How Kids React To My Pretty Pretty Princess Nails.
Hi. I’m Ferrett. I’m a guy, and my nails usually look like this:
Or this:
And after last night’s lovely manicure , they look like this.
What I find fascinating about my nails, however, is how little kids react to them. Because when a six-year-old girl first sees my nails, her first reaction is almost inevitably disgust and/or suspicion. “Why do you have painted nails?” they ask, circling about me warily.
“Because they’re pretty.”
“But you’re a boy.”
“Boys can be pretty.”
Sometimes they make the disgust-face and back away. Other times they tell me, “Boys aren’t supposed to be pretty!” and we get into a brief argument that I inevitably lose. Regardless of whether they’re a girl or a boy, I’ve had this conversation at least forty times – this angry violation of their world, this curt rejection.
If I see the child again, however, they invariably ask again. It’s the same question: “Why do you have painted nails?” They clearly remember me. And I tell them, once again, it’s because I think painted nails are pretty, and this time their response is puzzlement. You can see them scrunching up their faces as they process this new idea that maybe some boys have long, girly fingernails, and they’re sure that it’s weird, but is it wrong? They’re now no longer sure. And sometimes they grab my hand without permission to touch my nails, as if to confirm this is a Real Thing.
When they leave, they’re still deeply suspicious of the nails.
The third time, they’ve come to terms with it. It’s no longer an issue; this is what Ferrett does, and this is how some people are. But what happens next is often very telling: on subsequent visits, the kids become enthusiastic about my nails. They start to show their nails off to me, asking about my color, and when I walk through the door the first thing some of them do is see what color Ferrett is wearing today. These kids now think it’s cool that I wear pretty pretty princess nails. In particular for little girls, it’s often an avenue of connectivity – hey, you have wild nails, see the color my Mommy let me get?
Yet each of them, at one point, had told me with disgust that boys did not wear painted nails.
And I think that’s a microcosm of humanity, really. When presented with something new that’s against how society tells you things should be, whether that’s homosexuality or transgendered people or polyamory or cross-dressing or a thousand other things, the inevitable gut reaction from people is a sort of visceral “Eeyew.” Which is often not them rejecting the idea itself, but rather a reaction to having their concept of normality violently jabbed. People like knowing how things are supposed to be. They like feeling like they’re on top of things. And this reminder that whoah, maybe you don’t know how people behave, is a threatening and ferocious action.
Then they see it a few more times and, circling the idea carefully, they come to recognize that maybe this is just another puzzle piece in the vast number of ways that human beings can be, and they come to accept it. Then in some cases, once they move beyond that, they become fans. And – this is the important bit – having become fans, they forget that they were once opposed. That process of adjustment fades away, and I never remind them. It’s better if they believe that this was always the way, really.
And I don’t like dealing with kids who reject me, making little “cuckoo” gestures with their fingers to their friends as they retreat. It’s strangely stinging, being written off by an adorable seven-year-old moppet. But I also know that this reaction fades more often than not. It’s a thing that humans often do, and it’s a dumb thing, but it generally takes a few sharp shocks to the worldview before they arrive at acceptance and tolerance. And if they’re lucky, that worldview expands enough that newer concepts don’t seem all that crazy – once you’ve absorbed the idea that people can be gay, and that gender can be fluid, then expanding to accept the idea of transgendered lesbians is but a little hop.
That rejection is immediate, and painful, and by no means am I saying you’re not correct to be hurt by it. But what I am saying is that that rejection is often not the final word, if that person is lucky enough to encounter enough other people like you. People are often staggeringly thoughtless as they evolve, and ideally they learn to get past this sort of ugly brutality as kids… but sometimes a kid can go through a whole adolescence without meeting Dude With Painted Nails, clinging tight to a tragically narrowed world. When they finally encounter you, they’re as ill-prepared to deal with it as the six-year-old was. The reason we’re tolerant of kids is that they don’t know any better, and while it’s comforting to think that everyone gets handed the Big Grown-Ups Manual when they turn sixteen, a tome that contains all the proper ways to respond to things, the sad truth is that kids become grownups by running head-first into experiences, and usually cocking them up. If they aren’t lucky enough to have the right experiences at the right time, some portion of them remains a dumb kid even if they’re sixteen or sixty or a hundred.
