A Zebra Walks Into a Bar...

I trot up to the watering hole and order a shot.  I need something to bring my heart, bring my mind back to life; I need something colorful. I salute the bartender—, a monkey who’s been in the circus and knows what I need before I have a chance to set my right hoof on the toe kick.  It grounds me, knowing that brass rod is stable and fixed to something sturdy. Glad that it's reliable.  

The monkey slides a shot glass my way.  I like its layers of colors—, a fitting shot, and I nay while I bring my head up.  Then, the solution hits the back of my tongue, and I make an uncharacteristically loud charging sound.  I can't help but to swing my muzzle from side to side with such voracity that any loose moisture from the shot or my saliva release and splay across the mahogany bar. Embarrassing. All of the peacocks are staring. I’ve startled them. They’ve got their tail feathers up and all spread out.

“Go on. That’s why you’re here,” the monkey encourages, and the bar keep— a llama, of course—winks with approval. 

I’m grateful to the chap, but I wouldn’t ever date a monkey.  They keep the world going—with their various services—but they’re unpredictable and only as attractive as a canvas bag.  Canvas bags are good.  I needed one in college. Function is about all you'll get.  Llamas can have ‘em. 

Wouldn’t date a llama either.  Who wants to always be waiting for them to check in and tell you what crazy ass thing they brought back from their daydreams?  It’s like dating someone on ‘shrooms. Shrooms for breakfast; shrooms for lunch; shrooms for a midnight snack.  Llamas would starve to death without monkeys.  But—, I guess we all would.

I love me some peacocks. God knows I do, but I gotta be careful. Peacocks kill me every time. 

Sveiki, Ta shiu cheet, Quechua, Zdravo, Goeiedag, Sallam, As-Salamu 'alayki, Вітаю, xin chào, Hola, Sveiki, Здравейте, Саламатсыңбы!, नमस्ते, Сәлеметсіз бе?, Habari

                                     
                                     All Around the World, Love Crumbles for Cats!

When I was a young one, and a young lesbian, there was this woman—I mean she was a real woman and not another college co-ed—who asked me out. It was going to be a real date.  We had been working together, so I was scared to go for at least two reasons.

On our second date, she brought her ex. I didn’t have one to bring because I was new at all of this and had only dated—slept with—one other female who was… let’s say 'unobtainable.' 

“Anyhoo!”

I remember exactly where we were, enjoying dinner.  I often drive by the empty, boarded-up building that will soon be a music venue off Manchaca and then glance over to where we worked together. I try to forget all of it.

To be fair, we worked at a psyche hospital, and it’s true what people say, “The staff is crazier than the patients. They're just better at hiding it.”  So, there we were—two female staffers on a date who worked on the same psyche unit—only a block from where we worked (so that anyone coming off the shift could peg us), and we were talking about what went wrong in her last relationship.

“Why did you break up?” I asked.

“She was crazy.”

“Really crazy, like in a psyche hospital crazy?” I hitched my thumb toward our stomping ground.

“No, get this—.” My date wrapped her mouth around a ball of spaghetti noodles, and then offered, “She was jealous of my cats.”

My neck cranked back like it still does 30 years later when I tell this story. (And, I tell it a lot!)  

“Who would be jealous of a cat?" I moved in with emphasis, demanding an answer from the victim. "How could someone who loves you be jealous of your cats?”  And then I sucked in my spaghetti noodles, and later we hooked up because that’s a successful lesbian date.  The exs come for dinner; they are dismissed; and, we get naked because we can’t get pregnant from...kissing.  

I knew we weren’t right for each other. To be honest, I just wanted to have the experience, and there were 2 months between semesters; also, we worked together. I wasn’t going to break up for at least two reasons or until I found someone. That’s what lesbians do.  They hook up; they get naked; and, they find a replacement so that they can keep getting naked because we’re gonna be around other girls anyways so one of them might as well be a girlfriend.

But, my date/colleague was a bit older.  She was able to visualize alone time and didn’t really have the parameters of “I’ve got nothing to do between now and Spring semester registration.” So, one day when I phoned to see if we were going to hook up, she said, “I haven’t really been at home much.”  And, “I need to hang with my cats.”  The next time she said, “I need to practice being alone… and be with my cats.” And the third time she said, “I’m not spending enough time with my cats.”

