Kitten

Yup.

Because real men are first and foremost, real, complete, human beings. As are real women. That has to be inclusive and accepting and loving and kind and strong and brave and all that our species has to offer. First. Gender can get layered on, if necessary, after. Real has to mean full and complete, not just a fashionable symptom.

A real man will love itty bitty kittens as well as scary looking (sweetheart) rottweilers, on the basis of kindness to all creatures. A real man will play dolls with his daughter as well as catch with his son. Or dolls with his son and catch with a daughter, if called on to do so. A real man will not conform to negative stereotypes.

The people I've met who are most concerned with their manliness have had such glaring lapses in their humanity, it's hard to see how they think they are good men. For women, it seems a more complicated process, although the women (who often refer to themselves as 'girls') who seem to have an issue with gender image, are so thoroughly screwed up the question isn't even in the queue. Have not heard "tomboy" said as a genuine insult since I was a small one myself.

So, why the current push to be the gender one is already? I mean, aside from marketing? Or maybe that's all there is to it.


Moby purrs beside me.

It's very hot.


Partly Cloudy
101°F
38°C
Humidity11%
Wind SpeedNW 13 G 18 mph
Barometer30.03 in (1009.8 mb)
Dewpoint37°F (3°C)
Visibility10.00 mi
Heat Index 96°F (36°C)

Plaid

Amazed myself today. Working with a surgeon who usually gets right up my nose, and a scrub whose omniscience is not what she thinks (and uses baby-talk, and doesn't get anything ready, and always has an excuse) and I sailed through with utter peace. Not just in my outward actions, but inside, all the way to the basement. When Silly-scrub announces that she's hurt her back and I "HAVE to be good to her" I smiled and only thought "No, no, I don't have to do that at all." I have to do my job, keep everything running smoothly, but, mostly, I need to keep notes on the concrete lapses to report to the manager. Inside, not bothered at all.

Yup, cousin was right, life begins at 50. If you let it.


Surgeon was as needy and unpredictable as always, but mostly I got to work with his most capable fellow, and let the rest of the chips fall as they may. Kept the music going (one of those online services, on the Talking Heads station, a good, odd variety, with some Bowie and ska.) Our room "won." Which is our way of saying we were the last one going. No matter, wasn't really late.

Last week I realized that all my shorts were a decade old, and one in particular needed to be thrown away completely. Leaving me with one. So I shopped, and came up utterly empty. Women's clothes have always been a tribulation for me. And I've gone to the men's department more than once. Women's shorts these days are either supercute-blech, very short, or capris. Capris* only look good on Audrey Hepburn or a young Mary Tyler Moore, I am neither. Or they were for women much larger in the middle than I am. What few shorts were more or less age-appropriate, all had either very short rises, simply would not go on, or were huge on my waist - all the exact same size, mind. None felt like the old ones, or were bearable in the hot weather I need them for.

So I went to the men's section. The woman at the changing room was sympathetic and helpful, as I had no idea what size I would be. Took a half dozen tries, but the last one was a winner, and I simply got another one the same, different plaid.




To me, both look a bit, well, girly. For a young man, at least. They fit me nicely on my waist and fall nicely from there. Sturdy, comfortable, with good pockets. And drastically on sale. Should keep me for a good number of years.


*Popular in this area because they are long enough to cover the holy underwear.

Doors

We didn't get our back door installed this Wednesday. The guy called last week and asked if he could postpone, very apologetic, his daughter's camping trip... . No question, we are not in a rush, we have a door that closes - more or less, and any man who is being a good dad gets my full support. Good fathers touch my heart, and I wish for every little girl a decent, loving, kind dad. Boys, too, but daughters especially.

Worked with a guy who often spoke of his daughter, took it as read that dads let daughters cover them in pink bows and join in for doll tea parties, go to soccer games and learn to brush their hair. He talked about the issue of female adolescence, offering information without intruding, buying a variety of menstrual items - and that she should decide what she wants, and give him the package - he would buy more. (Mom was not reliably in the picture.) He freely admits he was not comfortable with the situation at first, but decided she needed him to be matter-of-fact, so he learned.

I want every child to have a good dad, or several, in their lives. I had a few uncles, and my brothers were occasionally helpful - mostly I had to figure it out as best I could. I went through no "I-hate-boys" stage, always preferred male company. It's more straightforward, less fraught than with women. Not looking for a father, but for decent men, decent human beings without regard to gender.

Children need good people in their lives, men especially. They need to see power in terms of forgiveness and kindness, not distant judgement, or hot, angry abuse, or far worse - sexual exploitation. Women tend to children, overwhelming them sometimes. Fathers are too often absent or frightening. Men who nurture are so valuable. Not really rare, but it feels so to me. So far away, so impossible. When I come across the ones who consider it normal, I want to shower them with appreciation.

Like the men who are horrified at any man who would beat up a woman. Not rare, not at all, I know this in my head. But they seem so to those who have lived with the other sort.

We'll have the door in next Wednesday. Plenty of time.

Ghosting

I read Cracked. Mostly, I really enjoy it. But I have to be choosy. Because some of the guys on there are not ironically anti-feminist, but clueless, marginal-misogynists. Not hating the female, but not giving the non-male POV so much as a byyourleave. Not hateful, merely neglectful.

