Beating the Butter Into Submission?

I have twenty-four drafts saved in this blog. I don’t have to read them to know they’re all utter crap, because I had nothing to say.

I’ve been trying to repurpose this blog, trying to come up with a new theme that isn’t as… You know… Bitchy. I know, I know, you love my rants against basic bitches, cis-het female sexual competition, and, of course, dating and relationships. However, I need a change of pace. I’m turning bitter. Or, as many of you well know, I’ve always been kind of bitter, but in like a cute, funny, inoffensive (?) way. So, I write to you, as I procrastinate writing this solo violin piece for class, with the intention of discussing deeper and wiser subjects: basic bitches, cis-het female sexual competition, and dating and relationships…

Actually, I’m repurposing this blog so that I may elaborate on micro-aggressive sexism, my growing fears I’m becoming too liberal for my own good, Mexican machismo, and, obviously, my dating life.

As many of you know, I grew up in a household of women, with the only testosterone around being my little brother Seabass (Sebas) and my little cousin Gerry. And, these kids, they weren’t the most masculine, mostly because they grew up around very feminine women. It was a girls’ world, and it was fantastic. On a typical weekend, my mom and I would dance to songs to Chicago in her bathroom, and then we’d go to Yoga and brunch with Gerry’s mom, and maybe we’d have a perfectly planned beach day with healthy fruit snacks and water, all while talking about finding your inner goddess and listening to Clarissa Pinkola Estes in the car. It was freaking paradise, and I did not appreciate it enough while it was happening.

Now, as an adult woman, I have to deal with dudes. I know I’ve joked in the past about being gay, mostly because, yes, I might be a little gay, but that’s none of your business. Don’t get your panties all twisted up and text it in some dumb group chat like if it’s some hot gossip. It really shouldn’t be that surprising, and y’all have better things to do with your time (I hope, for your sake more than for mine).

I have to deal with men! The biggest problem in my life, today, is the fact that straight men tend to be so slow when it comes to them figuring out their emotions. Ever known what your close guy-friend is feeling before he even realizes? So, then you tell him, “Is it possible you’re mad at your girlfriend because this brings up all of the paranoia you felt with your ex when she cheated on you?” And he says, “No! Of course not! Why would you even bring that up?” So you bite your tongue and go on with your day, your week, sometimes even your month(s), only to hear them say later, “I think I got really pissed off because of how my ex treated me.” Slow.

Me? I process in a heartbeat. By the time he’s done blinking, I’ve already identified my emotions, connected them to my childhood trauma, discerned what behaviors or emotions are truly my own and which ones I learned from my parents, unpackaged my parents’ childhood traumas and connected that to their parenting style, and I make my way back round to how that’s all going to influence my actions. Ok, maybe not in the blink of an eye, but definitely before the next morning. I know many women and non-binary folk can relate. Men, not all men, but a lot of men, this takes them ten years in therapy.

So while I’m waiting for my boyfriend to figure out that he’s being kind of cold and distant, and for him to figure out why he’s being cold and distant, I keep on baking him baked goods. Last night I made him pumpkin pies and apple pie bars, and as I beat the butter into submission, I felt the acid reflux in the pit of my stomach rise up to tickle my tonsils at the thought of him leaving me. Oh yeah, the fear of rejection is really that strong. Every pie I bake I give it to him with a smile that says, “Are you done being mad at me yet? Can we go back to normal.” Those pie tins are as empty right now as the pit of my stomach when he doesn’t text me unless I text him first. About three pounds of butter, a quarter bushel of apples, and a ginormous pumpkin later, we’re still nowhere closer to achieving normality. I still have about another three pounds of butter and another quarter bushel of apples left, so maybe when I finish that he’ll like me again?

I mean, he loves me, I know that, but right now he does not like me. There’s a difference. He loves me, but he does not want to spend time with me. That’s an exaggeration. He loves me, but he wants to spend less time with me, because he’s mad at me for reasons we’re not ready to joke about and that I’m assuming I’m not allowed to blog about. I was also mad at him for different, yet related issues.

Anyways, I processed in like two weeks. I went to Miami with a friend, wore a slutty dress, got hit on by random papis, and then went home drunk to talk about how great my boyfriend is and await a 4:00am that would never arrive. Then, I spent about a week just catching up on homework, while I waited for him to be okay with the fact that I’m not perfect. I’m still waiting. I’m not even mad anymore. That shit was resolved at a Miami club when a random dude told me I’d love my boyfriend more if I cheated on him. My friend Yuni and I spent like twenty minutes of my life trying to explain to him how fucked up that was, obviously in vain, because he probably got some other girl to cheat with him, and I went home feeling guilty for even talking to him. So in vain.

A part of me thinks I’m not mad anymore, or at least I’m not feeling the anger, because I’m terrified that he’ll dump me. I know, it’s pathetic and as a strong woman I’m not supposed to admit it, but I am working through my childhood trauma of rejection… Sue me. So, I can’t get angry, because if I get angry, he’ll leave me, and he’ll prove my childhood bullies right: No one except my family will truly love me and accept me, because I’m too weird, not normal enough, too sensitive, too fucked up for anyone else to love. See? I can’t get angry.

Instead, we’re baking, we’re drowning ourselves in work, we’re procrastinating that work by picking up old hobbies, we’re obsessively brushing my cat Frederick Chopin. And by we, I mean me and my lovely dog Truman Capote. What we are not going to do (and I tell Truman this very often) is let us feel our true anger, because if we do, almost every single human being will run screaming from us, and we will die alone in some serial killer’s pit, because there was no one who cared enough to start a missing person’s investigation; and I, to be honest, kind of welcomed the serial killer’s creepy kindness, because I just needed to feel that type of human connection once more.

Apple pies! Pumpkin pies (yuck, worst pie ever! Next up some pecan pies! How about an apple galette? Or caramel apples! I have way too many apples. I might actually make a decadent gruyere-pumpkin-sage quiche…

And while I’m distracting myself from the original reason I was angry to begin with, I’m baking pies and baked goods for a boyfriend who is actively avoiding me and my text messages (but pretending he’s not), which is making me angrier (because I’m baking him pies, trying to fix things, and what the fuck is he doing other than not answering my texts?), which, in turn, is making me bake more. So, what? I build myself a gingerbread house for me to die alone in, because we all know that eventually this gnawing anger is going to bite someone in the ass (most likely my own) in a “shooting myself in my own foot” fashion.

Or I can communicate with my boyfriend about how cold, distant, and superficial our relationship has become, while he’s still trying to process the last conversation we had. Believe me, if I communicate with him, it’s not going to make me feel better, it’s not going to make him feel better, because he’s just going to become more cold and distant, trying to figure out whether or not he’s sick of me and the relationship, which is going to make me become more intense and paranoid. No, the solution, believe me, is not talking.

It’s also not fucking. I’ve tried that. It’ll distract someone for a little bit, but there’s no thong slutty enough, no overpriced corset that’s see-through enough, no pointless garter belt sexy enough for him to forget that he’s iffed at me and doesn’t want to be near me right now.

So, I’m baking.