At least honesty is still part of the policy....

So, I recently heard that the CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch was all "Fat Chicks are TEH WORST!" This, of course, triggered a massive amount of outrage across mah Facebook feed and every other online place I frequent. In a way, I can understand why people are all MAAAAAAAD.

But my reaction was kinda as follows:



I'm sorry. I know I should be upset that a MAN would be so callous towards a whole group of people but what else did we expect? I myself have never really bought anything from Abercrombie & Fitch but I have been inside of one of their perfume-drenched stores and I have seen their lovely wall hangings.

Here is a little sample of what you'll get shoved up in your eye parts:

So classy!

So artistic! 

I mean aren't you shocked? A man who approves of these towering billboards of self-esteem should be SOOOO ashamed of his opinions on girls who are more than 95 lbs. 

Ok, I will tone down the sarcasm a bit. It's just funny to me in a way. Abercrombie and Fitch is a clothing line that CLEARLY does not care about self-respect. They imagine a world where every man possesses a six pack and is deathly allergic to anything covering it. "T-shirts make me rashy!" They imagine a world where women are petite, scantily clad and always willing to pose in a pseudo-sexual manner. "Squish my boobs on his like this?" So why were we all so surprised when they have something against women who don't fit into that concept and actually admit it? 'Cause, uh duh. Their clothes, ads, stores, and wall art has been saying just that for years.  

Which brings me to my next thought- Do you ever think we allow ourselves way too much ignorance? Just walk into a mall and we are constantly being told, not asked, to sign up for precisely this type of belief system. Money buys happiness and more is always better.... unless it's the pieces of cloth to cover your lady bits. Then we pay doubly the price for something that covers half as much. Victoria's Secret, Hollister, American Eagle, etc. They all have subscribe to this philosophy. So how do we counter that? 

Now, calm down. I am not saying we should boycott all these stores. I'm not that girl. But I am asking everyone to maybe possibly sorta kinda operate under some sense of intelligence when buying the things you put on your body. Realize that you are the customer. You're the one with the power, not them. Your money is what pays for these retailers to propagate stupid messages. And most importantly, you are the rad one, the trend setter. You get to create the standard that's set among your friends, and probably even some of yo enemies. Cause everybody knows a good enemy copy cats hard.  

So, maybe we should consider lessening the amount of business we give to these stores, not to send them a message but to give those around us a message. I am worth more than those clothes. I can dress in classy way that makes me look pretty or handsome (depending on you being a chick or a dude) without encouraging the mindset present in their philosophy and clothing lines. Plus, you won't have to wash your hair after you shop there just to get the smell of douche bag off ya.

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Post by Lisa Twigg

Why Kermit Gosnell should be acquitted

Kermit Gosnell has been on trial for murder for the past month and a half. By now you’ve heard it all before: the filthy conditions, the racist practices, the contaminated instruments, and – of course – the babies delivered alive and killed by snipping their necks with scissors.

I say we acquit him.

There is nothing more disgusting about pulling a baby out and killing her than there is about sticking an instrument into the womb and killing her. Why is it worse if she’s a foot away? Is the difference location? Should a few feet of space be the difference between “perfectly legal” and “first degree murder?”

It’s preposterous. The whole trial is kind of a sham. Let him go. If it’s legal a few feet to the left inside the womb, then why not just let it be legal a few feet to the right outside the womb?

Let him go. You know what? Drop the charges. If I were the prosecuting attorney, I’d say, “We thought about it, and we decided, y’know, if it’s legal over here, then why not let it be legal over there? If it’s legal at 24.5 weeks, then what the hell is the difference at 25 weeks? Or 33 weeks? Or a couple days after birth?”

Maybe by putting a murderer back on the street, we can make our point that there already are murderers walking the streets, legally. They’re called all the abortionists.

Do we condemn Kermit Gosnell for committing abortions in a filthy, slovenly, contaminated manner? If we do, are we saying it’s okay to kill babies if you use clean instruments and don’t accidentally perforate the uterus? Is it okay to abort lots of black babies if you’re just as nice to the black mothers as you are to the white? Is it okay to kill children as long as they’re not a certain size or a certain age?

