Gleesbians.

December 7, 2009

I got so excited when I read this.  And watched the clip.  And you probably should check that out if you’re gonna read the rest of this blog and have it make any sense.  Okay.  I’ll wait.

Cool.  So!  Right?  Yes!  Hee!  And then I felt like I was reading my own thoughts when I read Ms. Snarker’s.

“Oh, kittens. You know it’s strange, given how much more lesbian and bisexual content there is out in the media these days then just a few years ago, but it still gives me a little (OK, big) thrill when out of the blue we’re included.”

I agree entirely, Ms. Dorothy, and I think it’s the same reason Glee is so successful in the first place, maybe.  We watch television for the escapism, surely – why else would I love Deadliest Catch so? – but we also watch it for the true-to-life moments.   At least, I do.  And that’s why I love Glee.

Y’all, I know Rachel Berry.  I was the know-it-all overbearing choir president, the girl who got a big hunk of the solos in the high school show choir.  My good friend Kate and I actually terrorized a girl so badly with our strict adherence to the rules that she transferred schools.  And good riddance: she was bringing down the overall morale of the group with her bitch-ass attitude.  (I remain unrepentant, by the by.  And I know I’m still sort of this way, but hopefully slightly more reigned in.  Tell me if my horrible personality is making you want to shove a sock down my throat, okay?)

I know Will Schuester.  I’ve been directing for years now (holy crap, it actually has been years) and I know just how it feels to try and motivate your singers to step up, to work harder, to give a shit.  How and why you need to advocate for your program, and how difficult it can be to leave your personal life at the door.  God, I hope I’m better at leaving my issues outside than he is.

I even know Sue Sylvester.  And by that I mean I THINK HORRIBLE MEAN THOUGHTS ALL THE TIME.  My inner Sue is just under the surface, track suit zipped, collar popped and megaphone at the ready, hoping someone will provoke me enough I’ll let her leap out and triumphantly flame our mutual opponents into smoldering residue.  With enthusiasm!

Shove off, William.

God, I love how much she loves antagonizing him!  Hee.

Anyhow, that’s all beside the point.  The point is: hurrah for being on television.  Hurrah for being able to recognize myself in these weird-ass characters.  Hurrah for nostalgia, for formative experiences.  For singing and dancing and drama, and for Jane Lynch.  (A really, really big hurrah for Jane Lynch.)  Hurrah for Glee!

And: hurrah for visibility.  The more gays/lesbians you know, the less likely you are to vote against equal rights.  Girls can have sex too!  With each other!  For fun!  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Fox viewers. And maybe some people think that Brit’s just too dumb to comprehend what she said, but you know?  Not me.  I think she was too dumb not to keep it to herself.  And if you watch the link again – here, let me help –

– well. no matter how you slice it, it sounds like Brit-Brit and Santana are… close.  And that might be the joke, or a bombshell.  I don’t care.  The plot will roll on forth, and maybe it’ll come up again, and maybe it won’t.  (Probably it won’t.)  But these characters, they hardly react!  A moment for the awkwardness of the revelation, and a widening of a few eyes, yes.  But nobody says, “What the fuck?”  Instead, it’s such a fun little throwaway moment.  It’s not treated as a huge deal.  It’s a side note.  It’s not something that defines anyone, or separates, or changes relationships (though maybe we can revisit some context).  Santana’s mean and Brittany’s dumb and they have sex, great!  Maybe they are gay, maybe they’re bi, maybe Brittany’s gay and Santana’s a slutbasket, maybe they’re both straight with a healthy lady-style curiosity.  Kinsey.  Check it.  (5.1 or so, right now, by the way. If you were wondering.)

But we’re all just people, and we can live our lives.  All of these characters are the same way.  Their connective thread is the Glee Club.  There’s stuff that happens offscreen.  Ken Tanaka and Emma have gone on dates, and Sue Sylvester has given interviews, and Will has put a metric ton of crap in his hair.  And Brittany and Santana have had sex. I mean, that’s way more interesting than Ken and Emma’s dates, but still.

