Since I’m being political lately, I decided to join NARAL Pro-Choice America for Blog for Choice Day, January 22, 2012.  The date is important because it’s the anniversary of Roe v. Wade.

Right wing nut jobs – hello, Rick Santorum – think that court decision and all the hoopla since has been all about killing babies.  There is nothing a “pro-abortion” activist likes more than killing babies.  I know one of my favorite pastimes is watching piles of dead babies burn as worthless medical waste.  The scent of incinerating souls makes me feel a little high, which is how I know I’ll have a great time in hell.

I’d like to think that no one is truly “pro-abortion.”  I know I’m not.  In my perfect world abortions would not be necessary because everyone who got pregnant would want to be pregnant, and would be able to afford to raise the kid into a productive member of society and all that.  In my perfect world there would also be plenty of sexy sex, both potentially procreative and otherwise.  In my perfect world everyone who wanted fail-safe birth control would have access to it, thereby preventing any oopsie pregnancies.

Alas, the world is not perfect and sometimes the sperm swim towards eggs without asking if that’s what they should be doing.  And sometimes the sperm fertilizes the egg and that egg implants in a welcoming uterus.  Then that fertilized egg in its cozy home goes to work splitting and so on.  Zygote.  Fetus.  Birth.  Baby.  Which is all well and good if the goal is Baby.

If the goal is not Baby there are medical procedures called abortions.  No, I don’t think abortions are birth control.  I think birth control is birth control.  The goal, at least for me, is to make sure a fertilized egg does not find a cozy home in my uterus.

But I like knowing that if the precautions I have taken fail, that I have one more option to assure no Baby.  Because I’m way too old to change my selfish, lazy, alcoholic ways now.  Besides, my genes are shitty and I probably only have about 20 years of lucid thoughts left.

Due to my diligence with hormonal birth control I have never been pregnant.  There was a very short time when I was married that I considered trying to get pregnant but the timing never worked out with the finances or the maturity of the proposed father.  It was around then that I had to reassess whether, if I got pregnant through birth control failure, I would have an abortion.  For a short time the answer was no, but at all other times it’s been yes.

You see, us ladies have to ask ourselves, “What if?” every time.  Not every time we have sex (if we’re using reliable forms of birth control) but every time our life’s circumstances change.  Would I have a child now?  No fucking way.  If, by failure of my IUD I got pregnant, I’d march my ass to my local Planned Parenthood and talk to the folks there about terminating the unwanted, unplanned, and unaffordable pregnancy.

While I’ve never been pregnant, I’ve known plenty of women who have been.  Some had babies, some had abortions.  Some have done both.  Not one person I’ve ever talked to who had an abortion thought it was a pleasant experience or one they wanted to repeat.  One called the post-abortion communal recovery room the Room of Sadness.  Why would anyone want to hang out in a Room of Sadness?

That is why I am pro-choice.  It’s not because I like dead babies (though they can be funny), it’s because I don’t want to have to deal with any sort of Baby thoughts whatsoever, and because I never want to hang out in a Room of Sadness.  I choose to avoid Rooms of Sadness by choosing to use safe and effective – and legal – birth control.  Of course I’m not the only one.  There are lots of us out there.

Which brings me to the “mandate” of Blog for Choice Day: How will you help elect pro-choice candidates in 2012?  Fuck, I don’t know.

Yes, I’m lazy, but I’m not that lazy.  And I’m not apolitical.  When I lived in California it was easy because access to abortions is in the state constitution; NARAL gives the state an A+ in choice-related law.

Illinois, however, gets a B-, which means I have some work to do in my new home.  Seems both of Illinois’ US Senators – Richard Durbin and Mark Kirk – are pro-choice, as is the US Representative representing my district, Danny Davis.  Of course I know that those folks don’t have anything to do with state laws because I went to public school and learned all about that.

Illinois’ current governor, Pat Quinn is pro-choice, but who knows how long until he’s in prison.  (No, I’ve not heard anything, but going by past Illinois’ governors’ track records, I wouldn’t be surprised.)  My State Representative Ann Williams is pro-choice.  I had some trouble finding out whether Illinois State Senator John Cullerton was pro-choice, and had some doubts considering he’s Catholic.  Then I saw that “Illinois Review: crossroads of the conservative community” (Click at your peril because it made my skin crawl.) called Illinois a “pro-abortion” state and said Mr. Cullerton consistently “opposed protecting unborn humans” and I knew he was ok.  (Helping my opinion was that he voted for medical marijuana, same-sex civil unions, and stem-cell research.)

