Hot'n'Heavy

FezMonkey responds to my last post, "What is it about the Russian mail-order brides on which these guys hitch their fantasies?"

That's an easy one, Fez: They are white.

Guys who look to the former Soviet Union are a little different. They tend to be slightly higher in class (not high class, mind you, just white-collar rather than blue-collar). They are liberal enough not to require their wives be virgins; a surprising number marry divorcees with children. Their dream is to acquire the trappings of upward mobility (house, boat, trophy wife) for which they lack the personal means (looks, charm, income). Therefore, they are bargain hunters.

Former satellite states such as Moldavia, Ukraine, and Kirghistan are, for them, a shopper's paradise. Nowhere can they get more bang for their buck. The women are beautiful in all the ways they (and the peers they want to impress) most value: statuesque, blonde, fashion-conscious. (Even though their fashion aesthetic often owes more to Las Vegas than to Vogue, and on our suburban campus they stand out like very expensive call girls who have wandered into a Walmart.)

But their proud husbands will gush about how well these women "fit in" with their families here in the States. After all, they already "look like" Americans (that is to say, white)!

These men are a bit too "evolved" and far too romantic to openly value submission in their wives. Instead, they will allude to other qualities: loyalty, beauty, maternal potential. Russian (or Ukrainaian or Moldavian) wives make good mothers, you see, because they (unlike American women) understand the importance of family. (Never mind that Russia has one of the highest divorce rates in the world, significantly higher than the U.S.)

The fantasy element these guys have in common with all American men who marry women from poor countries is that they are White Knights. They assume that the women will be grateful for having been rescued. And even more fatally, they believe that this gratitude will morph into love. Only in the movies, kids!

They are ignoring a fundamental principle of human nature: We are not automatically grateful to those to whom we are economically beholden. In fact, we often resent and despise them. (My experience as a foster parent, which I'll write about later, taught me this.)

I see quite a few of these eastern bloc ladies in my classes, though lately fewer Russians, which makes me wonder if conditions there are picking up. Often well-educated in their own countries -- especially likely if they are Russian -- they tend to place high on entry and make rapid progress through the system.

I find them to be excellent students and terrifying forces. They are the least sentimental, most brazenly opportunistic of the mail order wives. They're relatively easy to talk to -- forthright, articulate, poised -- and relatively difficult to like. They come with the attitude I've gotten this far, just don't get in my way.

I've never met one who even pretended to like her American husband. It's not unusual, although no less bizarre, to see a Russian surgeon mated to a car dealer. He's bursting with pride at her accomplishment, but what was he thinking? (She makes no bones what she's thinking: the more English she learns, the more he displeases her.)

She encourages him to adopt her adolescent children and bring them over, which he practically bankrupts himself to do. But she isn't having any kids with him any time soon.

Once she gets her permanent residency and is reunited with as many of her biological family as possible, it's all over but the shoutin'.

If she remarries (though why should she?) it will be to a fellow immigrant, one she recognizes as a peer, often someone from her hometown.

The "manosphere."  I didn't even know it existed until two days ago.  I must have read a passing reference in one of the "fat" or "feminist" blogs I occasionally visit.  "Know thy enemy," I thought, and I plunged in.
The first (and perhaps most notorious blog) I visited was "Roosh V.'s."  I spent hours in the world of the self-proclaimed "PUA guru."  His attitudes are so scary, I assumed he must be a kind of monster.  So I quickly figured out his real name, and what he looked like.  And what was really scary is -- he wasn't the hideously deformed sociopath I had imagined, but rather a very attratictve (albeit extremely hirsute) young man of Iranian extraction with Rasputin-like intensity.  A type that, frankly, back in the day, I found irresistably sexy.
Where do I begin with Daryush Valizadeh?  Understand that I spent two very formative years in Iran, and he appears to be a second-generation Iranian-American.  Yeah yeah, he came to the US as a young man (his residual accent suggests to me that he came here as an adolescent), but he came to the US with some of the cultural baggage of any Muslim immigrant.
Which helps explain the virgin/whore paradigm in which he operates.  To wit:  women who have casual sex are "sluts," whereas women who refuse casual sex are "bitches."  In other words, if you ain't a virgin,

I went to Las Vegas with T., who was attending a conference.

It was as dreadful as I had feared.

Las Vegas is a huge complex perfectly engineered to extract as much money from each visitor as possible.

It is, in that sense, much like Disneyland.

We stayed in the Paris Hotel.  Our room overlooked vast flat top roofs of surrounding casinos.  Neither of the armoire doors fully closed, and the lights in them shone night and day. 

