There's one day every year when it really sets in that autumn is upon you. For me, that day was today. My world is riddled with indicia of fall: candy corn in the supermarket, the smell of rain in the air, leaves changing color, and my dog refusing to go outside because it's below 45 degrees. For me, it was a particularly appropriate day for change to be in the air, because yesterday, I decided to make a big one: the DGF and I are moving. As in, moving in. As in, moving in together.
We've been (back) together for two years, and have known each other for almost four, so it's not exactly a U-Haul scenario. Still, for me it's a pretty big deal. After my DXH and I split, I never thought I'd live with another human being. I didn't see this as a bad thing. Sure, it can be lonely to live solo, but: (1) I'm a poor sharer of personal space--as in, I need a ton of it; (2) I sing poorly and constantly--Billy Joel songs, made-up lyrics, or combinations thereof--something only my dog should have to tolerate; and most importantly, (3) once you've merged households with someone you love, breaking up takes on a whole new level of difficulty. It's hard to communicate in writing how heart-wrenching it was for me to split with my DXH (although someday I'll try to articulate it in more detail). I didn't think I'd ever be willing to subject myself to the possibility of feeling that kind of pain again. And yet: here I am. Prior to our decision, my DGF and I had long discussed, hypothetically, the possibility of moving in together. We live 30 minutes apart, which is a pain, but we both have great landlords and fabulous places that we'd be sorry to leave. I'm also wicked allergic to one of her cats and semi-allergic to the other, which seemed, for now, dispositive. (I didn't think lesbians were even allowed to be allergic to cats.) But then, idly browsing Craigslist apartments (as I mentioned in my last post that I'm wont to do), I happened upon a house with a detached studio. That's right--a separate house for cats. Not to mention: a big fenced yard, hardwood floors, hiking trails nearby, a bar, cafe, and grocery store within walking distance, and... wait for it... a built in side-by-side gas and charcoal grill on the patio. What more could two butches in love possibly want? So we checked it out, both thought it was ridiculously perfect, and are planning to sign the lease this week. Whoa. This is happening fast, but at the same time, it feels right. Occasionally in my life, I'm lucky enough to have a gut reaction about a big decision. Every time I've disregarded this feeling, I've regretted it (cough, law school debt, cough). And my gut has a strong feeling this time, so I'm going to follow it. Well, dear readers, this time I'm asking YOU for advice... anything the DGF and I know/do before moving in together?
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Dear Mom,
It's only been about 12 hours since I sent you the url of this blog. During that time, I've checked my email about 20 times to see if you've written back. Boy, was it hard to send that. I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm afraid you won't like my writing, or that you won't like the topics, or that the whole "butch" thing will weird you out. I mentioned this to a friend, who suggested I write a letter to you on the blog. I thought it was an awesome idea, so here I am. I hope you weren't upset about that last post (or any of the others). Reading over it, it occurred to me that sometimes we like to talk about the challenging parts of our upbringing. Being (semi-)confident adults, it's interesting to look back and ponder the ways we didn't fit in as a kid. I think it helps us make sense of who we are, and how we got here. But sometimes the negative or neutral stuff is so elucidating that we don't focus as much on the positive stuff. I've been thinking about that positive stuff a lot today, and wanted to thank you for a bunch of things, including the following:
There's more, of course, but lists should always have a nice round number of items. What if I'd written a list with 6 items? Or worse, 13? Preposterous. Anyhow, Mom, this Butch Wonders thing is going pretty well. It's been up for only a few months, and I'm getting at least 300 readers every day, and growing. Yesterday was 642. Kate Clinton (a famous lesbian comedian) recently endorsed me on her Facebook page, and I also got an invitation to do a radio interview in October. Not bad, eh? I'm really enjoying it. I get to hear from readers (gay, straight, male, female) from all over the place. The best part is when I learn that something I wrote affected them: helped them come out to their parents, resolve a conflict with their girlfriend, or even figure out what to wear to a wedding. It's really amazing to feel like I'm making a difference (especially since my day job can, as you know, be pretty abstract). I hope to hear back from you soon, and I hope you don't mind hundreds of strangers reading my note to you. Love, "BW" Most of the girls where I grew up started wearing make-up in middle school. By the start of high school, I still wasn't on the bandwagon. I didn't understand why girls were expected to wear make-up, since boys didn't have to--and goodness knows there were dozens of boys at my high school whose goth-pale or acne-addled complexions would have been improved by a touch of foundation. But since no one expected them to paint over their faces' imperfections, I was inclined to exhibit my own just as freely.
Understanding that I was a pretty logical kid, my mom chalked up my aversion to makeup (as well as to carrying a purse) as old-fashioned, practical minimalism. As my overloaded tie rack now reveals, this was off the mark, but given the evidence available at the time, it was not an unreasonable hypothesis. Although my mom didn't want me to be Barbielicious or anything, she sometimes commented on my lack of interest in makeup--or, as she put it, in "putting on a little color." E.g. (pleadingly): "Don't you want to put on a little color?!?" Playing to my "minimalism," my mom would try to give me makeup survival tips. "Instead of carrying around separate blush, you can just put a dab of lipstick on each cheek and rub it in," she might advise conspiratorially. Or: "In a pinch, you can always use mascara to darken your eyebrows." I was highly doubtful that I would ever be in a "pinch" involving insufficiently dark eyebrows. But gamely, I gave both strategies a shot. I wore makeup on and off for several years. Putting it on always felt like putting on a costume, but I could look at myself in the mirror and see that I was pulling off a conventionally feminine look. I figured that this was how all women felt--that it was one of those burdens that she-creatures have to bear, like menstruation or writing thank-you notes. When I was married to my DXH, every time I applied what seemed to me a LOT of makeup, I'd ask him if he thought it was okay. DXH: Is what okay? BW: My makeup. Too much? DXH [looking at me; tilting head]: You're wearing makeup? BW: Obviously, YES. And possibly way too much of it. DXH [squinting]: I literally cannot tell that you're wearing any makeup. BW: I don't believe you. I look like a clown. DXH: Sweetie, what seems to you like a LOT of makeup is not exactly what the rest of the world considers a LOT of makeup. BW: Oh. Well, now I just feel stupid. DXH: Sorry. In that case, you look like a two-dollar whore. As a kid, I tried to humor my mom's suggestions to look more feminine, which often involved compromise on both our parts. Because I threw a huge fit at the prospect of putting on a skirt, my mom tried to persuade me that culottes (thanks to Bee Listy for the correct spelling) were JUST like shorts. "Then why can't I just wear SHORTS?" I'd ask, incredulous. (My mom and I are still very close, by the way--which is proof that, despite occasional frustrations on both sides, a butch dyke NPR-loving daughter and a conservative, Fox-News-loving parent can still find enough common ground to want to spend time together.) It wasn't that I objected to the style of the culottes (though I should have). Nor were they physically uncomfortable; they felt like well-ventilated shorts. But there was something I hated about other people seeing me in a skirt. It felt wrong, uncomfortable, humiliating. Some butches say that in childhood, they "felt like a boy," and didn't want people to see them in the "wrong" clothes. But I didn't feel like a boy; I felt like a girl who wanted to wear pants and a tie and have everyone think I looked dandy that way. From a very young age, I wanted sex and gender to get a divorce. (A brief aside: This is what I mean when I say that there's something "visceral" about masculinity. My DGF doesn't like me to use the word "masculinity." She says it's too tied to maleness, and that part of the fun of being a butch woman is turning maleness on its head by co-opting its trappings. But for me, "masculinity" refers to a style of dress and way of being that is not tied to biological sex--although for the rest of the world, there happens to be a very strong correlation. For me, maybe masculinity is more of an aesthetic?) Anyhow, the other day, for the first time in years, I slapped on a touch of makeup, just to see what it felt like. And you know what? A bit of lipstick and some eyeliner looked kind of kickass with my masculine glasses, haircut, and clothing. It was enough of a pain that I don't plan to do it again anytime soon. But it was pretty funny that after so many years of resisting makeup, it finally didn't feel "wrong." It makes perfect sense, though, doesn't it? Since I'm at a point where I feel free to dress as masculine as I want to, a tube of lipstick isn't a threat to my core being. It's just--well--a little color. I was talking with a friend today about open relationships. He and his partner are in one, and have been for most of ten years. This got me to wondering... What do you, dear readers, think about open relationships? Would you like to be in one? (Or are you in one and find it ideal?) Take this poll! ...And of course, feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments section. I know many several gay male couples with ongoing open relationships, but it seems to be much less common for lesbian couples. Has this been your experience? Why would or wouldn't you want one? What do you think would make an open relationship work (or fail)? Last week, I mentioned that my Fourth of July would be dyketastic. The plan was that me, my DGF (dear girlfriend), my DXH (dear ex-husband), his DGF, and R & J (a very nice butch-femme lesbian couple) would go backpacking. My acquiescence to the plan was a Big Deal, as I have zero desire to camp. Yes, this makes me a bad lesbian. My objections to camping are fivefold:
