Tuesday, December 25, 2012

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

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

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...)

Thursday, December 6, 2012

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.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

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...

Thursday, November 22, 2012

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)

Saturday, November 17, 2012

1/2 c Homo Milk.

People in St John's eat crappy food. It's a generalization, but it's a fairly accurate one. All of the supermarkets have teeny tiny dismal organic food and produce sections, and endless aisles of packaged, processed, diabetes/heart attack/obesity inducing foods.

On Wednesday, Lisa was asked to fill in teaching a cooking class at the Dominion (the big supermarket chain here). They have a community cooking program, and hold free classes. She did it because it was 100 bucks for two hours of work, and because she likes to cook. I was instructed to attend, and because I don't want to sleep on the couch, or in the furnace room with Marvin, I did.

I like to cook quite a bit, and I like to talk about food even more, so I ended up jumping in and helping teach.

We were given three recipes to create, none of which were vegan or gluten free. These dishes pass for Newfoundland health food.

1. Yam slices marinated in dressing and stacked with fried onions, flavoured cream cheese and toasted pecans
This isn't our version, but it looks the same. A chicken lasagna heart attack...mmmm...
But apparently it's diabetes-friendly!

2. Chicken lasagna noodle roll-up thingies with parmesan cheese sauce

3. Poached pears with Cool-Whip, nuts and graham cracker crumbs. Um. Edible oil products...I guess that's vegan?

The class was for Diabetes Awareness Week, and was sponsored by Kraft (The irony of this was not lost on us).

Lisa and I did our best work, talked about low glycemic natural sweeteners, and stevia and coconut oil and cinnamon and the importance of eating organic. Most old people are great students. They were there to socialize, but they were also there to learn, and they all hmmmed and nodded and diligently took notes.

All but one... 

Her name was Veronica, and she was at least eighty five. She had been dragged there by her daughter, was not there to learn to cook, and told me she was too forgetful to bother trying to absorb the health tips we were sharing.

She was there to make us listen to her, and to complain about the food. She cheerfully ignored my attempts to engage her with the cooking class, said she hated cooking, and prattled on about her life growing up on a potato farm (in a dialect that only remotedly resembled English).

Veronica told me her mother always cooked the food for her growing up, and then she had a daughter as soon as she was married and got her mother to teach her daughter to cook so she didn't ever have to. And she didn't intend to ever have to.

When it came time to eat the food, she couldn't find her fork, which was sitting beside her plate, and her daughter didn't seem likely to help her, as she was preoccupied with her own food.

So I sat down beside her, and handed her the fork, and waited while she simultaneously talked and toothlessly gummed her food.

While eating the yams, she picked out every single nut with a look of disgust on her face and put them in her napkin. She then turned to me and said,

"I dunno wot dem herd tings arr me love, but dem is not cooked troo"


And made a move to throw a pecan half at Lisa, who was still standing at the front of the room. Her daughter caught her and glared, and Veronica meekly lowered her arm, whispering to me,

"I better watch meself. Dat dotter of mine dere is in corrections, me love, and she might put her old maam away if I don't behave".


Veronica then proceeded to carefully pick around the green lasagna noodle in the rolls, and stage-whispered to me that she'd never seen chicken rolled up in potato skins, and didn't we know that you shouldn't use the green potatoes anyways. They were "tough as anyting" and "unfit to eat".

Her daughter tried to convince her that the green stuff was pasta, but Veronica wasn't buying it.

She also had complaints about the flavour of the chicken, the "little chewy red bits" (red pepper), the "spider's legs" in her poached pear (finely chopped rosemary).

At the end of the meal, Lisa asked everyone for feedback. Veronica plastered a big fake grin on her face, and chimed in enthusiastically and untruthfully,

"The best part was all of it! Twas all good!"


Old Newfoundlanders are good liars.

After the class was over, the coordinator asked if we would be into hosting more cooking classes, of the vegan and gluten free variety....Heck yes!!! And we get to pick the recipes we make. So we will go, make dinner, talk about making dinner, eat dinner, leave and get paid a bunch of money.
HOMO MILK! She gets a silver medal in lasagna roll up thingies!


 It looks as though the two of us have accidentally embarked on a side career as bona-fide cooking experts. Next project will be our youtube cooking channel (program name to be determined).


I think I'll ask Veronica if she would agree to a guest spot on our show.





Wednesday, November 14, 2012

HIRE A HOMO!

I've been looking for a job. For thirty nine days, I have been handing out resumes, filling out endless online applications (that want to know everything about me including what brand of dental floss my sister uses), writing cover letters and tweaking my resume fifty different ways to make me sound more capable than I actually am.

I have never had to apply for a job before. Not really. I've been asked to apply for jobs, by people who know me, and know that while I may be a bit socially/physically clumsy initially, I'll do a good job, because my momma raised me to be an upstanding citizen.

Thirty two online applications later, I finally accepted that applying for jobs online was a waste of my time, because no one knows me. It was a shock when I realized that no one will know who I am unless I tell/show them in person.

C'mon. Who wouldn't want to hire this?
Dang.

I did make it to the final round of interviews for a job I didn't want, that involved selling cars, and training other people to sell cars. I made the mistake of trying to explain during my interview the concept of run-commuting, and they didn't get it. I'm pretty sure I short-circuited my interviewer's brain with that one. I think I still coulda landed the job, but opted to withdraw my application...

Why?

Well, the salary sounded doable until I found out they expected management trainees to work 50 hrs a week for the first year. When I broke it down, that was 11.64/hr. yowza. Perhaps not. I also don't own a car, and know nothing/am not motivated to learn about them. And the branch was an hour and a half away by bus. Or an eleven km run-commute. And they wanted me to go to Halifax for ten weeks for training.

