The Total Femme

Our adorable rescue doggie has a fabulous name and is a fabulous fellow. He’s a chihuahua mix and he came with all his vet records (unusual!) and the amazing name of Mannix Miller.

He loves Tex. He loves Tex sosososososo much.

Ol’ whats-er-name (moi) is ok in a pinch.

He really loves Tex.

When Tex abandons him (like by going out in the front yard to do a little weeding and not needing to supervise a canine) it is very painful to Manny. There’s a period where he motors around the house fussing. There’s a period where he’s all wah wah baby.  

Recently, I received a rejection from the Lambda Literary Emerging Writers Retreat. It’s the second time I’ve applied and this time around, I pretty much ripped my heart out and presented it to them. I mean, I was more honest and more open than I think I’ve ever been in an application. I told them why I need them, but I also told them why they might need me. Things like fostering intergenerational queer family and combatting ageism in the queer community (I’m 62 and often feel like I’m completely out of the running, over with, done for). I talked to them like they were my people, like they were on my side, like they might care.

The form rejection really hurt. I mean, I’ve been a writer my entire life and I’m used to rejections, but this one felt so personal, like their political nixed my personal like they think I’m an old white dyke with boring shit to say and probably a terf – in other words, I just went to the worst possible scenario. The nightmare one. The one I sososososo hope isn’t true but it worries me. Because my people! Who are my people if not the other queers who write? Why don’t they want me?

I am wah wah baby.

I am wicked wah wah baby.

There are disappointments that gut you. That get you right where you live. That you just have to wait until you’re breathing again and then allow things to settle back around you. To come back into color. To remind you that it really isn’t the worst the only the last the final the most fucked.

There’s nothing you can really do when you’re wah wah baby like that. I admit to unsubscribing to Lambda’s emails (they kept asking for money, it was annoying me), but I don’t want to get all bitter and messed up in the head and heart. Even though it’s a seriously low blow, I know perfectly well that I’m going to keep writing and connecting with other queer writers and eventually I hope my work will get out there. And of course, I wish every joy to the writers there. I just so would have liked to be among them.

Nothing really helps in these situations, my pumpkin pies, my darling glitter and lamé potatoes, my strawberries, my mangos, but we lean on our sweethearts and our friends and maybe we have a little fit where we have to stomp around the block or abscond somewhere for a little bit because we are not good company, but we come around and we come back and we don’t let the turkeys get us down, or at least not for long. Certainly not forever.

We call on our diabolical, our whimsical, our unbeatable.

We wah wah and we carry on.

Carry on with me, today, you fruity fruity beauties! Because I am not the only femme who has weathered soul disappointment. No, but we weather together.

In queer femme sisterhood, we weather.  

Every Monday I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was fabulous, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.

At the Total Femme, my intention has been to post three times a week: Meditations for Queer Femmes on Monday, Pingy-Dingy Wednesday on Wednesday, and Femme Friday on Friday. Lately, I’ve just been concentrating on Mondays. And sometimes weeks go by… I’m here, though. I’m here. Do you have a post you’d like to share? That would be fucking awesome! Contact me at thetotalfemme@gmail.com