Valentine’s Day is Tuesday and given how my life has been going (inefficiently) I thought I’d do my Valentine’s day post today. Plus I have about twelve other things I should be doing, and procrastination by blogging is second best only to procrastination by cleaning (I’m coming for you, vacuum cleaner).

Ahhh Valentine’s. We love to hate you, don’t we. People who are single hate Valentine’s Day, people who are just starting to date hate Valentine’s Day, people in relationships hate Valentine’s Day…. in fact, at this point, the people I know in relationships might hate Valentine’s Day more vehemently than anyone else. The expectations! The cost! The impossibility of getting a reservation! The false notion of loving someone more on an arbitrary day of the year! The pressure not to fight, not to squabble, not to complain! The idea of waking up and watching the person you love as if there are flying, buzzing hearts like little tiny non-stinging bees flying about their sleep-addled, puffy, same-as-yesterday face. Plus, it’s February, so they probably have a cold and are in the process of excavating snot out of their nose.

Whereas single people everywhere have been effectively shamed out of hating Valentine’s Day. Who wants to be the girl running around in tears on February 14th bitching about how no one will ever love her? I’m pretty sure that at this point, no one ever wants to be that girl. (And sometimes it happens, I get it, look, you just want someone to come over and open every jar in your house before listening to that weird sound your car’s making and then sexing you up good). And then collectively everyone’s decided that it is a hundred times worse to be that girl on Valentine’s Day.

Look, if you’re going to watch Dear John alone on your coach with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues to yourself, you keep it to yourself at this point. Also, let me suggest Mean Girls instead and a box of Girl Scout cookies to help wash that wine down.

Personally, I find Valentine’s Day way less stressful than other major holidays— like New Year’s Eve. God, shoot me now. At least on Valentine’s Day there isn’t a DESIGNATED KISSING TIME. In which it’s acceptable to maul strangers? Potentially? Except that never happens. So then we’re all disappointed we’re not being sexually assaulted. It’s a seriously twisted holiday.

And now that we’re all adults and once we admit we like each other we can make out, or….you know….just make out kind of whenever…we sort of don’t wait for Valentine’s Day to roll around. So I’m pretty sure the idea of having a “secret” Valentine that you didn’t know about has been eliminated.

Right? Like if you’ve got a stalker, you already know. I’m pretty sure the last time I got an anonymous Valentine was in 6th grade– which, by the way, totally backfired. If it’s ANONYMOUS, how was I supposed to KNOW who it was? What did he think would happen? I would dust for his fingerprints on the cut-out letters he pasted in there? (Super sweet. Also rather assassin-y.) Nerds. Too smart for their own good.

By the end of the school day, after listening to me whisper to my girlfriends all day about who it could be, he finally walked up to me, turned a fantastic shade of red, flipped his rattail over one shoulder, and said, “It was me.”

I said, “Oh.” Then I said “Thanks” and got on the bus, trying not to throw up.

Those “valegrams” came with these terrible caramel-apple suckers and I must have eaten about 8 of them that day.

But don’t worry, guys! About 7 years later we dated for three months. V. romantic. My guess is he would say the awful, awful anxiety he must have felt all that day and the days beforehand and the days afterward totally paid off.

Basically, everyone’s agreed that having a first romantic interaction on Valentine’s Day is up there with hitting on someone / being hit on while you have food poisoning. There’s a reason classic sitcoms like to have people forget it’s Valentine’s Day and accidentally make a first date for the 14th. Because it’s ripe for comedy! Of the horrible, awful, cringe-inducing kind.

All of which means that the best-case scenario for finding “love” on Valentine’s Day is if you’re the sort of someone who will go mope about the day in a bar by yourself, and happen to find a fellow moper, and then you can have mopey, droopy sex that will result in a relationship that will last a good 3 hours longer (of sobbing together) than the 2 minutes of idle chitchat it was meant to. For god’s sakes, stay home and keep yourself STI-free instead, ok? Have a caramel-apple lollipop. It’s hard to cry around those things, because your teeth spontaneously fuse together.

All of which does not mean that we should walk around hating Valentine’s Day! It means that we should eat some good chocolate, make ourselves some good food, be sweet to people we’re sweet on, and wait for my sister’s annual homemade Valentine to show up in the mail and make me feel inadequately crafty but also loved. Plus there’s usually a pun on it, and I love puns.

Anyway, it’s much better to retroactively focus your anger on New Year’s Eve.

