Lesbian Sexual Role Playing: Forbidden Swatches and Aching Squirrel Chiclets...

OK, so maybe this has less to do with being a lesbian. and more to do either with mental illness, or a lack of imagination...but I found myself in a funny conversation the other night.

I may or may not have been discussing sexual role playing...and whether or not that "works" for me.

I suppose given the right scenario, that could be kind of hot. I had a few questions, and then a few suggestions.

I know several of my "straight" friends who have told me a few stories...you know...

"Ok...I'm a hitchhiker, and you pick me up along a dark road..." or "I'm a housewife, and you're the cable guy who shows up during the available blocks of time between 9-11am, or 1-3pm sometime in March.."

I have a friend who is a nurse, and her boyfriend is a doctor. Apparently, they play...uh...a doctor and a nurse.

That's cray cray. That must be a huge acting stretch.

"I'm not a doctor, but I play one on T.V. No wait, I AM a doctor..."

So, anyway, I got to thinking about two women-and how you might have to be a bit more creative-given that the roles aren't just instantly gender specified.

I asked my...uh..."special friend"..if we were allowed to have costumes or props.

"Well, I don't see why not." she said.

I thought about it for a while, while eyeballing the ceramic squirrel in my room.

"Ok, I got one..." I said breathily.

"What is it?" she asked with smoldering anticipation.

"I'm a veterinary lab technician, and you're a dental hygienist assistant. I'm bringing in a rescue squirrel who has a toothache."

She blinked at me.

I grabbed my squirrel off my nightstand, and continued my creative elaborations...

"He's going to need some kind of teeth to make this work. Do you have any chiclets?"

She gently told me (after informing me that, no, she she didn't have any chiclets), that she didn't really see how that scenario could develop into something sexy...even though I had offered to forget the squirrel prop. I told her we could just imagine maybe a gerbil, or a turtle, or something...and she suggested I try another scenario ENTIRELY, even though I had kind of liked that one.

Whatever.

So, I tried again.

"Ok...I'm the Wal-Mart greeter, and you're the fry girl at the in-store McDonald's."

She again looked at me blankly, with just a hint of concern.

So, I went on...

"Welcome to Wal-Mart, you beautiful and smoking hot McDonald's employee whom I have never in my life met before..."

I waited, but she was silent. So, I tried to help.

"Now, you tell me to be careful, because the fries are hot...oh, so....hot..."

She shook her head.

'No? Ok, you make one up. Show me how it's done, smarty pants."

I think at this point she was just kind of stunned (perhaps a little frightened), and our conversation wandered to considering some actual jobs we had had in our lives. She told me how she had worked at some fancy interior design studio as a "Fabric Librarian" (No, REALLY), and I told her how I had worked at Subway during my undergrad years, back when they used to slice the tops off of the loaves of bread like a boat-which you would fill with sandwich makings and then replace the top. We referred to ourselves as, "Sandwich Artists."

So, we considered the possibilities.

"How do you propose that these two might come together?" she asked tentatively, "I mean, somehow they have to end up in the same room for this to work."

"Well," I repled, "I could come into your studio to deliver a sandwich and ask to see your swatches."

Silence again.

"You know...I could walk in and say, 'Hello, there...I have your 6-inch tuna on wheat. Can you show me your swatches? Do you have anything in a....Seafoam Green?'" I was trying to use my best sexy voice, emphasizing the word 'seafoam'.

I could see she was trying really hard to get on board with this (bless her heart).

"Only interior designers are allowed to see my swatches..." she said slowly. "I could take you in the back...but, I could get...fired."

"Oh, you are such a bad, bad girl."

After a moment, she just shook her head again, but I kept going.

"Ok...so maybe instead you could come into Subway on your lunch break."

I think here is where she just started messing with me.

"Hi! Welcome to subway! What can I get you, you beautiful and smoking hot customer whom I have never, ever seen before in my whole life?"

Her voice had decidedly lost it's breathy tone as she placed her imaginary order.

"Yeah, um, I'll take a six inch BMT with everything on it."

I could tell she was losing her enthusiasm, but I wasn't going to be deterred.

"Are you sure you wouldn't be interested in a....footlong...they are only five dollars...for a limited time..."

I think she rolled her eyes at that one.

"Yeah, Ok. Fine. Whatever."

"And what kind of bread would you like your footlong on?"

She just looked at me, totally amused and finally replied, "I don't know. Why don't you tell me about the kinds of breads that you have?"

 I jumped on the chance to elaborate, because I am all about detail.

"I'm so glad you are interested in my bread complexities. Perhaps I can utilize my keenly developed sense of sandwich artistry and make a well-informed and highly trained suggestion for you..." I could see she was about to laugh, but I continued on. "You look like an Italian Herb and Spices kind of girl...I could...toast it for you..."

"Look, I only have 45 minutes for lunch. I really don't think this is going to work...I don't think I'm ever going to get a sandwich at this pace..."

Yeah. I could totally see her point. Maybe role-playing just isn't my strong suit. Ultimately, we just decided to be ourselves, which totally works for me...maybe it's just easier for the heterosexuals.

I think my ceramic squirrel is so relieved.

Lesbian Exes: Detached Garages and the Eukanuba Agreement...

So, my friend (I will refer to her here as Jessica, mostly because her name is Angela) suggested I write a post on lesbians and their exes. I had to think about this one for a while. I mean, what's so different about lesbians and their exes? Everyone has exes.

Then it came to me.

While most straight people have exes who live in Texas (I know this, because they write songs about it), many lesbian women have exes who live down the block and with whom they share joint custody of some furry creature.

Sometimes, they also share custody of a dog or cat.

Ba dump bump! I'll be here all week!

Anyway...back to my keen observations...

Granted, this idea PARTIALLY occurred to me because Jessica/Angela specifically suggested this exact, identical, nearly verbatim idea to me.

