This just in from Spinster HQ: I ain’t dead. I don’t even have a summer cold. In fact, a team of experts has measured my vim and found it sufficient.
Neither, it pleases me to report, am I (at least this time) one of those internet feminists whose real life is so fascinating or fraught with desperate obligations the non-fulfillment of which would cause a plague of locusts that the only thing I have time to write is “sorry I haven’t blogged lately, but I’ve been so busy!”
The busy-blogger is universally the Head Cheese of Ennuitown.
So if I’m not dead or vimless or busy, why haven’t I posted in about three and a half years?
Because, as is consistent with the idyllic bucolic life of a gentleman farmer, the water that comes out of my faucets is brown.
It’s not only brown, it’s thick, and it stinks, and it occasionally pulsates. Pretty much liquid gangrene. After I take a shower my hair smells like a herpetarium full of rotting toads. And eels. I’d be better off dunking the spinster physique in my fish pond. A little algae in the teeth would be preferable to the odoriferous, tinty ablutions I currently endure.
What does purulent water have to do with not posting to the blog? Well, this aquatic crappiness, combined with (a) the ongoing drought, which perfect example of Cosmic Indifference is killing all my trees and all the heartwarming furry woodland creatures that live in’em, and (b) the 45 consecutive days of 101-degree-plus heat, has completely indisposed me toward patriarchy-blaming. In sum, I’m too querulous, sulky, hot, smelly, and dessicated to blame. When I so much as think about blaming and all it entails — the endless lobe exertions, the reading of unpleasant news on the internet, the furnace-like heat radiating from the computer — I have to lie down and put ice cubes on my wrists. The only exercise I can imagine that would not cause extreme physical anguish is absolute idleness, undertaken in a recumbent position in front of a large fan. Having conducted a scientific survey I’ve determined that this heat-related peevishness afflicts the entire population of Austin and the Texas Hill Country. Everyone I meet exhibits a stinkeye and a sweat-bead mustache. To those who don’t I give a wide berth.
“Hey, did you get any rain the other day?” one of these fresh, clean delight-os will say. “We got a quarter-inch out in Spicewood!”
“Fuck you” is the standard response. Whereupon one turns away pointedly, which pointed turnaway, unless one’s rain-drunk interlocutor has volunteered to truck some non-brown water out to your place along with a few tons of dry ice for your wading pool, is not without a certain injured hauteur. The self-righteous indignation of the rainless is a badge one wears with pained pride. Of course you didn’t get any rain the other day. Getting a quarter inch of rain is like getting a call from a lawyer in New York: “Congratulations! You’re JP Morgan’s long-lost heir! The jet-powered hovercraft will be arriving momentarily to whisk you away to your private island off the coast of Spain!”
Confidential to people who got rain the other day: You don’t cavort around town saying, “Hey, I’m JP Morgan’s long-lost heir!” if you want people to continue thinking of you as someone about whose screaming death they don’t fantasize.
Meanwhile, down at the barn today I was standing ankle-deep in sweat, shooting the shit with the horsey chicks about my yella lab puppy’s inverted vulva. This wasn’t weird. Conversations about domestic animals and their endless abnormalities is a standard topic among horse people. What was weird was this: when I mentioned the vulvulo-plasty recommended by some veterinarians, one young woman in her twenties said, “Don’t they do that to girls in those weird countries?”
I was seized by a pang. I’d almost forgotten that there are people sauntering through the world who have never heard of labiaplasty, for whom FGM is an undreamed-of figment, whose prevailing sense of the non-Western world is that it’s “weird.” But these lucky people are everywhere. I have walked among them.