I'm not a huge fan of Halloween. I understand that its fun to put on a costume and pretend to be someone you're not; after all I am a theatre geek. But in New York, Halloween gives crazies and rapists an opportunity to do their dirty deeds in plain view of everyone, without someone raising an eyebrow. If someone got stabbed during the parade, onlookers would scream out in glee, while the victim was gasping for his last breath. When he finally died, everyone else would call him overdramatic. I know this because I saw this exact scenario on CSI:NY and we all know that show is straight truth. Duh.
Besides the opportunity for murder, Halloween is really the holiday of the whore. Hoes get to prance around in their native garb and not feel the backlash of years worth of feminism spitting in their faces. Young women (and some not so young women) are frolicking around the nation in lingerie and cat ears without even a dose of guilt or self-reproach. And why should they? They aren't actually hoes, they're just pretending to be one. I'm a huge supporter for women being able to wear whatever they want without being objectified for it; but they can be judged for it. Like the great Dave Chappelle once said "You may not be a hoe, but you are dressed in a hoe's uniform. And that shit is confusing".
Which brings me back to the point of this blurb, I don't wear hoe outfits on Halloween. I don't wear hoe outfits usually. For me, it screams of low self-esteem and a virulent need to attract a man's attention. I'm not above feeling desired and wanted by the lesser sex, but the kind of interest I want to pique isn't because I have a huge rack ( but if you're a male reader, you should know that I do have a huge rack. Wink wink). There are times when dressing like a mistress of the night is appropriate; mainly when you want to do things that a mistress does. You just broke up with your boyfriend? Slut it up. You failed your chemistry midterm and your professor is a bit of a perve? Hoe it down. Outside these general situations, cover your shit up.
You may ask what outfits that I wear on the sacred All Hallow's Eve. Typically I've been either some form of a superhero or an empowered feminine icon. Basically either Jean Grey from X-men or Cleopatra (if you don't think that Cleo was a bad bitch, you didn't watch enough Histeria when you were a kid). Sure the outfits involved skin tight spandex, but when I walk in the club (they hating on me cause I know I look good. I took the night....Sorry that song is the jam and I couldn't help myself), most guys are more astonished that a girl is into comics rather than my knockers knocking him in the face. He doesn't mind the latter obviously.
Don't take my rambling too serious. After all you should be able to be whomever or whatever you want this holiday season. But don't say I didn't warn you, because you know who's never a murder victim on the ten o'clock news? The bitch that was dressed as a telepathic crime-fighter. Take that, Sexy Bunny.
ETA: No offense to my friends who have been sexy bunnies every year. My personal preferences weren't meant to berate your stylistic choices. You have fun doing you and don't think that I'm judging you. I am, but I don't want you to think that. Bisous.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Dear Old Love,
Most of my friends dream of their perfect guy; the man they'll marry. (Ahem Josephine). They spend hours (days) outlining every character trait, physical specification, religious dogma and ethnic lineage that he'll possess (A musically-inclined, funny but not too funny, above 5'10 but shorter than 6', catholic Korean male. Ahem Jo ahem). While most women have already planned out their dream wedding, they neglect to plan to the events that tend to precede the nuptials. No, not that sweet, stressful engagment period. I'm talking about even before that. Yes, I'm referring to all your past boyfriends. I think too often we focus on the walk down the aisle, instead of the lovers that got us there. You're with your future husband for the rest of your natural born lives (or 5 years, depending how you roll); That's a really long time. You wake up every day with that person, plan most of your meals with that person, raise kids with that person and then at the end of the day you still only get to fuck that person. Now don't say I'm not romantic. I've got that bone somewhere. But I relish excitement more. That's why instead of choosing my bridal colors, I'm planning for my future ex-boyfriends. Here's a list of all the guys I want to date (and bone) before I jump the broom:
1. The Older Man
Yes, I have a sick obsession with older men and my spouse may actually be from a generation before mine. But if the fates don't align to bring me a silver fox in my matrimonial bed, I want to at least have shagged one. No, I don't just want to fuck him, I want to be in a serious relationship with him. I think there is something sexy about a man who knows who he is and exactly what he wants. You know what, there's something sexy about a man, in general. Now, I love the boys, but I definitely need to upgrade at least once.
