I'm More of a Man than You.

I prefer men. Talking to them, partying with them, and generally being in the presence of them. So many people say, "If it wasn't for my mother, I wouldn't be here." I say, "If it wasn't for my father, not only wouldn't I be here, I wouldn't be nearly as awesome and manly as I am." Yes, I know, I have breasts, a vagina, put on make-up every morning, and even wear dresses. But since I was very young, I had admired my father's unquestionable ability to intimidate. And I wanted that ability, so I watched him closely, listened well, and eventually became very much like him in very many ways. I came from a strong set of parents, both Marine Corps veterans, both still physically and mentally active. However, when I analyze some of my own life choices and behaviorial traits, it's clear that my father's influence was greater. For one thing, I like to talk about myself... a lot. I can (and have gone) go on and on about subjects of interest to me to people who most-likely only cared to get a brief answer to the question: How are you? I'm very well. Have been working on this blogging project, very exciting. Slow-going, taking some time, but I'm really hoping to open up a new perspective. If you ever have the pleasure of meeting my father and are a liberal in the mood for some heated debate, please do ask him about immigration and politics. Surely you will find his hour long lecture on the English language and his border-line "racism" fascinating. Now, you may ask me why I place "racism" in quotes. That will come out a bit later, for now we're talking about how much of a man I am. Men, that is, "real" men, are not as terribly emotional as "real" women which makes them much easier to tease and joke around with. Here are two real-life (or nearly real-life) scenarios:

1) I am sitting at a booth in a bar with a three co-workers, one of which has had a lot to drink and is now flirting with a couple of guys at the bar. She's petite, strawberry blonde, blue-eyed, and bubbly. The perfect Starbuck's barista, and the perfect candidate for fun night. Except, she's a woman. Not only is she a woman, but she is a woman with daddy issues, the major issue being that her father left her before she was born, wanted nothing to do with her, and she is currently in the middle of a search for him. These "great" guys with whom she is flirting apparently, somehow, bring up her father, at which point tears begin to flow from her bright blue eyes down her cheeks. She returns to the table, eyes red and watering, tells us the story, and the night becomes about the drama of her upbringing, rather than a simple night out drinking and laughing.

2) I am at work, in my green apron, mopping the floor, and talking to my male shift supervisor about books. He brings up Harry Potter, at which point I begin making fun of him and his mom (whom I don't know). "It's not that bad," he says. Having given up on intellegent argument, I resort to a series of "Your mom..." this and "Your mom..." that. Finding the "your moms" increasingly uneffective, I turn to "Your dad..." to which he replies, "Thanks a lot, my dad's dead." No tears, a completely serious face. My eyes growing wide as I appologize. He's not kidding, but he's not upset. He's cool, calm, and collected, as a man ought to be. As I hope always to be.

The funny thing, of course, is that Starbucks has Jessica Harvell-Haessly in their system as "male." I found this out when filling out my health quotient, finding it difficult or impossible to fill out questions about my prostate and testicular self-examinations. I am not as typical as the typical woman, but I do not have a penis either. In order to remedy the mistake, I must fax a form being sure to check the box marked "female." It feels as though I'm sending in a sex-change request, as though at one time I was physically a male, but felt so much more like a woman that I insisted upon the drastic measures of an operation. My husband is listed on my insurance as well under "spouse/ domestic partner." We are not as typical as the typical husband/wife. He is sitting on the couch, reading a book, while I write and eat the popcorn I asked him to make and bring to me. I am just about to ask him to bring me a beer.