A Girl...

Simon Says - "The Sweet Smell of Estrogen (In which I get parenthetical more than I should)"

Golly, there sure were a lot of women. Lots and lots of women. This is not why I went, but it's why I stayed. It's also why I had two of the biggest men I have ever seen raising eyebrows at me, as if to say, "How the Hell did you manage that?" Let me explain...

First of all, it would be no surprise to anybody that knows me to hear me say that I like women. I am one of those guys who has always felt more comfortable with my she-friends than my he-friends. My best friends in high school were girls. When I was in jr. high, I spent most of my time with boys, because they were the ones that played basketball, but the only people I really liked to talk to were my two best friends - they were girls. Even as a small child, my interest in girls was profoundly ahead of schedule.

(I was just telling Leah the other day that my dad was terrified when he and my mom came home after a weekend away, and I announced that I wanted the Barbie Dream Camper like the one that I had played with while staying with friends. Years later, he told me that for a while, while I was in my early teens, he was 50-50 convinced that I was gay, and that if I turned out to be gay, he would supportive. I think that this was his attempt to give me a chance to come out of the closet, if I wanted to. I believe that my years dressing in drag for Rocky Horror had re-kindled his fears. I have to admit, after 4 years of RHPS, I could move in heels better than most women you know. I suppose his suspicions were justified.)

(AND, how embarrassing was it when my dad helped me put hand-crafted paper May-day flowers on the porch of Annie, my first true love, and they saw us? We placed the semi-anonymous flowers on the porch and rang the bell, and ran to hide in the bushes. I say "semi-anonymous" because her mom was my teacher at the time, and I had lovingly crafted this masterpiece in her class the day before. I am sure that the flowers were little more than huge blobs of paste with some scraps of colored paper underneath, but they were made with love. So anyway, we ran to the bushes, and waited for them to answer the door, and for Annie to see the flowers that I had left her. Annie's dad opened the door, and since he and my dad were friends, he said, "Hey, who's the tall guy with the moustache hiding in the bushes?" So we were busted. Fuck. I was humiliated! The flowers were supposed to be anonymous! That's what Annie's mom had told us the day before, and now Annie's dad was having a conversation with my dad all the way across the yard while I hoped in futility that Annie would not realize that this had anything to do with her. Again, duh, her name was scrawled on the flowers in my unsteady six year old script.)

Women are easier to talk to, they don't get all defensive, and constantly fear that if they talk about something besides The Raiders that I will think they are gay. Women don't wear their stupid backwards hats and grow stupid little goatees. Women don't get wiggly and uncomfortable when you tell them something personal, or confide in them. That's just women for you.

(I finally have had a few male friends in the past 5-7 years that are able to talk about things besides basketball and cars. Way to go. One of those friends also lives in Chicago, and I saw him and his family while I was there. My scathing indictment of men is not intended to be a blanket indictment, more of a generalization. He and I spent many hours drinking bloody marys in the hot tub, talking about life and love and fears and dreams, and all that stuff. This friend has stuck by me through some pretty awful times, and has been able to listen to me pour my heart out when I needed to. Thanks, guy.)

Also, women tend to be prettier than men, and that helps too.

SO... you'll be surprised to hear that I balked when Leah asked me to go to a conference where there would be about 700 women and about 10 men. At first, I didn't want to go - things like this tend to turn into solidarity support groups

(I took a women's study class my freshman year as a way to meet girls and to try to get a new perspective on this grand journey we call life. What I got was an attendance score for the mass group therapy support sessions. Ugh. Plus, my grade was pretty low, and unfairly so. I went to talk to the professor about it, and her response was as follows: "I'm more concerned with the thousands of years of oppression and marginalization of women than I am with the grade of one man who is taking my class." In other words, "Maybe you deserved better than a C, and maybe you didn't. I don't care. I'm taking my man-hate out on you, and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm a professor, mother fucker, and you're a lowly piece of male-shit, so shove off before I drop you to a D, which I can do on a whim. This one's for you, Susan B. Anthony! Ha ha ha!")

I imagined being marginalized at BlogHer, thrust from the group on account of my outsider status. I imagined attending the cocktail parties, and sitting in a corner, ignored, alone, with Leah coming over once in a while to tell me that if I wanted to go back to the hotel room, it's OK, she'd meet me there at 2:00 AM.

(This did, to a small degree, happen. There were a number of women who gave me an unmistakable "what the hell are you doing here, penis-bearing oppressor?" Just a little, but it was there. One of the other 4 guys I saw said he was getting a bit of the same, so I don't think it was only my imagination)

I decided to go because of the friends I have in Chicago (three of them), and because I hadn't been to Hull House since I was in 8th grade. As has been established in previous posts, Jane Addams is one of my heroes, and the pilgrimmage to Hull House would be worth the trip, regardless of all else. So I went on the trip, spent my days out and about, and joined up with the BloggHers for the cocktail parties and nightlife.

So for the most part, I had a good time, I met Leah's friends, and they were nice to me, and included me in conversations, and we all got drunk together. Hooray!

(Friday night is hazy, Saturday was painful. I ended up spending the day with my friend and his family. We went to the Aquarium, and then to their house. I don't recommend the aquarium when you are hung over. The smell of fish plus all the swirling movement in the tanks ain't so great. I had to take a nap when we hot back to my friend's house.)

...and now I get to the point...

So Saturday night, there was an after-party in Yvonne's room. Leah went, and I tagged along. Leah spent the time talking to Moose and Heather, and I sat on the bed chatting with a very nice stranger from Nashville. Elizabeth, I think. The room got more and more crowded, until there were about 45 women and me. The estrogen hung heavy in the air, my friends, like the smoke in a bar, like smog over the 405 in Long Beach. Dare I say, it was intoxicating. The noise was deafening, the cackles and screeches of drunk women could be heard blocks away.

Suddenly, it was announced that although it was only 12:30 in the morning, the hotel's (fucking HUGE) bouncers were there to break up the party. Everyone picked up their purses and champagne bottles, and shuffled through the door. Some left meekly, like puppies that had been swatted, others went nose-to-nose with the (fucking HUGE) bouncers to wordlessly dare them to go ahead and hit a woman. Slowly, the room emptied.

As I walked out, about 5th from last, I said to the bouncers, "I would like you to notice that this room contained about 45 women and ME. This doesn't happen to me every day. Thanks a whole bunch for breaking up the party."

One of the (fucking HUGE) bouncers grinned, and the other (fucking HUGE) bouncer raised an eyebrow. I left, finally understanding why men talk about sports, grow goatees, and wear their hats backwards. It's all about impressing the other men.

Now how gay is that?