"Well pumpkins, it comes down to that age-old decision: style... or...substance?"

This question comes from Mr. Bunny who, being the dapper hare he is, likes to know about the latest and greatest accessories.

Q: What is your ultimate accessory or article of clothing and the story behind it?

Bucko: I sat on this question for quite a while, because the answer changes so frequently. Then I realized that I have a St. Teresa of Avila medal dangling from a cheap pewter chain around my neck that I haven't taken off in almost a year. St. Teresa is my confirmation saint and the patron saint of headache sufferers. I had a headache for a year. When I finally got up the nerve to go find out why, it kicked off what felt like an interminable process of blood draws and MRIs and testing new meds and frustrating conversations with my neurologist, my mother, and my bosses, since the headaches and the meds came with memory problems that kept me from being particularly good at my job.

In fact, I had very few nonfrustrating conversations during that time, but one person with whom I had only comforting conversations was my priest. See, I had also started going to church, not because of the headaches, though it did cross my mind that my return to the Catholicism I'd fled with gusto in my teens was another symptom of some catastrophic neurological illness. This priest, and this church, and this version of the religion of my grandmothers...there was a lot of noise and harsh light in my head, but in the soft gray autumn evening on the sidewalk outside St. Sebastian's when Father David told me he was praying for me before my MRI, it was so quiet and peacefully, mercifully dark. I had my MRI, and then I had a spinal tap, and after two weeks of recovery, mostly in the hands of three people in various shades of Catholic who all had that one, gentle-mercy-and-headrubs thing in common, I had coffee with theFather and announced my intention to be confirmed. When I set about finding a saint for the occasion, Teresa's feistiness, her troublemaking, her breathtaking proficiency at introspection, her being the first woman named a doctor of the church, and her looking out for people whose brains were plotting against them made her the obvious choice. Months before the actual event, I put the medal around my neck and asked her if she could just obtain for me some peace now and again. In exchange, I'd publicly declare that me and Catholicism - or at least Independent Catholicism - were back on.

And I'd pray. I still get left-eye-blinding, projectile-vomit-and-tears-inducing,stay-in-bed-and-hope-for-death headaches from time to time. And I've missed church at least 13 Sundays in a row as of this writing. And lately I pray by chatting up Jesus while I drive like he was sitting next to me, giving him a dose of the f-bombs and gossip I subject all my passengers to. (I did, however, do Hail Marys during my last MRI.) So Teresa and I still have some things to work out. But when I catch myself clenching my jaw against an incoming migraine (which makes them worse), or I have to fight for something I know is right when no one else seems to see it, or when I hear some tiny voice calling from way deep down inside me that needs to be excavated and prodded, I reach up and touch the medal, give Teresa a little nudge tosay, "Hey, I'm struggling here," and picture her smiling and nodding. She doesn't fix everything, and I don't ask her to. She's just there.

Bucko: When you say ultimate, I'm "reading" favorite so I'll continue in that direction. That doesn't simplify your query, however, because I go through clothing rather regularly disposing of older things (that's code for: donating clothing to local Goodwills and shelters) and transitioning into new fashions (that's code for: I found a great clearance deal at Old Navy or Target and/or the seasons change). I don't wear clothes until they're threadbare except for jeans, and that's only because I'm chubby and the good ol' thunder thighs rub together creating a fierce, cotton-shredding friction.

As far as accessories are concerned, I'm relatively simple. I don't wear lots of dangles or baubles (although, I do make them), but there are two constants in my wardrobe, no matter the season, no matter my outfit. I love my earrings...tiny, silver hoops. I've had a variety of brands over the years, and I couldn't tell you what I have in my ears at the moment, but they've been in my ears for a long, long time. I don't notice them, they don't tug or pinch, they're lightweight but still add that extra shimmer which says, "well, she doesn't look like a complete troll."

I don't have a signature style (to clarify: I don't THINK I do, but I have been told that I do), and I certainly don't buy designer anything. I've had a few friends over the years call me the "bag lady" because I absolutely love tote bags, messenger bags, and even purses. They're practical and generally (if you shop like I do) inexpensive. But without a doubt, I don't feel complete without my pair of teeny tiny silver hoops.

And my asthma inhaler.

Excuse me, I believe you have my stapler...

Our next question comes from Anonymous, who will always ask our work-related questions...'cause we don't wanna to get canned as much as y'all don't wanna get canned. Anonymous asks: How do I tell my coworker the sounds of her typing makes me want to break her keyboard Incredible Hulk style?

Bucko: I have to tell you, I've been mulling this over for several minutes a day since you asked it, which has to have been a month ago, right? (Hey, look, perfection is a process, okay?) My answer was going to be, "You don't. You toil and suffer in silence like everyone else in a cubicle does, and then you retire to Florida. Or she does. Either way, bite your sassy tongue and learn to work with headphones on lest you become one of the 40 million uninsured."

