Biological Determinists, Listen Up!

I have a question. When you get the urge to urinate, do you just whip it out (or squat) and piss wherever you happen to be standing, regardless of whether you're in a board meeting or standing in line at the DMV? No? Didn't think so.

Do you know why you don't? Because biology produces the impulse, it does not dictate your actions. Simplistic but true. So, stop pretending that simply having certain biological impulses justifies or explains irresponsible, illegitimate, illegal, or immoral acts.

Thank you. You may now return to your regularly scheduled idiocy.

RIP: Myron Schy

There are too few words and too many. I keep trying to write what I really want to say about how great he was and how he helped me hold on. I want to talk about all the little things that made Myron Myron and made him my friend. I just can't. We buried a good man today. I think it'll take a while to get over that.

Israel, Here I Come!

I have no idea how I'd get there, but between Hasufim, Hasodot, Yeladot Raot and this:



I really want to go to Israel!

Squeal!

Julie Goldman... THE JULIE GOLDMAN!... is going to be at the Birchmere next weekend. I'm trying to get a Jewbian group together for the show. Until then, I'm going to be playing this A LOT.

Stop Hitting On Me, Dammit!

So, as mentioned earlier, I've been having the recurring problem of men hitting on me despite all the obvious lesbian signals. My co-worker thinks I should wear a sign or button or something. So, what should it say?

"Yes, I am."

"Warning: Lesbian Enclosed."

"I slept with your sister. Get it?"

"Check the shoes."

"We shop in the same section of the store. HINT!"

Help me out here!

I'm Obsessed...

Lately, for no reason I can discern, I've been getting smaller. My muscles, on the other hand, are getting bigger. Much bigger. My biceps are amazing! If you've known me long, you'll know that I've always been a little obsessed with my natural musculature, which was quite nice without any extra push. But what's happening to my body is beyond the normal muscle. I love it!

Problem is I think I'm becoming obsessed with playing with them. I do not want to become the dyke who runs around flexing at every opportunity. And I definitely do not want to become some narcissistic fool who plays with her own muscles all the time. The nerd in me just won't allow it. Or will she?

I don't know. Maybe I need to find someone else to play with them for me?

Morbid but Funny

I went to see a friend today. He's got cancer and the doctors have only given him a few weeks to live. I'll tell you more about him later when I can deal with that little tidbit.

Anyway, his sudden turn for the worse has made me reflect on my own life and mortality (as if the pills, the monitor, the physical restrictions and the chest pains don't do that enough). Here's the problem. When I face things like death, I make jokes. Really morbid jokes. My friends and family don't always find this amusing. Usually, the ones who crack up either have the same morbid sense of humor or aren't quite in on how bad it really is. Some people get really upset when I joke about it.

But you know what? Tough. I think it's funny. And it helps. So, here are the morbid comedic stylings of Melinda. (Probably not as funny in writing, but whatevs.)

My first major "event," I was rushed to the hospital with lights and sirens and the whole shebang. My blood pressure was bottoming out. My pulse was through the roof. I was struggling to breathe. The EMT pushed epinephrine into my IV, which hurts like fucking hell. (It's like Klingons are having sex in your chest and zombies are trying to crack open your skull for a light snack. Your hands and feet contract into these weird, paralyzed claws, which is just so fucking sexy.) Then, the EMT started screaming all this medical nonsense into the radio. The only thing I understood from watching ER were the words "We need a crash cart at the ambulance bay! Stat!" At moments like this, you're supposed to reflect on your life, think profound thoughts, curse like a sailor... I did the last one quite well, but the rest was just terror and loneliness UNTIL the EMT started rubbing my left hand to ease the muscle contraction. That's when I noticed that she was really hot and Melinda's potential last thought became: "Yeah, Baby! I got another hand you can rub right over here." I totally want that on my tombstone!

Fast forward a while past lots of ER visits, finding a cardiologist, getting diagnosed, playing reverse Russian roulette with my treatment options and finding out that I wasn't going to be chasing the ladies around with my walker in some old folks' home. I had to be realistic. Still in my late 20's, I had to make plans for my death and what I wanted as far as heroic measures to save my life and life support. Fortunately, my sister Judy's a nurse, so she's perfect to make decisions when I can't and to know when to say when. That one was easy. Explaining to my family that my Borg fetish doesn't extend to being hooked up to machines... not so easy. How do you explain to people who love you that you don't want to be kept on tap past your "sell by" date? If you're me, you crack jokes. I gave them the real deal then I started telling my sister Belinda that she was back-up. It went something like this:

Me: Hey, Belinda! You're a bitch. If Judy doesn't have the ovaries to unplug me, accidentally trip over the fucking cord. You know... ahem... accidentally. (I jump up and mime tripping over a cord accidentally on purpose, including fake nonchalant whistling.)

Belinda: No. I can't trip over the cord. That might not work. I'll just pull the plug. (She mimes pulling the plug.) Then, I'll just be like "Oops. I thought this was my cell phone charger. My bad." Hey, I'm a blonde. It'll work.

