Do people think? How much? About gayness, not much

The other day someone called me “a thinker.” Thank you. I have been called much worse. But that got me thinking, of course, because that’s what’s I do, for better or for worse. And I started wondering what other people think about gay people, in particular, and I’ve come to the conclusion that a lot of them don’t think that much. Here is some evidence.

whenstraight

This video asks people when they chose to be straight. First, various people are asked if they think being gay is a choice. Then they are asked when they chose to be straight. Most of them don’t have an answer, and then a number of them add, I never thought about it. So here is my question, how do you have an answer to something you have never thought about? Is that even possible? I am sure that if someone stuck a microphone in my face, I would have an answer. In addition to being “a thinker” I also have a reputation for “making shit up.” But I am also “often right.” I’m quoting real people here, people. I am not making shit up this time.

But anyhow, this causes me to wonder if there is a need for someone , such as me, to write a book about all the unfortunate questions that gay people get asked by people who do not think. It would be kind of like a field guide to the gay world for non-thinkers and straight people. And not to discriminate, I’m sure gay people have some dumb questions, too. I do.

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Is it OK to have a few glasses of wine and tell your new boss about your vagina?

Last night I was at a welcome dinner for the new senior executive in my department. And we were having drinks. And somehow the topic got around to “birth stories.” Now, before we move on, I was not aware until very recently that there was a name for this. But there is. Thankfully. Because this is one of the most memorable experiences in life, and by that I mean traumatic. Another human is trying to rip you in half, people. You can’t forget it.

So somehow the topic got around to giving birth and the crazy stuff that happens during that time. But why just pick on that moment? Crazy stuff happens when you’re out to dinner with your new boss and people order an alcoholic beverage. Or even when they are just drinking ice tea, like the guy standing next to me.

Anyway, my point is that I got in on this action. And started telling a story about a time before my child was born, when I thought my child was being born four weeks early, and we went to the hospital to find out.

We got to the birthing center around 9 p.m., and I was told to get undressed and put on one of those drafty, over-washed, smashed up hospital gowns and lie down on the bed. Various measuring devices were put on my belly to listen to the baby’s heartbeat and try to determine if I was having an contractions. I was not. So the nurse, just to be sure, did a physical exam. And just to be clear this is a nice doctor way of saying getting fisted. Or just to be crystal clear, she put as much of her hand as possible into my vagina and felt around.

There was nothing unusual going on in there. No party. No crimes being committed. The carbon monoxide detector was not going off. All was well in that small, dark part of the world, except it was now throbbing with pain. Which by the way, the doctors don’t tell you about before it happens. They describe this as pressure. You might feel a bit of pressure. Sure. Gird your loins, someone is going to put something somewhere that it doesn’t normally go and it’s going to hurt like a mo-fo.

But that part was done. And now I could go home, and come back to the hospital when I was actually in labor. So the nurse left, and I started putting on my clothes. And then she came back just as I was putting on my bra.

“Oh sorry!” she said when she noticed that I wasn’t completely dressed. And she started backing out of the room.

“Stop! Come in. You just had your hand in my vagina, it really doesn’t matter if you see me putting on my bra.”

“Yeah, that’s right. We’re BFFs now.”

(Nurses are AWESOME!)

And that is the story I was relaying to one woman, three guys who are thankfully highly comfortable with their masculinity (that’s the best!) and my new boss.┬áSo let’s just say I can’t wait to see everyone in the office this morning. Maybe they will ask me how my vagina is doing. (It’s fine. In case you are wondering.) On the plus side, at least I remember telling them this. It would be super awkward to walk in, have someone ask you how your vagina is doing, and have no idea why they are asking. It’s happened. But that’s a whole other story.

Adhesive strips: The misunderstood medical device. They are for your heart and your funny bone, people.

When I was a child, my mother insisted that we shouldn’t “waste Band-Aids.” Thirty-five years later, I’m still not really sure what this means. But I’m fairly certain that I only insisted on a Band-Aid when there was something really wrong such as a little bit of skin hanging off my elbow. Or a knee that looked liked it had been French kissed by a cheese grater. I will admit that there probably wasn’t always blood. But close enough. And now that I have two toddlers, I am a bona-fide expert in minor cuts, bruises and abrasions, as well as adhesive strips. I’m also a klutz, so I continue to experience Band-Aid incidents first hand.

But here is my point: The value of a Band-Aid as a medical device is vastly overrated. The purpose of a Band-Aid, unless you have accidentally tried to sever a digit while chopping vegetables or cutting a bagel, is to make you feel better, not to stop the bleeding or protect the injury from infection. That shit is just made up by Johnson & Johnson to sell more Band-Aids. Adhesive strips calm the nerves and stop the tears. They are useless in protecting a real injury.

So with that in mind, here is my Band-Aid philosophy. Waste away! Knock yourself out. If you bumped into the wall, get a Band-Aid. If you stubbed your toe, you might need one for each of your phalanges. If you’re having a bad day, unwrap one and stick it anywhere.

With this in mind, I’ve made a point of getting better Band-Aids. And I don’t mean better quality. No, that is irrelevant. I mean cuter. We have Barbie Band-Aids. Sponge Bob. And best of all? Bacon and eggs. There is nothing like a little fried egg, sunny-side-up, on the back of your hand to raise your spirits. Or a small strip of fried, salted pig meat on your knee to make you feel good.

But this has led to just a bit of confusion at times. When we first got the Barbie Band-Aids, I did not clarify that they were for humans and not for Barbies. And here is what happened to the first box.

barbiebandaids

Now doesn’t that make you feel way better!

(Click on the pic to enlarge)

 

Big news in the NBA this week

For better or for worse, I’ve been following the news a little more than normal this week. So, if you don’t mind, we’re going to take a little break from learning how to make a baby the hard way, and talk about something more important.

This week a professional athlete came out of the closet. I am giving you that link to Fox News because it is the best source for this kind of information. And here is a little partial screen shot of the story just in case your hands are otherwise occupied or just in case you don’t have any.

jason collinsSo did you see it? The last sentence? “I’m a 34-year-old NBA center. I’m black. And I’m gay.” I know. I’m shocked! I had no idea that this guy was black. I might have guessed that he was African-American, but I hate to assume. He does play basketball, however, so that was probably a huge hint.

And I think that this was very nice of him to clear all this up for everyone, especially people like me, who might have been wondering if any black people would ever come out of the closet about their blackness. I don’t think he owes us an explanation about WHY he is black, but I do think it was a good idea for him to just say it out loud, so the rest of us could know. And so he could be a positive role model for other black people.

But I’m also hoping for a day, when black people go to a major magazine to tell them that they are black and the magazine says “Huh! That’s not news. Go away.” You might say I have a dream.

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