By popular request: the monologue I delivered this weekend in the cabaret. Bear in mind, this fit within a greater context and is by no means indicative of gospel truth. License was taken and facts stretched where effect dictated. (Though, the statistic about pie crust is 100% citeworthy. See? I'm topical.)
So I have this vision of myself. Making meatloaf. No, really. I'm in my kitchen in a little ruffly apron, grooving out to Bob Dylan, and I am up to my elbows in ground cow.
I went to Smith College. I'm supposed to burn my bra in protest and subvert the dominant patriarchal hegemony. And yet, here I am, sculpting this big bunch of beef for my imaginary boyfriend. And I'm a vegetarian. A vegetarian with a magnet on her fridge that reads: A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. So why am I making fantasy meatloaf for some unnamed, erudite suitor who is going to someday show up for dinner in wire-rimmed spectacles and a sweater vest and sweep me off my feet?
I must be the only girl in recorded history to have graduated from lesbian boot camp with a Betty Crocker complex. My mother can barely mash a potato, and here I am with all these domestic "tendencies." Because I have other fantasies too, you know, like . . . steam cleaners and . . . hospital corners . . . and . . . bundt cake. That's right: bundt cake.
Maybe I'm so conventional, it's unconventional. I mean, I'm still a feminist. I want to wear pants and vote and see the world and everything, but really I just want to go steady. I want a little fraternity pin on my cardigan. I want "his" and "hers" bedside bookcases. And yes, someday I want babies and banana bread. Does that make me so old-fashioned?
According to the New York Times Sunday magazine two weeks ago, 84% of women today can't make a pie crust. 84 percent. So really, when you think about it, I'm on the damned cutting edge. I'm like—Feminism 2.0.
Once I started shaving my armpits, I figured it wouldn't be that hard to find a man who would love me in spite of my incurable housewifery. I mean, come on fellas, I can bake a pie. And I like it.
But no, y'all aren't biting. And so I'm going to end up like Sylvia Plath meets June effing Cleaver and stick my head in an oven.
I know I'm the weirdest girl on the planet. I read too much, I swear like a sailor and I'm kind of a nerd. But I can do things with a waffle iron that you've never dreamed of . . .
I had to learn to dance tango just to get a grown man to put his arm around me. And that is a sorry state of affairs. But, in spite of it all, I still believe he's out there. That unicorn of men. The dill to my pickle. The guy who knows a good piece of meatloaf when he sees one.
So I have this vision of myself. Making meatloaf. No, really. I'm in my kitchen in a little ruffly apron, grooving out to Bob Dylan, and I am up to my elbows in ground cow.
I went to Smith College. I'm supposed to burn my bra in protest and subvert the dominant patriarchal hegemony. And yet, here I am, sculpting this big bunch of beef for my imaginary boyfriend. And I'm a vegetarian. A vegetarian with a magnet on her fridge that reads: A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. So why am I making fantasy meatloaf for some unnamed, erudite suitor who is going to someday show up for dinner in wire-rimmed spectacles and a sweater vest and sweep me off my feet?
I must be the only girl in recorded history to have graduated from lesbian boot camp with a Betty Crocker complex. My mother can barely mash a potato, and here I am with all these domestic "tendencies." Because I have other fantasies too, you know, like . . . steam cleaners and . . . hospital corners . . . and . . . bundt cake. That's right: bundt cake.
Maybe I'm so conventional, it's unconventional. I mean, I'm still a feminist. I want to wear pants and vote and see the world and everything, but really I just want to go steady. I want a little fraternity pin on my cardigan. I want "his" and "hers" bedside bookcases. And yes, someday I want babies and banana bread. Does that make me so old-fashioned?
According to the New York Times Sunday magazine two weeks ago, 84% of women today can't make a pie crust. 84 percent. So really, when you think about it, I'm on the damned cutting edge. I'm like—Feminism 2.0.
Once I started shaving my armpits, I figured it wouldn't be that hard to find a man who would love me in spite of my incurable housewifery. I mean, come on fellas, I can bake a pie. And I like it.
But no, y'all aren't biting. And so I'm going to end up like Sylvia Plath meets June effing Cleaver and stick my head in an oven.
I know I'm the weirdest girl on the planet. I read too much, I swear like a sailor and I'm kind of a nerd. But I can do things with a waffle iron that you've never dreamed of . . .
I had to learn to dance tango just to get a grown man to put his arm around me. And that is a sorry state of affairs. But, in spite of it all, I still believe he's out there. That unicorn of men. The dill to my pickle. The guy who knows a good piece of meatloaf when he sees one.
Posts
7 comments:
It's possible to read too much? Pshhh.
You sound like a catch to me.
I had to come back because I just figured out where you're going wrong. You're on the EAST COAST. Come over to the Midwest and you'll be snatched up in a jiffy.
Yes, I intentionally used the word "jiffy" to sound quaint.
Aw, thanks!
Came here to tell you that I actually am Marie of Roumania. Well my middle name is Marie, and I am from Roumania. But I am laughing so hard, cause you're the most hysterical blogger I've read in a long while.
This is great. But you're not the only one! Lesbian bootcamp -> food blogger and Betty Crocker wannabe over here. In fact, I started cooking with a lesbian tutor! I think it's kind of awesome to be us.
Such a shame you left the team. So many butch daddies in the city would love to snatch you up and roll you around in pie dough. And would also love it if you called them "Daddy."
Yes, I intentionally used the word "snatch" to sound quaint.
Hah, a woman after my own heart. I, too, am a walking contradiction. It makes you interested. You're open-minded and appreciate all types of beauty. And something of a hopeless romantic. All good things, dear, all good things.
S-O
Post a Comment