I'm Not the Problem

I wanted to call this post "I'm Not the Crazy One," but I'm going to try to refrain from tossing around DSM diagnoses that I am not qualified to make, so "problem" seems more appropriate.

Are there people in your life that have the uncanny ability to make your doubt yourself?  I mean doubt how you see yourself in the world, how the world operates, good and bad, right and wrong.  I mean individuals who aren't bad people but who are so entrenched in their own world view that spending time with them makes you start to wonder if your own sense of the universe is somehow askew.

There are a few such people in my life.  They are people I love and care about and respect (at least on some levels).  I suppose that's the rub.  If they were completely antithetical to everything I stand for, it would be easy to maintain boundaries, to see them as other.  These people, on the other hand, share enough commonalities that it is easy to accept as valid/true/real feedback that can be deeply undermining. 

I spent lots of time with my therapist figuring out ways to resist these forces. As one who errs on the side of conflict avoidant, arguing the point is not an option I care to pursue unless necessary.  I had to create (literally) a mental reminder system so that I wasn't swept up in the rhetoric.  It is unlikely that, as she so adeptly phrased it, I have everyone else I know/trust/respect snowed.

Am I being too vague?  Perhaps.  But I'm guessing if it's happened to you, you know what I mean.  And I'm here today to tell you that even in the spirit of openness and growth and self awareness, the criticism is bogus.  So take a deep breath and tell yourself that you are not the problem. 

The Southern Fried Literate Baker Femme

I used to joke that was one of my great fears in life was a collision of my worlds.  The feeling was that there were distinct versions of myself, displayed to various people at various times for various reasons.  The fear was that, should people get together and begin to compare notes, I'd be found out.  Can open; worms everywhere. 

There was the liberal, but still fairly subdued niece/cousin/daughter.  There was the confident higher ed administrator.  There was the domestic goddess.  There was the queer femme inclined to submission and occasional kink.  It wasn't that these women couldn't get along; it was that the people who liked one of them wouldn't like the others. 

Over the last few years, I spent a lot of time trying to reconcile my identities.  The goal was to become a single authentic self that didn't have a compulsive need to be liked by everyone.  In some ways I've succeeded.  I'm much more comfortable with who I am and I think that makes a huge difference.

Yet.  Yet I still have a queer writer blog and a baker who likes to write blog.  I'm okay with that because they are different outlets and I envision them as having different (if at times overlapping) audiences.  This, of course, goes back to my preoccupation with the reader.  It begs the question, again--for whom do I write?

All of this over-analyzing comes courtesy of the apple crisp I made last night.  It's the apple crisp I make every fall, the one my girlfriend loves once in the evening and then every subsequent morning for breakfast until it's gone.  It's the one I write about every fall in my other blog, The Literate Baker.  It's the one I'm sharing now for anyone who happens upon this version of myself:

It really is delicious.  It's easy to make and will leave your entire house smelling divine.  It has both the Literate Baker and the Southern Fried Femme seals of approval.

So I haven't figured it all out; perhaps that's okay.  At least all my selves get along.  And they all love to cook.

Caramel

Wisps of smoke tell you you’re doing it right.  It is important to swirl the pot; stirring with a spoon can set off a crystalline chain reaction that will leave you with useless chunks of sugar and regret.  It is important to swirl the pot slowly; they don’t call it culinary napalm for nothing.

When you see the wisps of smoke, swirl for just a few more seconds.  When you are on the verge of fearing all is lost, whip the pot off the heat and add cream.  When the fury of bubbles abates, toss in a pinch of the best salt you have and some vanilla if you’re so inclined.  Return the whole thing to a gentler heat, stirring until your sauce is smooth and dark and lustrous.

Caramel has a thousand and one uses.  It will coat, cover, fill, swirl, flavor, or complement just about any fruit, nut, cookie, cake, or pie.  Yet its true beauty lies not in the kitchen at all.  A spoon, perhaps, and a willing participant are all you really need.

You’ll want to start with the inside of her elbow, or maybe her wrist.  It is as much a tickle as a tease to lick the soft creases.  She smiles and, for a moment, becomes shy.  Her thoughts have begun to wander; she knows what you are thinking.

You lay a thin smear across her belly, working your way from her left side to her right with your mouth—tongue and teeth and lips.  She sighs and pulls at your hair, wanting to touch, wanting to taste.  You coat your fingers and allow her to suck them while you continue to work your way up her torso. 

The underside of her breast is salty and warm.  It is here you really begin to taste her.  Her nipples are erect.  You worship one, then the other until her sighs become moans.

When you drizzle caramel on the inside of her thighs, she starts to squirm in earnest.  With her body, with a handful of semi-coherent words, she implores you to be fast and hard.  You remain slow, methodical even.  Some indulgences are meant to be savored.

