In the Family Way

Well, well, well.  Times have changed, haven’t they?  I’d say I didn’t know what caused it, but I do.  It’s all this pure countryside living.  Either that or the fertility clinic we went to this summer.  I know, I didn’t tell you it was coming.  Think of it this way, we didn’t really tell anyone.  Not even our parents.  Okay, ESPECIALLY not our parents. And now we’re in trouble, knocked up, in a delicate condition, pregnant.

D, in particular is pregnant, but isn’t that what you say?  We’re pregnant?  It’s amazing how early a woman’s body quickly belongs to the collective once she’s bearing a child.  I give myself a good mental smack every time I think it in an effort to psychologically give her her body back, but I’m thwarted at every turn.  For example, several people took the liberty of hugging us today when shared the news.  This is work folks, we are colleagues, we don’t hug.  Don’t even get me started on the way many pregnancy books manage to marginalize both the mother and any partner she has that isn’t her straight, American, husband.  Like I said, don’t get me started.

You might have questions.  How, in fact, did two hot, sexy women such as yourselves manage to conceive the miracle of life? We selected sperm from a bank, we shipped it to a doctor, he injected it into her uterus twice (once in August and once in September), she got pregnant.  Here’s what we didn’t do: we did not tell our other “trying” friends the number of our donor (I’ve heard that occurs), we did not take any fertility drugs and we did not tell people we were attempting to fertilize an egg.

Honestly, we’re still a little queasy about the idea of thwarting evolution at all, but have opted to become glassy-eyed with baby thoughts instead of considering the damage we’ve done to the human race by electing to use artificial means of conception.  Well, she’s queasy for entirely different reasons.  So, details: she’s 13 weeks, due in late June, we’re not going to find out the sex, and I won’t be numbing your eyes with baby chat here.

Two things – check out the page at the top titled “Plus One”.  If baby talk is your thing you can find me at Counting Chickens.  That’s it for this pregnancy public service announcement.

Points for not shunning me.

Seperate Toilets

It seems a little unreal that domestic partners employed by the federal government will have some benefits.  I have confidence that, eventually, it will as illegal to discriminate against gay individuals as it is to discriminate based on age or gender.  There’s no perfect world and discrimination still happens to all kinds of people all the time, but I look forward to the day when it isn’t sanctioned by the government.

For a second, I thought I might regret leaving the State Department in light of this change and the almost certain extension of more benefits by the Secretary of State.  But I don’t.  I don’t regret leaving for a second.  It was no longer the right job and the limited benefits wouldn’t make up for that.  Unfortunately, I’m confident that the good state of Virginia is unlikely to get on the progressive bandwagon anytime soon.

The whole thing leaves me feeling a little hopeless and unsettled.  It seems like no one is able to make change.  The President says it’s beyond his ability to change and if left to the general public, I’m afraid a vote would be to maintain the status quo.

At Capital Pride Sunday I watched a man my age walking with his pretty wife, their young baby and the baby’s grandmother tell his family that they could not use the restrooms in the area because (hushed whisper) “Look at that sign” (pointing to Pride banner) “we can’t go over there”.  I couldn’t tell if he was afraid they might catch something, sheer discrimination, or fear that we might tar and feather them.  Seperate toilets.  Great.

Coming Out

Already you’re thinking this is a gay post, but it isn’t!   I just used the cleverly deceptive title to fool you!  Ha ha!  Do you feel fooled?  Extra points, dear reader, if you didn’t sigh at yet one more post cleverly trying to fool you into thinking it was gay when – gasp – it wasn’t!

While I could regale you with stories about my own coming out (uneventful, I assure you, unlike the time I left the vibrator out in the middle of the living room.  Which was, of course, all in the same week.  My poor parents) I will instead delight and awe you with the tale of my blog coming out.  You don’t have to look so disappointed.

