Yay! I have internet on my own computer now! Woop!

My life has become similar to that story about the man with all the animals who has to get everyone to the other side of the river, but none of the animals can ride in the boat at the same time. Dale and Bear, the adult male cats, are surprisingly chill with each other, but the kitten wears on Bear’s nerves, and every time she runs up to him and playfully pats him on the face, everyone goes ape-shit. Its like a catsplosion.

I have decided that books and kitchen utensils will make this feel more like my house, so that’s what I brought over today. Actually, what will make this feel more like my house is to not actually own a different house, so I have to run numbers for paying people who will finish my bathroom in something less than 8 months.

I don’t know. It feels weirdly formal, but that’s not quite the right word, since neither Foxy nor I are particularly formal people. Its more like we look up and think, “oh, shit, that’s right you’re still here.” Or “Why are you here all the time?” or “Who ate all the peanut butter?” Don’t get me wrong, all the things I was looking forward to, like cooking together and waking up next to each other and falling asleep watching TV on the couch, they’re all awesome. But we’ve both lived alone for so long that we’re a little bit like our cats, kinda jumpy and surprised around each other.

I woke up super early this morning to drive out to Candler and vote. For some reason, instead of putting the polling station, oh I don’t know, in the middle of Candler, they put it way out on some curvy ass road at the poo end of nowhere. Also, there are no snazzy electronic machines out in the county. Also, unlike in Westville, which has a polling station every 100 yards, there is 1 polling station for approximately 80 miles on the outskirts.

But I managed to overcome all these obstacles to cast my ballot. It was a near thing. I used up like $6.35 in gas just getting there.

Tomorrow, the plan is to ride my bike to work. I had 12 Bones for dinner this evening, so either I will have miles of energy bursting forth in the morning, or more likely I will fall off my bike and vomit ribs all over Sulphur Springs. Careful on your way to work.

Moved in with Foxy yesterday. This involved picking up the cat, the computer, what few clothes were still in Candler, and the waffle iron. Bear (my cat) and Maevis (her cat) are not on speaking terms yet. We’re trying to keep everyone separated. Luckily, her other cat Dale is stoned off his ass on pain meds cause he got in a fight with a neighborhood cat. He doesn’t want to leave his room and he just looks confused when Maevis and Bear yowl at each other.

But the post about moving should not be about my cats.

We’ve been planning the move for a long time. In January, we decided we wanted to move in together this year. Her roommate The Cleav moved out in March, and we were all set to go and I freaked out. What about my house? What about my garden? What about my bathroom? Did moving in with Foxy mean I was giving up, that I got beat by the difficulty of fixing up my place? I still feel that a little, but mainly I want to be able to wake up next to Foxy every morning and make dinner with her every night without having to worry about whether my cat and plants are taken care of. So now the cat is here and the baby plants will be until they’re ready to go in the ground. I know you were all worried about the baby plants.

A stellar lack of self control led this member of the Australian parliament to sniff his lady staffer’s chair. Thankfully the staffer was not in the chair at the time.

After the roller derby two weeks ago (I know, I’m horrible, I totally deserve that slacker award) we went to Rosetta’s. Luckily, it was the first time I had been there since the night Foxy and I met, nearly 20 months ago. Unluckily, I was outvoted and we still went there.

How do you fuck up a grilled cheese sandwich? How? Bread, cheese, fry. It is quite possibly simpler than boiling water. That was the reason I ordered it. “How could they possibly fuck that up?” I thought. And yet my Rosetta’s grilled cheese was the grossest thing I had put in my mouth since my dad made Brussels sprouts with raspberry yogurt sauce when I was 10. Bland, gluey, soggy. You name it, that sandwich had it. The cheese had no flavor. I don’t remember what kind of cheese it was, but I know that it wasn’t soy. It wasn’t supposed to be soy, anyway.

Now, I understand that they might not use butter to fry the sandwich. I also understand that crappy, cheap-ass nasty cheese melts way better than really expensive, fancy, local happy cow cheese. But my Kraft singles, wonder bread, and margarine grilled cheese should not be more flavorful, better textured, and more soulfully fulfilling than some $5 piece of shit I bought at 2 in the morning.

