Summertime and the Living is...Sweaty

If the holiday season (aka Christmas season in less P.C. circles) is the “most wonderful time of the year,” then I’d like to officially nominate the summer season as the “worst wonderful time of the year.”

As we here in the mid-Atlantic settle in for yet another day under a heat advisory, with temps into the triple digits and the humidity percentage not far behind, I long for the good ol’ days of Snowmegeddon. While it’s easy to say now, I truly prefer shoveling three feet of the fluffy white stuff to living on the surface of the sun.

I marvel at the people who claim summer as their favorite season. Really? You prefer 102 degrees and 75% humidity to the nirvana of spring or fall with their daytime highs in the low 70’s and their fresh, dry mornings? I never knew so many people loved to sweat, at least not while standing perfectly still under a ceiling fan with the A/C working overtime.

Yes, you can swim in the summer – that is if you’re unemployed and actually have time to avail yourself of the community pool. But is the opportunity to immerse oneself in a nasty mixture of water, chlorine, and urine really worth living day-to-day enveloped in what feels like a scorching, wet blanket?

And oh how people love to cook out during the summer. Of course! Nothing says, “Let’s light a radiating hot fire and stand over it grilling meat for hours,” like a sweltering summer day. Mind you, my grill and smoker sit idle in the summer months, lest I contribute further to the oppressive fever plaguing the region during those months. My grilling policy is much like my visiting the state of Florida policy – I don’t do either between June and August.

No thank you, Mother Nature. You can keep your mosquitoes, liquefied air, and blazing orb in the sky. I prefer my days as I prefer my martinis – crisp and very dry. So until a stroll outdoors is complemented by the crunching of leaves underfoot and the joyous perfume that emanates from a crackling fireplace, you’ll find me indoors gazing longingly at my fall wardrobe, tolerating soccer rather than living for football, and cursing my monthly electric bill.

Candy Parker

My (World) Cup Does Not Runneth Over

For those of you who count yourself amongst my Facebook friends and are, as such, subjected to my multiple daily status updates, you know that I was summarily underwhelmed by the supposedly supreme world event known as the 2010 FIFA World Cup. I posted my first rant after the disappointing USA vs. England match and haven't let up since, posting the YouTube link to Letterman's "Top Ten Reasons Americans Don't Like Soccer" last night.

As a sports fan and an American, I initially bought into the hype. The USA vs. England match was touted for weeks and by the time the kick-off or tip-off or whatever they call it in soccer rolled around (pun most definitely intended) last Saturday at 2:30pm ET, I was fired up and ready for my underdog Americans to put a revolutionary ass-whoopin’ on those boys with notoriously bad teeth. (Calm down all you folks over in the UK; sweeping generalizations and the perpetuation of stereotypes are permitted for comedic effect.) What I got instead was 90+ minutes of the most disappointing and anticlimactic sporting event since Mike Tyson knocked our Peter “Hurricane” McNeeley in less than 90 seconds. As you no doubt know by now, the game ended in a 1-1 draw, aka a fancy word for ”tie”. That is, no one won and no one lost, kind of like in U-5 soccer.

After witnessing that disappointing yawn-fest, I find myself having a difficult time getting into a tournament governed by rules which would permit such an atrocity. I mean, this is a HUGE tournament. People wait four years for this thing to come around, paint themselves in their home country’s colors, take a month off from work to attend, and have been known to beat each other to a pulp over the outcome. This is supposed to be the Super Bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup, and NBA Championship all rolled into one (again, pun most definitely intended).

Imagine going through the entire NFL season and heading into the Super Bowl. As luck would have it, your favorite team is matched up against your most loathed rival in the opposing conference. You eat, sleep, and dream football for two weeks. You trash talk. You RSVP “No” to your own child’s wedding because you don’t want to miss the game. FOX runs slickly produced commercials ballyhooing the game and you get a little more charged up each time you see one. You have your snacks lined up, your friends gathered around the 52” HD set to rally ‘round the team, and your sports-averse partner has agreed to leave the house so that you may bask in glory that is hardcore, hard-fought, and hard-won competition.

The teams scuffle through the first half to a 0-0 score. “Great defensive battle!” you tell yourself as you replenish the beer cooler and re-fill the dip bowls at half-time, “THIS is what championship football is all about!!”

