You might have noticed, I’m behind in getting caught up with Tila.  (You can refresh yourself with my outrage here, here and here)  I have to admit that I enjoyed the show the first time around, if only because you don’t get to see lesbians onscreen very often. 

D: Real lesbians?  Or FAKE?
Me: Mostly Fake.

It’s true.  I don’t like to admit it, but there seem it be an inordinate amount of fakers this time around.  I’ve got to wonder about the motivation though.  So, say you fake being a lesbian to get on the show.  You’re hot, so you make it.  You aren’t into girls, or maybe you don’t mind dabbling, but are you doing it because you like Tila that much or because you want a shot at fame? 

Also, completely unfair that she asked the women to display their talents and the men to have a fashion show.  Even if it’s a fake talent that the producers asked you to display, you still put yourself out there for criticism.  While the guys just wore capes and uniforms.  They put themselves out there, but not in that good way.  Ew. 

Let’s face it, Tila could admit she’s straight any time.  Also, I take things far too seriously.

As I sat in a hairdresser’s chair last night I realized, I’m a committment phobe.  No, you’re right, I am married and she’s still as wonderful and as hot as she ever was.  Points for remembering.  I just can’t commit to repeat visits.  It’s not just services, like a hair cut.  Oh no, it extends to dentists, florists, bakeries, anyone with whom I might form a useful, lasting relationship.  And it isn’t a new habit either.  As I sat there in the chair, I realized that the same person has never cut my hair more than once. 

I deliberately sneak around.   I’ve been to most of the salons in the area once.  If I go more than once, I deliberately go on the day the previous stylist isn’t there.  Once I accidentally ended up with the same person I had seen three years previous.  I felt sick the entire time.  Dentists are just as bad.  I jump through ridiculous hoops to change the dentist on the insurance policy so I can see someone else.  It has nothing to do with service, I just don’t want to form a relationship.  Believe me, it pains me that I saw the same orthopedist for 2 years.  And it’s a miracle I still have the same physician.  But you need a cake?  Different shop each time.  Grocery store?  If I have to have a checker, it’s never the same one twice.  I avoid the same guards at work.  I duck familiar sellers at the farmer’s market. 

I’m not sure what brings it on. Maybe it’s too many years of moving.  It’s not a family habit either way.  In fact, I think my very vocal mother would scold me if she knew I didn’t go back to the same person.  She’d be certain there would be some benefit to striking up a friendship.  And that’s the key for me.  I’m not interested in being friends.  I’m perfectly happy to be nice in every interaction, but then I never want to see that person again.  They might start asking personal questions.  They might expect me to chatter.  I am not a chatterer.

This realization pains me.  Not because I’d like to change this habit, but because of the waxer.  Oh, you heard me.  We don’t need to discuss the details of the waxing, only that the waxer has the best reputation in the area.  A magazine worthy reputation.  A newspaper worthy reputation.  An appointments one month in advance kind of reputation.  And I’m certain she’s going to do a good job.  And then, I’m never going to want to go back.  And this could be a problem you see, because well, with the wax it’s all about maintenance.  I have another week or so to worry about repeat visits and I’ve got to get the first one out of the way.  As a side note, wish me luck.

Fortunately for you, this doesn’t extend to regular people.  Just people providing a service.  So as long as you promise not to do anything to me or for me in exchange for pay, we can still be friends.  Deal? 

 

 

This weekend found us at a 40th birthday party for D’s friend and boss.  Absolutely flamboyant and wholly dedicated to finding the perfect male speciman to share his life with, he was predictably shocked and sentimental at the surprise party that brought so many of his friends to one place.  I was shocked and sentimental looking at his group of friends - his mother and two of his sisters flew in from Indiana, a few co-workers were there and every other person was tall, good-looking, perfectly dressed, bald, and muscular men with perfect smiles, perfect manners, and perfectly tasteful tattoos and designer jeans.  I was so impressed that his very midwestern mother was comfortable, even having a great time, with his dozens of similar looking ex-boyfriends, potential boyfriends and old friends (though frankly, the lines seemed blurred).  On the other hand, I don’t think I could have stuck out more like a sore thumb.  Other than D, every other person in the room - no, really, every. single. other. person. has sex with men.  A room of fifty people and everyone was looking at the men.  It’s a first for me.  And frankly, I’d rather keep it as a last.  For me, I like to feel less like a zoo exhibit and more like a normal person.  And you wonder why gay men and lesbians don’t hang out more.  No wonder we can’t get a proper lobby together, we’re too busy gawking at each other, wondering how that works exactly.

Speaking of gay men and women hanging out together, you’ll note Tila Tequila is back for another try.  Just in time!  I missed the first episode, but never fear, I’ll be catching up asap.

Points for not staring at the rare lesbians.

I decided to take a new look at the design and content of this blog.  It’s spring after all, fresh air, fresh flowers, fresh thoughts.  So click over if you’re reading on a feed and check out the fresh banner and layout.  Another fresh feature?  You can look forward to posts on Mondays and Saturdays. 

