How the Vet Stole Christmas

This is an old post. I wrote it a month and a bit ago. I am putting it on the interwebs now because I was too lazy to proofread, but too much of a perfectionist to post it before I proofread.

How the Vet Stole Christmas: 

I had to wait a few weeks before writing this post, because it was all too fresh. It wasn't funny yet. But I think I'm ready now.

Lisa has been gone four weeks. Because the Navy is specifically designed for anal-retentive competitive people like Lisa, she is actually enjoying all the unpleasantness the Navy inflicts on candidates. It sounds pretty terrible to me, but I suppose this is why I am the Navy Wife. I get emotional when I'm sleep deprived, and I'm sure I would have been sent home from training after less than twenty four hours.

I am settling into a routine on my own, which mostly revolves around cat feeding/playing/sleeping times, as explained in my post about Lisa's Colorado trip.

I love Lisa a lot. And I want to keep her happy. And it would make her very UNhappy if I killed one of her feline children. It's a lot of pressure.

General Observation: many lesbians are a little weird about their pets. I have yet to meet a gay animal mommy that wasn't in a slightly atypical codependent relationship with their fur babies.

Let me start off by saying being a single mom is hard. Props to those who manage it with real live human babies and successfully keep them alive.

I don't think I can be one of those people.

I almost killed Marvin.

Well, actually, he tried to commit suicide because I left home for too long.

I work Wednesday evenings, and then am home for nineish hours before heading to work again Thursday morning. I like this arrangement, because it allows me to cram all the work into a condensed time frame on those days, and leaves lots of time for origami and runs and coffee shops and baking.

(Incidentally, my freezer is full of baking because there's no one around to eat it and I consistently over-estimate my cookie-eating capacity. I had to toss some cupcakes I'd frozen to make room for more cat meat. It was a sad day)

Anyways, on those two days, the kitties are alone more than they think is ideal. And Marvin comes up with new and exciting ways to induce vomiting and/or diarrhea. Tinkle is a good kitty, and remains content with angry pooping in my shoes or on my pillow when I leave for too long. Not Marvin. He rifles through cupboards, climbs on top of fridges and snoops under the bed, looking for all the things he shouldn't be putting in his mouth.

That fateful Thursday I came home to a decidedly lethargic Marvin. I am ashamed to admit I was happy he was so quiet, and thanked a benevolent higher power for a silent kitty. For about half an hour. Then I went into the kitchen to feed them, and immediately noticed the letter I'd left on the counter was gone.

 It was a letter to Lisa, containing a baggie of iron supplements that she had requested I send. I found the letter shoved behind the juicer, the envelope and baggie ripped open and covered in cat hair and drool.

The baggie was empty.

I swore.

And immediately started Googling.

The all-knowing internet said I had killed him. He was for sure a goner.

I started hysterically crying while I shakily dialed the vet's office, explaining through sobs that I had poisoned my fiancee's fur baby.

While I was on the phone, said feline started sprinting around the living room, yowling as he projectile vomited on walls, floor, couch and coffee table.

I didn't know cats could projectile vomit. It was simultaneously horrific and fascinating.

And then Tinkle tried to eat it.

While I cursed the cats, Lisa and the universe in general, I followed the Marvin the Magical Vomit Fountain around on my hands and knees, sloshing water and soap on everything.

Suzanne rescued me from my soggy living room and drove us to the vet. She was laughing. I was not.

After 30 minutes and a quick visit with the vet tech, I was told to go home, and give him lots of fluid and things that would speed the iron through his system.

So began forty eight hours of obsessively syringing water, meat, psyllium husk, pumpkin and spirulina slurry into Marvin every hour on the hour. Yes, I made him a high-fibre cat smoothie.

I set my phone alarm through the night to make sure he was still breathing.

Those two days were a dark time. It was kind of like being in charge of someone else's extremely ill and hideously hairy newborn.

He was fine. A little dopey, but fine.

I was a nervous wreck.

On Saturday, he was still fine. But I continued to Google cat iron overdoses, and stumbled across a new article. This all-knowing-web-forum-contributing veterinarian told me that cats with iron poisoning will seem to get better, only to deteriorate and die over a period of weeks or months.

I concluded that because his condition seemed to be steadily improving, Marvin was probably going to die.

Marvin on his death bed

So, sleep deprived and suffering from internet-induced heart palpitations, I took him to another vet.

Four hundred dollars and several hours later, he said that Marvin was fine. A very healthy elderly kitty, in fact.

So Lisa will receive three sheets of blood work results, and a brand new cat insurance policy as her main presents for Christmas. (Surprise, Honey! You're welcome) Instead of chocolate and expensive knick knacks, I will fill her stocking with origami and cat fur puppets felted by yours truly.

I have learned two things from this whole experience:

Firstly, I need an adult to deal with crisis situations. I am lucky to know some grown-ups in Newfoundland now, and was very very thankful for all of them. Especially the ones willing to talk me down from the ledge in the middle of the night. (Well, it was actually Marvin I was dangling over the ledge) And the ones willing to drive me to the vet at an ungodly hour on their day off.

Secondly (and most importantly) Google is not a veterinarian.