I refer specifically to a recent one about obvious stereotypes, one being that women are the ones who believe in ghosts. As a stereotype, I have to admit, in our modern western culture, it's probably predominantly right. But the writer never considers what I see as a pretty obvious reason. Women are at home more. They are taught to be fearful and aware, to protect themselves from violent crime on the streets. In their own homes the fear doesn't evaporate, but takes on odd forms. I remember being young, in my own place, and occasionally getting myself badly spooked. I knew better, but alone at night, those ordinary if inexplicable noises take on a sinister air.

And for women with a spouse and child, a husband out of town would be an occasion for anxiety. A quiet house, children to defend, seeing ghosts isn't rational, but it is understandable.

Amazing to me is how, here, I can walk about with few or no lights anywhere, and I can find my way so well. It really has only been a month. Still, I think of how, when I was a child, or a young woman on my own, and the darkness and shadows, the creaks and sighs of this house, would have had me wanting to hide under the covers, or turn on every light and put on loud music. I remember that urge, which no longer applies. The memory intact, the emotion long ago evaporated. I feel like saying "huh. well, it used to be there... " All gone, but knowing it once mattered.

This place is haunted, but only in the way of anything that has survived so long, intact. Stories, for those who will listen, vaguely whispering, writing on the floor, in the damage, under the paint.

Laziness

One of my deepest issues with standard religions is the exclusion of the sexual from the sacred. (To say that the sacred is sexual to the exclusion of all else is also wrong.) To be of the sex that is excluded seemed the extension of the blind spot, not a separate issue.

Growing up in enforced catholicism, albeit of an assumed rather than explicit version, chafed against my own strong instincts, which I knew to be reliable. This became very clear once I lived on my own, and walked urban streets alone, knowing that I was vulnerable, but capable and aware of subtle changes. Raised by a dangerous and unpredictable parent trained me better than I could have dreamed. I may never have felt indestructible when young, but I ventured out as though it didn't much matter. And I knew when to trust my instincts, and have been proven right. Or at least not proven wrong.

Any faith that excises Any kind of human experience has immediately gotten a hole. Often displacing it in another area. For us to deal with our human condition, we have to start with the human part, and use everything we got. Every impulse, every altruistic thought, every selfish vice has to be accepted and turned toward living a worthwhile and humane life, in an ideal religion, for it to be worth bothering with. It has to take us as we are, and ask us to be our best possible selves. It has to be like real love.

It has to include our infinite gender variations, our sexual selves in all their messy glory, our ingestions and excretions, our highest intelligence and our silliest jokes, our violence and failings - lest they obsess us and take over, our vague dissatisfactions and angelic aspirations. Our fears and joys and small pleasures alike.

The abhorrence by the orthodox of the idea of a religious buffet, an eclectic mixture certainly is more about power and authority than the care and feeding of a healthy soul. Why not find what is good from each, for you in your unique life, to grow deep and true? I've never heard a rational argument against picking and choosing.

I like the idea of Enlightened Laziness, and Mobyism.

Teal

Scrub at work trying to get on my good side, without actually having to do her job properly, tries to engage me in chit-chat. As you can probably imagine, this does not fool me much at all. Little social butterfly cum drama queen, entitled as hell, everyone is her "friend" or snubbed, no inbetween.

"Soooo, what are you doing this weekend?!"

Me, trying to chart, "Nothing."

"Ohhh, just spending time with your hubby!"

"I never think of him as a 'hubby.'"

"It means 'husband.'"†

"Yes, ... I know." I say this very neutrally. I stay silent after, as anything else I could say would not be kind, nor kindly taken. I really dislike that word. It goes in the same bin as wifey and ball & chain, with all the old mother-in-law jokes. Some words just get tainted. Or coined to be vaguely insulting. Hubby indeed. Not a word I would ever associate with my dear D.

Another discussion this week, as I called the new color for Coban that Dr. Hurryhurry likes- teal*. Anesthesiologist laughed that only women would know that. I countered that there are a lot of male painters, designers, and other artists who are very fluent in the language of colors, it's not a female thing. He had to concede the point. When I added that I just love the many words, and the words for colors are rather wonderful, he had to admit that he also loved words. I do love getting around the sides of people's assumptive attitudes.

And I remembered how I used to be able to get my mother to occasionally slip on her ironclad assumptions and attitudes with tacking arguments meant to zig zag gradually around the granite beliefs. Very tiring, but it did teach me how to get inside prejudiced thinking and find the weak sides. Most bigots only fortify the front.

Trying a non-fiction book. So far, so good. I'll let you know.



Been meaning to mention for weeks, with good white tea, always make several brewings. The second is always very good, the third and sometimes forth have a charm of their own.

It's been 83 days since I smashed my thumb, down near the quick, and I still have purple under the nail to grow out. Another week or so yet.




*We have red, cobalt blue, pale blue, neon pink, violet, dark green, yellow with bumble bees, blue with cars, and now - teal.

†Amazing, isn't it, that people who aren't as bright as they think they are, cannot imagine anyone brighter than themselves?

