers, test scores and academic standards are just a few of the many issues that ignite the passions on both sides. Parents who still haven't formed an undying allegiance to either option might want to consider home schooling their children.

Several years ago, I did a research paper in graduate school that touched on home schooling. One of the sources I consulted stated that the standard test scores for the 1.5 million to 2 million home schooled children in this country are, on average, higher than traditional schooled children. That fact left an indelible impression with me.

Recently, I picked up Sherri Linsenbach's "The Everything Homeschooling Book" from a branch of the Buffalo & Erie County Public Library. It quotes a university professor with a Ph.D. in nuclear chemistry as saying, "By far the best students that I had were the home schooled ones. They were serious about learning, they could teach themselves and they were far more likely to be able to think critically than any of their counterparts."

Concerns that home schooling might put a child at a long-term educational disadvantage appear to be unfounded. When discussing home schooling, the question of socialization invariably arises. Because of their flexible schedules, home schooled students often have more of a chance to regularly interact with people of all ages through various intellectual, athletic and cultural pursuits.

In fact, one professor cited research that indicated home schooled children "are usually superior to their school-attending peers in social skills, social maturity, emotional stability, academic achievement, personal confidence, communication skills and other aspects."

Another advantage to home schooling is it gives parents the option of establishing a curriculum and schedule that best suits their children's learning needs. One mother profiled by Linsenbach was running a more conventional, regimented home schooling program for her 9-year-old son. English from 9 until 9:30, math from 9:30 until 10:00, and so on.

On a superficial level, they were accomplishing something, but the time limitations for lessons that often required extra attention were proving stressful to her son. Eventually she stopped using a set schedule. If they spent extra time on a science experiment one day and missed a social studies lesson -- no problem. More emphasis could be placed on that subject the next day. This flexibility enabled her son to relax, and his learning sessions became far more productive.

One needn't hold a doctorate or a master's degree to start a successful home school. How much a person cares and tries will most likely determine whether it succeeds. As former U.S. Secretary of Education Richard W. Riley said, "All parents, indeed any adult, regardless of his or her station in life or even their level of education, has the capacity and obligation to teach their children a love of learning."

For many, home schooling is the best way to do that.

Editor's note

The Single Mom will be moving during the next week, so she's turning the blog over to The Hipster during that time. Do what he says, clean your rooms, eat your vegetables, and if you pull your sister's hair one more time I swear to god you'll be grounded until you have grandkids. If you comment, be nice. If you post, be nice. If you can't be nice, please try to be relevant. Failing that, you'd damn well better be funny. (That's right, people - I'm going Gawker on your asses. Mel is the new Ketch, b*tch. (Honestly, about 5 people will get that joke. Also, it's not very funny))

Them's the rules. Enjoy yourselves, play nice and I'll be back soon.

Orly Taitz, please be quiet. Now.

The Single Mom is a patriot, through and through. She loves America. And Americans. That is why The Single Mom demanded today that The Illegitimate Child** produce her original birth certificate. As an American who loves America, The Single Mom felt it her duty, as an American, to insist T.I.C. show irrefutable proof she is a natural born citizen. Of America.

Sadly, T.I.C. was only able to produce a “Certification of Live Birth,” issued by the State of New York. Like any good American, I am unable to accept this document as “proof.” This COLB is most assuredly not a birth certificate stating T.I.C. was born in New York State, but is simply a form showing that her birth was registered there. Anyone born anywhere in the world can get one of those! She could have been born in a small village in Africa and have one!

This COLB has also been left suspiciously blank in the space noted “Father’s Name.” This unnamed man may be foreign. Possibly even from a different continent. One of those continents Real Americans™ don’t like. Consequently, T.I.C. only has one parent - a parent claiming to be an upstanding Natural-Born American Citizen. A F.O.I.A. request, however, produced documents showing she frequently visited Socialist Canada and that T.I.C. accompanied her on most of those trips. By doing this, the mother clearly revoked their U.S. citizenships and swore an allegiance to Socialist Canada. (Note, there was a travel ban in place during the time of those trips, owing to the hostility between the U.S. and Canada re: the proper pronunciation of “about/aboot,” and the always contentious Labatt v. Budweiser debate. T.I.C. could only have traveled there on a foreign passport.)

When pressed on this issue, T.I.C. produced a second COLB! This is obviously a forgery. Why wasn’t the foreign-born father’s name on the first one? She is hiding something. Moreover, the second COLB looks nothing like the first, and the Certificate number is blacked out. Besides, it’s not the “original” original, it’s just a copy. An easily forged copy. Several anonymous internet commenters agree.

