Yesterday’s was a sunny post, optimistic and inclusive as befits the holiday. But now, when everyone is nursing a Love Hangover, and perhaps other sorts, it is time for The Rest of the Story. Let these two posts be married, to live and die and be buried but side-by-side for as long as the Coliseum should stand.

A thousand thousand old jokes were born of marriage. I was married by a judge but I should have asked for a jury, said Groucho. WC Fields was harsher still, I believe in tying the marriage knot, as long as it’s around the woman’s neck. With the masters consulted no need to quote further except to note the great philosopher, Al Bundy, favored gay marriage because, hey, why should they get off easy? So what’s it all about, Al-y? Isn’t it love? Of course, in part it is about love. But in part it is about money. It is also about the love…. OF the money, so the scales are a bit off center. On the love side of the ledger we can also ad hate; perhaps not of the unlucky spouse but hate of parents or self or humanity at large but yes, also of the person on the other end of this short, short leash. It’s not the ball. There is nothing wrong with a ball. It is the chain that chafes. Boy, does it. Along with love and hate we also file fear and aspiration; lust and loathing; drama, trauma, angst, pride, shame, pleasure, pain… indeed all the emotional concerns both positive and negative can be thrown in one basket and STILL the money and material issues that amount to money outweigh them, usually for both parties. Recall that tribe on PBS, where the teenage boys start making bricks, an arduous task, and they make brick on brick on brick and stack them up in a great pile. When they are ready the girls come around and inspect the bricks and the prettiest girl goes to the fellow with the largest pile of serviceable bricks. Then together they build a hut, move in and set about making more brick-makers and brick-inspectors. Is this profane materialism or divine honesty? It’s both, pensive lovers. It is both.

This is another reason that the crass, contractual nature of marriage is all that should be considered by the government. The gaggle of nepotism’s cousins are barely competent to do THAT so how can we lay on them the burden of defining what love is? And whether or not it lives precariously or is already in a basement freezer? Again we observe that the power couple of gals who led the charge for gay marriage in California, who did wed under its briefly held bowers, have now filed for gay divorce. For them to suffer the humiliation of such a public climbdown and endure horse-laughs from their hated enemies things must have been bad on the domestic front indeed. But that’s alright. We were talking about equality, weren’t we? As Al observed, we are all in the same fleet of two-man boats and well should be. Like grumpy marriage, gay marriage was and is largely about money.

The loot, babies. The Benjamins. Or, as things are concocted today, the stuff we would buy with the loot if only we could get our hands on it. Here we refer to perks. Bennies. The first benefit of spouses, no one objects to, that is the “right” to hold the other’s hand while they kick off or have their orifices re-plumbed. This means defining said person as next-of-kin. Who can complain about that? No one would except that the next-of-kin is more than a ceremonial post. One may be the beneficiary of life insurance or the default heir if there is no will. Are things like this REALLY on anyone’s mind? Brothers and sisters, you KNOW they are. And there is nothing wrong with that. If Barney Frank’s beloved is not legally recognized as his partner and heir it could well be some scurrilous nephew that empties his condo and safe-deposit boxes, perhaps even WITH a will, so there is nothing wrong and plenty wise in defending one’s wishes pre-mortem.  But is that all we are talking about? No way.

Inheritance is a transfer of what one person has managed to earn or accumulate by some means. So long as Property is a fact of our law and culture (no guarantee), the only controversy is among the heirs. But for an Average Joe, especially now with even modest estates looking oh-so-delicious to the feds and locals, he has much more potential to pay a continuing dowry through his various eligibilities. Like the young tribesmen who stack their bricks and grow their first beards the modern fellow; both the hunter and the hunted, presents an offer of support, shelter and ease in hopes of trading it. For love? Sure. But also for beauty, the other aspects of the lady being subordinate, even if we could divide the appreciation of beauty from genuine love. And we can’t. But instead of a stack of handmade bricks, today’s suitor presents a menu of benefits which he claims through his job or social position. Pay, which he contracts to share, is one but there are plenty others. Life insurance and other death benefits loom large. Is the wife wishing the husband dead? Only in extreme cases but with insurance we buy “peace of mind”, something with real market value. The big one is what? Healthcare coverage. Yes, our recent but eternal life partner; the medical industry or soon enough the Medical Bureau and how it treats her is a foremost concern of the wife or wifely partner. Ten years ago that value would have been $200 a month for a single; thrice that for a family. By ’09 that had doubled, it has increased 16% since then and threatens to continue to infinity. A company health plan promises to mitigate this storm that everyone anticipates, so adding to worth of the groom’s pile. And the prettiest girl goes to the one with the largest pile.

That is marriage skinned of pretense. So what of gay marriage? Yes, sadly, it is the same. How do we know? Check some of the peculiarities of the domestic partnership law that still obtains in California. To whom is domestic partnership available? Either to same sex couples OR when…

One or both of the persons is/are over the age of 62 and meet the eligibility criteria under Title II of the Social Security Act as defined in 42 U.S.C. Section 402(a) for old-age insurance benefits or Title XVI of the Social Security Act as defined in 42 U.S.C. Section 1381 for aged individuals.