Variable

Sadly, I've been watching a fair amount of crap tv, as is my wont when I am tired and it's hot. What Not To Wear has been common, the US version, which is not as kind as the Trinny & Suzannah series. Although they have gotten better. I can only defend this as my admitted voyeurism, and my defensible interest in costume as a social medium and history. Offered 5K to get a new set of clothes would be nice, I know I have decent taste when I have enough to spend. Why I miss Boston and Filene's Basement so much. Last year's clothes - for cheap, which works when one choses classic. I don't bother here because no one else dresses well anyway, and my social life is past. I throw on clothes in the morning, change into scrubs, change back, get home, get into pjs.

I could give up my clothes to exchange them for better ones, sure. But I would not get un-sensible shoes. No high heels, not even a little bit. Not about to finish ruining my born-bad feet. I've kept them in decent shape by always giving them good, solid, flat, wide toed, supportive shoes. This is our truce, and I will keep my part of it. They have never formed corns or bunions, and after some serious arch support, they have been cooperative.

No more cutting of my hair, either. Takes too long to grow back enough to pull back enough to keep it under my cap at work. Too short, and it creeps out over my ears, making me look like a mad bird. I've had it very short, I've had it permed and dyed, and I'm not doing any of that again. I like it long, it pleases me, and that is that.

Had a moment of epiphany looking at the mirror, and thinking about the WNTW focus on making their vict... guests feel "pretty" and "feminine." I'm just not interested in that. I want to look good, a bit elegant, but not really girly. Thoughts trundled on that gender is not just one thing. There is the body, and the sense of one's gender, orientation, and social gender. I'm definitely a woman physically, and have never wanted to be male physically, heterosexual with only a whiff of curiosity to my own sex - never enough to act on, but with a social gender androgyny. Maybe it was partly to do with only having brothers. But I have always been right in the middle on what girls vs boys are supposed to like and dislike. Hate pastels, especially pinks, but I did ballet. Liked climbing trees, but not rough play. I like theatrical make-up, but can't be bothered day to day.

And I think most people would rate themselves differently on those different aspects of their gender identity. From full feminine to full masculine, or right in the middle on each one, The research really doesn't know what normal is, has not been thorough about teasing out the individual variables, so to condemn any manifestation is idiotic.

Genetic variation, what every species needs.

Nudity

Writing as (joe) has a wonderful post about her nude photos. It's a theme, over there, and she takes extraordinary photos of ordinary people, with a kind eye and a deft thoughtfulness. She has noted often that the men tend to be more shy, reluctant, self conscious of their body "flaws" than the women, and much harder to convince to have their photo made.

I wonder why, as is my wont. Maybe because men identify more with their uniform clothing, that denotes their job, class, status. Be it a suit, jeans and t-shirt, or a more specific uniform. To remove that in front of anyone but an intimate, a lover, leaves them without identity, and very vulnerable. It's probably more complicated, and certainly individual than that.

Women, although more vocal in their self criticism, are also more used to being looked at, and exposing their bodies. Both in and out of clothing.

Honestly, I don't get it. But, then, I live in my skin. I am not exhibitionist at all. Neither do I care if anyone sees part of my body that is not socially acceptable. Typical nurse, yes. Parts is parts. Whatever. I have been socially naked, been to a bath-house in San Francisco, modeled for art classes. I could handle a nude beach, no problem. I change in a locker room every damn morning. I get massages, without a whiff of embarrassment when I remove clothing. Lived in barracks, and have, under admittedly dire* circumstances, shared a shower with other women. I can change a tampon without being noticed, under barracks conditions. I am comfortable in my essentially heterosexual identity, with the potential for experimentation long past.

I would, of course, pose for (joe) anytime. But then, I'm probably more comfortable in my skin than a majority of the people I know.

Weighed myself at work yesterday, after our young man scrub, who can't gain weight, did his. I've lost a few pounds from the last time. I have done nothing different. I don't really care. This is who I am, this is what I am, and I will not be my weight obsessed mother.

*We had undergone a "smoking" which involved being in a hot room, coerced to extreme and extended physical exertion (scissor kicks and jumping jacks and such, over an imagined group crime), then allowed a very short time to shower and get into bed (cots). So we mobbed the shower, two at a time, and got clean and scrubbed, admitting only to each other our losses of bladder control in the two hour (hazing? I can only assume) trial. I found out later, we'd gotten off fairly lightly compared to other units, and I knew at the time that our female Drill Sergeant was extremely reluctant and very disapproving - she silently took my glasses from my chest, and gave them back to me after. Several women had terrible blisters that made taking the final PT test very difficult. The sweat of our bodies caused the condensation on the ceiling to rain on us.

Soppy

Went for a "Thai Yoga" massage from the massage therapy school. Excellent student, good hands, feel better. Having a very bad week with my hips.

In relation to my having four tattoos, and that I know this is considered a 'stable' number, she asked me if I did witchcraft, not completely unreasonable, given. I said no, unequivocally. Knowing about tarot and numerology and astrology is not at all the same as believing in it. I consider it being culturally educated. Like being able to quote the bible, as an agnostic. I felt as though I was talking to myself at one phase of my early adulthood, although I never went quite that far.

