Caution: Morning Ramble Ahead

Patton Oswalt strikes me as funny and so I sat down to watch his Netflix standup thing, "Talking for Clapping." He lost me at "there were these three menacing black men." 

I cringed. Why was that necessary? 

I'm sure he doesn't consider himself racist. In fact, he condemns racism. And probably I am not familiar enough with his m.o. I mean Louis C.K. certainly breaks the bounds of propriety. So I could be wrong. But he lost me. Sorry, Patton. I just couldn't watch any more.

~~~

I had another wretched nightmare full of violence. This time, it featured ex-husband-guy. And his venom, as portrayed by my subconscious, was so true to life that I woke up feeling queasy and scared. This dream had an added feature of sexual abuse of minors and offspring. It was the last dream I had before waking, which is why it's so hard to shake.

I marvel at the way the mind works. I believe dreams occur for a reason. They aren't just the offspring of late night Chinese food. Although, I am beginning to feel that there is a correlation between drinking wine and having nightmares.

See what I just did? I referred to my late night food as Chinese. Is that racist?

Is it necessary to refer to people by their allotted nationalities? I feel this is an arbitrary categorization based on boundaries established by men hundreds of years ago.

At any rate...

Prior to the nightmare, I had a nice dream in which I saw Sweet Sally Possum out in the wild. She smiled at me. This made me feel incredibly happy. I will try very hard today to focus on the smiling possum rather than the aforementioned awfulness. 

~~~

Yesterday, I met with a doctor about having a colonoscopy. The doctor who will perform this procedure is a beautiful East Indian lady. And I only mention her nationality because I have an envy of the beauty of East Indian women. I want to dive into their bosoms and inhale their musk. This sounds sexual, but it is so much more than that.

At any rate...

I was in the process of cleaning a house that is about to go up for sale when I had to dash off to the colonoscopy doctor. I was improperly dressed. My jeans were my standard paint-spattered and grimy. I had on my neon pink "Who Arted?" t-shirt. I was sweaty and gross. I drove like the devil to get to my appointment on time, all the while, strategizing.

When I reached the parking lot, I stealthily removed my t-shirt and put on a sweater that I had worn over it in the chill of the early morning. I used the water from my water bottle to dampen my t-shirt and wipe the sweat and grime from my face and neck. My arms would be covered by the sleeves of the sweater. I wiped off my Merrills, which are casual but could easily pass as dressy casual when the dirt is removed. My jeans, I decided, had been bought at Nordstrom's. I was cutting edge. Thanks, Nordstrom's, for giving me permission to dress like a slob.

When I walked into the reception area, I noticed the receptionist acknowledge my presence and then immediately look at my jeans. I didn't let it faze me. They were from Nordstrom's.

The nurse who took me back into the examination room similarly stared at my jeans. I felt an instant of judgment so I decided to let her in on my Nordstrom's joke. She hadn't heard about the $425 jeans with fake mud on them. So we had a good laugh and I successfully broke through her icy demeanor.

I was left to wait for the doctor in the examination room with only a diagram of the digestive system to keep me company. I stood up to examine it closely. I read about the functions of the duodenum and the villi. The villi really get me. I mean seriously, what a brilliant system. This body that allows me to enjoy a planetary existence is a delicately balanced ecosystem that demands respect and care. Not the abuse I usually heap upon it. I treat my body like a giant landfill sometimes. Dumping crap in it that does nothing for its healthy functioning.

I was standing there, marveling at the magnificent engineering of the human body when the doctor entered the room. Her eyes met mine and we shook hands. She has a very gracious smile. It wasn't until I hopped up on the examination table that she commented on my jeans. "Are you a painter?" she asked. I admitted that I am. She asked if I am a house painter or an artist and I told her that I do both. She asked about the sort of art I do with genuine interest. And she smiled as she said, "You are so fortunate. I wish I could paint. I am not artistically inclined at all." I replied, "Everyone is artistically inclined!"

"Oh? You just have to practice, eh?"

"No! You just have to play! Art is fun!"

She asked about my masks and then about papier mache. She told me about the elaborate paper mache lamps and bowls in India. She spoke with a passion for beauty and a deep appreciation of art. Again, she made a regretful comment about her lack of artistic skill and said, "It is interesting, the choices we make." And I said, "Not to downplay the fact that you are a doctor or anything..." and she laughed heartily. And I thought you're going to go up into my bowels, for goodness sake! The skill required to maneuver a precision course like that....if that isn't artistry, I don't know what is!

What a strange and beautiful moment. What a strange and beautiful life.

After I left the doctor's office, I drove home where I ate a bit of lunch, changed back into the t-shirt I had just used as a washcloth and shoeshine cloth and proceeded to finish cleaning the house I was working on. At the end of the day, I stood back and admired my work. There is artistry in everything we do as long as we are working for the betterment of a situation or a thing. And this is why art, and only art, will save us.

Wise Women

A wise woman told me that to remain youthful, keep moving your body.  Eat well.  And surround yourself with a supportive community of women.

A wise woman told me that laughter is crucial in fighting depression.

