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.

 

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.

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.

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?

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.

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...

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

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...