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Jan. 27th, 2005 03:40 pmHome from my stepmother's funeral. About which I will only say, when I die, put me in a cardboard box, cremate me, toss a party where the beer flows like wine, and please please please do not have some minister give an ungrammatical and Jesus-laden eulogy which demonstrates that he never *met* me in my frickin' life. Amen.
Well, I'll add that I diverted myself by observing the vast behavioral divide between my stepsiblings (a warm, emotionally-bonding, expressive, huggy bunch) and me&brothers (poker-faced, uncomfortable-looking, given to standing around with hands in pockets, conversing quietly about comparative funeral rituals of various cultures and edging surreptitiously toward the exits). I love my stepsiblings, truly I do--they are the warm yeasty bread of humanity, they give and they bond and they connect and nurture. But I am glad I am not *of* them.
Also, a thought on pantyhose. It is brought home to me that there are women in the world--plenty of them, in fact--who wear pantyhose every frickin' workday of their lives. Which is just ... I can't even encompass it. After four hours I was ready to rip the damn things off with my *teeth.* It's like the last time I went bra-shopping (oh, man, I have a whole rant on that topic) and realized that:
(a) about 95% of all bras on the market are underwire, which means that
(b) at any moment, about 95% of the female population are wearing underwire bras.
All of which leads me to marvel yet again that women do *not*, in fact, make up the lion's share of mass, spree, or serial killers. As Fraser notes in Speranza's A Dare's a Dare (a.k.a. The Drag Story):
Instantly Fraser was tugging the dress up, over his head, and then he was pulling the bra off over his shoulders and shoving the tattered pantyhose down his legs and tugging off the low-heeled shoes. "Horrible," Fraser said with a small shudder. "I don't know how women stand it." Naked now, Fraser scratched first at his arms and then at his chest--there was a faint red line there where his bra had been. "They must have depths of strength about which we men know nothing.". Indeed.
Well, I'll add that I diverted myself by observing the vast behavioral divide between my stepsiblings (a warm, emotionally-bonding, expressive, huggy bunch) and me&brothers (poker-faced, uncomfortable-looking, given to standing around with hands in pockets, conversing quietly about comparative funeral rituals of various cultures and edging surreptitiously toward the exits). I love my stepsiblings, truly I do--they are the warm yeasty bread of humanity, they give and they bond and they connect and nurture. But I am glad I am not *of* them.
Also, a thought on pantyhose. It is brought home to me that there are women in the world--plenty of them, in fact--who wear pantyhose every frickin' workday of their lives. Which is just ... I can't even encompass it. After four hours I was ready to rip the damn things off with my *teeth.* It's like the last time I went bra-shopping (oh, man, I have a whole rant on that topic) and realized that:
(a) about 95% of all bras on the market are underwire, which means that
(b) at any moment, about 95% of the female population are wearing underwire bras.
All of which leads me to marvel yet again that women do *not*, in fact, make up the lion's share of mass, spree, or serial killers. As Fraser notes in Speranza's A Dare's a Dare (a.k.a. The Drag Story):
Instantly Fraser was tugging the dress up, over his head, and then he was pulling the bra off over his shoulders and shoving the tattered pantyhose down his legs and tugging off the low-heeled shoes. "Horrible," Fraser said with a small shudder. "I don't know how women stand it." Naked now, Fraser scratched first at his arms and then at his chest--there was a faint red line there where his bra had been. "They must have depths of strength about which we men know nothing.". Indeed.