Or not.

 After some cajoling, and several tantrums, I let Lisa (who has gotten every job she's applied for since arriving here) edit my resume. And by edit I mean butcher. (*sigh*...it IS an improvement, okay?) And then after some serious whining, I printed out some real honest to goodness actual paper copies of my resume. And proceeded to "pound the pavement"

 It turns out my approach could use a little finesse.

EMPLOYMENT SEARCH HIGHLIGHTS:

HOME (it's a store) I don't really want to work retail, but they have amazing amazing home furnishings. And staff discounts. And amazing amazing home furnishings. mmmm....outrageously fluffy towels and teeny-tiny french presses and polka dot toasters. Yes please!

I entered the store, it was about to close. I was a little stunned by the bright lights and shiny things. I asked for the manager. As it turns out, the woman I was talking to was the manager. She was wearing a hideous polyester suit a-la-Suzy-Shier, looked like she was smelling something icky, and had a half-tube of bright pink lipstick smashed on her lips.

I introduced myself. She said, "uh huh" and shook my hand limply. Her hand was soft and limp and slightly soggy. Ew. It was unpleasant and immediately (irrationally) turned me off the idea of working there. I just wanted to leave. But she was staring, and I was stuck.

I got flustered. I blurted out what I wanted, stammering, and she continued to stare at me blankly. She took my resume and began to look at it. I stood there nervously, watching her examine my resume, waiting for her to say something else. She didn't.

The atmosphere was decidedly uncomfortable. I got all sweaty, and thought, 'Do I leave? Is she going to say something or just stare at my resume?' She looked up.

"Goodbye, then" 

OUCh.

My neck and cheeks burning, I mumbled something back, and then moved swiftly for the door. In the process, I knocked into the table by the door. A metal clipboard and two fancy looking pens clatter noisily to the floor.

I am an unemployed disaster.

On the upside, I am getting almost cavalier about the whole experience, and am actually starting to enjoy making people listen while I talk about myself.

But I was stumped on how to differentiate myself from the crowd to actually reel them in, until I came across this on the "Stuff White People Like" blog.


And it got me thinking...this theory could stand for employers as well.

Instead of keeping my sexual status private, perhaps I SHOULD play the homo card.

Contrary to being discriminated against, maybe I am a desirable commodity.  If I'm presented with the right offer, these businesses too could have their very own bona fide gay employee!

HOME, eat your heart out!




Thursday, November 8, 2012

Real Homo Housewives of St. John's

I've been writing a lot lately about my new role as one of those stay-at-home housewives. This is a role I've assumed mostly by default, since I don't have a job yet, don't have a vehicle and don't really know anyone here yet. I have been chugging along doing the mundane stuff ... changing sheets, folding laundry, doing the dishes,  planning my runs along grocery store routes. Terribly unsophisticated, but to be honest I mostly haven't given it much thought. It's pretty low pressure, and that's just the way life currently looks for me on the rock.

And then it was my birthday. Which was awesome in all kinds of ways. I got lots of presents (which isn't ALL of what birthdays are about, but it's what most of it's about for me. The other part is cake, and I got that too). My roommate bought me an apron.

In my previous existence, no one would have thought of buying me an apron for my birthday. I would have been offended. But now, it seemed a natural and highly appropriate gift.

And it got me thinking: I would never have been content staying home and taking care of domestic concerns when I was with a man, so why am I okay with assuming that role now that I'm with a woman?

That kind of personal inconsistency doesn't sit easily with me.

Now, partly I accept my housewench position because I know it is temporary. I will eventually find gainful employment, and probably my blog posts will become less frequent and include anecdotes that involve more than two people and a cat.

For now though, Lisa goes to work, and I keep the home fires burning. And then she comes home and plays some excellent musical selections. This one is on the regular rotation:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNGsTDA3O4s

Mostly I think the biggest difference between then (man-type-significant-other) and now (woman-type-significant-other) is that there is an inherent feeling of equality. Initially, I thought this equality came from being in a same-sex relationship.

Digging deeper though, I don't actually think my contentment has anything to do with the man vs. woman partner thing. It's about being seen, and being appreciated. I realize I am okay with assuming the role of domestic goddess because my partner values my home work. She is wonderful at seeing and applauding my culinary/scouring/folding/organizational efforts, and because of this, I feel I am contributing in a meaningful way.

And when she's home, it's not automatically my responsibility to do the dishes. Or cook. Or clean. We do it together, or we take turns. That's how it should be, folks.
BEcause Super-Lesbians share dish duty.
And everybody wins, since as long as I'm unemployed, our freezer will continue to be full of soup and muffins.

Monday, November 5, 2012

Lesbian Lovehandles

Filling out countless job applications and being a cat-caregiver/housewife is not a good fitness strategy. I've discovered that when I'm home, my primary procrastination strategy (when I need to finish writing cover letter version 50) is baking. And then since no one is home with me to eat the baking (except Marvin, who likes my gluten free pumpkin-pear muffins best), I am then responsible for consuming my creations. 

As I laid down on the bed in order to wriggle into my jeans this morning (cursing at the 'dryer' shrinking my pants...ahem) I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror. Hmmm. When did that extra squishy bit decide to puff out proudly over my waistband?

Now, don't misunderstand what I'm getting at here. I have no serious complaints about my body, other than its refusal to digest gluten. I am perfectly content with the way it functions, and because it functions well, I am content with the way it looks. Most of the time. 