As a last resort, T.I.C. attempted to show as proof her birth announcement from the local paper. Sadly, her middle name of Christine was misspelled as “Christian” in a blatant attempt to hid the fact she is not, in fact, a Christian. I cannot deem this “proof” acceptable.

So, in short, I discovered today that my daughter is in fact a Secret-Canadian-Kenyan-Born-Muslim. I’ve instructed the Joint Chiefs to disregard the plan for withdrawing the troops. Sorry about that. My bad.


**Sweetie, I love you very, very much. Sadly, that love does not outweigh Mommy’s narcissistic need for people to find her amusing. I started a fund to pay for the therapy you will desperately need one day.

Construction Junction

The Hipster was recently driving his red Jeep Wrangler with the black soft top on a busy road. He was thinking about what lines of William Wordsworth poetry he might quote to female friends in the future when he found himself directly behind a ginormous truck. He couldn't help but notice an orange and black warning sign affixed to the back of it that said: "CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE DO NOT FOLLOW." While most people are stupid, The Hipster is not. Years of playing with Tonka toys taught him how to spot a construction vehicle at an early age. The Hipster does not like being told the obvious. He also thinks stupid people will even realize they are following one, because not many other vehicles on the road pelt yours with dirt, stones and various other debris. For the first time in quite a while, The Hipster, who possesses so much savoir-faire, was at a loss for how to handle a situation. Other vehicles were following him, so stopping immediately may have resulted in serious injury or even death to someone. (Civil lawsuit, anyone?) Switching to another lane was not an option since he was already in the right lane and soon needed to make a right turn. The Hipster was an English major in college and he readily admits Ernest Hemingway's tough, terse sentences have heavily influenced his own writing. If only the statement had read, "TRY NOT TO FOLLOW THIS VEHICLE," The Hipster would not have faced such a dilemma.

A shoe full of money! (Sort of)

When you have kids, you get used to certain things - stepping on Legos left on the floor, finding the memory card on my camera filled with pictures of random household items, or a cookie left under a pillow (in case the tooth fairy decided to stop by and was hungry). You expect to find things out of place, for a reason that would only make sense to a child.

This morning, though, I was not expecting to find 42 Chuck E. Cheese tokens in my shoe. When I asked Grace, the discussion went like this:

Me: "Gracie, did you, by any chance, fill my shoe with Chuck E. Cheese tokens?"
Silence...

Grace: "Can you ask me if a stranger came in our house and put them in your shoes?"

Me: "Hmm...why?"

Grace: "Because then I can say "no" and I will be telling the truth."

Someone’s getting a wife!!

Hipster is already married, so it must be – Me! That’s right, internets, I’m getting a wife! Nope, I’m not getting married. If I ever did decide to take the plunge, that is a LONG way off. Instead, I get a wife without all the fuss, hubbub and hassle of a wedding. My friend, Carye, and I are moving in together, with our daughters. I have spent this weekend packing boxes and organizing the insane amount of books I own (is 87 boxes of books usual? God, I hope not.). We’re both single moms, our daughters are best friends, and we are equally wacky/insane/goofy. Perfect fit. Also, perfect fodder for a TV sitcom. A funnier “Jon & Kate plus 8” if you will – well, if the “8” were 2 little girls, 1 dog, 1 cat and 4 chickens.


When I told members of my extended family, they were happy for us, but still confused: “Why don’t you just find a husband?” was repeated, ad nauseum. I have 3 sisters and 2 step-sisters. Since I am the only unmarried one of the bunch, that’s a phrase I hear CONSTANTLY. Well, first of all, I didn’t realize it was that easy. Is it like finding an awesome pair of sandals at ShoeFly? I have many a single friend, male and female, who would beg to differ. Second, I don’t know that getting married is what I want. I like my life the way it is, thank you very much. Third, I’m not exactly the world’s best girlfriend and have a feeling I wouldn’t be a very good wife. In honor of that (and owing to a conversation I had with a friend today), I have compiled a list entitled “5 Reasons I Suck As A Girlfriend.” Enjoy.


1. I might forget your birthday Or when you’re getting back in town from your business trip (I swear you said Saturday, not Thursday). Or something else that is probably important. It’s nothing personal, and it’s not because I don’t care. I just forget stuff. A lot. Major holidays I’m good with – the rest, not so much. Maybe since I don’t celebrate my own birthday, I forget other people celebrate theirs? I only have so much space on my calendar to write things. Also, I never remember to look at it.


2. I will frequently cancel our plans My life is incredibly busy. My daughter comes first, then my job. I work ridiculous hours sometimes, and I will have to cancel many, if not most, of our plans during the week. On the weekends I become lazy and would probably prefer to sleep.


