Conversation with lover over breakfast this morning

Lover: "Last night I had a dream that I was carrying a roast chicken..."

Me: "Uh huh"

"And it was a hot tasty little chicken and I had it in my bare hands"

(Mind frantically racing to recall Freudian dream interpretation, while scanning the room for a dream dictionary... Cooking a bird, what can that mean? I wonder, suddenly interested as lover rarely treats me to snippets from her subconscious like this.)

Lover: "And then I woke up..."

Me: "Yes?"

Lover: "And I was holding your little bottom."

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.

Work ties and a Sledgehammer to my nuts

I 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.

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:
- "optional" overtime (this seldom is).
- "social" drinks evenings (the prefix anti- is often omitted)

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.

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.

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.
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.

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:
a) latent homophobia
b) conservatism
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.

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.

New Year Resolutions- the Id manifesto

New 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: stop X, cut down on Y, reduce 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.

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".

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:
- Find cure for cancer
- Successfully lobby governments to eradicate Third World Debt
- Advance equality of the sexes
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.

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.

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.

Gingerbread lesbians and cast off stockings

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

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

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

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

Breakfast performance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better than a Chocolate dildo

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

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

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

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

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

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