I’m usually the tough one in our relationship. Foxy has a hard time with perceived bias, and internalized homophobia, and usually I point out other factors in the situation that could be contributing to the uncomfortableness of all involved.

But dancing is different. Dancing has baggage. First, there was Cotillion, wherein the 8th grade me was forced to dance with boys and wear a dress in front of people I went to school with. Then there was high school, where cheerleaders danced and I wasn’t allowed to look.

And now there is a wedding and I want more than anything to float across the floor with grace and ease and not look like the only dancing I have ever been interested in is the sweaty kind that is all backbeat.

So we signed up for dance classes. Asheville Ballroom and Dance Center is listed on the same website as classes at Scandals. I was skeptical, because their address is Sweeten Creek, and generally I don’t trust anything south of Kenilworth. We really wanted this to work, though.

The first class was ok. The teacher was just this side of Jarlsberg, he contained that much cheese. Once he realized that I was lining up as a leader, he tried really hard to say “leaders” and “followers” instead of “gentlemen” and “ladies.” He didn’t succeed all that often, but he totally got a B+ for effort. He tried so hard that I resolved to give it another shot. He was not going to be our regular teacher, and I thought, “Surely our normal teacher will be more sensitive and experienced with same sex couples. This is Asheville!”

Au contraire, mes amors. Tonight, we had a cute, young, pregnant, lady teacher. She didn’t care where anyone lined up, she was resolved to calling all the leaders men and all the followers women. She even looked me in the eye a couple of times while doing it, just to get that extra heel-grinding twist in.

And that would have been ok. I could have dealt with just that. But apparently, part of learning to dance is dancing with everyone in the class. And if you are a lady who lines up with the gentlemen, you have to dance with all the ladies in the class, even if they are all straight ladies and look at you really funny, and stand so far away from you that you’re holding side-boob instead of shoulder blade.

Either one of those things alone would have been fine. If I had felt supported by the instructor, I would have been ok. If I could have just looked Foxy in the eye and giggled at her stupidity, that would have been great. But the two things together sent me sobbing out into the parking lot. I was not the tough one tonight. Foxy went back in and demanded a refund. Foxy went up to the instructor and got the “I’m sorry” that really says “I’m sorry you’re an asshole,” beloved by retailers and not-really-sorry people everywhere.

And I’m the one who feels like I let her down, cause I couldn’t stick it out. But we will dance the hell out of our two lesson waltz.

Update: (1/16/2010 10:50am) Just got a call from Asheville Ballroom and Dance Center. They sincerely and profusely apologized, are sending us a refund, and offered to give us the remaining six weeks of lessons free of charge. They are going to talk to all of their instructors about using more gender neutral language and being sensitive to GLBT class members.

So that’s better. I don’t know if we’ll go back; we have to talk about it.

Foxy is out of town. That means that I am lonely and boring and maybe a little grumpy. It means I only eat spinach salads unless I go out, and then I eat three or four servings of as many things as possible. It means all our chocolate is gone.

And now, there’s snow everywhere, and I bet the movie theaters won’t be showing Avatar today like they said they would, and anyway I can’t walk to any movie theaters.

And everything on my Ipod sucks except for Telephone by Beyonce and Lady Gaga, but I’ve already listened to it so many times that the cats hate me.

So lets all root for Foxy to come home soon so my life won’t suck anymore.

How many levels is your product wrong on? Oh, let me count the ways.

1) Some people like the way vagina tastes all on its own. And if you’re down there, it’s pretty much by choice.

2)Your mints contain sugar. I don’t know if you actually talked to anyone who owns a vagina, but putting sugar into a vagina is the very best way in the entire world to make sure you have the worst yeast infection in the history of bread-making.

3)I don’t want a mint in my mouth that lasts for 45 minutes, that’s why everyone crunches up lifesavers instead of waiting until they dissolve. Why would I want my vagina to be minty for an hour?

4)I can get ten times the sensation at 1/3 the cost with SUGAR FREE mentholated cough drops.

Furthermore, products like douche, ‘personal sprays’, and yours increase the amount of insecurity that women have regarding their own bodies’ scents and natural function. Way to keep it douchey.

Dear Linger,

How many levels is your product wrong on? Oh, let me count the ways.

1) Some people like the way vagina tastes all on its own. And if you’re down there, it’s pretty much by choice.