We were at a party this weekend with a passel (like how I used that word there?) of lesbians that D. knows but I don’t.  It was delightful actually, homemade wings and nachos, football, tons of yummy beer and easy conversation.  Apparently, I enjoyed myself so much that I casually mentioned having a blog.  Unlike the way I’d envisioned it, the conversation didn’t stop, no one eagerly demanded my url, waiting with bated breath to jot it on a napkin, no one even looked surprised.  Of course, I had my eyes closed, wondering why I would say such an appalling thing.   I’m delighted that I was able to come out while not having to actually share anything.  Now, as long as I don’t go and leave the vibrator on the footstool, no one will even remember.

Points for your own coming out story.

Prideful

It was hot and humid and sticky in Baltimore this weekend.  It was the type of day when dirt clings to your skin just by being near the ground.  Gnats and flies don’t even land on you for fear of getting stuck in the layer of humid grime on your ankles and behind your knees.  Although I’ve been to celebrations in DC, San Francisco, San Diego, Sao Paulo and even Tucson, until today we hadn’t been to Pride in Baltimore.  I’m always amazed at the individual character of every event – all of them have been different and Baltimore seemed very family-oriented and geared toward a slightly older crowd.  It was a pleasant change from the leather and chains, tiny butch girl paradise of DC Pride.  We actually missed DC this year as we were recovering from West of the Mississippi jetlag and I didn’t realize how much I missed the one time each year that D. and I could kiss freely in public (more than pecks) and hold hands (more than fleetingly) and generally feel comfortable being in a world, for a moment, where we weren’t in the minority.  D. performed at the event, a short set but tight, well-sung and very professional.  I felt proud to be watching her, to listen to her, to sing along with her (which I clearly can’t do in bars or our living room!), to watch other people listening to her voice and watching her sing.  I felt so flattered when she came out from backstage and kissed me (!) over all of the other people she could have been there with.  I remember everyday how much I love her, but I forget how proud I am to be with her.

Stirrups, please.

Caution: Icky medical drama ahead…

Do you love going to the gynocologist? Because I don’t, and I could use some of that love over here. My last doctor, quite probably scarred by my tears, general panic and faint-inducing anxiety suggested that as a fairly healthy, fairly young person, I could wait three years between visits. As you expected, the three years have come and gone and I dragged myself off to the new doc today. I rationalized it by telling myself that the woman was reputedly lesbian friendly (and her entire office was), a new diagnosis of PCOS demanded some more specialized attention to my delinquent ovaries and that if D and I were planning to have a baby…ever…I was going to have to get used to someone in between my legs.

I did it with a minimum of tears (applause here) but not without considerable panicking, fidgeting, grimacing and blood pressure rocketing. D held my hand (helping matters tremendously), setting a precedent for every future visit so that I don’t have to take that horrid, poking awfulness alone. The doctor said she’d see me next year (thank goodness she wants to keep me) and I’m not completely turned off at the idea of sex for the next six months (which is what happened last time one of us went to the doc).

You’d think being a dyke would make it easier for me to throw my feet up there and slide down just so and lay quietly while some woman sticks gigantic baseball bats into me. Frankly, I’d let D stick just about anything up there with the appropriate amount of fiddling elsewhere. But just so you straight folks know, being a lesbian doesn’t give me an edge. I still really, really hate it.

You might ask why I’d put this out there for the Internet to read. Partly because I’m proud of myself for not turning into a blubbering wreck and partly because I can’t seem to find anyone else out there as scarred by this experience as I am. All of you scarred people can coome over here. It’s fun! We’re a party!

“Spouse”

One of the most wonderful things about D.’s job is the benefits. They love The Gay over there. So much so that they engage companies that will give us partner benefits. Compared to my straight-laced, pin-striped, grey flannel suit job with its standard health insurance benefits, she’s got it made. We made the decision that I would keep my own health insurance, not least of all because of my recent litany of woe, a litany that includes extensive dental work.

