Lunch Break Heartache

Hello my darlings!
It's 12:45 p.m. on a weekday. 

What are YOU doing?

If you're one of the 19 people who have my job, chances are good that you're splayed, sock-footed, in your Marriott bed, watching the last 15 minutes of TLC's What Not to Wear.

I mean, the odds are pretty good.  Like, 90% chance that's what you're doing. 

Here's why:  What Not to Wear is always, always on at lunchtime.  Consistently, in every city in America. 
TV is there for you when nothing else is.

We all watch it.

I watch What Not to Wear every day.

The best part of the makeover is always when Nick, the Scottish hairstylist, says, "Noaw, you're gunta a see a lot o' hair on the floor, so doon't panic," and then the middle-aged woman getting her hair cut starts crying hot, predictable tears.
 

Every episode, this happens.

After an hour of this shit, most of my colleagues go back to work.

Refreshed.  Ready to deal, once more, with idiotic seminar participants.


They forget all about What Not to Wear. 

But not me.

 I'm in a high sweat; tearing at my cuticles; unable to concentrate or even think about anything but the ripping sound my heartstrings are making.

*OMG PAINFUL UNREQUITED LOVE!!!*

I have a new celebrity crush.
And it's realllllll bad, because this time I have no explanation for it.
None whatsoever.
She's not even my type!  She's not even close to my type! What is this? 
What the fuck is this???

My crush isn't Stacy London. 

It's not Clinton Kelly.

It's...

Carmindy, the What Not to Wear makeup artist! 

AAGGH lookather.  She's my delicate shimmering hummingbird!

Carmindy comes onscreen with her hair in a messy ponytail and her pockets full of makeup brushes. 

She bends over her nervous makeoveree and looks intently at his or her face. 

Her eyes flicker over the blank canvas she's been given.

I want Carmindy to look at me like that.

She always takes a deep breath, smiles - as if she likes what she sees - and murmurs,

"You have amazing eyes. I reeeeaalllly want to bring those out."

If Carmindy were doing my makeup, I bet I'd be able to look right down her shirt.

Her breasts would be nestling together like doves; the line of cleavage a scented mystery.

I bet she smells like expensive rosewater and $7 vanilla cupcakes.

And look at that pointy little fucking jaw!

She's her own can-opener.  I just want to set her chin over a can of peaches and slam it down to open the top!

She looks like a mean, popular girl. 

She looks like Sandy from "Grease".  
She looks exactly like a cleaned-up Blondie and that makes her a fucking monster.

Fuck. 

Guys, I know she's straight.  I usually have a self-preserving policy against crushing on straight girls. 

But...I can't help it.
I want to wake up to Carmindy. 
I want her blonde hair to be all messed up as she rolls sleepily out of my white cotton sheets. 

I want her to make me gluten-free waffles, naked except for a ruffly apron. 

I want her to out-femme me.
I want to buy her shoes and pretty gold necklaces with chains more delicate than a strand of baby's hair. 

I want to suck on her pearly pink polished fingertips!
Aaagh!!! 
What is happening to me?

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Birthday Suits + Intellectual Pursuits

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Ingrained in the Membrane

Everybody’s good at something.

Some people can read music. (What are you, some kind of fucking genius?  You’re scaring me.  You can read dots. )

Some people can talk to you and really listen.  Really listen, as if you’re the most interesting and important person in the room.

Some people know, intuitively, which flavors will mingle nicely together in a stir-fry.

Some people can make whimsical handbags out of license plates and sell them in upscale, “quirky” women’s boutiques for more than $70. 

Everybody’s got a talent!

Me too.

I can wake up instantly.
Like, instantly.

As in, "I was in deep REM sleep at 3 a.m. and having a sex dream about Tina Fey and Queen Latifah in prison but now there’s a fire alarm in my hotel and I am suddenly outside, fully dressed, with all my stuff, including my toothbrush, nightstand book, and fucking travel candle and NO idea how it happened.”

In less than 2 minutes.

It’s like being in the military.

On days off, I can easily sleep ‘till one or two o’clock and still bitch about having to meet someone for a late brunch.

But if I set an alarm…

I’m out of bed like a gunshot. I sit straight up, gasp, and explode out of bed.  It’s terrifying. You should have seen this shit the other weekend, when I was in Hawaii during the tsunami warning.  The hotel PA system would blast sirens and tell everyone to “remain calm,” while CNN shrieked about a “mammoth wave capable of mass destruction.”  My hotel was right on the beach. 

This extraordinary talent probably stems, like all things worthy, from being a Mormon.

All Mormon children, aged 14-18, attend an early morning, before-school seminary class.  
Monday thru Friday.
For all four years of high school.

This is to indoctrinate you using sleep deprivation, further lowering your resistance to Mormon culture, scripture, and lessons as you get closer to college-going/decision-making age.
I am not bitter.

My seminary class began promptly at 6 a.m.

What’s that?
Doesn’t sound so early, eh?

What if you factor in being a self-conscious teenage girl with acne, braces, and Very Complicated Bangs?

What if you only have two Abercrombie sweaters and both of them are in the wash? 

What then, huh?

You’re looking at stress-hives and a 4:15 a.m. wake-up call.
For four solid years.

Eventually you’re wide-awake at 3:57 in the morning on a Wednesday, eyes on the clock, just daring that fucker to ring.

Anyway!

Can you train yourself to be gay?

Don't send me hate mail - I'm just throwing the question out there.

I was thinking about a woman who wrote to me here at effingdykes@gmail.com to tell me her Coming Out story.

Her letter was extremely short.  She said she was a lesbian because her best friend would make her look at nudie magazines whenever her parents weren’t home, which was a lot, apparently.
She says it “trained” her to be gay.

Cool.

Not the best friend’s behavior, obviously, but the idea that you could train yourself to be gay, just through repetitive exposure to naked ladies.

I must try this repetitive-exposure thing and see if I can train myself to enjoy BDSM. Mostly I just find myself tied up, giggling like a 13-year-old girl reading Tiger Beat.   Omigod, are you going to flog me?

Not only do I find my letter-writer's logic shaky at best, but I also think that kind of thinking is dangerous to queers. 

First of all, our society sells us everything using mostly-naked female bodies.  Using our friend's argument - wouldn't all women be lesbians by now?  We've been repeatedly exposed to naked women all our lives. 

I mean, have you looked in a Cosmo magazine lately?

And second of all: 

Hasn’t the Christian right been working this angle for years? The whole “Homosexuality-is-natural-but-you-can-train-yourself-not-to-act-on-your-impulses-and-lead-a-pure-life-with-Jesus'-help” thing?

You know, Train Yourself To Be Straight!

Obviously this doesn't work.  Look at that faggot Ted Haggard.

I can prove it doesn't work. 

Just like that. 

BOoM!  Problem solved.

...'Cause I seem to have been exposed, repetitively, to heterosexuals all my life.

I guess some lessons just don’t take.

My parting questions are these: 

*What (if any) outside factors influenced our gayness?
 

*How much of our lives is habit?

*How much did we take away from the training of our childhood? Is there something so ingrained that it's unchangeable? 

                                       and finally,

 

*Why, every now and again, do I still wake up at 4:15 a.m., heart pounding, even though Seminary was a decade ago?

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