Depressing, hello.

So I said to myself, "Self, you cannot publish that answer. Also, up your dosage, you depressing mofo." Then today, I came across this, and if I had PhotoShop and PhotoShop skillz, I would turn it into the perfect Passive Aggressive Note for you, but since I have neither, you're on your own. Listen, it's better than the first answer.

Bucko: I remember when I started my first grown-up, desk job kind of gig...I wanted a keyboard that clicked and made more obnoxious noise than humanly possible. And then I realized that I was going to spend 5-6 out of my 8 hours a day at work chatting online, so while the click satisfied some level of nostalgia within me, because Atari's were hella noisy, I was bound to drive myself insane. And I didn't even, for a moment, consider the plight of my coworkers.

But what drives me berserk more than a clicky keyboard and HAWT ONLINE ACKSHAWN is someone who makes it their mission to disable the spring mechanism of a keyboard without actually disassembling it. That is to say, someone who pounds the hell out of a keyboard so that the spring kind of looks up at them and says, "Alright, bastard, you win" and then it stops working. Usually those keyboards deaths occur with people who never learned how to type...people who "hunt and peck", as my Mom describes my Dad, and never really embrace the smooth, wrist-up, glide of QWERTY typing.

All of this rambling doesn't account for workplace politics, though, and in your case Anony, I would have to say:

SUCK IT UP.

Yeah, I know it blows and I wish that the workplace were more conducive to the kind of communication one's therapist would encourage...honesty is the best policy...but it's really incredibly difficult to share your innermost ticks with someone who CLEARLY cares very little for the world around them. I mean, unless they're hard of hearing, can't they hear the noise pollution generated with every second of their data entry? One would think so...

OR, you could do what I do, and complain to your boss. And then it'll get wedged so deeply into the bureaucratic bullnanny that is workplace politics that you'll forget completely about your coworker and their bangity-bang on the keyboard and start resenting The Man for never doing a single thing to execute change because of your very valid and significant complaints.

*shakes fist*

Snap out of it!

Our next question comes to us from Bucko's sweetie Em. Em asks: Who is the greatest of the gay icons, Cher, Judy or Barbara?

Bucko: There is no denying that even if I wasn't destined to turn out as gay as I have, that I would always and eternally feel connected to the greatness that is gayness. My brother, coincidentally, is Homo Superiorious, and is also blessed with the gift of theatrical song. So to say that I have no understanding of gay icon-worthy people and their gifts is to suggest that I have had my eyes closed for the past28.5 years. And listen, sister, my eyes have been wide open!

As far as gay icons go, you have to consider a few things. First of all, someone who crosses barriers and who can impress a diverse and eclectic group of people fits the specifications of Gay Icon more than someone who has limited, specific appeal. I mean, isn't that sort of implied? But you would be surprised at the number of fags who latch on to the latest craze (read: Britney, Christina, or even Janet Jackson) and take little time to dissect the realness that is cross-cultural success! Dear Questioner, you ask if I think that Cher, Judy or Barbara is the greatest of the great Gay Icons?

And unto you I decree: Why, darling, it is Cher.

Let's take into consideration the longevity of her career. Cher has been in business, drive-through open, for 43 YEARS. Now, naturally, Barbra has been around for just a few years more AND even started her career in a gay bar, but let's focus on the greatness that is Cher, ok? In the years since Cher busted onto the scene, she has gone through transformation after transformation, ebbing and flowing with the tide and the demands of modern culture; I'm even comfortable with suggesting that she has dictated modern culture in some instances. Sure, she's had some plastic surgery and I'd even go so far as to say she's tested the limits of visual acceptability...but DUDE. This woman is a chameleon of wonder and delight. Her voice may not be asclassically trained as Barbra or Judy, but she still has universal pop appeal, and she can belt it out when she needs to! And there is little that will get gay men spinning in circles of glee than a Cher song and a strong cocktail. We might sway with nostalgia if a Judy orBarbra song happens to appear on the juke box, but there is great certainty in the spiritual and inspirational effects of a Cher song on the dance floor. And they sometimes still play her songs ON THEDANCEFLOOR. Judy and Barbra can't say as much, frankly.

You'll often catch me, especially when inebriated, mimicking Rosie O'Donnell's quasi-famous Cher impression, or even embracing the childlike glee and emphatic directness Jack McFarland took on during MANY episodes of Will & Grace when speaking of his idol. Catch me in a car with my partner when Dark Lady comes on, and I'll insist you shut your mouth and clap along with me. And if happen to be on the dance floor during one of Cher's songs, you can catch me swaying and grooving with the music, flipping my long, luscious black hair and wondering why I'm not covered in pleather and feathers. Everyone has a little Cher in their soul.

