*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.

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.*

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!

sheesh.

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.

Someday.

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)