What I’ll do to elect pro-choice candidates in 2012 is … vote for the incumbents.  See, I am lazy.  And that may not be all I’ll do, but I’ll do at least that.  Before research for writing this, I had no clue what the voting records or choice-stances were held by the people purporting to represent me.  Hell, I didn’t know who represented me.  I know now.

Do you know who represents you?  Are you happy with their voting records on choice?

Still not convinced you need to do something?  Take a look at this easy-to-read infographic provided by NARAL Pro-Choice America:

I swear.  True story (that needs to change).

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

This could be a lot of fun.  I haven't seen a guy in tighty whities in I don't know how long, but on the right guy they could be sexy.  On the wrong guy they could be downright laughable.

There is something about rubbing a cock – or a pussy – through cloth that feels clandestine and dirty.  The most fun is continuing to rub the cock after he came so the material is wet and sticky.  If the guy has a lot of precome – leaky faucets are fun – then the whole handjob would be a nicely moist affair.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

The Viking and I have been living together for two years as of yesterday.  I didn’t post yesterday because my site was dark for SOPA/PIPA protest reasons.  We moved in much earlier in our relationship than would probably be advised, but it’s been working.  Working quite well.

We lived for nearly a year in San Francisco and now for just over a year in Chicago.  It’s all been pretty damn nice.

I get worried sometimes that things will go shitty but the Viking told me to stop being fatalistic.  Of course he’s right.

So it’s been two years of happy times, two years of great sex, two years of fun outings (restaurants and museums and such).  And two years of gooshy love stuff to which I wouldn’t subject you readers.  Suffice it to say that we say things to each other that, if said by another couple, would make me nauseous.

I’m really happy and I hope the Viking and I continue to be happy together.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Having just moved into a new home.  Renting.  It’s rustic and falling apart in some places.  I’m sharing a room that’s big enough to have two queen bed and an anti room.

People come to visit.  A lot of people.  It gets chaotic.  Add to that each bed had to be professionally vacuumed.  A few dogs including Isis and a very sweet pit bull.

Tons of people running about.  Lots of stuff everywhere so anything specific is hard to find.

A woman has some sort of issue where she’s scratching at her vulva incessantly.  I never see her face.  She’s fat and scratching.  I see that then close my eyes and yell, “Dear god, it’s burned into my retinas.  Make it go away!”

[Step-Sister] is there.  She has a rash or welts and shows me.  I see her back – she’s only wearing underwear.  I don’t want her skin to touch me for fear I’d catch something from her.

I don’t know who most of the people are or why they’re causing such chaos.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve never tried to fist my ass and it’s likely that I never will.  And I suppose this chick’s not doing that either, but I hope that’s on it’s way, if she likes it.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

It was a good year, a very good year. A year of living in Chicago. A year of living with the Viking. A year of taking care of the animals, Isis and Joaquin. A year of taking art classes. A year of meeting new people. A year.

When we moved into our current apartment on January 1, 2011, we saw a lot of beer, liquor, Four Loco, and other assorted alcohol-related receptacles discarded in the “green” space between the sidewalk and the curb.  What the fuck is that called?  At first I was upset that we’d moved to a neighborhood that had so much litter, but then I realized it was New Year’s Day so the amount of trash was unusual.

Only it wasn’t.  Our neighborhood has a lot of litter all the time, year round, thanks to being in a college neighborhood.  Those irresponsible drunk fuckers are always tossing aside various things and being general shits.  Then there are the sale fliers for various stores close by that come in condom-like bags that hang from doorknobs – there are a lot of those, probably once a week.  And there are the restaurant adverts.  I always assume that if I place is trying so hard to get business that they must not be that good.  I give ‘em a try, but so far I’ve experienced only mediocrity, and a whole lot of trash, from those places.

So we live in a litter-strewn neighborhood.  Which is not to say it’s a trashy neighborhood, because it’s anything but.  It’s kind of a snobby neighborhood, which is why it’s strange that there’s so much trash that seems to be acceptable.  It is.