I’ve gotten to see these kids evolve, live, right before my sparkly sparkly nails. Now they love ’em.
That’s a good thing.
Girls With Porcelain Skin In An Alternate World
Anyone who’s seen me date knows I have a type: busty, zaftig, and pale. I’ve dated other women of all types, often to great results, but I’m inevitably drawn to pudgy women whose skin has never seen the sun.
And yet I wonder.
I had a hellishly isolated middle school experience, where I was bullied so much they had to transfer me to another school just so I had a chance at making friends. I grew up literally believing that I would go to my grave not just a virgin, but alone in the universe; my family was there for me, but they were it. If you were to ask twelve-year-old me to envision my life today, he would tell you that I’d probably be working a convenience store clerk job, putting in my eight hours before returning to an empty apartment, watching TV, and going to bed.
And why not? That was what I did in school. I couldn’t trust anyone, since the bullies frequently presented themselves as friendly – the better to get some embarrassing dirt on me before turning on me. So I took the bus to school, reading, and I went to classes alone, and I ate lunch alone, reading, and I read on the bus back home and then I busied myself doing stuff at home. Alone.
Friends were not my strong point.
And when I eventually did start to clamber out into socialized territory somewhere around 11th grade, most of the women who were nice to me were busty, zaftig, and pale. It’d be an easy theory to go with, saying their plump nature made them more sympathetic to other ostracized kids, but some of those girls had tons of friends; they were just sweet to everyone, and I was swept up in their wake. And as it turned out, the first girl I dated was a plump Irish redhead, and the second girl was a pale Scandinavian, and the third was a short Jewish girl from a , and by then a clear pattern had been established.
And yet.
And yet.
When I was in ninth grade, there was a girl called Rayna, an absolutely beautiful black girl who was – as much as anyone was kind to me back then – really, really nice. She’d make small talk with me between classes, and sometimes we’d even chat at her locker – and if you were ever a lonely kid like I was, you know how those ninety seconds of conversation were things you’d treasure and replay throughout the day. Rayna may have been the teenager I talked with most in a given day, and certainly one of the only ones who ever sought me out.
And she was pretty, and kind to me, and in retrospect I think she may have wanted to ask me out. She mentioned parties that she was going to, or sometimes said what she did on weekends. But I was so used to being shunned that I was just happy for her, and it never would have occurred to me to ask her somewhere or even that we could interact outside of school. And another sorta-friend once said to me, “Wow, she likes you,” and I went, “Oh, you think?” and I never actually connected “like” to “dating like,” and so that particular avenue went unexplored.
(Though I should add that when I finally went off on the bullies in my chemistry class, in one of my most famous personal stories, Rayna was the first one to cheer.)
And I wonder: what would have happened if I’d asked Rayna out? Looking back with more experienced Ferrett-eyes, I think she would have said yes. And what would have happened if she’d been my first kiss? What if, instead of nice pale-skinned girls who had been the first to respond to my overtures, it had been a nice dark-skinned girl? Am I little more than a duckling, imprinting on the first set of women to find me attractive? Would today, instead of porcelain skin being my strongest visual overture, would it be someone more like Rayna instead of Beth, Gayle, and Dana?
I don’t know. Alas, I think of Rayna fondly, as she was my friend at a time when I wasn’t quite sure what a friend was. And the visuals don’t matter all that much anyway, as I tend to be more attracted to brains than to body – I have very intense crushes on women who I have absolutely no idea what they look like, but am pretty sure I could fall dazzlingly in love with them based on their brain chemistry.
But occasionally I am flipping through photos and I see someone like Christina Hendricks, and there is this visceral wellspring of lust that explodes out of seeing that milky skin and curvy figure. And I wonder. I wonder where that attraction came from, and could it have been altered if some different girls had kissed me back when I thought no girl ever would.
I don’t know. Some days, I don’t know myself, and other days I know how much I don’t know myself, and that thought is more than a little disturbing.
