Medium hardcore

My friend Pete has a T-shirt that says ‘Medium Hardcore’. I’ve been wondering lately if this two-word slogan summarises my political beliefs.

The thing is, when you’re a dyke who believes in gay marriage, it sometimes seems like everyone wants to have a go at you. Radical queer activists think you’re conservative and throw their ire at you. Conservatives think you’re radical and throw their bibles at you (or try to run you over in their SUVs). Anti-marriage feminists think you’re crazy and throw their Andrea Dworkin books at you.

Yes, I’m exaggerating slightly. But to some extent, this is what it feels like. I think the only way to deal with it is to say fuck you to everybody (apart from the people who agree with me, of course). I believe what I believe. Medium. Hardcore. Whatever.

I think I’m going to get one of those shirts.

My mother's supportive response to the wedding news

Some weeks ago, I told my mother that Heather and I were thinking of getting married in Canada. At first, I said that it was something we were just thinking about, to try to ease her into the idea. I think she knows as well as I do that this is Michelle-talk for 'I've decided'. She immediatelly changed the topic.

I persisted, 'So, if we do this, will you come to the wedding?'

Mum said there was no way she would ever go to Canada, which I knew already, since she's never been outside Queensland as far as I know, and for the last ten years even the prospect of a drive to the shops has made her kind of shaky.

'No,' I said, 'I mean to the Brisbane party. We'll have a party here when we get back. Maybe in February. Will you come?'

'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'Don't tell your father about it.' She may as well have that phrase tattooed on her forehead.

'Oh well,' I said, quickly moving into sulky, passive-aggressive mode. 'I just thought I should invite you, because it would be nice if my family was there to celebrate my wedding, you know. How could Dad come to the party if he doesn't even know what we're celebrating?'

And then Mum had a brilliant idea. 'You could tell him it's a birthday party.'

Hmmm. Or . . . not.

Girly

I think my mother always hoped I’d be more girly than I am. I was a classic tomboy as a child, always sporting scratches, scabs, and bruises from various adventures. I loved trees, and would climb for what seemed like hours on end. Or stop climbing, after a while, and just perch on a limb, looking and thinking, until I was called down. My feet were always bare, and black with dirt.

Mum is completely different. Particularly when I was younger, appearance was very important to her. She was meticulous about being neat and tidy and creating a good impression. She wanted this not just for herself, of course, but for her kids as well. She would rub rouge on my cheeks before taking me to school, and this was when I was still in primary school. Like lots of girls I knew, my ponytails were so tight that my head actually hurt when my hair was loosened at the end of the day. Very occasionally, my taste would agree with Mum’s; I think that’s how the sneakers with rainbow holograph Velcro-strips ended up in my possession. (Hey, it was the 80s.) But such concurrence was a rare thing indeed.

When I was perhaps ten years old, we attended a family wedding. I had no particular role in the nuptials, but Mum disregarded this fact and dressed me as though I was some kind of flower-girl. I wore a white, lacy dress with a thick, pink waist-ribbon. I believe there may also have been white, lacy knee-socks. If I remember correctly, it was after this incident that I really started to protest in response to my mother’s fashion crimes.

At my brother’s wedding last year, Mum was thrilled to see me in the bridesmaid’s dress. For weeks afterwards, she passed on the glowing comments of neighbours and old friends I’ve never even met: ‘And Joyce down the street, you don’t know her, she said you looked absolutely beautiful.’ And I like these positive comments, they please me, but at the same time I know that Mum is so thrilled because I’m not always her ideal daughter. She loves me very much and is proud of me, I know this, but she just wishes I were more regular. With a job she understood, and a life she knew more about because she wasn’t scared to ask, and, ultimately, a husband, child and mortgage.

When Mum looks at those wedding pictures, I think she sees that ideal daughter. And I think she pretends for a bit. When I look at those pictures, I see myself looking unusually dressed-up and made-up, with a hairstyle that took an hour to complete. And I liked the game of it, the play of it, but it’s not who I am – or who I ever could be. Maybe Mum will understand this someday, and maybe she won’t. The latter prospect makes me a little sad, but this is the way it often goes in families, I suppose. I don’t have kids, but it seems that much of being a mother is about planning and hoping for your kids. Maybe once they’re grown, it’s hard to give up this planning and hoping and find some kind of acceptance.

Invites and outvites

Yesterday Heather and I went invitation shopping. We went to a place called Invitation House in Albany Creek, which is a fair distance from here, but we were in the mood for a drive. On arrival, we looked at the stock for about five minutes before deciding we needed a snack so we could concentrate on the task ahead. Unfortunately, we didn't realise that the opening hours would be so brief on the Sabbath day, and when we came back ten minutes later, the shop was shut.

We really liked what we saw in those first few minutes, though. It quickly became apparent that it's much cheaper to print the invitations yourself, so that is what we will probably do. We can buy simple, pre-cut invitations that will look really good with a few basic additions. If you're in the market for invitations, check out the Invitation House site.

An even more exciting stationer (there's a statement to prove my nerd credentials) is Outvite, who do gay and lesbian wedding invitations and other queer cards. A great name and absolutely beautiful cards -- and best of all, you can click on an invitation, type in your own text, and see the invitations as they would appear with your own wording. The prices are pretty good, too, but it's an American company, so with shipping costs added in, Heather and I probably can't afford these very lovely invitations .

Invitation House has a Fortitude Valley store as well, so we plan to go there soon and start making some serious stationery decisions. It's all a bit grown up, really.

On the demise of the rake

I have decided that in Hell it is always Sunday. And every one of your neighbours has a leaf-blower.