See? It is eligibility for bennies that is the concern, NOT Social Security, the feds recognize no domestic partnerships… as yet. But does anyone think that lawsuit is not coming? No, but so what? The marriage for a pension is an institution older even than WC Fields, though he observed it. So, as with the other weaknesses and depravities of heterosexual marriage, those enjoying gay marriage are just doing the same sort of dirt already done. No big deal, yes? On moral accounts, agreed, but there are practical matters. Those who manage pensions of whatever sort consider life and death and marriage and divorce for their beneficiaries of thousands or hundred thousands in predicting how much they will draw out before they drop over. Increasing life expectancies have already thrown Social Security and nearly all other sorts of pensions for a loop. How much will domestic partnerships further deplete the accounts? Well, not zero. With a general gay population of 3% or so and those marrying much less than that, it may seem a pittance fractionally but still it will be many, many millions especially in, say San Francisco. Those millions will come from somewhere. If not from fellow drawers from the same pension plans, then, oddly, from YOU via the Pension Benefits Guarantee Corp which backstops pensions like the FDIC backstops deposits as an army of federal co-signers does for many things, in your name and on your dime.

Still, the domestically partnered are a tiny cohort. However the force of lucre, shrouded in love, will assure it doesn’t stay that way. In Marriage overturned we discovered that neither bestiality nor polygamy necessarily follow from gay marriage/domestic partnership, but other things certainly will. Note the definition of domestic partners in the Cali statute;

“domestic partners are two adults who have chosen to share one another’s lives in an intimate and committed relationship of mutual caring.”

The problem should be obvious. It is the elasticity. The only concrete terms up there are two and adults. The balance is really too vapid to be legally restricting. Elsewhere in the statute blood relatives who could not legally be married are excluded specifically but what does this leave? Does intimate mean only a sexual relationship? What is and is not, objectively, a committed relationship of mutual caring? Any attempt at exclusion must engage in subjective moralizing of the sort the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals has struck down as invidious discrimination. Likewise, as revealing as it has proven, is the prescription that only those over 62 can join an opposite-sex domestic partnership. That’s right out. So can asexual, non-romantic friends become partners? Yes, they can and will. Could a partnership be entered into where the spouse added on to those precious benefits rolls PAYS cash to the other? As long as they share a residence, meaning some real property, the answer is yes. The question of sexual fidelity is moot. A Gingrich or Kennedy would thrive satyrically as domestic partners paying serial prostitutes with their pensions and bennies. If you were wondering why neither Bush nor Obama nor any Clinton or nearly any federal Legislator has ever done much to make their preferences a federal reality, this is it. Civil unions, taken to their logical, legal fruition will wildly increase the liabilities of pension plans, health plans, educational trusts, veterans benefits, annuities and even lottery boards! And that is if domestic partnerships prove as durable as traditional marriage; a tin prison locked only with mutual intentions. If they turn out to be just a touch MORE cynical and mercenary, a touch MORE transitory, fungible and instrumental then it will easily add fatally to claims against already desperate accounts. Compounded.

So there are unavoidable costs associated with this expansion of marriage, however proper it may be. But we are all at the same reception, trapped in an infinite conga-line that dances to the trough to feed while we disdain to refill it with slops. As long as government and other “benefits” are the currency of the realm and the currency of love; enwrapped as they are with our humanity, inhumanity and all too stubborn avarice, we will be so… ’til the trough is emptied and the music stops. Equal Protection brings us Equal Destruction if a few years ahead of schedule, which works for me. Through the complex of claims and liabilities we are ALL married to ALL our fellow citizens, materially. Was it a shotgun wedding?

Too bad.

Proposition 8 was a heartbreaker for those who loved Candidate Obama the second best. His greatest admirers were those like Samuel Jackson who saw in him an ethnic reflection of themselves. His “message” didn’t mean shit to them. But a close second in devotion is that other bulwark of Democratic politics, the gay community. Though they tended towards Hillary (a known fan of sensible shoes), like many other key groups they saw in Obama a champion of their cause. They were as disappointed as the young hemp enthusiasts but much sooner. They knew on Election Day that Prop 8 had passed adding an Amendment to the California Constitution defining marriage as a union of one man and one woman.

The dissappointment was to some extent their own fault. Candidate Obama had never publicly supported literal gay marriage any more than President Bush had. Rather, like those who took cannibis for medical reasons and hoped to be able to take it legally in any setting, the gay marriage advocates assumed that a President Obama would indeed be actively on their side though his stock response to questions always was, “My position is the same as the President’s (Bush), civil unions.) No one believed it. I don’t believe it. What are the odds that Obama TRULY does not favor absolute equality of gay marriage? As an issue it is uniformly supported by his demographic; elite university graduates/government bigwigs. But an alliance of gays and their  more numerous allies is far from a majority; not even in a Democratic primary. It might be different if the balance of the electorate were, like me, flagrantly apathetic to marriage, gay or sullen. That is not the case. Mr. Hillary knew it although he clearly was hostile to all marriage. He made his accommodations with his own base on gay issues, recognizing two powerful blocks were and are opposed to “gay rights” as we know them. That would be the Catholics and the blacks.

