This is why you're an asshole

I realize that I have my period, but when I scrolled through Facebook this morning and came across a picture of Rhianna with the hilarious caption: “We fell in love when he punched my face”…oh, oh my God, I’m sorry; I just shit myself laughing again. Yeah, no, actually, words cannot describe how done I am with this.

First of all, I’d like to address this issue of posting and reposting pictures with captions. Some of them are indeed funny, and yes, I’ve reposted a few. But stop. Just stop. Put that shit on Pinterest. I’m tired of looking at it.

Also, let’s be real: the Internet is a free, open area for people of all nations to expose how truly ridiculous they are. I can’t quite remember but I think it was better before we had a vehicle for our passive aggression. But then again, if it weren’t for the Internet, I would not have the opportunity to tell you how amazingly stupid you are.

Yep. I’m judging the shit out of you for thinking it’s hilarious to make jokes about the fact that Chris Brown beat the crap out of Rhianna. There’s really nothing you can do about it, except offer something vastly unintelligent and offensive in the comments section from the confines of your Mom’s basement. There’s also nothing I can do about you and your twisted idea of what’s funny. This is the Internet; it’s a fucking free-for-all.

You know when domestic violence is hilarious? Never. Know when it’s really not hilarious? When it happens to someone you love. Know when it’s fucking devastating? When someone that you love dies at the hands of their abuser. The National Network to End Domestic Violence did a 24-hour census of domestic violence shelters and services to capture a snapshot of what’s really happening out there.  In one day, 3 men committed suicide; one after murdering his wife, one after attempting to murder his girlfriend and one during a police standoff while holding his partner hostage. 3 women were murdered by their intimate partners. 36 babies were born to women living in domestic violence shelters. Over 70,000 people sought domestic violence services all over the country. That’s a lot of fucking people.
Maybe your sister was one of them. Maybe I should take her picture and create a hilarious meme which I will then post to Facebook. Oh, what? That’s not ok? You don’t want me to do that? OF COURSE YOU DON’T.

I’d like to leave you with a stark reminder of what you’re laughing at: the police report from the night Chris Brown beat Rhianna. I’d like to thank my good friend Maya for reminding me just how brutal and real this is. Enjoy.

“Brown was driving a vehicle with Robyn F. as the front passenger on an unknown street in Los Angeles. Robyn F. picked up Brown’s cellular phone and observed a three-page text message from a woman who Brown had a previous sexual relationship with.
“A verbal argument ensued and Brown pulled the vehicle over on an unknown street, reached over Robyn F. with his right hand, opened the car door and attempted to force her out. Brown was unable to force Robyn F. out of the vehicle because she was wearing a seat belt. When he could not force her to exit, he took his right hand and shoved her head against the passenger window of the vehicle, causing an approximate one-inch raised circular contusion.

“Robyn F. turned to face Brown and he punched her in the left eye with his right hand. He then drove away in the vehicle and continued to punch her in the face with his right hand while steering the vehicle with his left hand. The assault caused Robyn F.’s mouth to fill with blood and blood to splatter all over her clothing and the interior of the vehicle.

“Brown looked at Robyn F. and stated, ‘I’m going to beat the sh– out of you when we get home! You wait and see!’

” The detective said “Robyn F.” then used her cell phone to call her personal assistant Jennifer Rosales, who did not answer.

“Robyn F. pretended to talk to her and stated, ‘I’m on my way home. Make sure the police are there when I get there.’ After Robyn F. faked the call, Brown looked at her and stated, ‘You just did the stupidest thing ever! Now I’m really going to kill you!’

“Brown resumed punching Robyn F. and she interlocked her fingers behind her head and brought her elbows forward to protect her face. She then bent over at the waist, placing her elbows and face near her lap in [an] attempt to protect her face and head from the barrage of punches being levied upon her by Brown.

“Brown continued to punch Robyn F. on her left arm and hand, causing her to suffer a contusion on her left triceps (sic) that was approximately two inches in diameter and numerous contusions on her left hand.

“Robyn F. then attempted to send a text message to her other personal assistant, Melissa Ford. Brown snatched the cellular telephone out of her hand and threw it out of the window onto an unknown street.

“Brown continued driving and Robyn F. observed his cellular telephone sitting in his lap. She picked up the cellular telephone with her left hand and before she could make a call he placed her in a head lock with his right hand and continued to drive the vehicle with his left hand.

“Brown pulled Robyn F. close to him and bit her on her left ear. She was able to feel the vehicle swerving from right to left as Brown sped away. He stopped the vehicle in front of 333 North June Street and Robyn F. turned off the car, removed the key from the ignition and sat on it.

“Brown did not know what she did with the key and began punching her in the face and arms. He then placed her in a head lock positioning the front of her throat between his bicep and forearm. Brown began applying pressure to Robyn F.’s left and right carotid arteries, causing her to be unable to breathe and she began to lose consciousness.

“She reached up with her left hand and began attempting to gouge his eyes in an attempt to free herself. Brown bit her left ring and middle fingers and then released her. While Brown continued to punch her, she turned around and placed her back against the passenger door. She brought her knees to her chest, placed her feet against Brown’s body and began pushing him away. Brown continued to punch her on the legs and feet, causing several contusions.

“Robyn F. began screaming for help and Brown exited the vehicle and walked away. A resident in the neighborhood heard Robyn F.’s plea for help and called 911, causing a police response. An investigation was conducted and Robyn F. was issued a Domestic Violence Emergency Protective Order.”

Sara Raspberry, Public Relations

Hi there! Sara Raspberry, public relations. Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me this afternoon! You’ve got a beautiful office, Mr. Jones. Oh – ok, Glenn. Haha! Boy, how about this weather we’re having? It’s been…just nuts, right? You never know if it’s going to rain or…what! Seriously! I’m like, just what the heck is going on, anyway? Hahahaha!

Is that a picture of your family? Well, your children are just adorable. You must be so proud. How old are they? Oh, my…I just love the name Dakota. It’s so...it’s breathtaking. I went to the Black Hills once and it was…it was, you know…just beautiful. Your daughter is a lucky girl to have such a…such an inspiring name. And how did you come up with your son’s name? Oh! Oh, that’s great. I’ve actually never read The Hobbit.