That is all.

The verdict on tailgating on the roof of the Civic Center parking deck: windy, sorely lacking in bathrooms. The ribs worked out ok, though they could have done with another hour of slow cooking before going on the grill.

The roller derby was kinda crazy. My crew got roped into being the “fearleaders,” which means cheerleaders in dark colors and black fishnets. I was the first of the non-fearleader (read: butchy mcbutch) girlfriends to arrive so when I walked into the arena, 6 hot ladies in short skirts and lots of eye makeup ran up to me and requested that I buy them beer. I mean, granted, they were all my friends, and my actual girlfriend was present at the time, but still, it was a big moment. I mean, I still have a hard time tipping belly dancers because of cheerleaders.

Afterwards, we went to Smokey’s and played pool until the wee hours. I discovered my new favorite drink: Stoli Vanilla and Ginger ale. Mmmm like cream soda. Not very butchy mcbutch.

Surprisingly, I was not sore from Friday’s efforts. Also, D’oh is buying a house on Thursday! Which is crazy!

There will be no moving for awhile. D’oh and I took out the trees in the backyard. I still have to rent a chipper to get rid of all the branches.

D’oh said to burn it. He’s a fireman. He may be right.

I may even be unable to wii tonight. Not even golf. We’ll see after more beer. I was able to kick D’oh’s ass at Street Fighter II though, until my SNES carpal tunnel kicked in. E Honda is the bomb with that fists of fury blazing speed. And you thought Sumo wrestling was all about the fat guys in bikinis getting pushed around. Street Fighter is not over until the fat man sings. And rotates his neck in that funny way.

I may also be sunburned. It’s all behind me, so I can’t see it, because my neck doesn’t go that far right now.

So I’m going to shower. We’ll see about tomorrow when it gets here. Your comments about the legality and/or advisability of tailgating on the roof of the Civic Center parking deck before the Roller Derby tomorrow are welcomed and encouraged.

First Step Farm, a local substance abuse rehabilitation center, has opened a retail space in Candler, on Smokey Park Highway across from Kruizers (or whatever). They have plant starts of the annual,  perennial, and vegetable variety at the moment. They’ll have local produce from July to September.

Dad, don’t read the last line of this post. Ok, fine. I warned you.

So, you know when you go to the doctor, and I mean the lady doctor, although I assume men have some version of this, and you go into the room and you get a PA or someone who comes in and does the preliminary stuff that it costs too much for a doctor to do? And she (always a she in my case) asks you a series of questions about your period and whether you eat well and how often you do crystal meth?

So then she asks you if you’re sexually active. And I say yes. Because I am. And she asks you whether you take birth control, going down a long list of drugs, each of which I must say no to. And I say no, because I don’t. Then she asks if you use condoms, and I say no, cause I don’t. Then she asks if I’m pregnant or trying to become so. And I laugh, cause that’s just silly.

Because OBVIOUSLY, I MUST be having sex with a man. I mean, what other options are there? So at that point, I say, ” No, I’m a lesbian.” and she gets all flustered and says, “oh.” and then we have the rest of the uncomfortable questions about my menstrual cycle and smoking 1 cigarette a month.

But my point is why is there no room on their form for me? How hard is it to ask “are you sexally active with men?” instead? Give me room, and I will come out, no worries. I have been and can continue to be about 3 drag queens shy of a walking Pride Parade all by myself, 6 being the minimum number of queens required for a parade. Or a fight. Scratch that, a fight only takes 3.

This happened during a Planned Parenthood phone survey I took once too. The questions started out all easy and general: cigarettes and beer. Then she started asking me about sex with men.

“Hold on!” I said. “I’m a lesbian. I’ve never had sex with a man. I’ve never taken birth control. You should talk to my girlfriend.”

“No, no, I’ve already started with you. We can totally finish.” She was young and earnest. She proceeded to continue asking me questions, attempting vainly to shoehorn my answers into her heterosexual “often, sometimes, not often, never” world. How hard would it have been to tack “have you ever had sex with a man” onto the beginning of that survey? Easy. Cheap. Save me twenty minutes.

