In all the chaos of moving my stuff from New Orleans to here, only one thing broke: one of a set of nesting tables with the daintiest, spindliest, eensy little legs ever had one leg snapped right off. Just a casual glance should have assured anyone that at least one of the tables was destined for the scrap heap. In fact, although these sets usually come in threes, the smallest of this one was already missing when I got it, a victim of natural selection, one assumes.
I wasn’t even that attached to them, our dear friend Cow Queen had bought them while visiting a consignment store with me. Doubtless he had been caught up in the heat of the moment because the next day he announced he didn’t want them and gifted them to me. How they then wound up traveling back and forth to New Orleans is beyond me. I suspect I just overlooked them, twice, while packers were in a frenzy. They’re that dainty.
Still, they are a charming little set, inlaid mahogany, and a the kind of furniture best described as “useful.” So I set about repairing the broken leg. Surprisingly, I can be more or less handy if the job is not too tiresome or I am not too lazy. I glued the pieces together and clamped them down, done.
Which is when Saki appeared to start licking the excess glue (of which there was plenty. In this as most things, my theory is “Everything counts in large amounts.”) Even as I was wiping up the sticky overflow, Saki was elbowing me out of the way to get to it.
This is a cat who not only refuses to eat anything but Fancy Feast, but also demands that it be the line that comes in turquoise cans. What a swishy little bitch. And yet there he was going after carpenter’s glue like it was a treat. Great. So now I have a cat with a substance abuse problem. Cat rehab off in the future.
Anyway, my unlikely spin in manly man land brings to mind the semi-furor over the Moschino Barbie Baby Gay.
If you haven’t seen it, here. The designer Jeremy Scott for Italian couture house Moschino styled some incredibly cute little boy to look like him for the ad, which itself is sort of an homage to the early 90s when teenage girls and middle age gay men started sounding indistinguisable from each other. Girl. Also, just let me point out the little girl who opens the spot sounds more gay than a Ru Paul anthology.
Commenters on the video were the expected anti-gay mafia blahblahblah, but what was really irritating were the men who identified themselves as gay (but probably not queer) taking exception to how be-femmed the kid sounds. “Why couldn’t he be just a normal little boy?” was their message.
Grrrr. Is that the result of all these years of struggle? That we all need to sound like we have testosterone stuck in our throats? You’ll be surprised to note that I have a very effemininite voice and style. Were I to be stricken of the phrase “Oh Honey” along with a dismissive flap of my wrist, I probably couldn’t communicate at all.
So is there something wrong with me? Obviously not. Oh Honey. But that’s what these queers with their lust for “Normal” imply. Look, I understand if you are not sexually attracted to fems. The answer? Don’t talk while I’m fucking you. But to want to say the world would be better off without us? Oh Honey. Fuck. You.
They won gay marriage (a concession I was always ambivalent about, even as I went through it) and gay daddies have come to mean men stuffing Campbell soup down their spawn’s throat rather than some beast stuffing his dick down a squealing twink’s throat the way it should. Go ape the heterosexualized norm all you want to. just leave the rest of us alone with our Barbies and the important question of where to place an inlaid set of mahogany nesting tables. Bitch.