"What exactly do all those people do during the day?" I always wondered this whenever I sauntered around the streets sporting walls of windowed coffee shops on my days off or during lunch hours when I worked @ UCSF. People filled tiny singlet tables with newspapers, books, partially consumed creamy-colored drinks and plates of flaky pastries.
Now that I'm unsatisfactorily unemployed, I, too could be one of those cookie-crumble types, typing on a laptop all day and reading Penguin published books. However, my laptop's battery dies after about 17 minutes and most books published by that Antarctic animal house are too educational for my brain (DH Lawrence, Stegner, JM Coetzee, etc). And, perhaps most importantly, I find that whenever I eat cookies and pastries in a shop they turn stale faster as well as the fact that the clear glass edges from which I drink my coffee tends to have a residual of some past languishers' Adore U, Burning Desire, or Hot Raspberry Ceramic Dreams lipstick imprint.
I wonder, though, where are all the O-40Ls? When did I get so old that I wear baggy, tuck-in clothes and not the hipster, snug, below- and way above-ass tight pants/tops?
When did this happen? I've germinated a few unsavory gray, wiry hairs, and one in particular that chooses a path all its own rather than lying with its brown brethren. Shall I color them or let myself turn bristly and S.O.S. paddish? What do we do now that we've hit this 4th decade of life? My sister's highlights have changed periodically such that I've had to check my scrapbook photos to recall what naturally sprouted from her scalp. Good thing Polaroid created such fantastic yellowy film/instant photo papers. She always had some blond streaks. They've somehow become reddish, like mine, which are natural, btw.
I wonder: How many of us gay chix (O-40 Ls) color our hair? I know of three. Yep, three, including Nancy, Karen, and Sue. Of course, given the secretive nature of all this, I won't divulge their last names in case Others want to point fingers and state that this is some sort of defamation to the Lesbian cause.
Natural hair color. Is it something that we dykstras, we Tribaters, we lesbos clutch, or are we willing to step over to Miss Clairol's house for tea and cookies and spend a few hours sharing our thoughts? Is it a betrayal if we color then participate in some odd slow-mo "speed dating" event and not divulge in a "single word only!" to potential courtees that it's no longer the same lovely hue that we combed out in third grade?
Or, could we be like one of my many past roommates who heard that rinsing ones' hair in coffee & coffee grounds helped to add languid, brunette highlights? One scorching, hot summer day, Owen (a girl) and her gal-pal, Patrice sat outside my house in Denver, their heads covered with produce bags attempting to contain the clumps of Sumatra coffee grounds that hung like mobs of spider nests from their golden locks. The knots tied in the plastic bags hardly dammed up the streams of muddy cups of Joe that poured down their cheeks and into the divots of their necks. I suggested that they use some raw egg since I heard that eggs or mayonnaise add luster. "Oh. Right! Come on' Patrice," Owen said, and the two leapt from their lounge chairs into the refrigerator.
They returned to their leave-in posts, hair shiny with scrambled yolks and whites and the clusters of grinds. Had they left the shells on, tossed a couple melon rinds and wriggling worms into their bagged coiffs they would have become live, organic fertilizer art. Flies and stench hovered around them as they chatted, legs crossed, and flipped through fashion magazines a lá Salon-style.
They sat in the sun stinking of compost and sweat. One hour later, they showered -- of course the yolk-coffee grinds hung on the edges of the tub like the Cat in the Hat's pink ring-- and reappeared unsmelly and clean. I admired their new fashions, but noted that despite their finest sun-soaking, coffee & egg rinsing efforts, their lush heads of hair seemed neither shiny nor highlighted towards any other shade than what popped from the follicles that morning.
Owen and Patrice's faces, however, were both stained with brownish dripmarks that spilled down their foreheads, temples, chin lines, over their larynxes and onto their clavicles where a shade of mud puddle settled. Ochre rivulets were tattooed all over their faces similar to the pasted-on (washable) make-up of 1980s Boy George. Skin darker.... or in unsightly, brown streaks. Hair same.
They ended up at the local drugstore and returned home w/two boxes, of course, of the lovely Miss C.'s Autumnal Chestnut and Hazel. The stripes finally faded away four days later.
So, even for the organic dykes, is chemi-hair coloring verboten? My 20-something pals, organic that they might be (they rolled their own ciggs), appeared in class with shades of red, purple, and ghost white weaves. Obviously, Gen-Xers have no trouble with chemicals, but what about we O-40 Ls? Shame or no shame? Do we hide the Miss C boxes deep within our recycling or enter the salons wearing large Aretha Franklin sattellite dish hats and Jackie-O glasses only to step away 2 hours later, boasting with newfound youth and a subtle blond, brunette, or auburn-highlighted wash and fashionable trim?
