Proud

Today's a big day.

Some of you know.

40 years ago today, a bunch of misfits in a bar made a lot of noise when the folks who were there to serve and protect (whom?) got rough with them. For two days, a bunch of other people joined them, and a bunch of other people watched. A year later, the first Gay Pride marches happened to commemorate the event. And so, many folks argue, the modern LGBT rights movement was born.

I had, like, a million things to say about this, but I realized I was approaching it like a sermon, looking for a moral. I don't have a moral. I'm queer and out and grateful, and there are lessons to be learned from Stonewall and the more recent battles and our righteous disappointment, but I am unable to pick just one, and who am I to tell you what your lessons should be, anyway?

So, then, a few links for more reading, for those who are interested.

• The Wikipedia version
• An eyewitness account
• Frank Rich's acknowledgement of, among other things, what hasn't changed

And a few questions for folks who feel like having a conversation in the comments. You obviously don't have to answer all of these; pick what strikes your fancy:

• Did you think about Stonewall today (or yesterday)? What did you think about Stonewall today or yesterday?
• Do you remember Stonewall? Tell us a story.
• Do you remember any big queer awarenesses? That you were, that I was, that civil rights matter? Tell us about it.
• Are you mad at Barack Obama? More or less mad than you were at Bill Clinton? Tell us about it.
• What are you celebrating today?
• What are you mourning?
  
• Who are your queer heroes, and why? If you don't have any queer heroes, why? You can't just pick me. (Note I said, "just.")
  
• Why haven't you found me a nice girl yet?

In which I overdo the italics, for what seem like good reasons

This may shock you, but I was a pretty surly 13-year-old, in total contrast to the ray of sunshine I am now. It's true.

At the age of 13, I got what many 13-year-old girls only dream about: A do-over. On my whole life.

We moved the summer between eighth grade and ninth grade, from rural New Hampshire to suburban Massachusetts. I was sure that the dorky, isolated kid I'd felt like would vanish, leaving a totally cool new me — the real me — with tons of friends who really understood. My new school would be filled with people who could appreciate me. Teachers would cease to care that I didn't do any homework because I was brilliant. Students would not be able to believe what a hole had been in their lives before I moved to town. Fashion would suddenly dictate that being a little heavy with giant glasses was the new black.

Yeah, OK. That didn't so much happen. Some things were better in the new school, many things were worse. I survived it and am now the very very well-adjusted blogger you all know and love. You will note my "About me" covers the suburbs differently than the country.

But the point is, when I left the old town, I left it completely, severing virtually all ties. Did not one bit cling to my old friendships. Hell, no.

And then came Facebook. Last night, my childhood best friend found me, filled with nostalgia from thinking about her upcoming high school class reunion. Excellent. I can't wait to hear more about her life. My Facebook stalking suggests she's happy, is married with kids, lives in the town we all used to live in, and is still in contact with many of our old classmates.

This morning, another elementary-school and middle-school friend found me. We were not best friends. He might be surprised to hear that I think of our childhood friendship as sort of love-hate, because I thought we were similar, and I did not want him or anyone else noticing that, even as I thought he was hilarious and neat. He was a little weird, in a way my adult self would love. We were both smart, and not tough, in a place where tough equaled cool. He embraced his weirdness and smartness. I just frantically wanted to be very, very normal.

So, this is getting very long. But let's face it, if you're still reading now, you're going to keep reading. And we both know it. You're all but a hostage here.

So this guy found me this morning. And we traded details of our lives, in a sort of twenty-years-in-twenty-lines format.

I think he might be setting his high school classmates up for a reality-show version of Grosse Point Blank. I am not going to share all of his twenty years with you because:

• I at least sort of respect for his privacy, and
• If we maintain this friendship, I might let him see this blog, and
• You would think it was a work of fiction, and I am mostly sure that it is not.

Suffice it to say that every single year has something as astounding as these highlights:

1988 first daughter born; join Army
1989 graduated [high school] and left New Hampshire for the Army
...
1994 Chop off fingertip after 100' vertical ice axe ascent of Portage Glacier-
...
1997 Traveling announcer for Sport Parachute demonstration team- shatter leg after freefall mishap
...
2001 Third marriage- Decide flying for a living isn't what I want to do after life-changing experience- change jobs (and design a simulator for RPGs now used worldwide in war games)
...
2009 Start two graduate programs (making up for lost time)- first grandchild born in Maine- Moving back to Germany (August)

Which, are you kidding?

