the second coming (out)–mini 1000 - 02

The first time I prepared to come out to my parents I was 25-years old. I'd been married, divorced and had two small children. It had been over seven years since I'd been financially dependent on them. And most importantly, I had a rare adult relationship with them. I wasn't going to ask for their blessing or permission, I would just be sharing my life with them. They weren't going to get a vote.

Being independent was empowering. It is hard for me to imagine having this discussion with them at 13 or 14. Yet, if they rejected me it would still be very painful. I arrived for our annual winter holiday trip with my two kids in tow. I planned on breaking the news at the end of my weeklong visit...I'm not an idiot, if this went south I didn't need 7 days of conflict.

Debbie and I had been involved since late summer of that year. I was fairly sure that this first relationship with a woman wasn't going to last. But I was also fairly sure that I would continue to see women. My parents had drifted away from Mormonism by then, as had I, but they still held very traditional, conservative views about marriage and children. At the same time, they treated my decisions with respect (or at least, without comment), so that was promising.

I was ready to have this conversation. At some point during the day before we were to leave, the phone rang with terrible news. My godmother, my mom's sister-in-law, was in the hospital ICU. Her über religious second husband had beaten her unconscious and left her in a pool of blood. My mother, of course, ran to the hospital. Needless to say, now was not the time to come out to her. I decided to talk to my father without her and would ask him to wait for me to talk to her after the crisis had abated.

My father and I had a good adult relationship. I didn't see him as my sisters did with the love/hate adoration seen through the eyes of the children they once were. My father could be a real asshole but we had carved out this mutually respectful friendship. His rejection would not shatter me. My mother's rejection, however, would be awful.

I walked into his room, sat down and told him that I was in a relationship with a woman. I never called myself a lesbian or even a homosexual because I'm not. He was quiet and then said the thing that all good parents should say, you are my daughter–I love you no matter what. I knew he didn't approve but I also knew he would be respectful. I asked him not to tell mom, that I would tell her once the trauma of my aunt's situation subsided.

Well, he didn't wait and when I talked to my mom the day after I got home, she let me know that she knew. She was distant but still there. It broke my heart but the coming out was done.

I ended the relationship with Debbie not long after this. It was not pretty. Layered over this experience was the growing concern that my ex-husband's previously open mind about my sexual ambidexterity was unexpectedly closing fast. I decided to go back to dating men. And I did. In spring of that year, I met the Saint at work. I was very attracted to her but skittish about my ex and truthfully, skittish about any possible long term commitment, so I kept my distance romantically. We became good friends. By the fall, I stopped fighting my attraction and we started seeing each other. I, of course, shared this information with my parents, who predictably had hoped the end of my first relationship was also the end of this phase. Sorry, folks.

It took another year for them to agree to meet her and the rest, as they say, is history. My mother's love for my spouse rivals her love for me. And I'm so good with that. For the first few years my father didn't quite know what to do with her. Chuck her on the shoulder or give her a hug? (a hug, Dad, always a hug, you nincompoop), offer to watch football with her (my father hated sports) and/or offer her a beer?, etc. Eventually, he got as comfortable as he got with anyone so she was mostly ignored by him while he did whatever he wanted. She became their fifth daughter.

About twenty-five years later my older sister came out. I like to roll my eyes with a: Puh-lease, I’ve already blazed this trail and broken them in for you! (I’m quite sure it was still not that easy for her.) My parents now were batting 500 on the straight/queer daughter stat and they became exemplary in their acceptance and love for us and our spouses.

All good, right? They added a gay grandson to the mix and soon the family will include my NB youngest, who is not quite out to them at this point.

Then a few years ago, because of a comment I made or perhaps something I had posted on social media, my mom asked me a question. She said, I didn’t know you were bisexual!? Like, she was upset. I said, well, I thought you knew because I’ve never hidden that and I've talked about it openly. She asked if my late father knew, to which I replied, I thought he did but perhaps not? It floored me that having done the work and practice of accepting her (I guess she thought of me as a lesbian) gay daughter, the idea that I could still be attracted to men was very foreign and upsetting to her. How is that for a second coming out? My sweet, traditional mom was completely comfortable with me being with women and unnerved that I might be attracted to men!

Some of this might be due to the stupid ideas people have about bisexuals or more accurately for me, pansexuals. The concept of hypersexuality and fence-sitting are old and outdated. The notion that pansexuals will stray in a relationship because they are attracted to more types of people confuses sexual desire with the choice to be in a committed relationship or not. Which is not about monogamy or polyamory but communication and whatever contract you have with your partner(s).

But some of this is probably due to the way we are overly comfortable putting people in boxes. If you think I am a lesbian and find out otherwise, it may fuck with your sense of order in the universe. The whole coming out process should jostle that process but it doesn’t always broaden acceptance of others-not-like-us. Rather, it can simply add another box or two that we can be plunked down into. A few new categories, same rigid approach to categorization. I think it's time to break down those boxes.

can't believe i'm doing this again–mini 1000 - 01

Here we are again. I've accepted another writing challenge from Jami Attenberg. The timing is never great because my dance card is always full of (mostly) exciting and creative things to do. Ironically, writing is one of those things on the dance card that benefits from a regular push. It's also weird that this solitary exercise is shared by 2,000 strangers who have signed up as well.

Her suggestion to start this one off is simple: "I'm writing today because..."

There's a song by Anna Nalick called "Breathe." Here's my favorite lyric (and frankly, most people's favorite lyric from this song):

2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to.

I resonate with the way words can torture the life they belong to.

I have described the urge to write as mental voices clamoring to be heard in a crowd. Like a tense news conference. Or during a catastrophe. Or fans at a concert. A cacophony of ideas elbow their way to the front of my brain and demand release. And the loudest mostly win, though not always. This is a violent metaphor and it may not serve me well all the time but it paints the best picture.

I'm writing today because there are thoughts that stay tangled or obscured until I pluck them out, smooth them out and sort them out. The process of clarifying is so gratifying. Parsing out issues and discovering connections and threads of commonality among expected and disparate ideas...which process leads to other tangled ideas and an endless stockpile of mysteries and epiphanies (or in my case, epiphenitas).

Perhaps that's too academic. Perhaps I am just arrogant enough to think my worldview is worth listening to.

Then there's this. Every week I read the postcards on Postsecret.com. This is a real life project involving folks from all over the world sending anonymous postcards detailing their secrets to this guy named Frank. Sometimes when he talks about the project, it feels a little self-help-y which makes me wince. But mostly, I love when a secret strikes a sympathetic chord and someone out there knows they are not alone. I suppose that's another reason I love to write. I love the shock and awe of saying things that people think but are too uncomfortable, scared or ashamed to admit. I love the idea that someone reads my words and gains a bit of courage to acknowledge shit that they have hardly admitted to themselves. I love the idea of starting dialogue about cultural taboos that only serve to hobble us.

When I was a kid I kept a diary. A big thing that I made out of loose leaf paper and illustrated card stock covers. Children are dramatic because so many things are new and raw and shiny to them. They have yet to form callouses. Of course you know the ending to this story. My sisters found my poorly concealed diary and mocked me. I don't know much they mocked me because it took just the slightest pressure to hit all those raw, naive nerves. I was what you call a "sensitive" child. 

I destroyed the diary and never really kept one again. Until I started this blog some 20 years ago. But this is public and in that way, more carefully written. Words have been the way I make sense of the world, resolve conflict and tease out laughter for most of my life. Maybe I just love them and I want to play with them.