2)Your mints contain sugar. I don’t know if you actually talked to anyone who owns a vagina, but putting sugar into a vagina is the very best way in the entire world to make sure you have the worst yeast infection in the history of bread-making.

3)I don’t want a mint in my mouth that lasts for 45 minutes, that’s why everyone crunches up lifesavers instead of waiting until they dissolve. Why would I want my vagina to be minty for an hour?

4)I can get ten times the sensation at 1/3 the cost with SUGAR FREE mentholated cough drops.

Furthermore, products like douche, ‘personal sprays’, and yours increase the amount of insecurity that women have regarding their own bodies’ scents and natural function. Way to keep it douchey.

So the thing that hate the most about being engaged is when people ask “So where are you going?” I mean, I am fully aware that North Carolina doesn’t allow gay marriage, it isn’t news, but FUCK fucking North Carolina. I will be married when and where I damn well please.

I just got back from seeing Margaret Cho. My language may be a little salty.

And when I get married, I will be fucking married, because I will be damned if some pissant hypocrite of a philandering Republican will tell me how to conduct my life or be allowed to define the state of my relationship.

See this is the problem with people being allowed to define their own sexualities. They think they’re allowed to define everything else about themselves as well.

And if I do choose to go up Nawth and get one of those ‘lawful’ marriages that will not be honored in the state where I was born and bred and paid taxes, it will not be to bow to the Good Old Boys or to give those askers of ‘where?’ an answer. It will be because I know that there is more than one part to a marriage, but one of those parts is the legal part, the part on paper, and I want to show it my children one day to say we had it, but it was the LEAST part.

Insert snaps where necessary cause  I feel like my neck worked a little.

Foxy asked me to marry her last weekend! If you’re waiting for me to update the blog to get news, you’re gonna get left way behind. Sorry. First, the story:

It was three years ago last weekend, or thereabouts, when Foxy and I had our first date. I mean, we stumbled into several different drinking and eating establishments the night we met, but when we sobered up and had an official date, we had dinner at my apartment followed by a viewing of “Blazing Saddles” which is kind of a litmus test date movie.

So last weekend, we drove down to Jekyll Island, GA for our third anniversary. It was nearly deserted, and beautiful. There are bike paths covering the entire island, and the whole place is flat, so we took full advantage and rode almost everywhere. On Sunday morning we spent several hours at the beach, where the temp was perfect and we had alot of space, since as I mentioned, the place was nearly deserted. There was even enough privacy for PDA to feel completely acceptable.

In the afternoon, we rode into the historic district, where people like Vanderbilt and Goodyear had their houses when the Jekyll Island Club was in its heyday. Foxy told me she wanted to find a place where we could kiss, so I looked around the huge manicured lawn until I found a tree with the trunk laying along the ground in a  natural bench. She asked me lots of questions about how it felt to have our first date, then what it felt like now to be in a relationship, then she told me she got me a present, and to shut my eyes.

“Oh no, I didn’t get you anything!” “It’s ok, just shut your eyes.”

Then I opened them and she was kneeling in front of me with an open box. First I said, “You beat me!” because we were racing to get the ring done first, and I thought she still had cold feet and I had plenty of time. But then I said yes. Repeatedly.

And now I exist in a land of spreadsheets, and cost comparison tools and all decisions must be made jointly because we just doubled the number of brides.

I still love men’s clothes. I still drool over them on the mannequins. I have mentioned this before. I have decided that my personal style needs to evolve into actually having a style, instead of the things that happen to fit. I think that style might be “What if Shane grew up to be Bette?”

Not that I enjoy comparing myself to characters created by Chaiken. Nope.

But I like things a little bit punk rock, a little bit 12 year old skateboarder. That’s what I wear to work every day. And on the weekends, I move it up a notch, to maybe weekend off from summer camp. And special occasions, then I break out the slammin’ v-necks and tight things. The problem is that the summer camp ensembles aren’t really nice enough, and the tight things aren’t really butch enough. I’m working on that.

Old Navy has argyle. That futch line started by the girl on Tila Tequila only has tee’s and hoodies, so she’s no help.

I already end up wearing jeans all the time, because I go to jeans places. Why would I bother wearing pinstripes to Westville Pub? But I want to up my clothing game. And I don’t want to tell anyone my personal style icons, because I sound like the hugest lesbian in the entire world. “What if Amy Ray and Ellen did a Freaky Friday and switched wardrobes for the day?” I mean, I’m no where near punk enough to dress like AR, and not hipster enough to dress like ED, and I need to stop talking about this, because now I feel stupid. I’m studying up, though.

