Apparently Jesus prefers stilettos.

It's that time of year, internets. Christmas music time. I love Christmas music. I love turning on the radio and hearing it, I love singing it, I love coming to my blog and hearing it. I really had to restrain myself from putting up the Christmas playlist in July a month ago.

There is one Christmas song, however, that you will never see on my playlist. (Well, two actually. I'd like to put Lonely Jew from South Park on there, but it's so riddled with F-bombs toward the end that even I couldn't in good conscience put it on the Christmas playlist. But you can totally click HERE to hear it.)

Anyway.

The one song you will never see on my playlist is that stupid Christmas Shoes song. There is nothing right about that song. Nothing.

Here, read they lyrics:

It was almost Christmas time, there I stood in another line
Tryin' to buy that last gift or two, not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing 'round like little boys do And in his hands he held a pair of shoes
His clothes were worn and old, he was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay I couldn't believe what I heard him say

Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight

He counted pennies for what seemed like years
Then the cashier said, "Son, there's not enough here"
He searched his pockets frantically
Then he turned and he looked at me

He said Mama made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir, what am I going to do, somehow I've got to buy her these Christmas shoes

So I laid the money down, I just had to help him out
I'll never forget the look on his face when he said Mama's gonna look so great

Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight

I knew I'd caught a glimpse of heaven's love as he thanked me and ran out
I knew that God had sent that little boy to remind me just what Christmas is all about.
***

First of all, why is a kid who is too young to understand the concept of money and price tags alone in Wal-Mart (admit it--it's impossible to picture this taking place anywhere but a Wal-Mart)?

Second of all, What's up with the dad not bathing his kid? I mean, the wife is on her deathbed. The least he could do is make sure the kid is clean. You know what would make mama smile more than shoes? Knowing that her kid is going to be cared for when she's dead.

Thirdly, I feel really bad for the mother. Year after year she's gone without while her kids got great gifts and her husband, who can't even take the trash to the curb on garbage day, got all the electronic gadgets he wanted (not that I'm projecting or anything). And now she's dying and all she's going to get is a pair of whore shoes from Wal-Mart to wear when she meets Jesus.

Straight from the Christmas 2010 Wal-Mart collection.

Have you seen the kind of shoes Wal-Mart sells this time of year? And if you've ever spent more than five minutes with a child, you know that the tackier something is, the more likely they are to choose it. These are the shoes he bought for mama. I guarantee it.

Who the hell wrote this song?

The top 10 things we're all thankful for, but won't admit.

Happy Thanksgiving, internets! I hope your day was full of unhealthy food and dysfunctional people!

I've been seeing a lot of people posting blogs and Facebook updates about what they're thankful for. Yeah, that's not so much me. I think we're all pretty grateful for family, friends, health, blah blah blah. I mean, how often do we hear of people updating their status with, "Damn, I hate being in good health and gainfully employed. I wish I could get laid off, and then maybe get cancer!"? Exactly, never.

So, I've decided to share with you the top 10 things I'm really thankful for. You're probably thankful for most of them, too, but won't admit it.


10. I'm thankful when hotel housekeeping leaves a tip envelope with the housekeeper's name on it. It makes it much easier for me to leave her a nasty note about why it is she's not getting a tip from me.

9. I'm thankful that I'm not a hoarder.

8. I'm thankful that I was smart enough not to get a pet that requires me to follow behind it picking up their steaming feces with a baggie.

7. I'm thankful I never had to sleep with a teacher for an A.

6. I'm thankful I'm not blind, because I'm pretty sure being blind would be the very worst thing ever for a germophobe. You'd never be able to see if that fork in the restaurant had food stuck to it, or if you were walking into a puddle of urine in a public restroom.

5. I'm thankful for every time Brad Pitt takes his shirt off in a movie. Except for during the first half of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. That was not hot.

4. I'm thankful so many Mormons are addicted to porn and I'm not. If someone tries to point out my spiritual shortcomings, I can always say, "Hey, at least I'm not addicted to porn like the rest of you!"

3. I'm thankful I lived in Europe and can refer to "that time we were in Paris, " or "the Thanksgiving we flew down to Italy for the afternoon."

