pda

No, I haven't bought myself a new personal digital assistant. (I want a fancy new smart phone, but that's another story. I also want a Wii and a leather jacket. I'm a greedy little thing.)

No, this is about public displays of affection. In particular, homosexual pda--the sort that seems to frighten some narrow-minded folks. It seems two women were asked to stop making out at a recent Seattle Mariners' game, because another spectator had complained. There may well be more to this story--it turns out one woman involved was on an MTV bisexual version of The Bachelorette. Regardless, it makes me sad.

Why? Because I've spent my adult life censoring my pda's. I've spent way too many hours worried about what other people might think. Granted, some of this is just my upbringing as a Scandinavian-American Seattleite, but a lot of it has to do with how people respond to gay folks. Years ago, a woman followed me into the bathroom at a seedy bar and threatened to beat me up, because apparently her boyfriend thought I was cute and I was there with my girlfriend. It was bad enough, I guess, that her boyfriend looked at me (and, btw, *ick*), but the fact that I had no interest in boys was just to much for her snaggle-toothed little brain. (Okay, the brain wasn't snaggle-toothed, she was, but you get my point.)

I still think twice when I reach for the hand of the woman I'm walking through the mall with. So, as part of my new fearless campaign, I promise to engage in pda whenever possible. Well, at least so long as I'm with someone I actually want to express such affection for. I'm not threatening random smooches.

Unless she's really really cute.

And wants to buy me a leather jacket.