I say most of the time, because, after all, I am female. I have been bombarded by the media with brainwashing images of stick-insects disguised as ideals of femininity since before I could walk. And sometimes the rational me is overpowered by the brainwashed me. 

 During a previous relationship with a man, a moment like this morning's denim battle might have had me sighing and glowering as I went about my morning, feeling bloated and mildly discontent. Not lately, though. Lately it just doesn't seem that important. 

This morning, instead of feeling bad about myself, or feeling like I should eat less/exercise more (which I probably should) I just felt the same. There was no self-shaming impulse to be quashed. My only reaction was wishing I had a job so I could afford some bigger jeans. And I still felt attractive, and like I could rock those jeans. (Provided there was no sitting, and/or bending over involved) 

Do queer chicks have fewer body image issues? 

I don't know that many lesbians, and I haven't taken any surveys or done any research, but I do personally feel that there is a lessening of the pressure to conform to a certain body ideal once the male gaze is removed from the equation. The gay women I know are not the kind of people to stand in front of a mirror focusing on their cellulite, steeped in self-loathing. 

I am only speaking from my experience, and I know there are many women in heterosexual relationships who have completely healthy opinions about their bodies. I am happy to join them; while I have never had an unhealthy relationship with my body, it is a relief to feel so comfortable with myself now.

 And it's my birthday tomorrow, so bring on the gluten free doughnuts and birthday cake! Because Lisa is a hoarder (and by that I mean wonderfully prepared for every potential disaster, natural or otherwise) I have a whole bin full of technical fabrics at my disposal, so I can sew myself some new fleece windstopper pants to replace my jeans when I can no longer wriggle into them. She even has some in lime green. 

I'm SET.

I have lime green thermal polyester pants.
Because it's my birthday.




Saturday, November 3, 2012

My mom has superpowers.

Hey guess what? I have two people following my blog now. I have been invited to follow someone else's blog...I guess that means I'm a real blogger in the blogosphere. 

So this is a post for my two dedicated followers.

Follower #1: Hi, Lisa. It's your turn to do the dishes tonight. 

Follower #2: I appreciate your concern for my soul. I really do. But you needn't be concerned for two reasons. 

A) My mother is a Unitarian lay chaplain, so I've got the spirituality thing all sorted out. If I get confused, she's in my fave 8 and I'll give her a ring (and it won't even cost me anything). Plus, she can marry gay people, so she has superpowers.

B) I live within sight of two churches, and within a block of three, and since I rarely leave the house, I'm being steeped in Godliness 24/7. When I do happen to leave the house, I have to walk within feet of them. That's almost the same as going inside, right?

I like to keep an open mind about different viewpoints, so I thought I'd check out some of this God stuff anyways. Like any diligent researcher, I went on youtube and watched some videos. Conversion therapy, eh?

This one was my favourite. It's a short CNN clip, you can watch it in less time than it takes to brush your teeth.


 Hmmm... why didn't I think of that? 

 Now, Richard Cohen is mostly concerned with straightening out man-homosexual types, but I figured we could experiment with extending his conversion theories to women.

 To further prove my open-mindedness, I decided that Lisa and I should give this whole touch therapy thing a whirl.We were both conscientious participants, and the whole process was pretty pain-free.

And after an hour of intense physical contact, I feel almost 0.00002% straighter than I did half an hour ago. So maybe if we do that intimate cuddling thing 100000 more times, I'll be a whole 2% less attracted to women...

That's how all the gays should be turned straight! Extended snuggle sessions with same-sex buddies! And in the name of open-mindedness, Lisa and I are going to practice "touch therapy" daily for the foreseeable future.

Thank you, Mr. Steve, Follower #2, for your interest in my immortal soul. 

Friday, November 2, 2012

Homo Birth Control Part II

I changed my mind. I may have destroyed some of the mystery earlier this week but by this time next week it's going to be Lisa sleeping in the spare room. Change is brewing in this household, and it's not going to be pretty...

While I grow out my winter pelt in less obvious ways
(see http://dykelite.blogspot.ca/2012/10/homo-birth-control.html),
Lisa is cultivating her own brand of furriness...

For those of you unfamiliar with Lisa's hair cut, here is a sample of the original finished product, circa 2010. It is called a queue. And yes, dad, before you ask, that missing front part happened on purpose.
pretty cool, huh?

Lisa insists that if I'm going to blog about her hair, I have to at least explain it. So I found an online definition. It's boring and you don't have to read it. You can just look at the picture. 
This is Lisa just after we met. Hair is still bad-ass, right?
(Also, I crafted her some nice lime green shorts with Microsoft Paint,
 keepin' it PG)

She looks like a Warrior Lesbian in these photos, yes?
(and like she could kick my butt...which is accurate)

But now Lisa has made the decision that after two years she is ready to ditch her queue and grow her front-hairs out. 

I give Lisa kudos; the queue was a pretty ballsy (or ovariesy) hairstyle to go for. First she committed to growing her hair out for two years, and then she made the decision to shave half of it completely off (and not a side half like all the other cool kids...) 

Unfortunately for her, now that she has decided to move on, there is no graceful way to transition from this hairstyle. Particularly if you are stubbornly holding onto the long back half (as Lisa is). 

The way I see it, she has two options. She could shave the back half off so the front and back once again become one. Or, she can wait for the front half to grow to bang length, and live with an epic mullet for several months in the process.

It seems she has chosen the latter. 

This will be Lisa eating soup for Christmas dinner. I'm not sure what the spoon is for, but suspect it is a side effect of the mullet.
This is how I project Lisa will look in two months. Just in time for our Christmas cards. Stay posted, and if you'd like to be added to our Christmas mailing list to see the lesbian mulletude for yourself, send me your address! 