I just happen to like the fact that it felt like both a fun, amusing moment with more than a hint of potential truth.  I believe it, and I think it’s viable, and I like how the writers treated that possibility.  “Hey, y’all: let us remind you about the prominence of lesbianism in society.  Via hot cheerleaders.  Yep, plenty of awesome and unexpected people are lesbians.  Got it?  Cool!  Moving on.”  

Get it on, Brittana.  You can do whatever you like.  And hurrah for that!

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Huh.

October 31, 2008

Number one: I just went to check out my site, and my October 30 x365 never auto-published.  So I investigated, and sure ’nuff, it was scheduled to post at 8:04am on Oct 30.  So.  What.  Weird.  I re-saved and BAM, here we are.

Number two: Had a wonderfully fun night with good friends, but I ate some tacos that turned on me in the nighttime.  Not so good for the morningtime.  Plus, when I get the ladytime, I also get the cranky tummybox.  (I hear this goes away once you push a baby out your vodangles.)  So anyhow, ladytime + tummybox pre-disposed to timely crankiness + fish tacos = bad news.  Also it meant I didn’t get into ceramics today to get my throw on, which: balls.  Today was gonna be the day that I made a bowl without knocking it off the bat.  Ah, well.  Monday.

Number three: Last night, in dreamland…

Laquesha, Zsa-Zsa and I went to Oprah’s mansion and stayed in her guest apartment.  In the morning, I got up to find our host – someone was supposed to have given us a wake-up call, but that never happened, and I wanted to make sure we were on time.  Zsa-Zsa was on the couch, with the TV on, wearing a night mask.

The carpeting was mint green and the walls had ornate molding, and it felt like a hotel lobby.  Nobody was around.  It was very quiet.   I tiptoed through a hallway, looked to the left and practically lost my shit.  But it was just a life-sized cardboard cutout of Suze Orman wearing a tennis outfit.

I went outside, and it was time to set up for that afternoon’s Carnivale.  My ex-boyfriend was standing next to the fountain in his tux, bowtie undone, obviously hungover from the night before when he’d gone out to party after his master’s recital.  He walked directly into the spray and opened his arms wide, like he was receiving a benediction.

When I got back to the room, Zsa-Zsa was on the couch, still, eating Jack-in-the-Box.  Laquesha was in the bathroom.  I started my mission again, but I found you, and you poured me a cup of tea and looked into your lap.  You were sad, but resolute, and you sighed a little bit and then said to me, “There is something I must tell you.”

And the alarm went off.

Or, instead of that, get up insanely early and come learn how to throw a pot.  When a master offers to give you (free!) lessons, you take him up on it  – there is no other feasible option.  Why wouldn’t you?  (Besides having a full-time job, a part-time job and full-time grad school.  Shhh.)  No, but seriously.  This wonderful  artist (he made this bowl) offered to teach me how to play with clay, and even though I’m a busy bee, I can’t wait any longer to do the things that really matter.

That’s what I’ve been doing the past couple of days, and it is honestly so much fun I’m not even fussed when I make a big wonky mistake and knock the clay off the wheel.  It’s just another chance to get a lump ‘o silica-alumina stoneware clay centered and ready.

It’s good, you guys.  I am making some off-kilter container thing ’cause I’m not a skilled potter – at all – but you’ve got to start somewhere.  I’m starting with a doofy-looking, off-center, squat, jar-like deal.  But it’ll become greenware, and then I’ll to get to glaze it, and eventually I’ll remember all the steps in a row, and I can’t wait.

This morning I was trimming – getting rid of the excess clay and making a foot for my little jar on the wheel – and my boss-lady walked into the ceramics room.  She knew I was coming early to play, and wanted to see what it was I was doing.  The artist invited my boss-lady to come and play, too, but she doesn’t have the mental space to fit it in along with the sleep she needs.  She’s in a lower level of Maslow’s heirarchy, right now, fighting for her family and her time and her clarity.

