TWENTY TWENTY HINDSIGHT

This is the funniest thing I’ve ever written to an advice column as well as the best advice I’ve ever received. BUT, before you read any further, note that the following is ENTIRELY FICTION.  I do not have a perpetual yeast infection and I certainly don’t drink Hamm’s.  Got it?  IT’S A JOKE.  Now read on….

Dear Nicole,

My vagina itches. Really itches. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to take a Brillo pad to my dearly betrayed lady parts. And who’s responsible for this? Me, its sad, itchy owner. Seems that the food the rest of my body craves turn my junk into a sourdough factory. It’s not like I have a terrible diet–I don’t eat meat or many processed foods. I’m sweet on leafy greens and legumes. I chew spelt on the regular. Shit, I go on double dates with keifir and yogurt.

Despite this not-so-terrible diet of mine, it turns out that the food I’m most romantical with–sweet, cold Hamm’s in a can–is just the food that make my mons all itchy-scratchy. Not cool, Hamm’s, especially when I’ve been so loyal to you. All your other friends have either switched to microbrews or left you for jobs and families and shit. But I’m still here, listening to you bitch about Pabst.

So my drink of choice makes my vag itch, yes, but the remedies aren’t all that heinous. I mean, shit, there are worse things in life than shoving raw garlic in your hole and douching with yogurt, right? Things like sobriety. So, my question: how many cloves is it cool to shove into the darkness at once? And once at capacity, how long do I keep that shit marinating? Also, is there any substance I could substitute for my beloved Hamm’s that would lessen the yeast effect? Please don’t say water.

Love,
Itchy in NC

P.s.
I forgot to mention that I wear really tight pants and don’t want change that either.

——

Dear Itchy,
So you want something in your life to change, BUT you don’t want to make changes…. Interesting Perspective!

Get ready for an onslaught of hippie yeast infection recipes on the comment board (spare me,Portland );

BUT here is MY advice:
go to the store and get some Monistat.
there is nothing worse than a yeast infection. NOTHING WORSE. (except for a UTI i guess…)

If walking around with the dental floss leashes for twelve pieces of garlic in your junk isn’t doing the trick and is getting tiresome, there is nothing wrong with going to the pharmacy and getting some medicine from modern times.
It’s cool to be Of The Earth, but it is not cool to feel irritated 24/7 because you have cheese coming out of your vagina. seriously!

After this is cleared up, you need to make some changes, lest it come back with a vengeance!

You have to drink something with less yeasty sugar.
If you need something with less sugar, try vodka like Monopolowa.
It is delicious.
If you need to look punk, drink whiskey. Get a flask. Very Punk.
You’ll need less to get drunk (which your body will appreciate) and you will look very hard.
Wear cotton underwear.
As for your pants? i don’t know what your gender deal is, but could you sacrifice and wear a short skirt for a while? Just a few days. You can wear it with some cotton leggings or something.
If that is too womanly for your tastes, I say invest in a onesie. That being a one piece outfit, sort of like a mechanic would wear. One that is loose enough that it doesn’t further infect your crotch. Not only will you look cute and be a walking conversation-starter (do NOT tell people you’re wearing it for yeast prevention), but you’ll be giving your crotch a break.

when you’re at home, chill out in pajama pants. Put on your skin tight outfits only when you leave the house.

That’s my advice.
The doctor has spoken.

A couple days ago, some peeps were talking about how all little girls seem to get obsessed with princess shit.  Boys get into firemen or astronauts—people they might actually become someday if the economy recovers before the second coming of Jesus.  But little girls all want to be the things they never will (unless you’re Kate Middleton).  My friend said that when she was little she wanted to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.  She even told people her name was Dorothy.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Yankees first baseman Don Mattingly and I told people my name was Kyle.  The photo on the left is me before autonomy in dress kicked in.  On the right?  That’s what I’d still look like if sweatpants weren’t so high risk for camel toe.  Peep that baby dyke scowl.  Nice.

P.S.  That baseball?  I signed it mself.

