Little 180, looks like we'll be spending another year together: I just renewed my lease.
I wasn't, and am still not, sure I want to delay another year before heading back to N'Awlins, but then came the bribery. Ahhh, yes. Sure, my landlord sent me a teddy bear and gummi bears (which were past their expiration date, but I didn't let that stop me, because, um, they're GUMMIS. They'll outlive the roaches.) with a card declaring that they "can't bear to lose me." That didn't do it.
The promise to hand over $300 to me if I agreed to stay until '11, however...
The odds that I'll be able to pay rent on time this month are low, especially with my former doctor being stupid and not represcribing my test strips. (What the hell does he think I'm going to do with them if they're $15 for 25 instead of $50? Swallow them? Maybe he just thinks life will become better if sick people have to pay more -- in other words, is against health care reform.) Basically, if I didn't take this deal, I'd have late fees up the ass. And then there are, you know, the holidays. The travel fees. The presents. None of my homemade ideas will even work without refilling the printer ink.
So, I'm staying, and all in all I don't have much to complain about. First of all, I expect my quality of life to be much less stressful this month. More importantly, Tucson remains my second-favorite city of all time, I feel like I've only skimmed the surface of what it has to offer, and I tend to enjoy the life I've created here.
Besides, little 180 is still not decorated to my satisfaction yet.

Again, I have this whole happy and humorous multi-angled update entry in my mind, but this is not it. The downer takes precedence, as I imagine is often the case on LJ. The following is something I've thought about often over the last few months but has come to a head since it is, after all, Coming Out Week.
In Manifesta, Baumgardner and Richards talk about how queerness is not the only closet and give examples of other truths people are often not "out" about, such as having had an abortion or having an STD. Some might call it co-opting (though Baumgardner is queer herself,) but I think it's a useful idea to an extent. The common thread is that facts kept "in the closet" about oneself might often be seen as something shameful when they shouldn't be. The usefulness of the closet idea is limited in that, unlike most of the other revelations, accepting yourself as LGBT is enjoyable and relieving.
I'm a lesbian, and after 23 years, I can safely say this is no secret at all. Anyone with any routine presence in my life knows it, or if they don't, it's because it's never come up and I would not hesitate to inform them if it did. In this way, I am out, and, yes, darn proud.
But there are at least two other ways I am not so out. Though not things I'm glad to have as a part of me, they are there, I don't believe either is my fault, and at times it feels like I am distancing myself from loved ones by not being open, not to mention giving more power to these unspoken parts of my past. I don't ever want to be seen as searching for pity, nor am I passive-aggressively trying to say I want to talk a lot about these things, but most of you who will see this are people I trust. In fact, I'm making this entry public, because I truly do want to believe that I don't have to be ashamed, and if someone who happens upon it has a problem, well, for god's sake... doesn't coming out imply these risks?
So, here we go: A, I am a survivor -- by which, yes, I mean of the sexual abuse variety. I have been in at least three, but most likely four, such situations, one of which went on for a few months. All happened before I lived in Tucson; all but one was prior to college. The only one I have really spoken candidly about to friends is the one I can't know for sure happened, because I was a baby and my informant is not the most mentally reliable of people. In some ways, it's the most grotesque (ie. yes, I said BABY,) but it's also the easiest to talk about because I was too young to feel guilty, partially responsible, blah blah blah, all that bullshit that is a shame and a crisis of confidence but seems sadly universal in cases like this. That especially goes for the the longer situation, because the rest were strangers but this was a "friend," and I didn't quite understand what had happened until years later. All have been difficult for me to bring up, even in therapy; before this year, I had only ventured to mention one stranger situation, and I honestly think the shrink looked triumphant, almost happy, to have unearthed a potential source for some of my troubles. (Then again, she didn't know who Tom Sawyer was, so I don't know why I let her reactions affect me. Glib little digression there.)
B, I used to have an eating disorder. This one is less difficult for me to admit for some reason, perhaps because I no longer have any illusions about how common it really is, and come to think of it, its final (I think. I pray. I hope.) defeat after resurfacing several years ago IS a source of pride for me. I can honestly say I have been a-OK in this respect (and, in fact, a real food lover) for a long time. Technically, I had a type of bulimia, though what I actually did is closer to what people think of when the topic is anorexia. Family and modeling were terrible influences on my teenage day-to-day, and after getting back to relatively normal patterns for four years (after, so problematically, bullying myself with feelings that it was a stupid-girl issue to have) I relapsed for a few months after my brief, unfun, and weight-gain-paranoia-laden bout with the Pill. And yes, and a number of you are probably guessing by now, the discussion of eating disorders tonight helped prompt me to finally sit down and write this. While I didn't feel I could comfortably mention my place in the statistics, I found myself wishing that you all knew, or more accurately, that I haven't spent a good portion of my life hiding it away so thoroughly.
I don't know how to end this entry...aside from wishing you all a happy Coming Out Week.

Okay, there are actually a ton of great things going on, which I'll probably post about tonight.
I just have to vent a little frustration at this moment...
So Sister Spit was here last week. I knew this, knew I had to work and thought I was okay with it. After all, not only have I seen Michelle Tea perform several times; I actually interviewed her back when I was the editor of the Redlands Review. (Yeah, that's right: I interviewed one of the world's hugest queer icons. Little old me. Bragbragbragbragbrag. A'ight, I'm done.) Sadly, in my mind Michelle is not only linked with one of my proudest editorial moments, but also with my mother's craziness. Last year, I received a particularly frustrating email about my mother's response to a Tea work (which, yes, she stole off my old shelf. another rant for another time.) which was to lecture me on why I shouldn't do crystal meth. To which the obvious response is, WTF, have you ever even met me? Digression. Point is, I though I was okay with not attending last week.
And also, uh...let's keep this between us...I'm not always the biggest fan of some of the Spit performers.
Today, though, Bitch had a blurb about them, the first press I've actually sat down and read about them this year.
Ariel Schrag is there.
MORE TO THE HORRIBLE POINT: Ariel Schrag was there.
I fucking missed Ariel Schrag in Tucson.
How the effing eff am I going to forgive myself for this? I wax rhapsodic about Schrag constantly. I did it just last night! When she finally released her fourth and final graphic memoir this year, I got it for myself as a birthday present. That's right: I BOUGHT a book! That should give you some idea.
Since when is she all up in performance art? Whatever, I'm sure she was incredible. She has to have been. She's ARIEL SCHRAG!
And I am a very bummed Deb, kicking myself for not doing a little more research.

