Dirtyfilthythings's Blog

Das Gift: Amore by Ossimori Spring/Summer 2011

dirtyfilthythings — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 12:21:47 +0000

Das Gift by Ossimori, “Made in Florence” design company to launch their first spring line for 2011 in Florence Italy at the Jules Maidoff Palazzo, January 20th, 2011. January 17, 2011, Firenze Italia- Ossimori, a clothing design company based in Florence, will launch their first spring line “Das Gift Amore” for 2011 at the Jules Maidoff Palazzo on Via San’Egidio 14, Thursday January 20th at 20:00-22:00. The event will include an art installation with live encased bodies, and an elaborate display of their upcoming line for spring using human sculptures. With it’s garments, Das Gift Amore explores the emotion of love through obsession, romance, hate, sex and adoration. “Love is not always about the prince, the princess, the long gazes and the chaste affairs,” says partner Misty Elizabeth Evans. “It’s about the need to consume, to adore, to hurt your lover tenderly and then kiss it all better. With “Das Gift Amore,” we want to show vulnerability, anger, and obsession.” The Ossimori design line invokes a sense of luxury and individuality, with its lavish “Handmade in Italy” apparel and accessories. For the show the designers are focusing on their shirts made with the best Italian fabric, and their originally designed Serigraphy prints, made with fade-resistent ink. Ossimori made a splash in the United States last fall when Evans and Turner hosted a launch event in Salt Lake City, gaining press recognition for their use of human sculptures in a re-creation of the Garden of Eden inside the gallery. Despite the struggling US economy, the duo nearly sold out of their luxury line shirts just a few days after the launch. “We are artists first,” says partner Jessica Turner, which is why the designers plan to launch each season within a gallery setting. In 2009, Evans and Turner came to Florence, Italy to study in a studio art graduate program and stayed to start Ossimori. Over a year later they are still in Florence, quickly gaining a reputation for interesting art installations, guerilla marketing, a macabre, sexually-charged ad campaign, and a commitment to concept and theme. “We have a very special event planned. For the gallery launch of our new line, we’re featuring a large installation, paintings, and of course an elaborate display of human sculptures wearing the new, “Das Gift Amore” clothing. There will be music, food, fashion and art, all in one place. This is Italy, a place known for art and decadence,” Evans said. The event is scheduled to take place at the Jules Maidoff Palazza at San’Egidio 14 beginning at 8 p.m. sharp and ending at 10 p.m. The event is open to the public. For more information visit http://www.houseofossimori.com

Das Gift by Ossimori

dirtyfilthythings — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 16:45:56 +0000

Design company, Ossimori launched Spring/Summer 2011 collection in the center of Florence on January 20th. This time to the surprise of their guests, they themselves were a part of their installation. The Italian design company made up of two artists, Misty Evans and Jessica Turner, is becoming known for their artistic approach to fashion. “Concept is just as important to us as design. We want clothes that are expressive, individual, limited, luxury, and meaningful. We are artists first, our designs follow our artwork. Our collection is very autobiographical in terms of imagery and theme, however we try to be true to ourselves in a way that is important and meaningful to our customers.” Said Evans.

We chose “love” or “amore” for our spring line, because it’s a universal discourse. Of course, we express the emotion in a very Das Gift sort of way, and approach it from less discussed angles like obsession, lust, confusion, vulnerability, and anger. Things we have all experienced while “in love” but things you won’t find in a Disney movie, or on a box of chocolates.”

Being true to their art is an understatement. The two women stood naked inside mesh fabric tubes suspended from the gallery ceiling with a male model as part of their public installation. On the wall space was a two foot wide collage of eyes that the girls had cut out. On the floor around the wall space were hundreds of hand written letters expressing obsessive frustration such as, “Saying I love you has certain consequences, Why did you make me hurt you?”. Audio whispers through the speakers, “I love you, don’t go, I’ll die without you, where are you going, come back, I hate you, stop looking at me” echoed through the gallery space.

Afterwards the artists joined in the event in the ballroom upstairs where 9 models stood like mannequins to display the spring collection. A video of Turner poisoning her dinner date played on the wall, a violinist seduced the crowd, while interns passed out Perseco and sweets. “It was a success, we received great feedback on our work, the installation turned out well (in spite of us freezing to death), we managed to create new accounts, and sell a few pieces. Honestly we were very happy” said Turner.

The spring collection can be found online, or in select boutiques in both the US, and Italy. For more information you can contact them via their website at http://www.houseofossimori.com

Das Gift by Ossimori

dirtyfilthythings — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 22:37:41 +0000

My partner and I set up a Kickstarter account to raise funds for our manufacturing in Spring 2011. Check out our video!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1445884788/das-gift-by-ossimori-spring-2011-love-hurts-good

I’m awkward. I know.

A Girl Named Jimmy

dirtyfilthythings — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 22:56:24 +0000

My eyes adjust slowly to the evidence of a successful massacre, tiny bodies torn, tattered, mutilated, triumphantly displayed across the dark hardwood in every direction of the room. The palette of artificial skin tones and polyurethane hair create a neutral rainbow of disheveled parts, of limbs twisted into compromising positions. The pulling and ripping must have taken a while which explains her absence. I chuckle and smile proudly.

The door makes a loud thud as I shove it all the way open to enter my baby sisters room. An arm flies through the air landing next to the tiny spider-man themed bed nestled against the left hand wall from where I stand. I step forward and something soft gives way under my weight. Flipping on the light illuminates an abdomen. I step to the right only to land on a head which rolls out from under the ball of my foot and smashes the face into the ground, it makes a “pop” as the eyes come out, sending me off balance into the little wood dresser against the right hand wall. The framed group soccer photos fall to the ground, along with a little league trophy that lands on top of a severed leg. I put everything back together. There is giggling in the walls.

