Monday, January 14, 2008

If you see any of these people, none of them are me.

So, I google'd my name today.


There are a lot of people out there with my legal name.

In case you're interested, none of these people are me:

Equal distribution of boys and girls, so that's pretty cool. As I've mentioned before, my folks gave me a very androgynous name, so much so that I continue to get mail addressed "Mr." Tiff. It all started way back when I was in high school, when the Marines wanted to recruit me.

I almost joined, just for fun. Imagine showing up at boot camp (or whatever the jarheads do call their horrifical indoctrinal period, during which pasty-faced boys go in and well-muscled young men come out) as a girl, waving my invitation papers around, and demanding to be let in. Heh.

"Hey y'all MARINES! You want a piece of THIS, huh? Well here I am, suit me up, darlin's, because I've got civilians to intimidate! Wooo!"

The trend toward addressing me in the masculine continues to this day. and I have to say that for a lady of my stature, it's a touch irritating. Let's face it folks - I'm 5 feet 10 (anna half) inches tall, weigh about 200 pounds, and have fairly broad shoulders, so my size is already against me, but neither would you confuse me for a man because the boobs and long hair and overall curviness of the Tiff-bod are pretty much dead giveaways that I'm not a candidate for Viagra.

So, how do I get the nameless"them" to stop mailing me stuff addressed to "Mister" Tiff?

Slash a bold sharpie line through the name and declare "no such person at this address"? Contact the senders in person and let them know nicely that even though I'm a perimenopausal woman and therefore might have more chin whiskers that I used to I am by NO MEANS so very hirsute as to possibly be mistaken for a dude of ANY age except perhaps one who is oh-so-slightly preadolescent? Take pictures of my girl parts and provide them to the senders to PROVE that I'm a female and not a man in need of their tree-cutting services and power washes and legal aid and gutters and metal roofs (rooves? hoof/hooves? I don't know) and lawn moving and credit cards and welding and blacksmithing and witch-detecting and such?


The more I think about this, the more pissed off I get. I'm a GIRL, dammit, and want to be addressed as such. "Ms" is just fine with me. It's one letter different from what some folks are currently using as an honorific, and I don't think it's so much to ask that that ONE LETTER be changed so that I'm not experiencing this regular besmirching of my utter fantabulous womanhood. Why, I can besmirch it on my OWN, thanks so very much, and do not need the help of some random faceless machine to tear asunder my gender identification.


Bacon knishes.

Does anyone but me think this is funny?


As it so happens, knishes are easy to make. Fun to make too. I made ones with bacon innem last night. My cooking buddy declared as to how that might make sense to me, but is probably causing many ancient rabbis to spin in their graves at such a speed as to possibly cause time to flow backward or spark a spontaneous fire in the torah of the nearest synagogue (or words to that effect. I might be paraphrasing).

I don't care. They tasted freaking fabulous. Who wouldn't like a potato-dough pastry STUFFED with mashed taters, sauteed onions, cheese, and possibly BACON, then brushed with beaten egg and baked until they're such a lovely shade of golden brown that you kind of wish your hair was that color, or maybe your skin? Really now, I submit that almost nobody could turn down a gorgeous knish the very color of an alluring invitation that is filled to lush tautness with creamy cheesy (and bacony) silken warm potatoey goodness. Why that visual plus the scent of butter and onions that slips out the steamy seams is enough to make any sane person's mouth set to waterin'.

Don't you kind of want one right now??

I do.

Perhaps I rhapsodize, but damn. They were good. And there are leftovers. Oh my yes.

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