I think I'm going to need a crumbly vegan ginger cookie and a tall, all organic latte please if I plan on pondering this much more.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
O-40 Lesbian Dating Final Thoughts
Two women --one about refrigerator height, the other's eyes were even with the former's shoulders -- walked together along the tree-lined trail, small streams of rainwater erased each footstep their sensible hiking boots created on the muddy path. This was a planned "date," to Go For a Hike. Their online matchmaker determined that they both liked Fresh Air, Laughing, and Open, Honest Communication. It was the first time they'd ever been together.
Shoulder-length brunette wore a crinkly, azure Gore-Tex jacket, faded jeans, and black gloves. Her wooly socks crested the tops of her boots and folded to the second eyelet. Shorty wore her soft, curly black hair to mid-neck, a thick orange scarf surrounded her throat and hung over her thick blue sweater. It was one of those hand-knitted types with a melding of autumnal colors, blues, browns, and yellow speckles which hung over her small hips. She also wore sensible low-cut hiking boots with green socks. Her mud brown pants were a bit too short, like they'd been in the dryer far too many minutes and far too many times.
They walked along maintaining a 'safe' distance between each other, you know, about 6 inches, careful to not touch, but close enough to demonstrate that simple 'You'll do,' attraction to the other. More than six inches often implies platonic desire. Of course, in the world of women-seeking-women, this is how the fire is flamed.
Each inquisitive sentence began with a look at the boots, the path, and a sideways peek, "So, do you...?" Their responses, equally as tentative and repetitive started with a quick glance at the other, a search towards the clouds for an answer, eyes forward to trail ahead, then "Well, I usually...." Boots, path, peek, "So do you...?" Glance, clouds, trail, "Well, I usually..."
Shorty dug her hands into her pants, withdrew a tissue (the air was indeed, nose-dripping cold) and took care of business. This little action prompted a change in conversation. "Do you have allergies? I mean everything's in bloom," Refrig asked, sweeping her arm in the air to show her awareness of all the budding shrubs, flowers, and trees. "Oh, a little," Shorty said, "I just got a little chilled." Before I knew it, not 200 yards into our first date, Refrig put her lanky arm around Shorty's shoulders and rubbed Shorty's left arm in one of those comfy, warm-up moves.
Smooth move. Very subtle.
Gracie, Basco (see his cute pix in the margin), and I followed them for about 1/4 mile, until I couldn't handle the eaves-dropping any more. Besides, Gracie was about to explode from not running hither and dither and Basco just wanted to run up and meet the women ahead of him. He's blind, so he tends to bump into people as a means of introduction.
The dating scene. I applaud you who've ventured beyond the Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating scene. I mean, talk about cut-throat! Of course, these two could have written down each other's number on their 3x5 cards and this is their official First Date after the "O-40LSD".
Sounds like an illicit drug, doesn't it? (Chamomile, mint, chai, and non-caffeinated teas don't count in this category).
****
Terry's been through a bit of the online flaky-dyke scene these past few months. She took the big step of putting her photos, profile, and ideal-match desires up for all girl-to-girl searchers to peruse. She's poked, elbowed, or nudged a few Lookers, and a few have nodded in her direction.
E-mails have exchanged, phone calls dialed with elongated discussions, even a couple coffee dates with eye-to-eye dialogues, and one movie. (I wouldn't suggest Marley & Me as a 1st date flick, btw). She's discovered, though that there are a lot of tentative women out there, not really wanting to respond to e-mails or make the plunge and get together, or as she discovered from one woman, She Just Wasn't Ready. Some women just aren't aware of themselves enough to get to know or accept another.
Aren't the early stages of dating, i.e., the first few months supposed to be those moments of putting the Best of Ourselves out there? By this chronological point, I'd expect that many women have a good idea of Who she is, What she wants, and How to achieve happiness in her life which, when she shows her great side(s) obviously includes mating/dating another.
Suggestions for you potential dates:
<>Learn to not spit (at least not while on a date).
<> wipe your mouths when eating red sauces.
<> to show up on time (or just show up).
<> to call when it's stated a call will be made, to not wear tooooo much perfume or extra scent,
<> and to be quasi-honest and, well, nice (aka, friendly, ) to the other. Generally speaking, being snarky and mean are a bit of a turn-off whether you're on a 1st,2nd, 5th, or even 10th date, or happen to be long-time friends and/or lovers/wives/mates.
Maybe the slow-mo, chain throwing, let's-get-our-energy-in-sync, O-40 Lesbian Dating Scenesters (not to be confused w/O40LSD) want this to be the penultimate One. Not a scene, per se, but a series of single events with just one person who's going to be la última for the remaining rounds of life. Hence, Coorda's touchy-feely, deep breathing sensory introduction serves some sort of purpose for the non-first impressionists out there.