Work has been s-l-o-w. Today I took the whole day off, except for one quick trip to trim one case that wasn’t ready for me yesterday. I was also about 3 hours short last week.

I wanted the day off, for sure. Foxy starts her internship tomorrow, so it was nice to wake up late together this morning and have time to enjoy each other before the crazy school year starts again for her. And all that is beside the fact that my job blows chunks, I will never get promoted, and the leadership vaccuum may as well be a black hole.

So I woke up at 10 today, which left me plenty of time for dreaming. For the first time in 13 years, I dreamed that Alanis Morrisette wanted to have sex with me, but I turned her down because I didn’t want to hurt Foxy’s feelings. Thanks, Weeds! Also, the Amish stole all my farming knowledge and wrote a best-selling book, making millions. Also, a friend who shall remain nameless but who is infamous for poking, punching, and slapping asses beat me up. I got upset and tried to find someplace to be alone, but Foxy sent ninjas after me to drag me back into human company.

Besides the obvious of insisting that she would never let anything that ridiculous happen, how would my 19 year old self have reacted to the news that I would one day forget all the camp songs I ever knew, and would need to use the lyric book to remember them?

I remember being tired, bone tired, dead tired, lay down on the picnic table and sleep for 18 hours straight tired. I remember knowing that I wasn’t going to come back, or at least that I wouldn’t be back the next year. Did I ever seriously think I wouldn’t be back ever? That 11 years later I would have late night guilt-fests and mourn the loss of my identity, and irrationally blame my current job for keeping me from being there?

What if I told her that I was worried that the current crop of kids was too cool to sing, and that Iworried that they would dismiss me out of hand if I busted out a rousing chorus of The Hippopotamus Smile song?

I am so tired of being nagged by all this self doubt. Having nightmares once a month, against feeling like this for a week, I don’t know which I’d prefer. I know I can be a better counselor. I know that I need to do more to prepare myself going in. I know that I need to commit, and hang all thoughts of “coolness” at the door. I know that I need to have all my songs and games at my fingertips again, but that doesn’t happen automatically.

It isn’t like riding a bicycle. The hand motions may be embedded in muscle memory, but the words and tunes are not.

Camp was hard. Convincing teenagers that they don’t actually want to run off into the woods and make out is difficult. Convincing that they will enjoy climbing a wall is difficult. Standing around talking? Imperative. Playing games? Out of the question. Talking smack about everyone? Imperative. Eating vegetables? Ludicrous.

So my growth path until the next camp is learning how to motivate them. Remember what it was like to be a teen, remember what I wanted to do and what I thought was a steaming pile of grown-up shit, remember that I had a very different life than these kids do. I like climbing walls, swimming in ponds, and oven-fried squash. And some of the kids do like those things. I have to learn enough about the other kids to know what will turn them out for an activity.

This was the longest camp I have done with this program as well, and we had it at a real camp, with great facilities and all.

I need a watch. Cell phones only work when you can plug them in at night and you can get a signal all day. I need to have interesting things to do in my head at all times. I need to learn how to connect with people who want me to go away and leave them alone.

My stamina is not what it once was. I slept like a rock all 4 nights, when I used to wake up at the faintest whisper from a crying camper. On the other hand, a 4 inch thick plastic mattress on plywood seems to be my perfect Sleep Number.

So in between getting ready for summer camp, keeping the Blue Ridge Pride site up to date, being utterly and completely, soul-stultifyingly bored and deadened by work, and going somewhere different every single weekend of the summer, I’m supposed to blog too? And cater to my tenants’ every need? WTF, world. WTF, indeed.

So I’m going to camp on Thursday because I couldn’t get very much time off of work. People are there WITHOUT ME RIGHT NOW. That is VERY UPSETTING.

Since the funnest thing about my blog lately is the comments, feel free to browse the list at right. It may, at some point, be on.

The people who hate the Legacy Center are a little bit crazy, and the people who love the Legacy Center are a little bit crazy. Wouldn’t it be awesome if they all went away together and had crazy babies?

Hung out with a friend from college who now competes in the Highland Games in all events, including hammer throw, both sizes of rocks, and caber tossing. Made my burgeoning shoulders and biceps wilt in shame.