Later, you lay with bodies pressed together.  Her pulse has finally slowed.  The evenness of her breathing assures you she is both sated and spent.  The taste of her lingers, mixed with the bitter-sweet of caramel and the salt of your shared sweat.  The half-empty jar sits on the bedside table, the promise of another night, waiting to be devoured.

On Day Jobs and Daydreams

At many times in my life, I've lamented having/needing to have a day job.  Having a day job felt like a necessary evil.  It paid the bills, contributed to retirement savings, offered health insurance. Aside from those (albeit very important) elements, a day job stood between me and all that I wanted to be or become.

Sometimes, I was dreaming of a future as a best-selling novelist.  Others, I saw my fledgling cake business as an adorable storefront with steady traffic and a staff of its own.  Some mornings, I simply didn't want to get out of bed and put on big girl clothes; some afternoons, my boss drove me up a tree.

Still, being the proprietor of Much Ado About Cake opened my eyes to the sheer weight of responsibility that comes with owning a small business.  Vacation and sick days cut directly into your ability to generate revenue.  Bookkeeping and liability insurance and health department inspections are far less glamorous than the ooohs an ahhhhs of delivering a cake in the shape of Fenway Park.

About six months ago, I left my job of more than eight years to accept a new position.  It wasn't a drastic change from what I'd been doing, but it was definitely a promotion.  I'm now an assistant dean at a college much smaller than the one I worked at previously.  I have a ton more responsibility and I've already worked more evenings and weekends than I used to work in a year. 

Yet, I feel invigorated.  I'm doing a much wider variety of work, which is great.  I'm also part of a decision-making team.  I work with and for the associate dean and dean--two smart and savvy women.  I earn a good salary--enough that I don't have to fret over whether I'm actually bringing in any money from  baking or writing.

Don't get me wrong, I still do my fair share of whining.  This is especially true when I have to work Saturday morning admissions events or talk to megalomaniacal alumni.  (Okay, they aren't really megalomaniacal, but I don't get to use that word enough.) 

I still fantasize about having my own show on Food Network or being on the bestseller list.  I'd abandon my day job if either of those things ever came to pass. I just no longer look at my day job as the thing that stands between me and those things.  It's more of an acceptable livelihood in the meantime--not a bad gig.
 

All the Little Things

When it comes to relationships, it is, of course, about the big things.  Intelligence, integrity, humor--without such things, there is no basis for a meaningful relationship to take hold.  With the big things squarely in place, it is lovely to bask in the little things.

I spent two days this week in New York City for work.  More specifically, I spent two days shepherding thirty-five college students around the city to visit accounting and finance firms.  I wore a suit (which I loathe) in 85-degree weather, I listened to wealth managers and risk managers and stock brokers talk about what it takes to make it in the industry. 

I arrived home at 11:30 on Friday night to a smiling partner, a glass of wine, and these:

Not only did they brighten my evening, they make me smile as I sit at the dining room table writing.  They are just the right thing after a few days of not nearly enough soft-and-pretty stuff. 

And what's more?  If you look very closely, you might detect my honey in the background, doing the dishes.  I made breakfast today, so she does the dishes.  She also got up early to walk the dog so I could sleep late.

Yes, I'm feeling a little spoiled this weekend.  Yes, I'm feeling a little smug.  It's nice to revel in being tended. 

It's more than that, though.  I used to think the little things were important because they added up, and that is true.  I've decided they are really important because they tell us our partner gets us.  They tell us that she is paying attention.  They are her way of giving us exactly what we need even when we don't have the wherewithal to know what those needs are. 

I spent a lot of my life trying to let the little things go.  I convinced myself, as a child and as an adult, that if a family member/friend/partner was smart/kind/funny, that was all that mattered.  Demanding more seemed so, well, demanding. 

It took being with someone who does all the little things to understand the difference.  The little things, and they're different for every person, but they matter.  Perhaps, they matter most of all.

Femme Knowing, Knowing Knowing

Some are born femme.  Some achieve femmeness.  Some have femmeness thrust upon them. 

Of course, it's rarely that simple.

I like to think there is some is some femme essence that has been with me always, long before I even knew what femme meant.  I like to that the inexplicable fascination I had with the sporty volleyball player who I tutored in algebra was my first authentic girl crush.  I like to think my secret obsession with the k.d. lang/Cindy Crawford cover of Vanity Fair came from a place of deep knowing.  I like to think that both my body and my subconscious knew before I did, and waited patiently for the rest of me to catch up.

Yeah, you know the one.

I am a notorious over-thinker.  Uncertainty gives me a certain amount of anxiety, so I turn things over in my mind.  I turn them over and over and over, convinced that there is an answer that someone with my intellect should be able to deduce.  Perhaps, despite undergraduate and graduate degrees in English, there is some engineering DNA hardwired in me.