That was the beginning of the year.  We got used to a lot, and we’re still adjusting to some, but it’s been fun and interesting.  Until we got our stuff and internet and all that, we hung out at the big, fancy Whole Foods just so we could go online.  And eat.  And sit on anything but the floor.  Then we got our stuff and it was a process to unpack, arrange, donate, and settle.  The Viking went to work and I wandered around.  I walked Isis in an effort to explore.  I took some classes, mostly art, but also film and archery.  I kayaked.  We had visitors.  I had some trouble making friends.  We met other people and even had sex with some of them. We had another visitor, my father, and the visit went surprisingly well.  The animals are getting older and having ailments that are associated with that sort of thing.

Overall it hasn’t been all that eventful a year, which I like.  It’s been pleasant, which I like.  I feel so lucky to feel so damn happy.

I have hopes that 2012 will feel as wonderful.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

This week the book MWF Seeking BFF comes out.  I don’t notice when most books come out so this book, about a woman who moves to Chicago because of her partner’s job (sound familiar?) and then spends a year looking for a best friend, must’ve struck a chord.  I’m still not sure if I’m going to bother to read it.

I’ve been in Chicago a year and I don’t have a BFF here.  I have a good friend whom I see about once a month when she comes into the big city from the ‘burbs.  I’ve met a lot of people that I thought maybe could be my friend but so far nothing’s worked out.

I know that friendly relationships are like romantic ones in that you just have to keep cycling through them until eventually you find someone with whom you click, but it’s time consuming, nerve wracking, and heartbreaking.  At least with romantic (read, sexual) relationships I can resort to sex if we don’t have much to say to each other.

I tried strictly platonic Craig’s List listings with no success.  Of course I could go back and beat the dead horse some more but I just don’t have the energy to wade through oceans of stupidity.

Through Meetup.com I signed up for a group that seemed like it could be fun.  The host said our activities were to truly bond, not just to meet acquaintances.  To that end, she planned drunken brunches, Brazilian waxes, sex shops, and tattoo and piercing events for our meetups.  Fun!  I used to have groups of girlfriends with whom I’d go to spas and such, and I love me a drunken brunch, so I was in.  Bonus was that the Meetup organizer was also new to Chicago so we could commiserate with each other over winter woes (she was from Texas).

The first time I met ladies from the group was a brunch of the drunken variety.  We all started out sober, but that didn’t last long in a place where the mimosas were bottomless.  The food was decent, too, especially considering it, too, was bottomless.  Over buffet food and lots of mimosas we talked, but the true sharing didn’t happen until we started playing “Never Have I Ever.”  Turned out one of the ladies at the table had never given a blow job and another lady had never kissed a girl.  The one who hadn’t had cock in her mouth had been kissing only girls until very recently and had yet to get a taste for cock, and the one who had never kissed a girl hadn’t had the drunken coed experience despite having very recently completed Ohio State.

After our adult bonding the whole group went to a sex shop where quite a few of us bought some toys.  No one was freaked out by the store, and after our game of “Never Have I Ever” it would have been odd if anyone was.  They didn’t seem phased at all when I bought a strap-on harness.  I ran for the bus saying a fond goodbye to my new friends.

Well, “friends.”  I didn’t have anyone’s phone number; any contact was through the Meetup.com page.  I was excited that I had had a fun day with a group of ladies.  I wasn’t concerned that everyone else who had attended the brunch seemed to already know each other; there has to be a first time meeting for everyone, right?  The group had proved itself to be open minded, and alcohol-, queer-, and swear-friendly so I was in.

The next time we got together was at a tattoo and piercing studio.  I had been planning a tattoo for a long time but had never gotten around to it in San Francisco so I knew exactly what I wanted.  I showed up slightly early and set about getting the tattoo.  I was going to get it whether the other ladies showed up, but a little social support would have been nice.  When I didn’t see them I figured most everyone had canceled and the host canceled the Meetup altogether since the last time I checked out the site.  But I was going to get a tattoo no matter what.

After the artist drew what he thought I wanted and I approved it, he set about getting his station ready.  Just as he called me back, the Meetup host showed up.  She said that she and the other ladies had met earlier at a bar in order to build up courage.  I don’t know if the host thought I was some sort of teetotaler – and she shouldn’t have considering our initial meeting over many mimosas – but I told her that drinking before a tattoo or piercing is not a good idea since alcohol can thin the blood, which can be troublesome, especially for a tattoo.

As I began getting tattooed, the host went to retrieve the other ladies from the bar.  Everyone else showed up just as my tattoo was getting bandaged so none of them saw it fresh.  A couple of the ladies got tattoos and a couple other got piercings.

