Minus The Meat (Dontcha put it in your mouth)

It was time. I no longer reside in Newfoundland, and the term "Baby Dyke" has never really been an apt one to describe me. After all, the only trucker hats I own have been pilfered from Lisa's collection.

So. Baby Dyke Goes to Newfoundland has become Minus The Meat. 

It's a play on words...Geddit???

Sweeping Generalization Time: GAys Don't Eat Things. 

Just about every lesbian I know has SOMEthing they won't put in their mouths. A non-exhaustive list of Things the gays don't eat includes (but is by no means limited to): Gluten, Sugar, Lactose, Animals, Animal Products, Starches, Refined Things, GMO Things, Conventional non-organic Things, Plants from the nightshade family, Non Fair Trade Things, Things that feed Yeast, Things that Had to Fly Here on a Plane, Things Jillian Michaels tells us not to eat, etc, etc, etc.

This is what vegan glutards eat for lunch on BC Ferries. I look delighted with my "cheezy" bean chips 

Which leads us to...

Meaning # 1): 

Lisa and I follow a plant based diet, and I'd like to use this as a place to share occasional recipes for carnivores in my life who are making an effort to consume fewer animal products and asked for some inspiration. I like telling people what to do, and how to live, so I am more than happy to share my endless opinions on this subject without being interrupted. 

Disclaimer:

 I have no problem with people who have informed themselves on the statistics regarding factory farming, their bodies, the environment, and the abuse many farmed animals endure, and continue to consume animal products. That's their bag, and I can respect that.

I have hesitated the entire time I've been writing this blog to discuss the vegan thing. People get their panties in a twist when they feel criticized, and nothing gets people more excited/ up in arms than attempting to discuss food/ lifestyle choices. But I LIKE the idea of getting other people to drink the Vegan Kool-Aid.The environment, your body, and the 99% of farmed animals that reside on factory farms (yup, even organic meat does not equal environmentally friendly meat) thank you.

I don't eat meat and don't consume animal products for many reasons. My body feels better, my brain feels clearer, I get sick less. As an individual, statistically, the single easiest thing I could do to reduce my carbon footprint was to stop consuming animal products. As an environmentalist, I could do so much better in lots of areas. I still shower way too often, sometimes for twenty minutes plus... I still forget my reusable bags, and I forget to turn the heat off when I leave the house. I also love airplanes and travelling on them.

Basically, I'm lazy. And eating animal bits wasn't that important to me. So in the name of Lazy Environmental Activism, I became a Vegan.

And there are so many delicious alternatives.

Like this. You should make these. They're easy to make, and can't be screwed up (they even taste good if you burn 'em) They're a good post-workout snack, they pair well with hashbrowns and spicy kale stir fry for brunch, they're high in protein, they're gluten free, they go well with rice and veggies and almond butter dipping sauce for dinner... They're an all round solid choice.

Sesame Ginger Tofu Strips 

(The St. John's brunch crowd will have eaten these repeatedly)

Find these:

A block of pressed tofu. 
1/2 cup toasted sesame seeds
1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup bragg's liquid aminos
2 cloves garlic, minced
Thumb sized piece of ginger, grated (more if you're a ginger freak)

And then do this: 

-Preheat oven to 375
-Whisk the last four ingredients in a shallow dish
-Cut yer tofu into strips (thinner=crispier)
-Saturate yer tofu with the gingery-saucy mix (marinating overnight/for a few hours is ideal but not essential)
-Dredge saucy strips in sesame seeds, making a crust on both sides
-Pour extra sauce over top before baking or reserve as base for a spicy almond butter sauce or put em on steamed/stir fried kale... the possibilities!
-Bake on parchment/silicone lined tray for 20-30 mins (depends on how crispy you want them/how hungry you are)
-Eat them. If you're lazy like us but still want to dip them in something, chipotle vegenaise is delicious.

A block of tofu will usually feed two people, unless you're gross like us and can polish off a block of tofu each in one sitting.

If I bring these to a potluck, I arrange them on a bed of spicy steamed kale, with dipping sauce in a ramekin in the middle (I'll post this recipe next time)

Your tofu strips should look nothing like this. (Also note: Lisa's Black Eye, courtesy of Marvin)

In Conclusion, and while we're on the subject of Things Lesbians Will and Will Not Put in their Mouths...

Meaning # 2) Woman Gays don't like Man Meat.

There. I AM absolutely WiNNing at Blog Naming today.

