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…


Today! On Misadventures in Public Transit!

As you may or may not know, fellow Bourges and Bourgettes, there’s this little game on Sunday involving grown men engaging in ram-like head butting and some kind of lemon covered in animal skin being tossed about while onlookers participate in drinking copious amounts of fermented liquid bread that makes a person take their clothes off in public in the middle of the night and sob-slash-demand my husband to fuck me because it’s been over a week and why don’t you love me anymore.


Seriously though.


What is the difference.

Apparently, ’tis also the season for stupid homophobic remarks such as the one made by 49ers cornerback Chris Culliver about whether or not an openly gay player would be allowed in the locker room. Now, Culliver (‘s PR team) has since (made him) apologized, but I can’t help but think that rather than truly learning about the community, he’ll just be better at keeping his mouth shut and instead be quieter about his bigotry. I certainly hope I’m wrong.

“But wait, Bourgie,” says you, my invisible reader, “what the fuck does this have to do with your misadventures on public transit?”

Well! I’m glad you asked!

Today, during one of said misadventures, two guys on the train to work today seemed to think that while what Culliver said was an incredibly stupid and misguided thing to say (“especially in a city as liberal as San Francisco,”), the backlash and ire that people felt was…wrong.


“Yeah, I mean, like…that shit wasn’t cool or whatever, but he shouldn’t have to apologize for his opinion,” said one with an indiscernible facial tattoo.

“Right,” the other agreed, rolling up the sleeves of his red hoodie, “that’s like censorship, you know? That’s like super fascist.”

…I…oh come on.

The argument (and metaphor…dafuq man…) was totally weak to say the least. Equating having consequences for your actions to fascist censorship (Mussolini, how he rolleth in his grave)? What happened with Culliver was not the same as having your face shot off for expressing your opinion. Culliver said some egregious shit, people and especially San Francisco (a city so gay that I have heard it referred to as The Mothership in some queer circles) were unhappy with what he said, and it reflected poorly on the team. I am sorry, Red Hoodie, but if some dude makes a denigratory comment that he knows is going to be broadcasted publicly while representing his team, he’s gon’ have to pay the social cost.

The main point here is that there are ramifications for everything. Culliver was free to make the comments he did (i.e., not censorship), but he had to know that it was going to be shitty for the 49ers’ image (beyond it just being a super douchey thing to say) to express them (in a public forum no less).

In the same vein, I could stand up on a chair and shout out racial epitaphs until I’m blue in the face and have every right to (as long as I wasn’t directly threatening anyone), but the sole backlash or ostracization I’d receive as a result of my acting like a giant asshole does not equate to censoring me.

So you shut your pseudo-philosophical, Kony ’12-endorsing pie hole, Red Hoodie!

And to you, my nonexistent readers. I leave you with a real man’s hoodie…that of the flyest-dressed motherfucker in the whole train, of whom I had the privilege to stand behind in uncomfortably close proximity.

You're welcome.

You’re welcome.

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.