Not exhausting the options – When only a straightforward poke will do

Yesterday, 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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.
I guess I must remember that some things simply swing both ways.

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.

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.

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.