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!