If Cher Can Get A New Decor Every Few Years, So Can I

Lookee, lookee. New name for this blog, new look. And the comments should work properly now, too. Tell me what you think!

Oh, My God

Literally. Thanks to Qenny, I have, for the first time in my life, learned about The Holy Foreskin. That just made my day.

Oh, to have been born Catholic...

Fore-ay Into Fashion

I've come to a horrifying conclusion. I look good in polo shirts.

Polo shirts, also known as golf shirts, became wildly popular in the late 70s and early 80s as part of the "preppy" style. Having a teenage sister in a private school in Pennington, NJ, at the time (and later going to private school in Princeton for the last three years of high school, myself) I became quite familiar with this trend. To me, it smacked of privileged whiteness and uniformity, and I viewed it with some disdain. Unless it was part of a gym uniform, I wouldn't be caught dead in one of the things.

Back off, Townie - you can't have my Tab!

Fast forward, and the polo shirt has become ubiquitous across various social and class groups. Still, it rubs me the wrong way. To me, it's now emblematic of middle America, and the middle class, white EveryDad, in particular (EveryDad being a far cry from being a "Daddy", if you know what I mean). Everybody wears it as sort of a "dressy" t-shirt - something you don't have to think too much about. It's boring, unavoidable, and apparently part of the national civilian uniform.

The problem is, it flatters me.

I went shopping this weekend, and it's always a chore. Being fat does not afford one many clothing choices. Being a not-wealthy, fat woman even less. Apparently, if you are a woman, being fat somehow nullifies some of your femininity, so you are supposed to wear extra frills, floral patterns, bright colours and bedazzles to make yourself semi-appealng, because nobody likes a fat, dykey woman. Alas, a fat, dykey woman is exactly what I am. I like simple clothes, decently tailored, in natural fibres. You can see where I'm at odds, therefore, with the clothing industry. Most of my clothes and shoes are designed for short men, which means they fit me oddly in some ways, but are at least closer to what I like. Believe me, it's murder tyring to find simple work shoes in a men's size 6. (Also, I loathe shoelaces, but that's another story.)

Yet, I don't want to look completely masculine. It's just that I grew up in the eighties, where men and women alike wore Doc Martens, men's jackets with the sleeves rolled up, Capezios and ties.

Me in the 1980s.

I don't want to switch to rhinestone flip-flops and Indian skirts - and I wouldn't want to even if I was skinny. We also have to watch our money. So, when at Old Navy , Mrs. Nator remarked to me "if I don't absolutely love something, I don't bother to buy it," I shot back "for me, if something kind of fits me and isn't atrocious, I pretty much have to buy it." Because otherwise? I'd be fat and naked.

So, it was with this in mind that I remembered that some short-sleeved collared shirts I have are some of the most flattering ones I own, and I forced myself to try on some polo shirts.

Damn. They're thinning. They're comfortable. Is this why all the Dads wear 'em?

I'm still kind of mortified, but I'd rather be thinned, comfortable and clothed mortified than wearing long-sleeved shirts all summer, sweaty, and stained mortified.

Me now.

Perhaps one day I will have the money, body, or both to be semi-fashionable again (or satisfy my own, specific and rather expensive tastes in fashion).

Until then, maybe I'll just take up golfing. I hear it's all the rage with Dads.

Barbaric

Well, in case you haven't heard, the great Triple Crown hope, Barbaro, suffered a horrific injury in the Preakness and may not make it.

At the risk of receiving hate mail from fans of the sport, I've said it before and I'll say it again: animals were not meant to be selectively bred and raced this way.

It really breaks my heart.

Buried With A Donkey, He's My Favourite Honky

I remember being fascinated with King Tut back when the first exhibition of his treasures toured the U.S. in the seventies. I also remember seeing my first mummy in a museum, and how spooky and utterly intriguing I found it. As I recall my interest, in particular, with the fact that the mummy was not just an example of thousands-year old dessicated human remains, but a naked one at that, I could chalk it up to having seen very few unclothed adults by that point in my life. However, I've always figured it was more likely due to my being an odd child, in general.

Well, perhaps I wasn't all that odd, after all. It turns out that scientists have been concerned for some time with something: King Tut's penis. More specifically, they were concerned as to where it was, as it has been missing for years.

