Meet Queer Abby, feel free to ask her anything in the comments below or write to her directly at abagailwaller@gmail.com.

If the title wasn’t warning enough….

WARNING: this story contains language not suitable for those who are squeamish about the female body and it’s hormonal complexities. Do not read if you are offended, grossed out by, or have any other negative feelings about the functions of the female body. Also, if you feel this way don’t read anything I write ever because you’re a sexist poop-head.

A thing that has been a thing in my life for quite some time is that I have had chronic urinary issues. Like, it sometimes still feels like I need to pee after I pee and sometimes I just feel like my vag is mad at me after I do pee. She’s so high-maintenance.

So, I set up a doctor’s appointment. My normal OBGYN didn’t have an appointment for a while so they asked if I wanted to set one up with someone else. Eh, sure. Why not? So they set me up with a different doctor. Important to note: I was also told I was due for my pap appointment…so I set that up for the soonest my doc. had available: Jan. 14th.

I go in to see her and she checks everything out — yay, pelvic exam #1! She ultimately tells me that everything looks okay but considering my symptoms I should see a urologist. Ok, fast-forward to two weeks later…aka: Jan. 13th = pelvic exam #2 and some other extreeemely unpleasant catheter-type stuff. It’s not fun. Don’t do it.

Well, the doc. determined (I guess by process of elimination) that I have IC or Interstitial cystitis…which means peeing can hurt sometimes. Great. He prescribes some pretty cool sounding natural stuff that I’m actually optimistic about and then some stuff that turns my pee blue. Seriously. Freaking blue kool-aid blue. Am now a smurf.

Okay, so that just leaves my last appointment…the very next day. Pelvic exam #3. I guess my high-maintenance pelvis is finally getting all the attention she wants. FML.

At this point, I’ve been prodded and probed so many times that I’m pretty copacetic about going in for yet another pelvic exam. I meet with the incredibly kind nurse who asks me questions to update my medical history, takes my blood pressure, and tells me to undress and put on the always-chic hospital gown. After she leaves I go through the process of taking off my numerous layers of winter clothing — including my tall boots and tall socks. I put my socks back on because; dammit…it’s cold in those exam rooms! My doc comes in the room and proceeds to ask me how I’m doing. I let her know that, other than the bladder stuff that’s being addressed by the urologist, everything seems fairly normal with the exception of monster cramps during some of my menstrual cycles. Just when she starts to talk about how birth control or a Mirena IUD might help, the lights above my head start flashing. I start to ask what’s going on when alarms start going off too.

Doc: “Oh no. Really? Not again.”
Me: “Um, oh…it’s the fire alarm.”

Doc: “Yeah. It’s a drill. You’re already here and undressed. Do you want to try to go ahead and take care of the exam?”
Me: “…….I. Um. I’m not sure, I guess? If you think we have time?”
Doc: “Let me check just to see if they want us to evacuate.”

My doctor leaves the room and I sit there with sirens blaring and lights flashing around me with nothing but my thin over-sized gown and see-through sheet over my lap. No longer do I feel completely copacetic.

My doc reenters the room and tells me that, yes, they want us to evacuate. She then says that, if I’m up for it, we can go ahead and do the exam really quickly so that I don’t have to put all my clothes back on, go all the way downstairs and out of the hospital, and wait for who knows how long only to have to come all the way back upstairs and get undressed again for such a quick medical exam. I agreed that, sure, if she thought there was time, to go ahead and do it.

So, the doc calls the nurse in, I scooch my butt all the way to the end of the table…and with lights flashing over my head and alarms sounding, my doctor proceeds with my pelvic’s third exam in less than three weeks. She’s doing all the things they normally do and asking me questions, but I’m distracted by the incredibly odd situation so I just murmur my responses as the nurse jokingly offers her elbow for comfort/support. Just then someone tries to enter the room and the nurse barks out a firm:
“No. No. NO!”

The door slowly eases back shut and I actually let out a chuckle and say:

“Oh my god, this is like an episode of Seinfield or something.” We all laugh, because as awkward as it may be, the situation is a pretty funny.

The doc finishes the fastest pap I’ve ever had and tells me that I can get dressed. I put on my nineteen layers as quickly as I can and walk out of a room into a completely empty hallway, that just fifteen minutes before, was filled with people. My doc tells me we can follow up by phone and the nurse walks me through the empty hospital, down five flights of stairs, and out into the January air where a crowd of people make room for a fire truck to pull up to the building.

And that was, I hope, my final female exam for at least a year….preferably more.

The post Queer Abby: T.M.I. for the squeamish type (blue pee and paps!) first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY ABBY WALLER
Lesbian.com

Meet Queer Abby, our new advice columnist, feel free to ask her anything in the comments below or write to her directly at abagailwaller@gmail.com.