3. “Where is this relationship headed?” This is not something I think about. Do I have to know ahead of time? Can’t we just figure it out when we get there? Please, please, please don’t ever say these words to me. Death knell. If you have to ask, you’re not going to like the answer.


4. I have horrible taste in music Really. It’s bloody awful. My iTunes includes Wham, Air Supply, Dropkick Murphys, and Poison. I have some good bands on there, but you’re gonna find more Bon Jovi than RHCP.


5. You will be mentioned on this blog And I cannot guarantee what I say will be nice, complimentary or something you want me to share with everyone else. Your vasectomy? Fair game.


So, that’s it in a nutshell. Don’t ever date me. My friend John thought I should include the fact that his nickname for me is “trainwreck,” but I wasn’t sure that merited its own bullet point. If you think it does, go ahead and re-title the list in your minds.

Feminism or Liberalism?

I would never suggest that a woman should support Sarah Palin (or any other woman for that matter) simply because she has a set of ovaries, nor have I ever said that. Since feminism is about the advancement of women in society and helping females overcome male oppression, I think feminists should be able to admire (admire is the key word) some of Sarah Palin's accomplishments in a predominantly male environment. But, for the most part, they do not, and the reason for that is simple. Most feminists have very liberal political views, while Sarah Palin has decidedly conservative ones. From my perspective, this shows that feminism is not about the advancement and promotion of woman in society, it's really about liberalism and advancing the liberal agenda. If you're an accomplished female who is not for abortion and gay rights, feminists have no use for you, and they will attack your views (and you personally, in many cases) every chance they get. So much for mutual respect, tolerance and celebrating diversity.

Inaugural Post

So, this blog came about after countless sessions of back-and-forth commenting and posting between The Single Mom and The Hipster on Facebook – both lyric battles and serious social/political debates. While trying to decide what to post first, I remembered I had yet to respond to one of Hipster’s comments. It began when I posted this, after Sarah Palin resigned:

Dear Sarah Palin,
People aren't as disappointed with your decision as you expected. We never thought you were qualified in the first place. Also, please buy a dictionary. Those words don't mean what you think they do.
Sincerely, America

Also - ALIVE fish "go with the flow" too. Only salmon swim upstream, ya dink.

Hipster’s response:

I think you're just upset that Sarah Palin has never had an abortion, she's very attractive and her husband's not a sissy. Ha! Seriously, what are you all so upset about with her? She's not your governor and she's not your vice president. (Obama and Biden won, remember?) In fact, she's actually a female and a mother who's accomplished quite a lot in a predominantly male environment without having wealthy and well connected relatives open doors for her. I would think true feminists could admire that on some level, even if the New York Times doesn't say it's a good idea. Ha!

So, here I go:

As a feminist, I don’t agree with someone simply because they possess a set of ovaries. Is a feminist any woman who can succeed while simultaneously raising a family? No. That is a byproduct of feminism. A feminist is someone who wants to change society so that all women can succeed while raising a family, or not raising a family. A feminist is someone who wants men and women to be on equal footing. Just because she's a woman does not mean she's a feminist, nor do I look to her as one.

Sarah Palin isn’t my governor or my vice president. Am I supposed to like her because she lost the election? She wanted to be my vice-president, and she positions herself as the 2012 republican candidate for president. The fact that she wants to hold the highest office in this country, and simultaneously deny equal rights to a great deal of its citizens, angers me. What she stands for angers me. Being the leader of this country, to me, should be about ensuring equality and rights to all, even those you disagree with. She has made it pretty damn clear she only cares about the rights of select groups of people.

I know you were joking in your first sentence, but I still feel the need to respond. Sarah Palin hasn’t had an abortion, and I respect that. She made the decision that was best for her. She defends it, and I defend her choice because it is just that – a choice. Why should she be allowed to take away my right to choose, simply because I wouldn’t make the same decision she did?

Palin supported, and continues to support, a 1998 amendment to the Alaska constitution banning marriage for same-sex couples. As governor, she refused to officially acknowledge “National Coming Out Day.” However, "Alaska Taiwan Friendship Week," "Christian Heritage Week," and "Biomedical Technician Week," all received official proclamations. She supported a ballot vote to deny benefits to the same-sex partners of public employees, because “honoring the family structure is that important." Just so long as long as your family looks like hers.

I disagree with Palin on most issues. However, I don't advocate taking away her rights or denying her rights because of that discord. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said in return.

I just now realized how long this post is. Since it’s the first on this site, I’ll put it to bed. Coming soon: Palin's views and policies regarding rape victims, sexism, racism, “real americans,” and ethics violations. - The Single Mom