Not that you asked, but today was my birthday. I spent it living on the edge. First I had some Wendy's for lunch, and then I went to renew my driver's license. Hell yeah. It wasn't that bad. I initially went to renew it yesterday, but I was informed that I lacked the camera card. (What's that, you might ask? I have no idea. I was never actually given one. I suspect it was a ruse to determine how serious I was about retaining my legal driving status.)
So I must know... what is it about the DMV that makes old men refer to me by anything BUT my actual name? When I first took the driver's test, I failed it. This was due in large part to me cussing out the tester guy (that and not using my turn signal while parallel parking between two cement barricades in a parking lot). It was his fault. He called me "kiddo" and "honey" and "kitten." Guess which one it was that sent me over the edge? Before I digress further...
The guy I was talking to to get my invisible camera card called me "kiddo." So what if I'm 23? It didn't offend me, but I did think it was odd that I've only been called "kiddo" twice in my life and both times were at the DMV. I was just happy not to have to wait in line for six hours. I was in and out in less than fifteen minutes. That has to be some kind of a record, or at least karma making up for the EIGHT HOURS (yes, really) I had to stand in line with my father when I was getting my license. (That, incidentally, was the day after I failed it. Apparently I have to go twice on consecutive days and get called "kiddo" in order to receive anything from the DMV.)
So after my DMV adventure--during which it started to snow!--I went to Sam's Club in Monroeville. Sam's Club annoys me. It's not that I have to play Dodge The Sample People or that they're associated with Wal-Mart or that they sell everything in ridiculously huge sizes. It's not even that every time I go there, the store has been completely rearranged, apparently by a toddler with a forklift. It's that the labels on the aisles make absolutely no sense. An aisle the length of a football field and it's labeled "sunflower seeds." Is that all there is? Ten thousand crates of sunflower seeds? Another aisle labeled "hot sauce." Perhaps "condiments" would be more fitting? We don't have "paper products" here at Sam's, but we do have several hundred tons of napkins. I was wandering the warehouse looking for the medicine--which used to be in the middle of the store, which is now occupied by some horrible holiday crap-- and going in circles until I had to ask a Sample Guy (who was apparently giving samples of some soap scum cleanser... how the fuck do you give out samples of cleanser?) where the hell it was. I don't know why I didn't check next to the meat--clearly, I have some mental deficiency.
They of course had turkeys for sale. Actually, they might have been pterodactyls, but I can't be sure. And remarkably, they were being sold on an individual basis. I was sure they'd be roped together into six-packs, or perhaps in giant Pez dispensers that gobbled each time you popped out a birdosaur. Disappointment at every turn.
This evening I went to the Southside with Mom and JK for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. Delicious. Words failed me when trying to describe how wonderful the "Bang Bang Chicken and Shrimp" truly was (which was prepared for my convenience without peanuts or bell peppers in order to let me live to see 24). JK loved his dinner, Mom loved hers, and our waiter was great. I like to kid around with... uh, everyone... and when we were ordering drinks, I spotted something called a "Flying Gorilla." It was banana everything. And while I like bananas, that didn't really appeal to me. But the name did, so I told the waiter that "I don't actually want a Flying Gorilla, I just want you to refer to whatever I get as such." Not only did he get it, but he did it. He fucking took that joke and ran with it, and I totally love him for it. We of course ordered dessert, (interestingly enough, they have more for dessert than cheesecake. Who goes to The Cheesecake Factory and doesn't get cheesecake for dessert? If you are lactose intolerant, then you can leave) and they decorated my plate with candy sprinkly things (PINK ONES) and wrote "Happy Birthday Amanda!" on the plate with chocolate sauce. They even gave me a candle and sang to me. And they sang the real Happy Birthday song, not some stupid one incorporating clapping and whistles. I hate those songs.
But really, as long as I'm not being called "kiddo," I'm good.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
she went to the blog and the blog was bare
My adoring public bitches me out when I don't write. Here's a random assortment of the things that happen in the situation comedy that is my life.