This is what the pro-abortion people are saying when they condemn Kermit Gosnell. It’s not what he did that’s the problem; it’s how he did it. It makes them look bad. They hate looking bad.

But some pro-lifers are doing the same thing. I’ve been doing it, too. We want the world to see what abortion is so badly that we’ve made a figurehead of evil out of Gosnell, when in reality he is absolutely a logical outcome of abortion law in the United States

Letting Kermit Gosnell go might show the citizens of this country how utterly schizophrenic are their attitudes toward abortion.

Try having a conversation with a pro-choice person. It’ll probably go something like this sample conversation, which I’ve had some version of about 400 times.

Pro-Choice Person: I’m pro-choice. I believe in a woman’s right to choose.

Me: Okay, so you think a woman should be able to go in and get an abortion the month before she’s due?

PCP: Give me a break, of course not!

Me: Why not?

PCP: Because… I mean… it’s a baby by then.

Me: When does it become a baby?

PCP: Well… I mean… it can feel pain by then.

Me: So it would be ok to kill me if you anesthetized me first?

PCP: Of course not, but you’re a person.

Me: When did I become a person?

Inevitably, the PCP ends up having to admit that there are only two logical criteria for the onset of personhood: conception or birth. Any argument for some designation between these two points is purely arbitrary. By this time the PCP is pretty committed to holding up his defense of abortion, so he goes for birth, although you can tell he doesn’t really like it. At which point it’s easy to show how the same arguments for late-term abortion can be made for infanticide. This makes PCPs feel bad, so they either become pro-life or make friends with denial.

Enter Kermit Gosnell. He is absolutely the logical conclusion of the pro-abortion mentality, which is not at all based in logic. Logical reasoning about abortion leads you to either a pro-life viewpoint or a pro-infanticide viewpoint. A human being of sound mental, emotional, and spiritual health retreats from a pro-infanticide viewpoint and becomes pro-life. The rest remain pro-choice, and they deserve to be represented by Kermit Gosnell.

I want Kermit Gosnell walking the streets. I want him free, because there is nothing he did that is incompatible with a pro-abortion ideology. I want him to serve as a constant reminder that abortion and infanticide are the same thing, and it was the Supreme Court’s idea – supported by around half of the citizens of this country - that some doctors are murderers who get to be free citizens.

I want him punished in the following way: he should have to wear a red T-shirt with white letters on it that say ”I STABBED BABIES IN THE NECK AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT” for the rest of his life. Inevitably, there will be a new college band called I Stabbed Babies in the Neck, and you’ll be able to buy replicas of the T-shirt online, but that’s okay. I still want him to have to wear it, every day, for the rest of his life, and be buried in it.

As a country, we don’t deserve to get to put Kermit Gosnell in prison and feel good about ourselves. We deserve to have to think about him walking around free. We created him. We should have to see him at the grocery store and the post office, look at his face, and think about what we’ve done.

Actually, you know what, I changed my mind. I have a way better and more accurate idea for Kermit Gosnell’s T-shirt: “I STABBED BABIES IN THE NECK, BECAUSE YOU LET ME.”

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Post by Kristen Hatten

Dave the Unborn Baby interviews Dr. Kermit Gosnell

*Author's note: This is a fictional interview between two fictional characters. 
I have never interviewed "Dr." Kermit Gosnell.

Intro music: something peppy, with a saxophone.

The screen reads: LIVE FROM THE UTERUS WITH DAVE THE UNBORN BABY!

Dave the Unborn Baby floats in a dark pink cocoon of placental warmth. He is about 24 weeks gestation and has a winning personality, laid-back and charming.

Applause.

Dave the Unborn Baby: Thank you, thank you! Ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna get little bit serious here tonight. We have right here, live in the studio, the infamous abortion doctor Kermit Gosnell. Now, as many of you know, Dr. Gosnell was an abortionist working in Philadelphia until 2011. He is now on trial for seven counts of first degree murder.

Sounds of "oooooh" from the audience.

