Without you, I'm just a hag

I was watching American Horror Story with The Blonde.  The last episode freaked me the fuck out.  Granted, so did the one before that, and the one before that, and the one before that…

Anyway, there was a flashback (wait, was that a flashback? Wiggidy CHRIST I have no idea what is going on) of the nice gay couple who used to live here, and by law I am obligated to tell you they died on the premises, so shocking, just goes to show you never really know about people…

Anyway, one accuses the other of cheating, and he admits to it, and says that the other man is a “Power Bottom”.  Hmm.  I’ve already learned my lesson about asking The Brunette questions, but he’s in the other room NOT being freaked the fuck out.  So I ask The Blonde.

Ralph Wiggum: “What’s a Power Bottom?”

The Blonde gives me a look that is part startle, part panic.  I know that look.  I’ve given that look.  It’s the looks you give your kid when you’re watching a show/movie that is a little beyond them, and a term comes up that has you thinking ‘please let that one slip under their radar’, but alas it is not to be because they fix you with those beeg brown eyes and ask you what a rimjob is.

The Blonde: “You really don’t know?”

Me: “Well, NO.  How would I - WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

So I got distracted by the show, and The Blonde was spared the awkward job of explaining shit to me.  But I remembered later.  And went to the internet for my answers.

If my kids ever ask me what a rimjob is, I’m just going to answer the fucking question.

I had my second-ever practice with the local Roller Derby’s Fresh Meat last night.  We did stops.  T-Stops and plows.  Then we did an exercise where we partnered up and pushed each other across the gym.  The girl in front would go into a nice low plow position, and the girl behind would grab your, umm… center of balance and drive you across the floor.

I was an unmoveable force.  Sincerely, I had to ease up so she could move me at all, and she could only do that if she stayed on her toe stops the whole time.  Granted, she was smaller than me.  But still.  Why am I so beeg and stroong?

The Brunette.  He’s like a natural little Derby trainer.  I should rent him out.  His tendencies towards antagonism make him excellent at coming up with imaginative new ways to accidentally make me a better skater.  Some of his favourites:

1) The ‘Mo-oo-om, I’m TIRED’ - this is when he skates up to just behind me and drapes his arms over my shoulders and around my neck.  Then he collapses.  Sometimes slowly like melting butter.  Sometimes all at once.

2) The ‘What’s this for’ - this is when he discovers new and fascinating layers of undergarments and explores them.  Remember the first time a boy tried to work out how your bra is done up, without looking, and without being familiar with hooks-and-eyes?  Wanna try it on skates?  Did you know you can still get a wedgie in a thong?  It’s just a matter of… depth.

3) The ‘You don’t need these’ - this is when he skates up behind me in a crouch and pulls the velcro on my kneepads.  Or alongside me to unclip my helmet strap.  Like the bra, anything that can be undone will be undone.

4) The ‘Which foot are you balanced on RIGHT NOW’ - this is when we are standing still, facing each other and talking.  He will kick out with one foot and nail me right in the toe, and if I am not paying attention that foot will shoot backwards.  Will I keep my balance?  Will I fall?  Unknown.  But if I fall, I’m taking him down with me.

5) The ‘I have faith in you’ - this is when I feel that he is overshooting my skill set, and try to refuse a challenge.  Like I’m not so sure going down a half-pipe at the skate park on quads is a good plan.  So he starts pulling.  And pushing (hence my mighty plow!).  And dragging.  Until it’s obvious that I am going down the pipe one way or the other, the only question is do I wanna be in control?*

And yeah.  I can totally go down that half-pipe.  I just can’t quite get up the other side.  Not yet.

*Control is an illusion. We all know who’s calling the shots here.

The Brunette consistently describes his homosexuality as a choice.  I told him he flies in the face of a lot of convention, politics and Lady Gaga here.  He stands by his statement.  I can’t tell him that his own interpretation of his own experience is wrong - so I stand by his statement too.  He chose to be gay.