What Should I Get For Christmas?
Every year, I make a big ol’ Greed List for Christmas, listing every consumer good I am currently lusting after. This is partially in the hopes that I shall be rewarded with presents, and partially because it’s an interesting way of charting my hobbies over the years.
And usually, at the core of that Greed List, are one or two big splashy items that the family can get me: Rock Band Drums, a straight razor shaving set, a king-sized bed.
This year? I can’t think of anything.
Oh, I mean, I can: I’d kind of like to have an XBox One – which, yes, I’ve railed about in the past. But though I wouldn’t want to buy an XBox One because I don’t think it’s currently worth the money, in my mind having one gifted to me is a separate experience. Yet there’s a better-than-even chance that the XBox One will be the loser in this particular console exchange, given the Playstation 4’s selling a million units on day one, and there aren’t any particularly compelling games for the console, either. So I’d be asking for a new shiny thing, at a pretty big cost, that might well turn out to be a regret. (The same could be said of purchasing the Playstation 4, which I’m hesitant to do because I have all of these Achievements on my XBox 360.)
And what I was hoping would be my Big Splashy Gift this year would be Google Glass, which I’m still ridiculously excited about… but the jerks at Google didn’t release it in time. (And if I’m balking at $500 for an XBox One, I’m not going to try for the $1500 of some beta version of the hardware bought on eBay.)
And the more I think about it, the more it seems weird not having a big-ticket item at the heart of Christmas. Because while my Amazon Wish List has been filled with all sorts of books I want to read lately, thanks to my new podcasting habits, if I got all the books on my Amazon list then I’d probably never read half of them. I have a bookshelf which I’ve narrowed down to “Books I’m so excited to read,” and I feel overwhelmed by the handful of unread tomes there as it is. So I’ve been reading a couple of books from there, then ordering a few – and having all the books I’m considering arrive at once would probably have some very good books lost in an avalanche as more new books came out.
I dunno. I feel like I should want one big thing on Christmas, some large-scale purchase that Gini and Mom and Dad can get me and then fill around the edges with two or three smaller purchases. But what the hell would that be? The industry’s let me down this year, and I can’t think of anything in the $400 range that would be sufficiently awesome.
It feels weird. I’ve had a Big Splashy on every Christmas list since I was a kid. And now, nothing. I mean, it’s the definition of a first-world problem and I acknowledge that, but it does take the edge off of Christmas to know that nothing in particular will be waiting for me beneath the tree.
Story Sale! "The Sturdy Bookcases of Pawel Oliszewski," to Intergalactic Medicine Show!
Once a year, I live-write stories to raise funds for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop. Most of those stories are like most of my stories in that I write a rough draft, decide the effort of revising them would be too much effort, and put them in a drawer forever. (This is not wasted effort; I’ve learned valuable lessons writing those stories.) But in this case, I not only wrote the story, but wrote all four drafts of it live, before an audience.
The end result is a rather quirky tale about a man who did some rather strange woodworking: “The Sturdy Bookcases of Pawel Oliszewski.” People who’ve joined the Clarion Echo have occasionally asked me, “So did that one ever get published? I liked that.” And so I’m pleased to report that Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show has purchased noble Pawel’s tale, for publication later this month. This is a pro market I’ve wanted to crack for quite some time, and so I’m particularly thrilled to add it to my roster.
(Fun fact: I sold another story in the same week to another pro market I’ve wanted to crack for some time – but I don’t announce sales before I get the contract, and this one will be sometime in May. Also, in that case, the story I sold is so hideously dark and scarring I’m actually wondering if they’re not going to yank acceptance of it before publication, because it’s literally the most upsetting thing I’ve ever written. But that was a pretty good week, I gotta tell ya.)
I’d give you the inevitable sample of my story, but it’s probably going to be live in the next two weeks, so why bother you twice? Though given the story’s topic, it would be appropriate…
It Is Wrong To Feed The Dog Chocolate
If someone was feeding their dog chocolate, I’d tell them they were wrong to do so. Mainly because chocolate will kill a dog.