Two things:

• What have I been doing for the last 25 years? My list reads like, "moved a bunch of times, got a job as a teacher, got a job as a waitress, got a job as a writer, moved."
  
• This is the kid I was worried about being like? Because we have not done one thing that was similar since 1985.

In the sun I feel as one

So, I'm sorry, gang.
I haven't been posting because I wanted to keep fixing the design, but I haven't been fixing the design because I don't know what I want to do yet.
I do know that this is not the final redesign, much as I know that I am not going to leave my bathtub peeling and multi-colored, but in both cases, it'll have to do for now, because I need to post and I need to bathe. If you have great ideas for what I should do, other than keeping black-on-white (which I will do) and getting rid of the scary cat (which I will probably do), let me know.
Meanwhile, onward and upward.

Minor changes

I like to call this one "minima lefty (not stretch) with scary awesome cat picture."

Thoughts?

Shopping

So, this week, I'm going to try some new themes in the design of the blog. Those of you who read regularly, please check in and see what you think. I'll post a post every time I post a theme, and I'll try to leave each theme up for at least a day. Comment to tell me whether you like it or not, and what aspects, specifically, you do and do not like.

A dear friend of mine and regular reader of this blog, who just did a big redesign of her own, said, "It feels to me like putting on a new outfit, or buying a new pair of shoes."

And that's the thing, isn't it? The old wardrobe feels outdated, both in terms of fashion and in terms of who I am right now. But also, I get inclined to stick with the old stuff, because shopping feels like such a pain, even though I am almost always pleased when I do get the new thing. Periodically, all my old shoes wear out at the same time, and like it or not, I have to shop for new ones. Which I generally love so much that I wear them pretty much exclusively until they, too, wear out.

This is way too long a post to say, here's Minima Lefty Stretch.

Debating, rather than dueling

Some coworkers were listening to A Prairie Home Companion last weekend, and heard k.d. lang assert that playing the banjo was "a chick magnet."
The coworkers in question have extrapolated that to mean that I should start playing the banjo.
Discuss.
(Oh, and feel free to share and solicit opinions from your banjo-playing or chick-magnetic friends.)

Why all these dudes wearin' brown flip-flops?

When I lived "in D.C." the most recent time, I actually lived in Arlington, one of the closer-in suburbs in Virginia.
In fact, my employer, which had "Washington" in the name, was also in Arlington.
Arlington is most famous nationally as the home to Arlington National Cemetery. But it is famous in the Capital Region for, well, all the stuff in this video, which has been sent to me by approximately 16 different people, as well as popping up on bunches of Facebook statuses.
Enjoy, friends.

Ivy update

(Previous ivy updates here)

Sick and tired

Hey, gang. There was a long post in the works about how sick I was last week, and how I'm also a hypochondriac, which makes everything more difficult. It was hilarious and rambly. But I did not have the attention span to finish it.

I'm better now, but very, very run-down and weak. Which is sad; between the sick and the tired, I have missed:

• several major family events,
• one major work event,
• one minor social event,
• three and a half days of work,
• and fireworks

So yesterday, with a little help from my sweet mother, I made my way back to the urgent care center to see if maybe there wasn't something major going on, on top of strep throat. There isn't. I'm fine.

The guy who did my blood work (which, in this case, means both drew the blood and ran the tests) was awkward and made a lot of noise about how drawing blood is his least favorite part of the job, and he doesn't usually do the blood drawing.

That became clearer when we were able to see what happens when he does:


That is after a day of healing, folks. Yesterday, it was just that color and size, but also swollen and weirdly lumpy. Hurts like hell, too.

Rollin', rollin', rollin' ...

So, for the second time, a friend I thought was already on my blogroll asked if he could be on my blogroll.

Yes.

And since I am embarrassed not to have had him on my blogroll all along, allow me to direct your attention to I Peed on My Kid. It's every bit as funny as it sounds, and the guy who writes it used to write for both V.I.P. and the animated Spider-Man series. And porn. Plus, we went to high school together.