Homos Getting Hitched

Since my post on Macklemore, I decided to take a break from my blog to let the controversy die down...Okay. Full disclosure: there were only two hecklers, and I'm pretty sure they only read the first three paragraphs.

Still. I was Controversial. People I didn't even know were fired up! They were passionate! They might not have agreed with me, but they were thinking, they were talking, they were engaging with LGBT issues! Mission accomplished!

God, I'm a dork.

Oh, well.

There have been so many major changes in my life over the past couple of months. It has been awesomely overwhelming and I haven’t been able to stop for long enough to sort out my thoughts.

Lisa bids farewell to her training partner, Signal Hill.

Many of you will know that Lisa has joined the Navy. For the next four months, she is in Quebec doing her Basic Military Qualifications. As far as I can tell, this involves lots of push-ups and cleaning and marching and very little sleep. 

Of course, Lisa is enjoying the challenge immensely. The Forces are designed for anal-retentive competitive people like Lisa, and she is tired but thriving under the pressure.

While Lisa is training, I am staying in St. John's, working and living on my own for the first time (about time, right?) I was fairly certain last winter that I would NOT be spending another winter here. I hated the cold, and the wind, and the sogginess. It's wet here like BC, only slushier.

I prepare for a winter alone in St. John's.

So it is ironic that I will be spending the winter here in St. John's, caring for my feline step-offspring and playing housewife while Lisa is in Quebec. I was only  here because Lisa had some harebrained romantic ideas about Newfoundland, and I had some harebrained romantic ideas about Lisa.

But it is temporary, and there are some wonderful people here, and I will get lots of knitting/crafting done.

The weather in St. John's has begun to change. Yesterday was truly horrifically wet and chilly.

And with the change in the weather, ALL the ladies are pulling on oversized toques, cozy plaid shirts, blundstones and hoodies. As a consequence, my gaydar is going haywire. Everyone looks like a lesbian. Just when I thought I was nailing the whole Identify-A-Gay thing.

This morning on my walk to the gym there were a few brave snowflakes falling, and despite the fact that I will soon be cursing the snow, I couldn't help myself. I got a little thrill of excitement. In a few months, I will be a lot less excited when it snows on top of the slush on top of the ice on top of the mud, but today, my inner five year old couldn't wait to pull on her winter boots and build a snowperson.

I did a little snow dance in front of the Basilica, hedging my bets by combining solemn prayer with pagan ritual. Actually, I may have made that up, my knowledge of pagan history is pretty limited, and probably doesn't involve snow dances. In any case, now that the Pope approves of homos (well, not approves, but at least doesn't condone active homo-hating) I feel almost warm and fuzzy about the Catholic church.

Maybe those warm fuzzy feelings are also partly because I almost got engaged in the Catholic church during mass.

A week before she left, Lisa asked me to marry her. Since we had already sworn an oath about our relationship in front of a Navy lawyer, I guess making it official was the logical next step. 

Either that or Lisa got sick of me channelling Beyonce at every opportunity.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uycrNZEWRsk

(To be entirely accurate, she probably got sick of me channelling Justin Timberlake channelling Beyonce, because that's who I look more like when I dance around in a leotard singing "Single Ladies". I FEEL like Beyonce, but have been told I LOOK like JT's parody of Beyonce. Whatever. Haters gonna hate.)

In any case, whether it was my dancing skills or pressure from the Canadian Forces, Lisa decided she had better put a ring on it.

It's shiny and I can't break it and has a spinny thing on it I can play with. 

In true Lisa fashion, she proposed at the moment I least expected her to. 

Back story: Lisa has spent the past three months trying to convince me she had no desire to EVER get married. She said it was dumb, it was cliché, it was too soon, why should we follow conventions set by heteronormative/ patriarchal societal structures… blahblahblah feminism 101 lecture etc. 

She actually almost had ME convinced that getting married was a terribly gauche thing to do. And I've wanted to get married since I was three. 

The Sunday before Lisa flew to Quebec, I was sick. I had a sinus cold. Despite this, Lisa made me get up and go to mass with her. Now, mass is not something we DO in our household. But she made a bit of a stink about how important it was to her that we attend mass in the Basilica before she left Newfoundland.

Lisa and I have a rule to solve disputes. It's a ranking scale. We each have to (completely honestly and openly) rank how important it is for us to get our way in a particular argument. On a scale between 1 and 10. (I think it works because ultimately we love each other, and we know if we're not honest it will seem asshole-ish and dumb to consistently claim our needs/wants are most important) Ranking also makes it concrete, and forces us both to openly acknowledge just how selfish we are feeling that day. 

She claimed it was 10 important to her that we both go to mass. Unfortunately, it was only 9 important to me that we didn't go. 

So I pouted and whined, but I got dressed and went. 

The Basilica is amazingly beautiful. 

This is what wikipedia says the Basilica looks like. It's lovelier in real life. 

Mass was actually nice. Solemn and spiritual and nobody made me eat the weird cracker I was dreading. I'm pretty sure that it can't be gluten free. Despite my apprehension, nobody talked about stoning the gays, or even looked at us funny. It was all about love and forgiveness and being a good person and helping others. All stuff I can get behind. The priest had the kind of voice that cures insomnia, and I got lost in my own head for a while.