That doesn’t mean The Blonde chose to be gay, or that The Carpenter chose to be straight.  If sexuality is a spectrum, then they exist at extremes.

But wait, you might say.  If your husband is all the way at the straight end of the spectrum, how come he’s so tolerant of your friends?  Why is there a picture from that time when you were all getting ready for that party and The Brunette put on your big flouncy dress and was flouncing about in it and The Carpenter swept him up in his arms and posed?

Easy, says I.  Cause I think homophobes are probably somewhere in the fuzzy middle, between gay Brunette and straight Hag.  The Carpenter isn’t worried about some nagging question mark at the back of his mind, so he doesn’t have to try to bury or hide or mask it.

For myself, I don’t think I chose to be straight.  I think I just never met the right girl.

This has been on my brain for a little while, because of Halloween.  And because of the Slutwalk.  Bear with me.  The Slutwalk has me thinking about clothes & messages.  I am amazed that after all these DECADES there is still this misconception that feminists have to be of one mind on anything.

How unlikely is it that of all the (precious few) women who self-identify as feminist there would be agreement on any if not all issues?  Why is this held out as evidence of weakness in the philosophy underpinning the movement?  We can disagree, even hold contradictory viewpoints, without weakening each other.  The only true weakening we can accomplish is when a few decide they are gatekeepers for the movement, that it should be an exclusive club, and start bouncing people at the door. 

Anywhoo… Slutwalks intrigue me less because of the message than because they have gotten a whole new generation of young people thinking about sex, gender, discrimination, judgement, power, and values.  They are thinking for the first time about the contradictions between their education and their ‘common sense’ prejudices.  Love it!

Halloween has me thinking because I am making costumes, and buying costumes.  The Brunette put it best:

Brunette: “All the girl costumes are Slutty Whatever.  Slutty Pirate, Slutty Cop, Slutty Witch, Slutty WHATEVER!”

Me: “So?  That’s what Halloween is for.”

Brunette: “But look at the men’s costumes.  None of them are sexy.”

First, notice the change in language.  The women are slutty, but he wants the guys to be sexy.  Sexy is slutty’s more acceptable twin.  But it’s true.  I guess a case could be made for the superhero costumes being sexy, but most of those are baggy and/or have molded foam torsos.  It is accepted that no man would want to actually display his actual body. 

Now, I understand that most guys do not have superhero bodies.  But most girls don’t look like the costume models either.  And even the male models are baggy and indistinct in their voluminous ‘tights’.  These costumes are not even being marketed as bearing a potential for sexiness.

So I started looking through the selection, looking for a male costume I found attractive.  This one is okay, I guess.  I got a thing for guys in uniforms.  And guys in kneepads.  Don’t ask.  But here’s what I realized:  I LOVE Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, but the costumes don’t work for me.  Just… not Johnny.  Not good enough.  So Captain Jack Sparrow= sexy, but Captain Jack Sparrow Costume = not sexy.  Uniforms = sexy, but cops and firemen, not soldiers.

It’s all idiosyncratic!  There are no rules!  My Intro to Film teacher was hot, and he was a skinny, bookish, long-haired intellectual who wore hoodies under his jackets.  The Carpenter is hot, and he is all broad shoulders and big arms and deep resonating voice.  Neither one of them was hot on the first day.  It built up over time as I got to know them.  

There’s really no way to make a costume of that.  Or to argue that they provoked me by wearing it ;P

Text exchange:

Me:  Oog.  Things that are more fun than doing my reading; Dishes, washing the tub & toilet, clipping my nails…

Carpenter: Things that are more fun: everything you will be able ti [sic] afford once you are a lawyer.

Me:  Moar gays!

Carpenter: That too.  You’ll be able to afford you own little pride of them.

Me: LOL @ PRIDE

Not every husband would be as supportive of his wife’s expensive pets, eh.  Maybe I should see if he’d let me keep an alpaca in the house.  They’re cute, cuddly and expensive too…

Seriously.  I would rather be playing Fat Princess right now.  Anything but reading case law.