Defense continues strong as each team manages only a field goal in the second half. Time is running out on a 3-3 score. Your team is driving down the field, almost within your kicker’s striking distance when you notice that the game clock has expired. But wait, the ref is winding his arm indicating that he’s putting more time on the clock, albeit a mystery amount of time to which only he is privy. You watch a few more plays, your team getting closer and closer and then….*SHRILL WHISTLE SOUND* Game over. It’s a 3-3 tie and there is no winner. Thanks for watching; everyone can go wash off their face paint now.

How disappointed are you in that moment? Exactly.

And the world dares call this “soccer” thing a sport! *hrumph!!!*

As a patriot and general sports fan, I won’t say that I won’t continue to follow the US Men’s team as they work their way through the bracket. While I don’t plan to take a day of vacation to watch the conveniently scheduled 10a.m. ET game against Slovenia or Slovakia or SloGin-esburg on Friday, I’ll likely TiVo it and zip through to the “exciting” parts, such that they are. But just as I don’t follow luge or water polo once the Olympics come to an end, you shan’t find me following soccer once the FIFA World Cup comes to an end. Heck if the guys who make the rules of the game don't care who wins, why should I? I know there were high hopes that the USA vs. England match-up would make soccer fans out of us ugly Americans, but unless they unleash a few of those lions or tigers or some other creature native to South Africa onto the pitch to add a little zest to the game (and give the weenies who play it a REAL reason to roll around on the ground acting like they're dying after the tiniest bump or tap), I do believe the world will be waiting another four years to take their shot at making us believe that futbol’ is anywhere near as great a game as football.

(Note: Yes, I know that in the championship contest of the FIFA tournament the game won't be permitted to end in a tie so spare me your detailed explanation of the round-robin tournament-type format and the associated point system.  I'm a girl, but I do "get" it.  I just don't like it.)

Candy Parker

Dear Straight Women: Stop Kissing Each Other

The growing epidemic of straight women kissing each other is getting more annoying every day. Sadly, during the MTV Movie awards last night, which I didn’t watch because it’s three hours of complete suck, Sandra Bullock and Scarlett Johansen entered the ranks of attention seeking straight women. Sandy had a huge shock with the Jesse James white supremacist cheating thing, so I’ve decided to give her a free pass. Johansen gets a free pass too, because, boobs. But they did inspire me to write an open letter to straight women about this out of control epidemic.

Dear Straight Women,

I get it - you are hot; your friend is hot; you’re so sexually open! It’s so great when guys pay attention to you for doing it! Oooo you are so liberal and yet so not wearing Birkenstocks and would never actually go ‘down there,” but still so liberal and hot!

I wish that all lesbians were as hot as you and not plaid-wearing motorcycle mamas who hate men and use Natty Light as lube. IF ONLY REAL LESBIANS WERE AS HOT AS YOU! I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU AND, YES, WHEN YOU ARE DRUNK AND SAD BECAUSE NO GUYS LIKE YOU I WILL BE THERE TO TELL YOU THAT YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY. Xtina Aguilera style.

However, maybe you don’t have to kiss each other to prove some crazy point about how hot you are. Maybe you can just try being yourself to get attention and not try to get boys to look at you by exploiting and trivializing my sexual orientation.

Xoxo,
Natasia

Natasia Langfelder

The Selfless Act of Swearing off Skinny for Bikini Season

I hate Bikini Season. Hate it with the passion of the Christ. But it’s here, just like it is every Memorial Day Weekend. This year I am extra under-prepared. I haven’t worked out consistently in a month and I’ve been eating everything my chubby little heart desires.

A tub of icing? Yes, please, and pass the sprinkles.

Mozzerella cheeseballs floating in a vat of olive oil? Even better! And I’ll need a loaf of white Wonderbread to go with it.

A bottle of wine? Sure, but what will YOU drink?

The point is, I should probably stop before my cellulite reaches a point where it will scare small children or take over a small Japanese fishing village, blob style. If it were winter, I wouldn’t have to. I could throw on some sweatpants and get back to my Double Cheeseburger McDonalds Meal.

As I get older, it gets harder and harder to starve myself in the name of attractiveness. I’ve been in a long term relationship for about five years now and she has to love me even if I weigh 500 pounds, dammit. At this point, I’m weighing my vanity against my hunger and sadly, I’m just not vain enough. I know! How did that HAPPEN? By being fat this season, I’m letting other girls, possibly single girls, look better by comparison. Maybe one of these girls will find love. Maybe she will fall in love and give birth to the future President of America! So really my not being in shape for Bikini Season is a charitable act that will help others! I wonder if that makes my grocery bill tax deductible?

