How I Learned About Feminism

A unsettling fact of the 21st Century is that women are present in the workplace.

Another unfortunate addition to the "megacube" Zack Paddington and I share is the plucky wench, Peppercorn Diego. When I first glimpsed her, I thought she was a fair-faced teenaged boy. For an instant, I was slightly taken by him until I realized the wretched truth about who s/he really was!

Peppercorn Diego sits behind me. She is as gangly and flat chested as any boy. She keeps her hair short, and she wears a button down shirt and tie to the office every day.

At least Peppercorn has the decency to NOT sport a mustache like this lady!

At the Globe Theater, it is common practice for men to play the roles of women because women cannot fully understand or relate their own experiences to an audience in any compelling way. Luckily, they have men to interpret and explain for them just how to feel and to share these feelings on their behalf. Here in the workplace of the 21st Century, it can get confusing. The men look like women; the women look like men. How was I supposed to know any better?

In fact, I wrote this famous sonnet (No. 20) for Peppercorn Diego before I fully understood the situation:

A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

Who knew I would waste my best words in the light pursuit of a woman? Thank goodness I was able to go back in time and add this to my "Sonnet Sequence." Now it is of some use! Over the years, many a college professor has explicated this poem to his pupils, who, titillated by its implications, have asked: Could this be about a man? Well, sort of.

The grief I feel having learned the truth about Peppercorn's sex is something like what Apollo must have felt when Hycinthos died in his arms.

But, Shakespeare, you say, Dear Readers, is cross-dressing not the basis for drama and comedy in at least half or more of your intelligent, highly-creative and well-crafted plays? How could you make such a "Much Ado About Nothing?"

If you must ask, I must answer. You are a poor, sweet, overly kind audience. Women, also known as the fairer (weaker and less artful) sex, are much appreciated by yours truly, a member of the stronger (likely better) sex: men. I like women, and I have spent much time in their company. They make wonderful food, and they really know how to swaddle babies. They have a purpose.
 

When I realized Peppercorn Diego was a woman, I asked right off if she was pretending to be a man to get close to one?  Zack Paddington raised his eyebrow in surprise, and Peppercorn Diego stomped her diminutive foot --I assume it is diminutive. She was wearing a pair of men's Oxfords, so one cannot be sure. She then asked me if I was "right in the head?" 

Who can tell the true size of one's feet in a shoe such as this?

Of course, in my experience -- and by my experience, I mean in my plays that I wrote -- women often dress as men for this purpose. Was she an adherent of Sappho? I wondered, perhaps out loud, for Peppercorn Diego let out a cute little cry.
 

Even Sappho had the decency to wear a proper lady's dress.

"You are a pig! Have you never heard of feminism?" She exclaimed. Her cheeks were all rosy red, and I couldn't really hear what she was saying because her anger was making her so adorable.

I shook my head, because I actually had not ever heard of feminism. 

Later that evening, I used Wikipedia to learn all about it. Zack Paddington appeared so genuinely upset at my ignorance, and I don't want to fall out of his good graces. It's so important for me to be sensitive to his feelings. If he cares about even the most insignificant things in history, then so do I! You go girl!

The Office Tyrant

The word "muffin" originates from the old Gaelic "moofin," which means to rhyme with food in one's mouth.

This morning I made acquaintance with a jocular old fellow when I most disgracefully shoved him out of the way in order to procure an "English" muffin from the breads cabinet at my local overcrowded cooperative bakery.

When I attempted to apologize, he said to me, "Slow down, Sonny! There are enough muffins for everyone!"

But are there? Are there, Dear Readers, enough muffins for everyone? I have seen the best of humanity and the worst of humanity, and I am not fully convinced there are enough muffins to go around.

Take for instance, one Jameson P. Moffet, the artless fat-fingered pig-nut my dear brother in arms Zack Paddington and I are expected to greet with poise and respect each day of the modern (if this is an apt word to describe the twinkling teen years of the twenty-first century) work-week. If I did not want so badly to distance myself from him, I might compare Mr. Moffet to that skank, Sir Francis Bacon, of who I am not in anyway affiliated and am most definitely not.

Jameson P. Moffet, how so do I loathe thee, red headed and rotund workplace colleague! There are many reasons to despise Scotland, but you could stand firm as the only one if needed in a pinch.

The only good thing that has come from Scotland

Jameson P. Moffet is a fellow publicist here at ppPress. Well, should I say a Junior Publicist? He was hired shortly after our surprise smash hit title, Cats And The Things They Do hit the book stands, in order to handle the overflow of press inquiries. He is useless, of course, and I must handle these inquiries myself more often than not because he is quite engaged in the task of some Oriental art called Sudoku.

Have you got your copy?

At the beginning of his tenure, Mr. Moffet's work station was ungraciously placed twixt myself and my dear, dear mentor, Mr. Zack Paddington, and now when I wish to stare at the cherubic face of my beloved associate, I must first look at the bespectacled  lard-enlumped and stubbly visage of that wretched patchouli soaked Scotsman.

It is intolerable.

And most intolerable? You ask, Dear Readers? I heard you calling quietly out over the internet, so I will tell you now: Jameson P. Moffet is a muffin hoarder, a thief, an eater of things that do not belong to him. Evidenced by the crumbs of crumpets which spew forth like cinders from a coal stove on a cold day; they travel from the wretched dark maw of his mouth when he opens it to speak, and it is always unhinged and open to speak, uttering forth utterances of no consequence, ums and ahs and know it all tales and misinformations represented as fact at which Zack Paddington and I, your faithful writer, must smile and nod lest we offend the offensive.

representative cubicle

Today, I knocked a frail old grandfather over to procure my delightful breakfast, and before I had a chance to eat the object of my shame, the Moffet-man swooped in and spirited it away.

A sad day indeed.

Men, tights and the 21st Century

Dear Reader,

This past weekend, yours truly had planned to imbibe with a certain SWM who claimed to “look good in tights.” We first became aware of one another on a lovely website known as Craigslist. I found a nice bookshelf there, as well as some festive hats for my feline companion, Dr. Faustus.

Mr. Tights and I had a short electronic epistolary exchange, including pics, and agreed to meet. At the risk of exposing his identity, I would say that he looked much like a certain Charles V, pictured below:



Now, I’m quite certain that Mr. Tights had some sort of awful accident because when I arrived at our rendezvous spot, he was no where to be found. Instead, I encountered a gaggle of giggling and thoroughly uninteresting sallow skinned teenage girls. I guess it's true what they say in every century: Men are jerks. And, teens love bad fiction and action movies.

If only more men were like my cubical companion, Zack Paddington the apple cheeked youth, though years below me in age is my mentor, my colleague, my guide to the 21st century and the modern world of publishing. So thoroughly practical and consistent, I know he would never stand me up for a chance meeting, if he were ever into such a chance. Unfortunately, he seems a eunuch or rather quite thoroughly engaged to his work.

Sigh, Dear Reader, it is of no use for me to think of it. I have vowed to withhold my rakish tendencies in his presence so that I may learn as much as possible while I dwell in this time.

I must be off, as Faustus and I have a date with Netflix. If I cannot have a real to life man in tights at least I can have Sir Kevin Costner, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

Best regards = XOXOXO

Sir William Shakespeare