Our exchange went something (exactly) like this:

J/A: You should blog about lesbians who are still attached to and like their exes. I hate that!

JO: That is an AWESOME blog topic!!! I'm already getting ideas. I can totally work with that.

JO: Hi. I'm Jo. I'm hoping my ex gets eaten by an alligator.

J/A: I would LOVE it if a girl told me that! Instead I get...my ex is my best friend, or my ex and I still take turns with the dog or...my ex lives 3 houses down.

J/A; ...or...my ex still eats dinner at my mom's because she was a big part of the family for 7 years etc.

J/A: Straight girls cut their exes wieners off with dull knives.

JO: HAHAHAHA...oh...the ideas...I put mine on my blog with a mustache...not in any way equivalent to a dull knife, but I certainly did laugh a little too loudly...

NOTE: To see my ex with a mustache, please refer to the posting dated 10/3/14 and titled "Lesbian Relationships and Exploding Emotional Petrie Dishes." My ex would be the blond woman with the rather large mustache, sunglasses, giant red bow, chin whiskers, and a cigarillo dangling out of her mouth. Please refer your friends.

Anyway, I really think she is onto something. This 'friends with the exes' thing does seem to be a regular phenomenon in the lesbian community. It's strange. Even Melissa Etheridge ended up getting two separate houses with a shared backyard when she split with her ex-wife Julie Cypher. Supposedly it was to facilitate shared parenting of their human children...but I'll bet there were a few dogs and cats involved too.

Again, like the U-Haul phenomenon, I can't imagine the same scenarios going over as well in the heterosexual community. I mean, really.

I would forecast some troubles...and maybe a guest shot on Maury Povich.

I have to admit, I have been (and still am) touched by this phenomenon. I am friends with a few of my exes, and I have certainly had my fair share of girlfriends who also have ongoing entanglements with former domestic partners. I can't even tell you how many intense phone conversations I have witnessed as a result.

"Becky, you PROMISED you wouldn't let Figaro get attached to Miranda."

"Yes, and YOU promised that you wouldn't deviate from Eukanuba. That doesn't exactly explain what I discovered in his litter box this morning."

"Whatever. I'll see you at the dog park at 4:45 sharp...and this time please bring Cheeto's special bowl and squeaky Armadillo. He shouldn't be without them all week."

"Fine. Hey, there's a college production of 'Vagina Monologues'...you wanna go? Miranda hates that stuff."

"Absolutely! I found a rare live recording of Ani DiFranco reading Andrea Gibson. I wanted you to hear it."

Etc. Etc. Etc.

It can certainly be a challenge to deal with that stuff.

If it weren't for my exes with detached garages, I would never have been able to pursue music or writing. I'm pretty sure there are some current girlfriends who would love to kill me.

Especially when I deviate from the Eukanuba agreement.

Lesbians and Power Tools: Snap On, Snap Off

So, my 'loaner cats' knocked a plastic cup full of iced coffee onto the floor (because cats are a**holes), and it required some clean-up. It was the perfect opportunity for me to pull out the Craftsmane wet/dry shop vac, followed by the Bissell Green Machine Spot Remover, followed by the Dyson Steam Cleaner/Electric Floor Buffer. That, of course, led to the tiniest bit of floor varnish being removed...and so I had no choice but to bring out the sanders, drills, saws, presses, clamps, levels, brushes, sponges, safety harness, goggles, gloves, wrenches, socket set, air compressor, staple gun, hydraulic lift, tack hammer, phillips screwdriver and stud finder necessary to do the job right.

Turns out I totally didn't need the stud-finder.

Lesbians will find any excuse to play with tools...especially POWER TOOLS. I am no exception. What IS exceptional about me is that I have NO idea what I am doing...

But, I don't let little things like a lack of knowledge, or awareness of important safety precautions, get in my way. This often leads to interventions...friends trying to help me (or prevent a fire)...I am blessed with friends who are concerned for my (or their own) well-being.

Many of my friends are lesbians, so most of them know how to use power tools. In fact, many of them have collections of power tools that would make most men envious.

Many lesbians go to Home Depot like straight women go to Neiman Marcus...just to peruse the aisles and "window-shop." A lot of lesbians will go there and actually get the idea to PUT IN a window. Again, any excuse to purchase or break out the tools...

I go to Home Depot to pick up chicks. On a Saturday afternoon, it's second only to a local softball tournament for a high concentration of lesbians in any singular location.

But that's for another entry.

What's really fun is when you get two women with dueling toolboxes. It can get competitve. The old, "my toolbox is bigger than your toolbox" syndrome. We lesbians have to be careful not to leave our partner's feeling...uh...inadequate. It can get scary when the toilet backs up...having nothing to do with the toilet itself.

Lesbians can be sort of competitive. I know some who wear cleats while playing Pictionary.

Anyway, I'm headed out to my backyard with my impact wrench, hydraulic hole press, gutter nail driver, and my new Graco Fusion AP Gunround Adhesive Spatter Gun.

I have a birdfeeder to put up.

Should'a put a ring on It...:)

No, this post isn't about losing your cell phone when it's on silent mode. Or on vibrate....that's a whole other blog post.

This post is about gay marriage.

Sh*t just got real in Arizona!

I stole the above avatar meme from my friend (I will refer to her here as Cheryl, mostly because her name is Cheryl). I woke up this morning to find this on one of my 4, 957 social media sites, and I got very excited! Not only because my cat was standing uncomfortably on my left breast, with her butt directly in my face...but also because I was VERY happy for Cheryl and her girlfriend! I mean, look at the SIZE of that rock! I'm pretty sure it's either a diamond, or Cheryl was playing some kind of practical joke on her girlfriend with a ring box and a flash camera (SNAP! 'Ha! I got your picture! You should see the look on your face!').

I think my friends are engaged to be married!