We’ll throw the Latino vote in with the Catholics, no objections there, right? It is a statistical, electoral fact (as far as such can be determined): it was the appearance of Barack Hussein Obama on the national ballot that made Proposition 8 a near certainty. How? Why? The Golden State, birthplace of referenda, had been a battle-ground on this issue for years. Before Prop 8 there had been an ordinary statute of identical construction. It was struck down by the State courts. So the defenders of traditional marriage, as they style themselves, set about immediately to put an Amendment in place. The marriage enthusiasts were also energetic. They married and married and married boosting the sales of wedding kit and fattening the wallets of many a photographer. In part this is pent-up demand, yes? Those who could not swing the airfares to Hawaii or Mitt’s Massachusetts could now enjoy a court ordered matrimonial regime like those happy jurisdictions. But this was also a move in the great chess tournament; a castling maneuver that would protect their newly uncovered rights with the weight of the Grandfather Clause. If all this was going on without your knowledge, you are in good company. As can happen even with a political obsessive, this controversy came to the attention of much of the electorate only at the polls on election day. Collectively the opposing forces spent about $80 million in advertising and for once the divide was almost even. It is the gunslingers’ permanent frustration that lavish spending STILL does not reach many ears and long-term polling STILL does not capture many voices so the gay marriage lobby had a brutal shock to go along with their relief at seeing the tailpipes of John McCain. Prop 8 won handily, even in a solidly Blue state, even with a pumped up Dem turnout. And the culprit was Barack Obama.

Chalk this up to the eternal perversions of politics. Obama’s presence on the ballot naturally SPIKED black turnout and this is after a spike in black registration fanned by his candidacy. Hillary would certainly have won California and probably with as great a margin. The pro-8 hispanic vote would have been largely the same. The anti-8 gay vote would have been largely the same. And Democrats collectively would oppose Prop 8 but the newly engorged black vote most certainly did not. Whether religious or secular, even the Californian black community is not up for this particular struggle. It adamantly prefers its gay constituents on the Down Low. Those calculating electoral chits certainly knew that on both sides. The PR men however, and this includes the candidates, had good reason to disbelieve and keep to themselves the private cautions of the gunslingers: as the Obama vote increases so does the support for Prop 8. You know the reasons. To even admit to such a breech in your coalition is to encourage the breech to widen. The fissure between the Democrats and the devout is one of the most active known to Crackology while even the gay vote is far from a monolith. Elections sweep away the stucco and show the state of the brick underneath.

The courts have always been more availing than The People so off to the courts we go. The 9th Cir Ct of Appeals strikes down the Amendment as the State courts struck down the law. And on even more expansive grounds. Whatever your views you may find that you are not familiar with the arguments even of your own side. No need to break a sweat catching up. I relieve all the combatants of their duties with the simple observation that the decision of the 9th, should it be upheld, has rendered ALL marriage Unconstitutional.

Deviation from a position shared by Barack Obama and George Bush is difficult to categorize as Left or Right so let us assert that it is ABOVE the prejudices of both these gentlemen. My position, which has now been ratified at the Federal level is not Marriage for All, but Marriage for None. Both Obama and Bush favor civil unions or domestic partnerships for gays that exclude “marriage” only rhetorically. Some of the State civil unions laws actually state the intent to deliver ALL the rights and privileges of marriage, except the name. The 9th correctly decides that this can only be explained by an animus for a particular group of citizens. Unlike the gay lobby, I will not define either religious scruple or Common Law objections as mere bigotry but our tattered Constitution clearly states Equal Protection under the Law as sacrosanct. Yes, the Constitution was ratified while truly horrific punishments were prescribed for homosexuality in some precincts. That is of no consequence. Precedent, legislation and simple social requirements have rendered those moot, even in hellish Texas! All citizens are to be held in common before the law. That means not civil unions for gays but, as far as the government is concerned, civil unions for ALL!

So what will this mean, if marriage is struck down, as the gay lobby puts it, like segregated schools? The Grandfather Clause, wrinkled gift of the Common Law, is again in play. Your marriage, as well as a sacred bann, is already a civil union; a contract recorded at your county clerk’s office. Yes, your divorce, annulment, adoption, military separation, deeds, trusts, wills and diverse other social agreements are there as well and like your marriage contract are unaffected by mere changes in their names. In Louisiana they pollute our legal system with FRENCH, yet their records are as sound as any other (in just theory). No, this does not admit polygamy necessarily. Keeping the partnerships to one-on-one is a perfectly sound restriction that can be applied to all evenly. And let us quickly put aside the bilious absurdity that we now admit inter-species marriage. No, however comely your goat, Abdul, you cannot make an honest doe of her (or billy of him). This contract is a contract. If you can’t buy a used car from livestock neither can you marry it. This also means that no one otherwise incompetent to contract can enter into marriage. The legal age for marriage has just become 18 or whatever the Age of Majority is by statute. Perhaps this is something for the traditionalists but there is something else larger and far more important. Believers, if you don’t believe me, believe your eyes your ears and the Constitution; government and religion just don’t mix. The religion sinks right to the bottom. If you, as you should, want the government out of your medicine and your charity you must be willing to get your religion out of government. So what does this mean? It means that marriage will still exist but will only be recognized as a civil contract equal to others in the public, legal realm. That is only part of our existence for the moment and the de-recognition of marriage is part of the defense of the perilously shrinking private sphere. You may still be married by a priest and it will still be a sacrament with your congregation, like Confession or a bar mitzvah. Does the county record your First Communion? Okay, maybe in Louisiana, but what is it’s legal weight? None or nearly none. Does that diminish its relevance to you or to Eternity? If so I think you have missed a day or two of Catechism.

