Cab stops. I’m still fumbling to pay. A couple surges up to the door. She bleached blond, he pencil beard. He opens the door, “Yo! I’m still in here!” “Oh, sorry.”
Eventually I emerge.
The woman: “He was trying to help you out the door.”
“No, he wasn’t, but nice try.”
The woman: “Are you Jewish?”
Me: “What the fuck has that to do with anything?”
The woman: “I knew it. Fucking Jewish bitch.”
For many years I attributed my lack of a sweet tooth to my health conscious parents who didn’t feed us many sweets.
Recently I’ve realized that this is nonsense.
My brother loves sweets.
No, I mean it. He loves sweets.
But I don’t.
I realized that I have quite limited food loves. Oh yeah, I’ll try anything. I’ll eat anything a friend serves me.
– No saccharine
– No cruciform veg
– No twizzlers
– No black cherry anything
– No chocolate with nuts
– No ham (even when I ate pork)
– No artificial strawberry
Geeze, listing what I like would be easier!
The Times published an op-ed piece on artists who are bad people (actually bad men).
Lots of comments about you can, you should separate the art from the artist. (Easy once they’re dead.)
That’s the context.
I started thinking about Woolfe’s imagined Judith Shakespeare, and how maybe she’d have been an even greater playwright – if only.
And then it hit me. Miriam and Martha have the same endless demands on them. Not Eliezar – not a lick of housework.
Recently I’ve realized something obvious. Lots of people live in their bodies. I don’t. I am this body.
No wonder I’m confused when people talk of how their desire developed online, because their minds matched.
Of course I’m befuddled by folks who are shocked when lovers fall out of lust.
If my lover transitioned, I might lust after the changed body. If I did it would be a new lust for a new person.
I might not though. I have loved the taste and smell and feel and sight and sound and weight and presence of the bodies. I haven’t loved the essence dwelling in the body.
This body loves that one.
My iPhone screen shattered this morning. The event was odd.
I had set it on the counter face down. Its bumper like case should have kept the screen from any irregularities in the counter’s surface.
A few minutes later I picked it up. The screen shattered.
I made an appointment at the Apple store to have the screen replaced. Then I called tech support. I had replaced the screen a few weeks ago and really didn’t want to spend another $129 (plus tax).
The tech told me that all full price repairs and are guaranteed for 90 days. That’s a relief! Thank you! She made my day. (Temporarily.)
I toddled off to my appointment. The tech told me that as it was an accident, the warranty didn’t cover the replacement. But, said he, my phone had been issued a (possibly) defective battery, and Apple would replace it. For free.
Heavy sigh. Went home. Sulked.
I came back to the store. The tech brought me my phone. The bill was $208 (plus tax).
Huh, no, that’s wrong said the tech. Let me check this.
She came back a few minutes later, wearing a very sour look. It’s your lucky day, no charge.
I think that the original tech must’ve written up the service request incorrectly. I wonder though what that error was. Was I wrongly charged for the screen? From what the phone tech said, that is certainly possible. Or was it easier to charge nothing than reverse the erroneous charge for the battery.
I’ll never know. If the final tech had been cheerful, I wouldn’t even wonder.
Women are not a monolith
I couldn’t stop thinking this as I read a discussion among bi women who’ve only ever had sex with men.
Each woman was a bit sad because if she and her current, dearly loved man stayed together, she’d never experience having a girlfriend.
If she and her current, dearly loved man stay together she’ll never experience having a boyfriend with different hair color, or height, or any other characteristic that her lovers haven’t had.
I haven’t experienced love or sex in the way these women expect to.
I haven’t dated and had sex with representatives of their sex. I’ve dated and had sex with individual women and men.
If I were to fall in love again, and stay with whoever forever, then I’d have lost my opportunity to sex up people of whatever groups I haven’t done yet. So what? Not banging someone with different colored eyes doesn’t reduce my experience of love (or sex) in any meaningful way.
When I was a kid I’d joke to myself that I must be conventionally good looking because I didn’t match the conventions for UNconventional good looks.
The convention was
- With longer than usual shins
- With narrow hips
- With auburn or ebony or tawny (yeah, not red, black, or blind) hair
- Breasts, regardless of size, are proud
The faces though —
- Unusually wide set, uptilted (yep, that’s the word) eyes
- Which are green, grey, or icy (huh?)
- Eyebrows are also uptilted (that word again!), except when they’re level. Level brows go with grey eyes.
- Very wide mouths
- Short upturned nose
- Broad jaws
My looks didn’t, and don’t, fit this convention. I’m short, and busty, and my nose is large. Indeed, my features are large and somewhat asymmetric.
And yet, I realized recently, I’m conventionally beautiful. My hair, while mousy, is thick, soft, and shiny.
My eyes are large.
My skin is beautiful.
My teeth are good.
What I have never had is fashionable looks.
Food for thought.