Smokey Dykes and Freudian Sleeps

Slow start today, Libran verbosity- chatting with lover about my concept of a "5-year plan", and the subtle differences of a "3-year plan" which she bore well (or was it I doing the boring?) Any conversation that has sentences which begin with, "Now, by 40 years of age..." and kicked off with a little recap of our life plans in our early 20s (we'll have been together 6 years next March)... is going to be long-winded.

I was working up to a brilliant point about how everything segued together to a pinnacle that was in itself the very exemplification of us both achieving self-actualisation and inner harmony (I’m a Libran). This all depended on a very particular and subtle perspective/ stance (pronounced “perspective stroke stance”, or maybe in some cultures it’s more slashing than stroking). Anyhow, I digress, there was an overarching reason for it all... and there, to quote the big E (Mme DeGeneres), I congratulated myself too soon, thinking my lover's going to be so impressed, she'll think how clever she is...and…. it all disappeared in a poof of smoke (or to coin a phrase, and why not, a dyke of smoke?) I continued rambling a little while to try to re-mount as it were (always important to get right back on if one inadvertently falls off somehow, I feel). Anyhow, the whole thing trailed into a negligible, forgettable point.

The upshot (or lack thereof) being, I don't know whether I should be relieved that lover didn't seem to notice the fizzle at the end, or rather concerned that such are her expectations of yours truly, that non-earth shattering anti-climaxes, albeit verbal, do not disappoint. Accordingly, I am currently in the in-between state in the nether regions of being peeved and relieved, which I shall dub peelieved to describe the phenomenon:

Peelieved:
The state of being upset that nobody has noticed how stupid one has been, inextricably coupled with bullying from the subconscious, which chalks it all down to expectations.

Speaking of Freud, which I wasn’t, but I was thinking of him, which is in fact the same thing: I am recently beset by a whole new type of Freudian slip. I shall christen this eponymously after an ironic error by yours truly, when I inadvertently said something very sexual in conversation and then to amend, “Freudian sleep”.

Freudian sleep (typing variety) aka Freudian slop:
The affliction whereby typos are inappropriately appropriate (or vice versa), and the simple slip of an over-eager butter-finger can produce entirely different results than intended. This is often undetected by spellcheckers and, unless colloquial, these neo-words slip under the radar and into general circulation.

My best examples are, by their very nature, non-reproducable here. Although I can, however, reveal a lesser offender where I routinely type the ubiquitous “it” as a three letter palindromic word and a small bird, contextually this can be incriminating.

This all culminates (or not as the point may be), in a recent job application for a lesbian company in which I professed to be “au fait with women’s cliterature”, I heard back from them too, so intrigued were they no doubt with my fearless feminist wordsmithery and while they were interested to receive my open application and definitely wanted to keep it on file (such was its comedic value no doubt), there were, for me at that time, “no openings”.
Oh well, I guess tit happens to the breast of us.

Sapphic slaves to surveys

Tiptoeing through the mire of chauvinism and sex stereotypes is a sticky dirty business. Even when it comes to issues as seemingly innocuous as favourite colour. This is often reflected in the plethora of online questionnaires that profess to reveal my inner self, via my favourite colour, taste in coffee, sandwich choice (it seems like they ask about every appetite rather than sexuality). While not wanting to burst my own shiny bubble, I can at the same time acknowledge that perfection is not to be found in these little pop quizzes. First off, they assume straightness. (I am so gay that when I came out in my teens, people invariably assumed I had something ELSE big to tell them and that was just the premise, so you're a lesbian, yes, AND... that being all I had to say, they then wandered off to do something else far more revelationary).

I digress, another snag is that these do not take mood fluctuations into account, nor do they allow for the faint possibility that the "respondent" may not have an overwhelming, overarching preference (not solely the same-sex one, but also maybe I swing between latte and cappuccino, perhaps this could be allowed for somehow.)

I cannot help but inspect my own navel, or shove my head up another orifice to adopt a colloquial casual yogic stance. If these questionnaires are to be believed then I must have a phenomenally unstable personality. These tools are not reliable (and dependable tools are important.) The same survey on three different days paints three very different individuals. I know this because I sometimes redo the same survey at different times...just to check (this in itself speaks volumes). It ie. the answers, ie. "me" changes every little pop quiz. There are two explanations here that I can find: either they're randomly jumbling up the answers- a kind of shock therapy for obsessive compulsives like moi. That, or someone is sat there trying to convince all recipients that they have a multiple personality disorder. Jung I may not be, and my Sapphic personality may not be mapped out (but if my psyche were Google-Earthed I reckon it'd be somewhere on isle of Lesbos), but said self is definitely in the singular. Of that much, me, myself and I are sure.

If there is one criteria- it could be quite simply this...Are you answering this quiz, mulling over how you would react to meeting a gorilla on the underground or what your name would be if you were a dog? You are therefore a survey slave. As I am, are you also struck by how the 5 personality types in the answer don't quite cover all of the variations in life of people? You are right, the sixth one is always missed off the list- this sixth type isn't listed as they surfed off to watch Angelina Jolie on youtube awhile ago, otherwise living their vicarious virtual life. Of course, I myself am free from such dependence upon surveys to find the real me, I am not addicted to self-labeling and self scrutiny, I know I this for a fact because I just did this excellent survey that reassured me I'm just fine the way I am (oh, and if I was a day of the week I'd be a Friday- good to know.)

