Sometimes I like to torture myself by reading comments on popular national blogs and newsmagazine-type sites. I only read comments about social issues, because I think it's interesting to read how other people think about things like parenting and gay marriage, and sometimes I even learn something. Yesterday I read through all the comments following a Slate book review on a book about some woman's low sex drive. The name of the book isn't really important and because I have not read it, I have no comment about it. Not having read the book did not stop most of the Slate commenters from passing all kinds of judgement from every angle, however.

Here is an amazing fact: EVERYONE IS DIFFERENT. Every relationship is different. I will say it again and again and again: Not everyone is meant to be a parent; not everyone is meant to be a driver; not everyone is meant to be married; and not everyone is meant to have sex some prescribed number of times per week. I would say no one is meant to have sex a prescribed number of times per week, but if you like a consistent schedule, good for you. I don't care. IT DOESN'T AFFECT ME. I don't care how often, in what way and with whom other people have sex. I don't know why anyone else cares.

I just can't believe how judgy people get about other people's sex lives. I remember watching an interview some time ago with people who identified as asexual. The interviewer was so condescending, I could not believe it. Here's the thing, though. I don't understand what it's like to be asexual either. Nor do I pass judgment or act like I am superior because I indentify differently. You know what I really don't understand? I don't understand how some people don't like chocolate. I can't wrap my brain around it. Most people agree with me that chocolate is delicious. Some people don't. I don't think they are necessarily defective or had a traumatic chocolate instance in their past. It could be the case, of course. But I DON'T KNOW. So I don't judge them. Good God.

ETA: I think the original article was on Alternet, not Slate. My bad.

I caught two episodes of Work Out on Bravo last night. I enjoyed the last season, probably because it made me feel happy to live a drama-free and fatty food-filled life. I should have turned it off after the first episode because it is a seriously annoying show. Some of the trainers are so unprofessional! There was one scene where two trainers were going on and on about some personal drama while a client sat at a weight machine in the background like, "Um, hello?" Seriously. I don't know how much these trainers cost, but I'm guessing it's a lot, and if I was spending a gazillion dollars an hour for a trainer, I'd ask for a refund for the time wasted listening to their beautiful people bullshit drama. I am so thankful to be far removed from unnecessary drama and obsession with appearance.

Hey, you guys! My baby brother has a blog!

Five things you didn't know about my brother (assuming you know anything about him, which is not likely):

1. As a little kid, he knew everything you could possibly know about dinosaurs. I mean everything. He was pointing out errors in books about dinosaurs when he was like three.
2. He can do the best impression of Rousseau from Lost's facial expressions. Sometimes I think of it randomly and start cracking up.
3. When he was growing up, he kept a million notebooks full of strange code names and numbers. He left these notebooks all over the house. I have no idea what they were.
4. One of my favorite memories with him is watching 7th Heaven, which we both thought was really dumb but got sucked into anyway. Together we rewrote the entire 7th Heaven theme song, and he contributed my favorite verse: What can we dooooooooo/To help Simon with his hair?/There's nothing to doooooooooo/Let's feed him to a bear
5. He is an excellent baker and can make delicious brownies from scratch and herb breads, yet, he is inexplicably addicted to Easy Mac-n-cheese.

Check it out, y'all.

The other day, I told someone I wish Elizabeth Edwards was running for President instead of her husband. She seems like just about the most capable, genuine, strong and kind person attached to anyone in politics right now. I remember watching her in an interview one time where she said that losing her son was the absolute worst thing that could ever happen in her life, and in a weird way, it seemed like that terrible, tragic loss had given her this incredible strength to get through anything else in life.

When I heard she had stage 4, uncurable cancer, I was very, very sad. Everyone I know has been touched by cancer some way or another. Some friends of mine are dealing with it in a really awful way right now. I have nothing but enormous respect for Elizabeth Edwards' decision to continue campaigning with her husband as her health permits (by the way, this is in no way an endorsement of him). I think she can provide an example of courage and strength for the millions of Americans who are dealing with cancer in their own families. I wish all of them strength.

Last night, I found myself in a discussion about our local civic association. I don't have much contact with my civic association, because I am a renter, not a homeowner, and therefore do not receive the newsletter. I had asked someone about that at a civic association meeting one time, and she said that all new homeowners receive a welcome basket with information about neighborhood organizations, etc. I don't expect a welcome basket for signing a year-long lease on a shitty apartment with leaky ceilings, but the more I think about it, the more angry I get. Sure, a lot of renters are transient, but a lot of us love our neighborhoods but can't afford to buy a home there. And a lot of people rent their whole lives (I certainly can't see myself affording to buy a home anytime soon). Do they just not exist to their local civic associations? Does every neighborhood work like this?