MM

Hey Komen!

I bought a pair of pink shoes the other day, but since I know you like to sue people with boobs who wear the color pink, and you like to deny health services to women, and I’m on what some might call an active campaign to stay “cancer-free” and also “educated” and also “with all parts in working order,” I thought I’d return the shoes and donate the money to Planned Parenthood instead.

Aw, guys, I just want you to know that even though you issued a statement that had a lot of words in it, I don’t believe you. I don’t believe your leadership doesn’t have a political agenda, and I don’t believe you weren’t lobbied by pro-life groups anti-women groups to defund PP in the first place. I don’t believe anything has changed, except maybe next time you’ll attempt to do things a bit more quietly. And maybe you’ll start flirting with Zuckerburg in the hopes that he “accidentally” deletes any posts about your organization on FB.

And once again– as always when I talk about PP– I’d like to point out that not only do they offer breast-cancer screenings— which is what your money, Komen, goes towards– they also offer PREGNANCY and NEONATAL care.

/sarcasm/ Those bastards over at PP are so confusing! Are they for life or against it or what! I just can’t keep track! /end sarcasm/

Also I thought I’d say here, because there seems to be some confusion in this country, that PP as well as hospitals, care clinics, and other health service organizations of all shapes and sizes offer abortion services because abortion is LEGAL and therefore people women don’t have to die in back alleys with hangers up their hoo-has.

You can call me a crazy liberal if you want, and I’ll say “thank you!” but let’s back it up for a minute and consider that WOMEN are neither Democrats nor Republicans (I was raised to believe they were human beings and as a side benefit, they got to be citizens), and therefore maybe their bodies should quit being kicked around the political arena like Mitt Romney kicks around $10,000 bets.

You hear a lot that politicians have dirtied their hands at some time or another…I just want those dirty hands out of my panties and away from my cha-chas, ok? I prefer people to have washed up before they get that close.

For closing arguments, I give you George Carlin. [NSFW] (Does that even need to be said once I say “George Carlin”?)

Speaking of comedians, about a month ago I watched whatshisdoodle– Bill O’Reilly– complain about why all the late-night shows make fun of the Republican candidates and not Obama. His expert guest had counted how many jokes on late-night were about Obama versus anyone else (which intern got that assignment?) and there were something like 3 times as many jokes about Obama.

So Bill O’Reilly said, essentially, “Those are different, those are affectionate.” Awww. So cute when he gets petulant! Doesn’t he know feelings-based arguments are the territory of the hippies? Then he made his real point, which was that only liberals are given late-night shows.

I kept waiting for the expert guest to ask him why, if they care so much, conservatives don’t try to be funnier.

MM

It’s January, so everyone’s gearing up for wedding season. Which is in the summer, I believe, unless you live in the Southwest, and then it *should* be in the winter, but for some warped reason, is not. Or maybe it is, what do I know.

The point is, people on my FB newsfeed are getting engaged, and good for them, whatever. I say whatever because I have basically no opinions on whether or not they should be— if I find out about an engagement on FB, chances are good I’m not in that close touch with the couple and really can’t speak to their “readiness.”

Right about now you’re all, “Whaaaa? No opinions? What is even happening right now?” And you’re flailing your arms around like a muppet without a puppeteer, because your world is crashing down around you.

Yes. That is how much I imagine you care about the things I say. Leave me to it.

So people— let’s call them Adam and Eve, random names I picked for no reason, certainly no other couple in the world has ever been paired with those monikers— get engaged on FB. I mean, they get engaged in real life (at least I hope), and then they put it on FB. And they’ve been together for 2.6 years, and own 1.3 dogs and have 6.7 Apple products between the two of them, and 17.8 pieces of Ikea furniture. Adam and Eve post 123 pictures of food on FB per year, and 1,234 vacation pictures, and only wear matching sunglasses ironically.

Ok, so I’m lying. They totally wear the matching sunglasses sincerely, and it’s more like 14.2 Apple products. The point is, they’ve been together a decent length of time, and they’re 25 years old.

And then about 345 people “like” the engagement status post and say a bunch of things like, “Congratulations!” and “Congrats!” and just the word “C!” which I assume in this context continues to communicate felicitations, and not the other C-word. But maybe that post was from an ex, what do I know. But he should keep it to himself at that point.

And then approximately half the people (that would be 172.5) say some variation of this: “Finally!” or “It’s about time!” or “It’s been too long!”

