Striped Stockings Monologue

Do I make you feel
out of sorts? Is my flesh
too much for your eyes
to suffer? Do nipples
and buttocks offend you?

I see.

You want me
all covered up,
restricted. Why? How
does my being
who I am affects
your living?

I offend you,
you mean? Well, too bad—
your stupidity insults me
all the time,

but you won’t see me
putting a bra on it.

.
the wee notes…
– Some time ago, someone (and I’m disgusted to say the someone is an educated woman) said that she wore brassieres and clothes that covered her unshaven legs, “out of respect for others. A woman has the freedom to look and be as nasty as she wants. But it would be wrong to make other people suffer her lack of pride.” I remember staring at her pinched expression, and thinking, I hope your self-hatred isn’t contagious. I also felt a bit sorry for her… and a lot sickened by her beliefs.
–  Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

 


“Beautiful Freak in Striped Hose”, by Shelle Kennedy

Of the Negativity that Oozes Out of the Term “Unfriending”… and Other Bits

When a friend of my said that she wanted to leave Facebook, but felt uneasy about “unfriending” people, I told her that she was nuts. “It’s just a social media platform,” I said. “You can keep up with friends through email, your blog, Instagram, Twitter, smoke signals…”

She continued to point out that some people would take it personal. “They’ll get upset,” she said. “Trust me. I’ve been down this road before.”

I said some nonsense about how I had gone to high school, too… and how we are thinking grown ups now… I’m sure I’ve said other things, which I totally take back now… Since I decided to leave my Facebook profile behind, in favor of my page, I have received the strangest reactions from friends. And I’m not even talking about the people with whom I interacted on a regular basis. The ones sending uncanny messages are individuals who rarely commented on anything I shared. The following wee list, are my responses to some of the inquiries I’ve received on the subject of no longer using my personal Facebook profile:

1. No, I’ve not gone from a profile to a page because someone did something terrible to me.
2. No, I didn’t stop using my profile because I’m mad at you and don’t want to admit it.
3. No, I’m not being stalked (thank goodness), or forced to leave my profile against my will.
4. No, my actions are not my way of thinning my Friend List, so that I can avoid certain people.
5. No, I swear that I’m not dying (at least not any faster than anyone else is… that I know of). Don’t laugh, my Wicked Luvs, more than one person asked if I was leaving Facebook because my illness took a turn for the worse and I’m “trying to let people down easy”.

I’m not quite sure what the last bit even means. If I were dying, I would probably friend more people, and make a lot of noise… You see, if I knew when I was going to die, I would make sure that my funeral was the party of the decade (perhaps the century), and it would be celebrated while I was still alive. As Granny Weatherwax might’ve said, “There is good eating at funerals.”

As you might imagine, I apologized to my friend (and told her that I was writing this post, and that she wasn’t nuts at all). I guess she knows more about these things than I do. I wonder if the word “unfriending” (a rather negative and inaccurate term, if you ask me) has anything to do with the way people react to this kind of thing. What do you think, my Wicked Luvs?

I decided to write this post because, well… writing stuff down, and sharing them with other thinking brains and feeling hearts, helps me make sense of things. And because a link to this entry will be added to the last post I’ll share on the wall of my personal Facebook profile, before I clear my Friends List of every name but 3: my Piano Man (if I remove him people might start asking if I murdered him, divorced him, or something), my Mother in Law (how else will I keep up with the news and with the best sociopolitical memes ever?), and The Boy (his heart would probably break if I stopped my motherly surveillance of prospective girlfriends, on whom I practice my wickedest mock stink eye). I shall do this on April 3rd.

The main reason behind all this has to do with the fact that having a Facebook profile and a page, which share the same name, makes it rather difficult for people to tag the right one. Speaking of tagging, the easiest way to tag a page in a post or comment is to add the @ symbol at the beginning of the page you’re searching for or tagging (i.e. @Magaly Guerrero).

Oops, this post got so long that I nearly forgot the “Other Bits”:

1. Dark Fiction for the Cruellest Month, 2016, starts on April 2nd.
2. 30 Days of Micro-Poetry in April, hosted by Rommy Driks and me, on our Facebook pages: Kestril’s Rhythms and Groove and Magaly Guerrero, respectively, starts tomorrow (April 1st).
3. I will no longer use my Facebook profile, but my Facebook page will include the same information I used to share on the profile. Only the location is changing. Also, here, at my cyber-home, everything will remain the same. I’m active on Instagram. And when the mood strikes me, I even tweet. Yes, the birds, too, find it a tad weird when I start chirping like a lunatic.

Facebook Page of Magaly Guerrero

My Eyeballs Are Secured in Their Femaleness

My eyes are not the best listeners. I told them that we weren’t getting old—just deliciously experienced—but they still insisted on needing reading glasses. Since I’m not one to fight her own eyeballs, I went ahead and let them have the glasses… Besides, we can totally pull off the sexy-librarian-with-wild-hair look (our modesty is deliciously nonexistent *cough, cough*).

So… after an appointment with my ophthalmologist, I went to see the optician to get fitted for frames. The moment I saw the first frames, I knew I wanted them. I tried them on. They felt perfect. It was love at first magnification.

The optician began to chuckle and whisper with one of her colleagues. To me, she said, “Oh no, sweetie, those are made for men.”

“I know.” I had read the sign just above the frames’ display. “I still want them.”

“They are very masculine. They won’t look right. Try this.” She offered me a golden monstrosity with minuscule lenses.

“No, thanks very much, just fit me for the black frames,” I said, without touching the frames she thought were right for me.

While she wrote out my specific measurements, she started talking to her colleague, in Spanish, about my choice.

I stayed quiet, pretending I didn’t understand. I had been in the hospital almost all day, and didn’t feel like arguing. But when she told the other woman something about how it wasn’t going to be her fault that I was going to “walk around looking like a she-man idiot,” I lost it.

“Listen to me,” I said to her, in Spanish, “My face is mine and I wear what I please. If your ovaries and brain are so diminished that they keep you from doing your job in a professional manner, then move aside so that someone without ridiculous gender issues can take my order. While you are at it, tell your supervisor that I would like to speak to him or her.”

I must’ve been shouting because everyone in the (rather large) waiting room was very quiet. And I turned around to find the optician’s supervisor standing behind me. If I hadn’t been so mad, I would’ve probably laughed at the ludicrousness of the entire situation. But worry not, my Wicked Luvs, I got to laugh later… all by myself… while walking to the bus station… thinking, Hot damn! I should’ve told her that my eyeballs are secured in their femaleness.

Magaly Guerrero - Reading Glasses