I'm Just Wondering...

Is it pathetic to take your kid’s Claritin instead of getting up and going to the store to buy the adult stuff?

Does anyone have any idea how bad it gets when you don’t do a single load of laundry for four whole days?

Can someone explain to me why a woman, who orders clothes to have ASAP, has them shipped overnight and then leaves them in the packages in the front hall for two weeks?

Is it possible for an entire mega-pack of socks from Costco, bought for Mr. Fashion (ankle socks ONLY) can disappear before they even hit the before mentioned enormous pile of laundry therefore leaving him sock less- which perchance is more fashionable?

Why is it that a woman with a college degree and many years working in the software industry, cannot turn on her TV without requiring her children’s help?

What is life without working on relationships? (I’m thinking like sitting in a snow drift- insular but cold.)

And lastly, have I bitched out the Christmas cookie making yet? Jeanine’s two-week binge of baking some of the most exquisite, intricate, amazing gourmet cookies that leaves my house in a shambles? The cookies that if I bitch about, everyone who gets them- about 75 people/families- threaten to kill me?

More on that later…

Breast Cancer Blog

I don't often rave about another person's blog because... well... everything is about me.

But this is one that is so well done, it's funny and stings all at once. It's not a light topic- it's about breast cancer, surviving it, and the process of going through each stage. If you've been through cancer, or had a friend go through it, I highly recommend reading it.

Laura Zigman is a grown up writer, with real books published and also happens to be a mom of one of Jake's friends. She is the person Jake told me to take some writing lessons from because, after all, she has written real books, as opposed to a silly ol' blog.

Yes, that is a narcissistic injury I'm still nursing.

Please go visit the site:

http://www.healthcentral.com/breast-cancer/c/8621/profiles/

And her regular blog is now listed on the sidebar. Sorry. Not blog. Brant.

Noise and Color and Feeling

I was accused the other day of creating chaos for chaos’ sake. Things were going just a little too smoothly for me.

It is a fine, fine line, a friend said, between “wanting to be fully alive and creating chaos sometimes. You know what being dead is like, and what dead and dead drunk do to life.”

I do. I watched my mother who had everything- friends, family, people who loved her so much, beautiful art, amazing opportunities, traveled almost the entire world - and she was miserable. Day in and day out, drink after drink, she stayed numb.

I’ve been dead inside, too. I shut down a piece of myself too hard to deal with, slamming the door. The pieces I remembered- because I have always remembered some of the pieces- I twisted into some acceptable form of torture. It was too hard to hold otherwise.

I’ve spent years in my relationship feeling desperately alone and waiting for any crumb of attention. I filled my home with kids, with friends, always swirling, always moving, so I wouldn’t have to look at how empty I felt.

I am drawn to chaos. She’s right. It is a fine line and I’m not sure how to navigate it. I feel like I’m forever pulled to the roller coaster ride, loving it and hating it all at once. I’m not sure I know how else to live.

Three weeks ago Jeanine started the crazy work schedule again. Again again again. Did I say, Gosh, I'm feeling really lonely right now and what can we do to change what's going on? I don't want to feel so far away... not making her the bad guy, owning my own needs, and creating a place at the table for her that isn't about her being BAD. WRONG.

Instead, I let her go, and got pissed about it. Really pissed.

I know how to make it not happen but didn't. Not consciously, by any means. Jeanine, when invited with open arms and not reprimands, for the most part, tries her best to respond. I have reached a place in my life where everything is relatively smooth. I am beyond fortunate in many ways. I have created a wonderful family around me that loves me. The kids are great, daily drama, lack of pancakes, too many pimples and a constant shortage of clean socks but nothing earth shattering.

Fucking dull.

Maybe, though, just maybe, I’m not a head case that needs to hit my therapist’s couch (with no shoes on, of course) to rid myself once and for all of the need to rush down the hill. Maybe I don’t need to take a pill to calm down, as has been suggested to me from time to time from those around me weary of the ride.

Maybe, as my friend suggested, I just need to “grab for all the noise and color and feeling” I can because I’ve spent too much time dead inside.

And I don’t ever want to go back there again.

Guilty Pleasure

We all have one, right?

Tonight, Jeanine took the kids to a concert at Berklee College of Music. I'm sure it was wonderful as Stephen Webber is an amazing musician and the premier expert on turntables. He, quite literally, wrote the book.

Me? I stayed home. I did my work- yes, the passport applications are all filled out- and then? I indulged in my most favorite guilty pleasure.

Newspapers.

I have three delivered daily, even though I don't always get to read them. I love the paper. Not the internet, not news flashes, and never television news. I love newsprint.

So while my boys get some culture, I have had the chance to go through every page of the New York Times, Boston Globe and Wall Street Journal.

Hey, it's better than ice cream.

What's your guilty pleasure? What you do when no one is around, the kids are out, and you have a couple hours all to yourself?

And What's Worse?

Walter just walked in and opened the refrigerator, looking for the same magical Ho Ho's to appear.

I'm only doing this to prepare you for when the boys are older, He claims.

Yuh.

In Five Minutes

You know the song from Rent? Seasons of Love? All that talk about 525,600 minutes?

In the last five minutes, Ben has said to me, while "doing his homework:"

Mom. What's for dinner tomorrow night?

What about Friday night?

Mom, did you know that the music teacher at school never stops smiling? Too much botox. When he does stop smiling? A kitten dies.

What about Saturday night dinner?

What does suffix mean? No, I'm not suppose to know, you are. Didn't you graduate college?

Not to mention he has gone to the refrigerator three times, opened the doors and stared into it, hoping beyond hope that somehow a box of Ho Ho's will magically appear.

"How do you measure,measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?"

How do I measure a year? In eye rolls, in timeouts, in allowances, in trips to the mall. In shoes outgrown, in acne cream, in phone calls, in chores undone.

But please don't remind me of the exact number of minutes... please.

The Real News Flash

Mom? Ben asked sweetly just a few moments ago.

Yes?

Do you think you could wake up at 5AM tomorrow and make me pancakes for breakfast?

Um... No.

Why not?

Ben... I'm not getting up to make pancakes from scratch on a school morning. No.

Mooooommmmm...

I shrug.

You are so mean. If you really cared about me, you'd do it.

NEWS FLASH: Suburban Lesbian mother's heart has been transplanted in Vice President Cheney. He was recently seen up at 5AM making pancakes for his grandchildren. His next stop was to purchase a new Volvo station wagon and a pair of Keens.

The Suburban Lesbian, on the other hand, has refused her children basic needs, issued flip flops and tank tops for winter protection and mapped out a strategy for her elementary school to take over two other resource rich suburban schools.

NEWS FLASH

Dick Cheney's heart was "restored to normal" the other day.

Who knew he had one?

Does this mean he will join the Grinch in serving Roast Beast? Or drop his efforts to colonize Iran, along with Iraq and Afghanistan? Let our servicemen and women come home?

Or, as a friend noted, is it just a ploy for the Republicans to make room for an heir apparent, having Cheney need to resign and filling his spot with someone electable for the 2008 election?

In any case, it's still a stunning discovery.

Whitewashed

I read a friend’s blog today and looked back over my own from the last few days and realized we were both guilty of a bit of whitewashing.

You know, censoring out the unpleasant and making lovely pictures of events. I know I wasn’t intentionally leaving out the difficulties. But leave them out, I did.

Why?