Dave: It's been in the news some. Have you seen this? Have you heard about this? Apparently, he was known for running an exceptionally shoddy clinic. Urine on the floor. Women having their uteruses perforated. Unlicensed staff providing medical care. Filthy facilities. Just a terrible story. And you know, as an unborn baby myself, I really wanted to get Dr. Gosnell in here and let him kind of tell us where he's coming from. So let's bring him out. Dr. Gosnell!

Dr. Gosnell enters and sits to polite applause.

Dave: First of all, Doctor, I just want to thank you for being with us here today.

Dr. Kermit Gosnell: Thank you, Dave. It's a real pleasure.

Dave: I know you're busy with the trial and everything, so we appreciate you taking the time to talk to us, to share your side of the story.

Dr. Kermit: I really appreciate the opportunity.

Dave: So, let's get right down to it. You were into the third trimester abortions in particular, right? That's was kind of your thing.

Dr. Kermit: It was, Dave. It was my specialty, sort of. The viable babies.

Dave: What was that all about?

Dr. Kermit: Well. (Sigh.) You know, I guess I just like killing babies? And the more they looked like babies, the more I liked it, I guess. To be honest, it's hard to pin down the motivation in my mind. It's a real mess in there. In my mind, I mean.

Dave: Because you're such a sick psycho?

Dr. Kermit: Yes, exactly. I guess, first of all there was the demand, you know, from women who were gonna have to give birth pretty soon and for whatever reason they just decided, you know, Never mind. I'd rather not give birth. And these women, a lot of them, before I came along, would end up just giving birth. And I thought, well, that's where I could come in. Before the birth. And stop that from happening.

Dave: Death instead of birth, then.

Dr. Kermit: Right. Because I enjoy killing. You know, there are other things I could have done with my life, to make money. Other types of medicine I could have practiced. Medicine is a fairly lucrative career no matter how you slice it. (Laughs.) That's a little pun I like to make.

Dave: Classy.

Dr. Kermit: But here I saw this opportunity to take these women, usually scared, uninformed, sometimes even coerced women, to take them into my care and spread their legs and pull their babies out and snip their spinal cords with scissors. And I mean, what can I say? I saw the opportunity and I took it.

Dave: Right.

Dr. Kermit: Because, seriously, think of how rare it is, to get to take babies out of people, stab them in the neck or cut their heads off right there in front of them, and they pay you? I made over a million dollars a year doing that. I mean, that's pretty... I don't know if the word is progressive? But it's something.

Dave: It sure is.

Dr. Kermit: It's the American dream, in a way.

Dave: Wow.

Dr. Kermit: And so I couldn't really assemble a crackerjack team for my staff, could I? The, uh, the crackerjacks, as it were, the real licensed nurses and doctors, they had real jobs, with the healing and whatnot. That's why I had all the unlicensed staff. I had a 15-year-old administering anesthesia. (Laughs.) You know, women sitting on filthy recliners, urine and blood everywhere, spreading venereal diseases with dirty instruments, perforating their organs. I think there was even a flea-ridden cat in the clinic, wandering around.

Dave: That's pretty gross.

Dr. Kermit: Well, I mean, what was I gonna do, put him out on the street? That would be cruel.

Dave: Indeed. Now, Doctor, I've read stories about babies jumping when their heads were severed, or crying out.
Is that true?

Dr. Kermit: Sure, sure. Anybody would, wouldn't they?

Dave: Wow. You're really a sick monster.

Dr. Kermit: I sure am, Dave.

Dave: So what's next for you?

Dr. Kermit: Prison, probably? I don't know. I'll never practice medicine again. Not legally, anyway. (Laughs.) But you know, I had a good run.

Dave: Let's say you're in prison, and someone's about to stab you in the neck. How would you feel about it?

Dr. Kermit: Well, I wouldn't like it very much.

Dave: What if it were legal to stab you in the neck?

Dr. Kermit: Well. But it's not.

Dave: Very true. Well, Doctor, again I'd like to thank you for being with us here.