When I mentioned I'd done bellydance, she waxed poetic about it celebrating femininity. A neo-feminist, with an anti-male bias that she rather assumed I shared. I don't. I'm old school feminist, humanist would be a better term, although it has other meanings. Not fair to condemn men who lump all women together and insult them, then do exactly the same to men.

I don't need to dance to "feel like a woman," - as she professed she would. I've never cared about what gender I felt like, embraced being a tomboy, as long as strangers didn't actually call me a boy. This was part of why I wanted long hair, so that I could be myself, but not be mistaken for a boy. My mother tried to defend those who called me "he" by saying a boy would be more offended at being called a girl than I would being called a boy. I disagreed, and insisted that if in doubt, don't make that kind of comment at all. But the thought stayed in my head. Maybe it was true, about who would take more offense, but why? And why did it really matter so much? Maybe because so much is made of boys having to act certain ways in order to be considered men? Why is the worst insult to be called a girl, or to "scream like a girl?"

But for women who simply turn the insult back around is a childish response, showing themselves no better, no more capable of actually thinking.

Female is the default, although it is more complicated in practice. Had to insert a foley (bladder) catheter for a patient with ambiguous genitalia, which I did first try, but only because of my experience. I've seen a lot of urethras, and this structure was a bit of both sexes. The patient otherwise looked fully female. The people who live here, inbetween, are the only clues to what sex differences might mean.

We are really all more alike than we are different, and I think it's more important to unite ourselves than further widening the divide. Yes, we live in an unjust society with the male predominant, but to blame any individual man only adds to the injustice. Yes, statistically the sexes are distinct, but it's a fluid line with a lot of overlap. The balance of hormones and genes is delicate enough, throw in strong cultural imperatives, and it's a complete muddle. The experiment is contaminated beyond saving, and no definitive conclusions can be made.

What we do know is that we are all people. Start there, with compassion. With the reality we can discern. Amazed enough at the beauty around us without resorting to making stuff up.

Magic. Sheesh.

But she did a grand job on all the tight spots, and much of the pain is gone. I can deal with the politics and soppy thinking for someone who takes some of that away.

Fad

The building has fliers up about a community party this week. With an "80's!" theme. (shudder)

Obvious from their "contests" for big hair, and the like, they are thinking late disco era, Cindi Lauper and MTV. It did occur to me to put on black and plaid, chains and make-up, and put my hair up in a mohawk, sneer at them all and stomp off. Not worth the trouble, but it would be funny. To me, at least.

The only reason I liked disco music in high school was because one did not need a partner to get on the floor at dances. No one ever asked me to dance, I could hardly mourn the loss of couples dances. Nor did I have musical taste at the time. At least, I'd never heard anything that really deeply appealed to me. So, there was likewise nothing I especially hated.

In college, I got to go to a dance club that played (recorded) punk and new wave - and although I never really dressed up for it, I liked the music, and the styles that went with it.

Ultimately, although I had to wear what was available in stores, I never went to extremes. I prefer camouflage, not standing out. Never had the income for "fashion." Never prioritized faddish clothes.

And I like the updated versions, of music and fashions. Often, they seem more sophisticated and aware than the originals. Winnowed of the chaff, better thought out.

I think I've put this up before, but it's worth showing again.

Surfeit

I don't do diets. Ever.

I work with a gaggle of body image and diet, and food, obsessed women. Which I struggle with. My mother was a dieter, of the yo-yo type. All the women in my family were from peasant stock, not tall, a bit dumpy, and I express the phenotype just as much as my cousins and my aunts, and my granny as well. My mother pushed her pudginess into obesity.

Oh, I'm sure there were reasons, which she hid behind her eating habits. Her father was quite a piece of work, from what I have pieced together. She married another, who made her life miserable. She really never gorged, kept her treats small and rare, but she went on drastic diets, lost a lot of weight, then gained it all back, and more. I remember coping with it, as a small girl, thinking about her choices. I defended the protein diet she got on, to my aunts and granny who worried about her health. I went on some with her, like the apple diet.

The summer before I started high school, allowed to borrow books from the adult side of the library, I read through the romance section. By the time I was done, I was thoroughly sick of the genre. Which is exactly the way I felt about diets by the time I reached adulthood. They seemed unreal and toxic. I would never indulge in any fad diet, and talk of food as a subject tended to sicken me. Nor, indeed, ever read another romance novel.

So, hearing my cow-orkers go on about food makes me despair of women today. Not all, of course, but this mind-set dispirits me. I figure this is part of why, although I am certainly dumpy-body-shaped, I'm not obese. I've never lost or gained a lot of weight quickly. I was thinner in army basic, but I also stopped my periods and got severe bronchitis. I was thinner in Boston because I had to walk so much - but I also had more foot and back pain. I'm not a natural runner, and I'm getting older. I look very much like my cousin, who is also, (and I mean this with great warmth and affection and admiration) a dumpy woman like (but 20 years older than) me. She has no issue showing a photo of herself in a bathing suit by the pool on vacation. I strive to have such confidence. I'm getting there.