“Mitra?” I call out.

Something stirs in the closet. A boom then the double white doors fly open and a small mass bursts free. It growls, baring baby canines. “Impressive” I wink at my little sister. She smiles, stands all the way upright tilts her head back to look at me. Her chest puffs like a rooster. It rises and falls as she catches her breathe, trying to hold back laughter. Her blue eyes look out from under her bangs, her blonde hair matted at the crown. She’s wearing her favorite long blue nylon soccer shorts, oversized light blue t-shirt, high socks, and of course cleats. She looks like a gym teacher.

“What are you doing?” I move her hair from her eyes, and she swats at my hand.

“Pwaying” She points to the baby holocaust.

“What did you do to your dolls?” She smiles, pushes her hip out, twirls her hair between her tiny, chubby fingers, and gestures to the floor with her other hand to where all the dolls lie in their plastic cemetery. They’re all nude. Their clothes are strewn about the piles of doll heads which have been separated from the bodies. The faces are covered in what seems like black writing.

“What did you write kiddo? Are you worshipping Satan already?” She tilts her head and furrows her brows.

“What staytan?”

“I don’t know, supposedly someone who is really rude”.

“Saman?”

“No, Saman is your older brother”. Being the oldest I don’t understand the trials and tribulations of being a younger sibling. Her “rude” older brother is only eight years old, someone I regularly take on play dates, and send to his room when he says something inappropriate, like “penis”. God forbid a kid say the name of a body part, the same part my father uses to repopulate planet earth with his “strong Persian” genes. His own form of eugenics.

I pick up a head by its stringy, blonde ponytail. At closer inspection I realize the doll doesn’t have writing on her face, rather she has been re-assigned with facial hair via black sharpie marker. The facial hair was new, an addition to her usual undressing and dismembering. She takes the clothes off of them claiming they, like her, are more comfortable that way. Living vicariously through them: naked and hairy.

“Why facial hair Mitra?”

“They juss look betta that way” She frowns as she catches on that I am ever so slightly weirded out.

“Of course they do honey”

“Wanna prway leggos?”

She tilts her head waiting for my response with her hands on her hips like she has seen her mother do. In fact, she looks just like her mother, and nothing like the rest of us being the only one with light features. In my family, regardless of how pretty she might be to most of the world, she will never be told so.

My father picks her up and inspects her like a rotten potato, hoping he will be surprised by some good parts, but knowing that really the whole thing has to be thrown out. “Why is she so white”? he will say with his whole face scrunched up, mouth pursed, arms straight out in front of him with my sister dangling in his hands where he holds her under the armpits so they are eye to eye. He talks through her to my step mother on the other side.

“Shut up Abbas” my blonde, German blooded step mother screams in her soccer mom voice. She shoots death glances over one of her thousands of fashion magazines pulled from one of the many stacks neatly kept on our 15th century antique Persian coffee table in the living room. There are boxes of them, hundreds or thousands. She’s “a hoarder”, like a chipmunk, or a squirell.

“You know”

My father will look at me after putting her down to scuttle away,

“she won’t chenge dat color, doesn’t she look dead dat color? You are a good colair, but you would be much more beautiful if you didn’t have half the stupid white in you. You would be smarter too, you only have half a brain”.

“Thanks dad”

“No really, I’m serious, Persians are the most beautiful, and most intelligent, not like stupid white, who are so stupid they have to get someone from Africa to run their country for them…stupid, stupid”.

“Abbas, so help me god, if you don’t shut up I am going to come kick your butt” my step mother yells again. My father chuckles, and then continues.

At this point I tune him out because I can only handle his Persian Empire speech for so long before I lose my mind, or my temper, which my father also attributes to my bloodline of warriors. All of his five mostly illegitimate children are half “white” as he calls it, though Persians are technically Caucasian so I don’t know what the hell that means. I have decided “white” actually means “fair skinned”. My sisters, and brother all look like me, dark hair, greenish almond shaped eyes, olive skin. In me and my sister Chanelle’s case we are also gifted with huge hips that scream to all semen in a ten meter vicinity “impregnate me, I am a baby factory”.

This is not the case with Mitra. You wouldn’t know she was my sister because of her fair skin, light eyes, blonde hair, but even more so because she doesn’t look like a girl. She looks like a feminine little boy. This is part of the reason I agree to babysit her despite generally disliking children: she’s funny, bright, and completely out of her mind even at the age of four.

I don’t think I’m good with children because I can’t “child” them. I can’t, “cooo” and “caaaah” like women are supposed to. Being around them is usually awkward, even stressful because I constantly worry about breaking something I don’t own. What if I trip over it, or teach it to accidentally say “Fuck”? Being around children for me is like walking through a fine dining collectors aisle of an upscale store; it’s a fear of breaking something I can’t replace.

Mitra is still staring at me wondering if I can play leggos or not.

“We can play after you eat” She’s not listening. Instead she bends down to the floor to start adding a mustache to a doll with a beard. The doll now looked like Santa Clause and I’m reminded of last December when my step mother asked, “what do you want for Christmas?” and pointing to her crotch she said, “that thing I don’t have”. While other children are asking for dolls, video games, etc, my sister wants Santa to bring her a penis.

“You can fix her facial hair later, come on gremlin”

I turn and walk out of the newly painted light blue little girl’s room to check on my niece, Avah, who I am also watching, and who is downstairs alone doing god knows what. “Come with me Mitra” I call her again after noticing she’s not behind me. No response, and she has yet to step into the long hallway leading to the staircase, which leads to the tea room on the main floor. I wait another minute and she is still in her room, I roll my eyes, “Jimmy” I yell. She immediately turns the corner from her room pushing her hair from her face walking towards me. More and more she only responds to the little boys name she gave herself six months or so ago.