Right now, my life is leisurely and comfortable enough that I can get up an hour early and drive to work to play with clay, to exist in the top third of the heirarchy.  I am priviledged.  I am lucky.  I am grateful.

And I’m coming back tomorrow at 6am.

So as a reward for being so good on this diet for the past two weeks, I decided that I’d make mini-scones, and then?  I would eat one.  And then go back to the land of all things vegetable.

However, I rationalized, if I was going to cross the threshold into Baked Goods, I wouldn’t be satisfied with just making scones.  Instead, I would make The Ultimate Scones.  Go big or go home.  BUT! I couldn’t find a recipe.  The Internet did his best, but all he could find were half-versions – apricot ginger scone, or apricot white chocolate, or this gem.  (What is the ‘household searchlight’, pray tell?)

So I bucked up and emailed the restaurant.

—————-

Hi!  This is a long shot, but… the white-chocolate-apricot-ginger scones I had for breakfast at your establishment were the best I’ve had, ever, anywhere.  Could you be persuaded to share the recipe with me?  I promise I won’t use it for commercial use, or distribute it further, or post it on the internet.  And I would just come and eat them at your restaurant, but sadly, I live in (redacted).

I understand if you can’t, but would truly love it if you might share your culinary genius!

Thank you!

Sincerely,
Yvanka Marmalade, Scone Lover

—————-

I never really expected that they would email me back, or – heavens – that they would actually SHARE that recipe with me.  But!  But! They did they did!

—————-

Yvanka,

Thank you for the compliment and of course you can have our recipe. We have attached the recipe for The Campbell House Scones as a word document. Our pastry chef pointed out that to you need to add the following to the while-chocolate-apricot-ginger scones: Add diced dried apricots, diced candied ginger, and a handful of white chocolate chips. Enjoy!

We look forward to having you stay with us again.

Sincerely,

The Campbell House Inn.

—————-

If you ever need a place to stay in Eugene, OR, please please please patronize this lovely little inn.  They have scones you won’t believe.  And they are kind and generous and shared their plain scone recipe with me and gave me all sorts of lovely little add-in bits and they use the font Americana and I have such anticipation for these lovely scones I can barely wait until they come out of the oven.

With a glass half full (of milk) (to wash down the scones),

Yvanka

Diane von Furstenberg.

September 6, 2008

“I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, but… I knew the woman I wanted to become.”

This is the first line of an American Express commercial that has played during every episode of Project Runway, and I feel it’s exactly right. I don’t really know what I want to do, but I know the kind of person that I want to be, and I can make deliberate choices to help me reach that goal.

I don’t know what I want to do. I’d like to be an arts administrator – a title with many and varied meanings, and hundreds of possible paths. I’d like to travel, I’d like to pursue a Fulbright, I’d like to get a doctorate. I don’t know what career I want. Perhaps I’ll teach someday – perhaps I’ll be a full-blown academic with a distinguished professorship at a respectable institution, my articles published in well-known journals, with my sights on a deanship. Perhaps I’ll run for city council with the goal of serving as an arts commissioner. Perhaps I’ll get a gig with an arts organization, working with educational outreach and public relations. All of those options sound really quite good. And fancy.

But what I DO is not as important as who I AM while I do it. I want to be the kind of woman who is warm and friendly and kind, who has elegant dinners with colleagues and backyard barbeques with friends. I want to know more than I say aloud, and be asked for advice rather than dispensing it without regard. I want to know when it’s better to listen and when a response is the best thing, and be able to tell the difference without asking.

I want to know the difference between good wine and bad, and be gracious enough to not give a shit – because really, in the scheme of things, how important is that? That’s what it is – I want to know things that are unimportant, and know how truly trivial those facts are.

