Thank You and Good Night

So I'm officially pulling the plug on the Maggie Bitter blog. It was fun but I have too many other projects going on and don't have the time to write about any new misadventures. Well, that and the sudden influx of very angry vegan lesbians who have been attempting to post nasty comments about the"Vegetarian, Heal Thyself" post. Yeesh. Try and be more serious and humorless, why dontcha?

Anyway, this is not the end of Maggie. Oh, no. I do have plans for her but it will be some time before they come to light. As long as there are lesbians and patchoulli, there will be Maggie.

I will eventually archive these entries at my website but will leave the blog up in the meantime as a destination for all of those who are endlessly Googling for "lesbian panties."

Thanks to everyone who has followed Maggie Bitter for the last few years. Y'all are the best.

Drawn In

I have mentioned many times that I am pretty oblivious to women when I’m out in public. I don’t notice women who are cute or hot or whatever the term for a person with visually appealing stimuli is these days. If someone says “Hey, Maggie, look over there. Isn’t she smokin’?” I will look in the direction that person is indicating and either shrug indifference or acknowledge said woman’s pleasing combination of physical features. It’s not that I don’t find women attractive, it’s just not what I’m interested in looking at when I want to keep my brain entertained while out in the world.

For those of you not familiar with my professional activities, I’m an artist. I draw stuff. When I’m out I’m much more interested in studying the wood grain on the restaurant table than determining whether the waitress is attractive enough to warrant an excessive tip. (Although I have been known to do such a thing.) If I’m wandering about a retail establishment, I’m more focused on getting in and out with the items I need as fast as I can because, y’know, shopping. Ew.

Today was another matter.

I decided to venture out to obtain some Mediterranean food. At my eating establishment of choice, I placed my order and then stepped aside to wait for my dinner. The place was busy and a bit crowded around the pick-up area. I hung back, trying to keep out of the way and entertained myself by watching one of the men behind the counter make falafel. There was a lull at the register and out of the corner of my eye (I was wearing sunglasses) I saw someone step up to the counter and overheard a female voice order a large tabouleh salad to go. Just as she turned away from the counter I turned my head and totally caught her giving me the once-over. Only she caught me doing a complete double-take because, um, I was quite struck by how she looked like a character I would draw.

Lame, right?

But it was true! Now, I have used the line “I want to draw you” on women many times (And it so works. Ladies, you are far too easily swayed.) But in this instance it was more like “Haven’t I drawn you before?” (In hindsight, this might make for an excellent line. Note to Self: See if that one works at the next opportunity. XXOO Maggie.) I found myself rather, hell, really attracted to her. She was wearing blue-green scrubs and had her hospital ID and swipe card on a lanyard hanging from her neck. She was maybe in her mid-40’s (Hello not-all-that-older woman!) with dark, dark brown hair in that sensible dyke-mom haircut, which looked really good on her. We made brief eye contact as we both blushed from getting caught looking at one another. She looked away first and I smiled and laughed to myself. She moved away from the pick-up area and the moment was over.

About five minutes later my food was ready. As I turned to leave with my bag of shwarma and hummus I saw that she was sitting on the bench directly behind where I had been standing. Had she been watching me for those five minutes? She again looked me in the eye and smiled and nodded her head very slightly. I could feel myself blushing but I managed to throw her my quirky-yet-cocky grin as I passed her and breezed out the door.

In my car, I mulled over the weirdness of how I found her attractive because she looked like someone I’d draw, someone I’d create out of my head. When I arrived at home I sketched her as I downed my dinner. And, yep, what I drew looked just like her. Is it shallow and a bit narcissistic that I’m attracted to someone who looks like someone who could be extracted from my imagination? More thoughts to keep me awake at night, I guess.

Despite her attractiveness and the moment we had, it’s not enough to get me to like tabouleh salad. And for that alone we can never, ever be together. I'm sorry, baby.

Stay the Same and Don't Ever Change!

I was not one of those dykes who was all enlightened and out in high school. I mean, I always kind of knew that I liked girls as far back as first grade. But all through high school I suspected that I was, well, I never thought the actual word “gay” but different. Not different in a bad way, just in a way I couldn’t understand. Now I realize that I had crushes a-go-go on certain classmates and female teachers, but back then it was just weird, but harmless, to me. Man, if I were a dyked-out teenager today I would be such a player. Well, I’d like to think so, anyway.

