Challenge: iPhone State of the Union ... Buddiezzzz

Let's see how hard it will be to blog from my phone? Here goes. If it turns out ferkocteh,my bad. I'll fix it later.

So our President Barack Henry Obama is giving this ceremonial speech thing and it's pretty good. Some fact checking wouldn't hurt but this is a speech, maybe you could call it a performance if you were way cynical. Sooo let's just take it at face value for now.

I am not sure why certain people are in the audience other than friends in high places. The Prez is giving a shout out to the same deserving but cliche groups. Vets. Middle class. Bums. Unicorn lovers. Jellyfish. The last couple I just made up but you and I are still getting off on the same floor...

My cat doesn't care about any of it. She just wants me to let her under the blanket. Hold on.

The orange guy behind him looks like he has gas. I have also missed the first hour or so. Whatever. It's like being late to a movie.

Now we have two guys doing VO a shot of suits giving hugs. Hey voice dudes, I just watched. It isn't necessary to describe it.

This one guy has a crush on Mitch Daniels. Not kidding! Are you listening to this? In case you didn't know, Mitch Daniels sold a state toll roads to a consortium overseas. A road the residents and travelers through the state already paid for. Not cool commentator guy. That governor showed blatant disregard for the people he was hired to serve. Abuse of power for profit. Full stop.

This time I have a point. A conclusion anyway. Still not really a point. Maybe next time.

First, blogging from my phone is easier than I thought as long as I keep it simple.

Also, memo to fans of Mitch Daniels: I do not understand how you can overlook his actions in that specific situation. It's a deal breaker. He is only a "very well respected" governor among dense people. You and a lot of people are dense that is the truth. It isn't an insult. You just are. But I still love you. =^_^=

Also, our lawmakers and our selves need to get serious about sharing ideas. We can fix this shit if we just take things one issue at a time and make flexible decisions that are fair and be willing to try another route if the one we initially pick is a fail. Hey, it happens.

Man I want to slap that guy with a glove and stomp away in a huff. Mitch the Bitch in on now. Gag.

As I was saying, Google your problems. Find out who fixes it (federal, state, city, etc.) Then send emails, make calls, tweet them, whatever. But reach out. Let them know your issue. Offer solutions. Be reasonable. Be educated. Be POLITE. That's why we picked them and it's why we pay them.

Off to have noms, chill, get sleep, have happy dreams. Peace and good vibes to you all. Even the dense ones who are nice people aside from that.

There's a reason they call 'em private parts.

O hai Boycotting Girl Scout people,


I saw a video on Jezebel.

Is this a case of bigoted parents having bigoted kids? Regardless of how she arrived at her fear of penises and her obsession with dressing how she wants in a group, she'll make a hell of an attorney someday if she can find an all-bigot-females-born-with-vaginas-only country where she can practice law.

And you know what, Honest Discriminating Girl Scout (that's a factual term, she's being honest as fuck about her feelings) I ate a fat ton of Girl Scout cookies the past couple weeks and Imma finish my box of Thin Mints tonight. Maybe I'll throw down s'more cash on Thanks A Lots tomorrow. And maybe I'll do it for the sole reason that GSUSA allowed a transgender (meaning no longer male but FEMALE) GIRL into the group.

Here's the deal, Uptight Robot Child, USE YOUR BRAIN. If an evil, plotting, ill-intentioned boy is trying to get into GSUSA because he thinks he will score some poon, have a little more faith in the adults around you to catch on to his game before he gets his slimy man parts anywhere near your pristine white cotton briefs.

Do your parents sleep in separate beds in your creepily perfect Reese Witherspoon in "Election" kind of home and have they raised you to be scalded-dog scared of anything that isn't All American Cream Cheese Sunday School White Linen Napkins?

Am I advocating child molestation here? Again, if ya use yer inferior lady brains, you'll see I am clearly NOT. (You said it yourself, girls need all-girl places to feel like it is 'easier' to do thinks like fart or talk about how frustrating it is when you only get an A and not an A+ on your calculus test.)  (Quickie question tho.  If it is easier to talk about badges and swimming with ONLY GIRLS BORN WITH VAGINAS then why is it hard to talk about these things in mixed company?  IF it is indeed harder to do this, then is that a boy's fault or is it yours?)

Check this out because it is an absolute truth.  You do not and can not know everyone's situation. I don't know your situation other than what you shared in your video and I'm asking you questions about it although I realize it's unlikely, in the massive soup of the interwebs, that you'll ever see them or even answer.


The fact remains.  It's impossible to suddenly know a person's intentions because you have one piece of information about their body. IMPOSSIBLE. Trust me. It is not possible.  Can we agree that this is an honest fact?

How would you feel if you had all your same emotions, all your same spirit, ethics, your entire personality, your whole life was all exactly the same but you had a boy's body?

Would YOU want to live in a world that respected you, treated you fairly and allowed you the same freedoms everyone else enjoys?

OR

Would you want to be the one single solitary You-With-A-Penis in a world filled with other Yous-With-A-Vagina who treated you like a rapist just because you had a personal physical issue with which you were dealing?

If we're being HONEST here (you clearly conveyed how important honesty is to you) then I feel safe in saying you would indeed pick the fair treatment and respect. So if you'd pick it for yourself, why would you deny it for someone else? That doesn't sound like a very GSUSA thing to do, does it?

Makes me think you're not the stellar representative of GSUSA you set out to be. Which would mean people should actually boycott YOU and NOT delicious GSUSA cookies. And on that note, your argument is invalid.

Ohkay, bye now. I'm off to share my Girl Scout cookies with big, bad, scary different people.

Remember those old rechargeable batteries?

I don't remember when it was.  Sometime in the 80s probably, but Energizer or someone made rechargeable batteries.  (I have misspelled rechargeable twice now, btw.)

And I don't know if this is science or if I just half-listened to my dad explain how they work because he tried to give a lesson in boring shit to his already disinterested tween daughter right in the middle of my Barbie time.  Silly parents.  (Love you, dad!)  But didn't you have to sometimes run them completely down before recharging them or else they wouldn't "refill" properly?  Or something like that...  Put them in the freezer?  Zap them with a taser?  Am I just making this completely up or were they really like that?  Remember there was a plastic recharger/holder that was too hideous for the kitchen wall but you knew if you put it in the garage, the Y chromosome holders in the house would lose them within a week.  If you upgraded to the deluxe model, you got a multi-size holder/recharger so you could put the flashlight batteries and the remote batters in the same fugly case.

In a weird, hazy way, those batteries remind me of the plants you srsly can't kill.  Not a cactus.  The vine-y ones with the green and white speckled leaves that ALL of your aunties have in their houses (you know they do, don't lie).  Those goofy plants get all droopy and sad; you pretend not to notice for a day or so.  Finally you break down and water it.  A couple hours later, the near-dead plant looks perky and green.  Why do they do that?  HOW do they do that?  Is it a testament to the plant's physiology (do plants have that or is it some other science word) or is there a happy accident resulting from my bad slacker plant-keeping habits?

For real, I don't mean to neglect my plants but the ones I have at home are hanging plants and it's hard for me to reach them.  Mr. Buffie will water them for me but you try to catch him when he's not busy.  Human tornado.  It's nuts.

Uhhh.  Oh, a point.  Yes.  That.

So maybe insomnia is like those batteries or that plant and I have to just get a gnarly case of it on a regular basis so I can properly recharge my physical and mental batteries or am I only avoiding root rot because my dizzy cow of an owner (that would be me) forgets to give me water at least once a month?

Or perhaps the universe is really pissed at me for tuning out my dad and unintentionally abusing my plant.

Like kitty litter through the scoopy thing, these are the convos of my life

What do 'normal' conversations sound like anyway?  I think I've had them before but they never seem 'normal' to me.  They are strained, sometimes insincere or superficial.  Usually I'm having what I consider to be a normal conversation with the more traditionally conservative-ish (redundant term?) friends of my highly educated, world-traveled, faithful-church-attending, Democrat, youthful-senior-citizen in-laws.