Now look, I’ve had some tank tops longer than 2.6 years. I know couples who have been together for 8 years without getting married. (This does not make them “casual” or “unsure,” by the way. And no, these are not people who “don’t believe” in marriage and so will never get married. They just haven’t. Yet.) I’ve been with my coffeepot for four years now, and while I like it, and it makes me happy every single day, I’m not ready to marry it. And yes, sure, my parents got married at 26, but I turn 26 in March, and I think I might spend my birthday going to see The Hunger Games.

Not that married people don’t like The Hunger Games, too, but perhaps you get my drift. Twenty-five year olds are doing different things now than they used to…..for example, my aunt and uncle were going to see Animal House, not The Hunger Games. And they’re divorced now.

I’m making jokes, yes, but I’m really very serious when I say that really— really—- it has not been too long when Adam and Eve, who have been dating for 2.6 years and who are 25 years old, get engaged. What, were they supposed to get engaged before they could officially sync all their devices through iCloud? Before they’d filled their Pinkberry punchcards? Before they’d weathered fifteen seasons of American Idol? (Is that show on six times a year? I don’t understand.)

Yes, I’m still making jokes. But it does take time to get to know someone. And then things change, and you have to get to know them all over again. And you have to get to know this third entity you’ve created between the two of you, your relationship. And then you move, and you have to get to know a new city. And then once all that is done, maybe you just want to be together. For a while. And then for longer. And then for a few years after that. And maybe you love them, but you’re still unsure for whatever number of good or bad reasons, or maybe you’re very sure, but you aren’t ready to get married, or your bank account isn’t ready to get married, or your Apple products are still adjusting to a blended household.

Weddings aren’t going anywhere. Neither is the person you’re with. And if they are– if they’re threatening to leave you if the two of you don’t get married– and if they’re doing so because you clearly aren’t committed and they’re trying to get you to prove it by slapping a ring on it– or because they’re feeling competitive with their FB newsfeed even though the two of you, together, as a couple, don’t really want to get married– then maybe we should all be posting “finally!” when FB shows that tiny broken heart next to your names. Or at least we’ll think it.

Except for that person who’ll post, “Oh no! But you two were perfect for each other! What happened?!?”

On the other hand, this morning FB let my friend in Boston tell me where to buy these cute shoes I’ve been wanting for a year. So it really does help us connect in very meaningful ways.

MM

Yes. Hello. I’m here. 

I just wanted to let you know that I haven’t been posting in support of the movement against this SOPA/PIPA* business.

HAHAHA just kidding. I have no idea how to do something as fancy as mock-black-out my blog/website/thingamajig.

I mean, I’m not kidding, I do not support SOPA/PIPA, etc, etc. A bunch of people who actually understand the Internet are in charge of the protest, and thanks, guys. I’m glad you’re stepping up. Because Congress is not. (As evidence of my internet ineptness— I wanted to embed that video for you, but I can’t, and I don’t know why not, but my “fix-it” skills are limited to trying over and over again to paste the URL into the box that says URL, and I can only do that about 13 times before I get bored and start watching the clip instead of trying to post it here.)

Really, I haven’t been posting because I’ve been lazy busy. I came back from vacation, and had a bunch of television work to catch up on, and then I had to pretend I was planning plan this class I’m teaching, and eat out make dinner, and see some friends go to some meetings, etc.

So you understand what I’m saying, basically, and I’ll be back next week, I swear. I don’t like making promises to the Internets that I don’t keep, because the Internets are an angry, angry place. Just read the comments section to any weather forecast.

So in honor of bringing down SOPA, and as an apology for my absence, I bring you some potentially felonious material. FELONIOUS IN ITS AWESOMENESS.

YEAH FRIDAY. Helloooooo weekend. Let’s eat pastries!

xxo M

*If you don’t know the deal with the SOPA/PIPA, the Wikipedia pages on it are up— even when the rest of Wikipedia is blacked out. If it still is. Clearly I’m following this development very closely. 

Why is it that people think walks in the rain are romantic? If this were true, Seattle would be the most romantic city in the world.

It’s not.

Let’s approach it this way– if walking in the rain was inherently romantic, then walking the dog in the rain should also be romantic. Not in a bestiality kind of way, but in a dreamy, introspective, beautiful world kind of way.

the Mona Lisa of dogs

Instead, walking in the rain with a dog is TERRIBLE. All you can think about is how wet your feet are, and how when you get home you’re going to have to wipe her feet off, and maybe give her a bath, and there’s rain sneaking along the side of your hood into your ear and if that car splashes you when it goes by, you will slash its tires, so help you god.