I attended high school in the first half of the 1980’s – not exactly an era of gay understanding and acceptance. I remember watching the national news one night and seeing a teaser for a story about an unknown disease that was killing an alarming number of Haitian and gay men. I can recall my mom (who was a medical professional) talking about how they had to start wearing latex gloves at work and how they were aware that AIDS wasn’t contagious outside of the body. Meanwhile I’m watching images on the news of masked janitors bleaching down chairs and tables in a Congressional hearing room where HIV-Positive men had just testified. So to say homophobia was rampant was a bit of an understatement.

The high school I attended was in the suburbs. Gangs hadn’t yet filtered into the suburban schools yet but there was great concern over the very urban “break dancing” phenomenon that was threatening the students. (I know, right?) The “punk” kid at school got the shit beaten out of him by the big, pig-nosed, biker-even-though-I’m-not-old-enough-to-ride kid because the punk kid was wearing “those faggy” Guess Jeans. Boy George was introducing androgyny to a mass of hormone-laced puberty-stricken troglodytes who couldn’t wrap their head around heterosexual behavior let alone consider any alternative options. There were always rumors and accusations of certain boys being gay, queer, or fags – what with their Duran Duran hair and Thompson Twins attire - but never any real rumblings about girls. Well, other than the one year where a senior girl caused a minor scandal by wearing a tux to the prom. But that was all I recall.

But, come on. This was a big school. It had a lot of teachers. And a lot of female PE teachers. I had to take PE all four years of high school and I hated each and every one of my teachers. I was not athletic in any way. I couldn’t see the point of having to run a mile any faster than my body would let me. I was tall and skinny but had no desire to participate in sports. And every PE teacher I had was ruthless with me. “Come on, Bitter,” was said to me so many times over those four years that I swore it was stitched across the back of my gym clothes. My progress reports often had “Maggie has an attitude problem” scrawled in the comments box. It wasn’t that I was difficult – I participated, I didn’t cut class, I did everything that was asked, I didn’t mouth off to the teacher – I just didn’t care. And considering that more than once I caught the shape of a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of their ubiquitous powder-blue track suits I saw little need to heed their sadistic need to make me run faster. A “C” in PE was just fine with me and I saw no point in trying harder than being average when it came to physical fitness.

It always bothered me that no matter which PE teacher’s class I wound up in, that teacher would single me out to embarrass. See, this was the problem with PE; it was all about what you couldn’t do. Couldn’t run a mile in under 10 minutes? You’re too slow. Couldn’t make a free throw? You weren’t trying hard enough. Couldn’t turn a cartwheel? It’s easy, what’s your problem? If you weren’t a natural athlete who all of this running and jumping came easily to, then there was something wrong with you. I think it’s safe to say that nobody likes to spend 40 minutes a day being shown all of your shortcomings and inabilities and then belittled in front of about 32 teenage girls - a good chunk of who are members of the popular crowd who will remember that you can’t throw a softball for shit and remind you about it again later, probably in front of other popular girls who will laugh at you, too.

Feh, self-esteem. How important could that be?

Anyway, I never really understood the whole “Pick on Maggie” thing. I seriously wasn’t an athlete hidden under indifference. My genetically-shot knees were already giving me problems at that age and the varicose veins were slowly popping up along my calves. I was flat-footed and long periods running around made my feet ache. I hated the whole jock/elitist/team mentality. I never felt or wanted to be part of a team, let alone a clique. So why did all of those PE teachers single me out?

Some twenty-plus years later I think I have the answer.

I haven’t really thought about high school PE in years. Why should I? It sucked. The same way I don’t go in the way-back machine to relive dental surgery. High school PE sucks as much as dental surgery. But recently a fellow lesbian mentioned meeting up with a woman who was PE teacher for coffee and that simple statement unlocked a memory I had forgotten about no sooner than I had lived it.

In my junior year of high school I was in a PE class that was mostly seniors with a few of us juniors sprinkled in. It was my second tour with a PE teacher, Ms. K., who had been a tormentor my freshman year. Ms. K was particularly fond of making me attempt endless cartwheels despite my obvious unease and inability to correctly do one. Rotating my body across a mat and upside down? Sorry, Maggie don’t do that. And forcing me to do so and mocking me as motivation? Well, fuck you, too, lady. That only made me less motivated to do one. So what if I looked ridiculous? I would not give her the satisfaction of mastering that particularly useless physical movement.