The EX-odus

Girlfriends, I have often reflected, are like buses: you wait ages for the right one, then three come at once (if you excuse the imagery). The same can be said of exes.

I shall set the scene:
My love and I have been going out for three days, in time-honoured lesbian tradition we have moved in and are living together, and she is collecting me from work for the first time ever. My love is irresistibly sexy in bike leathers (yep she had a motorbike), I am wearing a tailored men's suit and my distinctive long black Matrix coat (this touch of éclan proves to be my undoing). Eager to make a good impression I bound onto the street dead on time having vaulted down three flights of stairs.

The road is a relatively short one before leaving the city centre- five minutes on foot max. No sooner have we set off then we encounter my ex who bounds over to chat. We part on good terms (again) and continue on our way, while I ponder the likelihood of such a chance meeting as said ex is out of her usual territory, my thoughts are interrupted by yet another ex, whom I virtually collide with. She too says hi, is introduced to my love and continues on her way. “Small world” I say to my love as we continue, who agrees that life can indeed be coincidental. That is until ten feet later when she alerts me to a tall dark woman waving manically from the other side of the street: another ex (this one usually famed for her retiring reticence has suddenly become Judy-bl**dy-Garland on a float parade. I grimace hysterically back and do the I’m busy salute wave without slowing my pace.)

I begin to calculate the probabilities of this occurring by chance, I never hitherto considered myself a grape on the proverbial vine, could this be an ambush of sorts? I decide a drink is in order for both of us- always good for paranoia. This is not bright on my part, we sneak up the requisite side alley, enter gay bar, there seated in bar as the ONLY person in the room is another ex- yet another (this one normally lives in a different city). I spin us on the spot, steer my love out by the arm and we retreat. “Another ex?” she jokes, I flash a smile nervously, by now I am calculating the best route out to get us out undetected, Mission Impossible style.

“News travels faster than on Grease with the drive in and Rizzo’s pregnancy…" I offer up erratically.
"...Not that anyone’s pregnant,” I clarify redundantly. Cool has deserted me and I am beginning to babble, anything to drown out my love’s inner dialogue, she is visibly moving her fingers one at a time. My mobile rings, I seize it, grateful for a momentary distraction, up pops a former lover’s name. Call divert, city divert selected.

We reach the perimeter of the pedestrianised city centre at high velocity- I am avoiding the tree-lined pedestrianised avenue in favour of roadside pavement. I am striding as I never have before, and already breathing a sigh of relief, “Fancy seeing ALL of them like that!” I say, hoping I hadn’t overdone the otherwise subtle stress on "all". I am interrupted by a little dinging sound, as a cyclist veers in, “Hey!” chimes my cheery gardener ex, “Fancy seeing you here. What are the odds?” I warily survey my love- she has run out of fingers on the one hand, “You’d be surprised.”

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Putting Out at Work

Coming out of the closet is often more like leaving a room than entering one. This philosophical bent is itself an aspect of my bent philosophy.

Although I am a rainbow-flag-waving, ring-wearing married-to-a-woman lesbian, I am oft afflicted by invisibility, though sadly not invincibility. As ever, I digress, my last employer was selectively deaf for talk of "my partner", she missed frequent references to the woman I live and even woke up with, the latter was to differentiate from sister or housemate (although in the literal sense this last term was apt as we do mate in a house.) Said boss was selectively blind even to my waistcoats and trousers (my "fashion sense" was even complimented). This woman put the D in the world's longest river (Nile)...think about it.

In desperation once when I wished to get home to my lover at a reasonable hour before my dinner was in the metaphorical dog, I said, "I have to go, there is a stew waiting for me..." before I could get any further my boss said, "Oh is that his name, your partner?"

Exasperated, it was time to make my sexuality explicit sotospeak, I then clarified that it was a woman who awaited my return and who had indeed cooked dinner for me. So, a woman who had cooked me dinner and who I was going home to, I lived with a woman, I was going to eat with her- the 2 of us.
"Oh," said my boss confused, "And what about Stu your partner, where's he tonight then?"

Surrogate PMT and the nipple effect

For those of you who noticed a dip, I am thrilled to report that I am back on top form. I was suffering from surrogate PMT. I knew it wasn't that time of my cycle, yet I was beset with grouchy indecision and crying-over-spilt-milk with malcoordination ironically ensuring I was repeatedly spilling said milk. After checking my dates, I neglected to remember that my girlfriend and I are in synch emotionally, although not menstrually. Despite most females switching into the same cycle in close proximity, we were both always the prevailing cycles – a kind of alpha menstruator- in the past. My pheromones are so strong that women dive into drugstores for sanitary towels as I simply wander past them at key lunar phases. Upon us both getting together, we had an interesting tug of war for some time before both settling back into our own rhythms (incidentally to spell that word I have no choice but to say aloud, Rhythm Has Your Two Hips Moving- more acronym memory jogger than double entedre.) Anyhow, cue two days of indecision and the world being one step too far to the left-or is that right, well just plain wrong- without the appeasing ease of blaming it on the hormones. Instead I felt like a pool player who was always just 1 cm out from potting each shot, my balls just wouldn't roll straight, sotospeak.