And you are hoping to end up walking around with a bag of poop in your hand. That is your best case scenario: poop. In your hand.

And look, I like my dog a lot better than anyone I’ve ever dated.*

We think that taking walks in the rain is romantic because the movies TELL US SO. And the movies don’t lie! They’re like the internet: truth machines.

Even better than walking in the rain: kissing in the rain. Have you ever made out in the rain? I grew up in Seattle. I’ve made out in the rain. Making out in the rain = not romantic. You can’t tell where the wetness is coming from— Raindrops? Saliva? Tears? Snot? You end up feeling like it’s all tongue. Everywhere. In your eyes. Hair. Up the sleeve of your jacket. Mashed between your noses.

Hot, right?

The whole idea that movies are trying to sell, I think, is that when you are with your one true love, you don’t notice what’s going around you— ie, you kiss in the middle of the street in NYC and you think you won’t die**, you get engaged on a roller coaster and don’t see the kid puking behind you into his dad’s cupped hands…. and you don’t feel the rain. Or at least, you don’t mind it. But do you seriously not notice wet socks just because the dude next to you is dreamy? Wet socks are the WORST.***

True love deadens all your nerves. Even as it pulls you into a state of transcendency and bliss.

….apparently I’ve been dating the wrong people. As in, not wizards or gods. Or really good anesthesiologists.

MM

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*Then again, you’ll notice “dated” is in past tense. I guess it’s not surprising I like my dog better than my ex-boyfriends.

**Let’s think of this from an evolutionary perspective. Say “love” does keep you from noticing your surroundings. Wouldn’t you die before you could procreate? It just doesn’t make sense, biologically. Then again— maybe you don’t notice your surroundings so that you’ll hurry up and procreate anywhere. Regardless of circumstances. Hmm. Will think on this more. Because like I said, the movies are truth machines, so they can be explained by science. You just have to find the right science. Michelle Bachmann-style.

***I tried to come up with a “He better have ___________ and ___________ if you expect me to forget wet socks.” But the best I could come up with was “bulletproof abs” and “the sensitivity of a trained therapist” and that didn’t seem to nearly cover it. Also bulletproof abs sound uncomfortable, and I’d really rather my bf wasn’t a therapist. He’d be so damn understanding whenever we fought. Then I tried “Show me the guy who can make me forget wet socks and I’ll show you Rhett Butler without the rape-y tendency.” That didn’t seem sufficient either.  Wet socks really are the worst.

I’m sitting in the airport on my way home for the holidays. Does that phrase evoke a weird mixture for anyone else of a peppermint taste, the song “White Christmas,” images of your childhood Barbie dreamhouse (Christmas 1991, I had the flu) and the urge to hook up with any (all) of your old crushes that it never quite happened with? No?

Well, this is awkward. But I’m going to continue to talk about it anyway. I basically don’t go out to any of the bars where I might run into people I know unintentionally when I’m home. Maybe because I went to college and spent a year after in the same city I grew up in, I tend to see the friends I keep in touch with from college and those I’ve made since then instead of running around to high school hot spots. And we tend to go out to new places. Or maybe it’s because I’m bitter and mean and terrified and avoid that one bar like a plague. Hard to say. I’m going with the former. So the chances of me seeing anyone accidentally are small. And yet.

Yet say the words “home for the holidays” and my brain’s all, “Hey girl. You know who you should make out with?! That dude from when you were 18. You used to study Spanish together? YEAH girl. GREAT idea.” And then all of a sudden it’s all White Christmas club remix up in my mind with twinkling white lights.

WHAT?!? NO. TERRIBLE IDEA. I mean, right? (Unless you’re reading this (you know who you are) in which case, call me! (Also, Ryan Gosling, you can call too.)) (Kidding! No really.)

Ok, well now that I’ve said this on the internet, this is the year I will run into everyone I know and we’ll see who reads my blog, because either they will talk about it and I will pretend to have a stroke to get out of the conversation or they will break into awkward hysterical laughter every time they look at me. Or they will creep on me and I will go to the bathroom to escape. Or they will act like I am creeping on them when I try to reach around them for a cookie. (I was going for the fudge! That’s not a euphemism! Oh god!)

So it’ll be SOPPMA (Standard Operating Party Procedure in the Media Age) in other words.

