This only encourages my grandfather.

I have mentioned before how my Grandpa asked me for years about potential boyfriend material / dates / my love life in general, but has now taken to skipping all the boyfriend questions and heading straight towards, "You know Sarah Isabelle, I see nothing wrong with the gay lifestyle."

That's fine, whatever. Things would be much easier if I were, since boys are hard and dating makes me break out into hives of rage and confusion. Unfortunately, beyond pulling a Jessica Stein, I am stuck with online dating retardation. Most of the time I am doing awesome being single. Romance is complicated. I think I read one too many Harlequin Romance novels in my youth, because I am half-expecting my future boss to be dashing, darkly handsome, and passionately in love with me ... until I catch him with his secretary in an easily mistranslated bedroom romp, run away, bear his love child, and run into him years down the road where he will gently sweep my back off my feet and reveal that he is secretly the Crown Prince of Bolivia.

Laura and I have been joking around for years that we are a lesbian couple, and I feel as though I should stress that we aren't. We are a pseudolesbian couple, which mainly means we go out, eat pasta swimming in cheese, go Value Village shopping with other lesbians, see Sarah Harmer in concert and participate in the slow clap as instigated by the incredibly over-excited guy behind us, watch movies and dream of the day that Kevin Costner comes over to our house, shirtless, bearing a hammer that he knows how to use.

I am not saying that all lesbians go to Value Village, but I've run into the majority of lesbians I know at Value Village. I'm just sayin'.

The other night, Laura got drunk, and I love that she did. I tried to get as intoxicated as she was, I really did, but a combination of being in charge of the biggest shoot of my life thus far plus being one giant, snotty, sick ball of hotness made me exhausted and strangely unintoxicate-able. I won't say much about Laura's drunkeness, or Jules' practically passed out at the table muttering "I don't puke!" over and over again, or Laura hugging random truckers at the Husky while ordering giant heaps of "man-sausage", but I will talk about Laura coming to get me shouting, "I NEED MY SARAH!" and holding my hand throughout the night, our fingers intertwined like the sweetest pseudolesbian couple to ever grace the Husky diner.

Anyways. Last night I am sitting at Easter dinner with family -- all my cousins and Aunt and Uncle and Grandpa are there. My mom is talking about her great aunt, who lived on the "Dyke Block".

"Wait. What? The Dyke Block?" I ask, giggling.

"Well, that's what they called it." She replies.

"What you're saying is that your great aunt lived on the Dyke Block. Was that it's official name, or just like, the naughty women's prison section of town?"

"No, no ... it was actually called Dyke Block. But now that you mention it, maybe you and Laura should move in there."

Silence. At the table.

Thanks, mom. I think you have officially gotten back at me for that time when I was ten and told the entire family at dinner that I had walked in on you and dad having sex.

... nah. I still win.