Note that they do not have to be aware of the doggie deadliness of chocolate in order to be wrong about this. The dog will be just as sick, even if they had no idea that chocolate would hurt poor Fido. They can do wrong and be completely oblivious to it until someone tells them otherwise.
Now, when I say someone’s “wrong” to give that Hershey’s to the begging puppy, I’m making some large assumptions – mainly, that they enjoy the dog and wish to keep it alive. If their goal is to hurt a dog, then feeding chocolate is the absolute right thing to do, as is to stop reading me forever because I’ll hurt you if that’s your goal. But regardless, I’m just sort of assuming that the well-being of the dog is mixed in to whatever they’re trying to do.
Now, I got a fair amount of pushback on my entry on the messy girlfriend and the boyfriend who had yet to tell her how stressed out all her clutter was making him feel, mainly from folks saying, “He didn’t tell her! She’s not wrong, just ill-informed.”
No. I’m assuming that her goal is “to stay in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend,” and if so, then cluttering the house is hurting their relationship. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t mean to do that, or that she has no clue that she’s doing it; as I said, intent is not a magic wand. You can feed the dog chocolate and totally intend to give the dog a treat, but the dog’s still hurt. And her clutter is making her partner feel threatened and bad.
Now, assuming her boyfriend’s goal is also “to stay in a long-term relationship,” then he’s also wrong for not telling her, “Hey, this really bugs me to the point where it’s starting to interfere with my happiness,” because it’s not gonna go well if he hides his feelings all the time and doesn’t give her proper feedback. But that’s not really my point here.
My point is that “not knowing she’s doing a bad thing” doesn’t make her behaviors correct. If I’m deep in a programming problem and Gini interrupts me, I may be snappish and hurt her feelings without even realizing it. In that case, I’m wrong. If I’m trying to fix a water heater and shut off all the valves so it builds up to a fatal explosive pressure, I’m wrong to do so even if I have no idea how harmful that is.
You can be wrong without being aware you’re wrong – in fact, that is usually the case.
And of course many people will tell me that I’m wrong, because the proper word is not “wrong” but some other term like “incorrect” or “mistake” or “at fault” or some other term. And the problem is that there is no universally-accepted word for “doing something dangerously harmful to your goals, but unintentionally.” Trust me. I’ve been blogging on relationships for years. If I’d used the term you’d suggested, some other person would have kicked up a fuss because I didn’t use their term, or thought the term I did use was unclear… mainly because too many people link “bad thing” with “awareness” as though you can’t hurt anyone until you know what it is you’re doing.
What’s important, however, is that you understand the concept: “You do not need to be aware of your mistake to be making a large mistake.” You can feed the dog chocolate. Your intent will not help the dog survive. And that behavior is, for whatever term you choose to use, very much at odds with what you probably want to have happen.
Shasta's Breed, Revealed!
If you’ll recall, our dog Shasta is a rescue – and a bit of a mystery. But thanks to the Wisdom DNA Panel, which allows you to send a sample of your dog’s cheek cells off for reading, we have been waiting anxiously for two weeks to know what Shasta is.
If you’ll also recall, Shasta is sixteen pounds and looks like this:
Theories have ranged from Chihuahua to Miniature Pinscher to Spitz to Idris Elba. But the report is in, for those of you who’d like to download it, and the official tally is:
Mutt.
But assuming that’s not enough for you, the official official breakdown is:
Beagle / Miniature Pinscher / Shiba Inu mix.
…seriously? Look at that face. Do you see beagle? I do not. And a Shiba Inu is a big fluffy poofy dog, and Shasta is small and wiry. Which just goes to show you how genetics is weird, because heck, you throw all those three in the bin and wind up with something that every vet was positive was mostly chihuahua, but as it turns out there are only trace elements of chihuahuaness in our dog.
But seriously. If you’ve got a dog and $65 to throw about, download that PDF and check it out. It’s pretty detailed, and it’s a nice way to waste some money if you’re curious about your dog’s ancestry. Thanks so much to Jocelyn Perkins for sending me her dog’s results, which convinced me to get Shasta’s.
…beagle. Beagle? Beagle.