No More Homeless Pets had their 14th annual Strut Your Mutt fundraiser Saturday. Essentially the event is a pup-oriented festival after a mass horde of proud guardians and their dogs walk around the park together.
When I opted to volunteer last year, I got there right at 5am with my friend, Gine. 5 flippin' a.m. We spent the 4 hours until 9 a.m. filling up swimmy tubs and pup waters. It was a lot of water.
Once the actual strutting commenced, I was delegated the responsibility to lug numerous jugs of water along the route via a heavy wooden wagon contraption. Mission: Keep dog water bowls along route filled with water.
Okay, sounded simple enough.
As I'd lug it along, thirsty dogs would descend around the wagon and corral it into a corner where I'd sweat and grumble trying to pull it along. I'd eventually give up as dogs climbed all over the wagon, knocking jugs over and drinking.drinking.drinking. Tails wagging. Slobber and panting galore.
The water wagon had swiftly gone from the front of the strut to the very back, where I lugged it the rest of the way and dog stragglers would get whatever drops remained.
This year wasn't as traumatic because, being the diligent volunteer that I am, I stayed up late the night prior dancing with a friend at a faggly club and couldn't wake up before 5 a.m. for the life of me. By the time we did show up, the only responsibility remaining was to fill up dog waters IN the festival.
As I'd come across buckets, I'd fill them with fresh, clear water. As I'd pour, a dog would immediately have their face in the bucket, tail wagging, slurping swiftly. Then there'd be a cough from drinking so fast and, when they'd finish, chunky puke and slobber would be there, floating around. Immediately more dogs would come to drink the slobbery puke chunk bucket concoction. Mmm!
Oh dogs. The horror of it.
Even better, I caught the tail end of a guardian/dog look-a-like contest. One contestant wore a graduation cap and so did her dog. Another contestant and his dog both had a white straggly beards. A child with a pudgy face came up on stage and held up his tiny puppy, who also had a pudgy face. The audience clapped and hollered, entirely entertained.
On Sunday there was a softball game where we went up against a highly competitive team and an umpire who is not, in the slightest, amused by our play-for-fun tranny team. There's another umpire who thinks we're the shiznit, but this guy? He can't resist barking at us for every little thing and, on top of that, even started trash talking us!
Our poor pitchers, trying their hardest, would mess up at times and - despite the fact that we're there to have fun and do our best - the umpire would yell out to the competitive team stuff like, "Just go ahead and swing at shit. I won't count it as a strike!"
Gah! I was astounded. Why, oh why, even in an LGBQT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Queer, Transgender) SLOW PITCH softball league, there's the prevailing attitude that the only point of playing is to win? Didn't we learn better as little kids? It's that attitude that systematically weeds out the players and teams who aren't hyper-competitive. On our team, for example, we have players of any skill. Some are exceptionally good, while others will try their hardest but just can't catch the frickin' ball for the life of em'. Instead of getting upset about this, we'll clap and praise them for their hustle and for looking so cute doing it.
Despite this attitude, yesterday was just brutal. No matter how hard we tried to laugh and have fun, the umpire made it abundantly clear that we're not welcome and that, apparently, a bunch of queers hitting soft balls being slow pitched is a very serious sport!
The highlight of the game came when I went up to bat and the "woman" softball was pitched (it's larger than the ball they pitch for "men" - not sexist at all, nope!), then, as soon as the catcher caught the thing, the umpire took the ball and walked over to the score keeper where a flustered discussion took place about what gender I was. Apparently no one thought to just ask me. Between the two of them and about 40 seconds later, they decided that I was "male" and the smaller ball was thrown to the pitcher.
Anyhoo, a friend of mine who's been out of town for a bit came back last week. When she heard me on the phone for the first time in 5 months, she ranted and raved about my voice change. She came to Sunday's game and afterwards we went to the park with some friends to sprawl out in the sunshine. I made sure to wear my tiny tight shorts to help out my uber pale legs that have never had much exposure to the sun throughout my lifetime after foreign estrogen-ridden puberty.
This puberty that kicked in 6 months ago, however? Very hairy indeed. I'm so proud of it. I even let my hairy pale belly get some sun and my friend commented on my 'stache stubble and belly hairs. "Oh gross, is that long hair actually attached to you?", "Ewwww, look at all of that hair! Shave it! Gross!".
Is it wrong that hearing comments like that from a lesbian sound flattering?
When I opted to volunteer last year, I got there right at 5am with my friend, Gine. 5 flippin' a.m. We spent the 4 hours until 9 a.m. filling up swimmy tubs and pup waters. It was a lot of water.