It's tough, I tell you that much. Since we've all been through enough of life to know what does/doesn't work, let alone a greater awareness of those toreador red flags, when it comes to hooking up with the 'right' (or better?) someone the bar has been set far higher than the early 20s-discovering-who-we-are, 'you'll do in a pinch' limbo bar. Then there's a lot of horizontaling and drama. Now, in this O-40LDS (no religious affiliation, of course) there's quite a bit of horizontaling but it tends to show up after a few hiking, biking, coffeeing, yogaing, motorcycling, hand-holding, book-reading, kayaking, art museuming dates. Gawd, what happened to that First Kiss, that total connection and all that wild, real energy there? Lost to the Goddess of Process.
It's all a big ass process. Ugh. I suppose it's -- as they say in all the 12-step groups -- Process, not Perfection; or on a more Zen-ish plane, the Path not the Prize. Or, in a BossyBeeHive world, you have to dig through the weeds to find the flowers. Still, any flower that's technically a weed is really just a wild flower, right? And, many weeds are quite pretty (except Oxalis) so where does that leave the O-40 Lesbian Daters? I'm quite fond of the Prize, if you must know. Probably started when that awesome Black History television series Eyes on the Prize came out. No, it has nothing to do w/O-40 LDS, but the title certainly suited me
For all you O-40LDS chix, enjoy the discovery and steer clear of that glossy, lush Poison Oak while you gather and discard the pretty, the contrasting, and the coordinating colors of your dates & mates.
Who knows? Maybe there'll be a 4-leaf clover in the mix (and not just the blue clovers found in a box of Lucky Charms).
I think Shorty and Refrig are busy plucking flowers at this very moment.
Shoulder-length brunette wore a crinkly, azure Gore-Tex jacket, faded jeans, and black gloves. Her wooly socks crested the tops of her boots and folded to the second eyelet. Shorty wore her soft, curly black hair to mid-neck, a thick orange scarf surrounded her throat and hung over her thick blue sweater. It was one of those hand-knitted types with a melding of autumnal colors, blues, browns, and yellow speckles which hung over her small hips. She also wore sensible low-cut hiking boots with green socks. Her mud brown pants were a bit too short, like they'd been in the dryer far too many minutes and far too many times.
They walked along maintaining a 'safe' distance between each other, you know, about 6 inches, careful to not touch, but close enough to demonstrate that simple 'You'll do,' attraction to the other. More than six inches often implies platonic desire. Of course, in the world of women-seeking-women, this is how the fire is flamed.
Each inquisitive sentence began with a look at the boots, the path, and a sideways peek, "So, do you...?" Their responses, equally as tentative and repetitive started with a quick glance at the other, a search towards the clouds for an answer, eyes forward to trail ahead, then "Well, I usually...." Boots, path, peek, "So do you...?" Glance, clouds, trail, "Well, I usually..."
Shorty dug her hands into her pants, withdrew a tissue (the air was indeed, nose-dripping cold) and took care of business. This little action prompted a change in conversation. "Do you have allergies? I mean everything's in bloom," Refrig asked, sweeping her arm in the air to show her awareness of all the budding shrubs, flowers, and trees. "Oh, a little," Shorty said, "I just got a little chilled." Before I knew it, not 200 yards into our first date, Refrig put her lanky arm around Shorty's shoulders and rubbed Shorty's left arm in one of those comfy, warm-up moves.
Smooth move. Very subtle.
Gracie, Basco (see his cute pix in the margin), and I followed them for about 1/4 mile, until I couldn't handle the eaves-dropping any more. Besides, Gracie was about to explode from not running hither and dither and Basco just wanted to run up and meet the women ahead of him. He's blind, so he tends to bump into people as a means of introduction.
The dating scene. I applaud you who've ventured beyond the Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating scene. I mean, talk about cut-throat! Of course, these two could have written down each other's number on their 3x5 cards and this is their official First Date after the "O-40LSD".
Sounds like an illicit drug, doesn't it? (Chamomile, mint, chai, and non-caffeinated teas don't count in this category).
****
Terry's been through a bit of the online flaky-dyke scene these past few months. She took the big step of putting her photos, profile, and ideal-match desires up for all girl-to-girl searchers to peruse. She's poked, elbowed, or nudged a few Lookers, and a few have nodded in her direction.
E-mails have exchanged, phone calls dialed with elongated discussions, even a couple coffee dates with eye-to-eye dialogues, and one movie. (I wouldn't suggest Marley & Me as a 1st date flick, btw). She's discovered, though that there are a lot of tentative women out there, not really wanting to respond to e-mails or make the plunge and get together, or as she discovered from one woman, She Just Wasn't Ready. Some women just aren't aware of themselves enough to get to know or accept another.
