It’s been said there are two kinds of women. The first set ponders, What does he see in her? The second set remasters conjecture, What does she see in a he? If you make friendly overtures toward either, expect the following scenarios to unfold like lawn chairs or card tables. Invite the former over for dinner, she will excuse herself mid-meal, go to the restroom, and, quiet as a church mouse, inspect your housekeeping. Invite the latter out for a drink, she’ll assume your unconscious has gotten the better of you. She’ll remind herself that the role of the initiator sucks, but, nevertheless (somebody had to do it), will relish the prospect of stage-blocking the Conquest for days to come. Are you fed up with my generalizations? The week before last a man had the nerve to observe in mixed company, Feminism is obsolete. I asked (desperately attempting to channel Adrian Piper circa My Calling [Cards] #1 and #2), What’s the point you’re trying to make? My righteous indignation did not improve my person. For a long time, I was troubled by my niece’s nickname—Isla. I mentioned my concern to a friend, Why are folks in the habit of compromising their daughters from Day 1? I mean I also have an abiding affection for our suffering Ladies, but, I’d think twice before naming a daughter Dolores, Soledad, Isla… He raised an eyebrow at me to pluck isling praises. Thank you, I stand corrected. No man is an island, but, a strong, independent woman, caught in History’s jetstream becomes her own streaming media, restorative behavior, a force to be reckoned with, both landed and set adrift. Rosario Castellanos wrote, "Debe haber otro modo de ser." She also electrocuted herself in a bathtub. Accidental suicide? El eterno femenino? Spike my tea with the oxymoronic (variable as a fickle lover’s interest rate), lead me down bifurcating Garden paths, pump my subprime. Popcorn colonels wreak havoc with my crown. Kahlo caló—cognitive dissonance—Kahlúa harbors comparable ambivalence (53-proof caffeination). And, this raw hide? From one woman to the next, I commend your keening sense of observation, your flare for a theatre of the absurd. Twenty thousand leagues under the sea, I wear my whiteness uneasily for Reason our fair, generic She could never imagine.