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.

Lesbian Lessons: What I've learned from The L Word

Last week I got sick. The pathetic kind of sick, with geysers of phlegm and snot. I spent days lying on the couch, shivering, wheezing and snivelling tragically as I planned the musical selections and gluten free finger food menu for the tasteful wake that would follow my imminent tragic demise.

During breaks from cat-training tutorials like this one on how to toilet train your cat, 

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5gra7QAEkE)

and watching videos of amazingly talented (and not so amazingly talented) individuals on youtube, 

I did some research.

About the lesbians.

I had a three day long L Word marathon. All six loooong seasons. (if you live under a rock, or on Saltspring without a television or internet connection, it's a TV show, about gay women and their drama-filled exploits)

At first it was fun. It was racy and light and had lots of loud lesbian action that had me blushing and scrambling for the mute button every time my roommate walked past the living room. And, like every other not-completely-straight female in the universe, I developed an immediate crush on Katherine Moennig.

Yep...mmhmmm. imagepoachedfromsweetandtalented.comyouronlinesourceforcelebrityphotoswhichmaybesubjecttocopyright.

But then I realized that something wasn't quite right. Somewhere between seasons two and four, I realized that I am not a very good lesbian. I haven't been following the rules for lesbians as set forth in The L Word.

Some memos I've missed until now:

(thank goodness The L Word set me straight...erm, well, not strAIght exactly)

A: All lesbians are hot. And all chicks who are hot are lesbians, whether they know/admit it or not. According to L-universe, un-hot lesbians are not a thing.

B: I should be femme and wear more mascara or butch and toss my mascara out for good. None of this namby-pamby waffling. I have to pick.

C: Lesbians have all slept with all the other lesbians. Therefore, I must systematically sleep with all my friends. Apparently, there is no such thing as a monogamous lesbian relationship.

D: I should party more. Lesbians party a lot. There were hardly any scenes where lesbians cuddled on the couch in sweatpants eating almond-butter cups and drinking tea with the cats. That must mean I'm doing this whole gay thing wrong.

E: My hair sucks. I need cooler friends. Friends who are talented with scissors. And since we'll have slept together they'll do my hair for free.

F: I should immediately go and find an African sperm donor. Chocolate babies are the shade of choice for lesbian couples.

G: Now that I'm a lesbian, I'll become wildly successful. All lesbians in the L Word are rich, or at least can quickly become rich by sleeping with another rich lesbian.

I'm all about self-improvement, and now I have a whole list of things to work on. I know that I missed the L word boat by a few years, but I feel my education is now complete. I blame my parents for not having wireless or cable, and university for distracting me from the television (except for that fuzzy period in first year where I was seduced by the boob tube in the corner of the common room...but I digress)

There are so many things I might never have known if I hadn't gotten sick, and hadn't watched The L Word until my eyes stung and watered from screen-staring.

Now I can be a proper gay.

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.