My therapist has a different take.  My intellect, you see, has always been valued.  It has been praised and nurtured and it has served my well.  My instinct (or gut or soul or heart), on the other hand, has not proven itself in the same ways.  Moreover, the combination of analytical minds and Catholic indoctrination do not place a premium on feelings.

My therapist, lovely and wise woman that she is, has a saying.  Perhaps it is not so much a saying as it is something she has to say to me nearly every time that we meet.  "The brain," she says, "is an excellent servant.  It is not a very good master."

Each and every time that I begin to fret about my job or my weight or my relationship or my ex or my family or my future, she whips out this truth.  We talk about meditation.  I sigh because I am not very good at meditation.  We talk about sitting quietly, breathing deeply.  We talk about the fact that the answers--all of them that I need--are there.  My body knows, my very cells know what I need, what I want.  I know.  I've only to stop trying to figure it out and simply listen.

Who's Your Mama, Are You Catholic, and Can You Make a Roux?

I suppose I should get to the part where I start a blog and call it Southern Fried Femme.  I'll start with the Southern. 

I was born and raised in Louisiana.  By general account, I was a good girl.  At times, too smart for my own good.  At others, a real smart aleck (alleck? alec? is that an actual word?)  I went to Mass, I (mostly) minded my mama, and I learned to make a roux at a very young age. 

I was different, though.  In my high school government class, our teacher gave us a quiz to help us figure out if we were democrat or republican.  Turns out, I was the second most liberal girl in the eleventh grade at the Academy of the Sacred Heart that year.  My friends were a mix of scandalized and amused.

I left the South for college.  I'm sure I'll get into the reasons at some point.  There, being Southern was a novelty.  I cooked for my new Yankee friends and got lots of attention. 

When I turned out to be sort of gay (I'll get to that later as well), my queerness and my politics became more of a priority than my heritage.  Since they seemed mutually exclusive, I gave up on being Southern.  I stopped watching football.  I distanced myself from the uncles barking about the cult of environmentalism.  I went home only in small doses.

One thing I never lost was the food.  Gumbo always made me happy.  Beignets always meant a party.  Fried chicken didn't have politics.  Food, especially of the Southern ilk, remained a comfort and connection.  Like an old friend.

The Power of the Reader

What is it about being read that is such a powerful force?

When I was younger, I was an occasional diary keeper.  From the time I was in middle school, I wrote my diary as though someone might read it.  It was an odd self-censorship that, even now, I don't entirely understand.  I'm not sure who I expected to see it or what I wanted to come of it, but the idea was ever present. 

In retrospect, I think I wanted someone to care enough to read it. It is also likely that I harbored a secret desire to have my grievances aired to... to...

As I developed as a writer, I often struggled with the idea of writing for writing's sake, or writing as a matter of exercise.  If I didn't see something fitting into something I would put out to the world, I found it hard to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard.  It was quite stifling at times.

And now I find myself starting a new blog as part of a new commitment to writing.  Again, the idea of having someone read is the elephant in the room of my psyche.  Is it validation I seek?  Is it a vague sense of self-importance?  Maybe it's a desire for connection.  I feel so very much at home in the written word, it's as though it is there that I seek out company.

I don't think this feeling is going anywhere.  I'm going to attempt to be empowered by it, motivated by it.  I'm promising myself fifteen minutes a day, after all. 

Words from the Wise

I recently got a small nugget of advice from a Southern femme writer whose work I greatly admire.  "Give yourself fifteen minutes a day," she said, "to write whatever you want to write."

It was simple advice, brilliant almost in it's simplicity.  I agreed that it was exactly the sort of thing I needed to make myself do.  She stopped me.  "It's not a chore.  It's a gift you give yourself.  It's a promise that no matter what else has to get done in the day, you give yourself that little piece of time to do the work that matters to you."  Okay, that second part is probably not an exact quote, but the sentiment was loud and clear.

I sat in her office, mulling this over along with what I would undertake as my final project in "Feminist Narratives," my first foray into graduate work in nearly ten years.  (Ack, that makes me feel old.)  Books were everywhere, lined up and stacked on every available surface.  I fidgeted.  I tried not to fawn.

She also told me I had great talent as a writer.  Let me tell you, if you are a Southern girl and a femme who dreams of being a writer, it doesn't get much better than Minnie Bruce Pratt telling you that you have great talent as a writer.  Of course, she also said that I needed to figure out if I had something to say.

Aye, there's the rub.

Undeterred, I've decided to embark on an exploration of self and sex and love and gender and all of those things that make life worthwhile.  I'll probably talk about food, too, as it figures very prominently in my life.  Unlike my more restrained alter ego, the Literate Baker, I set no rules and make no promises.  I may, in fact, find myself talking only to myself.  And while I hope that won't be the case, I won't mind if it is.

I am a femme on a journey.  Or a mission.  Or something.  Something interesting, and with lots of words.  A most exciting prospect.