2. The Bad Boy
I don't mean the generic, fake bad boy, who pretends to be bad but really when shit gets real, he's nowhere to be found. Fuck that loser. I want the boy that my mother and all the Lifetime television mothers warned me about. He's been arrested a couple of time. He's covered in tattoos and he has some fake ass job. He can't be a drug dealer because I'm not being indicted on that shit with him, but he could be a music producer or make miniature sculptures. He'll smoke and drink a ton. He'll get into fights at bars over some guy spilling my drink. Why do I find this attractive? I don't know. Maybe it's because all those things seem very testosterone driven and I find it difficult to find a man tougher than me. I'd just like to see how it feels to be a damsel for once.
3. The Banker
Now this type I don't typically find attractive, but I need to date the prototype of a douchebag in order to know what makes them tick and how to play nice with them. All of my friends will marry bankers and I can't be excommunicated out of the group; and I need couches to sleep on while I get mys hit together. Plus I deserved to be taken out to fancy meals and bought expensive gifts. Heck if Mr. Right doesn't come through for me, I wouldn't mind Mr. Moneybags.
4. The Child
This is one is more of a wish if I'm not married by 30. When all my friends are engaged and spending their nights drinking wine and having dinner parties, I want to be in the clubs where it isn't embarrassing to be single. Why should I be reserving my hotness for those stupid "grown up" events. The Child will take me to the newest, hippest locales and keep me relevant in popular culture. So what, if I have to pay for everything? I'm going to be a baller.
ETA: Changes to height were made so that Jo doesn't recieve application from Korean Catholics who are shorter than 5'10. My apologies.
1. The Older Man
Yes, I have a sick obsession with older men and my spouse may actually be from a generation before mine. But if the fates don't align to bring me a silver fox in my matrimonial bed, I want to at least have shagged one. No, I don't just want to fuck him, I want to be in a serious relationship with him. I think there is something sexy about a man who knows who he is and exactly what he wants. You know what, there's something sexy about a man, in general. Now, I love the boys, but I definitely need to upgrade at least once.
2. The Bad Boy
I don't mean the generic, fake bad boy, who pretends to be bad but really when shit gets real, he's nowhere to be found. Fuck that loser. I want the boy that my mother and all the Lifetime television mothers warned me about. He's been arrested a couple of time. He's covered in tattoos and he has some fake ass job. He can't be a drug dealer because I'm not being indicted on that shit with him, but he could be a music producer or make miniature sculptures. He'll smoke and drink a ton. He'll get into fights at bars over some guy spilling my drink. Why do I find this attractive? I don't know. Maybe it's because all those things seem very testosterone driven and I find it difficult to find a man tougher than me. I'd just like to see how it feels to be a damsel for once.
3. The Banker
Now this type I don't typically find attractive, but I need to date the prototype of a douchebag in order to know what makes them tick and how to play nice with them. All of my friends will marry bankers and I can't be excommunicated out of the group; and I need couches to sleep on while I get mys hit together. Plus I deserved to be taken out to fancy meals and bought expensive gifts. Heck if Mr. Right doesn't come through for me, I wouldn't mind Mr. Moneybags.
4. The Child
This is one is more of a wish if I'm not married by 30. When all my friends are engaged and spending their nights drinking wine and having dinner parties, I want to be in the clubs where it isn't embarrassing to be single. Why should I be reserving my hotness for those stupid "grown up" events. The Child will take me to the newest, hippest locales and keep me relevant in popular culture. So what, if I have to pay for everything? I'm going to be a baller.
ETA: Changes to height were made so that Jo doesn't recieve application from Korean Catholics who are shorter than 5'10. My apologies.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
From The Lips of One Who Knew
"Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."