2. I'm thankful that I'm thinner than Oprah.

1. I'm thankful for the internet. Without it, I'd have no friends.

Like Swatches, for the middle aged suburbanite.

Remember Swatches? They were really popular in the late eighties, and kind of pricey (for a rubber watch), and the more popular you were, the more you owned--and wore all at once.

I only had one, which should come as a surprise to no one.

Last night I realized what the grown up, nearing middle age, living in the suburbs, raising a family equivalent has become.

These suckers:


As I walked around my neighborhood last night, it occurred to me that approximately 99.99% of the houses in my neighborhood had them. Many, many of them. One of the houses near me has 47 of them in their front yard. FORTY-SEVEN! This is not a sprawling estate. This is a 2300 square foot home on three quarters of an acre, just like all the houses in the neighborhood.

(Not my neighbors. This looks tame and classy compared to the 47 solar light house)

Having 47 of these in your yard looks just about as ridiculous as wearing five Swatches up your arm. But the difference is, no one thinks you're cooler for having more solar lights in your yard than necessary. Also? Colored ones and flashing ones do not elevate your social status in any way, shape or form.


Six. Six is the limit. If you have more than six, I suggest you seek intervention immediately.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I have four. And they came with the house. And only one actually works. So, it's like Swatches all over again.)

Random Bits

1. Your kid's primary teacher knows all your family secrets.



2. This was on my SoBe Lifewater, and it made me laugh all evening.



3. I will never understand boys.

Yes, that would be super heroes, clone troopers, knights, Indians and dinosaurs
(oh, and Woody riding a shark) versus army men.

4. I will never understand girls.

This shark gets around. It's the same one Woody was riding earlier.


5. Green bean casserole is the best food ever created, but only if it's made completely from canned products.

Part Two

O.K., so if you didn't read yesterday's guest post from Oliver*, go read it now.

Here's part two.

***********************

Part the Second: A Queer, a Lesbian and their Bishop Walk into a Temple



To say I was shocked to learn that Patty is a lesbian is an understatement. Of all people, I should have been able to pick up on this. I mean, she didn't even drive a Subaru or listen to The Indigo Girls.

And then I told her that I, too, was gay.

It's hard to put what that moment felt like into words. There was joy. There were tears. There was a great feeling of relief on both our parts that we didn't have to try to find each other sexually attractive.

And then we started the process of figuring out what to do next.

We knew a few things for sure: We loved each other deeply. We wanted to live our lives together rather than apart. We wanted to follow what we believe to be God's church. We wanted to be parents and have an eternal family.

So we decided that we should get married.

I know, some of you just got really upset. I even know what you're thinking. "They won't be able to find true happiness because they're hiding their authentic selves." Or, "They should be free to find the same kind of love that heterosexuals have--love that includes sex." And I'm sure there were even a few of you who are wholly disgusted by the idea of two homosexuals doing anything like being happy, and I don't really want to entertain what your thoughts might have been. Those people should stop reading right now and go watch Bristol Palin dance, because you're not going to like the rest of this story.

Is it possible that I would be happier in a relationship with a man? Maybe. I don't know. But I'm happy now, so why does it matter?

Sex is not the be all and end all of life. Do you know how many sexless heterosexual marriages there are out there? A fricking lot.

Yes, Patty and I made the conscious decision to live a life that doesn't include sex. I know that's really hard for most people to understand, I really do. The thing is, while I'm sexually attracted to men, I've never been emotionally attracted to them. I've never desired to be in a relationship with them. And as attractive as I find men to be, I find the idea of buttsex completely ooky. It's your pooper, people. I won't share a drink with another person because there might be saliva in it. So, poopers are off the negotiating table. And don't get me started on oral sex. Yeah, that's not going in my mouth. I'm a urologist. I know where that's been.

(And right about now some of you are asking yourselves, "Well what about Patty?" Patty's story is Patty's to tell if she wants to. But I can tell you that this decision was a greater sacrifice for her.)

O.K., so back to the story.