As the scientist in me tried to restore order, I took my irrational state and applied "applied physics". Here were my key laws:

- The ripple effect (which I have redubbed the nipple effect)
This states that, cast a mere speck of gravel in my pond and a tidal wave of tsunami proportions results; cause and effect are no longer proportional in these circumstances.

- Everything has an equal and opposite reaction (in my case over-reaction).
In fact, as a Libran, this is my sort of motto as I try to find my balance, throwing things on one side of the scale and then the other. Accordingly when I am asked what is wrong in a calm fashion, the result is a wildly disproportionate rant both along the lines of “everything” and “nothing” (the latter should never be taken literally). Followed by injured inarticulacy should the sarcasm be pointed out.

- Chaos theory.
Eponymously self-explanatory. Cue me grabbing at the wrong end of any stick on offer and not letting go, clutching at straws and a host of pointy-thing analagous analogies.

To introduce a note of harmony to my personal symphony of discordant noise and take the Miss out of miscommunication, my lovely lover said to me, "You know darling, when I say something, there’s no hidden meaning, it is because that's what I think. I sit and think about what I want to say and then condense it to its essence. Likewise when someone else talks to me I strip back all the embellishments and I try to think what is the essence here?" Her superhuman clarity of thought and concision of expression was now being aptly summed up (cue the basis of attraction- magnetic that is- opposites attract, can you tell we're different by the way?) "Oh" I said, the wind taken out of my long-windedness reducing me to being just long. Observing that I was goggling at this statement she added gently, "I thought I'd just explain that to you honey". I sifted through the plethora of messages and re-intereprations here and wondered what she could possibly mean by that...and why say it even? Before I proferred my own philosophy of interpretation, "Umm, I thought the point was in the details?" Her jaw dropped and she mirrored my earlier expression, I can read body language, of course she completely agreed and was on the same wavelength.

My lover can always see the wood for the trees, “yours truly” on the other hand, can't see the wood for the intricate little details of the knots on the trees. I hope I haven't abused that metaphor too much, or the earlier imagery for that matter. I am a literal person in some key ways and metaphors are often lost on me. A Confucius I would never make, although Yoda I would love to be.

And now, I lap up rather than weep at the spilt breast milk, I have placed a label on my disordered state like a kid sporting an “I’ve been to the dentist” sticker. My blog and duty are done, I have imparted and thereby demystified and deconstructed the perils of surrogate PMT. Suitably cured and purged at once, I’m off to consume large quantities of chocolate in my pyjamas.

Sapphic sauna etiquette

My lover and I enjoyed a steamy sauna, the other day. Whilst sat in the buff (that always sounds so wrong post-Vampire slayer), with my other half, I pondered on nude sauna etiquette. Body language suddenly became so much more important when there was suddenly so much, well, body. My favourite poses suddenly felt vaguely inappropriate. Sitting forward leaning on my knees sans Levis became so very wrong. I can say with confidence that crossing one leg over the other- ankle over knee- was a big no no, as it's no longer just denim that meets the eye.

I became beset with uncertainty about each of my limbs and what would be a natural pose (this became four different questions for all four limbs, such was my lack of my mental or physical coordination). Suddenly legs akimbo implied puerperal position: ie. childbirth pose. Onlookers could subconsciously be gripped with the urge to yell Push. A faint gynaecological hue coloured the room and the minimalistic Scandinavian (ie. Ikea) environment acquired an obstetric sheen. Too much tension, and the wrong type. I sat forward on my haunches, another pose that looks wrong on me while naked- I had aimed for Rodin's thinker pose and instead looked like I was caught mid-action on my way out and didn't want people to hold the door open for me and usher me out, alternatively, I resembled a nude philosopher and one should perhaps achieve a state of emptiness in such settings: deep thought seems incongruent. I tried to banish such clinical thoughts and stopped inspecting my own navel and its surrounding area and gazed about me.

The old adage of not making intense eye contact is reversed in saunas. Eye contact is the only thing to do, and indeed probably the only contact that would not traverse decency laws. I tried surreptitiously mirroring my girlfriend's body language, this only served to make me look odder. I stress that I have no problem being naked, it is more how to be naked.

I sweated (literally) over these questions for some time. Never the sharpest tool in the box (or shiniest as I misquoted for years). Incidentally, how many tools are sharp in a tool box: not hammers, wrenches, spanners or...-erm that's all the tools I know). Both accordingly and incidentally, when my role is passive passer of tools, my girlfriend describes the items rather than names them, eg. "Pass me the red thing that looks like a hammer-head shark darling," is more likely to bring forth a hammer than a simple request by name, personification helps somehow. Occasionally I flirt with the butcher side of me (not meat carving but butch-er) and spend half a day sawing a piece of wood in half, and the next half wondering what to do with it (short shelf anyone?). In fact, once when I "made" a rat cage, I was so proud of that my ego took over on its own pink trip and I started wondering if I should put my design and little steps of construction online. Then, others too could convert a chest of drawers to rat cage in 27 easy steps (once steps 3 to 9 were repeated several times it really added up), maybe even a practical one that listed all tools needed, eg. plaster, antiseptic and half an onion (no I'm NOT crying, be logical, it's the onion).

