Feeling the Hitch in my Head

In order to escape the insanity that has been the last few days (sorry, I don't see the point of canonizing a pederast with a penchant for painkillers), I turned to TMC. There, I was transported back to the 1950s and 60s, and the world of Alfred Hitchcock.

I love Hitch. Absolutely adore the man. I was raised on his television show and quickly fell in love with his movies. Imagine watching "Psycho" alone while babysitting on a huge piece of property on a desolate road during a windstorm with patio furniture hitting the side of the house and deer heads staring at you from the walls. I was thirteen and terrified, and absolutely mesmerized. He didn't need monsters or gore to put us at the edge of our seat. He delivered exquisite tension and lip-biting suspense. He also gave us sassy dames in dandy dresses dreamed up by Edith Head.

I once got booed at a symposium on feminism in film (held at UCLA) for going against the panel (and apparently the audience) when I declared that I thought Hitchcock gave us strong female characters. His women were smart, mouthy, fearless and unapologetic of their sexual power (with the exception of "Marnie"). But, I guess because they were in WASP-waist dresses, gloves and high heels, that didn't make them feminists. At least not at UCLA. Alfred Hitchcock (along with Alan Parker and David Lynch) was why I went to film school. And, by the way, I went to CalArts. You won't find a more politically correct, pro-feminist film school...so all those who booed can bite me. We can argue the whole victim/need to be rescued by a man issue at another time (though, let's also remember the era in which these films were made). As a feminist, right now, I want to talk about the clothes.

While I wouldn't be able to survive a day in the repressive landscape that was the 50s and 60s (they would have lobotomized me á la Frances Farmer), I would love to dress for dinner, have a man who wore a suit and hat as well as Cary Grant did, don gloves, have a closet full of shirt dresses (I have one, but it just isn't enough), and indulge in three-martini lunches without it being frowned upon. Twin sets, skirts and pearls. Cocktails at five. Pocketbooks. Upper-crust, faux-English accents. Witty repartee. The style and silhouette of the 50s (at least how it's portrayed on television and film) has always been my favorite. And the designs of Edith Head make me crave a return to that time.

I see now how people carried themselves with a bit more dignity then, and much of that had to do with how they dressed. Sure, it was a constrictive uniform. But, clothing then was also a show of self-respect. Women didn't need to dress like streetwalkers to be sexy. They knew it was never the exposure of skin that was alluring as much as it was the reveal...or the anticipation thereof. A bare shoulder. An exposed back. A soft hand removed from a glove. I think that beats pasties and a thong any day. (And, guys, there's nothing better than removing your tie.)

Even then, in Hitch's world and Edith's clothes, good girls did bad things. Even better, they wanted to break the rules. Yet they did it in a really classy manner. Maybe it was the gloves or heels, the cinched waists or petticoats. Perhaps a girdle instills a sense of propriety. Who knows? Whatever it is, it would be nice to have a little more of it these days. Turn on "Notorious" (not the Biggie bio pic) or "Rear Window" to take a peek. Tell me you don't feel the urge to put on a hat and some gloves and greet people with, "Good evening," "Good afternoon," or "Good day." Don't you think it would be simply grand to have a bit more social decorum and class without any of that pesky social repression? Wouldn't you agree, darling? Wouldn't you agree? [Insert martini glass clink here.]

Yes, they are only movies and, no, Edith didn't do all the designs. But, in spite of the murder and espionage, it all comes off a bit more...civilized. And maybe that is what I'm craving most.

She Said He Said

I've always been the chick who has more guy friends than girl friends. I didn't plan it that way. It just sort of happened. Perhaps because I preferred kickball to jumping rope. Not that I'm particularly sporty; I just liked the friendly competition the boys had going. I preferred it to the rather catty competition happening in the girls' corner. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. Little girls can be big bitches.