Not a bad thing but awkward chats with family acquaintances never go much beyond weather or that lovely rendition of (insert name of dreary boring well-known hymn) that Missus Ethel Mae Blickerman played with her double-harp last week during a fundraiser luncheon to send the Bridge club on their annual Branson bus tour.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz  ~_~

According to the Chinese calendar, rabbits are the luckiest of all signs.  I happen to have been born in the Year of the Hare.  I'm also left-handed which some believe is a lucky charm.  Plus I'm an only child.  We're literally born into good fortune.  Siblings are cool and all.  More than once I have wished for a sister or a gay brother.  Buuut we 'onlys' just tend to be super lucky.  Well, we arrre.  =P

Piece from "Garden of Earthly Delights"
By Hieronymus Bosch.

Talks with Mr. Buffie often serve as reminders of my luck.  He hates harps too!  Like me, he thinks they look scary...  Medieval torture devices used by the henchmen of evil emperors that coincidentally could serve as a musical instrument.  Never trust a harp.  They're sneaky.

He does frequently wonder about the weather.  *eye roll*  But it's only because he's all uppity about driving Sir Hiss in the rain.  No one is perfect.

This evening Mr. Buffie was in the laundry room taking clothes out of the dryer when he found a band aid stuck to one of his fake ShamWows.  He picked it up and said something to the effect of 'oh this is very interesting and I would like to know more please, what are the origins of this band aid, is it name brand, who lost it, are they looking for it' instead of how the rest of the world reacts when they find a used band aid in the clean laundry.  "URH MAH GAAAAAHHHHDDDD that's one degree away from finding a severed fingerrrr! urmahgahhhdddduh  SICK!  Sick sick sick!  Throw it in the nearest object that will function as a temporary biohazard receptacle which can be burned in the fireplace!  Stat!"

This is the same Mr. Buffie who insisted I smell the bottom of his shoe a few days ago and pushed it toward my face so the discovery of a mysterious laundry band aid is an archaeological score in his mind.  For the sake of fairness, I begrudgingly admit shared guilt when it comes to fixations on things other people find completely unappealing.  For example...

Banged-up beloved pink

Tweezerman classic slant tip tweezers.

(Smudges are where the
Tweezerman lightning bolt used to be.)

"Look at my tweezers, my tweezers are amazing!  But NOT as amazing as the little removable plastic tip.  By some PsOV, that tiny nubbin is worthless.  To me, it is every bit as important as the expensive tweezers.  And I have to own 7 pairs of ridiculous $20 tweezers because I need a set in every room you know.  Tweezers are the Buffinese version of a Swiss Army knife.  They're a garden tool, a bookmark, a price-tag remover, a kitchen utensil (after thorough sanitizing of course) and obviously an implement of makeup application and personal grooming (also after thorough sanitizing... of course)."  ~  Buffie circa two hours ago.

Tweezer Nubbin

Hey, it's justified.  The piece of plastic protects those tweezers and kind of holds my life together.  Is this a haiku?  (O hai ADHDeee  Weee!)


While we are almost always civil to each other considering we've been married a bazillion years (in 21st Century terms, we've been married a bazillion years, I calculated) we still have our uhm... moments.

Mr. Buffie brought home dinner tonight because I didn't get home until almost 8 and I also brought work home and I still need to put dishes away from last night sooo... yeah.  It was either bring home hot food or enjoy your Triscuits and squeez cheez.

Looks gnarly but I promise it's delicious.

He opted for actual cooked meat and vegetables, imagine that.  As a favor for me, he also brought this weird concoction I like from Pancho's.  It's seasoned steak fries similar to the kind you'd get at a 54th Street restaurant type place.  Then they're covered half-and-half with sour cream on one side and guacamole (seasoned avocado puree style) on the other.  Shredded cheese is melted on top along with a couple fistfuls of chopped fajita steak.  A funky Mexican food in Kansas City version of poutine.  They're SUPER good, cost about $8 and I can eat on them for a good 2 or 3 meals because the box is giant and I have no qualms about reheating them in the oven even though the guacamole and sour cream strangely absorb into the fries the next day.

Anyway, the mister got a meal from Culver's and I spy shrimp on his plate.  Y'all know how I feel about shrimp.  They're my forbidden fruit.  *heart flutter*

So I ask him very sweetly if I can has a scrimp.  He just looks at me while he's putting 'buttery spread' on a sweet roll and doesn't say a word.  Now I'm all offended and tell him I CANNOT BELIEVE he isn't sharing at least one frickin' shrimp with me.


Buffie: "It's ONE shrimp!  You have at least 9 or 10 there.  Hook a sister up.  What is WRONG with you?  I asked nicely.  Why won't you share just one shr..."


Mr. Buffie:  "Because this is fishhh."

Buffie:  "You should have ordered the shrimp."

Knowing That We Know Nothing

I never met Mr. Buffie's grandma, but he remembers her well and talks about her fondly.  So it is almost like I know her.  She came from Paris, TN, was a fantastic cook and had unflappable faith in her beliefs.

Mr. Buffie says she was never afraid of death, because she knew she would go to Heaven.  Honestly, that sounds nice, comforting.

The part of me who believes unicorns might exist likes to think that when I die, my 'soul' becomes a magical butterfly and floats up to a puffy pink infinite cloud made of glitter and cotton candy.

Then the logical part of me comes along with a giant flyswatter...

Someone special died unexpectedly yesterday and I have a feeling she was a lot like Mr. Buffie's grandma.  She and I never talked about her faith but I knew she had it.

Today was surreal and everyone is understandably brokenhearted.  No one bothered to ask 'how are you' like they usually do because we all knew the answer.  We also know she would not want us to mope around like this for long because she would prefer we celebrate life and we will... after we compose ourselves.

Last night was sleepless.  I kept thinking about how (if) I could cope if the same thing happened to my parents or Mr. Buffie.  There hasn't been a lot of loss in my life.  Not the punch-you-in-the-chest-never-saw-it-coming kind of loss.  I'm completely happy with specific delusions I carry, among them that certain people (and cats) are immortal.  Please don't bother trying to set me straight on that because I am not interested in your real world truth and facts on this particular matter.

However, having never had to recover from profoundly devastating loss, I have no idea how other people do it.  I guess I assume they mourn forever, that the pain is always present and anything positive, joyful or fun that happens afterwards doesn't feel as good.

But I don't know.  How would you even ask such a question without sounding like the world's most insensitive bastard?  "Hi there, when your most favorite person in the world died, how did you get on with life?"  See what I mean?


I wish I could have known Mr. Buffie's grandma.  She would have answered my awkward questions about death and the seemingly impossible idea of being comfortable with it.  And she probably would have chirped in my lobes for being atheist.  Several times in my life I have sincerely attempted to make myself believe.  I now know it will never happen.  Some pills you simply can't swallow and my life is right without religion.


A point?  I don't really have one other than if you were thinking of doing something, do it now.  I can't tell you anything about faith or even a lack of it.  I can just tell you that you never know what will happen next.

A Cure for the Common Fattie

As we know, the bigger you are, the more universally hated you are.

I mean, even Carrie Fisher said the world is a hostile place for a fat person.  She is not wrong.

Yesterday I visited the endocrinologist for a follow up on my issues.  Got CAT scan results.  The good news - nothing is wrong.  The bad news - nothing is wrong.  Square one again.  Still have the pain and the hyperhidrosis but they dunno what's causing it.

This endocrinologist came highly recommended by several people, including my regular doc and my psychiatrist.  So I was expecting the best possible treatment.  First visit went alright.  He tried to push WLS on me, gastric bypass.  Told him no go.  He backed off.

Yesterday he brought it up again, as if he had forgotten I said absolutely not.  And when I reminded him that I wasn't going to do it, he shamed me by making a condescending remark that he thought it was "interesting" that my hyperhidrosis wasn't affected by my weight and sent me on my way.  He even had the gall to refer me back to the Revolving Door Dermatology Warehouse.

Anyway, I left in a huff.  Feeling like a substandard human because I am not small enough to be treated like everyone else.  Not my proudest moment.  I'm angry at myself for letting someone get to me and for allowing myself to feel that way.

Seems like I am seeing so much fat hate lately. More than usual.  I'm probably still miffed over the couple who openly made fun of me last week.  It's all weighing in my mind.  (Weighing... puns... I'm so clever.  *snort*)

Instead of whining about it, I've decided to just buy in.  If you can't beat them, join them, right?  That's what they always say and they always know what they're talking about.

Hate fat people?  Of course you do.  Everyone does.  So let's eliminate them.  These are the most popular techniques currently in use by the diet industry, Cosmopolitan Magazine and millions of commenters all over the internet.