I digress, sauna etiquette, one feels the need for some kind of adornment on a body so naked. I am one to never strip off fully without leaving on some kind of jewelry or other, I prefer that somehow. On one memorable occasion I entered a sauna wearing an antique silver bracelet my lover had given me. I mention it was antique, a) as I love things with a history so I was especially attached and rarely removed it, b) it had a Ye Olde Worldé Fiddlé Clasp which demanded near immortal dexterity to remove. This was OK, until fateful sauna day, as I rarely had cause to do so. Said bracelet was fastened onto my wrist with a tenacity that makes handcuffs seem easy to shed. As ever, in these situations in life, there was an audience (refer to clause B of Sod's Law), a naked one, but an audience nevertheless. In this setting, my lucky charm became a red hot poker on my wrist- it snuck up on me in my delirious semi-dehydrated, hypotensive state (that enlightened state that feels so good could indeed be consciousness ebbing away, like with alcohol). Cue much manic flapping at wrist and me flapping around like I was evading a swarm of hornets and yelping.

After the panic, I then remained there a little while longer, alternating my facial expressions between grimacing gamely and neutral nonchalance, just to prove that neither my person nor my feelings were hurt, the roomful of women had assumed the passive spectator expression en masse- and had settled down as if Will and Grace were on, if potato chips and popcorn weren't so very dehydrating they'd have been munching them. By way of explanation, "Silver's a very good conductor of heat," I said to one and all, grateful for the impromptu physics lesson, they murmured assent we were united, could have happened to any one of us. The logic of putting a fiddly bracelet on my right wrist when I am so very right handed, did occur to me at that time too. Somehow all of us bonded through my ridicule that day, in a metaphorical way. (On a literal note, never try handcuffs in a sauna either, unless they're the furry kind I'd guess, imagine the woe that could occur).

This brings me seamlessly onto sauna facial expression- itself another key indicator in body language. A verbose individual (as evidenced by length of blogs, why use one word when ten will do is my motto) when stripped of both words and clothes at the simultaneously, I find myself becoming somewhat of a mime artist, like Marcel Marceau only with breasts. The only other alternative to scaling an invisible wall in the sauna or wiping off sweat with exaggerated hand sweeps in a Chaplinesque fashion, as a Libran, is the exact opposite. I assume a expression so neutral and a pose so fixed that if I were painted silver (which I wouldn't be owing to painful sauna associations there), then it is likely people would be putting money in my hat. Obviously not coins, as these would be too hot, it would have to be notes, but then would that make me more lap dancer than street artist, more lady of the street than urban statue?

To appear comfortable I groped about (cerebrally that is), and settled upon a Caravaggio pose. Classic has to be classical, and those models must have felt exposed to a gaze for long periods of time and so made themselves at home, resplendent in their nudity. I promptly lounged (if anyone can lounge promptly, sauna nerves changed the pace) myself across the top bunk. My lover, who has the ability to always appear comfortable in any pose whatsoever and is blessed with an abundance of natural ease, regarded me critically and asked, "Are you comfortable? You don't look it". Of course, I was, for all intent and purposes, a seventeenth century painting. Unable to explain this as to do so would further shatter the illusion (when was the last time you heard a painting talk?) I decided two things, firstly now I dwell on it, I bet they didn't choose how to sit and the artist simply go along with it-this is why you never see anyone else sit like that, secondly, I rearranged myself.

Ergo, reclining gracefully in a public sauna does not come naturally to me. Stripped of non-verbal communication along with my clothes, I try verbal mode. I have no idea how to make small talk in a sauna. One cannot say whatever crosses one's mind, as that would be the equivalent of me trying to have a civil conversation with Angelina Jolie while my innermost thoughts were screamed out via megaphone. Like a form of social Torrets, "Take me, for example.." would become just "Take me!" Despite having lounged/sat primly/sprawled in saunas before, I cannot recall any dialogue. A woman once engaged me in conversation for a long while but I cannot recall the gist of what passed between us as she had very distracting breasts. And maybe that's the point (or those are the points), sotospeak, and other women are themselves busy rearranging their own legs or trying hard not to stare at the fidgety woman's thighs- a thought I find makes me oddly comfortable.

Sitting on my laptop

My lovely other half just said, "I could hear this noise in the background, which I assumed was you talking to me darling". Now, had distance been a factor here then this would be understandable, had she been straining to catch my words from afar: up a tree perhaps, or maybe if we were both hanging off a mountain face together by grappling hooks with a vertical crevice keeping us apart...But we weren't. Another extraneous variable that would account for my inaudibility would be background noise- an overwhelmingly noisy environment (what's a whelm incidentally?). Standing on a busy street in New York, perhaps, trying to make oneself heard over the din of traffic, or on the dancefloor in a gay club,maybe, competing with speakers that tower over us (the electric type).