I used my space-out time to examine my own conflicted feelings about organized religion. I thought about how I judge certain religious groups while simultaneously condemning those people for judging me, and reflected on the problems that perpetuates. 

It was a worthwhile hour for me, although I admit I was distracted, because Lisa was being a weirdo. She was alternately teary and giggly and kept making me get up and change pews if anyone sat near us. I began to wonder if this was a typical lesbian meets Catholic church reaction. Honestly, she was freaking me out. I thought maybe she needed cheering up.

So to lighten the mood, I whispered "You're being weird. If you were thinking of proposing in the Catholic church during mass, your timing and choice of venue would suck". 

I honestly had no idea there was a ring in her pocket and she was about to pop the question. Actually. She went kind of pale and laughed a little too loudly. In hindsight, I should have known. But I am the least perceptive person in the universe, and Lisa is often strange. So I suspected nothing. 

At eleven o’clock that night I was in my pajamas, still sick. I hadn’t bathed in three days, I’d eaten a garlicky dinner, I was mouth-breathing heavily from congestion.

Clearly, I was at my most irresistible .

The two of us were sitting on the couch reading through the endless list of stuff Lisa was supposed to be able to do at her Basic Military training. She got to the section about sit-ups and of course, started obsessing a little. Apparently, despite my need for snuggles, tea and bed, she NEEDed to test herself to make sure she could do the required 30 sit ups quickly enough and with proper form.

So I kneeled on her feet while she did them. And because we have a healthily competitive relationship, I got all fired up and when she finished, I said, “I bet I can do more”.

So we switched positions. After about five I wanted to quit. But I wanted to win more than I wanted to quit, and I did three more sit ups than her. Ha! I almost killed myself and she was barely out of breath when she finished, but I did three more.

As I collapsed back on the rug, breathing heavily and revelling in my victory, Lisa observed me quietly with a thoughtful expression.

 I assumed she was sullen because I had beaten her, or having feelings because she's a lesbian (and they have lots of feelings) and prepared to chastise her for being a sore loser and/or offer her a tissue. But before I could respond, Lisa took something out of her pocket and laid it on my chest.

 It was a hand-stitched leather box made of recycled scraps.

Initially, I thought the box was the present. I picked it up and said earnestly, “Wow… that’s really cool, Honey. Is it my prize for winning at sit ups?”

She started to get all glisten-y eyed and quietly said, “No, you have to open it”.

At this point, I assumed the contents would be a treasure Lisa had found. A heart shaped rock or a double pine cone. Or a drawing of a volcano. Something symbolizing her feelings for me.

I opened it, realized it was a ring, and said “That’s pretty. What’s it for?”

Tearily, she started a long Lisa-speech touching on an astonishing variety of mushy topics. Slowly, it dawned on me that she was proposing.

I catch on quickly. 

She then rolled her soggy eyeballs and said, "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" I nodded, and made her get down on one knee. Her eyes dribbled as she said "Miranda-Jean, will you marry me?" My nose dribbled (from my cold) as I said "Yes". 

And then she peeled my grapefruit for me and rubbed my sinuses while we drank tea and watched Criminal Minds. And then we each carried a cat up the stairs to bed. It was a perfect lesbian marriage proposal. 

Our compatibility is immediately evident. 

COMING IN THE NEAR FUTURE: How I Almost Killed The Step-Cat or Homo Gives the Vet Our Christmas Fund

Mackle-less Please?

Nobody called me a Faggot this week. So I'm back to writing fluff about fluff. 

I have a bit of imposter syndrome from last week's blog post. Most of my life does not involve advocating for the LGBTQ community. That’s not to say I don’t WANT to be an advocate…

It's just that I am not necessarily informed about many LGBTQ concerns until I encounter them firsthand. And it's surprising and fun that people are even interested in my point of view. 

Generally speaking, my realm of queer experience is kind of puny. I’m still largely preoccupied with figuring out how to get my Bieber bangs to do that swoopy thing (Oh Tegan and Sara, why don’t I know your stylist??? It’s an unjust world).

And being gay FEELS the same as being straight. So I forget I’m unstraight all the time. 

When I was in a heterosexual relationship, my sexuality was an itty bitty inconsequential part of my identity. I didn't re-realize multiple times a day that I was...whoa...with a MAN. 

But now that my partner is a woman, the outside world forces me to regularly re-out myself. I'm startled into acknowledging my gayness by the reactions of others many times a day. As a consequence, it has been difficult not to mistake my sexual identity for my entire identity. 

And here’s the secret… my gay life eerily resembles my previous straight life. 

I go to work, I go to the gym, I come home, I write letters, I juice things, I make food, I eat food, I clean, I watch movies, I play scrabble, I juice things, I convince Marvin that my face is not a cat bed. And I juice things. (Ask me about my new juicer, I dare you.) I can most often be found on the living room carpet, listening to Bryan Adams while folding origami sharks, drinking cucumber-spinach-apple-ginger-mysteryfridgevegetableend juice, double-fisting kale, pondering the merits of various running shoes and Google image-searching gluten free cinnamon buns. 

Those of you who have known me a long time know that my patterns of behaviour are not really evolving.