Ah, the joy of the season….

Cheers,
MM

It’s that time of year when the Internet makes lists of things for you to give to someone you know very well (right? I hope? I mean, if you’re letting them touch you on a consistent basis?)  and who the Internet has never met. The idea of this makes no sense— I mean, sure, your boyfriend might be exactly like the article author’s boyfriend, but I’m going to say chances are slim. And that if the similarities are too exact, you might want to look up the author’s FB profile and see if her boyfriend IS your boyfriend.

So instead of creating my own list of things you might give, I’m going to engage in that time-old tradition of ripping apart what someone else has said.

Jezebel has posted an article titled “Gifts for Someone You’re Planning to Dump.” OUCH.

Let me say this: the premise of the article rests on the assumption that dumping someone just before the holidays is worse than stringing them along for an extra month, dragging them to all your family functions, having them happily introduce you to grandma’s secret fudge recipe (and to grandma, possibly on her last Christmas; how awkward will that photo shoot be?), buying them a gift strategically chosen with said break-up in mind, and then leaving their frozen ass to thaw out on its own in January.

Morality is SO HARD, you guys!

Anyhoodle. The list includes a series of things that are great for mourning break-ups, including headphones, a quilt, boozy accessories, and food. Ok, whatever.

And then it includes a few things to get your ex started on a hobby: a plant or a cookbook. Let’s discuss.

My opening argument: WTF.

Who wants their new hobby to be GIVEN to them by their ex? How condescending is it to be all, “Hey babe, you’re going to need something to fill your empty, lonely, terrible hours with once I’m gone, so….here’s a thing….every time you look at it you’ll be reminded of me….just try to ignore that.”

So of course now I’m thinking about the love fern in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days– remember that? Kate Hudson, in her role as obnoxious girlfriend, gives Matthew McConaughey a plant and tells him it’s their love fern and they have to keep it alive as a symbol of their relationship. He lets it die, of course, and then she fake-cries, and then at the end of the movie it’s on the back of his motorcycle when he chases her down….

And people say rom-coms give us unrealistic expectations for relationships.

Or, alternatively, there’s this story: my sister’s ex-boyfriend gave her an orchid (when they were still together). After they broke up, she did what any sensible person would do: she stopped watering it.

Look, guys, it wasn’t a puppy, it was a plant, and I’m not a mind-reader, but I’m guessing she didn’t feel like looking at it every day and it’s hard to wrap your mind around throwing something out that’s still alive. Passive resistance is okay once you break-up. In fact, it’s sort of the name of the game, no? I would guess a lot of us can’t quite throw out things our exes gave us, but we can hide them / accidentally knock them over / treat them badly / lose them. This is why there’s so much talk about protecting the kids when people go through a divorce. OH GOD I JUST SAID THAT. WATER YOUR BABIES, GUYS.

But my sister’s roommate was a devoted plant caregiver and he kept watering it. That thing lived forever. Orchids are super delicate, you guys, and that plant would not die. I think she convinced the roommate to take it with him when he moved out two years later.

The only thing worse than giving someone you’re planning to break up with a plant is giving someone with cancer a dog:

PLEASE DON’T COMBINE THESE STORIES AND GIVE SOMEONE YOU’RE BREAKING UP WITH A DOG. OH MY GOD. That’s like handing them a stack of cuddly, warm, peeing bills that will come due right around the time you flaunt your new girlfriend in their face on FB.

MM

PS. This is also my sister who I had the following conversation with:

Her: I don’t understand why people get engaged during the holidays.

Me: Yeah, I did the opposite and had a holiday break-up.

Her: No, you didn’t.

Me: What?

Her: It was Thanksgiving. Doesn’t count.

Me: You’re not going to give me this one?

Her: No. You can call it a Thanksgiving break-up if you want.

Me: Really? You’re really not going to just let me have this?

Her: No.

I’ve been having dreams where I get rejected. No telling whether this has to do with my personal or my literary life. Last night I was on a boat going up a river when it happened, and I have to say, the setting was beautiful. The water was crisp and clear, the life preservers were a crisp orange, the sun was shining, and my hair looked great. I stood at the boat’s railing and watched a crocodile go by as I was shot down. Lovely.

In honor of my subconscious, I’m going to share today my first experience with (not) publishing in the literary world. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. I call it…

Up the River of Denial: and I hope You all like Me

The first literary journal to accept a poem of mine for publication never published my poem. I submitted to Great Review in the South (GRITS) in the youthful blush of my first semester in an MFA program. Full of panache and coffee, I sent packet after packet of five poems tied with bright, shiny bows of hope off to literary editors whose offices were filled with similar bits of dead trees.