Aren't the early stages of dating, i.e., the first few months supposed to be those moments of putting the Best of Ourselves out there? By this chronological point, I'd expect that many women have a good idea of Who she is, What she wants, and How to achieve happiness in her life which, when she shows her great side(s) obviously includes mating/dating another.
Suggestions for you potential dates:
<>Learn to not spit (at least not while on a date).
<> wipe your mouths when eating red sauces.
<> to show up on time (or just show up).
<> to call when it's stated a call will be made, to not wear tooooo much perfume or extra scent,
<> and to be quasi-honest and, well, nice (aka, friendly, ) to the other. Generally speaking, being snarky and mean are a bit of a turn-off whether you're on a 1st,2nd, 5th, or even 10th date, or happen to be long-time friends and/or lovers/wives/mates.
Maybe the slow-mo, chain throwing, let's-get-our-energy-in-sync, O-40 Lesbian Dating Scenesters (not to be confused w/O40LSD) want this to be the penultimate One. Not a scene, per se, but a series of single events with just one person who's going to be la última for the remaining rounds of life. Hence, Coorda's touchy-feely, deep breathing sensory introduction serves some sort of purpose for the non-first impressionists out there.
It's tough, I tell you that much. Since we've all been through enough of life to know what does/doesn't work, let alone a greater awareness of those toreador red flags, when it comes to hooking up with the 'right' (or better?) someone the bar has been set far higher than the early 20s-discovering-who-we-are, 'you'll do in a pinch' limbo bar. Then there's a lot of horizontaling and drama. Now, in this O-40LDS (no religious affiliation, of course) there's quite a bit of horizontaling but it tends to show up after a few hiking, biking, coffeeing, yogaing, motorcycling, hand-holding, book-reading, kayaking, art museuming dates. Gawd, what happened to that First Kiss, that total connection and all that wild, real energy there? Lost to the Goddess of Process.
It's all a big ass process. Ugh. I suppose it's -- as they say in all the 12-step groups -- Process, not Perfection; or on a more Zen-ish plane, the Path not the Prize. Or, in a BossyBeeHive world, you have to dig through the weeds to find the flowers. Still, any flower that's technically a weed is really just a wild flower, right? And, many weeds are quite pretty (except Oxalis) so where does that leave the O-40 Lesbian Daters? I'm quite fond of the Prize, if you must know. Probably started when that awesome Black History television series Eyes on the Prize came out. No, it has nothing to do w/O-40 LDS, but the title certainly suited me
For all you O-40LDS chix, enjoy the discovery and steer clear of that glossy, lush Poison Oak while you gather and discard the pretty, the contrasting, and the coordinating colors of your dates & mates.
Who knows? Maybe there'll be a 4-leaf clover in the mix (and not just the blue clovers found in a box of Lucky Charms).
I think Shorty and Refrig are busy plucking flowers at this very moment.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Lesbian Speed Dating?
Speed Dating for 40+/year-old Lesbians? Isn't all of this a simple oxymoron? I mean, MOST over-40 lesbians don't do anything speedy, except for drive. And even then, with our doggies, adopted, shared, and birthed children on board our Subaru wagons, the 'speeding' really is just what's in our minds, right? Subarus really aren't noted for their velocity, after all.
So my buddy, Terry does this Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating. The name alone is a bit of a red flag, right? Okay, so it's scheduled for the Day of Love: Valentine's Day. Ooooo, cupid's in the air! Arrows flying, chocolate, oysters, and lube. Maybe there's something to be said for planning this on such a fabulously love-ly day.
Starts at 4:00pm. 4 o'clock in the AFTERNOON! What date, other than coffee or sex actually begins at 4pm? Oh, my. Lesbians and our early evenings. Stay tuned.
She arrives at the appropriate early bird hour, ready to do the number, card, 3-minute Q & A and hopefully meet up with some chix. A dance is scheduled to follow, so there's great potential for her to write down a few numbers (you know, it's all anonymous, each person's known by their positive integer only) and jig a bit with the lovelies afterward.
Terry's plan and the Coordinator's --we'll call her Coorda -- ideals do not mesh. Lesbians being lesbians and all, Coorda gathers the group of 60-70 dykes together and directs them to gather in two circles, one inner, one outer (like opposing games of duck-duck-goose or a slowed, lesbian, not-very-fun version of the Virginia Reel) and decides to steer this Lesbian Speed Dating vehicle onto the road of Everyone Feels O.K. Way. See where this is going?
Coorda says, Gaze into the eyes of the woman opposite you. Hold it for at least a minute.
What? Okay. I'll let this go.
Now, Coorda says, hold the hand, shake the hand, hug, or place your hands on the shoulders of the woman in front of you. Feel the connection. We're all nervous, she says, so let's all ease into this discomfort and share the energy. Keep gazing. No speaking! This is all about our energy not our voices. Let our breath, our touch, our energy be our speech!
omg. lesbians and energy. I digress. Did I mention that there is no alcohol served at this sunset special? By this time I'd be fermenting fruit in my coat pocket if I could.
