International Feminist of Mystery

I got my last grade, of course an A, and also an email from my WS professor. It was so kind, so supportive, so encouraging, so positive and complimentary that I feel like flipping crying. She says my PowerPoint (the Tracy Chapman one), moved her to tears. She gave my name to the WS program director who also emailed me re the possibility of my pursuing a major or a minor in Women's Studies.

And I know. I know, I know, I know... What in the world would anyone do with a major or even a minor in WS? Here's the technical part of the email from the program director:

The M.A. degree program is a 36-credit-hour degree that prepares students for careers in social service or for more advanced doctoral studies.  The exciting multicultural-women's studies curriculum consists of specially-designed graduate seminars on cutting-edge topics.  Regular offerings include seminars on U.S. women of color, international feminisms, queer theories, critical 'race' theories, women and welfare policies, women's leadership, feminist pedagogies, feminist epistemologies, ecofeminist activism, feminist/womanist perspectives on religion, and the theorizing of Gloria E. Anzaldúa.

Please let me know if you would like any additional information about the minor or the M.A. degree program.  I'd be delighted to answer your questions and would be glad to meet with you or send information to you by mail.

So. But still... what does one do with it?

Teach. I guess I would teach.

Or, well, I could seek a career in ecofeminist activism. ('Cause, just think of the business card!)

Or I could become an International Feminist. An International Feminist of Mystery. (A MUCH better business card.)

How 'bout a scientist of Queer Theory? Because I wanna do queer theory experiments.

But see, seriously, I think I've decided to take offense each and every time a person incredulously questions a major or minor in WS. I've decided that it's offensive to mock/denigrate/belittle WS. And I don't just say this as a radical lesbian feminist (which we shall refer to from now on as RLF).

Well wait. Maybe I DO say it as a RLF. But without the "just" part.

Anyway. I'm conflicted.

But in other news, I can't find the title to my truck. Did I already tell you all this? Regardless, I cannot find it. So blah blah, I'm ordering a replacement title and apparently I have to send in a photocopy of my ID as well as Fran's ID (which, bizarrely, I FOUND when I was looking for the truck title yesterday. I found a copy of his TX drivers license, his birth certificate, his two daughters' birth certificates, our marriage license, a whole bunch of stuff...). So I guess I'll mail in that photocopy, make a copy of my own, blah blah, get a replacement title.

Because I need to sell the truck. I'm running low on money. I mean, lower than I want to be. And I've got the fencing guy out there now, the guy who mowed for me twice this summer, and it's costing me four hundred bucks to replace the fence and gate and stuff that the driveway guy took down and geez!

So I asked the fence guy if he knew anyone looking for a truck and it turns out he does and I said I'd sell it for thirteen hundred which, if you-all are paying attention, is better than the twelve hundred I apparently accepted as an offer from the driveway guy, and so if I get thirteen hundred I'll feel a little better.

The fencing guy... oh for the love of goats, the fencing guy's name is Jose... Jose also asked me if I'm selling the little single-wide trailer that's decomposing down the hill and I said yes and he knows a guy looking for a fixer-upper mobile home and so, blah blah, I'll see whT THE GUY OFFERS ME BECAUSE i NOT ONLY NEED MONEY, i NEED TO GET RID OF THAT THING BECAUSE i... oh freaking CAPS LOCK! I refuse to go back and fix that!

... Because remember how the neighbors or the city or Santa Claus accused me of conducting illegal activities and/or keeping LIVESTOCK in the little trailer? I have a paranoid feeling that I haven't heard the end of that and it would be better to be proactive and get the thing outta here on my own terms. (But where-oh-where will I keep my rustled cattle? And where will I cook my meth?)

Soooo. That's the other news.

The other other news is that I went to that dumb Trade Days thing yesterday where I often buy chickens, to look for another little goat and a young goose to try to put with our flipping HOUSE GOOSE GiGi in the hopes that she will REALIZE THAT SHE IS A GOOSE. (That was me, intentionally capitalizing this time. Capitalizing for, like, emphasis, because the goose GiGi is getting ON MY LAST NERVE.)

While I failed to find another goat, I succeeded in getting a half-grown Toulouse gander. I thought he was a perfectly charming young goose, cute, barely out of his fluffy-feathers, eager to bond with another goose. GiGi, on the other hand, was appalled.

I put her and the young Toulouse together alone in my huge coop, hoping they would, you know, bond and I could get GiGi out of my damned trailer. The Toulouse saw her, started calling, and approached her happily. GiGi panicked, she totally flipped out, and chaos ensued. Chaos designed specifically, I'm convinced, to shorten my flipping life.

GiGi thinks she belongs with humans. She refuses to believe she is a goose. She does not appreciate being stalked by some fluffy young bird. She wants to get out of the coop and come in the house where she can relax on the couch and watch Scrubs. She cannot believe I have confined her to the coop where her pretty orange feet get DUSTY and where she is being chased by some kind of horrible BIRD.

It's insane.

Worse than that, it's driving ME insane.

Because there's only so much an International Feminist of Mystery can take.