Gay is Good

Well, I went to a new doctor. A gynecologist. Since I needed a reputable practitioner, I had to take what I could get as soon as I could get it. I got a man. I was dreading the experience because I don’t normally accept male gynecologists because, well, what the F#$@? By the way, how can anyone be married to a gynecologist? What do you tell your friends and family? I was pondering this – aloud – in the waiting room at the clinic when I was called in. I didn’t get to see the doctor right away; instead, I had to give a ton of personal information to some kind woman that was trying her best to use a new computer program. At one point, the woman asked me how many sexual partners I had had. “Oooh, a lot,” I told her. Then I asked her what the largest number was that you could add to the computer. She said it was left blank so that she could enter any number. “Hmmmm…” I thought to myself. “Well, you see, the thing is, I don’t know the exact number…” She told me to just give her an estimate. I gave her an (under)estimate to which her response was, “Oh, well, yes, that certainly is a lot.” I tried to explain to her that I grew up in a very incestuous small town and that I was very messed up in my twenties, looking for love in all the wrong places, trying to assert my independence…but she didn’t seem to really care. I wonder why not? Then it was time to pee in a cup and get undressed and all that. I peed all over the cup, as usual, and then got undressed. The doctor finally came in and…yes….birds starting chirping in the background and I could hear Julie Andrews singing about some hills being alive somewhere. Why? He was gay. Gay as a sunny day! I was overjoyed and wanted to French kiss him right then and there to show my appreciation. I showed him my chichi instead. “Go ahead,” I told him, “Have a look around – do whatever you need to do up there. I am just soooo glad you aren’t an old hetero.”

Also, for those of you who are wondering. I did meet my mother’s “friend”, too. For a moment. He is good looking. He’s nice. Yeah, okay, whatever. Leave me alone. He emailed me. I’ll email back. I am not rude. Besides, I can use all the friends I can get right now. That’s right, you aren’t cutting it!! I need more. I need a lot more attention and adulation than I am getting from the lot of you!

Oh, and my very expensive psychic told me that my long-term true love (because my last boyfriend was a true love – just not a long-term true love) lives on/near the Pacific Ocean and his name starts with the letter T. ???? I don’t know, people; that’s what she said. She said that I need to be willing to go online. Is she talking about online dating? ‘Cuz I started to fill out the information on several sites and then deleted each one as soon as I completed all the tests and forms. I did this five times, at least. I eventually ended up in tears as I realized that I just wasn’t ready. I am not holding on to hope for reconciliation because, at this point, as much as I loved my British boy, I could never trust him with my heart again. So, why couldn’t I do the online dating thing? I got scared. I realized that my heart isn’t ready to have hope again – to fall in love again – and to risk being let down again. This heart needs a little R & R. And so do I. Or rather, since I am in Upstate, NY, perhaps I should say, “So, don’t I.” I like it, actually. I like being a nonconformist – a linguistic rebel – a verbal attacker of the English language!! I hope my friend, Patty Pooh, isn’t reading this because she is a grammar tsar and would not approve.

Speaking of Upstate, NY and language usage, I consider myself to be politically correct when speaking and using language because I think it’s friggin’ important and powerful how we use language. For example, I don’t think it’s okay to call a guy a “girl” as an insult. I am a girl – why are you using my gender to put someone else down? I don’t think it’s okay to call someone or something “gay” as an insult. If I were gay (okay, the 21 days of my, “I am a lesbian” affirmation didn’t work), I would find it pretty demeaning to have people using my sexual orientation as a way to negatively describe things. Get my drift? But why then do I find it okay to call myself and others “retarded”? Well, I figure that if someone is retarded, then they won’t actually understand that I am using that word in a less than positive light, so who’s getting hurt here? Plus, it does have more than one meaning. I would never call someone who is developmentally delayed a retard. Why? Because that would be considered offensive and hurtful. I would only call myself and loved ones retarded because I, and my loved ones, truly are, and we are developmentally advanced enough to realize and understand this about ourselves and each other. And, actually, the term doesn’t always mean something awful…I, we, the peoples of New York (and NJ), use it often in the same way we say, “loser”. What I mean is that it can sometimes be used as a compliment. For example, when I was getting my facial done a few weeks back, I was talking to the woman about plastic surgery and what I wanted to get if I ever got it (which, let’s face it, I probably won’t ever really do). Then I mentioned my younger sister and how she looked 16 but had three kids and was 38. “Younger sister?” she cried out. “Wait. How old are YOU then?” I told her I was 40. She freaked. Her hands moved off of my face (which really wasn’t right since I was paying for them to be ON my face) and she started flailing them about. “Forty? Ohmyhod!” Then she said it…. “You are soooo retarded!” I laughed. I loved that she said that. “I AM retarded, aren’t I?” “No,” she assured me, “you really are.” If felt so good – a) to be getting a facial, b) to be 40 and look 30 and c) to be home where I can be called “retarded” by a perfect stranger.

Well, I suppose I should get off the ‘puter and go out and look for a job. Why? I dunno. Health insurance? Distraction? Or maybe because I can’t keep mooching off my aunt and uncle, where I have free 1) Internet service, 2) laundry facilities (and sometimes unsolicited service), 3) cable TV, 4) access to numerous diet sodas and varieties of Pringles, 5) use of a digital telephone to call anywhere in the United States and Canada, 6) love and support, 7) rent and 8) use of my own shower when the dog isn’t using it. Wait, why should I get a job? Oh yeah, pride and self-sufficiency. What a drag!

Well, I really should get a move on. Poop on a stick, people (I mean that in the Buddhist sense). And all my love.

Sincerely yours,

Ima U. Terrace