But no...proximity-wise, my lover was happily perched upon my lap surfing the computer while I peeked out from behind her regaling her with what I thought to be a few well-chosen bon mots. Other than the very faint whir of a laptop (the electronic one, not mine- my lap doesn't make noises like that, I hasten to clarify, before I acquire a reputation I don't deserve.) Incidentally, why lapTOP? There is no lap bottom which I can determine. I digress, in short, I was not drowned out by background noise, I was the background noise.

A more aged friend of ours once commented that, when a couple have been together more than a couple of years, what was previously intelligible speech between the two becomes a mwa-mwa-mwa noise. The best impression of this (not wishing to mwa mwa into my computer mike and then spend the best part of the day trying to upload it)...this being an key point I am trying to convey here so I am eager to reproduce it exactly..Is to be found on the commentary of Season I The L Word, when Katherine Moening-Shane- is narrating an episode and complains that she always hears herself like the teacher in Peanuts (the televised cartoon), she then proceeds to do a very funny impression of herself "warble-talking". (If clarification of this point is not yet another good reason to buy The L-Word then..words fail me, which they already have once today).

Another recent insight I had, which hit me like a near Biblical revelation, was when I noticed my lover echoing back the last few words of my sentence, in order to imply unity and accord.
The dialogue (is that word still appropriate or should I say monologue?) ran thus...
"Me: "Awww look, rabbit is so cute"
Lover: "Rabbit is so cute"
Me: "I wonder if she's fallen in love with your left mule slipper, she probably thinks it's another bunny"
Lover: (in sing-song nursery voice to appease crazy-people or the very young): "Another bunny".....
Cue protracted pause with whirring of my pink cerebral cogs as I replay this last snippet and realise I've been conversing with an echo. I could simply have been talking in a tunnel to achieve the same effect. While I slurp on my coffee I rewind through other interactions where I can retrospectively detect this phenomenon. I realise, not only have I been appeased while my lover was half listening but I have quite enjoyed myself chattering on. I derail this train of thought before I forever traumatise myself with the length of these dialogues.

I have been trained in counselling, this of course teaches this technique. Evidently I wasn't there the day they covered insight.
My lover and I have been together over half a decade now. That's 15% of my past that I've been head over heals in love, and 100% of my future. An expert in body language may be able to determine from the earlier pose that the garden is rosy despite the this audible hiccup.
Besides, I have confirmed I checked with my lover and everything is great. We had quite a good conversation, it ran thus:
"When I speak to you my love, I am talking rather than waffling?"
Lover: "Talking rather than waffling"
Me: "Like in the early days, you still hang off every word?"
Lover: "Still hang off every word"

Omniscient narrator meets Amazonian woman

Ever the omniscient narrator, when the occasion arose lately for me to send some pics to a friend, I could not refrain from attaching a few bon mots. After all, a picture may be worth a thousand words but there’s always room for a few more (to evidence this please see the length of some of my earlier blog entries.) Accordingly, rather like a child's first picture book, each item was proudly labelled, eg. under house was written house. I kept up with even the trickier photos which are strictly subgenres, thus instead of water- I correctly identified waterFALL. A few adjectives later to spice up the nouns, along the lines of WHITE chair, and I decided both my work was complete and it best to rule out ever being a curator.

I'm terrible at giving a commentary on anything because I tend to be far too literal. On one memorable (for all the wrong reasons) occasion, while showing a prospective to housemate around my house I became completely inarticulate and had absolutely nothing to say about my home. The onset coincided with about the same time the prospective tenant crossed the threshold. This could be partly explained by the fact that she was over six foot tall, I kid ye not. Alternatively, I was the (not very sub-)conscious saboteur of the showing, accustomed as I was to living alone there- my girlfriend and I had just started dating and she had only just moved her metaphorical toothbrush into my bachelorette pad. I liked tout-a-deux.

I have always been intimidated by women taller than me. Unsure why exactly, there are two Freudian explanations: perhaps it arises from ambiguity surrounding my own height; that or it is an Amazonian woman phantasy which leaves me overcome. I myself am 5 foot 8 (1m73) high, or long depending on one’s perspective and whether I’m standing or lounging. I have always maintained I am longer than taller. Heightwise, I tend to lean a lot. To invoke a little Pythagorus here and to recast the form as a right-angled-triangle, this measure of 5'8" is therefore more accurately the hypotenuse, and the "opposite" (the distance perpendicular to the floor, ie. how far up the wall I reach) will accordingly be less, itself related to theta θ (ie. degree of slope of feet against floor).

Thus "apparent height"/sinθ = "my actual height".
Where sinθ is invariably <1, the smaller denominator thereby effects an increase.

Put simply, I am "shorter" when leaning if height is measured from floor upwards. As I am never up straight, I am typically underestimated and regularly hear people exclaim with wonder, "See, I said she was taller than you!" (when and why was this debated without me I muse, lost for a response); a lover once marveled that I was "much taller than I looked" upon her first time of seeing me horizontal and realising how much of the bed I took up ("why the "much"" I pondered, and, "is that a euphenism?" I later wondered). Whichever way one looks at it, not being straight comes so very naturally to me.