• Start a small business (AKA get a prescription for Adderall).
• Not shit myself while reading at the Queer Art/Queer Action Conference (March 26-28 in Asheville.  Keynote Speaker = John Cameron Mitchell = Shortbus = awesome.  Mark your calendars!).  This is only my second public reading (sober) and the last one was pretty disastrous.  I was reading a “non-fiction” piece about coming out that made my folks looks less generous than they actually were.  Their only concern about being there was that someone would point them out, which I assured them would never happen.  But then the man introducing me pointed to the back of the room and said something about having known my parents for 15 years.  Also, when I finished a bunch of people were crying, which was okay because making people cry is kind of a hobby.
• If my small business fails (and I doubt it will.  There’s nothing risky about dispensing prescription medication, especially in this economy.), I’m going into sex work.   Not the kind of sex work where you have to actually touch people (Ick.  Germs.), but the kind on the phone.  What’s it called again?   Ah, phone sex.  A friend recently told me about living with her boyfriend while he was a phone sex operator.  She would wake up in the middle of the night and hear him pouring glasses of water in the toilet so it sounded like he was peeing.  Also, he apparently had to make farting sounds on his arm.
• Not fail out of school.  Figure out what the term “information science” actually means.  Attend all presentations, especially when I’m supposed to be giving them.
• Get involved in a fruitful relationship.  If that fails, cable.
• Limited drunken trips to Time Out to twice a month.   Ok, three times.
• Revive the best fake band you’ve never heard of, Snail Trail.
• Turn 26.  Act like it.  Time to start paying your own phone bill, you lazy fuck.  Also, I’m not going to ask my sister to answer my emails any more.
• I should probably spend less time sitting in smokey bars telling lies and more time working out and hugging orphans, but c’mon.  Let’s be real, people.  This sounds like plenty to me. Let me know if you can think of any vital, life-changing plans you think I should implement next year.  I can always use help with this growing up stuff.  I’m also willing to give you suggestions.  I may not take advice, but I’m good at dispensing it.

I’m glad to report that 2008 was pretty fucking average.  A couple of big things happened: I’m finally living alone (LUVZ IT.  I have an entire room just for shit that creeps me out but I don’t want to get rid for superstitious reasons.  Also, ceiling fans.); I started grad school (Masters in Information Science. I’ll let you know exactly what that is just as soon as I figure it out.); we got a new president (more on this later); I got diagnosed with a mental illness (JUST KIDDING!  Sort of….); I went tubing with nine of my besties; I spent a couple hours in the Chapel Hill E.R.; I climbed a crane; I depleted my savings account several times; I served time as an elf; I quit Whole Foods from the bathroom of a bar (Actually, I can’t remember if that was this year or last year, which means I have an advanced case of wet brain, which is bad, but I’ll soon forget about it, which is good); and I cleanse my blessed temple of impurities. Also, I made some tight pals and learned three really good whale jokes.

All in all, a good year.  And by good, I mean sooo much better than last year.  No one died.  No one punched me (ok, one girl did, but without the same vitriol as last time.)  I didn’t get kicked out of any bars, though I did get cut off on a couple of occasions (Jenny, I still feel bad about July 4th.  Really.).  I peed in some sinks.  And best yet, my sister moved to Colorado, thus granting me the title of Most Popular Herzog Twin in Carrboro.

NOW, let’s talk about our President Elect.  I’ve been mulling over the whole Rick Warren thing for the past few weeks, and I must say, I’m not getting any happier about it.  I mean, seriously?  Rick Fucking Warren?  The dude who compared homosexuality to incest and pedophilia?  Nice going, Barack.  Remember how I marched with an Obama sign and beads at Pride this year?  Remember how I yelled and danced and forgot to pay my bar tab the night you won?  Remember how I saw Arcade Fire and Superchunk for free ALL FOR YOU???  No.  I guess you’ve forgotten these sacrifices that me and my people made for you. Even my Catholic grandmother is upset about this one, Barack. As she said the other day, “If you sign any petitions about this Rick Warren thing, you have permission to sign my name too.”

A choice quote from your friend Rick, Big O:

“By the way, my wife and I had dinner at a gay couple’s home two weeks ago. So I’m not a homophobic guy, okay?”  (AKA SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE GAY.)