Months later, by the time I received an email from some woman in Connecticut, I’d forgotten who I’d submitted to, why I’d submitted to them, and what poems I had submitted.

The email came from “poetry editor” and started, “Dear Marggaret.” I thought, everyone makes typos.  The next line read: “We would like to publish ‘At the KFC in Wallingford.’” The poem was actually titled “At the QFC in Wallingford,” but details! I was going to be published!

I read on: “We request that You submit a bio and pic to appear with the publication. Please include the name as You want it to appear in your bio text.” Wait. Why were the “you’s” capitalized? No matter! A bio and a pic! How professional! They were going to publish my poems in Great Review in the South (GRITS)!

I eagerly looked it up. A Confederate flag waved in my face. I blinked, looked again, google-searched “Confederate flag” to confirm. Yes, that was a confederate flag gif on the banner of their website. Their mission statement said, “We at Great Review in the South (GRITS) are proud to publish quality literature of all kinds. . . and We thank You for the opportunity to read Your work.” No matter what page I clicked on, every header and every sidebar boasted a Confederate flag. Perhaps more disturbing was the fact that every pronoun was capitalized.

I sighed, and then I emailed out my good news to friends and family anyway. I replied to the mysterious “poetry editor” email address with the correction for the title, worded as politely as I possibly could word it, clarifying that “QFC” is a grocery store chain in the Pacific Northwest—since “KFC” is an actual place of business, and a food-related one at that, I was fairly sure she would not realize the typo without my help.

But the poem was—and is—about a very old woman named Bettylu who works at the deli counter, ghoulishly slicing lunch meat with a thickly bandaged finger, and such things do not exist in KFCs. They sell fried meat, not lunch meat. I wrote a bio, I painstakingly chose a picture, and I asked which issue I might be appearing in. I did not capitalize my pronouns. I did not point out that Margaret has only one “g.”

Three days later, I received an email saying simply: “Margaret …fogive me the publication has QVC correct, it was just my letter to you.”

Who knew there were so many chains with three letter acronyms, so many variations on “QFC”?  Were this to appear as the title, the poem would make even less sense. Does QVC sell food? At least she spelled my name correctly this time. Even if she did forget the “r” in “forgive.” Maybe this woman had bandaged fingers.

Months went by.  I received an email from a Reginald one day that read, “We invite You to read the new edition of Great Review in the South (GRITS) and We thank You for Your continued support.” My heart beat slightly faster. This was it! I clicked on the link, I looked at the Confederate flags, I spent five minutes looking for the journal content and finally, I downloaded the unwieldy PDFs from the website. My poems were not there.

I am an unusual breed of persistent. I emailed the mysterious “Reginald” back and congratulated him on the new issue and its fine literary merit. I typed out a quick account of my email exchange with “poetry editor,” pointing out that she had not responded to my question re: what issue my poems would appear in, and—what the hell, I thought—I clarified again that “my poem is titled ‘At the QFC in Wallingford’ (rather than KFC or QVC).” I said I was honored to be included in the journal and thanked him.

I tried to force myself to capitalize my pronouns. Clearly it was part of the culture of this journal. What ever lead them to that place, I could not imagine. Dark forces of self-importance? Mass delusions of royalty? An overly developed sense of an unseen “you” as an omnipotent force?

…The spoiled Prince faced His last moments as the Dark, Brooding Funder of the Arts towered over Him. “Please, don’t kill Me,” he said. “You shall have all my riches and my dignity, too.  I’m begging You.” Each time I read an improperly capitalized pronoun, my mind increased its volume, its emphasis, the depth of the groveling bow until finally, its speaker hit his head on the floor. And died.

I could not and did not capitalize my pronouns.

Reginald emailed me back saying, “She has left the journal and all the work from Her time has been published. If you would like to resubmit We have a new Poetry Editor. and thank You for the compliments.” I stared hard at that lower-case “and” at the beginning of the sentence, willing it to switch places with either the “We” or the “You.”

His email signature was “giving some back and some in new places,” a spectacularly dirty phrase which made me think not at all of literary sharing, but rather, of herpes.

I did not resubmit.

No one else has been interested in publishing “At the QFC in Wallingford.”