Dr. Kermit: Thank you, Dave. But before I go, are you 100% sure your mother wants you? Because I brought my scissors...

Dave: Dr. Kermit Gosnell, ladies and gentlemen.

Polite applause.

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Post by Kristen Hatten

Let's Talk About Porn

Originally posted on LiveAction

When I was a teenager and well into my 20s, Kurt Vonnegut was my favorite writer. I still appreciate his work, although now when I revisit it, I find things that bother me.

One particular passage (I forget in which novel) found Vonnegut describing a porno shop. For those of you who are significantly younger than I and/or don’t read ancient history, this was a place that existed before the internet, when in order to acquire pornographic materials one had to go out in public and purchase them. Withmoney. Dark, scary times.

Anyway, Vonnegut described the shop as “a silly place, all about love and babies.” (I am relying on memory, but I believe this is far more accurate than not.)

I remember being blown away by that. I was struck by how enlightened and how true it was. How Vonnegutian. He was right, I thought. Porn wasn’t about shame or hurting people. It was a natural consequence of the fact that men found women desirable and lovely. It meant that men loved women and wanted to participate in baby-making acts with them. That was what porn was about.

I felt a smug sense of righteousness that I was so enlightened now. I understood porn, while most people grossly misunderstood it. It wasn’t porn that was perverse; the real perverts were the people who didn’t realize that it was, deep down, “all about love and babies.” They were the real perverts – those who, instead of indulging their natural, healthy, loving, lusty natures, twisted something beautiful and simple into something negative and mysterious and even ugly.

“Porn keeps families together,” I used to say, half because I believed it and half to shock people. I would explain that pornography kept people’s marriages alive. Couples could watch porn together and get turned on and then have healthy consensual sex. Men could watch porn and indulge fantasies without “actually” cheating. Meanwhile, the people acting in the pornos could make a living and do something fun and healthy and not at all perverse.

Porn was natural. Porn was necessary. Porn was, in a way, wholesome. I believed all this.

Then I saw some porn.

You have to remember that the internet, around this time, was dial-up. It consisted of AOL Instant Messenger and e-mail, and a fraction of what we now call at the internet. Each page was delivered to you at roughly the speed at which water boils at medium heat. And it was difficult to log on secretly in the middle of the night because the sound of the modem dialing up (don’t worry about what this means) was a cacophony of screeches, blips, and hisses, sometimes lasting several minutes, guaranteed to wake everyone in your home, and possibly your neighbor’s home.

Also, if I’m not mistaken, you still had to pay for porn back then. With money.

So I was about nineteen years old when I first saw actual porn. And that whole business about porn being all about love and babies? Yeah, not so much.

I was with a bunch of friends at my boyfriend’s house when someone put in a VHS tape (you can google that if you need to) of some porno. There was a time not so long ago when a young man could never have imagined playing a pornographic video in a room full of young ladies. Those days are gone. Because FEMINISM. Because women are no different from men, right? And we are expected to look at the porn and shrug and be “cool” with it.

This is the new thing. This is what is expected of post-feminist women. We must be “cool” with porn, or, at the very least, “okay” with it. To be anything else would be hypocritical as feminists. We want “equality,” right? Well, there it is: women behaving just like men. Namely, by wantonly having sex with whoever. And by finding nothing at all disgusting about watching another woman be assailed by unfamiliar genitals for money.

So I sat there and I looked at the porn. I didn’t see love or babies. I didn’t really even see sex, not as I understood it. I saw violence.

I immediately thought back to the pornographic magazines I’d found in my friend’s dad’s closet when I was a kid. I remembered the violent imagery, the disgusting jokes, the little cartoon that made light of rape. I thought I’d stumbled upon something from the fringe, something dark and out of the ordinary. And I was surprised when, years later, I found out that the magazine – Hustler – was considered pretty mainstream and had about a zillion subscribers.

Later, I put it out of my mind. I was enlightened and Vonnegutian now.

Except the reality – the actual porn – was proving Vonnegut wrong. These weren’t beautiful ladies being caressed lovingly by men with passion in their smoldering eyes. These were 19-year-old girls with fake breasts and zero body hair being pummeled like desirable pieces of willing meat.

