Meet the new year, same as the old year

"If the type of hatred, and the name calling and the lies and innuendo is the soul of our party, all is not well with thy soul."--Dede Scozzofava, former Republican Congressional candidate, NY-23

Wednesday morning, L'Ailee and I turned on the TV before anything--feeding the cats, feeding ourselves, taking our bath, etc. We knew that Michael Bloomberg was still our mayor (though more New Yorkers than we anticipated also wanted someone, anyone, else), that Chris Christie was New Jersey's governor-elect, that Dan Halloran from Queens had become NYC's first openly Pagan City Council member. Poor Dede Scozzofava was bullied out of the campaign for NY-23, but at least that jackass Doug Hoffman and his allies didn't get away with it. We learned more details about Anthony Sowell. That was gruesome, and so was the resulting conversation, in which we totally put each other off our breakfast. (At least we can be grateful that this was our concern.) What we wanted to know about was Maine. Well, we all know how that turned out by now, don't we? I'm not just a woman, I'm a Pisces woman, and I cry at least once a day whether I need to or not. I needed to this time.

So fucking tired of these votes, though. These battles. Imagine all the time and money and energy spent on denying same-sex couples legal rights applied to real problems. Imagine all our time and money and energy applied to real problems, too, instead of constantly having to defend ourselves and each other. It sucks even when it's not your marriage and your state. Jeremy at Good As You (G-A-Y) put it so eloquently yesterday. It's a referendum on people like *you* and whether your lives and loves are "acceptable." It's a soul beatdown.

The Pittsburgh Penguins are playing in California this week, which means the games are later for East Coast residents like us. So I TiVo'ed the Anaheim Ducks game on Tuesday night. We decided to watch that, because we needed something to cheer us up. TTG, the Pens delivered after an awful first period. Pascal Dupuis, who never scores goals, scored the game-winner, and Sidney Crosby decided to play goalie and stop a shot with his thighs while Marc-Andre Fleury was distracted. (It happens. I'm anticipating ads for adult ADD medication featuring Fleury one day.)

As usual, L'Ailee gave me the "Stop it, I'm here!" hair tug because I was sighing over Bill Guerin, who wasn't accomplishing much but looked so damned yummy not doing it. It made me think. As a 50/50 bi woman, I could so easily have fallen in love with and married a man. I could have, except that things with the two men I've really loved went south after a few years. The other half of my brain happens to be in another woman's body, and I think that body's rather awesome, too. I never became any better or worse with each relationship. I just get treated better or, in the case of L'Ailee, worse. I'm the same woman with a man or a woman, with the same strengths and weaknesses. If I'd fallen in love with a man, enough to get over my fears of abandonment and commitment and marry him, I'd never have had to remarry because a judge legally invalidated our marriage. I'd never have had to worry about a vote. I have been asked why I didn't wait for a man and make things easier on myself. I want to ask those inconsiderate people, "Why do others have to make it so much harder on people who choose a member of their own gender?"

So that bit of magick that I attempted on Samhain hasn't worked out...yet. We keep working. We keep hoping. We understand that the human mind is the hardest thing of all to change.

I have to tell y'all about the night before Samhain, last Friday. Several of my friends in Florida dragged me out to dinner almost as soon as I got off the plane, and then to clubs. In between, we found a shoe store closing down and offering deep discounts. We stopped in. I found a killer awesome pair of cowgirl boots, stitched turquoise leather on the calves and taupe suede on the feet, very reasonably priced. They actually fit! "Most women won't ask for extended calf," the snarky shoe salesman told me. "That is most womens' problem," I replied. There was a very long time when such a thing would have devastated me, but now I figure, if I want boots that fit right, I need to ask for them. Besides, this guy was very close to losing his job, and I could afford to buy a fun pair of boots. I could tolerate.