Ok, so. I suppose I should tell you a bit about why I’m here. First, just for some background…I went to Northwestern where I majored in journalism – go Wildcats. Haha! Graduated top of my class in 2005, and went on to get my Masters in communications management from USC. Public relations is, you know, a really diverse field. I find that I have a lot of opportunities to…you know, meet a lot of people and see what’s really going on out there. It’s been just…great to work with so many amazing organizations over the years. So…yeah! That’s a bit about me. Just so you have some background.

So…the reason I’m here today, Glenn, is because I represent an organization that would really like to partner with you on the construction of the new pediatric cancer center at this hospital. My clients feel really good about…you know, creating that special place for children struggling with cancer to…get well, and, and have a place to really…relax and get the proper care. This hospital has a stellar reputation, and the organization I represent would very much like to create a partnership that could help…bolster their reputation in the community.

Of course, a significant monetary contribution would be made. We understand that Saint Stephen’s has run into some financial difficulties with this project, which, in these economic times, is pretty much par for the course, right? Yeah! So we’d like to offer our financial assistance, which would benefit you and the construction of the pediatric cancer wing, as well as help us as we begin to forge some community partnerships.

Now, I’m not going to mince words, Glenn; my clients have had some difficulties over the years. Unfortunately, there has been a lot of misrepresentation of this organization in the media. A lot of activities and events have been…twisted and misinterpreted. The truth is who are we to judge? You know? I mean, people in glass houses…right? My clients have been erroneously labeled as trouble makers and we’d like to educate the community. We think partnering with Saint Stephen’s is the perfect way to get that started.

Yes, I’ll get to that in a minute, Glenn. But first, I’d like to tell you that sometimes, we hear a brand…or, we hear the name of a brand…you know? And we automatically think of certain words or phrases that go along with that brand. For example…when I hear 'S.E. Johnson', I think 'a family company.' Or when I hear 'McDonald’s', I think 'I’m lovin’ it.' Those are just a few examples of some of the brands that really speak to us, as Americans. But what about when a company or an organization gets associated with negative things over the years, through the actions of a few bad apples? Is that fair? Should the organization be judged based on the media’s relentless smearing of their good name? I don’t think so. I think companies like Enron and Chi Chi’s Restaurants were good, solid companies. But a few minor mistakes and the manipulation of those minor incidents eventually ran them out of business. It’s that kind of mob mentality that my clients have faced for decades. I think that you, being CEO of Saint Stephen’s Hospital, understand what persecution really is.

Do you know much about the patron saint of stonemasons? I didn’t. I’ll admit, I haven’t been to church since my 1^st communion, haha! But when my clients were looking for an organization to partner with, I did my research, Glenn.

I understand that, and I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. But I really think this is important. After all, this hospital is a tribute to Saint Stephen who was stoned to death because the enemies of The Church of Jesus lied, and said he had spoken sinfully against God. But, in truth, Saint Stephen was simply stating his beliefs. He believed that God was the one and true Holy Father, just as my clients believe that the white race is superior to other races.

Just a minute, Glenn; hear me out. Are my client The Imperial Klans of America? Yes. Should we rush to judgement? No. And here’s why. Glenn, if you’ll just let me…ok, Mr. Jones; if you’ll give me two more minutes of your time, I’ll explain why this partnership could work. Yes, my clients have a checkered past. Yes, they do. But if people would open their minds, they’d see an organization that cares about people. They do! They genuinely care about white people all over this country. We understand that your pediatric cancer wing will indeed admit non-white children and you know what? We’re ok with that. Because we don’t hate anyone, Mr. Jones. Cancer affects us all. Our past shouldn’t be a factor in our commitment to end pediatric cancer. The Adopt-A-Highway people didn’t believe we want to clean up litter on our highways, but we do. We want to help people, Mr. Jones.

I really…I really just don’t think that’s relevant. You’re talking about an incident that occurred nearly 50 years ago. How do the murders of civil rights activists allegedly committed by my clients impact their desire to bring an end to childhood cancer? I just don’t see the correlation, Mr. Jones. Ok…ok, there’s no need for that, sir. I’ll leave on my own. But before I go, I’d like to leave you with the words of Saint Stephen himself: ‘Which one of the Prophets did your fathers not persecute, and they killed the ones who prophesied the coming of the Just One, of whom now, too, you have become betrayers and murderers.’

Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones. Here’s my card; you’ll see that I also do some freelance party planning. So if you ever need a hand in that arena, just give me a call.

Let's Make Some Yummy Shit

When I was a kid, I looked forward to that goddamned Sears Christmas catalog every year. My siblings and I would fight over it as if we were fighting over the actual toys. I’d thumb through the pages and pages of shit I’d never have and daydream about what I would do with all those fucking toys. I would never stop playing. My playtime would be fucking endless.

There was one toy that I wanted more than anything, and that was the goddamned play kitchen. It came in various layouts and sizes and they were all awesome. They came with all kinds of play food, like empty boxes of Jell-O, egg cartons, milk bottles, and plastic oranges. Some were simple – just a stove, some cupboards and a sink. And some were enormous, extravagant luxury pimp kitchens, with a refrigerator, a stove, an oven, a fucking microwave and a dishwasher. One of them even had a goddamn phone! I closed my eyes and imagined preparing a pretend pot roast dinner while wearing a gorgeous apron and cradling a fake phone between my ear and shoulder, talking to no one. Oh yeah…that’s some good shit right there.

I have no idea why I wanted a play kitchen with such unbridled passion. Maybe it was because the pretty little white girls playing with the kitchen looked so fucking happy. One of them kneeled in her blue corduroy jumper with a plastic cup poised under an ice maker – an ice maker for crying out loud! Her little expression was pure joy, like she was saying, “Yeah, bitch, I’m getting’ ice from my ice maker. This ain’t my mommy’s ice maker; this shit is mine!” Another little girl was stirring something on her little stove, making all kinds of pretend food for her dinner party while her younger brother looked on, like, “Let’s make some yummy shit.”

