Tell your senator that no means no

(HUGE DISCLAIMER: This is a humor blog, but this is important.)

The GOP is fighting to restrict financial aid for abortions by redefining the legal definition of rape. Under the new definition, only a pregnancy resulting from "forcible rape" can be terminated by the victim. Pregnancies resulting from statutory rape, in women who were raped while drugged or extremely intoxicated, in mentally incapable women, or in many of the victims of date rape would not be covered under this narrow definition.

I wrote the following to my NC GOP Senator:

Dear Senator Burr,

You would never demand sex in return for a dinner date or force yourself on a handicapped or intoxicated woman. Or have your way with a mentally retarded teenager.

But some men do.

You will never experience the physical pain and never-ending shame and emotional trauma of rape: S
ex without consent. Or the agonizing experience of reliving it to policemen (if you're brave enough) or in front of a jury (if you're lucky enough).

A lot of women do.

I'm asking you, as my senator, to please explain to your colleagues that denigrating rape victims and giving a free pass to rapists is a vulgar, crass way to achieve your legislative goals.

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Please contact your Republican senators (feel free to cut and paste the above) as soon as you can.

NC peeps, go here. Under "topics," DON'T select "abortion," select "Health Care."

Peeps in other states, find your senators here.

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Thanks, kids.

I know you had the time of your life

Missing my co-aunt Jessica and the spark of curiosity she brought back into my life when she was still in college and I was already jaded about the communications industry.

Missing her e-mails and postcards from her assignments abroad, always addressed "To My Big Sis."

Wishing that I could tell her again how awesome she is and that this means more to me than any award and that I'm so, so proud of her.

Tones of Home

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Steve and I went down to Shallotte the night before and slept on twin beds in the bedroom that many years before had been my Duran Duran-plastered lair, but has since become the hallowed grandkids' room, with traces of my nephews throughout their stages of childhood inhabiting every square inch.

We woke up early (for us). My only job was to make deviled eggs from the fancy deviled-egg cookbook I got for my birthday from my friend, but my Sainted Southern Mother, who'd been awake since 5 a.m., had already boiled the eggs, halved them and smooshed the yolks in a bowl. It took me about 10 minutes to mix in the ingredients, spoon the filling back into the halves and top them with rosemary sprigs she brought in from the bush my sister Jill planted outside years before.

My aunt and uncle weren't due for another few hours, my SSM had already set the elaborate table and my Good Ol' Boy Daddy had taken the turkey over to his buddy's house to deep fry it. My mother is usually unable to sit still, but when she realized there was nothing left to prepare, nothing to worry over, she did what she always does to relax: She went into the living room and started playing her piano.

Steve and I flopped on the couch in the den reading the paper for a while. Then I recognized the song my mama was playing, "What a Wonderful World." I put down my cryptoquote to listen. And smile. And be thankful.

So very thankful.

The Ties That Bind

My nephew Joshua just turned 12 and lives in scenic Vermont.

My sister Jill just updated me on their recent cultural activity: After a Bread and Puppet production this summer, Joshua said, "Just go ahead and tell me I'm adopted. That was the worst reenactment of Othello I've ever seen. Nobody I'm related to would ever appreciate that."

...

"Godspell?" I said a little too loudly at the last amateur outdoor performance I ever attended. "More like God-Awful!"

Discerning taste just runs in our blood.

Free Bird

I had the coolest locker my freshman year in high school. It was plastered inside with lovingly cut-out-of-magazine pictures of new wave rock stars and surfers.

But I dreaded, dreaded, dreaded going to it. And when I was at it, I didn't have the luxury of time to bask in its artful glory, because I had to dial the combination, grab my book and get out of there as soon as possible. If I dallied, I'd have to face The Mean, Scary, Redneck Girls (MSRGs).

The MSRGs were two junior girls from the particularly mean part of the school district. They were always together, combining their evil presence to further intimidate the younger person upon whom they unleashed their unholy torment of cruelty.

When I didn't get away from my locker fast enough, they inevitably came up next to me and plowed through their script:

MSRG1: She looks like a damn bird.

MSRG2: I saw her at the grocery store and her whole family looks like a bunch of ugly birds.

MSRG1: Who the hell does she think she is? Boy George?

MSRG2: Yeah, because she's a homosexual.

I developed the world's strongest bladder because there was no way in hell I was going into the girls' room, where they hung out smoking cigarettes, with no authority figure around to protect me (the teachers stayed the hell out of there, too). The pay phone was off-limits, as well, because they hung out there making calls to their unemployed, dropout boyfriends. Even when I had to make the most important phone call ever, I waited around the corner for the first bell to ring before rushing to the phone to make my call, knowing I was breaking the rules and would get in trouble for getting to class late.

MSRG1 dropped out after that year and MSRG2 faded into the unremarkable noise of high school, her powers diminished without her girl.

That was 25+ years ago. Culture Club broke up. The Berlin Wall came down. Yugoslavia and Burma changed their names. The Internets got invented...

And today, on my personal Facebook page, MSRG2 popped up as a recommended friend. I clicked on her profile, which was public.

She's living in a small town in a different state. Her profile picture is of her, sporting a home-bleach job, and her 4-yo grandson with a "creatively" spelled name. Her relationship status was "single."

Her overshare profile status read: "Im lonley."

I feel so heartsick for her. She never had a chance, really, coming from the background she did. I had so many opportunities and took them for granted. I should have been kinder to her.

Just kidding! BAHAHAHAHAHA, redneck loser!

Thanks, college!

Me: At least I know what a key grip is. I studied film in college.

Mr. Sweetypants, the professional scientist of some sort I can't really explain: "Yeah, how's that working out for you?"

(I'm the one who studied Oscar Wilde while Mr. Sweetypants was doing whatever Chemistry majors do, yet he has the best bons mots. I want my parents' money back.)

Nothing this awesome ever happens to me

Then again, I am not nearly as charming as my husband and I have never been to Iowa.

Mr. Sweetypants was eating dinner alone in the restaurant of the Holiday Inn in Davenport, Iowa, when he saw Christoper Walken (yes, "THE Christopher Walken") have a seat at the bar.

So Mr. Sweetypants, living up to his moniker, went to the bar, sat down beside THE Christopher Walken, bought him a drink and told him how he loved his work in one particular role. No, it wasn't "Annie Hall," "The Deer Hunter" or "Pulp Fiction." It was "More Cowbell."

You heard it here first, my husband talked to THE Christopher Walken about the "More Cowbell" sketch. THE Christopher Walken laughed and told Mr. Sweetypants that it was a blast to work on and he had a hard time keeping a straight face.

"So," THE Christopher Walken asked Mr. Sweetypants, "What are you working on?" Mr. Sweetypants has an English accent, and THE Christopher Walken assumed he was part of the film crew. Why else would he be in Davenport, Iowa?

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I do want to go to Iowa someday to meet my favorite blogger and re-enact my favorite Til Tuesday song with her.