The only food I enjoy is the stuff I actually get to eat. Otherwise, it's pictures of food, and since I can't smell or taste it, I can but shrug and say, "eh." I eat more or less what I want, while listening to my body. When I have enough, when I've overindulged in sugar or bread, when I need vegetables or fruits, or need concentrated protein. And I adjust. I listen when part of me says, 'enough' and I stop. I don't drink soda, I never plan dessert, rarely order any when we eat out, don't keep candy in the place. Most of the sweets I eat are, have you guessed? Yup, at work, brought in by the dieting women.

Filthy

Zen chime alarm clock, my hand made bottle, Ida's framed photo, herhimnbryn's box with card, salvaged and repaired Boston lamp.





Filthy weather, snow rain in a "wintry" mix (as the weather boffins phrase it these days.) We went out for a short while, I have a gift card for a shop I do like, but it's an outlet store, and it's always a matter of chance if I find something I really want enough to put down actual money for. So, I kept thinking, do I want to tell my dear D's parents that this is what I spent their gift card on? And, despite feeling like I should get something soon, so I could thank them again, saying "I got this, thank you so much!" I figured it should be something worthwhile. The cashmere, mid arm length gloves, were lovely, but a bit much for a pair of gloves, for me. Or a very nice t-shirt, that might be too clingy for me to wear around them, and too much $ for my taste anyway. I enjoy the browsing there, and I have the card in my bag for whenever.

So I left, having enjoyed, magpie-like, having stared at the shiny for a while. I'm very good at walking out with nothing in my hands. Goes back to my mother telling me to look, but not touch, anything in the toy aisle. It was all mine to look at, and I put my hands behind my back, or in pockets, and the treat was to visit the toy aisle. I didn't much like the all cammo/truck/car boy's section, but no more the all pink/barbie/babydoll girl aisle. I tended toward the androgynous playthings even then. Stuffed animals, games, balls and leggos, better by far.

I retain this ability to be satisfied by perusing the goods, without having to bring anything away with me. Better, because I still have cash in my pocket. Or on my card. We don't even have checks these days. Get irritated when some old bugger in front of us in the grocery line pulls out a checkbook. Sheesh, who still uses checks anymore? We were fairly early adopters of cards, debit, credit, whatever. Paypal, even.

I have taken up the next step of the cleaning, the bookcase is smelling of lemon oil, the music books in some kind of order. Detritus discarded. Dust dismissed.

For those of you who only come for photos of Moby, here.


(I don't mind, he is beautiful*.)


Still snowing. Still going to snow. Happy skiers. Worried flood control people. If it gets very warm very fast, this could be sloppy. All that snow, nearly twice the average, is great because it's our water supply, bad because it does flood here. (D spent some time sandbagging during this, as a BS.)



*Even if he does have an old guy's predilection for peeing idiosyncratically. We're working on it, calmly. Not his fault, just a cat thing.

Blue

Helping out in a room, along with two other nurses, Anesthesiologist rolled patient in, burly, very black guy, and he tells us about his dream.

"I had this dream, surrounded by white folks with blue hair and blue eyes. And I said, 'I'm in the wrong dream!'"

We all looked at each other, and laughed with him. Yup, mostly blue hatted, all white, a few with blue eyes.

I told him that sounded more like a premonition. He agreed. Made us all laugh. A relief, sometimes, to have the unspoken assumptions punctured outright, brought out and giggled at.

I really can't imagine any nurse I've ever known to treat anyone differently because of the color of their skin, or the gender of their partner*. Smokers or the obese, the hopelessly stupid or hostile, are so much more of an issue. Not to mention the obstructively crazy.

I remember once, working PACU for a day surgery OR, a woman had her boyfriend as her support person, and she was having a complete come-apart. Had a nerve block done for the surgical pain in her arm, and was utterly freaking out that she could not feel her arm†. Nothing to be done at that point, there is no reversing local anesthetic injected around the nerve plexus, but she would not be reasoned with, crying and screaming. And the poor guy was holding himself there, being a decent human being, determined to see his commitment through. Obviously realizing how much crazy he'd been dating. We all figured he would take care of her through the first 24 hours, then make a graceful but permanent exit. That all those charming quirks of hers were being seen in a fresh light.

I've mentioned this before, that the idea that men are babies when they are sick is just not real. I've seen all kinds of variations in how people deal with pain, nausea, drugs, without ever noticing any correlation between whininess and gender. Smokers are worse, needing far more drugs, and getting far less relief. Women having gynecological procedures are apt to be nauseated, young men and Asians are more sensitive to anesthetics, but women are not more or less stoic, as a group, than are men. Bunk. D is very brave and considerate when ill or hurting.

Favorite OR joke, guy coming in for further amputation for cancerous bone. Chatting with me, tells me, "Measure once, cut twice. Damn! It's still too short!"

Burst the bubble, tell the truth, have a laugh.


*Odd for a moment the first time a woman referred to her "wife" in Boston, but then it seemed so easy, shorthand that explained all I needed to know without the coyness of "partner" or "friend."

†Admittedly a weird sensation, like having your whole arm completely asleep, but that persists for hours. Patient's lose their sense of where their arm is in space, feeling like it is floating up, when it's obviously not. A disembodying sensation, so I'm told. But pain free, which is the point.

