tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28980489678155947982024-03-13T05:08:30.243+01:00Pink Coloured GlassesLeft-leaning lesbian view of the world and its details.
Covering the colour spectrum from pink to green issues: from dyke culture and the gay scene, gay marriage to sustainable travel, organic food and renewable energy.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-71710719702638872972009-01-05T17:33:00.001+01:002009-01-05T17:33:51.135+01:00My vagina monologueToday is lesbian health day and so I feel the urge to share a little true vignette of my past and put an issue on the table...cervical smear tests. The jury was out medically as to whether I was eligible/ at risk and required a smear test as conventional penetrative sex was just not my thing. Penetrative sex is often seen as the predisposing risk factor for cervical cancer and is the golden question to determine eligibility or need in doctors surgeries.<br /><br />Despite being sexually active (some may say sexually hyper-active but hey.. its all relative).... I have never been what the heteronormative milieu would class as sexually active: I just don't and never have slept with penis-bearers. Dildo bearers are indeed another matter. Furthermore although my exes resemble a United Colours of Benetton advert when it comes to ethnic diversity (read very diverse here), they all have one thing in common - fingers and hands and potentially scratchy nails. Plus we are all at risk from the HPV- Human Papilloma Virus as we can't be entirely sure of the sexual history of each of our partners and their partners...don't want to scare anyone but remember the L Word chart... well imagine HPV or STD risk written in brackets after each name).<br /><br />My point, and I do have one (I keep it in my bedside drawer for the voyeueristic who like such details) is that, I was still at risk of injuring my cervix in sex, albeit slightly. Any flaw in the healing of this can predispose to cells multiplying more than they should and ...in short.... cervical cancer. Moreover, lesbians are often under-represented in medical surveys and I fail to be convinced that only penetrative sex leaves one at risk of cervical cancer, I think the issue gets confused with an intact hymen frankly.<br /><br />However, I must admit I found myself very backwards at coming forwards in getting a smear test, sexually active questions had always been likned to pregnancy risk and unless there is about to be another virgin birth, this just didn't apply to me. I know plenty of other lesbians who are worried about this too. Finally in my late twenties I found a GP (doctor) who was sympathetic and here and decided to give her my smear test cherry.... All was fine and I urge other women to get themselves checked just to be safe.<br /><br />Here are my tips:<br /><br />1. Ask for a female doctor, choose one you feel comfortable with.<br /><br />2, Explain if you really aren't into people being "into" you, should you feel she is receptive enough for frank dialogue, and that you are nervous about the procedure.<br /><br />3, Ask for a double appointment (this works in the UK) so there is less time pressure and things are more relaxed.<br /><br />4, Remember if you change your mind and say stop then stop is what they must do (indeed a doctor continuing without consent is classed as Aggaravated Bodily Harm) remember it is your body and you are in control,<br /><br />5. Perhaps don't follow my example and feel the need to break the ice when they're lubing up the speculum and say "What no chocolates or candlelight?"<br /><br />(Glad my GP had a good sense of humour)<br /><br />And, well, lie back and think of ... wine and chocolates.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-43236572745659352212008-12-05T16:12:00.006+01:002008-12-05T16:53:04.887+01:00Multi-choice = multi-indecisionI find decision-making difficult at the best of times. <br />I have just staggered from a multi-choice exam in philosophy and ethics...in Norwegian: in short a case of compulsory, timed, decision-making at the worst of times.<br />One would think these things (multi-choice) are easy but no... I can overcomplicate the most simple of matters and have a tendency to do so. If I am given a choice of A to C, I convince myself that A is correct, but only to an extent, and the answer is indeed a synthesis of B and C. <br />This is how my exam time was spent: <br />1. Scribble my name<br />2. Write my name again, legibly this time<br />3. Take a deep breath in, scan questions and begin berating myself for my indecision, watch my hand making promises my head won't commit to. A kind of strange out of body experience. <br />4. Convince myself that blue pen is inadmissable and start to fret about what to do to remedy the situation.<br />5. Hand in exam paper<br />6. Realise have not yet exhaled, promptly do so.