And these aspects of daily life have nothing to do with the gay (Although my new juicer is *FABUlouuuuussSSSSSS!!!*).

But lately, my running shoe pondering time has been encroached upon by thoughts of Macklemore. 

Yes, “Same Love”. 

Everyone I’ve talked to about Macklemore thinks I SHOULD love this song. Because I am in a same-sex relationship. At the gym, I swear on my last tofu strip they put this song on EVERY time I start my workout. As Lisa and I exit the changeroom, nine times out of ten it is to a “Same Love” soundtrack. Sheesh. They all KNOW a she keeps me warm, buddy behind the counter, or at least suspect it. I know the poor kids working there are just trying to follow Goodlife policy and make sure Every Body (even my gay body) feels welcome.

I am excited that a song about homosexuality has been so successful in the mainstream media. Initially I liked “Same Love.” I even mentioned it in a blog post after my brother sent me the youtube link. 

I think Macklemore is sharing SUCH an important message. He has a gay uncle (go gay Uncle!), and he wants to help remove homophobic lingo from the hip-hop genre. 

That's an entirely admirable goal. I'm not criticizing that. 

I am, however, criticizing this coat.

And it is unbelievably cool to see homo issues and marriage equality thrust into mainstream discussion. 

It's a kind of positivity brainwashing, and I can get behind that.

I know all this, so I feel like an asshole. Because I GET that it’s supportive. It’s a ra-ra Go Gaymos anthem. How amazing! Right? Right?

Nope. I still feel that I'm being coersed into liking The Gay Song. 

It's like cilantro. I know it's good for my liver, I know it absorbs heavy metal deposits, I know I should like it. But I just don't. 'Same Love" makes me feel the same way. I would rather lick Marvin's eyeball than listen to Macklemore sing about how he mistakenly thought he was a homo in third grade one more time.

Partially, I dislike this song because I’ve heard it approximately seven billion and fifty three times, and have every single lyrical gem permanently inscribed on my brain. It’s invasive. If I memorize a song, it should be intentional, goshdarnit.

But another aspect of this song make me feel conflicted.

My problem boils down to this: I can’t help but feel that a straight dude is capitalizing from playing the homo card.

After all, "Same Love"  employs the best marketing ploy ever… it's truly genius!

In our evolving society, people will rarely openly admit they don't support the LGBTQ community. So everyone has to claim to love “Same Love”. It’s The Gay song. If people admit they DON’t love The Gay Song, they risk appearing homophobic.

In the most extreme view, it's a threat...“Listen to our song, and talk about our song and how much you love our song, or you COULD be branded a discriminating hate-crime doing homo-hating slur-slinging bigot”.

Within mainstream media, Macklemore is perceived as an advocate for the gay community, and he’s not a gay. Maybe that's okay. We need vocal Allies. After all, it's not an "Us" and "Them". It's a "We".

And I AM mindful of that. 

But I can’t help but feel that Macklemore is an opportunist, and that makes me indignant. He is not a member of the community he advocates for (intentionally or otherwise). Macklemore has never experienced homophobia firsthand. That doesn't mean he can't write a song about equality, sure.

But I wish there were more mainstream successful LGBTQ artists introducing issues they have encountered firsthand. (Tegan and Sara have awesome hair, but they don't count. Say what you will, they sound the same as everyone else now, and their whiny snivelling about sexy time problems doesn't exactly positively influence people's views on homosexuality.)

"Same Love" sends a wonderful message, but it simultaneously highlights the fact that many people aren't ready for the LGBTQ community to self-advocate in mainstream forums. It sends the message that homosexuality is okay, but only because a straight guy who doesn't identify with any minority group tells us it is. 

 I’m not the first to notice the potentially problematic nature of a heterosexual man advocating for the gay community. It comes down to this: A hetero dude and an utterly unintimidating femme-y lesbian (albeit a reasonably talented one, I'm not hating on Mary Lambert, since it's really not her song anyways) are the best gay advocates we can find...really?

"Same Love" is HoMo LiTe. The censored, airbrushed, la-la-la Febreezed version.

I know I shouldn't hate the player. It's the game that needs changing. Macklemore himself is just doing what his agents (and popular culture) want to see.  I don't need a rich straight dude with a dyke-y haircut to tell me that GAY IS OKAY (and make a bazillion dollars doing it). 

I am impatient for our world to be at a place where nobody does, and his tunes are judged solely on musical merit. 

I know we'll get there eventually, but I am impatient. 

 I can't wait until the day when Mary Lambert gets to sing a gay song with a couple of super butchy backup dancers, while Macklemore sings a falsetto bridge in drag. 

Then I'll listen.

Unrelated note on “Same Love”:

Lisa and I have talked about this a lot.

“I can’t change, even if I wanted to, even if I tried”….I call bullshit. A little bit, anyways.

To claim an inability to change is to ignore the power of individual choice. We are all accountable for the way we live. My sexuality has shifted many times in my life, and will likely continue to evolve. It takes courage to be honest with yourself. And to decide to be open. A side effect of this honesty: I HAVE changed.  

I understand that many people will disagree with me on this. But speaking personally, I have not chosen to be with a woman because I was born gay and can’t change. I have chosen to be with a woman because I have decided to live my life as honestly and openly as possible. And I met a wonderful individual who also happened to be female.

Yup, that's the one!

And no, I don’t think that all women are sexually attracted to other women or that all men are attracted to other men. But I am sure that many more are than will admit to it. And I DO think that we choose whether to be courageous and act according to our current truth. Many choose not to.

We always have a choice in our follow through. People choose to act or not act on their attraction to other people. Being with another person romantically is a conscious decision.

Many factors influence who we find attractive, and our genetic makeup is only a small piece of the puzzle.

I hope I always choose to honestly examine my desires, and to act on my attraction to fantastic people, rather than their body parts. 

Whether or not those attractions fit within the parameters of my current sexual label. Whether or not it takes changing that label to continue living my truth.

Hey! Lesbians! Hoorah!

A few weeks ago, during Pride, a friend asked me why we still need to celebrate Pride. This wonderful human said that everyone she knows lovingly accepts LGBTQ folks, and welcomes us into their lives and communities. And there ARE so many amazing, supportive heterosexual allies out there. I understand how it might seem redundant to celebrate sexual minorities, since so many are incredible advocates for diversity.

It is true that most of my queer friends don’t regularly experience overt displays of homophobia, but every single one I’ve spoken with has at some point encountered some form of discrimination or harassment.

Last night, Lisa and I were on our way to our first ever St. John’s Dyke Dance. We were meeting up with a good crew of people beforehand, and were both looking forward to our evening out. As we walked down the street together, a car full of young intoxicated men drove past us. As they sped by us, one leaned his head and shoulders out the window and shouted “FAGGOTS!!”.

We heard the others laughing hysterically over the blaring bass as they drove away. Lisa and I stopped and stared after the vehicle in disbelief.

My initial reaction was to their word choice. Faggots? A “faggot” is a derogatory term used to describe a homosexual MALE. I’m certain neither Lisa nor myself fit this category (obviously the perpetrator’s queer education was spotty at best).

 Before either of us had time to process what had just happened, another car approached.

This was the kicker.

Less than thirty seconds later. A car full of young women drove by, and at least two of them screamed “LESBIANS!” at us, with an “F*ing” thrown in for good measure.

What they were saying is 100% true. It is a fact. We are lesbians. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

But I still don’t think those ladies deserve gold star stickers.

Because this wasn’t a “Hey! Lesbians! Hoorah!”.

 Twice, in less than a minute. Honestly, I was shocked. This was a main road through downtown St. John’s. Minutes from our home.

Lisa and I WEREN’T EVEN TOUCHING each other. We were walking down the street. At nine P.M. With at least a metre between us.

What hit me the most was how much hate was packed into those two moments. And it was the first time that brand of fear and hatred was blatantly directed at me.

Lisa looked at me sadly and said “Welcome to the club, Baby”.

It’s a club I don’t want to be a part of. And I don’t want anyone else to have to be part of it either.

Those two carloads were drunk, closed-minded, confused and insecure young people trying to impress their buddies. I was able to view them as such, with a little reminder from someone older and wiser (Lisa). I was able to shrug it off and go on to have a fantastic evening full of dancing and friends and fun. But I'm lucky. I have a wonderfully supportive family and friends and work environment. I have reached an age where I am not ashamed to honestly, openly and unapologetically express my individuality. I think it’s safe to say those two homophobic displays won’t have any lasting effects on my self-perception. I’m pretty okay with who I am, even as a Faggoty Fucking Lesbian.

While those goons haven’t damaged my psyche, people like that DO affect my behaviour. I don’t want to invite negative attention. As a result, I never kiss Lisa in public, even on the cheek, or hug her, without first looking around to see who might be watching. “I love you” is said quietly and quickly. When we hold hands, I reflexively steel myself against the inevitable catcalls and stares.

Alcohol removes inhibitions. Those two cars of young people more than likely wouldn’t have tossed out homophobic slurs if they were sober, or would have had to face us afterwards, but they still would have been thinking it. And that’s where the problem lies. Even when they’re not expressing hate verbally, they’re thinking it.

I’m not the first to say it, but it bears repeating:

Tolerance is not acceptance.

My choice in who I love is not something other people should have to endure.

 Who I sleep with, who I live with, who I build a life with, is no one’s business but mine. No one, barring myself and my partner, gets to have an opinion.

After all, I didn’t follow those same folks to the bar and dictate which new drunk buddy should share their bed. It’s not my bits they’re gonna diddle. So I don’t get to say anything. See how that works?

Until diversity is the norm, accepted and welcomed, all of us still have work to do. Those young people hurling insults from car windows were recently children, and children learn how to move through the world from the adults in their lives. Someone taught those young men and women to fear and hate difference.

I know that I’m preaching to the choir with this blog post. But I’m also guessing that most of us have silent (or not-so-silent) homophobes in our lives. Maybe they’re not yelling at gay folks from their car windows, but they’re still cracking gay jokes and they’re definitely not self-identifying as Allies.

They’re the people who give us too much room as they pass on the sidewalk. They’re the folks giving us dirty looks when we sneak a kiss at the movie theatre. They’re the ones pulling their children closer when I smile at them. They’re the family members who call our partners our “friends”, thereby refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy and equality of our love. And these are the people we need to encourage into discussing issues of equality. 