As I grew older, I still found myself hanging out with the lads more than the lasses. Guys didn't mind that I was opinionated and prone to use language that would make sailors blush. With guys, I didn't have to mind my Ps and Qs. And the conversations weren't about clothes or hair or boys. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. In high school, conversations ran about as deep as puddles in most cliques, no? [And I should really qualify all this by saying I grew up in a stucco-encrusted suburb I fondly refer to as Stepford.]

By the time college rolled around, I was used to palling around with the guys and usually being the only girl in the lot. That's when I noticed the whispers. Slut was a common slur. Because *obviously* I was sleeping with all of them. These guys wouldn't just be my friend if there weren't *benefits*, right? A girl couldn't be close friends with a guy unless they were very close indeed. This happened with more frequency and fervor if I was friends with a guy another girl liked but he didn't like her back. That suddenly became my fault. Because, at that age, it's always another woman in your way...right, sisters? It can never be that he isn't the right guy for you. No. It's the slutty girl "friend" re-routing the rooster.

I've come to find that there are some people who absolutely don't believe a man and a woman can have a truly platonic relationship. This is usually the thought pattern of those who sleep with their friends. I don't sleep with friends. I sleep with my boyfriend or lover, not a buddy. I'm not judging a buckfuddy situation. But, that's not what I consider a friendship. That's a quasi-relationship, ill-defined and prone to heartbreak or a bitter end. Most likely, you would not be able to sit across from that "friend's" spouse and have a pleasant conversation about all the fun times you two had without a few hesitations and awkward edits.

College is a heady time. Young adults and sexuality are much like baby rattlesnakes and venom -- we don't yet know how to control it. How much to give off. When to stop it before it goes further than planned. That's all part of growing up. And while I wasn't chaste, I was far from the hose-hound whore a some sorority sisters seemed to believe...and spread about. I can count my college conquests on one hand. And no, I don't have additional digits like Anne Bolin. I bring this up because, nearly two decades after the fact, I recently had to do a reality check. It seems that rumor and innuendo can fester into legend then harden into "fact". Which I found utterly baffling. So much so, emergency text messages were sent to two of my guy friends and a panicked after-midnight call was placed to a girl friend who, too, has her fair share of platonic male mates. Each of the communiques began with WTF?!?

It came in the form of an email in which she said he said, to which I said horseshit. At first, I really didn't care. I mean, seriously, WTF. But it was so outlandish that it began to bug me. What if all this time people were under the impression that actually happened? Now, I'm not one that feels the need to defend myself, nor do I really care what some people think of me, but I do care about the truth. I found myself going right back to sophomore year when I wanted to shout from a bullhorn at every kegger: Seriously, I'm not a slut! Just because we are hanging out does not mean we are making out...or anything else!

Sigh. Trust me, there are plenty of things I actually do that people can judge me on. That I welcome. Have at it. Spread it like wildfire. Whatever. But if I didn't do it...then I get a little pissy.

Rumormongering isn't just a girl thing. Guys were equally guilty of it. I remember one occasion where a dude in our crowd told the world I went home with a certain bloke. This, after I was nice enough to give him a ride home. Because I dropped him off first, I must have gone back to my dorm room with the other guy. When I heard about this, I was furious. The look on his face when I called him out on it -- in public -- was priceless.

"Why would you start a rumor like that?" I demanded. "Uh..." was all he could come up with. "Did you see us go into my dorm together?" I questioned. "Uh, no," he admitted. "Were we making out in front of you or flirting even?" He answered, "No." "Well, then what made you think he ended up spending the night with me?" I huffed. "I just...I...I don't know," he stuttered. "So you just made the whole thing up and spread it around? Kind of an asshole thing to do, isn't it?" He hung his head, muttered that he was sorry and couldn't look me in the eye for a month.

Now, if you'll notice, in my line of questioning I never denied going home with the guy. The truth was, I did. But, that wasn't for gossip guy to say. That was my private affair and none of his or anyone else's business. When the bloke and I later showed up as a couple, the gossiper called me on it. I explained that he assumed what happened and went about spreading the news like a twelve-year-old without asking me if anything had gone on before he did so. That's not what a friend does. But, like I said, some people don't think guys and gals can be friends. And, after that, he and I weren't.

