Breaking News: Kim Kardashian gives gay-rights activists their best argument yet

We don't often get all political on the blog, but I'm about to.

It may seem a surprise to open this page and see a political piece at the top, but what may be even more surprising is what has prompted my political outrage: the Kardashians. Namely, Kim Kardashian filing for divorce from her NBA player husband a mere 72 DAYS after their wedding day. 72 days. That's it. That means her marriage was shorter than most middle school relationships. They didn't even spend a single significant holiday together as a married couple. She said in a statement that she decided to end her marriage "after careful consideration." Really?! How long could she possibly have thought about it? I bet I give more careful consideration about what to wear on a date.

The news made me very angry. Irrationally angry. Not because I'm angry that poor Kim and Kris couldn't make it work. But angry because of all the "sanctity of marriage" bullshit that right-wing conservatives throw out there when arguing against same-sex marriage. Let me get this straight. Two people that are in love, who have quite possibly been living together for years, raising children together, and are tax-paying, contributing members of society can't get married (and thus enjoy the legal benefits coming from their legal union) because they happen to be the same gender, but these two publicity generating media-whores can? (For more on their media whorishness, please read this amazing piece by Rob Delaney.)

I imagine Kim's train of thought as she made the decision to marry this basketball player mere months after they first started dating: "It's been awhile since we had a marriage or a baby in this family to drum up a firestorm of publicity. Maybe I should get married and have an over-the-top million dollar, made for E! tv wedding (which I will sell the rights to for $17.9 million), then start the buzz that it's America's own royal wedding!" (You're famous because of a sex tape. Please do not insult royalty or America by making that claim.) But somehow, in this crazy, mixed-up world, Kim Kardashian is allowed to get real-married for a TV show, but gay people aren't allowed to get real-married for real. Something just ain't right.

The hypocrisy of the right-wing is something that never fails to get me riled up, and while Kim really has nothing to do with it, she's just the most public example of everything that is wrong with it. If you want to protect the sanctity of marriage, that's fine. But don't you think you should go after the near 60% divorce rate? It seems to me that the only thing that's destroying the sanctity of marriage is married people. But then again, the far-right, and most especially the Tea Party, is nothing but hypocrisy. I don't understand why they aren't called on it more often. All they do is scream for less and less government, but they only want less government when it comes to their money. When it comes to "social" issues, such as gay marriage, abortion rights, and the death penalty, they want more government. They don't want the government involved in telling people what to do unless it's telling people whom to marry and what to do with your unwanted pregnancy. Abortion is murder, but the death penalty isn't? How is that not a double standard? And while we're at it, the Tea Party and their constitutional fundamentals want to use that constitution to ban gay marriage. The last I checked, the constitution was to give rights, not take them away.

They use Jesus to back up their claims and to get votes.  I find this fascinating, because I'm pretty sure if Jesus were around today, he would vote Democrat, and believe it or not, he didn't say a single word about gay people. Those who quote the Bible in order to prove their anti-gay stance just sound ignorant, but I don't think it's a coincidence that the more educated you are, the more likely you are to vote Democrat. (Fact. Look it up.)

Maybe it's because I'm on the other side of the pond, and watching the current political situation from afar, but it's downright embarrassing. The rest of the world thinks we're religious crackpots who can't separate religion and politics and are a nation taking huge steps backward instead of forward. To this, I say that England really has no one to blame but themselves, as America was founded by religious crackpots escaping persecution and continued to grow as Europe dumped their unwanted in the New World. (Yet another reason why the Republicans' villeinage of immigrants is also hypocritical: we were all in their shoes at one time or another.) But I also say to them, don't worry. We're not all right-wing crackpots. Michelle Bachmann's campaign is crumbling because people realize that having a racist homophobe for a president is soooo 1847, and Rick Perry's polling numbers are plummeting because, well, he started to talk and people realized he is an idiot.

It may seem like a stretch that I went from a Kardashian divorce to a rail against the right-wing, but the way I see it, if gay people aren't allowed to get married in order to protect the sanctity of marriage, then Kim shouldn't be allowed to get married (and divorced) twice before the age of 31. It also may be embarrassing that the Kardashians are so obscenely famous for contributing absolutely nothing to society, and it may be embarrassing to witness the Tea Party from abroad, but the fact that I can say my peace about the situation and not be punished for it is a beautiful thing. God bless America.

The Great Pumpkin

Wondering why we've been so quiet this month? This is why. I've had a great month, and I've done a lot of exciting things, but sadly, a man isn't one of them. I've done something much more important though, and that's make some really awesome friends. So now that I've filled up my contact list, it's time to fill up this massive bed. Bring it on, November!

The right guy

You Guys!  I've been quiet, I know.  It happens.  Maybe I just needed some time alone.  (Oh wait, I get that all the time).  Apparently, all I needed was a chat with my father.

