And before the whole homos-can-marry-in-select-states thing came up, it was always a question of what you could possibly call your significant other. Partner? Very law firmish. Spouse? Still awkward, even if now it’s a legal reality.

The possibilities I hadn’t considered until recently, however, are “friend” and “roommate.”

Last Thanksgiving when I was with my parents, I noticed that in mixed company my father kept referring to a friend of mine. A very interesting friend, apparently, who just kept popping up in stories. And I was honestly confused for a while–who could he be talking about? My dad hasn’t met a whole lot of my friends, and he doesn’t really know any of them well enough to be telling stories about them.

And then, of course, it dawned on me: he was referring to none other than the Sig Fig.

The same-ish thing happened to me on my recent visit, when I was telling some friends of theirs that I’d just moved in with my girlfriend. A little bit later, one of them mentioned to his daughter that my “roommate” has a greyhound.

At first (and a little bit still, I guess) I was pretty miffed. No one has a problem referring to my brother’s girlfriend as such. It’s not rubbing anything in anyone’s face to acknowledge that I live with my girlfriend. And I’m not trying to engage these people in conversations about same-sex marriage or whether sex toys should be legal or anything like that. I just want a simple acknowledgment that I have a normal, healthy relationship, and I’m not ashamed of it.

And then I went to Oregon for a few days.

My mother was staying with a very good friend of hers who happens to be religious. Now, I’ve known this woman since I was quite small–she actually used to come to Grandparents Day with me in elementary school, because my grandparents would never have come–and she’s a lovely person. Compassionate, loving, all that. But she asked about where I was living, and I said… I live with a roommate.

It was a split-second decision. It just came out. I realized afterward that it was probably the right decision, too. This is someone I see very rarely. She’s not blind, of course–I’ve looked like a lesbian forever–and she’s not stupid, either. But she also doesn’t really need to know about that part of my life. It’s the same way I feel about my grandfather. I don’t have any reason to believe he’d react poorly if he knew, but I also don’t really have any reason to tell him.

This is where the grand point should go. But I don’t have one, so you’ll all just have to deal.

Anyway, I’m back. For the two of you who expressed a mild dislike for my absence: thank you. Your mild dislike has truly, truly moved me.

For the record, I’m back to blogging here, but I’m going to continue to take a break from reading (most) other blogs. I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn’t be able to just read posts and ignore the comments, and since lately comment threads only raise my blood pressure, I figured I’d stick to bacon and save myself the grief. You may notice a new addition to my blogroll, however, and I can’t stress its importance enough. Read Dooce!

Moving on. Some exciting things have been happening over here in my little corner of the globe. For instance, there’s Steve. Steve is my new electric guitar. Should I happen to figure out the contraption you kids call a “digital camera,” there’s a chance you may see a picture of him and the ladies, Sheba and Artemesia (classical and electric acoustic, respectively), but for now just know that I am a person with more guitars than pairs of clean underwear. I do plan to do laundry this weekend, though. I swear.

I’ve also been granted permission to audit a class at my alma mater (how weird! I have one of those!) in the fall, which excites me greatly because it will be a class I actually want to be taking. It may even stimulate my brain and make those library classes more bearable. We can always hope. Anyway, it’s a course on gender and performance, taught by the wonderful woman responsible for me taking a seminar with Judith Halberstam (swoon) last year. I’m greatly looking forward to it, and I can only assume the reading list (Bornstein, Butler, Halberstam [swoon], etc.) will provide fodder for new writing here.

And, finally, we’re now at T-minus 21 days until I depart for another whirlwind tour, this time of Idaho and San Francisco. Hopefully this time I’ll get my act together and take a bazillion pictures, which used to be my typical behavior any time I took a trip. (Remember the two rolls of film from the very first day I was in Mexico? Yes, I know you don’t, but trust me, they’re boring.) I was sadly remiss in Oregon last winter, but never again!

Anyway, I’d like this blog to be a relaxing place for me. And for you, the two readers. In that spirit, my first post-hiatus “serious post” subject is, naturally, McDonald’s.

Until then, enjoy the random thoughts of one who has nothing to do until she leaves for Christmas.