If you don’t want to sit through the political activist portion of today’s entry, skip to the first horizontal line, where we return to normal Weetabix hijinx.
The U.S. Senate is voting on the Federal Marriage Amendment in 3 weeks. Call or write your Senator and tell them how you feel about this act. I’m not going to tell you that you ask them to oppose the act, but that’s what I’ve done and I can’t imagine that anyone would be for it.
Maybe you don’t care, but you should. If you’re straight and think this doesn’t apply to you, you’re wrong. This isn’t about us and them. It’s about everyone. It’s called Freedom.
Right now, the government wants to tell you whom you can and cannot marry. Right now. Can you imagine? Can you imagine working your entire life, searching for that one person, and then beating the odds and actually FINDING someone that makes you happy and frustrated and crazy and randy and all of those lovely things that make being alive a wonderful thing. Then you’re told, no, sorry, your love is a symbol of everything that the current administration opposes.
Would that keep you from being with that person? No, of course it wouldn’t. Would it stop you from having kids and being happy? No. They can’t take that away from you. But they can be snotty about it, and apparently make judgment calls.
Some patriotic communities have moved forth with the spirit of America and found a way to ensure that everyone enjoys the same rights, but this Federal Marriage Amendment is there to stop that from happening again. So yes, you should be mad about it, even if you’re straight, because no one should have the ability to do that to you. That’s the cool part about being an American.
And the argument that it’s going to somehow threaten the sanctity of marriage if we let Richard and Clark get married? Threaten how exactly? Are roving bands of exceptionally dressed men going to be knocking on doors and clubbing straight married couples over the head with their iBooks? Will they get a free pass to the front of the line at Pottery Barn? And how exactly is Rush Limbaugh’s third divorce upholding that sacred union while we prevent two lifelong lesbian partners and parents from filing a joint tax return?
Actually, I’m not going to argue this here, but any detractors can feel free to throw down in the comments section. I’m itching for a fight. I’ve got some PMS and I’m not afraid to use it.
You can also send them an email too.
Interesting bit of trivia: you can send email to senators of other states as well. Hellooooooo Arlen Spector, how is YOUR day?
Speaking of being a liberal nut job activist, my Utne Reader magazines come with little subscription cards in them, despite the fact that I already have a subscription. I don’t care, as it has become a habit to go through any magazine before I read it and yank out the cards so they don’t fall out while I’m reading the thing. And because I like to make Esteban despair about my liberalism, I tend to leave Utne in the bathroom where I know that he’ll read it (hey, I’ve caught him reading Bust and Jane). And right now, there’s a subscription card in the bathroom trash that is mocked up to look as though it’s been used as a coaster, with coffee cup rings around it. It’s very eye catching and a brilliant concept, but here’s the thing: the color of the ink is a little off to be coffee. In fact, it looks a little bit (exactly) like dried blood.
Anyway, needless to say, I’m starting to worry a little about my friends at Utne Reader. Because vampirism isn’t exactly kosher, dudes. And its certainly not vegan.
I’ve been in a weird iced tea rut for the last few weeks. Something about its subtle quenchiness absolutely tickles my throat. I almost went apoplectic at Sbux when they were out of their black iced tea and I was forced to bunt with an iced mocha instead, which felt too brash and bitter, and I felt out of sorts for the rest of the day. Over the weekend, I resurrected our Cuisinart coffee maker and have begun to brew my own tea by throwing three tea bags and a little sugar into the empty carafe and then later taking it off the burner and letting it cool until I dump it over ice cubes. My current love is Republic of Tea’s Honey Ginseng green tea blend and I’ve been taking it to work with me in the morning instead of visiting the Bux. It’s been more satisfying but I’ve only got two big beverage totey things and it involves a lot more prep time than just driving up to the window and throwing my Bux card at them. I think I miss the pretension factor as well. And also, the new barista looks like a Tremors era Kevin Bacon.
Thus, this morning, I left extra early and decided to go out of my way to visit the new City Name Bread Company that just opened on the west side. Maybe, if I were lucky, they would have hummus bagel sandwiches, like the one in my favorite mall. I wandered in and saw an empty store, but six people waiting in line.
There are senses you develop when you take consumerism very seriously, as I do. And one of the senses told me that none of these people were in a hurry, despite the fact that it was 7:30 on a Thursday morning. Everyone was rather leisurely, standing the way they would as though they had forever to wait in this line and there was nothing in the world that they’d rather do. I sighed, took my spot, and waited. There were two clerks behind the counter, but at least seven more elsewhere in the kitchen area. A professional looking woman and a grandmother were being waited on, but it was taking forever. The professional woman (who was wearing a black skirt and black shoes, and yet inexplicably, white nylons. She was not a nurse and this was not Halloween. I couldn’t quite figure out the logic, except that maybe she thought it looked good or that she needed to somehow tie in the white of her blouse to her calves? It makes no sense, but had I been perceptive, this would have been a warning.) The workers seemed to not care in the least that they had a line five deep and were talking slowly to everyone, wandering as though performing an elaborate water ballet involving muffin tops and espresso shots. It was worse than waiting at line in the Hippy Mafia deli! They didn’t even have a dedicated barrista, which made me roll my eyes. Only in Green Bay would this be acceptable.
Little Ms. White Stockings ordered a dozen bagels, but then specified each variety specifically, taking several seconds to mull over the decision. Finally, because there were only six varieties of bagels, she ended up with two of each, but had selected each one personally. It would have been too efficient to just say, ‘Give me two of each kind’. What are muffin tops? And does the banana nut have nuts in it? Can she get bread here, at the City Name Bread Company with the many loaves of bread cooling behind the counter? Hmmm, she’ll take a loaf. What kind? Oh dear’ what kind? What kind does the cashier like? Does that have nuts in it? Oh, ok, one of those. Does she want it sliced? What do you mean? (She actually asked ‘what do you mean’ to the slicing question!) She can get it either thick or thin sliced. What does thin mean? Thick is like texas toast and thin is a little thinner than a normal slice of bread. How many slices do you get with the loaves sliced each way? (Answer: 12 for the texas toast, and oh my god, we’re not so obsessive compulsive that we count the fucking thin slices.) What, maybe she should get another muffin. What are the kinds again?
Then she wanted to discuss the cheesecake. Does it have fat in it?
Does cheesecake have fat in it?
What planet did you come from, Little Ms. White Stockings? Does your world also have money-paved streets and chocolate contains vitamins and all the fashion models look like Jabba the Hutt?
Finally, some additional workers came up from the back and it was my turn. I had wanted to get a smoothie, but I had now wasted twenty minutes standing there, plotting some vigilantism in the parking lot and driving away with a bloodied pair of white nylons streaming off my car antennae, so instead I got a sourdough roll and a muffin and then fled, arriving at work three minutes late. Sometimes it really sucks to live in a small town that pretends that it’s a big town. Because that crap would not have been tolerated in, say, San Francisco. There would have been rioting amongst the patrons. There would be bloodshed. Or, at very least, Odwalla juice spilled.
Which, to clear up all confusion, contains neither fat nor nuts.
