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So, The Thing Is…Blog
I love women. All kinds. All shapes. I love a woman’s energy. I love a woman’ scent, her walk, her personal style. Whether lesbian or straight or bisexual. Some women make so much from so little – they get by by their wiles and inner strength. I’ve admired a lot of women through history too. In honor of Black History Month, I’d like to tell you about one of the sexiest, strongest, bravest women of whom I’ve heard. She rose, like the Phoenix, again and again. The strength of her convictions changed lives and on top of that, she was hot. Really hot.
Her name was Josephine Freda McDonald and she was born to unmarried parents in St. Louis in 1906—you might have heard of her as Josephine Baker. She got married when she was 13 years old, but it didn’t last. Seems her husband didn’t appreciate Josephine cutting him with a broken bottle and he never returned. She had to make a living, so she started waiting tables. One day, a band found her and asked her to join them as a dancer. Though she started young, she was never known as the best dancer, the best singer, nor even the most beautiful woman—but she had that indefinable “it.” She traveled with the band and at 15 married again—to a guy named Baker. She kept the name. She did not keep the man.
Eventually, she ended up in New York, making $120 a week – big money back then. Then, she was led off to the lights of Paris. The Parisians treated her with an equality she had never experienced in the United States. But, they expected Black performers to dress and act the part of savages on stage. The trade-off reluctantly worked for Josephine. She became the toast of Gay Paris—attending parties, living the high life, and enjoying a level of acceptance she could never have achieved in segregated Jim Crow America. She was a symbol of sexual expression and freedom. She reveled in it too. I’m guessing she had some pretty fun times. At one point, before the war, she returned to the US to perform and was asked to use the service entrance instead of coming through the front door, as she did in all the European countries. It was not a fit. She didn’t please the US audiences because her performances were considered too French.
The war rolled around, and in the midst of husband number 3, a Jewish fellow, she was asked to collect information for the French Resistance. She gladly did so. The freedom she enjoyed in crossing European borders allowed her to gather and impart news and gossip that would help the Allies. Despite the danger, she did this throughout the war. She toured in North Africa to entertain the Allied troops and she convinced Egypt’s leader to appear on stage with her (a move which indicated a subtle preference despite Egypt’s stated neutrality during the war). After the liberation of the death camps, Baker performed at Buchenwald for those too ill to move. Before the war ended, so did marriage number 3.
Marriage number 4 after the war found her ready to adopt after a string of miscarriages and hysterectomy. She decided to adopt a rainbow family and ended up adopting 13 children of all races, from many different countries, of various ages and faiths, despite her husband’s concerns about their ability to afford to raise such a brood. He high-tailed it out of there too. She raised the children herself. In 1951, she headed back to the US and performed in front of an audience she insisted be integrated. The NAACP named “Josephine Baker Day,” in honor of her life’s accomplishments. Her stand on racial issues hurt her career, but she continued on.
Eventually, she came back to the US again to appear with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in the March on Washington and to appear at Carnegie Hall. A new day was dawning, that was clear. She suffered a heart attack in 1964. Her career was in tatters and though she had help from wealthy friends for years, she was eventually evicted from her palatial home with its exotic animals, leaving her and 13 children homeless. With the help of Princess Grace of Monaco, she found a place for her brood to live and her career was briefly revived. After one more performance at Carnegie Hall, and a visit to Golda Meir (though I admire Meir, I did not think she was hot, just for the record) for the 25th anniversary of the Israeli State, she returned to Paris in 1975, where she died in her sleep of a cerebral hemorrhage surrounded by papers with glowing reviews of her final performance.
Baker was celebrated with full military honors by the French people who embraced her as an entertainer and a hero, where she never could have been in her own country. She was the first American woman to receive the highest French honor, the Croix de Guerre. She was buried in Monaco
Source: Wood, Ean. The Josephine Baker Story. London: Sanctuary Publishing Limited, 2000
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/12/22/AR2006122200194_pf.html
http://www.harlemlive.org/shethang/profiles/josephinebaker/jbaker.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josephine_Baker
Phew, these things are really making the rounds. I was asked by Teckc and Mid-Life Clarity to list some habits/quirky things about me.
1. I must have a grocery store on the way home from work. Not work-house-grocery. It must be work-grocery-house. I have moved if I got a new job and this wasn’t the case.