Sears called it a dream kitchen, and that’s all it was: a dream. I would never perch on a plastic stool under a pea green awning and chat with my neighbor while brewing a pot of fake coffee. I would never gaze out a window to nowhere while I washed dishes in my little plastic sink with no water. The dream kitchen was out of reach because that motherfucker was a hundred goddamned dollars.

 We weren’t poor or anything but we sure as shit didn’t have $100 extra bucks lying around so that I could bake pies that no one would ever be able to eat. It was 1983 and my parents were separated, which meant they were paying a mortgage and rent on an apartment. I’m sure when I sidled over to my mother, lugging that giant Sears catalog behind me, and asked sweetly for a dream kitchen that cost as much as two electric bills, my mother was like, “Are you fucking insane?”

 I certainly don’t want to give the impression that my parents never got us fun stuff. During the Cabbage Patch Kid Frenzy, my mother stood in line with a bunch of other crazy bitches and ran through Toys ‘R Us in her pumps so that my sister and I could have them. My father took us all to Disney World when I was 12 and made me go on Space Mountain, which was kind of a rite of passage for me at the time. But the fucking play kitchen eluded me. Eventually, I got over it and set my sights on a pink and mint colored Swatch phone.

About a year ago, I was in Toys ‘R Us with my mother, sister-in-law and nieces. Just so you know, Toys ‘R Us is a miserable place. If you’ve ever been in FAO Schwartz in New York City, then you know what a toy store is supposed to be like. Toys ‘R Us is the exact opposite. It’s like going to Walmart at 2am when you’re wasted: the lights are very bright, you can’t find anything and all you want to do is lie down and take a nap. For the first few minutes, it’s kind of fun to watch my niece get all jacked up about every single thing in the store. But after about 20 minutes I just want to get the hell out of there.

On this particular trip, my mother started closely examining the play kitchens. There they were, in all their plastic glory, mounted to a wall. I gazed up at them and immediately felt like I was 7; I wanted that fucking play kitchen. The draw was still there, even after all the shit I’d seen and done; all the raw moments where I was socked in the gut with the way life is; all the shots of tequila, all the Irish Car Bombs, all the double Captain Diets; all the road trips and airplane rides; all the therapy; and the cartons and cartons of cigarettes.  I still wanted to have an imaginary conversation with my neighbor Sally whilst preparing orange blossom muffins for my imaginary husband.

Why? Had I unconsciously conformed to sexist norms despite my years of rallying against them? Did I see a simpler life reflected in the shiny plastic refrigerator? I mean, I had a real kitchen with real stuff in it but I didn’t want to go play in there. I wanted to play in the place that didn’t really exist: a land of mixing bowls that never got dirty and knobs that turned whatever way you wanted them to, and as far as you wanted them to turn.

“Why are we looking at these?” My hands had begun to sweat.

 “Well…I’m thinking about getting one for the girls.”

 I gasped. “What?! That’s bullshit! I wanted one of these so bad when I was a kid and I never got one!”

My mother looked at me like I was crazy, which, at that moment, I was. I was a crazy 30-something woman, standing in Toys ‘r Us, yelling at my mother because she never bought me a play kitchen. My mother raised her eyebrows at me and said, “You still want one?”

Telling her the truth – yes, I did still want one – would have ramped up the crazy a whole bunch, so I sort of laughed and mumbled no and drifted over to the Barbie aisle. I sulked all the way home. But then I knew that I didn’t still want the stupid Sears catalog dream play kitchen. I just wanted to be a kid again and have a wonderful fucking time in my play kitchen. But let’s be real; I know too much. I’d strap on that apron, start mixing air in my mixing bowl and get bored in 2 minutes.

“Hi Sally; it’s your neighbor. Just whipping up a batch of – oh for… I gotta go. This is bullshit. I have an iPad for Christ’s sake.”

what's a nice girl like you doing watching gay porn?

I love a good story. When I meet someone with a good story, I could sit and ask them questions all day. It’s amazing what happens to people; the choices people make; and how everyone we meet touches our life in some way.

Porn stars have always been an interesting subject to me. I am neither for nor against porn (although I find it boring and, at times, yucky). But the decision to enter into the profession of porn star is a decision that I find somewhat baffling. As open minded as any of us may be, we almost always use ourselves as context. So, if someone tells you they went bungee jumping, you’d ask them if they were scared, if they barfed, if they pooped their pants; and then you’d say something like, “I could never do that” or “ I've always wanted to try that.”

I take it several steps further. I want to know what lead you to the point where you were strapped to a harness, about to jump off a bridge, or having sex on camera. Sure; there’s probably some judgment happening in my mind but mostly, I want to know what happened to get you from point A to point B. I want to see if the dots connect in a logical way. Well, logical to me, anyway.

I used to live with my friend Nick. It would take me too long to describe Nick to you in a way that will truly capture his essence, so I’ll just give you an idea. Shortly after we moved in to the apartment, we got cable. I called Nick to let him know that the cable guy had been there and everything had been installed.

“Did you fuck him?”

That was Nick’s one and only question. Not, “Oh my God, can we watch the Food Network for hours and hours when I get home?” Or “Do we get the National Geographic channel?” But it came from Nick, which means, I wasn't surprised or offended. I simply said, “No, he was old.”

So when Nick came home after work one day and said, “Do you want to watch a movie?” and then put on a 1970s gay porn, I should not have been surprised. But my role in the relationship is to say, “Niiiick!” as if I am shocked but then stick around to see what happens next. So we watched it.

Kansas City Trucking Company is poorly lit, badly edited gay porn that was made in 1976, the year I was born. It is the story of a seemingly heterosexual guy who was in training to be a trucker. They made a point to let us know that he was straight; his hot girlfriend passionately kissed him goodbye before he climbed into the truck with his trainer. The idea was that he'd do a ride along and get to know the business. But the trainer had some off-agenda items to cover, like orgies with other trucking dudes at truck stops. Now, I have been to truck stops. Like real ones…in Montana. They’re very bright places where the people working speak loudly because everyone who walks in is struggling to stay awake.

