…that you have spinach in your teeth and everyone knows it but no one’s telling you? I’ve been getting that feeling all my life, but the spinach is just a metaphor. I often get the feeling that people know something about me I don’t know about myself. It’s in the way they smile when I say something like “I don’t think I’m smart enough for that” or “I don’t think I’m qualified for that.” It’s in the way I make them laugh without knowing I said something funny.

Lately that feeling has been following me around. The strange thing is, I only get this feeling with people who really see me. Those people who don’t see past the exterior stuff don’t look at me that way. To them, I’m just a “big fish in a small pond.” I’ve never thought of myself as a big fish, though – I’m not much of a predator. And I’m not really into making myself feel bigger. I know what I am, for the most part. Who I am is still a major question and I don’t really want to find the answer. But, I know I’m small enough to fly under the radar. At least I hope that’s still true.

And every time I start thinking these things, I begin thinking about how conceited they sound.

A few things have made me think about this lately. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. I said “I don’t think I’m quite smart enough for that,” and someone grinned. I know this sounds like a small thing, but it’s in the way he grinned. I’m sitting in his office in a way I haven’t in several years now and he grinned. He used to grin at me like that when I was being ballsy and saying things that in retrospect seem particularly embarrassing, but weren’t to me then because I had no clue. Perhaps that’s why he’s laughing.

2. I had coffee with my godmother the other day. A few weeks ago we were chatting on facebook and she repeated something she said to me at my college graduation: “You had so many obstacles standing in your way.” I don’t know what those were or what they might have been. I’ve never really seen obstacles, and that’s the strange part. I can objectify my life and see that there were, indeed, things that others would call obstacles. But I didn’t notice them then. I had a direct path in mind for my life and I took some detours along the way, but I’m mostly on track.

3. Then she did this thing that so many others have done. I don’t know who donated the sperm that made half of me. That’s been my story since I came screaming into this world head first. I’ve thought about it off and on. I’ve heard varying, divergent stories from several people along the way. But it suddenly hit me as I was talking to her and the topic came up: She knows. And she looked uncomfortable when I mentioned the name that’s been stuck in my head for several years now. It’s him. Mom told him. Mom knew for sure. She’s been lying to me all of my life – or at least what I can remember of it. And that uncomfortable look my godmother had is the same one my mom has sometimes. I think people worry that I’m not well adjusted or that I’m looking for a “father.” I’ve had plenty of father figures – some evil, some godly, actually. I’m not looking for my “father.” I’m looking for a sperm donor with a medical history that I can file away somewhere. I want factual information and I would prefer to never speak to the man. Problem is, Mom has no idea I had coffee with aunt b. And now I have this idea that he’s real and out there and has a medical history in his head – I’m sure a gene for alcohol addiction.  I’m sure he also has an aversion to showering. Here, I’m judging solely from mom’s history. See why it’s better if I don’t know who he is? Yeah. Me, too. However, there’s this serious issue I have with the idea that one day I will bear a child. Quite frankly, I want to know now if there are genetic issues I need to worry about – reasons I shouldn’t physically bear a child. I’m fine with adoption if that’s the case, I just need to know.

So there are all those things.

But, coffee with aunt b gave me something bigger to think about: I’m where I am not just because I’m headstrong and determined. I’m here (and I’m still alive) because when I was born there were people around who cared enough to support me. Aunt b took my mom in when she brought me home from the hospital. She kept me on the weekends so mom could party. Had she not been keeping me, chances are I would have been mom’s date for the evening. Aunt b gave me my first bath.

And I wonder sometimes if I’m actually okay with being independent because I’m securely attached to my mom or because I’m securely attached to other people. I hadn’t seen aunt b for any extended length of time since i was under 3 years old. Yet, I have vivid memories of her as a part of my life. I should have forgotten these things in 25 years. But, she’s been an important part of who I am. I don’t know if she knows that.

