Why Being a Lesbo is Great.

 Recently I have been part of several discussions with new acquaintances about the difficulties inherent to queer-dom. There are lots of them, and us gay folk sure do like to talk about them. Of course, I'm right there with those angry gays; I'm the last person to downplay the speedbumps that those of us in same-sex relationships negotiate on the daily.

But it seems to me there is a bit of a myopic focus on the unfair, fraught aspects of being a homo.

By all means, we all need to engage with the darker aspects of LGBTQ issues. Loudly, and with great enthusiasm. Because homophobia exists, and it sucks. And gay rights are human rights and all that jazz.

That shit's important.

But the dark side is far from the whole story.

Lisa and I were talking about this the other day, and we came up with a list. About the upside to being gay (other than the "following your heart" and "being true to your identity" honest and unfunny stuff).

WHY BEING A LESBO IS GREAT

1. Your wardrobe doubles instantly (if you have the forethought to pick a partner who is approximately your size).

2. Fewer noxious body odours/uncontrolled gas emissions.

3. Your partner understands your hormonal mood swings and NEED for chocolate. Really understands. 

4. You've both got the same bits, so you both know what to do with them.

5. Both of you remember all birthdays, holidays and anniversaries, including your twenty one and a half week anniversary (because of cOUrse that's important).

6. You don't have to worry about the condom breaking.

7. You always have an eager, patient, interested shopping buddy. And you never have to justify your purchases. Your partner will say (with conviction) "Yes, THAT grey shirt is so much better than all your other grey shirts and I see why you definitely needed it!"

8. No beard burn. At least not from your partner's face.

9. You're allowed to have/talk about feelings. In fact, you can't be a lesbian if you won't. They'll kick you out of the club.

10. Both of you get to use the women's washroom/changeroom.

11. Two bags/purses. Somebody's always got a tampon, hand sanitizer and snacks.

12. It's okay to love cats as much as you do.

13. All the reproductive options if you decide to produce spawn... and you get two uteruses and a "seed catalogue" to start a superbreed of athletic genius chocolate babies, so you can reproduce twice as fast.

14. Gay bars are way cooler than straight bars, because everyone takes their shirts off.

 More les-bonuses to follow as they are discovered...

46 Reasons My Lesbian Might Be Freaking Out

I was inspired to write a post by this blog, shared by a Facebook friend with many children. I have no children, but a lot of these things sounded familiar.

The blog post was titled 46 Reasons My Three Year old Might be Freaking Out.

http://jasongood.net/365/2012/12/46-reasons-why-my-three-year-old-might-be-freaking-out/?fb_action_ids=844227933446&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=other_multiline&action_object_map=%7B%22844227933446%22%3A363334703763336%7D&action_type_map=%7B%22844227933446%22%3A%22og.likes%22%7D&action_ref_map

A surprising number of these reasons can also be applied to my 34 year old.

(I have italicized the crossover reasons, and underlined the most frequently encountered reasons)

This is by no means an exhaustive list.

1. Mouth Noises.

2. Marvin jumped elegantly off the couch and I wasn't watching.

3. Shuffling.

4. She's hungry and can't remember the word "hungry".

5. I'm talking to her.

6. I'm not talking to her.

7. Netflix is too slow.

8. I washed her shirt before it was dirty enough.

9. My icicle feet.

10. I ate the last _____.

11. Her water glass got put in the dishwasher before she was done with it.

12. I moved her ______.

13. I didn't text back immediately.

14. My breath smells like carcass. 

15. My feet smell like carcass.

16. Dishes aren't self-cleaning.

17. Things take too long to cook.

18. I forgot to tell Tinkle how cute she is.

19. She needs a hug and can't remember the word "hug".

20. Sniffling.

21. The dishwasher is loaded wrong.

22. Everything isn't fair.

23. I'm doing it wrong.

24. People at the gym are doing it wrong.

25. Massages have a time limit.

26. No more wine...

27. Letting the cat lick it clean isn't the same as washing it.

28. Other people's OUTSIDE VOICES.

29. There's a dog within a 70 mile radius.

30.  I recycled the box-fort she built for the cats.

31. Wrestling is not an acceptable conflict resolution method.

32. "Rock, paper, scissors" is not an acceptable conflict resolution method. Especially if you cheat.