Like, REAL married! Not that "separate but equal" civil union archaic bullcrap...but actual 'institutionally validated, whether you like it or not' MARRIED! Cheryl (if that's even her real name) had BETTER invite me!

Of course we have a mutual straight male friend (I will refer to him here as Dick, mostly because his name is Keith) who had a few questions. This is reasonable...I mean, this a a rapidly occurring social change, and it is bound to create some questions as it unfolds.

Dick's questions was, "How do you decide who does the proposing?" That's a valid question, given that all of the previously taken-for-granted gender dictated roles have to be re-negotiated.

He then wondered (OUT LOUD, no less) if Cheryl's proposal was partially determined by the fact that she is 'vertically conservative,' and therefore closer to the ground for that whole "down on one knee" tradition.

Excellent question, Dick! I hope I get to visit with you again before Cheryl kills you!

Anyway, as I said-things just got real in Arizona...and a lot of other states recently. Circuit court decisions are declaring any definitions of marriage that specifically excludes gay and lesbian people to be unconstitutional...I mean, duh! So now, if you have some kind of problem with gay marriage, my biggest recommendation to you would be to NOT marry a gay person!

A few days ago, it happened in Alaska. I'm from Alaska, and I NEVER thought that could happen in my lifetime. The six gay people (and four gay moose) up there are thrilled!

I'm kidding! There are LOTS of gay people up in Alaska! So many people are lining up outside of City Hall in Anchorage to get their licenses that there is almost nowhere left to park the rainbow clad dogsleds! It's chaos. Big, gay chaos!

I would love to see it.

As a lesbian and a sociologist, I'm just blown away. I'm humbled by the many who went before us, risking everything to challenge the system. They paid the price for this, which is what activists do. Dominance and oppression can only function in silence, so to those who made the noise...YOU ARE BRAVE AND AMAZING! THANK YOU!

As for you, Dick? I would try to hide from Cheryl before she hits you with one of her gorgeous, spike-heeled, fancy, ornamental, stunt shoes. I wouldn't try hiding in one of the few states left that still outlaws gay marriage...

Discriminatory laws...they are toppling like dominoes. Black and white dominoes.

Lesbians and gender neutral electrical fires...

One of the things that heterosexual couples have is a sort of pre-existing template for how stuff is going to get done around the house. In social research, we liked to talk about the "household division of labor"...which is just fancy sociological talk for...uh....the household division of labor.

Anyway, a lot of it was traditionally divided along gender lines. Women would plan for, prepare and cook meals, vacuum, dust, sweep, mop, make beds, clean windows, shop, handle correspondence, care for the children, handle family activity scheduling, handle interior decoration, do the laundry, iron, care for anyone who was sick, sew, clean and disinfect the bathrooms, care for pets, plan and execute holidays and family celebrations, and be solely responsible for acquiring the vast collection of attractive but useless little throw pillows that accumulate randomly throughout the house.

In all fairness, men also had a lot of household stuff to do. I mean, they were soley responsible for starting all the indoor and outdoor fires and floods associated with plumbing, electrical repair, car maintenance, lawn care, and operating the BBQ. They also had to take out the trash, and remember to lose the television remote EVERY night.

That's a lot of stuff that has to get done to keep a household running...and at one time the household division of labor decisions were closely associated with the fact that men were the ones out there in the labor market.

Now that women are equally present in the labor market, there have (thankfully) been some changes made in gendered expectations to better reflect this reality. For example, since women are out there working for a paycheck too, NOW when they come home after working 8-10 hours at a job, all they have to do is plan for, prepare and cook meals, vacuum, dust, sweep, mop, make beds, clean windows, shop, handle correspondence, care for the children, handle family activity scheduling, decorate the house, do the laundry, iron, care for anyone sick, sew, clean and disinfect the bathrooms, care for the pets, plan and execute holidays and family celebrations, and be solely responsible for acquiring the vast collection of attractive but useless little throw pillows that accumulate randomly throughout the house.

Sociologists needed some fancy terminology for this phenomenon, so they called it the "Second Shift." Work all day at your job so you can come home, and go to work at the second job.

But, I'm a lesbian. I don't have to worry about that crap.

Lesbians seem to make their decisions about the division of household labor based on who can do what, and who has the time. It has very little to do with who has a vagina. Most lesbians have vaginas. I have a vagina. I still can't cook. At all. Anyone who knows me, knows this (about the cooking, not the vagina thing). My ex-wife used to physically remove me from "HER" kitchen.

You burn poptarts ONE time, and people never let you forget it. It's not like I'm psychic, and just magically KNEW you had to take them out of the foil before putting them in the toaster.

Whatever.

Come to think of it, my vagina hasn't helped me much with sewing, either. Or with changing the oil in the car. Or decorating. Or ironing. My ex-wife wouldn't let me do the laundry anymore after I shrunk one of her sweaters so small that it fit the cat.

It's true that if neither person knows how to do something that needs done, you have to resort to asking for outside help. My last relationship, neither of us knew how to do ANYTHING with the vehicles, so we bothered our neighbor a lot. Just to ask stupid questions, like where the oil went, or how long you had to blow into the nozzle thingies to get the tires to inflate...

It occurs to me that vagina or no vagina (I'm saying vagina a lot in this post, and I'm enjoying it), I don't seem to be very helpful around the house, I mean, there is some stuff I can do. Once I learned to never mix Mr. Clean with Lysol toilet bowl cleaner (unless you are fumigating for people), I got pretty good at cleaning things.

Vagina, vagina, vagina.

Oops.

I also can balance plates on my boobs when watching TV, so I'm not completely useless. And...I can start a toaster fire just as good as anyone who has a penis.

OMG. Where's the remote?

Lesbians: We are HUMPR's, and we like to truck...

