Homo goes to Yoga...

A few significant things that happened this week.

In no particular order:

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

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

2) I quit my job. 

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

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

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

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

End Rant.

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

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

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

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

Utterly surreal experience.

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

Yoga, St. John's Style:

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

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

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

• Beige carpet. Wall to wall. 

Yup.

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

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

• I couldn't stop sneezing.

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

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

Dang. 

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

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

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

Insert gratuitous cat photo here. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOW.

Because I want to talk about something else.

10 WAYS MY GIRLFRIEND REMINDS ME OF MY MOTHER:

*in no way is this an exhaustive list*

DUM DUM DUM....

I find this simultanously fascinating and repellant.

1) They are both superheroes.

see?

SEE??

2) They both love turquoise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Ho-Ho-Homo...

This is our first family Christmas card.

 

Tinkle and Marvin were in most of the shots, but they failed to make the cut. This was the shot we ended up selecting for our holiday cards. 

 

There are some special details I'd like to point out, in case you missed them on first perusal.

 

 

1. Lisa has her hands in the ASL sign for "I love you" which is both appropriate for the season and sensitive to cultural diversity.

 

2. I am wearing my fuzzy bomber style thingie, so this post ties in with last week's post nicely. How's that for continuity?

 

3. Our reindeer on the mirror are meant to look like us. The one with the wonky eye/crooked tongue is Lisa. The lovely symmetrical reindeer represents yours truly.

 

 

4. We made stockings. They match. And have rainbow hanging loops. How gay!

Enjoy the holidays... (watch this!)

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10152416373330157

Newfound-Homo Headgear

Once again it's been over a week since I've posted. This work thing is really getting in the way of my blogging.

Sheesh.

Anywho, there is a serious matter I've been pondering, worrying about, meditating on, discussing, mulling over (and comparing and contrasting in my head in essay form).

HATS.

This is the first in a series of posts about hats. I have lots of thoughts to share about headwear.

a) LESBIANS LIKE HATS A LOT.

See?

SEE???

SEE??????...
oh wait, nevermind.
That's not a lesbian...

b) NEWFOUNDLANDERS LIKE HATS A LOT.

See?

SEE??????

Living on the West Coast, I wore hats for aesthetic appeal.

Living in Newfoundland, I wear hats because my hair/ears/neck and jaw areas not covered by my scarf will die and drop off in the freezing wind if I don't.

On my 5 km forced marches to-and-from work (at 7 am and 8 pm...sucks to be me), I ponder the merits of the various hats in my collection (particularly the one I am wearing at the time).

The perfect hat is hard to come by.

Let's discuss our options (as both lesbians and people with cold heads):

HAT OPTION OF THE DAY: The GIgantic FUrry Bomber-Style ThIngie

First of all, I have one. It was a surprise, I-bought-you-this-for-no-good-reason present from Lisa and I love it.

-It is made from recycled polyester, so all the animals are still alive.

-It is a warm and sturdy and furry piece of head-loving goodness.

-It snaps under the chin, it muffles sound and makes it easy to ignore loud children and unpleasant strangers.

Well suited for snowy trips to the coffee shop. Also stellar for hanging out around the house on days when the furnace blows.

And best of all, this hat DOES. NOT. BLOW. OFF. Important when living in the middle of the Atlantic.

I also don't look at all like a lesbian in this hat, so I would wear this one to church.

Downside...and I learned this the hard way: this hat is not suited for physical activity of any kind. Panic will ensue, because you WILL feel all hot and sweaty and restricted. And arrive at your destination with sweat-soaked, plastered-down limp spaghetti hair.

Yep. Pretty accurate.

COminG Next WeeK... Fantasticle Lesbian Kristmas Speshul!

(and more hats...)

How many times until I'm really gay?

Well, I haven't posted in an entire week. I have a job.

 I was all worried about not having any work, and was concerned about my ability to contribute to my partnership and household and the community and society in general.

Now I'm working and I have changed my mind.

Working is less fun than I imagined.