Again, I prove why I correctly chose Bitter as my pseudo last name.

Anyway, at the end of the school year there were several days where the PE class was pretty-much empty except for the juniors because the seniors had graduated and were done and gone. There wasn’t much to do: one last agonizing mile run, cleaning out the gym locker, maybe a few soccer drills. This particular PE class was second period – a 9:30AM class. Oof. On one of those final mornings Ms. K came in and told us not to bother changing. She sent some of the other girls to the library for the period. She pulled me and the remaining girls aside and once the library group was gone, she turned to us and said, “Come on, we’re going to breakfast.”

Ms. K was a typical PE teacher – short hair, dangerously tan skin, all of her track suits were some shade of blue. She spoke of hanging out with the other female PE teachers and her “roommate.” She coached not only the girls softball team but the fencing team as well.

Oh, if only I knew then what I know now.

She led us out to the teacher parking lot where we squeezed into her red Ford Bronco. We were told to “just move the camping stuff out of the way.” Ms. K told us to be careful not to draw attention to ourselves since what she was doing was not sanctioned in any way. I remember being confused by just why we were doing this, but, hey no gym class today. I just shut up and felt uncomfortable. We drove the short distance down the road to McDonald’s where Ms. K did indeed buy us breakfast. I’m pretty sure I had an Egg McMuffin. I have a dim recollection of my classmates asking Ms. K somewhat personal questions and them all laughing about it. I also remember that she bought coffee for several of the girls. Scandalous!

As I was reliving this memory, I realized that while I didn’t remember the names of the girls who were there, I remembered what they looked like. As I did my mental roll-call I slowly came to the realization a common trait they all shared– they were all baby-dykes, even though I didn’t know it at the time. They were all athletic and tougher than me, but still obviously-in-hindsight gay.

Oh my god. Apparently Ms. K saw fit to take the Future Lesbians of America - Midwest Contingent to breakfast that day. I had been pegged and dragged to some dyke breakfast with the dyke PE teacher. The whole thing was actually a gay thing.

Now it all makes sense, I guess. All of those dyke PE teachers picking on me - it was all some weird lesbianish-bonding thing under the guise of gym class.

….

No John Hughes movie ever covered that aspect of high school, did it?

Holy Grail

Today I scored my Lesbian Holy Grail: I was flirted with at Trader Joe’s.

For those of you not familiar with Trader Joe’s, it is best described as a hippie-dippy California alternative grocer that attracts the hip, the cool, the savvy, the organics, the vegan, the vegetarian, and those who wish to appear or pretend to be any of these. It’s a safe haven for those who eschew brand names and processed foods. So, of course, lesbians flock to it like Tevas to an outdoor Indigo Girls concert. The lesbian factor is not why I go. I’m a foodie and I like the products they carry and the fact that their prices are whole lot cheaper than the local big-chain grocer.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So I was buying a few items at my local TJ’s this morning. OK, I was buying tofu. Shut up. (What can I say? I like tofu and TJ’s is a third of the price it is at the grocery store.) I went to the register that was attended by a very tiny, very cute dyke. As far as I could tell she was close to my age and sported some very cute spikey hair and the obligatory oddball-funky lesbian eyeglasses. She was perky and greeted me with a big smile that quickly melted into a quizzical look.

“Are you wearing patchouli?”

I swear to God, I should get a tattoo on my forearm that says, “Why yes, I am wearing patchouli.”

“Well,” she cooed, her smile returning. “It smells wonderful on you.”

Now, here’s the shocker of this story: despite the early Sunday morning hour, I was in an extremely good mood. I was not hating this moment at all.

As she pulled the packages of tofu (yes, packages) out of my basket she asked, “Are you making a tofu scramble or something else?”

Well, damn. I was planning a tofu scramble. Could I be more of a dyke or what?

“Yes, a scramble. I also make tofu red curry to pack for my lunch to take to work during the week.” OK, even I’m gagging at how horribly lesbian I sounded saying that.

“Are you completely vegan or…?”

“No, I eat meat,” I said a little too quickly. I am not THAT gay. “I just really like tofu.” Seriously, I do.