In any event, keeping marriage “holy” doesn’t seem to have increased its staying power. Even those precincts that don’t recognize divorce have a divorce rate at least equal to the nation at large. What does that tell you? Is all marriage sacred? What of marriage concluded by fraud? Wracked with adultery or violence? Or plagued with reciprocal apathy? If that is Holy Matrimony, give me Unholy Divorce! Most marriages are initiated by the man; most divorces by the woman and never have I encountered an unjust divorce. Marriages that profane the name through their condition are endemic. So save the snark at the irony of the First Gay Spouses of California making use of the surviving law of Gay Divorce. If marriage is not in the heart and of free will, something only the participants can decide, then it is better we do not enforce it with the alacrity of the Fugitive Slave Act. Once the separation of the sacred from the earthly was a large part of religious faith and practice. Now we have an opportunity to Render unto Ceasar what is Ceasar’s and reserve to ourselves the sacred and eternal while admitting our own fallibility and embracing our neighbors without malignity. This we can do while renewing our vows to the most basic tenet of our beloved and beleaguered Constitution. Shall we do that? Yes.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

I’m not going to start this blog with an apology about how rarely I blog. If I were hitting you everyday and apologizing each time, it would not change the fact that I hit you every day, would it? No. So let us just not speak of it at all.

I am one of those people who spends some time reflecting on New Year’s Eve. I don’t want to be. I have tried not to be. No getting around it, I just am. I’m not severe about it. I mean, I’m not kicking myself all night for not being who I thought I would be when I daydreamed in middle school. Much. Mostly, I take a quick inventory and try to motivate myself to go in one direction or another.

The first time I remember really putting any thought into it I was six months past college graduation and waiting tables at Cha Cha Coconuts. Even if I had been any good at waiting tables, I think that job would have given me cause for self evaluation. As it was, I knew I had to get out of that situation and fast. I stood at the top of the St. Petersburg Pier, watched my customers stumble about, groping and kissing and singing that song while the fireworks went off, and I cried. I cried just enough that it motivated me and I did get out of there. (Briefly, I moved on alright- to a short career as a cover band singer, to a new apartment, and to an abusive relationship. The following New Year I played in that band at a house party for some people who had no teeth but had recently won the lottery. Yeah, that motivated me too.)

So, I’m 41, and it’s about to be a new year. I just had a baby, so resolution or not there will be weight lost. I would like to resolve to keep my mouth shut at work (bwah hah hahah!) That will never be accomplishable. I try that one and fail every year. I would like to resolve to take piano lessons. I don’t have a piano. There are other resolutions I should kick around and shoot down, but I’ll do it on my own time.

Last year I didn’t reflect at all for the first time in many years. Last year on NYE I got engaged. He proposed moments before we left to walk to the party down the street (oh how I miss living a block away from people I love). I said yes, and we happily strolled to our friends’ house. Before midnight struck, way before, we had to leave the party because I wasn’t feeling well. Before midnight struck I was back at home and I knew I was having a miscarriage. I took a lot of Aleve and passed out as James watched the ball drop on his iPhone and told me Happy New Year, and that he loved me.

A month later I realized I was already pregnant again (5% chance, my ass), and we were looking for a new house and starting a new life.

So I didn’t make any resolutions in 2011, but 2011 seemed to sort of make them for me.

I don’t know what I’ll be thinking about as the clock strikes midnight this year. (Maybe a scheme will begin to brew to get a smaller dining room table and squeeze in that piano…) I’m very happy with my new little family. But who out there is ever totally satisfied with the person that they have become? Who doesn’t reflect on that? (All my exes, hah ah aha hah…) No, really. Seriously. I hope I’m struck dumb with realization.

I never wanted anyone to take care of me.

I can’t say that I never needed care, just that I never felt much of a need for it. Maybe I didn’t allow myself a desire for it? Hmm.

In childhood it was available in spurts, the care. My father was absent of the ability, or desire. My mother tried her best, but struggled with depression and her ability to care for herself. Maybe that is saying too much about her, or giving her too little credit. Good thing she doesn’t really understand the internet.

I don’t want to say fully that I learned to not expect it, because I remember early on rejecting it. I remember having no fear. I remember walking a half mile to the creek bed at five years, telling no one where I’d gone, not worried a bit about what might happen, fully expecting to come home whenever I wished and have no one even ask where I’d been for hours. My mother freaked, of course. Insert here many examples of my independence and my mother’s freak outs. She trained me to expect her reactions, but it took years before I understood what she was so worried about. (Funnily, or maybe not, all of the truly horrifying things that happened to me in childhood took place while in the care of supposed responsible adults, never in my absent minded adventures and wandering away.) Hmmm.

In my twenties I was pale and lovely (man, how I wish I’d understood that I was lovely. Oh well.) I lived in Miami, where being pale and lovely was a commodity. I made very little actual money on it, because I found it to be so embarrassing (insert incredibly brief modeling stint here), but I had some very interesting offers. I once had a man (repeatedly, he was a regular at the cafe’ in which I worked) offer me an apartment and a regular rotation of Mercedes (he was a dealer so I would have a different one every month or so) to have sex with him during the week and not tell his wife about it. I had an owner of a nightclub, a guy from France, offer me a ridiculous weekly salary in exchange for working a few nights a week at the club and fooling around with him after close. I was also not supposed to tell his wife. I was offered a boat by a German businessman, and a condo by a guy who just wanted me to be his girlfriend when he was in town on business. At least those two were not married.

