At the end of the conversation a brief pause fell, so unlike G, and B waited for her to say a few more words. Then G said.
G: I did something really stupid.
B: What do you mean?
G: Never mind, it’s nothing.
B: Oh. But what did you do then?
G: Nothing, just something stupid I shouldn’t have done.
B: Well tell me! First you tell me you did something, but then you’re not telling me what!
G: I am afraid to tell you.
B: Why! We always tell each other everything.
G: Yes, but I am afraid you will be mad at me.
B: No! I won’t be mad, I love you.
G: I know, but I did something stupid.
B: It’s okay, it doesn’t matter, we all do something stupid sometimes. Just tell me.
G: This is different.
B: I promise I won’t be angry.
G: You promise?
B: Yes! It’s okay.
Another pause increased the hesitation in G and the expectation in B.
B: Come on! Now, you just make me worry. What is it? Do you still love me?
G: Yes, of course, I still love you.
B: I love you too.
G: I’ll tell you tomorrow! Okay! I am tired. It’s nothing. Just something stupid that happened.
B: Hm. Okay, I guess.
G: I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
B: Okay, talk to you then.
G: Love you!
B: Love you too.
From the Feminist Dictionary of Words:
“mal-e-ifide or mal-e-ified [mah-l-e-eefee-de or mah-l-e-fied; Eng. mey-l-e ah-fah-dee or mey-l-e ah-feed]
contraction of terms.
feminine ablative of malus, bad + fid, declination from french, feminized form of mal;
ablative of fids, faith;
from Latin masculus, diminutive of ms, male;
used to indicate the false pretense of women in contemporary society who have taken on male role patterns and masculine, aggressive behavior to seek assimilation and acceptance from existing, conservative male elites.
“She is a real bitch. She always aggressively cuts people short, clamors above every one else to be heard, and tries to make jokes all the time. She is an archetype of the male-ified woman.”
Artaud believed that those very matters, which made him often feel so good, could in fact never be right for him and should be considered inappropriate, but he was nevertheless incapable to ever feel bad about them.
Halia was humming lines from ‘If I was a man for a day’. She walked firmly down the crowded street on the beat of her heels clicking to the pavement like automatic gun fire. She answered the occasional glance from a boy with flattered indifference, responding to the jealous stare from a girl with a friendly face of glass. ‘I turn it on, I turn it off, why? cause I can.’
A high beep vibrated in her black jacket’s pocket. She let it go over twice more before answering. ‘Riding to Bear Mountain on Sunday with our bikes? Yeah, I am down! Sign me up,’ She decisively replied. Halia had just traded her old motorcycle for a new Kawasaki Ninja and was dying to race it. She was perhaps a skinny and petite Asian girl, and made a fragile, cute first impression, but in fact she could stand up to any man on the asphalt, being more fearless than most of the boys and more than ready to burn her rubber.
Today though, although it was Saturday, she was off to a business meeting. She had just incorporated her own startup, having received substantial funding for the first six months, and without hesitation, she had quit her daytime job as business analyst for a top financial firm, and jumped into the pool of entrepreneurs that formed the powerful heartbeat of New York. Today was the first presentation to a board of advisors and she was going to push hard to step to the plate.
Success came like a hard blow and she was set to throw the punches. And as she thought hard about success, parading with a soldier’s step, she did not forget why men love bitches.
He had always avoided making eye contact with strangers in public, but once he looked at them, Artaud knew he had never realized before, the intense river of loneliness that streamed out of people’s eyes, and scared by what he saw he quickly scurried along.
(11) His spiky Asian hair was carefully aimed into random directions, the color balanced by the black framed eye glasses, as the corners of his dry lips hang downward, adding a melancholic but not sad expression to his saggy face.
(9) A halo of sprayed, blond-reddish hair, pale, freckled bony cheeks, under the cover of silver-blue eye-shadow, a black glitter shirt sliding off her round shoulder, legs, and the seductive hard lines of black, five-inch pumps, touched the asphalt, and stepped out of the yellow frame, at the moment the photographer on the pavement captured her on the cab’s back seat. (10) Her black cheeks were full and round, like her double D breasts resting against the table top’s side, on her round but small nose rested the black frame of oval shaped glasses, while the back of her relaxed hair curled in a wide curve around her neck.
“Why?” the little girl asked, sitting on her father’s lap. The father placed his firm hand on her little, brisk shoulder and certain of the persuasion of his answer, he replied with a deep, soft voice that that’s simply how things were. Back then, such an assurance by her father proved sufficient to solve her little worries. But somehow, now that her life seemed to have become so much more complicated, her adult mind struggled to accept any longer such matter of fact evidence. Maybe the questions in her life had become too complex to be solved by a fatherly hand on the shoulder, her life seemed mingled in a web of abstractions, or maybe her mind had become too demanding to settle for the simplicity of a child’s answers, real concerns requiring concrete solutions. Her father was still alive, living a few hours away from the city, but for some reason the effect of her father’s assurances, that still echoed that same paternal simplicity, that’s simply how things are, sounded too distant to be audible any longer, drowned by the boisterous voices of practical concerns. What’s is the matter with me? Am I not attractive? Am I too demanding? Are men afraid of a strong, independent woman, who holds the strings of her life in her own hands? Her father on the other hand had cried of pride when she had graduated from law school. He had never told her directly, but her mother spoke to her about how he told everyone that she was a lawyer in New York now, with her own mid-town office and with important clients working on deals worth hundreds of millions of dollars. But to Halia, it was not she who lived in an ivory tower disconnected from the world of ordinary mediocrity, to her it was her father who was the one on the pedestal, whom she respected more than anyone, for his strong will, his determination, having come to America as a hard working immigrant, sacrificing everything to be able to send his daughter to the best schools in the country, working mornings to evenings, to sacrifice himself to advance his children. Was it too much too ask then, to just want to be loved?
Halia was intelligent, successful and beautiful, and did not need any man to look after her. Still, men played an important role in her life. It seemed that she suffered not alone from a wider disease of her time that affected mostly big-city professional women, and which had been diagnosed so strikingly in the television hit Sex and the City. Men on the other hand, of all walks of life, class and race, remained immune for this epidemic, or as Halia saw it, they rather leeched off of this disease of women to feed their egos, although technically leeches were hermaphrodites, but like leeches men eat their prey whole. And thus, when it came to men, Halia felt sucked dry. Asked if she would ever sacrifice her career and ambitions to sooth a man to devote himself to her, she answered resolutely no, absolutely not. But at the same time, there was nothing she craved more than a man to worship her, and she wondered if she had sacrificed herself already being without a man who loved her more than he loved himself. She thought of the goddess worship of Cybele in Ephesos, where Halia had vacationed last summer. Later, in early Christianity , the widespread goddess worship was replaced by the cult of Maria as the mother of Christ at the Council of Ephesos. What had happened in three thousand years that she now lived under the firmly established autocracy of men? In this patriarchal status quo, it apparently was too much a loss of face for men to love a woman beyond themselves. Is that what Gogol meant in his story The Nose? Do men really think that a loss of power threatens their success with women? Then how was it possible that all women with power were still single? Halia did not need a man to take care of her, but she did need a man to love her. Yet, she was intelligent, successful and beautiful.