The Femme Trials

I just got home after my arrest from The Femme Police. My wrists would hurt if the cuffs hadn't been so fuzzy. It wasn't easy defending my femininity, especially after that comment about how I don't like shopping, but I managed to get out of there without losing my female privileges. And this was how...

So the other day I was going about my business and blogging about how I'm not stereotypically feminine because I don't care about clothes, shopping, or color coordination. You know, I'm sure you all have been there. And then The Femme Police showed up to revoke my femaleness.

There were two of them, Agents Glossy and Botox, in high heels, makeup, dove gray skirt suits because dove gray was the new pink that morning, and those necklaces that look like five crazy necklaces around their necks with little rocks that made clicking sounds every time they moved.

They raised spiked heels at me. "You're under arrest for slander against shopping. Hand over your membership card and your uterus."

I was sitting on the couch with my laptop across my lap, because I assume from the name that that's where it goes. If it was called an "elbowtop" I'm sure I'd find a way to coordinate that but they cleverly gave it a name that we writers can work with. This has nothing to do with my arrest, but I just thought I'd point that out to make you better informed readers.

Anyway, I set the laptop aside, revealing an attire of sweatpants and a 23 year-old Motley Crue T-shirt.

"Oh dear God!" cried Agent Botox, shielding her eyes.

"Pull it together! Remember your training!" yelled the other.

I gave them a confused look. "What? Oh. This?" I stretched out the shirt. "Come on, man, this was the Dr. Feelgood Tour, 1990. Tommy Lee mooned the crowd! To this day I can't look at this shirt without thinking about that man's ass."

Agent Botox turned green and left the room. But Agent Glossy took a deep breath and stayed focused. She pulled a curling iron out of her purse and pointed it at me.

"Don't make me do your hair."

My eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."

"I'll make you sit in a chair for two hours while I curl each strand of hair and spray them to your head with noxious chemicals while I tell you about my cousin's wedding."

I held up my hands. "I'll go quietly."

True to my word, I was silent until we got to court, where I faced a tribunal of fabulously boring-looking women. They were all too thin, all brunette-dyed-blonde, all manicured, and all with a stunning amount of eye makeup on. I could not tell how old any of them were. They wore yellow robes because yellow was the new pink that afternoon and stood at individual podiums, each with Scentsy warmers on the table top and signs that said "I'd rather be judging" on the side.

It was the one in the center who unfurled the scroll of charges against me and read them out loud.

"Genevieve," she looked up and smiled. "Such a pretty name." Then she looked down and scowled again, "Rheams. You have been brought before this tribunal for the following crimes against femininity...wearing mismatched clothes, poor color coordination of furniture, failure to wear accessories, failure to wear makeup, keeping the same hair style for 15 years, failure to keep decorative pillows on your couch, disinterest in purses, slander against shopping, failure to wear heels, only owning two pairs of shoes, a liking for punk music, too much enjoyment in lifting heavy objects, fear of large groups of other women, and the inability to cry during commercials."

"...Does it count if I cry because the commercials are too long?"

"No!" they hollered. "They must warm your heart."

"Shit," I said. "Well, all of that's true. But there are other things about me that I think count towards being a girl."

"List them please."

"A vagina."

"Oh yes. We'll be needing you to turn that in."

"No!"

"It's an insult to women to go around being a girl without really being one."

"But I also love babies, and little kids who dress like grownups, and little animals who dress like people, and tea cups. And I'm kind, compassionate, intelligent, and a good friend. Surely those count as wonderful feminine qualities as well."

The leader pulled out her cell phone and began typing. "I'll have to google that..."

"Maybe she's more of a man," the one on the right suggested.

The middle one looked up at me. "Do you like to watch football?"

I squinched up my face. "No. I like to play football, but watching it on t.v. bores me."

The three of them threw up their hands.

"What kind of an answer is that?" the one on the left said. "You kind of do but you kind of don't? It's too mixed, we don't know what to do with you."

"But she DOES like babies," said the one on the right. "That counts."