So Rick says us queers should deny our natural (biological) impulses, but from the looks of this video, man ain’t got a problem with indulging his impulse to shove Twinkes down his damn throat.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2ZwhdgiBgc&hl=en&fs=1]

Barack, my friend, after brunch and Bloody Marys this Sunday, you should get to your neighborhood theatre and spend some time with Harvey Milk. See if you don’t cry almost as hard as you did when Big stood Carrie up on her wedding day.

Christmas this year began in a rather undignified manner and ended in a drunken one. The highlight: getting lifted by a huge Army guy with hearts tattooed on his forearms. The Syd’s Christmas, however, included an open bar, bloody knuckles, karaoke, fancy dress, gold hightops, and ended with my co-worker and fellow trouble-maker saying “Katie needs a ride” into the mic and me grabbing the mic from her and saying “And I’ll suck your dick.  Wait, I don’t suck dick.”  Thanks to Jessica Storm for unblocking this memory.

Photos from the evening, stolen from Jared’s Myspace:

My pal Shannon and I met for a taste at our local watering hole a few days ago–just a taste, you know, post-work style.  Five hours later, we finally managed to escape the PBR and red wine blackhole and retire to our separate abodes for nourishment, hydration, and peaceful sleep.  The next morning Shannon told me that when she got home from the bar she burnt a baguette in the oven.  She didn’t want the smoke alarm to go off and disturb her neighbors so she ran to her door and threw the baguette outside but the baguette hit her neighbor’s car and the car alarm went off.

In other news, it’s Christmas, which means I’m going to embrace my inner Jew tomorrow and eat take-out Chinese and go to the movies.

I am also, however, fixing to do something very important to my mental health: GET THE FUCK OUT OF CARRBORO FOR THE FIRST TIME IN DECADES.  And that’s only slight hyperbole–I haven’t been out of the state since moving here.  It’s a problem that needs correcting so Ima go to Colorado to fight with my sis and build sexy snowmen and make it with cowgirls.  In light of this exciting development, I need a ride.  Actually, I need two rides.  I’m leaving from RDU on Monday Jan. 5 at 11:35 and returning the following Saturday evening.  Any volunteers will be handsomely compensated with PBR (or, for the classier among you, OCSC’s finest Italian red, a case of Alcion, a water bottle of Grey Goose, or whatever your pleasure).

HAPPY BIRTH OF THE BABY JEBUS, EVERYONE.  I’m parking my ass at the bar tomorrow at 8 if any of ya’ll want to celebrate orphan Christmas together.

When Betsy and I were about seven, our dad walked into the kitchen while we were enjoying buckwheat pancakes one summer morning and yelled, “Guess what?  There’s no Santa!  And there’s no Jesus!”

The magic ended right there.

I’m too excited about my caroling job tonight (boom box + ukulele + black eye + crutches = mad tips) to be creative, but I just found this from last winter’s hobby, fake ads on Craigslist.  You probably don’t have a magnifying glass on you, but you can get the idea from the title.

Dearest Readers,

This blog has been an interesting diversion for me over the past few weeks.  It gives me something to do during class and it fulfills my desire (NEED) for your attention.  But that’s just it.  I want (NEED) more attention than you can give me.  So I’m standing here before you with a request: pass it on.  Email your friends.  Link on your Facebook.  Share on Google Reader.  Also, tell people that I’ve got a bangin’ ass and I’m a good kisser.  LOVE YOU MEAN IT!!!

Katie

I’m a little late on this, but Brit’s enlightening documentary had a couple of moments that will cure even the worse S.A.D….

• Jamie Spears in the kitchen of his daughter’s trailer park mansion preparing his little girl’s breakfast, nutritious and delicious cheese grits.  In JS’s own words, “I don’t know about daddies in the North, but in the South we make our girls cheese grits.  I’m using my momma’s old recipe,” upon which he rips open a packet of Velvetta and dumps into the breakfast food of the god’s bubbling away on the stove.  As my sister put it, “That girl is W.T.”
• Brit expressing the tribulations of fame: Sometimes you just want to be alone, you know?  Sometimes you just want to take a walk in the crispy night air.
• “I feel like I wasn’t being seen in the light that I wanted to be seen in. Um, I don’t know exactly what that light is.”