But until things change I’ve decided that my own form of activism will be to reply, “Yes, I do use birth control. I make my girlfriend cum on my chest.”

Last night was my birthday party at Papas & Beer. We crammed 21 of my favorite people around one table, then proceeded to eat and drink ungodly quantities. I got really cool presents, including: The Best Apple Spice Cake Evah from City Bakery, The Frequent Fryer’s Cookbook, Betty Crocker’s Slow Cooker Cookbook, a charger for my Wiimotes, a Rosie the Riveter action figure, a special mix cd, Itunes money, and a carabiner with a clock on it. Know how I know I’m gay?

I also got a super cool t-shirt with my face on it from Gourmet Girl and Hidey Ho. I feel a little Perez Hilton-y while wearing it, but it is still awesome. At the end of the dinner, while we were milling around hugging and saying goodbye, some guy at another booth called to the DJ and said I had dropped a note that was on the floor. He was a scruffy redneck type, and he was sitting with two older people that I assumed at the time were his parents. When the DJ picked up the note and we read it, I saw that it had a phone number and the note “Weiner Master” on it.

Does that work? Who does that? Who does that with their parents sitting there? Is he listed in the Yellow Pages under that? Someone should have warned him that I’m blogging this.

We continued to mill and hug, but I moved to the other side of our table while Foxy checked us out. Papas & Beer is awesome in another way besides bean dip: No worries about separate checks.

Foxy got me out to the car with cake and presents in tow and we watched the redneck speed away in his truck. He had modified it with faux smokestacks behind the cab, like a big rig, and underneath his tow hitch hung a shiny pair of silver testicles. I wish I was making this up. So that was the only present I turned down: a fuck from the Wiener Master.

I was going to post something truly hilarious about wandering around downtown and meeting a drug-addled male prostitute last night, but apparently the April Fool’s is on me and I didn’t get around to it.

I’ve only gotten up to peas and carrots and my garden is half full already. That’s not a good sign. I have no idea where I’m going to put all these damn tomatoes. Maybe I should start my own CSA… Quick, everyone send me $400! No guarantee on crop yields, of course. It already doesn’t look good for the broccoli. The stuff I transplanted went down in flames and the seeds I used as a stop gap measure are nowhere to be seen. Look for a shit-ton of collards in about 8 weeks though.

I saw Horton Hears a Who this weekend in the company of Foxy’s niece and nephew/ They behaved splendidly. The 2.5 year old niece broke into song at one point during the movie, completely unrelated to when Horton broke into song, but after about 30 seconds she finished her song and continued to stare at the pretty pictures. The drawback I saw with them not watching much TV at all is that they don’t know how to process TV or movies. The 5 year old, normally very intuitive and sensitive, couldn’t tell us anything about what happened during the movie, even though he sat in rapt attention for the whole thing. All kids don’t do that. Kids who watch TV all the time do get zombiefied on occasion, but not every time they see a moving image. It was slightly unsettling, like maybe TV has to be inoculated against.

Also, I gave in and am hiring someone to finish the electrical. D’oh and I both feel a little out of our league. Also I am tired of waiting for the damn bathroom to be done so I can take a shower in something bigger than a breadbox. It remains to be seen whether I hire a plumber. I guess it depends on whether I can manage to chop up two apple trees by myself. Aaaugh!

I passed my Bee Test! Now I have to take the practical test to get certified as a Master Beekeeper, and since I’m not actually bringing bees to Candler, that can wait a bit. I can practice with friends.

I survived the weekend, only just!  Unfortunately, my baby broccolis may not have been so lucky. Also, I can see no one until 6 weeks from now when I will return from my grumpiness quarantine.

I’m going to New York in June! And to see Wicked! I already have my little ticket envelope with 3 little Wicked tickets in it!

I have to be intensely social for the next three weekends in a row, and I might not make it.

Back when I was single, I went out maybe once a week, if that. I met up with people when they called, or if I was broke I didn’t go out. Some of you may not have noticed, but Foxy is an extrovert.  She wants to go out three or four night a week. She needs to see people. When she was sick and I was her only human contact, I could see the crazy in her eyes.