I miss scheduling my days around coffee shop blogging (I'd finally found the trifecta of decent soy lattes, friendly queer baristas and fast wifi at Hava Java), runs and soup-making.

Lisa likes Hava Java too. 

Sigh.

So now I am working as a child and youth worker. Pay is okay. 12 hour shifts, so I work 7 shifts biweekly and have lots of days off...but there are incredibly sucky mandatory night shifts.

The first twelve hour overnight 'awake' shift wasn't bad initially. The kids were asleep, I was hanging out with a sarcastic, intelligent and interesting coworker, and they have all the movie channels. It was kind of like a sleepover. I couldn't believe I was getting paid to hang out and watch TV.

 For the first six hours. 

And then at 2 am I started yawning. And checking the time on my iPhone every five minutes. I tried sitting in uncomfortable positions, pinching myself, and contemplated taping my eyelids open in order to stay awake.

By 4 am I felt like crying, I was so exhausted. Apparently I am old, and my body doesn't want to do all nighters. I made it through, but was a zombie for two days afterwards.

I learned a few things: 

1. I must nap for at least two hours before shift, and at least two hours when I return home in the morning.

2. Bring lots of food and activities (though nothing involving any brainpower or fine motor skills). If you are going to make me stay awake all night, there had better be some gluten free brownies and trashy magazines involved.

3. If I can make it to 6 am, I'm golden. The end is in sight, children begin to rouse, and I start to get my second wind.

During that lethal period from 4 until 6 in the morning I would sell Marvin for a twenty minute nap. Well, I'd give him away actually, but you get my point.

It's an upside down Marvin! This is what we do instead of enemas now. Shake it out of him...

Night shifts are lame, but by far the most uncomfortable part of the new job experience is having to come out all over again to a whole new set of strangers on every shift. This coming out thing is new to me...and I am beginning to realize that divulging my sexual orientation is a constant and complicated process.

So far I've worked 10 shifts in 7 different homes with 10 different coworkers.

There is that inevitable question during the first half hour getting-to-know-your-shift-partner phase.

"What brings you to Newfoundland?"

Fair enough. St. John's is not really somewhere that people move to just for a change of scenery. I am here because my girlfriend is here, and I had nothing better to do than follow her.

End of story.

The dilemma comes when I have to decide whether to tell the truth, or make up some lame story about cheap tuition (a nice side bonus, but not ultimately why I am in St. John's).


Coming out over and over and over (and over) at work is tricky. At first it was like ripping off a band-aid. I was loud and proud and very upfront about my same-sex partnership, and pretended not to notice any awkwardness that I created.

But you know what happens when you rip off a band-aid in the same place repeatedly? Skin irritation. Chafing. Open wounds. Cascading rivers of blood.

It's uncomfortable, and I'm a wuss.

And because I'm a wuss, sometimes I lie by omission.

I lie by omission when I use the term "partner" to describe Lisa; it is gender-neutral term, and I use it when I want my sexual orientation to remain ambiguous. Because I don't explicitly state that my partner is a woman, whoever I'm talking to can create a story about me that makes them comfortable.

This makes me a bad homosexual, but it saves me the unpleasantness of having to work 12 hours with someone who is clearly either:

a) going to be convinced I am going to hell.

 or 

b) going to be convinced I am hitting on them. Because as a sexually deviant lady-lover, sitting too close, giving compliments, asking non-work related questions, smiling, any form of hair or clothing adjustment or making eye contact can all be interpreted as propositions.

or

c) both a) and b)

 What I need is some kind of non-invasive but easily recognizable queer identifiers... let my coworkers draw their own conclusions. Maybe I'll get some rainbow stickers for my laptop and cell phone. Or rainbow shoelaces, t-shirts and water bottles...hmmm.

How to give a Brain-Injured Cat an Enema

Last week Marvin just about kicked the bucket. It was exciting, for all the wrong reasons. 

Sunday: I knew Marvin was probably dead or dying when I woke up naturally to sunlight instead of feline carcass breath.