<br /><br />Passed the tricky thing but am still feeling as if each tiny decision has enormous consequences. Thus, choosing what to have for dinner suddenly became a tightrope walk between neurotic over-analysis of kitchen cupboards and appetite and a compensatory complete capitulation of any decision. <br /><br />Said exam had a fearsome four-hour resit in January for the hapless individuals who didn't make it through, meaning yet more revision and all through the hols: the festive season suddenly acquires the prefix "un". Any contemplation of which brought back my realisation as a very small child that we had no discernable chimney, swiftly followed by a graphological analysis of Santa's handwriting revealed he wrote just like my mum: someone cancelled Christmas. Anyhow, exam is over, passed, in the past. Christmas is back on the metaphorical (not to mention overpriced consumerist) cards, all I have to do now is to decide what to do with myself.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-5057623589563785462008-08-07T13:53:00.003+02:002008-08-07T14:00:03.217+02:00Kitchen sink dramaScene: Kitchen.<br /><br />I am holding forth on something or other at the same time as trying to bat at a little fruit fly (or Drosophilia melanogaster as it likes to be known on formal occasions). <br /><br />I suddenly fall silent, Lover, well Spouse, is unused to such silences and looks up enquiringly, no doubt wondering whether the issue could be a temporary lapse in her own hearing (rather like an ipod going down...has the song stopped abruptly or is it the earphones?)<br /><br />I am standing very still in the kitchen still holding the fluorescent fly swat aloft, yet quite motionless. <br /><br />"I just swallowed a fly."<br />I say.<br /><br />Lover: "Thanks I've been trying to get that one for ages."pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-24849295563010544102008-08-01T14:07:00.005+02:002008-08-04T11:00:41.582+02:00Strap-ons...with knobs onIn true Sapphic fashion, spouse and I were browsing in a large electrical DIY store lately. We were deliberating over men's watches (the type with so many knobs dials you never quite figure out their purpose). As any self-respecting lesbian will know, there's a lot to weigh up when choosing any kind of strap-on. <br /><br />Lover (well, spouse) has always hated shopping, after prolonged periods she begins looking physically ill. Her shopping aversion becomes psychosomatisised and we are forced to squeeze past queues (lines) in an emergency exit. (They never have a not-bought-anything-but-not-stolen-anything-either official exit do they?) Anyhow, lover, well spouse, was looking distinctly peaky so I was trying to do my usual weighing-up at high speed (as a Libran, no decision can be entered into without an exhaustive evaluation of pros and cons- I take the Sherlock Holmes approach<span style="font-style:italic;">1</span> as a life philosophy rather than fictional detective strategy.)<br /><br />To cut to the chase, something that now feels too late to do, but never mind I'll edit an earlier paragraph as a footnote and no-one will ever know...<br />Likely timepieces are draped in our hand, I am deliberating over price-quality proportionality issues and worrying they might break (a slang term for which is "go down" in the UK from where I hail) and venture...<br /><br />"Well...it might go down2 on you."<br /><br />Lover (quick as a flash):<br />"Well if it does that too I'm definitely getting it."<br /><br />1<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Sherlock Holmes/ Arthur Conan Doyle approach</span><br />Once you have exhausted the impossible, then all that remains is the probable. (Incidentally, this is how I consoled myself over a string of incompatible mating choices over a period in the '90s... a case of one's soulmate being the only other fish in the sea who is preoccupied with a piece of fluorescent seaweed or some other flotsam and jetsam of fate. One a similar note, when I first met Lover, well Spouse, it was love at first sight and one of the impulses I fought against was simply walking over and saying "You're late", I had after all been waiting my whole life in love with the promise of her while the only fish-in-the-sea-for-me was admiring seaweed somewhere else.)<br /><br />2 <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Go down:</span><br />- Oral sex (munnsex in Norwegian, which always makes me smile, the term I meant although the Freudian slip is a valid one ;)<br />- To break (colloq.), according to the principles of Sod's law, and always as a result of Hobson's choice.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Footnote</span>:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Pedantry</span>:<br />Buying Oxford Concise English Dictionary followed by an irresistible urge to labour every point (sotospeak)pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-8447127651274988622008-07-24T21:16:00.006+02:002008-07-24T21:49:43.861+02:00Pen EnvyThere is no limit to the number of tools in a relationship.