Word Press-off

March 24, 2008

What the heck. Why is wordpress stealing all my paragraph breaks? It makes me sad.

Pop Quiz!

March 24, 2008

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Who’s The Husband?
If I was smarter, I would have anticipated this little kink of life as part of a girl/girl couple, but I didn’t. People, people who knew me as a straight girl, people who’ve known me a long time, people whom I’ve just met, other queer people–all kinds of people–have lately asked me: “Who’s the husband/boyfriend/butch?”

The best answer I’ve come up with so far is : “Are you asking me about who does what in bed?” ‘Cause, you know, you are. Ewww.

But just in case you, yourself, have been wondering the same; here’s a clue. If you have to ask the question, it might be because the answer is that there *isn’t* a boyfriend. Or because its none of your beeswax.

Nevertheless, being on the receiving end of this particular inquiry has been food for thought. I mean, to me, I haven’t changed. I’m still pretty much the same pushy broad I was when I busted out of the womb six weeks early. But when my nearest and dearest answer that question themselves (which they generally do, if I let them), the answer is always the same; Its me.

I’m the butch.

Except I’m not. I’m still the kind of girl I always was. Cute, short and with a taste for shoes, underwear and red wine. Plus a sizable personality. I like to think of it as ‘direct.’ And brainy. Maybe ‘challenging.’ On a bad day, crass, mean and with a mouth like an angry truck driver. (I, personally, love angry truck drivers, but thats another post.)

In any case, these mildly gender-contradictory traits, in the context of an apparently straight lifeplan produce no cognitive dissonance whatsoever in the audience; they are merely cute quirks that up until recently reinforced my essential femininity. Now, suddenly, without a Dude to back me up, the same qualities apparently reveal me as essentially mannish.

It seems to me as though there is an unstated equation; you can go this far and no further with your gender non-conformity without crossing some kind of line. Heels+lipstick+ boyfriend+ major ego and incredibly logical mind= femme but if you change one variable the whole picture is in question.

Alternatively, the only real concern of these friends and comrades with regard to my gender is that (possibly, as far as they can tell,) I might not be getting (properly) fucked, and that is the single definitional requirement of femme-ness and femininity. I’m not sure, because I’m not in your head.

But I’m curious. Which is it?

I Bore Easily

March 17, 2008

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Originally, I started this blog with intent to follow through on a very specfic project. My goal was to blog about the sexism that I encountered in the course of my every day life–in school, on the street, at work, or anywhere else. I wanted to document the sheer volume of this crap, look at it directly and offer it up to an audience as a kind of proof that my anger and occasional moments of rage are in some way justified.

What I discovered is that there is a reason that, as a rule, those of us on the receiving end of this kind of crap don’t actually want to confront the sheer volume of the assault. Its psychologically damaging to sit down at the end of a long day and count up a long series of injuries and abuses. Not to mention, its kind of repetitive and …boring. I found myself only bothering to remember and share with you the notable, or the amusing; a tiny portion of my intended catalouge.

This has made for more entertaining blog posts, but sparse posting. To supplement my content, I also found myself adding to my personal experiences with more standard blogular fare, like commentary and other musings beyond the 1st person.

In any case, all of this is to say I intend to continue as I have, but now without the guilt. I have decided that the flaw lies my original intent, rather than with my execution. As it turns out, I can only keep my mind off the abstract for so long. The ‘about’ page will be updated when I feel like it.

Carry on.

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Of course, you already knew that I am a bitter crone,
doomed to die alone with her cats. Fortunately, cats are funny.

 

Overall I like the gym. It meshes nicely with my many compulsions. Plus I am vain about my biceps.

But is this really necessary?:

Me (pulling on some kind of weight system meant to strengthen my back): “ug. phooe. phwee. ouch. ”

Dude-who-oogled-my-ass-*from below it*-while-stretching-on-his-back-and-then-followed-me-out-of-the-cardio-room: “I can help you learn to use the weight machines.”

Me: “no, thanks.”

Dude: “Don’t you want to make the most of your workout?”

Me: “Its 10pm. Its late. I don’t really like to meet strange men at the gym while wearing clothes that amount to unattractive underwear. I just want to work out. Please leave me alone.”

Dude (under his breath while walking away): “Bitch.”

It helped matters not at all that during the early stages of this interaction the gym in question had selected their entire playlist from the tracks suggested on the blog Stuff White People Like. Starting with the old chestnut “Baby Got Back.” Nice.

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This was an interesting choice of button.
Its strange that I am just now noticing your questionable taste.

Geraldine, Geraldine, Geraldine! Must you? Really?

I think fondly back to a time when, as a very young hater-of-Republicans and larval feminist, I sat around my family table with my cousins banging on things with forks and shouting: “Ronald Regan, He’s No Good! Send Him Back TO HOL-LY-WOOD!” Over and over again. Until our parents began taking us out with rocks from their makeshift bunker behind the couch.

That was all for you, sister. We also used to shout “More Meat! More Meat!,” but I’m pretty sure that was about something else.

In any case, I’d like to focus today on your total ingratitude for that unflagging support. Instead of backing me up on my strangely optimistic assertion that feminism is a movement about ending all oppression and aimed at addressing the problems of all women and people suffering from the patriarchy–even the Black ones!–you have to go and pull a Gloria Steinem.

Frankly, I feel you’re making us look bad. And I don’t even really give a shit about Obama. Its just about you.

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Drunk and carefree with a twist of psuedo-political posturing! Sexy.

Yesterday on the Leonard Lopate Show, there was much (maybe too much) discussion of Elliot Spitzer’s apparent downfall at the hands of a high-class call girl. I wish i had something intelligent to share with you; either a well-crafted analysis of this juicy, juicy scandal or a nuanced position on the age-old debates about sex work, porn, blowjobs, on and on.

But I don’t.

Instead, I want to share with you an ad for an escort service that Lopate read aloud on-air. The copy is hilarious. Hilarious in a way that may cause you both to laugh uproariously and to vomit a little in your own mouth. Like when you eat candy corn on a roller coaster.

Behold:

Daniella is natural beauty and refinement. The elegance of an educated culured woman coupled with gaiety and fun… with the light-hearted feminism of a fine Merlot and the sweet, floral finish of a splendid Riesling you’ll agree that moments with Daniella are the ultimate in unrestrained luxury.

Now. I like feminism, Merlot and a little gaity in a gal as much as the next dude. Perhaps more. Not to mention a floral finish. But.

Lopate thought this blurb sounded “like a personal ad.” I’d like to point out that personal ads are generally written in the first person perspective, rather than from the pimps-eye-view. Personal ads also frequently include the author’s wants in addition to hir selling points and special features. I, personally, have never written an ad awkwardly organized around comparing myself to inanimate edibles.

Just saying.