Wedding Shit or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Planning My Nuptials

For those of you who don’t know/actually care, Bourgie is planning a wedding. Apparently, some folks were a little miffed at Obi-Wayne’s and my decision to begrudgingly pay $200.00 to the government to recognize our six-year relationship as somehow more legitimate than the twenty-two-year relationship my old neighbors Joseph and Darryl had. Not because of the preferential treatment Obi-Wayne and I had received, but because WTF, no party?

At first, Obi-Wayne and I ignored the puppy dog eyes and the pouty faces. Who cared? It was a contract between the two of us that we needed to have fulfilled for a valid reason (one which shall be explored another day) and that was it.

But holy shit, YOU GAIS. The social pressure was enormous. People who had seen our relationship blossom from two best friends to two drunk (alright, mostly one) folks that occasionally made out to two lovebird and eventually two marrieds were disappointed because they too, had wanted to share in that moment. They, as our family and our family of friends, wanted to witness our joining together in not-so-holy matrimony, and then immediately imbibe copious amounts of champagne (because remember folks, we’re a classy bunch here) and attempt something close to something resembling dancing, probably with much flailing of the arms.

The point is, no matter what we have been told, the wedding is not about us. It is about our community.

So, here I am, a month and a half later, planning a wedding. At first, it was begrudgingly. “Curse you, Wedding Industrial Complex!” I would say, with my hand resting daintily betwixt my breasts for no other reason than to give me an opportunity to say “betwixt” and “breasts” in the same sentence. I’d downplay our upcoming post-nuptial ceremony-slash-reception as “something to do for the family”. I’d give nonchalant “I dunno’s” to anyone that asked if I was excited.

"You are tearing me APART, Wedding Planning!"

“You are tearing me APART, Wedding Planning!”

But as I slowly began to tell more and more people of our elopement and our plans to celebrate, the more I realized that this meant a lot to them. We had friends get happily teary-eyed. We had others beam joyfully back at us. I had one friend jump on my lap and dry-hump me in excitement.

We have weird friends.

Also, I may have dry-humped her back.

Also, I may have started the dry-humping.

The point is, that the deeper I got into the wedding rabbit hole, the more I realized that much of my trepidation wasn’t with the wedding itself, but with the possibility that I might be sucked into the wedding industrial complex (WIC). When I thought “wedding”, I thought about the white dress and the fancy cake and the something-blue-heels and the sleek-straight-hair-that-was-then-curled-and-lol-what-why and UGH. I didn’t want to have flowers. I didn’t want to have bridesmaids. I didn’t want to be “given away”, or lose my identity as Bourgie, and suddenly turn into The Bride or Mrs. Obi-Wayne’s Last Name. I hated how gendered the wedding world was. I hated how heterosexist it was.

I was afraid of selling out.

But as I cautiously searched the web for ways to navigate the WIC, I was able to find wonderful communities dedicated exactly to that. I didn’t have to have a hairsprayed no-hair-out-of-place undo! I didn’t have to have a wedding cake! Or blue shoes! Or a white dress! I didn’t have to be “classy“! Suddenly, I was excited at the prospect of trying on dresses, entrenching myself in bridal magazines, perusing the world of Offbeat Bride, picking colors with my mom…

And the more excited I got about planning, the more people fed off my energy, and the more I saw just how deeply people cared about us. The outpouring of love has been immense. A make-up artist friend told me she would put my social warpaint on for free the day of. A friend of a friend has offered to make gluten-free cupcakes at a heavily discounted price (Obi-Wayne has a gluten intolerance), and the latest gift I was given was so touching that it made me break down crying in the middle of my train ride home from work.

A lovely man with a conspicuous MOB tattoo even pulled out his red handkerchief and told me he hoped I was crying because I was happy.

It was nice…in a gangbanger with a heart of gold, customer service kind of way.

Anyway, this particular gift had come from my mother, who told me that she was paying for my wedding gown, which we’re collaborating on (i.e., designing). That right there saved me more than a couple grand.

It’s all so overwhelming.

And even my mother, traditional as she is, has been respectful of my offbeat wishes, although admittedly, she is far more encouraging of my more traditionally “classy”, “wedding-y” ideas. She, for example, nodded approvingly at my choice to have cupcakes rather than wedding cake (which is not as scandalous as it was ten years ago), and has been supportive of my choices in flowers and color schemes. She may or may not have balked at the idea of playing John Williams’ “Han Solo and the Princess” when Obi-Wayne and I walk down the aisle together and keeping lightsabers and nerf guns at a table so that when people get into political/ideological/religious disputes, they can solve it with a duel…you know…like civilized people.

