fitforafemme.com

WHAT A WEEK.

Jesus Christ. It’s like this wussy little 4-day work week was so slighted by how completely and totally amazing our magical holiday weekend was that it decided to be the biggest shit in the history of the universe. So.

When I think of the last weekend, a warm, cozy glow washes over me and I nearly wince against the memory of the sun hitting so much white, can almost hear and feel the slushy crunch of snow under my boots, can feel M’s big, warm, fingerless-gloved paws against my torso as she catches me when I slip on an unsteady swath of ice (and her smile when it happens), the delicious bite of big mountain wind in my hair as I soar float down a tree-lined, twisting run, trying to catch up with her. The work week is all but washed away, and my mind sets on plotting how long before we can go back (21 days exactly).

Here is a wood we came across. Tahoe City has some nifty little walking bridge, and that’s where we were trying to get but stumbled instead into a park-like area with a Gatekeeper’s Museum and a little red shack to show you where the Original Fire House once stood, with ominous black bear painted cut-outs from particle board placed here and there.

It was beautiful. Even though footsteps had worn a clear path out to the clearing of soft, untouched snow that had fallen over the rocks or sand or both of the Lake Tahoe shores, only a few imprints were visible past a certain point. First I ran and then trotted and then walked briskly out toward the water, turning back often to check on M, who kept snapping photos and gingerly stepped through the snow, laughing.

I found a snowman missing its face, and tried to give some of it back. A long, skinny finger of land or dock stretched way out into the freezing cold water, and I wanted to walk to the end of it, but M hollered at me not to. Too dangerous. I stopped and flopped down into the snow, sunk down half a foot, and began to flail around the way I imagine people do when making snow angels (which I have never done), to make a snow angel.

M caught up with me and doubled over like she was having a fit and then told me my snow angel was the worst one she’s ever seen, so I threw some snow at her and made a beeline for the trees.

Anyway, you can’t imagine how beautiful it was there, unspoiled and hushed and lovely. These pictures of the scenery hardly do it justice. If we weren’t expected back at the cabin, we probably would have found somewhere to nap like real bears.

When I woke up today and peered through my blurry Valentino glasses to search for my contact lens case, panic set in. I knew I only had one lens left, and if anything happened to my last pair, scarcely hanging on by a thread, I was screwed. I hate wearing glasses, I hate the loss of peripheral vision, I hate how wobbly and unsteady I feel in them. I ran my hands over the bathroom counter, over sticks of eyeliner and tubes of lipstick and sundry palettes, and gasped as they met the little cage that is supposed to sit immersed in some sort of fizzing disinfectant solution overnight, every night. It hit me.

WHILE TAKING MY CONTACTS OUT LAST NIGHT, I GOT DISTRACTED BY LASH SERUM AND GIDDILY APPLIED THE LASH SERUM AND ABANDONED THE PROCESS ENTIRELY.

My eyelashes might be longer and thicker and darker, but I was stuck in my glasses half the day today because by morning the contacts had shriveled and dried into a cloudy, brittle mess. I had to make an emergency eye exam appointment (as it turned out my old prescription expired last September) and sweet talk them into giving me a trial contact lens (to go with the orphan lens) on the spot, and praise Dolly they did.

So the rest of the day went. The free lunch at work was so-so, but a coworker gave me some Tcho chocolates. I ended up working very late, but scored $300 of Banana Republic goodies for less than $50 at their last chance sale. The sitter was late picking up the petite, but we had delicious Italian delivered and I carried my stinky fathead puppy around for awhile, like a baby. There might be two suns in 2012, but Mexican CNN has naked chicks, so it’s all evened itself out, hasn’t it?

Corduroys: Levi’s
Sweater: Target
Boots: Vintage
Foxtail: Dollywood
Bag: Freebird by The Sak
Cocktail Ring: Banana Republic

Confession: You are about to know WAY more about 1. Lush henna hair dye and 2. my night last night than you ever, ever wanted to know. Get cozy, stay awhile. Before I tell that story, I must share the link to the new LGBT Pride Month Proclamation from President Obama posted on the whitehouse.gov website yesterday. It pleases me – I still need to see more significant action, but I am pleased. Especially with this part (bolding mine):

These issues affect not only the LGBT community, but also our entire Nation. As long as the promise of equality for all remains unfulfilled, all Americans are affected. If we can work together to advance the principles upon which our Nation was founded, every American will benefit. During LGBT Pride Month, I call upon the LGBT community, the Congress, and the American people to work together to promote equal rights for all, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, BARACK OBAMA, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim June 2009 as Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride Month. I call upon the people of the United States to turn back discrimination and prejudice everywhere it exists.