“Why did you choose the name Jimmy?” We take the first step down, slowly because she has to take one baby step at a time, and the marble is slippery. I have always refused to help her so she no longer asks. Instead I wait patiently while she holds the rail, eyes on the step in front of her, stepping down, waiting to make sure she is steady before transferring her weight. The more she can do alone, the better off she will be when she gets older and realizes no one is loved unconditionally.

She makes it down two steps and pauses to answer, “I like it”.

“But why not something like, King Edward, or George?”

“Those are stupid”

“But Jimmy isn’t?” I mumbled under breathe.

“No”

“Hmm”.

At the bottom of the stairs I tell her to go find Avah, and play with her. She nods, then sprints across the tea room into the living room. I linger long enough to take in the room, the gold, the Persian carpets, the painting depicting a man and his herem, a hand dipped gold and sapphire chandelier. My father’s décor reeks of tradition. His objects attest to the fact that he has physically left Iran but never really left Iran. I hear the little girls talking and cannot help but laugh. Mitra thinks she’s a boy, Avah is the out of wedlock child of my little sister, and me, well, I’m an impoverished, life-long student of useless degrees with a history of failed relationships, and no social skills. I smile because we, the fruit of his loins, are Karma personified. Every year that we grow older, despite being relatively decent offspring, we always do yet another thing that makes him regret not using a better contraceptive.

In the kitchen I pull out pasta and watch the little girls talking on the other side of the room where they interact like petite adults. They gesture with their tiny hands sloppily, exaggerating the movements, speaking back and forth with importance inappropriately close to each other’s faces still unaware that culturally we are obsessed with distance in a way that creates psychological space too. Their happiness is my happiness, and I’m thankful, that their childhood is not my childhood.

The little girls, my sister, and our niece are only three months apart. The two are clearly related, with their pale skin, large light eyes, rose colored mouths. The only real difference is their hair and clothing. Avah’s white hair pulled up high in a ponytail on top of her head with a crown of pink berets, Mitra’s long, wavy, dirty blondish hair hangs in a mess over her little shoulders like a mop. Avah looks like a spray can of pink paint exploded on her, Mitra looks like David Beckham.

Pasta swirls in a strainer, the steam stings my face and I hope it opens my pores enough for me to sneak into the bathroom after and scrub my face. I’m aging. Through the window above the sink a deer nibbles the mint in our garden. A fantasy of Mitra’s future growing up to be a lesbian married to a woman named “big Linda”. Big L smells like potato chip grease and Salisbury steak TV dinners. I like that. She will never have to worry about getting accidentally pregnant, and our dipshit bigot father would realize that maybe there is no such thing as right, wrong, or perfect. We don’t pop out of the womb predestined, with a plastic kitchenette and a stroller wanting all the right things, like a house, a baby, and a giant bottom. Everything we become we are taught and told. Why should little girls be rolled in pink and dipped in all things feminine? The concept of gendering is idiotic. As a child I played with He-Man figures, locked my Barbies (after decapitation and head shaving) in the Skeletor dungeon, and gave my baby dolls to my little brother Mitch, who liked them more than I. I turned out just fine. A sudden flash of memory of a man on top of me in boxer briefs and yellow stilettos is interrupted by screeching.

“I’m the dad you can be the mom, so now you get me food” Mitras voice bellows through the empty space, reverberating off of the high ceilings.

“Why do I have to make food?” Avah screams.

“Because you’re the girl!” Mitra retorts.

“You’re a girl too!”

“NO I’M NOT! GIRLS ARE STUPID!” Mitra screams.

I dry my hands and start towards them but before I am able Avah takes a step forward and in what seems like slow motion punches Mitra in the right eye. Mitra cries, oozing water from every orifice. Avah starts to cry too. They scream, kick, and punch while I carry them to the couch like tiny bags of potatoes. On the couch they sit on my lap doing a strange breathing thing that sounds like gasp, gasp, gasp, sigh, gasp, gasp, gasp, sigh.

“Mitra, it looks like girls are tougher than you give them credit for, because she just landed a mean jab in your eye socket”. It was my attempt to get her to stop being sexist against her own sex as women too often are. Avah, like a snow princess, sat on my right knee very proud of herself.

“It’s not nice to hit Avah”.

She frowns, her pale white skin and bright greenish eyes make her seem angelic, clearly a façade.

“She called girls stupid!”

“I know, but hitting is not nice. Use your words next time just attack her self esteem”. They both tilted their heads confused by this thing called “self esteem”.

“Mitra, you don’t call girls stupid, you’re a girl, I’m a girl, Avah is a girl”.

“I’m not a girl!” she growls, fists balled up against her sides, head down, eyes blazing from under her messy locks. I watched her for a moment wondering what made her dislike the idea of being female so much. Living in a house with two older brothers is probably part of it. I was a serious tom-boy when I was a child but I never thought I was a boy. We sat for a while until I felt like they calmed down. I kissed them both leaving them on the couch.

“Look you two, you both be nice while I finish your food. Play, or just sit and stare at the walls. No fighting!”

The food is finished. I bring it to them in the living room where Avah is still seated on the couch, but Mitra is gone.

“Avah, where is Mitra?”

“I don’t know”

“MITRA!? JIMMY!” I yell towards the ceiling in case she’s on the second floor. A noise comes from the bathroom off to the side of the living room. I enter to find Mitra standing over the toilet, holding her shirt up, peeing everywhere wiggling around trying to find the best angle to hit the bowl of the toilet.

“MITRA! What are you doing?! Sit down, you are spraying pee everywhere”. And she was. I tried that too when I was younger because my brother could do it and it bugged me that I couldn’t. It wasn’t cute when I did it, I got into a lot of trouble, I didn’t want to be THAT person who makes children feel freakish or stupid for being children, however, my tinge of empathy was fading at the realization that I am the grown up and have to clean up the piss.