But at the very end of the day, my Mãe-zilla (an affectionate moniker that my mother finds hysterical) and my family of friends have been supportive about every decision, every step of the way. So much so, that there may not be any need for the nerf guns.

…well…we’ll see…

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Sweet, Sweet, Genderblind Stupidity

Well. Last night was apparently very eventful outside of the Von Quityourbitching household. While Obi-Wayne and I settled into bed with the Shitty Pups at the witching hour of 8:30pm, my AARP card-carrying mother was getting down at the country club for a homegirl’s birthday party (bourgie-ness is apparently hereditary, yes).

Cue a phone call at 10pm.

I felt around on my nightstand for my phone and saw the stock image of my mother’s brown face smiling back at me. Hoping she was calling to swing by and pick up her grand pup (he had been acting shittier than usual as was demonstrated by his current energetic yapping, and it would have been welcome), I slid my thumb across the screen and croaked, “hello?”

“Did I wake you up???”

“No, I’ve always sounded like this. You just haven’t noticed in the years you’ve raised me.”

“Oh. Good.”

My mother, as a foreigner, still did not fully catch sarcasm, despite having been fluent in English for over 25 years.

“What’s up?” I prompted her in Portuguese.

“Ai, I was just at this party and saw these two women get in a fight!”

“Well that’ll certainly be good for the country club’s street cred.”

“I don’t know what is that…” she retorted in English.

I suppressed a laugh. “It doesn’t matter. What happened?”

“Have noooot a cluuuue. I was at the table and this woman threw white wine at this other woman’s face. Then the girl who spilled the wine pulled the other woman’s hair and guess what her husband did while his waive was being assaulted?”

“What?”

“Nothing!”

This, admittedly, made me sit up. “Seriously?”

“Yes! I guess the woman who attacked his wife is his cousin, and all the husband said was,”–here she dropped her voice a few octaves lower and reverted back to English–“‘I’m never speaking to you again’! Can you believe it?”

I frowned. “No.”

“Real men, they don’t exist here in this country. In my country, he would have grabbed her by the arm and escorted her from the room! If my husband eeeever let this happen, he’d be served with divorce papers the next day! These women, they are unfortunately more like men nowadays. And the men, they are all wimps!”

I listened to her speak of gender and cultural polarities for another five minutes before we bid each other boa noite and I lay back down in bed.

“What’d she want? She taking the dog?” Obi-Wayne mumbled against my neck once I had settled in again.

I tried to shake my head no, realized that I was too lazy to, and instead managed a half-shrug. “Just wanted to talk. Lady at this country club apparently got her ass handed to her by her husband’s (female) cousin.”

A beat.

“…so what you’re saying is that she’s not taking the dog…”

I turned around to reply only to come face to face with the pup, who had decided to settle down on Obi-Wayne’s head. Pups blinked back sleepily before closing his eyes, unaware that his new bed was my husband’s face.

“No, she’s not,” I finally replied.

And with a half-shrug of his own, Obi-Wayne went right back to sleep, his snores echoing off the walls within minutes of dozing off.

I closed my eyes, but didn’t sleep. I though about what my mother had said, shifting every so often so that I could lovingly elbow my husband in the ribs to get him to wake up long enough for him to shift to a position less conducive to snoring.

“Where are the real men”? “Women are the new men”? What the fuck does that even mean? And is that necessarily a bad thing?

Well okay, I mean, yes, of course assaulting a person would definitely be filed under behavioral “no-no’s”, but why does the idea of a “manly” woman equate with an aggressive woman? And why is the idea of a girly (re: “wimpy”) man automatically equated with timidness?

And what the hell was up with the implication that it was mostly women that engaged in this kind of shitty behavior anyway? The idea that men no longer have a monopoly on Stupid Fights is laughable.

I came to the conclusion that this isn’t about men versus women. No, this is about an epidemic of stupidity. Shit, I’ve seen two dudes get in a full-blown fistfight over which hockey team is better the same weekend I witnessed two chicks beat the ever-loving crap out of each other over who spilled what on whose shitty fifteen-dollar Forever 21 duds.

Still, all that said, I have to admit that there has been a noticeable rise in female aggression in the last decade and a half or so. Am I missing something? Did I not get the memo? Maybe it’s the same one that’s been floating around with the picture of the faked moon landing and the gay agenda, because Lord knows I haven’t seen shit.

Maybe we are all being secretly taped for a season or five of Real Housewives of Blaggedy Blerb, and only a select few of us know and are just trying to get the most air time?

the_real_housewives_of_orange_county-13341

Secretly the illuminati.