Afterwards we went to a pretty dead sports bar across the street.  We chatted, and some of the conversation turned bawdy, but before too long someone wanted to get “supplies” for her new piercing and rather than stay by myself at a bar that was blasting whatever game was on, I opted to go home.

By this time the host and I had exchanged numbers.  We texted each other some asking after our new body adornments, but that was it.

I RSVPd that I would go to several more of the group’s meeting, and I wanted to go, but then finances were such that it was silly for me to go out to dinner when there was food in the house, that it was silly for me to get a Brazilian wax when there was a beard trimmer in the house, that it was silly for me to go out drinking when there was booze in the house, so I RSVPd that I couldn’t go. The next time I was actually able to see them I would explain the situation.

I got a text when the ladies were out to Greek food (a thing here in Chicago) that they wished I had made it.  How sweet!  I was looking forward to the next drunken brunch at another place with bottomless mimosas.  If nothing else, the Meetup group would allow me to survey bottomless mimosa brunches in Chicago.

When the brunch was still a couple of weeks off I got an official, do-no-respond-to-this-message message from Meetup.com letting me know the Meetup group was no more.  Wha?  The group’s site on Meetup.com said that the group was no longer active, but still noted the upcoming events.  I was very curious so I texted the host.  She didn’t respond.  Well, I was sure I’d get a full explanation at the brunch.

And then the brunch was canceled.  I never heard directly from the Meetup’s host so I have no idea why the group was dissolved.  The insecure child in me thinks the group was dissolved just so the rest of the ladies could get together without the possibility of me showing up, but that’s silly, right?  When we got together we had fun, I thought.  Sure, I wasn’t into going out dancing at clubs, but I wouldn’t have been into doing that with anyone, no matter what their skin color.

Did I mention that I was the only white girl in the group?  And I only bring this up because I brought it up to a couple of people who’ve lived in Chicago longer than I, and they suggested that that might be the reason the group was dissolved.  They said Chicago is a very segregated city.  Maybe I just live in a white privilege bubble, but I don’t see why if that is so that it has to go on being so.  The things I felt I didn’t have in common with any of the ladies from the group – cock sucking experience, lady kissing experience – had absolutely nothing to do with race as far as I could tell.  Or I’m just naive.

I’ve met a few ladies through OkCupid, but I guess that forum makes it necessary that there’s some sort of sexual spark if the “friendship” is to develop.  And I would love to again have a friend with whom I like hanging and also fucking, but just the hanging part would absolutely be enough for me right now.  One lady said I was too intense.  One lady seemed as enthused to meet me as I was to meet her but then things fizzled out, I think because I’m not kinky enough, whatever that means.  One lady I’m still not sure about.

I don’t have the fortitude to do a lady date a week for a year in order to find a friend like the woman who wrote MWF Seeking BFF, but I suppose I should keep trying.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I was recently asked this.  By a guy who wants to meet me.  Based on reading Random Rim Jobs.

Men really are clueless.  The worst that could happen?  I could be raped.  I could be killed.  I could be tortured.  I could be maimed.  I could be scared.  I could be terrorized.  There’s a lot that’s not good that could happen to me, and all women, any time we leave the house.  Men seem to easily forget this, if, that is, they ever knew it in the first place.

Men get to walk around in a privileged bubble.  That’s fine.  I don’t mind being a woman, and I don’t want to be a man, but there are some things that women have to think about that don’t even occur to men.  Women have to be always diligent; we cannot relax when we leave our homes.  Some women can’t relax in their homes.

So, guys, don’t ask a woman you want to meet because she writes about sex what the worst thing that could happen is.  It’s pretty fucking bad.  Not for you, but for her.  Think of her and not your cock.

Why would a woman, even if she does write about sex, want to meet you?  Since you now know that she is always concerned that she could be victimized in some way, what can you do to demonstrate you are not the victimizing type?  Just saying you want to meet to see if you want to fuck is not it.

Even if she does write about sex does not mean she wants to have sex with you.  Writing about sex, even as she does, does not indicate she is indiscriminate; one cock is not the same as all others.  Those cocks are attached to people who have brains and thoughts and she likes getting to know a guy she fucks, even if she’s fucking him casually.

