Sunday, December 30, 2007

Wouldn't It Be Funny....

if by some bizzaro twist of fate, this thing actually ended up landing me a husband? Though boys aren't currently on my horizon, that's just the sort of ridiculous shenanigan my life would get itself up to.

By the way, has anyone (besides Sherilyn) noticed that I *still* don't really know how to use semi-colons properly? Thanks a lot, fancy private school.

Off to my lovely, lucky, blessed new bed! Night Night!

Mojo and Crush Death

Apropos of absolutely nothing, I was thinking about how I love crush death. What I mean by that is: I find realizing that a crush has passed quite heartening. While the experience of lustful infatuation, when I feel so very excited and covetous and almost possessive of that certain person(s) who crosses my path, is fun and invigorating, adding spice, intrigue, and obsession to the rainy or maudlin days; equally joyful to me is the moment when I look at the person (usually someone I barely know) for whom I've been longing over weeks, months or years, and realize that I just don't give a shit. I love that experience.

I think because it teaches me, without pain or harshness, about how things can change, how the energy and attachment and tension I feel so intensely over someone can relax, and how its perfectly ok and natural when that happens. It doesn't hurt them, they're generally oblivious to the crush in the first place, and it is contrary to the traits I usually attribute to myself. Usually I'd still be down if the crush in question suddenly decided they wanted to make out with me, but would not and nevermore change my trajectory just to catch a glimpse of their shining face or swoon over their memory. Letting go is generally not easy for me, so this small harmless practice, of noticing when I let go of something not terribly crucial without trying, warms and lightens my mushy heart.

I know we all know this by now, but a lovely lady brought up the topic of mojo recently, and while that's not my favorite term for it, I am reminded of how legitimately and surely the concept seems to operate out in the big, strange world. As far as I can tell, the theory of mojo, or continuous, auto-regenerating sexual appeal, is basically identical to Newton's first law. Once you are deemed hot by the universe's magic sex wand, a plethora of factors (possibly including heightened self-esteem, pheromones, less attachment to the outcome of flirting, power of advertising, etc.) conspire in your favor to keep that sexy fairy dust sparkling. I think the dust eventually settles for all of us, but it sure is nice when it's happening, and with some effort, luck, and a strong enough inner sexual pilot light, we tend to flame back into irresistible at some point, again.

It's no secret that everybody wants the wanted. I personally tend to want the underdogs of the wanted, those that obviously should be wanted, but aren't often noticed because everybody's got their heads up their asses. Though this method often eventually ends up working against me, I love being the bellows to that sexual pilot light, and yes, I will often just keep blowing and blowing until the fire is set to heavy boil and the kitchen in slight danger of incineration. But I've lost my point. The point is mojo is communicable, and creatable by the seemingly mojo-less. If it's sparked and fed, you never know when the sweaty, handsy, fire-persons are going to suddenly burst through the door.

An interesting update for me, now that I'm finished speaking conceptually, is that I'm encountering a funny by-product of writing and semi-advertising this blog. Remember, please, that I often forget that these words and pictures and revelations are actually out there, floating around like perverse pigeons, nesting and shitting in the big strange world. In much the same way I used to always be shocked, truly, shocked when I heard someone was talking about me when I wasn't actually around (don't worry, I got over it), I keep being surprised that anyone reads this stuff. So it always cracks me up when at least once a week (and often more) someone that I'm not terribly intimate with asks me: "So, have you found a wife yet?" As far as idle chat goes, "Have you found a wife yet?" is the new "What shows are you in?"
I love it.

I mean, mojo or not, I've been doing this for exactly one month and I think most quality wives are more hard-won than that. One of the foxiest wives I know took a good six weeks before she decided that 'she did', so give me at least until mid-January. But it's encouraging , none the less. And as we look down the barrel of a cocked and loaded new year, I can only hope for the best. I'm excited about '08. I'm foregoing my general 'hopeful pessimism' for balls-out optimism this time. Well, at least one ball out, I still have my actual Saturn Returns coming up in August, but I've got at least one, cheerfully jiggling ball out for '08.

As for '07, well you taught me much (originally typed as "mush", Dr. Freud.) Sometimes I get tired of learning, but I'm glad I get to take these lessons into the future. I feel like I'm actually getting practice changing a bunch of those old, no-longer-helpful patterns that seem dug into my back by rusty nails. I'm excited about that. I don't seem capable of stopping the whole loving process, and I think that's my gift as well as my curse. I accept it though, even when it's really annoying, because if I'm going to do anything in this life I'd really like to spend mine loving more. I just hope to keep getting better and smarter and truer at it.

So Happy New Years, folks. I wish you all much mojo and all the things you need most, as well as at least a few of the things you want most. I wish me a more comfortable and engaged relationship with self-love and art. And a hot righteous wife wouldn't hurt.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Best Xmas Ever!

At the old BDSM dungeon/queer sorority/house of pancakes, there was a magnet on the fridge that I'll always remember. It was just a quotation from Tallulah Bankhead which said "It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time." It always struck me as very true, whenever I had all of the intriguing plot devices of my life working, I never wanted to stop and record them, but if I was lonely or lamenting or procrastinating unpleasant or difficult tasks, suddenly I found I could write again. The quotation always made me feel a little proud, a little guilty, a little absolved and a little sad. This week has been a perfect example of not feeling able to take the time to write because ever since the solstice I have been in a great mood and busy and having lots of fun. Let me just take a minute to note how nice it is after this year of valley and then brief shining peak and then more fucking chilly valley, to just feel good and happy and fun for no particular reason (though of course the new bed magic, solstice, my horoscope, the new "Lighten Up" tincture I've been taking, creating a fun and loving space with my chosen family for holidays, etc. have I'm sure all done their part). It's like being able to breathe deeply again after not realizing you've been holding your breath.

So here's the brief, crucial elements, best xmas ever break-down:
1. Food-prep with the ever diligent and tolerant and sweet and fun Marko, the low point being when all of our lovely pierogies stuck together in one big mush pile, which quickly turned into a gleeful monstrosity mutant pierogi mother which was boiled all together and threatened to be forced upon Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants to eat in one sitting whilst we cheered him on. Marko brought Slavic music and was a delight to cook with, though I fear I may have over-worked him. Hopefully he will call me back soon.

2. Wigilia party! Wow, it just felt amazing to share a part of my heritage and family tradition with a bunch of lovely freaks. It made me so happy and was very touching and everyone seemed to love the food and have a good time, even participating in the wafer tradition and eating all the "Sledzie" (herring marinated in oil and onions) which I was sure no one would eat. I wore a fancy red velvet dress stolen from my sister and Pee-wee slippers given me by my mother. Kilo showed up and fried fish like a fish-frying master and people brought non-Polish food (you could tell it wasn't Polish because it was green) and everyone looked great. I got lots of beautiful loving friend time, some gifts and hugs and new-bed cuddles. The whole thing made me so happy.

3. Party at Tricksie's house. A real, old-fashioned, hot-young-people, holiday pleasure fest. So much food. Plenty of drunks (but not too-drunks.) Mistletoe and lapdances (ok, I started the lapdances). The Rolling Stones and Gremlins and Muppet's a Christmas Carol. Special non-alky egg nog made just for me. Queers and straights and hipsters and weirdos. Kissing and cuddles. Lots of laughter and a beautiful tree. A festive new mocktail created by Chris: a peppermint candy in a glass of chilled tonic water. Party time into the morning.