There’s so much not to say lately.  Work is off-limits of late, though I look forward to a breaking point in the next month or so.  Final projects are wrapping up, and a diploma and a hood in pretty lemon yellow await.  I feel as though I’m stretched tight as a wire.  And frankly, I can’t wait to talk it out with you.  But not yet.  So in the meantime, enjoy the tulips and Saturday’s post.  I’ll see you then.

What, Who, When: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life by Barbara Kingsolver, Camille Kingsolver and Steven Hopp in 2007.

Why on Earth: This is a secret about me.  I desperately wish I were a farmer.  Not a corn farmer, or a big industrial farmer, but a live-on-a-farm person who grows things for a living.  This is also a secret about me.  I wish that dusk marked the end of work and punctuated porch-sitting, supper-having and sleep.  The only thing I wouldn’t give up is the Internet and frankly, I’d give that up too if I thought I could make a sustainable living, while still being able to afford visits to my family and thrive while growing tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, melons and pumpkins.  One more secret about me.  I think my greatest failure is being unable to participate in an eat local challenge, because I crave variety and exotic flavors.  This is a character flaw that I haven’t been able to conquer. 

That said,  a book by an author who can seduce me (at least in one instance, The Poisonwood Bible) about a topic on which I devour everything written, was a natural choice.  Kingsolver applies her experience writing to my favorite topic, eating locally.  For a year, she and her family work the land on a Virginia farm, eating only what they grow or can get from neighbors.  That means no pineapples and no bananas.  No out-of-season veggies.  The family even made every effort to get locally ground flour for the homemade bread.  Raising chickens? Check.  Heirloom turkeys? Check.  Thanksgiving from scratch?  You bet.  It was a natural fit for a person who regularly tries to make her own bread and butter and fantasizes about rural living.

Well?: Kingsolver may have applied her writing experience to the book but doesn’t seem to put any elbow grease into it.  Aside from inspired sections on the beauty of fresh growing asparagus in the spring and turkey birthing habits, much of the book reads like a scolding for eating beef, tropical fruits or buying non-organic.  Even for me, someone so completely on the wagon I should be driving it, it sounded preachy at times.  It isn’t helped by the hefty dose of nepotism.  Camille Kingsolver writes with a heavy hand, recipes trapped in English 101 and weighed down with lectures on ethical eating.  She loses credibility altogether when, near the end of the book, she descends from the soapbox long enough to admit she only engaged in her family’s experiment for part of the year.  I desperately wanted to like the book and Camille.  But, perhaps because I expected a lay-person’s look at a year of living locally and got a zealot’s treatise,  some of the shine was tarnished for me. 

We went to a wedding this weekend for one of D’s friends that she’s known since college.  Different than most weddings I’ve been to, it was two women and it was on a boat.  I was delighted to see a commitment ceremony for two women - although we know other partnered women, I haven’t had the opportunity to see how they decide to do a wedding.  We, of course, eloped (here and here) and had a beautiful, private ceremony on the beach.  Frankly, I don’t think anyone should have to go through the stress of planning a wedding for a hundred guests unless you’re going to get the benefits and marriage license to go along with.  They are braver than I am though, so off we went to the boat. 

The ceremony took place just before we set off, the ship idling under the setting sun, glass walls and ceiling filled with a backdrop of cherry blossoms.  The brides looked happy and after a short exchange of vows, we all moved to tables for supper while the boat began to move.  Though I’ve been on dinner cruises before, it has always been in foreign countries; odd little clipper ships with a plate of rice and chicken on your lap as the boat rocked in the blue green water, a linen/fine china/full silver place setting on a deserted desert island in the indian ocean while a sailboat tugged on its anchor nearby, barbecues on motorboats cutting up alligator infested rivers, alcohol soaked sunsetter cruises on big open air flat bottomed ships.  This was sophisticated and truly Washington, braised short ribs and lobster bisque, as the monuments - Capitol Hill, Washington, Lincoln - slipped past. 

D looked phenomenal.  She picked a gorgeous light silk suit, pin-striped, tan and bone, with a contrasting striped white crisp shirt underneath.  I must not have been the only one to think she looked nice - a complete stranger motioned to me across the room, wondering where she got her suit.  I was flattered that he knew I was with this perfectly dressed human.  I do wonder if he knew she was a woman or if he was simply hoping to get a similar suit for his wife.  Admittedly, we look awfully straight together, she has a hybrid carriage and attitude that confuses people who expect to see a man and a woman.  I think it’s too easy sometimes, for people to assume you are just like them rather than to stretch their minds a bit.  In the end, for being a wedding between two women, it was an awfully straight seeming crowd. 

While I dreaded being trapped on the boat, I had a lovely time.  It’s always fun to dress up and get compliments, she two lovely women get married and do something new.  Spring in Washington really is beautiful.