Over the years, the ratio has shifted and I have a larger network of girl friends today. I still have a lot of guy friends, though. And, for the record, I can look every one of their wives in the eye. It's nice that we can all be friends. But it's sad when you stumble upon someone who's still sitting in the quad.

Hypotheticals, Theoreticals and Totally Impracticals

So, the question has been posed: Internet or sex? I think if they had included internet porn and excluded "self love", there would have been a way different percentage for men. And, if they asked women if we could have two weeks of sex with any man we wanted, hands down we'd turn off our Twitter. (Sorry, my Sapphic sisters...you get to pick any chick you want.)

Since this is a hypothetical we are discussing, let's take it to the extreme. If I could have a romantic fortnight with Trent Reznor or the Clooney, or even the terrible ex that was really great sex (hypothetically, he would be his charming self for those fourteen days, not the asshat he actually is), it would be easy to ditch everything wireless. Even if it was the guy I'm currently not sleeping with, I would take his dingle over my BlackBerry. I prefer IRL over URL. That's just me, though.

I think either gender would want to take two weeks away from the internet as long as it came with the promise that we wouldn't come back to a shitload of work and an ungodly amount of emails to deal with (or a backlog of social networking madness). Don't we all want/need a break from the World Wide Wackness every now and then? Exactly. But we don't dare shut off for two hours let alone two weeks because it's too scary to leave it unattended. Digging yourself out of your inbox is never fun. Which is why so many said they'd go without than go wireless. Très sad.

But I do love these hypothetical, theoretical conversations about the impossible or impractical. "Hump, Marry, Kill" is a fun game, which is quickly shortened to "I'd Do Him" after a few cocktails, because no one is able to come up with three names or remember who they'd do what to if they did. We all have our "out" list (which I guess the kids are calling their "top five"), which are the celebrities you have marked as *saved* and you are allowed to shag without your significant other getting pissed off...because that is so in the realm of possibilities. I've even known couples to fight over that theoretical list. How daft is that? Then again, how dumb is it to ask someone to choose internet or intimacy? For as connected as we might be, there is a disconnect as well. I think we all need to log off and turn on.

Dialing It Back

I was chatting with a co-worker the other evening on the way to our cars. She's in a new relationship and, well, they kind of did it before they defined what they were doing. You know, is he seeing other people or not? And, even if he's not, does that mean they are exclusive...at least until further notice? It's the awkward conversation that we would rather avoid so as to not spoil the mood. Especially if we get the wrong answer. It's the loophole that women have to close so we don't have to hear, "Well, we never said we were exclusive," somewhere down the road. It's part of being a grown up. After all, if we can't have these conversations, we shouldn't be doing anything more *adult*, if you know what I mean.

So, she asked me if I had any advice on how to dial it back a bit. And here it is...

[Production Note: The bugs still exist, even with the Lego-like people, so the jump cuts and whatnot were not intended. Enjoy the show. And you can always watch it here, too.]



And that's not even covering the paperwork that's involved these days to be especially adult and responsible. And guys, don't even bother complaining about the swab up the urethra. You have no idea what we gals have to go through.

Ah, love in the time of Chlamydia and other cooties. Who said romance was dead? Use a condom. xo

That Spat

In relationships, the first fight is rather a pivotal moment. For the first time, the rosy glow of infatuation does not dim the ire. Guards are let down. Shit hits the fan. Most of these "exchanges" are quickly erased from memory. Some, however, are just too good to forget. Therefore, I would like to share with you The Toothbrush Incident:



[Production Note: The Grayscale People are a little buggie. Some of the camera angles and movements were not what I "directed", but I think they add to the narrative. And, in real life, he's not Australian. The accent was just better. Isn't it always?]

[Another Note: The framing blows a little on the embed. You can watch it better here.]

That spat happened seven years ago. He is only alive today and walking without a limp because he used the manual and not use the Braun Oral-B. We still laugh about it...or needle each other with it. It's a running gag. How can it not be? He did spend that night on the sofa, which was his last night here. The next morning he returned home. Not the way either one of us wanted to end the visit. But, a line was crossed and there were consequences for that.