“I hate your fucking cats,” I said to myself really loud on the inside, and then I remembered the night we ate spaghetti, and how we had dismissed her ex.  “Who hates their lover’s cats?” I had thought, but there I was … being a hater.

The truth is, well you know it.  Everyone’s got someone or something; everyone’s got an excuse for not doing what’s uncomfortable. Maybe they’re avoiding a form of intimacy, a co-ed, a mundane task, etc etc.

“Who knows?”

“Whatever.”

But, I learned something during that Christmas break which was more valuable than … most other stuff I’ve learned. 

“Order your spaghetti, invite in the ex, and look for her cat—whatever name it might go by."

Right?  It’s just best to get it all out before the end of the second date. We all know what happens then.

Let’s welcome some cool cats from all around the world : Latvia, Isle of Man, Peru, Serbia, Suriname, Kuwait, Pakistan, Belarus, Vietnam, Argentina, Lithuania, Bulgaria, Kyrgystan, Nepal, Kazakhstan & Uganda

That puts 2girlsR>1 in 67+us nations after 3 years. Woo-hoo! Thanks to all my sisters with wanderlust and a desire to note our presence. WE are not invisible; we are your friends, siblings, children; we are everywhere.  Thanks for making this happen, :)

Guest Blogger: How I Wound Up Moving to the Second-Most Conservative City in America…Twice

My feelings have ADD.

I sit on the bed in the back room of my friends’ house with my two dogs, reliving the day into which I managed to pack three major life events. But because I’m a lesbian who somehow forgot how to date, this story cannot begin here.

The twists and turns of life that led me to this point resemble the wad of emotions in the bubble above a confused cartoon character’s head. Or maybe it’s my head.

I grew up on such a sheltered, isolated patch of West Texas, attending an extraordinarily conservative church three times a week that the concept of homosexuality never appeared on my radar until I was a senior in high school. This despite a childhood in which (a) I often longed for the day I would become a boy so I could live as wonderful a life as my older brother; (b) I rejoiced that my younger sibling was a girl, to whom I could bequeath the ridiculous number useless dolls I’d been given in my six short years; and (c) my mom clarified to a new friend who asked about the genders of her children by saying, “I have one of each.”

So as a freshman in college, when I first kissed a girl—for 45 “non-straight” minutes—I shook for an equal amount of time in the dorm’s community bathroom expecting either to go to hell or to get thrown out of my church-affiliated school in short order. I spent the next decade in spiritual turmoil, trying to ignore my gayness while dating my first two girlfriends.

The tactic didn’t work. I was supremely irritated at God, so we (God and I) broke up. I moved to Seattle, never went to church, and began dating a woman from southern California. Several months later she moved to Seattle, and a few years after that we moved to Illinois so I could pursue a career opportunity.

Then the unthinkable happened: at a time when I could telecommute, she landed a job in the second-most conservative city in the nation, in my home state (to which I swore I’d never return), in West Texas. The life in my heart contracted like the cracked acres of desert land in summer.

Then the unimaginable happened: I met more lesbians than I had in Seattle. I met more Democrats than I had ever known. And I met more God-loving liberals than I had let myself consider existed, primarily through a pastor, scholar, and listener named Ted.

Ted began advancing social issues at his first appointment as a Methodist minister, prodding farmers to buy shoes for their migrant workers’ children so they could attend school. Then came integrating churches, women’s rights, feeding the homeless, and the heretical idea that God might actually love gay folks just as we are. It became clear God sent me to Lubbock to meet him, for only a man of his spirit, wisdom, and intellect could convince me to consider that was true. Around Ted I felt for the first time, and thus became interested in, a God of overwhelming, unconditional love.

My partner of 11 years and I split (so amicably we should have held a clinic), in part because her time in Lubbock needed to end yet I was at the height of my professional development to that point. She returned to southern California. I should have attended a clinic on how to date. About the only thing I did right was wait a year and a half before beginning again.

It felt like I was ready. I think I was ready. I know I wanted to be ready, and this witty woman with a sultry voice reeled me in too close before I realized her overly anxious nature clashed fiercely with my overly adventurous self. At least we had not moved in together.