Television or movie storytelling is fraught with conflict, right? It has to be so we can be entertained by the resolution of such conflict. When I watch a show, I am terrible about people talking through it. It irritates the fuck out of me to have people talk during a story. However, how many times during a drama (particularly one that you are re-watching) that you want to yell at the screen, “JUST TELL HER!” or “HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND” at the pivotal point where everything goes sideways and could have been turned around by the simplest of communications? How many times have you thought, all this shit could have been avoided if you just said how you felt? Or if you just told the truth about some overblown and foolish secret?

Okay, so plotlines are formulaic and people are not linear or emotionally clear in their reactions. I get it. But this is where I want to part ways with non-fictional and fictional stories. If someone tells me that I’ve stepped on their toes or I tell someone that I think they’re attractive, then maybe we can avoid years of resentment or misunderstanding because life is fucking short and what a waste! It does, however, require courage to bare one's soft underbelly.

I get why people shut the fuck up. Repress. Make pretend they are not offended or don’t have feelings. Because turmoil and untangling intent and words is damned hard. And awkward. But, for me, misunderstanding is worse. It’s the slow burn and murky undercurrent that fucks with my sense of being grounded in the world. Suppressing resolution is self-gaslighting. I can’t trust my gut reaction to a situation. Or I feel like the world is building a facade about reality because the truth is problematic. I don’t operate well with that. So I break those cultural niceties and smash taboos to get some clarity. Sometimes, it works really well but, more often than not, it remains awkward and unresolved. Mostly that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Over the years of writing/communicating, I’ve learned a thing or two about timing and patience. I’ve learned that approaching an issue with more information, more compassion and less entrenchment makes me a better communicator. Even when I say I want to burn the whole fucking thing to the ground, I have to follow it up with words that do more than hurl 360° of emotional napalm. I want to understand. I want to convince. I want to hear solutions or ideas that change the course.

Anyway, that’s why I write today.

FU, SO (twos-14)

The theme of this post is Fuck Up, Start Over.

I fuck up as much as the next person so I'm not special. However, my tolerance for fucking up has been historically low. Unhealthily low. How you learn to manage fuck-ups is a life skill.

But first, let me tell you about my day: I spilled the cooked rice I was serving to accompany the salmon I was cooking for breakfast (savory for breakfast has been one of adulthood's delightful discoveries.) three times. I had to stop and clean up the floor and countertop three times because I assumed each time that was the last time I'd make that mistake. I also spilled those powdery flakes of Stevia sweetener all over the other countertop twice. My countertops are black. It looked like a dusting of new snow but not as endearing. I'm working on a small sewing project (that must remain undocumented because it's a little gift for someone who may not see it early...I am all about the surprise) that I managed to complete the hard part of (design and layout) only to repeatedly fuck up the easy part (execution). I also dropped my needle for the umpteenth time on a needle-eating area rug. Which meant everything had to stop while I darkened the room and shone a flashlight on a much wider area than you would think a goddamn needle would travel being dropped from 24". Not finding it, by the way, was not an option because this needle is big enough to create a viable piercing. I eventually found it.

Now, you may be saying, "wow, I wish I had such minor problems to kvetch about!" and you would be right. These are the stubbed toe of serious bodily injury problems. They are, however, the incidental things that break a person. The big problems require adrenaline and focus, the little things just pile up and erode you. They are also metaphors.

I am a plodder. Not an attractive adjective but there you have it. When shit piles up, I take a portion of it and begin the slow process of untangling. Actually that's a good metaphor. I will untangle thread/yarn when most people might cut out the snarl and tie the two ends together. It is a impatience-defying act. I haven't always been a plodder. I used to be a crier. A whiner.

When I used to fuck up physically, like falling off a step stool and bonking the hell out of my head, or emotionally, like upsetting someone because I didn't understand/pay attention, or creatively, like failing to come up with a good design solution, I would do a few things. First, I puled like a fucking toddler. Usually this was an internal sulk as I didn't like anyone to have a record of my tantrum. Then, I would fight imposter syndrome or self-flagellation for my stupidity and finally, I would begin the process of starting over. Talking myself out of imposter syndrome and/or stupidity has gotten easier over the years. First of all, I remind myself, you have a proven track record for doing good work and secondly, you are not stupid, so cut that shit out.

Starting over is where the heroics begin. Even if they're small and seemingly insignificant. Starting over is forgiveness, self-confidence and bravery. It is also where the most learning occurs. There is no doubt that we learn more from fucking up than we ever do from doing it perfect the first time. I'd like to think that's not just because the shame of fucking up makes us pay more attention or be more focused. I'd like to think it's not that punitive...and that the process of parsing out a mistake really involves some new insights and sparks new ideas.

I thought that one of the things I'd learn would be how to make fewer mistakes but I'm not sure that ever happens. I may learn not to make that particular mistake again (like the Saint and I have made a pact never to go above the second stepstool step unless the other one is there. That third step is a doozy.) but making rookie mistakes seems to be a thing that never really goes away. I continue to break egg yolks while separating eggs for baking–a task that I have done more or less successfully for 30 years. I have stubbed my toe in a space that I have walked past 300 times, as if someone moved the furniture but nobody did. I have put my shirt on inside out or mismatched my shoes and not discovered it until hours into my work day. I have, at 62, gotten too stoned for simple conversation.

But now, when I fuck up. I find it funny. Unless, it is dangerous. Oh, shit, I still find it funny. Let me give you an example (raise your hand if you've already heard this story.):

I did some contract work for a big company. The kind of company that has a compound where you can drop off your dry cleaning or get a haircut at work. Almost-like-you-could-live-there-and-never-leave-creepy. Anyway, I had a great boss who was on maternity leave. I was also still hustling for other contract jobs and that day I had an interview at Shell for another position. I'd worn a silk blouse and about halfway through the day for whatever reason, I started to perspire (probably undiagnosed peri-menopause) and I know how not-professional sweat-stained silk looks so I crammed tissues into my armpits to stem the tide. My boss needed to send me some work and had her husband drop it off in my office. He's a good guy and we chatted for a few minutes. After he left I glanced down and goddammit if I hadn't forgotten to rebutton my blouse after the erecting the tissue barricade. I had talked to my boss's husband with my shirt open and my bra proudly waving its bosom flag. Years before this, I'd have been mortified. Morti-fucking-fied. But fucking up had become less of an issue by then and laughter had filled in the spaces. A woman with more decorum might not have immediately called up her boss and shrieked that she'd just flashed her husband but I, not enchanted by protocol, told her anyway.

To recap, you gather up all the broken bits, skip the imposter syndrome and self-flagellation, and figure out how to start over. Sometimes that means starting over the next day once you've gotten some perspective and sleep. Sometimes that means sweeping it all in the trash and really starting over.

So, keep fucking up and starting over. It's the human condition and you might as well enjoy it.

P.S. I did it! I wrote 14 posts of 1,000+ words each. I am so proud I could plotz.

cafe con leche, lots of leche (twos-13)

The place where one distinct biome comes face-to-face with another is a place of dynamic change. No wonder borders are so fascinating. And so ripe for academic and cultural study.

I have lived in the place between cultures my whole life. I am not alone; there are so many brilliant books written on first generation vs immigrant, mixed race vs less-mixed-race, mixed-religion homes, etc. However, I think my transitional zone is a bit unique.

ETHINICITY

My first memory of straddling two, and consequently belonging to neither, cultures was about being half Puerto Rican/half Irish.* My surname and my father's darker complexion/hair placed me in the "other" category but my looks, dark hair and eyes notwithstanding, essentially pegged me as white. My father's weird mix of Puerto Rican pride and the push toward white assimilation was transferred to me and my sisters. I didn't learn Spanish and I didn't speak English with a Spanish accent, I just sounded like every other white person in my neighborhood. We ate some Puerto Rican foods but didn't hang out with our father's family that much (see next section: Religion). We didn't sport a Puerto Rican flag or march in the PR parade. We were raised far from New York City's barrios out in the safe, white suburbs.

I studiously worked at studying and speaking Spanish all my life but never came close enough to call myself fluent. I wanted to connect to my Latin roots but I never felt like I could.

My identity was mixed. Cafe con lots of leche.

One of my best friends in high school was a light-skinned, Black-Portuguese girl. We talked a lot about being barely-visible minorities. She relayed a conversation with a friend's mom about me being Puerto Rican. The woman countered with, well, she (me) could pass for French or Italian or anything. I remember this as the first time I consciously realized that being French or Italian or anything was seen as preferable to my actual ethnicity.

RELIGION

And if being a weird mixed ethnicity kid in a predominantly Italian/Irish/Jewish public school wasn't enough, Dad became a Mormon when I was eight years old. Of course, the whole family followed him because that's the way we rolled: whatever Dad did/said was what we all did.

Now, I belonged to a religion that was born and nourished by an enclave of straight white men in the conservative state of Utah. So I didn't fit in with my Catholic/Protestant/Jewish Long Island classmates and eventually I learned that I didn't really fit in Provo's (home of Brigham Young University and reduntantly bland casseroles) homogeneous Mormon culture either.

But I was a true believer. My fervent, nun-like obedience also made me an anomaly among my less religious friends (most of them) and that my religion was Mormon widened the gap. I was the only Puerto Rican/Irish Mormon kid in my class. Each of my sisters occupied the same weird place in theirs (though neither of them was as fanatical as I was).

Our family's adherence to Mormonism also drove a wedge between us and the extended family. I think we might have had more interaction with my father's family had our decidedly un-Catholic, teetotalling beliefs made it difficult to socialize with them or my mother's family.

After many years (and adulthood), my religious zeal petered out and I found myself most comfortable with atheism. And then I moved to fanciest buckle on the Bible belt: Texas. Sigh. Southerners don't love non-believers unless they think they can convert them. Another area where I just wasn't going to fit in.

ORIENTATION PLUS

Around the same time as I lost my faith, I discovered my ambidextrous queerness. A discovery that not only separated me from my family but also, by not picking the gay or the straight team, did not endear me to gay culture either. Not to mention that I had children which was not a way to win queer friends in 1986.

AND I was a terrible faux lesbian. I don't like sports, camping, plaid or pets. I liked art history, design and literature. My Venn Diagram didn't intersect with any of the Saint's softball buddies. And they thought I was "femme" which irritated me no end. I thought I could escape gender stereotypes in the gay community and boy (pun intended), was I wrong.

To add to the challenge: I'm not a fan of monogamy. A concept, ironically, that most straight and lesbian people are in total thumbs-down agreement on. I'm not an evangelist for the cause but I'm also not averse to talking about polyamory. It not often a comfortable conversation, however.

To top all this off, I am big. I am a 3X woman in a size 6 world. I have had to learn to navigate the White, Christian, Straight, Thin world of the 21st century. The judgmental noise from advertising, talk shows and compulsive diet/workout culture is deafening.

BEST OF ALL WORLDS

If this sounds all "woe is me" than I haven't written it well. These are the ways that I have lived between cultures. Just the reality of my life. But I don't feel rejected or depressed about any of it. If anything, my life without religion or religious acceptance is much richer. The fact that I don't fit into a neat gay or straight category is just fine. And the ethnic mix continues to evolve as does our society's acceptance of all kinds of ethnic mixes. I've derived great strength from accepting my physical form. No, more than accepting, I have embraced the largess of my largeness.

I've learned to value not fitting in; it just doesn't bother me anymore. And most of my friends today don't mind all the ways I overlap categories. Besides, our culture doesn't prize purebreds the way it once did. I think embracing my a-typicalness has been a great, healthy journey. I feel more interesting. I enjoy challenging my own and other people's stereotypes. I also find I'm quicker to accept a wider range of people because...well, who the fuck am I to judge? Finally, being open to other people who defy stereotypes has given me a humbling education.

I have learned to move through the world in my oversized body, my barely visible latinx-ness, my non-theism and my queerness. And take up space in all these quadrants whether others are comfortable or not.

* I used to think I was Puerto Rican and Irish. Through the mostly reliable DNA tracing craze I've learned I'm Puerto Rican, Jewish, Northern European with some Native blood and African ancestry thrown in.

scary things (twos-12)

Do one thing that scares you every day. That's the saying. I'm not so sure we need to run towards our fears every day; also the point is not to just face your fear but to attain something valuable. However, two days ago I did something that scared me. 

I had read information about a writer's workshop run by Dr. Roxane Gay, Dr. Tressie McMillan Cottom, and Debbie Millman. I dismissed the idea. Then I reread the information. I fretted.  I reviewed the website a third time. I waffled. Finally, I mentioned it to the Saint, who with characteristic, endearing disregard for details or my doubts, said I should just do it. So I did. 

A year from now I will attend a 2-day writers workshop run by three women who are brilliant and successful. I have no real portfolio. I don't care if I'm published. I have no idea the caliber of writers attending the conference. I've never done anything like this in my life. But, evidently, I'm ready to jump in.

Which led me to think about this. Writing here. On the best of days, my readership consisted of 12 people. Partly because I have stopped writing for long periods of time, most don't even know it's being updated but even when I wrote regularly, I didn't tell many people. This is not false modesty or shyness. I simply don't feel the need to talk to that many people. Especially if it elicits the cesspool of commentary that follow online posts like parade horses trailing shit.

So why bother publishing things at all? That is the real question. Because it makes it real? Because putting it "out there in the world" somehow closes the circuit on standing up and speaking your truth. I am not 100% clear on this. I could just write all my thoughts and keep them on a folder on my desktop. But somehow, that feels like chickenshit. Maybe I just want to leave something behind. Even if only 12 people know about it.

I've always been an essay writer and I like reading essays. However, I love reading fiction but never really felt that I would be a good fiction writer. Maybe I felt too grounded in reality to let myself go. But I find myself toying with short story ideas for the first time. One is even rather sci-fi in nature which surprises the hell out of me. I have a novice writer's fear of writing a thinly-veiled autobiography. Something tells me that all of my initial fears will need to be jettisoned so I can jump in and make the big mistakes.

In a completely different (mildly) scary vein, I went to get my hearing tested. The Saint says sometimes I don't hear her, which of course I don't think is about my hearing, and goddammit if I don't have mild hearing loss. Cataracts, hearing loss, sleep apnea ... I'm sashaying into my 60s with panache. Anyway, the loss is too mild for hearing aids but it seems like that will be a thing at some point.

The oddest thing is that all these "signs of aging" coincide with a period of sparkly rejuvenation. I have not felt this young in years.

Rejuvenate (re•ju•ve•nate rĭ-joo͞′və-nāt″)
transitive verb To restore to youthful vigor or appearance; make young again.

I don't know why any of this surprises me. Life's always been about contrast and contradiction.

this and that (twos-11)

Insomnia
I'm struggling with, not daily but regular, insomnia. So strange for a narcoleptic to experience this. I am fairly sure this has to do with the change of my routine. While I spend less time sitting at my computer these days, I am also not juggling meetings and fielding phone calls. I think a lot of my working exhaustion came from that stress and at the end of each day, I was more tired.

This is me, hypothesizing. Being at peace doesn't take up so much energy! Even though I exercise the same amount and sit less, I am still more rested at the end of each retirement day than I ever was while working. I don't know. All I know is this lying in bed awake at midnight has got to stop.

Night before last, I gave up and got up. Had a drink (bourbon) and went back to bed. It worked but then I was too sluggish to get up on time in the morning.

 

I often wonder if is the bliss I have right now the result of working so long and hard that i was miserable? Is that how we get here? You would never agree to hitting your thumb with a hammer just to feel the absence of pain when you stopped. Anyway, I'm not interested in becoming physically or emotionally drained just so I can sleep at night, so I'd better find another solution that doesn't rely on drugs. Those are for recreation and fun.

Gilead

Just finished rereading The Handmaid's Tale. It hit me more powerfully this time than when I read it years ago. The storytelling is so good. And so fucking upsetting. I will start on The Testaments, Atwood's 2019 followup (of sorts) novel. Reading, if a book is compelling, makes my "real" life feel otherworldly for a little while. That is both appealing and unsettling.

 

Some might argue that the story is farfetched and not pertinent. In my lifetime, I have experienced the powerful coercion of religious/cultural dogma. (I have to add that religion seemed less like the goal and more like the incredible tool it is to create social order and obedience) And, like the story, the enforcers and indoctrinators were often women. Teaching you that to question, to feel, to want were all signs of weakness and moral decay. It is not fictional to me. For example, my habit/dress and fear of immodesty were embedded and then, self-perpetuating. It took little more than a nudge to keep me in line.

And those that objected? They were easily and maliciously accused of all sorts of lies. Their very presence was painted as a threat to decency and safety. We were too frightened by the debauched picture leaders painted to question the outrageous claims. Those voices were muffled, then silenced.

Project

I have transferred a simplified version of my grandchild's dad's restaurant logo to the apron front I am making for their mini-chef costume. I have collected a fair amount of embroidery floss over the years (oddly enough, my ex-husband liked to embroider and I ended up with a bunch of his floss). 

 

When we moved back in after the renovation, I took the time to organize the tangle. You know, color-coordinate and bundle–I am such a happy nerd. So, I looked in there for some white thread and there was none. How could I have all these colors and NO white? That's crazy. I am trying so hard to use what I have on hand but I had to order some white floss anyway.

Still tickled with how much I like how the home-dyed fabric looks. And I have been itching to do some embroidery for a while now. I think I'll outline the arms in a chain stitch, echoing the suckers that I can't include for time purposes (this IS a toddler costume and I'm already over the top with the details!), a straight or back stitch for the hat and satin stitch for the eyes. Then I'll sew the apron together and start on pants! Purchased some blue and white houndstooth for a simple pair of pull-on pants.

Writing

I continue to struggle/enjoy this writing challenge. I have allowed myself the luxury of not having to do 14 consecutive days. But I am pretty close to being done--today will be Day 11. It is so good to think harder about ideas, how to present them, what to leave out, etc.

 

Over the past few years, I have not read regularly. The last novel I read before Handmaid's Tale was Liar's Dictionary. It was wonderful. A combination of well-told story and word-lover vocabulary. What a wonderful book. And an inspiration to keep writing. Keep practicing.

Heat

So worried about all my Pacific Northwest people during this terrible heat wave! Especially my son and his wife. Their house is not well insulated and they are particularly stretched thin right now. But he checks in regularly and they have found temporary solutions to withstanding the inferno. Fucking climate change.

I know 100° weather is not the end of the world and most people living in comfortable situations can deal. But those without air conditioning or adequate water can really suffer. 115° weather on the other hand, is deadly. You really shouldn't be outside for any length of time and if you don't have air conditioning (like most people in PNW), you've got to find other ways to cool off. Today Portland will be a balmy 91°. The only thing they have that we don't right now are cool nights. Their day/night temperature spread during the heat wave was like 40° (110° – 70°) ours for much of the summer is closer to a 20° (95° – 75°) spread.

 

Today

My goals for today are pretty simple. Do some reading. Do some sewing. Plan a meal for our friends who are coming over on Saturday night. Trim my shrubbery (hair). The Saint has a work retreat (what an oxymoron) and dinner with her sister in the early evening, so I get to soak in the solitude.

We leave for Seattle/Portland one week from tomorrow for a 2-week visit. I am so, so looking forward to being there, a/c or no a/c.

foxholes and marriage (twos-10)

I had two disparate thoughts and decided to drop them here together.

fear and loathing in of nirvana

When my father died (and when Richard Hitchens died, as well) I was reminded of the expression, "there are no atheists in foxholes." I have since thought a great deal about this concept.

What a strange idea.

Basically, believers are convinced that fear, particularly the fear of death, will drive the most rational skeptic right into jesus' or buddha's or vishnu's or allah's arms. Yay, the non-believer is really just a believer in atheist's clothing! Vindication: we're all the same!

So. The ultimate test of believing is fear? That fear is the magnet and the glue that keeps you close to god(s)? Can you imagine applying this to anything else? Like, in order to "believe" in gravity, you must be dangled over a chasm, not use your intellect to understand it. Aha! You see, you believe! Or worse, the true test of love is the fear of an empty life without it. Cue generations of abused women. If your religion is true, why would fear be the reason you cling to it?

Would you want your lover to cling to you because they are afraid of the unknown life without you? Is that love? 

Fear of the unknown is a manipulative force for obedience. It is religion's and nationalism's blatant cudgel. First, they must tap into your fear, your deep, existential fear. Next, that fear must be whipped up to a frenzy of terror. Then, the man-made solution to this chaos and abyss is laid out–your path to safety is here: obey this holy book and the leaders of its doctrine and be convinced of a life free of fear now and in the hereafter.

It is fucking ingenious. Really. To control billions of people with trepidation and get their labor, their money and their obedience for free.

If you pull back the curtain, however, and see the men pulling the strings of the world, it's hard to go back to blind faith. At least it has been for me. Any movement (religious, political, psychological, nationalist, etc.) that demands me to put my reason on hold, adhere to a set of ideals, obey the hawker of those ideas and tremble in terror of what the world would look like outside the movement has no appeal to me.

Fuck your dogma and concocted doctrine. I'll take my chances with the unknown.

six years ago today

Today is the anniversary of the Supreme Court ruling on marriage equality. On this day, it was decided that denying same-sex couples the right to marry was unconstitutional.

Most queers knew that the decision was coming. This queer didn't believe that it would be made in our favor. Oh, things had improved, yes, but letting us marry? Didn't think it would happen. I was about to go into a team meeting. My team. And I was leading the meeting. An email came through, saying that the court had ruled on Obergefell v. Hodges. We were free to marry! I spent almost 2 years fighting for custody of my children 29 years earlier and survived. I am pretty tough to shake. But I couldn't stop my eyes from filling with tears and my heart from pounding. How had we gotten from that nightmare to the place where I could legally marry my partner? I went into my meeting overwhelmed by the idea.

Notice I didn't say "grateful." Although that feeling kept trying to come to the surface. I didn't want to be grateful for being treated like everyone else. Anymore than I wanted a Black person to feel grateful that they were no longer slaves. These are not equal issues–not by a long shot but the idea of being grateful to a country and culture for treating its citizens like human beings is similarly nauseating. I only felt grateful to all the queer people who had fought for this and felt very conscious that marriage equality was not LGBTQIA equality. This was just a piece of the solution.

But still, it was something to celebrate.

That day I started planning our 30th anniversary/legal wedding day for the following October.

I was previously not a fan of marriage. My first foray into (straight) marriage left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a revulsion of ever being anyone's "wife" again. I felt dissolved into another human being and secondary. Truly secondary. I balked at the invisible restraints. I hated losing my name. A problematic patriarchal inheritance to be sure but replacing that with yet another man's name rankled.

Eventually, I left that union and reclaimed my freedom and my name. I would never change my name again for anyone.

When I fell in love with the Saint, I was comforted in many ways that marriage was not on the table.

Then, the legal limbo of our relationship began to pop up all over the place. Home ownership. Her parental rights with my children. Fear of relatives who might easily and legally override our commitment to each other. Then, the worst: she got breast cancer and my rights in the hospital were suddenly, clearly not equal. I could not do for her what I might have done for my husband. I could not be guaranteed access. I could not legally step in on her behalf. We had to depend on the kindness of strangers in that setting. And they were kind and respectful but that was just our luck. I hated having our relationship hang in that balance.

So, the protections of legal marriage convinced me. And, yes, the ability to stand up in front of my family and friends and declare openly that we were together also held a power and romanticism that I will not deny.

We legally married five years ago this fall. I still consider us to have been married for 35 years--just because the nation had its collective head up its ass doesn't nullify the 30 years of living, working, paying taxes, raising children, etc. together. Our relationship already was and is an amazing thing to celebrate. And now, we have legal standing that makes it that much harder for anyone else to break.

Happy Marriage Equality Day, America.

distractions and delights (twos-09)

Well, this is embarrassing. I've stumbled for three days to write a single word, not to mention 1,000 of them. 

I do have something to show for it, however. I've been cooking:

Chicken/Veggie Stirfry

 

Grilled Pork/Roasted Vegetables:

Sweet Potato, Asparagus, Red Pepper

And making shit. I'm dying some cloth for my grandchild's Halloween costume:

Fun with chemistry at home

Had to stir the boiling dye for 45 minutes.
Felt like a Shakespearean witch. And liked it.

The long rinse.

 

The final denim colored cloth! 

They will be a tiny chef (squeeee!) for Halloween and the blue fabric will be made into an apron with the logo of their father's restaurant on the front.

 

Here's the coat (that I did not make--because I could NOT find a damn pattern so I had to buy this one). I will have to deconstruct and alter it because it's too big:

See also Tbsp prop which will look like a
regular wooden spoon in their little hands.

Here is the little chef's hat that I did make. There's a velcro closure in the back for adjusting to growing heads. I'm awash in the cuteness:

An inverted vase stands in for baby's noggin.

So here's the deal. Can I be a writer and still pursue all this fabulous fun making shit? I think so. But I can't do it all at the same time. Right now, the urge to do everything all the time is constant. I am hopping from one project to the next. But every project (or project segment) takes about four hours. If I have to cook and finish sewing, that's my day (more or less). If I write, I can only choose one other secondary activity before I'm done for the day. And all that is thrown into chaos when we have company or go visit friends.

I'm not really complaining--just adjusting my expectations. I will continue until I complete the 14-day, 1,000 word/day project because it has been hard and rewarding. Those days may not be consecutive but that's okay.

We've just returned from having lunch with one of my dearest friends. A member of our family of choice. He is housebound and chronically ill. A year ago, unexpectedly, he lost his wife--who was also his caretaker and lifelong companion. It is difficult to see him cope but he is coping. He is a priority in my life and now that I'm retired and fully vaccinated (and so is he), seeing him regularly is one of my goals. Which activity also needs at least 4 hours dedicated to it. He is very funny and dear. And I feel so fortunate to have him in our life.

The pandemic refocused many things. My love of solitude and making. How visiting with a select group of friends is one of the only reasons I will step away from my sanctuary and projects. The inner circle of my life is filled with so many fucking outstanding people.

 

Yesterday we had a friend (well, mostly my partner's friend--people love the Saint so much, they'll accept my friendship as part of the package) come by and stay for the day. It was delightful. There was day-drinking. WHO AM I? This is a new me. Bourbon? At lunchtime? Yes, I guess that's how it's going to be.

 

Tomorrow another of our besties (see above package deal) will come over for dinner. We are celebrating his new job, Marriage Equality Day and LGBTQIA Pride weekend. I will cook but I don't know what. He's a vegetarian which makes it easier because, you know, limiting the pool of choices gives me less to overthink. Jesus, I can overthink the shit out of things.

Oh, and in and among all this making, writing and socializing, I am committed to learning to enjoy the not-doing. Really stopping my frenetic approach to everything in order to lay fallow and regroup. Which is what I am going to do right now...wish me luck.

P.S. Remind me to post a pic of the little darling in their tiny chef's ensemble!

fat and the unintentional experiment (twos-08)

I don't talk much about being fat. Not here and not in real life. I wasted so much of my precious time from the age of 10 to 30 on this topic, I am loathe to give it another minute. But it's an important part of who I've become, so here goes.

If we took all the creative energy poured into conversations about dieting, exercise and corrective clothing, if we re-channeled all the self-loathing women heap on themselves into positive endeavors, if we redirected all the money and time spent on punishing ourselves for not being model thin into some other passion, we could conjure up a modern Renaissance. I'm not fucking exaggerating.

The cultural/social control over our bodies, self-images and confidence is second only to religion in it's ability to make us feel unworthy. I am talking about women but more and more I see men being squeezed into this impossible form as well. But I'm going to reference women because the control men have over our bodies is just one more manipulation heaped on the pile and we desperately need to recognize that.

I started dieting when I was 10 years old. 10. What is that, fourth grade? By the age of 10, I was so self-conscious and disgusted with my sweet and beautiful body, I put myself on a diet. Nobody told me I was fine the way I was. I was fully supported in this dieting endeavor by my parents. They agreed (in my mind) that my body was definitely not okay.

When I was little, my father called me "cherub." That was code for fat baby. Baby fat is almost cute until you're not a baby.

Age 10 was around the time my mom had to buy me clothes for pudgy kids. The clothing line was called Chubbette (thank you, marketing assholes) and my dad thought that would double as a funny nickname. He also armed my siblings with it (children can be so cruel to each other, myself included).

In middle school I had a biology teacher. I don't know what this guy's problem was but he liked to debate with me about Mormonism in front of the other students. I was, what 12? 13? A veritable theological scholar, right? Anyway, he also thought it would be hilarious to call me Chunky in front of the other kids. That stuck for quite a while.

Needless to say, the self-imposed dieting never stopped. Stupid, punishing diets that left me faint or nauseous. Family members watching what I ate and asking me "didn't you already have two cookies?" I developed a predictable shame/pleasure cycle about food. Food was disgusting/food was comforting. I went through a period where I tried to train myself to be bulimic but learned that this digestive system has an iron-clad one-way rule. For the life of me, I can NOT throw up. I have never spontaneously thrown up–not ever. If I am extremely sick I can occasionally make myself throw up but I practically have to shake hands with my epiglottis to do it.

For a time I liked to joke that there was a straight man out there crying about how cruel nature was to give  a lesbian (for all intents and purposes) no gag reflex. 

When I went through the custody battle, I gained 80 lbs in the first year. I went to the doctor and said, "Listen, I'm not proud. If I'd been downing a box of Oreos every night, at least I would have gotten something to show for it." But I hadn't changed my eating or anything. They chalked it up to stress. When the stress of that insane legal fight ended, of course the weight didn't reverse itself. I was up 100lbs.

But I was happier than I'd ever been. This woman had become a part of our family, she loved my kids and she loved me in ways that I could not believe. My size didn't matter. At all. It took me years to believe that she meant it. Suddenly, being obsessed about my size seemed like the fucking last thing I had time for. I was about to finish my degree, I had two young children to raise and a relationship to dedicate time to. I gave up dieting. I gave up talking about body size. I began to cull out the self-hate from how I spoke about myself. I aimed for zero fucks to give about how people saw me. I began to heal.

Society, naturally, reminded me at every turn that I was repulsive. My father claimed he was worried about my health (I was perfectly healthy: normal blood pressure, normal cholesterol, normal blood sugar, etc.) which I called bullshit on. Then, he said he was concerned that I wouldn't be able to find a job. What? Of course, I found jobs. I was smart and talented. By the end of my career, I'd be paid more than I'd ever had anticipated. Certainly more than he would have believed. One time he made one of his usual comments about my weight and lack of self-discipline, and I told him this wasn't about me. This was about him not liking that he had a fat daughter. That shut him up for a minute.

For many, many years I have just focused on being healthy. Exercise, sane healthy eating and watching portion sizes, especially over the past few years as the Saint and I aged. Then, during the pandemic, an unexpected thing happened: an unplanned dietary experiment. For the first time, the Saint and I ate the exact same things. We exercised the exact same amount. We worked at our desks for the same amount of time every day. It was a controlled experiment that I didn't even realize was happening for months. She is 6" taller than I am and while she carried extra weight, I still weighed more than she did. At the end of 9 months, she had dropped 40lbs. Me? I'd lost 13lbs. 

For the first time in my life, I realized that my body just doesn't shed weight like other people. And I'm not talking a slower metabolism–if I had dropped 25lbs to her 40lbs...then, sure, it's just the difference in our metabolism. But 13lbs? Something was wrong but not about how I was eating. The day I realized this, I had my first and only meal where I knew that there was nothing wrong with the way I ate. I had been blaming myself subconsciously for most of my life for my weight "problem." And for that one evening, I ate blamelessly. If I was wont to cry, I'd have wept.

I don't think they'll figure this out in my lifetime (all the standard tests have been run: thyroid, hormones, diabetes, etc.) and I don't care. I told my doctor and said I wasn't looking for her to solve the problem but she needed to understand that something was definitely wrong. But this is just the way my body is.

The increased consciousness of fatphobia damage (see Ady Bryant in Shrill) and numerous options in clothing for larger women have made all this a bit better. Gone are the fat clothes that employed large diagonal graphics or cabbage-patch-kids-like round collars over sack-dresses ablaze in flowers. But I don't think for a moment that being fat is acceptable here or in most countries.

Our culture's grip on our self-image is firm and unforgiving. I do wish women would stop it. Stop doing penance at the gym. Stop eating salads in public because you're afraid someone will come along if you happen to be eating dessert in public and say, "See? That's why you're fat." I wish women would stop apologizing for what they eat or worse, bragging about how little they ate that day. Just stop. It's a catastrophic suck on our energy. Our creativity. Our confidence. And we give it an outsized place in our lives.

Take up space. Spend your energy on things that delight you. Tell anyone who has an issue with your size to fuck off in every way.

our perfect they/them grandchild (twos-07)

When I was a kid the message that boys were tough and girls were delicate never sat right with me. Perhaps because I heard disparaging remarks about females (mostly from my father), I didn't want to be lumped in with that category. I rarely bucked these ideas outwardly but I was furious about them on the inside. And, of course, I was raised as a girl. While I was also comfortable with many of the girly things (and got reinforcement for them), I wanted a lot of the boy stuff, too. One or the other just wasn't enough. I'm old enough to remember when boys couldn't take "home ec" and girls weren't allowed to take "shop" in school. I would have loved shop. I'm old enough to remember when Legos were mostly for boys. I would have loved those, too.

When I legally married five years ago, I wore a red dress (natch) with a tuxedo tails jacket. I just don't feel "in my own skin" when I only dress femininely. Or only masculinely. At 62, I am just exploring what non-binary feels like. At the same time, I want to make it clear that my preference is not to be non-gendered. I want to be multi-gendered. I am still comfortable with she/her pronouns but I'm not comfortable being relegated to "femme" or "butch." Okay, I'm more comfortable with femme-appearing butch but I want the fluidity to shapeshift as often as I please. 

Aside: remember gender identity is not the same thing as sexual attraction. You can present with any gender permutation or no gender at all and be a homosexual, heterosexual, bi- pan-sexual or asexual. Two different characteristics.

Here are some of the clear gender messages I got as a young girl:

• Boys are better at math and science.
• Be smart but don't threaten males with your intelligence.
• Good girls don't take up too much space.
• Good girls don't swear.
• Good girls eat, sit and act like a lady.
• Girls are never going to be as strong, smart or successful as men.
• Girls are never going to be as good leaders as men are. 
• Girls should not let themselves get fat.
  
• Fat girls won't get dates.
• Fat girls won't get good jobs.
• Young women are responsible for the sexual response of their boyfriends.
• Young women are responsible for the moral behavior of the couple.
• Young women are not sexual. At least not as compare to males.
• Women should be teachers, nurses, mothers and secretaries.
• Women can be artists or musicians if their husbands can support them and allow it.
• Women don't deserve equal pay.
• Men are the head of the household.
• A male heir is always preferred. 
• Eve was a byproduct of Adam.
• Eve was responsible for Adam's "sin."
  
• Females are "given away" in marriage ceremonies.
• Females take their husband's name. They belong to him.
• Females should participate in sports in moderation.
• Females shouldn't climb trees unless they have shorts on.
• Females who allow themselves to participate in (and godsforbid, enjoy) sexual activity will be scorned socially.
• The intact hymen was a sacred symbol.
  
• Girls play with dolls. Boys play with trucks.
• Girls make pretty things. Boys break pretty things.
• Girls are delicate. Boys are tough.

I know that my male counterparts got many similarly skewed messages about not crying, not failing, acting like a bully, not liking girl things, etc.

I might have considered being an engineer or a surgeon but that would have been an uphill fight. Not that I don't love how my life turned out but the limitations were clear and loud.

When it came time to raise my own children I was hellbent on bucking this nonsense. Society is a massive, self-propelled machine and difficult to resist but I did whatever I could. I encouraged my son to be gentle, made sure he got a doll when my daughter was getting one. I encouraged my daughter to be fearless and pursue her dreams. Important note: Bold femaleness is much easier for our modern society to deal with than gentle masculinity. Anti-gentle-masculinity is rooted in misogyny. Just like homophobia.

I hoped that my behavior was ultimately a more powerful message than any teachings. I hoped that they saw that I was a strong, able woman. That I was in partnership with a strong, able woman. I hoped that they knew I would always be in their corner and take on anyone who would try to harm them. They witnessed us standing up to bullies, fighting for our rights as queers and protesting racism and misogyny. They grew up thinking that women could fix anything because we did. They never knew what it was like to have a mother who didn't love powertools, who didn't curse like a fucking sailor or who wasn't afraid to speak up.