Two weeks ago our great aunt passed away.   She had been struggling quite a while with health issues so it was no surprise when we got the phone call.  Violet and I did not know her all that well, she was the sister of our grandfather and we can only really remember seeing her a handful of times since we moved so far away from the Bickerstaff clan.   But our Dad grew up around her and took a long roadtrip with his sister to make it to her funeral.  After he got back he was chatting with me about all the family he saw.  It seems we only see each other at funerals anymore, something that was pointed out to him last year at our other great aunt's funeral, when his cousin said, "Gee, it would be nice if we could all go to a wedding."  He was really just asking our dad when his spinster daughters were finally going to get hitched.

This time around, it sounds like family kept asking him if he has any grandkids yet.  "Well no, no grandkids.  I don't have any son-in-laws yet....they're not just looking for a guy, they're looking for the right guy."  For some reason he repeated this to me multiple times.  I think because he had to give the explanation multiple times.  He was sure to add that that was quite ok with him, and that's the way it should be.  Isn't he so supportive?  It's like he was saying his daughters date plenty, they have their pick of men, it's just that none of the guys have been good enough.  He was saying that we just haven't found them yet.  He was also saying that his daughters will not be having kids out of wedlock (cough, like our cousin, cough).  Oh Dad, you're so sweet.  I hope Violet bears you a grandchild real soon.

Last night I went out to a Meetup gathering, figuring maybe I could find my father a son-in-law.  Of course the one person I exchanged numbers with was a girl, who may just be my new single BFF.  We left that bar to go to another with some non-Meetup guys we had just met.  We had a great time, singing and dancing to an awesome band.  I didn't leave without first making out with my dancing partner in the middle of the floor.  I don't know what his name was.  All I know is that he was wearing skinny jeans and had an unfortunate Justin Bieber hairdo.  I also know he was celebrating his birthday.  His 21st birthday.  Don't worry Dad, I'll keep looking.

It's the End of the World (As We Know It)

Blame it on that crazy loon Harold Camping and his doomsday predictions, but today, as I rode the tube to a friend's housewarming party, I thought to myself, "what would I do if the world were to suddenly be coming to an end?" As it was going on 9pm GMT and no earthquakes or rapturing had taken place as far as I could tell, the moment had clearly passed, but it's still a worthy question.

I didn't have to think twice about the answer. There really wasn't any hesitation. If the world were coming to an end in a matter of mere hours, there is only one thing I would want to be doing: having sex. I know I'm not alone in that sort of thinking.

As I was on the tube, there was really only one thing to do: decide who in the carriage I would shag if in fact doomsday were coming. The carriage wasn't particularly full, a welcome respite considering what seems like 90% of London lives on my tube line. It is packed all. the. time. Even at 10pm on a Tuesday evening. Rush hour is so bad my flatmate Nigel gets to work an entire hour early everyday just to avoid it, and the one time I actually had to take it during the morning rush (thank goodness for no morning classes), I was squished in like a sardine into the stuffy carriage, and it didn't take long before my bangs were sticking to my forehead and my dress sticking to my body, and yes, eventually the river of sweat did begin to flow south between my breasts. Lovely start to the day. But on this Friday evening heading into the city, the carriage was not quite half full, and there were a decent number of men on it.

I scanned the options. The two very young men sitting next to me looked to be more of the frat boy crowd and most likely homosexual, whether they knew it or not. Perhaps the end of the world would give them the liberation to finally be able to shag each other. I ruled out the man sitting across from me not because he was bad looking (which he wasn't), but because he had just consumed a box of greasy fried chicken and chips, straight out of the box, while it sat directly on the floor of the tube. Gross.

Then my eyes landed on the man two seats away from greasy chicken and chips man. Not bad. Not bad at all. We might have a winner- until I noticed that underneath his jacket was what appeared to be a denim shirt, a felony in the ranks of crimes against fashion. I surveyed my other options. To my left, I had a man wearing what appeared to be a 1950s style jock sweater, but further down the carriage there was a man who looked relatively normal, but he got off before I could see what type of shirt he was wearing.

I decided to go back to my original cute fashion criminal when a man who looked like he could be the kid from Billy Elliot 10 years later sat down directly across from me. (Wait, he really could have been the kid from Billy Elliot, as it is 10 years later!) He too was wearing a denim shirt. For crying out loud, I thought London was supposed to be one of the fashion capitals of the world?! And here I have two denim shirts and a jock sweater in one half full carriage?!

I looked more closely at the original Denim Shirt Guy and realized that his denim shirt appeared to be a faux denim shirt. Faux denim? Is that really necessary? Is there a Save The Denim foundation I didn't know about that pickets denim fashion shows, then dumps red paint on the offending denim-wearers while screaming Murderer! Then I reminded myself that in this hypothetical scenario, this is doomsday we're talking about. Fuck it, if the end of the world is barreling down the underground, I will shag the guy in the (possibly faux) denim shirt. He has nice lips.

SUPERKING

As I mentioned before, my new room in my new flat is pretty big, as is my bed. King-sized big. Although, as I had to learn the hard way, it's not king-sized in the UK, it's SUPERking! On my first day here, I had to buy some sheets. I went to the store, found a king-sized fitted sheet, and brought it home, only to find out it didn't fit. Turns out, the UK system is different from the US system of classifying bed sizes. They have double, but what we call a queen, they call a king, and what we call a king, they call superking, which sounds more like it should be fighting crime in a Marvel comic. Therefore, the only queen you'll find here is Her Majesty, The Queen, whose stamp is everywhere, even on the bottle of Heinz ketchup. That came from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Also frustrating was grocery shopping for ingredients to make whoopie pies and being unable to find powdered sugar only to discover that instead of powdered or confectioner's sugar, they call it icing sugar here.  But I digress.