33. Mumbling.

34. Not enough kittens.

35. We're out of Tofurkey.

36. I asked her a question.

37. Sharing.

38. Dirty baseboards.

39. Poop.

40. Chicken is gross.
 
41. Authority figures.

42. Her sock is on wrong.
 
43. The bedroom blinds are closed and it's stifling her soul.

44. Being perfect is difficult.

45. A balloon she got six months ago is missing.

46. She might be wrong. And has realized she might be wrong.

February Photo Journal Surprise!

 
Because my Momma raised me to be honest (even on the internet), here are some uncensored photographic representations of my month.

Sans airbrushing, instagramming, or even a bare minimum of self-editing.

Here you go.



FEB. 1st, 2013:

This is one of Lisa's grey hairs.

I plucked it out while she was asleep.

She has at least 56 of them

(That's where I lost count. )



FEB 6th, 2013:

It was a slow night in St. John's.



How slow?

Pretty slow.

 (Yes, that may or may not be an upside down chin puppet...again)



FEB 7th, 2013: I was miffed upon opening this bag of Udi's gluten free bread.

How'm I supposed to make a sandwich when the bread has peekaboo portholes in it?

So I emailed the company...a long rant with this picture included.

They sent me coupons. I love coupons.

Once again, I am becoming my mother.



FEB 14th, 2013

Happy Valentine's Day!

Lisa: I made you a surprise! Close your eyes!

Me: *opens eyes, sees what appears to be a rotten banana on breakfast plate*

Oh! Um. Right. A banana! Cool!

Lisa: It's a special banana...I made it!

Me: *says nothing*

Yes. That is a chocolate banana. Lisa made it.

A representation of her affection.

For me, for Valentine's day.

And yes. It looked like poop in real life, too.

 

 




FEB 14th, 2013:

Tea. For Valentine's day. It was one of those blooming tea thingies, that opened up in my jar.

It looked like a spider waking up.

Who knew tea could be creepy?



FEB. 15th, 2013:

We left the house. After dark.

 

Sans feline companions. We left the fur babies home alone for an entire evening.

Lisa's daily existence involves negotiating that murky distinction between regular person and mentally unbalanced cat lady.




FEB 15th, 2013:

There are two pictures from that night, actually.

Yes, for the curious, that is chain mail. In bra form.

(Sorry, Mom. I had to...

Incidentally, I may be returning to the West Coast, depending on how Lisa reacts to this photo ending up on the internets.)




FEB 18th, 2013:

Soy Chai Penis Latte.

 

FEB 23rd, 2013:

Why I love Lisa #458:

 She eats chips at the gym between sets.

And then wonders why she can't make friends in the changeroom.

This is why, Lisa. This is why.

 

Athletic Update:

Lisa is very very excited to be training for the Transrockies 6, an ultramarathon taking place in Colorado? (I think) in August (I am a good listener). She will be running with a superhero (or so she seems from the stories) named Jude. Or Jule. June?

Oh heck. Ima call her J.

I am attempting to be supportive. I lurk around the gym pretending to do weights/ checking people out/ checking myself out/ rearranging equipment according to my OCD needs, while she runs on the treadmill/attends spin classes for a very long time (currently my cardio caps out at under an hour...). Sometimes I lay on the mats in the stretching room and have a little siesta (I am an excellent training buddy).

So I will be posting updates on my blog about her training, because she is too busy training to create her own blog. Also she would talk too much about the spiritual/life-altering aspects of the experience, which no one *really* wants to hear about. WE all just want pictures of her eating potato chips in the changeroom. And stories about her passing out on the side of the road in her darth-vader altitude training mask. (which hasn't happened yet, but it will).

Wahooooooo!

 

Go Lisa!!!!!!!

The Falafel Chronicles

I haven't posted in a good while because I have a new job.
The almost 30 hours a week I've been working really cuts into my blogging time...

I now work in a restaurant.

I chop things and clean things and bring people food. It's great (and I say this without even a hint of sarcasm).

This new job is a hugely positive change. The people are all lovely, no one expects me to work ridiculously long shifts, and everyone is positive and friendly. I have always enjoyed eating/feeding an inappropriate amount, and to be around large quantities of food is fun! I can even eat most of it without being poisoned! Hoorah!

It is humbling to be on the other side of the trainer/trainee equation once more. But it is also a good reminder for me not to settle for a job that is kind-of-sort-of okay, just because it is comfortable. My incredible fear of starting over on the bottom rung is proving unfounded. I am enjoying acquiring new skills and actually look forward to going to work (despite the fact that I still have to ask a bazillion questions each shift, and inevitably make at least a few mistakes...).

