Gingerbread lesbians and cast off stockings

The gingerbread lesbians are in a heap in a biscuit tin; the stockings have been pulled down and my sock drawer is overflowing, the corks have popped and the bird has been stuffed. Smutty turkey baster jokes continue to make me snigger but then I have an infantile sense of humour and can watch Ellen on repeat and still laugh each time (this I can see concerns my lover somewhat, but she has reassured me that she married me for my figure rather than intellect, as this reassures me her assertion apropos intellect may be well-founded ...)

Lover and I “celebrated” Xmas chez mother-in-law (I use the quote marks as said moth-in-law is blessed with an ability to make any occasion that otherwise elicits jollity into a sober one.) My other half and I shelved my otherwise excellent suggestion of gingerbread strap-ons and dildos as unsuitable for even mentioning to sectagenarion moth-in-law. Yet moth-in-law begrudgingly went along with our tenacious determination to make gingerbread dykes, to get into the Sapphic spirit, she then went out and bought a woman template in skirt. Needless to say (yet I shall nevertheless ironically continue, or else people would simply say needless to say…. only to then lapse into silence, and that would be witty on one level but not very enlightening) the “man” figure sufficed as a Levi-clad trouser-wearing lesbian. Indeed we got carried away and even made a gingerbread house, in which yours truly prudently fashioned an emergency exit in event of collapse.

Aside from treats, the bird and the stockings, the only other trapping of tradition is the Queens’ speech (HRH rather than gay male friends). Indeed, in the Queen’s speech on one memorable occasion, she (or should it be She?) referred to an “annus horribilis”. Consequently vast scores of Brits wondered why she was talking about her arse. As an emigrant/immigrant to Norway (concomitant afflictions: you can’t be one without being the other), I am treated to a King’s speech in a foreign tongue, little has changed: it is still just as unintelligible as ever.

Ambiguous ginger-gender-bred ambiguity and age clashes aside, we are now cranking up for the New Year celebrations. I believe these are symbolised by Janus (the two-faced God- who looks both back at the old year and on at the new). "Two-faced" evidently had different connotations back then. I am nostalgic to the extreme, and occasionally I yearn for the days before homosexuality was scandalised and when togas were fashionable (my lover claims life would be much nicer if she could swish around toga-clad and I am inclined to agree). I digress, now, someone should warn HRH to avoid all mention of Janus in any of her speeches, her accent created enough confusion once before…

Breakfast performance

Snippet of conversation from the breakfast table between lover and myself, discussing archive footage from Ellen site.

Me: "Why do you think James Blunt (British musician) stopped playing his piano when Ellen sprawled all over it...I mean you'd think he'd keep on going wouldn't you...There she is right there, and he stops?"

Lover (scrutinising her muesli): "I don't know, maybe he got nervous."

Me (eager to solve the piano non-performance): "I suppose if Ellen climbed onto my instrument I might become overawed and stop playing"

Lover (scrutinising me): "Oh no, I think you'd play, don't you?"

(Silence as we both ponder the truth of this statement.)

Better than a Chocolate dildo

There has been a hiatus between entries sotospeak. But I come bearing good news (doesn't every woman?)....Lover and I have found a new dyke pad. (As I think that might mean sanitary towel in some parts of the globe, I shall clarify, lest readers have an otherwise than intended reading experience and take my references to be applying to a shared mooncup/ hemp invention or not-tested-on-animals ethical period accessory- do they do that?)

We have found our very own lesbian apartment in the capital (Oslo... I type this for readers who are unaware yours truly resides in Norway, instead of explaining what the capital of Norway is, although for individuals who have just been enlightened as to the Oslo-Norway link, you're welcome.)

I digress, our new dyke-domicile is literally around the corner from a dildo emporium. Simply perfect as Mary Poppins would say. Not a shop, note but a dildo emporium with a great big glass window showing all their wares. A technicolor shameless, declaratory, let-it-all-hang-out or poke out sotospeak window display (the commerce that is, not the new flat). Along those streamlined lines, our life-to-be has a certain Better-than-Chocolate flavour, although despite an abundance of ice here I am not hatching any yours truly becomes nude ice-statue plans.

To celebrate signing of papers, lover and I went out to a fabulous and soon-to-be-local dyke bar to drink obscene (at least X-rated) quantities of alcohol and became a pair of dyke bar-flies. I always wondered at that expression but now think it has something to do with the swatted appearance reached eventually. Said bar is ran by a slightly intimidating woman from Seattle, rather she said "Seeaddle" to be precise. To which I employed deductive logic a la Conan Doyle and made an inspired guess at Seattle. Our favourite gay bar (indeed, the only decent one in Oslo to split hairs) is a ten minute walk from our new pad (as defined above), that's just six hundred seconds, as I pointed out pedantically to my lover. But then I have a habit of over qualifying numerical issues, in the style of, "that's half, so fifty percent, 0.5 as a decimal then." Although I am handy to have around in sales when reductions need to be calculated: I whizz around calculating deductions like Carol Vorderman from Countdown on catnip. (I am blessed with a lover who finds mathematical prowess sexy and accordingly I employ it at the drop of a hat, lest it lead to the drop of a pair of Levis.)

