Several weeks ago I attended a street festival which involved some "harvest" type decor. I saw a boy of about 6 sit on top of a pumpkin. He said "ouch", of course, when the stem touched him a little more intimately than is probably legal to describe. Which wouldn't necessarily be something I'd remember after the time lapse - except that he did it again. And again. And again. And again. His father eventually took the pumpkin away. Stripped of his pumpkin entertainment, the same boy ripped off his shirt and started dancing very energetically.
Which isn't to suggest that I witnessed the beginnings of this young man's homosexuality. I expect that might be offensive*. But. Well. He didn't even try to re-position the pumpkin each time he sat on it. Which yes, could be because kids are kind of stupid and he was expecting something different - ie, not being penetrated by the pumpkin - on subsequent tries. Or... ?
I had a brush with gayness of my own a couple of weeks ago at the streetcar stop. The other person waiting informed me that I'd just missed the car, and then engaged me in conversation. I'm not saying she was a lesbian just because she had a short haircut and was definitely wearing men's jeans. I expect that might be offensive. And I'm not saying she was hitting on me just because she engaged me in conversation, over the course of which she gave me some pretty explicit directions on how to get to her house and mentioned that she wished she had a friend like me. And, once we reached the subway station and parted ways, she said wistfully, "Maybe we'll meet at the streetcar stop again someday".
It's possible she thought that I checked her out first - I'd forgotten my glasses and squinted my way toward the stop, only realizing I was staring at someone when about 3 feet away.
I'm not sure if this next example counts as a brush with gayness. It's not unusual for men to hold open doors for me. Not that I'm so arrogant as to think that this is me-specific, rather than a societal convention. I hold doors open for men and women alike just because I'm polite like that, but only insofar as I'll give the door an energetic push to keep it open for whoever's following behind me. Unlike the men opening doors for me, I don't stop, open the door, and wait for people to pass, unless they're really old or disabled or have their hands full.
I don't think I've ever had a woman stop, open the door for me, and wait for me to go through until last Thursday. Said woman may or may not have given me what could be considered a suggestive smile. Needless to say, my hands were not full, nor am I elderly, nor do I have any obvious disabilities. Otherwise I would have thought nothing of it.
I went on one one my quarterly grocery shopping expeditions last night. Inside the store, I happened across 4 or 5 pairs of men who slightly resembled each other, shopping together. Since couples slightly resemble each other sometimes, I was inspired to take their pictures and start a website called "Brothers or Lovers?" Not that I care whether they were gay or not, but I've usually got pretty accurate gaydar and I couldn't figure them out.
So maybe I had gayness on the brain already when I was waiting - and waiting - and waiting - for the cab I'd called to pick me up. I waited so long, in fact, that there was a woman who saw me standing in the entrance next to my full grocery cart both on her way into the store and on her way out. After leaving her own groceries in her car, she came back into the store on purpose to ask me if I was waiting for a cab and if so, if she could offer me a ride home. I'm not saying she was a lesbian just because she had a short haircut, was clearly wearing men's jeans, and offered a complete stranger a ride home from the grocery store. But it seems a little beyond common courtesy**.
Have I been exuding a gay vibe lately or am I jumping to (conceited) conclusions? Not that I particularly care if I'm giving off a gay vibe. I'm pretty sure f I was a lesbian I'd know by now, so it's not like it's bringing on a sexual identity crisis. But I hate to think I'm being misleading. Maybe I should stop wearing men's jeans***.
Chris and Sara mentioned not long into the pregnancy that they didn't care whether either of the twins were gay, as long as they were happy.
I don't think there's much chance of Molly being a lesbian. She has a horror of men with moustaches, but has intense love for virtually all others****.
I don't think Jack is exhibiting any predilections one way or another. Except, maybe, towards snacks. Everything else is cool with him. The only thing that seems to bother him is being laughed at, as discovered last Friday after he'd hit his head against the side of a wooden rocking chair repeatedly and kept on smiling. It was only after his babysitter mentioned that he does stuff like that all the time and everyone looked at him and laughed that he started crying. Which isn't a sign of homosexuality, of course, but I'm thinking that since he's sensitive to ridicule, he might need some encouragement to come out of the closet, should he one day find himself in the closet*****.
I guess we'll know more when they turn twelve******.
*Really. None of this is intended to be offensive towards the LGBT community.
**Second website idea: "Lesbian or Kind Gesture?"
***I have not actually been wearing men's jeans.
****A sign of at least some selective judgment, in that she already knows to steer clear of hipsters, child molesters, and Magnum P.I. Movember might be a difficult month.
*****Not that homosexuality = ridicule. Except, a lot of the time, it does. We don't live in nearly as enlightened an age as people sometimes think. The stereotypes I have shamelessly used are not meant in any derogatory way. It's not my fault if I've told these things as they actually happened.
******When Sara and her sister were teenagers, they convinced their younger brother that when he turned twelve, the Gay Fairy would come and tell him whether he was gay or straight. He was terrified.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Crazy Cat Lady Strikes Again
As time goes by, I find self-deprecating jokes about my future as a crazy cat lady less and less funny. Not that they were ever funny in a I-should-be-a-stand-up-comedian kind of way, but... that is neither here nor there. I'm setting myself up for it, really, what with my plan to start going to the Humane Society and adopting the old cats that no one else wants because they're going to die soon*. I don't have any intention on moving forward with this until the Orange One dies, however, and that's not going to happen for a long, long time. Ish. A long time-ish. So that part of my crazy cat lady metamorphosis is several years off.
That being said. I crossed some kind of line over the weekend, and I can't un-cross it. Visualize this:
I was sitting at my kitchen table with a beer and my lap top - doing... what? Looking stuff up on YouTube, maybe. A cold, dismal rain was falling. And I heard the sad meowling** of an unhappy cat outside on the porch.
I opened the door and stepped outside, to find Roof Cat*** sitting on the railing looking damp and dejected. Wanting to make him feel better, I slipped back inside to get him a treat. Having a name for the stray cat that hangs out on my roof and feeding him from time to time may already make me a crazy cat lady in the eyes of some, I am aware****. The usual handful of kibble was clearly not a good idea, given the weather. My only other option was a can of tuna. I may also have retrieved a bathmat from inside and set up a sweet little dining area under the overhang, where he could enjoy his meal without being rained on, resting on the warm and dry bathmat rather than the saturated wooden planks of my porch. His tail rose a little, hopefully, when he caught the scent of tuna in the night air. I tried to coax him down, but he paced back and forth along the railing, meowling again, occasionally looking like he was getting ready to jump, backing out*****, and pacing again. It didn't take me long to realize that he didn't want to have to slosh through a frigid puddle to reach the oasis I'd thoughtfully created. And here is where I crossed the line. Consider this:
Except... substitute the lady with a stray cat, the man with a lady, and the jacket with a T-shirt, which I stripped off and arranged on my anti-gravity chair so he could have a soft jumping off point, still warm from my body heat. I may have stayed outside T-shirt-less so I could soothingly convince him that it was okay to come down. And I maybe smoked a cigarette. By the time I was done I'd gotten a little nipply and Roof Cat was still on the ledge, so I retreated inside where it was warm and I had beer.
I peeked outside a few minutes later to find Roofie happily eating the tuna, and all was right with the world. I don't know if my T-shirt was any help at all... but... I had to do laundry anyway. And it's not like I've never been topless on my porch before. I used to go out topless on my porch all the time. That was before I got glasses and had not yet realized that my neighbours to the back could, in fact, see me quite clearly if they happened to look my way******.
*A couple of cats at a time. It breaks my cat-loving bleeding heart a little bit every time I stop in the Humane Society to visit the cats and see a cage labelled: Clyde. Age 15. At the Humane Society since January 2010. (Did I just suggest that I stop in at the Humane Society now and then just to visit the cats? No I don't. That's crazy).
**meowling. can it be that I just made that word up? Google suggests that I did. Mewling, yes. Meowling, no. I insist that meowling is a whole different sound, as anyone who's overheard a cat in the rain can confirm.
***If I have described Roof Cat before, stop reading. If I haven't, Roof Cat is a possibly stray orange and white calico cat that hangs out on my roof all the time. I say "possibly" stray because on one hand, he seems pretty well-fed, but on the other hand, I catch him out there at all hours of day and night.
****I started out to say, "Fuck you", but it seems a little harsh. So instead, "Don't Judge Me".
*****Like someone bracing themselves before jumping into a lake in early June. In Canada.
******Why lie? I still go out topless on my porch all the time. There're no secrets between me and my backyard neighbours at this point.
That being said. I crossed some kind of line over the weekend, and I can't un-cross it. Visualize this:
I was sitting at my kitchen table with a beer and my lap top - doing... what? Looking stuff up on YouTube, maybe. A cold, dismal rain was falling. And I heard the sad meowling** of an unhappy cat outside on the porch.
I opened the door and stepped outside, to find Roof Cat*** sitting on the railing looking damp and dejected. Wanting to make him feel better, I slipped back inside to get him a treat. Having a name for the stray cat that hangs out on my roof and feeding him from time to time may already make me a crazy cat lady in the eyes of some, I am aware****. The usual handful of kibble was clearly not a good idea, given the weather. My only other option was a can of tuna. I may also have retrieved a bathmat from inside and set up a sweet little dining area under the overhang, where he could enjoy his meal without being rained on, resting on the warm and dry bathmat rather than the saturated wooden planks of my porch. His tail rose a little, hopefully, when he caught the scent of tuna in the night air. I tried to coax him down, but he paced back and forth along the railing, meowling again, occasionally looking like he was getting ready to jump, backing out*****, and pacing again. It didn't take me long to realize that he didn't want to have to slosh through a frigid puddle to reach the oasis I'd thoughtfully created. And here is where I crossed the line. Consider this:
Except... substitute the lady with a stray cat, the man with a lady, and the jacket with a T-shirt, which I stripped off and arranged on my anti-gravity chair so he could have a soft jumping off point, still warm from my body heat. I may have stayed outside T-shirt-less so I could soothingly convince him that it was okay to come down. And I maybe smoked a cigarette. By the time I was done I'd gotten a little nipply and Roof Cat was still on the ledge, so I retreated inside where it was warm and I had beer.
I peeked outside a few minutes later to find Roofie happily eating the tuna, and all was right with the world. I don't know if my T-shirt was any help at all... but... I had to do laundry anyway. And it's not like I've never been topless on my porch before. I used to go out topless on my porch all the time. That was before I got glasses and had not yet realized that my neighbours to the back could, in fact, see me quite clearly if they happened to look my way******.
*A couple of cats at a time. It breaks my cat-loving bleeding heart a little bit every time I stop in the Humane Society to visit the cats and see a cage labelled: Clyde. Age 15. At the Humane Society since January 2010. (Did I just suggest that I stop in at the Humane Society now and then just to visit the cats? No I don't. That's crazy).
**meowling. can it be that I just made that word up? Google suggests that I did. Mewling, yes. Meowling, no. I insist that meowling is a whole different sound, as anyone who's overheard a cat in the rain can confirm.
***If I have described Roof Cat before, stop reading. If I haven't, Roof Cat is a possibly stray orange and white calico cat that hangs out on my roof all the time. I say "possibly" stray because on one hand, he seems pretty well-fed, but on the other hand, I catch him out there at all hours of day and night.
****I started out to say, "Fuck you", but it seems a little harsh. So instead, "Don't Judge Me".
*****Like someone bracing themselves before jumping into a lake in early June. In Canada.
******Why lie? I still go out topless on my porch all the time. There're no secrets between me and my backyard neighbours at this point.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Please, no more pregnancies. I can't do the drinking for everyone. As much as it may have seemed like I was embracing the role weekend before last, when (two nights in a row) I re-learned my bi-annual lesson on the dangers of drinking on a virtually empty stomach.
