I apologize if it is still wintry in your neck of the woods. Here it’s been in the 80s. Birds are chirping incessantly, lawns are demanding weekly mowings, the air has the bitter stench of weed-killer in it, the neighborhood pool opens manana, and swarms of bees root around in our holly bush, two paces from our front door. I HATE bees. And wasps. Our Martha Stewart six chair patio set is ready for guests. All we need is a recliner, like these ladies seem to be enjoying.
Considering it was 1932, smack dab in the middle of The Depression, they seem to be fairing pretty well. Methinks Ms. Ira F. Warner from Westhampton, Long Island looks rather cheeky.
Mary Alice has been on hold for 37 minutes with her P.O.C. health insurance carrier, and has found herself entertaining unkind thoughts of shoving Joyce and Joanne’s heads through the spindly wrought iron bars.
I don’t know what’s finally prompted the transition of the former Olympian, if ex-wife Kris’s penchant for plastic surgery spurred his interest in mangling a perfectly good face, or if the overexposure to a house full of Kardashian estrogen seeped into his insides, the way it does in kids who eat too many chicken nuggets. I’m not here to mock Jenner; I just DO NOT GET IT.
No one can argue his 70s hotness. Perfect hair, white-toothed smile, testosteroney sideburns out in full force. I realize it’s not 1976 and that getting old sucks. Wrinkles and gravity and cancerous growths on your face, they all suck. But dangit, Bruce, why did you have to go and tamper with that? Couldn’t you just go gently into that good night? Everyone with surgery looks like a melting Yankee Candle.
Perhaps it’s harder to go from a 10 to a 4, then it is for us 7s to simply slip to a 5. It’s a longer fall, that’s for certain. Or did you never think you were a 10 to begin with? Tell me, is it a form of body dysmorphia that led you to all these nips and tucks and French manicures?
Perhaps Jenner has felt the wrong gender his whole life. But shouldn’t he have been honest with his wives from the get-go? I wouldn’t appreciate it if my husband decided in his 60s that he wasn’t going to ride this whole male thing out any longer. If we two are one in a marriage, I would have liked to have gotten a head’s up on that whole gender identity pre-engagement. Preferably before TEN children and stepchildren came into the picture.
Now I realize these surgeries are getting more prevalent by the second, and we’re all supposed to applaud their bravery and wear ribbons in the name of open-mindedness, but imagine if you weren’t just clapping for Jenner from the sidelines. What if it was your dad or your grandpa? You can say “It’s still the same person in there,” but the truth is, it’s not. Gender identity is a huge part of your sense of self. Women don’t look or act like men, and (right or wrong) they don’t get treated the same. Because they’re not.
Ultimately, you can’t change an XY into an XX. At least not in 2015. It’s mostly a botch-job mutilation, a best attempt at what the medical staff had to work with. Call me selfish and narrow-minded, but I don’t want my son to chop his body parts off someday. What a difficult decision to make. And I don’t want him to wade through a sea of shemales to find a wife, or to have to worry if the woman he is dating used to be a man and doesn’t share that tidbit until the third date. It’s a shame that anyone would be born one sex, feeling like their Creator got it wrong. What a complicated burden to bear. Perhaps if Jenner had had his choice, he would have been a woman from the get-go. Then again, if he had his choice, strangers wouldn’t have opinions about his personal life. But such is the nature of celebrity.
So go ahead and bash my ignorance, LGBT community. Scold anyone who has honest questions and concerns and can’t quite jump all aboard this disconcerting bandwagon. I don’t hate people who transition. I hate the fact that anyone feels like they have to.
I used to be a sappy, squeezy, snuggly dog person, but after the unspeakable incident of ’03, I have made my heart dead inside. To an extent. So even the cuteness of Tonto fails to arouse a wellspring of joy.
I feel like Jemima looks. Oh, the ennui.
Barely tolerating the wretched burden of this life thrown upon her. She used to be a contender, dining on duck treats in a pre-Hurricane Katrina Big Easy, but then she got craigslisted by the lumberjack-bearded friend of her dead owner and wound up in our back yard, hardly suffering Tontos gladly.
So she chases him. Tries to chase the stupid out of him. To no avail.
Round and round they go, her ten-year-old limbs chasing his younger, jauntier, more bassetty frame.
We reorganized our guest bedroom over the last few days, tweaking the western theme and moving furniture, painting touch-ups, and hanging frames. In the process, an old (read 1980s) dresser, about as tall as I am, was kicked to the curb for today’s trash men to carry away to a landfill far away from subdivisions, where people like me don’t have to give it another thought. Praise da Lort, as Madea would say.
Of course, we realized the dresser would be long gone by the time the trashmen made their mid-morning rounds; the scavengers come at sunrise to whisk away one man’s trash and make it their treasure. This is a given. Always has been, always will be. These are the same people who arrive for 10am garage sales at 7am, hepped up on Lort-knows-what and eager to haul off half your stash. Is it the same where you live?