I want to be able to express myself with the elegance and dignity of my boss-lady and the humor and quickness of Jon Stewart. But I want to do things, also – I never want to stop doing things. I want to be the sort of person who will always pick up the hammer or start doing the dishes.

I want to age gracefully.

I want to do something positive – to leave a legacy of good things.

I want the people who are in my life now to want to remain, and I want to deserve them.

I have this mental image of myself as an older woman – I see her in my mind as I describe how I hope she’ll act. I have the sense that she is the same sort of person I always find myself attracted to – sophisticated, elegant, well-spoken, accessible. Well-behaved, but not stiflingly so. Worthy. A woman of substance.

That’s who, and how, I want to be. It’s a lofty goal, but I’m feeling lofty this evening, so I’m telling you about it. I fully expect to fall short, but I think the higher you aim, the more likely it is that you’ll be satisfied with the final result.

Thank you for opening.

August 14, 2008

I am tired and I don’t want to think in sentences. However, I must point out the following important things for the good of mankind:

-It is ridiculous for the NBC Olympic Spotlight things to use background music poached from Last of the Mohicans or Braveheart or whichever epic Hollywood film I’ve mixed up on my four hours of sleep, especially when profiling the Chinese artist who designed the logo for the Olympics.

-It is a really excellent idea to take your oldest underpants on a road trip, and just chuck ’em when you change ’em.

-It is important to recall that, when travelling east, you LOSE TIME.  If you expect that your drive will last ten hours, you are correct… unless you cross two time zones.  Goddamnit.

-When I left work on Monday, I told my boss to call me if she needed anything.  She protested mightily, declaring that she wouldn’t bother me – this was my vacation!  Everybody can wait, it’s not important.  I said it was alright, go ahead, I’d answer my phone for her.

She’s called six times already.  Ha!

-The iPhone and AT&T 3G network is totally functional and helpful and awesome from Seattle, Washington to Bozeman, Montana, and from Albert Lea, Minnesota, on to Peoria, Illinois.  Bozeman to Albert Lea is a fucking wasteland of disastrous proportions when it comes to service or connectivity.  Luckily, the entire trip went like this:

EAST on I-90

-mym

A mixed blessing.

August 7, 2008

SO I joined match.com – and was immediately sucked into the good times.  And also the bad times.

I’ve been emailing with a really cute girl who seems to really get me – she has a lot of the same feelings I do, pet peeves, likes, dislikes… she even writes with a cadence similar to mine.  It seems like she’s into me, and I feel like I’m into her.

I’ve also been emailing with another girl – one who ‘winked’ at me, and since I was flattered I began a conversation.  Turns out, she doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear, and is a big athlete.  Turns out, when it comes to me, that is the trifecta of incompatibility.

Also, I don’t ever want to play two-truths-and-a-lie over email.  How does that work?  It’s not even fun if you don’t know someone a little bit already.  Especially when it’s introduced like we’re all in lesbian dating kindergarten.

“Here’s a fun little game for you.””

Nope.  I don’t want to play it.

Sigh.  I’m being a bitch.  She seems perfectly nice, and it’s not her fault that I’m a judgmental whorebasket.  Or that I’m feeling way more into this other girl.

And about THAT… we’ve been emailing at a pretty fast pace, usually exchanging at least one long and thoughtful email, each, daily.

I haven’t heard from her for two nights.

This dating thing.  It’s fuckin’ complicated.  I feel bad for not wanting to go on a date with the girl who is emailing me in a socially awkward way.  And then I feel bad about feeling bad, because I should get to date who I want to – what the hell would anybody want with a pity date?  And then I feel excited and nervous about the other girl, and THEN I remember how long she’s taken to respond and I feel like… oh God, does SHE think I’M socially awkward?  And then I have to reread the emails to make sure I haven’t acted like a total fuck – it seems that I haven’t – and I berate myself because two days, really, in the scheme of things… and we only know each other over the internet.

