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Last couple of days have been pretty harsh as La Principessa alternately rages and cries about her freeloading alcoholic previously undocumented Northern Irishman estranged husband and his unwillingness to pay his fair share of the taxes. As Comrade Omar once told me, "You gotta get rid of this clown; if anyone should be mooching off of her, it oughtta be you!" Comrade Omar, of course, is an incurable romantic.
Anyway, I was bored earlier today, waiting for her in-between class phone calls and wandered through the Gay Gamers thread, which I haven't visited in a while. While there, found an interesting article with an interesting inset. Wondered how I'd do, so, lessee:
1) Check, although it was only this morning that she told me that you're supposed to take out the teabag prior to serving. Apparently, she's been swallowing a lot of bitter tear for love, but ironically, she hasn't once made me a cup of coffee. Also, instant coffee with almond milk and honey is terrible.
2) That's what I use Facebook for. I've also found that copying out Petrarchan sonnets with "Laura" crossed out and replaced with "Francesca" will work in a pinch. Other details sometimes have t be altered. For example, she's never worked as a shepherdess.
3) Being sartorially challenged myself, I need to work on this one. Although I often tell her how much I like seeing her in boots...and nothing else.
4) I tag along when she walks the dog. Nothing says romance like "Penny, do business!"
5) Hug, kiss, fondle, fornicate. Check.
6) She doesn't have a dishwasher. But I do at least 75% of the dishes.
7) I'm broke. Although we did go see Mockingjay together. It kinda blew.
8) We're both not terribly good cooks, but today I chopped the onions for the chicken tacos and the other day I had to visit three bodegas to find tomato paste. Why are there so many poorly stocked bodegas in Brooklyn?
9) Yeah, no. She's thirty-eight and was trapped in a sexless marriage for years. I can't even touch her shoulders without her wanting to do it.
10) Her car wash is on strike. Also, I'm terrified of driving in NYC.
11) She thinks manicures, spas, etc. are "bourgie."
12) Fifty times a day at least.
Gonna have to find another list.
I didn't read the article, either; I don't need to know what it's about.
Down with the pinkskins!
(Twice since last we spoke; now she's putting up pictures on the internet from our commie rally. NAACP chapter head, the Newark Solidarity Singers, some Filipinas with a banner in Tagalog and some symbol that I don't recognize but looks pretty commie to me.)
Not Spoilered For Disgusting Goblin Sexiness
I have been privy to a few conversations between female comrades (mostly Mrs. Comrade and La Principessa, but not limited to them) in which they agree, and say that many of the other female comrades agree, that leftist men are, by and large, useless in bed.
I don't know if it's the demographic of nerdiness that often goes along with leftism, or if it's something about dudes who are down with women's liberation through socialist revolution, or what, but apparently the male comrades are largely incapable or unwilling to engage in the kind of Mick Jagger-esque rooster-y swagger that appeals to their baser instincts, nor the "slam me against the wall, hold me down" ravishing that, apparently, a great many of them crave, with or without the influence of Fifty Shades of Grey.
I'm learning as I go.
Anyway, I believe it was Citizen Home above, in a summary of the rape fantasies that he's read about, who brought up the whole "I'm so hot, he lost control of himself" thing, which, IIRC, is what Freud referred to in female sexuality as narcissism, but anyway, that's been a big thing with her, too. "Oh, Doodlebug, when you touch me, I lose control of my body, I want to do that to you, too." "Baby," I reply, "I'm just happy to be here."
Anyway, she just got back from walking the dog after we got back from the Newark commie rally, so, uh, I gotta go...
Read the preface in the American Trotskyist edition of The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State which was nowhere near as good as the preface in the American Stalinist edition of the same back.
Probably helps that the latter let an actual anthropologist write it, while the former was written by some Barnesite hack.
Hmm, what next?
I linked to my summation post; there are posts before and after. Also, of course, I don't claim to be any kind of expert, it was just the result of googling shiznit as the conversation went on.
Although, La Principessa and I were talking about Patricia Arquette and the gender wage gap and then all of a sudden I saw her regurgitating my talking points on Facebook. I kinda cringed a little and thought "Ooh, baby, you should probably research that stuff before taking my word for it."
I'd link to the closed Gender Wars thread, but I remember a discussion of the wage gap wherein I concluded after 24 hours of googling that, essentially, the wage gap affected female supervisors, executives, professionals, and, now, apparently, Oscar-winning actresses.
I don't know if that segment of the population can accurately be described as having it "slightly less bad."
Lord Snow wrote:
Favoriting, but only for the My Fair Lady quote, which is one that has often come up in conversations between me and La Principessa
For fun, an article by Chris Hedges where he recycles the Andrea Dworkin/Gail Dines party line: ‘Pornography Is What the End of the World Looks Like’
La Principessa sent it to me and asked me what I thought. I said, "Well, I can't say I'm an expert, but most of the porn I've watched doesn't include women saying 'I am a c@~+/I am a whore/I am a slut' and as for 'F!#~ me harder with your big c+#*' well, I don't need to watch porn to hear that."
I could hear her blushing from three states away.