-- and no, it wasn't one of the old women who kept talking about what a "perfect little waitress" I was and then failed to leave an adequate tip.
After work, I stopped by the drive-thru pharmacy window out of necessity. They were really busy inside and having some sort of problem with someone ahead of me, so I knew right away I'd be there for awhile.
When the creepy-looking van directly in front of me *finally* reached the front, I left them one car length's worth of space... you know, like you're supposed to. It's called patient confidentiality.
Then, some d-bag* pulled into the lot, bypassed all of us, and nosed between the van and I.
Now, there is no chance of naivete here; there were a bunch of us waiting, very clearly, in a line. Doesn't anyone who has reached first grade know that a queue is not like a lane of traffic? I tried to believe he was planning on pulling back out to the back of the line when the van moved, even though that didn't make any sense, but sure enough, he pulled up. I honked. He didn't move. Finally, it became clear that no one behind me was going to do anything, so I approached him.
"Excuse me. I've been waiting here for half an hour. You cut in front of me."
As I walked away, he burned rubber out and shouted, "Crybaby!"
Uh, srsly?
First of all, I was not even remotely teary; in fact, I spoke completely calmly, in fact much more politely than he deserved. Would he have said that to a man? Of course not. I doubt he would have even tried to pull that stunt if the person at the front hadn't been a young woman. Still, it's the word especially that bothers me. I'd rather he have called me a bitch, because even though he'd still be a douche, at least that word has some power to it. I stood up to him when he did something wildly innappropriate to a bunch of people who had already waited a long, long time. A crybaby is weak. I wouldn't have bothered if the situation hadn't been so extreme, but letting him get away with that, passively grinning and bearing it, would have made me a pushover: weak also.
He assumes himself to be the strong one after pointlessly disrespecting a bunch of people and then running away at the first sign of confrontation? Might he realize that something is wrong there?

(*Check it: bitchmagazine.org/post/douchebag)

Gabe (about the couple that hits on him:) I'd meet them on neutral ground, because I'd like to know more gay people, but they wanted me to go to their house.

Aaron: Wait, so they actually said --

Gabe: No, they said "Come over and have a drink."

Deb (muttering:) Yeah, have a drink of my penis!

(Lindsay about dies laughing.)

Gabe and Aaron: Wait, what?

Good god, I have SO many. I'm coming terms with the fact that I have a bit of an obsession with good young adult media. Which I should, since I write about teenagers, right? As far as the '80s goes, Hughes ruled, especially with The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller (the latter of which my parents saw right before I was born... which I think explains a lot about me. So glad they didn't make their first choice; can you imagine me as a Top Gun baby? Shudder!) The only one of his movies I'd like to forget about is Weird Science. Talk about problematic.
Otherwise, my fave teen movie explicitly for teens is probably Get Over It. Musical, self-parodying, unabashedly weird, and Kirsten Dunst and her wardrobe are hooooot. As for teen-centric films that are more for adults: Election, Ginger Snaps, Footloose, But I'm a Cheerleader, and, of course, Colma.

...Lindsay and I are now a couple.
It feels right.

I finished a short story today, one I'd -- gasp! -- only begun a week or two ago. Not sure what I'll do with it, unless I happen upon a call for LGBT/coming out related stories or monologues. I set out to write a queer romance story, maybe erotica, maybe not, but what developed was a response to my frustration at most the fictional female coming-out tales that are...uh...*out* there.
By which I mean, girl-meets-girl, girl-falls-in-love-with-girl, girl comes out. I couldn't relate. Yes, there were special girls over the years, but my coming out process (when it FINALLY transpired) did not revolve around any specific person save myself. It was all about self-respect, self-acceptance, and while some must have the fairy tale story, surely it's not the only one worth telling. At times, the trend can even feel a little insulting, because why does it take some perfect-seeming other to make young women okay with themselves? (I am not dissing Annie on My Mind. I WORSHIP AoMM. Please don't smite me, Garden.)
The result is a very introspective (hence the name) coming out story very much based on my own experience. It doesn't have the most interesting story arc I've ever written, but I feel I've injected an emotional honesty that could resonate with readers. Especially those awkward teenage girls lurking in the rainbow section.

So...I got a "next step" email. Good news, I think? Maybe everyone got one, but I hear this is not the case.

The new anxiety: they want a theater or film review, but among my writing samples, I already sent six. I'm going to ask whether I should point to one they already have or write something new, so hopefully it won't seem all woe-is-me-I've-worked-so-hard.

UPDATE: Ohhhh shit, they're "leaving that up to [me.]" RAWR WHY?!

UPDATE: I decided that I wanted to write a new review for my next round of application rather than point to something I'd already sent them. I was afraid I'd seem lazy otherwise, and besides, this would show I was willing to work hard (on a weekend, no less) and would be more current and relevant.
I saw a children's play yesterday, wrote it up (and I feel I wrote pretty well, but let's not jinx anything!) and sent it earlier today. Oh boy oh boy...