But even with all that, I felt disappointed at how hard it was to keep gender expectations from saturating their young lives. It was everywhere and constant. I wanted more freedom for them but didn't know how to counteract all the boy/girl shit society threw at them from every corner.

Along comes my youngest–now nonbinary–child carrying our first grandchild. She/They (accept all pronouns) want to launch this experiment in child rearing that essentially removes gender from the world's perception of the child, which often becomes the child's perception of themselves. The baby will be raised in a gender-free environment until they decide what their unique gender expression will look like. It will be daunting but every powerful change is daunting. It will be hard. Gendered speech is goddamn hard to avoid. We have been steeped in this dichotomy, this binary. But it will be possible.

Now we have our beloved grandchild. 18-months old this week. The unrivaled apple of our eye. We are smitten and completely in love with this little human. And they are they. They are dressed in neutral or gender-balanced clothing. They are not treated as a china doll or a miniature weight lifter. They are allowed to experience the world with as little gender conforming language and expectations as possible. Living in the Netherlands makes that easier but not easy. There are pockets of traditional everywhere. However, this small human being is going about their life with as much gender neutrality as their parents can create.

This makes me so fucking happy. SO happy. Yes, it weirds out the family. Yes, my 83-year old mother is struggling. Yes, I slip and use gendered pronouns sometimes–even after 18 months of serious practice. But what a better world! What an unprecedented opportunity for approaching the world with fewer gender limitations. I try to imagine all the increased options available to them and it blows my mind.

I remember people asking me what was I going to do about religious training for my children since I am an atheist. I remember my father asking me what was I going to do about raising a son with another woman...what about his masculine training? When people ask about my child raising their child in a non-binary way, I say the same thing to them as I used to say: every generation is an experiment, so we're going to take the gamble that if you raise children without god(s), if you raise a son without a male counterpart or if you raise a child without the trappings of gender and just teach them to be good, kind, curious, adventurous, strong, thinking, compassionate members of the human family then they're going to be fucking amazing. And they are all fucking amazing.

life in the time of corona (twos-06)

I realize I haven't said much about one of the most historically significant events of our times: the 2020 pandemic which is transitioning out in this country right now. This is how the pandemic affected me.

In October 2019, we moved into our 468 sq ft garage apartment for the 13-month renovation that we had waited 25 years to begin. I had spent the better part of the previous three years purging, planning and preparing. And buying. Jesus I had to buy a ton of stuff. I found a company to do our drawings and then, picked a construction company to execute the plan. This was a simple and not so simple project. The footprint would not grow significantly (from 1600 sq ft to only 1690 sq ft) but our 100-yr old bungalow would need:

• to have the back porch (bedroom/bathroom) and laundry room ripped off and rebuilt
  
• to have the abestos shingles in the back removed by an abatement company
• to have them replaced with cement shingles
• the roof and attic rebuilt and extended
• all ceilings returned to their original 10 ft height
  
• the knob and tube electrical system completely replaced 
• a central air conditioning system installed (for the first time–hallelujah!) 
• all the plumbing ripped out and replaced
  
• a tankless water heater installed
• all the thin drywall ripped out and replaced with 1/2" board
  
• a new primary bathroom 
• a new primary bedroom
• the guest bathroom completely overhauled
  
• the kitchen completely redesigned
• a mudroom and laundry room built and
  
• ceramic tile installed in these rooms, the kitchen and both bathrooms. 
• new hardwood floors installed in the primary bedroom/closet and 
• hardwood floors refinished everywhere else. 
• 16 double hung windows replaced/installed (to meet code). 
• insulation added under the house, in the new areas and added to attic
  
• to be raised 16 inches (we live in a flood-prone city)
• the space under the house graded to prevent standing water
  
• the porch completely rebuilt, along with the pillars that held up the roof
• custom cabinets/storage created and installed by a master carpenter
• new side and back entrances created and respective porches built
• me to make 4,000 decisions, give or take.
  

We were incredibly grateful for the garage apartment, tiny as it was, because while we lost the rental income it provided, that amount would never have covered the cost of renting an apartment anywhere nearby. Besides, we only needed to be there in the evenings, right? Most weekends we'd be working outside on something house-related. Most days we'd be at our respective workplaces.

In December, we flew to the Netherlands to witness the birth of our one and only grandchild. It was amazing and joyous. We returned home the first week of January. And well, you know the rest. Two months later the world shut down. And there we were in this postage stamp apartment. Still grateful. Still employed. Still so grateful.

But that space was tight! It is a testament to how easy the Saint is to live with and how compatible we are. We were rarely much further than 6' away from each other. When we had simultaneous Zoom meetings, one of us moved to the only other room in the apartment with a door: the bathroom. The kitchen was impossible to cook in. And I was used to having what I thought was a totally shit tiny kitchen. We did work on the weekends in the garage. So many projects. I created a mosaic backsplash for the kitchen, we stripped miles of old molding to be repurposed. Ditto old doors. 

For the next six months, we maneuvered around the little space. Adjusting to the size and trouble-shooting the endless renovation questions and decisions. So many decisions. We continued to work remotely every weekday from our little desks and had countless video meetings. By December of 2020, the house was done and I gave notice that I was retiring. I was planning on retiring in March of 2021 but my leadership had been five years of increasing terrible; I was miserable and done. January 15, 2021 was my last day at work. Just over six months have elapsed and I haven't looked back. I do miss the people on my team but, honestly, I haven't thought about work at all.

After retiring I had three months to unpack the house and organize the spaces. This, constant reader, is not my super power. Historically these kinds of projects make me want to pull the covers over my head. I am usually overwhelmed and teary at the thought. But not this time. I looked at the mountains of bins and piles of boxes and figured out a strategy like a general mounting a tactical offensive. With an army of one. All previously purged categories needed to be re-purged. There were items organized that I pulled apart and reorganized. There were tons of things that went to charity, friends and in the trash. It was a massive challenge and I am not going to be modest–I climbed that fucking mountain, planted my flag and crowed.

At the end of the three months, my mom, two of my sisters and my sister-in-law came to visit. The house was clean, organized and brand-spanking new. My family was amazed. 

Note: Even though they knew I was a designer, my family had seen me live in this old house for 25 years without making major changes so they may have had their doubts about what I could do, which is fair enough. My mom and sisters are constantly making upgrades and changing their homes. And they are all lovely homes. I am possessed of a need to do things right or not do them at all. Can't explain why. When I finally accomplish something, I make sure I can get what I really want and not compromise too much. And I did. 

Of course, the fact that my spouse didn't care one iota about the design part meant that I got to do whatever I wanted. Holy shit, I'm spoiled.

Early in the year St Barbara had been vaccinated at work. I was vaccinated and "safe" about 10 days before my family arrived. Since then, the U.S. has begun to open. After 600,000 people died. It will be a long time before we'll be able to absorb the tragedy of this pandemic and the political upheaval that coincided/contributed to it.

My family is all vaccinated except for my youngest in the Netherlands, who is set to receive her first shot in July. That will be a wonderful day, when she is safe. Next month we travel to Portland to reunite with our son and his wife. In October, we fly to Amsterdam and see our youngest and our grandchild who we last saw at birth, 22 months earlier. These will be joyous reunions.

While the pandemic created a lot of stress, ultimately I was made for this kind of isolation. For the most part, I love, love, love being at home. Being able to work and play with the Saint every day and not having to go to social events I was not interested in was a huge relief. The best excuse not to socialize. While I got a little too isolated once or twice, mostly, I relished the privacy and time. And it segued into retirement like a dream. I have soaked and steeped in alone time. I have designed and planned and schemed new projects. I have sewed and knitted and written. I have cooked in this insanely wonderful kitchen. I have spent time with a small number of close friends.

Between the pandemic and retirement I have learned to protect my privacy. I have dropped obligations and made decisions about how I want to spend my precious time. My sense of bliss is unprecedented and pervasive.

sex education for the cloistered (twos-05)

She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elton
Loves daydreams and her boyfriend too.

(Tom Petty, Freefallin'; lyrics shamelessly adapted without permission)

When I was in middle school, pious little good-deed-doer that I was, I would periodically volunteer to go to the state or county home for the mentally retarded. We'd all load up in the school bus and spend a couple of hours playing with mostly Down-Syndrome and other mildly retarded children. I had a comfort level with the kids because I'd met some special-needs children at church.

On one of the last trips to the home, someone messed up. Instead of scheduling us with the little ones, they accidentally put us in with the teenage boys/young adult men group. In a very short time the school bus was filled up with freaked out 7th and 8th graders. I remember one of the mentally challenged boys hugged me; I wasn't scared but he hugged with the tenacity of a toddler and the strength of a man and didn't want to let go. We were no match. So the chaperones made an announcement that we should all get back in the bus and the attendants began to corral all the patients out of the room. I must have been sitting down because when one of the young men decided to drop his pants, I got an eye level shot at his half-erect penis.

Please remember, I grew up in a prudish, predominantly female household. I had only seen the non-erect penises of male infants whose diapers I changed while babysitting. This was a horse of a different...size. What I know now and didn't know then, was that this person had an unusually large cock. I had no frame of reference. So I could only conclude...wait for it...that his oversized schlong was a part of his deformity.

The next time I saw a penis in real life was on my wedding night.

I am not making any snide remarks about my ex-husband's endowment–not at all. I was relieved as hell that he was not in possession of such a sea monster. However, can you see how a little sex education would have gone a long way? Do you think I ever talked to anyone about the incident at the home? Do you think I ever hunted down pictures of male genitalia to see what I should expect? No, of course not.

What saved me from some of my naiveté and profound lack of experience was curiosity and education. An education initiated and conducted by myself. I read everything I could get my hands on (not illustrated, unfortunately) about (mostly conventional) sex before I married. My commitment to learning, formal and informal, is based on a love of exploration and the very practical need to know what the fuck I should expect from life.

Side note: I had to go in for a pre-marital vaginal exam (my first). I was 2,200 miles away from home and my mom (who is wonderful and might not have been much informational help to me but sure would have been a comfort). Anyway, the gynecologist was your average late middle-aged white man and he asked me if I wanted him to break my hymen so I wouldn't be in pain on my wedding night. Hmmm. Not a question Sunday school prepared me for. For sure, I didn't want to be in pain, so I said yes. Shit, that hurt. He went on to describe exercises I should do to keep my vagina flexible before the wedding.

I have thought about this incident many times since. I was grateful (?) that my wedding night was not painful. Yet I wondered if the doctor got off on this cultural power trip of deflowering the naive or if he'd just seen too many freaked out young brides after their wedding nights. I do not know. All I know was that I was an 18-yr old virgin with no mom or sister to talk through this and I was bleeding and sick to my stomach. I didn't even understand the traditional implications of not having my husband "take" my virginity. Which concept enrages me just thinking about it.

Sex education. I was desperate for it.

A year or so after getting married, my husband started bringing home Penthouse Forum. It was kind of a pre-Reddit information dump about sex and variations on the same. The other side of the looking glass. My education went into high gear.

So what did I learn? First of all, that there were possibilities for sex that I had never heard of nor imagined. I learned that I was indeed attracted to women. I began to view monogamy in a different way (although I wasn't quite ready for non-monogamy when my husband requested it sometime later). I read descriptions of the female orgasm that convinced me that I'd never had one. It was an enormous amount of taboo information. And I was still a fairly blank slate.

Son of side note: here is the sum total of my previous sexual education (and motherfuckers, explaining menstruation is not sex education). The day before I was to be married my mother handed me a douche bag and my father told me when I got to the hotel room on my wedding night, that I should lock the door and take a bath.

That's it.

Clearly, sex was complicated by my innate uncleanliness. Also, lock the door? What the fuck was that about? Suddenly I wasn't safe because my husband would become a rapist at the first opportunity? Fucking hell. What a message.

Anyhow, my education continued. Dave formally asked me for an open marriage. After crying privately about the accurate suspicion that open marriage was just his way of getting some on the side and keeping his wife at the same time (read: he didn't seem worried at all about losing me and he should have been), I agreed to open our marriage because I'm an idealist and committed to learning. Laugh if you will but that was why. What neither of us expected was that I would get so much more of the action. I was tripping.

Open marriage is a post unto itself. Suffice it to say, the experience changed me. Polyamory, which I still support, is very challenging. If your foundation is not rock solid, extra marital sex will crack it wide open. At some point, for other reasons made more complicated by this, I realized that I was miserable in the marriage, open or closed.

When I left him and decided to date women I was, oh gods forgive my adolescent punning, a fish out of water. Gay women took one look at me and my offspring and saw evidence of my previous congress with men and assumed (correctly) that I'd enjoyed it. They were not only not interested, they treated me like a hetero interloper/pariah. To them, then and now, I say: you should be so lucky. 

I finally met a woman who showed interest in me (despite my stint with semen) in a Leisure Learning class on learning to tune up your own car–jesuschrist the clichés just write themselves. She was lovely and awkward. We decided to skip the last class on air conditioning maintenance because she was going camping and her camping partner bailed on her. And I agreed to take their place.

Let's regroup for a minute: 

• First of all, if given the opportunity to choose between understanding your car's cooling system or getting intimate with a woman for the first time–I am here to testify that you will never miss learning to fix your own air conditioning. That your life will be much, much richer if you pay the auto guy and spend that precious time learning the mechanics of female anatomy.
  
• Secondly, you know I was out of my hormonal little mind to agree to go camping--an activity that I am 100% disinterested in. I am also fairly sure I'd have put on plaid flannel and Birkenstocks if that would have gotten me there faster. 
• Thirdly, this wasn't just camping. This was the goddamn Michigan Womyn's (sic) Music Festival. The notorious female-only, annual lesbian event in the Michigan woods. I had read the brochure so I had some idea of what I was getting into but even so, it ended up being jaw-dropping. When I say I prefer to jump headfirst into my passion, I am not shitting you.

It was a long drive and we camped one or two nights along the way. I am a very comfortable Alpha and the lack of specialized training did not deter me. At least I got to the festival with that box checked off. (Forgive me, I really can't help myself.)

There were 2,000 women. Which is 4,000 breasts, give or take. The remnants of my modest Mormon past dropped off like a decrepit cocoon and in no time, I was shirtless as a nymph. But still weirded out. I swear I was the only one there with toenail polish on and birth control pills in my bag. I was sure they could sniff out the imposter in me. In spite of my self-consciousness though, I could barely contain my cup-runneth-over glee. It was fucking glorious.

While I hope I never stop learning about pleasure and anatomy and all of that, I'm contented that book learning and field work have made my sex education graduation possible.