Apropos new flat, aside from having an enviable cornershop for emergency supplies, it has affordable rent and local second-hand bookstores (we popped into one of those yesterday "to browse" and emerged with a bakers dozen of books, ie. thirteen tomes, forevermore I shall dub this a bookworm's dozen I feel; it was 13 as we both decided that twelve was too few and fourteen too many).

The future's bright, the future's pink. The cherry on the top of the chocolate-covered nipple is that we have a balcony too. More specifically, a balcony from which- under the terms of our contract- we are "not allowed to hang/display our undergarments on a Sunday or holy day". I shall of course not do this, not wishing to start a riot tout a seule courtesy of a pair of Calvin Kleins. And nor would I be so crass as to air my laundry for all and sundry, like flags of indecency. No, I shall respect the contract and instead use our new balcony to display the many dildos we intend to buy from our corner shop.

Samson and shagging (Lesbian Hair Part II)

The more eagle-eyed and elephant-memory-ed, will recall that a few entries ago I did a botched job on my lovers thatch (as in head...oh gosh, of the head). Anyhow, I was to cut her hair, and it all went horribly wrong when yours truly got a little drunk and distracted and sheered in a disorderly fashion. Cue lover sporting a subconsciously sculpted James Dean crew cut rather than the shaggy do (yes, we're still talking about hair here) she admittedly "distinctly" asked for ("distinctly" has become inexorably linked to the request since that fateful day). I was due to have the favour of barbering reciprocated immediately after but I have been waiting for the dust settle and the memory to fade, lest recrimination rear its fuzzy head or my fuzzy head for that matter.

A month on, the time is now and I am due to put my head on a platter for my beloved. Samson style. OK, it's imperative, I have an interview coming up and I think I look like Rapunzel. Now, all of this could be avoided by visiting the professionals but I feel they waft around a title they often do not deserve, in fact some of them shouldn't be allowed to carry sharp objects (ie. scissors) as they have a sadistic streak that they unleash on unsuspecting heads. All this while waffling about forthcoming vacations- perhaps they think the only reason someone has their hair done is because they are going on holiday, but to be honest I've never really linked the two.

As is becoming evident, hairdressers really stress me out as they have no idea...
a) how to follow simple instructions (that or they think they know better what to do with your very own head and also that they have the right to do it),
b) any idea of proportionate time scale- if I pay a lot (rare) then I don't want my botty to barely touch the chair before they're flapping at my neck with a towel, if not (usual) then several hours I consider excessive.
Furthermore when I say "no mousse", this is a considered decision and one I stick to, no matter how many times another insists it is necessary. I have even been surprise squirted in the past by rebel hairdressers. I then have to endure a humiliating walk home with any small projectiles- eg. catkins, dust all sticking to the top of my head. It would be so much easier to simply walk in and say "make me look gay again". But alas, no.

Just before our wedding a few years ago, my lover and I (the two bride-to-bes) visited a hairdresser, for a "cut" rather than a "do"... only to emerge with matching fluffy bouffants. My hair is the only straight thing about me, so this is in itself quite an achievement, it really is normally straight as a dye (indeed why is a dye straight? or is it die- the lesser known singular for dice- as in numbered cube?). To make matters even worse, the hairdresser did that really painful thing (with the misnomer feathering) with the scissors that makes one's eyes water uncontrollably (note the generic "one"- it's not just me, such eye watering is universal I assert). This is not crying from pain (I say puffing out my chest), but rather, I deduce, the triggering of an otherwise latent reflex by said hair abrasion which in turn triggers the tear ducts. Never again, not even if it's the lovely Shane from the L-Word behind my chair... well OK then, now I mention it.

I digress, hair-Dress It Yourself. I have "distinctly" asked for the cut that the woman from the Matrix has. Another reason I have my lover cut my hair is that I can make these requests earnestly without seeing them smirking in the mirror. These things are reflective for both parties, someone should tell hairdressers this as they gurn and scoff at each humble request or instruction while in full view. Incidentally I wonder if an occupational hazard is that they position themselves behind friends in bars and talk over the back of their heads about Tenerife. Don't get me wrong, I am not an elitist snob, if I were I would have to snub my self. I am simply hairdresser-phobic, I see my head as a fairly important part of my anatomy and am accordingly proportionally fussy.

And so, in preparation for the coiffure, I see lover has quaffed a beer already. I am feeling optimistic and am telling myself this is to calm her nerves and loosen up her creativity. And so time for some same sex shagging (hair that is), Matrix here I come.