Once the actual strutting commenced, I was delegated the responsibility to lug numerous jugs of water along the route via a heavy wooden wagon contraption. Mission: Keep dog water bowls along route filled with water.
Okay, sounded simple enough.
As I'd lug it along, thirsty dogs would descend around the wagon and corral it into a corner where I'd sweat and grumble trying to pull it along. I'd eventually give up as dogs climbed all over the wagon, knocking jugs over and drinking.drinking.drinking. Tails wagging. Slobber and panting galore.
The water wagon had swiftly gone from the front of the strut to the very back, where I lugged it the rest of the way and dog stragglers would get whatever drops remained.
This year wasn't as traumatic because, being the diligent volunteer that I am, I stayed up late the night prior dancing with a friend at a faggly club and couldn't wake up before 5 a.m. for the life of me. By the time we did show up, the only responsibility remaining was to fill up dog waters IN the festival.
As I'd come across buckets, I'd fill them with fresh, clear water. As I'd pour, a dog would immediately have their face in the bucket, tail wagging, slurping swiftly. Then there'd be a cough from drinking so fast and, when they'd finish, chunky puke and slobber would be there, floating around. Immediately more dogs would come to drink the slobbery puke chunk bucket concoction. Mmm!
Oh dogs. The horror of it.
Even better, I caught the tail end of a guardian/dog look-a-like contest. One contestant wore a graduation cap and so did her dog. Another contestant and his dog both had a white straggly beards. A child with a pudgy face came up on stage and held up his tiny puppy, who also had a pudgy face. The audience clapped and hollered, entirely entertained.
On Sunday there was a softball game where we went up against a highly competitive team and an umpire who is not, in the slightest, amused by our play-for-fun tranny team. There's another umpire who thinks we're the shiznit, but this guy? He can't resist barking at us for every little thing and, on top of that, even started trash talking us! Our poor pitchers, trying their hardest, would mess up at times and - despite the fact that we're there to have fun and do our best - the umpire would yell out to the competitive team stuff like, "Just go ahead and swing at shit. I won't count it as a strike!"
Gah! I was astounded. Why, oh why, even in an LGBQT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Queer, Transgender) SLOW PITCH softball league, there's the prevailing attitude that the only point of playing is to win? Didn't we learn better as little kids? It's that attitude that systematically weeds out the players and teams who aren't hyper-competitive. On our team, for example, we have players of any skill. Some are exceptionally good, while others will try their hardest but just can't catch the frickin' ball for the life of em'. Instead of getting upset about this, we'll clap and praise them for their hustle and for looking so cute doing it.
Despite this attitude, yesterday was just brutal. No matter how hard we tried to laugh and have fun, the umpire made it abundantly clear that we're not welcome and that, apparently, a bunch of queers hitting soft balls being slow pitched is a very serious sport!
The highlight of the game came when I went up to bat and the "woman" softball was pitched (it's larger than the ball they pitch for "men" - not sexist at all, nope!), then, as soon as the catcher caught the thing, the umpire took the ball and walked over to the score keeper where a flustered discussion took place about what gender I was. Apparently no one thought to just ask me. Between the two of them and about 40 seconds later, they decided that I was "male" and the smaller ball was thrown to the pitcher.
Anyhoo, a friend of mine who's been out of town for a bit came back last week. When she heard me on the phone for the first time in 5 months, she ranted and raved about my voice change. She came to Sunday's game and afterwards we went to the park with some friends to sprawl out in the sunshine. I made sure to wear my tiny tight shorts to help out my uber pale legs that have never had much exposure to the sun throughout my lifetime after foreign estrogen-ridden puberty. This puberty that kicked in 6 months ago, however? Very hairy indeed. I'm so proud of it. I even let my hairy pale belly get some sun and my friend commented on my 'stache stubble and belly hairs. "Oh gross, is that long hair actually attached to you?", "Ewwww, look at all of that hair! Shave it! Gross!".
Is it wrong that hearing comments like that from a lesbian sound flattering?
hahahaha... hair= gross I agree, shave that shit... hahahaha
ReplyDeleteAlso, what's up with the different size balls?! That's weird (in all aspects I suppose).
And I miss sunny days in the park on the grass :(
The different sized balls, to my understanding, are there to help out the weaker, less athletic players play with stronger, more athletic players - which is entirely based on one's gender, or perceived gender!
ReplyDeleteIf a player is "woman", the rules "help" her out by getting a larger ball pitched to her, being able to walk to 1st base if a male player is walked (who goes to 2nd so she can walk), etc.
I think it's uber sexist to all hell.