Back to the story. M is in Phoenix on business and last night seemed like the perfect time to commit to appx. 8 hrs. of semi-risky hair experimentation. The objective: To make my newly cut hair shinier (yes, shinier) and a little bit richer and more even in color via one bar of Lush’s Caca Brun Hair Mama Henna. I really wanted to NOT dump more chemicals into my hair b/c, well, it’s gross and not conducive to shininess. Pursuant to the overall advice of countless forum and comment posts I researched, I chucked the bar into the blender with a freshly brewed 1/2 pot of delicious coffee, observed the fact that once blended to the consistency of brownie or cake batter, it looks JUST LIKE GREEN BABY POOP and went to town thoroughly applying the dye with gloves out of my DIY bain marie.

No more than 10-15 minutes after committing my head to a slimy-but-gritty green beehive wrapped tightly with plastic cling wrap, ready for a full night’s sleep, did our building’s fire alarm go off. Dudes, seriously? I was like Eminem on MTV Movie Awards Night: ARE YOU SERIOUS!? ARE YOU SERIOUS!?!??!?!?!?!?!?! Eff. My. Life. It was so worst case scenario it’s not even funny. I got the petite up. Got the puppies together. Grabbed my documents and phone and rummaged through M’s things to put on one of her beanies – A FUCKING BEANIE!!! – over the slime-hive of baby poop death and schlepped downstairs, where all 60 or so of our neighbors waited for the fire dept. to come and investigate and then finally turn the deafening alarms off. When I say deafening, I am not kidding. That shit is louder than standing right in front of a speaker at a Sonic Youth show, and shrill as hell. It cannot possibly be within legal decibel levels.

I suppose I should note that it is common knowledge that REAL fires would trigger the overhead sprinklers, so the only real danger was my total and utter embarrassment. The bldg. was cleared within 10-15 minutes, in the meantime I cooed soothing things to the puppy and repeatedly asked my petite if slime was oozing out of the hat anywhere. She said no, but she was also sleepily giggling at me. Once we were safely back in our loft, I tried to sleep, but woke up every 30 or so minutes from 12:30AM through 5:30AM, at which point I could no longer stand it and got up to rinse all the dye out and shower, while M slept just as fitfully from her hotel room in Phoenix because we are awesomely pathetic like that. She watched an Arizona sunrise, I obtained shinier, more uniform dark brown hair with soft hints of auburn.

But you’ll have to wait until my next blog post to see it!

More fun facts about Lush hair dye:

• They come in four colors – rouge/red, marron/chestnut, noir/black and brun/brown. The results vary wildly by hair type, condition and natural color, but the guarantees are pretty much that your hair will be: shinier, healthier, chemical-free, in terms of color, richer and multi-dimensional.
• People experiment wildly with these – adding DIY, at-home ingredients like paprika, lemon juice, cloves, etc. to the mix and swapping plain hot or boiling water with brewed coffee, red zinger or chamomile or black tea, etc. depending on your desired result. Oils like olive or lavender are also popular additions, as much for shine as texture or scent.
• Next time, I’d probably do a 2:1 ratio of marron:brun or even marron:rouge over my dark, dark hair, because it really seems to make the strands pop like whoa. I envy like hell any blondes/dirty blondes who can get away with their reds – the results are simply stunning, provided you have healthy hair and a decent cut to start with. Like Tori Amos stunning.
• It also seems like some of the added ingredients are meant to help with the smell, which folks whine about A LOT, but for me it was just like an especially earthy and damp green tea.
• Another thing I’d do different next time is buy a few empty hair dye applicator bottles from the beauty store, fill them up with the hot henna mix, and plunk ‘em into near-boiling water (bain marie or whatnot) to make application easier. It’s messier than regular dye, but not THAT much messier.
• People also seem to get more intense results when they babysit it with a blow dryer every 30 minutes or so for 2-3 hrs., as opposed to no heat overnight, like I did, so I’d probably try that as well.

Confession: The bad news early this week, combined with needing a vacation from my Memorial Day holiday weekend minibreak made for a pretty quick and painful week. I’ve been devouring articles on the Prop. 8 fallout, working like mad and oscillating between feeling angry and despairing or feeling all the more empowered and inspired to do something about marriage equality.