- Steve Jobs. Rest in Peace.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
To my future friends
It's no a secret that I have a serious love for reality television programming. No, I don't like American Idol or any other show where people might better themselves. I'm more interested in docu-dramas like Secret Lives of Women and the Real Housewives franchise; I also might start watching the A-List Dallas because I heard it's going to be insane. But I definitely have a soft spot for The Jersey Shore. Say what you will about their defamation of Italian culture and how they misrepresent a generation. I grew up in Brooklyn, NY and I met many a guido that would have done worse than these six tan-aholics. I'm speaking about you Richie. Nevertheless, I watch the show with fervent enthusiasm and I deconstruct every episode, every line, and every hand gesture for deeper meaning. However this curiousity of mine led me down a dangerous path after last week's episode.
For the unfamiliar, this week Snooki's boyfriend, Jionni (physically a male version of Nicole), came to Italy to visit her. She acts skanky, they get into a fight, mayhem ensues, yadadada. What caught my interest the most, was Snooki's reference that she hopes that she has a C-section when she gives birth to a guido/guidette because she doesn't want to mess up her cuca (I know this sounds like Dothraki to some of you, but read on). Now I had always believed that most women would prefer a vaginal birth as opposed to a Cesarean (If I have any male readers, I apologize. I didn't know you existed). Sure your vadge gets fucked up in the process, but who wants to have an ugly scar around their midsection?
So this morning, during my 30 minute train ride to work, I decided to look up the pros and cons of a natural cuca birth versus a c-section. I will tell you now, that I got off that train a different person. First of all, having a baby is no joke. People always draw photos of doves and storks and shit around babies. This is not accurate. Babies might look cherubim when they're nestled in their blankeys and have ruby red cheeks, but when that shit is gestating inside of you, it looks more like a tadpole, or a seamonkey, but bigger. Could you imagine a giant seamonkey? Does that sound cute to you? Fuck outta here.
So not only is it not cute, it takes 40 weeks to get cute. 40 EFFIN WEEKS!! Now I'm not a patient person, but I can't imagine having something inside of me for almost ten months. It's walking around inside of you, poking at your insides and kicking you when it's doing yoga. It's really a form of domestic violence. The child is literally distorting your internal organs to make more room for itself. Now you're covered in stretch marks. And yes that is completely vain and the miracle of life is worth a few stretch marks, but to fuck up my kidneys and bladder is a bit much.
Also babies eat all of your food. Not cool. Do you know how much money a baby costs before it's even born? There are doctor visits and prenatal vitamins. You have to eat all the right foods meaning no sushi or alcohol. I've been sober for three weeks and I've been suffering from the shakes the entire time. I'm almost at the point of delirium where I think water tastes like vodka. Yum. Basically a baby is a parasite. A tape worm if you will. But with a tapeworm you get the added benefit of having an unlimited diet and you lose weight. So I can eat shit, but not look like it? Sign me up. If a baby did that, I might have an entire flock by now. And a tapeworm doesn't kick you; but I'm sure it does other horrible things. Whatever. The point is: Babies don't seem like fun.
So after I've gotten over my general distaste for infants, both newborns and gestational, and my maternal hormones are kicking in, coupled with society's pressure (my mom) to procreate, I have to decide on a birthing plan. Now there seem to be unlimited options from whether I'll be having a water birth to being high on Ecstasy (I'm leaning towards the latter), but the most basic decision is if this child is being released into the wild from my lower abs or from my vadge. Let me tell you, neither one seems fun.
You can either break your cuca (and your rectum in some cases) or never be able to sit properly again. So I guess it boils down to whether I want to have sex again or whether I want to wear a bathing suit again. The sad part is that I'll probably want to do neither once I start having kids. I hear they take up a lot of time and your sex drive. So I'm basically asking my future friends, when I start having baby fever and ask you whether Malachi or Monroe seems like a good baby name, please slap me, show me a picture of an angry seamonkey and remind me of this article. Because regardless of what I decide, at least you can say you tried to help me.