4. Unexpected lovely mistletoe/party payoff: Santa brought me sex!
Super sweet and fun! Hooray!

5. Waking up in the afternoon to this text message: " I got engaged!", from a Baltimore number. Tiredly fumbling through my numbers, deciding if it was my sister or beloved ex, I would loose my shit, but if it was my other friend and former date, I would be ok. Good friend and former date it is! Holy shit! One of those moments of "Oh yeah! Here it begins! A big ole new phase of life events starting in my little world!" (Perhaps a fortuitous sign for our wife-bent heroine?) Many congratulations to Erica!

6. Pie and sparkling cider with pomegranate juice for breakfast. Calling the family, everyone is happy. (Benefit of calling the family over being on the family's couch during this time of year.) I totally forgot that I also get presents! A slow and leisurely progression towards 16th street. The streets are so quiet and calm, the Mission feels like a ghost town and it's glorious.

7. 16th St. giant backyard TRAMPOLINE party! Snacks and queers and silly dancing! Wearing my new beret and a mustache. Sexy Madlibs! Trampoline!!!!

8. Sweeney Todd! Too sexy to criticize except to say that the vocal track wasn't loud enough during the songs, but knifeplay and blood and Johnny and Helena! ACK! So exciting. Probably a poor movie, but too exciting. Dark theater groping. Cheering for the mental patients.

9. Finally home and a very sweet gift exchange with Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants. New Leatherman, AWESOME! Bonding and dozing during Cry Baby (double Depp?! Hellz yeah!) reminding us of our homeland and bizarro roots. Finally plodding off to new bed cozy sleep.

More dates for this week, one pseudo, two real. It's exciting to be happy and feel real and in touch with pleasure in some deeper way again.

Not to mention the leftover Barszcz.
(And to all the non-Poles, just because "uszka" means 'little ears', doesn't mean they're not vegetarian. )

Merry Happy Joy and Love to everyone. Sleep well and warmly, I wish you much peace.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Happy Solstice and the Boon of a New Solstice Bed!

Word on the street has it that no one can quite get it up for the Holidays this year. I feel like I've felt the least prepared and most apathetic about all the big holidays (*my* big holidays) and whatnot this year of any years in recent memory. I am both a date/holiday oriented and gifty lady. Anniversaries, monthaversaries, Halloween, Dios de los Muertos, Pride, Folsom, the Solstices and Equinoxes, they tend to mean a lot to me. I tend to be a very present-giving person, for no or special occasions, I love giving presents and take great joy in finding the things that seem to already belong to their recipients. Birthdays are especially big deals in my heart and mind, I think I might have gotten that from my dad, but I have sometimes thought that if I could spend my life making sure people had happy, exciting, fulfilling birthdays, I could be happy. But this year feels pretty off, and it feels like as far as presents and planning go, since August I've just lost my touch and also kind of don't care.

I decided going back to Baltimore at holiday time isn't healthy for me, which felt like a good, strong, self-care type of decision until I panicked and realized that as a now single person, that might mean I end up mostly alone on a holiday I don't really care about, but very much do want to feel loved on. So I decided to cook my dad's traditional Polish Catholic xmas eve dinner, 'Wigilia', and invite people over. Now I am cursing myself for always having to make things so complicated.

Solstice is my holiday of choice, it speaks the most to me, yet this year I have nothing too exciting or special planned besides trying to get ready for everything else. Last year I went with two friends to Pt. Reyes area, went hiking and saw scores of elk. I was supposed to be in Baltimore and my friend Matt was supposed to be in Seattle, but thanks to the storms in Colorado we were both still here. It was magical. This year: well we'll see.

My incredibly hot date for yesterday got cancelled. I was both bummed and relieved. Bummed because the girl is incredible and becoming a friend, and much fun (which is important for me now, my horoscope even said so) was sure to be had by all. Relieved because of all the stupid holiday stuff it gave me time to do. As it was I finished wrapping my family presents, to be delivered by my friend Josh, who is also native to Baltimore, at midnight. However, given the choice for less stress and more time or hot date with nice girl who is not potential wifey but an excellent date, I would've chosen the date.

Update: I just got a new mattress and boxspring delivered, my Solstice present from my mother. And suddenly the day does feel full of magic. It is a good omen and a sign for the future. My old mattress was terrible for my body, I got it when my last big love's roommates moved out of his apartment. I've lain on it through at least three heartbreaks, and dreamt in it since before I got sober. It's felt the weight of numerous lovers; some wonderful joyous additions to my life and some unsound, hurtful choices and many who seemed to be one and then turned to the other. It has four years of unhealthy body and difficult emotions seeped into it. It was thin and broken and low quality.

The new bed feels like it will treat me right as well as be incredibly pleasurable to sleep and lie in, and I think that when we make moves to invite those aspects into our lives in one, in this case, very tangible way, they often tend to be attracted to us in others as well. The Esteemed Astrologist confirmed my long-time suspicion that I need more sleep than most people: 9-10 hours a night. Spending that much time, alone or with lovers in an unhealthy, janky environment versus a supportive and sweet one is bound to make a huge difference. Plus it's even higher off the ground than my old mattress, which will make my bed that much more princessified. Whee! I plan to do a ritual on it soon, to welcome in positive energy and influences, to invite it to attract healthy lovers who do right by me, and to welcome the coming of the light.

From my pre-Wigilia shopping trip yesterday:

So I was that person again, today. The one in the grocery store, fighting back tears. I started to sing "For Today I am a Boy" by Anthony and the Johnsons to myself while I was looking for all the fixins' of the traditional Polish Catholic xmas eve dinner, Wigilia, and all of the sudden my face felt like a swollen sponge and the tears began their welling. Well, then I had to ask one of the kindly Rainbow Grocery Co-Operative workers where the canned/jarred beets are (answer: there aren't any) and my voice was all shaky and he gave me this strange "it's ok, they're only beets" kind of look. I scurried into the housewares aisle and choked down a few silent sobs and kind of laughed to myself, wondering how many people ever feel like bursting into tears for no apparent reason except just the ambient pain and sorrow of loving and living, in the middle of the grocery store.

I seem to be that person a lot. Sometimes I think it's my reflexive emotional revolt against being in large institutional type structures with lots of people who know and for the most part play by the rules. Aundi and I once discussed how any large room with aisles or fluorescent lights gave us the immediate visceral impulse to poop, and I bet the cows lining up for the killing floor feel the same way. Or maybe it's just that Rainbow is such a open, wholesome (albeit expensive) nurturing kind of atmosphere, that similar to the therapist's office it inspires a freeing of emotions, one of the co-op members might even come over with a earthen cup of filtered water and put their arm around your shoulder until you could shop on your own again. I certainly wasn't about to weep half an hour before in Trader Joe's. (San Francisco is a city unsympathetic to beet needs that aren't met by a fresh bunch of organic bulbs, at least amongst the fancy "socially-conscious" grocery options. Pickled herring neither. I get the feeling there aren't an overwhelming number of Poles or Jews out here, at least not until the Richmond. I will continue the Slavic search tomorrow.)

Though I remember experiencing the intense desire to dive into a pile of fluffy new towels and throw a little fit once at Nordstrom's Rack a couple of months ago, and that is anything but a sympathetic atmosphere. Or maybe "For Today I am a Boy" just always makes me cry (which is true) and I've been on the verge for days now anyway. There is another song that keeps trying to pop into my head which would just obliterate me, so in harm reduction fashion, I opt for sudden tears over complete loosing-my-shit devastation. I don't really feel like blaming the Holidays, I feel like they can take responsibility for pretty much everything else. I left Rainbow after about 35 minutes, with only three items, costing $11. But I'm fine with that.