Patty and I wanted to do this the right way. We didn't want to lie to our church. We didn't want to do something that was wrong. So, we talked to our Bishop. (For all you No-Mos, a Bishop is the clergyman for a congregation. Like a pastor.)

You want to see comedy gold? Tell your Mormon bishop that you're gay, and your fiance is a lesbian, and you want to marry each other in the temple and live a chaste life.

Of course he didn't know how to handle that. Higher ups were called in. Things were discussed. Letters were written. And in the end, they couldn't find a doctrinal reason that what we wanted was wrong. Permission was granted. To be honest, I'm shocked that Boyd K. Packer didn't drop dead from a heart attack on the spot.

{Tangent: I know some of you reading this will not be able to comprehend how two homosexuals could also so devoutly believe in the Mormon church. We just do. Sorry. That said, we do not support prop 8. Gays should be allowed to marry secularly, or in religions that do not see homosexual behavior as a sin. Also, I know the man is an apostle, but Boyd K. Packer is a jackwagon that makes me (and hermaphrodite kittens, apparently) cry. I'm glad the powers that be changed his talk, but sad that he said what he did (in conference, and in numerous talks previously) in the first place. On a somewhat related note, if I did ever leave the Mormon church, I would call myself a Homo FoMo, short for Homosexual Former Mormon. Feel free to use it. Also, my apologies to all the non mormons reading this who are all, "Who the hell is Boyd K. Packer and what is he doing with hermaphrodite kittens?" End tangent.}

So, we got married in the Washington D.C. temple. And a couple of years later we adopted our first child. A year after that, our second.

And we are happy.

We don't openly share that we are homosexuals, but neither do we actively hide it. We're realistic. We know it would be hard on our children. They both have special needs, and they don't need something else people can be cruel to them over. They will know when they are older. And they will know what love is, and though it takes many forms, it is ultimately a reflection of what God feels for us. No matter who makes our netherbelows tingle.


*Names have been changed to protect our identities. I chose Oliver because I had a childhood crush on the misfit cousin Oliver who made The Brady Bunch jump the shark. Patty chose Patty because the TV character she identified most with as a child was Peppermint Patty on The Peanuts.

Also, I want to give Brandi a big, wet, sloppy gay kiss for helping me turn my thoughts into something mildly entertaining. She can be my fag hag any day.

*********************

Today on a very special episode of Douglass Diaries...

So, internets, today I have a very special guest post for you. You know, kind of like back in the 80's when they had "very special" episodes of sitcoms? "Tonight on a Very Special episode of Growing Pains, Mike struggles with conflicting emotions when he discovers how Boner got his nickname."

So, like that, but different.

Today's post is brought to you by my old friend Oliver.* I met Oliver while attending college in Utah. We lost touch for a long time, but he recently found me again. I've been trying to convince him that he needs a blog (You'll agree once you read his story), but he doesn't think anyone would be interested. Trust me, internets, you'll be interested.

Anyway, here it is. We're splitting it into two parts, because I know some of you have the attention span of a gnat on crack and won't read it if it's more than a few paragraphs.
********************

Part One: Elder Jones? Can you help me out? I seem to have dropped the soap.


I've known that I was gay since I was about 7. There are lots of little boys out there who like to do things that may make their parents wonder about their sexuality--play Barbies, play house with baby dolls... I wouldn't worry too much about your sons if they like those things. Worry if they like to have the Ken dolls wash each other's backs in the bathtub of Barbie's dream house. Worry if they pretend to be married to David Hasselhoff when they play house. Those are the things that I did.

But, without being specifically told so, I knew that my inclination toward males was something I needed to keep to myself.

Did I mention I'm Mormon? And grew up in Utah?

So, I grew up and I dated girls. I even loved a few of them. But I was never attracted to them in that way.

I went on a church mission to Italy. First of all, I want you to imagine what it was like for me to share a bedroom with strapping young 19 year old boys for two years. Second of all, I want you to imagine what it was like for me to be surrounded by all those dark, handsome Italian boys with their dreamy accents for two years. If there was an award for repenting of unclean thoughts, I would have won it. I fasted so much that I lost 15 pounds over the course of those two years. No one loses weight on a mission to Italy.