Coorda then directs the group to release hands or hugs or breast holds. Inner circle, she says, turn your back to the outer group. How do you think this makes your partner in the outer group feel now that you've directed your attention away from her? Turn back and face her, now outer group you turn your back to the inner group. Do we all feel the discomfort? The sense of being shunned or ignored? Coorda directs them to face each other again, then Terry's circle rotates one-step right and the whole thing repeats. After a while, which is "about an eternity too long," my buddy says, Coorda directs the group again. Let's all take a deep breath and release all those toxic insensitivities, she says. Let's shake out our nervousness and have a peacefully good time, Thank Goddess.
Terry rolled her eyes and muttered to her inner circle elbow mate, "this is so screwy." At the least. Touchy-feely? Sensitive to each others' feelings and needs? Grounding? Breathing?
Come on. It's Speed Dating! It's all about first impressions in 3 minutes. You've either got good breath or bad breath. Your number is marked on a 3x5 card or not. Move on. Someone might like you or not. Everyone should be nervous and sweaty palmed. But hugging, holding hands, breathing deeply? Come on. It's Speed Dating. It's Shallow Hal and all about picking and choosing, like tomatoes, autumn leaves, or scraps of ribbon. You either want it in that moment or you don't.
When the Official Speed Dating finally commenced -- btw, the venue was too small for the number of women who showed up: not enough chairs/tables -- it wasn't a one-on-one deal, 3 minutes, talk, leave. It was a group of three women, much like a panel who sat on the outside and fired off questions to the passing babes. That's not an uncomfortable feeling, getting interviewed by a small posse of women.
However, it wasn't a dialogue. Oh no. Coorda kept hollering over the excited women There's No Talking! Give only One-Word answers! If you're asked what you do for a living, like you work for UPS, then you say "Driver," and that's all.
Again, Terry rolled her eyes. Fuck that, she said to her two other panelists, we'll call them L and T, who Terry did not know prior to this event.
Down the circle way, two women got up and left. On the way out the door one said to the other, "This blows." Even 40+ lesbians know when something like overly controlled Speed Dating is lame.
The single-word dialogue was not working for Coorda, though. The women were talking, laughing, having a good time.
After about 15 minutes, the conversations rumbled to a small, multi-worded din and Coorda couldn't yell over the voices to get the women to rotate right. She solved that problem by throwing a two-foot piece of chain onto the stage. The contented crowd silenced from the thundering clatter. Coorda hollered, One-word conversations only! Now, switch!
No gentle bell tinkling. No four-toned wind chime or wooden train whistle. A chain. Coorda used a chain to lasso their peri-menopausal attention. The same kind of linkage used to lock up 8-foot fences or tithe trailers to semi-trucks.
The afternoon-evening continued like this, the pleasantly hurled chain marked the time to rotate to the next panel of interviewers. A cluster of three to four women side-step in front of Terry, L and T. T asks a question of the cluster. Each woman answers. L asks a question. Each woman answers. Terry gets to ask a question. Each woman answers. The chain is thrown down. Time's up! Rotate right and the next clump of women saddles up. T questions, gaggle answers, L questions, the blob answers -individually, of course - and Terry questions, the lump responds. Metal pounds the hollow wooden stage. Rotate!
By the second hour, Terry's panel mates began to change their occupations and residences. Not out of spite, moreso because it meant that they weren't following Coorda's litany of lesbian speed dating rules. These rule-breakers were admonished; Coorda lurked around Terry's panel as they frequently broke out into laughter and allowed the passers by to give three-word responses, such as, 'I am tall,' or 'I like movies.' They were frequently chastised: One Word ONLY. Terry was raised in Catholic schools. This was not unfamiliar.
Alas, Terry wrote down only a few numbers of passing women, since the one-word, panel-interview session didn't allow for much exchange of a person's first impression opportunity.
The Chain was thrown three times, not unlike when a whistle is tooted three times when we're lost in the wilderness. Here it meant to stop this fabulous Speed Dating opportunity. Chain drags again off the floor, it is about 10 pounds, after all, and thrown down again. It's time for a short break, Coorda declares. Terry scoots off to the restroom.
When she returns, the inner circle is no longer in the room -- they've been sequestered elsewhere -- and the outer circle remains. However, the roundish formation is gone. It's now a free-for-all, essentially everyone's in a big crowded, elbow-bumping gaggle, with the notion that the specific circles can now intertwine with their own. Women are just yelling out random questions and anyone can answer from anywhere in the room. Good luck getting her number.
They were finished by 7:00pm: just in time for the dance to start (and finish by 10pm when everyone could go home and cuddle up!). Cards lableled with the interviewers own headlining number and noted desired numbers were thrown into a box.