My brother hypothesized that at the convergence of my parent's marriage that it was destiny that they would spawn two children of the Gay Persuasion because, upon marrying, they each brought a copy of the album Liza with a Z. And I don't disagree! Cher, however, IS Liza's showmanship plus Barbra's sultry symphonics plus the jolly skip-along ageless appeal of Judy. Cher is everything in the world gay people aspire to be (did you notice how I didn't even need to touch on her MAGNANIMOUS MOVIE CAREER?!), and that my twinklies is why Cher is the greatest gay icon of all time.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN LIFE AFTER LOVE?

Bucko: Does the fact that I immediately thought, "Judy Garland, duh,"mean I lose any of The Gay I've caught from Bucko??

Douche-bags are hygienic products, I take that as a compliment. Thank you.

Our second question comes to us from Adrienne. She asks:

Why are maxi pads so long?

Oh Jesus.

Bucko: Never afraid of public embarrassment, I admit to you all that until I was about 18 years old, I never used anything BUT maxi pads. My mother was of the convention that sticking anything "up there" was not only unnecessary but gross. Having spent the majority of my childhood in and out of Catholic schools, I can only assume that her greater interest was in maintaining my physical "virginity"...so I imagined Jesus' head atop a tampon and decided to keep my distance. Don't think for a second, though, that I wasn't curious about tampons! I used to babysit and rifle through the bathrooms of the mothers I worked for, specifically in one household (where I knew the goods were stashed). I would read the shocking and horrifying how-to (put your leg where and bend how?!) and TSS guide, take a tampon home, deconstruct it and re-committ myself to Vaginal Virginity. The convenience remained appealing, however, and I grew increasingly tired of my diapered existence. I didn't stick a tampon "up there" until I was able to afford my own...so, right around 18.

But your question, more specifically, is why are maxi pads so freakin' long? And here's myanswer: BETTER LONG THAN SHORT! To be honest, I'm certain that there is an industry standard out there, some computer-generated measurement of the distance between the mons and the anus, telling feminine hygiene product companies how long most lady vag happens to be. And I'm sure that most companies add an inch or so onto that length for good measure, or to take into account the random possibility of bending, bunching, or overflow. But like most things lady-related, I don't doubt for a second that this "industry standard" was taken from data recorded in a really isolated environment...say, the distance between the mons and anus of women who also happen to be 6' tall supermodels (you know they'd volunteer!). I imagine they have bits longer than the average woman. And now we're all made to suffer because of their foot long vaginas.

There probably wasn't anything more embarrassing in high school than sequestering myself in a bathroom stall and trying to open the wrapper to a maxi pad WITHOUT MAKING NOISE. I failed regularly, and regardless of the current vag situation of the girl in the next stall, someone always giggled. To add insult onto injury by giving pubescent girls the option of tampons or pads, as they are most readily available, really screws with one's psyche...in my experience, the perpetual tug of war between "virginity" and supreme discomfort. I remember loathing the days I'd wake up bloated and uncomfortable, and then attempt to dress myself in the loosest pair of pants possible to avoid pad visibility, yet having to select something that might also compress a little, as I ran the risk of launching the pad out of either end of my underpants (I suppose I could've invested in some maxi pad suspenders, though). Then there was the bunching and the squeaking and then crinkling...GOD, the horror.

My conclusion is this: the entire beauty industry is hell bent on making us feel bad about ourselves, so it comes as no surprise that they would give us yachts when we need canoes. And it comes as no surprise that even Puritanical girls, like the me I once was, outgrow this ridiculous expectation and wind up sticking something (tampon, DivaCup, Instead, etc) "up there" to avoid feeling like we're sitting sideways on an upholstered swingset.

God bless your bits.

Bucko: Well, look. Ask a TMI question, get a TMI answer. While Bucko up there is probably right about how these upholstered swing seats came into being, I have to tell you that for a couple of days every couple of months, I really appreciate them. Because while most of the time, my period is well-behaved and respects my DivaCup (as it should, because the DivaCup is made of goodness and awesome), during maybe four out of every sixty days, my vagina gets up to shenanigans I hesitate to try to describe. I'm talking not just overflowing of the mighty Cup, but overflowing that happens every hour. And not just a little trickle, the likes of which might be contained by a panty liner or some such; I mean full on, levee-breaking, pants-ruining, blood-on-my-ankles GUSHING. No mere pad can withstand this. What I really need is to roll up a sleeping bag made of gauze and cotton, strap myself on to that sumbitch, and get settled in front of my TV for a few days, but alas, The Man really doesn't take "if I stand up, I'm going to ruin my socks" as an excuse for taking half the week off. And so I resort to the Pads Of Unusual Size. Being that I'm a short girl (though not a particularly dainty one), the distance from front to back really isn't that long, and you'd think that something the size of Shaq's shoe would be kind of wasteful; however, it's not a matter of size in this case so much as a matter of velocity. The flow comes out at such speed that it might land anywhere. Short of just wrapping the whole Area up in Depends (or putting my brilliant gauze-sleeping-bag plan into action), this is the best I can do.