2. I have to brush my teeth before I get in the shower. It’s just enough time for the hot water to work its way upstairs.
3. I have a few things decorating the house—picture frames, candle things, stuff like that. I can tell to the ¼” if they’ve been moved – they then don’t look right, so I move them back. I’m not OCD, really.
4. I used to say I’d eat just about anything, except hominy. Not true. Turns out there are all kinds of things I’m not fond of and no amount of cajoling is going to change my mind. I discovered at age 46 that I’m high maintenance.
5. When I eat Uni, I’ve been told I look as though I have reached another place—kind of a Hitachi Magic Wand look, only Uni is less noisy.
6. I have calendars, reminder, notes, sticky notes, clues, Outlook tasks, blah, blah, blah for everything. I still forget them. The only way to remember these days is if I write it on my hand – I seem to be able to hang onto that somehow.
Long about a year ago, I ran across a little community blog called The Lesbian Lifestyle. There, I found a whole bevy of Lesbians blogging their little hearts out in one place. It was like finding the girl bar of the Internet!
About the same time, it was running its first-ever Lesbian Blog of the Year Award. I thought, “Hell, why not?” And, sure enough, thanks to all of you, I came in the top 5 and was a finalist. I even won—technically—but withdrew because I’m pretty sure I didn’t get 100 actual legitimate votes in 2 hours at the tail end of the competition. Curly McDimple over at Ham & Cheese on Wry was awarded the prize—right on Curly! Fabulous Tina-cious was also finalist and I read her all the time.
Over the year, I did some posting over there at TLL. I read some great posts too.
Kelly, aka GoldStarDyke, who runs the joint, has done a fabulous job of porting the site over to its new home at WordPress. I hope you’ll go over and visit.
Oh, and go over and nominate my blog for the 2007 Lesbian Blog of the Year starting on the 15th (and every day, for that matter, until February 15th). This year, I might actually have 100 readers!
I mean, what’s the point of being a Lesbian if you can’t get an award for it?
Oh, yeah—now I remember.
I had lunch today with a friend of mine. I never go to lunch, but needed to catch up as we hadn’t chatted for a while and our schedules have been discordant. So, there we are, in a cheap sandwich and salad place near the California capitol building, and I look all the way across the room (my distance vision is like Superman’s—down to seeing through clothes on beautiful women—despite my advanced years).
Me: Isn’t that BJ Hunnicutt from M*A*S*H*?
Her: I can’t see him.
Me: Come over here, don’t turn around. He’s pretty politically active.
There is this guy behind my lunch companion who is nodding as I speak. She moved over, but it looked pretty weird, the two of us sitting close together on one side of the seat, but, hey, she needed to see him
.
Me: Yup, that’s him, look, we’re getting full frontal now, but not in that way. He’s married to Shelly Fabares, the woman on Coach. (How the hell do I remember these things when I can’t remember where I put my keys?)
Her: It is him.
Me: How cool is that?
She moved back–well, because it was just too weird–that wasn’t obvious celebrity stalking, huh? He ended up sitting down about three feet from us, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. No one bothered him. I realized why.
No one REMEMBERS him. I got back to the office all atwitter (well, for me) and they are all like, “Who? M*A*S*H*?” Despite the endless reruns, I realized that it ENDED before many of them were born.
Then, feeling all old and stuff, I was driving home and yet another old BJ popped up—this one on the radio–BJ Thomas–this one had me singing along.
Sorry, fellas, these are the only BJs you are going to find here. This goes out to Magical Samantha…
At last, my review! I could have done way worse, so I’m grateful. Good thing I did my Daily Affirmations With Stuart Smalley, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!”
“This blog is sort of like lukewarm, plain oatmeal for me. The template is quite plain, which isn’t a bad thing. The writing is somewhat boring, which isn’t a bad thing. The sidebar is quite sparse, which again, isn’t a bad thing. I actually have very little feeling for this blog.
The entries, lacked personality. I felt like I was reading my 3rd grade teacher’s blog or something. Dull, dull, dull. The only entry that I found mildly amusing was when she took the car to get the oil changed. She had a bit of personality there. Otherwise, it just seems like she’s bellyaching and boring me to death.
I’ve got nothing for you.”