Terry and I are going to create our own, not-just-single-word- answer Lesbian Speed Dating opportunities. We may throw in some patchouli oil deep breathing exercises just to let everyone feel comfortable, in the event they enjoyed Coorda's techniques. However, our plan is to actually do a real 3-minute speed dating thing without all the Lesbian Processing of Feelings and Emotions.
I'll post more here when this launches.
-BBH
So my buddy, Terry does this Over-40 Lesbian Speed Dating. The name alone is a bit of a red flag, right? Okay, so it's scheduled for the Day of Love: Valentine's Day. Ooooo, cupid's in the air! Arrows flying, chocolate, oysters, and lube. Maybe there's something to be said for planning this on such a fabulously love-ly day.
Starts at 4:00pm. 4 o'clock in the AFTERNOON! What date, other than coffee or sex actually begins at 4pm? Oh, my. Lesbians and our early evenings. Stay tuned.
She arrives at the appropriate early bird hour, ready to do the number, card, 3-minute Q & A and hopefully meet up with some chix. A dance is scheduled to follow, so there's great potential for her to write down a few numbers (you know, it's all anonymous, each person's known by their positive integer only) and jig a bit with the lovelies afterward.
Terry's plan and the Coordinator's --we'll call her Coorda -- ideals do not mesh. Lesbians being lesbians and all, Coorda gathers the group of 60-70 dykes together and directs them to gather in two circles, one inner, one outer (like opposing games of duck-duck-goose or a slowed, lesbian, not-very-fun version of the Virginia Reel) and decides to steer this Lesbian Speed Dating vehicle onto the road of Everyone Feels O.K. Way. See where this is going?
Coorda says, Gaze into the eyes of the woman opposite you. Hold it for at least a minute.
What? Okay. I'll let this go.
Now, Coorda says, hold the hand, shake the hand, hug, or place your hands on the shoulders of the woman in front of you. Feel the connection. We're all nervous, she says, so let's all ease into this discomfort and share the energy. Keep gazing. No speaking! This is all about our energy not our voices. Let our breath, our touch, our energy be our speech!
omg. lesbians and energy. I digress. Did I mention that there is no alcohol served at this sunset special? By this time I'd be fermenting fruit in my coat pocket if I could.
Coorda then directs the group to release hands or hugs or breast holds. Inner circle, she says, turn your back to the outer group. How do you think this makes your partner in the outer group feel now that you've directed your attention away from her? Turn back and face her, now outer group you turn your back to the inner group. Do we all feel the discomfort? The sense of being shunned or ignored? Coorda directs them to face each other again, then Terry's circle rotates one-step right and the whole thing repeats. After a while, which is "about an eternity too long," my buddy says, Coorda directs the group again. Let's all take a deep breath and release all those toxic insensitivities, she says. Let's shake out our nervousness and have a peacefully good time, Thank Goddess.
Terry rolled her eyes and muttered to her inner circle elbow mate, "this is so screwy." At the least. Touchy-feely? Sensitive to each others' feelings and needs? Grounding? Breathing?
Come on. It's Speed Dating! It's all about first impressions in 3 minutes. You've either got good breath or bad breath. Your number is marked on a 3x5 card or not. Move on. Someone might like you or not. Everyone should be nervous and sweaty palmed. But hugging, holding hands, breathing deeply? Come on. It's Speed Dating. It's Shallow Hal and all about picking and choosing, like tomatoes, autumn leaves, or scraps of ribbon. You either want it in that moment or you don't.
When the Official Speed Dating finally commenced -- btw, the venue was too small for the number of women who showed up: not enough chairs/tables -- it wasn't a one-on-one deal, 3 minutes, talk, leave. It was a group of three women, much like a panel who sat on the outside and fired off questions to the passing babes. That's not an uncomfortable feeling, getting interviewed by a small posse of women.
However, it wasn't a dialogue. Oh no. Coorda kept hollering over the excited women There's No Talking! Give only One-Word answers! If you're asked what you do for a living, like you work for UPS, then you say "Driver," and that's all.
Again, Terry rolled her eyes. Fuck that, she said to her two other panelists, we'll call them L and T, who Terry did not know prior to this event.
Down the circle way, two women got up and left. On the way out the door one said to the other, "This blows." Even 40+ lesbians know when something like overly controlled Speed Dating is lame.
The single-word dialogue was not working for Coorda, though. The women were talking, laughing, having a good time.
After about 15 minutes, the conversations rumbled to a small, multi-worded din and Coorda couldn't yell over the voices to get the women to rotate right. She solved that problem by throwing a two-foot piece of chain onto the stage. The contented crowd silenced from the thundering clatter. Coorda hollered, One-word conversations only! Now, switch!