This led to Nurse Judy losing it laughing and my sister-in-law jumping in with her own ideas. While certain completely unfunny family members looked on in disapproval, we planned "how to kill Melinda if Judy wusses out," complete with uproarious laughter and special little mime skits. That's the most fun I've ever had planning my death.

Flash forward to my lasting much longer than some people with fancy shmancy medical degrees thought I would because I'm either too awesome or too bitchy to die. (Death should not fuck with the former captain of the chess team! I'll checkmate his bony ass!) I went home to visit my family and had to fill my sister Judy in on the fact that she's the beneficiary on my employer-provided life insurance policy and pension death benefits. This is when I realize that this may not be such a good idea. Remember: This is the woman who gets to say when the doctors stop trying to save my life. I tell Judy what I'm thinking: Damnit! Now, one day, I'm going to stub my toe and you're going to start screaming "Pull the plug! Pull the plug!" Judy cracked up laughing for a moment before pausing and saying, "Wait. How much money do I get?" I guess she won't need Belinda as back-up after all.

A Belated Happy Anniversary...

To Kahunah and Silverfox. May you have many, many more!

I Just Don't Get It...

I wear men's clothes. Why do men not understand that this is the universal symbol for "big old dyke" and stop hitting on me?

Nunchuks Tips

If you've ever watched a Bruce Lee movie, you're probably obsessed with them anyway. So, let me give you some tips.

1. Check the laws in your area. Nunchuks are illegal in some states. In others, they're legal for training purposes but must be carried openly when you're transporting them from your house to your car. Carrying them in a bag constitutes carrying a concealed weapon. (I ignored my own advice once when moving from one state to another and lost my precious rosewood set to the Po-Po. Strangely, I was allowed to keep the small but very real dagger attached to my keychain, a gift from an ex that I kept because it was cute.)

2. When you're learning to use them, always buy a padded training pair. You will hit yourself many, many times. A padded pair will hurt like hell. An unpadded pair could land you in the hospital.

3. There is a difference between classic nunchuks and freestyle just as there is a difference between the real martial arts and freestyle arts. Learn the differences and decide accordingly. Please note that many traditional martial artists will not be impressed and do, in fact, feel that "freestyle" demeans the arts. (Generally, if someone tells you they obtained a black belt prior to their mid to late teens, they did not study classical martial arts.) The traditional arts aren't nearly as flashy/acrobatic as what you see in many U.S. competitions and demonstrations. They are, however, deadlier.

4. Pick your instructor carefully and make sure that person is certified to instruct in the style you want to learn. For most purposes, learning by video isn't the greatest idea. You should have someone who can be there to adjust your grip, stance, etc. You may also want someone there the first time you nearly knock yourself unconscious.

5. Many have mastered the art before you. In many cases, they are way better than you will ever be. So, don't think this makes you the ultimate badass.

6. Handle your weapon with humility or it will handle you.

Some People Need a Life

Rob's pics of my nunchuks brought back a memory of something he said while he was visiting, specifically that once you reach a certain level of fighting skill, no one challenges you. Oh, but if only this were true.

Back in my younger days, I lived in a really bad neighborhood where the choice was often between defending yourself or getting beaten (to hospitalization or death in some cases). To fight or not to fight was NOT the question. I became notorious early on for being able to take on any guy who dared start sh*t with me or my runt little brother or any guy I saw beating up a woman. I never started the fight, but I always finished it.

At some point, you'd think I'd be the person no one wanted to fight. Not so. I was the person every other little moron wanted to fight because beating me would mean gaining a HUGE reputation. Of course, they weren't completely stupid. Often, they came armed with baseball bats, two-by-fours, knives, etc. (If you know me personally, you've probably heard the story of how I ended up with two guns in my face at once.) Fortunately for me, I still won. The weapons just made sure I knew to end the fight quickly instead of playing around or giving the guy a chance not to look like a complete ass.

After I left that neighborhood and became a pacifist, you'd think that would've stopped. Nope. There were still men and a few women who thought challenging me to a friendly "fake" fight would be a good idea. Knowing my skill set, they still thought they could beat me and look good in front of other people. It's always in front of other people, which means they always end up humiliated, start getting mad and try to turn a fake fight into a real one.

Or occasionally, they try picking up my nunchuks to "prove" that anyone who's ever watched a Bruce Lee movie can use them. (To be fair, some people genuinely want to try to use the nunchuks out of curiosity and admit that they won't do it very well. Fortunately, I now have a padded training pair instead of my old heavy wooden set.) You can imagine that trying to swing around a deadly weapon you've never used before probably isn't a good idea. It's not. One friend went into an Army/Navy surplus store to get something, saw the nunchuks and decided to try them. After all, I do it and it looks easy, so why not? Injury and embarassment ensued. The guys at the store had to explain that anyone who can make nunchuks look easy has been using them for YEARS!

Anyway, the point is that most people really need a life. And no, I will no longer "fake" fight with you so that you can show off to your friends, girlfriend, complete strangers, etc. And it's not because I'm scared of the three-hour self defense course you took at the Y. Oh! And keep your dang hands off my weapons unless you know how to use them or are prepared to NOT be able to use them correctly! I am not responsible for you injuring your stupid self.