Marvin is barf-a-rific at the best of times. I think this has to do with his brain damage, and oversized teeth (and his consequent inability to chew properly).

But this time he was all pukey and listless because he hadn't been able to do his kitty business in the litter box in a while. A loooong while. And constipation is Marvin's #1 nemesis. Combine that with his tendency to swallow strange things and you have a vet's wet dream.

Now, Lisa has recently spent a ridiculous amount of money on this cat. Her cross Canada drive with cat co-pilots cost her a bazillion dollars
(she probably could have gotten a gold-plated Marvin likeness for the same amount she spent on vets).

So she was understandably unenthusiastic at the idea of paying another vet more hundreds of dollars to shove warm water and lube up Marv's butt.

Sunday night: Marvin hadn't moved or had anything to eat or drink all day. I was pretty sure he was a goner. Lisa finally phoned the vet, and she suggested we could try giving him an enema ourselves, if he would let us. Since he was barely breathing, it seemed a fair bet that he would let us.

I can haz enema now?

Some things we learned:

-Cat enema = two person activity

-Cat butts have two parts, the external sphincter and the internal sphincter. It's like a porch. If you only get past one door with the nozzle, you're just squirting in water to have it squirt out again.

-The feline patient's official human mother must attend to the nether regions during this two person process; stepmothers do not have to touch step-cat-child anus, regardless of how many suppositories they have administered professionally to humans. 

(Failure to respect this rule may result in a discussion where outside voices are used)

-One home enema is not necessarily enough. Nor is two. Or three.
As it turns out, Marvin likes enemas. Or at least he tolerates them while purring. Therefore, I suspect Marvin may be a feline of the homosexual persuasion.

In the end we had to take Marvin to the vet. In a Rubbermaid container, because he doesn't have a cat carrier (Lisa believes in attachment kitty-rearing). The lucky Marvinator got another (perhaps more thorough) enema. And had his anal glands squeezed.

And Lisa spent all of her birthday money a month before her birthday at the vet on Marvin's bum...

Gaydar lessons...

Today I started writing about Marvin's recent near-death experience (hint: it involves Marvin's devoted moms administering feline enemas, and explains why I haven't posted in four days), but I decided to save it for later. 

Because something awkward keeps happening to me, and I don't know what to do about it.

I can tell she's gay by the way she eats french fries with a fork.

It wasn't happening before, because I used to have no Gaydar. Lisa has been coaching me, by subtly indicating with an agreed upon hand signal (a sneaky little 'L' sign) every time we see a female member of a sexual minority.

Now my girl Gaydar is improving, and I keep seeing other lesbians. It happens daily now...

I am walking down the street and I spot one.

The Gaydar goes off. 

We make eye contact.

And we both know that the other one is gay, and that makes us have something in common, even if we have nothing in common.

The ability to identify gayness is new and shiny to me, like a superpower I want to exercise.

And I'm all like "Hey! Hi! There's another one! Hey! I like ladies too! Wanna be my friend?" (usually I keep this part to myself).

The dilemma is this: do I wave, wink or say hellooo, simply because we are both part of sexual minority? Or do we ignore each other, because to acknowledge each other would be to acknowledge that homosexuality is still a thing that needs acknowledging???

I'm conflicted because I hate labelling (even if it is fun when I accurately label people).

 None of this would even be an issue if I was a genuinely friendly person who was used to making contact with strangers. But I'm naturally pretty reserved, and wouldn't say hello to random heterosexual strangers. And I like my behaviour to be consistent.

Also, my Gaydar is a work in progress. Sometimes, I am wrong. And then I end up smirking knowingly, waving and winking inappropriately at straight girls who are innocently going about their daily lives.

And St. John's isn't that big. Soon I could become known as that aggressive imported bisexual who goes around lecherously tipping her cap at married women.
 

Ackkk.

All of this. Yes. That.

(I heart scrabble, only Lisa and I would be playing on our phones, because neither of us wants to clean up the letters after)