<br />Lover and I (well spouse now I am glad to say) were sat besides each other today writing: she, scribbling in earnest, me tapping away when I broke off and groped beside me for my pen. Said pen (one day old may I add) had wandered over to lover's side of the desk, I blamed a breeze or a hitherto undiscovered laws of physics (lateral gravity perhaps) and "reacquired it".<br /><br />Only to feel irrationally irritated when after, having had to steal my own pen from within lover's reach in the first place, she had the audacity to steal it back. Imagine my surprise when she used same said pen to scrawl a little note: "Stop stealing my pens!"...I mused awhile over the inapplicability of "What's half yours, is half mine" marriage-clause when it comes to pens. Albeit fairly ineffectively, my reasoning marred by not being able to simultaneously fiddle with my pen. <br /><br />Anyhow, I digress, closer inspection revealed that it was not in fact one of my possessions, nor had it ever been, lover had indeed been sat there merrily when I had swooped, in a case of jealous cleptomania, I had convinced myself that her pointy tool was mine somehow. Ironcially, the thief 'twas yours truly. Lost for words, and unable to articulate why I'd pounced on her tool, I found a substitute implement and scrawled my apology:<br />"Sorry! Pen.. envy !"pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-39229623935539937312008-06-22T12:53:00.006+02:002008-06-22T16:16:17.158+02:00Pillow waffleI have often been accused of being both verbose and somewhat tangential, of striking off on my very own train of thought. Everyone likes to think that such verbosity is more a sporadic affliction than particularly pervasive or insiduous. Apparently not.<br /><br />Take last night for instance, lover and I were lying together after earth shattering sex, engaging in post coital pillow talk. In my state of blissful contentment, I was mumbling and muttering away about something. More a state of free association than any ordered speech, indeed the word speech in itself could have been an understatement. <br /><br />I broke off to fumble for some sort of accrouement on the bedside table and in doing so lost sight of my point (lingistically rather than phallically speaking).<br /><br />"Where was I?" I asked lover bewildered for a moment.<br /><br />"Carnivorous plants"pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-39594804607895057742008-06-20T18:45:00.017+02:002008-07-01T17:27:34.534+02:00Cunning LingusToday I found out that I have just passed my exams in Norwegian at Oslo university. These were at the highest level possible in a tiered system after I somewhat over performed in the entrance exam. Norwegian is a tricky language to get your tongue around and I spent the next few months feigning deficient hearing on the numerous occasions that lecturers posed their questions too rapidly. My early sneaky attempts of actually speaking English in a pesudo-Nordic accent which is actually best described as an approximation of a post coital muppet, were also soon uncovered. <br /><br />The written exam was a mind boggling non-stop four hours, that's two hundred and fourty minutes, that's a sixth of an entire day! During which time I consumed a whole flask of espresso coffee (the exam began at half eight in the morning and thus got going before I could, which is rare.) Apropos coffee quantities, as any athlete will tell you one needs to consume vast amounts of liquid when sweating a great deal. Such a caffeine overload caused my my mind and body to go out of synch and I felt rather like I was dogging bullets in the Matrix. <br /><br />In preparation for such a long exam, an inordinate amount of time went into planning my exam menu. Along with the other contestants, competitors, compatriots, condemned (what is the collective noun for the potential vic-tims/ vic-tors held captive in these circumstances?).. I would be captive throughout brunch and lunch. Anyhow I digress, a few fellow candidates appeared confused upon seeing yours truly seated with an array of snacks (including significant body parts of a cooked chicken), and nearly mistook my desk and its array of snacks for the buffet table and I, the buffet master. (You can never have enough finger food is my motto.) <br /><br />As to the test itself, the unseen contemporary essay question had been a thorn in my side, unbidden I can waffle in impressive detail about a number of current affairs. Example essay questions however had enabled me to do nothing more than expose the depths of my ignorance in seeming every field chosen rather than showcase any linguistic abilities. On the day, the set essay question, roughly translated (something I now feel qualified to do) went as follows:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The recent gender neutral marriage law enables homosexuals to enter a marriage. Discuss its relevance and importance for homosexuals and equal opportunities as a whole. </span><br /> <br />Suffice to say, my ungrounded fears of performance anxiety left me, although this was to be done in a foreign tongue, a cunning lingus if you will. As any self respecting lesbian would...I took a deep breath and dived in.