Crush.

[ she kissed a girl...er, her grandmother. photo via: mrpoplife ]

I've been doing alot of girl-crushing lately, haven't I? Hannah (NOT Montana. Ugh did you see her crotch-shots?) Georgas. Lady Gaga. Katy Perry. Sia.

Lately though, I have a non-music crush: Kate Carraway. She writes for Eye Weekly. I think I might want to make out with her just a little itty-bit. (Don't worry, Alex, I just say that for fun/attention/exaggeration. I only have lips for you. And if I didn't, I'd probably ruin my first girl-on-girl moment by giggling.) Anyway, maybe I won't be kissing her, but I do enjoy her weekly self-deprecating and balls-out rants. I would be too self-conscious to use the term "dry-raped" in a widely read paper that, say, my mother could read (uh, bad example). Correction: a paper that my grandmother could read. I've read enough of her material to know that she has a decent relationship with her parents, and I can probably assume that they read/clip her editorials with pride. Still, she says "dry-raped" and writes articles like this one. Hero?

[ via http://katecarraway.blogspot.com ]

Maybe I want to use the p-word sometime, too. But maybe I'll just save it for $3.99 martini Wednesdays. I am all too aware that moms are reading this blog. And it's not my own that I'm worried about.

I'm always drawn to people who don't self-edit. Maybe because I do. And I hate it. I can't even blog properly (heavily editing and formatting as I write). And Alex says I over-censor my Facebook photos. Zit? Un-tag. Unflattering angle? Un-tag. Whatever. It's not that I'm not being myself. No, it's just maybe a more polished version of it. I'll just keep up the lady-facade while I inwardly cheer/relate/"amen-sista" every time Kate says things like:

(To guys)"That deadened feeling you get when a posse of women is talking about the first season of Gossip Girl is the same way most of us feel about videogames. Don’t play videogames in front of girls. It assaults our eyeballs and brains and having-sex-with-you potential." 

or 

"Since forever, I’ve felt the clenching (and sometimes the wind-knocking ghost-punch) somewhere in my womb when the right point of my hormonal cycle meets up with a non-screaming baby in the aisle at the grocery store. The impulse is easy biology: the babyless and mommy-aged female getting weird around small children is more evolutionarily obvious than boners."

But I won't write these things myself. Instead, I'll lay it all out in a verbal eruption in the hot tub at girls' weekend (NEXT WEEK! YEAH!), after saving it up all year. 

Surrounding myself with girls who dress up all pretty, play mommy, and hold down real jobs most of the time can make for some excellent letting-loose possibilities. I think maybe we're all dying to shout the c-word and the p-word quickly in repeated succession. In the subway. At work. Or in a popular weekly newspaper. But we're "ladies" most of the time, or we pretend to be. Otherwise, guys get all squirmy. Alex knows the truth and seems to be ga-ga for me anyway. So, I married him.

While I masquerade as a "journalist" via my BlogTO gig, I feel like an imposter. But it's getting more comfortable. Anyway, it's nice to be inspired. Even though I'm too bottom-of-the-totem-pole to get away with anything remotely as shocking.

---

BlogTO post in the works: Toronto's Best Spinning Studios. It's times like this where I wish I had more journalistic freedom. The crotch-agony associated with 9 straight days of Spinning is curse-worthy. %$&*#