I put on these boots right in the parking lot, and we went to a country bar, of course. It was fun for a while. Then this cute redneck guy asked me to dance. I showed him my rings and said, "I'm married, okay? I just wanna dance." The guy replied, "I broke up with a girl last week. I just wanna dance, too." Okay. Now, a good country songwriter could use that as inspiration for a song or three. The one we inspired was Miranda Lambert's "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend". That's right, the woman my erstwhile dancing partner broke up with last week entered the bar and saw us. She decided to shove me and yell at me for stealing her man, despite the facts that I wasn't stealing and he was no longer her man. I tried explaining to her that I was married and going back to NYC on Sunday afternoon. This didn't work. So I gave up on using my words and handed one of my friends my earrings. She was drunk and bat-shit freaking insane, but I had some dude's beer bottle (always my weapon of choice) and a bit of my wife's martial arts training. Then our friends started jumping in. All of us were eventually asked to leave. I changed back into my regular flats, and we went to a "Grown and Sexy" night at a hip-hop club and a 90s Night at another club without incident. It was like I'd taken a time machine back to ten years ago!

As usual, I dragged myself back to the hotel very, very late after our Samhain celebration, just barely beating the sun. The staff at that hotel probably think I'm a hard-core constant partier or something. I laugh at that thought. I slept a bit, then got a breakfast that was absolutely horrible for me from the buffet downstairs (two cinnamon rolls! But they were so good!). I plugged in my cell phone and lingered in bed, just completely sprawled out for once. I talked with L'Ailee for a long time--she was very interested in the bar fight--then watched Penguins highlights. The time came to get re-packed and drag my ass back on the plane. I always mean to stay awake, because I don't want to sleep through a crash, and usually I do. This time I slept. There was no crash. There was, instead, L'Ailee waiting for me at the airport, to kiss me and inspect me for bruises and tell me that the Talladega race was boring as hell so far.

"The executives at NASCAR gave them a lot of new rules this morning," L'Ailee explained. "No bump-drafting in the corners. They said there would be penalties. So all of the drivers are just riding around in a train. All of the Chase drivers went to the back. They are being far too careful." It was as she said. Then there came the inevitable shootout to the finish within the last 50 laps, and--you may wish to avoid this if you are squeamish--Ryan Newman's scary, scary wreck, which found him literally upside down for several minutes. TTG he only chipped a couple of teeth and was sore. He got out, finally, on his own power. I cried and prayed through it. L'Ailee teared up a little, too. "They made this race boring supposedly to keep them safe!" she exclaimed as she held me. It was too much like the Daytona 500 in February 2001, when we lost Dale Earnhardt. Ex-Boy and I were there. We weren't told at the track, but everyone filed out silently. The news came over the radio shortly after we left the Daytona Beach city limits. We pulled over, and I cried, and he held me, tearing up a bit himself. When we finished, we realized that other Orlando-bound rides containing other couples and families were pulled over for the same reason.

The season's over for me this year, even though there are 3 more races. Between that and Jimmie Johnson now having an insufferably long red carpet to his fourth championship in a row, I'll find missing them very easy. I have a nursery to finish anyway. When this job's over, I'll have arms like Michelle Obama's....maybe even L'Ailee's. Roll on February 2010. Next time I cry over a race, I hope it's because Tony Stewart's finally won his Daytona 500.

Links, if you can stand to read more:

12 dead, 31 wounded at the Fort Hood Army base in Texas today. I don't have any enlightening comments, but can't let it go ignored. OhmyGods, it was our soldiers shooting our soldiers.

Justin Bourne, a former minor league hockey player and current hockey writer, wrote an interesting column on homophobia in hockey culture. Greg Wyshinski at Yahoo's Puck Daddy Blog wrote an even more interesting response. The comments are all over the map. Some are tolerant, some are jokes, some are from LGBT fans (I chimed in toward the end at Puck Daddy), and many are hostile. I understood more what happened in Maine looking at them, I think.

What's wrong with The Blind Side and other movies where white people "save" black people.

Nice to see Kirk Cameron staying busy, but I wish he'd find something else to do besides bastardize poor Charles Darwin's theory.

Finally, I wouldn't be surprised if this Onion article about United Airlines actually came true!