Too shortly thereafter, a friend introduced me to a woman who’d just had her heart broken. She was the saddest person I’d ever met, contrary to her kind, positive Facebook postings and pictures that highlighted the most radiant face, sparkling blue eyes, and vivacious spirit I’d ever seen. We started dating around Christmas. By spring I was convinced I would eventually look into those eyes and say “I do.” The evening of the longest day of the year—which happened to be the day before my birthday—she left me for a doctor. At least we had not moved in together.

After a dehydrated month, what with all of the sobbing, I reconnected with an acquaintance on Facebook. She lived in Austin. I was fed up with my town, my work situation, and myself. She possessed more confidence than my past two girlfriends combined. I liked her aura. She invited me for a visit.  I broke my two steadfast rules: never quit a job before you have another, and never, ever move in with someone before you’ve experienced four seasons with her.

We drove the literal U-Haul to her house—the very day she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Our motto of “We’re in this together” lasted several months, which puts a positive spin on the fact that it didn’t last longer. My writing business was gaining momentum, but it wasn’t supporting me yet. She encouraged me to move out as quickly as possible. The only reason I didn’t hyperventilate was my very good friends’ offer of free room in Knoxville. They no doubt would have thrown in a good bit of board as well. I love my friends. I love the beauty of Knoxville. We could have biked and hiked and skied and splashed in the pool.

But it didn’t feel right. It just didn’t seem like I was finished in Austin yet. I needed to ride it out alone instead of run to safety.

So I moved into an apartment. I found a great church. I walked miles each day with the dogs, exploring various trails, creeks, and woods. Business picked up just enough to pay for my miserly existence. But I was withering emotionally because I could not gain a foothold on the social scene, primarily because subconsciously I had sequestered myself in fear of yet another hasty relationship. The emotional and financial trauma was taking its toll.

And then Ted began to die of bone cancer.

To explain his impact on me (and others) would require a book—which I am working on. Suffice it to say it cannot be overstated. So I spent most of Thanksgiving to New Years in Lubbock, attending his last church services at the retirement home where he taught (calling it preaching doesn’t do his Biblically contextual, historical, and practical messages justice). I followed him around town to speaking appearances, holiday parties, and his listening room like a puppy dog follows its human when they haven’t seen it in too long and want to make sure the separation never happens again.

But I knew that it would. Ted was already a hospice out-patient, which meant within a few months he would be listening to Jesus and asking him how he felt in the tabernacle and in his dad’s workshop and in the garden when his best buddies fell asleep during his supreme distress.

I spent so much time in Lubbock, simultaneously grieving and reconnecting, that those liberal, God-loving folks began asking if I had or was considering moving back. The notion resided so deeply hidden from my realm of possibility that not until the fifth asking did the question wallop my head like a 2x4 and loose the idea. Just as the universe slotted every gear perfectly for me to move to Austin in record time, it began the reversal process.

Six weeks later, here I sit, reflecting on this day in which I moved back to Lubbock, attended Ted’s service, and spoke at a fundraising event for my new job. I am pondering the marvel of life; of learning lessons; of growing; of experiencing different perspectives.

And of the magical, mysterious, and maddening timing of it all. I don’t know if it’s irony, or coincidence, or what, but:

• Ted’s life brought me to Lubbock the first time. His death brought me back. I am both sad he is gone and supremely grateful for the nine years I learned about love from him.
• My new (professionally a stretch) role at a breast cancer organization would not have been possible without going through the trauma that led me to, and that which occurred in, Austin. I am appreciative for both the opportunity and the relatively quick discovery about the purpose of the trauma.
• Unbeknownst to either of us until the deals were done, I will move my belongings back to Lubbock in the very same month as my ex with whom I first moved here. I am simply shaking my head in amusement, with nary a cell in my body interested in getting back together.
• The week before I began the interview process in Lubbock, I met a “woman of interest” in Austin to whom mutual friends had been trying to introduce me for six months. I am sad, thankful, confused, curious, disheartened, and yet, against the odds, feeling a glimmer of optimism that is most likely optimistic.