I caught a mouse last week. In a shoebox. When I released him (because I have nothing against tiny shivering field mice) he wouldn't leave. I felt bad for him, but I explained that Mom would set a trap for him and eventually, she'd get to him before I did. I hope he was an English-speaking mouse. Later, Mom was discussing my rodent catch-and-release program with one of her sisters. Said sister has a cat who likes to catch birds and small animals, eat their heads, and then bring the filet inside to parade around. Usually when they have company, and the company is eating something. So when Mom said "Guess who caught a mouse today? Amanda!" my aunt immediately started laughing so hard I could hear her through the phone (I wasn't even in the same ROOM as the phone) because she envisioned me with a little tail sticking out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I was purring in her mental image or not. I should ask.
I went on a Fantastic Voyage to Alexandria to get my grandmother, Mo, for a visit. I always enjoy spending time with her, and we've been having a good time. However, she must have been talking with one of my uncles (who suspects that I am gay because of my tendency to display nude women and giant flowers in the art I hang up... which is a rather astute assessment on his part) because she's brought up the topic of homosexuality five times since I arrived at her apartment. (She is not homophobic in the least, so don't get the wrong idea.) Here are a few things she's said to me. Bear in mind that these were completely non-sequitur. I'd be talking about grapefruit and then she'd come out with one of these:
"I worked with a lot of gay men at the State Department and at GSA, but to my knowledge I never knew a lesbian at work."
"Two of my neighbors--in fact, the men who lived on either side of me, at one point--were gay and they couldn't have been nicer. I remember once the one man told me that if I ever needed a ride anywhere, no matter the hour, to call him and he'd be happy to come get me. I always thought that was so considerate. A straight man would never offer that to his old lady neighbor."
(Emily is one of my aunts/my grandmother's youngest daughter. Emily's 12-yr-old daughter is Rachel. They have a dog walking service that they run together, and occasionally their wealthier clients have Emily and Rachel house-and-dog-sit while they're out of town.)
"The couple whose dog Emily is watching now have the most beautiful home. Actually, they're a lesbian couple. One worked for the government and I forget what the other one did, but they're striking women. And very nice. They travel a lot now that they're both retired. Emily stays over in their house the whole time they're gone."
"A friend of mine once asked me if I'd ever get married again, and I told her I'd sooner have a wife than a husband. Someone to cook and clean and go shopping and pay the bills--that'd just be lovely."
(Tony is my uncle/her son-in-law.)
"Tony once mentioned to me that in all the artwork in my house, if there is a human subject, it's a woman or girl. There isn't one painting of a man or boy anywhere. And I never noticed that before, but he's absolutely right."
And I said, "I guess that's just what appeals to you."
She said, "Well, I don't like women in that way, but yes, that's about right. I do like men. I just don't want to be married to one."
Either my grandma is a closet lesbian, or she and Tony have compared notes. (Interesting that we call her Mo...)
I visited my darling wife, Cindy, before I went to Alexandria to pick up Mo. We had a fabulous time--ate some good food, drank some good Guinness and cider, read a horrible thesis... we had plenty of laughs and a few exasperated sighs. I'm going to start sending things to publishers--I'm disgusted enough with what happened that rejection isn't going to hurt me. I actually feel better now that I've read it. Because now I know, and I'm that much more convinced that I am ready to publish.
In the movie "Big Fish" the father character often says that the only way to catch an uncatchable woman is to offer her a wedding ring. Just a reminder--that movie is a fantasy. I am not for sale.
The night before the elections last week, the Democratic candidate for Mayor of the city of Pittsburgh (for those of you who are not Pgh natives, there's the city, and then there are ten thousand little towns and boroughs that are separate from the city, and yet still considered to be ostensibly part of the city in a more theoretical sense) helped chase down a purse-snatcher. A Republican candidate for another position (it wasn't nearly as important as the mayor of the city--something like a city council seat, or mayor of a small borough. I don't care enough to look it up) spent the night in jail after he threatened his neighbors with a gun. Doesn't that warm your heart?
I hope you all feel updated--I'll let you know if I catch Mo watching Logo while she's here. Right now she's watching women's tennis. I'll allow you to draw your own conclusions from that.