Well, I think we can all rest a little easier tonight. The royal jimmy has been found.

Considering all the fetishes out there, can mummy porn be far behind?

Even Super Lesbians Can’t Dance

Thanks to Chris Sims and Prism Comics, we now know the true origin of the term “FemiNazi”…

I Hear It’s All The Rage In Paris, or: Why I Should Never Volunteer To Help Anyone With Anything

Today’s fashion accoutrement is: baby vomit! Yes, I noticed a mother struggling to get her kid and stroller down the subway steps this morning, and, since my back and neck have been fine lately, offered to help. It rapidly became clear that I have no experience in this sort of thing.

First of all, when I leaned down to pick up the front of the stroller, my backpack, which I only had on one shoulder, whipped around and nearly clocked the infant in the face. Nonplussed, the mother offered to carry my bag, which sort of defeated the purpose of my helping her, I thought, so I waved her off. Instead, I put the stroller back down and put my bag on both shoulders, then proceeded again. Instead of trying to grab it by the side and walk down forwards, however, I opted to grab it from the front and back down the stairs, for some reason, but then I got nervous that I’d trip and take us all with me. So, I grabbed the railing with one hand, thus causing the stroller to list crazily to one side. At this point, the mother’s face was unmistakably projecting “perhaps I should have rejected her offer.” Finally, about four steps from the bottom, I looked up at the adorable tyke, whose upper face was incongruously covered by a lemon yellow hoodie, making him or her look like the world’s smallest monk or gangsta rapper, only to be met with a projectile blurp. Nice.

Of course, the mother was very apologetic, and I assured her that I understood these things happen with little ones. Luckily, the kid was tiny, so it was no more than milky spit, but nonetheless I bid a hasty retreat, digging in my bag for a tissue pack with my one dry arm on my way through the turnstile.

I love the smell of breast milk in the morning.

Rainy Tuesday Blogging

I am a wee bit tired, childrens. There are a bunch of major deadlines at work that have everyone cray-cray, which means it was a great time for me to quit seeing my therapist (I’m doing fine with it, although I’m still angry about the session spent on processing her financial needs, I figure I’d been considering moving on for some time, anyway). Mrs. Nator is the sickiest sick girl in the land, and her pathetic hacking and snorking has been keeping me awake for several nights (I am fortunate that we have the advantage - rare, in Brooklyn - of a large, cheap apartment, so I could switch to a far-away guest bed at 2 AM this morning). And the weather? Don’t even get me started. Deee-pressing (although it’s good for the plants and water table ‘round here, I know).

All of which comes to: I’m probably not doing any major thought-provoking, meaningful posting for a little while. I actually had a number of interesting (I think) topics I wanted blather on recently, but, maybe later.

For now, just a few disjointed thoughts on how to keep one’s spirits up during weeks of rain and girlfriendly mucus:

Enjoy the little things. I recently happened upon Kiss My Face’s foaming hand soap in grapefruit & bergamot scent. It doesn’t soundlike much, but the smell of this stuff somehow activates all the happy energy chemicals in my limbic system. Also, it makes me crave Froot Loops (for which I settled for Barbara’s Fruity Punch Organic Wild Puffs, although they lack the same ring, both name and shape-wise). The point being, normally I am not the type to say “unhappy? Perk up your mornings with the delicious scent of Product X!”. This time, however, it’s true, so maybe you should check it out.

Find humour where you can. Sometimes it has to be dark humour, but still. For example, you may have heard about the terrible flooding that is taking place in the northeast states, and how it is causing gajillions of dollars in damage and threatening lives. Yet? This: Is funny. I mean, how long do you think that guy has kept his whacky amphibious car in the garage, just to one day have this opportunity to go “nyah nyah!” Hee.

Plan something fun. Like, for example, your summer vacation – whooo! Although we’re not going to any exotic locations this year, Mrs. Nator, the financial half of the family, has authorized me a certain amount of funds and time to plan a week in Cape Cod. Although we won't go 'til July, just thinking about lounging on the beach, going on whale watches and the pirate museum has got me all excited, already. We have to be frugal, but it’s more than I expected we’d be doing (it turns out we most likely won’t be taking her family’s old car, after all, which means we don’t have to spend the time and funds to get it up here). So, when I get all aggravated at work, I can just think of this: And smile dreamily.

Those are my deep thoughts for the day. Now go do something that makes you feel good.

Just What Is The "NY Lifestyle"?

My friend Mickie sent this on to me. I love that she actually sent the following email to them.

I hope you can see this ad below. Scroll down to the bottom. (I got this from an email list I'm on of NYC events.)

Huh?

This is a company that promotes drinking/dining/social parties and has classifieds, focusing on the NYC 20s-40s scene. I think it's trying to be like Citysearch.com

I wrote MetroChai a letter asking, "Looking for clarity: are you implying you have a 'casting couch' for talented female writers? Do you want stories about soft porn ads for Versace? Or are you looking for interesting stories about blow jobs?"

If you want to give them feedback, click here http://www.metro212.com/footer/contact.php

Not What You Expected

Congratulations to the visitor from Saudi Arabia who somehow got to my site via a search for a video featuring "horse dick". Hope you enjoyed your stay!

BTW, you and everyone else are welcome to comment on my latest blog design question. Sorry, no horse dick included!

How Do I Look?

There are a lot of things I like about the look of this blog, and a lot of things I don't. The colour scheme really suits me, and enjoy my found Velveeta Girl pinup graphic, even if it is a bit fuzzy. The thing is, the template I reworked to get me here is causing problems with comments and other things, and a number of people have told me that they have trouble reading the red text on black. I've also received the suggestion that I change a couple times.

So, taking it all into consideration, I've been playing around, and worked up a new template here. It's just a draft - I'm sure there's more to be done to it - but I've done enough that I'm a bit burned out by now and could use some input.

So, nu? Likes, dislikes? Old template, new? Please let me know what you think (so I can stop staring at the damn thing)...

Poor, Poor David Blaine

Weep for his suffering, America. Weep!

Meanwhile, in Darfur...

Gawker has the acid review and the clip. Meanwhile, I will try to parlay my "skills" into a high-paying media event. What's the record for hours spent Web surfing in a terry robe? I hear it may involve risking the dreaded "Mouse-Clicker Finger"...

Why The French Are Cooler Than Us

Would you believe it's their anti-AIDS PSAs? Normally computer animated people give me the willies, but this cartoon by Wilfred Brimo, set to The Rubettes' 1974 classic "Sugar Baby Love", is both important and adorable. Click to play, and ask yourself: can you imagine anything like this ever being shown on regular US television?

Thanks, I Think I’m Sterile, Now

Courtesy of Wax Madness on planetdan.

Talk To Me, Baby

My apologies to anyone who tried to leave a comment over the last week and couldn't. Seems this template is persnickety about the comment settings (another reason I'm working on a new one). It seems to be fixed, now, so fire away!

Paris Is Burning

I just wanted to say that, although I've lost most interest in American Idol, I'm disappointed Paris got voted off. I can see why, but I still say she has more talent than any other of the contestants this year, and even some of them combined.

Stupid America. Eat it, bitches.

And The Answer Is: None More Gay

The question is, of course, could Mrs. Nator and I be any gayer? I've already mentioned my penchant for listening to Real Life and the fact that we're going to see Kathy Griffin in June. But that was nothing. Here's the motherlode:

We are going to see Rufus Wainwright at Carnegie Hall, where he will be performing the entire legendary 1961 Judy Garland concert with an orchestra. Squeeeeee!

Oh, my God. I think I just sprained my Gay.

Of course, considering all this it becomes painfully clear that what Mrs. Nator and I are, actually, is gay men, which comes as some surprise to us, not having penises.* But we just paid a buttload for those tickets, so, we will no doubt soldier on. See you at Splash?

* By the way, over the course of the last two posts, I must have typed the word "penis" more times than I... well, ever. So, then: vagina, vagina, vagina!

Spawn Sung Blue

So, here’s the deal: I just don’t know if I want children. Here I am, halfway through my thirties, with a partner who wants children, and friends who want or are having children – even if it means ordering sperm on the rocks long distance, and I still look at babies and think “uh?” As in, insert Peggy Lee singing “Is That All There Is” here, because, yeah, they’re cute and all, and I’m sure they love their parents, but… are they cute next-twenty-plus-years-of-my-life, cute? I mean, honestly, can't I just have another cat?

And that’s another thing here, because my cats? Three of them, and then the two turtles? It’s not like we’re taking the best care of them we possibly could, to begin with. I mean, there are weeks the litter does not get scooped, or the turtle tank water evaporates to half its regular volume, or we just feel repeatedly compelled to yell “What, you big, whiny, baby - WHAT?” at one or the other or all of them (OK, that’s mostly Maurice, who often morphs into Mr. Whinypants Johnson for days at a time, and who can blame him what with having the name Maurice and all, but I’m trying to make a point). Do we really think we can transfer that sort of devil-may-care, lackadaisical, possibly traumatizing supervision to a human child? Because, well, yeah, maybe, but we’re The Gay, so people always watch us on that kind of stuff, as opposed to the Normal, Heterosexual People, who can chain their children to a radiator in the basement for years and get boxed chocolates from Children’s Services each Thursday – do you hear what I’m saying? It’s a lot of freaking responsibility! And besides my curmudgeonly, spastic, slovenly ways, Mrs. Nator can barely remember where she put her cell phone, wallet or keys half the time, nor to purchase toilet paper when we are completely out, so... well, to wit, allow me to quote a passage from The Importance of Being Earnest, most particularly some key lines I delivered myself whilst playing Miss Prism in our much-acclaimed and extended high school production:

Lady Bracknell: … Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]

Miss Prism: Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinet, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

Jack: [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag?

Miss Prism: Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack: Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.

Miss Prism: I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.

I don’t remember much after that, except supposedly all ended well, but every night just before blackout I had to fling myself into the passionate embrace of the boy playing Rev. Chasuble, with a force that broke my granny glasses not once, but twice. Apparently, this was extremely humourous to the audience, but a bit disconcerting to me, especially since somehow I infused said glasses with a good portion of my characterization and, once they were broken, ran around most of the next day trying to scrape up new ones, else I wouldn’t feel all Stanislavskied all up in my Method, or something. Oh, and that I was called Laetitia, which, knowing me, would be a name I would saddle a baby with just for my own amusement. So, you see? I am far too circumlocutory to be a parent, and, what’s more, neurotic and just a little bit mean.

But:

As I said, my partner wants children. What’s more, she insists that I really want them, too, and would make an excellent parent. It’s just that I’m held back by my fears of being good enough, memories of a difficult childhood, &c. In fact, it is not just my partner who says this, but a number of my so-called friends and family members. Apparently, if you asked them, they would tell you that children’s eyes just light up when they see me, and I speak some special language that only small animals and children understand. Moreover, I am so sweet and kindhearted, so intelligent and entertaining, it would be nigh on a crime if I didn’t reproduce or at least raise some little foundling posthaste. To which I answer: Projecting – all of you! And also: Quit having me on! And finally: Have your own damn children, keep your guilty guiltifying and… and… thanks, but – yikes!

See, the thing is, I’m pretty sure that if I’d gotten together with Mrs. Nator and she’d never wanted to have children, I’d be totally behind that. Because I did have a difficult childhood, and I do have self-esteem issues, and I never had much experience with other children except as a child myself, who, quite frankly, did not even understand or relate well to them, then. So, until recently, when I saw a kid, it was more discomfiting than heartwarming to me. You never know what they’re thinking, what they really want or how easily they might break – or break you - in my book. Nowadays, I’ve somehow begun to actually look at some babies and children and think they’re, okay, kind of cute, but I’m not entirely certain that isn’t because everyone’s telling me I’m supposed to, you dig?

And yet… of course I’m worried that what they say is true. That I am holding back my precious love that could nurture little beings due to my own fears, self-doubt and internalized homophobia. That one day, if I don’t have or take in any children, but soon, I will look back and say “I missed out on the greatest joy in life, and I am nothing without progeny to carry on my… me-ness (and quite possibly pay for my in-home senior care nurse/companion).” Not to mention that I’m worried that Mrs. Nator will decide that this all bespeaks some unconscionable flaw in my character and go find someone more interested in increasing the population. (To which I add: “the Earth is drowning in a blood-sucking, environment-and-species-destroying infestation of homo sapiens as we speak, many of whom are fundamentalists and Republicans!” To which she answers: “All the more reason for us to bring up a good one or two to balance things out and do something good,” and I counter “The devil you say – they’ll be ground in the corporate cogs and eaten!” And then she decides she has some important business to attend to involving removing her hangnails, or reading the obituaries, or some such.)

So, it is with all this in mind that, each time I go down to visit the little Natorling nephew and niece, I observe them, their parents and myself quite closely. Here are some of my observations from this past weekend:

• Niece and Nephew Natorling are, as children go, fairly adorable. Nephew is a budding little geekling and niece is, as they say, spirited, which it is alleged is the way I was at her age, which is… I’m not sure how I feel about that.
• Okay, it is true: children do find me hilarious – at least these two. Apparently, I have excellent taste in children’s literature (not surprising, as I was a bookworm, myself). Also, the way I run back and forth and pick them up is, it would appear, a laugh riot. On the other hand, how many ways are there to run around and pick children up, especially if one doesn’t have the history of herniated discs that I do? It ain’t rocket science.
• Children can teach us valuable lessons. Niece taught me, for example, that it is perfectly acceptable and effective to stare lengthily and utterly blankly at someone when they ask you a question until they go away, not because you don’t know the answer, but because you don’t feel like talking to them.
• At age eight, boys seem to be acutely aware that they have penises. They are not acutely aware, however, that everyone else is can see when they are touching their penises, and may not find this quite as stimulating, in a good way. Good Lord, as a card-carrying lifelong lesbian, I just don’t know how I’d handle that one with my own child. I’d be afraid of either allowing him to grow into another Dan Hoyt or, conversely, causing him to become afraid of his own penis and end up telling someone to put the lotion in the basket someday. In Nephew’s defence, however, I will say that, once again, he is only eight and, from what I have gathered from casual observation, this is a habit many grown men not only never outgrow, but parlay into profit in one way or another.
• Having a small child hug, kiss or snuggle up to you can fill one with contentment. Having a small child violently smush your cheeks and call you “squishy!” (or, in the case of GrandMaMa Nator, exclaim “you have a beard!”)… not so much.

• Children rarely like to share. Fortunately, this is counterbalanced by their short attention spans, so if you grab the thing they clung to so greedily five minutes ago, they’ll hardly notice.
• Children can be heartbreaking. The most difficult part of the visit was listening in while Sis and Bro-in-law Nator explained to Nephew that, whereas Niece would share their bed to make room for the guests, he had become too big to join them. Hearing a usually happy and mature kid repeatedly sob “but I would do anything to make you change your mind!” made me want to crawl into my safe space. His parents dealt with it admirably and fairly, but I am not so sure I could have done the same in their place. After all, how do we ever reconcile ourselves completely to the fact that we will inevitably hurt the ones we love? And how much more devastating is that when it is our children we hurt, and vice versa?
• If you cannot smile at a naked, giggling and dancing two and a half year old, you are probably dead.

Such are my most recent observations. I can’t say that any of this has entirely eased my mind or helped me make it up one way or another. I can say, however, that it is oh so much more quiet when there are no small children around, even when the cats try their damnedest to be annoying. So, here’s my thought: Several more cats, for practice. Also, I can test out some toys on my own, to see what it’s like - particularly the computer games. Finally, I suppose if I should be afflicted with the miracle of virgin birth I will see it through, albeit from my cozy perch in a padded cell, no doubt. Until then, I have more observing and thinking to do. Perhaps I will decide by the time I am forty. Perhaps.

Emotional Trauma?

Would it seem appropriate to you for, say, your therapist, who has only two or three weeks ago confirmed that she is fine to wait for your insurance checks to come in for payment, to spend an entire session then telling you that she is not fine with it and how you should "assert yourself" more with the insurance company to get the checks faster or figure out another payment plan?

I am... displeased.

Deep Thoughts

I am still totally knackered from my family visit. I love them people, but the whole mishegoss of traveling and visiting is tiring.

Questions for the day:

1. Am I a total commie for taking May Day off?

2. Can we go back to the days when gay people were expected not to have children?

3. How does clutter reproduce?

Discuss.