Testosterone Visits and Streams of Semi-Consciousness

Some men are reading my blog. Part of it is my fault. And part of it is hilarious. But the original intent was that I could write about the two-ton hemorrhoid what I gave birth to, along with my children, without feeling hampered. What if a man should read about the excess hair? The lack of any real substance to my personality? Actually, that's a bit disingenuous: I do have a few quality items to express about politics, parenting, and childhood, but my fashion comments and my penis curiosities lack the intellectual rigor and research that I should have given them.

Note to self: when giving blog name to old friend at reunion, pretend you did not have extra-strong margarita (I never did triple sec in there before), and remember to say it's kinda confidential. But then if a man reads this it ends up being funny anyway because it's so estrogen-bound. Maybe someone will write in and actually clarify the whole burning issue of gender? Nooo - anonymity? Women finding spaces in which to commune without male feedback? Why does this strike me as funny? Did I take an extra little pill today? If an issue arises vis-a-vis people of the male gender peeking in, I'll letcha know.

So there's this guy, right? Speaking of guys. (Did I just write that? Am I a middle-aged man sitting at a bar?) And he makes it seem like he's giving me a job. Being naturally negative, I am not one to pretend that someone seems to be giving me positive signals. When he decides no, he emails me the rejection! I spend half a day at the goddamn place and all I get is a lame-ass email. When I ask him why he's basically like: well that's what we decided. I think of chicken testicles, only I don't know if chickens have testicles, but if they do, I bet they look like that slimy yellow chicken skin with little lumps.

Remember the guy from "Crossing Delancey?" He was kinda hot in a Jewishy dark way, and Amy Irving was sultress/idiot stereotype, too foolish to realize her lust target was a cad, but the good Jewishe boy was decent, loyal, and certainly circumcised. At one point, Jewish boy says, referring to his pickle barrel business, and forever winning my politically incorrect heart, "What? You think it defines me?" And he is so right because he was a hottie and intelligent, despite the fact that he was cast as a pickle guy. He went on to make some excellent films, and poor Amy Irving spent years wondering what color to dye her hair. You knew after a few days she'd go back to the artsy cool stereotype guy and pickle man would settle down and have a buncha kids with braces.

Personally, I adhere to no stereotypes, unless women writers who start out writing about one thing always inevitably end up writing about the dish on mediocre actors, job rejections, and lost anonymity. All of these topics tie together, actually, because I am taking poetic license. I earned my poetic license after years with a permit and now I am allowed to say whaddevah the hell I want to. And what I want to say is that any man who reads this and actually knows me should skip any part that you think maybe is just for females, start selling pickles, date a confused Jewish woman, or, even better, call the lady if you don't wanna hire her, instead of sending a chickenball email.