I know, I know. I've spent a lot of time bitching lately.

From Halloween to Mother's Day is what I like to call "Diamond Season". You know, that time of year when every other commercial on the air is for either a jewelry store, a diamond conglomerate, or something else diamond related that is specifically designed to make (traditionally speaking) a man feel inadequate for not being able to afford something so large it borders on tacky and ostentatious and to make a woman feel unloved if she hasn't been given one that fits into that category.

I have several problems with this. First of all, diamonds are not rare. In fact they're far from it. You have been brainwashed by Tiffany's and De Beers to think that they are, but take a look around. How many adults do you know who don't own at least one? To me, a diamond engagement ring says "You're just about as special to me as pretty much any other American woman".

Second of all, in an effort to keep up with our insatiable demand while making a few bucks for themselves (mostly in order to fund one misguided revolution after another) African nations have perfected a system of slavery and abuse to mine the damn things. (Yeah, "Blood Diamond" was not only accurate, but I'd say it was a bit on the rose-colored side.) Sure you can get a diamond that's certified "conflict free", but if you believe that little piece of paper then I've got some beachfront property in Arizona for sale.

And finally, Halloween to Mother's Day is a long damn season! That's like seven months and change. It's no wonder people believe the propaganda about how necessary diamonds are to your life when we're bombarded with advertisements for most of the year.

You don't like the world we live in? You think there are a few things we need to change? Start by saying no to corporate brainwashing, and what better place to start than with a useless piece ornamentation that actually kills people on it's way to your under appreciated jewelry box.

My own personal hell

I came to my parents' house this Thanksgiving weekend, as I do every Thanksgiving weekend, to chill with my family and to hopefully carve out some time to have sex with the same guy I've been having sex with for the last twenty years or so. Always, on the long drive over, I anticipate spending that first quiet evening chatting with my folks and my brother before the social whirlwind starts up. When I pull into town I habitually call to see who wants a coffee from Dutch Brothers and we all sit down over quadruple lattes and catch up.

I made the phone call from the north end of town, picked up lattes for Mom and myself, and headed to the house to do just what I had planned to do. I was barely in the door, relaxing on my favorite spot on the couch, unshowered (travelling in a Jeep with a dog, even with the top up, can be grungy business so I typically shower when I get to my destination), yesterday's hair pulled back into a pony tail of static electricity (it's dry on this side of the mountains), yesterday's eyeliner smudged under my eyes, and a stain on my jeans from where I dripped a bit of chipotle mayo during my driving lunch. So there I am, looking like the proverbial "something" that some wretched cat dragged into a lonely woman's house once, when Craig and his wife Jaime (incorrectly pronounced "Jamie", which is what her dyslexic mother meant to name her). It's been about a year and a half since I've seen or spoken to them, and honestly I could have gone the rest of my life happily without today's little reunion.

Whoops... you're gonna need a little history here. Craig was two years ahead of me in high school, and we dated briefly my sophomore year. We went to second base under the bleachers at a baseball game once, and when he figured out that was as far as he was going to get he dropped me like a hot rock. Didn't exactly break my heart. Even before I went through with the "love 'em" I was always o.k. with the "leave 'em" part. After he graduated he joined the Navy (no, not ALL sailors are gay) and I finished school. Flash forward to my college years and he's back in town, showing up at all the same parties I'm at. Somewhere in there we started hooking up. And then we stop because he thought he was going to get a commitment out of me, but by now he and my brother are good friends so he's still hanging around. And he's a good guy, fun to hang out with, easy to talk to. We're friends.

Then he gets married to the bat-shit-crazy girl that he knocked up. Surprise surprise, that ends in a bitter divorce that takes what little property he owns and most of his cash is going to child support so he needs a cheap place to live. I have a house downtown and could use a little extra pocket money so I rent a room to him. And we start hooking up again. I still won't make a commitment, and he's o.k. with that considering the divorce, and things go on happily for a while. We're still friends, just friends who occasionally have sex. When he met Jaime I was genuinely happy for him. Hey, I didn't really like her (still don't), but he seemed happy so I was happy for him. Not only did they seem like a solid couple, but it got him out of my house, because even friends can't live together forever.

So years go by, we chat at least once a week, but it starts to wear on me. Mostly because he can't understand that I still prefer to be alone so he starts to get patronizing, and that just pisses me off. For the most part I blow it off because we've known each other for so long. Then he shows up on my doorstep one evening, needs a place to crash. He'd come to Portland to deal with some kid drama and felt like having a few drinks rather than driving home. Of course I tell him he can stay, and offer to take him out for a drink or two, which turns into five, which turns into ten, which turns into calling a cab and passing out on a sidewalk, which turns into half-remembered and completely un-enjoyed drunken sex. I wake up in the morning more than a little disgusted with myself. I know I didn't initiate the sex, but still. This is my married friend, and as far as I know he's not a cheater. Plus, knowing him as I do, I know he thinks this gives him some sort of hold over me. But THEN I find out that not only does he cheat on his wife, but he'd been cheating on her with her mother and I can feel that bit of disgust growing and shifting firmly onto his shoulders. So I ask him to leave my house.

There are phone calls and chats for a while afterword, but they're less and less frequent because I make up excuses to cut them short. The birthday following that little misadventure I have a small BBQ at my parents' house, and they just happen to stop by. And he goes on and on about how old I'm getting until I just burst into tears. That did it. I didn't talk to him after that.

