Protecting my manhood

Perhaps, now that I'm tipsy, I should explain about my sense of gender. A few examples: My darling husband wants to get a minivan. We need another vehicle and a minivan fits most of our needs. However, I am protesting mightily because I feel that driving a minivan will emasculate me. (He is much more confident in his masculinity. Having a penis helps, I think.)

I drive a truck. A 1991 F150, 4.9 liter 6 cylinder extended cab with manual transmission. A man's car. I love my truck. (insert Tim Taylor "grunt" here) Driving my truck, I feel a sense of freedom and self-expression that fills a deep inner need.

I don't wear make-up. C and S have loads more make-up than I do. I only have one compact of orange-ish blush, a tube of garish red lipstick (to clash with the blush), and a small container of blue eye shadow. This is for a costume, an alter-ego I call Doris Weintraub (said with a strong Brooklyn accent.) Doris W. is a stereotypical New York Jew with gaudy jewelry, a wicked Mah-Jong habit, and the ability to apply a guilt trip rivaled only by a Catholic mother. Doris W. is about as "feminine" as I get.

I do enjoy wearing skirts. They are comfortable, especially since they tend to allow the breezes to blow up into the naughty bits, thus keeping things well aerated.

I taught my sons how to spit properly. For that matter, I taught C to spit properly. 18 years old and he could only lean over and dribble spit out of his mouth in a shameful blob. Gross. I pride myself on being able to hawk a lugie from the window of a speeding pick-up truck to a distance perpendicular to the plane of the driver's door of 4 feet (on a good day, with favorable wind conditions.)

Those are just a few examples of my butchy bitchiness. To know me is to love me... anyway.