Brandon writes:

Hi Abby!

My question has a bit of background to it. I’m a male straight ally, but there’s always been a connection between myself and bi women. I was friends with a lesbian couple back in college. One half of that couple started wondering if she was bi. She trusted me, So she asked that I help her test the theory. Her girlfriend seemed cool with it, but there was too much potential for drama. Consequently, I decided to wait on that for a bit.  Good thing I did, as the other half expressed some insecurity later on.  This has become a running theme in my love life. Bi girls express interest, and others in the LGBT community feel somewhat threatened by that. Is there a right way to navigate this phenomenon?

Trusted Ally Brandon

Dear T.A.B.,

The post Queer Abby: To bi or not to bi? first appeared on Lesbian.com.

As a child my father was a soldier and would spend long periods of time in the field. We would not see him for days (sometimes even weeks) on end, and when he’d finally come home – dirty and exhausted after working with heavy artillery – he still had the energy to smile and hug his three young kids.

He finally left the army to have a more stable home life and we all settled in Peoria, Illinois. He began a new career as a mechanic, as he’d always taken an interest in machinery. The transition was tough though, and his first job as a tire tech didn’t pay much. So he ended up working three jobs to provide for me, my sister, my brother and our mother. Finally, a better paying mechanic job in Richmond, VA opened up. We all packed up our belongings and made the trek to our new home on the east coast.

Things went along just fine until we hit another rough patch. My father and mother divorced a few years after the move when I was fourteen. We didn’t see much of my mother after that, but my father continued to do the best he could to raise three teenagers all on his own. He worked as many hours as his company would let him and picked up overtime whenever he got the opportunity just so he could give me twenty bucks to go to the movies with friends, buy a prom dress for my sister, or a new video game for my brother. Another year or so after my parents’ divorce, we had a house fire in our two-story cape-cod style home. The fire originated in the upstairs of our home, across from my bedroom. My sister and her boyfriend (now husband) were sleeping in her room downstairs, my father – also downstairs – was in the kitchen cleaning when he heard a strange crackling noise. I was home sick from school, asleep in my bedroom upstairs, when I heard my father screaming.

“Fire! Abby! Wake up – you have to get out of there!” was what made me spring from bed and rush to my bedroom door. I hesitated a moment as I stared at my closed door – what was I supposed to do again? Nothing made sense. Everything was so surreal. I heard my dad scream my name again – the panic in his voice made my blood run cold. Without thinking I swung open my door. I immediately felt the heat hit my skin.

The next thing I saw haunts me to this day. My door frame looked as though it was melting. Black sticky pieces of paint dropped from overhead and fell at my feet while I stood paralyzed, staring. Beyond my door was nothing…just a thick gray-black wall…smoke. I finally snapped back to reality. This is happening. My house is burning with me in it.

“Dad!?” I called.

“Abby, Abby – You have to run; you have to get out of there!”

A tiny whimper escaped my throat. “I can’t…Dad…I can’t see anything!”

“Listen to me – you hear my voice?” he said with urgency. “You have to get out of there, just run toward the sound of my voice.”

I took one last deep breath; I could no longer see – I just felt the heat of the flames engulfing our home – and I ran down the stairs, out of my house, and onto my front lawn where my father, sister, and her boyfriend were standing. I swung around to see flames bursting through our roof.Moments later, my father and I were rushed to the hospital. I escaped, for the most part, unscathed. My father, who’d attempted to battle the flames, suffered the worst. He’d singed off a lot of eyelashes and eyebrows, got a few burns, and was hospitalized overnight to be treated for smoke inhalation. I looked at him lying there in a hospital bed and tears spilled from eyes as the realization that my father had just saved my life sunk in.

Thankfully, insurance helped to take care of a lot of what we lost. However, we were still out of our home and as the date of completion to restore our house kept getting pushed back; we bounced from one temporary apartment to another. After we’d finally moved back home a company came along and wanted to buy up all the houses on our street so that they could build a big group of new stores. Feeling as though it was inevitable my father decided to just sell his home and buy a two bedroom condo. At that point, my sister and I had moved out and it was just my dad and my brother left to live in the condo.

Over the years he has opened his little place that should be a bachelor pad to more than one of his adult children when they’ve hit hard times. He has provided a home to multiple pets and cared for them long into their senior years. His condo has suffered from his generosity – from the toddler hands of his grandson peeling back wallpaper and hair-dye splattered onto bathroom walls to old dog accidents on his carpet and so much motor oil and car grease stains from his long, hard days working on cars. He tries his best to keep his little place in good shape, but after so much manual labor and not much cash in his pockets at the end of the day…there just isn’t much he can do.