But the truck stops on the Kansas City Trucking Company route are apparently much sexier, although there were so many people involved, I couldn't tell if what was happening was actually sex. It’s a classic gay porn film, from the hey day of prono chic, when the film was grainy and people still had body hair. It was also the first of Joe and Sam Gage’s Working Man Trilogy. It was weird and funny; we had a good laugh. I also learned a lot. For example, I had no idea how much gay sexual fantasy was focused on truckers and truck stops.

I found myself inexplicably drawn to the lead actor. He was hot, which was the initial reason why. There’s something about 1970s men, like Matt Dillon in Over the Edge (best movie ever); I find their shaggy hair and tight jeans appealing. Seriously, did every guy have a fantastic ass in the 70s? I would like to freeze one in time and have him be my present day mechanic, who I’m having a secret affair with in the backseat of an I-Roc.

But beyond his rugged good looks (tall, and appropriately muscular, with dark hair and gentle eyes), I wanted to know his story. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he end up at the Kansas City Trucking Company? For days after we watched the movie, he would pop into my head and I’d feel an overwhelming urge to know everything about him.

I was living in Seattle at the time, and working for the company that sent me to the porn training, so I felt comfortable searching for him on the internet at work. I started by searching the title of the film, and then I found the actor’s name. I then searched his name and the film’s title together and there he was: a very active
member of a message board for old California hippies who had been activists and artists. And there was his email address.

I hesitated. What the hell was I going to say in an email? What if that was a memory he didn't want uncovered? I could tell by reading his posts on the site I’d found that he wasn't exactly a born-again Christian or anything. He also didn't seem to be running for office. But I didn't know who I was dealing with. What if he was crazy? What if he became obsessed with me and came to Seattle to kill me? What if I watched way too much Dateline NBC?

So I opened a new Yahoo account under the name of Donna Martin (I can’t help it; I am forever grateful for the original Beverly Hills 90210 series). And then I emailed him. I don’t remember what I said, but I know that I told him a little bit about myself (“I’m a 26 year old woman working in the sex education industry”; I think I was trying to indicate that I’d watched his movie for work purposes) and casually mentioned the film.

“Are you the same Steve Boyd who starred in a film called Kansas City Trucking Company? If you are, I saw the film, and would love to know the story behind it. If that is something you don’t want to discuss, I
apologize and won’t bother you again.”

A few days later, I checked my decoy email account and almost threw up when I saw he’d replied. I opened it, half expecting it to say something like, “Mind your own business, stalker.” But instead, he wondered what a “nice girl” like me was doing watching gay porn. (Good question) He also said he was an open book and would be happy to answer any questions I had.

I was stunned. Why would anyone in this situation respond with, “ask me anything you want, random stranger who hunted me down on the internet”? I concluded that he must be nuts but I still wanted to know more.

I sent him another email, thanking him for indulging me, and asking him how he got into pornography. How many films had he made? How long was his porn career?

Steve’s story was basically that he came of age in the late 60s, early 70s. The way he described his late teens and early 20s sounded like what I’d always imagined growing up in the 60s and 70s would be like: art, activism, pot, hitchhiking and free love. He’d lived all over, spent a lot of time in California, and starred in his first porno in a hotel room for $50. He was vague about how that part of his life had come about; he made it sound like it had just happened. He didn't have a crack habit he was trying to support; he wasn't a survivor of childhood sexual abuse seeking to reclaim his sexuality - it just happened.

Steve told me he didn't identify as gay, heterosexual or bisexual. He was an open person, who was willing to try new things. When the opportunity to make some money came up, all he had to do was get laid on camera, which sounded like a pretty decent gig to him. As we exchanged emails, I became far less interested in the porn stuff than I was in the Steve himself. He was smart, incredibly witty, and seemed like he would happily give anyone the shirt off his back. It’s my opinion that Steve believed deeply in community, in love and in peace. He was the picture perfect old hippie.

When we began emailing, Steve was living in New York City. He worked as a handy man in a church, where he also lived. He’d lost his tongue to mouth cancer years earlier, so he had lost the ability to speak. But he was a fantastic writer; his posts on the website he was so active on were long and colorful. His emails to me were open, friendly and, at times, flirty. I was under the impression that Steve flirted with most people. He had this amazing charm about him, even via email.

About a month after we began emailing, Steve abruptly cut me off. He didn't stop responding; he sent me a strange email saying that he didn't know who I really was or what I was trying to pull over on him but he was leaving New York and I wouldn't hear from him again. I was bummed. I was almost sad. I’d started to look forward to his emails every few days. I was also sad that he thought I was up to no good. Old hippie paranoia? Maybe. I learned later that Steve was pretty active in protests against the Iraq war. Perhaps he thought I was the law.

I sent him an email saying that I was sorry he didn't want to communicate with me anymore. I assured him that I wasn't anything other than a weirdo who was interested in his stories, but that I had lied to him about my name because I wasn't sure if I should even have emailed him in the first place. I wished him luck in whatever he was moving on to. I never heard from him again.

My correspondence with a former 1970s porn star became fodder for my friends. They thought I was nuts and made jokes about it. But in the years since, things have happened that have eclipsed this brief, weird email relationship and I’d all but forgotten about it entirely.

Recently, I wanted to find out what had happened to him since we last emailed in 2001. I couldn't remember his last name, so I once again searched for Kansas City Trucking Company and found his name. Then I searched his name. I learned that Steve died in 2004 and I was inexplicably heartbroken. I hadn't even known him for crying out loud. I’d just been some stalker that had tracked him down because I wanted to know why he’d made the decision to be a porn star. But I was overwhelmed with sadness reading the tribute to him on the site I’d originally found him on.

They had a link to a PDF of all the posts he’d made in his last year of life, and he’d made a lot, even when he was very, very sick. In one of his last, he mentioned a woman named Eileen. To her he said, “Last night, I stripped naked to die and remembered that I had at one time asked for nothing more than to die in your arms.” That stays with me. It’s such a pure, raw expression of love. He ends his post thanking people and remembering things and saying goodbye. And then, an addendum; one final post that said, “I know I forgot to thank some folks, but you know who you are. This ain't no popularity contest, ya dig?”

I’m 100% sure that Steve forgot all about me, just as I’d forgotten all about him. But I was still sad to hear that he’d died. Someone once told me that I have a hard time letting go of people. I don’t think that’s true but I’m not a robot. When someone comes into my life, however briefly, I keep a little tiny piece of them in my heart. I don’t think that’s dysfunctional. I wish to God I'd kept those emails, but that address has long been closed and the password is buried somewhere with a lot of other strange memories from those years I spent in Seattle.

I'm going to ask you to refrain from having sex with me for the duration of this post

You’re just going to have to forgive me because here come several posts about sex. No, my secrets will not be shared (perverts) but there’s some good stuff here. Sometimes you have an experience and it’s a big deal at the time. But then 8 years or so pass, other things happen and you kind of forget about it. Until you remember it one day and you’re like, “Oh yeah…that happened.” This is one of those things.

Let me start by saying that there are certain things that some consider sexual that baffle me. Someone once called me a prude because I didn’t understand (and still don’t) the sexual appeal of putting yourself in a giant box and having a friend ground ship you from one side of the country to the other so they could receive you, unpack you and do you. My more-sexually-evolved companion marveled at my series of questions (“Were there air holes in the box? Did he have food and water in there? What the fuck is wrong with this person?”)

“Jeez, Dresden,”she said, giggling. “I never knew you were such a prude.”

Needless to say, I railed against her assessment. I disagreed; I was no prude. I sometimes revealed my ankles. I often wore white after Labor Day and shared my opinions on politics. Me…a prude? Rubbish!

After all, I had been working in sex education for several years. I could say things like “vaginal fluid” without giggling, and had demonstrated how to put a condom on a banana more times that I could remember. I had dildos and a rubber vagina sitting on my desk at work for crying out loud. I started working in HIV and STI prevention when I moved to Seattle in 2001. I had taken an “I need a job” job at a Verizon Wireless call center in Bellevue, where I had to ask permission to pee. An old friend of mine worked at a non-profit HIV organization that was hiring someone to run their young women’s education program, and I jumped at the chance.

I loved that job. I got to chat with teenage girls about using protection, not being such horrible snatches to each other and plus, we had a budget that let us order fried chicken from Ezell’s, the most amazing fried chicken establishment in the free world. One day shortly after I started, my boss suggested my co-worker and I take a 2 and a half day training called SERT. (That’s not really what it’s called, but I’ve changed the name to protect the freaks.)

SERT stood for Sexuality Education Readjustment Training. It was a training that helped people working as safer sex educators evaluate their own sexual hang-ups and learn to put those aside when working with others. The concept is sound; after all, it’s hard to stay focused on prevention when a sex worker is telling you that he prefers to be pooped on instead of urinated on during sex. If you can’t get past the fact that this is creepy, not to mention extremely unsanitary, you likely won’t take the time to explain safety because you’ll just want to get the fuck away from this person. Plus, everyone knows that “training” means “free lunch” and “getting out of the office.”

My co-worker and I signed up. We showed up on the first day, ready to have snacks and hopefully leave early. My head wasn’t truly in the sexuality readjustment game, mostly because I didn’t feel my sexuality needed adjusting. Our trainers were two women and a man, all in their mid-to-late 50s. As we checked in, they looked at us with blank expressions and spoke in monotonous tones. I thought it was kind of weird but people in Seattle are weird in general, so I just went with it. The room was warmly lit, full of pillows and chenille throws. How lovely, I thought, as I unknowingly settled into Satan’s claw.

The trainers introduced themselves. I can’t remember their names but let’s call them Barbara, Judith and Ken. Ken told us all that this particular training had been conducted all over the country since the 1960s. It was started as a way to help people free themselves from the traumatic shackles of their parent’s beliefs about sexuality. Babs, Judy and Ken used words like “blossom” and “sexual expression” and I smirked.

“We have very few rules here”, Judith said. “However, we ask that you all refrain from engaging in sex with each other during the training.”

Well that’s…weird. I don’t believe I’ve ever been given explicit instructions not to have sex with a room full of people. Looking around, I can say with confidence that I didn’t want to bone any of them.

“Please forgive us if we seem standoffish,” Ken added. “It’s important that we maintain a certain amount of distance, as we must not engage in sexual activity with any of you during the duration of the training either.”

Seriously, what the fuck is going on? Is this a joke? Is there some kind of massive, palpable sexual tension that only I cannot feel?

We started a writing exercise in which we examined what we’d been taught about sex as children. I honestly don’t remember talking to my parents about sex when I was a kid. The very idea mortified me. I can’t remember what I wrote but it was some bullshit to fill the page, I’m sure. They opened the floor for people to share and it was my opinion that some people were just way too eager to spill the beans. After sitting through several stories about growing up Catholic, Ken introduced the film portion of the training.

“During these 3 days together, we will be using film to examine various areas of sexuality. In some cases, we’ll view sexual education films. In other cases, we’ll be using commercial films about sexuality. Each film will introduce us to a new area of discussion.”

I leaned over and whispered to my co-worker Erick: “Does he mean porn?”

Erick’s expression was as apprehensive as I felt. “I don’t know….” He said. The lights were dimmed and then, yes; we started watching porn. We watched porn for two fucking days. Have you ever watched porn in a room full of strangers you are not even remotely attracted to? For two days? Of course you haven’t because that is not something any human being should do. Ever.

We watched hetero porn, gay porn, threesome porn, disabled porn, and elderly porn. We watched a man tie a woman up, bind her breasts, pour hot candle wax all over her and then beat her with a riding crop. We watched a film that had a loud techno soundtrack in which a man dressed as a 1980s criminal (bandana tied around his thigh, sleeveless jean jacket) tied up a man dressed as a cop. The criminal pulled down the cop’s pants and began smearing Crisco all over his hand and forearm. I turned my head away from the screen and looked at Erick.

“Erick…is he going to….”

“Yep.”

I didn’t watch. I buried my face in Erick’s arm and silently promised to always be kind to my anus.

The only “education” film that we actually watched was the one on bisexuality. It wasn’t a film; it was a series of still pictures set to music with a voiceover:

“Hi. My name is Frank. One day when I was riding the city bus, I noticed that I got sexy feelings when I thought about women and men with their clothes off. That’s when I knew I was bisexual.” Frank told us that he had a relationship with Linda and a relationship with Michael. Each of his partners fulfilled different needs that Frank had. After the lights came up and the “discussion” began, I asked if Linda and Michael knew about each other.

I generally didn’t perform well in the discussion parts of the training. There’s only so much porn a person can handle. How could I be expected to form coherent sentences? One woman in the group said the same thing after every film: “Oh that was exciting! That really got my juices flowing!” Others managed to intellectualize the porn: “I found myself recalling the passage from Nietzsche, ‘Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest.’ I mean, did anyone else feel that way during the fellatio montage?”

Because I was completely uninterested in getting to know how these people felt about porn, I folded my arms across my chest and slid down in my seat like a 14 year old. They started to call me out on it.

“Dresden” they would say, “you’re awfully quiet. Would you like to add anything?”

Mostly, I just responded, “Nope.” But occasionally, I’d say something like, “Oh, I don’t believe in bisexuals” or “How come the fisting criminal was black and the cop was white? That’s racist.” They’d always try to redirect me: “Yes, but how do you feel about the sexuality in the film?” I’d shrug and say something like, “It was alright.”

Eventually, Barbara or Judith pulled me aside and asked me if I was ok. I told her I was fine, and she said, “Well, the films seem to really bother you.”

“They don’t bother me,” I said. “I’m just not a huge fan of porn.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if the word “porn” had offended her. “Ok…but do you understand why we’re watching and discussing these films?”

“Not really.”

At this point, Barbara Judith seemed to be at a loss. She thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, the goal is to get you to reevaluate your views on sexuality.”

“Well, if you’re trying to convince me that watching porn in a room full of people is gross and uncomfortable, it’s working.”

Barbara Judith’s face seemed to register an epiphany at that moment. “Ah…I see. How long have you felt uncomfortable about sex?”

“Since yesterday at around 10.”

She just stood there. A short time later, I was pulled aside by all three of them.

“We’re concerned that you’re not open to this experience.”

“The experience of watching porn in a room full of strangers? No, I’m not very open to that.”

“But…why does it make you so uncomfortable? Did something happen to you?”

What I wanted to say was, “If it had, I definitely would not share it with 3 old hippies.” But instead, I asked them why a reaction of being uncomfortable in a situation designed to be uncomfortable would need to indicate that I had some kind of sexual trauma in my past. Ken explained that “most people” do not feel uncomfortable watching “these films.”

“Let’s be clear”, I said, now bored with the discussion. “We’re watching porn. Not films, porn. You started off the training by telling us that we needed to refrain from sleeping with each other – and the three of you. Do you really expect anyone to take you seriously?”

They got mad then, and asked me why I chose to stay if I saw so little value in it. I reminded them that my company paid already, and then said something to the effect of, “Are you kidding me? I’ve got to see how this ends.”

This is how it ended: with a panel of “guest speakers” from Seattle’s only “pan-sexual” sex club. Now, I didn’t know much about sex clubs, but I assumed that anyone who belonged to a sex club would be very attractive. I was incorrect. Our guest speaker panel may as well have been the beginning of a line outside of Best Buy to purchase the latest version of Dungeons and Dragons. What was with the ponytails? Every dude up there had a straggly, greasy ponytail. The only women on the panel told us they were involved in “24/7 master-slave relationships.” One of them wouldn't look at us but stared at the floor as she droned on and on with absolutely no inflection about how awesome it was to be considered someone’s slave.

Although I found all of this terribly amusing, I failed to see how any of it was going to help me be a better safer sex educator. Here’s how I saw my job: I don’t give a fuck what you’re into; just use a condom. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into and, also, here is how HIV is transmitted. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into; take your ass to the clinic if you have any of the following symptoms. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into, but if your relationship isn't safe, I can help you out by providing resources. I am 100% uninterested in what gets you off about wearing diapers and sucking on a pacifier.

I came home totally drained after 2 days of porn and 4 hours of listening to the Master of Ceremonies at a Star Trek convention talk about how he started a sex club so people would finally sleep with him. I curled into the fetal position on my bed and started drooling. I wondered, for a brief moment, if my reaction to all the porn was because I really was a prude. Maybe I had some deep rooted sexual hang-ups that I wasn't even aware of. Was I broken?

But what I found out when I started talking to people who had been in the business of sexuality education for longer than I had was that this particular training was a crock of shit. Yes, it was started in the 60s as a way to help people free themselves from the traumatic shackles of their parent’s beliefs about sexuality…by doing each other. SERT training almost always dissolved into a massive orgy and usually before lunch on the first day. In the 80s, they were banned. Then some persistent folks decided to bring them back. They were determined not to let them turn into sexapalooza but what they didn't do was alter the format in any way. Although an orgy was the furthest thing from my mind, I started to wonder if some of those people had attended the training hoping for some booty.

If anyone in that room had put the moves on me, I would have beaten them with my shoe. So maybe I am a prude. Where’s my parade?

Real women grind their own almond butter

I’m not going to say I’ve never been to Whole Foods. I’ve been there lots of times. Whenever I feel like almost getting run over by an asshole in a Volvo SUV, I know right where to go. But my Whole Foods experience has been mainly limited to supplements and pizza. Whenever something goes wrong with my bod, I decide I must need some kind of probiotic macrobiotic robotic supplement to right the wrongs going on with my insidey parts. It lasts for one week and then whatever $30 bottle I purchased ends up in Supplement Death Row (aka, a shelf in my closet). Also, they have fantastic pizza.