You know that saying, “If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”? This looked like humiliation. It quacked like humiliation.

But what does abortion have to do with porn? They are both the end game.

Abortion and pornography are, in different ways, the extreme of what we get when we stop treating sex like something sacred or important. The dictionary definition of the verb “pervert” means to “alter (something) from its original course, meaning, or state to a distortion or corruption of what was first intended.”

Porn perverts sex. When you pervert sex – when you make it about using other people, making money, or titillating the masses – you distort and corrupt it. Creating life and bringing two married people closer together – that’s the intended purpose of sex. Not profit. Not recreation.

I’m old enough now to know I was wrong when I said “Porn saves families.” I’ve literally seen it do the opposite to families. I’ve watched women I know struggle on two fronts: one, they’re devastated to learn that their boyfriends or husbands are addicted to porn, and literally can’t stop watching and lusting after other women, and two, they’re not supposed to mind. It’s supposed to be no big deal.

It’s almost de rigeur for comedians to talk about men watching porn and how all men do it and all men lie about it and this is reality and women should accept it.

Well, sorry. I don’t accept it. I don’t care if he knows her name or not – if my husband lusts after another woman, that’s infidelity, be it ever so humble. And when young men become hooked on porn before they’re even old enough to have relationships, it gives them dangerous, violent ideas about sex, and some seriously disturbing ideas about what women are supposed to look like and how they are supposed to behave.

I am one of those women who is not okay with porn, and that includes live soft-core porn – i.e., strip clubs. Yes, I’m that wife. I’m the annoying bee eye tee see aytch who won’t let my husband go to your bachelor party if I know you’re going to have a stripper. (And, yes, I can, within reason, tell my husband he can’t do things, just as he can tell me I can’t do things. Marriage is a contract.)

And in case you’re wondering, I won’t go to bachelorette parties if they involve male strippers. For one, respect is a two-way street. I don’t want to objectify a dude, even if he likes it. And for two, gross.

My home is a porn-free zone. You can roll your eyes and think I’m deluded, but I trust my husband, and moreover, I married a guy who shares my values, and who is concerned that what was once thrilling – Betty Grable in a short skirt and tight top – is now not enough.

Where soldiers used to pin up photos of scantily-clad, smiling, wholesome, Marilyn Monroe-type gals, they now go for silicone-enhanced, spread-eagled, air-brushed hoochies with hair extensions and false eyelashes and three pounds of eyeliner, replete with strategic bleaching and waxing, all splayed out, nothing left to the imagination. It’s more than offensive; it’s also aesthetically troublesome. It says not only that we are amoral, but that we are just, well, trashy.

I accept that I live in a postmodern freak show of a land where I can see things walking through the mall that would not even have been shown on late night television thirty years ago. I accept that my husband is going to inadvertently see what would once have been called soft-core porn just because we happen to have cable. And I’m not going to freak out every time he does.

But, ladies, we need to make a stand. We need to refuse to accept the menace of pornography in our lives. No matter what the fauxminists say, the sex trades do prey on women. They do hurt women.

And we need to stop buying the idea that being “cool” with porn means we’re enlightened and liberated. It means just the opposite. It means we’ve bought a patriarchal lie that selling our bodies, taking pills that subvert our bodies, and allowing our children to be ripped out of our bodies is somehow good for us.

It isn’t. We should know better.

Make your home a porn-free zone. Make your life a porn-free experience. Don’t give in to the temptation to objectify other people, and don’t believe the lie that when your significant other or husband or wife looks at porn, it doesn’t affect you. It does. The viewer of porn disrespects the people he watches, himself, and his significant other.

As women, if we’re going to demand respect, we need to give it. A culture of life starts with respecting human beings enough to say no – not only to their killing as unborn children, but to their degradation as adults. We need to recognize and reject the perversion of sex and the objectification of humans that leads to abortion.

To build a culture of life, we have to say NO – unapologetically – to pornography.

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Post by Kristen Hatten

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Originally posted on Kristen's personal blog, "Chronicles of Radness"

This is what happened on Easter. It is full of things that will make you say "TMI," probably out loud. If frank discussions of lady plumbing mishaps annoy or disgust you, go live your important life and leave me be. We both know however, that your important life probably involves "Scrubs" reruns.

1. I'm taking a fertility drug called Clomid. It has many side effects. Some of them, like babies, are good. Others are not so good. So far the not-so-good ones are the ones I have.

2. Clomid makes me feel emotions. Emotions that only women know about, and usually during the pre-menstrual times. Emotions like "red-hot pissed," "enraged for no reason," "really sad for no reason," and "suddenly weeping."

3. I only have to take Clomid five days a month. And, ladies and gentlemen, five days a month is enough.

4. I take Clomid the week of and just after my period. So now here's how my month breaks down. Days 1-4: On my period. (Sucks.) Days 5-7: On Clomid and on my period. (SUCKS.) Days 8-9: On Clomid. (Sucks.) Days 10-20: The "fertile period," where I have sex a lot, worry if I'm ovulating or not, go to the doctor to have my progesterone checked, and begin to wonder if I'm knocked up. (Mostly sucks.). Days 21-28: Wonder if I'm knocked up. Take pregnancy tests. Dread my period. Also PMS. (SUCKS.) Repeat!

5. Easter was my third day of Clomid. I got up and I was so tired. But I put on something cute and we went to Mass and I saw Brett Favre.

6. I was kneeling. I had just taken Communion. I was praying and looking at the stained glass. I started looking at people. I saw this tall guy with broad shoulders in a light blue polo and I thought, "Damn, that's a big dude. He looks like a football player." Then I saw his face. It looked vaguely familiar.

7. Brett Favre looked at me. He was probably thinking, "You rude bitch. I'm trying to worship the Lord and you're staring." But I was just mildly smiling at him, and thinking, "He looks kind of familiar." His hair was very gray and his face was not shaved. Then just as he passed out of my field of vision, I said to myself, "That's Brett Fav-ruh." I watched him head for the side exit, dip his fingers in the holy water font, and disappear into the narthex. (Yes, he left before "the Mass is ended.")

8. I'm not what you'd call terribly knowledgeable about the sporting games, so I wouldn't have known who Brett Favre was at all if it weren't for There's Something About Mary.

9. It's sacrilege to say this around these parts, but I wouldn't know Drew Brees if he sat on my face.

10. Anyway after Mass my husband had this great idea: Cracker Barrel.

11. On the way in, I had a sudden panicky feeling and made my husband walk behind me and look at my buttal area to make sure there was no blood. There wasn't.

12. So I enjoyed my coffee and salad. (I know salad isn't breakfast. But I wanted a salad.) And then when we had eaten and were leaving, I told my husband to wait for me in ye olde country shoppe while I went to the bathroom.

13. In the bathroom, my crotch was full of blood. And there were four giant dark spots on the buttal area of my light brown skirt.

14. I texted my husband: "Abort mission. Meet me outside. Bled on m'self."

15. He met me outside. I got in the truck and cried. Because I thought this was over. I thought the ovarian drilling was gonna make everything cool. And now I am bleeding on myself in a Cracker Barrel.

16. I asked my husband if he tipped the waitress well and he said yes. Which is good because she probably had to clean up my vaginal blood.

17. We went home and I laid down and experienced lots of the Clomid emotions all at once: "enraged for no reason," "really sad for no reason," and "suddenly weeping," to name a few. My poor husband was mystified.

18. Then I had to (a) find something cute to wear since my cute Easter outfit was in the wash, and (b) make my famous loaded mashed potatoes and get re-dressed all in about 45 minutes, which caused me to experience another Clomid emotion (Clomotion?): "red-hot pissed."

19. I fought with my husband. I got red-hot pissed about iced tea. It was really dumb. That poor man. Then we went to Easter at his folks'. And it was good. There was ham. And the crazy bloodiness tapered off. And the next two days of Clomid were not that bad.

