Every time you come around my london london bridge want to go down. (???!) Apparently I am old and therefore do not have my finger on the pulse of… what-the-fuck-ever those ignunt lyrics are supposed to mean.
Please pass the gravy, bitches! I just spent an hour in the middle of JoAnn Fabrics burning up an electric turkey trimmer on a ginormous chunk of upholstery foam. Shoppers were trying to shout over the wrrrrrrrr as huge chunks of neon green foam went flying out in all directions. I believe someone earned an Electrified Bird Carving PhD on this day. I tried to Butch-up with this steady, inconspicuous look on my face that I am sure read: “Heyull yes, fool! I do this stunt all the time, not just holidays”.
All this for the new built-in bench in my kitchen.
O’. How I suffer for my art.
I have decided from now on when a man steps in front of me in line, speaks over me or otherwise assumes I am invisible, I am just going to take a step back and say, “Oh! I did not realize you are male. Please, sir. You first.” Trial run this morning at brunch, and then again later at the Homo Depot. A+ on your lesson, dicklick. Five gold stars. Check plus PLUS! Course, one was a shaky, skinny little dewd and the other apparently did not realize he had a penis. But still.
I’m proud to be unfuckable, fellas, but ya’ll best recognize!
Don’t make Mr. PotatoHead snap on the angry eyes.
The Femme Conference is over. I am still in San Francisco. This is always how it is when these events are over. The windows are drawn in the war room and we are all emotionally exhausted. Party cleaned up and trash dumped and bills being cleared. People I love so dearly have been coming by all morning, toting their suitcases and leaving us with long goodbye hugs. But I am not tired. The Femme Conference was like a gotdam revival meeting! One of those amazing happenings where the timing and the meaning were so profound, I will never be the same.