Natasia Langfelder

My Three White Hairs

Yes the title of this post is a reference to the classic television show “My Three Sons” and no, I’ve never seen a single episode of it. But let’s get down to business.

I’ve had three white hairs since I was 16. At the time, I liked them. I named them Schlameel, Schlamazel and Jo. When I was 16, Nick at Nite played a lot of Laverne and Shirley. And Jo is named after Jo from “Little Women”, not gay “Facts of Life” Jo. I was actually more into Blair. Anywho, these white hairs were expected. My aunt on my dad’s side had started going grey at 16 and I was relieved that these three were the only ones. Also, I like to think that I wore my white hairs ironically, kind of like, pre-hipster ironic.

Schlameel, Schlamazel and Jo continued to be the only white hairs in my life until my 26th birthday last month. All of a sudden, I’ve been finding a new white hair every day. A tiny little reminder of my slow march to old fat-assery. These hairs aren’t even in a place where they can surreptitiously co-exist with me. They sit on top of my head and loudly declare themselves, like freaking assholes. I really hate them. I miss the days when it was just the four of us. Now I feel like my three white hairs invited all their friends and acquaintances over to my house because they were bored with me. Those little whores totally betrayed me.

Basically, the women on in my father’s family have been grey from their early 20’s and my mother’s family has been dying their hair since their late 20’s. You do the math - I’m screwed.

Natasia Langfelder

Bringing Text-y Back

A CNN blog yesterday highlighted a study released in March which indicated that 10% of those under the age of 25 “wouldn’t mind being interrupted by an electronic message during sex.” Seriously?

This revelation gives rise to many questions, the most prominent of which in my mind is what kind of horribly uninteresting and non-participatory sex are these kids having that they’d not mind being side-tracked by a text message? I have to think that this has to be a straight-people thing, right?

I can envision some poor 18-year-old girl just lying there while her inexperienced, myopically self-concerned, and entirely hormonally-driven boyfriend of the same age grunts and pounds away, completely oblivious to her needs in the matter…

*Lady Gaga “Bad Romance” text alert sound*

She reaches for her iPhone, always within arm’s reach.

“Wat r u doing?”

“Just hvng SEX, but he’s almost dun.”

“Gr8. Wanna meet L8r? Like in 3 mins?”

Girls – if you’re having sex during which you even hear your text message alert, much less pick up the phone, read the message and respond, you and/or your partner are doing something dreadfully wrong.

At the erudite old age of 48, my advice is this - don’t settle for the kind of sex where receiving a text message mid-act is a welcome interlude. If, during sex, you’re thinking about Tweeting, updating your Facebook status, or are in any other way engaged with an electronic device not operated by your partner, ditch the dud – there has to be an App for that.

Candy Parker

Down To One...Again

‘Tis sad, but true kids. I heard the news on the radio this morning and confirmed the rumors via a quick Google search once I got to the office. Melissa Etheridge and Tammy Lynn Michaels are, indeed, splits-ville after a nine-year run.

Now you might expect me to get snarky here or try to find the humor in the situation, but even I – the person who jeered Etheridge and then-partner Julie Cypher mercilessly for their selection of David Crosby as sperm donor in an early issue of GAY e-magazine – cannot find, or at least bring myself to look for, the levity in this event. The news has actually rendered me a bit melancholy.

It’s not that I live and die according to the happenings in celebrity lives. I’m not all that emotionally wrapped up in their doings, nor do I have some distorted expectation in regard to their ability to carry off a relationship with any greater degree of success than the rest of us. Rather, it’s the parallels with my own life and semi-recent relationship demise that have struck a chord today.

While not as extensive as the historical correlations drawn between Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy, there are a few comparable circumstances between the Etheridge/Michaels relationship and my own most recent union:

• Etheridge and I are the same age. It’s a minor coincidence, but a similarity nonetheless. And when you think of yourself as a decent, kind, semi-intelligent, and all-around fun person to be around, it does give one pause as you approach the half-century mark and find yourself un-partnered. While it’s almost instinctive to point the finger at the other party when a relationship initially crumbles, there are two sides to every break-up and if you’re the least bit emotionally mature, you eventually have to pause and ask yourself, “What the heck am I doin’ wrong here?”
• Etheridge and my ex are both cancer survivors. Thankfully, both prevailed in the battle, but I can’t help but think about the bond that is formed when you go through that type of challenge with someone – or the crevasse that’s created when the afflicted partner shuts you out of the process. I know how my story played out and can’t help but wonder whether Etheridge’s struggle intensified their connection or deteriorated it.
• Etheridge and Michaels were together nine years, the same duration as my relationship with the woman I thought was the love of my life. Our nine years had stops and starts, movings in and movings out, and more than their share of dysfunction, but even so it was nine years. And when you spend that long with someone, an entire decade of memories are created. Some loom larger than others – historical events, vacations, holidays, birthdays, and kids’ graduations, for instance. Others are more insignificant reminders – Nordstrom’s department store and picking Maryland crabs will forever be linked in my memory with my ex. And, of course, for someone whose entire life has a soundtrack, there’s nary a song from the last decade that doesn’t in some way remind me of her. I know how I deal with the memories and my heart goes out to Etheridge and Michaels just a wee bit as they enter the stage where reminiscing becomes bittersweet.

