Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Materialistic Poll of the Week

I was flipping through a magazine with a friend the other day and stopped on a page that featured a pair of cute, floral flats with a big button on the side. "Oooh," I began, but my browsing companion finished my sentence with, "Yeah, gross."

At this point I began to question my fashion sense.

My day-to-day style can best be described as, well, shabby chic. Kind of a post-apocalyptic Punk Rock meets Old Navy sale rack look. But, I will admit that I'm a sucker for "conversation pieces." I place this phrase in quotations because "conversation piece" often means "hideous mass of teal feathers that passersby can't NOT notice."

With that said, I was doing some internet window shopping yesterday and came across these shoes. My first reaction was an "Oooh!" My second was more of an "Eeeh?"

Inquiring minds need to know - If I *am* a walking fashion disaster/public humiliation, I'd like to begin some sort of recovery process asap. So these shoes...ugly...fashionable...eh?

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Bloggin' about pre-cum

It tires me out having to converse with men who are aggressively self-assured and totally wrong. This type of behavior bothers me in women too, but I tend to favor women, and the number of stupidly self-assured men out there seems disproportionately higher than the number of stupidly self-assured women. Yeah, I'm biased.

This afternoon, I was spending time with a textbook case male friend. I mentioned that I had recently gone off the pill and cracked a lame joke about condoms. After congratulating me on my decision to stop poisoning my body (mistake #1), he launched into a tirade about the myriad ways in which the medical establishment polices our bodies via capitalism. See, I *know* that the medical establishment polices my body. I am reminded of this fact daily, so I don't disagree. What I did disagree with was the framework around which he based his argument, which was (drumroll) that condoms are equally as effective as "pulling out."

Now, I don't claim to know everything about sex. In the grand scheme of things, I imagine I know very little, but I'm *fairly* certain coitus interruptus saw its heyday sometime during the 16th century.

My self-assured buddy blathered on about pre-cum before proving his point with time-tested *evidence,* which included a TMI story about fucking his girlfriend three times a day for over a year without a condom and never once having a pregnancy scare.

I told him that I'd hop online to fact-check his fascinating find, but he told me not to bother, as his claim was already backed by extensive research. I hopped online nonetheless, but I must be lacking in the Google search department, as the fruits of my labor have yielded no results. I know there are studies out there that can prove or disprove just about anything; when I find one that fits the bill, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I'm making up for wasted time by blogging about chauvinistic retards.


I even made art. It's a magical penis spraying magical, spermless ejaculate.

Friday, July 25, 2008

And so it continues...


The Pink Scare, Part 2.

*Sigh*

Though it's probably old news by now, I can't help but recall this story from this past February (not so very long ago).


It's depressing...seriously pathetic and depressing. Can somebody remind me exactly what it is we're so scared of?! Every time I turn on the radio, some smooth-talking newscaster is jabbing on about the fact that we live in "trying times." Because, you know, gas prices are really high and the airlines have delayed more family vacations to the Bahamas. I believe the phrase "trying times" is relative, and I'm backed by the fact that *most* people have easily turned a blind (or gleefully blind) eye to this "Pink Scare" business sweeping the nation. If I mentioned the term "Pink Scare" to my closest friends, most wouldn't have a damned clue what I was talking about.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Miss Cleo and the Sacred Whore


Every once in awhile, I'll peruse sites like eros-guide to get a sense of who's advertising and what's out there. I won't directly link to a particular ad here, because that might be in bad taste, but I want to provide a few examples of something that *really* gets my goat.

Now, I want to preface this mini-rant by stating that I don't disbelieve in the healing power of positive sexual energies or tantra. I am, however, very skeptical of repackaged new age practices being sold for a specific $$$ value.

You can certainly be a spiritual ho or an erotic masseuse with a gentle touch, but I raise an eyebrow at every porcelain-skinned 24-year-old named Vishnu who charges $300 an hour for her "goddess body" and "healing touch." I don't think that every Vishnu and Aphrodite on the web is a total hack, but I am reminded of the old Miss Cleo commercials that were eventually pulled from tv.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Still the second sex

On occasion, in my little hyper-feminist bubble, I forget that women are still relegated to the status of "second sex." My current living situation has allowed that this fact will never again slip my mind. It's not that I *always* feel outnumbered and isolated living with four men; they're fun-loving, energetic, and all around not so bad dudes. But, they're still dudes. On a day-to-day basis, I've got a lot of representin' to do, and I spend a lot of time trying to silently negotiate my minority status: as the only woman, the only self-identified feminist, as the token "queer," as the gender terrorist and sex worker advocate.