I never once considered any of these crazy types of offers. I would like to say that I recognized many of the men I rejected as probable sociopaths, that I was smart enough to know better. But, I dated some dirt poor sociopaths, so throw that theory out.

I think I just didn’t want to trade my independence for money and comfort. (It may be worth mentioning that I had very very little of either of the latter).

Now, in my early thirties, I tried for a while to be a stay at home mom. I did it for eighteen months straight. I was terribly unhappy with about 60% of it. Babies are so freaking awesome, that it’s easy to lose yourself in them. However, when it’s just you and an infant for twelve hours of the day, you can go a bit nuts in your desire for adult conversation alone. And the truth of that job is, you have so few moments to yourself, that it is actually hard to find time to pee. I struggled with the fact that I wasn’t contributing enough to the household economy, but more than that I struggled just to find an hour in the week to be myself, the person I was before I was someone’s wife and someone else’s mother.

What the fuck am I getting at?

Every new decade seems to bring a new struggle with maintaining my autonomy within my personal relationships. I have lived with men, been married to them, and have always wanted to feel as though I was contributing in all of the modern ways. Be the contributions through finances, opinion, whatever.  That’s what I used to think the struggle was.

You know what? I was totally wrong. I’m looking at my life now. I’ve just turned forty. My son is almost five. I’m divorced. I’m engaged. I’m pregnant. I’m happy, and I’m spending a lot of commuting time thinking about how to maintain a balance once the baby arrives and I’m married again. You know what else? I think it will be super hard to be the kind of connected mother that I like to be, to support and nurture the bond in my marriage, and to work full time. But, I like all three of those things so I’m giving it a whirl. You know fucking what else, though? Even if I can balance all of that, if I don’t treat my creative mind with some care as well, I know I won’t pull it off. Fucking Virginia and her damned room! No wonder everything always fell apart.

My major creative outlet currently is making funny comments on my friend’s status updates and trying to entertain everyone with clever updates of my own. I think the truth is that if I can find that small amount of space and time in my own mind, I might just be able to pull this off.

Screw having someone pay all my bills. I just want that room when I can get it to myself, be alone with my thoughts, and make something.

The sending of photos of one’s genitalia to the object of your affection is a beautiful expression of love, desire, and trust. By exposing yourself, you are opening yourself completely to another person. There is nothing so gratifying. There is nothing so perilous. “Here I am, in all my glory,” you are saying. “Accept me, please.”

It takes strength, courage, and genuine affection to express yourself so forthrightly.

Sadly, in our post modern, cynical society, any display of open-hearted and sincere devotion is perceived as weakness. It is something to be attacked, not celebrated. Despised, not praised. One need look no further than the tragic case of the American-style footballing quarterbacker, Brett Favre, and the seemingly beautiful Jenn Sterger, for a prime example of what can happen to a man who makes this romantic gesture.

The man who sends photos of his genitalia to a prospective romantic partner is engaging in a time-honored courtship ritual. Throughout history, man has sought to distinguish himself from other suitors by revelatory bravura. It is as much a part of our evolution as the opposable thumb, or the uvula.

Today’s man, the so-called “evolved” man, lives in a world of heightened angst. Technology has, in many ways, made him redundant. Whereas before a man might prove himself by killing a large, hairy animal, so as to feed his family of soft-toothed Neanderthals, today’s man has simply to go to a fine restaurant and order wild boar, and stuffed quail, and asparagus. At one time, a man could show off for a potential mate by building for her a hut made from sticks and twigs, and perhaps some of his own dung to act as a sort of adhesive. Today, once all the proper building permits and paperwork has been filed, one need only engage the services of a general contractor to build a house for him. In cases of dispute, men of the past might bludgeon one another to death with heavy clubs. Today, they sue one another in court.

In such a world, how is the evolved man to show his affection? How is he to prove his worthiness?

The New York congressman Anthony Weiner has recently found himself in the midst of a burgeoning scandal that throws into stark contrast the awkward predicament of the modern man. A photo of what might or might not be Mr. Weiner’s half-erect penis was posted to his yfrog account.

He claimed that his account had been hacked. He has since slightly amended his story, claiming that he was “pranked.”

Mr. Weiner is no doubt aware of the terrible national hazing that greeted Brett Favre. Not wanting such a fate to befall him, he has attempted to cover his tracks. The yfrog account has been deleted, and he has given an oddly combative press conference. And some awkward interviews. And having finished with that, his staff is now calling the police on reporters who ask him questions about the subject.

He claims he did not send the photo. He claims, also, that he is unable to identify the photo as being one of his own private parts. Whether Mr. Weiner actually sent the photo of his (covered) half-flaccid penis is beside the point.  The point is that it is shameful that, in our modern society, a man cannot send to a woman a photo of his genitalia without being made the subject of scorn and ridicule.

When you are first dating someone you give them all the best stuff, right? Especially if you really hit it off. Because the people you really hit it off with bring out the best in you.  They make you funnier and sexier, and way more relaxed then you really are.

And that’s fine, right? If that didn’t happen, would anyone date at all? If we all started out with a laundry list of why we were such a mess, who would be interested? Well, except for people who are total masochists, or who think they can change you, or believe you will change for them, or are so crazy that they think you’re normal. We all know how relationships with crazy delusional masochists turn out, right? I couldn’t be the only one. Right? Right.

