People – especially dudes – have a horribly disrespectful tendency to chortle when I firmly proclaim my distaste for or refusal to do something “because I’m a lady.” ‘Haha, yeah, “a lady.” Right.’ Um, ‘scuse me, asshole; last time I checked you were using the men’s room to pee, so don’t fucking tell ME what it is to be a muthafuckin’ lady. I promise you it sure as HELL isn’t ever gonna be what you WANT ladies to be. But just because this lady genie isn’t granting one of your three wishes most certainly doesn’t mean I’m NOT a lady. ‘Cuz I am. 100%.
At the moment, I am “packaged” like you’d expect a lady to be packaged: makeup, hair did, tasteful cleavage, heels – I look damn near Mad Men, if I do say so myself. But here’s the thing: this now is a very true expression of me and my personal style – and so is ‘non-descript everything with no “face” on’ me. I AM a lady 100%, but maybe you think I don’t LOOK it all the time.
I realized the perception shift when I got on the bus in my lady garb, headed to the chapel for what’s sure to be another gorgeous wedding of two incredible and loving friends, and noticed that people – ‘speshly dudes – were staring. Like “WHOA, dassa layyyyydy” staring. I truly didn’t comprehend that I looked any different than a normal day until then because everywhere I go everyday, I don’t even think about whether I look like a lady. In my head and heart, I just… am.
So. There you go. This lady is signing off to go celebrate love, commitment, and friendship.
True story: I went down to LA with some homies to try and do this thing, and I thought we might do the thing, and the thing made me sign about 987665196816654 pages of confidentiality agreements and “you’d better tell us if you’re secretly an asshole fuck-up – ESPECIALLY on the internet,” so I took the blog down for a hot minute to appease them (and calm my own nerves). But we’re back online, folks. All systems go.
I’m not kidding you about this: I just heard an office mate say “I’ve got a boatload of problems, but none of them are female.” This man has DEFINITELY never listened to hip hop. I would even be surprised if he’d heard of Jay-Z in any context whatsoever. I love it when that theory about monkeys and typewriters and Shakespeare comes true in my own life… it’s been happening a lot lately, actually, and I’m very much enjoying it.
In other office news, I let an audible fart escape today in front of a co-worker for the first time. I don’t feel like it really did anything for our relationship, good or bad, so I guess that’s good… right? KEEP ON TOOTIN’ ON!
Well, technically it’s not exactly new. The type of work I do is old. The way I do it is only slightly different. The where, with whom, and how I feel when I leave are very different. And this is good.
Whenever I have worked anywhere, I find I’ve gravitated towards insignificant objects that I deem to be “mine.” Not permanently, but when they are gone or unavailable, my “everything is right in my world” quotient is lowered by a point. Just one. But it’s still a point. Often times the insignificant object is a favorite pen (I still wish I had the supertiny pencil from the last place. It was so cute! And shiny!). But I always have a favorite COFFEE MUG.
I will readily admit that when I first started at the new spot, I couldn’t find a favorite mug. They were all heavily worn and stained promo cups from some-random-company. They weren’t funny or interesting to look at. They didn’t make me want to hoard them in my office, or even refill my cup. I WAS DRINKING DIET PEPSI AT 9 AM, YOU GUYS! It was getting serious. But then, I found it. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: THE WARNER BROS. “RON” CUP!!!!
The coffee pot can’t keep up with me now. Everything is, again, right in my world.
Iiiiiiiiiiit’s SURVEY TIME!!!
What is better? This…
True story: sometimes I will eat a cup o’ noodles just because the smell reminds me of middle school – and I like to take the time to appreciate just how far behind me middle school really is. If you had ever seen pictures of me from middle school, you would understand just how cringe-worthy it was for me. Honestly. The pictures are that… revealing. Not like this picture… but in a similar way. Kind of.
Dear Captainess of Clan Crawford*,
I told people about your gig at the supermax tonight and the dude who hacked off his ween for funsies, which apparently is par for the course at supermaxes in Tey-hahs. I honestly don’t think they fully believed me. I guess it’s kind of a weird story, no matter what, but… I have a question: Why is Texas so… um… different?
I feel like if Texas were a picture, it’d kinda look like this:
Well, I guess that’s it for now, Mz. Tayhas. Love you and stay away from the prison moonshine and shivs (they’re bad for you).
Mlle. von Funk