I caught a mouse last week. In a shoebox. When I released him (because I have nothing against tiny shivering field mice) he wouldn't leave. I felt bad for him, but I explained that Mom would set a trap for him and eventually, she'd get to him before I did. I hope he was an English-speaking mouse. Later, Mom was discussing my rodent catch-and-release program with one of her sisters. Said sister has a cat who likes to catch birds and small animals, eat their heads, and then bring the filet inside to parade around. Usually when they have company, and the company is eating something. So when Mom said "Guess who caught a mouse today? Amanda!" my aunt immediately started laughing so hard I could hear her through the phone (I wasn't even in the same ROOM as the phone) because she envisioned me with a little tail sticking out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I was purring in her mental image or not. I should ask.
I went on a Fantastic Voyage to Alexandria to get my grandmother, Mo, for a visit. I always enjoy spending time with her, and we've been having a good time. However, she must have been talking with one of my uncles (who suspects that I am gay because of my tendency to display nude women and giant flowers in the art I hang up... which is a rather astute assessment on his part) because she's brought up the topic of homosexuality five times since I arrived at her apartment. (She is not homophobic in the least, so don't get the wrong idea.) Here are a few things she's said to me. Bear in mind that these were completely non-sequitur. I'd be talking about grapefruit and then she'd come out with one of these:
"I worked with a lot of gay men at the State Department and at GSA, but to my knowledge I never knew a lesbian at work."
"Two of my neighbors--in fact, the men who lived on either side of me, at one point--were gay and they couldn't have been nicer. I remember once the one man told me that if I ever needed a ride anywhere, no matter the hour, to call him and he'd be happy to come get me. I always thought that was so considerate. A straight man would never offer that to his old lady neighbor."
(Emily is one of my aunts/my grandmother's youngest daughter. Emily's 12-yr-old daughter is Rachel. They have a dog walking service that they run together, and occasionally their wealthier clients have Emily and Rachel house-and-dog-sit while they're out of town.)
"The couple whose dog Emily is watching now have the most beautiful home. Actually, they're a lesbian couple. One worked for the government and I forget what the other one did, but they're striking women. And very nice. They travel a lot now that they're both retired. Emily stays over in their house the whole time they're gone."
"A friend of mine once asked me if I'd ever get married again, and I told her I'd sooner have a wife than a husband. Someone to cook and clean and go shopping and pay the bills--that'd just be lovely."
(Tony is my uncle/her son-in-law.)
"Tony once mentioned to me that in all the artwork in my house, if there is a human subject, it's a woman or girl. There isn't one painting of a man or boy anywhere. And I never noticed that before, but he's absolutely right."
And I said, "I guess that's just what appeals to you."
She said, "Well, I don't like women in that way, but yes, that's about right. I do like men. I just don't want to be married to one."
Either my grandma is a closet lesbian, or she and Tony have compared notes. (Interesting that we call her Mo...)
I visited my darling wife, Cindy, before I went to Alexandria to pick up Mo. We had a fabulous time--ate some good food, drank some good Guinness and cider, read a horrible thesis... we had plenty of laughs and a few exasperated sighs. I'm going to start sending things to publishers--I'm disgusted enough with what happened that rejection isn't going to hurt me. I actually feel better now that I've read it. Because now I know, and I'm that much more convinced that I am ready to publish.
In the movie "Big Fish" the father character often says that the only way to catch an uncatchable woman is to offer her a wedding ring. Just a reminder--that movie is a fantasy. I am not for sale.
The night before the elections last week, the Democratic candidate for Mayor of the city of Pittsburgh (for those of you who are not Pgh natives, there's the city, and then there are ten thousand little towns and boroughs that are separate from the city, and yet still considered to be ostensibly part of the city in a more theoretical sense) helped chase down a purse-snatcher. A Republican candidate for another position (it wasn't nearly as important as the mayor of the city--something like a city council seat, or mayor of a small borough. I don't care enough to look it up) spent the night in jail after he threatened his neighbors with a gun. Doesn't that warm your heart?
