The gay things I've done lately

I now live in a very progressive, gay-friendly town.  It soothes my sweet little soul to see gay people whenever I leave my house. 




The other day while driving to work, I saw a man with a full beard wearing a pleated skirt, combat boots and a tiny white sailor hat on his head. 






Yesterday, I saw a butch in a bathing suit riding her daughter's bike in front of my house.


I'm happier than a pig in...well, you know.

So what else have I done?

I joined the office softball team (isn't this SO gay?!)

I met the cast of The Real L Word.

Whitney told me my hair looked great!



I resisted the urge to grab Rose's ass and instead got as close to her as I could for this picture. She smelled AMAZING!

I went out to a straight club and got my boobs grabbed by a hot little blonde straight girl in the bathroom. (I'm pretty sure I could have taken her home but honestly, I didn't have the energy.)

It's been a pretty fun summer.  And feeling more like me every single day...

Always keep your girlfriend in hot water

She's running around with a wrench in her hand, this woman who loves me.  She is installing a new dishwasher, and I am holding the flashlight.  When I ask what I can do to help she says, "You can just sit there and look pretty."

Well...that is what I do best.

She gets all the hoses hooked up properly and it's time to plug it in.  Then realizes it has the wrong electrical plug and she'll have to rewire it.

By this time, I'm tapping my pretty little foot because I'm bored and I would rather go out for a drink.

So I say, "Can't you find a man to do that, honey?"

I never knew someone's face could turn so red, so fast.

(This is, apparently, the wrong thing to say to a lesbian.)



What I should have added was electrical work makes me nervous

and I'd rather see a man electrocuted than her...

So now we're having a debate: was this comment an example of my internalized heterosexism?  That men should do men's work and women should do women's work?

I really don't think so.  I was raised by a feminist in the 70s.  If I wanted to become a heart surgeon or a politician or a pilot, being a girl was not going to stop me.

Is it just going to take a little while longer to unlearn the past 35 years of gender role socialization?

Or maybe I just really wanted a drink. 

What do you think?

Does this haircut make me look gay?

While in Seattle for Pride weekend, I strolled past a trendly little hair salon in Capitol Hill.  Later over a slice of pizza, I told my friend I wanted to cut my hair but the thought of actually doing it made me nauseous.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Honestly...I'm afraid of giving up my heterosexual privilege."

She paused.  Looked at me. 

"All the more reason to do it."

Shit. 
She was right. 

So I ignored the gnawing in the pit of my stomach and let the pierced, tattooed, young girl take scissors to my hair.


This was the end result:

(That's me on the left with my friend J.)

Desperate housewife?  Not a chance.  (I don't think I need the rainbow bracelets anymore either, huh?)

"It is your life which is so close to my own
that I would not know where to drop the knife of separation."

-Mary Oliver

Moving out of the house and the life I built was not quite the celebration I thought it would be.  With every box that I placed in the Uhaul, I could feel the tears building up until they were choking me.

I agonized while packing those boxes.  After twelve years together, who knows what is whose anymore?  Is this CD his? Did my mom give this to us?  Does he have a sentimental attachment to this painting?  After a while, it just all becomes yours...together.

After we filled the truck and pulled the noisy door down and latched it shut, I hugged him goodbye and sobbed as I drove the truck 75 miles to my new home.

Later, I sent him a text:

You will always be my family.  I love you.

The key to freedom

It's an ugly little house.  Light blue painted wood siding with electric blue trim.  The entire house would fit in the first floor of the house I live in now.

I'm leaving behind the granite countertops (I agonized over choosing the right color) and stainless steel appliances  (top of the line, of course) and just signed a lease on this new, old place. 

In less than a week, I will turn the key in the front door and call this little ugly place home.  The first time I have lived alone in twelve years. 

The first time in twelve years that I will be able to make my own decisions, and live freely and openly, without the guise of straight, white, suburban housewife.

Sometimes the little bitch called self-doubt chimes in with her two cents:  You must be crazy to walk away--what are you doing??

...but then I think of that key, and I know I'm doing the right thing, even if it feels like severing a piece of my heart that I will never get back.

Suburbia never agreed with me anyway.