Now it's been a while since I stunned you with my rather vast and stunning collection of acronyms, some of you may be fortunate enough to remember the delights of the LDP (lesbian dinner party) not to mention LLD (lesbian line dancing) - quite the spectacle let me tell you.  Well today it's the turn of the LMB and no prizes for guessing what the L stands for, yep I'm predictable if nothing else.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the lesbian mini break…

With a whole week off from the corporate treadmill, the girlfriend and I decided that it would be rude not to hit the road and get out of town for a few days of R and R.  As you're never more than a few miles away from an Ikea or an Asda Walmart on an English road trip, we thought it wise to head over the border to the land of sheep, valleys and male voice choirs.  And we weren't to be disappointed either, the minute we passed the Croeso i Gymru (Welcome to Wales) sign, it was as if we'd been transported to picture postcard heaven, well once we'd gotten through the nether regions of Newport and the butt end of Bridgend that is. 

Being all mouth and many credit cards, we were staying in a rather swanky hotel, complete with top-notch spa and space age steam room.  It was seriously to die for, but the intrepid explorer in me insisted on dragging the girlfriend away from her terry-towelling robe, spa slippers and Balinese massage and out into the great wide open, or rather to the amazingly beautiful Three Cliffs Bay on the Gower Coast. 

Not ones to be flinging ourselves off bridges attached only to a piece of string, we prefer to take things at a gentler pace, read sedentary with lots of ice cream.  So imagine our disgruntlement when we were told that said bay was a twenty-five minute walk from the car park.  What's worse, there wasn't even going to be a pub with roaring fire and roast dinner when we got there, nope nothing of the sort, only a bunch of old ruins and enough limestone to found a quarry. 

Despite ourselves, we fought valiantly on in search of our inner lesbians who, once unearthed kicking and screaming, were quite happy to clamber over rocks and skip through streams in their best trainers.  And it has to be said that it was quite the moment when we noticed the crumbling castle perched precariously up on the cliff, so powerful in fact, that the girlfriend was about ready to throw herself down and kiss the ground renouncing urban life and carbon footprints for good.  Catharism at its best. 

Sated from the experience yet high on fresh air, we climbed up to the old chateau and sat on a wooden bench facing out towards the pretty bay.  We talked about how in another life we could've been happy being 'haircuts,' you know lesbians of the earth, all plaid shirts, muscle cars and acoustic guitars, until all of a sudden our reverie was rudely interrupted by a rustling in the bushes.  And no it wasn't the Indigo Girls!  'It's probably a rabbit or a squirrel,' the girlfriend said with a winning smile.  I pulled out my mobile phone to take a picture, ever eager to capture nature in action, when she shouted, 'oh my God it's the f%^$in' minotaur,' as a beast the size of Brazil pounded up the side of the cliff. 

Finding ourselves face to face with a bloody great big bull on a cliff top in Wales wasn't exactly the glamorous exit either of us had imagined.  I always hoped mine would be a bit more Hollywood: impaled by a pair of six-inch stilettos at a Jimmy Choo sale would've been a bit more like it.  But alas it wasn't to be and my life started to flash before my eyes at a rate of knots, until I took a moment to look down at my red wool coat that is, that's red people, R-E-D.  When realisation of my exact predicament finally dawned hot fear didn't even come close to describing it, so much so that I have never disrobed faster, getting pregnant quicker than a teenage girl on prom night. 

Complete with red wool child, I was ready to fling myself off the cliff like an overweight lemming when the girlfriend told me through gritted teeth that if I stopped staring at the bull then it might just leave us alone.  This was all well and good of course, but who could blame me for wanting some notice should it decide to play rodeo!  After what seemed like donkey's years it dropped its head all ready for the charge.  I duly braced myself for the end.  Seconds later still clinging to the bench, I turned my head to see that the bloody thing had started to munch on the grass instead. 

Dear Tone,

Ten years. Blimey how the time has flown. When you first came into office I was nothing other than a young whippersnapper of a student, complete with bright ideas and severely pickled liver. What did I really know about the ways of the world as I charged my watered down pint to your unfettered success. Yep, you pretty much lost me at hangover.

So I suppose we went our separate ways there for a while. I toddled off to work in media, darling, my head rammed half up my arse and the rest in the clouds - swapping pint glasses for crystal flutes and my cherry red DMs for a bit of the Jimmy Choo magic. All the while, you went about pimping the nation with upbeat chants of Cool Britannica, hanging out with the likes of Noel Gallagher. Life was pretty damn peachy then, all boom, boom, boom and not a lot of bust.