Why a silent negotiation, you ask? Isn't it my feminist duty to nip every instance of nauseating heterosexism in the bud? I am woman hear me roar, right?

Right. But even as I write this, I can feel myself growing tired. I am not tired of fighting, but I am tired of fighting the wrong fights with the wrong people at the wrong times. I am at a place in my life where I experience incongruity around every turn. I hear it when men talk about women. I hear it when women talk about sex workers. Hell, I even hear it when most women talk about other women. It is an incongruity born of ignorance and insensitivity, and we're all guilty of it from time to time. But those of us who try our damnedest to remain "in tune" must also remain on the defensive. We're hypersensitive to the type of trash talk that many people would never think twice about. It wears you down, always brandishing an emotional shield in one arm and a worn copy of the Feminine Mystique in the other. It is for this reason that I choose my battles carefully.

But, back to the second sex.

I was watching television with the domestic sausagefest tonight when the comment was made. In the show, a married woman sleeps with another man (her husband, who is a hardworking provider, is also incredibly hostile and emotionally neglectful). One of my television companions referred to the woman as "cheating whore." He then went on to say:

"When you cheat on someone you're dating you're a bitch. But when you get married, you make a vow. When you make that vow, you agree to keep it. If you break that vow, you're a filthy, cheating whore."

This type of comment gets my blood boiling, but it's these comments that I've learned to let go. As much as it pains me (and it does!), I let them go. This type of comment lends moral supremacy to marriage and monogamy. This type of comment invalidates individual experience. This type of comment insinuates that only women (the whores) commit adultery and should be duly punished. It sucks big time, and it makes me want to pull every hair out of my head, but I file it away in my mental "dickwad" log and I save my fight for another day.

My mother spent twenty years trying to fight this war in vain. She nearly abandoned her voice in the process. It wasn't until many years later, when she sought experiences *outside* of her marriage, that she began to realize she wasn't just a worthless woman in a loveless world. So yes, I'm rather biased, but I *know* the problem doesn't lie in the poisoned laps of the filthy, cheating whores.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Hella Barbarella


Cozied up yesterday with a bowl of popcorn (and a box of tampons) and enjoyed a personal movie night. Thanks to an amazing local video store, I’m finally seeing the offbeat flicks that have been on my “to-watch” list for years. Last night was Barbarella night, and I’ve been riding a tripped out wave of thigh-hi go-go boots and shag carpeting ever since. Seriously, I think Jane Fonda circa 1968 just revolutionized my wardrobe.

I also learned (and I’m sure this is old news by now) that a remake is currently in pre-production, which has left me a bit depressed but not the least bit surprised. Why is it that we need to see *every* good movie again, revamped and generally ruined by an astronomical budget, "all star" cast, and updated special effects? It's rather bogus, and it's ruining the aura of timelessness that I associate with classic cinema. Ah, well...I will continue this boycott with microwaveable popcorn and faux nostalgia, but I fear the day (and I know it's just around the corner) that remakes of movies made during my lifetime begin to appear.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Sick (and a very merry Christmas)

I woke up this morning surprised to find that I felt like poo warmed over. Fine last night, swollen and lethargic 8 hours later. Immune system, I commend you on a brilliant surprise attack. Muscles have closed shop for the day, throat's on fire, nose has been replaced by a snot faucet, and my head feels like a bloated, pressurized balloon.

All things considered, I've chosen to dedicate this day to sleep and tea. My immune system and I have a decent working relationship, and I know when it's trying to tell me something. Right now, it's lamenting my erratic mood swings, irregular sleeping patterns, and sudden switch from a healthy, strict vegetarian diet to...well...crap.

So I've been sleeping it off, and in my pressurized cocoon of influenza, I've had some pretty stellar dreams...

I'm enjoying dinner with friends at a downtown bistro when my pager goes off (does anyone even own a pager anymore?). Some anonymous agency has booked me an appointment with a high-profile client, and they claim it's an emergency. I'm asked to show up in red and white striped kneesocks with a skimpy red dress and a tiny crinoline petticoat. I board a red-eye flight bound for godknowswhere with the understanding that I will be compensated accordingly. I arrive at my destination to find a very drunk Santa lying face up on the floor. He's blathering on about the things an intoxicated Santa might blather on about: toys, elves, children, Mrs. Claus. When I approach, he rubs his eyes and strings a few slurred words together:

"And what would YOU like for Christmas, little girl?"

I approach cautiously and kneel beside him.

"Oh, I know what I want for Christmas...but I'm not a little girl."

I straddle Santa's oversized velveteen pants and awkwardly wriggle around on top of his belly o' jelly. He laughs a jolly "HoHoHo" as I begin the arduous task of disrobing Father Christmas.