My father still works hard – too hard. He often suffers back injuries and was even bed-ridden for days on end. He doesn’t like to talk about his hardships or ask for help, but because I worry so much, I pry a little. Recently, he’s hit some tough times. His car is in desperate need of repairs (or replacing at this point), and the bills have piled up.  Though I’m not sure he’d admit it, he can’t possibly work as hard as he did fifteen years ago. I worry for my dad’s future, but he just smiles and says it’ll all be just fine.

This is a man who gives and gives…and when there’s nothing left…he still finds a way to give more. He has never asked for much of anything and is still so grateful. He says that his children are his greatest accomplishment. He doesn’t ever let us forget how proud of us he is, and a few days ago when I mentioned being a bit short on Christmas spirit; he reminded me that things always get better and that the work I do is meaningful and important. He told me to keep my head up, gave me a big bear hug that only dads can give, and told me he loved me.

My father, my hero, deserves so much more than I can give…but I’m hoping this Christmas that by sharing this story, maybe, just maybe, a few folks out there will help me help make his home just a little better for him.

I cannot express how much this gift would mean to him. All I can say is that I can’t think of a more kind and generous human being who truly deserves a little Christmas miracle. Please consider contributing today.

The post A soldier, a father, a hero first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY ABBY WALLER

Meet Queer Abby, our new advice columnist, feel free to ask her anything in the comments below or write to her directly at abagailwaller@gmail.com.

There’s just something about Christmas. I can’t deny it…I don’t try to. I really do love it.

Christmas fervor is a force stronger than me and it really makes no sense. I mean, work is a thousand times busier, it’s colder than a snowman’s balls outside, and I’m more broke than ever.

Still though, I find myself wanting to decorate my home as if Christmas lights boned like bunnies and their offspring perched themselves on every hook, ledge, or surface throughout my house. I want to wrap presents while drinking hot cocoa, watch Christmas movies and listen to holiday music on vinyl that I scored from thrifty spots around town.
And that right there is the thing I might love most of all — Every year my family and I get together for what we call “A very Thrifty Christmas.” Basically, we all get together on Christmas day just like millions of families across the country, but instead of giving each other iPads, SUVs with giant bows on top, and other stuff we can’t afford…we give each other handmade items or items scored from thrift stores.
I’m a big fan of thrift stores – what’s not to like?

1. They’re environmentally friendly. Seriously. Do you have any idea how much clothing ends up in landfills? Apparently, 10.5 million tons. Barf. When you shop at a thrift store; you’re supporting the whole reduce, reuse, recycle ethos.
2. Uh hello…they’re hella cheap! I just won’t ever find any fault in trying to save a buck. I scored some rad Michael Kors boots for $40 at a thrift store that originally retailed for around $300.
3. They’re filled with Nostalgia. I constantly come across stuff in thrift stores that brings back oodles of childhood memories. Remember New Kids on the Block or the Spice Girls? I’ve spotted Spice Girl dolls with super tousled hair and bedspreads adorned with the faces of the boys from NKOTB.

So, every “Thrifty Christmas” I like to get thrifty with it. You literally have no idea what you’ll find. The holidays shouldn’t be about fighting some soccer mom at Target for the hottest toy of season to give to your kid who’ll appreciate it for three weeks and then decide they want a laptop instead. It should be about family. It should be about laughing, having a good time with the ones you love, and just enjoying being around each other.

So, pass the eggnog…actually, no don’t, eggnog is totally gross. Make me a sparkling cranberry cocktail and put on The Santa Claus or Elf. I’ll snuggle under a blanket with my lady and then head out to treasure hunt for the perfect thrifty Christmas gifts.

The post Queer Abby: Gettin’ thrifty with it first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY ABBY WALLER

Meet Queer Abby, our new advice columnist, feel free to ask her anything in the comments below or write to her directly at abagailwaller@gmail.com.

Alexandra writes:
Hello Abby,
I am a transgender woman. I wanted some advice on how I can find a woman that would want to date a transgender woman.
Thank you,
Alexandra

Dear Alexandra,
In the LGBTQ community finding a date can seem like an overwhelmingly arduous task. As I wrote in my last column, “I went to a local lesbian dive bar on “college” night to nervously dance to Top 40’s hits while giving the eye to any cute girl that looked my way.” — meaning, as hard and as nervewracking as it was, I put myself out there.

This is truly half the battle. Really, more than half. Once I swallowed my anxiety and fear of being turned down, I started getting a few phone numbers and eventually…some super hot make-out sessions. I kind of feel like a lot of people have probably told you or would tell you to check out dating sites (and hey, this works really well for some) and I bet you’ve already done that. However, if you haven’t, go ahead and sign up on a few, but do your very best not to get your hopes up. Online dating can be so unpredictable as literally anyone can create a profile and make up a persona rather than being forthright about who they really are. Just be extremely careful.