More specifically, I am really angry that ALL of the LGBT content on barackobama.com and whitehouse.gov has been taken down or revised into something managing to be hyper-condensed and watered down at the same time. I agree with everything that is said here, in an open letter to President Obama written by L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center’s Chief Executive Officer Lorri L. Jean. My favorite excerpt, though of course I encourage you to open and read ALL of these links when you have time:

We know the country faces many serious challenges and we have strived to be patient. We’ve waited for the slightest sign you would live up to your promise to be a “fierce advocate” for our equal rights while watching gay and lesbian members of the armed forces, who have never been more needed, get discharged from the military. And so far you have done nothing. No stop loss order. No call to cease such foolish and discriminatory actions that make our nation less safe.

You pledged to repeal the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, Mr. President. You promised to support a “complete repeal” of the so-called Defense of Marriage Act and pledged to advocate for legislation that would give same-sex couples the 1,100+ federal rights and benefits we are denied, including the same rights to social security benefits. You said, “Federal law should not discriminate in any way against gay and lesbian couples.”

I am appalled to the point of feeling literally faint with horror and disbelief upon reading this article by Andrew Sullivan of The Atlantic, and here is an excerpt from it:

Here we are, in the summer of 2009, with gay servicemembers still being fired for the fact of their orientation. Here we are, with marriage rights spreading through the country and world and a president who cannot bring himself even to acknowledge these breakthroughs in civil rights, and having no plan in any distant future to do anything about it at a federal level. Here I am, facing a looming deadline to be forced to leave my American husband for good, and relocate abroad because the HIV travel and immigration ban remains in force and I have slowly run out of options (unlike most non-Americans with HIV who have no options at all).

And what is Obama doing about any of these things? What is he even intending at some point to do about these things? So far as I can read the administration, the answer is: nada. We’re firing Arab linguists? So sorry. We won’t recognize in any way a tiny minority of legally married couples in several states because they’re, ugh, gay? We had no idea. There’s a ban on HIV-positive tourists and immigrants? Really? Thanks for letting us know. Would you like to join Joe Solmonese and John Berry for cocktails? The inside of the White House is fabulous these days.

Yesterday, Robert Gibbs gave non-answer after non-answer on civil unions and Obama’s clear campaign pledge to grant equal federal rights for gay couples; non-answer after non-answer on the military’s remaining ban on honest servicemembers. What was once a categorical pledge is now – well let’s call it the toilet paper that it is.

I’m just at a loss to say anything further, but there was one small triumph, one small thing that I could do this week to feel less powerless, so I decided to change my legal name. While M & I discussed it long ago and I’d been meaning to get around to it, on Wednesday I marched into the Social Security Administration offices in Oakland and demanded a legal name change with my marriage certificate in hand. And what do you know, less than five minutes after I stomped into there, I floated out with my receipt in hand, officially Mrs. M. FFAF Tomboy. The next and final step as far as officious bureaus and things are concerned was the DMV, and they asked that I return either after 72 hrs. to verify the SSA change electronically, or once I have my newly issued SSN card in hand, so I’ll do that as soon as it comes in the mail. In the meantime, the change feels FANTASTIC! I love it. In a way, I’m glad I’d procrastinated on taking care of it, because it was somewhat healing and empowering to do it this way, at this time, in response to those cowardly opinions.

Finally, in No More Mr. Nice Gay in The Huffington Post, Michael Rowe beautifully captures the three historical pillars of social exclusion and here’s my favorite excerpt from that article (bolding mine):

The LGBT community isn’t demanding the first gay president…or a lesbian Supreme Court Justice. Yet. What they want, and what they’re fighting for is full membership in American society without the three historical pillars of social exclusion (especially for men): the ability to marry someone of their own choice, the ability to raise and protect a family, and the right to serve and defend their country in the military. If those aren’t “family values,” then “family values” don’t exist. LGBT people are not any threat to “the family.” They are the family: sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, husbands, wives. The joining of two families is one of the oldest rites in the history of the human race.

It’s time that the full rights of every American be fully enshrined and protected, and that the battle for those rights be acknowledged as this generation’s defining civil rights battle.

Below are a couple of really great, brief videos to watch if you can’t stand any more on the subject. The first is a video of the (gentle) arrests made on Tuesday in San Francisco immediately following the 10AM announcement. The second is a great TV commercial made by the Courage Campaign, and I closed out with some funny via a parody by The Defenders – it’s pretty awesome and first in a coming series.

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If you made it this far, I thank you and appreciate all the well wishes and sweet thoughts y’all have been passing our way. If any FFAF readers are going to Meet In The Middle tomorrow, I want to know ASAP!

GAH! I HAVEN’T POSTED IN DAYS AND DAYS! BAD FEMME! BAD! VERY BAD!