But I have discovered hot yoga. I have discovered that I enjoy feeling like I’m in Florida in July while downward dogging, vinyasa flowing and warrior one-ing. I don’t know how this happened, I really don’t. I used to feel like I was dying when I got too hot. I moan and groan and loudly remind everyone how hot it is ("It’s fucking ridiculously hot in here, you guys”) and pray for a spontaneous ice age. But after a knee injury, I somehow lifted my fat ass off the couch and went to the hot yoga place I had been driving by for months and thinking, “I wonder what that’s like.”

It’s my temple, y’all. It smells deliciously clean, like non-toxic disinfectant. Everyone is real zen like (or they’re pretending to be) and we all smile at each other, say “excuse me” and no one even giggles if you accidentally blow ass during wind relieving pose. Why? Because we’re detoxifying. Every ounce of justified anger, clinical depression, anxiety, judgment and anything else that makes us horrible is dripping off us, one pose at a time. When we emerge from that darkened 104 degree room, we’re psychologically clean, limber and in desperate need of a shower. I usually feel like I’m floating somewhere between about to pass out and just won $250 on the nickel slots in Vegas until someone cuts me off on highway 100 on my way home and I scream, “I hope you get a splinter under your fingernail!”

Anyway, when those lithe, glowing Canadians said “30 Day Yoga & Cleanse Challenge”, I was like, “Yes, yes, whatever you think is best.” And off to Whole Foods I went. I got the big cart and mentally prepared myself to spend the entirety of my paycheck. “It’s ok”, I thought as I loaded my cart with $15 worth of blueberries. “She works hard for the money.”

I had my book to make sure I didn’t accidentally buy something I wasn’t supposed to have. Apples? Yes. Melons? No. Why? No—don’t ask questions; just cleanse. Organic chicken. Almond milk (which is delicious by the way). Brown rice and quinoa. Gluten free oats. In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t) oats are naturally gluten free BUT they are often CONTAMINATED by gluten-containing products that are grown in the same field and/or processed in the same plant. So you have to look for a brand that gives you a big story about how they're truly gluten free. You’re welcome.

I sometimes like to put peanut butter in my oatmeal but peanut butter isn’t allowed. What? Why the hell – no! Do the cleanse, Dresden! Don’t question the cleanse!

Because I was tired from picking all that food out, I didn't feel like looking for almond butter (which is a cleanse approved butter), so I asked the lady at the cruelty-free grass fed organic cheese counter where I might find it. She smiled at me and said, “Would you like to grind your own?”

What?

I just stood there with $500 worth of flaxseed and dairy-free, gluten-free soy-free taste-free vegan protein powder in my cart, holding my Coach purse containing my Louis Vitton wallet (that I bought behind a restaurant in downtown Mazatlan but is totally real) and stared at her.

Do I want to grind my own almond butter? No. I’m not a pilgrim.

“Uuuuh... do you have some that’s…already been ground?”

Now I can’t be sure but I’m almost positive that she totally judged me a little bit. There was a slight narrowing of the eyes and a shift in the smile, as if to say. “Real women grind their own almond butter.” But what she really said was, “You mean jarred almond butter?”

Yes. I mean the food that I can take home, open and eat. Do you also have a back 40 where shoppers can kill their own turkey? Do I need to silken my own tofu? Milk my own almonds? Miss Sassy Vegan Cheese Pants lead me to the already ground almond butter, which, by the way, is fucking expensive. The cheapest jar I could find was $10. That’s about when I started to grumble like an old white man in Georgia after Jim Crow was abolished and I knew it was time to go home.

On my way out, I passed the almond butter grinding station. A middle aged woman and her teenaged daughter (who were both wearing skinny jeans and Uggs) were placing the lid on their plastic container of freshly ground almond butter. For a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Maybe I should have ground my own almond butter. Maybe I need to drive less. Perhaps I should buy a Prius. I need to stop wearing leather. Maybe I should quit my job and buy a farm and have chickens and goats and a husband with a beard. But then I remembered that I just got cable again and I wasn’t giving up the Investigation Discovery channel for nothin’. No. I’m here for the already prepared food that you’re charging me a billion dollars for. If I want to grind something, I’ll call Ryan Gosling.

The Facebook Relationship Quagmire

I used to have a MySpace account, you know, back when everyone did because there was no Facebook yet. Nowadays, the only time you hear about people having MySpace accounts is when someone kills their parents. Those people always have MySpace accounts. I think that’s pretty telling, don’t you?


Anyway, I started dating this guy named Chris who was a musician and that’s pretty much where the interesting part ends. Oh, and he had red hair which I find very sexy. I do not know why and everyone has their own things they’re attracted to, so that’s fine if you think it’s weird because that just means there are more ginger dudes for me.

So we’re hanging out one day and he asks me, “Why does your MySpace status say ‘single’?”

I just stared at him. I hadn’t given it a thought, really. I changed my mood on a daily basis; some days I was “frisky”, others I was “satisfied.” But according to MySpace I was also “single” which, apparently, was all that mattered.

I mumbled something about “it’s just MySpace” and “who cares” and then suggested we go to White Castle because I knew that chicken rings would trump anything else on his mind. Nevertheless, a belly full of chicken rings later, I logged in to MySpace and updated my relationship status to “In a relationship.” I sat back and looked at my profile. Nothing had changed; I didn’t look any happier or prettier in my profile picture. I didn’t suddenly have more friends. I was just “in a relationship” and that was fine.

A few days later, I logged in and clicked on my boyfriend’s profile, presumably to post an emoticon that blows kisses to his page. That’s when I saw his relationship status had been updated…to “SINGLE.” I flew into panic mode. What does this mean?! Did we break up? I was pretty sure we hadn’t because he and his Hefty bags full of shit were still in my apartment since he’d come off the road from a tour 3 weeks ago. I grabbed my cell phone and texted him.

“WHY IS YOUR STATUS ON MYPACE SINGLE?????”

His reply was something along the lines of “Huh?” Thus began a text message argument about how I had changed my status because he wanted me to and I don’t appreciate him changing his status like that and he didn’t know what the big deal was and I needed to calm down.

“Well fuck you, then”, I said out loud to no one. Then I promptly changed my status to “single.”