Here I am, swimming along through life with Mr. Tasty Cake, and it’s been kind of a joy marathon. Happiness. Fast. Which is fine, it’s great. Maybe two weeks in we looked at each other and sort of came to the conclusion that everyone in this relationship already knew where it was headed, so we may as well admit it. We were headed for commitment, serious commitment. Nothing scary about it, it was just a happy fact. When you go out on a first date with someone, and their favorite Chinese restaurant in Manhattan is your favorite Chinese restaurant in Manhattan (Sammy’s Noodles- West Village- I would link, but wordpress is not cooperating)- that’s pretty amazing. Especially since neither one of us lives there, and do you know how many Chinese restaurants there are in Manhattan? Anyway, 4 months in, we’re engaged. He puts his house up for sale, it sells in TWO DAYS (yes, when I type in all caps I am meant to be shouting at you). At 6 months we were moving in together.

At 6 months and 5 days I get really sick. I have freaking shingles again. Yes, again. I’m like a shingles celebrity at the doctor’s  now. They were just passing me around yesterday talking about how strange my case of repeat shingles is at my age. Anyway, I’m really sick. Fever, pain, exhaustion, google it. This is just about the worst of me. I’m useless in this state.

So last night I mention that if we had been together longer he would know how I get with stuff like this. Now I feel like I owe him more of a list. He’s stuck with me, right? (I got his grandma’s diamond and he can’t have it back!) Here goes.

I am a terrible patient. I don’t like to let on how sick I am, I expect you to just realize it. I don’t like to ask for things because I feel like a burden, but I wonder why you don’t offer them. If you do offer them, I will likely turn you down because I feel guilty for needing you.  When I say no, you would be smart to ask “really?” at least twice. I bet that is super annoying.

I can argue my way out of A LOT (still shouting) of things, even ridiculous things. I try not to want to win every argument, but, oh, it’s so hard to resist that. I should have gone to law school, we’d be shopping for a bigger house.

When I go to a restaurant, and discover a dish that I really love, I want to order the same thing every time. Sushi Rock? Hawaiian rolls- every time. Some people may read that and think- big deal. But, I know you enough to know that you just shuddered a little bit.

I hate to do dishes- oh, wait, you figured that one out in no time flat.

I need sleep. Less than 8 hours makes me cranky. No, I really need sleep. You need to believe this. When I don’t sleep I am the freaking sea hag.

When pregnant, I am miserable. I hate to be fat. May skin breaks out for the first 3 months and makes me super self conscious. I have a terrible time eating, and when I can eat I want very specific things. Morning sickness lasted 6 months with Owen. Also it makes me even sleepier, and even crankier when I don’t sleep. (Side note, children are always allowed to wake me with no consequence because they need me.)

Wow- I’m starting to think that I should have listed some positive stuff first for good measure. Hopefully you know all that already.

I’m sure there’s more. I can leave an open forum in the comments section for more crap about me, I guess. (Oh, just a thought, what if everyone came with a reviews bubble above them, like when you shop at Target.com? That would be helpful, as long as everyone who ever dated you wrote one, ’cause some people are just bitter, and you want to average out to at least 3.5 stars). Right now we can just focus on the whole bad patient thing. I will try to be better, really I will. And I will get back to normal- in 6-7 days. Then we can move on to the good stuff again. Ok? Ok.

10. The only person who saw you naked was the TSA screener

9. You had to eat at home, because of your date’s ankle bracelet

8. Charlie Sheen made you take a number

7. You found out your date “Stephanie” was really “Stephen”

6. The restaurant you went to was determined by the best coupon he had

5. Your ‘date’ was really a Señor Wences-style puppet drawn on your right hand

4. Your boyfriend’s promise of a seven-course meal turned out to be a bowl of corn chips and a six pack

3. Instead of not having sex, you didn’t have sex three times!

2. Because your date gave you “something special” for Valentine’s Day, you’re now taking Valtrex

1. Your husband thought it would be a good time to tell you about his ‘bromance’
 

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.

10. Although this sonnet’s only ten lines long,

9. And not a sonnet’s needed full fourteen,

8. To call this poem a sonnet would be wrong.

7. So this poem’s dedicated to Maureen.

6. I Love your kindness, wittiness, and grace.

5. I Love the fire burning in your soul.

4. I Love your gorgeous body, lovely face.

3. When we’re together, I at last feel whole.

2. We’ll share Eternal Love, us One together.

1. Or, at the very least, forever endeavor.
 

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.

Valentine’s Day is the perfect holiday for showing your significant other just exactly what you feel about her. A special day trip can add an extra element of fun and excitement, and makes a unique gift. It’s also important to explore and support local events and landmarks; it helps you to feel more connected to the place where you live. I thought I would share one of my own experiences in unique gift-giving, from many years ago. I hope it gives you some great ideas on what you can do to make your own Valentine’s Day extra special.

I spent my college days at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. My moving out to New Mexico to be with her impressed my girlfriend, but she was rarely impressed by anything else I did.  My gift-giving skills were, she told me, consistently disappointing.  For instance, one Valentine’s Day I cooked her a meal consisting of Smack Ramen and Spam, with conversation hearts floating in Jell-O for desert (I was poor).  The year before, I presented her with a Bullwinkle T-shirt I had won by eating 40 Taco Bell tacos in a month (she gave it back to me).