Anyway, I know nothing about 50 Shades of Grey, the book or the movie, nor do I care.
However, being lucky enough to have recently fallen in love with a hawt militant commie NY schoolteacher, and, even luckier to have her fall in love with me, and listening to her tell horror story after horror story about either her past lovers or the lovers of her union sisters, I can understand the popularity of 50 Shades and can only rededicate myself to the cause of women's liberation through socialist revolution.
In the meantime, I totally support people squeezing out whatever pleasures they can during their short stay on this miserable f+!%ing planet. To each their own.
Valentine's Day Musical Interlude that I originally secretly posted on Facebook for La Principessa's benefit and then later reposted for the whole world.
After one trip to the Christmas Basement, we were socializing with Mr. and Mrs. Comrade and the song came on. "Oh, I like that song," La Principessa said. "What a surprise" I quipped and then she hit me.
To Comrade Longears
La Principessa read the excerpts from The Teamster and the Termagant back before I tried to kick it to her and, occasionally, asks me when she's going to get her own "piso erotica short story."
I suggested that instead of a short story, she deserved a six-volume novel entitled 50 Shades of Red. She practically swooned.
I hate to impinge on the creative process, but if you could include the following acts, she would be much obliged:
Spoilered for Disgusting Goblin Sexiness
--being [redacted] and then [redacted]
--[redacted redacted redacted]
--looking up in hot lust and saying "[Redacted redacted redacted redacted]!"
Thanks in advance,
Comrade Longears wrote:
Yes, they do. Essentially, it means different people are suited to different things.
Citizen K(e)rensky wrote:
I presume it comes from that different breeds and types of horses are suited for different types of races.
The sport of kings, huh?
Vive le Galt!!!
Anyway, La Principessa was complaining to the boy's mother about my lacksadaisacal, slacker-ish ways, and the mother responded, "Horses for courses. He was meant to be a stay at home dad. I think it's his calling."
I'm guessing it's more emotionally satisfying than throwing boxes for a living.
Also, New England snowstorm has left me stranded in New York two days longer than I had planned due to the Chinatown buses continuing to cancel.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but La Principessa keeps thinking I'm going to get in trouble.
"Baby, I'm in the Teamsters, not the Teachers Union. What are they gonna do, give me a warning letter? [Derisive laughter] Stop worrying and come here..."
[Translated from Latin]
Gladiators do it in the streets!
[Stays on the other side of the room from Comrade Yuugasa]
The Dark Light Years started off at a cracking pace. Hope to get another great big chunk down on the train (yay being in a city again!!!) when I go and meet La Principessa downtown after her union meeting. [Hearts in eyes]
While cleaning up her nest, I went through her books that she was getting rid off and amid a bunch of embarrassing-looking romance novels* I scored a copy of Madame Bovary (why is she getting rid of that?!?), that Junot Diaz book about the Dominican (?) kid who plays a lot of D&D, and Selections from The Canzoniere and Other Works which I imagine will come in handy in the near future.
Love Among the Ultra-Lefts
So, La Principessa had a bunch of bad days culminating in a post-therapy session where she texted me saying I shouldn't call because she was crying so hard she couldn't breathe, nevermind talk. So I called her anyway and listened to her cry for an hour and a half and told her funny stories about all the pets I've ever had until she passed out. The next morning she called me and told me that I was the best man in the entire world and she didn't know anyone else that would've done that.
I'm not entirely sure that's true, but anyway, I spoke with my mother about it and, while sympathetic, she asked "Are you really sure that you want to do this for the rest of your life?"
And I thought about it and I realized that the answer was "F+%* yeah!" so I called out sick for the rest of the week, hopped on a bus to Brooklyn and showed up on her stoop unannounced.
[Cellphone conversation (yes, she made me buy a cellphone)]
"Hey, baby, I got two questions for you: How many essays did you grade?" [Long, rambling answer] "Okay, second question: do we have any condoms left?" [Long rambling answer] By this time I had navigated my luggage through her building, her elevator, and ended up on the sixth floor. "Hey, baby, I've got a confession to make. I lied to you. I didn't go to work today." [Knocks on apartment door] "Hold on, baby, someone's at the door. Who the f*$% is knocking on my door this late at night, it'd better be good--" [Girlish shrieks and tears]
Long story short, I was all like, "Baby, I don't have a ring, but I do have a well-used copy of The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State. Will you marry me?"
She melted, but wouldn't say "yes" because, a) she's a communist and doesn't believe in marriage; and b) she's already married (I don't think I've mentioned that before--long story that I won't go into).
And I was all, like, "Look, you're a mess down here without me, and I can't get anything done up there without you, so, I'll have to talk to my steward, but I think the only conceivable course of action is that I go get tested, come back, knock you up, get married and then apply for a hardship transfer." She still wouldn't say yes, but was overjoyed nonetheless, and cried a little because nobody had ever asked her to get married before, and then we did it, twice.
This morning, before she went off to work she said, "I love you so much. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. It's gonna take some time to get some things worked out, but when they do, if you still want to, of course I will marry you."
Comrade Anklebiter wrote: