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Posts Tagged ‘transgender’

NTKOG #105: The kind of rule flouting bladder-centric dude who lets an urgency to pee eradicate the societal construct that is separate-gendered restrooms.

I am: a lady.

I am not: sure what y’all other ladies are doing in there that make our lines so much longer than lines for the men’s room. Seriously, girls.

The Scene: Restrooms up and down this fair city for the past month and a half. If there was a line for the ladies’ only, I dashed into the men’s. And, dude? If it’s a single-occupancy restroom (as is the case in so many of the space-starved commercial lots in this pinched city), there is virtually no difference between the rooms. You can use whichever one you want with literally no repercussions. WHY HAVE WE BEEN WAITING IN LINE WHILE PERFECTLY GOOD RESTROOMS SAT OPEN?! We’re like some primitive bladder-masochism tribe that stands around worshipping the blue and white triangular dress idol. What will future cultures think of us. Honestly.

Non-fortress-style men’s rooms, however, were a bit more difficult a prospect. As moxious as I am, I did my utmost to avoid entering one where a guy was peeing at the time, both out of respect for guys’ privacy and because I didn’t want to catch an eyeful of anyone’s junk. (Figurative eyeful, that is. Although, uh, literal too, now that you mention it.)

However, one night, out with the ladies at a bar in Brighton that skews to the youth demographic, I may have had a drink or two too many, and was emboldened to duck into the men’s room. A dude stood in there, poised to decant over the urinal. He locked eyes with me and barked: “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Ladies, if ever you get in a similar situation — face burning with embarrassment, social reputation on the line — and are already wearing heels and lots of make-up, allow me to give you the five magic words to instantaneously extricate yourself:

“Pre-op. Wanna feel my genitals?”

I’m all class, y’all.

The Verdict: Chalk another one up for “nobody cares what you do, dumbass,” ’cause, truly, nobody seems to care a whit either way which restroom you use. Unless you’re, y’know, watching them pee or whatever. (Please don’t watch other people pee without their consent. Or if you do, please don’t write about it in the comments section.) Although my days of recreational restroom switching are officially past me, if I’m ever at a restaurant with single-stall restrooms and one of them is open, dude, I’m totally using it, regardless of what the little pictogram on the door sign is wearing.

This would have been more of a TMI Thursday if the guy had actually taken me up on the offer to feel my genitals; nonetheless, I submit it for your approval. Go check out Livit, Luvit for more TMI hilarity! And have you entered to win my iPod Nano giveaway yet?!

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NTKOG #62: The kind of girl who channels her inner diva and hits the town with obscenely platinum wannabe-starlet locks. In wig form, natch, ’cause who really has the IQ points to burn for bleach?

I am: a brunette, through and through.

I am not: especially desiring of attention through the way I dress. Unless it’s for something stupid-awesome like my machete necklace or pipe-smokin’ fedora.

The Scene: Saturday night, early evening, on the heels of my non-disastrous date. Remember that time I put on a Lady Gaga-ish blonde wig and slipped out into the sunset? Okay, so, for the cinematic date exit, that was a stroke of genius. For the duration of the T ride over to my wig-themed pub crawl? Aaaaaawk.

Yes, I took this with my iPhone in a bar bathroom. Because I am ALL CLASS, y'all.

Yes, I took this with my iPhone in a bar bathroom. Because I am ALL CLASS, y'all.

The walk over to the T station, I was trailed by a few high schoolers who kept whispering and giggling just out of my auditory range. Stop obsessing, I chided myself, but by the time we all stood at the T platform, it was obvious that I wasn’t just making it up: they were definitely commenting. Whatever, guys. You’re in high school. Talk to me when you don’t still think handjobs are cool.

Then, when I took my spot on the T, people’s attentions grew more intense. The people around my handhold polite-awkwardly averted their gaze (no doubt wondering why my social life is so much cooler than theirs). But the worst was a leather-tanned WASPy lady on the other side of the car, weighed down by dozens of boutique carrier bags and flanked by a few botoxic minions. Gossip Girl: The Minivan Years, is what I’m getting at.

She sat there staring at me, then nudged each of her friends in turn and shot them significant glances at me. At one point, she caught my eye and shook her head in slow motion. The breaking point was when a total stranger stood in front of her, and she violated all rules of T etiquette by nudging the stranger and mouthing “Look!” over in my direction. Being TKOG, I strode across the car and grabbed a handhold close to the lady.

TKOG: So you seem to be admiring my hair.
Serena Van der Bitch: It’s very unusual.
TKOG: I’m not sure what you think is so weird about this. I mean, I’m in the flush of my youth, it’s a Saturday night and it’s drinkin’ time, soooo…
SVdB: Oh. I was wondering if–
TKOG: Dude, did you think it was a chemo wig? Look at this raggedy mess.
SVdB
: No, I was just wondering–

But at that point, the train came to a stop, so I shot her my best Mets-steps bitchface, spun on my (four-inch) heel, and stormed off haughtily.

Not long after, I was sipping my first beer at the wig pubcrawl and a gorgeous girl in a similarly platinum array joined our group and squealed: “Do I look okay? I must look horrible! The whole ride over on the T, I was convinced everyone thought I was a drag queen.” I immediately assured her that she was so feminine, no way anyone would ever–ohhhhhhhhh shit.

Searching and fearless personal inventory of my look: Platinum blonde Anna Nicole Smith hair. Broad shoulders. 5’11” in heels, with another few inches of teased roots.

Shit, dudes. Shit. I guess that explains why she was staring. Man, though, I wish I’d known what the T-bagger was thinking at the time, ’cause I totally would have started hitting on some straight-laced business men in my best husky drag queen voice. That really would have given her something to talk about.

The Verdict: Hey, so you know my little rule about how you’re not really the center of the universe so quit obsessing over yourself because nobody even notices all the weird stuff you’re doing in public? Um. That doesn’t apply to accidental drag, apparently. Awk. But I’d totally do it again because, dude, if there is one thing TKOG is down with, it is the blurring of gender roles. And pushing boundaries for uptight on-lookers!

As for the wig crawl, on the other hand, I’d scarcely advocate it. A few sips into my second beer, it became apparent that the girl I was talking to was in fact gorgeous-insane, and halfway through her second blow-by-blow description of her breast reduction surgery, I returned the baby blue swarovski crystal headband she had slipped onto my wig (without my permission!) and beat a hasty retreat.

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