Today I woke up with Postal Service, which I don't even like but find occasionally heart-wrenching none the less, in my head. But it was ok, not as charged as the music in my head of yesterday. Also, I painted yesterday, for my mother's present, with a new (to me) technique I saw used in the Sigur Ros movie 'Heima' which is just using the ink dropper from India Ink directly on the paper. It made me feel good, like "oh yeah, sometimes I really am an artist." And now I'm finally in a festive Solstice mood, with They Might Be Giants (which is always good because it is *my* music, connected to ex's of long ago, sure, but both the Giants and Talking Heads feel like my core of tunes, listening to them gives me the feeling of "this doesn't have to be about you, its just about me") singing me and my new bed into the afternoon.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Tiny Update. Oh wait, I can't do tiny.

The holidays are kicking my ass. I keep working on posts here but not finishing them, though I'm sure after all the madness (presuming the the madness does end at some point), I will get back to them. Here's a teaser: definitely up-coming is a post all about my hygiene preferences! I know, I know, I'm just killing you with anticipation....

My second pseudo date was very sweet and unfortunately very pseudo. Tonight is the Lusty Lady Holiday party where I get to be a judge of the candy cane sucking contest. I'm feeling pretty low and hoping a tidal wave of scantily clad Lusties washes me onto some bed somewhere and does bad things with me. Not like littering or genocide though, I'm not up for either of those tonight unless someone gives me roofies in a big cup of coffee.

And that's mostly because my other big fantasy, that my bed will magically sprout a beautiful woman who *already* loves me, *already* knows me, just wants to stay in bed and cuddle and read each other stories and have kinky sex and get out of bed and pee on each other and make hot chocolate and then get back in bed with hot chocolate and watch movies and share our beliefs and snore in each other's armpits and make really cool bruises on each others backs and thighs and butts and necks and breasts without having to ask again where she grew up because I know where she grew up, I've heard all about it and how she hates it and loves it and maybe I've been there or we're planning a trip together.... well, I know that its too far-fetched for even me to believe. Its not the way it works, you have to go on dates and chit-chat and try new restaurants or sit in the park or whatever until you suddenly find yourself snuggled up in a hotel bed with your good friend and this new person, chastely nude, but wishing you could put their (the new person, not your good friend) genitals in your mouth, you know, just to try it.... and then two months later in another hotel bed, high on sugar and lack of sleep and amazing sex, you realize for sure that you love them. I mean, the hotel beds and sugar aren't required, I've just found that often while dating the person that I turn out to love kinda sneaks in from the side.

Yes. I like to pee on people. If that totally grosses you out, you are probably not my wife.
At this point I'm not sure whether a marriage where I never peed on my spouse but got to do it a lot with others would work, it may, but it most certainly *will not* work if you think that the mere idea of me peeing on someone is gross. There. I'm out. Possibly a big mistake, but oh well, its true.

I also really like reading out loud to people in bed (or out). I also enjoy being read to, but if I could only do one, I'd probably be the reader.

And, yes, it's true, I honestly *love* hot chocolate. I refused to be shamed for my adoration of the "steamy brown", as it's known. I hope by my confession I can pave the way for other warmed-dairy aficionados to feel comfortable about themselves, and their predilections, however un-vegan, just the way they are.

I don't yet know what to wear tonight. I used to wear miniskirts all the time and don't anymore and kind of want to wear a mini skirt for that reason, but I'm not sure I still own any festive enough. I know, big problems, what a fucking dilemma. "Fairy godmother, bring me a warm naked wife in bed, with her arm sticking out holding a hanger with the perfect outfit on it! "Of course, I would probably never make it to the party if that happened, but from the cold living room with a lap full of Mac, it sounds just peachy.

I've been having a lot of weird sex dreams all this week. Last night there were two, one involved me helping with a workers' revolt at this country-club type place where the boss was kind of a mix between Tony Soprano and the dad from the family guy. I riled everyone up and then people were playing golf and I was going to an art exhibit but my ex showed up, nude, and so I started groping her. We were just standing there, in the grass, side by side, surveying the grounds. At first she said "no need for that" or something basically telling me I should probably stop touching her genitals, but I kept doing it anyway and then she started getting excited and then...I don't know. The scene changed or something, I think maybe I was suddenly down by the water with a bunch of golf clubs in my hand.

The second one, I don't really remember the context for, possibly I was in a castle? Anyway, this cute dog, kind of grey hound like, came up and started nuzzling and licking me and I'm not a huge dog fan but I liked this dog and was petting it and then it started turning into Lynee Breedlove all dressed in leather, and I understood that this dog was really just Lynee's puppy play persona. There was a bunch of licking and what not, but I've never really been attracted to Lynee so I have no idea where that came from. Thank *YOU* twisted mind!

Alright, alright. Shower and dressing myself. One of these days I will let all the kids in on what a sham adulthood is. But tonight I'm schmoozing with the peep-show ladies, so the kids might just have to wait for their insight.

Monday, December 17, 2007

2 Pseudo-dates and the Importance of Symbolism

Two pseudo dates, one per day, today and tomorrow. I doubt either of these lovely women are my wife-to-be, but one never knows. And not every pursuit in life must be a means to an ultimate end. Especially not for me.

Let it be known that I am trying, however, and also really appreciate it when people hit on me in a cute and friendly way, and will often go out at least once with them because I think that type of behavior should get positive feedback.

Update! First pseudo-date successfully completed and actually so successful that it turned into a real date! Of course she found this page directly after the date, causing me to e-scream in embarrassment and panic. (It's always such a strange and conflicted line between the overwhelming urge for exhibitionistic, bare-all spew and the painfully self-conscious, highly mortified realization that other people can actually see me. Pema Chodron calls this something like "the overwhelming embarrassment of being me". So far, my only explanation is that its really easy for me to both imagine only the vague concept of the audience and attention I want and forget that my work is available and accessible to actual humies. ) And then, all of the sudden other offers are coming in as well. Perhaps as Tim Kreider says, "I think this time things are really going to turn around." Stay tuned for the possibility of against all odds, everything actually turning up Milhaus.

I was having a conversation with my friend Aundi, who is an excellent poet, working on her Master's in poetry in England (see links at bottom of page), about the importance of symbolism in both of our lives. It's one of my most intimate and heart-felt languages, and to me is tied to my sense of magic and spirituality as well as my narrative-based literary sensibility and my belief in dialectic processes. My best connections and partnerships have had respect and some understanding of the value and meaning of symbolism in my life, and I really cherish and appreciate those with a similar way of moving through and with the world, an affinity towards the scenic route of meaning, belief, correlation and understanding.

Re: symbolism, Aundi said : it's way too outside what's cool presently
it's nice I think. to have. it's like having peripheral vision on a grander scale
I wouldn't trade it to be any cooler
for shiz

Gotta love that, a lovely, insightful metaphor followed with "for shiz". She and I speak similarly that way sometimes.

Which brings up the question of 'woo' (otherwise known as "woo-woo", "the woo", "that hippie shit", etc.) which has a long and convoluted answer in my life. To try to make it simple, which is rarely my gift, I believe in esoterica, but not all of it, I appreciate an awareness and respect for non-tangible energies, though not when used as a mask for true intention or a tool for manipulation, and I think that logic and rationality are just two shades of a full spectrum of truth and understanding. I appreciate pluralities in modalities and perspectives although I often feel in didactic extremes.

While the value of symbolism is as often intellectual as emotional or spiritual (maybe there need be no hard distinction) it affects my thoughts and feelings and influences my behavior and view on the world daily. Both my parents are scientists and I believe in and value science, as well as emotional intelligence, multiple truths, omens, spiritual rituals, astrology (to an extent), psychic insights (also to an extent), karma, ghosts (because its fun), Goddesses and Gods (because it improves my enjoyment of life and myself), old medicine, witches, magic spells , synchronicity, dreams, and intuition. I see the world a little bit like a muti-dimensional puzzle, and sometimes connective pieces or clues can be analyzed and understood through one framework or set of tools and sometimes another fits better or makes things clearer. Often I feel strongly the sense that something is being shown but I don't know yet how to decode it. In the end, the majority of my beliefs are most strongly based on what seems like the most pleasurable, interesting, helpful, reassuring, fun, and true-feeling options I've encountered or can come up with. I also hold onto and cultivate beliefs which support me to act in ways that are in keeping with my sense of integrity. (i.e. I believe in karma and I believe in spells, so I don't cast spells intended to harm or do anything negative to anyone or anything else.)