So, no, you won’t find me scolding or mocking Etheridge and Michaels here today. It’s just plain sad, to be honest. The only upside I see in this (and I beg Melissa’s forgiveness for my selfishness here) is that “Skin”, the creation resulting from her break-up with Cypher, is my favorite of her CD’s. Perhaps something good will come of all of this after all.

Candy Parker

Britney Spears: Bigger & Uncut

I love me some Britney Spears. She’s my type of woman - a hot mess; the hotter the mess, the hotter the woman. My favorite Britney incarnation is bald, umbrella car-bashing Britney. I would take that Britney to Massachusetts and marry her cheap extension-wearing behind. When I was 16, I used to watch the video for “Hit me (Baby one More Time)” with the sound turned off. In retrospect, I probably should have suspected that I was a lesbian a lot sooner than I did.

In her latest PR move, Britney’s team has released non-photoshopped images from her Candie’s Campaign alongside the photo-shopped images to prove that Britney wants to send some kind of feminist message. They have also provided helpful annotations so we can see what’s been photoshopped out. Please note that in the first set of photos, there is no arrow pointing out the removal of her camel toe and no mention as to what those scary bruises are from. I’m going to pretend they are from a recent dancing injury, despite the fact that Britney probably hasn’t danced since she released “Gimme More.”

In the second set of photos, the touch-up artists removed Britney’s miniscule amount of cellulite and made her butt smaller.

I like both photos of Britney before she was retouched. Hot mess or not, Britney is still a beautiful woman with a great body. My affinity for women with some meat on their bones is a really outmoded view, as I believe it first came into fashion when cavemen roamed the earth in search of sustenance and meaty women were successful women. Still, I would much rather see her real body rather than a computer generated image with absolutely no character. (Although I can live with the bruises airbrushed; those freak me out. What the heck was she doing?!). But my opinion doesn’t matter. I’m just a woman, age 25-35, who has enough disposable income to buy both trashy celeb rags and Candies products.

Natasia Langfelder

And They Call It Puppy Love...

Wow! So, Mike Huckabee has figured me out. I thought I had kept my darkest secrets hidden so well. But apparently he is all-knowing as he figured out that my secret desire is to marry my pet!

There! I said it out loud! I have loved her for over two years now. She is sweet and shiny and loving and kisses me whenever I am sad. She comforts me and cuddles me anytime I need her. She never asks questions and always agrees with me. She is perfect! Why should I not be allowed to marry my sweet little min/pin. Her brown eyes are so very soulful.

That’s right - Huckabee figured out that all of my efforts in support of gay marriage were, in fact, a thinly veiled attempt to get one step closer to being able to have my relationship with my adorable pup sanctioned by the church and legally recognized by both State and Federal governments.

What an idiot! Comparing gay marriage to incest, polygamy, and bestiality as Huckabee did in a speech given to journalism students at the College of New Jersey in Ewing, NJ, last week is just ignorant. Gay marriage hurts no one. These other acts do. Gay marriage is about love, respect, and honor. Incest, bestiality, and even polygamy are about power and dominance, not love.

Mr. Huckabee, I invite you to do your research. Read. Get to know some gay and lesbian couples and their families. Figure out who they are and what they are about and search your heart for understanding and some love of your own. Stop being so judgmental and learn to live and let live. I will keep you in my prayers - Yep, believe it or not, many gays and lesbians do attend church and pray! And if I do ever decide to marry my dog, you will be the first on my guest list. We’ll be registered at PETCO.

Lorraine (The Happy Lesbian Housewife) Howell

Happy Birthday, David Cassidy

Despite my best intentions of getting to bed at a decent time tonight, it’s now approaching midnight and I find myself caught up in a multi-colored bus trip down memory lane. No, I’m not aboard The Who’s “Magic Bus” - my childhood was far too restrictive for that type of drug-fueled journey. Rather, I’ve been transported back in time almost 40 years and am bouncing along on the bus with the “Careful: Nervous Mother Driving” sign tacked to the back – the Partridge Family’s favorite mode of transportation.

That’s right – it’s David Cassidy’s 60th birthday (DOB: April 12, 1950) so I wandered over to YouTube and tapped his name into the search field. Dozens of videos popped up! Early solo stuff, Partridge Family stuff, and even stuff from the more mature Mr. Cassidy. I can’t make myself shut down my computer, as each video sparks another memory.

Hey! That song was on the very first LP I ever purchased! Got it at the JC Penney’s in Welch, WV where my Grandma worked.

Wow – that’s the song from the episode where the family dog got sprayed by a skunk and the Partridges had to perform in an operating room at the children’s hospital so as not to offend the patients they were there to entertain. (BTW – the dog’s name was Simone and she disappeared after the first season; retain that, people, it’s a great stumper question for the more casual PF fan.)

And, gee. That’s one of the songs my sister and our friends used to lip sync to in our little backyard concert series. (Stop laughing. We were good. Really.)

As an almost 50 year old lesbian, I’m often met with quizzical expressions when I try to explain my affinity for David Cassidy and his early 1970’s television family. Many women my age admit to having had crushes on Susan Dey, but apparently few went for the feathery-haired, pooka shell and hip hugger adorned crooner with the killer smile the way I did. And the subject comes up more often than you might expect, as I have an original Partridge Family lunchbox on the bookshelf in my living room and one of my favorite lucky tokens when playing Texas Hold ‘Em is a little replica Partridge Family bus that I came across a few years back. (I love you, Ebay – xoxoxo.) As you’d imagine, questions arise.

It would take far more words than I will allot myself in a blog entry to explain why my fondness for David Cassidy remains intact after almost 40 years. All I can say is that I discovered him when I was 10 years old, clicking around the dial on the brand new black and white television that my younger sister and I had saved to purchase, and from that very first “I Think I Love You” I was hooked. Part of me wanted to marry him; part of me wanted to be him; and part of me just longed to be a Partridge, a member of a supportive family with a really cool Mom and fun brothers and sisters, because at age 10, my reality was a distant cry from such normalcy.

Today, I still crush on the guy a little bit – c’mon, that hair, that smile! - but mostly I still crush on the music, as corny and cliché’ as much of it is. The music was an escape for me back in the early 70’s as I’d go to my room, close the door, put an LP on the turntable, weight the needle down with a penny or two to avoid the inevitable “skipping”, and the darkness outside my door disappeared as I traveled down an imaginary highway in a color-blocked bus.

The shadows cast these days now take different forms – the weight and responsibility of every day life, a heart break every now and then – but the tried and true elixir of my childhood remains the cure. There’s simply nothing better than “Point Me in the Direction of Albuquerque” blaring from the radio of a multi-colored bus to transport me to my “C’mon, get happy” place again.

Candy Parker

Other Lesbians Don't Talk To Me

It’s beginning to be a real problem. Let me clarify, it’s not that I can’t talk to other LBQs once the conversation gets started or that they don’t like me once they get to know me. It’s that I always have to start the conversation because no one will ever start one with me. It’s getting really tiring, ladies. I have to say. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I went to a networking event at a lesbian bar and spent the night running from dyke to dyke introducing myself. I guess it was a good work out, but I would love to stay in one place and have women come up to me. Or at least do half the work instead of just lying there. Okay, maybe that last one doesn’t apply to the networking event. Still, this is becoming a problem.

I’ve tried explaining it to my straight friends; whose eyes glaze over until I’m done explaining the problem. “Natasia, you’re engaged, why do you need other lesbians to talk to you?” They ask. “It’s not about hitting on them! It’s about having a conversation with a new lesbian. You know like, what for to make new friends and learn new perspectives on life and shiz.” Then I think we started talking about how men suck. Note to men: Lesbians aren’t man haters, the straight women you have dicked around are. Basically, sleep with one eye open. Take this as a friendly warning.

I’ve also tried to talk to my gay friends about it. Who responded, “We talk to you, of course other lesbians talk to you.” “Actually no, you guys are kind of it.” Then we started talking about how women suck. Note to Leslie P. at Berkeley: Sleep with one eye open…

Finally, I broached the problem with my girlfriend. “It’s because they think you’re straight, honey.” “But I’m not, I’m one of the gayest gays that ever gayed.” I whined. Then we talked about how much I sucked and whether or not I needed to sleep on the couch that night.