Next housewife project: design and create a selection of hats for Lisa's birthday and Christmas. 

Thursday, November 1, 2012

I kissed a girl and I liked it...makes sense 'cause I'm a lesbian...


(Quick note: most hetero men I encounter are very respectful, and kind, and treat lesbians as humans, rather than pornographic images created for their pleasure...I'm not hating on the men-folk)

Something I've been considering fairly often is labelling. I am in a monogamous same-sex partnership, but I am bisexual. I'm not an exclusive resident of "vag-town", I am attracted equally to men and women. I get to inhabit two spaces, I get to explore different perspectives and try on different gender roles. And I get to do this in an authentic way. I feel lucky to have arrived this way. I have been in committed heterosexual relationships, and now I have a lady partner. And nothing really changes for me, except others' reactions. The way other people perceive my life shifts, but the important "me" bits don't.

this is my thinking face. 
I am paying attention to political issues like gay marriage in a more invested way; previously I was interested, but in a detached that's-important-in-a-theoretical-sense-but-doesn't-really-concern-me-much kind of way. Part of my new attention comes from being unemployed, and not really having any responsibilities. Now I've got a lot of time on my hands to think.

I have become newly sensitive to other people's reactions to homosexuality. Usually I'm the one observing, thinking about what I'm seeing, categorizing people and experiences. It's new, and it's fascinating, to be on the other side of that voyeuristic gaze.

I came across this "That's Gay" youtube clip about media portrayals of lesbian relationships. It's very funny (particularly the end Katy Perry bit), and it's all pretty accurate. You should watch it...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tHppucxMrM&feature=BFa&list=PLC537D019D99850F7


In media portrayals and in life...we can all easily conjure up a visual of the "experimental" and "open" young women who make out with female friends at the bar while looking sideways to see if any boys are watching. For young women exploring sexual identity, these displays are a way of exercising power and garnering attention, albeit a dangerous kind of power and a problematic form of attention.

It makes me sigh, and it makes me pretty darn uncomfortable, both as a feminist and as a bisexual woman in a same-sex relationship. Media portrayals of "lady kisses" as a performative act frankly irritate the heck out of me. I can't help but take it personally, and feel as though those "two-episode lesbians" trivialize my sexual identity, my relationship, and LGBT issues in general.

And it influences the way men look at lesbian relationships in real life. Take yesterday for example. I was walking down the street hand in hand with the missus. A young, attractive man with a dog was walking towards us (kind of like the banana encounter, only I wasn't holding any bananas this time). He took in the two of us holding hands. He smiled (how kind, I thought). I smiled back. He winked. WINKED. And then, carefully holding eye contact as he passed us, he waggled his eyebrows at me. TWICE. I burst out laughing.

It was as though me smiling at him (because sometimes I'm a friendly-type human who likes to smile at other humans) gave him permission to wordlessly extend a proposition.

I can only imagine Eyebrow Waggler was thinking that I'm either:

A) going to decide to like boys again tomorrow and give him a call...

or... (and this one's ideal)...

B) we'll BOTH decide to like boys again starting right now, because his eyebrow action was just that hot. And we'll follow him home, panting.

I don't blame Eyebrow Waggler. Honestly. I blame the cultural atmosphere that somehow gave him the misguided impression that my sexuality is a product of my fickle nature, and can be influenced by his (lame) advances. He could have at least offered to buy me a coffee first.

And don't even get me started on Katy Perry. "Hope my boyfriend don't mind". Sheesh.

Would he mind if you were shoving your tongue down another dude's throat? I suspect he might. And I suspect you might take issue with yer boyfriend playing tonsil hockey with another bro...Hmmm.

Although I can't completely honestly claim I wouldn't, given an opportunity, sample her cherry chapstick. (sorry Lisa)

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Lisa run commutes to work. This sounds pretty hard-core, and it would be, if her work wasn't less than 2 km away from home. Since I have nothing to do all day except hang out in coffee shops, I make a point of meeting Lisa when she is done work. We make plans for dinner and purchase supplies.
Who needs hand weights when you've got groceries?
 And then comes the part where we have to figure out how to get the groceries home. The logistics of run commuting! The difficult part is the produce. Do you put your bananas in a backpack, cross your fingers and risk smushing them all over the inside? (and potentially having your backpack reek of rotten banana for the next ten years, because banana is a smell that does not wash out) Do you jam them in your pockets and then attempt not to make eye contact with anyone on the way home? Or do you hold them in your hands and try to look natural. My pockets were too small for bananas. I dislike the smell of rotten banana. So I went with the third option.
 
(Next house wife project on my list: design a hammock to suspend bananas inside a backpack)

It was actually surprisingly comfortable to run with a banana in each hand. At first I was a bit embarrassed, and had to reassure myself several times that no one was noticing, or caring, what I was doing.
 
The fruit felt pretty balanced, kind of like very very light hand weights. After a couple of minutes I forgot that I was running along a busy road, during rush hour, passing cars stuck in traffic, holding bananas.

Except that I was lying when I told myself that no one was noticing, or caring, what I was doing.

Because Lisa has an uber-lesbian haircut, I was wearing a sportdyke outfit, and there is no way to make holding a banana in each hand as you run down the street with your lesbian partner look innocent.
 
I managed to sort of keep my hands immobilised near my sides for most of the run, and tried to use my fingers to hide most of the banana.
 
No one actually said anything. They didn't need to. The amused mouth twitches, the heads whipping around to follow us as we ran past. I felt like a criminal each time we ran-lurked past a small child.
 