There is a time and place for the lesbian U-Haul phenomenon, and it usually involves the immediate and cosmic collision of two incredibly impulsive and lovestruck women into an instant, morphed, domestic conglomeration of assorted dogs, cats, boots, bras, Sarah McLachlan CD's, yoga mats, and  an arsenal of hair care products (for the animals, mostly).

For any other moving activity, lesbians know they can activate the Homegirl Urgent Moving Protocol Response (HUMPR) system, which I may, or may not have, just now, right this very second, made up.  

But, if I did just make up something, it is in name only...because in spirit, this thing actually exists. A few well placed phone calls, and any lesbian can count on an army of lesbians with trucks showing up when and where she needs them.

U-Haul may be the appropriate "move in" method...but when Courtney discovers that Brooke told Pinecone her secret about that night following the potluck when she did that one thing with Amber behind Kelly's back, and Pinecone never shared this fact with Courtney thereby allowing Jill to eat all of the hummus again (WTF JIll?)....a lesbian can count on her homegirls to show up for the rapid response "move out."

Not that EVERY lesbian drives a pickup truck. I mean, that would be a stereotypical, sweeping over-generalization. I would never do THAT. Making insulting, inaccurate, stereotypical statements could result in a bunch of women with mullets descending to stomp on me with their giant boots.

Haha. Just kidding. Mullets were so 1985.

I actually had one. But, I digress.

As I was saying, not every lesbian drives a pick-up truck. Some ride motorcycles.

Haha! Just kidding again! How are you going to help somebody move their cat tree on a motorcycle? That's just silly!

You know, my housemate just had an awesome idea. She said we should all get HUMPRstickers for easy identification purposes. I told her to be quiet, because I'm the funny one in this household.

Anyway, I'm totally ripping off her HUMPRsticker idea, and I'm going to put one on my Vulva...because that's what I drive. Yeah, baby.

There. I think I have equally offended everybody. My work is done here.

I Got the Lesbola...

I remember when I was first wrestling with the self realization that I might not be like the other girls....wrestling with the realization that I might be a lesbian.

I was three years old.

Boy, that was a rough year.

OK. Not really....at three the only thing I was wrestling with was how to get my Chatty Kathy doll to shut the hell up (turns out that leaving her in the driveway to be run over is pretty effective).

Actually, it was more like when I was about twelve, and developing my first
crushes. While the other girls were fussing over the boys in 'Tiger Beat' magazine, I just wanted to impress Jo, from 'Facts of Life,' with my hamster.

In all fairness, my hamster, Gumby, was really cool and could do tricks.

But I'm not here to write about my amazing, stunt hamster.

I'm here to write about how I might have contracted lesbianism.

I've really wracked my brains over this one...(not as much as my poor mother did, bless her heart)...but I have certainly put a lot of thought into it. It had to have happened sometime before I was eight years old, because by that age I was already firmly resistant to all things pink, delicate, and frilly...and I wanted to push boys into mud puddles...I was clearly demonstrating the signs and symptoms of early infection.

I'm still not sure if I was contagious during this time...and I'm still totally mystified about WHERE I could have POSSIBLY picked it up. It remains a mystery to this day.

Although, I do remember that one time I ate bad cheese. Could that be it?

It would be so much easier to narrow down if there was more accurate information about how it's spread. I mean, when I caught mononucleosis it was totally clear that I got THAT from kissing Marcus Ritchie behind the hockey rink (it was his idea, and I didn't like it). But THIS thing...I have no idea.

Anyway, when I first came out to my mom (bless her heart) I think she was very hopeful that it was just a "phase"...like the phases I went through with doing John Wayne impersonations, or collecting lizards. But, this 'lesbian thing' hasn't spontaneously resolved. I think it might be terminal. Most of the people I know who caught the lesbianism and later passed away did, indeed, die still having the condition.

To be truthful, though...I don't expect that the lesbianism will kill me. Well, unless I encounter another one like my ex. Then, it might.

Fortunately, I wouldn't be interested in a "cure," even if there was one. What a way to go! I think it MIGHT be possible that I was born this way. I think it MIGHT be possible that that is totally awesome!

I try to imagine a modern (western) world where being "gay" was still considered something you could "transfer" to others...where planes coming in from San Francisco were quarantined while straight healthcare workers, dressed in protective clothing modeled after 1950's sitcom characters, observed passengers for signs of fabulousness.

"Bob, I've got one here with errant glitter, and an encyclopedic knowledge of  showtunes...."

"Put him in with the female pro-golfer. Let's see how they respond to the fruit basket test..."

Lesbians would be expected to eat the fruit in the basket, slightly hesitating with the bananas. Gay men would be expected to try to incorporate the fruit basket  (especially the bananas), into a design for a giant hat.

Anyway...I actually feel fortunate that I am one of the 4-15% of the general population (depending on which studies you consult) lucky enough to be gay.

And proud. :)

The Lesbian U-Haul Olympics

We lesbians are pretty good at laughing at ourselves (and each other), especially when we notice that there seem to be some universal 'themes' in our community...It could be our love of softball, trucks, and Melissa Etheridge...

Or it could be our tendency to show up for our second dates with a U-Haul...because after that first INCREDIBLE night out (for dinner and roller derby), we KNOW that we have found THE ONE,

Again.

This is one of our hilarious community characteristics...one of those little inside jokes...one of the psychological ties that binds us (or moves us in) together.

I think it's that relationship intensity thing I wrote about earlier...perhaps a natural dynamic of two women being together. We are so aware of it in our community that we sometimes even use it to communicate with each other...to help clarify our dating styles, and our relationship boundaries. Or our fears...

"You're not a U-Haul lesbian, are you?"

 "Oh, HELL no! Are you?"

"No WAY! Those women are ridiculous!"

And, the next day they are calling their friends to help them go pick up the U-Haul...and to assist them with loading up the Foosball table.

It's a funny thing. I try to imagine the same phenomenon playing out repeatedly in the heterosexual dating world.

It probably wouldn't go over so smoothly.

I'm a musician, and I was trying to find somebody to perform with. I was asking my friend (I will again call her 'Cheryl' , mostly because her name is Cheryl) if she would be interested in harmonizing with me, and maybe performing at one of our local lesbian bars. She was very enthusiastic about it, and it wasn't long before we were coming up with potential band names.

She had the awesome idea of calling ourselves, "Bit**es with Hitches." We were going to wear pink t-shirts with pictures of a U-Haul on them. Everyone would totally get it! She was genius! I was so excited!

Then the next day she met her girlfriend and immediately moved out of town.

In all fairness, they just celebrated their first year anniversary-and they are very happy together. So, we may be quick, but we're not always wrong.

OK...one more...

AAAAAAH!!!

You Mean the OTHER Lesbian...

It's not easy being a lesbian in a small town, even under the best of circumstances. In the worst of circumstances, you're the only one...which not only makes dating very difficult, but it also makes getting away with anything really tough. You can't just blame, "the OTHER lesbian."

There is also the added pressure that you, by default, end up representing the ENTIRETY of the lesbian kingdom (yes, we have a kingdom)...at least to that particular small town population. There's no messing up. If you do something stupid, or unbecoming, everyone in that small town will think ALL lesbians do that, because they know how "THOSE people are." After all, they knew YOU.

Geez! Talk about needing to straighten up and fly right!

Well, no...that was a really unfortunate way to put it. There's not going to be any "straightening" up. Sorry....my bad...

Anyway, I was lucky enough to live in a town with two and a half lesbians (I say 'and a half' because we couldn't get one to make up her mind, and kept switching back and forth).

The other full-time lesbian looked a lot like me....or I looked a lot like her...whatever....it really made our jobs of maintaining continuous coverage pretty easy. We maintained constant radio contact so we could be careful to not be seen together at the same time in any one particular place.

We didn't want the town to freak out and think they were being inundated, or overrun or something. We just let them use us interchangeably and get us mixed up. We were careful, also, to avoid being photographed together. A few times suspicious townsfolk thought they had caught us with their cell phone cameras, but we were pretty quick, and most of them came out looking like blurry Bigfoot pictures...minus the hair...

Anyway, it was fun, for awhile. But, they eventually did start figuring it out. We did, after all, actually LIVE there, and had to use our real names once in awhile, like at the bank. They were real sticklers about that.

We had to laugh about it, because they really did get us mixed up a lot. More than once my friend told me that she had been walking somewhere, and would hear someone call out, "Hey Jo!"...and she would shout back, "No, you're thinking of the OTHER lesbian!"

The fact that there were only two of us obviously meant that everyone then figured we must be a couple...which we weren't...

We were both working on fully converting the part-time lesbian so we could get a toaster oven.

I mean, duh!

By the way, I'm king of the kingdom...especially when I'm wearing my hiking boots.

'Comfortable Shoes' and Bear Attack Escape Tactics...

It may be true that lesbians, both butch and femme (and everything in between) are more prone to wearing comfortable, SENSIBLE shoes...although I can think of many, many examples of lesbians who now enthusiastically participate in the kind of foot-mangling torture  that I had previously only associated with crazy, straight girls.

One of my lesbian friends in particular (I shall refer to her here as 'Cheryl'... mostly because her name is Cheryl)...absolutely LOVES shoes. She is known for it. She likes to wear the kind of shoes that she needs a step ladder to climb into.

Cheryl is kind of height conservative.

Anyway, her shoes are gorgeous, and always perfectly coordinated with whatever outfit she is wearing. She looks super cute in them, and despite the fact that the heels are so tall that almost ANYBODY would need a step ladder to climb into them-she can actually walk in them. In fact, she can even DANCE in them.

I know this because I went dancing with her one night at a local lesbian bar in Phoenix, AZ (Go Zoans!). We stepped outside for a moment, and I asked her if I could try on her shoes. I was amazed, and curious, and pretty sure that she was somehow super glued into them.

She said that I could try them on. I took one look at those giant heels, and I immediately fell down and broke my ankle.

No, not really.

I did, however, slip them on for just a moment...just to see how they felt...and I couldn't even STAND in them. Seriously. It was embarrassing.

I put my granola loafers back on, and gave her back her gorgeous, ornamental, stunt shoes.

I guess my closet looks exactly as the stereotypical lesbian's closet would be expected to look...it looks as if Eddie Bauer walked in there and just exploded. And it is also true that every shoe in my closet is designed for function, and for comfort...and as Cheryl might add, for perpetual singledom. My shoes are definitely...sensible...and not necessarily very attractive or flattering. But, if I were ever in a situation where I was being chased by a Grizzly bear (as often occurs in downtown Phoenix)...well, Cheryl and her impractical shoes are exactly who I would want to have with me.

You will notice that I didn't refer to Cheryl as "short." This is because I'm afraid she will throw her shoe at me and put my eye out.

Lesbian Recruitment and the Elusive Toaster Oven...

Times are tough in the lesbian recruitment industry.

It used to be that everyone was in the closet, just hoping to get out. They simply needed a little encouragement.

Then Katy Perry had to go and KISS a girl, LIKE it, and then SING about it all over the damn radio. And she's not even gay! In one stupid song, she instantly qualified herself for more toaster ovens than I could EVER hope for in an entire lifetime.

Not to mention what she did for the cherry chapstick industry.

I've spent years trying to get my hands on that elusive toaster oven...to no avail. I did hold extended eye contact with a straight female co-worker once, and I got a stupid can opener in the mail. Not one of those fancy "Magic Chef" ones, mind you. No. I got the tiny, deformed, ghetto, camping version that doesn't even have any handles. Somebody in the front office (which is located in the heart of downtown Antler, Oklahoma) thought they were being funny.