If that’s the case, I feel sorry for whomever has been filming me during any point that I am getting my vag lasered (re: hair abortion). And if it really is true, I want my cut of the revenue, damn it. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure someone’s already cornered the market for torture porn.

Such is life.

Ceci N’est Pas Une Introduction

How do I start out introducing something that’s really about nothing? What the hell do I even say?

That I’m bored?

That my life lacks challenge?

That I need a project?

That this is essentially the Seinfeld of blogs? Although I guess the implication that this is a blog about nothing wouldn’t be entirely correct. It’s a story. It’s a story about a woman enamored with academia and scientific pursuit who gave it all up to get a “real job”, and how she’s once again trying to find meaning in her work. You know, the story of Bourgie Von Quityourbitching.

So again, this isn’t necessarily a blog about nothing, it’s a blog about nothing important.

Because really, at the very root of all of this, it’s the ultimate problem of the bourgeois–what do I do with my life to give it meaning?? It’s so fucking Disney Princess. I, despite the privilege of employment (at a livable wage at that), want MOARRRR.

Oh, shut up.

Oh, shut up.

I want something beyond playing on the Internet after work to take up my time. I want to keep myself accountable of my educational pursuits. I want to reach a wide range of rational people (on the Interwebz?? Surely you JEST!) unaware of the kyriarchy and present it in an accessible way (i.e., with crass language and dick jokes). I want to inspire thought, and critical thought at that. I want to put my most fucked up thoughts in the ether so that I can go to sleep at night knowing that someone else now bears the responsibility of thinking the same.

And honestly? Because I need something to do. And that’s not only according to me. Oh no. That’s third-party confirmation, baby. I’m like a less attractive, shorter, sicker, uninteresting version of BBC’s titular Sherlock (Sher-not?)–I need to keep busy or I will surely set something on fire.

Among the third parties that would confirm my need to keep busy is my husband and life partner. He’s absolute perfection despite his penchant for leaving half-empty glasses of water all over the house. Seriously. Motherfucker will literally take a cup, fill it with water, sip on it for an hour, and then forget about it until it’s time to do dishes and we have NO GLASSES. And then we’ll find them under the sink, and on the nightstand, and in the oven (no fucking joke), and in the dog kennel.

So he’s pretty damn close to perfection. He’s got the whole good-looking Bruce-Wayne-slash-sexy-martial-artist-slash-badass thing down pat, although thankfully, does not possess the enormous amount of broodiness Batman does. If anything, his badassery is more on par with the Jedi; super zen, and possessing a quiet sort of intellect that I think is better suited to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Oh my God, I am married to Obi-Wayne.

Seriously though, those fucking cups…

But Obi-Wayne isn’t the only one I live with. Every (anti-) hero has to have a trusty animal sidekick, and we, of course, have our trusty pup. As in, we can always trust this fool to pee everywhere at all times based on his ability to emote.

I am not kidding.

Happy to see you? Pees.

Sad that you’re leaving? Pees.

Shamed for peeing everywhere? Pees some more.

Grateful that you forgave him from the shaming he received as a result of the previous accident? Peeeeeees. EVERYWHERE.

But God help him, he is the cutest little shit in existence (had to break up the piss-continuity with a little shit).

Lastly and central to this world is me. I am queer. I am a woman. I am a person of color. I have a disability. And I have a loud, crass, fucking mouth. You have my full permission to hate me (the rest of society has already made itself clear on what it thinks of queer disabled women of color who speak their minds). I am emphatically academically-minded and spent a great deal of time entrenched in both libraries and laboratories alike. I can’t call myself a fully-fledged scientist though, as I’ve demonstrated pretty explicitly that I’m incapable of pursuing one subject fully. I’m like polyamorous, academic slut.

That said, I’m very comfortable asserting that I am, at the very least, a foaming-at-the-mouth science enthusiast, so you will occasionally catch me licking the glass at a physics or neuro convention because Fuck You, it’s Science, that’s why.

Because I am who I am, a good portion of this blog will be dedicated to things that piss people off: the many “‘isms” still rampant in that little thing we call society, queer culture, gender, power and privilege, feminism, politics, economics, that sinking feeling you get when you realize that someone has indeed, eaten your corn pops, and other horrors.

…But then again, there will be a number of posts featured here that will explore things that may or may not produce a visceral reaction: Motherfucking Science, random observation while riding public transit, food, saving the 64-bit world for no other reason than nostalgia’s sake, and all other things geeky.

Ultimately though, this is, regardless of all the externalities, my world. Bourgieness and bitching will henceforth ensue. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you.