And tonight I’m supposed to tell my story to a group of queer youth and somehow inspiring. Problem is, I don’t know what about me is inspiring. I don’t see the things that stand in my way. I don’t see any hurdles so I’m not sure how I cleared them. Maybe seeing isn’t believing. Maybe believing is seeing. Maybe, just maybe, because I had no clue they were there, they actually moved themselves out of my way. Or maybe, like I’ve been thinking lately, the universe really is looking out for me. Maybe the universe is conspiring in my favor these days. I guess it’s easy to notice when the world is conspiring against us. Noticing when it’s working in our favor is a bit harder.

So, until I get the urge to write again.

TPQ

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship lately. Never mind that it’s been a VERY long time since I’ve posted anything here. But, that’s not important. I’ve had shit to do. Don’t we all?

My thoughts about friendship start with image, though. And it’s related to one friend in particular, from whom I’ve drifted far in the past few months. There’s this thing people do, this thing MOST of us do, I think, where we claim we don’t give one hot damn about our image. But when I sit back and think about it, I think, OF COURSE WE DO… image is all we have. We exist inside our own minds and the only way we have to relate to one another is through the image we project of our self – that innermost part we think might be a soul or something else altogether.

So, now when people claim not to care about “image,” I can’t help but think, well, someone’s a liar.

But, see, it’s not cool to admit we care about the image we present of our selves. And I suppose there’s a difference between caring about self-presentation and caring about image, but when it’s all boiled down, they’re the same, aren’t they? So, this friend claims not to care about image. No big deal, right?

But this claim has consequences, especially when said friend’s actions reveal a deep concern with self-image and self-presentation. Here’s where this line of thinking gets me: Said friend has an insignificant other. No one likes insignificant other (io) because io is a jerk, to put it mildly. Although io acts friendly and sometimes even nice around our friend circle. The problem is that io is never around our friend circle for long periods of time, and io keeps said friend (sf) from being as much a part of the circle as sf once was. Case in point:

My graduation party. May 9th. Picture it: Everyone’s eating great food off of the grill and relaxing. There are probably 20 people here at this point. I’m hanging around not doing much. Another friend (af) is hanging out with sf and io on the sofa. They’re having a conversation and sf and af are catching up because sf has been absent from a lot of family functions lately, and we’ve missed sf. So, af and her boyfriend (bf) check out for a smoke break, and sf is still on the sofa. When af and bf return from the smoke break (we don’t smoke in the house… they had to go outside), sf and io have disappeared. They’ve left without a word.

I wonder sometimes if sf and io have an abusive “relationship,” but even the R-word is inappropriate here. They tried that. It didn’t work. Two years later, sf is hanging out waiting for “something better” to come along. The problem is, something better will never see past io attached to sf’s arm – or some other body part we need not address in this post. But, sf loves io. Or did. Or does. Or might again. Problem is, sf lets the other person in all of sf’s relationships dictate how those relationships go. I get that relationships are different with different people, don’t misconstrue me here. However, there’s a difference between compromising on little things and compromising your self. One is necessary for any relationship to work while the other is just damaging to everyone involved.

So, I miss sf a lot. Sf even lives really close to me, yet I see sf very little. And sf is so busy with school and work that only io can drag sf’s attention away from studies. I want us to have a friend-date, but sf always has plans. So I never ask.

But, back to image. See, I’m wondering lately if it’s io’s image – io’s public image – that attracts sf. Io has the right look, the look that says “I belong to this community,” that sf doesn’t really have. Sf isn’t hip. But I think sf wants to be, or at least wants to be perceived as “too cool to be hip.” I gave up on that a long time ago, but I remember when I was there. Of course, the whole time I was in that stage, I claimed I didn’t care about “image” either. Now I realize I do care about image, I’m just careful that I present the one I want people to see – one that represents many facets of me. At least I try. We all fail miserably at self-presentation (that’s a true story), so trying is all we can hope to accomplish, really.