For the unfamiliar, this week Snooki's boyfriend, Jionni (physically a male version of Nicole), came to Italy to visit her. She acts skanky, they get into a fight, mayhem ensues, yadadada. What caught my interest the most, was Snooki's reference that she hopes that she has a C-section when she gives birth to a guido/guidette because she doesn't want to mess up her cuca (I know this sounds like Dothraki to some of you, but read on). Now I had always believed that most women would prefer a vaginal birth as opposed to a Cesarean (If I have any male readers, I apologize. I didn't know you existed). Sure your vadge gets fucked up in the process, but who wants to have an ugly scar around their midsection?
So this morning, during my 30 minute train ride to work, I decided to look up the pros and cons of a natural cuca birth versus a c-section. I will tell you now, that I got off that train a different person. First of all, having a baby is no joke. People always draw photos of doves and storks and shit around babies. This is not accurate. Babies might look cherubim when they're nestled in their blankeys and have ruby red cheeks, but when that shit is gestating inside of you, it looks more like a tadpole, or a seamonkey, but bigger. Could you imagine a giant seamonkey? Does that sound cute to you? Fuck outta here.
So not only is it not cute, it takes 40 weeks to get cute. 40 EFFIN WEEKS!! Now I'm not a patient person, but I can't imagine having something inside of me for almost ten months. It's walking around inside of you, poking at your insides and kicking you when it's doing yoga. It's really a form of domestic violence. The child is literally distorting your internal organs to make more room for itself. Now you're covered in stretch marks. And yes that is completely vain and the miracle of life is worth a few stretch marks, but to fuck up my kidneys and bladder is a bit much.
Also babies eat all of your food. Not cool. Do you know how much money a baby costs before it's even born? There are doctor visits and prenatal vitamins. You have to eat all the right foods meaning no sushi or alcohol. I've been sober for three weeks and I've been suffering from the shakes the entire time. I'm almost at the point of delirium where I think water tastes like vodka. Yum. Basically a baby is a parasite. A tape worm if you will. But with a tapeworm you get the added benefit of having an unlimited diet and you lose weight. So I can eat shit, but not look like it? Sign me up. If a baby did that, I might have an entire flock by now. And a tapeworm doesn't kick you; but I'm sure it does other horrible things. Whatever. The point is: Babies don't seem like fun.
So after I've gotten over my general distaste for infants, both newborns and gestational, and my maternal hormones are kicking in, coupled with society's pressure (my mom) to procreate, I have to decide on a birthing plan. Now there seem to be unlimited options from whether I'll be having a water birth to being high on Ecstasy (I'm leaning towards the latter), but the most basic decision is if this child is being released into the wild from my lower abs or from my vadge. Let me tell you, neither one seems fun.
You can either break your cuca (and your rectum in some cases) or never be able to sit properly again. So I guess it boils down to whether I want to have sex again or whether I want to wear a bathing suit again. The sad part is that I'll probably want to do neither once I start having kids. I hear they take up a lot of time and your sex drive. So I'm basically asking my future friends, when I start having baby fever and ask you whether Malachi or Monroe seems like a good baby name, please slap me, show me a picture of an angry seamonkey and remind me of this article. Because regardless of what I decide, at least you can say you tried to help me.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
art for art's sake...
About a week ago, I went to go see my dollface Jess V. perform. She's been mia for the past few months because of dance rehearsal and we've been giving her a ton of shit for it. Finally the moment came, when we would be able to see whether her decision to stop drinking with us and practice was a wise one. First of all, let me tell you homegirl is talented. Not like, I'm your mother and so I have to pretend to be supportive instead of telling you what you will soon learn from an obnoxious middle school teacher. No, Jess is TALENTED. Her performance was thrilling and captivating. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I'm not usually impressed by dance and even with the renewed interest in the art form thanks to Black Swan, I haven't been that gung ho to book tickets for Swan Lake. I'm definitely more intrigued by film and classical music. But seeing Jess perform stirred something in me. Yes her leg extensions were beautiful, as were her leaps and bends. Yet that wasn't what moved me.
