nablopomo, aka TMI

Apparently, November is the month when all of us with authorship aspirations but without actual publications resolve to write more.  I've recently discovered NaBloPoMo, which is designed to encourage prolificness.  In my case, I expect it will result in a stream of banality, but with my remaining optimism I have begun a list of potential blog topics.  I am somewhat comforted by the size of my audience, which is to say few will be hurt by this endeavor.  Plus, it's football season and the World Series, and I can always resort to ruminations about the weather...or a chronological recitation of my scars.  Ooh, I should add that to the list.

I'm hoping it will occasion more frequent postings from the bloggers I read, as well...especially since the lovely admins at Dooce have thus far ignored all my pleas for a community user account.  Hello (hello...hello...hello)?  I would like to play, too?  I mean, I know my title can be interpreted several ways, but I'm really not a pr0n site, and I can't delurk without an account, HeatherJon&Tyrant.

Love, Snatch

wardrobe malfunction

I went to a burlesque show last night, part of the grand opening celebration of a diner.  Perhaps an atypical way to introduce a business to a neighborhood, but entirely appropriate for its location.  I was expecting something between a striptease and a Rockettes show, but the performance was...wittier than that.  Sure, there were pasties and thongs and fishnet stockings, but there were also artistry and humor.  One of the acts was an "old lady" with a cane, who started off with These Boots Are Made For Walkin', hobbling around, scowling, and pointing fingers accusingly into the crowd...until the song changed, she wheeled back, dropped her cane, and peeled off her housecoat to reveal a negligee, etc.  Another girl, dressed as Cookie Monster, came onstage to Rehab and disdained the carrots she was given in favor of mainlined refrigerated cookie dough.

I don't object to strip clubs, although I feel for women who feel they have no better work prospects, or who end up there by virtue of abuse or self-esteem issues.  Strip club performances are definitely designed to appeal to men, however (even the ones I've seen at gay clubs), whereas these women seemed to tailor their acts to their own enjoyment -- at least in part.  Maybe there is something intrinsically demeaning about shaking one's ass for a crowd, but women are subjected to that kind of ogling constantly, and I think maybe it's empowering to select the circumstances, time, and place (and outfit?).  Furthermore, burlesque shows seem to celebrate feminine curves, where strip clubs generally favor toned, taut, lean, and surgically enhanced bodies.  Outside of the locker room at the gym, one rarely encounters nude women being...athletic...and undeterred by cellulite and other imperfections.  Airbrushed glossies are so misleading.  And depressing.

In honor of breaking our typically reclusive weeknight routine, I wore my knee-high black boots -- still with jeans, but it felt more appropriate than sneakers.  Girly clothes require so much more attention and posturing than androgynous clothes.  I can get away with a couple of inches of air between my knees in scrubs, but it's much more noticeable (and therefore whore-ish) when I've put an iota of effort into my attire.  I honestly find it rather exhausting to maintain the crossed ankles, straight-backed, demure posture, especially in a hot, crowded room of catcalling strangers.  I imagine one becomes accustomed to it after a while, but it draws such a parallel to a coming-of-age rite of passage, when a child is suddenly deemed an adult and must immediately change lifestyles.  No more playing for you, missy!  It's time to wash the dishes and settle down to your sampler!  (I actually enjoy needlework, but it's such an easy target here.)

I have one remaining question: presumably a parade of nude women produces some arousal in a crowd of heterosexual males, correct?  So I can't help but wonder how they can discreetly readjust to eliminate potential discomfort.  Maybe there's a tumescence wriggle similar to the strapless bra adjustment to correct the situation.  And what about when they need to walk to the bar?  Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day?

that which we call a rose pisses me right off

My parents both have fairly large, fertile families --> I have a lot of cousins, especially on my dad's side.  Most of them -- that is, all of them except my brother and me -- grew up in the same small, small town, went to school together, generally grew up together.  They are a tight-knit group of people, and we were always on the periphery.  We lived hours away, didn't fit well into the age- or gender-sorted comrade cliques, and didn't have a boat to take out on the beach (read: whereas the rest were burnished coppery-golden, we were more akin to...anemic marble).  We were close to each other, however.

My brother is dead now, and although my cousins have grown up and dispersed to different states, they still have the relationships forged during childhood, so now I'm the single black sheep at family holidays.  It's not nearly as isolating as it was in childhood, because we can all drink together, and they make an exemplary effort to include me.  But!

One of them named her baby after her dad (first name) and my brother (middle name); because my brother's middle name was after my uncle, her baby's name is my brother's middle and first names.  It was two years ago, but I recently became supremely pissed off about it.  I know I don't own the name, by any means, but that doesn't stop me from feeling possessive of it, especially since none of them was close to us and how dare she commandeer his name?  It's not like her life changed when he died.  She spends every spare moment she can with her brother, who. is. still. alive.  She hasn't worked for a decade-plus trying to come to terms with suicide, or felt someone missing at every significant milestone of her life.  In fact, to my knowledge, she hasn't had to deal with any remarkable hardships, including finding a grown-up job, or looking for housing, or worrying about money.  She just got married, moved back in with her parents, and started reproducing.  (I appreciate the challenges of SAHMotherhood, but doesn't compare to family tragedy or to forging through young adulthood as a recluse independent person.)  Probably none of that would bother me except WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE KNOW and HOW DARE SHE STEAL HIS NAME.  Did it not occur to her that maybe, just maybe, I might consider it if/when I have children?

I've been thinking about it recently because I discovered that my parents have never met the kid.  Although I moved away from home and don't make it home for many holiday weekends, my parents usually do.  I was catching up with them and they mentioned that Girl Cousin is pregnant again, I exclaimed over how I'd yet to meet the first baby, and my mother said they hadn't, either.  He's almost two years old.  (As an aside, they're still living with her parents.  I don't think I could make all my babies in my parents' house.  That's just icky.)  So now I wonder if it occurred to her that maybe her blasé selection was hurtful to us, and maybe she's avoiding us meeting her baby.  Or maybe I'm just that narcissistic that other people's children's names revolve around me and my family and our personal history.  I was really disappointed in my therapist when she insisted that my brother's death is behind my depression because I spent YEARS working through it (besides, lady, I was depressed WAYYYY before that), but maybe what remains is issues about its lesser impact on other people.  Especially people who weren't even involved, weren't hardly affected, didn't qualify for naming rights.

I like Girl Cousin.  She's a genuinely thoughtful, charming person.  I hope this doesn't affect our future relationship, and I hope she doesn't ever stumble across this blog.  (Girl Cousin, if you're reading this, please try to see it from my perspective and realize that this isn't a diatribe against you, but rather against the way I feel about the circumstances.)  But I remain supremely pissed about the name.  Maybe this will help.