Maybe it is the lesbian community. Once we have our circle of friends, we close ourselves off to others. We socialize, date, break up, make up all within our group. Or maybe it’s because I’m just a catty femme-bot like Tammy Lynn Michaels-Etheridge said on her blog? I’ll probably never know. But GAY readers, if you see me in a bar, say ‘Hi’!

Natasia Langfelder

Showtime - Trading "Real" for "Ratings"

Showtime has announced the cast of their new series “The Real L Word”. *yawn*

Maybe it’s just me, but I thought with the adjective “real” in the title, we might see a little diversity in the cast - diversity in skin tone, diversity in economic status, and perhaps even a little diversity in the types of lesbian women represented. But the cast photo and accompanying descriptions of the women make the original “The L Word” look like a session at the United Nations.

I know I should take comfort in the fact that Ilene Chaiken is involved in the project; after all, she’s a lesbian, too, right? But as with “The L Word” series, I can’t help but feel like this reality spin-off is again catering to some male lesbian fantasy where every woman is a size 4 femme-bot.

At risk of being exorcized from the Lesbian Nation, I’ll admit I wasn’t a fan of “The L Word”, much preferring the storylines and performances in “Queer As Folk”. I watched the first couple of episodes of Season 1 and just couldn’t get past the bad writing and, in some cases, worse acting. As the show moved into later seasons, I read about storylines involving vampires and just rolled my eyes, thankful I wasn’t wasting valuable DVR real estate on such drivel (and a wee bit sad that Leisha Hailey, who’d I seen perform live in the Murmurs in her pre-Alice days, was caught up in that mess). I’d occasionally tune in when I heard something new was in the works, like when Daniela Sea’s character, Moira, was introduced. Finally we were getting a butch character on the show – but wait. The butch chick wanted to be a man, hence our introduction to Max.

Well, hell, of course! All women who are more comfortable in Doc Martens and non-designer jeans secretly want to be men, right? To add insult to injury, Sea’s character was also presented as economically and culturally challenged. As my ex sometimes watched the show, I happened to see the episode where Moira/Max fumbled around like a fish out of water at a restaurant where multiple forks were included in the place setting. After that, I once again swore off the series. I may be the one in the relationship who opens doors and kills the bugs, but I know which fork to use, can select a decent wine, and typically don’t break into a cold sweat when the menu reveals entrée pricing in the $35-$50 range. (Ironically, my one claim to fame – an article in “Curve” - was published in the February 2007 issue for which Sea graced the cover, so we are forever linked in print.)

I think the last time my TV found its way to “The L Word” was back when Carmen was still spinning everyone’s turntables. While the writing and acting were still often horrific, I’d indulge in some Carmen-gawking while muting the volume to avoid any chance of reflexively slinging the remote at the screen in response to the inane banter. When Shane left her at the altar, however, any iota of interest I had in the show was erased. Who does that? Seriously – is anyone reading this going to say they’d leave that Hispanic hottie holding the bag on your wedding day?

But I digress.

The fact is neither “The L Word” nor the “reality” knock-off “The Real L Word” get anywhere near “real” when it comes to representing the full spectrum of lesbian culture. Perhaps that’d be too much for any show to take on, though with the inclusion of the word “real” in the show’s title, I feel the producers owe us a little less male fantasy and a little more lesbian legitimacy.

Showtime, might I suggest some alternate titles for your new series? Perhaps “The Play for the Ratings L Word,” “The Lipstick Lesbian L Word,” or even “The Tiny Slice of Real L Word” might go a ways toward truth in labeling – and you know how we lesbians love our labels.

Candy Parker

From Ice Cream to Aniston: My Addictions

Reading J. Allison’s blog entry yesterday about her attempt to quit smoking utilizing electronic cigarettes made me think of my own addictions. As a child I developed a chocolate ice cream addiction. I could eat buckets of the stuff. There was no electronic ice cream to help me overcome the grip it had over my soul. I ceased being a chocolate ice cream addict the night I binged like nobody’s business and later woke up, five years old, puking all over the lilac carpet in the hall. I didn’t give up chocolate ice cream forever or completely, but it was never, you know, quite the same, after I saw it laying there in piles at my feet. I know, yuck, TMI, move on, Cindy.