The second spat was even better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it. The subject matter is one of utter hilarity; the conflict itself was rather painful. We spent the night in separate sections of the city after that one. Such is the price of passionate personalities. The goal is to avoid a third. I think we can. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if betting pools were forming. If there ends up being a tiff, though, it's sure to be animated.

An Affair to Dismember

So John Edwards was unfaithful. BFD. The man isn’t running for office anymore and his wife is terminal. I think we can hold off on the public flogging, don’t you? And what exactly is the big deal? He’s not a priest. He’s a politician. A male politician at that. The shocking thing should not be that he cheated, but that it was with a woman. An attractive woman. An attractive woman who wasn’t a prostitute. And one who was of age. For an affair, this is beyond vanilla. It’s not news, it’s snews.

This happens every day in America. People cheat. Usually, it’s the men who get caught. The women who do it seem to be a bit more clever about it. Perhaps men do it for ego and women do it for emotion. I don’t know. I don’t cheat. Though, I can’t say I’ve not been the dreaded “other woman”. Okay. I hear the gasps. Trust me, it’s nothing I’m proud of. We all make mistakes. Sometimes we aren’t aware of the error being made (only after the fact do all the details come to light). Or perhaps we go into it knowing the wrong we are doing, the risks and the cost. We might have our reasons, but there is never an excuse that makes it okay. I won’t talk about it any further than what’s already been mentioned because it is private. There’s no point in being honest about it because the whole thing is founded on dishonesty. What could possibly be said to make someone say, “Oh, I totally get it. It all makes sense. Thanks for shedding the light. I feel much better about it now.” See what I mean?

I’ve learned that it’s pointless to make assumptions about a situation without knowing the whole story. And the thing is, we don’t know the whole story. There’s no reason we should. It’s none of our business. Yes, we can assume the marriage vows they made, but we don’t know what agreement the Edwardses may or may not have had. None of our beeswax. If he were still running for office, yes, to a point it would be our business. In spite of my scarlet letter, I happen to think that a certain vow of chastity should come with the Oath of Office. Keep it in your trousers for 4-8 years, or keep your mistress locked in another wing. Whatever. Just don’t diddle the interns. That’s beneath the Commander in Chief. I also expect the person in the Oval Office not to be popping pills, doing lines, shooting up or falling down drunk. These are my standards. I expect them to be met. Decorum; it’s important. But John Edwards is not in public office. He is now a private citizen. He and his family should be allowed to deal with this in private, which is hard to do living in the public eye. Which we all do now, by the way, thanks to camera phones and YouTube.

You can judge all you want. It’s a human foible. But, let me ask you: Is your relationship perfect? I suppose we’d have to define “perfect” in order to answer that. Have you ever strayed? It’s okay if you want to plead the Fifth. Have I? No. When I am in a relationship, I am certifiably monogamous. Have I been cheated on? Yes. One boyfriend only kissed another girl. Big deal, but it still pissed me off. This was after he had an emotional affair with this really annoying broad, which was beyond irritating but doesn’t “technically” count, right? Oh, we were in our twenties. Drama happens. Big whoop. Another cheater taught me the difference between assuming that you are in a committed relationship because you have been seeing each other 5-6 days a week for four months straight and the loophole left open because you didn’t have the commitment conversation. Haven’t made that mistake since.

I’ve known the effects of cheating from an early age, having sat up with my crying mother when my dirtbag of a father didn’t come home. I was three. They divorced when I was five. He cheated on her, namely with the woman who would become my stepmonster, who was later surprised to find out he cheated on her. The most sympathetic thing I could think to say to her was, “Duh.” Well, at least he waited fifteen years before he got caught.