“I can do it like this!” She yells. I contemplate explaining that physiologically she really can’t but she’s too young, and already made a giant mess so what’s the point.

She finishes peeing all over the toilet and backed off of it, wipes, then wiggled her little pants back up grinning from ear to ear. I helped her wash her hands struggling not to burst into laughter. Who am I to crush dreams? I’m just here to make sure they remain alive until their parents return.

The girls eat their food at their little table, talking among themselves, friendly, smiling, in between over-sized spoons of noodles that mostly fall out of their mouths onto the table. One wouldn’t know they were just trying to beat each other to death.

My cell phone rings.

“Hey” his voice is soft, too soft, as it always is.

“Hi you how’s your day going?”

“Well, thank you. How are the girls?”

“The girls are great, fighting a bit. Mitra is mad that she is a girl.”

“Isn’t she always mad about that? I would much rather be a girl” He laughs. I don’t find it funny because he’s serious. Despite liking him I often feel like I’m dating a woman. There’s nothing wrong with liking women, I just don’t want to be dating one currently, and I certainly don’t want to be dating one that has a penis.

“Oh, the girls are being nuts I have to go” I lie, “call me back soon”.

The faucet is fucking leaking, a constant drip, drip, drip. I try to wiggle it, turn it on and off, wiggle some more but it keeps dripping a constant reminder, a ever so soft thunder in my mind. Fuuuuuuuck. I start dishes to give myself something to do, to temporarily fix the drip by letting all the water fall free for a moment. The boyfriend, what to do about the boyfriend? Every thought comes back to the boyfriend. Why do I always feel the need to react, to understand, to over-analyze until everything is a social experiment, until everything is more convoluted than when I started? The little girls have abandoned their food to play Leggos on the floor.

In the dining room I take a seat at the over-sized, gold and dark wood dining table. Every giant, gold adorned piece of furniture was generally topped with more gold. I pushed the gold plated fruit bowl out of my way to put my head on the table. I’m tired. I’m confused about life, love, and children. Watching children is tiring, I can’t imagine why parents agree to do this for free. Good parents, ones who stick around, and actually try do a lot of work for free. What’s in it for them?

My phone rings again, this time it’s Cindy, a friend.

“Hello?”

“Hey it’s me”

“Hey. How’s it going?” I ask picking up pieces of gold fruit putting it up to my mouth trying to bite into it. I hurt my teeth, return it to the bowl with a royal KLANK.

“Good. So I have a question. If I want to flirt with a guy should I not immediately talk about his member? I mean, is it not considered polite to say things like, ‘so we had sex that one time and I think it was alright but my brain exaggerates things…yes even those things”?

“I’m going to go with a ‘no’ on this one. Do you want to sleep with that boy you slept with like a year ago, the drunken thing after the bar?”

“Yeah”.

“Alright so, talk with him about things that you have in common, ask his opinion on something, be intelligent and witty, but pretend like you’re completely disinterested in him as a potential repeat. People put value in difficulty, unfortunately. If you’re not difficult, you’re invaluable. Don’t talk about the sex episode, and don’t talk about his junk. Pretend like you forgot it happened”.

“The knower of all things men, one day I will have this all figured out and be like you, dating a gay dude”. She burst out laughing.

“Shut up.”

“Oh! I was only kidding. You don’t normally care about my stupid jokes. What’s going on?”

Friend, advice, perfect. Dear friend, do I keep dating the gay dude?

“I don’t’ know if stuff with him can work. I’m trying to figure it out. That traditional side of me is just going bananas over how non-traditional he is.”

“Non-traditional as in he wears dresses, and likes men?” I could hear her trying not to laugh over the phone.

“Okay so he thinks dresses look sexy on him, and he wore a dress for some photographs, who knows if he is really into that exactly. Yeah he likes men, but not in a super sexual way. He just finds them attractive; he doesn’t want to put it in them anymore, I don’t think. Anyways his sexuality is complicated and I’m not one to try and pick that apart. My thesis project in college, the one on sexuality only taught me one thing about “normal” human sexuality, and that there is no normal. You helped me with my research enough to know most people are Bi-sexual in some form, fantasy, past behavior, remember the Romans? Maybe they are not openly Bisexual no, and maybe they would never date both sexes but you know what I mean. Sexuality is complicated. Gendering is even more complicated. Look at my little sister who thinks she is a dude”.

“Jimmy?” .

“Yeah. My problem is not in his sexuality, it’s in the gendering. I want a boyfriend who is somewhat stereotypical, because I’m a strong person, I need a stronger boyfriend. A man who I feel is kind of my corner stone, solid, someone I can run to for advice, or feel safe around. Okay I take it back, it’s not even gendering. Because I’m a lady and I’m those things.”

“You’re a lady? Since when?! The only lady I know who acts, thinks, and fights like a man”.

“Okay see that’s my point! It’s not a gender thing, or a sexuality thing. It’s a, Jesus why do people have to fit into such stupid categories anyways?! Why can’t guys like the ballet without being ‘feminine’ and why can’t I like boxing without being ‘masculine’ people spend their whole lives trying to become these ridiculous roles that have been set for them, and they can’t. Nobody can. Men cry, sometimes women don’t. Women can be good at math, and fighting. Men should be able to wear makeup if they bloody want. I mean really who gives a shit?! It’s made up! It’s all culture based and made up”.

