A Thousand Words...

We all know those lesbian couples who look like sisters…twins…or at least escapees from the same fashion-cult. They share a wardrobe, cut each others’ hair, and perhaps use the very same tube of heavy black eye-liner. They may be strikingly thin Shane-alikes, tiny Tegans and sister-Saras, preppie-Patties, leather-Lauras, or even twin granola-girls. I’ve known one or two American Eagle-ettes to pair up in a pair of coordinating plaid pants. Needless to say, when taken to extremes, this phenomenon can be quite disconcerting.

However, the flipside to this is also dangerous. When two parties are distinctly dissimilar, the dangerous inclination to divide them into a hierarchical dualism (that’s fancy talk for: one good one bad, one dark one light, one butch one fem. Etc.) lurks around every corner. In an age where we find ourselves in rebellion of the hetero-focused gender roles, those ancient rules of the patriarchy: one of us must be a strong, protective provider (with short hair); one must be a soft, feminine, nurturer (with long hair), we take on the unwieldy task of defining our own roles within the relationship. Herein the danger lies! Aside from the simple stuff, the nuts and bolts of who Swiffers and who sweeps, which one warms the leftovers and which one wipes the plates—we are further obliged to define our Selves: our manners of presentation, levels of sarcasm, affection, and even enthusiasm, to in order to understand the balance of the relationship.

I have an aesthetic. I have a style of dress, a love of decorating, and a passion for plates well-composed of beautiful foods. My partner, the professional designer, has a very different look—and equally strong opinions. The inclination here would be to push them in opposite directions—since they are superficially divergent to begin with. Mine is seemingly more conservative, but push me in that direction and I lose that tiny edge which makes my look fun. Hers is bright & poppy, but push it a step further and it’s equally boring. I try very hard not to minimize the complexity of her taste. I admire the subtle details in her bright, bold choices. And I cling to the happy detours off of my seemingly predictable path. No matter how it looks to the outside, I know my style, my taste, my limits—and she, in turn, hers. One style is not better than the other, one is not more womanly than the other, one is not more fashionable than the other. The two styles are just different. Very different. Sometimes I find it challenging to adjust my level of dress to coordinate with hers—not in a matchy-matchy ‘Same-sies--The Musical’ kind of way, but in ‘yes, she’s with me and we’re headed to the same place’ kind of way. I just feel better when we’re somewhat coordinated.

I suppose I feel obligated to communicate to the world that we are a couple—to say that she’s not my sister, she’s not my friend, she’s my lady. I think this is why it’s so important to me to make visual sense. As my first relationship where both parties are out of the closet, I want to shout it from the roof-tops that I’m in love with this woman and that she loves me too. I want the world to understand this kind of female-female relationship and treat us with the same respect they would a hetero couple. I want to do my part to spread love and understanding until hopefully we are seen as equals, and enjoy the same equal rights all over this great country of ours. And the way I see it, I could either walk around in a never-ending diatribe of the specific feelings I have for my girlfriend, or I could save myself a thousand words and do it visually...




Happy Holidays,
AN

"My Cat is a Person"

My girlfriend is funny, seriously...or perhaps seriously funny. She has a Siamese "daughter" whom I have now "adopted" as part of our living arrangement. This is a video the two of us made, asking for help, trying to solve a domestic dispute over whether or not her cat is indeed a person--we were trying to work it out before we moved in together (so this video is not exactly new, but the disagreement remains fresh...every damn day.) I asked if I could turn it over to the readers at PWA... to see if there are any other "mothers" out there who feel this way about their six-pound, furry kin.



Care to weigh in?

ADDICTionary

I may have an addictive personality.

Addiction (n.) --the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Cleaning, cooking, laughing, writing, thinking, drinking, talking, caffeinating, over-debating, hyphenating, and great-dating are all PASSIONS of mine. Recently, I painted my entire apartment in 4 days, after work, by myself. 7 different kinds of paint, 15 walls, 1 ladder, and one crazy-pants writer made for a colorful, beautiful space where I could finally settle back into new/old New York life. Could I have stretched the move-in process out over a few weeks? Sure. Could I have consulted a decorator, hired a painter, and waited for a final product? Of course. But would I have had the crazy rush that comes with obsessing over a project, that getting addicted to a new venture—filling my every moment, my every thought with one solitary goal? Probs not. Hmmm. Maybe it’s not addictive so much as obsessive…

Obsess (v.)--to dominate or preoccupy the thoughts, feelings, or desires of (a person); beset, trouble, or haunt persistently or abnormally.

I’ve been known to write obsessively. When I've gone on a creative bender, I've needed my laptop with me at all times. I’ve written on the subway, in parks, on my coffee-break, every day, every hour, every moment. I can cook in the same fashion. There have been weekends when I don’t leave the house except for one big trip to the grocery store. I’ll make meal after meal and put them into the freezer for weeks to come. I’ll make pots of soup and freeze them in individual sized-baggies. It's as if I'm readying myself for hibernation, perhaps in preparation for a writing binge. I have been in exercise-phases of my life where I'd leave work after a long day, gone for runs in Central Park for an hour, then walked the 5 miles from my office to my home, only to change clothes and head out to a yoga class. Maybe I’m just crazy.

