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.

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.