The other day while I was forming falafel at work, I had an idea. No one else thought it was a good idea. At first it was merely a zygotic notion, a passing "what if?". I probably would have let it die a natural death.

But because no one else thought it was a good idea, I had to prove them wrong.

Some of the kids I worked with in my last job had been labelled as having something called Oppositional Defiance Disorder. Basically they had to do the opposite of whatever you asked them to do (a fancy term for brattiness).

I think I might have it, too.

My amazing incredible idea was...

DESSERT FALAFEL.

Falafel brownies. Apple cinnamon falafel. cranberry white chocolate falafel...
The creative potential is endless...

Think about it. 

Chickpeas are delicious.

Zucchini is delicious. 

Haha. Wet zucchini. How pervy.

Sugar is delicious. 

It's a no-brainer. 

I googled "dessert falafel" and IT. DOESN'T. YET. EXIST. 

Unlike all of my other "original ideas" this original idea is ACTUALLY an original idea.

So this week I lay awake at night again, but I wasn't worrying. I was planning.

Designing posters and ad campaigns and portable dessert falafel carts in my head.

Dessert falafel...revolutionizing meal conclusions worldwide!

It's a  miraculous high-protein dessert! It's a post gym snack! It's a convenient little pattie of superfood deliciousness!

um...

YUM!

My roommates said, "Oh, hmmm. that might be interesting. Let me know how that turns out" (note no pleas to sample my latest delicious creation when it comes out of the oven...their loss)

I told my mom on the phone. She said, "Okay, honey, that sounds like an idea" (note the absent positive adjective before 'idea').

Her tone said, "You are my favourite spawn, but you may be trying too hard to be creative and original. Some things don't exist because they are a bad idea...and I hope you only make a half recipe, because organic garbanzo beans aren't cheap".

Amazing how much she can say without actually saying anything.

I brought the idea up to Lisa on several occasions this week, and each time her reaction was along the lines of "That's a disgusting concept. I won't eat them. Why on earth would you ruin a perfectly good zucchini? Make a stir fry with the zuch, and then make me regular brownies, Wench. WITHOUT STEVIA." (stevia is amazing, FYI)

I probably would have forgotten about it, if my posse's reactions hadn't been so disgusted... They were turned off by the idea, so I had to prove that chickpea and zucchini patties not only can be made into delicious desserts, but should.

Cut to this morning, in our kitchen.

This happened.

It was beautiful.

MEXICAN CHOCOLATE FALAFEL BROWNIES. 

They are moist, tender, spicy chocolate-dipped morsels of orgasmic goodness.

And not only because I can convince myself that anything healthy tastes good (Greens+ is delicious, I don't care what anyone says).

My roommates either actually think they are amazing, or are such good liars that they should immediately apply to law school.

They both begged for seconds. 

Lisa double-fisted them while gazing at me adoringly and offering to do the dishes and give me a massage afterwards.

I bet I could even persuade my sister to eat them. I will FedEx her some.

HA!

I WINNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!

And I am convinced that with a few minor recipe tweaks, my apple-cinnamon dessert falafel will taste less like weirdly sweet hummus with cinnamon icing on top. 

Also, I couldn't figure out how to turn this dumb picture. An all-around fail.
You will have to turn your computer to view Lisa ignoring the plate of cinnamon apple falafel.
JUST WAIT, though. She won't be able to resist the next falafel incarnation. 

Things I've learned from moving to Newfoundland: God Loves Gays!

 

1) How to pray:

 

Prayer was never something I appreciated the power of growing up.

In third grade my best friend was a pastor's daughter, and I would get invited over for meals with her and her fifteen siblings (mmkay, maybe not fifteen, but there were definitely more than five and less than twenty).

Her mother would serve food that didn't look like this.

When it got to the saying grace part, I distinctly remember being confused and annoyed that I was expected to close my eyes and sit still while a steaming helping of some forbidden-by-my-hippie-parents, gluten/meat/dairy-rich, processed deliciousness sat awaiting my attention. I always peeked, and never focused on the words of thanks on offer.

My cynical eight year old brain was always preoccupied with other important matters, like how to convince the three year old to give me the hot dog slices from her mac and cheese (Incidentally, telling her what hot dogs were made of, in great detail, worked pretty well).