First of all, insults make fat people thin.  I haven't seen this work with my own eyes.  But I know it has to be effective because it is socially acceptable to belittle and shame big people.  Remember the Bowflex guy who "gave all his FAT clothes to his FAT friends?"  That was a national ad campaign.  So that tells you right there that the entire nation can't think of anything worse than being fat.

Bullying, that's another one that really hits home.  Ohkay, this one didn't work on me unfortunately but it probably is helpful to the ones who actually survive it.  I know, I survived it too.  But I'm a bad example because ...  ...  Mmmm...  Hrmmm.  Well, I guess it must work because of science or something.

Alright, now we have the obvious one, diet ads!  Almost every single commercial break has at least one, sometimes several.  There are pills and gadgets and garments and meal plans and you can even hire someone to remind you on a regular basis what a foul, disgusting pig you are.  I think her name is Jillian Michaels.

Of course, you can't watch anything on E! or read anything in mainstream lifestyle magazines without having attention called to the fact that you're a horrible warty fat toad.  All the fashion trends are focused on looking as small as possible.  Smaller is better.  Always.  Amazing summer beach bodies perpetually belong to the stars who have hired a trainer, nutritionist, plastic surgeon and chef then spent all their extra time in their private home gyms to shed an extra five pounds.  And if THEY can do it with their busy schedules and tight budgets, then we slovenly blobs have no excuse.

The next time you are out and about and someone remarks on your size, you immediately apologize!  Then you thank them for helping you keep feelings of shame and embarrassment right under the surface.

Also, go to the nearest bathroom and barf up everything you've eaten for the past three weeks then sell everything you own and hire that trainer lady to scream about all your physical misgivings in your face while you sob on a treadmill.

Fuck.

All.

That.

Shit.

You know what needs a cure?  We do.  All of us.  I have so many friends who put themselves down constantly.  Stop it.  Please.  You're not accomplishing anything positive when you do that.

You read the magazines and think that's how you /should/ look when you roll out of bed.

Let me tell you something.  For 10 years I worked full-time as a makeup artist.  I've seen professional models at 5 a.m.  They have zits, bags under their eyes, scars, crusty cuticles, weird veins, hair growing in strange places.  EVERYONE DOES.

But after a couple hours of hair and makeup, soft lighting, professional photography and a gifted graphic artist retouching the picture, they look like what you see in the magazines.  IT IS ALL A FACADE.  It isn't meant to be lived day in and day out.  It's art.  It's someone's vision.  Flawlessness does not exist in anyone.

What you see as flaws in yourself aren't flaws at all.  They're part of being human.  Stop being so hard on yourself.  I've got to do the same thing.  I have completely unrealistic expectations of who I'm supposed to be and it causes me nothing but endless disappointment.

Fact: Fat people are big.  They're not dumb, they're not lazy, they don't stink.  (Yes, there ARE people in this world who are ignorant, unmotivated and smelly.  Those people come in all shapes and sizes.  Fat has nothing to do with it.)

Fiction: Hating and humiliating fat people will make the world a better place.

I don't know how to make this any clearer.  But the body shame has GOT TO STOP and I'm starting with me.

Maybe it's just a bad mood?

The idea of never leaving my house again appeals to me more and more every day.

I used to think it was because of how I was treated in high school that made me hate people.  That has something to do with it, but I am starting to realize I hate people because they're awful.

By people, I am talking specifically about mean, stupid people.  And usually mean people are stupid and stupid people are mean.

Does the stupid make them mean?  Not sure.  I've encountered below-average intelligence people who were delightful.  Perhaps the ones who are stupid by choice... those are the mean ones.

Yesterday, with some help from a co-worker, I finally busted a story tipster in a massive lie.  Biggest lie I've ever heard in the newsroom.  And it was a lie told about something tragic that affected thousands of people.  That makes it even worse.  I've had a gut feeling since May that the story wasn't true and to have two sources this week verify that I was right felt quite nice.  Renewed my trust in my own instincts.

Today someone called the magazine all pissed off because we keep addresses on file.  Dead serious.  He didn't think we should do that.  Never thought I would have to explain to someone that we need to keep their address so we can mail the magazine to which they've subscribed.  Is there some magic delivery service I don't know about?  Psychic Unicorn Express will bring your mail to you without having to know your address?

