With her slender frame, short, spiky blond hair and emo couture, she looked more like a 12-year-old boy than anything else. But I had a feeling that Donna was not it. She was lying on the backseat of our friend’s car, drunk and stoned, her head hanging out the open door as she tried to force herself to vomit onto the street below.Īt 18 and having pined after the same straight girl for three years, it’s safe to say at the time I had no idea what my type was. At that point, I still hadn’t come out to any family members, just my friends.Ī mutual friend introduced me to Donna at a college party. I didn’t date anyone who actually identified as a lesbian until after I graduated from high school. It was like lesbian Harry Potter, minus the wizardry and charming accents. All the girls, even the straight ones, dated girls. Lesbian breeding ground.Ī small school of about 200 students, my high school was set in a gorgeous, rambling old hotel, with winding underground tunnels and a bell tower, on a bucolic 200-acre campus cloistered from the outside, rundown ghetto by a quaint stone wall. The irony is, my grandparents encouraged my weekly attendance at Sunday mass and helped fund my Catholic school education.Īn all-girls Catholic school education. Even after she saw the pictures of the woefully small one-bedroom basement apartment I moved into with one of these “best friends” when I was 23. Even after I gushed to her about whomever my current “best friend” was. When I first came out to my parents at 18, my mother suggested I not tell my grandparents.Įven after my grandmother offered sage advice about how I should marry a rich man. But Julie says that I’m bad for her posture. When not in heels, she’s still a head taller than I am, and I’m able to easily nuzzle my face into her neck when she puts her arms around me. It’s not a bad place to be, so I’m not complaining. Tall, blonde and beautiful, when she wears heels – and she often does, given the nature of her job as a ballroom dance instructor – I come right up to Julie’s breast line. So I heard the Mutt and Jeff line often growing up. Since I’m barely pushing five feet, and even lied to the DMV about my stature, this was just about everyone I knew. My grandmother would bring up Mutt and Jeff whenever she met one of my taller friends. The duo - Mutt, tall and gangly, and Jeff, short and stubby - was a precursor to Laurel and Hardy, and the height discrepancy was both amusing and exacerbated when the pair stood side by side. It featured a pair of mismatched friends and working class everymen. Mutt and Jeff, published in the early 1900s, is regarded as the first popular daily comic strip. I imagine this is the first thing my grandmother would say if she were still alive and got to meet my girlfriend, Julie. The mismatched duo Mutt and Jeff.“You two look like Mutt and Jeff.”
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