The most blatant attention was from a young man dressed formally, obviously coming from the nearby courthouse.We were almost home and I had my arm around Lisa's shoulder as we chatted and walked to cool down. I still had the bananas in each hand, but we were on a quieter street, and I was feeling comforted by the idea that we were almost home. The man was frowning a little to himself as we approached. As we got closer, he did a double take, first taking in my arm around Lisa's shoulder, then following my arm to my hands, and the banana clenched in each fist. 
 
His eyes got wide. His mouth hung open a little. And then his face lit up, and he grinned. And kept grinning as he walked away.
 
 I hope for his sake that his facial expressions are less transparent in the courtroom. I wanted to yell after him "They're for breakfast, you perv!" But I don't think he would have believed me. And really, there would have been no point. I suppose I'm glad we brightened up someone's day? 
 
I guess the moral of the story is that it doesn't matter if you are holding them by the end and letting them swing, or if you stick them in your pocket, try to hide them with your fingers, or grasp them proudly around the middle. Bananas look like penises, and there is no getting around it.
 

Monday, October 29, 2012

HOmo birth control.

I'm fairly sure that I killed the magic today. By next week I'm going to be sleeping on the twin bed in the spare room with two floors between us.

I am conflicted about my body hair.

On the one hand, I acknowledge that it is twisted, strange, and wrong that women have it drilled into them that they are supposed to be hairless, and that having body hair is unattractive and unfeminine.

On the other hand, I find it real difficult to have warm fuzzy feelings about my underarm hair when exercise-induced chafing makes them look and feel like raw ground meat. Or when my leg hair gets so long that it gets stuck in my compression socks when I pull them off (that actually happened).

But mostly I am just pretty lazy about hair removal, and now that I'm an unemployed stay at home wife, I'd become extra comfortable in my furriness. I didn't think the missus had noticed.
 
And then last week Lisa had given me a not so gentle hint about my personal grooming habits by putting a 50% off Brazilian waxing kit in my basket at the grocery store. The only reason I didn't put it back was because it was a good deal.
 
There was a reason it was 50% off.
 
Tonight, I had finally run out of excuses. The dishes were done, I'd completed my three requisite job applications for the day, the living room was vaccuumed, I had nothing good to read, and we already watched the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy.
 

So I got down to it. I opened the lid and was pleasantly surprised by the lovely green colour. "This won't be so bad" I thought. "It looks just like chocolate chip mint ice cream. Yum!"
 I started out downstairs, in our room, but quickly realized that this was not a project to be undertaken in a cold, dimly lit, carpeted basement bedroom.

Lisa was in the tub, so I barged in and demanded that I be allowed to occupy the bathroom's floor space while she soaked. I knew I'd have to work quickly because my microwaved wax was already beginning to harden. This wax is stripless, so the instructions were simple. Slap 'er on, and yank 'er off. (Basically, I think. I didn't actually read them, but I'm sure that was the general gist)

And so I began. At first it wasn't so bad. The wax was warm but not hot, and the first few chunks were a five or so on the pain scale. Totally manageable, and I was being uber-brave about it to prove to Lisa that I wasn't a wuss, and I did this kind of thing all the time.

 Getting my fingers underneath the edges of the patches to pull them off was tricky, but I thought I had begun to get the hang of it. Until I left a patch of goo on for a titch too long.

Apparently reading the instructions might have been a good idea. Because in the instructions, it very clearly states not to let it harden, because it might adhere to the skin and become difficult to remove. Adhere. To. The. Skin.

Nuff said.

Me: Hmmm. This one's kind of harder than the other ones.

Lisa: Let me help. I can pull it off.

Me: (trying to play it cool) No, I'd rather not. I think it might be stuck to the skin. I'll just see if it softens again...

Lisa: (trying not to laugh) Let me see. I'll just yank it off, I'm sure it can't be stuck to the skin. It's just sticking to hair. (leans towards me) Don't be such a baby.

Me: (frantically picking at the edges of the rock-hard goo patch) NO. seriously. I'll do it in my own time. Just don't watch. Go away. Leave me alone.

Lisa: (laughing now, and trying to pry my hands away) I can't go away...you barged in on MY bath. HOld still...Just let me do this. You're such a wuss.

Me: "BACK OFF! GET BACK! YOU'RE NOT COMING NEAR ME...NONONONONONO. THAT IS SKIN, NOT HAIR!!! NONONONONO GET AWAY FROM ME"

Lisa: (hysterical laughter)...

Afer an hour, tears, panic, and me screaming at my girlfriend in sheer terror at the thought of having hardened plastic goo perma-welded to my sensitive areas, the crisis was over.

I have officially exposed myself to my lady as a hirsute, wimpy, stubborn woman who refuses to read instructions. I guess it was bound to happen some time, I just thought I'd be able to keep up the illusion for a few more weeks...

Also, note to self... Do not purchase discount hair removal products.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

My Sister's a Homo.

One of the most interesting parts about announcing that I was going to live with a woman was my family's reaction. This was pretty painless in general, since my family is open and amazing and mostly couldn't care less who I share a bed with, as long as they treat me well, have good personal hygiene, are reasonably articulate and can cook. The primary concern was that I would choose not to have babies if I'm with a woman. Once they were assured that babies were still a possibility (although they're probably not going to be oopsy-babies... unless there's a drunken incident with a turkey baster...) it was a "that's nice dear/ fill your boots" kind of reaction.

All homos should be so lucky.

I am particularly lucky to have a corny redneck/hippie hybrid for an older brother.

Calm yourselves, ladies...he's married!