Now, I don't think I'm a particularly negative person...However, I AM a middle of the night worry wart. Always have been. Between two and five a.m., I have an irrepressible tendency to anxiously imagine and re-imagine the worst possible outcomes of every scenario.

In this way I can mentally rehearse how I will react to each impending disaster.

Example: Hypothetically speaking, if there was one Tofutti bar left in the freezer, and there are two of us, and there were supposed to be six in the box but there were only five, and we agreed to leave it until the next day because two stevia-sweetened tofu ice cream bars each in one evening should be enough and we can't agree on who should get the last one... (strictly hypothetically speaking...ahem)

I will wake up at four a.m. convinced that Lisa smells like tofu, so she must have eaten the last one in the middle of the night. I then proceed to fret and obsess and plot my revenge, imagining that empty spot in the freezer where the last bar had been placed, and cursing the worker in the Tofutti factory who couldn't count past five. I might even start to sweat. I definitely won't sleep, because I have to mentally prepare myself for the potential CASE OF THE MISSING ICE CREAM BAR.

 

At four a.m., everything seems like a BIG DEAL.

I tend to get especially nervous about new experiences. Since I particularly suck at going with the flow, and I like to get things right the first time, the night before anything big (or little) that I haven't done before, I worry.

There have been a lot of new experiences in Newfoundland, so I get nervous and worry a lot. Always between two and five a.m.

Recently, Lisa pointed out that I should stop trying to control every aspect of my life through worry, because it doesn't work and I'm wasting my time (and interrupting her sleep schedule). She also questions why I would be putting all that negative/worried/anxious energy out there when I could be doing fun things (like sleeping).

 

My ever-so-wise girlfriend then suggested that perhaps I could imagine the BEST possible outcome instead of the worst.

I have to say, retraining my brain to imagine good things happening has been harder than I thought.

But through the process of trying to retrain my worried night brain, I've slowly become more open-minded to the whole idea of prayer (prayer as a visualization of the best possible outcome, rather than asking for favours from a man with a beard...because men with facial hair are almost always trying to hide something).

I figured it can't hurt, right?

I've extended this new prayer practice to daylight hours as well.

Because I'm too young to die.

And the sidewalks in St. John's don't get cleared when it snows...
I (sometimes) have to get places...
I don't have a car...
I hoof it...
there are no sidewalks, so I walk in traffic...
I try not to get hit by cars/trucks/buses/bicycles/tractors...

 

So, I pray.

(or visualize the best possible outcome of arriving at my desination with all extremities intact).

I have to say, it seems to be working.

After four and a half months, I'm still alive and kicking (knock on wood).

From this, I can draw two conclusions:

A) A BENEVOLENT HIGHER POWER DOES IN FACT EXIST.

B) THAT BENEVOLENT HIGHER POWER IS PRO-GAY.

BAM.

Homo goes to Yoga...

A few significant things that happened this week.

In no particular order:

1) I changed my phone number. I now have a Newfoundland phone number.

Even though I've been here for a few months, it took changing my number to make me admit that I actually live on the Isle of Slush and Sealskin.

2) I quit my job. 

I'm not a quitter, and there was a lot of soul-searching/self-flagellation involved in this decision.

But, before you label me a lazy leech on society, I had valid reasons. Overall, the job sucked. 12 hour shifts. Paid no money. 12 hour shifts. Emotionally taxing. 12 hour shifts. The company was whack. 12 hour shifts. My union dues were ridiculous. 12 hour shifts. I had to walk five kms each way, clambering over the piled-up walls of frozen snow that pass for sidewalks in St. John's.

Did I mention the 12. HOUr. Loooooong. SHIFts?

You want me to work for how many hours???

End Rant.

Long story short, I am (f)unemployed once again. Back to pounding the pavement and not getting hired at coffee shops because I am overeducated/ too old!, and nobody wants to hire employees who might get uppity in their dotage.

Maybe I can talk about Hobbes while I bag groceries. Perhaps I can spout Chaucer while I clean toilets. The opportunities in St. John's are endless...

3) Because I now have spare time again, and because I bought a Groupon months ago and it expires in a week, I went to yoga last night.

I felt like I was in a low budget reproduction of the Salvador Dali Museum in Spain.

Utterly surreal experience.

The instructor was lovely, and spoke in a very zen whisper. Her voice was the only zen part.