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-40352719919628306562008-03-20T20:16:00.003+01:002008-12-13T10:07:29.778+01:00Tying the knotLover and I are now wife and I.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HLU4xaMkZ1w/R-K_DS99dXI/AAAAAAAAABc/zudJ8dN0CEI/s1600-h/IMG_3825.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HLU4xaMkZ1w/R-K_DS99dXI/AAAAAAAAABc/zudJ8dN0CEI/s320/IMG_3825.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179912584781722994" /></a><br /><br />We were married last week in Oslo on the same day that the bill for gender neutral marriage went through.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-91396897368745700782008-02-27T10:58:00.002+01:002008-02-27T11:01:01.095+01:00Conversation with lover over breakfast this morningLover: "Last night I had a dream that I was carrying a roast chicken..."<br /><br />Me: "Uh huh"<br /><br />"And it was a hot tasty little chicken and I had it in my bare hands"<br /><br />(Mind frantically racing to recall Freudian dream interpretation, while scanning the room for a dream dictionary... <span style="font-style:italic;">Cooking</span> a bird, what can that mean? I wonder, suddenly interested as lover rarely treats me to snippets from her subconscious like this.)<br /><br />Lover: "And then I woke up..."<br /><br />Me: "Yes?"<br /><br />Lover: "And I was holding your little bottom."pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-81183748768182315382008-02-20T13:35:00.004+01:002008-02-20T13:48:51.681+01:00Not exhausting the options – When only a straightforward poke will doYesterday, I managed to get myself trapped in a public toilet. It was essentially attributable to substandard logic rather than substandard toilet door design. This was due more to a intellectual rather than mechanical malfunction. The first mistake being faltering confidence, upon trying to exit, I allowed myself to think, I hope I'm not locked in. Cue a self-fulfilling prophecy of monumental proportions. <br /><br />Toilet captivity for yours truly has only one notable precedent, when at a much younger age (in fact nearly half my life ago), I erroneously believed that cider being made from apples rendered it harmless- fruit juice (I cite alchopop consumers as corroborating evidence for this logical fallacy), only to later be incapable of finding the door in a toilet cubicle when the time came to leave. (Small tip to avoid said problem by readers: the door tends to be opposite the toilet, don't try the walls to the left or the right, there is there no hinge, lest fellow confused people surprise their neighbours presumably).<br /><br />The essence of the problem this time also lay in impaired reasoning: I did not exhaust all the possibilities for how the door may open. I pulled and pulled as though I were in a dyke tug of war contest but to no avail. The bidirectional possibility of this particular door eluded me, accordingly the other direction was overlooked. This was reinforced by an equally faulty heuristic ("rule of thumb" for fellow collectors of archaic philosophical terms) this being the refrain I repeated to myself, "I pulled the door on the way in and it worked then...Why will it not work now?" And so, this faulty premise (pull, pull hard... there is no other way) became my Damien-Rice-like refrain ad infinitum as I became increasingly determined.<br /><br />Of course, being a Brit in dire straits and in public, all of this frenzied activity, panic and exertion, was conducted as surreptitiously as possible. I needed help but was, of course, eager not to attract the attention of other toilet-goers. With a curious mixture of resignation and hope and after an eternity of fruitless cubicle gymnastics, I rang lover who was waiting patiently downstairs for me. I have a calm and non-plussed voice that I adopt in times of crisis: lover is used to such a tone and came immediately. I was now in a state somewhere between despondancy and hysteria as I' sure felow toilet captives have experienced, I'm sure I had a corresponding facial expression, this is unverified as the mirrors were of course the other side of the door. <br /><br />I began planning footholds to climb over the top. The escape plan was decided upon by lovers (admittedly swift) arrival. I now needed an accomplice as I had carried in what suddenly seemed like phenomenal amounts of luggage: that would have to be tossed over the top. "Try pushing the door one last time" suggested lover helpfully. There was a considerable pause as cogs turned in my head.... "pushing". A simple poke and the unlocked door swung open and I emerged with my best Libran nonchalant expression.<br /><br />Lover was of course overcome with tears of mirth and hilarity, and not- I hazard- at joy from my escape from the clutches of confinement and release from captivity. "Forgot I could push too" I said with as much dignity as I could muster; ill-advisedly adding, "Good job I didn't take a run at the door" as I swept imperiously from the bathroom, to the sounds of peels of renewed laughter from lover who was clearly glad she came. Quite a simple mistake really, I explained as I later downplayed it to my lover, I simply failed to exhaust the options as to how the door may open. <br />I guess I must remember that some things simply swing both ways.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-53919853742165564082008-01-25T21:20:00.000+01:002008-01-25T21:38:02.098+01:00Work ties and a Sledgehammer to my nutsI have started a new job lately, this coincides with the pause from my blog entries. In fact I haven't been doing enough entering of any form since starting work. I am now ruled by a tryant of small stature and inversely proportional ego who takes a metaphorical sledgehammer to my nuts on a daily basis. Salary seems to be little else other than compensation for the inevitable breakdown that boss no doubt hopes to induce. <br /><br />Being a gender-bending tie-wearing employee has its downsides. Work-ties can be restrictive at the best of times, yet specifically its the worst of these times that I allude to. Apropos work ties, the key rule of any form of bondage should surely be: release them at the end. To this effect, please can someone explain the oxy-moronic paradoxes known as:<br />- "optional" overtime (this seldom is).<br />- "social" drinks evenings (the prefix anti- is often omitted)<br /><br />I am still recovering from a recent "optional" work-night on the town, claims of other commitments are akin to casting aspersions on my commitment and sociability. There was much talking "shop" and trivial small talk: I am still undecided as to what was worse. I counter-intuitively used anaesthestic to numb the pain (specifically alcohol- which I saw as the equivalent of my hourly wage for my enforced socialisation and presence): yours truly ended up "nissed as a pewt" and asked lover for "a glass of toilet" when I came home, who was so repulsed she considered obliging. <br /><br />There is only thing worse than a dick-tatorial boss, and that's two of them: I am bi-ruled and have 2 bosses (this is the only way I could be bi). One of whom rules by the stick (and I never have been a conventional accepter of the dominion of the stick) and the other by the carrot. The principle being I'm shafted by one or the other in some way or another.<br /><br />One of my past entries referred to a boss who was in such deep denial about my Sapphic status that she thought that a stew I once referred to be waiting for me at home was in fact the name of my boyfriend. The inner conflict about sexuality of my current she-boss-from-hell is far less subconscious. She simply demanded outright who was the man in the relationship. Not quite getting the fundamental aspect of lesbianism there I feel: There is no man.. There are women.<br />Yes, there are two women, indeed could be more depending on the breadth of one's mind, moral standards and of course bed. What they do, what they wear or not to do it, how they do it and when they do it and so forth now that is up to them. But, nope, no man. <br /><br />And that seems to be the crux of the crotch of the issue. I have stumbled inadvertently upon a certain breed/er of patriarch: one for whom a man is essentially present in some way or another. More specifically, one with a former gay male colleague (her quote being he was "nice enough, considering..."). Fill in the ellipses as one will, a few suggestions though would be:<br />a) latent homophobia<br />b) conservatism<br />c) a rabid obsession with thinking of other as a function of their sexual proclivity and the inability to see this as degrading, reductionist behaviour.<br /><br />Her problem is clear to see, it is quite simply that there is no man in the relationship. Hence she has set about making it into her mission to, as Julie Andrews would say: climb every mountain (origin: molehill), cross every dyke (aka yours truly)... and in short take her sledgehammer to my nuts. I am now considering taking said nuts elsewhere, to leave me more time for dyke plundering activities and entries of my own.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-26768590360393895702008-01-01T14:29:00.000+01:002008-01-01T22:12:22.670+01:00New Year Resolutions- the Id manifestoNew Years Resolutions are a little like the Santa wish lists only more self flagellatory (Freudian scholars and also scholars of Freud could think of them as a manifesto for the Id). In keeping with the theme of denial, most new years resolutions tend to be negative rather than positive (the majority tend to be of the ilk: <span style="font-style:italic;">stop</span> X, <span style="font-style:italic;">cut down</span> on Y, <span style="font-style:italic;">reduce</span> Z), with the words weight, cigarettes/smoking, spending, alcohol all fairly interchangeable. Positive affirmations could be the way to go, by this I don't mean: take up smoking, increase alcohol intake. Thus making New Years Resolutions seems as easy as XYZ, it's non-conformity that's the issue. But then other XX bearing XX lovers know that already.<br /><br />I came across some recent research in a reputable newspaper which recommended that the best way in which to keep to New Years resolutions is to make them at times other than New Year. I wish to nitpick their terminology here: may I suggest that these slices of wishful thinking are not then still deserving of the title "New Year" resolution if done at other times. Of course, for the sake of argument, one could be referring to dating systems other than the Gregorian calendar but then a "New Year Resolution" which could feature should this be the case may well be "try and be less pedantic".<br /><br />I prefer to think of such resolutions as promises to self. Plenty of articles focus on the types of resolutions and one's likelihood to stick with them, rather than, say, their feasibility. I have observed over time that resolution-levels are themselves intrinsically proportional to my self esteem at the time of making. Allow me to demonstrate. If they circulate around things such as:<br />- Find cure for cancer<br />- Successfully lobby governments to eradicate Third World Debt<br />- Advance equality of the sexes<br />Then paradoxically, my self esteem is running low, these are aiming quite high and any success on a personal level highly doubtful. While I do tend to "build castles in the sky" and see idealism as a positive character trait (a Libran affliction I feel), I successfully resist the temptation to move into said cloud castles (Care Bear style) and accordingly am not delusional.<br /><br />Another illuminating list would be the underachiever one whereby one's expectations of self are sufficiently low to prefix each resolution with "try to" or "if possible", thereby neatly negating the definition of resolution and exchanging resolve for "would quite like to... I think". This is otherwise known as the "get out clause" variety.<br /><br />My New Year resolution is to be more decisive and proactive. This is ironically indicative of me being so indecisive about my New Year Resolutions that I was unable to come up with anything more concrete. I have a plan B sublist of course should plan A fail, with even more realistic goals along the lines of "think about Angelina Jolie more often," although in the same vein my sublist features "write fewer and shorter lists" and "set more manageable goals". I rest my case.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-56709000834161588332007-12-31T00:41:00.000+01:002008-01-04T19:24:47.858+01:00Gingerbread lesbians and cast off stockingsThe 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 ...)<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-25091292895008714192007-12-28T15:25:00.000+01:002007-12-29T21:14:57.232+01:00Breakfast performanceSnippet of conversation from the breakfast table between lover and myself, discussing archive footage from Ellen site.<br /><br />Me: "Why do you think James Blunt (<span style="font-style:italic;">British musician</span>) 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?"<br /><br />Lover (scrutinising her muesli): "I don't know, maybe he got nervous."<br /><br />Me (eager to solve the piano non-performance): "I suppose if Ellen climbed onto my instrument I might become overawed and stop playing"<br /><br />Lover (scrutinising me): "Oh no, I think you'd play, don't you?"<br /><br />(Silence as we both ponder the truth of this statement.)<br /><br /><a href="http://ellen.warnerbros.com/EllenMediaPlayer/#topofpage"></a>pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-12782917640530143662007-12-15T20:21:00.000+01:002007-12-16T02:00:04.143+01:00Better than a Chocolate dildoThere 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?) <br /><br />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.) <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.) <br /><br />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). <br /><br />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.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-91243426450060804222007-12-04T20:38:00.000+01:002007-12-05T01:23:02.738+01:00Samson 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />As is becoming evident, hairdressers really stress me out as they have no idea... <br />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), <br />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. <br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-90707373611040641152007-11-28T14:54:00.000+01:002007-11-28T20:22:59.966+01:00Smokey Dykes and Freudian SleepsSlow 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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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: <br /><br />Peelieved:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">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. </span><br /><br />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”.<br /><br />Freudian sleep (typing variety) aka Freudian slop:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">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.