Perhaps more to the point, if you have a fabulous blog, and you can't understand why I hate you and haven't included you on the blogroll, it's probably because I thought I added you months ago and failed. Give me links in the comments.

Travel Tips: Lessons from Manchester, NH

You can complain all you want about Durham, North Carolina, but if you want something to eat in the Manchester, NH airport, on a weeknight, get there before 7 p.m. Yes, 7 p.m. in the town we call "ManchVegas."

A request for maybe the awesomest ongoing post ever

CousinMouse writes:

As a leading expert on the fashions of the 80s, can you please explain what the differences are between the styles of those days and those of today? Seriously, I have not observed any big differences. The 90s, too. I hear young folks saying "that looks so 90s" and I see no distinguishing features other than it looks contemporary.

Maybe a subject for City Mouse or a facebook note?

There may be others out there who struggle with this same very important issue. It is our responsibility to help them out.

Send me your pics of the 80s and 90s, specifically those that highlight differences between the fashion of that time and this one. Or post links to them in the comments. I'll add to this post regularly (sorry if you're reading this in a reader; you'll just have to keep coming back), and we will do what we can to educate a dude who acquired some of his signature pieces from the collection of 40s clothing my parents had in the barn in the 70s.

I'll kick us off with a pic from 1990. Note especially hair, eyewear, and footwear.

Thoughts while buying my mother's birthday present

Some of you in more citified or western parts may not have heard of Agway, which is too bad, because I love Agway. Agway describes itself as "Lawn, Garden, Pet, Bird and Farm Specialists," which is about right. You can buy chicks, and dog food, and fertilizer, and ant poison, and rose bushes, and a shed, and a bunny hutch, and a roof rake, and and and and and. Great store.
So, just so you know, if you went in just for a sec to buy someone you love a gift card, and you found yourself looking at the "impulse buy" stuff by the register, you might find yourself looking at the pet tags, and you might observe one that is pink and sparkly, with "Sexy" written on it.
Here are my two thoughts on that:

• Do not not not buy your pet a tag that suggests that it is sexy. If a person wears a t-shirt that says, "sexy," there is some question about who procured the t-shirt, and therefore whether it is the wearer or some admirer who thinks the wearer is sexy. If a pet is wearing a tag that says, "sexy," everyone knows it was a human who bought the tag, and you will creep people the hell out if you tell the world you think your pet is sexy.
• If you decide to write a blog post on pet tags that say, "sexy," do not search the internet for "pet tags sexy." There are creepy people out there, and they have posted to the internet already. Some of you may be reading this post because you went looking for some similar term on Google. Sorry both to call you creepy and to disappoint you with the content of this post. I do still think you're creepy, but you don't need that kind of abuse, you have bigger problems. Please feel free to look around City Mouse Country (ugh; the name of my own blog now grosses me out a little) and see if there's other content you find hilarious and entertaining. I am pretty sure none of it is creepy, though my regular readers will probably correct me with links in the comments.

Where? Weare. Where?

Sorry, kids. Been busy. There are mountains to climb and bellydancing lessons to take and commissions of diversity and multiculturalism to co-chair. Anyway, you don't want excuses. You want lists that compare me to Supreme Court Justice David Souter, inspired by a conversation with my cousin on a hike on Monadnock today.

Things about me that are like Supreme Court Justice David Souter:

• We are white.
• We have winning smiles.
  
• We brought our belongings from New Hampshire to the D.C. area in a U-Haul.
• We never totally unpacked.
• We got sick of D.C., even with great jobs and friends there, and decided to return to New Hampshire.
• The middle school in Weare, NH, (pronounced, "where." Yes, it's hilarious.) is named after neither of us.

Things about me that are unlike Supreme Court Justice David Souter:

• Weare, NH, actually wanted to name the middle school for him.
• I lasted only 8 years, while he lasted 19.
• Republicans used to think he was on their side.
• He does not seem to want special treatment or deference.
• Anyone might be actually inclined to give him special treatment or deference.
• I beat him back up here.

Other similarities or differences you think worth mentioning?