Here, I’ll make it up to you with no less than five sets of outfits all at once, from this week. SHAM-WOW that, kittens! I’m sorry to have kept you out in the cold while it’s been, well, so cold. Tomorrow, I promise to write another post with reviews of Burberry London for Men, Kenzo’s Flower and a few picks from the Victoria’s Secret Holiday Coffret collection.

What (for a cozy Italian dinner out with friends last night): Ralph Lauren black cords, Blanc Noir wool coat, black scarf, GB arm warmers, vintage red leather pumps.

What (same cozy Italian dinner, under the coat!): Same as above, sans coat, plus sheer blouse from modcloth.com and belt by Ralph Lauren.

What (for a Costco run on Wednesday – titillating, I know): James Jeans, Sylvie & Mado jersey cotton wrap, green sleeveless blouse by Libertine for Target. Belt by Elie Tahari and brown boots by Classified.

What (for a fancy SF job interview this morning): Blue Ann Taylor suit, ruffled plaid blouse from Gap, scarf by Gucci. Blue Mary Janes by Linea Paolo. Sexy glass by Valentino.

What (post-interview Friday errands outfit): James Jeans + Gap blouse + Blanc Noir coat + FCUK striped scarf. Same shoes as above.

When: Sunday, Nov. 30th, 2008.

What: Light blue turtleneck by Nine West, royal blue cropped linen jacket by Persaman NYC, Laundry by Shelli Segal trousers and suede and patent boots by Restricted. Awesome bag of unknown, thrifted origin, and flower pin in shades of gray with crystals also unknown, but just because I don’t remember. Anyway, this was my outfit for our impromptu date night to go and see the new Jason Statham movie, Transporter 3, at Kadinsky’s urging over at BCP.

Scent: Valentino’s Rock ‘N Rose. It tells me that I am a rose on the outside and a rocker on the inside. I don’t know what that means, but M picked this out for me on another notorious date night, and it’s nice. The notes are: Bergamot, Black Currant, Crunch Green, Orange Blossom, Gardenia, Muguet, Rose, Sandalwood, Orris, Musky Notes, Vanilla, Heliotrope. It isn’t floral, save rose, and the rose itself is a very pure note with almost no trace of sweetness whatever. M likes it as well but she disagrees, saying she can detect the other florals. It’s unapologetically feminine, very French, almost – thus I believe Rock ‘N Rose to be a bit of a misnomer. It’s what Emmanuelle Béart ought to smell like (I’ll demonstrate Herculean self-restraint and post something other than her French Vogue cover):

Confession: The other night M & I met a friend of ours to shoot pool and imbibe at the White Horse Inn, the oldest gay bar in Oakland. We’re all pretty terrible at pool, so once it was clear that we were losing a game, we’d simply try and harass our opponents into submission, at which point it became even clearer that our opponents enjoyed the harassment at least as much as they enjoyed winning. Midway through the night, M was busy writing her name in huge letters on the chalkboard, having been accused of not signing up properly. When I say ‘huge,’ I mean she left no room for any other names whatsoever. She was interrupted, however, by a 31-year-old with alleged $40K dental bills who asked M if she was wearing fleece.

(Insert sound of record scratching here.)

M (to stranger who asked about fleece): Do not ever speak to me again.
Stranger: What? Why? Did I say something wrong?
Femme (having walked over, sensing M’s belligerence escalate): What did you say to her?
M (pointing at stranger): She is never to speak to me again. Do not let her speak to me.
Femme: Why?
M (v. clearly enuciated): She asked me if I was wearing fleece.
Femme: (Sucks in breath, gives stranger a scolding look.) Nevermind, bebe. It’s your turn. Go on. (M sulks off, ignoring stranger completely.)
Stranger: What did I say to her? What’s wrong with fleece? I don’t get it.
Femme: She would never wear fleece. It’s insulting.
Stranger: What? I didn’t know. I mean, I know fleece isn’t super fashionable or anything, but…
Femme: Never. Ever. It’s OK, you didn’t know. Now you know.
Stranger: I sometimes wear fleece!
Femme: I’m sure that’s very nice for you, and probably only you.
Stranger: I mean, it’s always a last resort.
Femme: There’s a reason for that. Obviously.
Stranger: But it’s practical.
Femme: (Scowls in disgust.) Like that’s an excuse.

Anyway, I made an attempt to continue communicating the fleece issue but didn’t get very far. I realized today that I should have just explained that asking us if we wear fleece is like asking a foodie if they garnish their delicious gourmet dinners with Velveeta. Or used canned vegetables. DON’T DO IT. Only small children and non-Californians in hostile climates should be allowed. (Note: We are not foodies.) His ‘n hers fleece is HELLA especially not allowed: