Funny · Ha-Ha, · or · Funny · Strange?

I think it's trying to be both dramatic and exciting and goofy and silly all at once. Not an easy row to hoe when shows like Buffy have set the bar so very high. But wow. Lame!

Maybe it's the Cancer in me glorying in it, but seriously. Is there anything more wonderful than cuddling a brand new baby in the family close, feeling that softer-than-anything-you've-ever-felt-before skin brush your cheek as you smell the top of their fuzzy little heads and listen to the feather-light sound of them breathing? Yesterday while driving home from the hospital, after that first time that he slept with his tiny, wizened, old man face snuggled against my cheek and my shoulder, I felt like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas when his heart suddenly, visibly doubles in size.

I'm only an auntie, but I have caught a glimpse of that thing that makes mothers throw themselves in front of bullets and speeding cars to protect their children.

It's funny. From the moment I realized I was gay, back when I was 14 years old, I felt no shame about it. I felt fear about how I might be treated by others on account of it. But I never had any of that internalized, "I'm a disgusting pervert/freak of nature/fag" homophobia stuff. As painfully shy and riddled with my own emotional demons as I was, I was able to be out as a teenager because I knew in my bones that society was messed up about sexuality and gender, and that the only way to help fix it was to be out. So I was out. And if anyone said something hateful to me about LGBTQ anything, I set 'em straight. So to speak. I had no shame. Not when it came to all of that. I could be articulate, eloquent even, when one of my peers at school mouthed off about dyke this and faggot that. I could be brave then. It wasn't easy, but it was do-able. I had a fight worth fighting, a just cause. So I had no shame.

But about the possibility that I might be crazy? Or mentally ill? I felt boatloads of shame. I still do. I waited 27 years for a proper diagnosis, and even after that came, even now that I understand that I am not a coward, and not crazy, I feel shame. Never mind that it's the fault of neurotransmitters rather than a defect in my character. I still feel like less of a person, less than I should be, because I'm biochemically less able to cope with life and the living of it. That is incredibly shaming.

I'm trying to work my way through that these days. I can't help but find it odd though, how relatively easy it has been to be openly gay, and how much harder I'm finding it to be openly bipolar. It's odd and kind of funny and sad.

I always, always cry when the Fascist goons try to take Judi Dench's dog away when she's getting on the bus. (Oh, god, here comes the dog back to her in the barracks. "She's come all this way, oh you brilliant dog!" Yeah. That line makes me get weepy, too.) I know. I'm a sap.

So I'm getting all choked up, and I'm inwardly laughing about my boundless affection for Judi Dench, fondly recalling the only other person I've known to share this adoration: one Michael White, these past two years, one month, and two days deceased. And I'm laughing at myself for being such a sap and getting choked up, yet again at this part of the movie. When very distinctly, I hear Michael's voice in my head. Down to his inflection. His intonation. That curious mix of dry derision and dear fondness.

"Yes, you're such a mensch."

Only I don't actually know what "a mensch" means other than that it's Yiddish, a dialect with which he habitually seasoned his conversation. So I hop online and on over to Wiki to look it up. And it means, basically, "a good person." And given the way I heard him say it, that's so right in line with his sense of humor that it's impossible to doubt the source. So I bust out laughing.

It's hot as hell and I'm having a rough time getting back on my feet professionally, creatively, and financially. But so what? Life is getting really good again. The rest will fall into place.

20 inches long and weighing in at 7 lbs., 4 oz. at the time of his birth, Tristin is healthy and happy. His parents are resting comfortably tonight at the hospital, set to bring their son home Sunday evening.

He's got Taurus sun, Capricorn moon, and Leo rising. As my friend Kimberly put it, this is one kid unlikely to let anything get in his way. :)

Her two-and-a-half year old niece on his side, Maddyx, had the best comment of the day. Her mom told her that her cousin, Baby Tristin, might be coming out of Aunt Lisa's tummy today. Mad's reply? "That would be funny! Ha ha ha!" I freaking love that kid. I hope Tristin is even half as much fun. :)

Best news of the day: The recipe for Cinnamon Toast Crunch has been altered to no longer include milk products. In short, I can eat my favorite cereal again, whee!

How can this BE?! I'm a CYLON!!!

Your Slogan Should Be

Graashoppa. Hand-built by Robots.

There's also a really great April Fool's Day article up today if you click over to the HBC's home page. It's the Harper Lee "memoir" review, located a few hits below the blurb for my review. Definitely good for a laugh!

Had my first Our Chart book review published this week, too. And my new Boob Tube TV blog on Our Chart should make its debut some time today.

Making some writerly progress here. Guess it's about time!

Ooh, and my pasty, white self is getting TAN!

Bestill my beating geek brain. When Satsu the Vampire Slayer came out in issue 11, professing her love for Buffy, that Kennedy-loathing geek brain of mine immediately thought, "Hmmm. Maybe Kennedy will die horribly (and stay dead this time, for the love of no more Spuffy, ever), and then Willow and Satsu will fall in love. And Willow can be with someone who doesn't make me want to throw up a little bit in my mouth..."

Alas, it was not to be. Not yet, at any rate. Although if Joss has done his vicious lesbian circle homework? Who knows? Because in issue 12, Buffy went and slept with Satsu. It was done with grace, with sexiness, and with a delightful smattering of French farce.

And equally noteworthy, it was done with an accompanying Joss Whedon interview in the New York Times, in which Joss finally--FINALLY--five years after the fact--admits an understanding of the existence and blechiness of the dead lesbian cliché. In a round-about, slippery sort of way, he even touches briefly on the importance of being responsible about the kind of messages you send as a storyteller:

"What of the viewer outrage when Willow’s girlfriend Tara was fatally shot?

“It’s something you have to factor in,” Mr. Whedon said. After Tara died, he said, he discovered that “there was a whole cliché about lesbians being killed.” He added: “You do have to be careful about the message you’re sending out. It’s a double-edged sword. You have to be responsible, but you also have to be irresponsible or you’re not telling the best stories.”

I guess it's a tad hypocritical of me to wish fiery death upon Kennedy in the same breath as calling Joss out on his dead lesbian cliché retardedness and past misdeeds. But I loathe her so deeply that it's hard to care. :X