"Why don't we just drop 'feminine' and 'masculine' as labels?" I asked. "Everyone is so different, why don't we just appreciate each other as individuals?"

"Throw her in the Androgynous Holding Tank," the center one proclaimed.

"That's it? That's all you're going to ask me?" I said.

"Yes."

I laughed. "You didn't even ask me about my sexual orientation."

"Oh that? It doesn't count against you if you're a lesbian. We've all slept together. It was good fun."

The ones on the left and the right nodded in agreement.

"Although if you are a lesbian, we can let you go because then it all makes sense," said the leader.

"But I'm not a lesbian. And I'm not straight. I'm bisexual, I fall in love with both."

And that's when their heads exploded. It's ok, I'm used to that happening when I explain my sexuality. But the guards still threw me in the Androgynous Holding Tank. It was filled with men and women waiting for relatives to bail them out.

"What are you in for?" I asked a guy who was leaning forlornly against the bars.

"I cry during commercials and I'm straight," he admitted.

"Did you tell them the bit about stereotyping?"

"Yes. While I cried."

I patted him on the back. The rest of us talked and we all decided to start a rock n' roll band because that's what happens in Androgynous Holding Tanks. That's actually how Joan Jett and the Blackhearts got started. And I was let go and allowed to be female as long as I agreed not to blog things that pose a threat to ideals of men and women that people have grown comfortable with.

I don't like nail polish. It takes too long to dry and I don't like sitting there while something stinky glues itself to my hands. I have better things to do. Ha HAAAA!!! You'll never take me alive, fuckers!!!

Here, enjoy a song about androgyny.

Out of Milk

I don't know how this happened, but I am out of milk for my coffee AND I just used up the last of the coffee grinds. My coffee making materials is the litmus test as to when it's time to go to the store. And the time has come. And this is not good.

I know this is going to blow the minds of people who enjoy believing stereotypical things about men and women, but I don't enjoy shopping. Really, I think some people cultivate beliefs about men and women as a hobby. Whenever you have a discussions with them they are excited to cart them out, like an antique plate collection or one of those window boxes where butterfly bodies are pinned down and labeled.

"Look at this one," he'll say. "She acted like she didn't want to be caught and it was a hard chase but she gave in in the end. Just like a woman."

"She's dead and is pinned to the box," I point out.

"I know." He rolls his eyes. "Women, huh?"

Anyway, so I don't like shopping. For anything, really, although food is sometimes an exception if I'm cooking something in particular. But stocking up for the week? AAAAAAHHHHH!  There's planning meals ahead of time, budgeting, gathering coupons, taking a calculator with me to the store, filling my basket and then waiting in a long line because it's the weekend. And then what if I buy the wrong thing? What about THAT? What if I buy the generic brand peanut butter because it's 30 cents cheaper and  no one likes it so no one eats it? So it sits in my pantry for a year, watching jar after jar of name brand peanut butters come and go because that's what I'm buying now because that's what the kids and I really want, and we end up giving the old jar to the dog. The emotional consequences of choosing the wrong peanut butter are too high.

Then there's clothes shopping. Gadzooks. How much money is too much money for jeans? I don't know, different people have different ideas about this. What is MY idea about it? I don't know, I haven't even come to a conclusion on peanut butter. What if I buy a pair of jeans and I don't like them? Do I return them? Which means I have to GO BACK to the store? With the beeping noises, and the salespeople who want me to buy things, and the music playing overhead that I think is supposed to make me feel like I'm on a runway but because the sound system is bad and there are shoppers arguing in the background, instead I feel like I'm visiting a model's retirement home and this is what's playing over the loud speaker during shuffleboard? I can't go back there, so I give the jeans that don't fit me to Good Will. For me, giving clothes to Good Will is not a demonstration of my good will as much as it is avoidance of Old Navy.

This brings me to the subject of clothes, which could be a whole post in and of itself, and I would love to launch into it but I have to get ready for work.

And luckily this morning all I need is milk for my coffee. I think I can handle that without any serious mental damage. Now do I get the brand where the cows haven't been given hormones or the cheaper one where they have been shot up with hormones? I need a personal shopper.