Sure, contact me if you think you want to meet me, but have more to say than that.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

No, I don’t have a foot thing.  This photo is neat though.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

On my fifth wedding anniversary my then-husband and I went to a very fancy restaurant for dinner.  The restaurant’s chef had been lauded in all the local and national food magazines and by word-of-mouth.  Part of that word-of-mouth was from a friend of ours (Well, mine now that we’re out the other end.) who had recently completed culinary school and who was working as a pastry chef in said fancy restaurant.  The meal wasn’t going to be inexpensive but it was our anniversary so we decided to go for not only the chef’s tasting menu but also the wine parings with each of the eight or so courses.

We dressed up.  I wore a vintage dress that was figure-flattering.  The Ex wore a button-down shirt and a tie and jacket – the same combination thereof he had worn to our wedding.  The jacket was still somewhat ill fitting, but not much can be expected from the young men’s equivalent of Express when pressed for time and money.

First we had a drink at the bar and then we were shown to our table in the plushly carpeted, heavy curtained, dimly lit room.  Once we settled into our seats we were brought a bottle of champagne along with a note.  The friend who worked at the restaurant – who was off that night – and his partner – with whom I’d gone to law school – had arranged for the champagne as an anniversary present, which was incredibly sweet.

With champagne flutes in hand our wait staff went to work telling us about our meals.  Though we had both ordered the chef’s tasting menu, our meals would be different from one another’s, as would our wine, since it was paired with our particular dishes.  I was very exited, and I liked that we would have the opportunity to taste twice as many dishes and wines since we could share.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened – if it was before the first course or between the first and second courses – but at the time there was no food on the table.  We were sipping our champagne.  We toasted.  We smiled.  He got a serious look on his face.

I don’t know what I expected.  I know I hoped for something along the lines of, “I hope we have five more wonderful years together,” or some other clichè bullshit.  If we weren’t blissfully married – and we were not, after all we’d been married for five years – then I thought the reason for the extravagant anniversary dinner was to acknowledge that there had been some good and some bad in the prior five years and to move forward in a positive fashion.

My then-husband and I had very different ideas of what it was to move forward in a positive fashion.  His idea was not to start anew with hope.  Or maybe he did think he was being hopeful when he said, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”  Then he said some other things that probably related to having once been so happy to be with me and those feelings fading over the years and wanting a fresh start, or something like that.

Truthfully, I didn’t hear much of anything beyond, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” and I’m not sure who at the receiving end of that sentence would.  I calmly placed my napkin on the table, got up, and walked away.

I went to the bathroom where I thought about how fucking much the meal was costing us – a meal that we couldn’t afford and that we wouldn’t have planned except for the “special” occasion that he ruined with his shitty timing – and how I wasn’t about to let the insensitive idiot put that money to waste.  I freshened up and returned to the table.

He told me he thought I had left.  Suddenly he was concerned about my feelings.  The rest of the several courses were tasty but icy, at least on my part.  We did not taste each other’s courses – I had no interest in sharing with him nor in asking him to share with me.

Since we had wine with each course, by the end of the meal I felt almost happy.  Well, my belly was full and my mind was intoxicated, both things that can feel like “happy” to someone who had no clue what she was feeling.  Was I supposed to “make” my husband fall in love with me again?  Life isn’t some fucking lame romantic comedy about how a couple can find love again.

So because I felt “happy” and because my then-husband didn’t want to be alone with me and hadn’t for some time – when we were home there was television and, except for that dinner, when we were out it was with a group – I agreed to go with him to meet up with some friends.  At a dive bar.  In the Tenderloin.

We had just dropped over $500 on what was supposed to be a romantic anniversary dinner but instead of spending some quality time together, he wanted to be around other people.  Even after we broke up he wouldn’t fucking admit that we did so much socializing for the last few years of our relationship so we didn’t have to deal one-on-one with each other.

Sure, we were close to the Tenderloin so it would be easy to take a walk, or to be fancy and hop in a cab considering our attire, to hang out with some mutual friends.  (“Friends” with whom I’ve had little to no contact since the final breakup.)  And it was our anniversary so I didn’t want to go home alone, something I would have had to do since he was set on going out.  So we went to the kind of Tenderloin dive bar that opens at 6am and has the kind of regulars that show up upon opening – daily.

I honestly don’t remember if it was that anniversary or the next one, or the next one, that a group of us ended up at our place after hours.  I remember anniversary toasts from our friends.  I remember a lot of drinking.  I remember a lot of years of avoiding any difficult conversations by being too busy, by there being too many people around, by drinking too much, by wanting to enjoy a fucking anniversary meal (which is not the place or time for a difficult conversation, something my dolt of an ex-husband probably still doesn’t realize).

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.