Now, I go out pretty much every weekend, but I make sure to schedule alone time during the day. I try not to go out on weeknights. If I spend too much time around people, I get whiny and Foxy reminds me to go sit in a corner until I feel better. Last weekend, I was able to maintain a charming personality around Foxy’s college friends for the most part, until we had to go around Washington Circle in Georgetown 3 times, and then I lost my shit. Luckily, Foxy held hers together and we got onto I-61 and out of DC safely and quickly.

This weekend I’m not supposed to talk about, but it involves 10 people in a cabin, interacting. I’m taking my headphones. If I can listen to lonely music (Vince Gill, Patty Griffin, old Dolly) maybe I will feel more lonely. It usually helps. Sleater Kinney doesn’t help in that situation. It just makes me mean. Scientists have not yet developed a scale for my meanness if I have Sleater Kinney, tequila, and not enough alone time.

The next weekend, Foxy’s family will be in town. I can escape to Candler if need be, to start peppers and pull weeds, but I would prefer to maintain. We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted, providing I don’t forget to remember that this blog exists.

Young man near GWU: “You ladies looking for a party?”

Us: surprised pause

Young man: “Oh shit, you guys are old as hell.”

Us: “Fuck You!” continue laughing the remaining 1/2 block to the hotel, whereupon we use the wrong entrance, then laugh loudly up 7 flights to make sure we wake up EVERYONE.

I am feeling particularly oppressed by my house this weekend. I’m even tired of hearing myself whine about it. See, during some windstorm or other, the flat roof of the enclosed porch came loose and returned to its natural state as a rolled up sheet of rubber. This left all rain easy access to my laundry room. So I called a roofer who was very nice and came and fixed it temporarily for free with a cheap estimate for permanent fixing once it warms up, since rubber has to be bendy. But my point is that I was sick, so this shit was dire.

Also, D’oh says I have to rewire, an while we’re at it let’s rewire from the basement too. And since I’m going to be out of town for the next month in a row, I won’t be able to work on the bathroom until sometime in May. So my birthday camp out is off.  And its dirty and hard and smelly and expensive and I miss my nice, clean, working apartment that was bikeable to work and shopping.

My blog has been serious poo lately, ya’ll. I’m sorry. Foxy had the flu, I have a sinus infection, instead of driving home to let the dogs out, I have to rush back to Candler to bring the seeds in before the temperature drops. Craziness.

But! I have learned from my dad that he is having trouble making up his mind between two excellent candidates for the Democratic nomination. Since he’s over the age of 40, he isn’t automatically going to vote for Obama, so I thought I’d do a little public education, a la Scru Hoo, to help him out. I will do my very best to avoid bias, because while I do think that Hilary would make an excellent president, I just like believing that Obama will make people not hate each other any more. Everyone gather round for the Kum Ba Ya, ‘kay?

Up first: Healthcare. I don’t personally go to the doctor without being coerced and threatened, but I know other people enjoy seeing physicians on occasion. Here, the candidates are basically the same. All video is from icyou.com, which looks pretty unbiased to me.

Obama: Creates a new agency called the National Health Insurance Exchange … Low incomes given income based sliding scale subsidies … Only children required to be covered … cost: $65 billion (paid for by:sunsets of tax breaks for incomes over $250k)

Hilary: Overseen by the Federal Employee Health Benefits Program … Everyone is required to have coverage … Tax credits if you pay more than a certain percentage of family income … Cost $110 billion (paid for by: reforms to current healthcare system, discontinuing breaks to top 2 tax brackets

Both plans expect employers to contribute to costs, either by covering their employees or by contributing to the national plan … small businesses get help … legislate a minimum of coverage, then allow shoppers to choose from amongst public and private options … can’t be turned away because of pre-existing conditions …

So there ya have it. If Project Runway weren’t coming on in 15 minutes, my sick, sore ass would be in bed. But instead, I’m awake and blogging for YOU! Next time: Teh Gay.