Wife

"Any allergies to medication? And this is your...?" I ask so openly, because I prefer to let people define their own roles and relationships.

"My partner."

The two women are in their forties, comfortable in their relationship, undefensive. I assure the partner that we will take good care of her. And I miss the Massachusetts laws, where they most likely would have referred to each other as wife. Such a clear term, unambiguous in a hospital setting. The first time I heard it used in Boston it took me a moment's adjustment, then the sense of rightness settled in for good.

I always remember my four hours waiting for D's first elbow surgery, an eternity of worry, talking myself down. The loved one waiting is always in my mind for any procedure over an hour. That hour has to be toughed out, after that, we all need encouragement. I had other staff, as I couldn't stand the family waiting room full of wriggly kids and noise. So I sat in mufti in the staff lounge, familiar, eating too many oreos, near the phone.


Being the wife made that easier. No question about my role, my rights, considerations given. A damn convenient label in official circumstances.

Wife was never an aspiration for me, never a term of affection. I never refer to D as my husband around those I know personally, nor does he call me wife. We've never been pet-namers or pigeon-holers, especially not with each other. We don't honey nor dear each other, either. Never referred to each other as girlfriend/boyfriend when we were not married, mostly because neither of us saw ourselves as 'boy' or 'girl' past the age of, well, dunno. Maybe 15, less? One of the perks of legal marriage, we didn't have to fish for a term for ourselves when dealing with relative strangers or officialdom.

The marital terms do ease social communication. I had to call him at work today, and he does not have his own phone in the department, since his job doesn't involve making calls (I'm so envious.) So I called, after practicing the phrase, "May I speak to D(...) W(...) this's his wife." Ambiguity is fine in it's place, not when calling to a place of work.

English needs better words for social relationships. Spouse is good, but a bit hard to say and hear properly. We have to go to French for fiance. Leman is a sadly abandoned term for a sweetheart which I rather like. Lover is a tad graphic, and partner too business related. The language lags behind the reality.

Feral

I just read the Post Secret site for Father's Day, and felt none of the old rage, not even sadness. I learned a word to describe him just this past year, and it healed up the last hole.

This quote from Carolyn Hax, whose advice column at the Washington Post provides consistent good sense. And the word Feral.

The most despicably selfish people are often, upon close inspection, feral--they're consumed by self-preservation, and don't have the courage to take the emotional risks that are the hallmark of civilized behavior.

This isn't to say that you should handle the feral without gloves. Sometimes the best thing to do is to have nothing to do with them.

Raised on a farm, mostly by his brothers, he survived. Yet he tried to look civilized: wife, children, house, job, church going - fearing Hell if not exactly believing in God. As a wild cat brought inside, well fed, clean, long lived - but always fearful, and not to be trusted. So like my friend Dave's cat Chance, brought in from behind a Taco Bell,who became Dave's cat. But not exactly tame, and certainly not domesticated. Not Chance's fault, just not in him to be a gentle, sociable lap cat.

It's a matter of chance, what kind of father any child gets, and whether he stays or goes - and which is better. Natural selection in humans favored an attentive mother, but the sort of father conferred no particular evolutionary advantage on us as a species. Kind uncles and brothers, and teachers, filled that role just as well.

Uncle Walt was one of my fathers, who I found out much later was not much of a father to his own children. I adored him, but never got to be around him for long, because my father was intensely jealous of his wife's beloved brother. And I had a flash of insight related to dog behaviour - resource guarding. I was my father's proof of status, belonged to him, owned by him, in his control. Stepping out of that circle meant barking, growling and biting from him. Not out of sheer meanness, but out of possession, fear of loss.

He didn't love me, as such. But neither was he capable of hating me, as such. A sire, not a father, but that's more usual than not.

I worked with KB, who grew up in Kurdistan. He says his father hit him, but he felt it was to teach him to survive in a dangerous situation, and he bore him no resentment, though he could not feel great affection for him either.

So, thanks Uncle Walt, Uncle Ernie, Bill, Mr. Esper, Mr. Novak, Mr. Shirkey, Ed, for fathering those around you, sometimes including this female child. Most are long gone, none will read here, but they laid the knowledge in me that character is not defined by gender. That men and women are equally capable of full humanity. That we can all protect and love each other, without needing to be biological relations.

We just have to be given half a chance when we are young, and we remember.

Union

Years ago, when the whole issue of gay marriage began to enter the public discourse, I read an article by a minister who disliked being in a position required to legally document what he considered a church sacrament. He preferred the idea that the legality be separate and unrelated to the religious ceremony, and saw this as a way to defuse the fury of the argument. A model already in place in parts of Europe.

And that is what we need to do with the irrational religious nutjobs. Take our ball and go home, refuse to play. Fine, marriage only between a man and a woman is the sole duty and responsibility of churches. With no legal status whatsoever. Civil Unions are the only legally recognized agreement between any two consenting adults, conferring the legal benefits and responsibilities previously given to married couples.

Of course, the idea will go down like the Equal Rights Amendment. A bit of legislation that might well have defused this before it got very far, through some nifty little loophole that those with twisty "legal" minds could use. Even having it so deeply buried did not stop the progress of women's rights. Stopping gay marriage isn't going to stop gay sex.

