Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Pinko and the Giant Boob

Before Christmas, Pinko was fretful, agitated and generally unhappy because some people in the world had declared him to be a gold digger, a freeloader and, worse, a grifter like Gayle the Hillbilly Hustler.  He was particularly distressed one night at bedtime, so I scratched his back until he was relaxed enough to get to sleep, which is what good partners do (at least in this house.  For the record, he rubs my creaky shoulder all the time).  That night, he had a dream:
He was holding tightly onto a giant boob, while a small crowd of shouting strangers were trying to pull it loose.  He was distressed. Then my mother was leading the pack pulling it away, and he was even more distressed. Then the police showed up and pulled the boob so hard that it started to break.  He cried, "You're tearing it! You're tearing it!"
Then he woke up.


When Pinko related his dream to me, I was touched because - clearly - the boob is me.  Back when I was analyzing my own dreams regularly in psychotherapy, my shrink said that the police played the role of the superego in dreams.  We can conclude my mother plays a similar, more casual role in Pinko's dream, rather like conventional morality or a generic authority figure.  The cops would be Pinko's own self, from a Freudian perspective anyway.  In my own vaguely Jungian point of view, we learn to tell right and wrong from our parents, but judges and cops are the enforcers.  Woody often says that an individual should ever call the cops on anyone unless said individual wants to see that person dead.

I'm sure there are plenty of cops and family members of cops who would take issue with that statement, but the fact is that cops kills people in this country with astonishing regularity - and not just unarmed, black men either.  But we're not talking about Racism, institutional and otherwise, Mass Incarceration, and murders committed by the para-military police force in service of The Owners, or the murders they commit for kicks like those cops in New Mexico. We're not even talking about the fascist police in New York City who are working with Rudy Guiliani to fuck with DeBlasio and have been showing the world that the racist NYPD will kill anyone they want to simply for not following instructions.
Right now, we're talking about Pinko.  Fuck them.

Vintage illustration brilliantly recaptioned by Steve Denton of Monkey Muck


There was a time when, like most suburban whites, I willingly gave cops the benefit of the doubt.  Honestly, though, until there's a solid blue wall between killer cops and unarmed citizens instead of protecting killer cops from prosecution - it's hard to believe good cops are nothing but television mythology.  We can thank the NYPD patrolmen's benevolent association for my change of heart.

But back to Pinko:
It's taken some time for my parents to understand that there's a difference between being duped by a grifter and deciding that you're going to support someone.  Mother explained that part of the process  involved accepting that Pinko and I have an Alternative Lifestyle.  At first, I was perplexed because I thought Polyamory, BDSM and joining communes were examples of alternative lifestyles.  As it happened, Mother meant that Pinko's and my lifestyle is alternative because he's a man and is taking care of the domestic chores while I go out to work.  I hadn't realized that was still out of the ordinary - but then I remembered that my parents are getting pretty old.
So am I, for that matter.

While having a man as a housewife may seem odd to my parents, my insurance company has clearly defined the concept.  In preparation for a visit to the dentist the other day, I went online to make sure Pinko was listed on my policy since the Aetna didn't send new cards when I enrolled him.  He was there, all right, defined as a Sponsored Male.

I'm still liking the idea that I have a Sponsored Male at home.  Pretty soon, he won't really be sponsored anymore because he got his license to drive For Hire Vehicles from the Taxi and Limousine Commission.  The license itself arrived in the mail today, and now he is cleared to work at a fancy car service carting around people with expense accounts.  The car service wants everyone to know they have a Cadillac Escalade SUV fleet as well as a Mercedes E350 Sedan fleet - but they have a "no idle" policy that makes them Green.  Whatever.  The money will be green and that's what matters now.

When there's a paycheck from Pinko hitting my bank account regularly via direct deposit, dreams of hanging onto a giant boob will be a thing of the past.  He'll be off the tit, as it were.  As far as the insurance company is concerned, however, Pinko will remain a sponsored male.  Although it tickles my feminist funny bone to think I have a Sponsored Male like a stud around the house, there's something very rewarding in creating a personalized domestic partnership.  I really love my work and am happy in a job that has decent benefits and all that stuff.  Pinko will drive full time for a couple of months until we're back in my financial comfort zone, then he'll cut back to a couple of days a week to focus primarily on agitating, educating and organizing for social and economic justice.  By the time there are leaves on the trees again, we'll be able to call Pinko a Professional Revolutionist.  Even Chris Hedges says we need more people like Pinko (Why We Need Professional Revolutionists, Truthdig, 11.24.2014).

Somehow, I think he'll still find time for boobies.





12 comments:

Teeluck said...

This post is simply delicious!!

Pinko the Bear said...

Yeah, well.. like I've always said... "Boobies Make Me Smile!"

Karlo said...

Why don't I ever have these dreams? I dream of ducks, fish, and flooding waters. Amidst all the calamities, the cops never seem to show up.

Jennifer said...

The thing I'm really trying to become better at remembering is that when other people have something to say, even if it's about me, the thing they're saying is about them, not me. Things that come out of other peoples' mouths are a reflection of other people. Hard not to get agitated, but still. Life's too short to let other peoples' stuff inform how we feel.

intelliwench said...

You really must write a book of children's stories for the revolution and include something titled "Pinko and the Giant Boob." I'll help edit!

Woody (Tokin Librul/Rogue Scholar/ Helluvafella!) said...

That was really funny stuff, Trish. Good writing, too. Nice.

Courtney said...

I love that such thing as a Sponsored Male exists! Please count me in as one who supports your right to sponsor a male!

mac said...

Why is it that the male must be the "bread winner"?

You know what that seems like to me? It seems like a bunch of outdated bullshit, like the patriarchy you rail against (see, even a dumb old country boy can figure it out....sometimes).

mac said...

And,
BOOBS!

:-D

Comrade Kevin said...

Two friends of mine are a married couple. She's been supporting him while he's getting his phD, though he is teaching classes at a college as an adjunct.

My girlfriend makes more than I do, but has never been uncomfortable at the economic inequality. To her, we've always been an unconventional couple.

And, in all fairness, my father left work completely to tend to my care when I was very depressed, back in my late teens. My mother had no choice but to become the primary breadwinner, and doubled her annual salary by going into administration.

These are three and only three examples of the same phenomenon. Not as uncommon as some might think.

Dr. Monkey Hussein Monkerstein said...

Thanks for the plug!

Mary Kathryn Simon said...

i agree...delish delish deLISH in the very best Trisha way. Brava.

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