My next addiction was, like J.’s, cigarettes. I began smoking cigarettes in 1976 at age 14 and paid 45 cents a pack. I quit in 2002 at age 40 when cigarettes in Massachusetts were at $4.50 a pack. I hear now they are up to $6 or $7 and cost nearly what marijuana does, which I don’t smoke (long and traumatic story for another time.) I did the math a few years back, based on the average number of cigarettes I’d smoked over the course of my 26 year career as an addict. The results were startling. In my lifetime, I have smoked 287,450 cigarettes and spent between $50,000 and $60,000 to buy them. No shit. No lie. Truly, this is no exaggeration. I’ve done the math. I’m good at math.

I finally quit smoking using prescription drugs, a miracle beyond miracles and I hope all the smokers out there find their miracle.

I do currently have a coffee addiction but it pales in comparison to either chocolate ice cream or cigarettes or honestly, to Frito Lay products. I can eat Fritos Corn Chips or Cheetos without ever coming up for air. I will lick the inside of the bag when I’ve devoured one. And still want more. The junk is better than sex. And yes, it’s embarrassing, especially when you have that fake orange cheese smeared all over your mouth. And you’re in your late forties.

We come to the final and never ending addiction: women. Talk about never being sated. I love women more than chocolate ice cream. I need women more than nicotine. I desire them more than my morning coffee. (I cannot make a comparison to Frito Lay products because it’s truly a toss up.) I can’t find a way to stop loving women or thinking about them or wanting them and I can only hope, someday, if I’m very lucky, I will either find the woman of my dreams or someone will invent an electronic woman to help me get off the stuff.

I could be addicted to her, couldn’t you? Who’d want to get off that stuff?

Cindy Zelman

Step One: Coming Out...

I have to come out. It’s time, really. I mean it’s not like everyone can’t already tell by looking at my photo anyway, right? So I’ll just say it and rid myself of the burden that comes with holding a secret for so long…here goes:

I’m…I’m a smoker.

Yes, that’s right. I've been smoking since I was 17 years old. I guess back then it seemed like a brilliant idea – all the cool kids were doin’ it and all that. I started even though I knew nothing good comes of smoking. Ever. Seriously, when is the last time someone told you all the wonderful, positive ways that smoking has impacted their life? The countless dollars up in smoke, the wintery nights spend huddled outside a bar in the freezing cold just to get a fix, the destructive health implications. All bad stuff with no up side.

So recently I decided to quit. It would be easier said than done, I knew, so I didn’t attempt the dare-devil cold turkey method. Instead, I jumped on the electronic cigarette bandwagon about three weeks ago, and, hell, it’s been fantastic!

The great part about electronic cigarettes is that I can smoke WHEREVER I want to, still getting both my nicotine and physical addictions taken care of, while avoiding all the other nasty crap that traditional cigarette smokers like to pretend isn’t in their cigarettes.

You want to give me a hard time and tell me I’ve really not “quit”? I dare you to! You give me a hard time and I’ll give you a schoolin' on the benefits of electronic cigarettes.

That’s not to say there aren’t challenges with these ash-less gadgets. It’s definitely taking some time to get used to the heavier feel of the cigarette. And there’s also the super-human effort involved to get a decent fix. Sometimes I feel like I’m sucking on the thing so hard I might pass out with the next pull. I guess somehow I'm hoping that If I draw in deeply enough, the next drag will contain all of the junk in conventional smokes that serves to calm my nerves and keeps me from not losing it on every person who walks into the room.

To the average passerby, I probably look like a crazed lunatic sucking away on these butt-less technological wonders, but lemme tell ya, quttin' is a bitch, and anything that helps me be less of one is worth its weight in smokeless vapor!

J. Allison

Nike - Just (Don't) Do It...

While Accenture, Gillette, and Gatorade, among others, saw fit to sever ties with golf icon Tiger Woods after his numerous “transgressions” were revealed late last year, Nike laced up their athletic shoes and decided to stick with the club-wielding playboy. Yesterday, on the eve of the revered Masters golf tournament, Nike unveiled their latest Tiger-themed ad, which features a somber and puffy-faced Woods staring silently into the camera as a voice-over from his late father, Earl, speaks:

“Tiger, I am more prone to be inquisitive, to promote discussion. I want to find out what your thinking was; I want to find out what your feelings are; and did you learn anything?”

Presumably, the elder Woods originally proffered those words in reaction to a poor tee shot or missed putt by the young Tiger, but Nike now applies them in the context of Tiger’s marital infidelity in this 30-second, black and white come-back commercial.