Then I saw her on that dance floor, all big blue eyes and black, black hair. As a single lesbian, it was my very own coup de foudre, California style. Slipping a disc in the process, she swept me off my feet and it was only over a particularly fraught dinner three months later in San Francisco's Phuket Thai restaurant - equal part noodles and tears – that I realised government policy was going to be the unwanted third wheel in our relationship. I would've married her then and there but, of course, the sanctity of marriage wasn't on offer for our sort and nor was the insignificant perk called immigration.

As the girlfriend's homeland appeared to have conveniently forgotten about their forefather's pledge of freedom and justice for all, I was pleased to see that you hadn't forgotten me. Thank you, firstly for amending the Unmarried Partner's Rule giving her the opportunity to move to the UK after we'd spent two years in a relationship akin to marriage. Okay, so it nearly crippled us financially what with me giving up the media high life to do a free internship in the States so that we could accrue the time together, but it was an option at least. And we made it.

What's more, thanks for all the stuff you've done since to make us pink pounders feel part of the parcel, like the introduction of Civil Partnerships amongst other things. Thanks to you, Phuket Thai and other such eating establishments won't have to put up with British lesbians wailing and screaming into their hot and sour soups because they're allowed to bring their women into Blighty lock, stock and turkey baster.

Thanks Tone, you've been fab!

Toodle Pip,

Alison x

Okay so it's time to come clean and vent my spleen if you will about the rather embarrassing fact that the girlfriend and I are a couple of Big Bird sized chickens.  That's right, in addition to being more than a little lousy with our DIY butch box, we're also scared of everything and its uncle, including our own shadows.  When God was dishing out all things spunk and gumption we were clearly cowering at the back of the queue, clinging on to the Cowardly Lion's matted tail.  Although wait, we would have been shit scared of him too.
 
Over the years, we've got ourselves into some right old palavers to say the very least.  Some more man made than others, like the time when I, ever the card, hid in the wardrobe and jumped out on my unsuspecting love causing her to let rip with a blood-curdling Hollywood style scream, which in turn saw me return the favour before dropping dead with unprecedented fright.
 
Of course, we wouldn't be the drama queens our friends know and hopefully love without our stories of the paranormal and ridiculous, such as when I woke up and saw a translucent woman hanging out by the bookshelves in our London flat.  I then grabbed the girlfriend with a vice like grip that could only mean ghosts and ghouls a-plenty.  Paralysed with fear and wound up like a couple of mummies we didn't speak for hours until the warm light of morning brought the welcome knowledge that all such nasties would be long gone and on to their next shift à la Monsters Inc. Naturally, we moved out shortly after and the fact that it could've been our overnight guest, Helen, looking for the loo is neither here nor there!
 
That said, perhaps one of our most hysterical outbursts, however, came when a tiny mouse ran at full pelt across the kitchen floor and we had to call in our friend 'Indiana Mel' to save us from said 'Big Bad Stu.'  She arrived some minutes later to find us standing on chairs waving our tennis rackets round wildly like some kind of modern day joust.
 
Feel free to laugh at our yellow-bellied excesses, but surely we can't be alone, can we? I want to know what frightens everyone, but am especially keen to find out if we are the most frightened lesbian coupling in the whole wide world???

When I first met the girlfriend back in the days of yore, you know when Moses was making a name for himself by carving up the Red Sea, we spent much of the early, heady days of romance giggling about the linguistic differences between our two nations.  When we did our weekly shop, I duly put my aubergine in the boot, whilst she favoured putting her eggplant in the trunk - obviously we're as rock and roll as they come!
 
Over the years we've turned into these bizarre hybrid type creatures who mix and match between the two without batting so much as an eyelid, but in that time we've also learned that Brits and Americans are in fact as different as New England Clam Chowder and Yorkshire Pudding to say the very least.  I've never quite been able to put my finger on it, but two things happened this week in quick succession, which will give you a happy little insight into what I'm referring to:
 
Contrary to the stereotype, we Brits aren't exactly what I'd call big on organisation and especially so when it comes to the NHS (our socialised healthcare system).  And yes, it's great to have but sometimes it really does take a little more than the biscuit.  To give you an example: I went to see my dentist last August because I was having 'issues' with a wisdom tooth. After having a good old poke around, x raying me within an inch of my life and the rinse and spit routine, she told me that she would have to refer me to the specialist at the dental hospital because it wasn't going to be a straightforward extraction.  All's fair in love and dentistry of course, so I took it in my stride and waited (in much the same way we Brits like to queue…and queue…and queue) for my referral.  Seven months later, that's right SEVEN months later, I arrived for my consultation appointment with the specialist and was shipped off for enough x rays to turn me at least partially radioactive.
 
Imagine therefore my delight and surprise when an hour later said specialist walked in and turned out to be MY ORIGINAL DENTIST!  'Hello,' she said, all smiles.  'Oh yes, we were going to take this tooth out, weren't we?  So, yes if you tell the receptionist to book you in for an appointment we'll be able to do that for you.'
 