Five Fun Facts about Fruity Friends

(Okay, I know "Fruity" isn't the mOSt p.c. term, but there aren't any other "F" words denoting homosexuality...other than "Faggoty" which somehow seems worse. I needed alliteration, so I went for it. You can flog me later)

Lisa is excited for Fun Fact time. Lisa LOVES Fun Facts. Fact.

ONE)

 When meeting a homo, it is unnecessary to prove how cool with their sexuality you are by talking about all your other AMAZINGLY WICKEDLY COOL gay acquaintances.

The devil in me is mildly amused at the scrambling that occurs when I reveal that my fiancee is female. But my kinder parts feel discomfort at causing embarrassment and confusion... and even for someone as well adjusted and supported as myself... there is the tiniest bit of shame that comes along with causing discomfort to other people. And that's the part I dislike.

The year is 2014. I will assume you're okay with the fact that I like lady bits unless you start hucking rocks and calling me a carpet muncher. In any case, unless I indicate that we should have an in depth convo about my sexuality, and we are becoming instant besties and telling each other all our dirty little secrets (it has been known to happen), we don't need to talk about the fact that your ex best friend's hairdresser was also gay! And you were TOTALLY! COOL! with that. Because they were AWESOME! (insert extra enthusiasm here).

Again, no enthusiasm necessary. I don't get overly psyched when talking about my best friend's straight mechanic.

TWO)

It is totally okay to say the words "gay" and "lesbian" in the presence of someone who is, in fact, gay or lesbian. Truth= Not Derogatory. The number of times someone has gone out of their way to butcher the English language/ sentence structure in order to avoid saying the word "lesbian" in front of/ about me since I came out is astounding. Calm Down, Sparky...Isss allll good. I won't be offended if you call me a lesbian... I am in a same sex relationship. It's a fair assumption to make. A refusal to employ correct terminology makes it seem like being gay, or being a lesbian, or being LGBTQ is somehow negative/ impolite to talk about.

If, that moment, day, or week, or month I am identifying more with a "queer" or "bisexual" label, I DO NOT expect other people to know that unless I am in self disclosure mode. And if I'm being a socially awkward verbally volcanic oversharer, I will probably need to be the one apologizing...

THREE)

All members of the LGBTQ community don't hang together on the daily. So, no. I don't know your lesbian friend Candace, or your transgender friend Steve (despite the fact that they both went on a weekend vacation once to the island where my parents live). I'm sure they're great, though, since you told me five times how AWESOME they are.

FOUR)

Straight men: Scissoring. Not a thing. Just for the record. Seriously, no one does it. Because it doesn't work. And it's too much effort. So you can stop wondering/ imagining.

FIVE)

To a select group of middle-aged straight women with teenage daughters (often the ones wearing khakis, hideous strappy sandals and pearls): Here is my promise. We're not checking out your daughter. She's fourteen, and Im not into that. Y'all can loosen up your death grip on her bony little shoulder... Statistically speaking, you should be far more concerned about the dude in the business suit standing next to you.

I smiled at her because I smile at many humans (and all pets). I am about as interested in your daughter as I am in that panhandler across the street's mangy dog (Actually, I'm probably more interested in Mangy Dog... Mangy Dog is sweet. In a scrawny, smelly, flea infested kind of way). You can stop glaring. It's ridiculous.

If I was heterosexual and your daughter was a son you wouldn't assume a grown woman would be lusting after your pimply adolescent while waiting for the light to change. I wasn't thinking it, and you were. Who's the pervy one now? (Hint: It's not me...)

I am making Cloe uncomfortable. One of my favourite activities. Family is Fun! Fact.

In other news... Last weekend was Victoria Pride. We went to the parade, although we almost forgot and my mom had to remind us (bad gays). We have been exclusively focused on Vancouver Pride (and trolling Value Village obsessively for our Dykes on Bikes costumes) and had forgotten about Pride in our backyard. We went. It was short. It was sweet. I took exactly three pictures. One is fuzzy. These are the other two.

Lisa eating Dykes on Bikes. There was no way to make that not sound dirty.

Where I got my Skillz

It has been months since I last posted... I have no excuses. I was lazy. In Newfoundland winter survival mode, actually. Eating frozen gluten-free Daiya pizzas by myself on the couch watching Netflix. This was only interrupted by the necessary but horrific trudges to work through two feet of slick snow and ice, the wind whipping pellets of freezing rain in my face. I had to close my eyes while I walked to prevent eyeball lacerations, no exaggeration.

Anyways. All that has changed because I am in Victoria now, being funemployed (ie writing blog posts when I should be updating my resume for the umpteenth time). I am procrastinating because I feel like no one will hire me with green hair (it's actually grey/blue, with green, pink and coppery highlights. Interesting, but doesn't scream "HIRE ME").

Why, yes. That is a multi-coloured mushroom cut I am sporting. Marvin likes it.  

I have been looking through job postings ad nauseum. And I have encountered a problem. Out of financial necessity, (I had to support myself while attending university) my resume is all over the map. I have been a lifeguard, caterer, personal assistant, swim instructor, housekeeper, support worker, program coordinator, nanny, server and line cook.

 I feel like I have done a pretty darn good job in each of those positions. This is largely because I like people, I like to learn things, I like to try hard, I can tell time, and I have fair to excellent personal hygiene.

But all this experience and drive to do well don't add up to squat. Because I am overqualified for menial jobs, and underqualified for even entry-level non-menial positions.

I wasn't one of those people who knew what they wanted to be right out of high school. I went to university because I had some vague idea that was what I was supposed to do when I graduated, and I had some scholarships that couldn't be deferred. I took English, and Philosophy, and Creative Writing courses. Because I liked them. Sometime during my second year of university, I looked at my transcript and said "Oh. I've taken lots of English. I like books and reading and stuff... I hate math. I'm an English major". Actually I think my internal conversation was even shorter than that.

I enjoyed university. I played intramural sports, I stayed out til four am, I spent my student loans on shoes. In short, I had fun, and did mildly irresponsible young adult type things in a fairly well-supervised environment.

 But I was horrifically shy outside of my immediate group of friends. I had imposter syndrome big time. I thought everyone was smarter than me, and was terrified of opening my mouth and confirming their suspicions. So I cruised through my four years without speaking in class unless absolutely necessary, without ever seeing an academic advisor (after making one appointment that the advisor never showed up to), without volunteering for all of the possible activities I might have used to pad my resume, without attending a single job fair, without making any particular impression on anyone I could later ask for a reference. I did decently well grades-wise, but didn't study anywhere near as much as I should have, and ended up with a B+ average. Okay, but nothing stellar, and not an accurate reflection of my capabilities.

And what I didn't do in university was figure out how I could turn my degree into a job. Because I was seventeen years old when I started university. And socializing and exercising were my priorities. I was twenty one when I graduated, and still had no idea how the actual world functioned. And decided to sit back and wait for the job offers to roll in. Embarrassingly, I legitimately thought that's how it would work. No one told me otherwise.

I was sure that hiring managers would look at my well-composed but skimpy resume and just know that I would try my hardest and do a good job. And they'd be busting down my door to hire me for some cool public relations or communications job. And I'd do my best and get promoted and pay off my student loans and get a dog and buy a new car for my parents by the time I was twenty four.

Five years later, I am no closer to a "real" career, and no closer to paying off those student loans (my allowance from Lisa doesn't stretch that far).

To the untrained eye, my scattered resume might look an awful lot like failure.

Today, though, as I do laundry while coordinating a family outing on the phone while typing a blog post while making soup while working on a resume while texting my fiancee while wiping goop out of Marvin's eyeball, I think that maybe I'm doing okay.

Because as a housekeeper, I learned to fold a load of laundry in two minutes. As a support worker, I learned to care for others (animals included) with endless patience. As a personal assistant, I learned to talk on the phone and type seventy words a minute simultaneously. As a program coordinator, I learned to organize and delegate. As a line cook I learned to feed hordes of people impossibly quickly. And all of these skills are infinitely useful and practical. I am grateful for my experiences, even if they're not highly marketable.

So I have decided to stop beating myself up. The right job will present itself, and I know I will find an interesting and rewarding position when the time (and hiring manager) is right. Over the past handful of years, my personal tool box has expanded in a way that it wouldn't have if I had found a "real" job right out of university, and I feel better prepared for what that "real" job might entail.

I know there are many other university educated twenty and thirty somethings out there with schizophrenic-seeming resumes like mine. I think it time that we acknowledge our efforts to survive in a hostile job market, and recognize and value the important skills we have acquired. We are doing our best, and our best is totally acceptable (that nugget of wisdom I learned in kindergarten).

As I multi-task on this sunny West Coast afternoon, I'm going to give myself a big ol' pat on the back. Those hiring managers don't know what they're missing.

(I bring cookies to work)

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.