Like Abu Dhabi, Las Vegas is an ecological nightmare.  Although we were there in January, when the relative warmth and aridity of southern Nevada was a welcome respite from the PNW's cool relentless rain.

The Central Bar in the casisno promoted a "2-for-1" martini special:  $18.  I took advantage every single day.

I braved the 70 degree swimming pool on the third floor, much to the bemusement of the Pool Staff.  It was the only area of the hotel that was actually overstaffed: five teenage attendents in hoodies and athletic shoes overlooking one lone fat lady padding about for about 15 minutes every morning.

I bitched relentlessly.  T. bore my poor attitude with great fortitude.  I push and push, and wonder, When will she be finally fed up with me?

One night, we were in a bar in the Cosmopolitan with other members of the travel group cult.  The pounding rap music drove me to distraction.  I was compelled to announce, I can't stand this.  This is HORRIBLE.  Later, I apologized to T.  "Don't worry," she reassured me.  "I explained you had had a bad day, that you had experienced a side of Las Vegas that was... more difficult.   Don't worry, I covered for you."  Although I was relieved -- I really don't want to fuck up her relationships with these people -- it still rankles:  Why must I apologize for what I feel?

Las Vegas is like a Third World Country.  Except most of the customers are not affluent.  The skanky, the naive, the drug-addicted... they meander down the Strip, seeking the "good life" and "living large," but it is an illusion.  Meanwhile, even the Walgreens gouges them.  $15 for a bag of jerky?  I was so desperate to eat something besides french fries I gave in.

I never want to go back.  But if I do, at least I will know what to expect, and how to prepare.  Instead of elegant clothing, I will pack my suitcase with the most comfortable loungewear and plenty of snacks and yes, even booze from my home state with its notorious high liquor tax (still cheaper than a $7 beer).

As I'd feared, I'd gained a lot of weight in the past couple of years.  That I knew.  What surprised me was that my A1C was only 5.7.  This news, coupled with the nurse practitioner's kindness, was such a relief I started to weep.

Because one of my complaints was low libido, she ran a hormone panel.  My estrogen was low (50) but within the normal range for a post-menopausal woman.  My testosterone -- particularly my free testosterone -- was extremely low (less than .02).  This might be the answer to my lustlessness.  She's going to call in an Rx to a compounding pharmacy.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed this will help, along with an estrogen pellet that I insert vaginally twice a week to keep the tissues, uhm, supple.  I also bought a bag of maca root powder from Super Supplements... it's supposed to be a kind of hormonal tonic, beneficial for sexual vigor.  Could a million Incas be wrong?

Last week T. and I went to the I------ll Center annual fete.  I insisted, and bought the tickets.  At the last minute I purchased a dress I could squeeze into, and seriously Spanxed myself.  But it was really a dud...  no bar (perhaps because they were making the event teenager-friendly) and dark and kind of dingy (no decorations, the customary mediocre food) and, although they had a DJ, the music wasn't the kind to inspire us to get up and boogy (and also my sandals were terribly uncomfortable so within an hour I was absolutely hobbling).

Last Saturday we went to a gathering of crossdressers -- the usual staid, affluent, boring bunch.  We hadn't been to one of these soirees for many months, and again it was my idea that we must go, so go we did with two magnums of champagne in hand (and more comfortable shoes).  Suffice to say the evening reminded me why I find middle aged crossdressers hard to tolerate.  At one point I plopped myself down at a table where T. was listening to a less-than-lovely creature in a bad wig calling herself Barbara Ann who, judging from her accent and attitude, is a New York transplant.  Barbara Ann pointedly ignored my presence while she regaled T. with stories about attending a local fashion show.  Apparently models were changing in the restroom while Barbara Ann was in there ("but of course I couldn't look at them the way I normally would because I was en femme").  She then went on to assert that the "GGs"  (yes, this crowd still uses that term) accept her because, as a crossdresser, "I know how hard it is to look good as a woman."  Yikes.  I slipped away for a lonely smoke in the pelting rain, only to have my mood further dampened by Connie's wife informing me that she and her husband had seen T. and I the summer before at a St. Michelle concert, but they hadn't said anything because... well, she didn't really have a reason for their failure to acknowledge us.  But both T. and I figured that her husband was en drab and didn't want to be outed by association (with us).  Yuck.

By ten o'clock I was biting the bit and as soon as got in the car I proceeded to give T. an earful on the way home about how horrible those people are.  "For someone who can't stand crossdressers," T. observed, "You certainly spend a lot of time thinking about them."  I couldn't argue.  What's the matter with me, anyway?  Do I just love to hate on them?