I hope you all feel updated--I'll let you know if I catch Mo watching Logo while she's here. Right now she's watching women's tennis. I'll allow you to draw your own conclusions from that.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
you might have heard of my cousin, edward scissorhands
I could tell you all kinds of stories. How I got bronchitis, how I lost my job while I still had bronchitis, how I couldn't scream and yell at the people firing me because I had bronchitis... the new illness I have... and yet, none of these things are as amusing as my trip to Target with my Mom.
So we needed to go get a furnace filter. That's the real reason for the cold snap in this region--we were unable to have a heated home. It was actually warmer in the basement than it was in the house, which worked out well for me since I sleep down here.
We looked and looked all over Target for the damn filters (my prediction was that they'd be on an end cap next to a Hello Kitty thermos display) and couldn't find them. We were in the home improvement section and I picked up one of those little claw-rake things you use to garden. I put the handle in my sleeve so the claw was sticking out--look Ma, no hand. Apparently this struck Mom in exactly the right way, and she doubled over laughing and had to limp away, embarassed. So I did what any good daughter would do. I stuck another one in the other sleeve and followed her.
She saw the second one and nearly fell over, then she said the magic words. "I dare you to wear those the whole time we're here." Actually, she then progressed to double, double-dog, and triple-dog dare me (skipping the triple dare) to keep them on. Of course, as soon as I heard the word "dare" I was committed to the project.
Every time she looked at me she started giggling, and then sent me on a mission. She sent me down an aisle full of middle schoolers, who gawked. Tsk. You'd think they'd be sensitive to people with gardening tools for hands. What are they teaching children these days? Clearly the math textbooks depicting a black boy, a white girl, some kid with red hair and freckles (I guess he's gay) and an Asian kid in a wheelchair all holding label-less Snapples sitting around solving Algebra equations haven't instilled in our nation's youth a sense of tolerance for those who are Different after all. Sigh.
I've been needing coat hangers for a couple weeks now, and I kept forgetting to buy them when I go to Target, which is more frequently than you might imagine. So as we passed the hangers, Mom said "I dare you to use your claws to get them." Well... It took me a minute to locate the large pack... and I had mistakenly grabbed (stabbed... whatever) for the 3-pack. Who the fuck buys 3 coat hangers?? Not I. So I was removing my right claw from the 3-pack and preparing to snag a 12-pack when this man came up next to me. "Miss, can I help you?"
"Oh... this is just part of a dare."
I was wearing a sweatshirt with the name of my college written on it, which is probably why he asked, "Oh, is it for school?"
"Nope... just my Mom. No real reason other than it's Tuesday and we were bored."
"Well, you gotta keep things interesting!"
Oh, if he only knew. Turns out he thought that my garden claws were prosthetic hands. Have you ever seen a three-pronged, non-moving prosthesis? A hook would be more practical.
After I snagged my 12-pack, I found Mom, who was in the men's attire section looking for some socks for my brother. I told her about the man offering to help me, and she laughed so hard that she cried. Then she picked up a lime green travel case for toiletries, which had a ring on the zipper, unzipped the thing so it hung down, and put the ring on one of my claws. "I so dare you to walk around like that." Hello, have we met?
So there I was, Manda Gardenclawhands, walking around with this weird lime green thing hanging off my right claw. The people who were capable of not staring at me before reached their limit. The travel case only lasted a few minutes before Mom unhooked the thing and left it, in true Target organizational style, in a bin of dog toys. Have you ever been so amused by something that you feel the need to narrate your own life? I have. So has Mom.
"And that's when she discovered that her daughter would in fact do ANYthing on a dare."
"She wasn't sure why she doubted it in the first place."
"And then she wondered just what had transpired in four years of college."
"But then decided she'd rather not know."
While strolling down the bedding aisle, Mom suddenly blurted out "Oh my god, you just never know WHO you'll run in to at Target!" Oh yeah. There it was. The Golden Moment. Running into the work friend while out shopping. And isn't that always the time your adult daughter has garden claws for hands...
I should point out right now that I have awful tonsilitis and my voice isn't quite normal. If you've ever heard me do the Ugly Baby voice, that's pretty much how I sound. Except if Ugly Baby were being strangled. If you haven't, then imagine Shaggy talking. But slightly mentally challenged. And being strangled.