“Okay if it’s made up then why do you have a problem with your boyfriend?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I’m confused. Perhaps it’s the confidence to be different. The ability to feel like he is better than everyone else despite not fitting into cultural norms, I feel like his attitude is almost an apology for not being how he is ‘supposed to be’. And he’s not that different. He dresses like a very well dressed man. Sex is good. His mannerisms are precise, meticulous which is considered feminine in the United States, but is normal everywhere else. Isn’t it funny that men are supposed to be sloppy and ill kept otherwise they are feminine? In our culture anyways, he reminds me of a French or Italian man. Not here, he is supposed to belch and scratch himself and talk about his college gang bang days”.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself? I think he’s a very sweet guy. He cares for you; he does sweet things for you. He’s attractive. Yeah he is definitely weird. Lacks social skills entirely, and seems genuinely uncomfortable in his skin”.

“Right, I know. That’s the issue. And you know why I have issues with it? Because I’m supposed to, because we are a society plagued with plastic femininity and super masculinity, Batman, James Bond, and of course Barbie.

I am supposed to be dating James Bond or Batman. I’m attractive and intelligent, as long as I keep my mouth shut of course; therefore I’m ‘entitled’ to a guy exactly like Batman: Rich, charismatic, brilliant. I expect that and so I can’t be happy otherwise or I feel like I’m settling”.

“Fucking fairy-tales. They really do ruin lives. I know what you mean, girls always looking for their prince, their white knight. They want a provider, a protector, someone who is sensitive, and never smells weird. We all know guys always smell weird so good luck with that.”

“I’m being serious. I should be happy. I should. He communicates well, he’s sweet, he’s attractive, and again amazing in bed. I mean, he doesn’t do anything weird, he’s never tried to stick it in my ass…which I think should make him a keeper.”

“That is a keeper; you and I both know that every guy tries that at one point. Six months and no attempt at anal, you should probably marry him. God men are repulsive”.

“But can I really take him home to daddy? My father might actually disown me for bringing home someone like Him. You know my father, he’s obsessed with class, status, charisma…and he doesn’t even speak! My father thinks quiet people are either stupid, or sneaky.”

“Your dad also believes that dumping tea in your eyes fixes fatigue. Best not to worry about what he thinks all the time”.

“But I’m traditional. I want the husband, the 2.5 children, and I think that since I’ve already had an abortion the .5 is taken care of. Now I need to prepare for the winners, the 2.0.”

“Yeah, that joke, that’s not traditional”.

“Okay, so I’m not traditional but I am still traditional if that makes any sense.”

“No, but it’s not what you want. It’s not what anyone wants. If you had it, you wouldn’t want it. For one, James Bond and Batman would have fidelity problems. And they would probably talk about how great they were all the time and that would get boring. Nobody likes an ego, or a perpetual martyr. The perfect is in the imperfection really. When two dysfunctional individuals come together and create something functional, that’s beautiful. And everyone nowadays is dysfunctional. You guys communicate well, he is devoted. Just compromise, and occasionally let him wear the panties in the relationship”.

“Dickhead.”

“Okay, okay. Look, just date him and see what happens. Everything doesn’t have to be something. He doesn’t have to be ‘the one’. Just have fun”.

“Which I’m obviously doing. I’m not getting any younger though. I don’t have much to offer besides my dark sense of humor, instability, and tendency to drink too much. All unattractive after thirty I think.”

“Oh right, because you’re hideous and stupid. Nothing to offer. You know sometimes I hate you. Aaaanyways, I really shouldn’t talk to the guy I want to flirt with about his man unit? That’s not good flirting?”

“No. Honestly it’s kind of creepy”.

“Got it. I have to go, stop stressing, everything isn’t a sociology experiment. Be emotional for once…oh wait, you don’t have those. Try to be illogical for once.”

“Will do! I should get back to baby-sitting before the little gremlins do something I can’t cover, like death 43. Thanks for the talk. Bye.”

I walked back into the living room where the girls were still playing legos. I plopped down on the big brown leather couch and watched them. They don’t act how girls are supposed to act. Avah fights like ‘a boy’ and Mitra thinks she is one. Maybe she thinks that because the way girls are ‘supposed’ to act is lame. I thought that growing up too. I played soccer, I enjoyed fighting, I hated dolls and preferred He-man figurines. Gendering is too confining. Our culture is too defining, too restricting. I coughed and their attention turned to me. They both slowly lost interest in their creation and crawled onto the couch. Avah crawled up on my lap pushing her little face into my chest, and Mitra snuggled into my side.

“Can we watch a movie?” Avah asked.

“Which movie?” I asked

“Snow-white” she smiled. Mitra bolted up glaring at Avah.

“NO! NOT THAT!” Mitra Screamed, “I hate princesses!” Before I could intervene Avah had jumped off of my lap onto Mitra’s head and was elbowing her in the cheek. I dragged Avah off of her kicking and screaming. Watching babies brawl is like midget wrestling. I pulled them apart again. Enough was enough, my step-mother and sister would return to find their children missing chunks of hair and teeth if I didn’t separate them until they calmed down. I put them in separate bedrooms for a “time-out” session. Mitra was being punished for “verbal insensitivity”. She had no idea what that was. Avah was in trouble for being a small, white, female version of Mike Tyson. She didn’t know who that was.

My boyfriend called.

“Have you killed the children yet?” he laughed.

“No, I’ve stopped them from trying to kill each other a few times though”.

I laughed uncomfortably,

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. You?”

I hit the faucet and hurt my hand. Silently I hopped up and down wincing trying to listen to him speak.

“Watching Dracula, because he’s really handsome, and then…I don’t know. Ty wants to do some project where I dress in drag to see how other people deal with it for a social experiment which is fine. I’m comfortable, so I might just do that.

“You’re more comfortable in women’s clothing then you are starting up a conversation with a stranger. That’s interesting”.

“Yeah, cause it’s funny. And besides I make a hot woman. We still need to talk about you being bothered about me not being a ‘dude enough’”.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I prefer being quiet” he continued. “I like observing more than being active in conversation. I know that it bothers you. I can tell. I’m not a super manly guy; I don’t know what to do about that exactly”.