Back to the tour of my little grotto, this had hitherto always seemed bohemian and good taste until I tried viewing it through the eyes of a stranger and it became, well, stranger. Normally chatty, nerves got the better of me, and upon reaching the bathroom I could hear myself saying, "This is the bathroom", the kitchen, "This is the kitchen", the lounge, "This is the lounge"....No other description, just that, in case it had escaped her notice and she later tried bathing in the sink or bedding down in the lounge perhaps. When in doubt always reinforce the functionality of each room, "Oh yes we bathe in the bathroom here, and lounge in the lounge, your bed would be in your bedroom, the entrance we exit from too- so don't forget that or you could never get back out... I know, it can be confusing", and so on.

To make matters worse, to acknowledge my semantic overstatement I groped around linguistically and in a flash of inspiration (or is that desperation), popped "ironically" on the end of every statement. It so became, "This is the bathroom...ironically" and so on ad infinitum. This was no more ironic than the scenarios in Ms Morisette's eponymous song (a traffic jam, when you're already late is more accurately described as Sod's law, for irony please consult Mr Wilde and his niece Dolly). Seven rooms later and she couldn't get out of there quick enough; and my partner (who'd only been dating me for a few weeks) was looking at me quizicaly, and entertaining private thoughts which she chose not to share... ironically.

Lesbian hair

There exists, if I recall correctly, an old Friends episode in which Chandler is said to have "gay hair". Lesbian-hair is arguably an equally, if not more, distinct phenomenon. Follicular folly has been on the menu in our household recently as my lover decided to change her look and that I was to be the one to do it. Surely one should be able to plead impartiality or conflict of interest in these circumstances.

I am constitutionally, the worst hairdresser/barber imaginable, and I really do assert these things are a matter of constitution. You see, I am somewhat distractable, and not just in the "Is that Angelina Joli on the TV in the background?" kind-of-way. I have spontaneous flights of fancy and am prone to wandering off among the clouds. I am VERY air sign with absolutely no Earth to ground me in all of my planets, Libran with Gemini ascendant...that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. (People say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.) Giving me scissors plus "pay attention darling" ambiguous instructions and a very distracting radio station in the background...does not bode well.

I am still trying to account for why my momentary aberration is permanently recorded on my beloved's head. I readily admit, my other half clearly specified a longish shaggy James Blunt do (British singer, on Ellen last month) and now sports a (very nice may I say) but completely different 1950s James Dean crew-cut. Was this my unresolved subconscious taking over as I entered a clip-clip induced alpha state? James Dean is inexplicably attractive to me, despite my definite Sapphic status. A very straight male Parisian friend once responded to this confession of mine- a sort of fractional "inning"- with, "Everyone fancies James Dean, even I fancy James Dean." I find this consoling and explanatory to an extent: hence I cite it now.

Another explanation is sheer incompetence. My protestations of inadequacy were generously interpreted by my lover to be modesty as I have successfully clipped her locks in the past. However, I can only do the one haircut. Ostensibly because it's the only style within my capability. My lover is well-balanced and remarkably chilled out and is not holding my artistic reinterpretation of her instructions against me, even conceding that although it bears no resemblance to what she asked for, it still looks cool. Barbering is simply not my forté. And me giving her "the snip" makes her no less potent. Although, the debate as to whether I have selective Attention-Deficit-Disorder rages on and ummm...Where was I?

Lesbian Mecca- its all about the balls

My other-half and I spent much of yesterday trawling around Ikea. It was time to return to the lesbian Mecca.
My lover has now recovered from the mirth that ensued when, early on in our relationship, on one of my first visits to Norway, after spying the store: I exclaimed "Hey, you've got Ikea in Scandinavia too!". Several years better acquainted, a momentary aberration has now been chalked up to my ability for large parts of life to pass me by; I have officially become an oxymoron (I tenaciously keep the oxy prefix) and been dubbed "the most stoopid clever person" she knows.

Anyhow, I digress, Ikea. (I've been fishing for a clever acronym but these things can't be forced.) Ikea trips are fascinating in a relationship dynamic sense- in terms of the shared goals being literally made concrete: if you find you are getting in each other's way in the mock-up 35 km square flat, then the sea-scape is becoming Turner-esque. If you're all Billy and she's all Gertha, it won't work. If you cannot walk past any partly-shielded beds without suggestive raised eyebrows and check out your partners arse when they are checking out the lower shelves, then all is healthy (clean bill of health here, sayeth I). Ikea in Norway has playfully docked its minimalistic cap to the potency of Ikea and its bed ads are quite raunchy here. I believe ending up with the couple in a store in fact (maybe their ad prewired my instore voyeuristic flirting).