Yoga, St. John's Style:

• I couldn't find the studio, and wandered around lost in the dark and snow for twenty minutes. I shake my fist at Google maps.

• When I finally became un-lost, the house/studio was also an art gallery/someone's private dwelling.

• The studio? was an art storage room on the third floor, and there were no signs to indicate whether this was indeed a yoga studio or I was breaking and entering into someone's home. I crept up the stairs, tentatively whispering "heeellooo?".

• Beige carpet. Wall to wall. 

Yup.

• We had to arrange our mats in two rows, facing each other, with the instructor in the middle. This meant that in cobra pose my face was less than thirty centimetres from the sweaty man on the opposite mat. How intimate.

• The slowed-down Bollywood-style soundtrack our practice was set to. I almost lost it when one song repeated "And then you will find your guru, and it will be great!" or something along those lines.

• I couldn't stop sneezing.

• A gigantic painting of an owl was staring me down in a sinister way. I kept one eye open during final Savasana.

•  I am now incapable of turning my gaydar off...and I couldn't help myself. I spent a large portion of the class trying to study another woman (not even a particularly attractive one) nonchalantly-sneakily-outofthecornerofmyeyewithoutmovingmyhead, to determine whether she was a homo (and also to determine who could hold boat pose longer). I still don't know, (and she can) and apparently I'm not that subtle, because the instructor kept reminding us to focus on our own practice. 

Dang. 

Sometimes Groupons end up being really expensive. Like when the six class pass becomes a single 1.5 hour long class, because now I can't go back because I'm the creepy lesbian and I'm afraid of the owl painting and allergic to dust mites. Like when that happens. 

And all of these factors together prevented me from reaching my transcendant/enlightened/lalaland yoga place.

Also, I was taking notes for a blog post in my head the entire time.

Insert gratuitous cat photo here. 

Sometimes I suspect I am missing the point of the whole yogic experience.

The Scariest Post Yet. or: 10 ways my Girlfriend is like my Mother

I've been told the link on the last post didn't work for anyone that isn't Facebook friends with my sister. This is disappointing, wrong and bad.

First: you should all be friends with my sister, because she is awesome.

Second: Here you go. (you're welcome)

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10152416602310157

I'd just opened my stocking and eaten all my candy. This is what happens when you give me sugar.

And after eating all that candy, I have a raging toothache, and a lame job with no dental plan. Jeepers.

AnyWAYS...my dental dilemma is not what this post is about.

It's not about Homo Headgear either. I know I promised hats, and there will probably be some hats in another post, but if you're here because of the hat wearing lesbians, you should probably stop reading... Right about...

NOW.

Because I want to talk about something else.

10 WAYS MY GIRLFRIEND REMINDS ME OF MY MOTHER:

*in no way is this an exhaustive list*

DUM DUM DUM....

I find this simultanously fascinating and repellant.

1) They are both superheroes.

see?

SEE??

2) They both love turquoise.

3) They are both hoarders.
(they both deny this, and, like all hoarders, will be very very unhappy with me for pointing it out)

4) They rarely get sick themselves, and are generally unsympathetic towards sick people.

5) They're both big criers, or very in touch with their "girl cells". If you don't know what I mean by that, you should watch this TED talk:

http://www.ted.com/talks/eve_ensler_embrace_your_inner_girl.html

Don't get me wrong. This in-touch-with-girl-cell capacity is a good thing. But it's something I still have to work on. And it does have the effect of making me raise my eyebrows, pat (poke) their shoulders with a tentative outstretched finger and make a confused, strangled "aauuuuhhhhggggg??...okeyy??" noise.

 I am evidently really good with other people's emotions.

6) They both sing loudly, frequently and publicly, and enjoy the embarrassment this causes me.

7) Actually, they both do almost everything loudly, frequently and publicly, and enjoy the embarrassment this causes me.

8) Neither of them ever stops moving, and they both get irritated when other people do.

9) Don't make them mad. JUST. DON'T. DO. IT.

10) They are two of the warmest, most tenaciously loyal and supportive individuals I know. And they're smart.

 (There. That makes up for points 1-9, right? Don'tbemadatmemomandlisa - you both told me to always be honest-)


Don't get me wrong, I adore my mother oodles. And I adore Lisa oodles. And in many important ways, they are NOT the same...

But does this mean that if straight girls end up mating with men who remind them of their fathers, un-straight girls end up with women who remind them of their mothers?