Seeing Jess do something she's so passionate about made it hard for me to breathe. It was like watching two people fall in love. It was so intimate and overwhelming. I felt like I should cover my eyes but I couldn't look away. It's so inspiring to see someone expressing themselves with stark vulnerability. I couldn't help it but to cry. And I'm the bitch that doesn't even cry at The Notebook.
Not only did her performance move me emotionally, but it also moved me mentally. It gave me the push to conquer my passions. Jess works as some sort of advertising/social media wizard, spending more than 50 hours a week at her office, tweeting or twitting things at me. After an exhausting day behind a computer, she will rush off to dance practice for four hours and then somehow manages to come out for drinks with belligerent friends at 2am. Straight up wizard!
If Jess can manage to do that, then I can make moves to start my career. I know I've exhausted my allowance for being a bum. Its been a year since graduation and I don't really feel like I've accomplished anything. I was trying to avoid growing up but Jess gave me the kick in the ass and in the span of the week, I've quit my cushy gig at DailyCandy and by summer's end I'll be done with my NYU gig. I'm removing the safety cushion from under my feet (or ass?) and I'm flying head first into the unknown. I told my bestie Joy my plan and she called it brave. I'm not brave, I'm just too young to be unhappy and not do anything about it. Maybe I'll be poor, but I have already reserved several couches as contingency plans. All I know is that I want to make people cry. And not by cyberbullying.
Seeing Jess do something she's so passionate about made it hard for me to breathe. It was like watching two people fall in love. It was so intimate and overwhelming. I felt like I should cover my eyes but I couldn't look away. It's so inspiring to see someone expressing themselves with stark vulnerability. I couldn't help it but to cry. And I'm the bitch that doesn't even cry at The Notebook.
Not only did her performance move me emotionally, but it also moved me mentally. It gave me the push to conquer my passions. Jess works as some sort of advertising/social media wizard, spending more than 50 hours a week at her office, tweeting or twitting things at me. After an exhausting day behind a computer, she will rush off to dance practice for four hours and then somehow manages to come out for drinks with belligerent friends at 2am. Straight up wizard!
If Jess can manage to do that, then I can make moves to start my career. I know I've exhausted my allowance for being a bum. Its been a year since graduation and I don't really feel like I've accomplished anything. I was trying to avoid growing up but Jess gave me the kick in the ass and in the span of the week, I've quit my cushy gig at DailyCandy and by summer's end I'll be done with my NYU gig. I'm removing the safety cushion from under my feet (or ass?) and I'm flying head first into the unknown. I told my bestie Joy my plan and she called it brave. I'm not brave, I'm just too young to be unhappy and not do anything about it. Maybe I'll be poor, but I have already reserved several couches as contingency plans. All I know is that I want to make people cry. And not by cyberbullying.
what's in a name?
My parents are interesting. If you've ever met me, you would know that I had to be raised by lunatics. They aren't conventionally crazy, but more like black sitcom crazy. When I was born my mother wanted to name me Stephanie (among other things, don't even get me started on my middle name) but my father refused. He didn't want people calling me Fanny or some other hideous nickname. So they settled on Stephane. It's of French origin and is the equivalent of Steven in the states. Apparently the name comes from the Bible. Stephane was a believer that got stoned to death for proclaiming his beliefs. Again, my parents are crazy.
Growing up, no one in my family ever called me Stephane; they all called me by my nickname (which I won't disclose here). But when school started and my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Weitz, pronounced my name Stephanie, I had no idea how to correct her. By that point, I had barely heard my government name said aloud and because my parents were immigrants, I assumed that that's how you say Stephane in English. So from kindergarten to high school, I was always known as Stephanie. It never really bothered me and most people called me Steph anyways.