My DXH loves camping, and tried (without success) to persuade me to camp while we were married. My DGF also loves camping. Now that they are friends and we all hang out happily, it was only a matter of time before they conspired to drag me into the wilderness. Now, let's be clear: I like nature. Indeed, I spend quite a bit of time in it. But I also like bookstores and coffee shops, and I don't feel compelled to sleep in either of those places. They are places for visiting, not temporarily relocating, and I feel that forests occupy the same category. Anyhow, the DXH and DGF persuaded me to try a one-night backpacking trip. I was secretly hoping to like it enough to do it in the future, because it would make me seem dashingly rugged while providing me with new excuses to go to REI. Also, I wanted to use my pocket knife. Loading heaps of our belongings into giant backpacks for a one-night stay felt a little absurd, but as we scaled the two-mile uphill trail to the campsite, I found myself enjoying it. We arrived and set up camp. (Admittedly, I had a short "OMG WTF my life is so strange" moment upon pitching a tent ten feet from my ex-husband's, but then I realized how awesome it is that he and I are such good friends, that the disparate parts of my life are so integrated, and BLAH BLAH BLAH.) My DXH's DGF consulted a map and suggested we hike to the nearest body of water. The farthest I'd previously hiked was six miles, and this would add up to nine or ten, but--butch that I am--I stayed silent and tried to exude "I'm cool with whatever, 'cause I'm so tough" vibes. A mile into the hike, the back of my neck began to itch. After another half mile, my thighs itched. Then my arms and face. Two miles in, my throat started to feel funny, and another half mile later, I asked my DGF to examine the back of my neck--which, it turned out, had sprouted giant hives. Meanwhile, R (the butch in the aforementioned butch-femme duo) was having other allergic reactions: sneezing, congestion, and a swollen face. (My DXH commented that two out of three butch lesbians were apparently allergic to local flora.) I had never had a reaction like that, and--truth be told--I was a little worried. But going back at that point seemed silly, since we were nearly there. I grew increasingly miserable. Little hives sprouted on my arms and I itched all over. I quietly braced myself for anaphylaxis. (R had an EpiPen, so I was semi-confident that death was not imminent.) Eventually, we passed a campsite and accepted Benadryl from some kind strangers. R and I still felt lousy, but at least our symptoms stopped getting worse. When we reached the water's edge, I sat and reflected upon several important things, namely: (1) how in God's name would I hike four more miles? and: (2) would I finally get to use my pocket knife? Meanwhile, my DGF had approached the water. She stepped in with one foot, then--in response to its chill, turned around quickly and started to run back to shore. Only... she didn't get far. She was suddenly limping, then her calf gave out. Luckily, one of my DXH's DGF's talents is medical expertise, and she quickly determined that it was a muscle tear. My girlfriend was no longer ambulatory, and we were four miles from our campsite. This, I thought, did not bode well. It soon became clear that my DGF wouldn't be hiking back to the campsite. The map showed a parking lot a mile and a half away. We figured we'd try to hitch a ride to my car, drop my DGF there, hike back up to the campsite, then I'd pack our stuff and hike back down and drive home. (Admittedly, this prospect had perks: I'd get to be super butch AND not have to deal with the actual "camping" part of camping.) The six of us made our way toward the parking lot. R and J ran up ahead to begin assessing the generosity of strangers. But they soon returned with an armed federal ranger. The ranger asked my DGF lots of questions and made notes on a pad of paper. He also shared the freeze-dried ice cream that R had cleverly brought along. My DGF flirted shamelessly with the ranger (in her defense, he was in uniform), who seemed startled and flattered at the attention he was garnering from our little group (half of which, I'll remind you, was butch lesbians). Our ranger called another ranger, who arrived in a white ATV. My DGF and I got in, but the others weren't allowed to come (some nonsense about "seatbelts"). We said our goodbyes, then my DGF and I peppered Ranger #2 with questions as he drove us back to our campsite: Why did he have two giant guns in a locked cage next to the passenger seat? (A: "Because you never know who you'll be dealing with.") Was the pay reasonable? (A: "We get paid in sunsets.") Had he ever seen a mountain lion? (A: No, and he sounded sad about it.) What was the most dangerous situation he'd ever been in? (A: Raiding illegal marijuana fields.) Did people ever try to live in the woods permanently? (A: Yes.) Who does that? (A: "Crazy people.") At the campsite, Ranger #2 told my DGF to stay in the car, and told me to pack up fast while he "checked out" nearby campsites. As I have mentioned, I am not much of a camper. I hadn't broken down a tent in at least 12 years. Picture a stereotypical prissy gay man trying to break down a tent. Then double his confusion and give him a pocket knife, a small hammer, and some zip-off cargo pants. That was me. I managed to get the task done with only one serious injury (a large cut/blood blister on my left thumb). When the ranger returned, we loaded in the bags and he drove us back to my car. On the drive home, my DGF and I stopped at an excellent Italian restaurant. We were dirty, sweaty, and my DGF couldn't walk, but we had a great meal and spent a lot of it laughing. It occurred to both of us that my DGF's injury may have saved me from midnight anaphylaxis, and also that it was a little pathetic that two butch lesbians couldn't make it through a one-night camping trip. So there you have it, friends: I tried camping. "Dyketastic?" Maybe not. But I've concluded that camping isn't half bad--as long as it doesn't involve sleeping on the ground, and it ends with some great Italian food, a drive home, and a nice, hot shower. |
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