At this point I woke up, made another cup of tea, and cleared my mind with a bit of online window shopping. As a somewhat observant Jew, it is difficult for me to relate to this dream.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Are you f**king serious?

"Not having heard from you, I wonder are still interested in your exciting offer? Anyway I am available to meet with you today only from now, 9 am until 4 pm, this Saturday, 7/12/08. If you are interested call me on me cell 555-5555, it's a work cell, but please call me. After that time pse destroy this message and my cell # and don't call me any other time. Thanks for the discretion. By the way this my wife's and my email that's why you see a female name in email address, sorry if
that created confusion earlier. Thanks. Love to hear from you soon."


No further commentary could ever do this justice.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Entertaining his fantasy (the trials and tribulations of Polyamory Pt 1)

I'd seen him watching me; when we crossed paths in the library, from across the room at a party, sideways glances at the bar. I couldn't escape it. We always seemed to end up in the same place at the same time. It was uncanny.

At a party a few months back, I was dancing with my very best girlfriend and caught his eye.

"I think that kid wants to fuck me," I said.
"How do you know?" She gave him a quick once-over and shrugged.
"I don't know. The way he looks at me, I guess."

She suggested that maybe he looked at everyone that way, and I wondered how someone as bubbly and attractive as Trina had yet to identify "The Look." It was different than the "You Look Interesting Look" and the "I have a Little Crush on You Look." This was a pointed, searing laser of sex and power.

I turned my back and kept dancing. If he wanted it that badly, he'd have to come to me.

When he reappeared this summer, I began to reconsider my position. I'm confident in my external presentation, but I'm no Grade A head turner. I can walk into a bar feeling relatively at ease. I don't get free drinks, no one slides strategically onto the barstool next to me, and I rarely have to deal with bad pickup lines. All things considered, I guess I was...how do you say...flattered? I'd never experienced this type of unrelenting attraction. It was a turn-on, so I offered the occasional flirtatious smile in return.

We crossed paths again last week. I realized that we'd never spoken in person before, and I was happy to initiate conversation. After a bit of idle chit-chat, I asked if he'd like to grab a drink sometime. We parted ways, and I left with that fresh, spearminty taste of power in my mouth (a feeling that I occasionally pretend to control).

As I walked through town, I began to wonder if our roles were now reversed. By remaining at a distance, he had fueled my desire to be desired. The excitement of entertaining his fantasy had left me dizzy and reckless. I wasn't sure whose fantasy this was anymore, but I felt safeguarded by the knowledge of mutual vulnerability.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

I am a precious peach

"I'm conflicted," he says. "You're delightful, articulate, kind. It only makes this more difficult."

This is an interesting mentality; that viewing this as a "transaction" would have been easier had I seemed vapid, disinterested, or materialistic. The emptier the easier - is that the way it works?

But no, I am a precious peach. I am charming and lovely. I don't walk or talk like his fantasy whore; I walk and talk like his fantasy girlfriend. But I'm 20+ years too young, and he feels too guilty to fuck me.

I enjoy his company, but I acknowledge the transparency of his conflict. With faker tits and a breathier laugh, I may have been the perfect transaction, but I'm just...too...nice. With Sally McSlut, he'd accept sex. With Bettina Niceface, he stops at romance. An interesting mentality indeed, but somewhat shortsighted. I'm just a slut with a penchant for careful diction. I'm no precious peach.

Better to be 52...

"My only regret is that I'm 52, not 25," he says. I ponder this sentiment, swirling the last bit of wine in the bottom of my glass.

"You wouldn't want that," I say. "I'm too flighty for men my age."

And it's true. I operate under the assumption that *most* 25-year-old men are looking for sex and spontaneity sans emotional attachment - just like me. It feels safer to proceed this way; to assume that most of these under 30 cowboys are looking for a one night suck n' fuck (call ya later, bye!). I'm not looking for love, and it really throws me off balance when I meet someone who tries to hand me their heart on a silver platter.

I have someone in my life who's given me his love, and this is more than enough. I'm already terrified of what I might do to hurt this person's heart. I may have the potential for more giving, but don't bother returning the favor. I can't handle any more love. It's too damn unpredictable, too heavy.

"I'm not disillusioned," he says. "I don't expect that I'd be on your radar."

My radar? I smile. Better to be 52, I think to myself. A 25-year-old might get a drink and a quickie out of me, but he'd never get this much of my attention.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

A mother's wisdom

When I was eleven, my mother sat me down and said, "Daughter, one day a man will drop his pants to reveal his penis. The best advice I can give is 'try not to laugh.'"

When you've seen one, you haven't seen them all, but I still stifle the occasional giggle.