A conceptual mutation accelerated ideological evolution and someware (deliberate misspelling, believe its called onomatopeia- which is ironically very hard to spell) house-became home, home became lifestyle- which is broad enough to include alternative lifestyles. In fact, the staff are so used to lesbian couples, that as you skip into view- joined at the hand- their expressions assume that seen-it-all-sheen. Norwegians are expert at this. Nonchalance (ie. non-plussedness) is practised nowhere better then here in Norway, and ironically phenomenally lacking in La France (where at Sarkozy's right hand stands hyperbole, actually is it possible there could be anything to the right in the spatial spectrum of Monsieur Sarkozy?)

Anyhow, being awash in cool classic design aroused my Libran aesthetic sensitivity, while the homeliness had my beautiful Cancer-crab-partner salivating with desire, cooing "just imagine..." and then leaving me to fill in the blanks, each time we entered a pseudo-kitchen/living room. Such was the seductive nature of the store that we followed the arrows as commanded and even enjoyed a romantic meal in their canteen/restaurant. Scandinavian meatballs, to be precise, and to be authentic, next time order "Kjøtboller være så snill"/meatballs be so kind/ kyutboller var sho snill, only don't say all three they'll think you're crazy. It was there that I caved, and the lifestyle became too irresistible: around the same time that whatever they put in the meatballs worked its magic on me. If there is a lesbian equivalent of catnip- its in the Ikea meatballs. Food-for-thought, literally.

Post-balls, I found myself fantasizing about us having little baby lesbians, and wondering where the trolley-loads of babies were from and which cryptic aisle code I needed to write down and then lose en route to the warehouse (my usual procedure) to buy me some Ikea sperm. Even our shopping list/wish list became faintly like a life-goals visualisation exercise embodied in furniture and soft-furnishings. "Become tantric sex master/mistress" leads one to the candle section (making babies should be fun after all, can't allow procreation to replace hedonism). Becoming a self-dubbed chef rather than a cook would be a natural progression in a well spaced kitchen. While the home offices impart a work ethic with Protestant zeal (in the sociological sense). Achieving my ideal balanced (Libran) life was simply a matter of interior design. My partner's unfulfilled Cancerian yearnings for domestic bliss were no longer out of reach due to a clashing nomadic tendencies, she had an epiphany, and it was suddenly all a question of interior design and hitherto due to a lack of that Ikea magic. (We both had balls.)

Regarding the balls with lesbian catnip (note the feline affinity for us Sapphists), I feel I should qualify this statement. I am not given to tossing around such wild accusations, I shall endeavour to domesticate them somewhat or at least atone for my rashness.
Proof 1. Post-meatball acquisitions went through the store roof, we couldn't keep ourselves from picking up and fondling whatever we passed (although the cute female Unicef rep was exempt, just).
Proof 2. A strange sense of euphoria accompanied the smallest design features, bandying around words like genius (for peg-design and the trivialities of life: now morphed into beautiful, often overlooked details.
Proof 3. I am now sat in a bamboo forest (it can't be right-wing monetarist consumerism if its Feng-shui, can it?) where all the furnishings have their own names. What with that and my just-the-right-side-of-delusional dependency on "age-defying" cocoa butter, and an impulse-buy of a cuddly panda bear, and this little pad of ours smells and looks like a sort of Amazonian wilderness, a minimalist one of course.

For those enslaved to the Ikea philosophy, preachers in the guise of after-sales support service are always just a phonecall/ e-mail away. A year ago, I couldn't assemble our new flat-pack love nest, I rang up and said, I've just bought the bla-bla bed (I think that was the name) and "the voice of heard-it-all before" interjected with "the slats are laid out convex-wise", then sensing an extra-silent pause that could only be due to intellect deficiency on my part, as I raced to remember physics lessons of yore, gave me the stupid person suffix in words free from multiple syllables or abstract concepts: "like a bridge", then sensing she should clarify further, "not like a boat, like a bridge". By the time my partner entered the room I was putting the finishing touches to my FIY job (F***-It-up Yourself), and murmuring in knowledgeable tones, "Oh-yes, it was convex", even daring to offer up a "thought so". Hoping the murky grey-lie would somehow obscure my earlier lack of problem solving ability beyond my repeated exclamations of, "Pictograms, why pictogram instructions?", topped off with the ego-balming and faintly arrogant sign of things to come: "I speak five bl**dy languages and not one of them is hieroglyphics".

What concerns me is the bed episode is a scene faintly reminiscent of one with an ex (could we be shaped by our exes?) Said ex once buffeted me away from a flat-pack bookshelf I was happily tinkering with and inexplicably shrieked at me, "My father's a carpenter!" whilst pouncing on the screwdriver and dominating the project. No further explanation or apology to atone for such odd behaviour was ever offered up. Indeed, my current partner (and soulmate, just to negate the temporary nature of "current") had an ex who did exactly the same thing (we checked rapidly, not the same one): they had a Jesus complex maybe.

I've wandered off the arrows again, although the theme of delusions of grandeur and born-again experiences remains the same (walk the "non-straight" line through my hot-waffle and you too shall reach enlightenment in a few steps). If I sound a little dazed, I blame it on the balls, I'm just not used to them. Thankfully, the evangelical power of the Ikea rhetoric and food-drugging is waning now, and a towel peg looks like, well, a towel peg. As Freud said, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar", sometimes balls are just balls.