I came home. I went to college. I dated girls. I fell in love. We got engaged. We never did more than kiss, closed mouthed. She thought it was because we were following the rules. I knew it was because I had no desire to do anything else, despite the fact that I did love her very much. And then she decided that marrying me felt wrong and she married someone else. I should have been sad, but really I was relieved. She deserved more than I could have given her.

I went on to medical school, became a doctor (a Urologist. So I can look at wangs all day.) (I'm kidding, people. Seeing wangs all day is just a bonus), and went to work at one of the most prominent hospitals on the East Coast.

There I met Patty.* We both attended the same church congregation.

Since we were the only two people in the congregation who were over thirty and still single, we were thrown together a lot. Probably in the hopes we'd decide to settle for each other and get married so we could get on with multiplying and replenishing the Earth and learning to silently hate each other and all those other things married people get to do.

And it worked. Patty and I became very close. We fell in love. A deep, chaste, sibling-like (unless you're from Alabama) love.

And then one night Patty began to cry and she told me that she was a lesbian.


TO BE CONTINUED, SUCKERS.

*Names have been changed to protect our identities. I chose Oliver because I had a childhood crush on the misfit cousin Oliver who made The Brady Bunch jump the shark. Patty chose Patty because the TV character she identified most with as a child was Peppermint Patty on The Peanuts.
*********************

This makes it worth all the trouble.

So, remember a couple of years ago when I wrote about sex and a bunch of people got their puritanical panties in a wad over it? Well, this e-mail that I received a few days ago makes all the harassment and being called inappropriate totally worth it.

(And if you missed those posts, read this one first, and then this one.)

If you were one of the contributors to those posts, then this letter is really more for you than me.


Brandi,

I just discovered your blog a couple of months ago. When I get bored, I go through your archives and read your old stuff. A few weeks ago I found your post with sex advice, and the companion post from the men.

I've been married for 8 years. Certain things had never happened for me, if you know what I mean. No one ever taught me about sex. No one ever taught my husband about sex. All we knew was that sex was for marriage only. Sex is where babies come from. That's it. Somewhere in the back of our minds was the idea that men enjoyed it and wanted it all the time, and women tolerated it. And that's exactly what I did--tolerated it.

Your post was a real eye opener. I wish so much that I knew more Mormons like the ones you know. I wish I had friends who were willing to talk about these things. I was so miserable thinking that this was it for ETERNITY. If I had just known. Just simple things. Simple things like telling your partner what feels good. It's so simple, and I just never knew! Why can't we have Relief Society meetings about this? I don't mean on Sunday, but for Enrichment or something. I can't be the only one who knows NOTHING.

And you know what was most profound? The idea that I can talk to God about sex in my prayers. It makes sense. He is supposed to be the third person in every marriage. But no one ever said that was O.K. It's so ingrained in most of us that talking about it is bad that the idea of talking about it with God seems really, really bad. But it's so not.

Anyway, I've tried a few things that people suggested in your posts over the past couple of weeks. Just baby steps. But oh man, have they ever worked! I hope this doesn't sound too dramatic, but it's been life changing! Or at the very least, marriage changing. In a good way!

So, I really want to thank everyone who offered advice in the posts. Can you send this to them? Or post this? I want them to know that it really made a difference. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!

[Name withheld by request]

Greetings from Appalachia!

So, there is no internet in our cabin. Not even dial up. I've got my laptop plugged into my phone and I'm using my phone's internet to post this.

On one hand, that's pretty cool. On the other hand, it's pretty slow.

Anyway, a quick update on my Hillbilly Vacation:

1. The cabin is so high in the mountains, on such steep and windy roads, that I'm convinced I'm going to die every time we leave.

2. I'm pretty sure someone dismembered a body and washed it down the kitchen sink, or at least that what it smells like. I've dumped an entire bottle of bleach down the drain, but the odor is still there.

3. The first day here I woke up with a raging fever, runny nose, congested chest, sore throat, a cold sore roughly the size of Texas AND my period (a week early). So, super romantic! And I blew all the vacation money on Sudafed, Abreva and tampons.