But the summer before college, I decided I wasn't going to let other people dictate my identity. A name is an important characteristic of one's self. A Veronica will never act like an Annie. A Cynthia is treated differently than a Melissa. People act like their names. Think about it. If someone behaves differently than their name, they always develop a nickname that suits them better. I always knew that I was living a lie as a Stephanie because deep down I was definitely a Stephane.
Unfortunately New York University didn't feel the same way and changed my name on the school roster to Stephanie. Now maybe they assumed I made a spelling mistake on my application, but then why would you accept a student that couldn't even spell their own name? One word: Diversity. Even the SATs give you 200 bonus points just for getting your alias correct.
So throughout college, I had to correct every professor who pronounced my name Stephanie, further simplifying the stereotype of the "black girl with an attitude". You should have seen it. I would go "Actually it's pronounced Stephane". The professor would reply "Oh it's spelled Stephanie on the roster" and I would have to say "Yeah well NYU spelled my name wrong. I know how my name is pronounced". Usually I would add a head roll and finger snaps just for emphasis sake. Classy.
Usually I never had a problem with my name, but having a boy's name can be tricky at times. I get a lot of call backs for interviews because people assume I'm a guy. Plus it's a good icebreaker when meeting someone new for the first time. Yet there have also been times when it's done more harm than good. Like when I studied abroad in Paris. When I met with my homestay family for the first time and she asked my name. After I said "Stephane" in my faux-Parisian accent, she turned to her daughter in horror and I realized I committed a faux-pas. She begged me to tell her that my name was actually Stephanie, but after I spelled it out for her, she resigned to accept her fate. Turns out her ex-boyfriend's name was also Stephane and he was a complete and utter douchebag. So having me in the house everyday became a constant reminder of her heart being ripped out. Don't worry, me and my surrogate mother are besties now, but that first week was a little rough.
Another strange example of how my name has affected people happened just last week. I was in the laundromat with my mother at the buttcrack of dawn and this man came up to me to tell me how beautiful I am. I don't want you to think I'm being cocky. People that roam the laundromat and have no laundry are clinically insane. Especially the ones that do it before 9am. He kept pestering me for my name and I wouldn't tell him. After five minutes of this and realizing he was one of those persistent types (my least favorite of the male hookup species. After that is the guys who compliment you and then after recognizing your dismissal proceed to let you know they weren't interested in you. "You wuz mad ugly anywayz" Really? Then why are you hitting on me? But I digress) I let him know my moniker. You should have seen his reaction. His body got tense and one of his eyes started to bulge. It was like he was turning into the Incredible Hulk, but the hood version. I asked him if he was okay and he started to stammer out nonsensical garbage. "Are you....I can't believe this...I can't...there's no real nice way...Oh my gosh...Really though?..." I couldn't make out what he was trying to ask me and I asked him if he needed help.
Finally he blurts out in a quiet whisper "Are you a woman?"
"What do you mean?"
Clearly frustrated he responds "Were you born a woman?"
"Huh?"
"ARE YOU A TRANNY?" He yelled.
Seeing that I was trying his patience, I finally let him know that I was indeed born a woman and that there was no sausage in my pants. He seemed relieved and let me know that he "had been caught before" and that the "prettiest ones be the trannies". The most incredible part of this story is that after my admission, he proceeded to still get my number. After I laughed him off and told him I'm not interested, he informed me that I shouldn't be offended by his comments because I'm not a tranny. Good to know. Ladies if a man suggests that you're a transgender and you actually aren't, then you shouldn't be appalled. He's just investigating before he ends up on a Maury episode. I should inform you that during this whole ordeal, my mother was standing right next to me, laughing hysterically and looking like a crazy person. Only I know that she named me Stephane so she could enjoy moments like that.
Growing up, no one in my family ever called me Stephane; they all called me by my nickname (which I won't disclose here). But when school started and my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Weitz, pronounced my name Stephanie, I had no idea how to correct her. By that point, I had barely heard my government name said aloud and because my parents were immigrants, I assumed that that's how you say Stephane in English. So from kindergarten to high school, I was always known as Stephanie. It never really bothered me and most people called me Steph anyways.