Gifts were a bit sparse this year. We did our Christmas this morning before the kids got on a plane for Tucson. Notorious B.E.N. will be here in a few days in the neverending rotation of the children.
Our Christmas tradition goes like this: Christmas Eve (last night, in this case) they open their stocking stuffers and the present their birthfather sends through the Angel Tree program. She is diggin’ her new hat and glasses.
Christmas morning (this morning): We have leisurely breakfast, we clean up, then I go up and take a REALLY long shower, and then everyone can start. The torture goes on though. I pick the first gift for someone else, and they open it. They then pick one for someone else, and so on. It makes the entire experience last, everyone sees what everyone gets, and everyone gets to the see the reaction of the one receiving the gift they gave them.
Em got an iRiver (no iPOD for her, as I know it will end up in the laundry and is three times the price of the iRiver). It took me three hours to figure it out, load it, and show her how it works. I’m totally inept in the gadget department. J-Man shared the first episode of the first season of Heroes and Psych with me while I did it. And me? Well, my needs are simple and I’m ecstatic with the gift I got from the twins. Meet my new garbage can.
It’s just great seeing them “get” the joy of giving.
Oh, and I got a really great craft purse from my dad and step mom. Heh.
Thanks to Drowning Pisces, Red Hog Diary, Hapless Tigger, and everyone else who donated or will be doing something in their own neck of the woods. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I “spoke” with the development folks at the Home today and they are refining their online donation system forthwith. Right on! Change is a’comin’.
I spent the evening sending out my Christmas cards – little factory action going on with Em on the stamps and address labels and me on the notes and pictures. We are a well-oiled machine.
Thank you.
You know that crap the credit card company sends you? No, no, not the bill, the other stuff…offers. They used to offer up about everything but a hooker delivered to your door for a full night if I signed up for one thing or another. Now, you’re lucky if they don’t raise the interest rate every month, stealthily including a little pamphlet in 4 pt Pica that no one can read to let you know.
So, I had a stack of those on my desk. No Magical Samantha this weekend – so, I’m catching up on life again. Paying bills. Making appointments long forgotten. Trimming my toenails. Changing batteries in remotes that haven’t worked in weeks. Occasionally glancing fondly over at the drawer holding my Hitachi Magic Wand, trying not to get distracted for the chores needing tending. It’s Friday night after all. Which reminds me, I wonder, for those menopausal among us—as your doctor was assessing your menopausal-ness at your last physical, did your doctor ask you anything like, “Have you noticed any hair growing in places it didn’t used to grow?” Terrible thing was, I could answer, “YES!” Didn’t mean she could do a damn thing about it, I just think it amuses her. She’s probably keeping a list of unusual hair growth locations for women 40-60 in the greater Sacramento region. There’s probably a paper in it. Perhaps even a research grant at some point. They don’t warn you about the memory loss that comes with menopause either, do they? Well, they might have, but I’ve forgotten. What the hell was I talking about anyway?
Oh, oh…the credit card company.
So, I usually just toss those little things away into the shredder. But, tonight, I was bored, having suddenly remembered where I hid the leftover Christmas cards from last year—and also happened upon the ones I hid away from the year before that that I never did find last year, and they made me an offer for a Visa Signature card, where I get all this free stuff and it doesn’t cost me more. I really didn’t want that, but I thought it’s probably time to try to negotiate a better deal on the interest. I was a little outraged at the terrible rate I pay.
HAH: Um, hi, I was kind of wondering if you had any offers for me…this interest rate is killing me.
Chantal: Just a minute, while I look up your account. <Pause—then laughter> You want a better rate?
HAH: Well, yeah. I like free stuff.
Chantal: Honey, you’ve got the best rate we have. They don’t even give employees that rate. Did you seriously want a better rate?
HAH: What are you telling me, Chantal, that I’m CRAZY? Is that what you’re saying? <I’m laughing>
Chantal: Well, yeah. And, I’m thinking after we hang up I’ll be talking about you to a few of my co-workers.
HAH: Oh, yeah? Okay, I hear you! Now that’s settled, what’s up with this Signature card. Is there lots of free stuff?
Chantal: How did you get that low rate on your card…what, you want more free stuff?
HAH: Um, doesn’t it tell you?