4. The scenery really is gorgeous. We biked and hiked yesterday, and plan to do more of the same today (despite the fact that I feel like I might die).

5. There is an elaborate Christmas light display all throughout the city of Gatlinburg, and they turn it on TONIGHT!

6. The top half of the mountain we're staying on is a private community of rental cabins, but the bottom half is not. There are real life hillbilly cabins down there. One with an outhouse.

7. We were stuck driving about 4 miles an hour on an 11 mile scenic loop yesterday because the car at the front of the line was apparently awestruck by deer. They're just freaking deer! Get over it and drive!

8. Apparently there is no such thing as hillbilly postcards. So, those of you who sent your addresses--you'll be getting normal postcards. Sorry.

Paddle faster. I hear banjo music.

The Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge Welcoming Committee

So, tomorrow we leave for our big Hillbilly Vacation to Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

Jealous much?

I probably won't be posting much all week (I mean, do they even have internet in hillbilly country?). Unless the hillbilly-ness is just too good not to share--then you know I'll post.

Maybe I'll even come home with a mullet. Or a Dolly Parton wig!

Also, if you send me your mailing address (to my e-mail address listed on the top right of the page--NOT in the comments!) by Wednesday, I'll totally send you a postcard. The most hillbillyish postcard I can find. Maybe even one from Dollywood!

(For real, I'll send you a postcard. And I probably won't even sell your address to a marketing company!)

You're still awesome, just wrong.

So, I was reading the comments on yesterday's post and I started thinking that maybe I just had a really warped body image. Maybe I was just fine with my 17 extra pounds. I was planning to write a post telling you all that you're awesome for making me feel better.

But then I had to run some errands. And it's very, very cold here today so I got out my coat. You remember--my really cute poppy-covered coat? The one I was totally in love with? The one that made me feel cute and even a little bit sassy?

This one.

IT WOULDN'T BUTTON!!!!!

Click on it so you can see how my non existent boobs are about to burst that button right off and possibly take someone's eye out.

So now I just feel even fatter than I did yesterday when I put my stomach on display for the whole world to see. So, it wasn't so much that you made me feel better. You apparently just made me temporarily delusional.

Thanks a lot, internets.
I need some Oreos.

My pannus: A retrospective.

So, this should make all the people who secretly (and not so secretly) hoped I'd get fat again happy.

It's been six months today since I had my tummy tuck. I've had quite a few people ask how it looks now, if I have scars, etc... So, I decided the six month mark would be a good time to show how it looks so far. I'll show you again in May at one year, and then I promise you'll never have to see my pasty torso ever again. Unless you ask me nicely.

In addition to seeing the how the scars healed (or didn't, as is the case), you get to see my 17 pound weight gain. Umm, yay.

This 17 pounds is killing me. It depresses me. I honestly feel fatter than I did when I weighed 305 pounds. I feel like a complete failure that 1) I gained the weight and B) I can't seem to lose it.

My body has decided it likes the extra pounds and is all, "Screw you, bitch!" at any attempt to make it go away.

Also depressing is that I had started getting a glimmer of defined upper abs just before the tummy tuck, but because of how the skin and muscles had to be sewn together, I'm now permanently fleshy in the area just below my sternum. The plastic surgeon said I had so much excess skin, the only way to make that area tight again was to extend my scar up to my collar bone. So, I'm fleshy.

And? I have a weird indentation above the right side of my belly button (it'll be on your left as you're looking at the picture). And my waist is still very uneven, and always will be unless I decide to have more major surgery.

Now, some of you might be thinking that I had a bad surgeon. I didn't. Let me make that clear. These are all things he said are possible when you have as much hanging skin as I did.

And even with all the things that aren't so pretty about it, I would still do it again tomorrow. I no longer have a pannus whacking against my thighs when I walk, so that right there makes it worth everything.

So anyway, without further ado, My pannus through the ages:

First, the obligatory kittens to protect those with picture previews on their blog rolls.

My pannus, pre-tummy tuck.

A few days post tummy tuck. It was so smooth and lovely back then...

And today. Lumpy, bumpy, and 17 pounds fatter.
Go, me.