But the summer before college, I decided I wasn't going to let other people dictate my identity. A name is an important characteristic of one's self. A Veronica will never act like an Annie. A Cynthia is treated differently than a Melissa. People act like their names. Think about it. If someone behaves differently than their name, they always develop a nickname that suits them better. I always knew that I was living a lie as a Stephanie because deep down I was definitely a Stephane.
Unfortunately New York University didn't feel the same way and changed my name on the school roster to Stephanie. Now maybe they assumed I made a spelling mistake on my application, but then why would you accept a student that couldn't even spell their own name? One word: Diversity. Even the SATs give you 200 bonus points just for getting your alias correct.
So throughout college, I had to correct every professor who pronounced my name Stephanie, further simplifying the stereotype of the "black girl with an attitude". You should have seen it. I would go "Actually it's pronounced Stephane". The professor would reply "Oh it's spelled Stephanie on the roster" and I would have to say "Yeah well NYU spelled my name wrong. I know how my name is pronounced". Usually I would add a head roll and finger snaps just for emphasis sake. Classy.
Usually I never had a problem with my name, but having a boy's name can be tricky at times. I get a lot of call backs for interviews because people assume I'm a guy. Plus it's a good icebreaker when meeting someone new for the first time. Yet there have also been times when it's done more harm than good. Like when I studied abroad in Paris. When I met with my homestay family for the first time and she asked my name. After I said "Stephane" in my faux-Parisian accent, she turned to her daughter in horror and I realized I committed a faux-pas. She begged me to tell her that my name was actually Stephanie, but after I spelled it out for her, she resigned to accept her fate. Turns out her ex-boyfriend's name was also Stephane and he was a complete and utter douchebag. So having me in the house everyday became a constant reminder of her heart being ripped out. Don't worry, me and my surrogate mother are besties now, but that first week was a little rough.
Another strange example of how my name has affected people happened just last week. I was in the laundromat with my mother at the buttcrack of dawn and this man came up to me to tell me how beautiful I am. I don't want you to think I'm being cocky. People that roam the laundromat and have no laundry are clinically insane. Especially the ones that do it before 9am. He kept pestering me for my name and I wouldn't tell him. After five minutes of this and realizing he was one of those persistent types (my least favorite of the male hookup species. After that is the guys who compliment you and then after recognizing your dismissal proceed to let you know they weren't interested in you. "You wuz mad ugly anywayz" Really? Then why are you hitting on me? But I digress) I let him know my moniker. You should have seen his reaction. His body got tense and one of his eyes started to bulge. It was like he was turning into the Incredible Hulk, but the hood version. I asked him if he was okay and he started to stammer out nonsensical garbage. "Are you....I can't believe this...I can't...there's no real nice way...Oh my gosh...Really though?..." I couldn't make out what he was trying to ask me and I asked him if he needed help.
Finally he blurts out in a quiet whisper "Are you a woman?"
"What do you mean?"
Clearly frustrated he responds "Were you born a woman?"
"Huh?"
"ARE YOU A TRANNY?" He yelled.
Seeing that I was trying his patience, I finally let him know that I was indeed born a woman and that there was no sausage in my pants. He seemed relieved and let me know that he "had been caught before" and that the "prettiest ones be the trannies". The most incredible part of this story is that after my admission, he proceeded to still get my number. After I laughed him off and told him I'm not interested, he informed me that I shouldn't be offended by his comments because I'm not a tranny. Good to know. Ladies if a man suggests that you're a transgender and you actually aren't, then you shouldn't be appalled. He's just investigating before he ends up on a Maury episode. I should inform you that during this whole ordeal, my mother was standing right next to me, laughing hysterically and looking like a crazy person. Only I know that she named me Stephane so she could enjoy moments like that.
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