Lesbians are a lifelong commitment.

Here’s a little lesson, direct from me to you. You know those great friends you have that will drop everything in order to help you? The ones who will walk away from their own relaxation time to make your life a little easier? The besties that stick around for the not-so-fun parts that come after the fun parts? Well. Eventually they call in their chits.

Also, chits is a gross word.

We have a set of lesbians – that is, the far more useful yet somehow less sought-after version of gay men. Lesbians are the types to care for you, to help you, and to have fun no matter what you do while the gay men will be insisting that you get changed before you bring them their Appletinis because looking at poly-blends hurts their eyes.

Our lesbians both come from construction empires, both know how to build things and tear things down, and both seem to pull some innate satisfaction from doing all the things that the newf and I hate – i.e. lifting, moving, packing, unpacking, cleaning, manual labour, caring for others, and spending time with old people. They have helped us move twice, they’ve built barbecues and bedroom sets, they’ve fixed everything in our home from lighting and showers to clotheslines and hammocks, and they’ve answered every single call we put out for anyone with a pick-up truck with smiles on their faces. They’re sick. I mean they actually must suffer from some mental illness.

These ladies have truly been the absolute best thing to happen to us. Not to mention the fact that they are BEYOND fun, are always good for beer and food that we shouldn’t be eating, and their parents have an in-ground, heated pool the size of my house. But unfortunately, our friendship has to come to an end. Because apparently they expect the same in return.

Two weeks ago they took possession on a house. A big house. A big, fixer-upper house. A big, fixer-upper house that needs lots of hands on deck to turn into the dream home they have in their minds. And they have years and years and years of friend-favours that they can call in at any time resulting in last weekend’s landscaping marathon that involved me moving five-and-a-half truckloads of shrubbery around and suffering life-threatening injuries like hand blisters and scratches on my ankles. It was serious.

So basically I’m just going to stop picking up their phone calls and jump straight into Code Mormons when I see them coming down the street which clearly means grabbing whatever cheese and wine is within reach and making for the panic room. That they built for me. Without asking for anything in return. Because they’re so nice.

OH GOD WHY CAN’T I BE A TERRIBLE FRIEND WITHOUT THE ASSOCIATED GUILT?!

[Photo Credit: _Saturnine]