No gentle bell tinkling. No four-toned wind chime or wooden train whistle. A chain. Coorda used a chain to lasso their peri-menopausal attention. The same kind of linkage used to lock up 8-foot fences or tithe trailers to semi-trucks.
The afternoon-evening continued like this, the pleasantly hurled chain marked the time to rotate to the next panel of interviewers. A cluster of three to four women side-step in front of Terry, L and T. T asks a question of the cluster. Each woman answers. L asks a question. Each woman answers. Terry gets to ask a question. Each woman answers. The chain is thrown down. Time's up! Rotate right and the next clump of women saddles up. T questions, gaggle answers, L questions, the blob answers -individually, of course - and Terry questions, the lump responds. Metal pounds the hollow wooden stage. Rotate!
By the second hour, Terry's panel mates began to change their occupations and residences. Not out of spite, moreso because it meant that they weren't following Coorda's litany of lesbian speed dating rules. These rule-breakers were admonished; Coorda lurked around Terry's panel as they frequently broke out into laughter and allowed the passers by to give three-word responses, such as, 'I am tall,' or 'I like movies.' They were frequently chastised: One Word ONLY. Terry was raised in Catholic schools. This was not unfamiliar.
Alas, Terry wrote down only a few numbers of passing women, since the one-word, panel-interview session didn't allow for much exchange of a person's first impression opportunity.
The Chain was thrown three times, not unlike when a whistle is tooted three times when we're lost in the wilderness. Here it meant to stop this fabulous Speed Dating opportunity. Chain drags again off the floor, it is about 10 pounds, after all, and thrown down again. It's time for a short break, Coorda declares. Terry scoots off to the restroom.
When she returns, the inner circle is no longer in the room -- they've been sequestered elsewhere -- and the outer circle remains. However, the roundish formation is gone. It's now a free-for-all, essentially everyone's in a big crowded, elbow-bumping gaggle, with the notion that the specific circles can now intertwine with their own. Women are just yelling out random questions and anyone can answer from anywhere in the room. Good luck getting her number.
They were finished by 7:00pm: just in time for the dance to start (and finish by 10pm when everyone could go home and cuddle up!). Cards lableled with the interviewers own headlining number and noted desired numbers were thrown into a box.
Terry and I are going to create our own, not-just-single-word- answer Lesbian Speed Dating opportunities. We may throw in some patchouli oil deep breathing exercises just to let everyone feel comfortable, in the event they enjoyed Coorda's techniques. However, our plan is to actually do a real 3-minute speed dating thing without all the Lesbian Processing of Feelings and Emotions.
I'll post more here when this launches.
-BBH
Friday, February 13, 2009
Dear Prospective Employers:
Dear Prospective Employers:
I'm smart. During my life, I've participated in a number of vocations, including a lifetime of grocery work (thanks to Strohecker's Fine Foods in Portland, Oregon), telemarketing, law firm temp work, juice delivery, collections, car sales, carpet cleaning, bagel-deli/sandwich maker, financial counseling in healthcare, and many years as an educator.
It's obvious that I'm skilled. It's fairly apparent I'm a "people person" given that 99% of my vocations have worked with the public. The carpet cleaning gig was short-lived and I interacted with clunky machines and the usage/dumpage of toxic chemicals (imagine the scene in Nat'l Lampoon's Xmas Vacation when Cousin Eddie --Randy Quaid-- cleans out the dumper into the storm drain... high-larious!) and one rather avoidable lesbian named Jess.
I'm funny. Obviously, I can type. I know how to file both numerically and alphabetically and can train people how to file, or to make coffee, or teach them how to drive a forklift,to read and multiply numbers, or steam up a pot of milk for a cappuccino. Oh, and I have a Master's of Fine Arts in Writing. So, I'm oedjakayded enough to know how to edit, revise, and listen to & apply others' opinions regarding improvement or depletion/deletion.
What up, employers? Why no job offers? Why no pounding on my door with multi-year contracts and sacks of cash in your outstretched hands?
If my talented friends are getting laid off, then why not hire someone like me who's capable in all areas but not a threat to any of those upper -management, single-minded MBA peops who only think within the box whereas I am and out-of-box doer and multi-faceted multi-tasker? Just think of me as the model octopus employee with two eyes and an endoskeleton.
Pick me! Pick me!
Thank you.
I look forward to hearing from you regarding these positions. I can interview for nearly any opportunity at any time.
BossyBeeHive/CMS
I'm smart. During my life, I've participated in a number of vocations, including a lifetime of grocery work (thanks to Strohecker's Fine Foods in Portland, Oregon), telemarketing, law firm temp work, juice delivery, collections, car sales, carpet cleaning, bagel-deli/sandwich maker, financial counseling in healthcare, and many years as an educator.