I was raised knowing the bible, not chapter and verse because Catholics don't tend to do that. And I never had a head for memorizing. But I know the stories and lessons, understood them. And there is that parable of the workers in the vineyard. If we choose to give the rights of marriage to anyone who wants them, that is not taking anything away from anyone else. If we, as a society, choose to be generous with liberty, it's small and evil to object.

Mustn't get my hopes too high that reason and intelligence will hold sway in this country. Especially since the California prop 8 slap in the face. Still, having a constitutional law professor leading the way, there is a chance.

If you've never seen Henry Rollins in full rant, it's an awesome experience. He's difficult and nuts and profoundly compassionate, a punk bodhisattva, who looks at anything and everything with a full, enraged and engaged heart. He talked about how he could not get in to see George W. Bush, despite many attempts. Somehow the idea of a White House Command Performance, for the new president, seems both possible, and rather inevitable. (Barak Obama apparently is a comic book fan, follows Conan the Barbarian & Spiderman. D is afraid the world really isn't ready for a president who reads Conan, but here we are anyway.)

Navy

Now, that's a recruitment poster.

Wiki featured this image today. Along with this text:

A 1917 recruitment poster for women to join the United States Navy. In March 1917, Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels realized that the Naval Reserve Act of 1916 used the word "yeoman" instead of "man" or "male", and allowed for the induction of "all persons who may be capable of performing special useful service for coastal defense." He began enlisting females as Yeoman (F), and in less than a month the Navy officially swore in Loretta Perfectus Walsh, the first female sailor in U.S. history. At the time they were popularly referred to as "yeomanettes" or even "yeowomen".
Artist: Howard Chandler Christy

To this day, women in the Navy struggle with getting decent postings and equitable treatment. Early adopters oft get so wrapped up in being first, they forget to finish the job.

Pass

Dale writes about the feeling of 'passing' as a man.

I get it. My own sense of displacement mirrors his. But not quite the same.

I've never felt comfortable with any homogenous group. Children were a horror to me as a child. Women irritate me when they gaggle. Men in teams succumb to the worst group-think. Medical people can only talk shop, or the most mainstream of pop culture.

Given this, it should not surprize that I have never really had a circle of female friends. I thought for a long time that I really didn't much like women - because I could never get along with more than one at a time. The exception, I thought. Army women were refreshing - tough, boisterous, funny, willing to not take anything too damn personally. Figured nurses would have to be much the same, right? Ha. No. Oh, some, yes, certainly.

But I don't fit with women. Never wanted children, don't see the point of make-up, crafts bore me, I really like the guy I married, cooking is for fending off starvation, shoes are to protect my feet, and on and on.

Nor do I much connect with typical men. Don't like sports - at all, nor motorcycles nor cars save in the most practical sense. I can shoot, but could never hunt unless I had to for basic food. Not into home repair for fun. Not going to flirt, although I had a phase of my life - oh, wait, those were Army guys - who like no-frills women who talk dirty.

In general, though, I pass better with men. I can keep up just enough, am enough of a brassy smart-ass, to hold my own with the rough wit. With women, most women and definitely when they are bunched, I bite my tongue carefully. Very few - including those who come to read here, and of course Moira, can I just let my thoughts pour of of my mouth and expect to be understood - or at least given benefit of the doubt.

What this means is that my own social identity is androgynous. I feel no need to be feminine, nor particularly masculine. Even as a small child, I liked swishy dresses in the same way I liked capes and flags, just for the movement in the wind. Not to be girly. I liked getting dirty, but not being hurt and tough like the boys, despite being considered a tomboy. I knew I wasn't. I chose each time, quite apart from gender. I happily squished ants, but cried over dead birds and squirrels. I had no fear of a neighbor boy's snake, nor of a teacher's tarantula, but ran in terror at a wasp.

My idea of myself as an individual, resistant to the musts of others, has grated against the world all my life. I don't make friends easily, but the ones I have are amazing people.

Not "sell when you can, you are not for all markets." Don't sell yourself short, wait for the best. I'm a freak, but in a good way.

Rude

Why, oh why do so many women insist that being female is more important than being simply human? Why is femininity so bound up with surface glamour, decoration and display? Why do women make such a big, fat, hairy deal that other women have to participate in the petty cattiness of female politics?

I could as easily ask why men are so wrapped up in the rigid trappings of being male, with a terror of anything with a whiff of the feminine. But men don't make a big deal of putting me in my place, at least not these days. The graces that come with middle age, not that society has really changed so much. And, I have a much more masculine style, I cultivate an androgyny that embraces all that I am.

But women still want me to conform. As I strive to live as honest and authentic a life as I can, eschewing the surfaces, the illusions, rejecting the arbitrary trappings, I am pulled back and examined by other women. For telling a funny story about a woman acting in a flighty manner that is identical to parody of the worst excesses of girly behavior, I am called judgmental. Should hear what is said of the women who, against instructions, wear heavy makeup to have surgery, when it all smears off during intubation. I was being very, very mild.

