Gays are fascinating, mysterious creatures.  As a result, it can be difficult to view a gay and all of his (Or her?  Sometimes it’s so hard to tell!) extremely intriguing behaviors outside the context of his (her) sexual orientation.  For example, if you were to meet a well-dressed gay man named Neil, you probably wouldn’t think, “My, that individual Neil sure has an eye for fashion.”  Most likely you would think, “My, flaming homos such as Neil are so very stylish.”  You can’t help it.  It’s how our brains are wired.  

The first installment of Gay and at the… dealt with traditionally heterosexual environments where being viewed in the context of sexual orientation could lead to awkwardness.  As easy as it would be to continue down this road – Gay and at the…Sorority Mixer!  Wedding shower!  Closeted girlfriend’s Catholic parents’ dinner party! – I’m going to take this in a different direction.   

Sometimes even more uncomfortable than being Gay and at the…[traditionally heterosexual place where gender-specific behavior is expected], is being Gay and at the…[place so stereotypically gay I’m pretty sure it’s where rainbows come from].  When you are a gay in such an environment, all of your actions, your very presence in fact, can be attributed to your sexuality.  For example, if you were to spot our fashionable friend Neil at a local production of Hairspray, you would probably think, “My, those homos sure live and breathe Broadway.”  But if Neil’s heterosexual brother Paul was also in attendance, you would likely think, “My, how nice to meet a man who appreciates culture.  Perhaps I will try to hook him up with my single, straight friend Kate.”  

I’m sure this phenomenon has tainted many a WNBA game for the dyke women’s basketball enthusiast, or Ani Difranco concert for the lesbian acoustic jams lover.  The fact that you just thought, “Marea, ‘dyke women’s basketball enthusiast’ and ‘lesbian acoustic jams lover’ are the most redundant phrases ever uttered,” just further illustrates my point.   

So now, after that very exhaustive introduction, I’d like to discuss being:  

Gay and at the…Home Depot  

At the risk of getting my official dyke membership revoked, I have a confession to make: I feel more self-conscious about my sexuality when I enter Home Depot than I do when I enter Nordstrom Rack.   

I imagine mine is a discomfort similar to that experienced by frat boys when two men show minor affection in their presence or someone so much as mentions Brokeback Mountain; “that queer shit” is like a black light examining their stained bed sheets and threatens to uncover the homo teeming in them if they so much as stand too close to it.  In Home Depot, I could be hanging off the arm of one of these frat boys in my finest sundress, and I would still believe that my proximity to all the potential home improvement projects was giving everyone x-ray vision into my cargo-pocketed heart.    

This self-consciousness is always intensified by the INEVITABLE presence of another lesbian contentedly browsing the aisles while I’m there, as if she’s not even embarrassed to be such a complete embodiment of a stereotype.  And I don’t mean another lesbian like a sporty looking girl who I’m making pervy assumptions about; I mean a LESBIAN, with spiky bleached hair, wearing a shirt from her blue collar job with her name sewn on its pocket in cursive.  This Harley Davidson enthusiast always nods pleasantly at me as if wordlessly saying, “We’re the same you and me, just a couple-a-dykes doing what we do best,” before hoisting a hardware product I don’t know how to use over one of her sizable shoulders.   

“We’re not the same!” I always want to hiss too defensively, clutching my less impressive purchase – probaby duct tape (which, as it turns out, is kept with the plumbing supplies as its primary use is not to shoddily reattach things – who knew!) – against my shirt to hide the rugby logo.   

“You’re way gayer!”   

And if I may digress slightly and make this totally about me per my usual, I must say that my failure to identify with this lesbian is part of the reason Home Depot makes me so uncomfortable.  I’m sure my friends are tired of hearing me complain about how I’m a “useless dyke” in the sense that none of my stereotypically gay qualities actually contribute to society.  I have tools, but for the same reason the frat boys all have the Scarface movie poster; keeping Al Pacino and Black & Decker around provides some semblance of legitimacy even if you have NEVER exhibited any of the qualities they represent.  I am certainly the last person you would call if you need something…cocked.  I am the girl uselessly snickering at the word “cocked”.  (And the girl misspelling “caulked” apparently.  Thanks to my new editor Becca)  

I cannot build you furniture, fix a plumbing problem that outlasts a bottle of Drano, or figure out how to record a series as opposed to a single episode on the DVR.  I’m not very good with directions, I’m terrified of rodents, and when our doorknob gets loose I just pretend I don’t notice until my decidedly less-gay roommate Emily fixes it.  If a mechanic were to tell me my car is broken because the little man who turns the crank in my engine has come down with mono, I would nod and grunt as if I understood and then hand him my credit card.  Frankly, even thinking of enough handy things I can’t do to make a respectable list is something I am finding extremely difficult.  All of these inadequacies are highlighted when I bumble through the dreaded Home Depot, revered Mecca to most respectable lesbians.  

As a gay person, and you’ll notice that I like speaking for all of us, you sometimes find yourself both embracing the stereotypes associated with your sexuality and feeling totally offended by them.  You’re pissed when a guy from work just assumes you’re good at softball, but failing to become the female MVP of his intramural team would result in certain humiliation.   

The problem with Home Depot is that it’s a world where I feel equally terrible at being straight and being gay.  I am not the pretty housewife soliciting garden labor from the Mexicans in the parking lot, nor am I the mega homo grabbing weekly supplies for my ambitious home renovation project.  Neither identity really applies.  

And the stereotype of lesbians liking Home Depot has grown to such legendary proportions that a lesbian can no longer enter Home Depot for a normal reason, like a need for duct tape; she can only enter Home Depot because it is her nature to love the shit out of fixing stuff.  So if I suck at wielding a hammer AND I suck at accessorizing, when I’m Gay and at the Home Depot, in which box do I belong?  (Pun not intended perverts.)  

I do not know the answer to that question, but I do know to stay the hell out of Home Depot as duct tape can also be purchased at Target.  If I can’t escape being viewed in the context of my orientation (if only in my own head), I’ll stick to Sports Chalet, a lesbian Mecca where at least I can somewhat hold my own. 

Visual learners click here. 

This really just says it all.