And because I'm British, I didn't bite her head off with my remaining teeth. Instead, I smiled politely and then queued in an orderly fashion to make my appointment.  I'm now being seen at the end of April for the extraction.  Go figure!
 
Once I was safely back in the car and able to show my true feelings, I both passively and aggressively whacked the radio on only to hear a DJ laughing about a tale from America.  Apparently, goodie bags at kids' birthday parties are getting a tad out of hand and parents are being forced to remortgage their homes in order to send their kids' friends off with the pimpest of rides.  One Mom had decided that enough was enough and took matters into her own hands and wrote on the invitations to her kid's party: 'Please spend no less than $35 on little dude's present.  Otherwise, I won't be covering my costs!'
 
Illustrative?  I think so.

Don't they say no pain, no gain?  They lied!  A great big whopper of a lie in fact.  This used to be something of a personal mantra I fully subscribed to, you know especially where shoes were concerned.  In particular those vertigo inducing, eye-wateringly high killer type heels, but you can forgive a girl that for the sake of fashion, surely.  Hell, I've paid my dues in blisters alone.  But I was fooled, fooled I tell you, by this no pain, no gain malarkey.  You see, it was with nothing other than sheer, unadulterated pleasure that I single-handedly managed to swell my body weight by twenty pounds during the last blast of novel writing craziness.  Every quadruple choc cookie that passed my lips was savoured with much relish, even if they were passing said lips at the same rate as the bullet train burns up the Japanese countryside.
 
So you may well be wondering why I've got the hump with my no pain, mucho gain scenario.  It was after all to be expected.  I mean, there's only so much Dorito stuffing a person can do before the seams start to burst on their designer jeans.  Let's just say I now know why writers write in sweat pants, the expandable waistline allows for all manner of sins let me tell you.  The problem only arose when I tried to return to the real world and I felt like the Giant trying to squeeze myself into Jack's forty denier tights.  It was all a bit 'Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!  Oh Shit, I've just put my foot right through the gusset!'
 
That said, I'm hopefully back on the path to my own personal righteousness and it is at this juncture that I must thank you all for the flowers and well wishes since the arrival of baby 'Closet,' the novel.  I also must commend you further on your frequent and persistent calls for me to return to the gym.  You'll be pleased to hear that your cries continually fell on deaf ears, until this morning that is.  Oh yes, I was thrilled to substitute my warm and cosy bed for the bloody cross trainer at some unearthly hour not long after cocks around the world were a-crowing this am.  That's right, you read correctly: the gym, Monday morning and before work.  I am clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic if you'll pardon the pun.
 
I'm sat here now with legs of jelly and a tummy full of lettuce.  Maybe when I write the next novel I'll try gin and slimline tonics instead!

Did you just hear that jubilant warble? It was, in fact, the fat lady – me - singing out that I have finally finished my novel. No one warned me that it would be so disastrous for the waistline. Had I known, I would've bought stock in Cadburys and the local Chinese making my fortune that way instead.

Anyway, weight gain aside, please join me in a celebratory whoop whoop, because the biggest project since the creation of Dolly's boobs is over. And like the wonders of plastic surgery, it nearly saw me off in the process. That's right, apart from the love handles and additional chins, I am a shadow of my former self. I've forgotten all about the three s's: sleeping, socialising and most depressingly of all shopping. That said, I'm going to miss 'Closet' like a favourite sweater. In fact, the girlfriend (my wonderful Editor – also available for bar mitzvahs, record deals and the like…www.dayriser.com) and I are feeling like a right pair of empty nesters on this our first evening of freedom in months. So, I've returned to the myspace addiction of old and she's cleaning the house like a cheetah in marigolds.

It is my great pleasure to announce that the Prada clad love child of Helen Fielding and Augusten Burroughs is off to college and I hope to bring you news of its Ivy League destination in the not too distant future. Well, that and my usual blatherings now that I have a life again, of course.

Although, if you do happen to see me on here outside of paid working hours (oops – just joking boss man if you're reading this!), instead of telling me to get back to the book, I'd now be more than grateful if you could tell me to get my arse to the gym. Thanks!

For the first time in many New Years, I'm not sat here gobbling like a cold turkey, my pen hanging out of my mouth, a poor substitute for a dearly departed friend.  Nor am I covered with more patches than an accident-prone rag doll, because I've already beaten the evil weed.  It's yesterday's news, old hat.  Now, I don't want you to think I was one of those fly by night social smokers, picking it up and dropping it off like my monthly dry cleaning.  Oh no, smoking was part of me, just as much as my wooden stack heels or designer sunglasses will ever be.
 
I'm going to tell you about a cure, so revolutionary it will bring a certain Allen Carr and his Easyway back to life quicker than you can say 'Have you got a light boy?'  I kicked the habit six months ago at precisely the same time I became a myspace whore, yep it's true I now have a friend for every cigarette that would have passed my cherry red lips.
 
