The Flannel Files is riding a streak of good luck these days. The Phillies are 4-1 and I had an opportunity to chat with Carolyn and Sarah about Dyking Out. Here’s what they had to say:
No. 1: Middle-age butch has trouble with letting go.
No. 2: Never glitter a butch.
No. 3: Or you will never hear the end of it.
No. 4: For realz.
And now for all you math geeks: According to our poll, 38 percent of you said it’s best to never ever glitter a butch. I’m guessing the femmes out there agreed that butches are magical creatures. That captured 31 percent of the vote. Three of you, or 23 percent, suggested, butch or no butch, never let glitter get the best of you because it’s just glitter. And one of you indicated that butches are big whiny crybabies.
So, yeah, never glitter a butch.
And here are some more things you shouldn’t do:
* Tell her that her tie is pretty.
* Buy her a drink that comes with a side of fruit and an umbrella like a Malibu Bay Breeze.
* Ask her if she is growing out her hair.
* Ask her to hold your purse.
* Try to hold a conversation with her while she’s watching the game.
* Ask her if her name is short for something else.
* Tell her she would look better with a little foundation and blush.
* Ask to borrow her curling iron.
* * *
Your turn. What’s your best butch don’t?
So much so that as I was skipping to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I tripped on the bottom of my flannel nightgown. I know. So said. Butch down! Butch down! I cried because it hurt so much! After 10-15 minutes of open weeping, I went about my morning grooming routine.
After I was perfectly coifed and dressed (Who’s the fairest of them all?), I made a nice cup of chamomile tea. Drank it in my souvenir mug from the movie The Notebook.
And then it was off to my home office to do some work. There was a Phillies spring training update on the local sports channel and some show on how drinking beer can actually boost your sex life and make you more attractive to the ladies, but luckily those shows didn’t interest me so I was able to focus on my work.
I know, I know … all work and no play makes butch a dull boy/girl. I did take a short work break to watch an infomercial on a new line of skin care from France!
I’m waiting to hear from W about when she’s coming home. It’s Friday, which means salad night for us!
* * *
Well, happy April 3rd to all of my Flannel Files followers. Unfortunately, this post is two days too late. Story of my life, folks.
See if you can spot all of the inconsistencies in the above post. And remember to never take yourself too seriously.
Sometimes I get stuck. Not literally stuck like in a turnstile or a revolving door. Help. Stuck. Can’t pass through.
Or actually stuck while trying on a gold glitter tube top. (I apologize in advance for the image.) Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaah! Butch! Stuck! In! Tube! Top!
But stuck nonetheless.
Other people never seem to have this problem. They seem to have it all together.
When I get stuck, I do all sorts of things except try to get myself unstuck.
Some things I might do instead of unsticking myself:
When I am stuck:
The only way I know how to get unstuck is to do the thing I’m stuck at. And that’s the thing I really don’t want to do.
Things I’d rather do than do the stuck thing:
So, after I’ve done everything else that I can think of, I’ll do the stuck thing.
First, of course, I’ll make a horrible face and make things seem worse than they really are. I’m a drama butch, after all.
Then I’ll do the stuck thing.
At first taking lots of breaks to do important things like load one glass in the dishwasher, organize paperclips and clean cat hair from out of computer keyboard.
And then going back to doing the stuck thing.
Before I know it, my hair is not on fire. I am not shrieking.
I am just doing the unstuck thing.
I am unstuck.
* * *
What do you when you’re stuck? How do you get unstuck?
Full disclosure #1: Kelli very graciously sent me a free copy of her book to check out.
Full disclosure #2: Kelli and I might have been separated at birth, so I should probably alert you to the possibility that we are long lost sisters or brothers or “um whatever” as Kelli would probably say if she was here right now.
Just like me, Kelli often gets mistaken for a dude, and we’ve both been called “faggot” once in our lives. However, I have never been mistaken for an errant Boy Scout or Macauley Culkin, which makes Kelli Dunham perhaps the greatest butch in the universe. (I’m thinking that Kelli and I should pitch our own TV series. Something like “Two and a Half Bois” or “Mad Sh’men.”)
And just when I thought that I was the only lesbian who ever thought about bedding Sarah Palin, enter Kelli Dunham.
“Ok, Middle-age butch,” you might be saying. “We get it. Kelli Dunham is great because she’s just like you. But why should we read this book?”
Well, my Flannel followers, because the book is hysterically funny and brutally honest and poignant and heartbreaking. Imagine a book penned by someone channeling Ellen Degeneres, Abe Lincoln, Mother Teresa and the Bronte sisters. All at the same time.
And here’s the thing. I am a total snob when it come to literature. I have a degree in English, I make my living as a writer, and I don’t have enough free time to read books that aren’t up to my personal standards. Freak of Nurture easily passed my test.
The book has its serious moments, too. Kelli has lost two partners to cancer, performed volunteer work in Haiti after the 2010 earthquake and spent some time as a nun. These chapters are raw and heartbreaking, but Kelli manages to find small touches of humor in these moments of devastation.
As Kelli says, “What doesn’t kill us makes us funnier.” And that, my friends, is the central theme of this beautiful and brilliant book.
You can find out more about the book here, including how to order your very own shiny copy, and link to Kelli’s Freak of Nurture blog.
We were robbed over the weekend.
Before you worry your pretty little heads, know that no one was hurt. We’re all safe — me, W, the kids and the cats.
It was the strangest thing. Perhaps that’s they very nature of a senseless crime. Strange. After all, it’s an not an everyday occurrence. Unless you’re a cop. Or a criminal, for that matter.
