Oh, Boy(s)–A contest

Today, Mark Rose says “Feminists ostracize masculinity in men while at the same time trying to make themselves appear more masculine.”

Lord knows, the evidence of my trying to make myself appear more masculine is all over this blog.  So, you know, I wondered maybe if I was just half-failing as a feminist.  Maybe, at least, I was succeeding in ostracizing masculinity in men.  So, I wandered over to the blog of the man I spend the most time with and what do I find?

Roger Abramson accusing him of being too manly for liberalism:

I found it interesting, for instance, that you (Mack) were one of the prime defenders of the masculine rite of pointing out attractive women to other men, given your generally lefty tendencies. NOTE: I didn’t say it was necessarily incompatible with those tendencies, just interesting. Even more interesting is the fact that that’s not the first time you’ve taken a very strident traditionally “masculine” point of view on something (I remember you getting bent out of shape when I half-jokingly suggested that men should be allowed to carry handbags or purses around–would make it a lot easier to carry our junk with us). You are, in fact, much more traditionally masculine than a lot of male conservative bloggers. [Emphasis mine.]

Well, fuck me.  This day was going so well and now I find out that I’m a failure as a feminist.

Damn.

Well, that’s it.  I’m growing a handlebar mustache and… and… well, I’m not exactly sure how one ostracizes masculinity, but the second I do, I’m all over ostracizing Mack’s a little bit, just for the sake of our local conservative bloggers.

Edited to add: Wait a second!  Do you think “ostracize masculinity” is a euphemism for some kind of sexual position conservatives think liberals engage in?  We should have a contest.  The person who comes up for the best description of what a straight woman does to a straight man when she “ostracizes his masculinity” wins.  I don’t really have anything for you to win, but I would be happy to crochet you something.

I’m Gonna Take This Itty Bitty World by Storm

So, where were we?

Ah, yes, the Butcher and I were headed off to the surgeon for the initial consult.

Well, we went and I must say that I have been very, very pleased with everyone over at St. Thomas and find them all to be pleasant and professional.  This doctor was no different.  I filled out all of my paperwork and then the Butcher and I went back.  I got my vitals taken, handed him Rachel’s list of questions, and before I could tell him about my foray into bizarre genital mutilations, the doctor was in there to basically tell me that he had consulted with the previous doctor and they were all in agreement that cutting me open was necessary.

And so I sat there and agreed that cutting me open probably was the best course of action and just as he was about to leave, the Butcher was all, “Wait, we still have three questions to cover on my list” and he proceeded to ask them.

I was disappointed to learn that I probably wont have a gruesome scar.  The Butcher was disappointed to learn that there really aren’t any complications from this surgery more than just some bleeding that will resolve itself.

And the doctor was all, “Shoot, I could work you in tomorrow.” to which the Butcher was all “No!  Absolutely not.”

This startled the doctor, but the Butcher explained that my parents want to come down for the surgery and there’s no way he’s going to spend his birthday cleaning the house so that it’s presentable for them.

So, next week it is.

Wednesday, I’ll go in for all the pre-surgery tests and bloodwork and anesthesiologist consult and then Thursday the 7th, I am first on his list of people to hack into.  A couple of days after that, we’ll know what the biopsy results are.

I’m sure I’ll go through a variety of emotions, but right now?  I just feel like kicking ass and taking names.  I’m like a man with a new truck.  I’m a kid with pockets full of candy.  I’m a girl just properly smooched.

I have a plan and there’s something to be done and we’re going to do it, no more pussy-footing around.

And that feels really good and so I feel really good.

Happy Birthday Butcher!

It’s the Butcher’s birthday.  He’s the Dead Rockstar Age.  I will, of course, be keeping him away from juke joints, swimming pools, heroin, Parisian bath tubs, and Courtney Love this year.

Apparently Being Terrified Makes Me Hot!

Two days in a row I’ve gotten compliments from people about how good I look.  Ha, I know it’s only because to read here you’d think I was hiding under my bed, gasping for air, looking like some cross between Emily Dickinson and John Keats.

But it nevertheless kind of freaks me out that the farther along we go to finding out what’s wrong with me the better I feel.

Anyway, the Butcher is taking me to the surgeon and I will have news when I return.

Keep your fingers crossed, because the sooner we get this shit straightened out, the sooner this blog can return to the crap it used to be full of.