You may well laugh, but there are many similarities between the two: whilst smoking brought out my inner European (don't forget most Brits don't know how to spell European, let alone be one) myspace allows me to discover fabulous quizzes, which tell me my inner European is a Spanish flamenco dancer called Pilar. Moreover, buried somewhere deeply in my subconscious, smoking made me feel sexy and salubrious and not the fag ash Lil of reality, but now on myspace I can, at the click of a button, find out which character I am from my favourite show, hell I could even adorn my page with my very own Hollywood Walk of Fame if that were my wont.
 
So when my girlfriend suggested I take a break from 'my empire' over the holidays for the good of my novel, it was met with the same hot fear as when she'd suggested us giving up smoking in the past.  My heart started to race, my palms began to sweat and the empty feeling in my stomach grew and grew till I echoed like an empty canyon.
 
Day One was quite a wrench, how I missed the good times.  Later on that afternoon, the girlfriend and I were writing together in a bar.  I looked over; her brow was crumpled with concentration.  She'd never know, so I snuck on and ahhhh the immediate relief was quite something - chemicals rushing to my brain and some.  But it was like she sensed it, smelt it on my clothes and in my hair.  She jumped up, disturbed from her writer's world and bore down over my screen all vulturesque.  I was caught red handed with my trousers well and truly down.
 
After being rumbled, I was determined to stay away and prove I could do it.  I lasted all of five days, but by Jove she was right and I might just have myself a finished novel by the end of the month.  Still, I missed it all the same, so it's good to be back.  Now who knows a cure for my addiction to chocolate?!
 
 

Okay, so I've received sack loads of mail, well an e-mail (from my mum) asking me who won out in the heavyweight bout of taste vs tack when it came to Christmas adornments in our home. And I had in fact been planning to write a festive blog, the only problem is that, sniff, I'm still not sure I'm ready to talk about it - it's going to cost me a fortune in the therapist's chair that's for sure, but seeing as we're all friends here..

Back in mid October when I found myself in Norway cutting down an overgrown pine with my bare hands, I realised that the girlfriend's Christmas obsession had gone beyond a joke .. the fabled olive oil may have lasted eight days (check me and my Chanukkah knowledge!!) but my patience had well and truly run out. I jest of course, but it was on December 1st that am unassuming shopping trip became the twelve hour Christmas shopping marathon that will see me waking up in a cold sweat for years to come.

It started to go downhill at quite a pace when the girlfriend spotted the Christmas pound shop with its flashing antlers and fake snow shop front. Forced kicking and screaming inside, I soon fainted when she pointed excitedly to a fluffy red stocking with white trim, which she wanted to hang over our Victorian fireplace. Once the paramedics had done their stuff, yet still in a weakened state, I conceded and let her have a couple of patchwork type stockings for some peace on earth and goodwill towards men.

Pumped up by her success in the pound shop, I was bulldozed into the department store where she jostled with the blue rinse grannies to fight for the crème de le crème in tree ornamentation .. it only got slightly hairy when the Jewish one came nose to nose with a bolshy granny with a bad case of Santa envy. Once she was safely ensconced in the queue, laden down with snowmen, sleighs and pot bellied Santas, I've never seen anyone happier, not even a pig in shit.

The Christmas rollercoaster jerked relentlessly on to the DIY store, where only the trees with air traffic control coordinates got a look in. I stood back in that world weary way letting her get on with it because my attempts at reminding her we only had a two bedroom flat fell on the deafest of ears. Only when she was sure she'd scooped the plumpest prize (think Amerisize) did we have the fun of fitting it in our tiny French car - between the girlfriend's toothy grin and the huge f&^% off tree this was no easy feat.

Setting up the Winter Wonderland saw me issue the ultimatum 'it's me or the tree,' after she suggested dismantling the dining table so that the tree was free to be in the big bay window and I'm sad to say that I was packed off without so much as a tear.

I write to you now from the front garden, by the light of the menorah!

Happy Holidays one and all!

As I'm sure you're now aware, I'm one half of an oh so fabulous British/American same-sex coupling and whilst you may not believe this possible, we're far happier than George and Tony will ever be. But back when we started out in 1999 (when Prince was just a squiggle) I had a few lessons to learn about dating a Jewish girl from No Cal.

 
Having been swept mercilessly off my feet in London town, I found myself spending Uncle John's inheritance money (I kid you not) on a flight to San Francisco for the millennium to spend two blissful weeks with the woman I now refer to as 'her indoors.' But and here's where I have to admit to some serious failings: whilst I was a proper vomit inducing swot in school, excelling in French (handy if you want to live in France) and German (you get the gist), I was never really interested in RE, unless you count being Head Chorister of the local parish church when I was twelve. So how was I to know that Jews didn't do Christmas?