It's obvious that I'm skilled. It's fairly apparent I'm a "people person" given that 99% of my vocations have worked with the public. The carpet cleaning gig was short-lived and I interacted with clunky machines and the usage/dumpage of toxic chemicals (imagine the scene in Nat'l Lampoon's Xmas Vacation when Cousin Eddie --Randy Quaid-- cleans out the dumper into the storm drain... high-larious!) and one rather avoidable lesbian named Jess.
I'm funny. Obviously, I can type. I know how to file both numerically and alphabetically and can train people how to file, or to make coffee, or teach them how to drive a forklift,to read and multiply numbers, or steam up a pot of milk for a cappuccino. Oh, and I have a Master's of Fine Arts in Writing. So, I'm oedjakayded enough to know how to edit, revise, and listen to & apply others' opinions regarding improvement or depletion/deletion.
What up, employers? Why no job offers? Why no pounding on my door with multi-year contracts and sacks of cash in your outstretched hands?
If my talented friends are getting laid off, then why not hire someone like me who's capable in all areas but not a threat to any of those upper -management, single-minded MBA peops who only think within the box whereas I am and out-of-box doer and multi-faceted multi-tasker? Just think of me as the model octopus employee with two eyes and an endoskeleton.
Pick me! Pick me!
Thank you.
I look forward to hearing from you regarding these positions. I can interview for nearly any opportunity at any time.
BossyBeeHive/CMS
Polyglot
All hail!
What's worse than raining cats and dogs?
Hailing taxicabs.
<><><>
pol'y-glot: adj. 1. Speaking, or writing many languages. 2. Containing, or made up of, several languages. --n. 1. One who speaks or writes several languages. 2. A book containing versions of the same text in several languages. 3. A confusion of languages; a polyglot jargon.
<><><>
Wikipedia (a favored spot for info) states that Polyglot has more to do with multilingualism than what I prefer: the confusion of languages or jargon. However, for literary purposes, my polyglot is, indeed about language, written, spoken, read, perceived, and shared. No, I'm not talking about the famed Speaking in Tongues -- although I do like that Talking Heads album -- of which we imagine spirtitually possessed peoploids girating, eyes rolled back, arms outstretched at 75º angles, and squirming on the floor while they blather unintelligibly,but you're welcome to do so before, during, or after reading or posting here.
Letters. I write letters, not just the ones here, you know, the alphabet parts that, when clustered together form words, which plunked in a systematic formation create sentences, then paragraphs, blah blah blah. I write letters to friends, family, to acquaintances about life, my pens, weather, emotions, clothing, dogs, trees, stars, growth and loss.
"Dear John...", gosh, haven't had to do that for years. The last version of this was actually a phone msg on Phil's home phone after a particularly unpleasant discovery. An actual written letter would have taken far too long to get into his thick, shagged head.
Polyglot a la BossyBeeHive: A mishmash of stuff, letters, ideas, book suggestions/avoidances. A conglomeration of Camp Fire, grocery, teacherish, GLBTQ, mfa-isms, and skewed findings all clumped together like cookie dough or kitty litter (without the stench) onto the page.
<><><>
What's worse than raining cats and dogs?
Hailing taxicabs.
<><><>
Polyglot-Letters
Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 5th Ed. (1937)pol'y-glot: adj. 1. Speaking, or writing many languages. 2. Containing, or made up of, several languages. --n. 1. One who speaks or writes several languages. 2. A book containing versions of the same text in several languages. 3. A confusion of languages; a polyglot jargon.
<><><>
Wikipedia (a favored spot for info) states that Polyglot has more to do with multilingualism than what I prefer: the confusion of languages or jargon. However, for literary purposes, my polyglot is, indeed about language, written, spoken, read, perceived, and shared. No, I'm not talking about the famed Speaking in Tongues -- although I do like that Talking Heads album -- of which we imagine spirtitually possessed peoploids girating, eyes rolled back, arms outstretched at 75º angles, and squirming on the floor while they blather unintelligibly,but you're welcome to do so before, during, or after reading or posting here.
Letters. I write letters, not just the ones here, you know, the alphabet parts that, when clustered together form words, which plunked in a systematic formation create sentences, then paragraphs, blah blah blah. I write letters to friends, family, to acquaintances about life, my pens, weather, emotions, clothing, dogs, trees, stars, growth and loss.
"Dear John...", gosh, haven't had to do that for years. The last version of this was actually a phone msg on Phil's home phone after a particularly unpleasant discovery. An actual written letter would have taken far too long to get into his thick, shagged head.
Polyglot a la BossyBeeHive: A mishmash of stuff, letters, ideas, book suggestions/avoidances. A conglomeration of Camp Fire, grocery, teacherish, GLBTQ, mfa-isms, and skewed findings all clumped together like cookie dough or kitty litter (without the stench) onto the page.
<><><>
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