So, what did they take? I use the word “they,” because I have a sense that there was more than one of them. A pair, or criminal duo. Or more likely three or four, which would translate into a full-blown crime team. I’m fairly certain they had a ringleader, several lackeys, maybe even a couple of thugs. We can’t be sure. I mean, who can really say.
They took our Purina Tender Moments Whisker Lickin’s (chicken flavor). I use the word “took” in an attempt to mitigate the violent nature of this heinous crime. The scofflaws viciously tore through the vacuum-sealed Whisker Lickin’s package and helped themselves to the tender morsels nestled inside. The brutal manner in which they violated the package indicates that they were sorely in need of a poultry fix.
After closer examination of the evidence, it seems that the perpetrators might have used their teeth to actually tear through the foil-lined package just like some sort of wild animal. In fact, pieces of the package were missing from the crime scene. I wonder if the scoundrels took the fragments with them to cover their tracks or actually ingested pieces of the wrapper in their chicken-crazed haste.
The crime occurred while we were out of the house for the day. Thank God.
The cats were home, though.
We asked them about it. Did you see anything? Did you hear anything? Did you notice anything unusual?
Moon just turned his head and stared blankly out the window.
Magic jumped inside a laundry basket.
It was a terrible case of PTCD (post-traumatic cat disorder). Perhaps the worst I’ve ever seen.
“Curse you villains!” I shouted, shaking my closed fist wildly at the unidentified assailants. “What cruel folly is this!”
Moon turned his head the other way.
Magic sat in the laundry basket.
I opened a new pack of Whisker Lickin’s and fed them each three soft, tender pieces to calm their nerves.
With all of the cat-mouse excitement this weekend (see here), I thought I would re-post one of all my all-time favorite posts, which details a more successful mouse rescue and contains a similar scream from your favorite butch blogger. Look for it.
* * *
“Honey, I need a box or a container or something,” W says.
It’s 6:00 in the morning.
The urgency in her voice suggests that she needs to dispose of a body part. That’s the first thing that pops into my mind at 6 a.m. I am Italian after all.
Me: What’s the matter?
W: There’s a mouse in the bathtub.
Me: Is it alive or dead?
W: I don’t know. His eyes are open. I’m scared.
She gives me that please-protect-me look, which gets this butch’s motor running every time.
Me: Ok, give me a second.
I go downstairs and assemble a makeshift mouse-catching kit. I grab a plastic shopping bag, a small plastic tub, a plastic cup and an empty granola bar box.
W: Don’t worry about the blood. I’ll get that later.
W: There’s two drops of blood on the bathroom floor.
Me: But you don’t know whether the mouse is alive or dead?
This from a nurse.
Me: Well, where did the blood come from?
It’s not like we live in that hotel from The Shining where blood seeps in through the walls.
W: I don’t know. I have to get to work.
Me: Ok, ok, ok.
I walk to the tub, stepping over the drops of blood. There’s a dark gray mouse sitting on top of the drain. His eyes are open. He’s not moving.
I steel myself over the tub preparing to grab a mouse — who may be alive or dead or in a cat-induced coma for all I know — with a plastic shopping bag.
W: Come on, I have to take a shower.
Me: Alright, alright. If this thing moves, I’m going to scream.
I approach the mouse, hand wrapped in plastic bag. It moves. I scream.
I am nothing if not predictable.
Me: Oh God, oh God, oh God.
W impatiently leaves the bathroom.
I chase the mouse all over the tub with the plastic cup. Finally, I get him to scoot inside and cover the top with the plastic bag.
He looks fine. The clear plastic cup allows for a complete medical inspection.
Me: He’s so cute. Can we keep him?
She’s really grumpy in the morning.
Me: I dub you Mordecai. Where do you think the blood came from?
W: I don’t know. There’s only two drops.
Me: Only two drops? That’s a lot of blood. Have you seen how tiny this mouse is? The blood is either from Magic …
Magic is our cat who routinely catches, maims and kills mice. We have assumed that Magic caught Mordecai in some other part of the house, put him in her mouth and then carried him upstairs to her bathtub of horror where she could bat him around and he’d have no way to escape. She’s like a feline version of Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs.
W: I doubt it.
Me: Or, another mouse that’s dead. Or, Mordecai, and he looks ok.
That’s when W notices that Mordecai is missing his tail.
Me: Maybe, he didn’t have one.
Maybe Mordecai is some exotic tailless mouse like a Manx cat, I think.
W: I think all mice have tails.
She starts singing Three Blind Mice.
W: They all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife.
Because this is the definitive source when it comes to rodent anatomy.
Me: Don’t worry, Mordecai, I think it’s a vestigial appendage.
I ask W what I should do with Mordecai.
W: I don’t know. Put him in the yard.
I worry that Mordecai will find his way back inside and into Magic/Buffalo Bill’s torture chamber again.
W: Either put him in the yard or kill him.
Me: These are his two options? Either release him in the yard or kill him?
This thing has mob movie written all over it.
Me: So, I can’t drive him to the park? Mordecai, how would you like to live in a park?
I end up walking Mordecai, who is safely ensconced in his plastic cup, to an old industrial park a block down the street.
I decide he will become a hobo mouse. Mordecai the hobo mouse. I dump him out of the cup and place a Fruit Loop at his feet. Mordecai sniffs around and then darts under an abandoned trailer.
I tell W.
W: Did you gave him a bandana and a stick?
Me: No. Just a Fruit Loop.
W: Did you really?
Me: Yes. I figured that it was the least that we could do after he survived Magic’s tub of terror.
So much excitement and it’s not even 7 a.m. I try to calm myself, but adrenaline is coursing through my body. It’s been a big morning. A big, bloody, horrific morning.
I kiss W goodbye and tell her to have a good day.
“Keep an eye out for the tail,” she tells me before she leaves.
Good God, will the horror never end?
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