So Mom said hello to her friend, and her friend's friend... and shook the friend's friend's hand. I said, of course, "Nice to meet you both. I'd shake your hand, but well, it's a garden implement."
I recounted the tale of the Helpful Guy who thought my claws were fake hands. And then it was time to part ways, because I'd made them double over and nearly pee themselves. I didn't get their names, but honestly, who the hell cares. Names are not what is important.
Turns out that had I known who I was talking to, I would have been the one with bladder control issues. Mom's been a nurse for a very long time, and she often serves as a preceptor for new nurses. It's sort of like a shadowing, or an internship. Her current nurse, however, is a fucking mess. She can't manage to do anything without having a near breakdown. And she's been doing this preceptorship for close to six months. She's sixteen different kinds of crazy, and I can't list them all here. So the running joke is how this woman (she's not a young girl, she's in her 40s) couldn't start an IV because her hands were shaking so badly... and when Mom asked her to just give the pills to the patient, her hands were shaking so badly that the pills flew everywhere. Now, with most people, that'd be an isolated incident. Not with this woman. She's always this crazy. You'd think after six months, you could hand someone a damn pill. I managed to give all sorts of medicine when I worked with the kids. And usually cancer patients don't try to bite the staff, so I'm reasonably certain that my pill distribution was more difficult.
So I told you that so I could tell you this. As soon as we got a few aisles over from Mom's "friend" she poked me and said "That was the psycho girl!" I immediately put my claws up and started shaking. Mom started snorting. And then she said something I will remember forever. Something she's never said before. "Oh my god Amanda, you are too funny!"
"Ahhh... yes! My night is complete!!"
Ok, it wasn't totally complete. I shared this story with my friend Sasha.
pantses 211: omg, i must look like im having a fit
pantses 211: im crying
LilMsStickShift: YES!
pantses 211: omg, im dying
LilMsStickShift: i just celebrated like i won a marathon
LilMsStickShift: well, maybe not, because i didn't just pour my root beer on my head and then pee on myself and collapse
But only because I've already taken a bath.
So we needed to go get a furnace filter. That's the real reason for the cold snap in this region--we were unable to have a heated home. It was actually warmer in the basement than it was in the house, which worked out well for me since I sleep down here.
We looked and looked all over Target for the damn filters (my prediction was that they'd be on an end cap next to a Hello Kitty thermos display) and couldn't find them. We were in the home improvement section and I picked up one of those little claw-rake things you use to garden. I put the handle in my sleeve so the claw was sticking out--look Ma, no hand. Apparently this struck Mom in exactly the right way, and she doubled over laughing and had to limp away, embarassed. So I did what any good daughter would do. I stuck another one in the other sleeve and followed her.
She saw the second one and nearly fell over, then she said the magic words. "I dare you to wear those the whole time we're here." Actually, she then progressed to double, double-dog, and triple-dog dare me (skipping the triple dare) to keep them on. Of course, as soon as I heard the word "dare" I was committed to the project.
Every time she looked at me she started giggling, and then sent me on a mission. She sent me down an aisle full of middle schoolers, who gawked. Tsk. You'd think they'd be sensitive to people with gardening tools for hands. What are they teaching children these days? Clearly the math textbooks depicting a black boy, a white girl, some kid with red hair and freckles (I guess he's gay) and an Asian kid in a wheelchair all holding label-less Snapples sitting around solving Algebra equations haven't instilled in our nation's youth a sense of tolerance for those who are Different after all. Sigh.
I've been needing coat hangers for a couple weeks now, and I kept forgetting to buy them when I go to Target, which is more frequently than you might imagine. So as we passed the hangers, Mom said "I dare you to use your claws to get them." Well... It took me a minute to locate the large pack... and I had mistakenly grabbed (stabbed... whatever) for the 3-pack. Who the fuck buys 3 coat hangers?? Not I. So I was removing my right claw from the 3-pack and preparing to snag a 12-pack when this man came up next to me. "Miss, can I help you?"
"Oh... this is just part of a dare."
I was wearing a sweatshirt with the name of my college written on it, which is probably why he asked, "Oh, is it for school?"