Pushing the wrong buttons

What is it about the Y chromosome that apparently imbues bearers with computing know-how and technological expertise? Bras have gone from being burned to being pointy, sufragretes trampled under horses hooves and slogans chanted and then ironically inverted. Yet is all this tantamount to the polishing of the glass ceiling? As happens in life, one of those back-breaking camel straws has just paralysed my bad tempered beast. Apparently, irreversible, my patience here has just morphed into total apoplexy.

The mythical competence gap between men and women in technology, is exacerbated by unfounded cockiness in the field: innate or learned I have no idea. I am besieged with guys insisting they need to clear my cache, defrag my machine, or reconfigure my browser. All these terms are invariably pronounced as though they are in the control room propelling the first NASA guinea pigs into orbit. If I want someone to f**k up my machine, then I shall say "Could you please f**k up my computer?" Failing that... I'm fine, thanks for offering.

Anyhow, seemingly, not having a penis somehow prevents my opinion from carrying any weight, makes my advice into the mere trifling waffle of a woman-thing and my time eminently expendable. Excuse the rant, but this serves as a cathartic cry into cyberspace, after I have wasted valuable hours over skype vainly trying to help an elderly male relative with IT issues. The first half was spent with me patiently defining every piece of computer-speak he could find on his machine or dredge up having overheard somewhere: web browser, cache, cookies, javascript, "error 302/400". None of this is assimilated and words such as "tabs", "icon" and "pop-up window" all switch identities with dizzying frequency.

Final scene: I was treated to a monologue of his own ignorance with no pauses for intervention or suggestions on my part (wondering why they connected to me and didn't simply sit and talk at the screen tout-a-seule). The computing problem was due to ham-fisted fiddling and a free Slovakian download from a possibly even more incompetent guy, since which the machine is not working, mylogic that the two could be connected is rejectd out of hand. Said male friend (with that deadly combination of complete stupidity and total confidence) is irreproachable, while hundreds of miles away I'm made to feel somehow culpable. My suggestion that someone put their finger in a pie that should have been kept out of reach of their incompetent fingers is batted away, projected back at me as gripe owing to my inability to remotely fix the problem. This is partly because interjecting proved so hard.

The icing on the f**ked up pie is that it transpires that none of my earnestly suggested, frankly inspired, changes have been finished off by pressing the OK or apply button at any time. Pressing this button was interpreted evidently as a frivolous whim of mine in my early instructions. Rendering my cache unemptiable- its simply full of ***$, history equally refuses to be rewritten , all the wrong buttons have been pushed and that otherwise enviable quality of computers to delete bad bits and edit themselves has failed. Guess he just pushed the wrong buttons.

The tale of Huckleberry Nipple and the ipod

I turned thirty the other week, an event I had to wait awhile for compared to other Librans (but then I don't mind waiting my turn, as life has a certain chronological fairness to it). I embrace entering a new age group on questionnaires and apropos the ravages of time, my girlfriend loves my stray grey hairs- which become less deserving of the adjective premature as I age. Other than a few follicular clues and a reliance on Body Shop cocoa butter moisturiser, my Gregorian leap in maturity has dated me in only one notable respect: The inexorable slide into cliché has begun already.

An ironic topic to write about or discuss in any form- it becomes a form of self-fulfilling prophecy, and I start sounding like a traveler's phrase book. This can of course be passed off hopefully as an ironic double bluff: this is what I intend to do until normal service is resumed.

Even on the "big day", I found myself tossing (the cruder British connotations of this word are apt) out such bon mots as "to think what they can do with technology nowadays" (in response to a beloved little ipod from my lover). OK, two things: firstly, this is not my syntax: a linguistically sensititive soul, I can often detect the hyperbole of those relating a tall tale and misattributing quotes when the syntax is wildly out of sync. I just don't talk like that, or rather I didn't. Secondly, "nowadays" makes me sound like a Huckleberry Finnn character. In fact, in the gender confused swamp of my youth, I always wanted to be Huckleberry, before belated puberty ironically confirmed my androgenous look.

In the same vein, in my newfound state (it makes it sound like I've just found a country, but then I have entered a whole new psychological territory), I have taken to being nostalgic, and telling tales of the past with a golden hue as if groping for some far off Fantasia. In fact, my Huckleberry childhood identity brings to mind a true adventure my beloved and I had when we lived on a bohemian boat moored to an island (cue anecdote fondly refondled)...Once upon a time, one day, we set off, down the river upon which we lived, in a small Victorian raft with planks of wood for paddles. The sun beat down on our heads, water snakes spiraled by, "yours truly" accidentally trod a plank with protruding nail into the base of the raft and then counter-intuitively pulled it out. (The effect is reminiscent of the parable of the c/rudley titled "finger in the dyke"). Well, this fateful day as we padelled along with water rising around our ankles, packets of cigarettes swept away, and the delirious euphoric confusion of sunstroke...we met our alter-egos, namely Huckleberry Nipple and Breast Sawyer.

And so, I shall desist from such digressions and recollections, and "yours truly" is "signing off" to continue to boldly go where no man has gone before.