Well, this particular Valentine’s Day, the one I’m discussing right now, I was determined would be different.

We were both interested in exploring different cultures.  One of New Mexico’s great selling points is that it is a state full of representatives of other cultures, including Mexican, Native American, Spanish, African American, Asian American, and white.  There are ample opportunities to explore these cultures.

I could have taken her to see some Anasazi ruins.  I could have taken her to Chaco Canyon, the center of the Native Heritage Trail Scenic Byway.  We could have gone to the restored 1870s Spanish Colonial rancho Casa San Ysidro.  I took her to a cockfight.

Up until 2007, Cockfighting was legal in New Mexico.  For many years, animal rights advocates had tried to get it banned, but there was a great deal of resistance from legislators and from residents who claimed that the sport was part of their culture.  The culture of New Mexico.  The state in which we lived.  The state I had moved to in order to be close to her.  This was my thinking.  By attending a cockfight, we would be learning about New Mexico’s culture.

It was difficult to learn the location of the cockfight, because New Mexicans are fiercely protective of their culture.  Or they were back in the early ’90s.  It was only by chance during a night of dumpster diving that I came upon a tattered copy of “Grit and Steel,” the official magazine of game cocking, which had a list of February events.  By luck, there was a Valentine’s Day special in a rural area about 30 miles from Albuquerque.

On that Valentine’s Day I blindfolded my girlfriend and led her out to my car.  “Where are we going?” she asked, laughing.

“We’re going to have a special New Mexico experience,” I said, excited that I was finally giving her a gift that didn’t totally stink.

“Wow.  Okay, let’s go!”

After we’d been in the car driving for about half an hour she asked me, a bit suspiciously, “Um, how much farther?”

I’d gotten lost on the dusty, unmarked rural roads (they all looked the same to me) but I didn’t want to let her know that.  “Not much farther,” I asserted.

Not long after that I caught sight of a sleek, black truck with chickens in the back, and followed.  Sure enough, within five minutes we’d reached our destination.

As soon as I’d parked the car I pulled off her blindfold and called out “surprise!”  She looked around the dimly lit parking lot at the Hispanic, Asian, and white men (mostly men, but there were a few women), in cowboy boots, overalls and baseball caps, as they walked together in multicultural harmony toward a shabby corrugated metal building.

“Um, Richard, where are we?”

“We’re at a uniquely New Mexican sporting event!”

She gave me a cynical look.  “That’s the kind of thing you say when you’re bullshitting me.  Where are we?”

“We’re at a cockfight!”

“Oh my god, I cannot believe you brought me to a cockfight!”

“It’s New Mexican culture –”

“It’s barbaric!  I can’t believe you thought I would want to see a cockfight!”

“You like New Mexico, and you eat chicken!  What’s the big deal?”

“How can you be so dense?  You actually thought this was a good Valentine’s Day present?  This is your worst present ever!”

“Oh Jesus, you say that every year.”

“And every year it’s true!  Take me out of here now.”

“Come on, let’s just go in for a little bit.  A few minutes.  If you don’t like it, then we can leave.”  Sensing an opening, I continued:  “You can’t judge something before you’ve actually seen it for yourself.  That’s not very tolerant.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that.  It was pretty sweet reasoning – she’d used it herself on those occasions when she’d dragged me to one of those plays in which oppressed vaginas talked to each other for two hours.  I was smiling when she turned to me.  She was not smiling.  “Fine.  But you are an ass.”

Inside the building (there was a sign on the door that had been drawn on a small piece of cardboard that read “Jimmy and Juan’s Game Cockery Farm”) we discovered a world unlike any we’d ever before seen.  The men milled around, loudly talking, making purchases of gaffs and penicillin, and examining the chickens that were in cages along the far wall.  The smell was of mud and sweat, and a little blood and rust.  At the center of the building was a large “pit,” which was approximately 15 feet wide and 15 feet long, surrounded by wire mesh.  Circled round the pit were several rows of long wooden benches on risers.

We approached the cages and surveyed the animals.  They were really quite extraordinary – lean and muscled, with elegant plumage.  “Wow, look at that one,” I said, pointing out a particularly eye-catching chicken whose name was, according to the sign on its cage, “James Featherduster.”  “He’s got a great looking, uh, whatever you call those things that dangle off their beaks.”  (I didn’t know what they were called then and I still don’t know now.)

“I just want to get out of here,” my girlfriend whispered.  I didn’t hear that at the time, though.  She told me later that she’d said that.

“Ya’ll oughter put a few bucks on ol’ James here,” his owner asserted, his leathery face cracking into a toothy smile.  “He’s got the real warrior spirit in ‘im.”

I looked at my girlfriend, whose face had lost all color.  “Let’s put a few bucks on him!” I said.  It seemed like an important part of the experience, and I didn’t want to miss out on it.  James Featherduster’s owner instructed me that bets were placed immediately before the fight, so we made our way back over to the risers and had a seat.  My girlfriend had her hand on my arm, in an ironclad grip, her body close to mine.  I must have been doing something right!

James Featherduster’s handler carried him into the pit, and on the other side another handler carried his own chicken.  As the two men began attaching the gaffs (small metal spikes) to the chickens’ legs, a man wandered into the crowd and we all stood and started placing bets with him.