"Nope... just my Mom. No real reason other than it's Tuesday and we were bored."
"Well, you gotta keep things interesting!"
Oh, if he only knew. Turns out he thought that my garden claws were prosthetic hands. Have you ever seen a three-pronged, non-moving prosthesis? A hook would be more practical.
After I snagged my 12-pack, I found Mom, who was in the men's attire section looking for some socks for my brother. I told her about the man offering to help me, and she laughed so hard that she cried. Then she picked up a lime green travel case for toiletries, which had a ring on the zipper, unzipped the thing so it hung down, and put the ring on one of my claws. "I so dare you to walk around like that." Hello, have we met?
So there I was, Manda Gardenclawhands, walking around with this weird lime green thing hanging off my right claw. The people who were capable of not staring at me before reached their limit. The travel case only lasted a few minutes before Mom unhooked the thing and left it, in true Target organizational style, in a bin of dog toys. Have you ever been so amused by something that you feel the need to narrate your own life? I have. So has Mom.
"And that's when she discovered that her daughter would in fact do ANYthing on a dare."
"She wasn't sure why she doubted it in the first place."
"And then she wondered just what had transpired in four years of college."
"But then decided she'd rather not know."
While strolling down the bedding aisle, Mom suddenly blurted out "Oh my god, you just never know WHO you'll run in to at Target!" Oh yeah. There it was. The Golden Moment. Running into the work friend while out shopping. And isn't that always the time your adult daughter has garden claws for hands...
I should point out right now that I have awful tonsilitis and my voice isn't quite normal. If you've ever heard me do the Ugly Baby voice, that's pretty much how I sound. Except if Ugly Baby were being strangled. If you haven't, then imagine Shaggy talking. But slightly mentally challenged. And being strangled.
So Mom said hello to her friend, and her friend's friend... and shook the friend's friend's hand. I said, of course, "Nice to meet you both. I'd shake your hand, but well, it's a garden implement."
I recounted the tale of the Helpful Guy who thought my claws were fake hands. And then it was time to part ways, because I'd made them double over and nearly pee themselves. I didn't get their names, but honestly, who the hell cares. Names are not what is important.
Turns out that had I known who I was talking to, I would have been the one with bladder control issues. Mom's been a nurse for a very long time, and she often serves as a preceptor for new nurses. It's sort of like a shadowing, or an internship. Her current nurse, however, is a fucking mess. She can't manage to do anything without having a near breakdown. And she's been doing this preceptorship for close to six months. She's sixteen different kinds of crazy, and I can't list them all here. So the running joke is how this woman (she's not a young girl, she's in her 40s) couldn't start an IV because her hands were shaking so badly... and when Mom asked her to just give the pills to the patient, her hands were shaking so badly that the pills flew everywhere. Now, with most people, that'd be an isolated incident. Not with this woman. She's always this crazy. You'd think after six months, you could hand someone a damn pill. I managed to give all sorts of medicine when I worked with the kids. And usually cancer patients don't try to bite the staff, so I'm reasonably certain that my pill distribution was more difficult.
So I told you that so I could tell you this. As soon as we got a few aisles over from Mom's "friend" she poked me and said "That was the psycho girl!" I immediately put my claws up and started shaking. Mom started snorting. And then she said something I will remember forever. Something she's never said before. "Oh my god Amanda, you are too funny!"
"Ahhh... yes! My night is complete!!"
Ok, it wasn't totally complete. I shared this story with my friend Sasha.
pantses 211: omg, i must look like im having a fit
pantses 211: im crying
LilMsStickShift: YES!
pantses 211: omg, im dying
LilMsStickShift: i just celebrated like i won a marathon
LilMsStickShift: well, maybe not, because i didn't just pour my root beer on my head and then pee on myself and collapse
But only because I've already taken a bath.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
"if you're not going to eat pussy, you're not a dyke." conversely, if you do, then you are.
I'd take this asshole more seriously if he'd sign his name to anything he wrote. And I'm irritated with myself that I'm even responding--but perhaps I wasn't clear.
___ left me another 5:30 AM comment. "hating men because they disappoint you and being a lesbian are two vastly different things." (No shit. Care to remind me of the differences between your ass and your elbow? ...You do know the difference, right?)