“Well you were wearing yellow pumps when I met you. I know you’re not super “manly”, and trust me who wants that? It’s not a ‘man thing’. It’s a social thing. I think that maybe you just need more social maturing. Working a room is a necessary evil of adulthood. And I need a sort of strength from my partner to maintain sanity. There has to be someone I can run to who can say all the right things and make me feel better. Socializing breeds a certain kind of confidence that makes you trust-worthy in a relationship. Confidence is necessary for your partner to have faith in you. It’s the attitude of being able to take care of business and it’s not a male or female thing. Nobody is naturally social, it’s learned, or faked”.

It’s usually faked. How many of us really care what another person is saying or doing? We nod, pretend to care, ask the right questions on cue, and try not to think about our laundry or homework enough to pick up on the next cue requiring our response. People usually become automated outside of their comfort zone.

“I understand that. I do. That is something I do need to work on at one point. You’re leaving for Italy in two months though. You won’t be back for eight months. Is it really an immediate problem now?”

“No of course not, you’re right. I had better go check on the girls again. I want to make sure they’re not sharpening toothbrushes into knives and all that”.

“Good luck”. He said, “I love you”.

“love you too”.

I hung up the phone, stood against the counter for a moment. Things can be okay. I don’t have to care; I’m leaving. So what my boyfriend’s kind of gay. There are much worse things, he could too straight, picking his nose, spitting, while being generally misogynistic. Haven’t we gotten over the caveman days of the “great protector” or the “delicate flower”. Women can do anything and everything now with the use of handy tools, and most “male” traits are considered bad which makes masculinity useless. Just think of all the things in the name of “men”: War, rape, economic instability, porn sex, and femininity: Hoop skirts? Martha Stewart? What does it mean to be a man or a woman? Interestingly enough I have two fantastic examples of what happens when society is thrown out of the window. An adorable little sister, and a sweet boyfriend for the time being.

marriage? ok fine.

dirtyfilthythings — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 16:04:25 +0000

The faces in the streets can only be described as empty. A result of the endless rain for the past few weeks. The gray dims the light of souls, blending them into a tempered monochromatic, blur. In December humans become soggy, sour, and uncomfortable even in Italy, a place of beauty, and what is described as a place of luxury. Though, I have to say, cold flooring, in unheated apartments is everything but luxurious. Even polished with makeup, I feel lackluster.

My boyfriend is Italian. He’s stereotypical in the sense that he is amazing in bed, lies a lot about incredibly stupid things (like how much he hates anal…which we all know he doesn’t), and he is the most romantic person I have ever met. His romancing comes in word form and actions. For example, the other night I told him he could have a prostitute. He said, “I only have eyes for you. The idea of sleeping with another woman makes me sick”. Yeah, yeah, I thought. “No really. As long as she is classy, and expensive, I don’t consider that cheating. Because I don’t.” “I only want you” he pushed.

I fell asleep thinking that my boyfriend is either gay or unable to think ahead. Aka, when I’m bitchy and pregnant. I woke up to a diamond ring on my finger and him tapping my hand. “Yes? No?” He asked.

“Is this because I said you could have a hooker?” I asked.

“Yes” he said.

How romantic.

I have suspended emotions so while I should be either A) terrified or B) excited. I don’t feel anything. I love my boyfriend most of the time. He’s a good guy a lot of the time. He makes me happy. Sex is always great. He’s a dirty pervert and spends a weird amount of time asking me to pee on him (I have said no a thousand times, but I think he likes the challenge). Sex is increasingly more comfortable for him. And despite him “hating anal” a few months ago, he has started trying to put it in my ass. Which means he thinks that since I have this ring on he can pin cushion me. Not so much.

I feel strange wearing it. Like I have been put away in a cupboard. Not because I am “off the market” because I hate men and humans and was never really “on it”. Still, I catch myself hiding my hand when people talk with me assuming they are judging me. I am one of “those” girls. The engaged ones. Popping out a baby any day. I know that much of male interaction is based on the “big hope”. Even if they are friends, it begins with the hope of getting into your pants. Without the big hope, how will I manage to make friends with how much I dislike women? Yes, this is what I think about.

I want a hot chocolate.

Winter in Italy

dirtyfilthythings — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 13:57:54 +0000

It’s cold outside. Most winters are cold, but it’s also wet and humid. My laundry takes days to dry, and I wake up feeling cold and damp. It’s no longer a member of the third world, but heat is a luxury, and we can’t turn it on for more than six hours per day. More than six per day results in a few hundred euros per month. A few hundred.

I’m relatively happy despite my writers block, and inability to sleep. I used to feel more at home here than I did in the US, but since I’ve been back in this new neighborhood, I feel like a stranger. I’m so far from the things I’m used to, and to the things and people I know. If it wasn’t for Oliver, I would get a bike to shorten the distance, but I’m convinced I will crash and kill him.

I need proper bedding, or a dog that doesn’t vomit on me while I’m sleeping. I haven’t slept longer than a few hours for weeks.

Sex is good, it’s always good with him.

Business is confusing. It’s always confusing, but we are doing really well. New pictures look awesome.

The cookie monster

dirtyfilthythings — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 13:04:24 +0000

The club, Yag, and the cookie monster.

I lost my keys yesterday and Anne, my room-mate taught me this thing to say that goes: “Infant Jesus lost and found I lost my …..please bring it round”. I found my keys ten minutes later. She said, “see! jesus…well or someone…how can you say god doesn’t exist!”. So today, Jesus Christ brought me my keys. Thank god, I needed them.