Pot calling the kettles

OK, Internet friends, we have a crisis.
I have a pot luck to go to tonight.
Some of you may know that pot lucks are sort of my thing. Generally, I host them, rather than attending them, so that even if my dish falls a little flat, my guests are distracted by being impressed with what a good hostess I am (and I am).
But my go-to dish is my chicken chili with hominy in it. It's good, it's crazy-easy to make, and it goes in the Crock Pot.
And I have lost the recipe. More to the point, I have lost the whole book it was in, which includes all my backup go-to dishes.
So my plea is twofold:

1. Did I give you that recipe?
2. Do you have another backup recipe for me?

I need to be ready to go by 5, so any shopping and preparation needs to be done by then.

Ol' Lady [bzzzzgrrrl]

It's that time of year again, when my windows are open and the neighborhood kids are outside.
Just overheard this in my backyard, while I sat in the sunroom, out of view:
(wheel grinding noise)
"Quit it! Get away from there! [exasperated noise] Do we even know the people who own that property? No. They [mumble mumble mumble]."
Indeed I do, kid. Indeed I do.

The Doogie Howser line always works on strippers

This delights me. Very, very much.

Tea-ed off

I can't be the only person simultaneously amused and horrified by the sudden use of the word "teabagging" everywhere, right? I mean, regardless of who the teabaggers are and what they're trying to accomplish, it's funny, right? And also shocking?

No, of course I can't. (Arguably not safe for work, depending on how much more gross-slang-savvy your coworkers are than the Republican party.)

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

This one is definitely less safe for work than the one above.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	M - Th 11p / 10c
IndigNation! Populist Uprising '09 - The Enragening
thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Economic Crisis Political Humor

(Important side note: If you don't understand what I am talking about, please do not ask in the comments. I will in no way elaborate.)
(Less important side note: Ellen Degeneres once gave me a year's supply of teabags. For reals.)

Callus remarks

Warning: This post not for the easily grossed-out. It is perfect, however, for health inspectors, ladies with pretty feet, and health inspectors with pretty feet.

Those shavey things sometimes used in a pedicure? Are miraculous to me. For those of you who don't get pedicures, or who get them in the wrong states, they're a razor blade with a handle, pretty much, that shaves calluses and rough skin off your feet. They are apparently called "callus shavers." Which makes sense. For me, the callus shaver is the point of a pedicure, in fact. I can paint my own toenails, but I am afraid to shave the rough skin off my feet. That's a razor blade in there, people.

I have been told (though I cannot attest to the veracity of the information) that they are legal some places (including Idaho and Virginia), but not in all (including, apparently, New Hampshire). Bzh mentioned recently that they are not legal in North Carolina or Maryland.

So here's your question: How does a person find out what states they are legal in? I live so close to so many states that there must be somewhere around here I can get a decent pedicure. Right?

Anyone happen to know, for the benefit of all my readers, where that info lives? Or know, for my benefit, whether that is a service offered in any reputable (ah, hell, even semi-reputable) salon in the New England states?

UPDATE 4/15 4:27 p.m. Many thanks to bzh herself for finding us just what we were looking for. It seems Vermont is the place, for me anyway. Woohoo, and may you other seekers find a salon near you.

Love in the workplace

So, one of my work buddies just stopped by my office to say hello. After some quick chat about work stuff, on her way out, she said, "Hey, what was up with that crazy post on your blog?"

I had no idea what she was talking about.

She reminded me that over the weekend, I'd told someone I loved him or her. I laughed and asked if she clicked on the link. She said she did click on the link and saw that some anonymous person had said "I love you too," at which point she decided it was way too personal to get involved in.

"No," I said. "Did you click the link that was in the post?"

"There was a link in the post?"

"Yep," I said.

"But then it was your Facebook status, too."

"Right," I said. "There was a link there, too."

"I need to call [bzzzzgrrrl]," she said abruptly, which confused me, but I quickly figured out that she meant she needed to call another friend of ours; she was just flustered enough that she was getting names confused. And the reason she had needed to call that other friend of ours was that they had been speculating about my apparent sudden falling in love, and my apparent sudden willingness to discuss it here before either of them had even heard there was a candidate.

There are two potential takeaways here:

• During the time that I have had this blog, I have both been in love and not been in love, and you haven't heard much about either here. You won't the next time, either, unless it gets so serious that my real-life friends will already be well aware of what's going on.
• If I post something super-cryptic and very exciting here, look for a link. If you don't see one, ask. There is almost certainly a logical explanation.