So. Let me clarify. I don't hate men. Not once did I say that I hate men. I hate Rick Santorum, and I'm starting to think that I hate you a little bit, but I don't hate men. I have a great brother and some great male friends. My favorite professor from college was a man. I don't hate entire groups of people--I'm not an idiot.
However, I have decided not to date men. (How many times do I have to say that same sentence??) Why have I made this decision?
Because I've dated men and it hasn't made me happy.
Because I have never been sexually fulfilled by a man.
Because I fantasize about women--only women. I have dated women, and when I did, I felt like I was finally being true to myself.
Even when I was dating this guy, (I am purposely not using his name) I was honest with him about my sexuality and let him know that I prefer women. At some point while I've been with every man I've ever been with, I thought "Maybe I am gay..." So not only is it not fair to me to continue to date men, it's unfair to them. I'd only be wasting both our time.
Am I truly 100% lesbian? No. But no one is 100% anything. (Go watch Kinsey and you'll begin to understand.) I am bisexual, like a lot of people. But I've made a decision not to date men. And if I am a woman who only dates women, what do you think people will see? It's not that I want to adhere to some label. It's that I shouldn't have to explain myself all the fucking time to people who have nothing better to do than bother me about personal things that don't concern them in any way.
So the next time you analyze me, ___, try starting out with a little knowledge. And the balls to attach an identity to what you say.
___ left me another 5:30 AM comment. "hating men because they disappoint you and being a lesbian are two vastly different things." (No shit. Care to remind me of the differences between your ass and your elbow? ...You do know the difference, right?)
So. Let me clarify. I don't hate men. Not once did I say that I hate men. I hate Rick Santorum, and I'm starting to think that I hate you a little bit, but I don't hate men. I have a great brother and some great male friends. My favorite professor from college was a man. I don't hate entire groups of people--I'm not an idiot.
However, I have decided not to date men. (How many times do I have to say that same sentence??) Why have I made this decision?
Because I've dated men and it hasn't made me happy.
Because I have never been sexually fulfilled by a man.
Because I fantasize about women--only women. I have dated women, and when I did, I felt like I was finally being true to myself.
Even when I was dating this guy, (I am purposely not using his name) I was honest with him about my sexuality and let him know that I prefer women. At some point while I've been with every man I've ever been with, I thought "Maybe I am gay..." So not only is it not fair to me to continue to date men, it's unfair to them. I'd only be wasting both our time.
Am I truly 100% lesbian? No. But no one is 100% anything. (Go watch Kinsey and you'll begin to understand.) I am bisexual, like a lot of people. But I've made a decision not to date men. And if I am a woman who only dates women, what do you think people will see? It's not that I want to adhere to some label. It's that I shouldn't have to explain myself all the fucking time to people who have nothing better to do than bother me about personal things that don't concern them in any way.
So the next time you analyze me, ___, try starting out with a little knowledge. And the balls to attach an identity to what you say.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
_____ knows best
So after my last post, some anonymous person left comments. Normally, I'd just delete them and move on, but I decided to go in another direction.
So according to this person, who apparently has nothing better to do at 5:30 AM than read my blog and leave quasi-bitchy comments, I "only think I am a lesbian," and "maybe if I stopped trolling the internet for weirdo trolls, I'd find an ok guy."
Yes, I do think I'm a lesbian. Or rather, I think I'm going to not date men right now--if ever again. Perhaps that's because it's true. Although to be fair, I should pay more attention to psychological assessments from people who don't know me. Especially the same weird internet trolls I apparently seek out. Because I'm clearly going to find Mr. Right in a couple of vaguely ascerbic anonymous comments left on my blog at 5:30 AM, because only the coolest and most desirable people leave anonymous comments on strangers' blogs. (He missed the part where I'm not interested in finding Mr. Right.)
My friend Danielle (who also thinks she is a lesbian, because she is one) had this to say.
djordan: wow
djordan: someone has strong opinions
djordan: you know though, no one's really a lesbian
djordan: they just think they are
djordan: til they meet the right guy
So until Bill Clinton or Patrick Dempsey winds up on my porch, I stand by my Penis Embargo decision.
