School is back and I’m taking four three-hour seminars leaving me with really strange pockets of free time; fortunately my bike has revolutionized my life and I no long have to spend one minute more than necessary on my designer-education campus. In a personal record semester I’m taking three classes with male professors. Lapse of judgment or maybe I’m just getting soft. One of them is a computer science course which has already transported me back to the year I turned 10 and I had a subscription to a children’s programming magazine and I would just sit and read/write UNIX for hours.

That’s my first of three taught by a man– perhaps more acceptable because about 80% of the students are women. It would have been four classes, too, since I was trying to get into a fiction class taught by an anonymous asshole I’d never met. I made it off the waiting list only to sit through three excruciating hours with a smarmy, white, British, married ‘n’ middle-aged, man who made everyone play “Two Lies and a Truth” and then berated us in front of our classmates to everyone’s amusement. I don’t know why I stayed for the entire class except 1. I felt a little guilty going since he had sent everyone else on the waiting list home at the start of class, 2. Masochism, anguish, and prurient curiosity about how bad it could get (threesome jokes shared with “the guys” and a few well-timed “but it’s not like anyone in here has had a sex-change or anything!” sighs of relief.) For those of you who want to gag and gasp a little more you can ask me directly about the dirtiest detail. Currently en cyber route to head-of-the-department in a nasty little memo. -If only I had gotten into the class I wanted to get into -If only things like not bringing paper/pencil to a WRITING class counted against you there would have been two openings.

In other depressing news: A. “Distant-Glimmer” Weissman, my Ladywife, has now moved. I’m in minor to moderate mourning about his departure as well as Ms. EM’s and the late return of various best friends coast to coast.* Returning to school to realize that I only know four people on campus was a little more shocking than I expected. Ladywife and I said goodbye with some marvelous fresh mint ice cream (a flavor we fully expected to spurn and mock) and a nice night out in Davis. He reminded me that I’m supposed to join some blogging group because it’s run by a cute guy.

Femmephane: I’m not going to join a blog just so you can sleep with someone.

A. “Distant-Glimmer” Weissman: Why not? I’d do it for you.

And I believe he would. That’s exactly the kind of friend he is. He’ll bring you stolen tinsel for misc winter holidays. He’ll invite you to Philadelphia for High Holy Glitter Days with his family. He’ll pretend to ride side-saddle right down Elm St. for the sake of a joke. He’s a Virgo, for heavensake. We were recounting our recent best spam together near the weird sculptures in Somerville. My Ladywife was receiving testimonials from a woman who complains that her boyfriend’s penis keeps falling out and I had just gotten an email from someone complaining of her lover: “his phallus is too small!” For the first fake lady I recommend silicone– especially the over-priced but heavily decorated, more becoming in black, perhaps. And to the second I would recommend reading some Lacan– perhaps the only really good reason to read him?

*On a related note… I very much miss Sara Seinberg, ambassador extraordinaire, and Ginger Robinson, who told me she thought just the word ‘god’ was such patriarchal bullshit she wasn’t ever going to use it again unless she was telling the story about not using it.

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