It is possible that I am a little bit jealous. I mean, every lesbian I know has at least temporarily converted somebody- and therefore qualified for, at minimum, a basic blender.

My ex-wife used to have so many "straight" women throwing themselves at her, they used to call her the "spatula."

Boy, could she flip them!

Gosh, I remember the glory days when all we had to do was inspire some "bi-curious" confusion, and we could score a lovely crystal punch bowl set.
Not any more.

I'm not sure what the penalty is for actually failing to bring in my quota. I am getting concerned enough about it that I might have to make a few phone calls...to call in the big guns.

I have family in Arkansas. I can pull some strings.

I hate to do it, but in this new climate of emerging civil rights, community empowerment, and institutional validation-women who might be gay seem to just come marching out of the closet all on their own. I'm actually concerned that one day there won't even BE a closet anymore...and then we lesbians would all have to go to Wal-Mart for our toaster ovens...just like everybody else.

The horror!

Lesbian Fashion and Perpetual Fly-Fishing Preparedness

So, I used to think that I was pretty in tune with what the current fashions were for most self-respecting lesbians. I had a closet full of 501's, plaid flannel shirts, vests, hiking boots, and a motorcycle helmet that I wore everywhere-even though I don't own a motorcycle.

Of course, that was "back in the day," when the lesbian handbook actually specified the parameters of our "uniform," It has since been updated several times by the National Association of  Self-Aware Lesbians Hoo Are Irritatingly Right (NASALHAIR).

I might have made that up.

Anyway, I thought I was still dressing within the handbook specifications, although I had noticed an increasing number of lesbians who seemed to be willing to "come out" of their flannel closet ghettos, and embrace brightly colored prints and lovely cotton/polyester blends. Some of them were even wearing open-toed sandals without socks. So brave.

I remember when it first occurred to me that maybe, PERHAPS, I was an outdated, lesbian nerd.

It was the day I was first called an outdated, lesbian nerd (these subtle hints are often very helpful to me).

Several of my straight girlfriends invited me out to a nice social event. I had scoured my wardrobe, and thought that I had found the perfect outfit...one that I felt I looked especially nice on me.

When I emerged from the bedroom to show off my choice, one of my friends took a long, hard look at me, and then stated, "You look like you are about to go fly-fishing."

So, she didn't actually call me an outdated, lesbian nerd...but she did accuse me of dressing like a character from "A River Runs Through It."

I'm not even from Montana.

In my defense, however, I am from Alaska. Everyone in Alaska (straight women included) dresses like they are about to go fly-fishing. Most of them actually ARE about to go fly-fishing...but they also dress like that when they are about to go out to dinner, or to go out shopping. They even go to the Opera like that. The only time Alaskans DON'T look like they are about to go fly-fishing is when they go to the "Annual Miner's and Trapper's Ball." That's when they all look like Grizzly Adams at a drag queen convention. Straight women included.

But that's for a different blog.

My girly friends immediately drove me to Ross, and subjected me to an intervention that lasted for several hours. I was forced to try on stacks and stacks of pinkish colored frilly things with flowery prints, and lace.

And that was just the underwear.

Ultimately, however. I always seem to gravitate back to canvas, and denim, and blue tarps with arm holes and head holes cut out of them.

Lesbians have come a long way with diversifying "lesbian fashion" in general. It could be that there really isn't a lesbian "uniform" anymore, and that lesbians just kind of dress (gasp) HOWEVER THEY WANT TO-more concerned with what feels good and fits their personalities than with some silly outdated handbook regulations. I do think that lesbians generally tend to regard clothing with the same sort of "middle finger to the gender-system" sensibilities that they seem to apply to everything else. I like that about my community.

I'm going to save my discussion of lesbian footwear and our top-secret "comfortable shoes" pledge for another post.

I have to stop typing now. My motorcycle helmet is fogging up, and I can't see anything...

Lesbians and Cats: Pussy Galore

No, I'm not writing about a James Bond film, silly.

I'm writing about another lesbian phenomenon, which is the bond between a lesbian and her cat. Or cats, as may be (often is) the case.

Lesbians are very fond of pussies. They also like cats a lot.

Be prepared...it's not as if I could even write this entry without making that joke 4, 237 times. Be realistic, people. I don't even have a choice here. It's a force out of my control.

Anyway, lesbians and their...uh...kitties. Yes, the bonds are supernatural. For the cats too, it seems-which may seem a bit unusual, given cats' intrinsic nature to be total a**holes.

But, something seems to happen to cats who inhabit lesbian households. I mean, besides the whole 'dressing differently and becoming conscientious about choosing dolphin-free tuna' thing. Cats in lesbian household also seem to relax their general "a**holiness" (I made up a word), and will often extend the number of times they will allow themselves to be petted in a row before abruptly and inexplicably turning on you, and shredding your hand to smithereens.

"Kitty Smithereens" is a good name for a lesbian rock band.

Ok. Maybe not.

Anyway, I have noticed that kitties in lesbian households seem to be extraordinarily affectionate and attached to their lesbian moms. I mean, I haven't conducted a formal study or anything, but there does seem to be a higher level of cat/human-mom interaction. Almost to the point of co-dependence. Almost to the point of dangerous.

I know several lesbians who have awakened to find their pussy nearly suffocating them, affectionately obstructing their airways with their less than subtle attempts to get petted. Sometimes their cats will also do this.

I told you. I have no choice with this post. Don't judge.

This is my friend in Portland, and her beloved cat "Whisker Nibblets."

OK. The kitty isn't named "Whisker Nibblets." I made that up, because I don't know her cat's name, and I took a guess so that she wouldn't 'un-friend' me on Facebook (my friend, not the cat). You don't mess with not knowing stuff about a lesbian's cat. Marriages can break up over that shit.