In our spare time this weekend, D. and I took a trip to Charlottesville to visit the University of Virginia.  I can only imagine what all the red bricks and white columns look like in the full flush of summer and fall, although they were more than beautiful in the spring.  Certainly Thomas Jefferson knew what he was doing when devised a gorgeous community layout that would set the foundation for college daydreams and the thick blood of school spirit needed to keep alumni dollars rolling in for hundreds of years.  It set my mind at ease about events of the week, though there’s still enough schoolwork and work piling down to keep me busy for years.  But!  I’ve kept a gift just for you!  CUBOCC is the oddest thing I’ve seen on the Web lately, a CGI concoction out of Brazil.  Move the mouse around her.  And make sure you make her smile (with teeth).  Creepy.

This post is not about religion.  There’s church, and god, and praying, but this post is actually about lust.  Crazy, unending, can’t stop thinking about her, lust. 

It’s so wrong.

The eve of Easter finds us keeping vigil with the Catholics in DC.  She’s a purebred and I’m a visitor, but we attend just once a year, for the Saturday night mass before Easter Sunday.  If the straight Catholics weren’t so conservative, she might find a home with them.  If she didn’t find the Dignity gays so overly friendly, such a small community, she might go every week.  If she had the time, I think she might go more than once a week.  My wife, she likes god a lot.  I think she misses the opportunity to chat more formally with him. 

As for me, I like the earthy pagan tones of Easter Vigil.  I don’t keep to any particular religion.  Confirmed Presbyterian, identified mostly Buddhist, D. jokes that I’m a Buddhabyterian.  The bottom line?  I deeply enjoy watching the priest light the fire, the weirdness of the rituals, the singing and the rote recitations.  I don’t think the Catholics mind a heathen in their midst as long as I stay quietly out of their communion.  And that’s no problem really, cause communion is where things get particularly good for me.

D. is incredibly hot when she’s praying.  When she bows her head and closes her eyes, I get that familiar twinge; the flutter that means my mind is quickly moving from thoughts of piety to thoughts of privacy.  It isn’t the way she looks while she’s praying, it’s the idea of glimpsing that deeply personal moment, while she connects in every way with her body, spirit and beliefs, that turns me into a dripping mess.  I admit, it’s lucky for her that other people are there or I might be too tempted to resist.  Regardless of the why, watching her pray is such a turn on, I can’t keep still.  It’s practically indecent. 

That’s enough judging.  You can confess your own sins now.

D.’s family has just gone.  I like them very much.  I mean, for in-laws who didn’t speak to me for a fair part of a year just because I was new and unfamiliar and, in particular, for a mother-in-law who still mentions that maybe Lorraine could come down and help D. insulate her bedroom or clean the garage or paint her toenails (well not that last, but probably!), I really enjoy spending time with them.  They are also exhausting in the way that eight and sixteen and sixty year olds are for people without kids (or grandmothers) at home.  Indelicate comments and high energy aside, it was a beautiful weekend spent sucking up springtime in DC.

In other news, there might be promising news on the future front.  No specifics for now, but think kind thoughts and share any tips for sounding smart on the telephone!

What, Who, When: Grotesque by Natsuo Kirino in 2008, translated by Rebecca Copeland

Why on Earth: Sometimes I get stuck in the bookstore.  It’s usually when I’m at a loss for fixing myself.  I know I’ll spend long hours trying to fall asleep or I’ll find myself standing in front of the bookshelves again, wondering which book can endure a fourth or fifth reading.  Most of them can, of course, and I wouldn’t keep them otherwise, but in the meantime, I’m standing there, looking aimless, wondering how I’m going to fall asleep tonight without something worthwhile to turn over in my brain. 

That’s how I end up with things like Grotesque.  They are almost always named Grotesque.  Seriously.  They are written by obscure authors.  Or snooty authors.  Or hugely popular authors that I would never like on a sane day.  They have a flashy cover.  Or something that charms me.  Or repulses me.  Something that captures me somehow.  They are never a “recommended by” or a bestseller, but they are sitting very, very near those books, so temptingly near, they could maybe edge out those recommended, best books.  Maybe they could be them, if they tried hard enough.

And while they aren’t bad books or terrible books.  They aren’t classics, or even keepers.  Nothing that I’ll keep on my shelf for the next time I stand, staring and hoping for the next read to sigh at me for a fourth or fifth time.  D. doesn’t understand how I reread things I’ve already turned over and over, but it’s like visiting a favorite childhood place.  It’s never as you remember it, and the people are never quite the same.  Sometimes they’re better, and sometimes they’re worse, but you love them anyway, cause they’re part of you.

Well?: Grotesque is fascinating if for no other reason than the translation gives it a tone and style that is decidedly foreign, culturally hard to capture but flavorful and rich.  Though I can’t compare, I didn’t feel like the narration lost much in the translation, this part-mystery,part-unraveling, social experiment captured the personalities of its female protagonists perfectly, watching each woman rise and fall in opposite bell curves of her sister.  The book took some determination to finish - reading in bits and pieces for fifteen minutes a night didn’t leave me with much time to sink into the richness of the distorted social fabric of Japanese high school life, Chinese immigration or prostitution.  In the end though, I was glad to have read it, Natsuo Kirino has a way with characters.  She doesn’t allow you to love them or even like them, but colors them in so completely that they are impossible to forget.