Sometimes you feel like a nut...

Our first question comes to us from Shayne, of NoveltyKitten and Geek Crafts, and for this we are most thankful.

Shayne asks: How come squirrels are so awesome?

Bucko: This Bucko knows there’s no shame in asking for help, so I turned to an expert. I asked my husband, Joel, mainly because he was sitting close by, but also because after a few winters of doing epic battle with the squirrels who move into our roof and basement, he is kind of an expert. His answer was that squirrels are, in fact, not awesome, due to the aforementioned takeovers of our living space.

However, I submit to you that this is part of what makes squirrels awesome. We once hired someone to try to help us with our unwanted houseguests, and he told me that the reason it’s so hard to get rid of squirrels who’ve decided to become your new roommates is not because they think your CityPaper “roommates wanted, pets acceptable” ad constitutes false advertising, but because squirrels are tribal. They belong to tight-knit family groups, and when they take over a space, they take it over for the whole gang. Once that word is out, you can try trapping them one by one, but their buddies will be coming right behind them. However, this is also what makes it easy to stay rid of them once you’re rid of them (for the record, we did a trap-and-release strategy – no squirrels were harmed in the making of this story). If a group of squirrels claim a stake in your territory, at least you’ll only have the one group to deal with. Groups of squirrels apparently know better than to throw down with each other over access to your basement.

Also, squirrels are geniuses. Not only can they peel your roof off your house and move in, costing you countless thousands of dollars, but they can trick snakes by wearing their skin, Silence of the Lambs style. In California, some squirrels decided they were totally over being eaten by rattlesnakes, and they took advantage of the snakes’ poor eyesight by rubbing themselves with shedded snakeskin. The snakes couldn’t see that the squirrels were just playing dress up, and believed them to be snakes because they smelled familiar. BRILLIANT.

Finally, if you still need evidence of the awesomeness of squirrels, I close with Exhibit C. Squirrels are just plain cute, y’all.

Bucko: Bucko! SRSLY? I can imagine squirrels running around your backyard, picnicking on roof tiles and lounging in snakeskin boots. And I can imagine your kid going BERSERK, screaming at them with one hip jutted out, "GET OFF MY LAWN YOU SQUIRRELS!"...much in the same tone she used that day when she yelled at me in the moonbounce. Heelarious.

I cannot help but sing a wacky version of the Beastie Boys' song Girls when I think of squirrels:

Squirrels - to do the dishes
Squirrels - to clean up my room
Squirrels - to do the laundry
Squirrels - and in the bathroom
Squirrels - that's all I really want is Squirrels
Two at a time - I want Squirrels
With new wave hairdos - I want Squirrels!

And I when I force myself back to being serious, I have to admit that I don't think about squirrels often unless I'm alone. Sometimes when I walk onto campus, and it's cold and quiet in the early morning, the squirrels indigenous to this University will be frolicking about. I'll talk to them, see how close I can get to them, and even giggle deviously to myself when I catch those two frisky squirrels chasing one another up and down the trees. But otherwise, squirrels don't cross my mind much.

But in the world of Bucko up there, squirrels are quite the fierceness.

Hey! How's it going?

We’re glad you’re here! Yes, we realize that there’s not much ’round these parts. Fret not, folks. We’re churning the gears and making things happen.

raisingabuckus.com is the brainchild of Angela and Meaghan, heretofore known as Bucko and Bucko. We’re enigmatic like that. Our friendship started two years ago in a land of [self-]flagellation and tomfoolery…also know as LiveJournal.com. Since then we’ve been pretty much inseparable, even going so far as to acknowledge the fact that there is little either one of us could do to survive without the telepathic brain waves transmitted between us. We came from a land of harsh opinions and apathy [read: the Washington DC Metro Area], having managed to rise like loud-mouthed, opinionated phoenixes from the dearth and soot. We have a righteously great time with one another and we want to extend that joy and revelry on to you.

This blog is formatted in such a way as to accommodate questions. Big, serious, meaty life questions…or the silliness that floods the brain around 4:15pm on any given workday. We can’t promise we’ll give you the right answer, but we can promise we’ll give you AN answer, and it’ll be damned near hilarious, potentially helpful, and ridiculously inspiring [sometimes we’re optimistic, ok?].

While we’re getting the inner machinations of this soapbox greased up, please take a moment to consider your innermost thoughts, questions and curiousities. Then, open your e-mail account and send an e-mail to:

bucko@raisingabuckus.com

With little concern for the legalities of such Q&A shenaniganry, we will most likely choose your question for one of our most coveted replies.

Check back for the questions. It’s Buckus time, fools!