I don’t know what I would do if my (theoretical) husband ever cheated on me, but I’m pretty sure it would involve lead pipe and kneecaps...theoretically speaking, of course. Still, even with my temper and poor ability to forgive, I don’t know that it would spell the end of the relationship. People eff up all the time. Men especially. Egos can run amok. And spouses can emotionally vacate leaving the other alone in a couple. I have learned that relationships bring out the very best and very worst in people. And I know they take constant work from both sides in order to function at all. But, if you are in it for life, you have to take the good with the bad. For better or worse are in those vows. And I think they Edwardses have had their share of worse. They don’t need any more from us.

We can talk and point fingers and say, “Never me.” But, I’ve found that’s the surest way to bring Fate to your door. Perhaps we should just back away, leave them alone and pray, “May that never happen to me.” But, if it should, I really hope that you get to deal with it behind closed doors and not have the public dismember your affairs.

The Clompy Chronicles, Part 2

It seems there just might be something to this whole "positive thinking" thing. Clompy has been relatively quite for the past few weeks. Oh, there was one loud lovers quarrel a few days after I posted Part 1. I'm happy to report they made up later that day. They even went away for a while, which was a nice little vacation for me.

It's still far from Utopian. A new trend has started. Clompy and the boyfriend are making a habit of having cereal out in the back each morning, and they might as well be dining in my kitchen. I don't hear her, but he has rather a loud, deep, resonate voice that carries...all the way through my home. Not to mention a habit of stabbing the bowl with his spoon. He likes the sound of his own voice. I can tell, as he often punctuates everything with a satisfied laugh. It's nice to be able to entertain oneself. At least they've seemed to quit smoking. There has definitely been improvement.

For all their noise, I am kindly spared having to hear them sexing it up. And thank God and Baby Jesus for that. While I am relieved for selfish reasons, I also feel a little bad for her. She's a young gal, and these are the screaming years. I haven't actually found out when mine stop, but do my best to make sure all windows are shut and other noise on. And you thought music was just setting the mood. Still, this is about positive thinking. Wishing her the best. And I do want the best for her. I simply hope (and pray) that before she discovers loud sex, she will be in her fabulous new apartment or mansion or whatever the Fates will bless her with and far, far, far away from me. Or at least at his place. I'll start on wishing him better real estate, too.

Here are two clips on what some other unlucky neighbor has to endure. Try not to laugh. It could happen to you...on either side of the camera. (You may want to turn the volume down if you're at work.)

STD and the City

Good promotion is key for any film. And “Sex and the City” did a strong job of it. Commercials at every break. Media appearances on every relevant show. Not to mention the onslaught of ads on the internet. Every day, Facebook would ask me: “Are you a Carrie? A Charlotte? Miranda? Samantha? Take the quiz and find out!” I never bothered to take it because I already know: I’m a Sandra. But whether you ended up as a Carrie, a Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha, which one do you think happened to have Herpes?

According to a city Health Department study, released on 9 June, about 26 percent of New York City adults have genital herpes, compared to about 19 percent nationwide. That’s more than one in four. So, statistically, either Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha is a carrier.

But, let us not forget the men of the City. Statistically, either Big, Harry, Steve or Smith would have it, too. And, playing the odds, it would be unlikely for a couple to share the simplex, thus, chances are two out of the four girls would have been exposed.

I couldn’t help but wonder why Smart Water was so prominently displayed in the film and not Trojan? Why Vitamin Water and Mercedes were linked to the movie in commercials instead of condom companies and related prescriptions? Even PSAs didn’t make a move on the movie, because, even with the study just out, it’s not like this is news in New York.

So, for a show that seems to have talked about everything women in the city face (don’t forget, Carrie was even mugged once), why wasn’t Herpes ever mentioned? They had story lines on Chlamydia, breast cancer, infertility, funky spunk and flaccid junk. So, how come none of women or their men ever had a sore? I suppose it wouldn’t exactly be sexy to see one of the ladies dashing into Duane Reade to pick up her Valtrex refill, or to mention over brunch that she and/or her lover were in the midst of an outbreak. Or having that conversation before engaging in sex with a new partner about transmission and precautions. Maybe it wouldn’t be sexy. But it would be real. And responsible. Have we all forgotten that Carrie was supposed to be a sex columnist? I think after season two the writers did.

