Without you, I'm just a hag

There are a lot of words for gay.  Some of them are loaded and hateful.  Sometimes those ones are ‘reclaimed’, made a badge of defiance and an expression of solidarity exclusive to to those who are judged to be entitled to use it.  Even the relatively neutral ‘gay’ is so dependant on usage and intent.  It can be derisive or descriptive with only contextual cues separating a slur from a common word.

The Blonde is very verbally adept, and when he fights, he doesn’t fight fair.  He loves to accuse me of using gay as a slur without provokation to see if I will become defensive or apologetic.  So far he hasn’t caught me.  I know what my words mean when I use them.

The Brunette uses it as a slur, and worse.  If being gay is a 1-10 scale with the Guy In Your Office That You Never Suspected as a 1 and RuPaul as an 11, he’s at about a 2 or 3.  Maybe a 4 when he holds the leash of Fighter Pilot’s pomeranian.  5 if he’s on rollerskates, while simultaneously holding the pomeranian’s leash.

He uses the f-word.  When we went dress shopping, the glitter-and-rainbows-gay salesguy had him grinding his teeth.  “No one needs to be that much of a f-” he growled as we left.  It was funny because The Blonde is… more than a 4.  The thing about this sort of scale is that it is subjective and context sensitive just like language.  Someone called The Blonde by the f-word in high school, and The Blonde punched him in the face and broke his nose.  -3 to gay?  Then cried.  +3?

The Boys had a houseguest.  A sort-of-ex of The Brunette’s, who we will call The Man From Chicago.  He told me that a ‘Gold Star Gay’ is a man who has never had sex with a woman. 

A great debate ensued about whether The Blonde had lost his status in the Great Sixth-Grade Vagina-Touching Incident.  He only recalls that he touched one, but not how far it went.  PTSD?  Does it count if you developed hysterical amnesia?

I am a shitty housekeeper and only an adequate parent.  I hate cooking.  I taught One and Two to pop frozen pizzas into the oven as soon as it was plausible.  The best thing I ever did for the kids was The Carpenter.  He is SuperDad.  Tucking in around here is a two-hour ritual of consecutive readings and squishes and murmured confidences, and who knows what else?  Not me.  I’m usually on Facebook while all this is going on.

I said something to The Boys about our system.  The Carpenter cooks.  He works all day, then comes home and cooks us dinner.  The Brunette said something.  He said that would make him crazy, in the pissed-off sense.  I got a little defensive.  The thing is, The Brunette is a cook, professionally.  He hates it.

Everything should be negotiable, I figure.  If The Carpenter was a cook, I might not ask him to cook when he gets home.  But it’s more like how The Brunette won’t do dishes and The Blonde won’t do cat litter.  Everyone has their *thing*.

I asked The Brunette if he felt that because he was in a relationship he was automatically entitled to have the other party cook for him.  No.  He was puzzled.  I think he may have thought I was talking about being a Mom.  This might be one of those cultural differences.

The thing is, they have this effortless sort of promiscuity.  Not that being promiscuous is hard - you just say yes when there aren’t really pressing reasons to say no, and voila! Promiscuity!

The thing is, they have sex or not, and there is no moral judgement.  Cheating on your boyfriend is bad, because it’s a violation of trust and can cost you your relationship - but the sex itself is not the source of the moral corruption.  Guys in monogamous relationships are not morally superior to guys to hook up at bars, they just may or may not be getting laid more regularly.

Derby Girl and I boggle at this.  She lives the life I dream for myself, if I had no H&K (Husband and Kids) - she drinks and smokes and fucks and laughs and little else (okay, we both knit) but she is judged.  She has to be careful who she tells what, because some people will think less of her.  I am married, very much married.  I can do whatever I like under the protective parasol of that label.

You’ll never guess.  Seriously.  It’s unfathomable.  The Blonde wanted to try yoga.  I said I was heading to Lululemon for Step #1 of [Any!] Workout Program: cute clothes. 

“OMG, yes!  I’ll come with you and we’ll shop and it will be awesome!”

Anticipating a romantic comedy scene of Our Heroine and her fawning gay not-love-interest, I surged into Lululemon and started browsing.  Within twenty minutes he was bored out of his tree.

“Are you done yet?  Pick something and let’s get out of here.”

“Do you like this in the pink or the blue?”

“Do I care?  Just pick one.”

Apparently, Hollywood has been lying to me.

Except that two weeks later I had to shop for a cocktail dress.  The Brunette offered to come with.  He advised, critiqued, fetched other sizes and colours, tried on stripper shoes with me, everything.  And he’s the umm… not to cast everyone into gendered roles, but he’s not the one I’d expect to like dress dress shopping.

Took Three-of-three and The Boys out for ice cream.  There was a little almost-patio area just outside.  There was a daddy and a little girl eating their ice cream out there.  Three-of-three and this other kid had one of those sympatico moments through the picture window. 

“We are similar in age (fourish) and interests (ice cream!), and therefore are destined to be best friends forever!”

Three-of-three asked if we could eat our ice cream outside, and I said yes, but as soon as we got out there the dad packed up his kid and evacuated.  I was offended and hurt and pissed off and frankly a little startled.  The Boys were completely unfazed.  The only angle I could work for it to be my thing to be pissed off about was that it was an indirect criticism of my parenting.  But really, if it didn’t bother them, why should it bother me so much?

Seriously, they are not going to get GAY on your kid.  I hope she drops her cone in your minivan, dick.

I thought this was just a solidarity thing; like you have balls, I have balls, do unto others, etc… So far, it’s not.  Gay boys sack each other viciously.  I may need a bigger control group to know for sure that I’m not just witnessing mutual spousal abuse.

In every relationship, there is one person who can just not fathom why the other leaves his socks all over the fucking place.