20. This pill better work. It makes me suddenly have cramps so violent I have to grip the kitchen counter. It makes me want to do nothing but sleep. Except at night, when I can't sleep because I'm nervous and have a headache. It makes me bleed. It makes me cry. It better for the love of God make me ovulate.

21. When I get pregnant, I'm going to punch in the face anyone who dares lecture me about the nobility of suffering. You can take your drug-free home birth and put it in your butt super hard. By the time I am knocked up I will have suffered for that baby. I have bled on myself inside the Capitol of the Hearty Country Breakfast after looking at Brett Favre. Sleepless nights, tears, pain, pills, doctor visits, ultrasounds, blood draws. About 200 hours spent online looking for tricks and explanations. Herbs and teas and OTC "miracles." Holes drilled in my ovaries.

22. I got nothin' else to prove.

23. There is no moral to this story. I had my period like a hoss on Easter Sunday while taking fertility drugs that make me crazy. That's it.

24. There is a happy ending: I had a nice Easter. I missed my family a lot. I wasn't able to go see them. But I spent the day with some of my new family, and ate some delicious food, including my loaded mashed potatoes, which fucking rule.

25. I also saw a beautiful baby get baptized. That was lovely. Hopefully by next Easter I'll be the one up there hoping my baby doesn't puke on the priest or hose down his christening gown.

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Post by Kristen Hatten

This might as well be a Taylor Swift song....

{Editor's note: Because it's so sweet. Not because the dude does her wrong in the end. Anyway, the following is by the fabulous, hilarious, oh, and we can't forget brilliant Danielle Lipp....}

"Did you kiss yet?"

“No, not yet”

“When does this start to get creepy?"

I was just shy of 21, talking to an old friend when this phone conversation took place. The whole "waiting thing" was cute when I was in high school but as I got older I started to feel like I had a third arm growing out of the side of my head when I told people. In fact, I am certain there were some who thought I was a lesbian. It wasn't just my kisses that waited, sex would wait as well until I was married. 

No really, I waited and it was great. I didn't acquire a ton of emotional problems (at least not ones I didn't already have), no STD's, and I never had to debate getting an abortion.

Aloha, my name is Danielle, and I’m a newlywed from Hawaii (I never know how to say that without sounding like I'm a spoiled brat, oh well). I’m a pastor's daughter, the youngest of four girls. And as you could probably already tell I'm not your typical pastor's daughter, well at least I don’t strip on the weekends.

{Editor's note: Wait Danielle, you strip M-F? You really should've told us that *before* we let you write a blog.}

I was 21 when I had my first kiss, it was to my boyfriend Josef (who is now my Husband). To relieve you from your complete shock, let's go back a bit.

I know, it's hard to believe she's a virgin in this pic because of the sheer hotness here,
but trust.

In 2000, I started praying for my husband. My prayer was that I wouldn’t have to date my entire youth group to get to him and that he would be my first and only kiss. Fast forward to late September 2008, I walked into church late, and little did I know what God was doing in that service. They say love is blind and if that's the case I would've walked right into a brick wall. And then that wall chased after me hard. Even though I swore he would make someone else very happy it only took four months until we became "official," and I had my first boyfriend.

Our first Valentine's Day I gave him my first kiss. I was 21 and self taught by way of Titanic and The Notebook. God has the best sense of humor being that my first kiss would be with a guy who had the last name Lipp. I had planned on waiting until may wedding day, but it was either a confidence in my to be husband, or the fact that I was an aspiring actress with no money for acting classes that I decided to plant one on him. It was refreshing to be a "rookie." To know that if I drooled too much, or jammed my tongue down his throat it was because of a lack of experience. And that's a good thing.

I will forever cherish the day, on September 24th 2011 when I thought I was reading for an audition but I was in fact offered my most important role yet, the proposal to be his wife.