 
Worse still, I'd picked out the most all-singing, all-dancing card in the shop, complete with trimmed up tree, flashing lights and slew of over fed reindeers (my impeccable taste reigning supreme, of course). When I casually mentioned my coup to a friend, she rather nonchalantly delivered the blow, which saw me trying to dive head first into the post box to retrieve my toe curling faux pas, but to no avail... I spent a week praying that Royal Mail would prove their usual ineffective selves and she would be none the wiser, but alas it arrived on her doorstep with a resounding clunk.

 
I was fully expecting to be dumped, which would've seen Uncle John spinning in his grave because I'd thrown his money straight down the drain, but who knew I had somehow managed to stumble upon the biggest Christmas loving Jew since Jesus Christ himself. She even gives Father Christmas a run for his money and can sing 'Santa Claus is coming to town' in three languages, backwards.

 
Talk of the C word chez nous starts way before the leaves fall from the trees and as per bloody usual we're currently in 'friendly' negotiations about the level of tack involved, seeing as she wants a tree with coloured lights and candy canes and I'm a fan of something infinitely more Macy's... Happy Holidays indeed!

 
And as for me, well let's just say there are no flies on me, ever since the mother in law provided me with the goy girl's bible, 'What to do when you're Dating a Jew.'
 
 

Like the complete antithesis of your stereotypical lesbian I love to shop. Tell me I have to run a marathon and I wouldn't get past first base, but line the route with shops and I would be clutching a medal and wrapped in a silver blanket before you could utter the words 'lesbian shopaholic.'

My love of shoes is second to none, I'd even give that former First Lady of the Philippines a run for something other than her money. You see, this love knows no bounds other than my credit card limit, because when it comes to persuading my girlfriend why I absolutely must have the diamond encrusted Manolo slingbacks, I am, rather thankfully, preaching to the converted . although some custom made cowboy boots would be way more her bag. We are indeed a match made in heaven, or so I thought.
 
It seems that seven years of standing outside clubs in sub-zero temperatures whilst I change out of my flats have taken their toll. Or perhaps it's the fact that a ten-minute walk takes us thirty on a good day, as I toddle and wobble along in my three-inch stack heels. So when I announced that I simply couldn't go on for another second without some new work boots I got a little less than the carte blanche I was expecting.
 
She decided to accompany me on my mission and every time I felt the giddy highs of love at first sight..with a pointy toe or a skinny heel, she would tut and say 'ah, ah, ah,' and give me that disapproving look made famous by mothers the world over. Ever quick on the uptake and with Pavlov's Dogs Syndrome kicking in, I realised that the only time I didn't get a short, sharp shock was when I picked up the round-toed, thick-soled style favoured by policewomen. After much pouting and sulking from the seven year old girl within and a few too many motherly mumblings of 'hmmm, okay now let me see you,' we managed to find a compromise. Even at her most practical her fashion sense prevailed, she has to be seen out in public with me after all.
 
Much as it pains me (or not) to admit my first day in said boots was like a walk in the park with goose feather duvets strapped to my feet, not the Band Aid fest of old. However, whilst my feet were skipping along with glee, my heart felt more than little chilly. But I will get my revenge and the real fun will begin the next time she 'needs' something from the guitar shop... What's that saying about 'he who laughs last, laughs loudest?'



DISCLAIMER: Oh and before this is used against me in the divorce court, I would never other than in huge jest get in the way of dayriser's rise to super stardom. Be their friend: www.dayriser.com, they're awesome! Nor, would I swap my girlfriend as a shopping partner for anyone!

- ADVERTISEMENT FEATURE -
 
Okay, so don't laugh, but someone who shall remain nameless: 20 year old Lea from Oregon you know who you are, sent me the following e-mail this morning:
 
'Are you having a mid-life crisis trying to feel better about yourself by making as many friends on myspace as possible?  What's the deal?'
 
My goodness you Americans are quite the straight talkers, it would've taken a fellow Brit about six years and ten cups of tea to spit that out. In fact, let's get specific and allow me to provide you with a literal translation.  If this had come from Liz in Oxford, it would've read a little more like this:
 
'Dear Ms Augusten Burroughs wannabe,
 
Terribly sorry to bother you, but am hoping you can help.  Oh God, this is all rather embarrassing to say the least, but I've been wondering and I really don't mean to be rude, but is there any way you could be having a mid-life crisis?  I ask you this with all due respect and in the nicest possible way of course.  It's just that I've noticed you seem to be a trifle liberal when it comes to making friends on this myspace thingamejig.
 
Therefore despite your impeccable manners, one can't help but think there's a small possibility that you're doing this to make yourself feel better and quite rightly so – I'd do the same in your position.  However, all things considered, I'd be most grateful if you could spare me five minutes of your precious time to explain some of the whys and wherefores.
 