I know it might not be an intentional, but it kind of feels like class discrimination to me. I have lived in my apartment for two years. I have not made a six-digit investment in the neighborhood, but I live and breathe there. I care about safety, I care about lighting and cleanliness and recycling and all that. There are lots of renters in my neighborhood who probably care about that stuff too, but don't know where to go to voice their concerns. I would think that welcoming and embracing renters into the neighborhood is a positive for everybody. I know there was a time in my life where I tried to live off the grid and under the radar. At the time, I liked to think of myself as completely independent with no one to report to and no one to look out for, but I wonder if someone had reached out to me, would I have felt some connection to the community? Would I have felt some obligation to take care of my neighborhood? Maybe I wasn't ready then. But I am ready now, and I know I am not the only renter in this city full of renters who cares about my surroundings. Homeowners, take note. We're your neighbors, too.

. . . but she sure likes the bone!

I have been following the heated discussion on Alternet (and in The Nation) regarding meat-eating. I don't know why people have to drag out the same arguments over and over again. I personally do not care what anyone else chooses to eat or not to eat. However, I do think that we should be aware of where our food comes from. The environmentalist solution, in my opinion, would be to try to convince people to buy more local food and perhaps reduce their consumption of meat and dairy products. Telling people to stop eating meat altogether just makes people defensive. My god, people are defensive about what they eat. Here's the thing, though: some people see animal suffering as analagous to human suffering, some do not. Some people see an egg as a chicken, some do not. In these types of cases, beating people over the head is not going to change anyone's mind. Nor is informing vegans that they probably step on bugs all day, because, um, I think they know that. Everyone draws the line in a different place, according to their own morals and philosophies and cultures and locations and tastes and desires.

I am not someone who could eat meat after watching a slaughterhouse video. Some people can. I don't judge them. Some people can't lie around watching TV knowing there is poverty and violence and suffering in the world — unfortunately, I can. I don't think I am any better than my boyfriend because I don't eat hamburgers, just like I don't think I am any worse than my mom because I don't grow my own vegetables. What we eat is important, and I think people should strive to eat fresh, local, and delicous food when possible. I also think people need to stop telling each other what they "should" and "should not" eat.

I was on Spring Break this week, which means I flew to Cancun and got drunk and ended up on Girls Gone Wild. . . except, no. Actually, I continued to work full-time, so it really wasn't that much of a break at all, except I ended up getting home early and instead of using this time productively, I decided to wrap myself up in a new-to-me TV show: The Gilmore Girls, reruns of which are shown weekdays at 5 on The Family Channel.

I had seen this show before and found it kind annoying yet enjoyable. The enjoyable part is mostly drooling over Lauren Graham's gazillion dollar wardrobe. The characters themselves are super annoying: Lorelai is irritating and self-involved and Rory is meek and in desparate need of a backbone. And also, who talks like this, with the crazy fast pace and all the pop culture references? As someone who grew up in a very different version of small town Connecticut, I cringe at all the shticky neighborly characters and messed up geopgraphical references. Why did Norman Mailer go on this show? Hell, why did Sebastien Bach go on this show? And the million dollar question: why did I watch this show almost every day last week? I don't know. I do know, however, that the reruns are being shown out of order, which just increases my curiosity. It's back to school for me this week, so I won't be tuning in to my new friends in Stars Hollow. And I know this show is actually still on the air, but I have a feeling it's gotten less enjoyable and more annoying and I don't need another show in my prime-time lineup. So adios Gilmore Girls . . . till we meet again.

I finally have dental insurance, even though it only covers exams and cleanings. I have never had teeth problems — I'm a total grinder, but my teeth have always been functional, if mildly crooked and not quite movie-star white. Imagine my surprise to learn that I actually have eight cavaties. Or had, I got them filled, thanks to the power of the credit card. This is not the worst part, however. The worst part is that a lifetime's worth of grinding has shifted my formerly slightly crooked teeth into so freaking crooked I actually require braces to prevent more cavaties in my overlapping teeth.

Being melodramatic, I immediately emailed my mother about why she never got me braces as a teenager (I actually wanted them then, I thought they made you look older and cool) and why I should have to plunge myself further into debt at this late date. She basically said, suck it up, baby, which is probably what I would tell my whiny-ass adult child as well. Especially since, at the age of 57, my mom is currently rocking braces herself. I guess I probably shouldn't wait that long.