Chantal: Dang, that’s a good rate. Well, that Signature card, you may not want it. It doesn’t cost anything, but there’s probably not enough free stuff.
HAH: Chantal, I don’t think that’s in your script.
Chantal: It isn’t. <She’s laughing>
HAH: I can’t believe you just said that.
Chantal: Neither can I. Man, I hope they aren’t monitoring for training purposes. I’ve been on the phone since noon.
HAH: Nah, don’t worry about it, this is fun. Just go ahead and sign me up for that damn card. <We are both laughing pretty hard by now>
Chantal: <Reads through her script for acceptance and asks> …Do I have your permission to add you to this card?
HAH: I do hereby give you my permission, and I give it freely.
Chantal completely lost it at that point, wished me a happy holiday and I wished her the same. This was the most fun I’ve ever had with a credit card company. I felt closer to it than I do the people I work with. This was nothing – I say, nothing, like the service I got at www.teleflora.com, which sucked.
Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian will be back tomorrow…I hope. If I can finish the laundry at last.
One of the great things about living in cities like Chicago or San Francisco, or even Berkeley (that name keeps popping up) is that you have sustainable neighborhoods. Places where, with nothing but tread on your shoes, you can locomote to anything you need—grocery, clothes, gifts, restaurants, laundry, whatever. You don’t have to drive to the big box. Out here in suburbia, I have to get in the car to get to anything—the bus routes don’t even extend here.
Probably the closest to this idyllic walkable situation we have in Sacramento is the Midtown region. It extends just beyond the downtown (the borders are fuzzy), but I’d say about 15th St. extending to Alhambra in one direction and encompassing most of the letter streets the other from probably F-V. There may be actually boundaries, but I don’t care enough to find out this morning. In that region, you can get anything. My favorite used book store is on the fringe of this area—Beers—it’s owned by a guy who doesn’t have to work—his family owned a telecom company in San Francisco that was bought out by ATT 20 years ago for a billion or so, of which he got a chunk. The best restaurants in town are there; as is the little tiny Ace Hardware I frequent to avoid Home Depot. The same guys have worked there for a billion years and they actually ask me if they can help, and then they know how to help when I do ask. They installed a second Safeway in the area and it’s all sleek and shiny and new with a huge organic section to meet the needs of the gentrifying set. The highly successful Butch-n-Nellies, the very popular lesbian-owned undiluted coffee shop, is on I St, next to the Ace. This area is also the prime host to the Second Saturday Art Walk each month, which sends hundreds of suburbanites Midtown for a night out, which often includes a stop at one of the restaurants like Michelangelo’s or Lucca’s (the Governator’s reported favorite lunch spot).
Also located here is my favorite gift shop – Choices – owned by Denise and located at the corner of 23rd and J. It’s very fem-centric, with all types of beautiful items ranging from handcrafted jewelry by talented artisans, to spirituality items like Buddhist meditation singing bowls, unique lines of greeting cards, goods touting feminine empowerment, fabulous bumper stickers like the one I have on my car, “You Don’t Speak for God,” and a million other very cool things. And, of course, candles. What would we women be without our candles? The store is small and comfortable to shop in. I like to go there because I know that she will always engage me in at least a little conversation. At a minimum, she will always say, “Did you put a quarter in the meter?” when I walk in (Sacramento parking police are notorious). She does that for everyone coming in.
Lately, she’s even become my co-conspirator. She’s watched me come in week after week picking up little gifts to give to Magical Samantha – a card here, or a meditation labyrinth there…whatever strikes me in the moment. Last week, she became my personal shopper—she peppered me with questions – does she like this or that, does she wear this or that? Did I notice any of this at her house? She seems as excited about this relationship as I do.
Last week, I brought Magical Samantha into the store after our visit to the Latino museum to see its Day of the Dead exhibit and Denise seemed to notice everything Magical Samantha stopped and looked at. I need to run in later this week and see what input she might have to add to the romancing of Magical Samantha.
Denise is trying to sell Choices—I don’t know why. I wish that was not on her radar. Her store is unique and if it does sell, I really don’t know what I’ll do. Denise – what’s the deal?
In any event – if you live in the Sacramento region and you are buying for a woman for the holidays, I definitely think you should go see her—make her restock! Oh, and don’t forget to put a quarter in the meter before you go in.