Later in the day we ended up at club Yag, one of Florence’s many gay clubs. It took only a minute or two before a tiny school mate of mine was humping my leg. I pushed her away and continued dancing with my friends, and again something attached itself to my leg. I ignored it for a few minutes, until I realized it wasn’t going to stop. I turned around, and she hopped up grabbed my face and tried to kiss me. “NOOO” I said, face pushing her. I ran and hid behind my friend Nicola who couldn’t understand why I wasn’t just “going with it”. Other than the fact she is about eighteen years old, I’m not into her. She found my leg again despite being well hidden behind a group of male friends.

I nicknamed her the cookie monster, and spent the rest of the semester avoiding her, though she still managed to kiss me two more times.

Fears.

dirtyfilthythings — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 10:48:27 +0000

Wearing Das Gift for Ossimori

I’m boxed inside my office near the Statuto in Florence. The room, well actually the apartment, smells like Ferret piss. My nine week old puppy is sleeping on my feet exhausted from his long morning of trying to cover up Ferret piss with puppy piss. I feel saturated and tainted though he has only peed on me once (my foot during sex). There is a cloud of uncertainty surrounding me, new area (just moved out of the center), new room-mates, a puppy, and a boyfriend who now shares my room. Too fast. Too slow. The pace is never right.

If I were to rate my fears, commitment would come directly after death, which comes directly after fear of heights, and tokophobia- the fear of child birth. I’m actually surprised more woman are not tokophobic, given the enormous stress, and stretching put on our bodies, coupled with the sudden burst of fear that must come when the head arrives and you think, “this thing is going to outlive me”. My poodle will live for fifteen years and that gives me heart palpitations. Hello, fear of commitment, there you are again! My smaller fears involve fear of failure, and fear of losing myself. In my new situation I am facing all of my fears (except for death and tokophobia, if he gets me pregnant I will A-B-O-R-T-in case he reads this).

Facing my fears is causing an array of strange things to happen to my body. My vagina ever so suddenly dislikes sex. I’m a huge pervert and I find it an unacceptable way to deal with stress. I’m also getting a strange rash on my chest which Jessica, my friend and room-mate has decided is the “water in Italy” but I have decided is, “i’m losing my freedom” spots which I think are surfacing to either A) ward off my relationship, or B) disguise me so I can disappear. I’m also sleeping all the time, but I think that might be the depression from being so far from my close friends at home. My friends who have a dark, witty, sense about them, and who are royal cunts. The girls here seem to be all victims of whatever man is involved in their lives. My boyfriend says “Men are the most stupid creatures on earth, and their easy domination of women proves how stupid women are”. I shoot him a, “go jump off the balcony” look and he says, “no not you, if women were like you we would be slaves, and women would be ruling the world” which translates into, “please don’t make me sleep on the floor, or remove sex from my life”.

I like my boyfriend, I just don’t like having a boyfriend. I’m one of those weird creatures who prefers to be single. It’s the selfishness really. ME, ME, ME. Though, he’s been raised in the odd matriarch of Italy, so he’s tolerable, as long as I’m not too much of a cunt. Yesterday while laying in bed I kicked him and demanded he make me coffee, instead he dragged me to the shower across the apartment and hosed me down with cold water. I like him slightly more after this because Exchange Theory states he tipped the power back in his direction, momentarily. We respect, and value, whoever holds the power, whoever is difficult because difficult things are of value in our culture. Total shit really, but it proves true often in relationships. Ladies, being too accommodating is boring, and will get you thrown onto the street. Remember that.

Getting and keeping men has never been difficult for me, the difficult part is wanting it and making myself okay with sharing, caring, and all of that strange shit. I’m terrified of what is happening in my life right now. I’m nearly 30, and all I want to do is design, and write. Instead, I’m becoming all “domestic” with this damn puppy, and my idiot boyfriend. Lucky for me I learned some techniques yesterday in the studio, “to show your dog who is boss, you just have to pee on it once”, said a friend of mine who is a bag designer here in Italy. I stared at him waiting for the punch-line. “You’re serious?” I asked. He nodded that he was. At the end of the day it really just comes down to urine? I do feel peed on, I feel marked, and owned, and peed on.

Maybe it’s all new, and it’s only the adjustment period. Maybe I need a baking soda rub to wash away the golden shower. Maybe I need to get this line of designs out, and finish my book. Maybe then, I can breathe without inhaling ammonia.

All the Ducks in a Row

dirtyfilthythings — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 17:18:30 +0000

When my boyfriend took me home to meet his family I was anticipating something out of hell. I assumed his family would stand in one corner of the room speaking dialect while my friend and I (I refused to go without an escort) danced drunk in the middle of the room to songs we were making up as we went. This is how our club experiences go in Italy, I didn’t see his sisters living room being all that different.

I was surprised when his sister greeted us at his car by hopping, happily. We introduced ourselves and she po-go’d back to the house. She poured shots, and before I knew it I was on my way to liking everyone in the room. Her husband was quiet, which I assumed was a result of years of beatings, and high pitched yelling. I looked around the room for the rolled up newspaper that she used to drill into his head, “you are an accessory” because so far that I can tell that’s really all men are here. The women seem to hold the show.

My boyfriend sat on the couch silently watching our interaction. He knows I am less than social and this was not the situation I had wanted, EVER. The traditional , “meet the southern Italian family” was not something I had bargained for. Still, there I was alcohol in hand, happy as pie. His sister bounced over to the cabinet and pulled down a book. I looked at Francesco, hoping it was not a bible. This would be an inopportune time to tell his devout Catholic sister I am in fact an Atheist. Hellfire.

