While I’ve titled this post “Lesbians in the Doghouse,” I’m already reconsidering the plural. I think it’s pretty much standard with doghouses that they can only accommodate one partner at a time, whether it be a gay, straight or lesbians doghouse we’re considering. Perhaps there’s room for two or more in polyamorous doghouses, but I’m not terribly familiar with those. Not yet, at least.
The partner currently inhabiting our lesbian doghouse? Why, that would be me, of course. Giselle is in the doghouse once again.
What did I do?
No, that wasn’t a rhetorical question; I’d really like to know. What did I do this time? I’ve always done SOMETHING, but I’m never quite sure what that something was. Not unless I’m told what I’ve done, but I’m almost NEVER kept informed on that front.
Suddenly all the 80’s sitcoms are starting to make sense. (Isn’t it sad when that happens? Christ, I never thought I’d grow up to be Alan Thicke!) It would seem I am now in a grown-up relationship, and I’m the dumb guy. I can fix the plumbing no problem, but I can only make sloppy attempts at repairing hurt feelings. Although, more often than not, my attempts at reparation just make things worse.
But I’m learning…slowly...
Here are the top three phrases I now know will land me in the doghouse:
1. Romance is trivial.
2. Have you ever considered wearing maternity clothes?
3. I disagree.
Number three, as I saw this afternoon, will bring an instantaneous halt to any conversation and should thus be avoided unless closing the conversation is your intent. I’m slowly realizing that my partner and my argumentative nature don’t get along.
I’m also beginning to identify more and more with my uncles and married male co-workers. I never used to understand why so many men seemed prepared to abandon any hope of holding onto even the tiniest shard of power in their relationships. I get it now. It’s called peace-keeping.
After storming out on me following our “disagreement” (the word is in quotes because the disagreement consisted of Sweet holding an opinion and me stating those two damning words, “I disagree), Sweet called me up to set things right. We had to laugh at our situation:
She’s a transwoman who spent most of her life identifying as male. In relationships, she’s always been the one in the doghouse whereas I’ve always been the girl clucking, “How can you not know what you did?” It’s a complete role reversal for both of us, and you know what? It fits.
It will always be Giselle in the doghouse. I’m the more masculine-identified in our partnership; the doghouse comes with the territory, and putting me there is Sweet’s prerogative. I may bitch and moan sometimes, but I’d rather sleep in Sweet’s doghouse than curled at any other girl’s feet.