Even if that makes them uncomfortable. ESPECIALLY if that makes them uncomfortable. Because these are the people teaching their children that being different is being less. 

And that’s just not legit.

We still need Pride. We still need an opportunity to celebrate diversity and equality, and bring LGBTQ issues to the forefront. We still need to encourage allies to voice their support. We still need to teach the next generation a message of acceptance.

Until gay men can donate blood. Until trans* folks can use whichever bathroom they prefer without discussion. Until sexual minorities are no longer targets of hate crimes. Until Lisa and I can have a destination wedding wherever we choose.

Until it’s not a thing anymore, it’s still a thing.

We’ve come a long way, baby, but we’re not there yet. 

Homo Alone

The weather has been warm in St. John's for the past couple of months, and I have been slacking on the blog front. Or the doing anything productive front. The humidity here makes my brain feel water-logged, so I've been trying not to use it.

Work has been ridiculously busy and hot. It's like trying to cook in a sauna, with a layer of slippery sog coating everything. I think any customer who complains about slow service during a heat wave should have to come and spend a five minute time-out in the kitchen, sitting in front of the open oven door.

This past week and a half I've had a lot of spare time, since Lisa is on an adventure. She's in Colorado, running the Transrockies 6 race. While she runs/hobbles up and down mountains, I am home alone. Well, nearly alone. Tinkle and Marvin didn't accompany their mother to Colorado, so I am sole cat caretaker.

Lisa has a very special relationship with her pets, and I know I need to honour this. Sometimes, it is hard.

The responsibilities are extensive. They include, but are not limited to:

Cat guardian duties include becoming intoxicated and feeding Marvin peanut butter toast at 3 a.m. 

1. Supervising the kitty banquet (twice a day). This involves preparing a grotesque mixture of different raw animal trimmings, nutritional yeast and various medications for elderly diabetic kitties with bowel issues. For a vegan duo, we sure have a lot of meat in our freezer.

The best part is the three times a week when the cats eat quail for dinner. Of course Lisa feeds her cats quail, right? While Lisa is away, I am tasked with chopping a whole quail in equal halves every other day. My brother would be proud.

A whole quail looks a lot like a miniature human, and sawing through bone and skin with a bread knife makes me throw up in my mouth a little. I am a germaphobe, and dealing with raw meat means a lot of extra stress, and a lot of extra disinfecting.

This seriously pervy quail image was poached (haha...see what I did there) from this guy's blog: http://www.scottedelman.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/CookedQuail.jpg.
I used someone else's photo because our freezer is currently quail-less. I chopped the last one in half yesterday.

It's better if Lisa just deals with the animal bits when I'm not in the room. I  then try not to think too hard about which surfaces may have meat juice contaminants on them (the answer is all of them, including the floor and the top of the fridge).

2. Playing with the felines in very specific ways. One game that must be played at least twice a day involves crumpling up dozens of pieces of paper, and flicking them at the cats (actually, this part I kind of enjoy). The cats then pounce and attack them. Fun for everyone, right?

Unless I do it wrong. If I don't flick the balls hard enough, Marvin ignores them. Instead, he will pretend Tinkle is a ball of paper, attacking her from around corners and jumping on top of her as she passes under his perch. I then have to risk being clawed/ bitten in the jugular/eyeball to keep mother and son from de-limbing one another.

And after one of these episodes, I have to vaccuum up the pulled-out cat hair chunks.

3. The kitties must have supervised backyard playtime daily, or Marvin will keep me awake yowling all night.

 Really? All that fuss at the door, just to do THIS? I would like to point out, this is exactly what he was doing inside. 

The problem with backyard playtime is that Marvin has discovered how to escape. I have rigged up several (so far unsuccessful) contraptions designed to contain him. It is a game that I have lost three evenings in a row. Which means I end up jogging around the neighbourhood in my pajamas, shaking the yogurt container full of kitty treats, shouting,

"MARRRRVVVVINN....Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...Lisa's going to kill me... MAAAAAARrrrrvIIIIIInnnn....you little fucker, where are you hiding... I'm going to skin you and make a tiny, ugly accent rug.... Who's a good boy??....come on, MARRRRRvin...."

Fact: The neighbours think the lesbians next door are insane.


4. The kitties must have constant human fur-to-skin contact, or they follow me from room to room, whining. It's like having a pair of furry toddlers that make me sneeze. And if they don't get enough love, they deposit angry little poop nugget surprises in secret hiding places (like on my favourite Birkenstocks). So to discourage fecal punishment, I'll pat them regularly, and let them sit with me on the couch after dinner. However, I am NOT a fan of kitty co-sleeping.

The first night Lisa was away, I was lonely, and had a moment of weakness. I let the cats sleep with me. They are less-than-ideal bed buddies.

Tinkle is a bed hog.

Tinkle: "MY couch! MINE! Thou shalt not sit here!"

Marvin is a genuine kitty asshole of a sleeping partner.

Instead of lying nicely on the bed purring, he decided to punish me (I'm still working out which offense I was being punished for). He waited until I was nearly asleep, crawled up to my neck, yawned carcass breath up my nostrils, and proceeded to whack my face (hard) with his paw (using fully extended claws, naturally).

