[sounds of couple obviously having sex]

The following show contains frank discussions (OH! FRANK!) and may not be suitable for a younger audience.

[fade to black]

I am what I am
I am my own special creation.
So come take a look,
Give me the hook or the ovation.
It’s my world that I want to take a little pride in,
My world, and it’s not a place I have to hide in.
Life’s not worth a damn,
‘Til you can say, “Hey world, I am what I am.”

If you were a gay teen in Houston in the ’90s, you know what I mean and you feel it in your neurons. It was midnight on Saturday, and After Hours (link to podcast XML feed) was about to begin. If you were as young as I was (around 13 or 14), then your clock radio was turned down really low and under your pillow so you could listen until you fell asleep. You rarely made it to three, even if you said you did. My parents did their best to just ignore it, but if you think I have a hard time making it to church in the morning *now,* it was even harder after staying up all night just to hear snippets of yourself on the radio.

Jimmy Carper was the host, a man who knows gay history because it is encoded into his DNA. I heard about Stonewall. I heard about Harvey Milk. I learned about the generations of people before me that were whipped, beaten, and arrested in the name of decency, and in a lot of cases, the name of God. Listening to gay history convinced me that there was no way in hell that even if I was a sinner, God would go to such desperate measures just to straighten me out. My God was too loving for that.

So off to church I would go, bleary-eyed and on the edge of a nervous breakdown (because that’s what happens when you don’t sleep).

There was only one person who could get me out of bed, and only because she was a mirror in which I saw my reflection. If Saturday was about hanging out with the boys, Sunday was hanging out with the girl. I would have hung out with more women- it wasn’t like I didn’t want other gay friends. It was just in those days, saying you were gay in hopes of finding other gay friends was NOT. A. GOOD. IDEA.

It is in this way that I feel I was raised by gay men… and I’m not sure it was intentional. It’s just that we all know those boys who are queer as a three dollar bill, the possibility of them being straight is a negative integer. For a shy gay teenager, it was a sign that I was safe to speak openly. In fact, it was a way to make sure I wasn’t going to get hurt by a raging homophobic idiot. Raging homophobic idiots rarely talk with a lisp.

So I ran to these angels, these men in expensive fabrics and clean-scented aftershave. There was never anyone particular, at least until I got to high school, but I was always watching. If there was a medal for gay-watching as prestigious as those for birding, I would be champion of the world. Because of gay men, I learned that I was going to be ok. I watched them navigate the world with such ease and thought, “if I could be a tenth that confident, I would be queen of all.” (Hell yeah, double entendre!)

I’m writing this essay to say thank you, because I couldn’t be who I am now if you hadn’t been who you were, then.

Thank you for making me awesome.

Love,
Leslie

My friend Greer Feagin, a classmate at HSPVA, was brutally murdered in her apartment last weekend. Her grandmother found her. My essay has nothing to do with Greer’s death. I do not want, in any way, to say that I am speaking about or to her. These are just my observations on death and grief itself.

———-

Before you start reading this piece, it helps to know that I am an incredibly large Doctor Who fan, and even though I was writing about my own life and experiences, Amelia Pond watched me while she was sitting on her little suitcase in the backyard with her little hat and coat, waiting for her precious doctor’s return.

 

I’m thinking about the friends with which we lose touch. Maybe they’re dead or maybe they’re alive. Each is an equal set of pain. For the friend of the person who died, there will always be things left unsaid, and that’s a finite state. With a friend who’s still alive, there will always be things left unsaid, but nothing about that situation is finite. Because they’re alive, there’s a possibility of connection, and the implications therein. It doesn’t matter whether they’re positive or negative. Either way, they affect you. And if you were having an affair with your friend’s wife or something, you’d never have to run into them and be caught totally off-guard in debilitating nausea because awkward is tangible. I’m pretty sure it’s onomatopoeia.

And either way, when you lose someone you love, there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to look back, because it’s just too emotionally loaded. Maybe not because of anything they did, but how you felt when you were with them. When people close to you leave, sometimes it feels like losing a part of yourself, because there’s no one else that brings out those characteristics.

I also think that if you have a falling out with someone, it is much harder to grieve them when they’re still alive. It was the number one reason why my breakup with my first girlfriend was so hard on me.

Then those memories creep back up on you, those inside jokes and those serious moments that only you and the person you lost would say to each other and it’s being kissed and stabbed at the same time because no one else understands the joke. It’s the pleasure of having that person around, if only in your mind, and the discomfort of nothing being resolved except the pieces you’re trying to pick up on your own.

And pick them up you do, because that’s what life does. You can move on, or it will steamroll you every time. You don’t have enough processing power to think about the past, the present, and the future all at once. Your mind will attempt it and falter just when you think you’ve got it nailed. Multitasking only works for so long, and then you will grieve again. But it will be a more shallow well of emotional injury. You break down every so often until all you’ve got left are the good memories, the ones that make you smile when you think of them.

You concentrate on those memories, because they, too, will fade and there will not be new ones to replace the old. You have to get out and meet more people, and you find out it’s easy to get phone numbers for hanging out and hard to get the hanging out to materialize.

You grieve the friend you lost because it would be good to see him right now.