I can't wait to tell our children one day that their Daddy is the only man their Mom ever kissed and that she planned, or shall I say "prayed" it that way. He always asked me what made him stand out and why I chose him to be my first everything. The only answer I could give him is that he was the only man that LOVED Jesus more than me. I loved that the first time he picked me up there was worship music playing in his car. Or when we were watching Never Been Kissed (an aptly named gift he brought) and the banana scene came on, he fast forwarded it. I loved that I didn't have to invite him to church... he invited himself. I love that he was the first one to text, call and add me on myspace (strange how saying that makes me feel old).

He showed me what it felt like to be pursued, what it looked like to be a man, and defied my belief that I would never fall for a jock. There have already been bad and ugly times in our marriage but I know it will all be worth it when we are sitting together at our children's wedding one day like both of our parents did at ours.

I don’t know if you guys who are reading this are anything like some (not all but some) of my friends and are eagerly asking “Ok great good for you for waiting, but how was the sex?”

{Editor's note: Yes. Yes, we are.}

The first time I cried. Not because it hurt, even though it did. It was emotional on a level I never expected because of this new intimacy combined with my dream coming to fruition. As amazing as it was I see it different now, Yes it is amazing, but no it won't pay our bills, stop a fight, or make my husband love me more. I realize now I worshipped sex before I had ever even had it. It was synonymous with marriage to me. It was going to fix our problems and make us happy, and while it can at times take care of the happy part, sex is such a small part of our relationship. What it is for us is the cherry on top. It is a blessing, it's a gift, it's a means to which we can create the 7 kids my husband thinks we will have (Lord, I pray you choose a nice easy number like 4).

{Editor's Note: Oh, FOUR is easy, Danielle? Really? So I'm just sitting here editing your post with a baby literally sitting on the side of my head like a spider monkey because four is such a day at the spa? You think I'm playin' girl? Shoooooo, I ain't playin.... proof, in 5...4....3...2...1...

Danielle Lipp's definition of a cake walk

....but whatever, I'll let's get back to your story, and I'll also be praying that you do get those four..... *cough*sets of triplets*cough*}

Even though I had my own lessons to learn, God mapped things out accordingly. It wasn't easy to wait, it was hard... really hard. There were plenty of awkward moments, disappointed guys and dry lips. But what was the point if I wasn't going to marry them? I know the fact that I waited doesn't make me any better than anyone who didn't. I can just attest that it was easier for me in the end.

The too cute couple, Danielle & Josef. Josef's the one on the left, by the way.

It's the way God designed it, it's the way that works. It's definitely not what you will see on TV and goes against many of today's norms but it in a way keeps your heart in tact. You don't leave a piece of it here, a piece with him there. It's yours to share with one person. I know the whole "not kissing thing" is a bit much for many of you but I can only say this. I wouldn't change a thing if I could go back. In fact, if I had the chance I would have waited for my wedding day. ❥

Danielle Lipp is the project manager for I am Whole Life

{Final Editor's Note: Danielle shared this little tidbit with me in confidence, so I'm sure she wouldn't mind me blabbing it with the whole internet, but she was obsessed with kissing growing up. As is my 6-year-old daughter who talks about it non-stop because Disney has temporarily lobotomized her. Some girls are just extra romanticy like that, I suppose. Anyway, I tell you this, Internet, to help put into perspective why kissing was off limits for her.... and hopefully will be with my daughter until she's married too (hey, a mom can hope, right?), because for some people first base is more intimate than all the bases. and a home run. and a Denny's Grand Slam. I mean, I can get seriously intimate with a Grand Slam, y'all. Don't judge.}

{FINAL, Final (seriously, this time) Editor's Note: Since I know there are those people/commenters/trolls out there who will jump on to say this is totally "slut shamy," as is evidently everything we do over here at NWF according to them ("Did you see the way those New Wave Feminists were all like brushing AND flossing their teeth?" "Girl, yeah, seriously, they just can't stop slut shaming us"), let me just stop ya right there. As DLipp points out, it ain't easy being easy. Not because of all the {{{SHAME}}} we're sending adolescent girls through the internet, but because a lot of women, myself included, regret their slutliciousness at some point. But it's also not easy being chaste either, and this post is to encourage those who take the road less traveled...which I imagine can feel pretty lonely when all the rest of your generation is out dancing on bars.}