Diary of a Lesbian Housewyfe

So last Saturday, I was keeping my sweet honey-bunny company down at the liquor store*. She was barfing in the back room because she didn’t feel well, but was still too butch to go home and leave me in charge.

Maybe she was just scared of what I might do to the customers. hehehee

I‘m sitting at the counter knitting a sock because that’s what I do when I’m working retail. It’s the perfect job for catching up on your needlework. As an added bonus, knitting provides you with built-in weapons just in case someone tries to take advantage or is unwilling to show you their ID.

As a sidenote - I don’t want to see your ID so I can tell everyone how old you are - just to see if you’re old enough to buy liquor. If you are born before today in 1986, that’s all I care about.

This couple walks in and the guy, surprisingly enough, zeroes in on my little sock bag. I’m pretty proud of it, don’t get me wrong. I crocheted and felted the bag so I could easily carry around my sock project. Having the large book that currently goes with the sock project and doesn’t fit in the bag is merely a momentary glitch which I will overcome once I’m comfortable knitting socks. I can totally work the crocheted sock without having to carry the book with me everywhere. But I’m getting distracted.

The guy, who looks like a slighty worn timetraveler from the sixties, calls across the counter to his girlfriend, “Honey! Look at this bag! Don’t you love it? Did you make it?” He asks me as an afterthought.

I’m flattered. I mean, I modified a pattern that I found in the Interweave Crochet magazine a couple of years ago all on my own so I’m proud of this little bag. I almost feel as if it’s completely my creation.

“Yep,” I replied.

And he says “Honey! She knit this bag all by herself,” and beams at me.

Okay. So he can’t tell the difference between knitting and crocheting. I get it. Yarn is yarn and stitches are stitches and if you see me knitting then that little bag can’t be made in any other way. I’ve often gotten the “Wow! You knit?” when I’m holding yarn and a crochet hook in my hand. Whatever. I’m a big girl. I can handle it. After all, a compliment is a compliment.

I smile and simply say, “Thanks.”

“Honey” wanders over (I’d say walk, but she was really happening to wander by as she perused the wine) and says “Oh yeah. That’s real cute. I learned how to knit once. I just don’t have the time.” Which is fine.

But here’s the thing. She says it in “that way.” You know “that way” that means “I don’t have the time because my life is so much more interesting than anyone who would bother knitting or crocheting or crafting in any way because only boring people who don’t have boyfriends and have to work on Saturday night and are basically old boring people would bother doing such a boring activity. Really.”

And suddenly, I hate her. I want to say “You know” (because all good comebacks start with “you know”) “You know, knitting takes skill, and being able to knit a sock is at least something useful in this world - not like dressing like a whore and going out drinking. Of course, that’s probably all you have the dexterity for. Hopefully, for your boyfriend’s sake, you can use your mouth a lot better than your hands.”

But I’m playing “Lesbian Housewyfe Retailer of the Year” tonight, so I just say “Yeah” and hope they pick out a really expensive bottle of wine to make up for the obvious gaffe.

But no. After spending tons of time asking tons of questions, they leave with a bottle of wine from the $7 bin and a 1.5 of Jim Beam.

Mmmmmmmm. Have a fun night!

*What liquor store? Well, Cellar Liquors Downtown in beautiful downtown Steamboat Springs, Colorado!

Yes, I am a shameless marketer.

Here’s the routine. I have Cappy, my 9 month old border collie/australian shepherd puppy, on his leash and we walk around the car. He stops as soon as he sees me circle around the back to open the hatch. Then he stands there at the very end of his leash - as far away from me as he can get- and stares.

“Mom! Don’t make me get into the car.”

(Yes, I anthropomorphize him calling me his Mom. That’s just what I do.)

Instead of calling him over (since every Web site and book I’ve ever read tells me not to call the dog if I’m going to make him do something he doesn’t want to do), I haul him in like a fish, grabbing the leash and going hand over hand down the line. His feet move independently of his desires, taking one step after another towards the dreaded car. When he finally arrives, I give an enthusiastic “Jump in!” and pat the floor of the car with my hand. I do this every single time, like he’s going to magically change his mind one day after being dragged out to the car.

A girl has to have hope.

Cappy looks at me with a little fear in his eyes. I know he’s not really afraid of the car, so he must think that I’ve lost my marbles. He never, ever gets in the car on his own. He knows that. He knows I know that. Now he just thinks I’m crazy and he’s surely not getting in the car now - not if a crazy woman is driving!

“Come on, Cappy! Jump in!”

Okay, so I’m getting a little desperate. He’s not that big, but how embarassing is it if your dog doesn’t even want to go with you?

Finally, he wins. I pick him up entirely and plop him into the car. Sometimes, when I’m not feeling so butch, I put his front feet on the back bumper of the car and then lift in his back end so that he’s forced to make a little jump into the car.

I’ve almost convinced myself that putting him in half at a time will teach him to jump into the car.