Anyway, she recently posted a photograph of her cat sprawled across her neck and face (Yes-the feline variety...geez), and she stated she was under "Cattack"-which made me giggle. She also recently had her kitty go missing for a whole day (yes-the feline variety...geez), and had taken the drastic measure of putting out the "Lesbian Amber Alert." The "Lesbian Amber Alert" is a top secret lesbian emergency broadcast system that we only deploy in extreme situations-usually having to do with our cats or dogs, or sometimes on the rare occasion we have run out of tofu.

She found "Whisker Nibblets," and it is OK.

Yes, cats adopted by lesbians are lucky creatures. Although, the cats probably think they adopted the lesbians-and that the lesbians are the lucky ones. Because that's just how cats roll.

Cats, by the way, do a lot of their "rolling" very loudly, at about 3:30 in the morning. I'm not sure why this is...it must be a "cat thing." Sometimes I am concerned that my pussy is out of control.

Yes, and my cat too.

Ooh! Laundry right out of the drier!

Sorry. I had to. Much to my kitty's chagrin, I'm only human.

  

Lesbian Sex: Buckle Up and Wear a Helmet

One of the questions I am most frequently asked, besides "did you cut your hair with a hedge trimmer?" is, "how do lesbians have sex?"

Well, I'm not really able to diagram it here, but I will tell you that we lesbians are generally pretty good at the whole sex thing. And pretty enthusiastic about it, as well. There is also a certain amount of creativity involved....

We usually start with that initial trip to Home Depot, where we purchase the necessary scaffolding. It's also where we like to pick up our plastic sheeting, duct tape, rope, safety goggles, and some varnish. Depending on preferences, some women will go ahead and grab a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign. I haven't been fortunate enough to need one of those yet, but there's still time. Oh! And you are definitely going to need some D batteries and some heavy duty shears...or as we lesbians like to refer to them in lesbian code speak: "Scissors."  Snicker, snicker...

 I actually made all of that up, and I have no idea what I'm talking about.

Shocking, I know.

Actually, the sexual part of being a lesbian is the thing everyone focuses on. I always thought that was kind of funny, because it is only one aspect of being lesbian (albeit, an important one)...no one really considers the affectional or "spiritual" orientation involved. The sexual part of things just always seemed to occur naturally to me, and I never gave much thought to the mechanics of it all. Until of course, I am asked by a straight person. Usually, a guy...who can't imagine a scenario in which a lesbian could ever be fulfilled...truly fulfilled...in the absence of the..."D"....

No, not D batteries, silly. Although I do have a supply of those. For my, uh, flashlight.

It's a big flashlight.

Anyway, far be it from me to assume I could ever adequately describe lesbian sex to someone who needs to understand it in heterosexual terms. I don't think I could even describe it to another lesbian. I mean, it's not as if we go to the bedroom with a sketchpad and a schematic manual.

Well, most of us don't anyway.

Now, if you will excuse me...I'm going to go make up a new lesbian sexual maneuver. I'm going to call it the "Barbeque Tongs." I'm alone, so there is an added difficulty level.

Thank goodness I have a helmet.

Yes, Nuala. It does. Your honorary "flannel print" dog collar will arrive by mail in 4-6 weeks. If it's a female postal delivery person, you can eat her too.

Lesbian relationships and exploding, emotional petrie dishes

This is a picture of my former spouse. As you can see, I have taken measures to protect her identity.

My ex and I went through what had to be some kind of record-breaking parting of the ways. It spanned across three years and five states. It got to be so ridiculous, that even we were making fun of it...when we could find time in between the tearful reunions and insult laden door slamming.

But this particular relationship is not actually what I'm here to write about.

Mostly I just wanted to post a picture of my ex-wife with a mustache. I'm concerned that she might still be too identifiable. Hang on.

There, That's better. Thank goodness I'm not BITTER or anything.

I hope she still has a sense of humor, mostly because she's studying to be a lawyer.

Anyway, what I'm really here to write about is the intensity of lesbian relationships. You see, as shocking as it may be, the fact is that when you get two women into a relationship-you can almost be guaranteed that emergency vehicles will show up at some point. Probably at least every 28 days.

OK. Not really.

There are plenty of examples of very calm, stable, committed and supportive lesbian relationships out there. But women are, generally speaking, socialized to be more emotionally...expressive...than men are. Put TWO women together, and this creates a potentially explosive, emotional petrie dish, Be prepared for wildly intense connections, boundless love, romantic calisthenics, highly detailed and labor intensive negotiations, tearful exchanges (I own stock in Kleenex), lots of guessing about what is wrong (you should KNOW what is wrong, you jerk), cuddling marathons after sex, and loooong, loooooong, conversations about everything.

I used to write my spouse these exhaustively expressive "feelings" letters before I went to work, and leave them by the coffee maker. She called them my, "coffee pot novels." One time she called me at work, asked me if I was listening carefully (I was, because that's what we women do), and then proceeded to rip it up into little pieces over the phone. She told me to TALK to her, and stop making her read 'War and Peace' every morning.

Whatever. I had feelings. They needed out. All of them.

I don't want to paint lesbian relationships with a stereotypical, hysterical brush. They really aren't all like that. But I can say from my experience in the lesbian community, there is a lot of relationship drama out there. It can be intense. This is also compounded by the fact that there are a limited number of single lesbians out there, and we all know each other.

OK. That's not true either. I just get a kick out of it when someone straight (who lives three states away) says, "Hey, I work with a lesbian. Her name is Jane. Do you know her?"

Of course I know her! We are all just three degrees from Shane. Or Jane.

I was going to start writing about lesbians and U-Hauls, but that is a topic that deserves it's own blog entry. For now, I am going to go cry a little (I have my box of Kleenex), and hug my cat a little too tightly.

Orange is the new crack...