Wow, so reading all that, I guess I sound pretty woo, at least for someone who grew up in Baltimore I sound pretty woo to me. But its a discerning woo, a selective woo, a patchwork woo that works for me without making me feel spacey or irresponsible or crazy or self-destructive/aggrandizing or inaccessible or overly out-of-touch or vulnerable to exploitation or too judgemental. My woo does often spark my curiosity and inspiration, console and make me feel better, and get my creativity, compassion, playfulness and sense of humor about myself flowing.

But beyond that, my mind likes making connections, so much so that sometimes really good ones give it the feeling of soft honeyed many-fingered ripples of delight tickling my brain. (I had that experience recently while reading 'Lolita', man, that Nabokov can write! English isn't even his first language! For whatever reason, the Poe references at the beginning of the book, especially before they get overly overt, tickled me gleefully.) And when those connections come in real life surprises, well-formed coincidences, evocative imagery, ironic mysteries and powerful symbols, I have no interest in denying myself the innate pleasure and intrigue and wonder that engulfs my body/mind and spirit.

So, a potential wifey would not, one would hope, find this crazy, or insufferable, or stupid, or silly ( a little silly is ok, silly rarely means to hurt anyone) or ridiculous or too high-faluttin or too uneducated or anything but somewhat weird (no qualms with that as long as its not seen in a derogatory light), maybe not totally in keeping with her beliefs, though adding a depth to my interest and involvement with the world as well as a useful, compelling and entertaining resource.

Whew, once again, more spew than I expected. I feel a little blushingly embarrassed again with outing all of that in one place, like I should don a witch hat and go do some Tantric breathing exercises with another spiritual being having a human experience while drinking colloidal gold at Cafe Gratitude. Truthfully, I would do all of the things in the sentence I just wrote, but all at once would be too much for me. Hopefully my next post will explain more about my serious hard-core no bullshit edge to balance this out, if I can find it.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

A Small Realization Regarding Age

Today my brain is sizzling with lack of sleep so the ideas are live ones, unfettered and from wild waters. My PMS/stress/general emotional sensitivity rage of the past few days has subsided, and now there are a full spectrum of feelings washing up on the shore.

But one thought I had today, which struck me for a moment and is relevant here, is what I take to be a further sign that I am ready or near-ready for lady-marriage, or at least partnership.

The breif backstory: I am a notorious chickenhawk. I have enjoyed the barely-legal fetish since I myself was barely legal, and it just seems to become more prominent the older I get. I love introducing people to firsts, teaching and turning people on to new experiences, especially sexually. I like hunting the PYTs, the dolphins (as we call the boys) and the precocious younger girls. I've dated quite a few 18-21 year olds and I find them a very tasty snack though I've usually gotten hurt by their youthful impetuousness.

Leaving the bathroom at a bistro today, after watching an Opera students' version of the Magic Flute (still crusty eyed from the Studio 54 party last night, see the above picture- "Girl! You're a Hot Mess! Love it!" they said), something struck me.
I haven't been interested lately. Don't get me wrong, there are some gorgeous people in my life in their late teens and early 20s, and I don't find them any less gorgeous, but lately I haven't been so intrested in trying to meet people under 25. I don't look at their personal ads, I don't start salivating, I don't do much of anything except look around for more wife-age-appropriate friends. In fact, I remember distinctly thinking "Oh, too bad, probably too young" when I met the lovely girl at the bar the other night and she told me she was 23. Which for me is kind of mind-blowing. When I think about the age my imaginary bride may be, I tend to start the thinking at around 26 and then go up from there. This may seem like common sense to some, but really, if you knew me well, you would understand what a shock this is to me.

I feel like this is a direct result of finally having enough experience with people, younger and not-so- younger, to understand that the kind of commitment, self-awareness and accountability, as well as breadth of experience and trial and error that someone who might be a good and appropriate partner for me would have is much more likely to exist in someone over 25. I think it's also about a little more self-awareness around what I want from a partner or regular date, and what I like as sexual novelty or more casual date/mentor relationship. I have had almost all of my more satisfying relationships or encounters with the 18-21 year olds in the context of a primary partnership with someone closer to my age.

So I see myself naturally veering away from the more youthful pursuits. I think my body/mind are really gearing up for deep lasting love in a healthy relationship. Now I'm just working, albeit slowly, on my shit and also, of course, impatiently pouting and whining, until it becomes clear to me (finally!) where, and when, and with whom that love will be.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

*Prospective Brides Do Not Read*

Post-Footnight picture.

Not the most attractive time for SLWaW, but true none the less.

A story from last night:
Irene and I dress up for a foot fetish party. I haven't had a pedicure in a month but with all the hibernating and a couple of dabs of off-color polish and I can fake it. I almost break down in the car on the way to Dublin (!?) thinking about: 1. all the kinds of sex and relationships I've never had 2. not remembering where I put a good vibes gift certificate and a new compact. Obviously PMS was politely making itself known.

The party is surprisingly brightly lit and lucrative, apparently the lack of dimness I was counting on when doing my make-up in the car didn't deter the toe-hungry. It's more man than I've dealt with in some time, and while fun and distracting, I feel a little overwhelmed and start running out of things to do with my feet. They don't seem to care or notice.

Afterwards we're thinking about going to the Bump, an unfortunately named queer dance night at the Cat Club. Neither of us have gone, but I figure there is a small chance of getting laid there and at least it would be funny to invade the quipster space with our un-cool super-glam femmeness. After a double drive-by with no cute smokers or parking spaces outside, we say 'fuck it' and go to the Lex instead.

It's late enough that people are drunk enough to smile at us, and one cute and gregarious girl starts in with compliments right away. Which is shocking since usually the Lex is where we go to really externalize our internal feelings of alienation; when we want to be "out" but can't deal with anyone looking at or talking to us, we know we'll be safe there. I smoke an unnecessary cigarette to flirt and learn that girl used to be a sex worker. I give her my card and go in for a hug. When Amy Winehouse comes on, my heart threatens to explode, so we leave.

More pleasant than expected, for sure. But then I'm home alone again, Irene's holed up in her with Craigs List and her hot new shoes. I stay up later than relevant or sensible.
Ok, and here it is, the crux of the story: I get naked in my room, shivering and scrambling for my pajamas, but for a minute there I am, suddenly naked in front of my mirror. In single winter times, this is a far too infrequent occurrence. And you know what? I got PISSED.
I screamed : "I'm hot! WHAT THE FUCK!?"

Then I resigned myself to my cold bed and my angry dreams.

Funny how finally figuring out that you're hot can be spoiled by the context. I'm just having a kind of angry bitchy time. I do little gratitude rituals and sometimes remember to breathe, but dammit, I just want a hot fun exciting new connection, or better yet, someone to go test mattresses with me that's been in love with me for years. I'm impatient. It feels like my body is being wasted. I went to breakfast at a cafe today in my pajamas and a fedora and on the way home had a little tantrum, screaming: "Why doesn't anybody love me! WAH!" to the middle of Mission St. I know that's no way to get a wife or girlfriend or even an alley-fuck, and I know I am so blessed and so very privileged and live an amazingly beautiful, strange and fulfilling life, but right now, in the moment, its just one big ride in the Wahmbulance for me, and every meal is a wahmburger with a side of cries.

