As Danielle and I approach the first anniversary of our wedding, our thing in September, I can't help but be reflective about the twists and turns and multiple awkward moments that brought us together in the first place. Although we've been married only a year, we've been a couple for eight years, so we've got a bit of journeying behind us. In honor of this year's milestone, I'd like to devote a few posts to the story of how we met, got together, fell in love... you know, all that sappy stuff. Of course, the story is about us, so there is still plenty of nerdy hilarity to be recounted along the way. This is not, after all, the Hallmark Channel.
To begin with, I was never terribly boy-crazy as an adolescent and teen. This makes much more sense in hindsight. My crushes centered around long-haired boys who played acoustic guitar and talked about their feelings. In other words, male lesbians. In an effort to impress them, I took up guitar and began writing my own songs. What I lacked in boobs, I tried to make up in rhyme. I spent hours curled up on my bed writing songs and short stories and figuring out how to move my fingers quickly from an E major chord to a B7. I moved on to playing bar chords. I sang in coffeehouses and joined songwriter circles. Still, my standing Friday night date was watching rented movies at home with my parents. I went on zero dates in high school and attended the prom stag. While a guy friend did send me flowers one Valentine's Day, I spoiled any chance of romance by giving him a thank-you note the next day. However, even though boobs inevitably trumped rhyme and I remained single, I was happy.
Danielle's teenage years followed a similar pattern. Her family moved across the country in the middle of her high school career, so she ended up performing in two different high school productions of Pippin. She was also an active member of her high school choirs and served as a peer support volunteer. She describes her high school self as "an athletic supporter." She and her friends "cheered for the soccer team. But we weren't cheerleaders. We even made signs." This recollection was followed by a gasp, an "Oh God!", and the admonition, "Please don't make me look like a dork." (That's why I added in the part about me sending a thank-you note for the flowers.)
College life was no different for us. Danielle was an Orientation Assistant and Peer Mentor and worked with the soccer team. I wrote a little for the school newspaper, volunteered as a tutor, and worked for the campus programming board. Both of us were very involved in the campus community and got to meet a lot of interesting, fun people. Our cumulative date tally for college? Zero.
Danielle was a senior my freshman year of college, and we never crossed paths that year. However, her college advisor messed up her class schedule, resulting in an extra fall semester for Danielle. It was this semester that Danielle joined the programming board. During the board retreat, we discovered that we both love banana baby food and that we had never been kissed. We became instant friends. While we weren't inseparable initially- She had her life, and I had mine- we moved easily into deep conversation any time we were together. When the time came for her to graduate that December, I remember feeling terribly sad that I would not likely get to see her anymore. As a graduation/Christmas gift, I gave her a glass slipper ornament to remind her that she would one day find her happy ever after. I did not see or hear from her for three months.
That March, I entered the school talent show. Guess who showed up on the judges panel? Danielle! I was so thrilled to see her. At some point that evening, we must have reconnected and exchanged phone numbers or something. All I remember is that we began to spend more time together. We would see each other once every other week. Every other week became once a week, and once a week turned into hanging out pretty much every night. There were times when I would come back to my dorm after spending hours talking with Danielle at our local coffeehouse and I would feel that giddy, heady feeling of falling in love. But I was a good Southern girl, so it did not even dawn on me that having a relationship with Danielle was a path I could take. Yet, our non-courtship courtship continued. We used to drive around our small town just listening to music and talking. We exchanged cds and made each other mixed tapes. I spent a weekend helping her move from a house to an apartment. She introduced me to Nutella before Nutella was cool. We started singing together, and to this day our voices blend better with each other than they do with anyone else.
Although it was a matter of years before Danielle and I realized and acknowledged what was really happening in our relationship, we still look back fondly on those early days. I remember so clearly how delighted I felt to be around her, how I never tired of her company, and how no one else's company compared. I wanted desperately to impress her, yet I felt totally comfortable just being myself. She and I also marvel at how the universe conspired to bring us together. We'd never have met if her advisor had given her a correct class schedule. (We are still paying off the student loans accrued that extra semester, but we concur that the debt was worth it.) We also would have lost touch if Danielle hadn't been invited to judge the talent show or if I hadn't been performing. How different and empty our lives would be if the universe hadn't knocked us into one another with such persistence!
I think we also owe a great debt to our many years of being single. In our efforts to attract an interesting, engaging partner, we had amassed some wonderful life experiences that made us interesting, engaging people. Because I had played guitar and written songs since high school, I was the type of person who felt comfortable entering a college talent show. Likewise, Danielle's love of music and the arts made her an ideal talent show judge. And when our paths intersected....wow! Our voices, conversations, jokes, and, well, lives blended together in such a joyful, meant-to-be way.
While we weren't looking, we found exactly what we sought.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
This Is Not a Game
Recently, Danielle and I were on our annual lake vacation with my family. I will go ahead and warn you to dismiss any images that just appeared when you read the words "lake vacation". The place is nothing like that. My family has been visiting the same rural lake community for over 50 years. And the "cottage" we stay in looks as if it has not been renovated in nearly that long. Although pillows are provided as part of the amenities, visitors would be wise to bring their own- unless, of course, they have no issues with laying their heads on a ten-year accumulation of sweat stains. Likewise, flip-flops or sandals are a must for guests not wanting to turn the soles of their feet tar black. There is rust and mold in both bathrooms, and the dresser drawers open only intermittently. The entire "resort" smells of cigarette smoke and sunscreen. If you sit outside, you will hear country music blasting, calls reminding guests that Bingo will be starting in ten minutes, and the sound of children's laughter.
Given this setting, it is no wonder that Danielle and I found ourselves walking along the pier carrying both Dairy Queen cones and our winnings from Skee Ball. We were relaxed from vacationing but also nervous about being in the two week waiting period between our last insemination and the time when we would be able to take a pregnancy test. Our best efforts to distract ourselves with arcade games, jigsaw puzzles, board games, novels, and the Olympics had not kept our minds off the question that permeated our waking moments: were we pregnant this time?
Each time we try for a baby, our chances of getting pregnant are 15 percent or less. Since this comes out to about a one in six chance, many people going the IUI route conceive within roughly six months. What the doctors don't point out, however, is that a 15 percent chance of pregnancy has a converse side; there is an 85 percent chance nothing will happen. At $1,500 a pop, this is a helluva pricey lottery ticket. Were the potential outcome not so desirable (parenthood!), we would never have developed this gambling habit.
For her arcade prize, Danielle had selected a set of rubber dice she planned to use in her work with young children. As we sat on the splintery pier, she asked me to pick a number between one and six. I chose four. She proceeded to roll the dice eight times before landing on a four. She tried again for a four, this time reaching the magic number in only four rolls. As she repeated this experiment for a third time, it took twelve tries before dice displayed four dots. By this time, I understood her illustration: the six-sided dice provided a nice metaphor for our monthly chances of conceiving. It could take only a few or frustratingly many tries before the stars aligned and we got pregnant. Even when the conditions are right, we have no control over the outcome. The dice will fall where it will.
When we got home from the lake we found that, for the eighth time, our number did not come up. An hour after we found out that our try did not work, I got a phone call from my baby brother telling me that he and his wife were expecting their first child. This was never how I expected to find out that I was going to be an aunt. A moment I'd looked forward to for so long left me numb instead of excited. While I am truly happy for my brother and sis-in-law and know that they will make fantastic parents, I never thought that they would be having children before me. I felt like that pink plastic peg I used to stick in the cars on the Game of Life board. All the other cars were moving past me to bigger and better fortunes while I kept being sent back to Go, paying fines and penalties with each trip.
While Danielle's and my experience lends itself well to game comparisons, the problem is this: this is not a game. We are not doing this for sport or diversion. It is a vulnerable experience to feel like the pawn on some board, completely lacking control of the outcome. In truth, none of us are ever truly in control of our lives and circumstances. We have just had the harrowing experience of seeing the veil lifted from that illusion of control. This will probably make us wiser and stronger in the long run. For now, though, we've decided to suspend our pursuit for one month. We are going to spend more time talking with our doctor, examining our options, and discerning our next steps. We are not counting ourselves out, but we need a break from the wondering, worrying, and grieving. We are sad and tired. We need to recharge.
Before you know it, though, we'll be at the table again, kissing the dice, making the greatest wish of our lives, and letting it roll. Because one of these times, our number's bound to come up.
Given this setting, it is no wonder that Danielle and I found ourselves walking along the pier carrying both Dairy Queen cones and our winnings from Skee Ball. We were relaxed from vacationing but also nervous about being in the two week waiting period between our last insemination and the time when we would be able to take a pregnancy test. Our best efforts to distract ourselves with arcade games, jigsaw puzzles, board games, novels, and the Olympics had not kept our minds off the question that permeated our waking moments: were we pregnant this time?
Each time we try for a baby, our chances of getting pregnant are 15 percent or less. Since this comes out to about a one in six chance, many people going the IUI route conceive within roughly six months. What the doctors don't point out, however, is that a 15 percent chance of pregnancy has a converse side; there is an 85 percent chance nothing will happen. At $1,500 a pop, this is a helluva pricey lottery ticket. Were the potential outcome not so desirable (parenthood!), we would never have developed this gambling habit.
For her arcade prize, Danielle had selected a set of rubber dice she planned to use in her work with young children. As we sat on the splintery pier, she asked me to pick a number between one and six. I chose four. She proceeded to roll the dice eight times before landing on a four. She tried again for a four, this time reaching the magic number in only four rolls. As she repeated this experiment for a third time, it took twelve tries before dice displayed four dots. By this time, I understood her illustration: the six-sided dice provided a nice metaphor for our monthly chances of conceiving. It could take only a few or frustratingly many tries before the stars aligned and we got pregnant. Even when the conditions are right, we have no control over the outcome. The dice will fall where it will.
When we got home from the lake we found that, for the eighth time, our number did not come up. An hour after we found out that our try did not work, I got a phone call from my baby brother telling me that he and his wife were expecting their first child. This was never how I expected to find out that I was going to be an aunt. A moment I'd looked forward to for so long left me numb instead of excited. While I am truly happy for my brother and sis-in-law and know that they will make fantastic parents, I never thought that they would be having children before me. I felt like that pink plastic peg I used to stick in the cars on the Game of Life board. All the other cars were moving past me to bigger and better fortunes while I kept being sent back to Go, paying fines and penalties with each trip.
While Danielle's and my experience lends itself well to game comparisons, the problem is this: this is not a game. We are not doing this for sport or diversion. It is a vulnerable experience to feel like the pawn on some board, completely lacking control of the outcome. In truth, none of us are ever truly in control of our lives and circumstances. We have just had the harrowing experience of seeing the veil lifted from that illusion of control. This will probably make us wiser and stronger in the long run. For now, though, we've decided to suspend our pursuit for one month. We are going to spend more time talking with our doctor, examining our options, and discerning our next steps. We are not counting ourselves out, but we need a break from the wondering, worrying, and grieving. We are sad and tired. We need to recharge.
Before you know it, though, we'll be at the table again, kissing the dice, making the greatest wish of our lives, and letting it roll. Because one of these times, our number's bound to come up.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Chic-Friggin-A
I am SO over the whole Chic-fil-a thing. I mean, REALLY over it. I don't like the company and how unwelcoming they are to Danielle and me, but I'm a vegetarian and don't eat there anyway. Sure, I've had the occasional container of waffle fries, but boycotting Chic-fil-a is really no skin off my nose. I have, for all intents and purposes, steered clear of them for quite some time.
Problem is, the controversy isn't going away. It's all over Facebook, and I'd really rather not be reminded of it. I don't like it rubbed in my face that my family's rights are even up for discussion because it's SO RIDICULOUS that they are up for discussion, that they are at all controversial. I don't know how many ways I can say this: we are SO not a threat. (Unless you are frightened by people who garden and knit. In that case, all bets are off.) Still, all these polls are floating around the world of social media asking my Facebook friends whether or not they'll eat at Chic-fil-a in light of the CEO's comments. While I'm sure that many people we know will continue to patronize the chain despite disagreeing with company's stance, I'd really rather not know about it. What I don't see won't hurt me. (Technically, the money spent there will hurt me a little bit, but the expense of an occasional Chic-fil-a visit is negligible.) But I do have to see it. For example, my desktop screen tells me that my cousin's wife, who is actually quite supportive of and loving toward us, has decided to continue eating at Chic-fil-a. My third grade teacher, whom I LOVE, shared an article about how Rev. Billy Graham (whom I used to admire greatly) is encouraging Christians to increase their patronage of Chic-fil-a in order to show their support of "traditional marriage". It SUCKS to be disappointed in your third grade teacher. I'll admit that it was refreshing and encouraging to see my mother declare, "I'll never eat there again," but I've not seen many people actually swear off the company.
And that may be okay. The world will not end. I know this because I get gas at Exxon. Yes, most of my fuel is purchased at a station owned by the first company ever to earn a negative score on the Human Rights Campaign's Corporate Equality Index. This means that Exxon not only does nothing to support gay rights, it actually takes actions to undermine equality. However, the Exxon I patronize is the gas station closest to my home, by far the easiest place to gas up if I need to refuel quickly on my way to work as well as the pit stop most on the beaten path when I'm headed home. If I'm out and about in a different area and have a choice, I will avoid Exxon. However, I still end up there at least every other week. Likewise, I ask for Lowe's gift cards each birthday and Christmas even though Home Depot is an expontentially more inclusive, GLBT-friendly company. It's just that Lowe's is right down the street from me and the closest Home Depot is nearly an hour away. I choose the easy road instead of the moral one. I think we all do from time to time. The point is, I am simply not in a position to begrudge anyone a chicken sandwich every now and again.
In the end, I think we all live by our beliefs in the best ways we know how. Voting with your dollar can be difficult. This is partly due to ignorance about where products come from and partly because, gosh darnit, we like our creature comforts. For instance, I purchase a lot of my food from local, sustainable farms and prefer farmers markets and small dry-goods stores over supermarkets. Still, despite my opposition to practices in the meat packing industry and mass food production in general, I like to stop at McDonald's on most road trips to get some too-sweet coffee and a package of salty fries. My stomach and conscience hurt a bit afterwards, but I do it anyway. I don't see this as any different from finding out that people who know and love Danielle and me also love Chic-fil-a sandwiches.
The positive thing about these controversies is that they force us to think a bit more creatively about how we put our beliefs into action while also co-existing with companies we have qualms with. We begin to stand up for our values in new and inventive ways. For example, perhaps it's okay to give in to a craving for Chic-fil-a nuggets if you then balance out the purchase with a comparable donation to the Human Rights Campaign (www.hrc.org). Think of it as the gay rights version of carbon neutrality. Maybe the solution is to decrease Chic-fil-a consumption (EAT LES CHIKN?) while becoming increasingly vocal when you hear anti-gay comments casually inserted into so-called polite conversation. Combating discrimination face-to-face is going to be more effective anyway.
A good friend of ours struck a great balance recently when she took her daughters to their local Chic-fil-a for Cow Appreciation Day. This is a day when you can get free food from the chain if you come in dressed up as a cow. She and her girls had already been busy planning their visit and costumes when she got wind of the company's donations to anti-gay organizations and general anti-gay stance. Well, she couldn't very well renege on a promise made to a kindergartener and preschooler. Still, she is one of our staunchest supporters and greatest cheerleaders and did not want to appear to condone the company's views. Instead, she brought her support of marriage equality into the restaurant right along with her two cute bovine impersonators. Here is a picture of the results. http://instagram.com/p/NBVyRkQeYp/
In the video below, Jackson Pearce offers not only an articulate argument against Chic-fil-a's support of "traditional marriage" but also provides an opportunity for action. Mike Huckabee has called for Chic-fil-a supporters to eat there on August 1st to show that they side with the fast food restaurant. Ms. Pearce suggests that people supporting GLBT rights should go Chic-fil-a that very same day to ask for a free water. This takes a few cents away from money that might otherwise be donated to anti-gay causes and also forces the company to follow the biblical directive of Proverbs 25:21: If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat; if he is thirsty, give him water to drink. I'm not particularly fond of confrontation, so I won't be participating in this particular protest, but maybe this type of creative dissent will work for you. Ms. Pearce is also boycotting the company from here on out. Maybe you will, too. I will, but that is the form of protest that works for me. Maybe you will continue to eat at Chic-fil-a but will wear a GLBT-supportive t-shirt each time you go to remind the company that you do not share their views, to make sure they don't forget that GLBT folks and our allies still exist.
As for me, I will try to go to Exxon less frequently. I don't think a total boycott is realistic, but perhaps I can cut my purchases in half. I will try to gas up at the station near my work even though it is at a funny intersection and requires a left turn. I hate left turns like nobody's business, but it turns out that I hate discrimination even more.
In the end, regardless of what actions we take and whatever opportunities we take to stand up for justice, it is my hope and prayer that we would be guided by a new kind of slogan: LUV MORE PEEPL.
Problem is, the controversy isn't going away. It's all over Facebook, and I'd really rather not be reminded of it. I don't like it rubbed in my face that my family's rights are even up for discussion because it's SO RIDICULOUS that they are up for discussion, that they are at all controversial. I don't know how many ways I can say this: we are SO not a threat. (Unless you are frightened by people who garden and knit. In that case, all bets are off.) Still, all these polls are floating around the world of social media asking my Facebook friends whether or not they'll eat at Chic-fil-a in light of the CEO's comments. While I'm sure that many people we know will continue to patronize the chain despite disagreeing with company's stance, I'd really rather not know about it. What I don't see won't hurt me. (Technically, the money spent there will hurt me a little bit, but the expense of an occasional Chic-fil-a visit is negligible.) But I do have to see it. For example, my desktop screen tells me that my cousin's wife, who is actually quite supportive of and loving toward us, has decided to continue eating at Chic-fil-a. My third grade teacher, whom I LOVE, shared an article about how Rev. Billy Graham (whom I used to admire greatly) is encouraging Christians to increase their patronage of Chic-fil-a in order to show their support of "traditional marriage". It SUCKS to be disappointed in your third grade teacher. I'll admit that it was refreshing and encouraging to see my mother declare, "I'll never eat there again," but I've not seen many people actually swear off the company.
And that may be okay. The world will not end. I know this because I get gas at Exxon. Yes, most of my fuel is purchased at a station owned by the first company ever to earn a negative score on the Human Rights Campaign's Corporate Equality Index. This means that Exxon not only does nothing to support gay rights, it actually takes actions to undermine equality. However, the Exxon I patronize is the gas station closest to my home, by far the easiest place to gas up if I need to refuel quickly on my way to work as well as the pit stop most on the beaten path when I'm headed home. If I'm out and about in a different area and have a choice, I will avoid Exxon. However, I still end up there at least every other week. Likewise, I ask for Lowe's gift cards each birthday and Christmas even though Home Depot is an expontentially more inclusive, GLBT-friendly company. It's just that Lowe's is right down the street from me and the closest Home Depot is nearly an hour away. I choose the easy road instead of the moral one. I think we all do from time to time. The point is, I am simply not in a position to begrudge anyone a chicken sandwich every now and again.
In the end, I think we all live by our beliefs in the best ways we know how. Voting with your dollar can be difficult. This is partly due to ignorance about where products come from and partly because, gosh darnit, we like our creature comforts. For instance, I purchase a lot of my food from local, sustainable farms and prefer farmers markets and small dry-goods stores over supermarkets. Still, despite my opposition to practices in the meat packing industry and mass food production in general, I like to stop at McDonald's on most road trips to get some too-sweet coffee and a package of salty fries. My stomach and conscience hurt a bit afterwards, but I do it anyway. I don't see this as any different from finding out that people who know and love Danielle and me also love Chic-fil-a sandwiches.
The positive thing about these controversies is that they force us to think a bit more creatively about how we put our beliefs into action while also co-existing with companies we have qualms with. We begin to stand up for our values in new and inventive ways. For example, perhaps it's okay to give in to a craving for Chic-fil-a nuggets if you then balance out the purchase with a comparable donation to the Human Rights Campaign (www.hrc.org). Think of it as the gay rights version of carbon neutrality. Maybe the solution is to decrease Chic-fil-a consumption (EAT LES CHIKN?) while becoming increasingly vocal when you hear anti-gay comments casually inserted into so-called polite conversation. Combating discrimination face-to-face is going to be more effective anyway.
A good friend of ours struck a great balance recently when she took her daughters to their local Chic-fil-a for Cow Appreciation Day. This is a day when you can get free food from the chain if you come in dressed up as a cow. She and her girls had already been busy planning their visit and costumes when she got wind of the company's donations to anti-gay organizations and general anti-gay stance. Well, she couldn't very well renege on a promise made to a kindergartener and preschooler. Still, she is one of our staunchest supporters and greatest cheerleaders and did not want to appear to condone the company's views. Instead, she brought her support of marriage equality into the restaurant right along with her two cute bovine impersonators. Here is a picture of the results. http://instagram.com/p/NBVyRkQeYp/
In the video below, Jackson Pearce offers not only an articulate argument against Chic-fil-a's support of "traditional marriage" but also provides an opportunity for action. Mike Huckabee has called for Chic-fil-a supporters to eat there on August 1st to show that they side with the fast food restaurant. Ms. Pearce suggests that people supporting GLBT rights should go Chic-fil-a that very same day to ask for a free water. This takes a few cents away from money that might otherwise be donated to anti-gay causes and also forces the company to follow the biblical directive of Proverbs 25:21: If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat; if he is thirsty, give him water to drink. I'm not particularly fond of confrontation, so I won't be participating in this particular protest, but maybe this type of creative dissent will work for you. Ms. Pearce is also boycotting the company from here on out. Maybe you will, too. I will, but that is the form of protest that works for me. Maybe you will continue to eat at Chic-fil-a but will wear a GLBT-supportive t-shirt each time you go to remind the company that you do not share their views, to make sure they don't forget that GLBT folks and our allies still exist.
As for me, I will try to go to Exxon less frequently. I don't think a total boycott is realistic, but perhaps I can cut my purchases in half. I will try to gas up at the station near my work even though it is at a funny intersection and requires a left turn. I hate left turns like nobody's business, but it turns out that I hate discrimination even more.
In the end, regardless of what actions we take and whatever opportunities we take to stand up for justice, it is my hope and prayer that we would be guided by a new kind of slogan: LUV MORE PEEPL.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
50 Shades of Huh?
Even though I am a lesbian, I'd like to think that I can girl talk with the best of them. I love jewelry, cute shoes, home decor, romantic comedies, and cooking. I can spend a long time bombarding my nasal passages in a Yankee Candle store. If I'm talking to another woman who's interested in gardening, I could rattle on indefinitely about the perennial garden I'm planning for the front yard. (Don't start this conversation with me unless you want an earful about mums and purple ferns.) Even though I clearly do not do my hair, I am interested in looking at different hairstyles. I don't wear make-up, but I can make at least a little conversation about the new shades of nail polish I just bought. However, one of the latest trends to hit the female world is abysmally lost on me: the popularity of the Shades of Grey series.
Obviously, Danielle and I are not the target demographic for these books. If I'm reading a book and come across the word cock, you can be assured that the text has to do with sustainable farming. Yet, the books have achieved enough attention and notoriety to have stayed solidly on our radar. Our friends have read them and like to talk about them. We have heard about many of the kinky details, told to us with either disgust or delight, depending on the friend recalling the scene.
It probably goes without saying, but we will also steer clear of the theater while Magic Mike is playing. In our world, male strippers are like white noise. We don't particularly notice their presence or absence. I did actually go to a strip club for my 18th birthday, but that was mostly to celebrate the fact that I was old enough to get in. I was trying to feign a certain level of badass-ness, although my true colors shone through in the too-big corduroy pants from Goodwill that I wore that night. Who knew clubbing and corduroy don't mix? (Danielle had a similarly "edgy" experience at this same club another time when a man walked up to her and asked, "Are you a nurse?") This club had two sections, a dance club and a strip club, and I ended up spending much of my birthday night talking with a close friend at a table in the strip club. We went there to escape the noise of the bass-heavy dance club. That's right: the strip club was enticing because it was quiet. So, that gives you some context.
Anyway, all of these new, sex-charged offerings inspired me to inquire of Danielle, "Do you wish we used whips and stuff? Because I will if you really want me to." I didn't want Danielle to feel like she was missing out on some mind-blowing sexual experience, but - truth be told- my internal monologue was pleading, Please say no...please say no...please say no.
Of course, there is a reason Danielle and I ended up together. Our mutual tameness is part of that. "Oh, God no!" she replied. "Actually, whips make me feel guilty. They make me think of slavery." Thank goodness.
"And I'm not really that into handcuffs, either," she continued. "Reminds me of immigration reform. Remember that episode of The Good Wife when that woman got deported?" Yes, I agree, that was a sad show.
Leave it to us to have a social justice bent to our sex life.
From there, the conversation got pretty silly as we talked about the most ethical sex props. Danielle made some crack about KY jelly but then offered that actual jelly could be put to creative sexual use. But only if it was locally made. Like the gooseberry jelly we just got from that lady at the farmers market. That would be okay.
If I could stomach reading the Shades of Grey books (and I don't think I can), I would love to write a parody series featuring normal, lame lesbian characters. I would call it 50 Shades of Indigo. In the book, if one character hurt her partner during sex, the sex act would stop so that the offending character could fix a nice, soaking bath for her sore lover. Much apologizing and cuddling would ensue. There would be more pages devoted to the characters talking about feelings and the health of their relationship than all of the needless poking and prodding found in the original books. The steamiest scenes might involve the presence of strategically placed bits of farmers market gooseberry jelly. Or local honey. Organic, of course.
All of this is to say, you straight people have your minds in the gutter. Before you know it, Pat Robertson is going to be condemning your wanton depravity and encouraging you to be more like your wholesome lesbian friends. In fact, these books might just be a boon for the gay movement. We come off looking rather pure (see Ellen video below) by comparison. So go on. Have your Shades of Grey/ Magic Mike flings.
Just remember: if I show up one day looking a little sticky and smelling faintly of gooseberry, don't say a damn thing. You have no room to talk.
Obviously, Danielle and I are not the target demographic for these books. If I'm reading a book and come across the word cock, you can be assured that the text has to do with sustainable farming. Yet, the books have achieved enough attention and notoriety to have stayed solidly on our radar. Our friends have read them and like to talk about them. We have heard about many of the kinky details, told to us with either disgust or delight, depending on the friend recalling the scene.
It probably goes without saying, but we will also steer clear of the theater while Magic Mike is playing. In our world, male strippers are like white noise. We don't particularly notice their presence or absence. I did actually go to a strip club for my 18th birthday, but that was mostly to celebrate the fact that I was old enough to get in. I was trying to feign a certain level of badass-ness, although my true colors shone through in the too-big corduroy pants from Goodwill that I wore that night. Who knew clubbing and corduroy don't mix? (Danielle had a similarly "edgy" experience at this same club another time when a man walked up to her and asked, "Are you a nurse?") This club had two sections, a dance club and a strip club, and I ended up spending much of my birthday night talking with a close friend at a table in the strip club. We went there to escape the noise of the bass-heavy dance club. That's right: the strip club was enticing because it was quiet. So, that gives you some context.
Anyway, all of these new, sex-charged offerings inspired me to inquire of Danielle, "Do you wish we used whips and stuff? Because I will if you really want me to." I didn't want Danielle to feel like she was missing out on some mind-blowing sexual experience, but - truth be told- my internal monologue was pleading, Please say no...please say no...please say no.
Of course, there is a reason Danielle and I ended up together. Our mutual tameness is part of that. "Oh, God no!" she replied. "Actually, whips make me feel guilty. They make me think of slavery." Thank goodness.
"And I'm not really that into handcuffs, either," she continued. "Reminds me of immigration reform. Remember that episode of The Good Wife when that woman got deported?" Yes, I agree, that was a sad show.
Leave it to us to have a social justice bent to our sex life.
From there, the conversation got pretty silly as we talked about the most ethical sex props. Danielle made some crack about KY jelly but then offered that actual jelly could be put to creative sexual use. But only if it was locally made. Like the gooseberry jelly we just got from that lady at the farmers market. That would be okay.
If I could stomach reading the Shades of Grey books (and I don't think I can), I would love to write a parody series featuring normal, lame lesbian characters. I would call it 50 Shades of Indigo. In the book, if one character hurt her partner during sex, the sex act would stop so that the offending character could fix a nice, soaking bath for her sore lover. Much apologizing and cuddling would ensue. There would be more pages devoted to the characters talking about feelings and the health of their relationship than all of the needless poking and prodding found in the original books. The steamiest scenes might involve the presence of strategically placed bits of farmers market gooseberry jelly. Or local honey. Organic, of course.
All of this is to say, you straight people have your minds in the gutter. Before you know it, Pat Robertson is going to be condemning your wanton depravity and encouraging you to be more like your wholesome lesbian friends. In fact, these books might just be a boon for the gay movement. We come off looking rather pure (see Ellen video below) by comparison. So go on. Have your Shades of Grey/ Magic Mike flings.
Just remember: if I show up one day looking a little sticky and smelling faintly of gooseberry, don't say a damn thing. You have no room to talk.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
My Hallelujah
For some time now, I have been struggling to write about what it's like to identify oneself as both Christian and lesbian. These terms are not mutually exclusive; in fact, these two parts of my identity complement each other to make me, me. But darned if the dearest things aren't also the hardest to write about. My attempts to put my faith into words have resulted in reflections and ramblings that I don't want to impose upon you, dear readers. Instead, I'll be succinct: God and I are on good terms. We have made our peace. Like everyone, I've got my stuff to fix. It's just that lesbianism isn't part of that stuff.
In fact, the experience of being in a loving, committed relationship has deepened my understanding of the big concepts of spirituality: faith, grace, forgiveness, unconditional love. By entering into a covenant relationship with Danielle, I get to participate in a microcosm of the "I- Thou" relationship between God and Creation. That's pretty heady stuff, actually. Therefore, instead of posting my teenage-diary-like prose about a grown-up topic, I am enclosing the lyrics to a song a wrote for Danielle. Sometimes poetry and music can go where sentences cannot, and this song is my best attempt to capture in writing my love for God and for my wife.
Where two or more are gathered, they say God is found
But I don't need a scripture to know that I'm on sacred ground
You come to me as gift, as lover and as friend
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen.
God loves without condition, something I don't understand
But I'm learning to receive it from your extended hand
You teach me about grace as you forgive time and again
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen
I will raise my hands in praise
for all that I've been given
Each time we love selflessly
We get a glimpse of heaven
Sometimes love is easy. Other times, it's toil.
But we have made a miracle out of seeds and sweat and soil
We're learning about faith as devotedly we tend
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen
I will raise my hands in praise
for all that I've been given
Each time we love selflessly
We get a glimpse of heaven
Where two or more are gathered, they say God is found
Journeying beside you, I stand on sacred ground
You come to me as gift, as lover and as friend
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen
You're my hallelujah
You're my hallelujah
You're my hallelujah
You are my amen.
In fact, the experience of being in a loving, committed relationship has deepened my understanding of the big concepts of spirituality: faith, grace, forgiveness, unconditional love. By entering into a covenant relationship with Danielle, I get to participate in a microcosm of the "I- Thou" relationship between God and Creation. That's pretty heady stuff, actually. Therefore, instead of posting my teenage-diary-like prose about a grown-up topic, I am enclosing the lyrics to a song a wrote for Danielle. Sometimes poetry and music can go where sentences cannot, and this song is my best attempt to capture in writing my love for God and for my wife.
You're My Hallelujah
Where two or more are gathered, they say God is found
But I don't need a scripture to know that I'm on sacred ground
You come to me as gift, as lover and as friend
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen.
God loves without condition, something I don't understand
But I'm learning to receive it from your extended hand
You teach me about grace as you forgive time and again
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen
I will raise my hands in praise
for all that I've been given
Each time we love selflessly
We get a glimpse of heaven
Sometimes love is easy. Other times, it's toil.
But we have made a miracle out of seeds and sweat and soil
We're learning about faith as devotedly we tend
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen
I will raise my hands in praise
for all that I've been given
Each time we love selflessly
We get a glimpse of heaven
Where two or more are gathered, they say God is found
Journeying beside you, I stand on sacred ground
You come to me as gift, as lover and as friend
You're my hallelujah, you're my amen
You're my hallelujah
You're my hallelujah
You're my hallelujah
You are my amen.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Sex with Dogs
If there's any myth about gays and lesbians I'd like to debunk it's the stereotype that we are a hyper-sexed people prone to one-night stands, threesomes, and all manner of fetishes. (Please. We don't even own chains for our tires.) Some would pontificate that condoning homosexuality pushes the sled of morality down an icy, slippery slope at breakneck speed. What would happen next?, they posit. Plural marriage? Sex with animals?
We are here to attest that our sex life is about as scandal-free as they come. (No pun intended.) While our dog does factor into this aspect of our lives, she serves a role the Morality Police would relish: that of a deterrent.
Our dog Fluffy is a sweet little rescue pup who dearly loves her people. She curls up with us on the couch when we watch t.v. and rides in the car with us on brief errands. She "helps" drop off the recycling each week and makes a wonderful hiking companion. We often pick dog-friendly restaurants when eating out so that she can join us. She wants to do everything with us. And we mean everything.
To her credit, our dog has been ingenious in developing a wide repertoire of strategies for derailing our most intimate moments. Sometimes, she sets a romantic mood by bringing her food in the bedroom to crunch loudly or by slurping water from her bowl with significant force, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she is very, very thirsty. (Move over, Barry White. There's a new soundtrack in town.) Other times, she thinks the whole event is a big puppy pile-on, jumps on the bed, and rests on top of both of us while furiously licking our faces. Usually, she opts for a more direct approach and brings us a squeaky tug toy. We imagine her thought bubble is, "Hey, guys! I know a better game we can play!"
Since adopting Fluffy two years ago, our foreplay has devolved from passionate kisses and gentle whispers to ridiculous attempts to keep the dog occupied and off our bed. Once, hearts palpitating, we hid small treats for her around the living room in the style of an Easter egg hunt. Dog biscuits were under couch cushions, behind table legs, and even in plain view. Our plan was foiled, however, when she found the most obvious bones and did not think to search for others. We were just a few kisses into the act when we heard the jangle of dog tags and the pitter-patter of little paws coming down the hall.
Over time, we've gotten a bit wiser and have figured out that a large, chewy bone will keep Fluffy busy for a mostly adequate amount of time. In our house, this is what we call a sex toy. Even though we don't keep pace with the licentious stereotypes, on a good night you just might find us kissing, exchanging knowing looks, and saying, "Shall we give Fluffy a big treat?"
We are here to attest that our sex life is about as scandal-free as they come. (No pun intended.) While our dog does factor into this aspect of our lives, she serves a role the Morality Police would relish: that of a deterrent.
Our dog Fluffy is a sweet little rescue pup who dearly loves her people. She curls up with us on the couch when we watch t.v. and rides in the car with us on brief errands. She "helps" drop off the recycling each week and makes a wonderful hiking companion. We often pick dog-friendly restaurants when eating out so that she can join us. She wants to do everything with us. And we mean everything.
To her credit, our dog has been ingenious in developing a wide repertoire of strategies for derailing our most intimate moments. Sometimes, she sets a romantic mood by bringing her food in the bedroom to crunch loudly or by slurping water from her bowl with significant force, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she is very, very thirsty. (Move over, Barry White. There's a new soundtrack in town.) Other times, she thinks the whole event is a big puppy pile-on, jumps on the bed, and rests on top of both of us while furiously licking our faces. Usually, she opts for a more direct approach and brings us a squeaky tug toy. We imagine her thought bubble is, "Hey, guys! I know a better game we can play!"
Since adopting Fluffy two years ago, our foreplay has devolved from passionate kisses and gentle whispers to ridiculous attempts to keep the dog occupied and off our bed. Once, hearts palpitating, we hid small treats for her around the living room in the style of an Easter egg hunt. Dog biscuits were under couch cushions, behind table legs, and even in plain view. Our plan was foiled, however, when she found the most obvious bones and did not think to search for others. We were just a few kisses into the act when we heard the jangle of dog tags and the pitter-patter of little paws coming down the hall.
Over time, we've gotten a bit wiser and have figured out that a large, chewy bone will keep Fluffy busy for a mostly adequate amount of time. In our house, this is what we call a sex toy. Even though we don't keep pace with the licentious stereotypes, on a good night you just might find us kissing, exchanging knowing looks, and saying, "Shall we give Fluffy a big treat?"
Friday, May 4, 2012
To Know Us Is To Love Us?
For a long time, Danielle and I have been floating around in a bubble. To be sure, it's a beautiful bubble and a cheerful one. If it had a noise, it would sound like children's laughter. Its color is the yellow of sunlight streaming through a window. Its insides are filled with the lightness of easy confidence and a naive faith in, well, the goodness of us. Encapsulated in this bubble, Danielle and I sincerely believed that if people opposed to gay marriage or homosexuality in general simply got to know us, they would have a change of heart and reconsider their beliefs on the subject. That they would vote for our civil rights and not against them. That they would become our advocates. I mean, surely they would like us.
And so we struck out, full of idealism and the determination to be the best little gay ambassadors anyone had ever seen. It was a charge we took seriously, and we did it with gusto. Striving to be the textbook definition of "fine upstanding citizens", we paid our bills on time, paid taxes without complaint, and got not so much as a speeding ticket. We recycled as if we got paid by the pound (still do), and, to Danielle's dismay, I even picked up discarded cans lying in parking lots. To this day, if you pass us on the street as we're walking our dog, you are likely to see us toting two- count 'em- two poop bags just in case our pooch decides to get overly ambitious about blessing the neighborhood with free fertilizer. We own a house that we responsibly maintain. We care about curb appeal and property value. We work in service professions and devote a great deal of our personal time and personal finances to our work. We support local businesses and use fuel-efficient cars to take us to them. We give 20 percent tips. We teach Sunday School. Other than being lesbians, we've done everything we were "supposed to" do.
Our diplomatic powers seemed to work, and people were, in fact, changed as our lives intersected with theirs. Our lifestyle was incongruous with all the stereotypes they had been fed. We were not godless and immoral. We never invited them to orgies, and not once did we wear leather and chains. We put an ordinary, human face on homosexuality. Suddenly, the abstract became personal. The same people who once wanted to restrict the rights of gays now got fairly riled up against placing said restrictions on Danielle and Elaine. Being able to watch this evolution in some friends and family members was a profound and powerful experience. This is, after all, the stuff that makes you believe in humanity.
It is no wonder, then, that our bubble floated on.
When the bubble finally burst, it felt more like an explosion. Danielle was reading an article online and came upon a quote from a colleague of hers who was speaking in favor of North Carolina's Amendment One, a proposed constitutional amendment to limit marriage to a man and woman. This was not a case of some casual acquaintance running her mouth; rather, this was a friend we had invited to our wedding. This was a woman who had shared countless conversations with Danielle about fertility and all the ups and downs that come with trying to start a family. How could she talk, laugh with, and advise Danielle on the crazy world of family planning and then vote to undermine the very family we are striving to create? Was she only tolerating us and simply pretending to be open-minded? How could she betray my Beloved in this way? How was it possible, I wondered, for anyone to meet Danielle and not be compelled to fight for her?
Even in my anger, I knew we had learned a powerful and important lesson: prejudice is one friggin' knotted ball of twine, and it won't be unwound without much time and painstaking effort. Sometimes personal relationships are not enough. Sometimes the quiet example of an honorable life persuades no one. Sometimes, no matter how hard we work to be "good", it won't be good enough.
This betrayal was extremely hurtful, a punch in the gut preserved in the black and white of print. It was a low point in our journey. Our once shiny, delirious bubble had been reduced to a slimy puddle at our feet. However, there was a much more hopeful lesson in store for us: as much as people can disappoint you, they can also surprise you in the most marvelous of ways.
We learned this second lesson via Facebook when a friend of ours began speaking out against Amendment One in a very public, passionate, and vocal manner. She posted videos, forwards, quotes, and even Bible verses to explain her reasons for fighting against the amendment. And boy did she catch a lot of flak for her stance! Our parents did not reject or reprimand us for being gay, but she experienced friction within her family simply because she is supportive of gay rights. Sometimes Danielle and I become so caught up in our own struggles and battles that we forget how much courage it can take to stand up publicly as an ally of the gay community. In a note our friend sent to us, she recounted her experience, "I live in a tiny little town and got yelled at by my dad the other day because I am telling EVERYONE on Facebook that "I love gays" (his words, not mine)...... Well, after my dad yelled at me I "accidentally" left some of the videos about Christians who are against the amendment up on his computer before I left the room. He shortly after came and apologized, saying he would educate himself more before making a vote."
Our friend's life will not be affected one iota by the Amendment One vote. She does not have anything personal to gain from its passage or rejection. Even so, she is risking rebuff from her family, friends, and faith community. She is doing so in the name of justice and because her faith compels her to do so. She is also doing so because she is our friend- our true friend- and friends don't let their friends get pushed out or pushed around. Even after attracting controversy, she held fast to her position and never let up on trying to persuade others to bend in the direction of equality and justice. These days, she is my heroine and a far better ambassador for the cause than Danielle and I could have hoped to be.
While I cannot pretend to be thankful for all of the hullabaloo about Amendment One, I can at least admit that there might be a few roses hidden in this thorny patch. Danielle and I are reminded that bubbles, lovely as they are, do pop. Putting unreasonable amounts of faith in people can, at times, be as futile as trying to will a bubble to stay intact on a windy day. However, there are times people can fill your heart with such hope and optimism that you feel you could burst with happiness.
So forget bubbles. Friends on a mission- now there is something to marvel at.
And so we struck out, full of idealism and the determination to be the best little gay ambassadors anyone had ever seen. It was a charge we took seriously, and we did it with gusto. Striving to be the textbook definition of "fine upstanding citizens", we paid our bills on time, paid taxes without complaint, and got not so much as a speeding ticket. We recycled as if we got paid by the pound (still do), and, to Danielle's dismay, I even picked up discarded cans lying in parking lots. To this day, if you pass us on the street as we're walking our dog, you are likely to see us toting two- count 'em- two poop bags just in case our pooch decides to get overly ambitious about blessing the neighborhood with free fertilizer. We own a house that we responsibly maintain. We care about curb appeal and property value. We work in service professions and devote a great deal of our personal time and personal finances to our work. We support local businesses and use fuel-efficient cars to take us to them. We give 20 percent tips. We teach Sunday School. Other than being lesbians, we've done everything we were "supposed to" do.
Our diplomatic powers seemed to work, and people were, in fact, changed as our lives intersected with theirs. Our lifestyle was incongruous with all the stereotypes they had been fed. We were not godless and immoral. We never invited them to orgies, and not once did we wear leather and chains. We put an ordinary, human face on homosexuality. Suddenly, the abstract became personal. The same people who once wanted to restrict the rights of gays now got fairly riled up against placing said restrictions on Danielle and Elaine. Being able to watch this evolution in some friends and family members was a profound and powerful experience. This is, after all, the stuff that makes you believe in humanity.
It is no wonder, then, that our bubble floated on.
When the bubble finally burst, it felt more like an explosion. Danielle was reading an article online and came upon a quote from a colleague of hers who was speaking in favor of North Carolina's Amendment One, a proposed constitutional amendment to limit marriage to a man and woman. This was not a case of some casual acquaintance running her mouth; rather, this was a friend we had invited to our wedding. This was a woman who had shared countless conversations with Danielle about fertility and all the ups and downs that come with trying to start a family. How could she talk, laugh with, and advise Danielle on the crazy world of family planning and then vote to undermine the very family we are striving to create? Was she only tolerating us and simply pretending to be open-minded? How could she betray my Beloved in this way? How was it possible, I wondered, for anyone to meet Danielle and not be compelled to fight for her?
Even in my anger, I knew we had learned a powerful and important lesson: prejudice is one friggin' knotted ball of twine, and it won't be unwound without much time and painstaking effort. Sometimes personal relationships are not enough. Sometimes the quiet example of an honorable life persuades no one. Sometimes, no matter how hard we work to be "good", it won't be good enough.
This betrayal was extremely hurtful, a punch in the gut preserved in the black and white of print. It was a low point in our journey. Our once shiny, delirious bubble had been reduced to a slimy puddle at our feet. However, there was a much more hopeful lesson in store for us: as much as people can disappoint you, they can also surprise you in the most marvelous of ways.
We learned this second lesson via Facebook when a friend of ours began speaking out against Amendment One in a very public, passionate, and vocal manner. She posted videos, forwards, quotes, and even Bible verses to explain her reasons for fighting against the amendment. And boy did she catch a lot of flak for her stance! Our parents did not reject or reprimand us for being gay, but she experienced friction within her family simply because she is supportive of gay rights. Sometimes Danielle and I become so caught up in our own struggles and battles that we forget how much courage it can take to stand up publicly as an ally of the gay community. In a note our friend sent to us, she recounted her experience, "I live in a tiny little town and got yelled at by my dad the other day because I am telling EVERYONE on Facebook that "I love gays" (his words, not mine)...... Well, after my dad yelled at me I "accidentally" left some of the videos about Christians who are against the amendment up on his computer before I left the room. He shortly after came and apologized, saying he would educate himself more before making a vote."
Our friend's life will not be affected one iota by the Amendment One vote. She does not have anything personal to gain from its passage or rejection. Even so, she is risking rebuff from her family, friends, and faith community. She is doing so in the name of justice and because her faith compels her to do so. She is also doing so because she is our friend- our true friend- and friends don't let their friends get pushed out or pushed around. Even after attracting controversy, she held fast to her position and never let up on trying to persuade others to bend in the direction of equality and justice. These days, she is my heroine and a far better ambassador for the cause than Danielle and I could have hoped to be.
While I cannot pretend to be thankful for all of the hullabaloo about Amendment One, I can at least admit that there might be a few roses hidden in this thorny patch. Danielle and I are reminded that bubbles, lovely as they are, do pop. Putting unreasonable amounts of faith in people can, at times, be as futile as trying to will a bubble to stay intact on a windy day. However, there are times people can fill your heart with such hope and optimism that you feel you could burst with happiness.
So forget bubbles. Friends on a mission- now there is something to marvel at.
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