Once a slut, always a slut

Since becoming one half of a monogamous, hopefully-happily-married pair, I've been bummed that I couldn't call myself a slut anymore. An evil slut, that is. However, since observing this shirt and wishing I could wear the sexually-innuendoed version and remembering that I am, after all, married, I realized a few things.

A) I stopped for lots of "snacks" and potty breaks on the way off Abstinence Avenue.
B) I missed the Missionary exit and got off on Kamasutra Lane.
C) I didn't follow the Bush-approved marriage path--I'm getting my plumbing fixed before having kids.

I suppose you could say, "once a slut, always a slut." Your slutty, tarty ways just can't be quelled; you just overwhelm one person rather than many.

Semper fornicatio.

Driving: Not Just a Chore

And now back to our regular bitching: what the fuck is with these California drivers?

I spend my mornings driving to work pondering and analyzing driving patterns, and I've come up with a list of habits that seem common to the average Cali driver, regardless of where he or she originally comes from--why that is, I don't know. I have my suspicions...

Dear California Drivers,

First, we have the blinkers. You know, "turn signals"? Those things that are probably not familiar to you that jab out from the left side of your steering wheel? Yeah, those. Can we discuss your non-use of the blinkers? What's that all about? You expect everyone around you to rely on intuition and/or psychic powers to know when you're about to change lanes quite suddenly, and usually the only warning is a strange weaving pattern you do in your lane, back and forth, before you finally move over--without the courtesy to let the driver who's already there know what you're doing. Hi, yeah, that was me you almost ran into--which brings me to the next bad habit on my list...

You don't bother to look around you. Really; didn't you learn in driver's ed what that strange, shiny apparatus hanging from your front windshield was? Or maybe the things that stick out from either side of your front doors? Or, if somehow they're not there, maybe just looking over your shoulder--hell, even looking slightly to the left before you moved into MY lane, the lane that I occupied, would have helped. A short man in a neck brace could have done it. But I guess your cell conversation was more important than my safety...

Look, I admit that I have occasionally indulged in a cell conversation here and there, but here's where you and I differ: if I HAVE to talk on the phone, I put my driving first--the other person has to suffer through a conversation of nothing more difficult than talking about rainbows. Philosophical discussions? Dinner plans? Wait 'til I get home. I wish it helped that California recently passed a law making talking on your cells illegal, but you don't seem capable of following current events, and you've decided that participating in one of the most dangerous of our daily activities isn't worth the effort to concentrate.

But what really drives me nuts is how you drive in the farthest right lane, the lane that empties off the freeway, or allows drivers on, and you drive 20 mph below the speed limit. Perhaps you're not aware of how little time most drivers have to go from 20 to 60 in order to merge onto the freeway, with as little space as we're given, but really, unless you're slowing down to get off, why don't you move your slow ass over a lane to the left? Why do you bother riding in that lane for miles and miles?

I'm sure I could think of more things you do that annoy me, but for now, get off your phones, put your foot on the gas, and use your blinkers!

Love

I have to do it. Again. Be sappy, that is; I'm afraid this blog is turning out to be mostly appreciation for the people around me, which is nice, I guess, but where's the spit? The fire? Oh, yeah, I expend my energy on the road and all I've got time for these days is frustration over other drivers.

Carrying on: one of my favorite blog-o-sphere writers recently wrote a blog about what she wanted out of life--namely, love. But it wasn't what she wrote that got to me so much as what one of her commenters said:

I’ve been with my husband for 17 years. We’ve had big ups and downs and many struggles. But he’s still the one I want holding my hand when something goes wrong and he’s still the one I want to hug and kiss me every night before I go to bed. I can’t imagine a life where I’d ever be able to “breathe” if he weren’t in it.

Hell of a (pair of) Women

I speak of my friends over at Evilslutopia.com frequently, or JezeLilith, as they're better known in my personal life when referring to both simultaneously (kind of like Sirquita, which sounds like a really exotic tequila, which I won't be having anytime soon, rum being a better friend). A while back, things in my life weren't going so awfully swell, and predictably, I fell into a bit of a depression. Or, if you're going to have some idea of what amazing friends they are, you'll have to understand what they helped me overcome, which means I have to pull my head out of my ass and stop making light of what was going on. I don't deal well with being broke, out of a job, dependent on someone else for everything from tampons to my basic daily needs (like food). In fact, I don't deal at all. My method of handling stress is to turn it all inward and pretend my problems don't exist--I find a hole in my head to crawl into and disappear. I need a job? I read a book, clean the house, take the dog to the park, scour the internet for my next shopping bag...anything but deal with the problem by doing something about it. Sure, I did send out numerous resumes and contact numerous people, but after the sixth job rejection in two weeks, I shut everything down and quit looking for jobs. My relationship with Sir nearly disintegrated at a few points under the stress of our individual job stresses, plus my lack of effort in searching.

At the height of this depression, at my breaking point, Lilith and Jezebel stepped in and intervened in a manner that was crucial to restoring my confidence and giving me the boot I needed to start searching again. They suggested that I do some guest blog entries on their website, featuring women in art throughout history; the idea was dynamite in my arsecrack--they had no sooner suggested it than I was already researching my favorite women and looking for more inspiring women to feature in future blogs.

Yesterday, they put up the hardest blog I've written, about Frida Kahlo. Trying to write about her life was like (sorry to borrow an aged and overused expression) nailing Jell-O to the wall. Green Jell-O. How do you write about someone who left behind a body of artwork as her autobiography? How do you delve into her mind and try to get an accurate picture of what she was trying to say? The outcome, I think, is something to be proud of.

And Jezebel and Lilith? Thanks for the kick in the right direction. First you caused my marriage, then you caused me to be happy again. You troublemakers with strong personalities, you.