It was not a bible however, it was a photo album. She pulled it down and started flipping through photographs of her wedding day. The day she said, that ruined her life, as she shot her husband a bitter sweet, I love you but I want you do die, look. My friend and I looked at photos of the newly weds and all I could think was, “no way will I do this”. Then I looked at my boyfriend to make sure he understands, I will not plant my ass in front of a lens for four hours pretending to be joyous. Her photos were lovely, but my personality is not so outwardly excited about things. In photographs I often look like I am planning the death of anyone near me. I can’t imagine disappointment in the family when they look through OUR album and I am rolling my eyes, yawning, or actually trying to run away from him. “And this is the one where she knocked out my front tooth and ran screaming, ‘stop trying to cage me’”. Lovely. Thanks, but no thanks. His sister was beautiful, and looked even more stunning in the photos. I was thinking, “she looks great for having a baby”.

“This is how I looked before I had a baby. Now I am ugly, but I used to be beautiful!” She said, with a sad look. I think this is where my fear of pregnant women comes from. I mean, I have always thought pregnant women were ugly, and fat, but I never realized that THEY knew it. Maybe they don’t know it until after? Do all women hate themselves postpartum? I started asking my friends who have had children how they feel about themselves after childbirth. They of course all ramble on about how happy they are to have children, blah, blah lovely I’m sure. But when it comes down to themselves, and their body. It seems to be unanimous that they all feel fat, used, and more like a dirty incubator than a woman. No thank you, I will not be having a baby anytime soon.

You see, the romantic view of woman as glowing and beautiful is a hock of shit if you ask me. No offense to my many friends and family members who have had children, but there is nothing sexy about a duck looking human, waddling from here to there, swollen, sweating, and bloated.

The other day I spent one full hour listening to my friend talk about how fat her feet are, while she put them up on our table while we were eating. “Look how fat and swollen they are” she said. Gross. “I’m so gassy and bloated” she said. Gross. “I really want almonds” she said. Gross. Then she goes into a two minute rant about how her boyfriend never wants to have sex. “I can’t understand why” she said. “I have a few ideas” I said. ”When are you having babies?” she asked. “The moment I can afford either a plastic surgeon, or a surrogate” I said. She sat there for a moment looking at me. “Why?”. I really didn’t want to be offensive, but then again she was prying so it was on her, right? ”I think pregnancy is disgusting. You look like a duck. Which is fine, but I couldn’t put my husband through that. I can’t expect him to love me when I am not holding up my part of the contract, and I’m all….fat…and stretched out.”. She burst out laughing. I would consider a good sign except she is insane, and once stabbed someone thirteen times in a fight. I was going to get shanked by an incubator. My luck she would probably pee on me as well, due to lack of bladder control from bouncing baby.

“It’s not fat, it’s a baby” she rubbed her stomach. “Yes there is a baby in THERE, but you look fat. Well, pregnant girls look fat. You look fat. I can’t be fat. I also can’t be stretched out. There is nothing sexy about being able to fist yourself. Well, not usually. I’m not doing it without being able to have breast implants, vaginaplasty, a tummy tuck, and have my stretch marks laser removed”

She was still smiling. I looked for sharp objects, I know she is hormonal. “You don’t need all that, you are giving birth to his child, he will love you no matter what you look like after”. I burst out laughing. “Yes, he might love me, thank me even for ruining myself for our family, but I can promise you I will hate myself and he will hate the way I look. If I think pregnant women are hideous, and post pregnant girls are generally (not always) still fat and look like they have been beat with a wet towel and an ugly stick, I expect my boyfriend or husband to feel the same. I mean, humans are not so altruistic to look at their wives flabby stomach and go, “aaah, sooo pretty”.

She took a sip of her tea. “Yeah I just think you’re not ready”. I sat back in my chair and looked at her fat feet for a second, “yeah probably won’t be”.

But really, am I the only person who thinks that pregnant women look like a handicap duck? Who says I am supposed to be on board the “being invaded is beautiful” boat? Can someone else please put my business in them, mix it around and give me the baby nine months later? Someone who doesn’t care about their appearance, or sex appeal for the rest of their lives?

Friendship with girl parts

dirtyfilthythings — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 01:23:00 +0000

If there is one thing I have learned from life it is that men make the best friends. They are loyal, able to laugh at themselves, and are non competitive with me. The exactly opposite relationship I have with women who are constantly insecure, confused, and prone to hours of senseless gossip. The downfall to male friends is ultimately the vagina. The fact that I have one, and so does their girlfriend, usually results in a loss of friendship.

Women do not allow men to be friends with other women. Because of this I’ve never had real friendships. I will have a best friend, for five, ten years, until they get a girlfriend aka regular sex. Because men have a brain comparable to a chimp, (a regular one, not a bonobo), they become hyper focused on maintaining it. Then, when she realizes I’m more attractive, and intelligent than her (unfortunately my friends have a tendency to date women packing an extra chromosome), I am ultimately put in friendship “time out”, or I am hidden like the drunk uncle at the christmas party.

Like magnets, girl parts repel other girl parts. It’s social, and I understand why women have problems, what I don’t understand is why men are so pathetic that they put up with it. Another confusing thing is why have women not realized that A) nobody will ever love their boyfriend except for them. I might “love” them, but I could certainly never LOVE them, because I know them too well. Also, B) if I wanted to sleep with them I probably already could have (because men are not difficult to mate with), and didn’t, because I didn’t want to. Because they are my friends. Friends are gross.

Since returning from Italy, all of my friends have girlfriends. Two have been banned from seeing me, and the other has been banned from seeing me alone. He has to have her accompany him for my post friend divorce visitation. Because I have never learned to understand women, relate to them, the result is basically me feeling completely alone.

It also poses the question: How will I end up? If this is the pattern, when everyone is married I will have nobody. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of great female friends, but in the end it’s not the same. In the end we are always in a competition, we are always in a misunderstanding,

I will always be alone. What a strange concept for someone always surrounded by humans.