Thank You, Fleabag

After recommendations from both Pam and Sean, I decided to watch Fleabag. Ten minutes in, it's already inspired me to blog my own, similar experiences from an ocean and a continent away.

I recently visited Portland for a conference on race and equity. I had a blast--not just there, but on a couple of dates I managed to squeeze in during my trip. Two different men on two different dates: A) paid for all my drinks, meals, and cover charges; and B) actually talked to me (and listened, too!) about my interests, my hobbies, and my life. I was bowled over.

Yes, you read that correctly. I was bowled over because I was taken out on two consecutive, standard dates. How horrifically depressing--my joy at being treated like a worthwhile person, and not a service provider. Maybe it's the brainwashing of Catholic female selflessness thrust upon my psyche from my earliest memories. Maybe it's having lived in Long Beach, Ground Zero for the Peter Pan Epidemic, for so long. Whatever the case, my standards and expectations for heterosexual male suitors exist, stature-wise, somewhere between subway platforms and irrigation ditches. Dating here is that grim.

That's not to say that all men who live in Southern California are like this. I've recently gone on several dates with an awesome dude who goes out of his way to treat me specially--from interesting date ideas, to researching the best local restaurants, even to offering to pay for a dog-sitting service so that I might spend the night at his place. But the context in which he and I have gotten to know one another limits us from having anything long-term, so--although he is charming, handsome, kind, and loads of fun--pursuing anything more with him is essentially out of reach at the moment. Also, it's not lost on me that he's not from this area--he's not even from this country. So that, along with his dogged effort to be a good person always, tells me that these dire cultural expectations have not been programmed into him the way in which they have with local guys.

What is it, then, about men from this area that makes them so--entitled? Lazy? Incapable? I can't quite find the right word to describe it, so here's a visual. It's like all these guys show up at my door, with a list of demands in their pockets. The date, then, becomes a game of how many of these demands they can passively foist upon me throughout the duration of the evening. Oh, you want to hang out my place that I've taken the time to clean and arrange, eat the food I've bought and prepared, watch the TV that I've worked to pay for, sleep in the bed I've cleaned and made up? Oh, you don't want to go out to a bar, restaurant, or (if we're being sleazy and honest) pay for a hotel to stay in? Oh, you want sex that you enjoy, without giving much thought to my stake in the matter (beyond being an available, wet hole)? Oh! Oh! Oh! Aaaaaand you're going to complain, or roll your eyes, or conveniently "forget" when I ask you to bring over a $15 bottle of wine for me to enjoy? Fascinating.

Since I believe in the neo-Marxist principle that all labor possesses both an intrinsic and extrinsic value, let's put a price tag on that labor that you, in your feigned naivete that male privilege affords you, think is free. Let's say we eat that dinner, at a mid-priced restaurant, for two people, including two adult beverages. That's $100. A bar that serves decent drinks we both enjoy? Another $50. A hotel that is clean and provides all the amenities--including parking and overnight stay--that you would require? $200. Sex work for a duration of several hours? $300. Therapy and counseling services in the form of me listening to you tell me all about your life, previous dating history, and anxiety over the upcoming sports season? Hmmm. At $150 per hour, let's say two hours that I'm actually listening to you. That's another $300. These are all modest price values, by the way. This is nothing extravagant--just standard, mid-level date fare that would provide the same level of quality and service that you are expecting of me.

I'll even deduct the $15 bottle of wine you may or may not have brought. That brings the total to: $935. Just consider it my date Patreon. So, the next time you bring your list of demands, tucked neatly away in the pocket of your Levis, or Balmains, or whatever you can afford because you've skirted paying for any of this on your last hundred-or-so dates, I'll have ready my bill. Deal? Great! See you sometime between never and when you actually grow the fuck up and become a real adult.

Insomnia

Luckily, no one reads these anymore, since I'm so paranoid about my colleagues and students knowing anything about me (for fear of losing job security) that I've deleted the links off of all my social media pages. I guess, then, I can write the most self-indulgent of posts.

I can't sleep, and it's half past two in the morning. So, what's the cavalcade of thoughts poisoning my sleep schedule tonight? Let's see:

Guilt over my ability as a writing instructor --> Wanting to decolonize my approach to relationships (since I pretty much only date men of color) --> The prison-industrial complex --> Thinking about how conservatives never admit that they actually don't mind handouts, as long as they're the recipients --> Being hot (literally, not sexy hot, but sweaty hot) --> My family --> My friends (a.k.a.  chosen family) --> The severely low number of people I actually trust in this world --> One of the dogs farted again --> The ways in which I am blinded by my privilege, and what I can do to counteract that/help others --> Chernobyl --> Shit I need versus shit I can afford --> Not wanting kids --> shitty jokes --> Maybe I'll watch TV --> A never-ending rabbit hole, in which I ponder the tension between the bottomless pit of my need for emotional comfort versus the ever-growing hostility and annoyance I feel toward partners as any given relationship or hookup situation progresses.

What's a girl to do?