The Stars and the Cookie Jar

Clearly I am the most cynical gay person ever. I am not gay enough to live as a queer/lesbian/gay/dyke/you pick your terminology.

I say this because I have just read the quarterly HRC rag and thought to myself 'Some of you in this prettyshinyglossy magazine are why 'we' get a bad rap.'

Ferjesus.

I do not go home and plonk down on my Pottery Barn couch and watch The L Word and boycott Haagen-Dazs and Poland Spring. In fact I quite like raspberry lime fizzy Poland Spring. I do not go out of my way to make every choice in my daily life a statement of my sexual politics.

I am a bad, bad lesbian.

Aren't there any quiet, stodgy gay people who still want a fair shake at civil rights in this country and a sane, mainstreamed childhood for their offspring and yet manage not to be so asekfno39jherfing crazy?

Sure, I'll ruffle if you poke me. Sure, I'll defend my wife and future offspring and I'll do my utmost to keep us all from being carted off in mysterious black vans on loan to the country' current administration from the set of The Handmaid's Tale.

But lord, lord, walk with me if my sorbet choice defines me as a gay being.

Wife: *gets a stomach bug, gets a little dehydrated, takes a day off work, fights it off and emerges triumphant*

....24 hours later....

Immunocompromised Housemate and Gaucher's-Ridden Self: *pray for teh quick dethz0rs*

I have decided that the Washer at the Ford sings like Kate Rusby. That's actually a compliment.