Partly because I think it’s dull to hear over and over again that I’m still having nightmares, Jeanine is still working too much, and my family of origin continues to be a battle, one that leaves me feeling small and powerless.

Boring.

I also tend to paint a picture of a perfect family structure, one with two moms, two dads and our three boys. But it isn’t. We often disagree, and struggle with our roles. There are triangles on top of triangles built. None of us came from picture perfect circumstances. We all have had to deal with questioning ourselves, our sexuality, how the world perceives us based on who we love, a process that leaves scars on your psyche, no matter how much therapy you do.

The truth is we fight, we argue, we don’t like each other at times. We wrestle constantly with the roles of who has what right to say what about the kids lives. Do we, the moms, get ultimate veto power because we are the legal parents or do the dads have as much right to demand something? We all have the same overall values but how it plays out on a daily basis can be very different.

We are far from perfect.

Some of it comes from a desire to show off our gay family as just as good, if not better, than anyone else’s. I can hear my mother’s voice telling me that raising children as lesbians was wrong. She loved her grandchildren, but at any given moment, no matter how loving and accepting she seemed, she was quick to point out how wrong it was.

I was guaranteeing them a life of pain, discrimination and being an “other.” I would shrug and say, last I looked, people of color were having children and their kids were in the same boat, only they didn’t have the choice to disclose their difference.

She hated that response. She would mutter something about it being different and a choice.

I love that. Oh, yes, being gay is a choice and because it is SO MUCH EASIER to live this way. Why, complete strangers are willing to come up and slit our throats simply because we breathe. I believe that was part of the recruitment literature.

Get free pass to be a hate crime victim! Be refused employment! Denied heath care benefits! Have family and friends reject you!

Some of the need to ignore the bad, highlight the good is because I’m tired. I don’t want to be someone with nightmares. I don’t want to work so hard all the time at relationships. I hate being afraid. If I close my eyes, and plug my ears, it will be better.

I’ve been guilty of a little whitewashing over the last few weeks. Painting beautifully lit domestic harmony, like Johannes Vermeer where the reality is more like a Jackson Pollack painting, smattering of globs of paint all over. I spend so much time trying to stay in the lines when the lines don’t even come close to the reality of my life. The irony is, when the boys were little, I would sit and color with them, purposefully crossing the thick black borders, creating other images that didn’t exist on the paper. I encouraged them to do the same.

And yet I sit here, waiting for the world to say I am good enough. Look at how well I draw. Not a single mistake.

My apologies for being less than truthful at times. It comes, I know, from a deep-rooted need to be accepted. Loved. Acknowledged. To silence the critic on my shoulder, always pointing out the flaws in my life. Telling me how messy everything is, how I'll always be a failure. A disappointment.

My life does not fit in the lines. Nor does it need to be whitewashed.

The trick is for me to see it's still beautiful.

Sunday Night

It's the last day of vacation.

Sunday night. I have a stew simmering- duck confit pozole. A fire burning.

I am so tired.

I shouldn't be. It's not like the children are small and need to be monitored every minute. Doing laundry, grocery shopping and creating a DVD of pictures from the year for Nana's Christmas present- shhh, don't tell her- are not exhausting jobs.

But I am wiped out, nonetheless.

Maybe it's looking forward- the week after Thanksgiving signals the start of a host of events and parties. I love to do all of them, the preparation as much fun as the gathering. I have to line up guest bloggers over Christmas, keeping up my daily posting tradition even while in Costa Rica.

Oh, yes, and that Costa Rica trip that requires a passport which none of us have yet. Not that I'm at all freaked out about that.

For now, though, I need to chop some cilantro and make a salad. I had to laugh when Ben pointed out the bottled salad dressings at the grocery store.

Ew. These are gross.

Ben, not everyone makes their own dressing all the time.

Really?

Tomorrow everyone goes back to school- including Jeanine. I'll have my house to myself again. I can't wait.

Reality Check

and while we are all warm, enjoying our families, and feeling love...

I want to remind you that the Hate Crimes legislation is currently suffering a setback and may never become law.

Because LGBT people don't need special "rights."

Being out and lesbian, or gay, or bisexual or transgender means you are open to violence most heterosexual people cannot understand.

Until it's their family.

Photo Essay

So I had a couple requests for a picture of ME in orange. And flannel. I think I look ten years older up there. Maybe it's just the dirt.Before I show that picture, I have to torture you with pictures from the weekend. Yes, this means I am currently enjoying heat, electricity and wifi.

I was thankful there was orange to keep the dogs safe. Beanie was safe.




So was Buster. His orange was far more sophisticated.



There was a great deal of work to do to close the house for the winter.



Walter cooked a fabulous dinner the night before everyone arrived. Steak tips over the fire, sweet potatoes wrapped in foil and tossed into the coals and a wedge with blue cheese. It was still too cold to eat in the dining room, so we pulled the table in front of the fire.



After two solid days of stoking the fire, using the oven, and lighting the lamps, the house reached a warm, toasty 70 degrees.



The rain started to come down, the fog moved in and the wind picked up. It was fall in New England.



The storm system turned the weather warmer, the sea rougher.



Jake learned how to pass the time in a fog bank.



By Thanksgiving breakfast, Allan had almost finished boarding up the cottage, Walter had spent hours troubleshooting the water pump, and I had pondered how to serve bread, since I had no toaster and the oven was full of turkey.

I grilled thick slices of bread. Not bad.

Yes, I know the napkin is in the wrong place. Ben set the table. At least he remembered a napkin.



While I grew up with mashed sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner, a mixture that was clearly the filling for sweet potato pie, minus the shell, Jeanine has introduced a new favorite to the family. Sweet Potato Gnocchi.



It take time, especially when there is no running water at the time, but is the most amazing burst of flavor.



I set the table.



Dinner was great. We all shared something we were grateful for. Jake was grateful for his family, and I was grateful he could write that down on a piece of paper by himself. Allan was grateful we drove by the house in August and saw the sign. Walter was grateful for having the time to spend together, as was Jeanine.



Ben was grateful he wasn't in orange.



Jake waited for Walter to cut the turkey.



Zachary loved sitting at the head of the table.



After dinner, we all chilled, quietly, even without a football game to watch.



Even Buster, who found a home on Jeanine's side, as she napped on the couch. Rolling gnocchi is hard work.



And now that I've soothed your eyes with black and white... I'll give you some orange.



Too old. Too tired.

Great holiday.

Candelabras and Choices

Allan and I went out yesterday in search of a portable heater for the bathhouse, french bread and candles. As we left the house to head for Elmers- the local store/hardware/clothing stop- I noted it was a damn good thing we didn't have any big mirrors in the house.

I did not want to know what I looked like.

We enjoyed a hearty greeting from everyone and it always amuses me that everyone assumes we're married. I think we looked rather heterosexual, though Donald and Walter rolled their eyes when I said that. Before we left we made our list because going out to the store ends up to be about a 40 mile round trip. You don't want to forget anything.

Damn, I said. We forgot the candelabras. We don't have anything to hold the candles in.

We settled for some unscented camp candles and stood them up on a dish. I know, we are truly roughing it.

Last night I seared foie gras, and served it with sliced smoked duck breast and prosciutto on mixed greens with a shallot vinaigrette for dinner. You know, something I threw together on the fly.

Jeanine and the boys arrived last night. Ben walked around and glumly noted how stupid the house was, how stupid downeast Maine was and how stupid pretty much everything in his life was.

I'm going to love the teenage years.

This morning, while Alan was putting up boards over the windows (we will have the house closed after tomorrow), Walter was stuffing the turkey, Jeanine was hauling wood and I was staring breakfast, Ben exclaimed,

I do EVERYTHING around here.

Walter and I looked at each other, dropped our tasks and said, Great. That means it's cocktail hour!

Well... ALMOST everything.

I figured out a great way to give the kids a choice in chores. You know, all the parenting literature today says, give children a choice, an option, which I actually think is a nightmare waiting to happen but then, I have three kids.

Three choices.

Not in a million years. But I do try to be reasonable, so I have been giving them a choice. Clean the table or clean the outhouse. Haul some wood or clean the outhouse. Help Allan with the boards or ... you get the idea. Funny how fast things get done around here now.

All with a choice.

This morning, at high tide, the water reached the very edge of our house. Looking out, it seemed like we were on a boat. In a moment, even with the rough water, I promised myself to learn how to sail next summer.

The turkey is in the oven. Jeanine is rolling out sweet potato gnocchi. I have an anniversary edition Grgich Hills Chardonnay to open with dinner. A 1985 Dow's vintage port to go with cheese afterwards. The rest is standard favorites- green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, turkey, ham and rolls.

Hey, we don't have any candle holders at the table. It's not perfect.

We have a lot of choices up here. Not just to clean the outhouse or not, but to sit in front of the fire, to walk to the point, to play the piano. Mostly, though, we have the choice to all come together as a family. To celebrate who we have become, the work that goes into being together, and all the love we have surrounding us. We don't have to be here, trying to figure out who is doing what, how to get our needs met and still be respectful of one another. It's a constant dance. It's not always easy but we choose to work at it.

And for that, I give thanks today.

Recipe for Sadness

How to get really sad:

Take some Smithfield country ham slices. Only Smithfield. Most of cooking is about ingredients. Simple is better but then each thing you add makes a huge difference.

You need a cast ion skillet. I have to admit, I do not have one at home. It can takes years to season one. I had one and my ex-girlfriend took it. I got the rolling pin. I think I lost on that deal.

Over moderate heat, fry the ham slices. Get 'em crispy, brown on the edges. You don't want the pan too hot, because then you end up with hockey puck like ham. Take ham out and add either water or black coffee. True red eye gravy is made with coffee. I also put syrup on my grits, so as a Yankee, I use water. It depends on how much ham you cooked, but for three big slices, you'd use about 3/4's cup.

You have to eye it.

Crank the heat, deglaze the pan, and add more if it gets too thick, you want it to be thicker than water, but it's never going to get too much thicker.

Pour over the ham. Serve with biscuits, lots of butter and hot coffee.

In the end, miss your mom who taught you how to make it. That’s the sad part.

Keep large quantities of water nearby for the rest of the day, as it's more salt than you've consumed in a year.

A friend said, to restock for tears. I think she's right.

All Better- Especially in Orange

A new battery for the solar power, a huge bed of coals from the constant fire, and a nice hot shower- life is grand.

Allan and I fetched water today from the community pump. He had bought a water test kit and we compared it to Poland Spring water. It's as good but I hate to point out the source of Poland Spring is next to a superfund site but why split hairs.

When I arrived last night, Walter was walking around in muck boots, his heavy bathrobe, a knit cap that looks like (on purpose) a jester's cap, and an orange vest. Ben is going to be horrified when he gets here. All he needs to do is pull on the calico apron and Ben will sit in the car, refusing to enter the building. The other night he said he’d rather be dead then out of fashion- that means wearing orange for hunting season. I wonder how he’ll react to all of his parents in twenty layers of flannel and... uh...bathrobes in some cases, to keep warm.

And in orange. Even Buster, Allan’s tiny dog has a florescent bow around his neck. I know, it’s not squirrel season but you can never be too careful up here. Donald told me a story of a woman who was shot in her back yard putting out laundry with white mittens on and a fur coat. Hunters got off scot-free because “everyone knows better than to dress like that during hunting season.”

Makes you want to wear orange sitting in the house.

The living room is a toasty 60 degrees and the hand crank, solar radio is playing a beautiful piece by Mendelssohn. Walter is cooking dinner, and the dining room is warm enough to sit at the table.

The baby loons from the summer are almost grown. It’s 4:30pm and dark, just an edge of purple on the horizon. I can’t wait for Jeanine and the boys to get here tomorrow. Jake will want to do some painting. Zachary promised to bring his Greek Mythology book up so we could both read it.

Mostly? I can’t wait to see Ben’s face.

Technical Difficulties

This may be my last post until I return to some form of civilization- as in Donald's house for a hot shower and wifi.

Or the power/technical guru makes it up here.

Either way, I'm almost out of power with no more in sight until we leave.

The good news? the house is up to 50 degrees- balmy. Ready to wear shorts.

freezing adoration

Have you ever been stared at with adoration for six straight hours?

Today, driving to downeast Maine, I had my dog, my pal, my baby sit next to me in the truck and stare at me the entire way.

Okay, once in Ellsworth she did turn, but it was because we both saw our first moose in Maine- unfortunately it was a dead one on the side of the road with a police car and people around it.

She’s a great dog.

It is a little cold. Okay… more than a little cold, it’s fucking freezing. Using the outhouse at 30 degrees makes you wonder when your butt will actually stick to the plastic. No splashing, no matter what.

Allan, Walter and I are here with the dogs. Donald came over to hang out but the funny thing is, even though I offered for him to stay the night, he refused.

I think he said, something like, YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING.

This morning, Walter and I engaged in a little pissing contest about who could handle the cold. He told me they were going to stay at Donald’s and I replied I’d tell him who was the butch in the family? Call me a princess because I use cloth napkins?

He replied, I'll show you who is the most butch. I'll sleep on the rock in front of the house, with just a handkerchief and a soft rock for a pillow.
Beat that missy miss.

I said something about no handkerchief, I’d wear the fur and dodge bullets while I slept, with no soft rocks.

The reality? The living room, with a roaring fire is 58 degrees. My bedroom is about 40.

But I have a dog that adores me. Endlessly.

More tomorrow when my fingers aren’t too frozen to type.

The Fur Person

Ben was going down to Dunkin Donuts this morning for a croissant because damn, we're all out. Of course, I don't have a winter coat that fits him yet. It’s been so warm this year, I haven’t even thought to make the annual pilgrimage to buy ten pairs of gloves, hats, winter coats, boots. The beauty of hand me downs means I don't look like a total loser mother because at least two of my kids have winter wear at the right time.

I told him to go in the closet and see what fits. He can wear some of Jeanine's stuff. What does he pull out?

My mother's fur coat.

Is it mink? He asks, while putting it on.

Yes.

Is it real?

Yes.

Is it expensive?

Yes.

(I am in SO MUCH trouble with this boy)

Can I wear it?

Not to Dunkin Donuts.

Why?

You can't spill on it Ben.

Is it worth a million dollars?

No, try a couple thousand. And it was your grandmother's so it's irreplaceable.

Notice I don't mention she really gave it to them, not to me.

Can I wear it to downeast?

We are traveling to the bitter cold of downeast Maine for Thanksgiving. A house with no heat, no insulation and the wind off the water. I was eyeing it, too.

Yes.

And then he carefully takes the hanger out of the closet and puts the coat back on it, a behavior I have explained, exhibited and encouraged but never seen from him.

My son, the fur person.

I’m in so much trouble.

(Please note a tip of the hat to May Sarton, as "The Fur Person" is one of my all time favorite books.)

The Flog

I was going to post a flog today, instead of a blog. You know, a page long rant about how awful I was, my insecurities, letting my inner critics have the stage, spotlight and a loudspeaker. Flog myself without mercy. I got a good start at midnight last night, finishing a rough draft by 1AM.

I wrote it and looked at it. It shouldn’t fit anymore. And yet, I believe the words, the shame and take the humiliation because I know I deserve it. I’m a little girl, nothing I can do or say is okay, I must be bad if the people who love me treat me this way. Years and miles away from my abuser, my confidence continues to be raped, over and over again. I am powerless.

He is still inside me. Taking. It makes me sick.

There are times I feel like I’m almost in the clear. I’ve almost exorcised all the demons. I can sit back and watch me chair a meeting, deal with finance issues, discuss grant making programs, do the work I’ve done for 15 years, and I almost feel free.

Almost is the key word. Almost.

While feeling particularly miserable this morning, after a long, sleepless night, Zachary came over and asked me, buried in my email, if I wanted more coffee. I was sitting on a cold stone, alone, in the fog, believing the world would be better without me, and then my beautiful blue eyed boy came and put me back in the threadbare, worn chair next to the gas fireplace, my ever attendant dog at my feet.

He didn’t see me start to cry when he took my mug and skipped to the kitchen, only the big smile when he returned. Perfect, I told him as he watched me take a sip. Three tablespoons too much sugar and it was delicious.

Maybe almost is as good as it ever gets. Maybe it’s not about clearing away the nightmares but learning how to live with them. I need to take away center stage and give them a small space on a sidewalk with no microphone to perform.

Because the day I start to depend on my kids to pull me off the stone, is the day I become my mother. It’s my job to take care of them. Not theirs to take care of me. Not now, not ever. That doesn’t mean they can’t come visit and bring me flowers when I’m old. It means I will not need them to hold me emotionally in anyway, especially not as young children.

I know the scars it leaves. The loudspeakers it feeds.

I deleted the flog. Partly because I know better. Nothing I write at 1AM is going to be a balanced evaluation of who I am. Partly because I had a friend write and remind me who the words belong to.

And mostly because I have three kids who need me to move from almost to free.

Anti-God?

My sister asked me this moring why I wrote that "anti-God" post.

Huh? The one about the bibles?

Yes.

I said bring on the bibles. I said, the more the merrier. How as that anti-god?

She had a heavy sigh. God would not like that.

What? That I yell out OH MY GOD while having sex?

See? You're going to get in trouble for that.

Cathy, I don't believe in god. Remember? I'm an atheist.

I'm working on that.

Don't you dare work on that. Our mother was an atheist and it was probably one of the best things she gave me.

Just don't do the God bashing anymore.

I wasn't bashing god! I was saying please, more bibles. Not bashing god.

So I ask you, was I bashing god? Did anyone take away a negative god remark from my post?

Okay, maybe I got a little cheeky in the comments section but the post was never intended to insult anyone's god. I know my sister gets confused because I am a Unitarian Universalist and she somehow relates that to believing in God.

Wrong again, my dear sister.

But in honor of her, I will quote from the Book of Samuel:

"And it came to pass, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan said to David, God be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. "

And to think some call homosexuality a sin...

Bibles, Sex Kits and Goldfish- Oh My!

When I was a kid and my family traveled, I had a thing about bathrooms. I had to see as many bathrooms as I could. I didn’t really need to go but loved looking at the design, how some had attendants, some were disgusting, some where modern, some were old fashioned, some actually had lounges inside.

My mother swore I was going to write a book someday about bathrooms across America, because when I got back to the table, or back in the car, I would entertain everyone with a lively description of the interior. It fascinated me.

The other thing I remember doing was checking to see where the Bible was in the hotel room placed famously by the Gideon’s “an evangelical Christian organization dedicated to distributing copies of the Bible in over 80 languages and more than 180 countries of the world to those who might not otherwise encounter it, most famously in hotel and motel rooms.”

Sometimes it was on the desk, sometimes in the bedside table, sometimes on the bedside table. I never really understood why it was there, but I knew it was always going to be there, somewhere. Next stop was the elevator, if there was one, and to hit every button for every floor. Bible, then elevator. It was what made traveling fun.

Which is why I was alarmed by a recent alert from the American Family Association- a proud and completely fanatical right wing group as enjoyable to read as Ernest Angley was to watch on TV-

“Hotels replace Gideon Bibles with "sex kits"

The latest fad with some hotels is to replace their Bibles with "intimacy kits." For instance, at New York City's trendy Soho Grand Hotel guests can enjoy a gourmet mini-bar, an iPod, a flat-screen TV and even the company of a complimentary pet goldfish. But no Bible.

Parent company Accor Hotels decided to replace the Gideon Bibles with "intimacy kits." For Accor, providing travelers with sexual paraphernalia is more important than the Bible.”

I don’t know about you, but I do mention God from time to time while using one of those intimacy kits. Seems there’s room for the bible, too. If you can’t smoke after sex anymore, why not read a few of your favorite verses?

Okay, that’s a little weird but no more weird than having a goldfish in your hotel room. Is it a visual treat or a complimentary hors dourves?

Personally, I’m in favor of bibles being put in hotel rooms. Yes, this atheist is pro-bible. Well, pro-bible in hotel rooms. For me it’s a long ago treat to figure out where it is in each room right along with checking out the latest styles in public bathroom accessories.

And if they spend their money on that, they won’t have it to spend elsewhere, like putting those bibles in our schools.

In fact, maybe they should supply two per room, just in case.

Happy Anniversary, Take Two

I am going to try this anniversary thing a second time. First, I’m sending the kids off with Walter to the basketball game. Second, I’m going to pull out a bottle of red wine that is from the year 1991. Third, I’m going to cook Jeanine’s favorite dinner- steak, baked potatoes and more steak.

I’m going to light a fire and tell Jeanine how much I love her. How she has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen and how lucky I feel to wake up with her every day.

Especially the days she lets me sleep in, closing the bedroom door so I won’t hear the ruckus downstairs, even though the door is not nearly thick enough to muffle that noise.

I’m going to have a nice anniversary dinner with her- I’m going to raise a toast to celebrate the fact that we are still married. Last year at this time? I was asking for a separation. I was done. I couldn’t be alone anymore. I couldn’t keep asking for connection and be turned away. It hurt too much.

Or so I thought. Because before we got here, it hurt a lot more.

Last year, Jeanine could barely stay in the same emotional room with me. It was too painful, too hard. I couldn’t stand it myself.

From November 14, 2006:

“I can’t believe such horrible things happen, she said.

Look at me. Such horrible things happened to me. It’s about me. My life. Not some global sense horror.

I know, I know, she says before fading away to a safer topic of conversation.

I know it’s almost impossible for her to take in. She cannot imagine. She does not want to imagine. If she does, she has to see the woman she is married to as a small child so afraid she wet her pants- often. She’ll have to realize some of the sadness is irreparable. I will always have it. When she holds me, she will have to realize how I was held against my will.

I need her to imagine. Imagine my fear I’ll never be able to sleep again without wondering, as I close my eyes, what I will see in my dreams. Imagine what it’s like to sit and without control, have what I can only describe, somewhat inaccurately, as flashbacks. My vision isn’t gone, but suddenly, as when I write, I can see the scene as clearly as if it were on a movie screen. As a writer, I have always locked onto the ‘picture’ in my mind and moved through the room to describe each detail for the story I’m writing. This is how my memories have come back to me. Unwanted rooms, unwanted detail. I have to make myself look.”

Last weekend, when I woke up afraid, she knew why. She doesn’t need to have me describe all the details anymore because she’s made herself listen.

She held it with me and only ran away once. Starting over with someone new would have been much easier emotionally.

Tonight, I’m going to sit with her, in front of the fire, and tell her how grateful I am that she stayed, even when she wanted to go. Listened to details she never wanted to hear, to the point of her own heart racing, her own hands clenched in retaliation.

And was never afraid to hold me, to make love to me, to know that she was not the perpetrator nor would her touch ever feel that way.

A day late, but not a dollar short, tonight we’ll celebrate 17 years together, with a special bonus for making it through the hardest year ever. The struggle brought us closer than we've ever been.

And more in love.

Happy Anniversary

I am in the worst kind of mood today. I started off okay but slowly slipped into being the biggest, most miserable bitch. Borderline evil. I don’t know why. Good things happened today, an amazing turn of events for one of the boards I sit on that is cause for celebration, and it’s my anniversary.

I have to find a way to be positive.

Earlier, a friend of mine wrote me an email, and then my sister called to wish me a happy anniversary.

Huh? I had not remembered.

It's not that I don't love my wife or that I'm mad at her. I'm not. On November 13th, 2004, Jeanine and I were legally married. Our real anniversary, however, is March 2nd, 1991. I’ve been married 17 years, not three.

Of course, the March 2nd date was not the first time we moved in together, or the first time we looked at each other and made a deep commitment. It was the first time we had sex. I didn’t marry everyone I had sex with, thank god.

The problem with gay and lesbian relationships is that until Vermont’s groundbreaking civil union law, we had no legal way to define our commitments. I could say the first time we signed a lease together, or the first time we bought a home together, or when we decided to start having kids, but none really fit as clearly as getting married does. No more fooling around, you are legally bound to each other, from this day forward, no ifs ands or buts.

I remember being completely insulted by a straight woman who told me how different my life would be now that I was married. I’d been with my wife long enough to almost be divorced, how dare she try to tell me how different it would be.

It is different, but not in the way she saw it. It is different because I am protected in my state. I am allowed all the privileges of marriage- on a state level. I cannot walk out the door and neither can Jeanine, although we’ve both threatened to, more than once. We are legally tied together.

But not on a federal level. That’s another 1,000 legal rights I’m being denied. Most people assume being married means being married, no matter what state you may move to but that’s a privilege only heterosexuals enjoy. If we moved to any other state, our marriage certificate would be worth nothing.

When we file federal taxes, our marriage is worthless.

When we participate in any federal program, our marriage is worthless.

The glass is half full for those of us lucky few in Massachusetts. We have a glass, to begin. I am grateful to live in such a progressive state. I cannot imagine living anywhere else.

Nice try but I’m still in a rotten mood. My wife is working late tonight and probably doesn’t remember it’s our anniversary either. Ben filled out a booklet signing us up for a pile of magazines so he could earn a Plush Bear MP3 Holder. He thinks it’s the M3 machine, but it is not. When I told him he could not sign us up for anything he wailed and headed up the stairs, telling me yet again how I have ruined his life. Jake is practicing the drums and asking me on every quarter note, is it time to stop? Zachary is miserable about his new haircut and sulked his way through dinner, reminding me over and over again that all he wanted was to keep his sideburns- was that too much to ask for?

For the record? Yes. It was.

With all these new vitamin waters to help you to rejuvenate, energize, you think they’d make one to get your head out of your ass. I’d buy a case.

I’m rambling, this is probably one of the worst blogs I’ve ever written and I’m starting to get a headache. I’m going to go to bed, pull the covers over my head and wait until tomorrow to say another word.

A Few Random Thoughts

Sitting in the airport this morning, Ben handed me his headphones.

Here, Mom, listen to this…

What is it?

My favorite song.

I’m listening… I’m listening… and then I start laughing.

It’s “Wheels on the Bus!”

No, it’s “G-Slide." By Little Momma.

I listen to the words. OH MY GOD. Jeanine sees my face.

Did you buy an explicit song, Ben?

NO… a friend gave it to me.

I didn’t think it was possible to sexualize “The Wheels on the Bus.” But I was soooooo wrong.

***

Yesterday, as we were in the midst of our intense tennis game, as in intense laughter, Jeanine’s sisters decided I was like a ferocious otter.

They were making fun of a move at the net I made, a leaping, arm stretched, and completely missed shot.

At least it didn’t hit me.

If ever I get too big a head, or think too highly of myself, I only need to go visit Jeanine’s sisters. They have no mercy.

Not even for ferocious otters.

***

I have decided I can no longer be a baby. I can no longer dig my heels in and say no for the sake of saying no. It is time to grow up.

And buy a minivan. Yes, a minivan. I have three children. Ben is already as tall as Jeanine. Zachary is less than too inches behind. I need the space. I need the cargo room. I need a place for the dog to sit when we have a lot of luggage.

I will NOT buy a huge SUV. Nor will I buy a Hummer, much to Ben’s dismay.

But Mom, Hummers are so cool…

I’m not cool. I’m not buying a gas guzzling, environmental nightmare.

But they have a hybrid…

NO. The governor of California has a hybrid Hummer. They don’t make hybrids.

But Mom…

No.

The funny thing is? His next choice is a minivan. All three kids love minivans and any time we rent one on vacation I have to listen to them wane poetically for weeks after about how great it was. They love the second row captain chairs and the third row is their own sanctuary. It’s as if they are in a different car when they sit back there. Party time. Not to mention the number of cup holders exceeds any legal passenger limit by far, allowing up to two beverages per person to be kept close at hand.

My friend Margaret, the Martha Stewart of Parenting and long time minivan owner, tells me it’s okay. It’ll just add to my mystique- big ol’ lesbian driving around in such a traditionally suburban vehicle. That’s only because she drives one that I dubbed “the whale” because it’s huge and gray. She’s waiting till I pull it into my driveway.

And then will tease me mercilessly.

Maybe I should put her in touch with Jeanine’s sisters for some pointers.

I’m guessing they’ll suggest calling it the ferocious otter-mobile.

Just shoot me now.

Trash-Talking

No, I am not going to mention how beautiful it is down here. But I will mention one thing- how they can take such a lush landscape and turn it into strip malls and pink stucco is beyond me.

Today Jeanine and I are playing her sisters in a game of tennis. Mind you, I haven’t played since before Ben was born, neither has Jeanine, and they play every day. In fact they are the ass kickers of their league and just a wee bit competitive. They mentioned something about being undefeated and even though it’s an old ladies league that’s pretty impressive.

Yes, that was a poke. Can’t help myself, I am, at heart, a trash talker.

I am reminded of a friend of mine who I challenged to a game of golf and she said sure, but I laugh a lot when I play. I do, too, laugh on occasion while playing golf, but only when I’m playing well. Or I’m playing with people who do not take themselves too seriously.

I have to remember to laugh a lot. Not my nature, mind you, as I can get a wee bit competitive myself. But I am old, fat and slow. Not an excuse, just a reality. Some might argue I’ve always been slow.

Maybe I should stop at one of the drive through plastic surgery places in the closest strip mall and have a quick lipo job before we play.

Another day of cousins, aunts, uncles, and Nana. Swimming, tennis and sunshine.

Oops. I said I wasn’t going to mention that. Don’t worry, though. My trash-talking butt will be kicked in the next hour or so...

Pools, Malls and Baseball Bats

I had horrible dreams last night. I can only go so long before they come back. They always come back…

This time I had to forcibly fight my father out the door while my mother watched… I wasn’t small, I was an adult and my children were inside… I finally picked up a baseball bat.

Funny, because I’m in Florida visiting Jeanine’s family. It safe here. Always has been. A day by the pool, the boys hanging out with their cousins, and Ben gets to go to the mall with his grandmother.

They all decided recently that they wanted to call her grandma instead of Nana. It’s not confusing anymore, Ben said, Grandma is dead.

I explained that when their cousins were born, twin boys about a year before Ben, Jeanine’s mom had wanted to be called “Nana.” When Ben was born, we called her Nana and my mother Grandma.

But the twins called Nana “Grandma” and then it did become confusing…

But the boys, while discussing the fact that they believed their Nana would pretty much live-forever and how young she was that they wanted to call her Grandma.

Uh… guys? She dyes her hair. But you can call her Nana or Grandma or Weezie, or Grandma Weezie…

I love being here. Everyone is milling around, talking, laughing, and getting ready for the day. The kids are ready to jump in the pool, except Ben who is prepared for a trip to the mall.

Nana is taking me to the MALL… I LOVE NANA, Ben said.

I beg your pardon?

Well, I’ve always loved her but … will she buy me something at Abercrombie?

Oy.

Zachary, Jake and I will go to the pool. Later, we’ll all gather later at the cousin’s house and laugh, talk and watch the kids play.

No malls for us.

No need for baseball bats, either.

A day of commenting over and over again...

I am pleased my piece about Tammy Baldwin has been picked up and redistributed over and over again. One of the deep satisfactions I have doing this work is to know people are reading, taking it in, and feel it's valuable enough to share.

I have spent most the day responding to comments, over and over again. I don't know if my piece really explains how devastated I was at the loss. How hard it was to admit I would have voted for the legislation, meaning I was leaving friends, colleagues behind. I am reminded of the poem by Pastor Martin Niemöller

"When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I wasn't a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out."

I know. You've heard it before a million times. The familiarity makes it lose it's impact. No one is being rounded up and sent to the gas chambers. Hate and bigotry are more refined now, handed out with sound bite ultimatums. But Niemoller was right in assessing how easily fear will keep us contorted in uncomfortable positions, watching our neighbors leave, hoping we will be safe.

I keep hearing Rodney King on the television, "People, I just want to say, you know, can we all get along?" I want to say the same thing to everyone who will be left behind, to everyone who thinks this is a great step forward... Please. We have to get along.

The reality? We lost. We lost the argument in the community to have a inclusive ENDA.

And we are so few, with so little money and resources, we cannot let this create an irreparable rift. If we do? We will ALL lose. I, for one, am sick of the Right Wing spanking us mercilessly over and over in votes because when it's roll call time? They stick together.

That doesn't mean give up and I don't think that makes me a sell out. I hope it makes me a participant who will not be shooed away from the table.

I'm not waiting for them to come to take me... and I really want to all get along.

ENDA Rift: Throw Tammy Baldwin Under the Bus?

A historic vote took place yesterday. The Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA) was finally passed, having first been introduced in 1974. Thirty three long, hard fought years and the measure “was approved 235 to 184, perhaps reflecting polls showing that a plurality of Americans believe homosexuality should be accepted."

All did not celebrate the bill, though. Through what was deemed necessary, strategic moves, the gender identity piece of the law was removed in order to assure, the community was told, passage. In an attempt to reintroduce the removed language, Congresswoman Tammy Baldwin (D-WI) presented an amendment, she said, “because I strongly believe that we must prohibit job discrimination against people because of their gender identity.” It was not a long fight on her part but a symbolic one. Some were ready to throw Baldwin under the bus for ultimately voting for the bill.

As this entire debate has been, because President Bush as promised a veto.

I appreciate and support Congresswoman Baldwin- she was true to her beliefs. She also voted Yes to ENDA without her amendment, because, “The importance of non-discrimination laws cannot be overstated. Substantively, they provide legal remedies and a chance to seek justice.” If I were on the floor of the House of Representatives yesterday? I would have voted Yes, too.

It would have made me sick. But I would have done it.

What has been missing from the debate, mainly focused on transgender people with foes playing up fears of penises showing up in women’s locker rooms, is the very real discrimination against all people- straight, gay, bisexual and transgender- for not conforming to “rules” about gender expression. It’s about the straight “ bartender who refused to wear makeup at a Reno casino” and ended up losing, the court siding with the casino, ruling she was not unfairly dismissed from her job as much as it's about Susan Stanton losing her job when she announced she would be transitioning.

For me, it's personal- I'm not a petite blond in a bikini. I get called sir on a daily basis. I had a job where I was asked to wear a skirt for client meetings. I interviewed at another and refused because at this small start up software company in the early 90’s, women were not allowed to wear pants. I love getting dressed up but please don’t ask me to wear a dress. It makes me miserable. If you ask me to wear make-up, I’m going to look like a clown.

It's personal because one of my kids struggles with gender identity. I watch his pain and know there is a very real chance he is transgender. Threaten my children's rights and I am no longer sane... throw him under the bus and I'll go out and pick that damn bus up and throw it off the road.

And it's personal because it is a statement about my community. What we are willing to do, and how we are willing to walk in the world.

It is a devastating loss. In 1987, Massachusetts passed a gay and lesbian civil rights bill. Twenty years later, we still have no gender identity protections. The only state in the country with legally recognized gay marriage and no protections for gender expression.

As a community, we need to reframe where we are. It's not about making chicken salad out of chicken shit, which implies making due with what we have. It's about creating a calculated, thoughtful strategy for moving forward, building on what we have. It's about making stone soup. I believe that’s what Congresswoman Baldwin was trying to do. Regardless, I am going to support her because I am unwilling to throw anyone under the bus.

Now we have to move forward. Together.

Another Look at Marriage Equality

Watch society crumble while our numb-nut President rambles on in the background about marriage being between a man and a woman..

Pulling Teeth

As I painfully watched my community implode over an ENDA (Employment Non-Discrimination Act) debate yesterday, a debate over a hollow, pointless victory that only proves we are willing to sacrifice a limb, or two, in order to have some crawling shadow of incremental change. The irony is no change will take place, the bill will be vetoed, no one will be protected, and we will stand there minus a limb, hemorrhaging our pride while a few special Washington insiders get to say, oh well.

And I pulled a tooth. No, I'm not a dentist, just a mom. Zachary had a loose tooth for about three days. The other night, he came up to me, pointed to the offender, and asked to have it pulled.

I am the tooth puller. The first loose tooth that needed to be pulled was several years ago in Maine. My friend Suzy and her kids were there. Suzy has four kids, several horses, and no patience for wincing about pain. Doesn’t matter if she’s cleaning a horse’s hoof or changing a bandaged arm, she does it with speed and efficiency. Again it was Zachary who had a loose front tooth that was literally dangling on a single string. It was his first tooth to come out and he was afraid.

Ben had pretty much dealt with all of his own teeth coming out, so I wasn’t sure what to do. Suzy said, come here, took a napkin to grip it and yanked the tooth out before Zachary could say a word.

She gave me the look. I knew it meant, BABY, but she’d never say that in front of my kids. Her kids, sure. Not mine, though.

Tooth was not ready the other night but it was ready yesterday afternoon just before the saxophone lesson. Grab, pull, get a tissue, we’re going to be late…

Suzy would be proud.

Later, Zachary wondered, to me, if the tooth fairy could possibly leave money but not take the tooth...

You believe in the tooth fairy? I asked.

Not really... He was being coy. He didn't want to lose out on the money.

It's okay. Just don't tell Jake. And you still have to put it under your pillow.

Okay, He shrugged. How much will I get?

Don't push it...

I paused and then asked, What about Santa?

So totally your handwriting mom… no one can read it.

I smile. It’s the same thing that gave my mother away. She had the most unusual handwriting. Smart boy.

Another day and lesson in life. Sometimes, everything sucks, it’s gray outside and raining. Sometimes, your heart keeps breaking in the same pattern it’s broken over and over again. It’s low tide, and all the rocks are exposed, slippery, and miserable to navigate.

A non-inclusive ENDA will pass. I can only hope lessons have been learned. I am desperate to find a way to talk about healing and coming back together again. We are too few to be divided. It is a different kind of pulling teeth- we must all come back to the table again. There is too much to lose.

And when my kids come home, the present rushes back like the tide. The only thing that matters is getting the tooth out and to the lesson on time.

New Jersey's Marriage Campaign

Kudos the Steve Goldstein, and everyone working in New Jersey for marriage equality. I have long said, and deeply believe, separate is not equal. Civil Unions are a start for some, but not for me. It is second class citizenship, with an upgrade from chattle to coach.

I want first class next to my straight neighbors.

Here are some ads being shown tonight in New Jersey. My favorite is the last one.

Hell Has Indeed Broken Loose

The boys had a friend over after school yesterday. They asked if they could get a snack.

I said yes.

Then I was on a phone call.

If anyone has had any questions of late, I am here to provide pictorial evidence that hell has in fact broken loose.

Please Go Vote...

See, my friend Bil never got to be prom queen. And he so desperately wanted to be... but now his blog, that I contribute to, bilerico.com, is up for best lgbt blog.

If he wins, all the contributors will get a raise or a cookie or something.

So- VOTE! And feel free to drop him an email saying, my god, Bil, you have a brilliant writer named Sara Whitman- bil@bilerico.com.

http://2007.weblogawards.org/polls/best-lgbt-blog-1.php

Watch Out! Here Come the Queers

Gary J. Gates, Senior Research Fellow, Williams Institute, UCLA School of Law has released a study, Geographic Trends Among Same-Sex Couples in the U.S. Census and the American Community Survey, showing a massive increase in same sex couples especially in the Mountain, Midwest and Southern regions.

And massive is being gentle. Try a 863% increase from 1990 to 2006 Alabama, Kentucky and Tennessee. A 698% increase in Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, New Mexico, Montana, Utah, Nevada and Wyoming.

Utah? Kentucky? Maybe I was sleeping but I did not see a stylish, yet comfortable covered wagon train of LGBT folks heading out to the range. Gates acknowledges in his report that couples how have “been historically least accepted” are in fact “coming out and identifying themselves in government surveys.”

I have always questioned the “one in ten” formula for gays and lesbians, the notion that one person in ten is gay. Sexuality is too fluid for that number, and according to Kinsey more people live in the middle of the bell curve than on the extremes. Now, it seems, people are more willing to talk about it, say it out loud and scribble in the appropriate bubble on the census forms.

In fact, as The Economist reported “ As recently as 1982, only 34% of Americans thought homosexuality should be considered an acceptable alternative lifestyle. Now, 57% do. Since young Americans are far more relaxed about homosexuality than their elders—three-quarters of 18-34-year-olds think it is OK to be gay, whereas half of those over 55 think it is not—this trend is likely to continue. “

Hello? The Economist is reporting on this? Today articles about gays and lesbians in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and other mainstream papers are common place. Being identified as queer isn’t such a big deal anymore, although we have lost some of the "chic" of the mid nineties when k.d. lang graced the cover of Vanity Fair being shaved by Cindy Crawford.

I miss those days.

Today, we’re more likely to have news coverage based on educational issues, neighborhood gentrification, or effective product placement to hone in on the growing two working moms, two kids, mini van crowd.

We’re here, we’re queer and we love a nice latte with a low fat muffin on the way to our kids soccer game.

It should surprise no one, really, because homosexuality has been around since the dawn of time. We're the two little old ladies who lived down the street that never married, or the gentlemen who run a farm together minus girlfriends. We live in literature as the unmarried Uncle who wears a smoking jacket and silk ascot, or in film as the spinster school teacher in love with a colleague.

Fear is what kept us quiet. Fear of violence against us, fear of losing our jobs. Recent legal steps forward in states like Massachusetts, where we can live and be recognized as equal citizens is making us bold even in Alabama. We are standing to be counted because as Frederick Douglass noted, "Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will."

In Gate’s conclusion, he notes that “increases in the number of same-sex couples have outpaced broader population increases in all areas of the country.” No one missed the covered wagons dotting the horizon.

We were already there.

New Description Needed

Now that yet another Republican, anti-gay jerk got caught doing the cha cha cha in the potty I have to wonder...

1. With all due appreciation to being fiscally conservative, how much could a blow job possibly cost?

2. Can we please come up with a category for this type of person so they are not discussed as "homosexuals" or engaging in "homosexual" behavior, because until these guys show up at
Gay Pride on the leather float in chaps and nipple rings, I don't want to have anything to do with them.

Suggestions?

Log Cabin Republicans To Canvass Men’s Rooms for New Members

Yet another Republican is caught tapping his way to an arrest in a public bathroom. Seems 57-year-old Mike Shallow, ”A two-term City Commissioner and mayoral candidate has been caught in a gay sex sting, reports the Daytona Beach News-Journal Friday.” If the Log Cabin Republicans are looking to expand, I suggest they start placing brochures in the men’s room.

If guys like Doug Warner of Dallas can hunt, fish and hold his boyfriend’s hand in public , it seems he should be doing a workshop for his closeted Republican compatriots. Warner, however, isn’t exactly the poster boy for the current Republican Party; trashing gays played well in the 2004 Presidential election and there is no sign of the party letting up on the strategy.

Unless they keep getting arrested for soliciting sex in public places.

The question is, will it continue to play well? Or will the Republicans start being a secret signal for closeted gays, like being a ‘friend of Dorothy?’ It’s easy to laugh about the ridiculous, two-faced members of the party, but the reality is the strategy worked well in the previous election and watching the Presidential contender- from both parties- dance around the issues of equality and fairness like they are being subjected to the plague, makes you wonder.

"Somewhere along the way our party was hijacked by the social extremists who say that government needs to regulate things that were once considered private," said Warner's partner Truman Smith, who works as a private consultant and is the president of Log Cabin's South Carolina chapter. Warner, and his partner Smith, see the party “betraying it’s commitment to fiscal prudence and limited government.”

I don’t know what rock the two are living under, but the Republicans long ago gave up any sense of fiscal responsibility and are driven by the need to legislate people’s private lives down to requiring by law a report on what library books you are reading.

Personally? I hope the Republicans continue to be shown for the hypocritical, small-minded liars they are. Larry Craig, Mike Shallow (great name, by the way) and…

I guess I’ll go wait outside the men’s room and see who comes out in 'cuffs next.

Temperature Control

If beds can be made to be different softness, move at different angles then why can’t they be made with different temperature controls?

I love my wife. I love sleeping with her. Yes, I love that too, but I really do enjoy sleeping with her, even minus the hanky panky. I love to spoon or be spooned, doesn’t matter, I just love the touch.

We have one serious problem. She is always cold. I am always hot. For most of our relationship, I’ve solved that by wearing little if anything to bed, and she bundles up for the arctic even in the middle of summer. I push off all covers minus a sheet, she doubles up on the covers I’ve tossed aside. For the most part, we’ve learned to live with it.

Now we’re getting old. She’s getting colder and I’m getting hotter.

Not in a good way but in a hot flashes way.

Yes, I am too young to have hot flashes but I am having them anyway. I went through a battery of tests this fall to be told, yup, you are perimenopausal. I’m not a doctor but I was pretty sure that being wide awake and drenched in sweat at 3AM was about whacked out hormones.

But as I get hotter, Jeanine seems to be getting colder. At Walter and Allan’s Friday night. She was so cold and wrapped in blankets, Walter asked her if she was coming down with something. When we got home, she went straight to bed. When I finally went up myself, I found her wrapped not only in three layers of blankets on the bed but also the down comforter, saved for only mid winter drastically cold nights.

I felt bad, worried she was getting sick, and simply crawled into my side, pushing the covers as much as possible on her. All night I had dreams I was sick with a fever, trying to function but feeling so hot and miserable.

The next morning, I told her, I can’t do it. I can’t sleep with that thing and all the blankets. She ignored me, telling me how grateful she was that she was able to sleep and be warm.

I’m going to pretend you didn’t complain, she said, because it was so nice.

She wasn’t sick, mostly overtired, and when she pulled the giant marshmallow of heat back on the bed last night I scowled.

Please?

Needless to say, I negotiated an exchange that was completely worth my while but at 3AM (yes, it is almost always 3AM on the dot) I lay awake considering opening the window to neutralize the temperature imbalance.

The window is on my side of the bed, after all. But I made a deal and she was sleeping so soundly, how could I…

What I need is a temperature control setting for my side of the bed, and she needs one for hers. Or maybe I should hide the comforter. I have to do something because I don’t want to give up sleeping with her.

I love it too much.

Rainy Saturday Entertainment

It's raining, raining, raining, today.

As one should do on such a day, I am sitting next to a warm fire, watching various YouTube videos. Some are... frightening. I saw one where a cat literally gets it's paw wrapped by a ceiling fan cord- which was twirling away- and whipped around.

And someone tapes that. Why? The cat does this every day? (it appears so)

Humor comes in many forms. I'm not so sure about cat based slapstick but...

A favorite book of mine is "Politically Correct Bedtime Stories" by James Finn Garner- if you know it and like it, you'll love the following video:

Gay Men to the Rescue!

Ever try to decorate a house with your spouse? You put up something you think is beautiful and the next time you see it, it is in a box in the garage?

It’s one thing when you are in college, and every one has some eclectic item they want hoisted somewhere, like a favorite street sign stolen on a drunken night or a goofy lamp your aunt sent you. No one cares because you are only going to live there a semester, maybe two. Not to mention part of the beauty of college living is horrifying your parents with a dump in the worst part of the city. So what if there are enough cockroaches to make the building reek of garlic? You got it for a song.

I know my mother’s help in decorating was a mop, a bucket and some Mr. Clean.

But as we get older, it’s time for some nicer things in our homes. The goofy lamp ends up in the basement and you actually begin to consider whether the sofa matches, not just that it was free, off the curb.

You start to groove, on your own, get an idea of the things you like- modern, contemporary, arts and craft, deco, traditional, country- are words you know and understand. You become someone who likes everything to match exactly, or someone who wants each piece to be different but of the same kind of wood. You go to friend’s houses and notice the way they have pictures on a mantle, or hung in a cluster on the wall.

You consider buying the Benjamin Moore Color Wheel instead of returning it for the deposit.

When you get married or move in with someone, and you’re past the stacked beer bottle motifs, things start to get dicey. You love arts and crafts but she is a contemporary queen who can’t even imagine anything made of wood. She’s dreaming chrome and glass when you are stuck on an original Stickley rocker, promising that of course it can fit into your tiny 8 by 8 living room.

You’ll just have to get rid of that ugly IKEA couch she brought home and assembled last week.

And then there are the friends that come to your rescue. Or so they think. My wife and I have our two co-parents, and fabulous men, Walter and Allan.

Jeanine and I are… well… clueless lesbians. We still, regardless of our income bracket, save Stonyfield Yogurt containers for Tupperware. We have some very nice things and some things that the kids are allowed near. Rarely do we agree on styles so we end up not getting anything new.

It’s easier.

In walk Walter and Allan. Did I mention Walter and Allan actually have the design gene? Not all gay men do, clearly. I know it's a stereotype and I'm not thrilled about adding to it but... my house looks great and it's not because of me.

Gay men to the rescue!

Imagine coming home one night and finding your entire house rearranged. Everything is in a different place and many things have found their way to the basement. Now, I’m the first to admit, I do not have great vision when it comes to space, area, furniture size but my wife? Thinks she does.

And she really doesn’t.

Your best friends have swooped in to save you from tacky lesbianville and the smile on your face is going to get you in trouble.

Big trouble.

They claim the children cannot be subject to such… bad taste and disorganization.

You know you don’t have great taste, and your wife has much worse taste, but… still. The little black bear statue on the birch stool is a family heirloom. It came from a diner in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The five-dollar price tag is still on the bottom.

Why is it in the basement?

Decorating evolves over time. What is great when you’re twenty is unacceptable when you thirty and then when you hit forty, all your friends have known you long enough to start rearranging the furniture.

Or maybe that’s just my friends.

I highly recommend keeping the numbers down in major decisions- paint colors, and couch fabric. There are things you can over think.

And always remember, even chrome can live with Stickley. It’s not always pretty but you’ll still be married.

Bad Start

I'm not sure how today is going to turn out but I can say it didn't start well...

Early this morning, while still dark out, I came downstairs to have some coffee and read email before anyone was up. I hit the bottom of the stairs and...

ew.

Seems the dog was fed not her usual two times, but four times yesterday. Made her a little sick.

So I started today with a barefoot in a pile of dog poo.

Lovely.

It was suggested that I return to bed and yell DOOOOOOO OVER!

Sara's day starts, take two, minus the pile at the bottom of the stairs.

New Boots

Allan, one of the dads, and I wear the same size- shirts, sweatshirts, jackets and shoes. It's great.

He gave me a new pair of boots.

New to me... they are worn in, perfectly broken cowboy boots. I love them. I haven't worn anything else for days.

When I was around 8 years old, one Christmas morning I crept out before anyone was awake to find my new red cowboy boots, cowboy hat and holster with guns.

A boy present and I got it, having begged for it and nothing else for months. I never wanted dolls, or dresses or pretty things. I only wanted a cowboy outfit. I pulled on the new boots and went back to bed.

Nothing else mattered. I had my boots.

And my guns.

In searching for a costume for Halloween this past weekend, I found Allan and Walter's old two stepping box, filled with assorted cowboy gear. I pulled on a black Stetson.

And the real, honest to god, Texas made cowboy boots.

I love my new boots.

They are my ass kicking boots. I feel ten feet tall in them and ready to strut down any street for a gun fight, card game or whiskey drinkin'. Okay, I hate whiskey but something like that.

I think I'm gonna need 'em tomorrow for the showdown at the OK Corral.

Or maybe just a good place in line at the deli counter...