Five minutes later, I received a text message that said, “Oh so you’re breaking up with me now?”

This went on and on for the entirety of our relationship. Technology became a weapon. If I was mad at him, I’d change my status to single, or I’d delete all the soccer games he’d saved on my DVR, later claiming, “Sometimes the DVR does that.” His relationship status was updated randomly and I couldn’t figure it out but I took it very personally. Chris had an unusually large number of female MySpace friends, all of them with profile pictures taken with their camera pointing downward, straight into their cleavage, their thin lips covered in gloss and jutting out like they were auditioning for a fluffer position. I hated these cyber girls. One of them posted some Coldplay lyrics on his page and I flipped out. I think we actually broke up over that one for, like, 3 hours. Meanwhile, every time I left my phone unattended, I’d find him looking through my text messages and call log. Once he even accused me of giving him Chlamydia…via text message.

It was a very healthy relationship.

Turns out, I was one of three girlfriends and he was changing his relationship status based on who he happened to be fighting with at the time. I have no idea who gave him Chlamydia because it wasn’t me, and neither of the other two would cop to it. All I know is, I never got it, which is a good thing for him because I can tolerate a certain amount of ridiculousness from a man; just don’t mess with my business. Or my money.

From that relationship on, I have kept all my romantic relationships—dysfunctional or not—off the internet. Several boyfriends, one whom I lived with for 9 months, have come and gone, with no accolades from me on my Facebook page. My last relationship almost…almost made it to Facebook Relationship Status Glory. But I had a feeling he wasn’t worthy of a selection from that drop down menu. I was correct.

There are a lot of reasons why I think the relationship status quagmire is best left untouched.

a. You might break up. I mean, you won’t break up; I’m speaking hypothetically. While your relationship will undoubtedly last forever (in a Marky Mark carving “For Evah” on his chest kind of way), most relationships come to a close, with or without Hefty bags being thrown on to the front lawn. Sometimes, it’s quiet and cordial. Until you edit your profile. The minute you select “single” and save changes, the girl you were best friends with in 6th grade and haven’t spoken to since will post a big “OMG WHAT HAPPENED?????” comment and so it begins. Messages, wall posts, text messages...everyone wants to know what happened. And it’s nobody’s business. People are only asking so they can talk about it with other people. “Did you know that he slept with her cousin? Yes! Her cousin! Of course, she said they broke up because they want different things right now, but…really? He totally fucked her cousin, I bet.”

b. No one wants to witness your Facebook fight. Over the course of my life, I have been given certain pieces of advice about relationships, one of which was, “Don’t bring other people into your drama.” But in a day and age when people post status updates about the giant shit they took, chances are, you will, at some point, broadcast your drama to your 437 friends. For example, you catch your girlfriend in some sort of lie and decide you’re breaking up with her. You freak out and post a string of status updates to your wall:

1:37am: JESSICA BARNEY IS A SLUT!!!!!
1:41am: How could you do this to me???? Whore! I fucking gave you EVERYTHING!!!!!!!
1:43am: Who’s going to pay your Nordstrom bill now, slut???? I fucking HATE YOU!
2:02am: I can’t believe I bought you a ring.
2:11am: Whore
9:38am: Headed to iHop with Jess! Then Dave Matthews alllllll weekend!!

This is a summary of an actual Facebook meltdown that an old boyfriend of mine had. This happened quite frequently; his page would be littered with bitter, capitalized accusations and her page would be covered in cryptic, sad status updates, like, “My whole world is falling apart”, and “I should just end it all now.” Now, I knew that this particular young man was prone to emotional outbursts but goddammit; my parents got divorced when I was 8 so I wouldn’t have to listen to their fighting anymore. I do not wish to be subjected to yours. And you can go ahead and delete all the horrible things you said about your significant other but we still saw what you wrote. Yeah…all 437 of us. We all saw what you wrote.

c. You’re gonna get all gross about it. Being in a relationship is fun. There are a lot of things that happen in relationships that only you and your significant other are privy to: when you’re laying in bed, talking baby talk to each other; when you text your boyfriend that he won Most Huggable in the Iowa caucuses; the fact that your nick name for your girlfriend is schmoopie poopie. These things should remain between the two of you. But, again…here we are in a time when it’s ok to post a full length video of your vagina giving birth on your Facebook wall. Eventually, you will start posting things like hearts and smiley faces…then it will evolve into “love you” and “miss you”…eventually landing somewhere around, “I can’t wait to see my honey bear tonight!! I’m counting the hours till I get to cuddle with my wuddle! <3” Suddenly, people who used to think of you as a normal, intelligent individual will begin to believe you’ve lost your mind. And you have. And that’s ok. Just keep it to yourself.

d. You might think it’s ok to set your relationship status to “It’s Complicated” or create a joint Facebook page with your spouse. Let’s start with “It’s Complicated.” I got news for ya—every relationship is complicated in one way or another. By telling us “It’s complicated”, you’re telling us that your shit is really complicated, and, chances are, we don't want to know. It doesn’t matter what the reason is; when I see someone’s Facebook relationship status set to “It’s Complicated”, I immediately say, “Draaaaaaaaaama.”

Those couples who decide to create joint Facebook pages are definitely, without question, the worst. Unless there is a solid reason for this—like, you’re using a joint Facebook page in lieu of a website for your wedding (really? does your wedding need its own website?), or you’re doing a fundraiser of some kind—then it’s just pure insanity. On these pages, you get generic, shiny status updates. “Tim-n-Stacey are going to Home Depot! New lawnmower today!” “Tim-n-Stacey are super excited for the weekend!” “Tim-n-Stacey got new iPhones!” Tim-n-Stacey are assholes. When you got married or partnered, did you leave you behind entirely? Do you have to share absolutely everything? That’s a one way ticket to “Tim-n-Stacey have killed each other.”

Honestly, I’d rather introduce a heavily tattooed, mumble mouthed unemployed dude to my father and my grandfather than introduce him to Facebook. But don't get me wrong--I totally believe in love (most days). I just don't believe in Facebook love.