I met Chris and Sara for a show on Friday, fueled only by a yogurt cup (at 2 p.m.) and a square of pizza (that's square, not slice, and I didn't eat the crust because I was full*). The best part of the night by far was when Sara and I were waiting at the bar and a girl in front of us doing a round of shots with some guys made the classic throw-the-liquor-over-your-shoulder-instead-of-drinking-it maneuver. You should really check the rearview mirror before pulling that move. After Sara got soaked in whiskey, she made several horrified faces, removed her whiskeyed cardigan, and tried to get the attention of whiskey-thrower by tapping not very softly on her shoulder. She may as well have been invisible. Then the girl standing on my other side poked me and said, "she shouldn't feel bad. that girl did the same thing to me an hour ago."
Six or seven tall boys of Steigl later found me dancing wildly with a middle aged Asian man, which is the last Chris and Sara saw of me before going home to relieve the babysitter, as Sara confirmed the next morning by texting me to say, "Last time we saw you you were dancing wildly with a middle aged Asian man**."
The second last time I saw me I was insisting*** that my cab driver accept a Passion Flakie as part of his tip. The last time I saw me I was cross-legged on my living room floor, for some reason listening to The Postal Service on my iPod, and devouring a jumbo Ah Caramel and 3-pack of Twinkies****. I didn't even know I had The Postal Service on my iPod. How 2003 of me.
That was Friday.
Saturday was a scheduled Star Wars marathon for the benefit of someone who had never seen any of the original three - who brought an unscheduled box of wine. At least, I didn't know the box of wine was scheduled. It soon became apparent that no one else was drinking any - Sara fell asleep sometime in between the time the Millenium Falcon left Tatooine and arrived at the asteroid field that used to be Alderaan, Chris isn't a wine drinker at the best of times, and of the two other members of our marathon, one was driving and the other never drinks red wine, having had a very bad experience in her early 20's. I felt kind of bad about it, so I decided to join the box o'wine fun, fueled only by one litre of milk (intermittently throughout the day), some potato pancake appetizer sticks and two Rice Krispie squares (all on arrival at Chris and Sara's). The wine-bringer made the classic if-I-keep-refilling-my-glass-before-it's-empty-I've-still-only-had-one-drink-right? maneuver, and he took me down with him. The end of the night found me insisting that Chris call me a cab because I couldn't see straight enough to find the cab contact on my phone, giving Sara $20 in payment of a theatre ticket she bought me, which she put on her coffee table and I (must've) picked up for cab money because the next day it had disappeared, and young Luke Winedrinker throwing the near empty box of wine into some shrubbery outside his apartment building.
On the bright side, I have a new Star Wars avatar. I always want to be Yoda, but everyone insists that I'm in no way a Yoda*****, more of a Salacious Crumb****** - which I don't entirely appreciate. Young Luke Winedrinker started the night as a Sand Person (which he didn't much appreciate - but since he's Egyptian, it just made racist sense). Half-way through the night, he announced that he'd rather be Skywalker (which surprised everyone - nobody ever wants to be Skywalker, he's such a whiny little bitch*******). Box of wine nearing on empty, Luke Winedrinker was born. As was R2Drinks2Much, which I'll take over Salacious Crumb any day.
As for the next day... I'll just say I eventually made it home and went back to sleep, cradled in my Star Wars bedding. Not before noticing the box of wine in the shrubbery and lamenting that we didn't give it to a homeless person instead.
*it's not anorexia on purpose. busy at work as usual, and I keep forgetting to eat. the stomach so shriveled it couldn't manage a full square of pizza did manage about 3 litres of beer, however.
**whatever. he liked it.
***he really, really didn't want the Flakie. It took much convincing.
****I think, in spite of Hostess' bankruptcy in the U.S. earlier this year, that you can actually still get Twinkies there. For the fun of gloating, however, I'm going to pretend that's not true. Clamato, limitless Twinkies, gun control laws and universal healthcare... life is pretty sweet on this side of the border.
*****to be clear, though, I mean the Yoda that goes through Luke's lunchbox and gets into a fight with R2D2 when Luke first lands in the Dagobah system, not the strong, patient and wise Yoda that is able to lift Luke's x-wing fighter from the swamp with the power of his mind.
******
I met Chris and Sara for a show on Friday, fueled only by a yogurt cup (at 2 p.m.) and a square of pizza (that's square, not slice, and I didn't eat the crust because I was full*). The best part of the night by far was when Sara and I were waiting at the bar and a girl in front of us doing a round of shots with some guys made the classic throw-the-liquor-over-your-shoulder-instead-of-drinking-it maneuver. You should really check the rearview mirror before pulling that move. After Sara got soaked in whiskey, she made several horrified faces, removed her whiskeyed cardigan, and tried to get the attention of whiskey-thrower by tapping not very softly on her shoulder. She may as well have been invisible. Then the girl standing on my other side poked me and said, "she shouldn't feel bad. that girl did the same thing to me an hour ago."
Six or seven tall boys of Steigl later found me dancing wildly with a middle aged Asian man, which is the last Chris and Sara saw of me before going home to relieve the babysitter, as Sara confirmed the next morning by texting me to say, "Last time we saw you you were dancing wildly with a middle aged Asian man**."
The second last time I saw me I was insisting*** that my cab driver accept a Passion Flakie as part of his tip. The last time I saw me I was cross-legged on my living room floor, for some reason listening to The Postal Service on my iPod, and devouring a jumbo Ah Caramel and 3-pack of Twinkies****. I didn't even know I had The Postal Service on my iPod. How 2003 of me.
That was Friday.
Saturday was a scheduled Star Wars marathon for the benefit of someone who had never seen any of the original three - who brought an unscheduled box of wine. At least, I didn't know the box of wine was scheduled. It soon became apparent that no one else was drinking any - Sara fell asleep sometime in between the time the Millenium Falcon left Tatooine and arrived at the asteroid field that used to be Alderaan, Chris isn't a wine drinker at the best of times, and of the two other members of our marathon, one was driving and the other never drinks red wine, having had a very bad experience in her early 20's. I felt kind of bad about it, so I decided to join the box o'wine fun, fueled only by one litre of milk (intermittently throughout the day), some potato pancake appetizer sticks and two Rice Krispie squares (all on arrival at Chris and Sara's). The wine-bringer made the classic if-I-keep-refilling-my-glass-before-it's-empty-I've-still-only-had-one-drink-right? maneuver, and he took me down with him. The end of the night found me insisting that Chris call me a cab because I couldn't see straight enough to find the cab contact on my phone, giving Sara $20 in payment of a theatre ticket she bought me, which she put on her coffee table and I (must've) picked up for cab money because the next day it had disappeared, and young Luke Winedrinker throwing the near empty box of wine into some shrubbery outside his apartment building.
On the bright side, I have a new Star Wars avatar. I always want to be Yoda, but everyone insists that I'm in no way a Yoda*****, more of a Salacious Crumb****** - which I don't entirely appreciate. Young Luke Winedrinker started the night as a Sand Person (which he didn't much appreciate - but since he's Egyptian, it just made racist sense). Half-way through the night, he announced that he'd rather be Skywalker (which surprised everyone - nobody ever wants to be Skywalker, he's such a whiny little bitch*******). Box of wine nearing on empty, Luke Winedrinker was born. As was R2Drinks2Much, which I'll take over Salacious Crumb any day.
As for the next day... I'll just say I eventually made it home and went back to sleep, cradled in my Star Wars bedding. Not before noticing the box of wine in the shrubbery and lamenting that we didn't give it to a homeless person instead.
*it's not anorexia on purpose. busy at work as usual, and I keep forgetting to eat. the stomach so shriveled it couldn't manage a full square of pizza did manage about 3 litres of beer, however.
**whatever. he liked it.
***he really, really didn't want the Flakie. It took much convincing.
****I think, in spite of Hostess' bankruptcy in the U.S. earlier this year, that you can actually still get Twinkies there. For the fun of gloating, however, I'm going to pretend that's not true. Clamato, limitless Twinkies, gun control laws and universal healthcare... life is pretty sweet on this side of the border.
*****to be clear, though, I mean the Yoda that goes through Luke's lunchbox and gets into a fight with R2D2 when Luke first lands in the Dagobah system, not the strong, patient and wise Yoda that is able to lift Luke's x-wing fighter from the swamp with the power of his mind.
******
*******
There's nothing cool about that guy. Am I right, or am I right?
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