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)