And I am going to use my brother as blog-fodder. And I get to say whatever I want about him, because it's my blog, and because he got to torture me growing up, and now it's payback time.

When I sent my brother the link to my blog, he had three responses. What a supportive sibling.

Dylan has told me repeatedly over the past few years that my short highlighted hair made me look exactly like Kate Gosselin from the TLC show 'Jon and Kate plus Eight'. Why he is familiar with Kate Gosselin's hairstyles I'll put aside as material for another day's post. Anyways, my brother likes to insult my hairstyles. This is ironic because he doesn't have any. Hair or style.

His first text was feedback about the self-portrait I posted in an earlier blog entry.

Dylan's Response 1 (text): Your hair is no longer Kate plus 8. More like 'I ate Kate'.

My rebuttal 1: Thanks, D. That's sweet. Har har. I can see you giggling so hard in appreciation of your own wit that it probably took you half an hour to figure out how to work that phone to send a text. You are turning into our father.
Also, Kate Gosselin is kinda hot, if you squint a little. There, I said it. (plus, I'm sure she's gay-sexual. That's why she is so ragy... repressed homo tendencies)

Dylan's Response 2 (text): I'll paraphrase this one because it's long and sappy... something about deer blood, camo, extreme fishing and feeling proud as he reads his little sister's gay blog.

My response 2: What a gooey dork. (Apparently you're also turning into our mother)

Dylan's Response 3 (youtube link): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1TBgcctcco

My response: Yay gay marriage! Also, see response 2...
(and I can't change...even if I wanted to...even if I tried... My love, my love, my love, she keeps me warm...she keeps me warm...she keeps me warm...lalalala, I'm having an empowered-sexuality moment)

But for serious, Go Macklemore.

I may have to ask the Temmel sisters for a bulk order of "My Sister's a HOmo" buttons. So Dylan can put them on all of his hunting gear.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Femme-ily time.

Lesbians eat that shit up.
Lisa had yesterday and today off, so we've been doing domestic-type things together, like running to the farmer's market, and eating soup. Lisa made me a cake last night. I was having one of those late-night "I'm not hungry but I'm gonna keep eating anyways and you can't stop me" moments.  Of course, in preparation for a hard-core hippie candida cleanse, we are trying not to eat anything that feeds yeast.  Nic T. inspired me to name my yeast (easier to defeat an enemy you can name) so it is henceforth to be referred to as Fungus Khan (witty wordplay, eh?...my dad should be proud) Cake in any form would normally be cheating, no good, very bad and not allowed on a candida diet. And then I found this mix in the gluten free aisle at Sobey's.

 I was immediately excited! Protein flours! No sugar! No yeast! No dairy! No chocolate! No anything! Woohoo! Ima eat cake and destroy my yeast overgrowth simultaneously!
The cake looked like this. Nice, yes? With a heart on top and everything...awww.

It was dense. Solid. And tasted...interesting. Sort of like how you'd expect cake with no sugar, no dairy, no yeast, no refined flours, and carob instead of chocolate to taste. Only with a slight lingering stevia taste to top it off. After a hesitant first few bites and a few pulled faces, we both cut ourselves large slices. No quitting or crying in this house. It was cake, goshdarnit, and we were going to EAT IT AND LIKE IT!!!

Both slices disappeared in a few bites. We both pause for air and look at each other.

Me: It's sort of growing on me. I could eat another slice.

Lisa: Me too. I'm getting more.

Me: I want more too.

Lisa: Is it wrong that we don't even have to like something to wanna keep eating it?

Me: Gimme another slice. I'm gonna put some syrup on it. And almond butter.

Lisa: I thought we were going to do yoga tonight.

Me: (chewing) mmm. Right. Yoga. That.

Apparently, you can feed us anything and we'll eat copious amounts of it. Our shared ability to eat and enjoy anything remotely resembling food will come in handy if we ever end up on Survivor or The Amazing Race, right?

Friday, October 26, 2012

Happy Homo Hut?

We had lunch at the Happy Hummus Hut today. I failed to notice the pride flag in the window, and was pleased and surprised that all three servers were androgynous, cute, slouchy toque wearing, friendly-ish (by Newfoundland standards) gays. They have a terrible window display (other than the flag) which had previously deterred me from exploring further than the menu on the door.


This is my empty plate.
Before it had a quesadilla on it.
I ate it.
Lisa rearranged the sheep-shaped
salt and pepper shakers so that
they would look more balanced.
perv.
 
After looking around at the other customers and noting a strong homosexual showing, I wondered...Do all homos like hummus? Or do they just decide to like hummus after noticing the flag in the window? Are gay people more likely to have food allergies? (The Hummus Hut caters to those of us who only eat the blank-free versions of things) Actually the "Hummus Hut" seems a bit of a misnomer, since we didn't eat anything with hummus in it, and there were only a few menu items that did seem to include hummus. I guess "Happy (teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, appy-sized) Sandwich, Quesadilla, Wrap and Salad Hut" didn't have the same ring to it.

The food was only mediocre, but they did have gluten free tortillas and daiya cheese shreds for the gluten-impaired vegan contingent. The biggest problem was the portion size. I meant to take a picture of my quesadilla like a proper blogger would, but I ate my food before I remembered. It is obvious by how swiftly my plate became empty (approx 2 mins) that the meal was inadequate. On the way home a grumpy and still hungry Lisa asked me "So what's for lunch?". We ate another full meal as soon as we got in the door. 
This is Lisa post gluten, dairy and hummus free snack.
She is eager to go home and eat lunch.