On the other hand, I may be able to occasionally glimpse an ab in the right light if I hold my breath and stick out my tongue, so that’s something.

I think I sometimes want to be a dude the way I sometimes want to be an architect, an engineer, a mechanic, or a teacher.

When I was younger, I found out that the word for this was dilletante, and I thought that sounded like a suitable alternative to debutante, and it therefore pleased me.

Now I think it makes me bored and dissatisfied and bitter, and is a stupid character flaw that makes me a douche.

This week, I want to be a teacher because I am most alive as a camp counselor, and teacher seems like next closest fully employed thing. I have decided this before. Six months ago, it was game programmer/database designer. Before that, engineer. Before that, something in the green tech field. I could go on.

Don’t get me wrong, getting paid to listen to audiobooks and do fine motor skill work all day isn’t too bad. But thinking and learning would be nice now and again. And so every six months, I teach myself why I wouldn’t be very good at something else.

Wow, my new blog persona is kind of a downer.

Sometimes I want to be a man. I feel like I ended up with boobs against my will. I don’t want a douchy wisp of a goatee. I don’t want a penis. I just want short hair and no boobs.

Sometimes I feel really sexy as a woman, delicate and flirtatious. I enjoy the effect my boobs have on other people, but not so much the boobs themselves.

I am aware that I have really nice boobs, and that I can’t donate them to someone who would enjoy them more than I do, and that therefore they would be wasted if I got rid of them. Boobs are not part of the organ donation program. Someone should look into that.

All these thoughts upset Foxy ALOT.

I also feel that I may perhaps be betraying my woman’s studies professors in my rejection of a woman’s body. I remember there being a discussion circle about that. I didn’t really feel uncomfortable in my body until I became an adult, even though I remember wishing I was a boy when I was younger, around 8 or so. I just wanted to play basketball with my shirt off. I think I also knew that most of the girl stuff didn’t really apply to me.

I don’t know if I’m trans. I don’t think so. I think I might just still be 17 in my mind.

This post was going to be about all the anchors from Channel One when I was in middle school, and what they’re doing now, because I was worried about Lisa Ling’s sister, but then I realized that the only two I remembered were Lisa and Anderson, so it seemed a little pointless. Also, Laura Ling is still trapped in a North Korean prison, which made me cry a little, and probably still makes her family cry a lot, so talking about The View seemed out of the way.

Then I thought about discussing this video, but it is practically perfect in every way, so no further discussion is needed.

So instead I will tell you that I have lost 15 pounds since my sister’s wedding in May and that I am now ripped as hell. My shoulders are my favorite. I’m still working on the abs. I do lots of sit ups and obliques but I can’t see them yet. I think it has a little bit to do with camp and a little bit to do with gender expression.

I am a camp counselor again, for the first time in almost 10 years. I won’t tell you where, since that would suck both for them and for me. I have been having anxiety dreams, gradually increasing in frequency and intensity, for the last 8 years. In these dreams, I am at camp, in some position of authority, and no one will listen to what I say. They are stacking tables on top of one another, jumping off the roof of the dining hall, running without shoes, and in general behaving like people who want to destroy all chance at ACA certification. The day I asked about becoming a counselor, these dreams ceased. Now, I still have camp dreams, but I own them. I know what to do again; people listen to me; I solve mysteries.

The camping part of my life was my most fit time ever. Of course it was: I was in high school. But I also had other reasons to be fit. I could run from one end of the grounds to the other without stopping, and (conceivably) pull a (small) child out of the (shallow end of the) lake. I spent all summer long outdoors. I could sing for 30 minutes straight without losing my breath. So now I am camping again, and I feel old and slow. That is not how I want to feel. That is fine for everyday, when I go to my office job and sit down for 10 hours and listen to people whine about their horrible fates, ending up in the same place I am in, but that is not ok for camp. Camp is fast and strong.

As for the gender thing, I think 30 is a shifting time for me. I can’t get away with a buzz cut anymore, because my face has changed. Dealing with long hair has really changed the way I feel about myself. It makes me feel encumbered. It takes away my pixie self. Ponytails help, but not all the time. So take away a butch thing, add a different  butch thing: I need better clothes and more muscles. The balance is very fine and thin. I don’t know if those things are exactly what I need to feel comfortable in my skin. I’m still working on that. But stronger and thinner is helping.