He did this three times in a row (I am a slow learner, and was in a forgiving mood), holding off each time until I started to snooze.

Marv is two inches from my face. His breath reeks and I'm allergic to him so my eyes itch and he's drooling...
but I'm not allowed to move or he'll hit me.

The third time, I picked him up, tossed him out the door (Lisa: I tossed him ever so tenderly, I promise) and went back to sleep. Until 5:30 am, when dear ol' Marv decided it was feeding time. Only a glass of water (upturned on his head) could convince him otherwise.

Despite all of these things, I feel that the cats and I have reached an understanding. Basically, that understanding is that they will do whatever they want to do, and I will do whatever they want me to do. And then I am rewarded with drooly cat kisses, and forced snuggles.

I am looking forward to Lisa's return tomorrow.

Also, I guess this would be the wrong time to mention we're looking for a cat-sitter for two weeks over Christmas. Any volunteers?

Athletic Update:

Lisa did an amazing job soldiering on through the pain during the first four days of the Transrockies Run. She has an IT band/quad issue though, and was forced to sit out the last two legs of the race, since even walking was painful. I am so proud of her for listening to her body. I fully expected her to return in a wheelchair, so the fact that she's still upright (as far as I know) is a bonus.

She's already talking about next year's Transrockies race. Sheesh.

Lisa also cheerfully announced a couple of days before she left for Colorado that she has signed us BOTH up for the Cape to Cabot race in October. It's only a half marathon distance, but with BIG HILLS. I'm going to die.

Homo goes to Spin Class

It's been over a month since I've blogged. I have many reasons. Mostly I've been busy with stuff:

1. Working, which involves feeding people and trying not to panic and burn myself on the oven door when it gets busy.

2. Moving (a five minute walk from our last place), which has involved shuffling Lisa's countless Rubbermaid containers from room to room between heated discussions about closet space and the (in)appropriate placement of cat paraphernalia.

Our new abode, which we have yet to name, currently houses roughly 150 pairs of shoes, 2 cats, and approximately 0 kitchen tables or chairs...clearly these lesbians have their priorities straight.

3. Various athletic activities. Lisa's big Colorado run adventure (The Transrockies) is coming up in sixish? weeks and she's been running. Pretty much all the time. So if I want to see her ever it has to be either at the gym or on one of her runs.

I like to run, but I stubbornly (and wrongly, according to Lisa) believe that running should be an enjoyable leisure activity. We still run together sometimes, but I refuse to keep running if something hurts/it isn't fun anymore/I see something shiny, and Lisa can't appreciate this lack of commitment.

If Lisa's leg fell off on a trail somewhere she'd probably shrug, strap it to her hydration vest with an overly complicated lightweight bungee cord and continue down the path, hopping on her remaining leg.

I'm just not that hardcore. When it's rainy/windy/cold/might become rainy/windy/cold I don't want to run. I want to bake cookies, do yoga by the heater and watch Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares on Netflix. 

I don't usually get invited on runs anymore. And if I do, Lisa usually abandons me somewhere along the trail with a sandwich to pick flowers and fetches me two hours later.

I wave goodbye, as Lisa trots off into the distance. 

I am an amazing girlfriend who makes enormous batches of granola and gluten free cupcakes and tackles the mountains of compression gear in our laundry room, but I sort of suck as a training partner.

Except for spin class, which is actually turning out to be a successful joint venture (so far). I have committed to attending at least one spin class per week with my woman to be supportive. After all, it's only once a week, and it's an hour in a warm, dry building with unlimited water access.

Lisa is so enthusiastic about spin class that she attends four classes a week. This has more to do with the (straight) female instructor's eight pack, and less to do with spin class specifically. 

Our spin class dates started out on a rough note. The first time I attended a spin class I was slightly hungover. Since I rarely drink, I rarely have hangovers, and I handle them badly. I had been whimpering, moody, and sullen the whole morning, and Lisa was once again wishing she hadn't invited me for a workout. My head was pounding, my liver was aching. I wanted bed.

 I adjusted my bike wrong in the beginning, and the pedals weren't far enough away. The class had already started, and I couldn't figure out how to elegantly get my feet out of the straps. I spent the entire class trying not to hit my knees on my water bottle rack, trying not to vomit, and trying not to slip off my sweat-coated bike.

I barely survived. I wobbled out of the room and didn't move for the rest of the day. Afterwards, I couldn't sit comfortably for a week. I refused to change out of my sweatpants and walked like a cowboy. I have never experienced that level of crotch pain before.

There is nothing worse than vag chafing.

I swore never to return.

Fast forward to a week later, when Lisa made puppy dog eyes. When that didn't work, she begged, reasoned, bribed, pouted, asked and threatened. And in a moment of weakness, I caved.

I thought of shoving some sort of padding down my shorts. Lisa even cut out a crotch shaped piece of foam and offered to sew it into my compression shorts. But the breathability factor was a bit of an issue, and I wasn't willing to commit to having a bit of recycled mattress permanently attached to one of my favourite workout garments.