When my in-laws called this afternoon with an invitation to sushi, that temporarily lifted my foul misanthropic fog.  They suggested my favorite place, too.  Bonus!

Tonight they were running 10 minutes late but I parked and went inside anyway.  Not long after I sat down, a couple was seated at the booth across from me.  And they didn't even try to disguise their staring.  There are people in this world, in my town even, who look more unusual than I do.  So why the hell am I always getting the up-down eyes?  The staring was followed by whispering, more staring, more whispering then laughter.  I pretended not to notice, keeping busy with my phone.  Telling myself they're talking about something else, not me.  Stop being paranoid.  I busied myself texting Mr. Buffie and fiddling with chop sticks.

Once my in-laws arrived, the couple then broke out in hand gestures, confirming my suspicion.  The woman was trying to determine how big my chest was in relation to her own frame, looking at me and adjusting the length of her arms held out in front of her.  I continued to pretend I didn't notice.  My father-in-law was telling me about genetically engineered soybean crops... I think.  At that point, I was lost in my own head, angry, frustrated, desperate to escape.

It's funny because earlier today I read an article about restaurants who adopt a no-kids policy.  It reminded me of a few specific situations where I was dining out and was verbally harassed by groups of teens.  It has even happened with older people but it's usually teens.  Why are teenagers so hateful?  Was the teenage Buffie that hateful?  I had opinions about people at that age, but I don't ever recall making unprovoked statements to strangers in public.  Never had the urge to do anything horrible to someone unprovoked, I don't think.

In a way it was cosmic to read that story then relive something I've experienced so many times before.  Those experiences are always the first thoughts that flash through my mind at the mention of going out in public.

I was probably born predisposed to have anxiety or agoraphobia.  My mum tells me I was about 3 years old when she noticed I had an abnormal aversion to strangers.  Bullying and fat-hate exacerbated it and here we are.

People can't be changed.  You can't turn a mean stranger into a nice one anymore than a mean stranger can turn me into a thin person by insulting me.

But what do I do?  Continue to endure it?  That doesn't seem reasonable.  I don't know what to do.

All I know is the more I'm exposed to the general public, the more I only want to be around my family and friends or go only to certain places where I haven't had a scary experience.

Mr. Buffie, bless him, he has spoken up for me before and I truly appreciate it.  It was probably nine years ago that we were having lunch at Braum's when a table full of late-teen/early-twenties boys were having an obvious laugh about my body.  At some point, they were even talking (yelling) directly to me. As per my M.O., I ignored them.  Mr. Buffie walked over to their table and hit it with his fist.  That got their attention.  Then he politely told them to stop.  Know what happened?  They threatened him.  You know, the typical "how DARE you NOT sit there and tolerate my bullshit" bully attitude.  Ultimately they did leave without incident but for a moment, I was sure we were going to be physically assaulted.  So in addition to a couple other failed attempts to speak up, speaking up isn't looking like a practical solution either.

Sometimes I wonder if this rules my life.  I've blogged about it... a lot.  But it's because it affects me... a lot.  Maybe saying it rules me is too extreme.  However I can't deny that it does cause problems for me AND Mr. Buffie on a much-too-regular basis.

I want to be adventurous and spontaneous and experience new things but my anxiety swallows me whole.

Therapy helps.  When I have slacked off on treatment, the anxiety becomes remarkably worse.  So I know continuing to see the psychiatrist is the right thing to do.

I'm just not sure it's enough.  I have this goal, maybe a dream, that in the future I'll be fearless.  The problem with my dream is that I forget to include hate in my vision.

Thankfully, I'm happy in my own skin.  Life is good... better than good.  Life is great!  My family is incredible.  My friends are the best examples of humanity ever in history, no exaggeration.  I have kitty cats.  Even my job would be absolutely perfect if it weren't for dealing with strangers.  Then there are the material things, so many wonderful things.  I'm thankful for all of my possessions although they don't matter one fraction as much as family, friends and kitties.  Basically my needs are not only met but exceeded.  I live a fortunate life and I know it.

Hrmph.  It's a puzzle I can't solve on my own.

Mostly, I just don't want to hate the world anymore.