On a related note, I probably need to get a job soon. Or stop exercising/moving/burning calories in any way to reduce my caloric requirements. I've been here three weeks now and Lisa's paycheque will feed herself and either my top half or bottom half, but not both of us. I have applied for ten or so menial office jobs, but the closing dates aren't for ages, so I'll probably end up working at a grocery store (two thumbs up!) in the meantime. On the plus side, I made it to the third round of interviews for a job I didn't want (50 hour weeks and the office was an hour and a half away...). For the moment, I'm playing housewife. I make and send mail for people from recycled bits of paper and cook stuff (and eat it). Sometimes I do crunches to keep my figure. I feed the cats on Wednesdays when Lisa works late. It's a full life.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Twelve days and counting.

I may have to change my blog name. Apparently, one is no longer considered a "Baby Dyke" when they reach a quarter century. This seems arbitrary to me, but my 25th birthday is less than two weeks away...So Fack. Okay. What happens when I'm old, and I don't count as a Baby Dyke anymore? Lisa is secure in her "Queen Dyke" title, but what do I get? Do I just become a regular dyke? Does this mean I'll have to start wearing my hiking boots and down vest whenever I leave the house?

There is a baby dyke at Lisa's work. I have yet to see her for myself, but Lisa says that she is the most adorable little boi she's ever seen, and I trust her judgement. Yesterday she sent me a series of texts about the Baby Dyke, and her girlfriend. My first impulse was to tell Lisa to invite them for dinner...I don't even know them, and I want to feed them. I think my maternal instincts are incompatible with a Baby Dyke label. Does this mean I'm a grown up?

I have toyed with "Dyke Lite", but that makes me sound like I'm dabbling in homosexuality.  I take myself and accurate spelling entirely too seriously to be a "lite" anything. Although I do think that would be make an excellent beer brand name. Hmmm. I guess I have almost two weeks to figure it out...

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Welcome Homo!

I arrived in Newfoundland on October 3rd, at 11:20 pm, or thereabouts. It took me almost as long to get here as it would have taken to get to Europe. I was smelly, hungry and sleepy; Lisa hadn't seen me in a month, and I was so worried she might have changed her mind that I stayed locked in the airport bathroom for twenty minutes.

There were so many unknowns, and everything was outside of my comfort zone. I'd been attracted to other women, gone on dates with other women, but never wanted to create a life with another woman. And following someone across the country after knowing them for two and a half months was a pretty ballsy, out-of-character move for me. And all the way there, as I sat beside two Newfoundlanders wearing hunting caps, reeking of B.O. and giving me a blatantly pervy once over, I was preoccupied with the thought that I was a lesbian now. I felt brave. Self-identifying as bisexual when involved in a long term relationship with a man is a far cry from announcing to the world that the person you want to make a home with has a vagina.

Who I am has never been a source of controversy. As a decently attractive athletic twenty four year old white woman with a post secondary education and the support of a fantastic family, I have never before known what it feels like to have people dislike me based on something I can't change about myself. I have never been part of any kind of minority, unless being unusually tall counts. Being a dyke is new and shiny and interesting; I want to take it out often and look at it. I am learning to sit with the tension and discomfort created when someone turns away after realizing the person holding my hand, or kissing my cheek is female. I am learning to transform my irritation and embarrassment into curiosity, and to react with amusement at occasional disgusted looks of elderly churchgoers (although many churchgoers smile and mind their own beeswax, and I'm not hating on the churchy-folk) or the catcalls of young men driving past us. Mostly it is peculiar for me, because I am still the same person I was when I was in a heterosexual relationship, yet some people react as though I have a huge hairy growth where my head used to be. The only differences are certain physical characteristics of my significant other.

(CHEESEBALL ALERT) We do not choose who we are attracted to, and I feel so lucky to have found someone who complements my life so completely. All of us should be so welcomed, loved, wanted, cared for, heard, and safe. This is what I choose to open myself to receiving. This is what matters.

Nervous iphone self-portrait, sent the day before I left for Newfoundland

Monday, October 22, 2012

Lezbeeun kitteh...

A cat meme. About lesbian cats. Ha! This makes me think of Marvin, Lisa's obnoxious (but kind of almost charming) cat. He doesn't lick carpets per se, but he does test his tongue against pretty much every other surface. I watched him eat a piece of broccoli off the floor today, lapping it up with his tongue. Lisa has two cats, Tinkle and Marvin. Marvin and I are developing a love/hate relationship after three weeks of cohabitation. Tinkle is Marvin's mother, and she is calm and cuddly, and does all of the things that cats are supposed to do (except when she eats Marvin's food, attacks him randomly, and bullies him into submission, but that is part of a mother's role, right?) Marvin has brain damage. For real. My sister would love him, she collects special needs cats. Maybe I'll send him to her for Christmas. Marvin never shuts up, and he wakes us up every morning, inappropriately early, walking all over us, yowling and whacking us in the face with his paw until we pay attention to him. At other times he can be found jumping up on kitchen tables/counters, choking on stuff, puking in secret places, sneaking out-of-doors, staring at walls and meowing, loudly, for no apparent reason. There is cat hair on everything, and I don't want to think about how much of the stuff I ingest.

I swore I would not allow cats to sleep with us. The bedroom should be a sanctuary, a peaceful retreat, a place of bonding and rest. Now it is a combat zone. Yesterday Lisa dumped a mason jar of water on Marvin's head when he woke us up at six a.m. on a Sunday morning. Her theory was that he would have to groom himself, and couldn't yowl and groom at the same time. It didn't work, he is a water-resistant feline. The water didn't seem to phase him, except to make him push his soggy paws and muzzle more insistently into my face. Lovely. And they say that pets take on the personality of their owners...