It’s that time of year again, when men indulge their secret desire to look like creeps from the 1970′s even though it is no longer socially acceptable for them to behave in corresponding creepy ways.

So now they grow mustaches, leer inappropriately under the guise of “irony,” and defend it in the name of a good cause. Political correctness is great.

Let’s pretend that Movember and its most visible cause– prostate cancer– is the male equivalent of the marketing push behind breast cancer (they’re not direct inverses, obviously, but bear with me for a second).

So one of the ways breast cancer funding is marketed is through this whole “boobs are sexy; let’s save ‘em” thing. While I like my boobs, and I want them to be healthy, and I don’t disagree that they’re sexy, I still feel like this campaign is a very concerted effort to get men to care about breast cancer. Which is fine. Men should care about breast cancer. This is also manifested in the idea that most breast lumps are found by women’s partners…so get involved in catching breast cancer early by coping a feel of your lady’s ladylumps (really, do it). (“This isn’t for me, baby, I swear, it’s all for you. It’s a hard-on for health.“)

AND THEN in the other corner of the ring, we’ve got Movember! And prostate cancer! Wherein guys….grow mustaches. I took a poll, and it turns out this is something guys like and women don’t. So let’s call it an indulgence on their part. It’s their health issue, their gender’s health month, so ok. And then in an attempt to include women in this mission, Movember advocates “Have Sex with a Guy with a Mustache” day:

Awwwww so sweet! OH WAIT. I feel like this isn’t really for women, actually. I feel like it’s for the dudes with mustaches, whose sex lives have suddenly dropped off with the advent of Movember.

So let me get this straight:

1) To fight cancer, men get to feel women’s boobs and grow mustaches.

2) Whereas women have even more focus on their breasts (can be great but not the pleasure center, dudes), have to see guys in mustaches, and “get” to have sex with guys with mustaches. Which by the way does nothing to prevent cancer. Just in case some guy tries to tell you that, ladies—it’s not true.

3) Women need to get men involved in the campaign against breast cancer—need their support so badly (financially, emotionally, psychologically, politically, socially?)—that the entire marketing strategy revolves primarily around drawing men to the cause. (I maintain “boobs are hot” is not designed primarily for women. By the way, should we talk about saving the woman who has the breasts? No? Oh ok my bad.)

4) Whereas the marketing to get funding for men’s health issues involves growing mustaches and encouraging women to have sex with guys with mustaches. As in, this does not actually show a concern for drawing women to the campaign through something that appeals to them. AT ALL. DOES NOT APPEAL TO THEM AT ALL. As in, men don’t seem to need women to support their health care cause.

Huh.

Why doesn’t Movember include an educational component of “how to check your man for prostate cancer”? I don’t know that this is really for women, either, but it would at least make sense. It, sort of like Samantha on Sex in the City, would advocate sticking your finger up your man’s rectum.

As the video above would say: “It’s for health, baby…I’m fighting that asshole, cancer.” Or you could also say: “that asshole cancer.”

Punctuation is my favorite.

love,

MM

PS—Also this is a very heterosexual-relationship focused post because the campaigns are that way.

PPS—I support funding for health research for almost all issues. Except the boner ones. I think we can all agree we’ve sucked that one dry      flooded the market       raised awareness      opened the floodgates       tipped the fulcrum       it’s no longer no country for old men       oh screw it. (Literally, you can now.)

With the premiere of Twilight 4 Part 1: Vampire Porn with Family Consequences, I thought I’d repost this summary I wrote a while ago of the fourth installment. Now look, I don’t care what you THINK you know about the fourth book, unless you’ve read it, YOU HAVE NO EARTHLY CONCEPT. THIS SHIT IS CRAZY. Therefore awesome.

And yes, I’ve read the books. And no, I don’t have any posters of either R.Pattz or Taylor Lautner.

(I’m much more interested in Team Peeta vs. Team Gale, although let’s be honest— at least one of those was miscast. Probably both….Have we talked about how I hate all movies made out of books? It took me ten years to be able to see the Harry Potter movies—I watched them last spring—and I maintain I only enjoyed them then due to Stockholm syndrome.)

I did see the first two Twilight movies. Eventually. Not on opening night. I haven’t seen the third. TWILIGHT MARATHON, ANYONE? Maybe you’ll be more interested after you read the below and realize that Twilight 4 is Grindhouse targeted at tween girls— except with more gore. And interspecies baby-love.