Now, I wasn’t one to get all stirred up about Tiger cheating on his wife. Is anyone REALLY surprised anymore when a sports star, actor, or major politician is revealed as a womanizer? Puhlease! These guys face temptation that most of us can only imagine (and fantasize about)! It stands to reason that they’ll take a tumble off the pedestal every now and again. The only thing that baffles me about these guys is why they decide to get married in the first place?! If the world is your oyster, you don’t settle down at Red Lobster for the rest of your life, even if you do really, really love the cheese biscuits.

That said, I find the Nike ad revolting. Tiger’s willingness to allow the voice of his beloved deceased father to be used for such a purpose is, to put it bluntly, disgusting to me. I find THIS to be an even greater indictment of his character than him having bedded dozens of women while married with children. Talk about the ultimate sell-out!

I suppose the one saving grace in the ad is that Nike had the good sense not to close with their tag line – Just Do It. I guess even they realize that Tiger’s already “Done It” enough.



Candy Parker

Dance as if EVERYONE is Watching...Please

Folks, let's talk about dancing for minute here. If you're out dancing at the club on a Saturday night, might I offer the following suggestions…

First, if your best dance move involves simply gyrating wildly with your hands clenched above your head, you should probably just sit down.

Second, if your idea of dancing is to maniacally hop up and down to Lady Gaga as if on some imaginary pogo stick, you might take your game up a notch or two by considering a visit to the bar. Seriously – shots are on me.

Finally, please try to avoid giving the appearance that you are channeling a Whirling Dervish. The tie-dyed sleeveless shirt with your flannel wrapped around your waist isn’t helping either. Please...just…just stop. Your dance-floor inspired tornado impersonation has the rest of us on the verge of becoming Hurling Dervishes.

Forget what they say about “Dance as if no one is watching.” I am and I’m taking notes.

Please consider this a public service announcement - I'm not trying to be rude; I’m just trying to improve our image. Seriously ladies, friends don't let friends dance horribly.

J. Allison

GAY e-magazine news

One of the great things about creating GAY e-magazine has been that it has afforded me the opportunity to meet a lot of great lesbian women.  Among those is comedian Maggie Faris who, along with her friends and co-hosts Barb and Kate, who just launched a new humor/comedy podcast at www.thedickvans.com.

Maggie was kind enough to pre-record an interview with me a couple of weeks ago, allowing me to promote GAY and our upcoming features.  We'll likely be promoting every new issue on their show, as well, so it's a fantastic partnership moving forward.

Please check out www.thedickvans.com and give them your support!  The podcast is also available at iTunes - just search for The DickVans.

Candy Parker

The Waiting is the Hardest Part...

I’m sitting here feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. Or maybe a newly-pregnant daughter who can’t wait to tell her mom about the little one on the way. The latter is probably the better analogy for as the creator/Editor-in-Chief of GAY e-magazine I am, in a way, preparing to give birth on Thursday when we officially re-launch.

As of late yesterday, the April issue is finalized - all 57, full-color pages in their Adobe .pdf glory just waiting to be shared with the world. I couldn’t be more proud or more anxious. I’ve seen first-hand the exhilaration and enthusiasm of the talented women who have contributed their time and creativity to the project and I’m excited to be able to share each of their unique voices and artistic gifts with the world. Trust me, they’ll all be in the delivery room with me sucking on ice chips and doing breathing exercises to relax when our April 1st due date finally arrives.

Of course, just as the expectant mother’s anticipation is tempered with worries of improbable birth defects, my eagerness is balanced by the question, “What if you build an e-magazine and nobody reads it?” I do my best to assuage these doubts by making myself believe that “If you build it, they will come,” a conviction that ultimately resulted in a tear-inducing, happy ending in “A Field of Dreams.” But then the baseball reference just conjures thoughts of additional failure-related terms – strike out, error, passed ball.

As a former little league coach, I know that the only real failure, though, is in not trying your best, and so it is that I wait restlessly for my turn at the plate, at which time I’ll be swinging for the fences. I might not knock it out of the park, but I’ll keep working hard until I do. If nothing else, I owe it to the team.

I dedicate this blog entry and the April 1st issue to all the contributors to GAY e-magazine, the e-zine BY lesbians with a sense of humor and FOR everyone. Be sure to visit http://www.gay-e-magazine.com/ on Thursday, April 1st to “ooooh” and “aaaaah” over our newborn. They always come out a little bit wrinkled and splotchy, but they grow into the cutest darn things!

Candy Parker