Category Archives: Uncategorized

Of Rodeo Clowns and Waterboarding

Acceptance

I accept that:

I’ve aged enough to become invisible, which I agree is a superpower.

I’ll never understand someone else’s delusions because I’m busy with my own.

When I sing, I hear a blend of Amy Winehouse and Billie Holiday, and everyone else hears cats being waterboarded.

When I dance, I see the love child of Gene Kelly and Martha Graham, but everyone else sees a rodeo clown who’s amped on cocaine while doing interpretive dance and running from a bull.

I’m on fire!

Call Me Diane Von Dufus-berg

Minimal

My office walls are sad. I mean in the sense they are pathetic, but if they could cry, I’d have toxic mold. I’m looking at this beige expanse behind my computer, and all I see are a couple of nails and a PAWS calendar.

As unevolved as this may be, I feel a sense of chick-based pressure to be amazing at decorating. This despite the fact that I work in ratty pajamas and Paul’s hand-me-down shirts in my home office every day. What makes me think my home should look better?

My first defense: I grew up in the ’60s and ’70s. Although Virginia Slims gave women the confidence to burn bras while dropping acid as a birth-control chaser, there’s still this lingering guilt in my mind that I should be a classic homemaker. Apron, tidy hairdo, Laura Petrie figure.

It doesn’t help that seemingly out of nowhere, Paul recently blurted, “You want to nest, right?” He sounded a little desperate.

In fairness, I don’t believe he’s totally asking this because I’m female. I think it’s about the two of us. We’re lazy bums who keep hoping the walls will magnetically suck pictures onto them, in a tasteful way.

My second defense: Paul’s got the aesthetic eye. I mean, he paints and draws. Stuff you’d recognize. I’ve even hung a few pieces on the wall (and my pride over this is way out of proportion to the achievement).

I, on the other hand, paint as though I’m drunk. On a roller coaster. And I’ve just vomited all over the canvas.

My third defense: So why isn’t he nesting?

As I sit here in my blank-walled office, I’ve made a decision to stop apologizing and self-flagellating (at least about this). I’m going to enjoy my non-cluttered space because I have a style. I’m a minimalist.

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I think that cat’s judging me.

The Homophobic Bisexual?

Label

Just over two decades ago, I was fortunate to work with Stephanie, an outspoken lesbian who decided to coach me out of my foolhardy bisexuality. One day she declared, “You need to pick a side.” For about thirty minutes, she chewed me out gently educated me, concluding with “You’re really a lesbian who’s too afraid to admit it.”

This was a revelation to me. I had no idea I’d been living a life of such hypocrisy. She also pointed out that my boyfriend was just cover for my lie and that I needed to dump him.

He’s my husband now — regular readers will recognize him as the long-suffering St. Paul — and we’ve been hanging out since 1995. Most days I like him a lot, so I’ve decided to stick around and live the lie.

My mother’s also a lesbian. She gamely tried wearing dresses, high heels, and bouffant hairdos in the 1960s, but she always seemed more comfortable in men’s clothes. She could drive a big-rig truck, fix the garbage disposal, and run an offset printer at our family’s business. She was part-mother, part-handyman, which was cool because my father was usually asleep or having affairs or something. He was a busy guy, and we respected that.

A long time ago I had to let my mother know that I needed to say a fond farewell to her and my father so that I could reluctantly give up the thrilling suicidal ideations I was experiencing because of their violent exciting marriage.

Mom always had great empathy and insight, and I appreciated that. When I told her what I needed to do, she sensibly asked, “I’m too butch for you, aren’t I?” I mean, she could get right to the heart of something every time, and she had a knack for seeing another person’s point of view.

When I reminded her that I’m bisexual, and butch/femme concepts don’t matter to me, she was spot on with her understanding words: “Yep. I thought so. I’m too butch for you.”

These two women taught me a valuable lesson about labels. Probably.

 

Confessions of a Stat Slut

There. I’ve revealed my sin in the title, and I feel reborn. Life is new again!

Or I’m just sleepy and grumpy because I haven’t finished my morning coffee, and I should work instead of blog.

I do write for my own gratification, but as you’re reading this (she says with uncharacteristic confidence that anyone is interested), you know that’s not completely true. Otherwise why would I inflict share my thoughts with the universe?

On that first day of blogging, lo those many weeks ago, I announced with deceptive confidence, “I’m writing for me!”

“Good for you, Sweetie,” Paul said, checking the horizon for shark fins.

“I don’t care if I ever become popular. Or publish my memoirs. Or Oprah interviews me because she’s fascinated by my life.”

Paul tossed “That’s the spirit!” over his shoulder as he checked his watch and bolted from the house.

And ever since that day, I’ve written and posted without worrying about whether or not anyone’s reading my stuff.

Or I’ve checked my blog stats every. single. day. How many views? How many visitors? How many views per visitor? I’ve had visitors from Ireland, Australia, and the United Kingdom today! There’s been drool.

I stunned Paul out of his office chair by blurting “I got another visitor from India again! It’s probably the same person, right?!”

As he ponders the laws of probability coupled with the population of India, he’s still kind enough not to cast doubt on my hopes.

Paul does try to find this as thrilling as I do, and I appreciate that. Although I would like my popularity to rise with him just a bit.

Yesterday I chirped, “Did you see I posted a haiku today?”

He smiled through his exhaustion and whimpered, “I sure did.”

“What did you think?” Big eyes, wagging tail, piddle on the floor.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t had time to read it.”

Maybe I need to get into pornographic limericks. Or politics. Wait. Maybe I can combine the general concepts:

Clinton’s Cottontails

Got your attention now, Paul? How about the rest of you? May I go viral now, please?

 

The Groans of the (P)uninspired

Jenny Lawson’s husband enjoys pun wars, and I’m a tad envious.

When I pun, Paul looks at me as though he’d like to time-travel back to our wedding day and stuff a sock in the officiant’s mouth so she can’t say a word. Many would say this is reasonable, and I suppose there’s some valid argument there.

The post below encourages me to write one I’ve been thinking of this week. When I mentioned the topic, Paul started digging through his sock drawer.

Owl aboard the pun train

Note: Merriam-Webster’s site defines a pun as follows:

“the usually humorous use of a word in such a way as to suggest two or more of its meanings or the meaning of another word similar in sound”

How chicken-shit is that? Own it, M-W. Drop the “usually.” Puns are great. Most of the time. Okay. You’re right. Never mind.