Crazy: mentally deranged; demented; insane; senseless; impractical; totally unsound: a crazy scheme; Informal. intensely enthusiastic; passionately excited

I’m prone to over-indulgence in almost any arena I enjoy. There are days when I think I’m an alcoholic, an overeater, an over-spender, an over-thinker. Sometimes a simple thought (like one I recently heard about the tornado of germs that explodes into your breathing space if you flush BEFORE you put the toilet seat down) will fester in my head for days at a time until it becomes a part of me like a new, unwanted limb and I force myself to amputate it and leave it by the side of the road. Literally, I’ll come to a street corner and I’ll think to myself, I should leave that thought here, otherwise, I’ll carry it the rest of my life. Maybe I’m addicted to obsessive, crazy thoughts. Or perhaps the diagnonsense is merely PASSION. I am, if nothing else, a passionate individual.

Passion (n.)--powerful or compelling emotion or feeling; a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything; strong sexual desire; lust

Now, speaking of PASSION--brace yourself kiddies, this next part is for grown-ups --something I like, a lot, is sex. But, and you can call me crazy (again, obviously I will own it), I hold sex apart from things like alcohol, drugs, etc. I keep hearing the term “sex addiction” in the media. I don’t see sex as a vice. I think sex is awesome. I think people should have tons of it! Be safe, be honest, and if you want to have multiple partners, be single!

Of course there may be a few out there who have a serious psychological issue, but by and large, I think most of these people headed into sex-rehab are addicted to being a-holes. Unfortunately, there’s no a-hole rehab (yet). So these idiots are blaming sex. I’d like to apologize to sex and say some of us love and respect you very much. Thanks for all the good times, keep ‘em comin!

sex-positive (or, alternately sex-affirmative) societal view of sexual expression as essentially good and healthy

Keepin' It Clean

My mom worked full time, over-time, all the time, from the time I was about 3 weeks old until I was 14 when she retired. As a result, my formative years were spent under the guidance and tutelage of many mothers. My friends’ moms, the neighbor ladies, the women my mother worked with—I called them my ‘fairy godmothers.’ Many of these wonderful wonderful women were…how we say…obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive clean-freaks. I once saw a friend berated for leaving her shoes on the ground next to the closet door instead of tucking them inside the closet itself. “This place is a mess!” Her mother said as she entered the room. My eyes scanned the space to discover a perfectly made bed, neat drawers, closed, their contents concealed, and a desk where each paper was filed in folders placed perfectly at the top right corner. Finally, my eyes followed her mom’s to the carpeted floor where the two perfect squeaky-white sneakers awaited their final resting place in the closet. Huzzah.

I grew up in a mostly Italian neighborhood in South Jersey, where plastic furniture covers were not uncommon. As kids, we were often instructed not to “decorate the floor” with our toys and clothes. Before I even entered school, I could tell the difference between the fancy towels, and the towels I was allowed to dry my hands on. And God forbid a crumb found its way out of a kitchen. Many of us were not allowed to eat outside the kitchen. There were tons of rules about where and what was allowed to be consumed—not to mention by whom. For instance my dad was allowed to eat coffee-cake standing over the sink but my brother and I had to get a paper towel and sit at the counter. Popcorn was allowed in the living room but only on movie night, Sunday (and only because the cleaning lady came on Monday).

In the first years on my own I discovered that I’m a messy cook. I’ll confess I don’t always hang up my clothes right away. And some of my things land on the ground when I toss them at my hamper. But eventually, I always get around to cleaning…and cleaning…and cleaning… And herein the portal to crazytown lies. Recently, I’ve noticed an escalation in my obsessive behavior. I don’t know if it’s the recent move to cohabitate with my girlfriend, the nice new digs, or a severe case of creative deprivation (I’m going through an incredibly uninspired, uninspiring period right now)—but I have been obsessing. Crumbs give me rage. My own hair on the bathroom floor brings me to my knees with a Swiffer in hand. I’ve started emptying trash cans compulsively, re-washing ‘clean’ dishes, and Windexing EVERYTHING. I Windexed the floor last night. I washed base-boards last week. I scrubbed the tops of my cabinets with bleach and a scrub brush. And it never ends. Every single day, I track more and more dirt into the apartment. I cook all the time, so the stove is always in need of a wiping. And my lovely girlfriend came with a lovely cat—who, though lovely, sheds worse than I do. And so I clean.

Truthfully, the apartment looks fantastic. Every surface shines. The dishes sparkle. It smells like a little slice of citrus heaven. I should really take a chill pill and relax. I should direct this energy to something more productive, like my writing. And mellow out about the mess. This cool, calm point of view occurred to me recently, when I realized how serious my problem is. What awakened me from my phase of cleaning fury? Sheets. I put clean sheets on the bed. I’d rather not discuss what happened, or rather, what didn’t happen after that. And after 6 months of a long-distance relationship and only one month of cohabitating with my girlfriend, there’s no way my obsession with cleanliness should override my obsession with…well...dirtiness. Since then, I have of course made up for this horrible mix-up of priority, and I have of course been forgiven by my lady.

I have not yet forgiven myself though, for turning into a suburban, hetero, mother of 4 from the greater Cherry Hill area—all before I’ve seen my prime. I used to obsess over the minutia of my blogs. I used to pour over sentence structure for hours upon hours. Seriously, go back, take a look at some of the earlier work, it wreaks of OCD. My apartment, in those days, was a mess. Again, I think my priorities have skewed. I need to clean up my own act, and get my creative life in order. Maybe then I won’t feel the need to clean up my physical space so compulsively. Maybe I should teach all my fairy godmothers how to blog. I’d bet their husbands would thank me.