When I handed over my five-spot and told the bet-taker that I wanted it all on James Featherduster’s nose, one of the other bettors laughed at me.

“What’s funny?” I asked, defensively.

“Cock-A-Doo is going to rip James Featherduster a new one, that’s all!” the man said.

“Cock-A-Doo is that good, huh?”

“James Featherduster looks good,” the man explained.  “But Cock-A-Doo has won eight matches in a row.  He’ll take the Featherduster down!”

“Okay,” I said.  I had no idea what I was doing anyway.  “Put that five on Cock-A-Doo.”

After a few minutes the betting was over and the match started.  James Featherduster and Cock-A-Doo couldn’t wait to get at each other, practically flying across the pit.  They met dead center, about two feet off the ground, pecking with their beaks.  Their feathers flared, and a roar went up from the crowd as they hit the ground.

My girlfriend buried her head in her hands, so she missed the best part, as the two chickens parried, thrashed, and pecked, in movements that brought to mind both the ballet and the slaughterhouse.  Feathers and blood flew.

The chickens were hooked to each other at one point, and had to be separated.  Their handlers came out and pulled them apart.  Then, each did something I thought was strange: they put their mouths on the chicken’s asses and blew.  One of the other spectators helpfully explained to me that doing this helps stimulate the animals.  I joked that blowing on my ass would stimulate me, too, and that got a laugh.  I felt pretty good, like I was really connecting with these people.

I turned to look at my girlfriend, to see if she’d appreciated my humorous remark, but she was turned away, dry heaving.  “We can leave as soon as this fight’s over,” I reassured her.  I thought Cock-A-Doo had a chance, and I might win some bucks.

Well, Cock-A-Doo didn’t win.  At the end of the fight he was a broken, bloody mess; dead but still involuntarily pecking at the air with his lifeless head.  “Well, at least he’s not a quitter,” I said as my girlfriend and I headed out.

“Why are you crying?” I asked her when we were back in the car.

“Because I love you,” she said.  I thought that was the sweetest thing she’d ever said to me.

But I do regret taking that other bettor’s advice and putting my five bucks on Cock-A-Doo.  I should have trusted my first instinct and bet on James Featherduster.  You really should trust your instincts.

I blogged in December, but I didn’t post it.

The blog was vague. I wanted to talk about something, but I didn’t want to jinx it. So, the blog didn’t really make any sense. It was likely pretty darn uninteresting, as well.

At the time, when I first wrote it, I was pregnant. I was trying to come to terms, in a happy way, with the idea that maybe I could go back to re-planning that whole “married with children” lifestyle. It would be a new version, of course, with my new cake husband, and certainly way better than the Bundy version. Not to mention way better than my previous version, one would hope.

I wrote the blog, and it didn’t make any sense, so I re-wrote it. It still didn’t make any sense. I was trying to say that I was so thrilled to be pregnant, and possibly soon to be engaged, without saying anything about either of those things. Ordinarily, I think I’m pretty good with the metaphors, but I just didn’t have one on those two days of writing. I sent Scott (site editor/creator) an email saying that I would rewrite it a third time. I would get it figured out on Wednesday, the 29th. I had the day off and I would work it out in font.

I felt so tired on Wednesday. I couldn’t get out of bed for anything, I didn’t write a word. Then on Thursday morning I woke up bleeding. By the following Tuesday we knew definitively there had been a miscarriage. Somewhere in the middle, before we knew for sure, we got engaged.

My poor cake. He had been planning on asking me to marry him when we went on vacation at the end of January. The pregnancy gave him a jolt of urgency. He decided to bump up the asking time to New Year’s Eve. Maybe we’re old fashioned, but we were thinking it would be nice to announce the engagement first. He asked me before we left for the party, around 6:00 pm. I was hurting too much to hang, we ditched the party at 10:00 pm, by 11:00 pm I was in bed, in excruciating pain.  New Year’s Eve was the height of the most physically painful part of the loss. I was in bed, looking at my ring, wondering how to deal with being incredibly happy and desperately sad at the same time. I’m not sure what he was thinking.

No one has ever really died on me before, unless you count my siamese cat. All the grandparents that were living when I was born are actually still living. (One is so mean, she will probably live forever.) I’ve never been to the funeral of someone that I knew well. Actually, I’ve only been to one funeral. I’ve known plenty of loss, but never really knew from grief.

Now, everyone knows how I bounce. I bounce back on the surface first, but I bounce back pretty completely at some point. I’m pretty effing bouncy. And the whole writing thing usually helps tons. But, I feel like maybe I skipped a step in my bounce this time, because I don’t know how to do this kind of bounce. (Shit, what’s another word for bounce that doesn’t sound all frollic-y? I apologize for my redundancy.) The break-up ritual is:  drink with your girls and talk smack about your ex. I guess the death ritual is a funeral (BTW, I want a party). What is the miscarriage ritual? No one talks about it, right? You just pick up and move on?

In my case, so far, I’ve eaten a lot of cookies, and some cheeseburgers, talked to just a few people, tried to get back on the regular “how to merge two lives” track with Mr. Cake- and man, have I kissed and hugged my poor four year old into infinity. I don’t know what else to do. And I’m still so sad, and there’s still so much to be happy about.