So, I made the mistake of trying to watch an episode of "Orange is the New Black" a few months ago. I say a few months ago because I haven't turned off my TV or been seen in public since.

OK. Not really.

But I did watch the first season in one alarming, burnt popcorn laden, exhausting, butt numbing, singular binge marathon. I think it was 13 episodes. My intention was just to watch ONE episode (two tops), so I would be informed, and be able to participate in community conversations about it. I kept hearing about "Crazy Eyes," and about throwing pastries, but I was clueless. I felt isolated. Alone. Overly dramatic.

Well, I always feel overly dramatic. DON'T JUDGE ME! WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS YELLING AT ME?

Anyway...I don't have Netflix, but I was visiting a friend who does. She was going on an overnight trip somewhere, and she made the mistake of showing me how her TV operated....and how to access her Netflix account. I rarely even watch TV, so I was unprepared. I have an addictive personality, so I was vulnerable.

I felt isolated. Alone. Overly dramatic. In need of popcorn. And crack.

Ok. Not really. I can't watch TV when I do crack. I'm too busy covering the windows with aluminum foil and listening for helicopters.

Anyway....

My intitial decision was spur of the moment. I mean, I still had painful memories relating to a prior "L-Word" fiasco that had required an intervention and a crowbar. Fortunately, L-Word got stupid, and gave me time and space to heal. But, I HAD to know what the big fuss was all about with this new show.

After I got over the really annoying theme song, I watched the first episode.

My friend returned the next morning to find me glassy eyed, frazzled, hair askew (that's normal), curled up on her couch with the remote, her house smelling of desperation, self-loathing, and burnt popcorn.

I understand there is now another season. The first one ended in a kind of cliffhanger, with the religious freak about to kill the heroine-who had gone kung-fu ninja on her ass.

I really need someone's Netflix access code. I'll pawn something. Please. Please. PLEASE! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY...DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!!!!!

Too dramatic?

I'm in love with Alex.

Do you hear a helicopter?

Tiny testicles

If I need to weld something, which is a frequent challenge in my freelance writing gig, I know that I am only a few phone calls away from finding a lesbian friend who can help me. The same can be said if I need to operate a forklift, re-tile my bathroom, or paint racing stripes on my tricked out Go-Cart.

Or to build me a tricked out Go-Cart...because I don't actually have one of those.
Yet.

Anyway, just as in other areas of "gender conformity," lesbians in the workforce have pretty much ignored the whole idea of basing their occupational choices on whether or not they have a vagina. Most of my lesbian friends have vaginas. Well, probably ALL of my lesbian friends have vaginas. I mean, I haven't empirically confirmed this. It's not like I just walk up to my friends and say, "show me your vagina!" No matter what Pat Robertson claims. But I digress.

I'm not here to write about vaginas. This time.

No. I'm writing about lesbians in non-traditional occupations. There are a lot of them. Cops, and truckers, and construction workers...mechanics, and masons, and pilots...this is NOT to say that every woman working in a non-traditional occupation is a lesbian, no matter what Rush Limbaugh claims. (Please insert your own joke about Rush Limbaugh having a vagina here).

Anyway, I love the fact that there are so many brave and competent women in our community. But, there is a cost associated with challenging any social norm, and one of the people closest to me is facing it every day. And it pisses me off.

My friend loves operating heavy equipment. She worked her way up on a road crew, where she started as a flagger. She is one of the hardest workers I have ever known. She will show up early, stay late...I've LITERALLY seen this woman work so hard that she had difficulty dressing herself the next day...she had block sanded until her hands cramped, and her fingers were so raw she couldn't grasp her own shoelaces.

The road crew couldn't figure out why she was block sanding everything.

Ha! Just kidding! I'm referring to when she was working for an auto body repair shop...owned by a woman (Go Roxie and Bumper2Bumper Autobody Express in Phoenix, AZ!)...she wasn't block sanding while flagging. Or operating heavy equipment. That would be weird, you big silly!

Anyway, my friend is a hard worker. On her first road construction job (in cowboy country no less), the guys in charge noticed her work ethic, and saw her potential. They started training her on heavy equipment, and she LOVED it. She's good at it. To this day my friend lights up when she's talking about operating loaders and scrapers and other large orangish vehicles with tires bigger than my whole car...

She had been laid off seasonally and had to relocate to another state to get her son situated (because she's also a single mom, which qualifies her for a cape, or at least a free taco somewhere)...where she managed to get a job on another road crew. This time, with a group of guys who have worked together forever. Unlike her previous position (because not ALL guys are jerks, and some actually respect a woman who comes in and excels at the same job they do), THESE guys are jerks, and are threatened by a woman who comes in and excels at the same job they do.

She shows up to work at 6am, walks into the break-room, and all of the guys get quiet. Then they start snickering. She's studying for her CDL, and there are pieces of equipment she's never operated before. Rather than help her learn and encourage her, they criticize and belittle her. She has to work twice as hard just to avoid unpleasantness, and God forbid she make a mistake. They are ruthless. She's also beautiful, and although the guys walk a thin line as they try to assess her sexual availability, they seem to manage to avoid direct sexual harrassment. So, it happens indirectly. The stares. The whispers. The laughing as she passes by. The climate generally sucks, and she struggles daily to not get discouraged.  She deserves respect and professionalism, and it makes me angry.

I've tried to tell her it's not their fault that they have tiny testicles, and even smaller characters. I've tried to tell her that she should be gentle with them. She should try not to laugh out loud at them. She intimidates them, apparently, and they feel the need to show off for each other in order to bolster their distorted sense of masculinity. I've tried to encourage her not to run them over with the steamroller.

She gets to deal with little boys all day, and then go home to the respect and adoration of her son-who at 7 years old is already more of a man than those a$$holes will ever be.

There. I feel better.

Now, I have to make some phone calls to some lesbians. I really want a tricked out Go-cart.