</span><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">cliterature”</span>, 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”. <br />Oh well, I guess tit happens to the breast of us.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-73059496752622987022007-11-26T17:23:00.000+01:002007-11-26T17:35:38.772+01:00Sapphic slaves to surveysTiptoeing 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). <br /><br />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.) <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.)pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-81808719572506936782007-11-23T12:22:00.000+01:002007-11-23T15:41:53.208+01:00The EX-odusGirlfriends, 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. <br /><br />I shall set the scene: <br />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.<br /><br />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.) <br /><br />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. <br /><br />“News travels faster than on Grease with the drive in and Rizzo’s pregnancy…" I offer up erratically.<br />"...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.<br /> <br />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.”<br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/claim/rfuyx7e85" rel="me">Technorati Profile</a>pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-54441665519723300682007-11-22T19:51:00.000+01:002007-11-22T20:24:36.947+01:00Putting Out at WorkComing 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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?"<br /><br />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. <br />"Oh," said my boss confused, "And what about Stu your partner, where's he tonight then?"pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-44669764450491757472007-11-19T12:24:00.000+01:002007-11-19T12:48:46.008+01:00Surrogate PMT and the nipple effectFor 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. <br /><br />As the scientist in me tried to restore order, I took my irrational state and applied "applied physics". Here were my key laws:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">- The ripple effect (which I have redubbed the nipple effect) </span><br />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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">- Everything has an equal and opposite reaction (in my case over-reaction). </span><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">- Chaos theory. </span><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-11211397464310909102007-11-18T12:05:00.000+01:002007-11-18T20:02:56.756+01:00Sapphic sauna etiquetteMy 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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). <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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).<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-55038859565159886162007-11-14T11:02:00.000+01:002007-11-14T12:17:51.651+01:00Sitting on my laptopMy 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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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. <br />The dialogue (is that word still appropriate or should I say monologue?) ran thus...<br />"Me: "Awww look, rabbit is so cute"<br />Lover: "Rabbit is so cute"<br />Me: "I wonder if she's fallen in love with your left mule slipper, she probably thinks it's another bunny"<br />Lover: (in sing-song nursery voice to appease crazy-people or the very young): "Another bunny".....<br />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. <br /><br />I have been trained in counselling, this of course teaches this technique. Evidently I wasn't there the day they covered insight. <br />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. <br />Besides, I have confirmed I checked with my lover and everything is great. We had quite a good conversation, it ran thus:<br />"When I speak to you my love, I am talking rather than waffling?"<br />Lover: "Talking rather than waffling"<br />Me: "Like in the early days, you still hang off every word?"<br />Lover: "Still hang off every word"pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-78767160594190639342007-11-12T12:45:00.000+01:002007-11-12T18:12:02.661+01:00Omniscient narrator meets Amazonian womanEver 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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). <br /><br />Thus "apparent height"/sinθ = "my actual height". <br />Where sinθ is invariably <1, the smaller denominator thereby effects an increase. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2898048967815594798.post-26330413768727009302007-11-10T20:47:00.000+01:002007-11-10T21:53:42.897+01:00Lesbian hairThere 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?pink coloured glasseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12875352814799294348noreply@blogger.com0