Okay. You have your online dating profiles up. Well, don’t wait for a date. Don’t sit by your computer waiting for the right transwoman to come to you. It’s time to grab a few pals and get on out there. Do you have some queer/trans-friendly clubs or events in your area? Find a supportive friend or two to attend them or go out with you. Even if you’re apprehensive about going to a party or a social gathering because perhaps you’re afraid you won’t know a lot of people — squash that fear and go! These are the best parties to meet new people. I met my wife at the party of a friend of a friend where I hardly knew anyone. Rule #1 in dating: Put yourself out there.

Last but not least, I’m kind of a believer in that love (or just intimate encounters) will find you when you’re at your best. So, be sure you’re taking care of you. Take plenty of time to do the things you enjoy, surround yourself with good people, and in due time good things will find you.

The post Queer Abby: Don’t wait for a date first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Meet Queer Abby, our new advice columnist, feel free to ask her anything in the comments below or write to her directly at abagailwaller@gmail.com.

When I came out of the closet I sort of tiptoed out. There was no party, no parade, and no dancing girls. I warily dipped my big toe in the still, warm water of queerdom. Once I was finally “all the way out” at the age of twenty–I sought out all things gay. I watched every episode I could of the L Word and I went to a local lesbian dive bar on “college” night to nervously dance to Top 40’s hits while giving the eye to any cute girl that looked my way.

Coming out isn’t easy…at least it wasn’t for me. I was raised in a strict southern baptist household where I wasn’t allowed to wear pants, take the lord’s name in vain, or listen to rock music. I used to jokingly say that I am absolute proof that homosexuality is something you’re born with–like being born with red hair or olive skin. I am proof because there’s utterly no “explanation” for my “becoming gay.” I didn’t even really know what gay was until long after I started having feelings of attraction towards girls.

At the age of fifteen I kissed a girl for the first time. We made out and it was awesome. But immediately afterwards, I was filled with shame, and I dug a hole deep in my gut to put any queer feelings into. I wouldn’t kiss another girl for five years. It was the longest five years of my life.

Shortly after my 20th birthday I finally dropped the straight-charade and came out. I created about 3,738 online dating profiles with the hope of getting a girlfriend or at the very least, getting laid. I went on multiple dates and had even more flaky-date cancellations. After a few months of playing this awful game, I met a tomboyish redhead who’d end up being my first girlfriend. We went on our first date (I have no recollection of what we did or where we went) and then we went back to my place and well…you know.

The tomboyish redhead took me to my very first Gay Pride event in D.C. That might have been the beginning of the end for us. I mean, lezbehonest, I was a fresh-out-of-the-closet baby dyke and going to Pride in the nation’s capital was like being a kid in the Willy Wonka factory. I walked the streets of Dupont Circle with my eyes taking in countless types of lesbians. There were ultra-femme ones, leather daddy ones, androgynous ones, and me: a totally overwhelmed, ravenously eager-to-have-it-all and astoundingly naive little lesbian.

That whole weekend was filled with my staring in wide-eyed wonder as drag kings strutted down the street, and queer folks from all walks of life gathered celebrate being “out” together. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I was completely enraptured knowing that I was in a safe place. I didn’t feel threatened or like a fish out of water. I was surrounded by smiling faces and people that had one thing very in common with me: they were attracted to members of the same sex, too.

The years passed and even though I’d come out and knew I wanted to be with women, I struggled with my queer identity and bounced all over the femme/butch spectrum. When I met my wife I was at the top of my game. I’d been single for a while, was working out on the regular, and was having a generally good time — if you catch my drift. I felt good about my androgynous style and enjoyed not toeing the line of gender rules,

My Missus and I have been together for eight years and married for four. She has loved me on my femmiest days and my butchiest days. She has never eluded to which of my “looks” is her preference and continues to stand by me with unwavering love as I shrug off one style to try on another for a while.

Who knows — maybe I’m still confused and in 6 months, a year, or 5 years I’ll decide that I’m totally tomboy or fervently femme. After all, that’s my right. But for now, I feel amazing. I feel freed. It may seem silly, but just a dapper button up or layer of fire-engine red lipstick can do so much for the soul. Why should I be absolute with my gender? Isn’t that boringly heteronormative? I’ve spent too long worrying about the comfort of others that I’ve forgotten about my own comfort. I feel as though I’m getting back to my andro-roots, and am blending the rules of gender conformity. I hope I stay here awhile — because I feel right at home.

The post Queer Abby: Blending the rules first appeared on Lesbian.com.