But this relates back to friendship because it used to be “cool” to know me. It used to be cool to say “I hung out with TPQ on Saturday night.” It’s not so much anymore. Last night was a Saturday night. I spent it watching reality shows about the paranormal with the wifey while I painted a new art table for the girl who lives across the street. She’s turning 5 a week from today. It’s adorable. But, my ideal Saturday night is hanging out with friends at home. Sf goes out a lot. At least once a week. It’s hard to balance a social life, work, and school. I get that. But I’d like to see more of sf, without io tagging along. I’d like sf just to come sit with a schoolbook and coffee while we both read or something. No conversation, just time spent with a friend. But it’s not really cool to hang out with TPQ anymore, and I don’t enhance anyone’s image. In fact, I’ve pretty much faded off the radar, by my own design. I hate being the person that it’s cool to hang out with. There’s a whole lot of pressure involved. Now, I think if people come visit me while I’m in my pajamas and haven’t had a shower, then they’re alright. If someone’s willing to let me throw on a pair of jeans with a wife appreciator and some flip flops without fixing my hair or paying attention to whether my clothes match, then that’s where I wanna be. Sf can’t do that, I don’t think. Sf hangs out with the pretty people these days, and I’m not one of them.

I guess the real story here is that I miss my friend. But, because I miss my friend, I’m beginning to wonder if sf was only my friend because it was cool to hang out with me at one time. Since it’s not so much anymore, maybe sf’s over it. That’s a sad thought. I miss sf.

So, it’s been a really long time since I’ve written here, and it’s mostly because I’ve been finishing up my thesis. But, we’ve also had some awesome developments on the home front. My friend Alicia and her 8-year-old son moved in with us, and that’s been incredible. It includes a glittery easter bunny footprint on our kitchen floor which we have yet to clean up. Plus, kid energy in the house. That’s the best part.

For any parents who read this, the easter bunny now has an e-mail address. It’s glitteryhop@gmail.com if you ever need it. I check it and send out little notes to the 8-year-old in our house, and I’d be happy to pretend for any other kids. You just can’t let the magic burn out, you know.

On another note, I finished the thesis, and I’m working on turning it into something publishable.

Now, though, i’m going shopping for professional, professorial type clothing. I even got new hair. It’s all natural-like. Til later…

TPQ

It’s been a while since I’ve written here, mostly because I’ve been thesising. Data coding is fun stuff – for real, y’all. Or am I joking? I don’t even know anymore.

The kitten is in a tear-up-mommy’s-work phase, which has made everything really fun. Luckily, there are only teeth marks and claw marks in data I have already coded.

Mom has had the flu for a  week now. Type A according to her doc. She’s almost over it, though. I think he scared the shit out of her when he told her it killed a shitload of people in the early 1900s. Yeah… that’s what you tell an anxiety-riddled woman. Go doc!

My little brother came up with a new boy the other weekend. There’s a really funny story attached. He was texting me to ask if he could come up and he said  “I’ve been seeing this new guy but he’s not out so we want to get away from Hickory for a while.”

We proceeded to figure out where I would leave a housekey for him and all that jazz so he could come up while we weren’t going to be home. We wouldn’t be home until a few hours after he got here. I go to bed.

10 minutes after I get in the bed (Lin is still swishing in the bathroom), I get a text that says “He’s 13.”

I text back: “what?”

He says: “on my myspace buddy profile if you want to check him out.”

I say: “You mean 18?”

He says: “No, no 13″

I launch into a two-text-length tirade about child molestation and how he can’t bring a 13 year old kid here because that’s seriously wrong. My bro is 24… you see why I’m upset, right?

He texts back: “No, he’s 19. He’s #13 on my buddy list.”

Laughter ensues…

It almost never snows in Asheville. But, this is the fifth time we’ve seen snow since before Halloween! Lin and I knew it was coming because the hard mast was enormous in proportion this fall… acorns galore! Either way, I’ve enjoyed watching Amos and AJ walk around snorting it on the back deck, and I laughed really hard when TARDIS stepped out on the back porch (where she’s not supposed to be) and cried because her feet were cold. Cats are adorable when they’re confused.

Are You Married?

I’ve been thinking about this a little bit because Lin and I have straight couple friends who are married, and lesbian couple friends who have been together a long time, but have a very hetero-gendered (homonormative) relationship. In all of these households, the woman or the “femme” woman does all of the housework – the cleaning, the cooking, etc. Lin and I don’t identify as butch/femme. However, if one of us were to wear a dress, it would be me. If one of us were to dress in flannel and hiking boots, it most certainly would be Lin. Barring costume parties, of course. In fact, she was wearing plaid flannel and doc martens the other day – and I couldn’t help but laugh at it. She did, too, so I suppose it was okay.

But, at our home, we conceptualize this whole thing differently. This is on my mind because right now, she’s preparing to vacumn the living room with a 1950s hoover and has already cleaned our kitchen this morning. I rarely do housework. However, I rarely do housework not because I’m incapable of it (I’m not) or because I hate it (I do hate it, though), but because we both have jobs and I have school. So, we consider grad school my second full-time job and then her second full-time job becomes the household duties. I help sometimes, but it’s not required of me right now… and she’s fine with that. Sometimes, especially when I PMS, I have a cleaning urge and I go on binges of scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees (christmas eve) or re-organizing our entire closet and bedroom and bathroom (Just before Christmas eve).

But, we don’t have any dominant idea of who should be responsible for the housework. Ideally, we would split it equally. Though, we would do this based on our strengths. Lin is not a good cook. I’m great at it. So, I do the cooking when we don’t want spaghetti and meatballs or anything else that can be cooked in one pot. Though, she has gotten good at putting some chicken and veggies in a pan and roasting them together. She’s also good at making omelets for breakfast – and toast – she’s exceptionally good at toast. I hate working in the yard, but she loves gardening and is great with a weedwhacker. We don’t have much of a mowable yard (it’s sloped ridiculously), so we only have to use a weedwhacker to handle the grass we have. The front yard is a terraced garden, so she weeds it when the weather’s nice. But that’s the kind of thing she likes. I hate spiders and bugs and anything that crawls, so I’m not a fan of being in the garden like that. I help when I feel like it and other times, I leave it alone. We grew basil one year and eggplant, and I kept those up (watering with the hose), but other than that, I avoid bugs at all costs.

I keep wondering, though – should we have figured things out this way? Is this a right way of looking at things? Is graduate school really a second job for me? Could I have time to do housework? Should I make time to do housework? I don’t know the answers to these questions, but they bug me sometimes. I feel lazy when I’m sitting in a chair reading or writing papers while she vacumns or washes dishes. But I’m working, I suppose. And, she says it’s okay… we worked this thing out together, so it must be a correct way of doing things…

So, I’ve mentioned before that I’m teaching online this semester. It’s not so bad. I still miss my WTF face, though. I had a student today complain because I added a tiny assignment to the syllabus. All I ask is that in a “writing intensive” class, they prepare an outline for their papers and send them to me. It’s part of the writing process that they need to learn. Plus, it’ll help me help them narrow the focus of their topics so they’re actually sociological. Here’s what I mean about them not getting sociology:

Last week, their online discussion topic was about using their “sociological imagination” (thank you, C. Wright Mills) to discuss what they think is the biggest social problem in the United States right now. At least half of them agree that “declining morality” is the nation’s biggest social problem, and the root of all others – drug abuse, prostitution, teen pregnancy, you name it. Ugh. There’s not much else to say here. Despite all of my questioning of their meaning, they still agree that it’s a problem. They also can’t really distinguish between ethics and morals; apparently, ethics are simply a moral code. Yikes. They also have no idea what “integrity” means – just like Burt from the Waffle House – ask me about that story later. I met him at a conference once and asked him the difference. He said there was no difference. I immediately lost respect for the man.

So, despite the fact that our healthcare system is in shambles, our economy is crumbling, Black people are being discriminated against on a regular basis, gay people are gaining some sense of normativity but us queers are still far out in the margins somewhere, declining morality is the nation’s greatest social problem. I say cool. Give me hedonism. And a handbasket.

After reading one of TPQ’s posts a few weeks ago where there was talk of black pants shopping I realized I didn’t own a pair of plain black dress pants either and decided to do something about it.  So my partner and i went shopping.  This was especially hard for my partner, who hates to shop for clothes.  She has this great system though, which involves her mother buying her a full wardrobe every christmas and me buying her random things i see that i think will look really hot on her.  This system severely reduces the need for her to shop, which is good, because shopping for clothes (or even the proposal) makes her pout like a six year old.

I thought about suggesting a thrift store, but was afraid that would send my partner over the edge, as i tend to spend way more time in thrift stores than regular stores.  Once at the store we spent some time looking at a billion variations of black dress pants for me to try on.  I decided i also needed a black button up shirt, because i have this red tie that would look good with a black shirt.  This train of thought led me to ties, so we went over to that rack.  There i made my unenthusiastic partner help me search for skinny and/or non-shiny ties, while explaining (for the 100^th time) that these are my favorite qualities in a tie.  She looked as though she might: a) fall asleep b) be wondering if skinny or regular-width ties would make a better noose with which to put me out of my misery.  She said she wanted to look for jeans, so i took the hint and we started over to the “women’s” side.

Then we stood around in the middle of the store for awhile trying to remember the difference between “misses”, “juniors”, “women’s”, etc.  Eventually we gave up and visited the jeans rack of all of the above.  Looking at the “women’s” jeans helped me understand why my partner is unexcited about shopping for clothes.  What the hell?  About 98% of the jeans were ugly and/or stupid looking.  She found a few pairs and we moved over to the dressing rooms.

This is the part of shopping that can be anxiety producing for me, as a genderqueer.  This place had one line, a “women’s” and a “men’s” side, and an attendant that gives you a card that says either “women” or “men”.  The last time we were at this place the attendant gave me a “women” card, so me and my partner were able to share the same stall thingie; and i was kind of hoping that would happen again so we could get each other’s opinion on our selections.  I was wondering how i might be able to make this happen when the attendant handed me a “men’s” card and told me that there was a woman with a child on the men’s side so i had to wait outside until they came out.  I went to lean against the wall beside the entrance to that side, but the attendant thought i was going in and yelled “Wait sir!  There’s a woman and baby in there!”  Seriously?  Mind you, even if i had walked through the entrance i would have not been in the actual dressing room, just in the hall outside the stall door.

So i wait.  Forever.  Apparently the Woman and Baby (these words are capitalized because that is how the attendant said them) were trying on every article of clothing in the store.  I watch hordes of women go through the line while i wait.  Two teenage boys get in line, and the attendant gives them the Woman and Baby spiel, but does not give them a “women’s” or a “men’s” card, so they wander away.  My partner comes out of the other side and goes back to look for more jeans, having not liked any of the first batch.

I wait some more.  I wonder why they only have one “men’s” stall, because i can remember the “women’s” side has like 10.  I wonder if i showed the attendant my i.d. if she would let me switch cards/sides (what can i say, i’m a gender opportunist…i’ll use which ever bathroom looks cleaner or whichever line is moving fastest).  I decide that trying to switch sides now will cause a scene, and not be faster at all in the long run…plus probably really unpleasant.

The attendant tells me she wishes she had my patience.  The teenagers come back and ask me if i’m still waiting.  Finally, the Woman and Baby come out and i am given the okay to go in.  Once in the entrance i see that they don’t have just one “men’s” stall.  They have three.  I waited for like 15 minutes because the attendant thought it would be inappropriate for me to walk by a stall with a Woman and Baby in it to use one of the other two.  Me and the teenagers could have tried our stuff on ages ago.  I could probably attempt some smart analysis of the situation and the gendered division of public space, but i think this pretty much sums up how i felt about it: Ugh.

After Dick Armey’s comment on Hardball last night, I’ve been imagining him and Larry Craig in a bathroom stall together. Here’s the dialogue:

Craig: “I love my wife.”
Armey: “I’m glad you’re not my wife.”

Yeah… laughter ensues.