Tying the knot

Lover and I are now wife and I.



We were married last week in Oslo on the same day that the bill for gender neutral marriage went through.

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.

Putting Out at Work

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

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

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

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

Surrogate PMT and the nipple effect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sapphic sauna etiquette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sitting on my laptop

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

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

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

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

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