Until this weekend, when once again they just show up at the house. I'm looking like a tumbleweed, and not smelling much better, and there's no real hope for that to change much before dinner now. I did excuse myself to wash my face, change my clothes, and do something with my hair, which unfortunately Craig took as a really good time to trap me in the bathroom and try to make amends. I really didn't want to cause a scene, so I went with "I haven't really forgiven you for my birthday", and called it good. Things will never be the same, but it appeased him.

And then part two walks through the door. My long term relationship that has never had a commitment. Now he does cheat, I know and accept that about him (it's why I'll never make a commitment to him, even if I were inclined to promise myself to someone else for any length of time), but we have something. Something I can't even really explain. There's love between us, no doubt about that, but there's no jealousy, no possessiveness, and very few expectations. One of those expectations is that we don't meet whoever the other one is dating. Occasionally it's unavoidable, but in general we try not to let that happen. Turns out the other people in our lives are very perceptive to the amount of sexual tension between us, usually makes for a very uncomfortable conversation later. On my end I can honestly tell someone that we have history, but as long as I'm with (insert name here), then I'm done with him. He usually tells girls pretty much the same thing, sometimes resulting in them showing up on my doorstep because he also has a penchant for the psycho girls.

Of course he's not alone this evening, he's got the girl he's been dating with him. And, as the cherry on the cake of my day, two of her kids come tumbling in behind them. So now I'm stuck in the house with a guy who still somewhat disgusts me, his wife whom I don't like at all, the other woman, her two bouncing, squealing, crying, spoiled, in-constant-need of discipline kids, and my usual stress reliever is sitting across from me on the couch, texting apologies while I'm trying to disappear into the rocking chair.

Seventh circle, baby.

What's the deal with babies?

Anti-baby women have made sporadic appearances in mainstream television shows for a while, but they're always the same character... comic relief sidekick to a friend having a baby. (Samantha from Sex and the City ring a bell?) But I have to tell you that they're based on real women. Namely, me.

Recently I talked to my doctor about having my tubes tied. I then shared this thought with a couple of friends and it went over like a fart in a car. The second it was out of my mouth I wished I hadn't told anyone. One immediately projected her deepest, most secret wish (and by "secret" I mean "unvoiced, but obvious to everyone who's paying attention") for herself onto me and said, "What happens when you meet the right guy and you finally settle down? You'll want to have babies!" There are several things wrong with this statement, and it only starts with the fact that I don't want to have babies. The other major problem with it is my view on long term relationships, but that's a story for another time. The other friend, who is great at being the devil's advocate, had a million questions all boiling down to "are you really sure you don't want to have one?" She finally accepted that I don't, even if she doesn't seem to understand it.

Well if I had any doubt about my lack of maternal instincts they were cleared up last night. I went to a housewarming party for my dear friend Brent, who's insanely hot brother recently produced another tiny piece of fruit from his loins. Cindy, Brent's mom, brought this tiny, swaddled, alien down the stairs to meet the guests. I watched with mild curiosity as he was passed around receiving oohs and ahhs and cooing nonsense noises from people. Nearly everyone who held him projected an air of wonder and jealousy. A "Wow, this is a tiny human and I wish he were mine" sort of thing.

And then the baby came to me. I didn't want it, but there it was, suddenly being gently transferred to my arms, "be sure to support his head" (It's not that I don't know how to care for one!). And as he lay there, head supported with my elbow, blankets wrapped and trailing over my lap, I had only one thought. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?" Seriously, I had no urge to coo, no feeling of protectiveness, no twitching in my uterus that made me want to squeeze one out for myself. Nothing like that. So I told his mom that he was the worst toy ever and handed him off to someone who would appreciate him.

I still don't know what the deal with babies is for everyone else, but for me it's clearly "no deal".

Holy Hell My Fingers HURT!!

Last night Josh and Ben came over and we played some guitar hero, Ben cooked dinner (a delicious corkscrew pasta with a home made marinara, mixed baby greens with Cesar dressing, and garlic bread), and we hung out here at the house for a bit. It was nice. Later, Josh and I went to the Florida room for a couple drinks and on the ride over we were listening to some Black Crows and I mentioned, off hand, that I'd like to learn the guitar.

Now I've never actually played the guitar before. When I was a kid I would sometimes make some noise on my uncle Howard's guitar - until he'd hear me and take it away. That man is really protective about his instruments. So here I am, with my soft programmer's fingers. Sure they see more than their fair share of labor, but I'm pretty conscious about wearing gloves when I'm working with them, so they are soft and supple and feminine. But all that aside, Josh says he'd be totally stoked to teach me what he knows.

So, a bit of whiskey later, we head back to Josh and Ben's house and start my guitar lessons. Thank god for the whiskey or my fingers would have fallen off last night. I woke up this morning and picked out the one recognizable tune I know (the intro to Smoke On The Water) for a bit, then switched to my two chords. That's right, two. That's all I know. One's a G, and I think the other one is an A... but I wouldn't swear to it. And that's when it hit me. The pain in my fingertips that the whiskey had numbed last night. Ten minutes of pressing steel-wrapped strings against the neck of my borrowed guitar and DAMN! I can barely type with my left hand. But everything worth doing is painful to learn, and an old guitar seems like a good way to pass the time when I'm on the road.

So bring it on. Bring on the pain, bring on the callouses, bring on the frustration and the joy of learning something new. Bring it all on. I can handle it.