So I hope all you potential wives didn't read this, because I'm working on my attitude, though not as actively as I have in the past, and I just had an amazing weekend last week, but it wore off, and basically, what I'm saying, is this is not the pro-active, strong, woman with agency type of me that I'd hope you'd find appealing, but a pissed-off, can't wait for the year to be over, curmudgeonly couch-nester. And I don't want to attract people who are attracted, either in a fix-it or similarly bitter way to that. However, I would like to be with people that can understand and accept a holistic emotional spectrum, and realize that while this is me, yes, there is also so much that isn't this and it's ok, if not my favorite, to be all of it.

Anyway, wah. Fucking wah.
At least all of this spew got that awful picture off the top of the page.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

No, really, could you love *THIS* person?

I figure, if we're going to be wed, you should see this ahead of time.

Today, I am full of hateful rage.

Also, Irene told me to tell any prospective wives out there that if we have a date I won't blog about it. Apparently that's what she would be worried about. So I promise I won't beyond saying "I had a nice date" or some such, unless you say you want me to, which I understand is unlikely. Don't worry about the hateful rage, it's not that frequent (except this year.)

Fucking Christmas music does not help.

*This post in honor of Ben Knoll.*

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

My Friends Overestimate My Abilities

I just got a hilarious email from my friend J, who is apparently in, or just got kicked out of Europe (though not for any of the reasons that would make the best story), and is half of an incredibly hilarious and delightful band with his lovely, elegant and naughty wife.

He said that they enjoyed my blog and also:
"When you find a wife, push
for a late Feb or late Mar wedding. We'll be back in SF at that time.
And we do weddings."

I would love to have J and C play at my wedding, in fact it would probably be as close to perfect as can be expected from reality (my secret dork fantasy was that They Might Be Giants would play at my wedding), but really J and C's band would probably be even more apropos. But the point here is the belief that I can have a wife lined-up by February or March puts a lot of pressure on a girl type person. I mean, I'm typing in here and completely ignoring my very important school work as much as I can, but still, I can only do so much. I've even been leaving the house lately and smiling and hitting on/getting hit on. But in order for me to be marriage ready in 2-3 months, someone is going to have to work a little harder. So any ladies out there interested in falling in love with a confirmed weirdo, please start emailing now. March is really right around the corner and I'd like to at least remember your favorite color by wedding-time.
I mean, it seems unfeasible to me, but maybe this is one of those things where I underestimate my own wife-attracting powers. I could see that. And while I generally think that its prudent to wait *at least* one run of all seasons with someone before marriage, I'm also a romantic. If someone really great came along and was *really* into it I can't say for certain, that even with my much-improved mental health and emotional intelligence, I wouldn't go for a two-month courtship before matrimony.

So email up! I'm just sitting here, not doing very important schoolwork, waiting. I mean, filling my life with amazing and fulfilling achievements and endeavors! While still taking time for friends and simple pleasures and playtime! Yup, that's me, fulfilled but still open. Constantly learning, and growing yet grounded and relaxed. Busy enough to imply favorable social status, but not too busy for you. So write me a damn email already!


Monday, December 10, 2007

My First Partial Offer

Well this weekend marked a milestone for SLWaW and a number of them for me, personally, but the most relevant of them was that I got a partial, mostly joking, potential offer for a maybe wife.


She is gorgeous, over 20 years my senior, the girlfriend of dear friends of mine, and lives out of town. So there are some potential drawbacks (mostly the out of town part) and also a great deal more of getting-to-know in ways other than biblical. The road to wifey is neither short nor easy, well, at least it hasn't been for me. But I feel much encouraged by even casual interest in my proposition. It's exciting!

It reminds me of the rule I learned in my Arts Administration for the Independent Artist class (thank you Krista DeNio!): the guideline for promotion is a 10-1 ratio. If you flyer for an event, about 1 out of every 10 people who pick up a flyer will show up. Now I know that marriage is a little more specialized of an event than a Hanukkah-themed burlesque circus, or a plague of masturbating Pee-wees, at least in this town, but I figure after several hundred, or no more than a few thousand drunken offers of"oh, I'll be your wife!", something has got to pan out.
(The lovely lady in question was not drunk by the way, that's just how I envision future encounters or offers emerging: them drunk and clinging to their seething date, me Charlie Chaplining it out of there.)

Wow, I was just about to get so 90's lesbo. Well, I've been accused of being a 90's lesbo before, so I might as well go for it. What I was going to say was: as the fine film 'Go Fish'* taught us, "The Girl Is Out There."

So, one down, countless more to go. Hooray for the first, not-totally-single, step.

*As a 16 year old living in Baltimore, I went to the local small art theater no less than 3 times when Go Fish was in the theater. I clearly remember one time arranging for a mixed group of boy-girl couples and friends to go with me so I wouldn't seem so damn gay, though I'm unclear about to whom. (Same thing with 'The Incredibly True Story of Two Girls In Love'. As far as media went, if there were ladies who liked ladies, I ate it up, though I remember being a little confused at the time by the boxing butch.) Even at 16, I identified most with the butchy lethario, Daria. After at least one of my gleeful viewings I went, by myself, to the cute dyke cafe, the now defunct 'Cafe Diana'. My head swimming with Guinevere Turner's comely image, I got myself tea and cake and sat there amongst the lavender walls, glowing with feelings of satisfied lesbianism, about to burst with my own queerness, dying for someone to talk to me. Of course, no one ever talked to me, I must have looked like some very strange kid who (as Irene and I say about dudes in suits at the Lex, the local dyke bar) 'didn't know where I was'.
It turns out that I never really got the hang of 'lesbianism', per se, sexually I'm too curious and flexible, though I may be one in spirit. But it was the 90's, in Baltimore, and I still refused to say 'fag' out of respect and hadn't ever met a transperson yet and was desperately in love with my best friend and didn't even know I was goth. So lesbians, wherever I could get them, see them, be around them trying silently to make them love me, were it for me. No wonder I'm a 90's lesbian, I never really got to be one when that was all the queer I knew. Well, another psychological mystery solved. Ima go listen to some Ani.

And another thing......(Blog as Agitprop?)

Speaking of the whole "spread the wed" deal, it is not only my own eternal connubial joy that is at stake here. Oh, no. If it were only lowly I, longing for lissome be-ringed hands to smooth my wrinkle brow (so far there's just the one), my singular nuptial fate resting on your e-whims, well then that would be one thing. A mere trifle, my quest seems perhaps, unworthy of sending a hyper-linked email to your fantastic, smoking-hot, single, whips-and-tentacle-loving lady friend. Yes, me, I would understand, we are all busy people in a difficult world.

But wait! Destiny weaves for the bloggers and blogless alike! Would you dare to cruelly dash the hopes and dreams of my sultry, ravenous, lust-and-domestic-bliss-engorged compatriots!?

I should hope not.

Because you see, Sadie Lune Wants a Wife is bigger than you... Or me... Or my intermittently expansive loneliness... Or perhaps even Valencia Street.

This mission cannot, nay, *mustn't*fail!

You see, already twos and as many as three of my friends have gazed into the future and seen, (oh happy day!), seen the time when SLWaW bears luscious, bottom-shaped fruit. And apparently the day after I secure my wild-eyed wifey, that is when I start selflessly using my Vernian contraption to pimp for them.

Can you hear it? Through the mists of time, the clarion call? Sounding like someone asking for the thousandth time if the dishes are clean or dirty? The cry of SLWaW goes forth on behalf of my comrades, to lure like lemmings to a sweet, pussy-lined cliff, all of the partners and sweeties and perma-dates and husbutches that dance and share and acquiesce and "make it all better" in the dreams of my friends.

Only a body with no heart could abandon this community of love-seekers! Let my kind and tolerant friends sleep not alone! My conjugal triumph spells possibility for the date-less and under-dated! Prove to the world that this is just crazy enough to work! Lend a hand to those asking for one!

Shout it from the rooftops, if you must: A vote for Sadie Lune Wants a Wife is a Vote for Mates for All*!

*(who want them)

Saturday, December 8, 2007

What I'm Looking for, anyway...Part 1

"So" you may say, "you sure can blah the blah and yadda yadda about the reasons you want a wife, your conceptual ideals of unconventional marriage, and needlessly apologize for your opinions and tone the whole time. Sweet. But I have seen nil, perhaps less, on what you are actually looking for in a partner. Besides that she be amenable to weird tentacle sex and may or may not be a vegan and willing to marry you. WTF?"

Ok, ok, ok, I working up to it. Let me start slow.

Where to begin: personality, looks, values, style?
It feels strange to just make a list of what I find really attractive in a person, especially since these things tend to be both mutable and communicable for me. How can you pick falling in love out of a list? It seems dehumanizing, and objectifying (which I am not altogether opposed to ) and by its nature one-dimensional and incomplete.

But man, my life is wound and strewn with little lists, I am such a mad-crazy list maker I get a little uncomfortable if I leave the house without tools to make notes and lists. So it seems a fitting, if not flattering, format for a patchwork Frankenstein's monster of what I might love.

And honestly, I really enjoy learning to love, and if not love, appreciate, and if not appreciate, at least understand better the differences in taste or style or opinions of the people I come to love. That feeling of being opened, to seeing differently, more vividly, that thought of "well I would never pick that coat/meal/course of study/trick but I can see how it would be perfect for ____" is really special to me and makes me feel both emotionally limber and fully loving.

One more thing about lists. I tend to like the format that I learned through BDSM, but which I've heard that the late, great Cynthia Slater brought to the BDSM community from her business background. It's called "3 lists", I think. Basically the format is three different columns; one for "definitely yes!", one for "maybe, or indifferent" and one for "absolutely no". In BDSM we use the 3 lists to help people figure out their interests and boundaries, to ascertain whether our desires for play are compatible and to try to make sure we don't accidentally pop bubblegum in someones face while they are tied to a tire swing if that is the thing that brings up a bunch of childhood trauma. For my wife-hunt I will mostly likely use something approximating the 3 lists format to flesh out the things that I really like and dislike.

So as long as we can all agree on the caveat that these things are never going to be wholly representative, can and do change, and I am not bound to love nor restricted from loving people and the qualities personified either on or off the lists, I guess I can start.

Just not right now.

Friday, December 7, 2007

Thanks for talking back, and what's with me and the vegans?

Yay! People are commenting! Like a little fiend I kept checking back to see... and to no avail. Nobody gave a rat's ass about SLWaW. Or they were sparing my feelings by keeping their cake-holes shut. Ahh...disappointment. But then yesterday, just as a fluke, I found the place where i actually have to approve posts! I was very adamant, you see about retaining the right to moderate comments, but lo, I hadn't actually figured out how to do that. There was a sweet little bundle of comments waiting for me, and you! Obviously I am not a 133t h4kz0r when it comes to the tech learning curve.

And since we are talking about you, you fine denizens of cyber-land, I'd like to bring up a little thing they like to call "links". Yes, links- ladies love the links. You see, I need a little help disseminating my message, so I can get to the inseminating, you dig?
How are all the spouses-to-be going to know about their imminent wivlihood without links? Sadie Lune Wants a Wife could use some hospitality, and would be tickled to get a little rest and refreshment on your homepage. Spread the wed.
Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants alone will not get me hitched.

And the good news is, apparently I also get the vegan vote. Well, I got at least one vegan vote. The last unbearably hot girl to grace my hand, i mean bed is, i mean...we had a lovely (vegan) dinner...well, you guessed it: vegan-shcmeagan mo-meegan... but she gives thumbs up. Whew. I'd hate to come off like a hater. Cuz I'm not. Tentacles or no, I'm a lover...that's kinda the whole reason that I'm here.


So please go tell all of the amazing, gorgeous, talented, kinky, weirdo, non-commitment-phobe ladies or persons-along-those-lines about Sadie Lune Wants a Wife. Even if they're vegan, what the hell!
Because if this doesn't get me a wife, Carol Queen said she'd eat her hat.
And you don't want to make Carol eat a hat do you? Even if its completely animal (vegan!) free?
No, no, I didn't think so.

Thank you and good vegan.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Nothing's Wrong With Me

Over dinner S and I discussed women, as we almost always do. She's got a major double-breakup on her hands (ah the joys of polyamory!) and I'm still dampened and dripping from my recent split. We discussed our relationship patterns and the ease or lack thereof of finding new partners, after. She mentioned something she's said before, that for almost 10 years, despite plenty of relationship difficulties, she's never had much of a dry-spell. I haven't been nearly so lucky, despite the common mis-perception that I am some sort of gondolier on the deep river of sexuality, my long pole always wet. This led me off to "the bad place" for a minute, trying to come up with reasons to explain my occasional difficulties finding dates. The first thing that popped into my head was "is it because I'm a sex worker or is it my facial chain?" Then I remembered my sobriety (will be 2 years as of Jan 1st) and how much less inclined many people are for a fun fuck, much less dating, without the aid of substances. (In fact I recently had a paranoid pondering that my recent ex probably enjoys dates with her other date more because she can consume without worrying about how I'll feel about it, I doubt this is true, but....)

Just yesterday a preferred client and I had an interesting conversation about the disconnect between how we feel inside and how we are perceived by the outside world. I constantly get the feedback that people are less likely to approach me because I am intimidating. Unless I've got a singletail in my hand or I'm barking off a street harasser, I rarely feel intimidating, more like a big squishy pile of leaking-heart mush. But I understand that my height and stature (5'10", big enough to notice), can intimidate alone, and when my loud and frequently used voice is added to many of the subjects I am known to spout about, I end up taking a lot of space. I can see that being intimidating, even while my internal little lamb-self demurely blinks in the corner. I've decided that if I'm going to be seen as intimidating whether or not I consent, I might as well own it and capitalize on my intimidation (for good!).

After S and I debated the relative weirdness of my facial chain to say, being a big ol' goth,(since she claimed that sex work wasn't visually apparent on me when walking down the street, though I'm not so sure) I figured out that it wasn't really the weirdness that mattered, it was whether or not it was a deterrent. We agreed that was something we couldn't know. I mean, obviously its a deterrent to some people, but we're talking anybody in whom I would be remotely interested. And then it dawned on me; it's not the chain, it's not my work, and it's not 'cuz I'm a teetotaler. I may seem intimidating sometimes, sure, but that's not what's wrong with me. I used to be positive that I was too much of a slob to love, but I know a number of folks with several simultaneous, loving, committed, long-term relationships whose homes make my room look like a zen center.

One thing I've learned recently is that people aren't generally into "perfect", it often makes them feel bad about themselves, unless they perceive themselves to be close to perfect or enjoy a heavily skewed power dynamic in their relationships (the classic 'young ingenue in love with the very successful, skilled and powerful older person' comes to mind). I would venture that what most people are really attracted to in terms of partner material is someone who seems to be at around the same level as themselves, or depending on their relationship to power, a little bit "higher" or a little bit "lower" as far as what they view as progress and success in life. People tend to commit to people that are similar in lifestyle, values, and "success" and an idea that they can grow in like or complementary ways in the future.

So, in fact, there's nothing wrong with me. It's just not as easy as one, or more pertinently, I, would like to get the attention and relationships I want, exactly when I want them. It's not because I'm inapproachable, or crazy or too weird; plenty of socially awkward, crazy-ass weirdos are happily partnered. It's just not easy, and sometimes it seems that knowing what I really want, and being less and less willing to settle for something unhealthy or unsupportive of my dreams, while simultaneously maintaining my commitment to flexibility, open-heartedness and deep, intimate loving, makes it just that much less easy. (The run-ons might not be helping, either. )And frankly, I tend to get most things I want within 2-5 years, but that can be hard to remember in the slow-moving meantime. But that's ok, because this way I get to figure out how to really love myself, making it easier and more likely for someone else to follow suit, and I get to have room for something and somebody super swell when the time is right.

Can you tell I went to a hippie retreat in Oregon, recently? Hey man, that shit worked. Loving myself is going pretty well. Check it out: Heart of Now

Oh, and S suggested I post this picture of me from Paul Reubens Day '06. She assured me it would pull the wifeys to me like a polygamist magnet!

My Dream of Waking

When I wake I often have a head full of soft-boiled stories. In my bed there is a space, person-sized, towards my left arm. I like to drool and sputter out my dreams, I like a warm nude haze that listens, I like to hear in between kisses what drama unfurled while we slept. I like my arms full, I like twisted legs, I like my hips rocking to your song. I want to know your stories and your history so your mornings speak to me in layers. I want your hands and ideas of what my brain is up to. I want my sheets to know your name and wear your perfume. I want to introduce you to my stuffed animals. I want a lifetime of wakings, hairs on the pillows, nights counted in vulnerable throats, our skins slowly wrinkling to puzzle better together. Like a baby I want a blurred face for my waking, a slack lip, each bone familiar and murmuring against the light. I want your heartbeat for breakfast, your fears laid out on my shoulders, if you'd let me I'd swallow every tear like a seed. My bed knows you already, it moans for your weight, the blankets tossed and anxious, please tell it your dreams.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Why I Want a Wife

Today I revealed the existence of this little thought-trap to my friend and "Grouper" (so called because for 4 years I have been his official, #1 groupie), cartoonist Tim Kreider. He is the surprisingly normal looking (actually, cute) man behind the brilliantly fucked-up comic The Pain-When Will It End?, though you would never guess based on his self portraits. He has never been married, but we share many vulnerabilities when it comes to the ladies.

Tim Kreider immediately suggested I seek out an essay entitled "Why I Want a Wife", which was written in 1971 by Judy Syfers Brady and originally published in Ms. magazine. The piece is a political statement on gender relations and the "invisible" work of women of that era. Upon reading all of the duties that many wives were expected to perform clearly laid out, my first reaction was something along the lines of :
"Well shit, I could never do all of that. Clearly that is too much work (not to mention no appreciation) for one person. What I *really* want is a wife, maybe a girl/boyfriend, and a diligent submissive!"

Though seriously, it has been on my mind for awhile that life just seems easier, more manageable, and a hell of a lot more fun, when it is worked with a dedicated team. Feats of endurance that normally make my head explode such as dealing with bureaucrazy, trudging through illness, or wandering, zombified in big box stores become little games, jocular missions, or at very least an ordeal where the burden is shared. The strength and ability and helpfulness of people working in cooperation to live lives and navigate the maze of the world, full of joys and obstacles, often seems exponential as opposed to additional. I think of it as a big project. I want a wife who chooses, as a peer, colleague, and coadjutant, to create this project of our lives together.

And hopefully the submissive will be a great at cleaning my room, because that's a skill I've never gotten the hang of.

An Idea About a Gallery

I had an idea about figuring out how to rig this thing with a gallery of sorts named "Could You Love This Person?" or perhaps "Could You Love (and OBEY!) This Person?", for the submissive matrimony traditionalists out there. The gallery would primarily consist of pictures of me with things on my head; mostly they would be specimens from my extensive hat collection (with a special feature for all my cat hats), but also possibly other beloved objects such as a teapot or a giant stuffed octopus. Surely, that will draw the ladies in droves. Droves!

Saturday, December 1, 2007

How it Came To Be (and an apology to vegans and a note on Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants)

Ha, ha, folks and future wives of the world, pay no attention to that Reverend Dr. Splashy Pants. That's certainly the last time I leave my blog signed in. However, there's a point to be made here, which is that anyone who might deign to marry me will have to acclimate to my roommate and long-time companion, Reverend Dr. Splashy Pants. If you care to read more about him, skip to the end of this post.

Anyway, back to the creation myth of this blog. First, let me just state that it is hilarious to me to have a blog, not even taking into account the predictably absurd subject of said phenomenon. As a semi-luddistic, quit-all-online-social-network-sites-to-spare-my-own-sanity, regular ranter on the 2nd rate brand of connection technology has been weaning us on, this shit cracks me up. Perhaps now, I will re-exist as a valid human in the eyes of the middle-class, North American wold. Imagine that. Heh.

But it wasn't my idea! The coward's defense. Not my fault, I weakly protest. I just carried and birthed the chimera, near simultaneous brainchild of two esteemed inseminators. It's true, the inspiration was not my own, but in my to-be-expected wintry (who let it be December, already!?) hibernatory state, I did the unlikely act of following through with one of legion hare-brained schemes. If we look at it as a shiny new procrastination device away from the last dragging dregs of my undergraduate requirements, it makes a lot more sense. Partners to be, be forewarned! Procrastination is a vice I've yet to quit.

So what happened was something like this: I find myself in the all-too-familiar state of Heartbreak, U.S.A. Pop: me, and what looks like a bar-full of ladies bemoaning their single status on Craig's List. I have mostly accepted the realization (and accompanying sinking feeling) that I want a wife. The lovely and amazing lady frothing the foam on the brim of my heart has declined the position. Or more accurately, declined the position which leads to the potential of the position of wifehood. I am bummed.

I try to enlist several friends, most notably my youthful cohort "Irene" into writing me a personal ad. I tend to be overly wordy (ahem) which is boring to *me* on good ol' W4W, so why would anyone else want to read it? Plus its hard to decide for yourself what to put in and what by all that is holy must be left out, and I feel just about capable enough to slide another DVD into its fuzzy slit without grave incident. Irene and I joke a lot about the dangers of being too forthright about my wife-lust, especially on a personals site or say at a party, if we were to ever go to a party. Queer San Francisco in the aughts is not the Victorian aristocracy, where one's open coveting of a spouse was seen as a prudent and desirable social move. Irene agrees to write me an ad, but soon regrets her decision. And then, on the faded red couch by the window, her face alights; "We should make you a website, with pictures and a bunch of stuff about what you want in a wife and then you could update it and people could respond to you there!" Brilliant and daunting. Ridiculous and expository. My cup of tea.

Approximately 24 hours later, I'm spilling my soggy beans all over Dr. Carol Queen and her partner, Robert Lawrence, at a fantastically decadent belated birthday dinner for me. We've been sadly out of touch due to the San Franciscan one-two punch of prohibitive busy-ness and anti-social depression (it seems it's always either "can't squeeze you in the book", or "can't leave the house", around here). They give me good news, I simper over lost love, we feed each other sushi. I reveal my wife-lust revelation, saying something along the lines of: "I just want a wife. A wife I can cover with tentacles and Ikura and take pictures and dine off of." Robert offers to be the napkin. Carol perks, not up, as she is naturally ebullient, but again, and offers this thought: "What you need to do is take a picture of you with your trophy from the Good Vibes Film Fest, and put up a website saying 'I want a wife who I can cover with tentacles', cuz it wouldn't be any good if you got a vegan, no-flesh kind of wife if the tentacle thing is important to you. Might as well be up front about it."
Two of the most influential women of my life suggesting the same basic concept within a day or so of each other?

And some beautiful girl may be besotted by the incandescent glow and scrambled pixels of my bizarre efforts?

And it means I can spend valuable time writing on the computer, and *still* not get my school work done?

Ok, I'll do it!

An apology to the vegans:

It occurs to me that all of you lovely vegans may feel unduly maligned by my blog, yet in its infancy. I have loved, and hope to get the opportunity to continue to love my share of vegans, not that you all need my love to validate your choices. But as a "mermaid" in spirit and pescatarian eating habits, to whom good food is overwhelmingly important, it may be hard for me to partner with a vegan. And yes, I do have sploshy fantasies involving ex/rotic animal-based foodstuffs, and continue to be mesmerized by the magic of honey, and occasionally wear vintage furs, and often new leather. But I definitely admire the lessened footprint of waste and destruction left by a vegan lifestyle and enjoy cooking and eating vegan food, although the esteemed astrologist recently recommended I bulk up on comestible flesh. So I'm sorry if it seems like I'm picking on you. Future wife, if you are vegan, I will love you just the same, and make you delicious garlic mashed potatoes and other delicacies sans animal oppression. I will still, however, be entranced by tentacles and ingest raw salmon with brain-soothing gusto and entertain my fantasy of someday keeping a milk spouting she-goat and a hive of honey-spouting bees.
I'm sure amongst all of the serious problems in the wide, wide world we can work it out.

A note on my friend and cohabitant, Rev Dr. Splashy Pants:

Kind of like Kombucha without any of the restorative properties, he is a beloved friend whose presence may seem hard to understand and nonsensical at first, acrid and brash and slightly less than palatable, but to whom, over prolonged exposure, it is hard not to become addicted. He has a very special way of appearing out of nowhere during intimate conversations, hovering in the doorway in his boxers or a towel with a cup of mind numbingly strong coffee in hand, and making just the right snarky non-sequitor to instill both deep love and provoke a disinterest in speaking him for the remainder of the day. He is one of my most loyal friends, and has aided my life path in many big and small ways, as well as impelling me to fall down on the ground wracked with laughter on a fairly regular basis. So basically, Rev Dr. Splashy Pants is here to stay for the foreseeable future. Plus he has "surprisingly impeccable dyke credentials", he assures me.

your mom smells funny

Hi, Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants here. Your mom smells funny. To put it in code:

class YourMom
def smell
if (@snark >= 2)
"like something left out in the sun for too many days"
else #standard nonsnarky version

Friday, November 30, 2007

'Tis True, 'Tis True

It's kind of embarrassing. After spending about a decade pretty convinced that "marriage" or "spousedom" or "the big patriarchal celebration of misogynist ownership" was only a peripheral, take-it-or-leave-it, not-that-important-to-me grade interest, a shrug-worthy possibility at best, I realized about two months ago that I really... truly... Goddess-help-me... want a wife.
I figured out three primary reasons it took me until my latest of 20's to reach this conclusion.
And here they are:

1. Marriage had generally seemed to be about me and a boy.

This idea is outdated now, but has always kind of given me the heebie-jeebies. Make no mistake, I have had deep love, good love, even, with male-bodied partners in the past, but there is something about the het set-up of "man and wife" that turns pretty quickly to "neglect, abuse, deceit, divorce and potential uxoricide (thank *you*," in my mind. I know that all of these phenomena are not exclusive to the straight world, but this is one of my visceral reactions (along with a nostalgic "aww...." for all of my beloved, former-potential husbands-to-be) to the idea of marrying a guy, and especially, a bio-guy. I know that happy, loving, lasting, straight (or so) married couples still exist and that there are wonderful husbands inhabiting the world. But I've long felt like those odds were definitely against me.

2. No one would ever want to marry me.

Now what kind of reason is that!? I'm just over my own self-loathing, OVER IT. It's true though, like the odd vegan masking an eating disorder (please excuse the metaphor, all of you healthy, lovely vegans!) this gripping belief in my own unlovableness, or uncommittable-to-ness, was often the gnarled face beneath the mask of reason #3. Well, fuck that shit. All sorts of people are attractive and irresistible to others for a host of obvious, mundane and unlikely reasons. I'm a person, and a generally pretty good one at that; why wouldn't someone, someone great, in fact, want to marry me?

3. Politics.

As a queer, and a feminist and a someone self-associated with a bunch of other identity-politicky labels, I'm aware of much of the problematic history and symbolism behind the institution of marriage, its ties to capitalism and its misogynistic roots.
As a sex worker and someone with an embryonic but earnest interest in radical politics, I feel even less inclined to get the state involved in my romantic life. All of these arguments seem to kind of fall apart for me when I think about the type of marriage I would want to be a part of.

* Would it be legal? - Who knows. Since I'm really interested in commitment with a lady, our options for legal marriage would be few, anyway, unless my bride-to-be is a transwoman and we fell under one of those strange birth certificate gender loop-holes. I love to travel, and don't know enough about the legal benefits and repercussions, if any, for a foreign state-sanctioned union. It's the kind of decision I would want to collaborate on.

* Would it be monogamous? -I doubt it. While I have certainly had my fair share of trouble navigating the vast open waters of polyamory, I also feel that with my ideals, values, and self-knowledge about loving and sexuality, non-monogamy still makes the most sense for me. I also feel like I've reached the point in my emotional maturity where I can handle non-monogamy in an intentional way, with respect and integrity informed by a deeper knowledge of my own needs and limits.

*Would I feel free to take the conventions that ring really deeply true with me, and make up or fuck the rest? -Hellz yeah!
My primary interest is in commitment, collaboration, a partner in the beautiful crime of building a life full of wild wise dreams. Plus, I'm a ritualist, love costumes and parties, so a wedding of sorts seems fitting. As a person who deeply believes in reclaiming: words; like "queer" and "dyke" and "whore", concepts; like the sexuality that feels intense, dirty and hot, not the one that Dworkin says is right, I think that taking another traditional tool of oppression and subverting it for my own kinky, queer, whole-hearted, fierce-loving means is right up my alley.

In the end, it all comes down to feeling free; allowing myself to recognize what I really want and letting myself want it, not because of cultural expectations or a need to please my family or hegemonic pressure, but because it fits with my personality, my values, and my dreams for my life. If I let my early concepts of feminism or my latter fears of radical queer judgment curb my true desires, then what the fuck's the point in believing in freedom of expression or social equality? A simplistic, and unoriginal argument, I know, but dammit, I just want a wife. I just do. And as far as I'm concerned, the sooner I am un-conflicted with my own personal desires, the faster and better able I'll be to relax my own biases and address bigger problems.

I am reminded of Annie Sprinkle and Elizabeth Steven's recent show, "Exposed!" in which I got to play a small role. Before they explained their 7 year project of a wedding every year for seven years corresponding to each chakra point ( they opened the floor to the audience and asked for everyone's input on reasons not to get married, particularly as queer women. After hearing the audience's grievances regarding marriage, their anger at the commercialization of love and the LGBT's community perceived sell-out in the hopes of hetero-esque privilege and normalcy, Annie and Beth end the segment by saying, "yes, well we thought of all of that, and totally agree with it, too, but in the end....we decided....we just really want to get married!"

So here I go. Giving myself permission. Not just permission, but online exposition. It's a common, if not always conscious, tactic of mine, to burst open areas of shame and embarrassment by immediate and severe exhibitionism. There will be more, later, about what I want, my little fantasies, perhaps my progress, and not all of it will be tedious blah blah blah, some will most likely be absurd or toothsome or sexy blah blah blah.

But for now, let it be know, int0r-wide-webland: SADIE LUNE WANTS A WIFE!