I thank you cordially in advance,
 
Elizabeth '
 
Now as I explained to Ms Lea, if I were in fact having a mid life crisis, then I can think of far more exciting ways of doing so, like a couple of weeks in a luxury spa or splurging on some new shoes, all of which are a little less public to boot.  I'm just trying to raise awareness of my book, so that when it gets published (please!) you'll be running to a Borders near you to find out more.
 
I've enjoyed meeting all of my 937/938/939 (delete as applicable) friends, some of whom have been faster than others, but you know it's been great fun and if at any point I've managed to make someone smile, then it's all good!
 
* SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG NOW *. 
I ACCEPT VISA, MASTERCARD AND PAYPAL!

So I was under the illusion that being a lesbian meant that I would be exonerated from playing nurse to an ailing man.  I remember being shocked as a little girl when my six foot, shit brick house father would whimper and shake at the approach of the common cold; take to his bed and wait for my mother to lash him with tea and sympathy.  When the tables were turned and she would fall victim to pneumonia or something equally trivial and old hat, she'd just brush it off and carry on regardless, despite having a temperature of 102°.
 
Imagine my surprise, therefore, as a grown up in my first (and current) committed relationship of the Sapphic variety, when I discovered that my girlfriend suffered from a previously unheard of (to me), but particularly nasty condition called lesbiMAN flu.
 
Yes, that's right lesbiMAN flu (clinical name: Neverseenillnesslikeitus.)  This pesky virus sends my girlfriend into a rapid demise.  Her normally 'dainty' sneeze becomes a sound more familiar with karate class: HA CHA!  Her night time shivering makes me feel like I'm on the Titanic, post-Iceberg and then there's the fact that I am pulling balled up Kleenexes out of every orifice imaginable for weeks on end.
 
Seven years on with lesbiMAN flu fully part of the furniture, I'm reading Tania Katan's amazing memoir and am suddenly struck by the revelation that there's been a misdiagnosis and it was in fact American Jew flu all along, oy vey!

So I'm not really down with acronyms, although I've always had a soft spot for the LBD (Little Black Dress), but who's ever heard of the LDP? Any guesses? Nope, didn't think so. It was a new one on me too, that is until the girlfriend and I found ourselves hosting a Lesbian Dinner Party on Saturday night.
 
Now I know that you're taking a rather substantial yawn at the prospect of yet another smug married couple inviting their equally smug married friends round for a game of 'Mmmm, this is amazing pasta/stir fry/fondu (delete as appropriate) and oh that wall's a lovely shade of magnolia.'  The LDP, however, is an altogether different beast, especially when I tell you that our guests were three single lesbians, including a vegetarian and even more terrifyingly a vegan, well terrifying for those of us with a dinner party repertoire that doesn't stretch beyond meat and cheese that is.
 
Whilst we don't claim to be Martha Stewart in the kitchen, we certainly make up for it in the home décor department. We were born with Pottery Barn (oh alright, Ikea) spoons in our mouths and have cultivated this god given gift by watching just about every interior design show ever made. In short, we are the House Doctor with a fatal case of OCD; house-proud doesn't even cover it. Friends who've known us a while quake with fear when they are invited over saying that our Dyson vacuum cleaner is in fact a Rottweiler in disguise.
 
Well, it seems that no one bothered to tell the three single lesbians, oh and someone should've thought to tell them about the black and white Argentinian cowhide that sprawls across the living room floor. Whoops, it seems that bare-footed vegans and South American dead things weren't exactly a match made in heaven. Nor are Thai rice crackers dipped in sweet chilli sauce all over the cream carpet. And note to self, hostesses with the mostess should really learn to check that all guests have actually gone out for a cigarette and are not just in the loo, before running in on an emergency mission with the Vanish; getting caught on one's knees with a scrubbing brush is just not cool.
 
Sweet chilli sauce aside, it was in fact going rather well until my drunken girlfriend decided that it was time for some lesbian line dancing. LLD is quite a sight, but all the more so when the Irish contingent chucked a few moves and turned it into a Riverdance spectacular. I mean there's really nowhere to go but down once you've seen an Australian vegan Riverdancing on a dead cow.
 
LDPs should come with a health warning! Have one at your peril.

Had a group of BBC big wigs down from London last week and ever keen to prove that we're not the country bumpkin, poor relations (even if we are) took them to a rather lovely restaurant on a boat down at the harbour side. Suitably impressed with our laid back, small city living and the fact that it was Friday, ties were loosened and top buttons undone.  Despite the relaxed air, I was still ridiculously nervous and felt my palms begin to sweat and the colour rise in my cheeks, especially when I took my seat next to the biggest cheese of all.  As I have a tendency to witter on about inane crap when I'm nervous, I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to have a glass of Rose to take the edge off my jitters.  I don't know what I was thinking, but it seemed to work, albeit briefly.
 
