Well you could knocked me over with a feather or kicked me in the ass and called me Germaine Greer.

I did a show, a brunch show. It was at a nice, rustic-y looking restaurant out in the woods. Way the fuck out in the woods. Woods that to get to I drove loopy, redwood-lined roads through mountains. I even saw patches of snow in shadows littered with rotting leaves. Fucking country with a capital ‘K.’ So far out in the sticks that my GPS device and satellite radio faded in and out. My cell phone was dead. (How the fuck deep are you into nature when satellite technology can’t find you?)

The stage was awkwardly set. Very awkwardly set. A microphone across from the front door with people sitting in two rooms stretching out left and right from where the mike was. Bad fucking comedy mojo that. (Note to self, never, ever, ever agree to attempt to talk to two separate rooms. Bad fucking idea.)

Anyway, in each room were tables of women, come to see women perform comedy to celebrate International Women’s Day. I’m fine I figure, even though the gender rainbow at the titles was decidely ladies loving ladies. But, I’m hip to the L word. Sisters of Sappho are cool by me. I don’t want eat pussy, but I have no quarrel with anyone who does.

But, man oh fucking man, those chicks were not digging my own brand of female. Basically, I wasn’t feminist enough for the militant brunch-dining crowd. As each comic went up, the owner of the restaurant, middle-aged and wearing army surplus, at least I think it was the owner, fussed about and asked the other comedians whether she had or any of us had any “feminist jokes.”

Silly little bubble-headed me, I thought being able to express my ideas and point of view was part of my being a woman. I thought my life lived on my own terms, and fucking talking about it in a humorous manner, was the point. Choice and all that.

Fuck you, honey, but didn’t that brand of militantism go out of fashion in, I dunno, 1972 or so. When common sense prevailed and women stopped gathering in living rooms with hand mirrors to stare at their vaginas in sisterhood and curiousity.

Maybe not exactly that, and I ain’t saying we have won the war. But, fucking A, I hate any kind of eat your own politics where someone tries to decree what is acceptable doctrine. Sorry, lady, I met a dude, and I don’t rug munch, so yeah, clearly, I’m a traitor to the movement.

Blow me.

Although, to be fair, it was the older women who were bumming on whether we all were feminists. Women somewhere between my sister’s and my youngest aunt’s ages. Women who probably lived through shit I could easily take for granted. (I generally don’t thanks to the ghost of Pat haunting my thoughts.)

The younger lesbians, the ones who looked in their 20s and 30s, including one who said she was from South Boston and had an accent to back it up, they were cool. A couple made a point of letting us know their table was laughing hard. I said something to the Southie chick about “No wonder people say feminists have no sense of humor.” She laughed.