So in order to be fully prepared. I bought these babies. And figured out why a grown woman would be willing to walk around looking as though she's wearing a diaper.

The model is squishing the crotch pad flat between her legs, and has no muffin top.

These bike shorts do not look like this in real life. 

I have no shame. And no chafing.

I also discovered that I don't actually have to turn the gear knob every time the instructor does. I can pretend, and no one knows. As long as I touch the knob and then make the appropriate effort faces, Lisa and the instructor are satisfied.

In fact, I now look forward to spin class. I can use it as a convenient excuse to pass on Lisa's 30 km jaunts...

Me: "Yes, Lisa, I'd love to run thirty kilometers cliffside on rock-covered poorly maintained trails dodging hail and the occasional moose, but remember how I went to spin class with you on Sunday? I think I overworked my quads. I'm really disappointed that I can't come though...".

See what I did there?

Now she just sends me pictures on her runs.

Lisa runs in the snow.

This looks nice. I was sitting outside too. With a soy latte.

And I send her pictures while she's running...

Cookies are my activity of choice.

Spin class is a great compromise. We spend quality time together. The instructor gets one super enthusiastic class participant. Lisa gets to work out, ogle the instructor's muscles, and flirt. I get to peddle leisurely beside her, with two inches of foam protecting my cooch.

And then I get a Booster Juice reward. 

Everybody wins!

The Conversion: Homo-Virgins Go Gay.

Lovely lesbian ladies. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colours, with different clothes and fun accessories. There are femme-y ones in polka dots and not-so-femme-y ones in plaid and ones somewhere in between that like to wear yoga gear and mess with my gaydar. It's like a bag of Jelly Bellies. There's something fabulous in there for every homo.

Or so you'd think. You'd think that every single lesbian SHOULD be able to find their own special lesbian flower to U-Haul with after an inappropriately short period of time.

But some lesbians are picky.

These ones make a habit of ignoring all those other available out-and-proud rainbow-and-birkenstock-sporting gay ladies.

Like my wench. She is a special kind of lesbian. 

Lisa belongs to a sub group of lesbos I'm going to call The Converters. I've met a few of them lately.

These are lesbians that almost exclusively sleep with/date straight (or kinda straight) girls.

They hone in on their target. They wait patiently. They befriend them. They will take their target on innocent "friend" dates to places that involve as little clothing as possible. They wait for a moment of weakness, a crack in the hetero veneer...

Then they pounce.

I've seen it first-hand. THIS is the face (and usually the attire) a Converter will use.

"heyyy guuurrrrl...i seen you lookin at me. Damn you fine, wasssssuppp???"
It goes pretty much like that, anyways.

It's about the chase. It's about the win. It's about the thrill of the conquest, about charting un-mapped territory.

This is a THING. 

During a recent date night couch 'n' cat snuggle session, the woman and I were talking about the types of people we find attractive. Because we're lesbians, we like to talk about our feelings. This kind of navel-gazing often results in a weekly check-in/reassessment of where I feel I'm falling on the gay-straight spectrum that week...

I was spouting the old "I'm still attracted to the person as an individual, not really the extraneous stuff (genitalia)..." (partial truth). And then Lisa dropped the bomb...

"I'm not really attracted to lesbians".

My first thought was that my girlfriend was going back into the closet/showing signs of early onset dementia, but she went on to explain.

She told me (with her serious face on), that she doesn't really date lesbians most of the time. Most of her conquests were straight girls. WERE. STRAIGHT. Now they don't date boys. Most of them, anyways.

Lisa likes 'em untainted.

Fresh (or close enough) off the straight train. 

Like me.

Now don't get me wrong. I was curious about girls.  I've 'like' liked girls. I'd had monumental girl crushes from an early age. When I was nine years old, I would compulsively rewind the parts of Free Willy where Lori Petty was in a wetsuit or the parts where she got really angry.

The way she wore that wetsuit and her passion for marine life did funny things to my insides.  

so pensive. so much nipple.

Ifoundthispicturebygooglesearchingfreewillytrainer...therewerelotsofotherresultsaboutwilliesthatwerelesshotthanthis.
http://www.lazygirls.infowastthesiteistolethisfrom.

I'd even dated a few ladies. But my long relationships were with boys (I would say men, but that would be a stretch). Which I guess worked out in the long run, because apparently Lisa wouldn't have thrown a paper airplane at me if she'd thought I was a gay.

And then, Lisa went on to say that she'd only ever been turned down a couple of times. EVER. If I know Lisa, that is a couple of times out of lots of times. Probably a very small percentage.

Now this could mean one of two things:

1) The Converters prey on shy, sad, insecure people who just want to be loved and will cling to anyone who shows them affection, regardless of sex...

or

2) The straight chicks are less straight than they (and most of us) think.

Since I am neither insecure, sad, nor shy, and I fell for a Converter, we can rule out 1).


So it must be 2).

HUH.

Does this mean that all the hetero chicks are just waiting around for a lesbian to proposition them?

Maybe the L Word (and Westoboro Baptist Church) are right.

Lesbianism is contagious. All the straight chicks are just waiting for a Shane. 

Lock up yer daughters, lock up yer wife.

Like me, they will likely be the future unsuspecting victims of a predatory lesbian Converter.