But, I have gotten to where I am today—and it is one of the most solid places, metaphorically, I’ve ever been—by being optimistic, by embracing all that life offers, by seizing opportunities, by being unapologetically goofy. So I will continue to do so while at the same time practicing the concepts of taking life one day at a time and trusting myself.

If this blog survives the stringent editorial review, perhaps I will share more someday.

-Zoe Tucker

I Want Someone Who Will Wrestle a Pit Bull

I woke up sick and tired.  I mean, it's flu season and not Summer sales season.  I need to get healthy and wealthy!

After the sun hit the winter horizon, I met a friend for a movie.  Many of Austin's theaters have limited seating to make extra space for food runners who bring--not just popcorn and junior mints--but pizzas, burgers and pints of beer, so they're not exactly stadium sized.  It's a great concept but you have to reserve seats days in advance. She took the initiative and bought mine.

Like many groovy things in Austin, you learn to avoid the crowds and swim against the traffic.  So, we opted to meet on a school night. There's a bistro connected to the theater so we arranged to arrive early and meet there. She'd already ordered an appetizer and gestured toward the second half of it. I'd been rushing all day and needed to take flu medicine-- so I grabbed a few of her pita triangles and shoved them in.  Of course--in my rush from the day--I forgot to grab my wallet, and so I slid into the table, pushed a few bites of her order toward my throat and said, "I'll have to treat next time."  I have no cash.

My friend--let's call her Scooter Springs--made a sweeping gestures as if to say, "I was done" or "it's yours now that I see that you are dying of bubonic plague."  With sustenance in my belly, and a glass of water that the waitress had brought to her, I popped some delinquent cold medicine and then relaxed for a first time all day.

Scooter Springs waited and watched, and then she opted to start.

"How's business?"
"It's ok."

This question is fair game in any scenario even if you work in a cube and don't have to worry about sales.  But, it has become such a common question that I'm beginning to wonder if people are talking about my lack of business when I'm not present.  Paranoia is setting in.  I've started to notice lasting stares where friends look for twitches or tics that can verify their fears of my financial crisis.  (What will help you understand the un-comforts behind this particular, reoccurring exchange is that there's nothing the inquisitor can do about the lack of housing in Austin and there's nothing I can do unless I pick up a hammer and start building (shantys)-- so, I'm generally brief each time the question is posed.)

"It's tough with no housing inventory."  And then I return the courtesy, "How's business with you?"

Scooter Springs wouldn't accept that explanation or my nonchalance. She isn't a close friend, but I respect her insight. It was ok that she took some liberties. So, I got a soft parental lecture about the value of a real job, a "9-to-5."

To her defense, she's one of many rationalists in my life. They've probably all gotten together on some common astral plane and decided that they can't worry about me another single stinking minute. I need to get my shizzizzle together for the good of all humanity.

"I can see her point," I yielded the floor to hear her position. "I could be saying the very same thing to someone".  I imagined me sitting on the other side of me.  "If I had a pot of gold coins, I'd have them all accounted for. And, I'd be worried that one might slip out, roll across the floor, slide in an unknown crack, and forever be lost."  I thought these things while I tried to hear her point. Then, I remembered that I'd left a pit bull in my garage and wondered if its jaws could take a side out of the washer like Jaws did with that boat.  This visual disrupted me enough to realize that she was still explaining the rules of the game when my flu symptoms tipped the scales of justice and my emotions shouted, "What-the-what?!"  I guess she's saying that if I'd get my life together, people could feel better about me. Themselves. Our friendship.

Enough said?  Not yet.  What got my attention came with the second half of the soldier up sermon.  "You're not going to have a relationship until you've got a reliable flow of money."  Maybe these words shouldn't be in quotes, but that's what I heard her say.

"Wow!" echoed against the chambers of my mind until I was rescued by thoughts of:

* all the people I've met who are happy despite their lack of money
* all the people who have everything and complain all day long about nothing

* all the people who are happy despite a surplus of money

So, I shared a story with Scooter Springs.

"There are alot of people who have all of the outside things in place but the inside is craaazy."
"True," she said.
"Because my life has been in flux for so long, I always know where my anchors are."  I looked up and opened my palm, and then I pointed to my chest. "I want someone who isn't looking for more trophies on the outside than on the in."