Miracle enough, her employer provides access to a dental network. The suits at my office say that dental insurance is essentially a losing proposition for the company, as the only people who buy in are people who need it and as it’s so expensive, they lose money. No! Really? So, I feel lucky just to pile in on what D. has. The cards arrived this week, just in time to prevent my teeth from falling out of my head. Great news, in fact, wonderful news.

Except that the cards say “D. and Spouse”. And Spouse? You mean I don’t get my own card? I don’t even get to have my name on the card? I suddenly feel like I have no identity. More so, I feel like the dental office has the right to question my use of the card. “Ma’am, this card says D and SPOUSE and you, clearly, cannot be D’s Spouse.” She’s right, I can’t be. D assures me that I can order the office to call, to get proof that I’m allowed, that I am the Spouse.

I’m sure generations of families have had the And Spouse appellation. I’m sure I’m not the first person to be bitter about losing her identity in favor of the bread-winner. But I feel a teensy bit justified in my panic since I can’t be a Spouse. Is there something wrong with just saying “and Family”? Cause I’m definitely family. D. insisted that she tried to reason with them and that they in turn insisted that they do this for everyone. I suppose I should be grateful that they don’t treat us differently just because we’re queer. But come on people, Spouse?

Deep Fried Twinkies

D and I went to the county fair yesterday. I’m a county fair girl from way back. My mother used to drag us through stinking barns to see the award winning hens and prize hogs. We didn’t get to go on many rides, whether that was because of the cost or the danger, I don’t know. So mostly, we oohed and ahhed over the best stitched vest and the brownest, biggest eggs; exclaimed over perfect flower arrangements; and, hoped that in return, she’d let us go on a ride, any ride.

For a few years in my middle childhood, there were no county fairs to go to, because it was too hot or too expensive or too commercial. But, when I got to school in northern Arizona, we were suddenly back with the sort of people who can put on a county fair in the way they were meant to be put on: heavy on the ROTC, heavy on the boy scouts, heavy on the down home. And, we discovered the delight of a demolition derby.

I had a string of useless cars in college (or a string of bad luck) and as a result, I knew the drivers at the local towing company on a first name basis. They gave me a volume discount and in return, my family cheered on their drivers at the local demolition derby. For ten years (No, it didn’t take me that long to graduate! I have two sisters.), my family rooted for Joe and Sue and their cars sponsored by the towing company. And, up until my parents bought a house in Wyoming, there was always talk of going back to the Coconino County Fair for family reunions, instead of doing more conventional celebrations.

Living overseas, I sorely missed the basic smash-em-up draw of the demolition derby and was thrilled to find a real live county fair in Virginia. However, unlike the fairs of my mainly Western youth, this fair was Southern born, Southern bred. In fact, this fair nodded back to the fairs Ray Bradbury conceived in Something Wicked This Way Comes. The midway was garishly bright, the game hawkers had their sharp patter down to a science, luring in all sorts to give up a dollar for a shot at some milk bottles, and the rides squeaked and whirled while bored operators passively looked on. I was fascinated by the dunking booth and clown inside. A stream of insults flew perfectly from inside the booth as frustrated teenagers plowed baseballs around the target. He poked fun at their hair (nappy, he said) and at their relationships (you boys lovers, he asked) at their birthplace (rednecks, he heckled) and at everything about them. A crowd drew steadily all night and uneasy applause combusted each time someone sank him. As much as I wanted to stay to listen to his eerily cruel, easy banter and carnival-gone-wrong laugh, I also wanted to get away. There was a mob brewing in the crowd and I’m sure it wouldn’t have been the first time the clown watched a riot from the safety of his box.

I got several snapshots of unlikely t-shirts and D and I consumed our fair share of awful for you county fair cuisine. And, we were able to fulfill one of my most simple dreams: to just once in my life eat a deep-fried twinkie. Oh, dear reader, it was more than I had ever dreamed.

Bonus points if you, too, have indulged in deep fried twinkies while wiping sticky cotton candy from your cheeks.

University of Arizona Steps Out

In a fit of PFLAG pride, the VVM sent me a link to the University of Arizona’s new domestic partner policies. I’m glad to see a prestigious, state-run university outside of Wisconsin (to be fair, I’m just surprised it’s in Arizona) embrace domestic partnerships. I think it requires an exceptional amount of good faith, especially since most domestic partnerships don’t have any paperwork to prove themselves. Cynically, I’m quite certain the UofA can afford the few frauds they may get by setting up this policy, but optimistically, I hope it’s a sign of good things to come.

I have to wonder though, was the VVM trying to lure me back to the West? Sneaky!

Bonus points if you, too, have been ambushed by a family member trying to circle the wagons.

Lorraine, awkwardly

In a lesbian ritual practiced the world over, Lorraine (D’s ex) and her new girlfriend came over to our house this morning.

My god, we’re those lesbians.

They did not come for brunch (I think that would make us gay men), but to deliver boxes. That’s right, D and I are moving from our 600 sq. ft.
The Mayapple: to a glorious 1200 sq. ft.
The Lily: And Lorraine, gracious as ever, volunteered the boxes she gets in abundance at the library where she works. I never thought she’d go so far as to bring them over. And step over the threshold.

It had to have been awkward for her. After all, that’s her ex-cat sitting on top of her ex-couch. And there on the television is a picture of her ex-girlfriend standing next to me, her ex-friend, in newly wedded bliss. In 600 sq. ft., all you can do is stand around, awkwardly, and we did, but not, fortunately, for longer than 10 minutes. Nor did we have to give Lorraine and her loved one the bums rush. Frankly, I think they cleared out just as fast as they could. I’d call it a milestone if it weren’t for the the uneasy awkwardness of it all. So in honor of awkward Lorraine, I bring you…
Robert’s Rules of Lesbian Living (the usenet version)

Hit Me Baby One More Time

I have a baby board but I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of. I get more uncertain with every new baby that I tack to it. There are my nieces and nephew in a couple different stages of baby cuteness and pre-teen awkwardness. There is my college friend’s son, a preppie anomaly to his mother’s hippie genes. My best female friends sport a basketball team between them, complete with toddling twins, red faced infants and one beauty queen five year old. It isn’t a big board. Just a little narrow green striped thing with pretty ribbons to hold the pictures, a relieved donation from my more-butch-than-that wife.

There are other babies that aren’t there. My closest high school friend has two kids, one new, one his wife’s from before she got religion. They’re in Italy and were never much inclined to figure out this new-fangled internet thing. My adorable secretary in Brazil has a daughter with the biggest blue eyes never to grace my board. I have a dozen second cousins under 10. And today, there’s one more missing – a surprised fellow named Cal born three days ago.

I love having pictures of my friend’s children on my wall. I was half raised by my mother’s friends, a group of kids scattered among four sets of parents through Fourth of Julys, birthday parties, summer camps. When my mother needed to let me walk out of the nest, her best friend caught me at the bottom. I’d pick all of the board kids (and the ones that aren’t) up before they hit the ground. Meanwhile, there are no actual kids in this house.

I’m 32. Well, nearly. I didn’t expect to want my own kids. Independence, yes. A quiet home, yes. Adventure, excitement, personal development, yes. Besides, the VVM spent my childhood telling me I’d be a terrible mother. I’m a different person than she thought though. And I got my fair share of all the rest of it while darting through the last decade. But the bottom line is, I can’t get pregnant fast enough.

I’ve spared both of us, dear reader. I didn’t think I could stomach a drawn out conversation about how loudly my clock is ticking, how much of the time I want to be pregnant so badly my teeth hurt, how I’m losing the battle to be a Sex in the City thirtysomething and falling slowly into a Brady Bunch universe. I didn’t think I could stand to think about it, write about it or spellcheck it. I hope indulging myself will drive the baby dance back into the jukebox. Cross your fingers for us, because one more baby to add to that board is going to break my willpower. and I have no idea what I’ll do then.