"It isn't crossdressers per se," I finally said.  "It's just a certain kind of crossdresser I hate."  They're so disappointing, somehow: deeply closeted, reeking of class and male privilege, and often extremely, blatantly sexist, even misogynistic.  And probably worst of all, they have zero interest in me, not as a woman and not as a person.  Of course they ignore me: I am not the image of femininity they want to either emulate or fuck. 

After three years of exposing myself to that level of enduring indifference, I reckon I've had enough.

I see it's been a few months since my last post, and that was brief.  I'm not sure why I lost the impulse to write.  It's all tied up with a general stagnation of my spirit, I'm afraid.

A year ago I was bemoaning the fact that I'd gone from size 20 to size 22.  Now my size 22s are, frankly, tight around the belly.  I finally relented and bought a size 24 swim suit (although that is perhaps a little too large to provide adequate support).  I'm anxious about two upcoming weight-related events.  First, my annual visit to the doctor will be next Wednesday.  I have put off the weigh in and A1C, and what I expect will be my harsh words of warning, as long as I can.  Second, T. and I are attending a TG-related wingding next Saturday, and although I was the one who really wanted to go, I now find myself unable to squeeze into any of the fancy duds I had purchased two years ago.  I'm disappointed about that, but with several almost-unworn formals hanging in my closet, am unwilling to spring for more.  Well, I did buy a sequined flapperish tank dress in what I hope will be the U.S. equivalent of a size 24, but I'm not sure it will be delivered in time. 

T. and I are still together, but our sex life has not recovered.  And she is, of course, unhappy about it.  I don't know what to do about the loss of my libido.  I'm switching insurance plans in January, and will approach a doctor there for suggestions.  There seems little point in bringing it up with Dr. M. on Wednesday since she's already made it clear that my hormonal levels and sexuality are not a priority.

Halloween, for which I had spent hours fashioning a costume ("court jester") was a bust.  Falling on a Sunday, there was little going on.  We wound up at an Irish bar on the East Side.  It was crowded but not very fun.  I took my disappointment out on T., indulging in a crazy meltdown in which I told her I was bored to death with our relationship. There was some truth in that, but it is hardly her fault.  I tried again to plow through the problems I am having with our sexual dynamics, but she doesn't get it, or she doesn't want to get it.  I even half-assedly confessed to fantasizing about having a rendezvous with the Runner, which I am ashamed of, because what the hell is T. supposed to do with that nasty little tidbit?  I have got to accept that I am the one who must adapt.  If I can't get myself excited, nothing is going to happen.  She doesn't act like a lackluster sexual relationship is enough to make her hop off the boat, but she suffers from feeling undesirable too. 

I am not going to break up with T.  There is no one else in the world who I will love more.  I have to make this work.

I bought a new sex toy (vibrator) from Babes but it remains in its wrapping.  I can't bring myself to charge it up (on the off chance it will charge me up).

Thanksgiving Max and his wife came over.  I hadn't seen him for months; he's been too depressed.  He finally found a dentist, a cancer care specialist, who is going to fit him with a prosthetic palate that will, he is assured, make swallowing easier and speech more articulate.

Becky also came over to kill time before meeting her boyfriend and his parents (visiting from out of town). 

The big surprise was my older sister and her husband came over too: their usual Thanksgiving plans had been dashed by the snow storm two days before.  I was really chuffed about that.

It was an odd assortment but went well except for disappointment that despite my best brining/breast down cooking tehnique, the turkey turned out overdone and rather dry. And T. had been driving me a little crazy with her usual way of turning my simple and easy plans (i.e., the menu) into something increasingly grand and complex.  By ten o'clock everyone had left and both of us were exhausted.

Today T. went up to her daughter's house to spend the Day After with the adult children and grandchildren.  Some jitters because it's the first time for her daughter's in-laws to see her en femme.  She looked really well pulled together, as usual.

She's been on a clothes shopping binge.  She wants to segue out of contracting/building and into this travel planning business, so she does need more "professional" wear (not just party frocks).  She's bought some really classic skirts, blouses, and jackets that fit and flatter.  We're looking a trip to take in the near future, hopefully some place with tropical beaches, like Cancun.  I'd get more excited about the travel venture if I actually got to enjoy a "dream trip."

I've been dreaming a great deal the past few weeks: long, lucid dreams.  But I forget the "plots" -- which seem so gripping at the time -- as soon as I've been up a few minutes.  Should I start journaling them?

I'm still toying with the idea of getting on with a local funeral home and seeing if I can't find a final career as a funeral director.  I talked to the head of the funeral tech progam at a vocational school, and he suggested I try that route instead of going back to school -- unless my heart was set on becoming an embalmer (which it certainly isn't).