My bed is huge. It's so big, that I haven't found the need to purchase a nightstand yet. Why? Because I can just put my book, glasses and alarm (aka my phone) in a corner of my bed. I have so much space, I won't roll over and crush them. This is not a problem. It's great, in fact, as I like to spread myself out while I sleep. It's great until I wake up in the morning and realize that my glasses are all the way over on the opposite side of the bed, and there is absolutely nothing between us except a huge, empty expanse of chocolate colored sheets from Argos. Nothing. Just me. Alone. In my bed fit for a superking.

Obviously, I'm anxious to put a superking in my superking bed, but obviously I don't want to come off as desperate. I don't want to come up with a man-trapping plan (unless you can think of a really good one), because as I'm in this exciting city of 7 million people, I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing. Going to class and the library, hanging out with new friends in the student bar, going out on the weekends, and meeting new people practically everyday. As long as I keep an open-mind, things will just happen. I mean, I do have the best legs in London, right? But I don't know how much patience I have before I need to concoct a Plan.

Who wears short shorts?

"Young lady, you've got the nicest legs in all of London."

At first it startled me, the man's voice coming out of the utility truck. He was eating a sandwich in the passenger seat (even though he was sitting on what I still think of as the driver's side) and, well, staring at my legs. Did I slap him? Did I make a dirty face and walk off in a huff about the indignity of being ogled liked a piece of meat.

Of course not. I smiled and said thank you. The English are just so damn polite, even when they're catcalling, it's hard to do anything but. It's not as if he said "Fancy a shag?", he just told me I had the nicest legs in all of London. And he seemed to be a pretty good authority on the situation. (I'm actually quite proud of my legs, and in this day and age women can admit when they've got it going on, right?)

I've been settling into The Life of a Londoner quite nicely, I think. I haven't been hit by a double-decker bus coming from the direction I'm not used to, people ask me for directions (and are surprised by my accent), I get a lot of reading done on the Tube, and I haven't embarrassed myself too badly by saying the wrong word or pointing out someone's fanny pack. (Note: Fanny = Vagina in British) However, I'm still getting hung up on pants. To me, pants are worn over your underwear. To the British, pants are worn under your trousers. Underwear. So if I tell someone I really like their pants, I'm bound to get an odd look. This is something I really must work on.

But most importantly, I've got friends! Obviously I've got Fen, but I'm filling up my phone contact list quite nicely with other students, just moved to London, and a few who are also On The Prowl. We have big plans to go out, meet men, have fun, and experience this awesome city. The Fun begins tomorrow. Grayer, now would be a good time to give me a Night Out Scavenger Hunt...

The One

The search is over. I've finally found The One.

It's just like everyone says, when it's right, you just know. We're going to live happily ever after, I just know it.

What, you think I'm talking about a man? Don't be silly, I'm talking about finally finding a flat, but the means to get there are pretty much the same.

Just like you look for a man online, you look for a flat online. You search for things in your age range or your price range, look for something geographically desirable, and when you actually go to see it/meet him in person, you just hope that the picture provided doesn't let you down. When you do actually meet, you have to put your best foot forward. Be friendly, smile a lot, and let them know how much better their lives will be with you in it. Then, once the first meeting/date is over, you have to let them know that you're definitely interested, but you can't appear needy. No one likes needy.

And after you let them know you're interested, you wait by the phone. And wait, and wait, and wait. When the phone never rings, or you get an email letting you know it's bad news, you just feel rejected. The more rejections I got, the more I kept wondering, why doesn't anyone want to live with me?! I'm delightful!

Then on Monday, I found The One. I had had another viewing first that evening, one of those where the photos totally lied. I saw a picture of a spacious, bright room, only to be standing in a tiny room while the landlord explained that the wrong photos were put onto the website by no fault of his own. Yeah, right. I headed to my second viewing with higher hopes, since the advert said they were looking for someone who thinks kerfuffle is a great word, so in my response I used kerfuffle in a sentence. I was pretty sure I was a front-runner before I even arrived.

True to the cliche, when you know, you know. Yes, the furniture is a bit shabby and the kitchen features The Original Microwave, but the room is big and bright, and the flatmates are lovely. We hit it off right away. An hour after I left, my phone finally rang, telling me the flatmates loved me. I knew someone would eventually!

I moved out of Fen's bedroom and into my new place today. As much as I love Fen, it was time to get out of her bed. She never wants to cuddle.

The new place isn't without its hiccups, most notably the fact that I have a king-sized bed, which is most impressive considering several of the rooms I looked at were most definitely smaller than a king-sized bed, but it means finding bedding is tougher and more expensive. Having a large bed is not the worst problem to have. Now all I need to do is find a man to put in it.