Matches! Matches! Come get yer matches!

So I was reading an article the other day about the Duke Lacrosse team rape allegations. Like all such stories, it is sordid and confusing and sad and horrible. Whether it’s true or not, the details are nevertheless disturbing and disheartening – partially because they very well could be true. They’re not so fantastical that no one believes it could happen.

And while I was reading this story on CNN.com there was a sidebar ad flashing away at me. It happened to be an advertisement for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition: photo after photo of sexy, scantily clad women in sweaty, oiled come-hitherness. One after another they were displayed in rotation, all in different positions, with different swatches of fabric covering different essential spots, leaving not much to imagination (and yet directing that imagination with suggestive poses and facial expressions). You all know which ads I mean. They could be for a singles dating site, Victoria’s Secret, whatever. They’re all the same.

Meanwhile, I’m reading a wretched story about the forcible choking and rape of a stripper by five college athletes in a bathroom. It was like, “HERE’S SOME VISUAL AID TO THE HORRIBLE STORY YOU’RE READING!” or, “MAYBE THE VICTIM LOOKED LIKE THIS! SEE MORE PICTURES!” or “WANT TO FEEL THE SAME DETACHED LUSTFUL FEELINGS AS THE RAPISTS? HERE ARE SOME FACELESS WOMEN WHO WILL ALSO SELL THEMSELVES FOR SEX, NOT UNLIKE THE VICTIM IN THE STORY!”

Doesn’t anybody at CNN.com pay attention to which ads accompany which stories? It was like reading a story about a drive-by shooting opposite a gun advertisement. Or an alcohol poisoning death with a liquor commercial on the side. The juxtaposition of the stripper/rape story and the swimsuit/porn ad was a sad commentary on modern American culture.

“PLAY WITH FIRE!” we say, “COME GET YOUR FIRE HERE! IT’S FUN, AND OH SO AMUSING!” But when somebody actually gets burned we act amazed, offended, scandalized. We talk about the burn victim as someone who is shameful, stupid, and a bad person. In the name of free speech and free all-kinds-of-stuff we allow morally reprehensible things to actually be marketed to the general public. In fact, we’ve changed our definition of what is moral by saying that as long as you don’t hurt anybody else you can do anything you want. But the line is so fine! I’m not sticking up for criminals here, but doesn’t it bother anybody else that we can sell sex and chastise the consumer of it in the same breath?

The alleged victim in the story was a stripper -- hired, legally I believe, by the athletes. No one seems to be saying you shouldn’t hire strippers, or that you shouldn’t be a stripper. They’re just saying… don’t let that lead to anything.

um... Hello? Are we daft, or what?

A Sunday Night Chat

"Is there, like, a leak in your love tank?"

My husband, Jared, and I recently read "The Five Love Languages: How to Express Hearfelt Commitment to your Mate." For those unfamiliar with the tenets of its philosophy, it analogizes that everybody has a "love tank." Our job as a romantic partner is to learn how our mate best feels loved, and become proficient enough in that "language" to be able to keep their love tank full, which keeps them happy. Once you know your "languages," the book suggests that you check in with each other at night and ask, "on a scale of 1-10 how full is your love tank today?"

"A leak?" I respond. We're lying on the couch together. His goal tonight is to "dote" on me, and he's doing his best to follow my very specific instructions (I wrote a song about that, by the way. I should post the lyrics sometime).

"Yeah," He explains. "Not like the regular diminishing of the love tank. I mean a steady stream of it just... being gone. Like, I keep putting love in your tank and... like, is there love in there that doesn't ever get used? That just... gets wasted?"

I furrow my brow. "No, I don't have a leak," I say, formulating my defense. "I just... I have a lot of love-needs. I use a lot of resources. I'm a high consumer of love because I have so much going on." Yeah, that's it, I'm thinking. "Your love doesn't go to waste, I use it all."

"So... you just get really bad love-mileage. You're like the SUV of love vehicles." We laugh. "My little love-SUV," he croons. mmm. We lay cheek to cheek on the couch, me in misty-eyed contentment and bliss.

"So...[pause]... can I trade you in for a hybrid sometime? .... ow! ow! I was kidding! I was KIDDING!!"

This was our conversation tonight. I think we're making progress.