I immediately started to smile more and even showed some teeth.  When someone asked if I'd moved to Bristol with my boyfriend, I felt confident enough to throw the cat among the pigeons and said, 'no, with my girlfriend. Contentiously.'  Luckily they felt that it was rather more interesting than contentious, so it was all going swimmingly well and not a raised eyebrow in sight.  Well, apart from when I started flinging fries all over the place that is, as I was unable to use the fork and spoon pincer system that everyone else had managed without fault. Just for the record, I can't use chopsticks either.
 
The conversation rolled smoothly on, taking in all manner of subjects from the fact that the female grand fromage has a fluffy bunny called Mia who has the run of her house and acts more like a tom cat (go figure) to the fact that Mr Biggest Wig enjoys enlightening his colleagues with a 'word of the week.'  This week's gem was 'perspicacious.'  My fellow West Country reprobate looked over to him with a wink and said 'so you're a cunning linguist then?'  To which I replied, 'oh no, that's me.'
 
Events after this toe-curling faux pas are a little hazy. I have vague memories of launching myself off the side of the boat, being that the nearest ground for swallowing up purposes was at the bottom of the river. Does this happen to anyone else or am I the only one with a terrorist for a mouth?

I'd like to invite you to join me in a special campaign: at nigh on 32 years old I think its high time that I became a lady who lunches. There's a small problem in that fortune isn't going to come my way from media sales (not a chance), the lottery isn't a guarantee and my best selling novel is in the pipeline, but I've still got to find an agent and get the whole process under way, so it might be a while yet before its heralded as the gay Bridget Jones (in my dreams!) So I've hatched another cunning plan that requires your assistance and I therefore turn to the talents of her indoors and more particularly to her band:

If you like dayriser's music, please go on to their myspace site and leave them a comment, if they get enough support they might even be stumbled upon by a high flying music industry mogul and then well let's just say I'll have the champagne on ice...

http://www.myspace.com/dayriser

You'll all also be on the VIP list for the first pool party at our LA mansion.

Get voting kids!

Thanks!

PS. The other Mrs dayriser and I have designed a t-shirt range with catching slogans such as 'I'm not with dayriser' on the front 'but their girlfriends are hot' on the back so place your orders for those here too!

I've never won anything in my life, so I was more than a little delighted to be win a two week turtle conservation 'holiday' for four in Costa Rica. I hadn't really thought much about what was involved, but hell what did that matter - I was off to Costa Rica for some fun in the sun. My girlfriend was gutted that we didn't win the 2nd prize of  a weekend away in Paris! Here's my trip report:

Well, what can I say - I am absolutely bowled over by the beauty of the majestic turtle, so much so that I have decided to give up work and Tamar and I are planning to head back over to Costa Rica as soon as possible to devote our time, energy and everything else to their conservation. We've realised just how superficial our lives really are and have decided that it's time to give something back. Yeah right!

So we arrived in Costa Rica, a little dubious about having flat hair for two weeks and even more terrified at the prospect of having to look after tiny green creatures with flipper type things. Despite being sleep starved, we duly sat through a three hour induction with a bunch of fresh faced, twenty year old hippy wannabes, reeking of patchouli oil and were shipped off to Gandoca (read end of the world as we know it) at daybreak the following morning. Our bilingual driver took great delight in regaling us with tales about the brown drinking water, mosquito infestations etc. etc. He said that Gandoca was usually reserved for the most hard nosed of volunteers and couldn't believe that we 'the contest winners' were being sent there. Eight hours and fifty million pot holes later we arrived. We were to be accommodated in a local family's home who were lovely and we felt truly awful that night as they pitched a tent in the garden because we were sleeping in their beds!!!

Within twenty minutes of arrival, we were told to report for training and headed down to the beach with cameras, sun tan lotion, beach towels etc. planning our first spot of sunbathing after the 30 minute induction. Little did we realise that we were going to be put straight to work, Tamar compared the whole experience to a '7th grade biology lesson' and Janette fell asleep. I realised that I was actually terrified of the pickled turtle eggs that they were passing round for our reference and was beginning to cack myself quietly in the corner about the prospect of being alone with the real thing on a deserted beach late at night! We were then shown to the hatcheries and were told that we had to make body pits for ourselves in the sand and then dig for China to replicate the natural nest. At this point, Tamar's face was a picture, think depression, frustration and fuck it. Amber was pulling sand out of her cleavage for the next three days. We were also shown how to position our bodies under a birthing turtle, so that we could catch the eggs as they fell in an Asda type carrier bag. We then had to do a stunt roll and pull them out of the hole, so that they landed on our bikini clad selves. Yuk! It was far from the idyllic conservation holiday we'd pictured. We were scheduled to work ten hours a day, all four of us on different shifts, so we wouldn't even see each other. We weren't allowed to drink and especially not to smoke, so you can imagine how our smiles faded almost instantly with this revelation...oh and we weren't allowed to use mosquito repellent either!