One reader in particular took me to task today. I deleted her comment on No, wrote to her directly. I know her personally, but we are not friends. We have mutual friends, she and our spouses have been friends since childhood. She seems unable to separate her own interpretation of my words, from my real intentions. She made counterfactual accusations against me, while calling me "sweetie," and I corrected her, held my ground. She brought out the big gun, and a personal hot button for me, and called me ~rude~.

Now, rude is what my father always accused me of for not being the fluffy pink little doll daddy's girl he wanted me to be, for not being sweet and compliant and friendly in all situations. I was dark and moody, too smart, too stubborn. His intrusive rage was fine, my defense of myself was rude.

I suspect she means exactly the same. I could be wrong.

I have had to swallow so much of myself this week. I let out the real, raw me here, a stream of pure, unfiltered, undiluted opinion. Most of you who come here regularly seemed to be amused and entertained, as you should be. Two decided to take offense. Their comments could be interpreted as being against your opinions as well. (I am much more sensitive about the treatment of my guests than of myself.)

They have been addressed.

No One. Was Talking. To Them.

Was I rude? I was blunt. Not rude by masculine standards. I told the truth as kindly as I could. I was not friendly, but I don't consider that any more of a virtue than pretty. Great if you have it but I don't, so I make do with what I have. I could have been rude. I could have told each of these people exactly what I really think of them. I did not. I couched my terms, I did not indulge in contempt. I tried to stay factual and reasonable. I may not have succeeded. They are free to think I am rude. I would not presume to tell them what to think, or assume I knew what they felt.

I only wish they had accorded me the same courtesy.

Lipstick

My mother did not allow makeup on me at all until high school, and then only for dress up occasions. She only ever wore face powder and lipstick, for church or parties. The first time I wore any was for a ballet recital, and I looked like a doll - red circles for cheeks, the whole deal. Felt weird.

I've always had dark circles under my eyes, and short eyelashes, so when I chose makeup, I went for mascara and liner, shadow and concealer, lipstick lasted about ten minutes as I wiped it off immediately, unintentionally. I got my only positive comments from other girls, so I spent my tiny allowance on cosmetics. When I was the prettiest of my life, I felt so ugly I had to wear paint on my face. To cover my horrible dark circles.

As a theater major, I only needed the one makeup class, but I did the full year, and really enjoyed it. This meant my basic inability to do mild makeup turned into complete incompetence, since I only knew how to layer it on, make myself look older, or wear a crepe beard. Spent many an hour that year in front of a mirror, examining my features. The real break through came from seeing the most glamorous actress grad student, a truly stunning woman, always dressed to the nines and made up for a photo-shoot, with a bare face. She looked perfectly ordinary, but more interesting, then. And when I did full on glamour makeup on myself, I looked like her - an image, perfect, but the same as every other model. Well. Huh.

I lost my interest in the stuff, not wanting to try for typical glamour anymore. I would have stopped wearing any at all, but the ex preferred me made-up. And I had a job teaching, excuse me... selling - dance lessons, and the boss expected me in makeup. I continued to put it on, but with growing resentment.

D, of course, got to know me bare faced, as the Army bans soldiers wearing any makeup. When we got back, I put some on to visit his family, and he gently let me know he preferred me plain. Didn't take much convincing, I admit. Aside from a bellydance performance, I've been my own naked face ever since.

I honestly cannot understand the women who feel they "can't" go out, not even to the store, without the mask of makeup. Nothing wrong with masks, as long as it's acknowledged as such. Speaks to a certain lack of confidence in one's own self, though. And for those struggling to pay for rent and groceries, to buy into the cosmetic industry's pervasive advertising, is just dumb. So, why? Why the compulsive element? The sense of MUST, of not having a face, and having to put one one. How self effacing, to feel like a blank canvas without pigments.

Wearing mascara as a decorative exercise, like jewelry or nice clothing, simply for oneself, is a comfort for some. As a hobby, of sorts, sure. But when not wearing it means being ashamed and not fit to walk out the door, or be seen by spouse or family, something is terribly wrong.

And why the mixed message? Men don't have to change the way their faces look. General cleanliness and a shave, and they are good. Women have to "enhance" features, and cover up "flaws" in order to be presentable in public. It's a huge lie that we NEED this crap, and huge corporations are pushing that message. Every TV makeover show, every 'beauty" pageant, every fashion magazine exploits this thoughtless assumption. And here in the US, much of what women put around their eyes, on their faces, is not much regulated. Europe has much higher standards of safety.

It's part of the Cinderella/Princess/Bride story girls are force fed. Pretty as a virtue that brings love and fulfillment, and for that one needs makeup - just to not be hideous and lonely. I have never heard a thoroughly reasoned argument for constant makeup, only a knee-jerk reaction, peer pressure societal expectation. Unchallenged assumption of what is normal.

So, I have to wonder if this is a kind of anxiety disorder, this inability to see one's own face without so much revulsion that it must be covered. To be so worried at what strangers might think if they saw them without it. Or to feel so peered at to necessitate a sort of veil. And I wonder if this is a female trait, to hide one's face behind whatever that society allows, less to attract - although that is often the stated reason - so much as to divert the public gaze.

No, I really don't get it. But it bothers me when women see themselves only as this weird illusion that must be maintained at all costs. So threatened they must always hide.