*

Dear Twilight 4: Vampire Sex & Babies, Abortions, C-Section by Fang, Pedophilia & More,

Ok, so if you haven’t read the books, you don’t believe me.  But the fact of the matter is, apparently after you get married in good ol’ Steph Meyer’s world, ANYTHING GOES.

Vampire Sex

Bella and Edward have violent sex (dude, he’s a vampire, he has superhuman strength, think about the implications).  And she gets bruised.  All over her body: full-body bruising.  So he won’t have sex with her anymore.  That’s true love, guys.

Oh man, I feel like I should say something responsible here to teenage girls. And boys.  Whoever.  Teenage girls (and boys): do not have sex with vampires. There. More? Violent sex is not okay.  I mean, unless you’re into that, in which case it should still be safe.  By safe I mean….this is too much responsibility. This is why I don’t write an advice column. Go read Savage Love.

Ok, so Edward won’t have sex with her anymore because it’s true love, and true love doesn’t mean ripping the headboard to shreds in the throes of vampire orgasm, so she puts on really really expensive French lingerie (dude, he’s a vampire, he has a lot of money, and his sister (what.the.hell?!?) packed Bella’s honeymoon bag for her and didn’t include any real clothes) and she writhes around on the bed and cries until he takes pity on her and has sex with her again. At which point she gets knocked up with a vampire baby. Duh. Sigh. Swoon.

& Babies

A vampire baby which grows really fast.  She knows she’s knocked up because she can see it by the second day and feel it kicking by the first week. Ummmm, vampires are basically immortal— they live a really long time– so why exactly do their fetuses grow faster rather than slower than human fetuses?

Yeah, because that’s the biggest problem in this book.

So then Edward wants to kill the baby, but Bella’s all, noooo my baby! even though a week ago she didn’t want to get married “because who wants to be that girl who gets married right out of high school?” Oh, well. If you’re going to be that girl, might as well get knocked up while you’re at it. So the baby breaks Bella’s ribs and spine with its kicks. Obviously. She spends the rest of the next hundred pages lying on the couch.

At which point, even Stephanie Meyer is like, the most interesting thought this character has ever had is “I’m in love with a beast designed to kill me. And yet I’m not afraid. That’s weird” and she ditches Bella hard core. The rest of whatever is from Jacob’s perspective, because roaming around outside a house as a vigilante and thinking angry, lustful, vengeful thoughts is more interesting than a pregnant lady crying on the couch.

Abortions

Edward comes outside and offers to let Jacob knock Bella up if he’ll help convince her to abort the baby.

I’m going to let that sink in for a minute.

C-Section by Fang

Then Bella starts to have the baby, and clearly it can’t come out her vagina (hello Superman and Lois Lane) so Edward cuts it out of her with his fangs. I really hope the filmmakers don’t decide to skip over this scene, because I plan on squealing a lot and covering my eyes with my hands and then feeling sick from all the candy and popcorn and vampire placenta.

Everything is yada yada yada from there– Edward turns Bella into a vampire, she can’t see her baby because she might eat it, etc etc.  They have a lot of vampire sex but we don’t get to see it—- ? (Now that they’re of equal strength, married, and have a child together, sex is something to be ashamed of. Uh huh.)

Pedophilia

There are bad vampires, a showdown, and OH YEAH JACOB FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE BABY. What a creeper. How do you like that, Team Jacob.

& More

I really hope parents stopped letting their kids read after Twilight 3: After Much Contemplation and Cuddling, We Kissed Once.  On the other hand, as my (adult!) sister said, “Wow, I should have kept reading after book one.”

Ok, yes, so all of the above things happen in Twilight 4, which is why it’s going to be the best movie everrrrr. This link takes you to the original article that goes through all the plot points but from a dude’s perspective (Devin Faraci’s, to be exact) and with a lot more movie references.  And it’s awesome and funny and you should read it.

Sample: “Are you imagining Kristen Stewart wearing a fake pregnancy belly and pretending to have been suddenly crippled by her own fetus? Because I am and it’s making me laugh and laugh and laugh.”  Oh, Devin.    

Anyway, this book really should have been called Twilight 4: HOW TO JUMP THE SHARK.

THIS MOVIE IS GOING TO BE CRAY-CRAY.  In order to show it in the United States, they’re going to have to neuter it.  Then in order to show it to their target demographic, they’re going to have to take this beast out back and kill it with a shotgun and replace it with a My Little Pony.

I CANNOT WAIT.

Love,

MM