So, after consuming about ten bottles of Guaro (the local tipple of choice) and some frantic line dancing, we made the executive decision to leave the turtle project before we'd even started. We did actually sneak down to the beach that night to see a turtle in all her glory, it was a scene reminiscent of Jurassic Park and I for one felt glad that there were good, hippy types in the world who were born for this work. I however would continue with the devil's work of advertising sales.

We were packed and gone early the next morning, the only flaw in the plan was that our rickety old taxi blew a tyre in the middle of nowhere, but we were rescued by a veritable Prince Charming in a 4x4 and taken to the paradise of Playa Cocles on the Caribbean coast. Finally, we had the holiday we were waiting for and spent five drunken days languishing on the beach. Tamar and I then decided that we wanted to see more of Costa Rica and left Janette and Amber to snorkel and chill at Cocles. We then travelled eight hours north to La Fortuna and the wondrous sight of Volcan Arenal (3rd most active volcano in the world) and the amazing hot springs just below watching the lava tumble down as we sipped strawberry daiquiris. Heaven indeed! Nearby there was also an amazing waterfall that fell 270 foot into the canyon below. We put our gym training to the test and headed down - it was like a Stairmaster with a view. At the bottom we paddled (read I was too scared of the fish to totally immerse myself) in the swimming spots. This in the middle of a tropical rainstorm with the echoes of howler monkeys calling was really quite surreal and oh so Indiana Jones. We then spent up a few days in the cloud forests of Monteverde, which was a little disappointing, but we did some cool wildlife hikes (yes, I did just write cool wildlife hike - I'm not that much of a heathen where nature is concerned!) Before heading home, we spent three days in the capital San Jose and were really excited to see that gay bars there were pretty similar to the rest of the world: they still screamed when Madonna came on and had the obligatory mirror ball and pole. The only difference being that they actually knew how to shake their booties when it came to salsa, needless to say we didn't hit the dance floor, dommage!

Costa Rica was truly stunning, but I've learnt my lesson - I'll only be entering competitions that offer 5 star luxury from now on.

 

In honour of our immaculately clean cream carpets and new-found love of the Rug Doctor machine, not! I thought it was somewhat apt to write a blog about the joys of lesbian D.I.Y. (that's home improvement to my friends over the pond - the girlfriend who's from Cali tells me you won't know what I'm on about otherwise, hey ho.)

So the next time you straight women find yourselves thinking the grass might perhaps be greener, as you hover nervously behind your man with a conciliatory cup of coffee as he bad-temperedly plumbs, bangs and glues; please spare a thought for the lesbian nation who have to carry out said chores on their lonesome. And in our case with the blind leading the blinder. I'll make one admission, which is that whenever we're trying to beautify the flat and Tamar is precariously balanced on a chair with a nail in the mouth and hammer in the hand i.e. an accident waiting to happen, we're both screaming loudly, 'where's my boyfriend?..

We've come a long way though from the heady days of early cohabitation when we rather unfortunately hung our new Tamara de Lempicka prints so high they were dangling from the ceiling like Pat Butcher's earrings. Sadly, when this didn't become the next big thing, we enlisted our friend's boyfriend to sort out the mess. It was the lovely Dave (may he rest in peace: he was dumped shortly after for being too nice) who saved the day and it was he who coined the phrase Lesbian DIY - never the twain shall meet.

So clever girls that we are, when buying a flat we decided to buy the biggest fixer-upper on the block. And it was only then we realised that we had to get with the programme: that's right House Doctor, Property Ladder and any other show hosted by inspirational divas who swore that Sisters really were doing it for themselves all over the place. It was at that point we realised we had to acquire our very own Butch Box.

Who knew it could be so much fun, hanging out at the hardware store picking out all manner of screws, nails and other such shiny objects. I mean, I've always loved shopping for accessories, so it was right up my alley and it must be said we were mightily taken with the Butch Box until we had to start the work. Six months, a brush with the divorce court and several threats of her returning to California later, we finally finished our perfect place.

The Butch Box now lives a quiet and unassuming life in a darkened cupboard, until it is forced, kicking and screaming out of retirement to assemble the latest must-have item from Ikea. As for the next time we move, we won't be lured into the fixer-upper trap, unless of course we can afford to hire a whole crew of men to do the whole god damned thing for us.

And for all you sisters who really are doing it for yourselves, stand up and be counted, so that I can call on you the next time we're in dire straights. Anyone want to take out the recycling?