See, see?  See what my brain is doing?  Could you even follow that?

I am going to bed, goddamnit.

You make me wanna shoop.

————-

A bit of listage:

All the karaoke songs I’ve ever sung in public, solo or group, in alphabetical order–

Avalanche – Dixie Chicks
Baby Got Back – Sir Mix-A-Lot
Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon & Garfunkel
Dancing Queen – ABBA
I Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt
It’s All Comin’ Back to Me Now – Celine Dion
Natural Woman – Aretha Franklin
My Lovin’ (No, You’re Never Gonna Get It) – En Vogue
Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler
Work It – Missy Eliott

All the karaoke songs I’ve ever sung in public, solo or group, from good to bad–

Natural Woman – Aretha Franklin
I Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt
It’s All Comin’ Back to Me Now – Celine Dion
Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler
My Lovin’ (No, You’re Never Gonna Get It) – En Vogue
Work It – Missy Eliott
Dancing Queen – ABBA
Avalanche – Dixie Chicks
Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon & Garfunkel
Baby Got Back – Sir Mix-A-Lot

All of the karaoke songs that I wished people would stop fucking singing, already, oh my god, how does this song have another verse–

All That Jazz – Chicago
White Wedding – Billy Idol

Karaoke songs that I never want to hear, ever.  Ever.  Ever in the ever to the power of ever–

Hotel California

BLEARGH.

August 7, 2008

Okay, guys, HELLO, motherfucking I HAVE EYES.

The following exchange happened this morning, talking to a friend – we’ll call her Dana – and her NOT SO SECRET secret lover, who keeps on showing up, everywhere, ALL THE TIME. How do I know he’s her secret lover. Oh, believe me I KNOW. That’s a story for another day.

SO we were catching up on the situation with the work-study student who has so recently stoked my ire fire.

Me: …and it just makes me SO MAD. Mostly because of the lying, and the digging herself into a hole, and then MANUFACTURING FALSE EVIDENCE – which is so obviously false, it’s not even amusic. AND then the fact that she didn’t even take the time to cover her tracks appropriately. I know all the tricks. Come on, girl, don’t you think I’m smart?

Secret Lover: Oh, you’re smart. You are a smart one.

My mouth: Huh.

My brain: Hold on. Are you mocking me right now, Muttonchops McGee? You? With the secret you’re trying to hide? With the small talk and the forced witless banter that you think is funny but certainly isn’t? Don’t you know that I know?

Dana’s face: Oh no.

Secret Lover: I wouldn’t ever try to pull one over on you!

My brain: Bullshit. Ultra bullshit – because you’re DEFINITELY trying to keep up the facade of no way, I’m not totally trying to get with Dana and just because you’ve got Historically Accurate Facial Hair doesn’t mean you’ve got your shit together. Fool.

Dana’s face: Omg, Secret Lover, she totally knows. And you sound like a huge tool right now.

My mouth: (nonchalantly) Good. Because I would catch you.

My brain: The only reason I’m not calling you on this right now is because Dana doesn’t need any more stress in her life. But don’t try that crap again. I will never be in the mood to play your little games. Punk.

-mym

Last night, I had a difficult dream.

I was driving a grey van, but it wasn’t traditional driving – it was more like pulling myself along the highway by my hands.  It was difficult and toilsome and backbreaking work to get the van up the road (for at some points, the road was truly vertical) and I continued to encounter roadblocks and detours and frickin’ angry CATS and, at one point, a fence made of chicken wire.

And then I pulled up alongside a girl doing the same thing I was.  I had my head to the ground though, and I had lost all pretext of ‘driving’ – it was just plain climbing – and she had to ask me twice for directions before I noticed she was right next to me, doing the same thing I was.

The weather changed, and instead of digging my hands into the cracks in the concrete, I was pulling on big flowers and blinking against the bright sunlight.

I hope this means I’ma get a girlfriend.

-mym