trish
Marriage kills love. I don’t say that because I can’t get married in most of the United States; I say it because a marriage contract puts conditions on love when love is supposed to be unconditional. That said, Layla and Brett have found a way to make it work, and I’m glad. Watching her rush off to sit across from my brother all moony-eyed, holding hands and talking about making smaller versions of each other, makes me almost long for that.
But then I think about the majority of my long-term relationships and the people I know in long-term relationships, and how most of them border on best pal/roommate situations—i.e., sexless and boring. And that’s when things are going well. I don’t mean to stereotype; in fact, that’s one of my major pet peeves. News flash: All lesbians are not butch chicks or helpless femmes who date butch chicks. We are many and varied. To an extent. Apparently not that many and varied, because while some of The L Word can be a little unrealistic at times, the whole “sleeping with someone who has slept with an ex” thing is a truth. You kind of need to outsource if you want to avoid that.
I tend to consider myself an “iron femme.” I’ll wear a suit, but I’ll also sometimes wear killer heels and a super-hot dress. I love hair and makeup yet can write a brilliant business plan, cook a gourmet meal, change the oil in my car, get my nails done, and kick ass in soccer. I get things done, but I never compromise the fact that I am a woman. I don’t need to chop all my hair off or be overly girly to satisfy or dodge stereotypes.
I’m currently between relationships and deciding between two girls. Both are exceptional, and each brings something completely different to the table. So rather than decide, I’m enjoying getting to know them both and just taking things as slow as I can—thus discrediting the popular joke: “Question: What does a lesbian bring to a second date? Answer: A moving van.” I’m not about moving in five minutes after meeting someone. No, thanks.
“I’m back,” Layla says, as she breezes back in. “Do I look like a mother?”
“You had the conversation, got busy, and you’re already pregnant?” I look at my watch. “That is impressive.”
“Not so much. I’m nervous. Am I ready? I’m totally ready.”
“You just came back to have a conversation with yourself?”
“No,” she says. “I came back because I forgot this.”
Layla takes a stuffed owl off her desk and holds it up at me. I say “at” me and not “to” me because it’s almost threatening. I hate that owl. Her mom made it for her, sewed it from scratch, apparently, and let’s just say it hasn’t held up through the years. It’s green, for starters—I mean, owls are not green—and has one button eye, which is hanging from a thread, a dark stain on its stomach, and all in all it’s just not an attractive entity. It’s sat on her desk—I think because Brett banished it from their place when they moved in together—for the past I don’t know how many years and I’ve always hated it, but she loves it and it’s a remembrance of her mom, so I never say anything. Until now.
“What are you doing with him?” I ask.
“Who?” she asks.
“The decrepit owl in your hands,” I answer, but before I finish I realize she was making a joke.
“Hoo, who,” she says, mimicking an owl.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it.”
“I want to bring Mr. Owl to dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because when Brett brings up kids and we toast the next phase of our life, I want to have Mr. Owl there. Because someday, maybe nine months from today, I will give Mr. Owl to my son or daughter.”
“That’s abuse,” I say. “That thing is …”
I stop myself when I see her cocked eyebrow as she waits for me to desecrate one of the last possessions that ties her to her mother. I won’t do it.
“It needs a bath, is all,” I say softly. “And maybe another eye.”
“I think he looks as handsome as ever,” she says, puffed out and proud. And she shoves the thing into her purse and waves good-bye.