"I think you're very honest, and very rude"

We met at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival. I was with my wonderful, assertive, opinionated, fiercely outspoken mother, and my reserved, hideously-attired, funny, handsome father. It was my mother's birthday weekend, she had been looking forward to the Folk Fest for ages, and I was doing my best to humour her in every possible way. I was working my way through the mountain of snacks I'd blown half my paycheque on at Capers earlier in the day. Running makes me wolf down food like a fourteen year old boy.

We were listening to someone on the main stage, I forget who. Maybe Serena Ryder. The music was fantastic, but I wasn't really listening. She was sitting at the tarp next to ours, surrounded by a group of friends. I had noticed her earlier in the day: a striking, tough looking lesbian with multiple tattoos (including two entwined female symbols, in case I had any doubts about her sexuality) and the front half of her hair shaved. She looked like a warrior, tough and beautiful and hard. She was wearing almost nothing on top, a bra she protests now was a "bikini top", that barely covered the essentials. She was tiny, wiry, with a six pack, muscular forearms, and calves that told me she was a runner. She was with a woman who kept touching her in a proprietary way, so I tried not to be too obvious as I studied her. She looked like someone who was rarely still, a warrior in constant motion, and I began silently referring to her as “Warrior Lesbian”. I was more than a little intimidated. My spidey senses were tingling, I was hyper-aware of her repeated glances in my direction, and I was acutely, painfully self-conscious. Eventually she got up to wander off, and I heard her friend make some dismissive comment about all the available women there being “too young, or too unattractive”. I didn’t want to think too hard about which category I fit into. I didn't want to examine whether or not I cared.

My mother is a hard-core festival goer, and she is 100% there to listen to the music, devoting all of her attention to the acts on stage. I respect this about her, but as a dedicated people-observer, I don't share her feelings. We were too far away from the stage to be sitting with other hard-core folkies, so many of the people on tarps around us were talking. There were a dozen people on Warrior Lesbian's tarp, and all of them were laughing and joking and chewing loudly. My mother’s irritation was obvious. She butt-shuffled away from them, sighed loudly and plugged the ear nearest to them with her finger. When none of them noticed, she leaned over and said to the loudest and closest of the Warrior Lesbian’s posse “Are you planning to talk through the whole concert? Do I need to go sit elsewhere?” in a slightly hostile tone. After a short pow-wow with the rest of her gang, the loud one leaned back and said “Well, general consensus is that we’re going to keep talking, so you might want to move”. My mother, shocked, responded with “I thank you for your honesty, and I think you are very rude”. Crap. She is beautiful and sophisticated and worldly, and my mother had just told her and her friends they are rude.

Warrior Lesbian followed this exchange closely, smirking with obvious amusement at my embarrassment. There was a brief lull in their loud conversation, which my mother mistakenly took for them attempting to be quieter. To encourage their apparent good behaviour, my mother smiled widely and, catching Warrior Lesbian’s eye, gave her a double thumbs-up. Oh dear lord. Even as I type this the memory of my discomfort makes my cheeks go red and my eyeballs burn. I wanted to disappear through the tarp, or at least hide under it. Warrior Lesbian returned the gesture with an exaggerated grin. And then her gang resumed talking, possibly louder than before. My parents gathered their picnic and left. I stayed, and began demolishing the barrier of coolers my parental unit had placed between our tarps.

Warrior Lesbian came to sit on the tarp-edge closest to me. I ignored her. She threw a wadded up piece of paper at me. I unrolled it and read WHERE ARE YOU FROM??? At the time I thought this was an original pickup technique, but I have since learned that there is a music video where some rapper does the same thing. Instead of writing back, which is apparently how I was supposed to respond (subtlety is lost on me) I turned and told her. We chatted for a while, and I was immediately enchanted by her voice. She looked like a tough dyke, she looked like she could be critical and nasty and judgmental and hard. And then she opened her mouth, and her voice was soft and high and she used big words. I was immediately smitten with her, and her obvious intelligence. Her name is Lisa. She doesn’t look like a Lisa.
This is Lisa, at the folk fest. Eating potatoes in her miniscule bikini top.

I got up to dance, and she continued to chat with her friends. At this point, I still thought she was there with her girlfriend. I stripped off my hoodie, and left it on the tarp so I could dance up near the stage. I concentrated on attempting to enjoy Kanye West’s “Waving Flag” in as unironic a manner as I could muster. It got dark, and I returned to pack up. Putting my sweatshirt on, I found a scrap of paper in my pocket. I couldn’t read it in the dark, but I was fairly sure it was a list from work earlier in the week, and replaced it without a closer examination.

Later, at my brother’s house, on the sofa-bed in his studio, I removed the piece of paper to discard it. Unrolling the little scrap, I got butterflies as I realized this was a phone number. From her.

I almost didn’t text her. She said I had great lips. That sounded a whole lot like someone hitting on me, and I was happy single. I didn’t want drama. I wasn’t looking for anything, and I definitely hadn’t been looking for a relationship with a tattooed Warrior Lesbian. Even if she was beautiful, even if I couldn’t stop looking at her, even if I could listen to her talk endlessly.

Sometimes the universe has a funny way of throwing your words back at you. Just a week before, I’d been talking with a friend about how I wanted to be single for the foreseeable future, about how happy I was being completely selfish, how I didn’t feel the urge to pursue any romantic connections...

 
Three months later, I have followed the Warrior Lesbian across the country, leaving my home, my rewarding job, my amazing enormous family and my fabulous friends. A baby dyke from the West Coast transplanted to Newfoundland. Now if only I could understand what people are saying here...