While “Sex and the City” implies that a purse nabbed from Bag Borrow or Steal will help make an impression, that a pair of Manolo’s will aide in establishing status, or fabulous friends will help make everything all right, it’s never bothered to say that one of the greatest statements an empowered woman can make is, “Hey, put this on.” And I’m not talking a designer label.

Without a doubt, “Sex and the City - The Musical!”, is bound to hit Broadway. Do you think STDs will be written in? Would they include such ditties as: “Mister, Is That a Blister?” or “Ain’t No Lovin’ Without Some Glovin’”? What about, “Got That Itch, Ain’t It a Bitch”? Not that sexually transmitted diseases are funny. I get pissed when a guy gives me a cold. But pretending cooties are not part of sex in any city, town, suburb or hamlet, is a stretch beyond fiction.

A Day Without Art

The first day of December is a day of remembrance. “World AIDS Day” is also “A Day Without Art”. Back in 1989, many artists chose to honor those lost to AIDS by not creating on December 1st. Theatres went dark. Galleries closed or shrouded the art. While some artists choose to show commemorative work on that day, others still choose not to create on December 1st. I am one of them.

Having gone to an art school, there was no way not to be touched by HIV/AIDS. While I have known many friends and acquaintances who were positive or had gone full-blown, I can’t say that one has died from it. But that’s only if I don’t count a suicide. I remember the pre-“cocktail” days when the loss of from AIDS was massive. There was a time when every obituary in the trades was a loss from that disease. Gratefully, that is now rare. But AIDS is still here. And, like most things from the 80s and 90s, it’s having a come back.

Condoms, people. Wear them. If not for fear of HIV, then what about Herpes, Chlamydia or even Syphilis, because that’s making a come back, too? I’m not about preaching abstinence. Sex is a fabulous part of life. I’m no saint, but I’ve not been able to master slutty. I am a natural born serial monogamist. Even my one-night stands turn into relationships. I’m so not one to judge, but I am one to question: Why wouldn’t you use a condom?

First of all, it takes away the question of who will sleep in the wet spot. Secondly, guys, it takes away the question of if she remembered to take her pill. Unless you’ve had a vasectomy, boys, a condom is the only way to be sure she won’t get pregnant...and even then you need to know how to use it right. Thirdly, there isn’t that much of a difference. Just find the condom you like best. I’m a Trojan fan. Don’t like the Durex, though.

We all would like to think we are bullet proof, or at least Teflon coated, but we aren’t. AIDS testing is no longer vogue, but it is prudent. And, for me, it is required. Until there is a committed relationship with all the proper paperwork, a raincoat is proper attire.

One boyfriend took my request as a bit of an insult. He asked me, “Why do you need a test? Do you think you might have slept with somebody wrong? I mean, I was in a relationship for seven years. I know I’m clean.”

I reminded him that his ex cheated on him, with at least one guy he knew of. Which goes to show that you might be monogamous, but that doesn’t mean your partner is. My point was that you never know until you know, and the only way to know is to be tested. It’s not about being “dirty” or sleeping with someone “wrong”. It’s not about judgment but knowledge. He saw my point and went willingly to the doctor. The swab up the urethra was a little surprising, but I reminded him what women go through for our annual pap. We both passed our tests with flying negatives, as we expected and, at the end of the day, he admitted his respect for my insistence.

To me, it’s not about expecting doom, but respecting yourself and those you love, or hope to one day. And, it’s a true test to see how much that person respects you. If he or she can’t commit to taking a test at your request, that can’t bode well for your future. And are you really willing to risk that?

Whether you choose to create on December 1st or not, please take a moment to think about how far we haven’t come in reducing HIV and AIDS. Then take a test. Or take someone to take their first test. Or buy a value pack of condoms and shag your lover senseless. However you chose to do December 1st, I wish you good health.

For information on free testing, visit: http://www.knowhivaids.org/