A wise woman told me that if you attract people to you who like to tell you what to do or how to be, it is because at some point in time - most likely when you were a child - you were told that what you say is not valid. You must forgive yourself for believing in that myth and trust in the validity of your expression.

A wise woman told me to say these words: I'm sorry.  Please forgive me.  I love you.  Thank-you.

May this wisdom be retained and used by wise women everywhere.

Ladies and Gentlemen

Gender perplexes me.

As a girl, I ran around in the summertime without a shirt on - just like my big brother and his friends - until one day when my mother scolded me for being shirtless and told me to go inside the house and cover myself up. I protested that my brother and his friends didn't have shirts on. "It's different for them!" she said. "They're boys!" I was about six years old.

In the autumn of that same year, my brother and his friend took me and my friend into the woods to make us show them our panties. We subserviently complied by lifting our skirts. Then we were told to pull down our panties. I had no idea why this was being asked of me. But I knew that it was wrong. And I knew that I was being made to feel ashamed for being born a girl.

Boys have penises. Girls have vaginas. Women have breasts. Bosoms. Boobs. Tits.

I became non-gendered, possibly asexual to a certain extent. I alternated between dressing in men's shirts that were way too large for me, 1940's-style trousers, vests, neckties, fedoras and wearing skimpy tops with no bra, low-cut blouses or shirts that I would leave unbuttoned way past the acceptable collarbone level, and short shorts, which defied respectability and manifested a certain raw girl power.

The first time a group of men commented on my hot adolescent body, I was confused and embarrassed. This confusion and embarrassment continues to this day to a lesser degree. But it's still there.

I think I just don't see sex in the same way as other people. As a result, I typically don't experience women and men as women and men. But I will say this:

I have a strange fascination with boobs lately.

I can't help it. Whenever women with full and perky bosoms come through my line, I notice. I catch myself wanting to stare at their chests, at the line that separates Boob "A" from Boob "B," at the slope and curve of their breasts and how they fall onto their torso. Am I a lesbian? Or do I covet young healthy breasts since mine are old and partially mutilated?

I don't look at men's crotches. But some men appear to me to be penises walking around with small heads housing small brains that think small thoughts - all basically amounting to, how can I make myself feel more virile today?

That's just some men, though.

Women do things to make themselves attractive to men. They tease their hair up into piles and plaster make-up to their poor faces in an attempt to make their eyes look larger or smaller or their lips look larger or smaller or their cheeks look shinier or less shiny. They wear tall shoes that make their butts more noticeable. They wear sparkly jewelry on their ears, necks, wrists, ankles, fingers and toes. They put on smelly stuff that burns my nose.

Men do weird things to attract women. They walk in a studly manner. They wear smelly stuff that burns my nose. I can't tell that they dress to impress. But they walk with a swagger, like a braggart, as if one's penis is erect, it is one's dance partner and it is leading.

I've noticed lately that some women begin to look like men as they age but men rarely begin to look like women.

I've noticed some men who are dressed up as women.

I've noticed some women who look like men who are dressed up as women.

One man dresses in women's clothing and does so with great style and flair. He also sports a fabulous handlebar mustache. He seems genderless - the way I always attempted to be genderless. He just seems to be having more fun at it than I ever did.

There is a woman, who I think was a man, but changed to a woman. I had the hardest time telling whether she was a woman or a man. And because of this, I was attracted to her. Now that I've decided that she is a woman, I am still attracted to her and behave like an awkward schoolboy in her presence. Am I a lesbian? Or am I attracted to the male that she once was? Or am I simply in awe of a person who seems to transcend gender definitions?

According to the Bem Sex Role Inventory, I am Female sex-typed. But I border on Androgynous.

According to Sandra Bem, the creator of the Bem Sex Role Inventory, "The concept of psychological androgyny implies that it is possible for an individual to be both compassionate and assertive, both expressive and instrumental, both feminine and masculine, depending upon the situational appropriateness of these various modalities. And it further implies that an individual may even blend these complementary modalities in a single act...."

Conversely, people who are strongly sex-typed (male or female) may be less adaptive, their attributes less advantageous to their growth as individuals.

Gender perplexes me. But I suppose I do identify with women more so than men. When I see the older women who have begun to look like men, I want to soften the hard edge that has formed in the corner of their mouths. I want them to grow their hair long and let it blow wildly in the wind. I want to see a spark of joy in their eyes.

When I see the women who look like men dressed up as women, I want to ask them why they pattern their views of femininity upon a male construct - as if they must pretend that they have not become fully masculinized in order to operate in a man's world. They must denounce the imposition of masculinity in much the same way as a transvestite denounces the imposition of their gender. I want to wipe away their bad make-up and cut off all their bad hair and allow it to grow back without bleach, without perms, in exactly the way it was meant to be.

When I see women heavily laden with sparkly ornaments around their necks, arms, and ears, I want to free them from slavery. I want them to recognize the beauty that exists without all the ornamentation. I want them to feel pretty and bold and confident without jewelry.

I am more interested in the plight of women throughout history than I am in the plight of men.

I am more proud of the accomplishments of women than those of men.

I like wearing dresses more than neckties.

I like having the freedom to express my emotions.

I like being girly.

But I still like being Tom-boyish from time to time.