So according to this person, who apparently has nothing better to do at 5:30 AM than read my blog and leave quasi-bitchy comments, I "only think I am a lesbian," and "maybe if I stopped trolling the internet for weirdo trolls, I'd find an ok guy."
Yes, I do think I'm a lesbian. Or rather, I think I'm going to not date men right now--if ever again. Perhaps that's because it's true. Although to be fair, I should pay more attention to psychological assessments from people who don't know me. Especially the same weird internet trolls I apparently seek out. Because I'm clearly going to find Mr. Right in a couple of vaguely ascerbic anonymous comments left on my blog at 5:30 AM, because only the coolest and most desirable people leave anonymous comments on strangers' blogs. (He missed the part where I'm not interested in finding Mr. Right.)
My friend Danielle (who also thinks she is a lesbian, because she is one) had this to say.
djordan: wow
djordan: someone has strong opinions
djordan: you know though, no one's really a lesbian
djordan: they just think they are
djordan: til they meet the right guy
So until Bill Clinton or Patrick Dempsey winds up on my porch, I stand by my Penis Embargo decision.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
what's worse than a post-it?
Remember the Sex & the City episode where Carrie gets the break-up Post-It? Well, I have discovered something worse.
Today I got shut down via email. But not even real email; it was an email through MySpace. I wasn't angry until I started drinking, but I'm sober enough. And now I'm pissed, as is evident in this conversation between me and Sasha.
LilMsStickShift: i was fine before but now i want to KILL HIM
LilMsStickShift: i still hate rick santorum more
pantses 211: sweet, then its not THAT bad
pantses 211: thats also the alcohol
pantses 211: whatd u drink
LilMsStickShift: vodka
LilMsStickShift: rumor has it there was club soda in there, but i am skeptical
pantses 211: oh yea
pantses 211: russians are angry for a reason
pantses 211: and its not just the famine and communism
LilMsStickShift: GLOL
LilMsStickShift: i prolly just scared mom
pantses 211: hahahhaha, YES!
pantses 211: thats such a huge accomplishment on my part
LilMsStickShift: i'm putting that in my blog
It's time to put my money where my mouth is--well, money and a few other things. I said that I'd give men one last try. That if things didn't work out, I'd date women exclusively.
Hello, my name is Amanda, and I am a lesbian.
Today I got shut down via email. But not even real email; it was an email through MySpace. I wasn't angry until I started drinking, but I'm sober enough. And now I'm pissed, as is evident in this conversation between me and Sasha.
LilMsStickShift: i was fine before but now i want to KILL HIM
LilMsStickShift: i still hate rick santorum more
pantses 211: sweet, then its not THAT bad
pantses 211: thats also the alcohol
pantses 211: whatd u drink
LilMsStickShift: vodka
LilMsStickShift: rumor has it there was club soda in there, but i am skeptical
pantses 211: oh yea
pantses 211: russians are angry for a reason
pantses 211: and its not just the famine and communism
LilMsStickShift: GLOL
LilMsStickShift: i prolly just scared mom
pantses 211: hahahhaha, YES!
pantses 211: thats such a huge accomplishment on my part
LilMsStickShift: i'm putting that in my blog
It's time to put my money where my mouth is--well, money and a few other things. I said that I'd give men one last try. That if things didn't work out, I'd date women exclusively.
Hello, my name is Amanda, and I am a lesbian.
Monday, October 03, 2005
may there be typewriters in heaven
Some people see beauty and triumph in places where some people would fear to walk. These people are always artists.
August Wilson died today. He was sixty years old.
We will miss you, Mr. Wilson. We thank you for the gifts you gave the literary and theatrical world in your too-short life.
The city lights shine less brightly tonight on water that does not move as swiftly. Goodbye, August. May there be typewriters in heaven.
August Wilson died today. He was sixty years old.
We will miss you, Mr. Wilson. We thank you for the gifts you gave the literary and theatrical world in your too-short life.
The city lights shine less brightly tonight on water that does not move as swiftly. Goodbye, August. May there be typewriters in heaven.
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