I'm feeling very obsolete these days.  I realize that despite my best efforts, I simply cannot keep up with the ever-shifting technological and cultural trends.  I realize that like most people my generation, my attitudes and ideas are somewhat fossilized.  I ran across an article somewhere that reported college age kids nowadays don't think Bob Dylan is any big whoop.  Bob Dylan? The 20th century poet/songwriter! I'd always assumed he was a cultural icon of enduring influence!   Part of me mourned this news, while part of me thought, well, Why should he be?  Why should anything of my generation be of much relevance to anyone (except other Baby Boomers)?  Get over yourself!

I love my neighborhood mosque.  It's an architectural curiosity in a sea of post-Korean War cinderblock huts.  The tiny turquoise tile dome is so cute and pretty.  I always think "Little Mosque in the Suburbs," and smile. 

Cavalry Temple, a fundy franchaise, has taken over much of the empty business space in my town.  I'm sure it serves its purpose: it gives, at least, local teens somewhere else to congregate besides the local park, where they cluster in sour little groups illegally drinking beer.

Every Friday I drive re-e-al slow so as not to hit anyone rushing across 56th Street on his way to prayers.  I like the fact that I see women slowly marching to the mosque as well. 

Thursday I went to the doctor to get my prescriptions renewed. It had been a year since my last A1C.

I have gained twenty pounds. My blood pressure is up (130/88). The medical assistant stabbed four different fingers and got two "error" readings before conceding defeat. So they took a draw and decided to do all my numbers instead, which means I won't find out my blood sugar until next Thursday.

Dr. M. wasn't too hard on me. She pointed out I was still "ahead" since I am 75 lbs down from my heaviest (pre-diagnosis) weight. "You've been on a vacation," she said. "Now it's time to get back to work."

Not hard or surprising to discover the weight gain. I attribute it to copious quantities of gin/bourbon, innumerable bags of chocolate covered almonds, a rediscovered appreciation for crunchy salty snacks, and many, many drive-through tacos.

"I love a martini, two at most -- three, I'm under the table, four, I'm under the host!" (thank you Dorothy Parker).

So I came home and fired up the track3 nutrition monitor and started religiously/compuslively weighing, measuring, and recording. That lasted about two days, when T. came up. I gave her Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which she had mentioned she wanted, and we started reading it aloud. We were soon so hungry we dashed over for full dinner specials at Chopsticks in Edmonds -- lots of noodles, rice, and deep fried breading. The next day we saw Public Enemy while consuming a large bucket of buttered popcorn at the Crest and then headed to Pommodoro's where she ate tomato soup and paella and I ordered linguine with crab and black truffles (we split a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a basket of bread and butter). Damn, that was good. Afterwards she and Becky and I went to Martin's for a nightcap, but I was back on the wagon of self-restraint, just sipping a diet coke.

This morning we had sex, breaking a one month drought. I'm so not in the mood these days, probably because I just don't feel physically peak and my belly seems ginormous. I do love T., but sex with her requires I take the initiative and pretty much get myself going. She wants sex, but she won't jumpstart me. Anyway, I'm glad I kind of forced myself, because it is so important to making us feel emotionally intimate.

This morning we meant to visit the restaurant supply. She wants a pizza stone; I want some crab rippers. Sadly, it was closed (Labor Day). I went into Central Market on my quest, but no crap rippers there. However, I bought a set of crab tools and a shrimp deveiner. I've decided to screw the rippers and just get a pair of seafood scissors instead.

I bought a big bag of wasabi peas and wandered over to get a bag of brown sugar. A couple of middle aged poofters were standing in front of the sweeteners debating the relative merits of agave syrup versus organic honey. They finally decided the nutritional benefits of honey outweighed its relatively higher glycemic index. Jeezus. One of them finally noticed me standing there with the patience of Job, and said, "Oh, are we in your way?" "I think we're all in each other's way," I responded. "Is that a general social statement?" he asked and laughed at himself.

In the car I woofed down at least two cups of wasabi peas. At home I gobbled down eight ounces of cold shrimp.

I just read Paul Theroux's "Eastern Star" book, in which is revisits the sites of The Great Railway Bazaar, and enjoyed it thoroughly. We have aged in much the same ways and come to many of the same conclusions about the world. Not cheerful, but validating. Also read Barry Glassner's The Gospel of Food and enjoyed it also, to the degree I adapted a couple of short passages as readings for my EAP 98 class next quarter (one which addresses the role of enjoyment in nutrition, the other a kind of defense of McDonalds' customers).