She brightened a bit more when I said that. “My son loves tofu scramble, but hates eggs.” Ah, the subtle sharing of personal information. Here we go. “Isn’t that weird?”

“No,” I replied. “I think it’s great when kids are exposed to foods that aren’t considered normal.” Oooh! A nice return of subtle positive response to her parenting.

She finished ringing up and bagging my purchase. “Are you going to make the tofu scramble this morning?”

“Uh, yes.”

She handed me my bag and looked me in the eye, still smiling but with a hint of wickedness in her eye. “Then I’ll meet you there.”

Without pause I replied, “I’ll be sure to set a place.”

Well played, Maggie. Well played.

I will admit that her “Then I’ll meet you there” made a bit weak in the knees and brought a rare public smile to my face. I’m sure I turned a shade or two of red, but it was also a nice rush. Maggie, girl, you still have it. You have no idea what to do with it, but when you do, you have it.

Of course, tofu scramble will now always have a place on my list of fantasy triggers.

Now, if that’s not super-duper lesbian, I don’t know what is.

Just Nod if You Can Hear Me

Hmmm. It has been a while, hasn't it? Fear not, I am only on a bit of a sabbatical while I concentrate on my current Big Project. I haven't done anything foolish like get myself involved in a relationship or anything. There are stories to tell and I will tell them soon. Be patient, my friends. Be patient.

Oh. Oh!

I went to Starbucks today to get my chai fix. The place was crawling with high school freshmen (since when do kids get out of school at 2PM?) and if I didn’t really, really need an iced chai right then and there I would have left. Instead I tried to wait patiently while potential future presidents of the United States tried to get their shit together to order drinks all while thinking they were cool and adult because they were ordering coffee. Actually, all they were doing was pissing off the actual adults who were on line as they stood staring at the menu board trying to muddle through the simple task of ordering a drink.

“Dude! What are you getting? What? A frappucino? Dude! That’s a fag drink! Yeah, fuck you, too, asswipe! What? Pumpkin spice? What are you, a fag? What? Wait, what? You fag. Gimme a taste. Fuck. I’m impervious to your fag germs. Yeah, dude, I’ll have a venti pumpkin spice frappucino.”

I was surprised by “impervious” as well. It must have been on the vocabulary list this week.

Anyway, once the junior Mensa crowd had taken possession of their beverages and clustered together in the corner of the shop like baby chickens under a light bulb, I was able to place my drink order. As I stood near the pick up area a familiar scent caught my attention. A peppery smell, but sweeter. Like…potting soil.

Fuck. It was patchouli.

I wasn’t wearing any (and can’t smell it when I do have it on) so I casually looked around for the source. That’s when I noticed the lesbian standing in front of me. I hadn’t even seen her among the mass of teens. She was a whippet of a dyke – barely five feet tall but that butch boxer-type with spikey black hair. She didn’t even register as a dyke when she ordered her coffee right before me. I thought she was part of the high school crowd. But now she stuck out like a sore thumb and I was very intrigued by this little dyke. I started to take note of the details of her clothes, the tattoo peeking out from under her t-shirt sleeve, the rings on her hands, and…

And I suddenly got it.

Oh, Maggie.

So while I still don’t enjoy strange women wishing for candles that smell like me, I think I now understand the thought process behind the action. The boxer dyke wasn’t my type by any means, but I find it incredibly interesting that the fact that she smelled good made me notice her. A little insight into the inner working of lesbians is never really a bad thing. And I think y’all will agree that I need all the help I can get.

What Maggie Really Wants

OK, there’s been some questions and commentary on my previous listing of what I want and don’t want in a person of interest. So, by popular demand, here is WHAT MAGGIE REALLY WANTS.

Be out. Sorry, while I respect and understand that everyone’s situation is different, we are living in the Google Age. If you start hanging around me at some point someone you know is going to Google my name. Then they will see a whole bunch of references to me and that I’m gay, gay, gay, and, oh yeah, gay. Assuming that the people you know aren’t complete morons, they’ll do the simple math problem and figure it all out. I’m not interested in all of that drama, thanks. And speaking of drama…

No theatre monkeys. Actress? Wannabe-actress? Took an acting or improv class in college? Then move along, I ain’t interested. Now, before anyone gets huffy and starts calling me an elitist, I have far too much experience with that lot. As a kid I once got violently ill after eating chocolate ice cream and pretty-much have avoided it ever since. Consider my revulsion to theater-types my relationship chocolate ice cream.

Have a job. Really, you’d think this would be a no-brainer but in my experience lesbians have issues with having jobs that pay them well let alone support them. I know all about the holier-than-thou attitude of having a job that “matters” or “makes a difference.” But at my age I am much more interested in someone who has a job that “pays the rent.” One ex who was constantly under-employed would boast of her “fantastic resume” that meant that she couldn’t work “just any job.” And, as I learned, any job meant any job at all. She never had money and as a result I paid for everything when we went out. After we split I was surprised to see my bank account grow because she wasn’t feeding of off me. Which leads me to…

You can eat whatever you want to or don’t want to. Just don’t try and change my carnivorous ways. I mean, I would never dream of trying to convince a vegetarian or vegan to eat meat. I fully expect to have the same respect afforded to me. I once had a date scoff at my entrée choice and refused to pay for my “choice of murder.” OK, Morrissey, whatever. There’s nothing wrong with being omnivorous. And if I’m PMSey and craving iron a handful of spinach ain’t gonna soothe my flesh-craving soul. Deal, ‘cause I’m having a burger with bacon and cheese on it while you nibble on a soy-based approximation of the meat-eating experience.

Have a nice voice. I’m not one to be initially attracted to anyone visually. Everyone looks the same to me. Aurally I’m all about the voice. Squeaky, higher-pitched voices get you sent to the back of the line. But lower, sultry voices? Hubba hubba. And I’m a sucker for a subtle southern or Irish accent. I once spent half an hour at a Lenscrafters asking the stupidest questions about my new spex because the technician had a sweet Irish accent. “Um. OK, why shouldn’t I use paper towels to clean my lenses?” “Ah, Ms. Bitterrrrrrrr. Yah’ll scratch de lenses! Do yerself a faverrrrr and use an’ old teeeeee-shert.” Sigh.

Have your own life. I get really irritated when women I get involved with think that our lives need to revolve around each other. But after 40 years I know what I like, don’t like, and, quite frankly, am not that malleable. Changing your personalities so you meld into a singular, lesbian entity is for the young. Shared interests are always nice, but unshared interests make for keeping one’s own identity and sanity. Oh, and stay the fuck away from my wardrobe.

Be self-confident and have strong self-esteem. This one, I’ve found, is not at all easy to find. I am incredibly supportive of the people in my life but if you don’t have a liking and respect for yourself to begin with, well, then all of the support in the world from me won’t fix that. And, sorry, but arrogance is not self-confidence. I’ve fallen into that trap before. I’ve been attracted to what I thought were self-confident women only to quickly discover that they’re arrogant bitches who really have nothing to crow about. Ugly. Ladies! Know who you are and what you’re capable of! Nobody can make you believe what you don’t already believe on your own.

Know that there’s nothing wrong with time apart from each other. I’ve been a loner and solitary gal my entire life. Trust me, you are not going to change that. And I respect and encourage a person of interest to have her own alone time as well. One ex insisted on sitting in a chair in my studio while I worked. I begrudgingly allowed it under the pretense of being a good girlfriend. Ha ha. She would sit and pretend to read and would look up every few minutes to say “Hi!” or ask what I was doing. I would last about ten minutes before I would get really cranky and irritated. Then, of course, I was being “mean” and would have to go buy her another goddam pair of shoes to un-mean me. And heaven forbid that I want to take an entire Saturday – morning through midnight – to work on my projects. She would just show up at my apartment unannounced and demand attention. But when her infrequent projects took her away for six weeks and I barely saw her and was feeling neglected and needy? Well, I was being unsupportive. Which leads very nicely into…

Give what you get. I have always been about a relationship being fair and equal. I cook dinner? You do dishes. If I massage your back don’t rub my shoulder for two minutes and then become “tired.” If I pay for dinner at least pitch in for the tip and don’t just lecture me on tipping well because you used to wait tables. I mean, considering that you had no money to pay for dinner, you are hardly in the position to scold me about tipping. (And for the record I am quite a generous tipper, having a job and all that.)

And last but not least:

Don’t read this blog. I mean, really. Maggie Bitter is a persona, not a person.