And eventually it doesn’t hurt. You just have a guardian angel on your shoulder, someone to think is watching over you even when they’re not there. Another part of the person actually being alive that is inconvenient, because maybe it’s creepy to think about people as angels while they’re still alive, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just a way to soothe yourself while you’re under stress, especially if you are not a God or angel person to begin with.

And that’s generally where the story ends. You can spend your life being angry at someone for leaving, or you can fill yourself with the happy memories you’ve already had. The choice is yours.

This is a post about the things I enjoy on television, Hulu, and Netflix. This is different than Recommendation Wednesdays because that section is for things I run across randomly and think would make funny little paragraphs- bite-size morsels of comedy. This section is where I list my longest-enduring favorites, which I hope you’ll watch so we can discuss together! Even if you all band together and decide I have crappy taste!

1. Doctor Who (BBC America)

Doctor Who is my favorite television program, and I stumbled across it quite by accident. I was looking in the “Recently Added” section on Netflix, and I had heard of Doctor Who before. I’d run across it on PBS as a kid and thought it looked interesting with no real access point to jump in. Then, my choir director at church started watching it and imitating Daleks during rehearsal, so I thought there must be something redeeming. I started the first episode and loved it so much that I thought, “I can’t take this journey without Dana. This is definitely something she’ll want to see.” But The Doctor had me at antiplastic, and I’ve never looked back.

2. Scandal (ABC)

Shonda Rhimes proved her TV mettle with Grey’s Anatomy, but Scandal is in a class all by itself. The reason to watch Scandal is that no one is safe. Ever. For any reason. No, wait. The real reason to watch Scandal is Kerry Washington. Her lips should be their own character (imagine a Family Guy cutaway here).

3. JEOPARDY! (Syndicated)

A lot of people forget to put JEOPARDY! on their favorites list, but that doesn’t mean they don’t watch it every night. I intentionally put it here because it’s the one half hour of television that is just about us nerds. And I didn’t come up with that idea. My friend Hope did. I just ran with it.

4. Spy (Hulu)

Spy is a brilliant show about an average loser guy who is raising a child with his horrendous ex-wife. Both his ex-wife and his son extol the virtues of his loserdom on a daily basis. Things get interesting when he goes to apply for a job as a messenger with the government, walks into the wrong room, and takes the MI:5 exam… never knowing what it is. He gets incredible scores, hilarity ensues.

5. Burn Notice (Netflix)

I think that Burn Notice is still on television, actually, but I don’t know what channel. If you haven’t seen it from the beginning, you’ll want to. It’s the story of Michael Westen, burned spy stuck in Miami with “a trigger-happy ex-girlfriend, a friend who rats you out, and his family, when he’s desperate.” Probably not a direct quote, but close enough. I don’t want to give away any of the story, so my favorite part of Burn Notice is the gadgets and the way Michael explains step-by-step how the action is going to go down. And Gabrielle Anwar is just the most gorgeous thing on television, anyway… except for Kerry Washington’s lips.

 

I honestly believe that sometimes Dana’s only job is to make sure that I don’t miss all the fun that happens in life. Seriously, there are moments when I believe my wife is also my pet monkey because she intentionally does stuff to drag me out of dreadful moods. It’s kind of like having a Life Alert monkey that can talk. Yes. I can go that creepy. You know what else? I spank the monkey. Yup. It just got creepier in here. My work is done.

As an introvert with ADD, it is very hard for me to change subjects; I don’t necessarily mean on the outside. When something is going on inside me, or perhaps another person has said something that hurt my feelings, it just stays in my mind like a worm, and I have trouble letting it go. (It’s a function of ADD called “hyperfocus,” and I can’t explain it except that NOTHING else matters.) I wonder what I could have done to make such a hurtful thing come out of someone else’s mouth, and by the next morning, I will have a list of fifty ways in which I’ve come up short. Dana sees the way my mind works, and is invaluable at punching me on the arm and telling me to snap out of it. I will only take “snap out of it” from Dana. If you are a depression patient, you probably have issues with those words, too. Let’s just leave it at that.

Dana is my court jester, and you never really know you need one until you have it. She makes me more fun than I could be on my own, because I am liable to tell you to get the hell off my lawn.

(Just in case you were wondering, never ask me for anything. Dana’s the nice one.)

So we’re just hiking, Dana and me, enjoying each other’s company because we’re both playing in the water with wild abandon. My court jester, my greatest love.

One of the reasons I enjoy Doctor Who so much is that it explores a level of friendship unusual by American standards. We live in an age where it’s ok not to know anyone who lives around you. It’s perfectly ok to cocoon with your spouse and ignore the rest of the world. It’s good to have a television show anywhere in the world that puts helping your friends above all else. It’s a new societal norm, and one that would be great if we could implement manana.

It’s hard to imagine it happening, however. We have taught each other to be afraid, and taught each other that if you have closeness with anyone other than your spouse, you have already cheated. It’s sad, because it murders one of the most beautiful things about life… instead of one person meeting all your needs, you know you have needs, so you have permission to go and get them met from others. The twisting of that phrase into a sex joke has caused the idea to unrecognizably decay. But here’s what I mean.

Dana could go her entire life without learning how to play Fallout 3, and she would be fine. But I really like playing Fallout 3, so it’s up to me to find friends who also enjoy it. Dana knows I can be trusted for hours at a time that when I say I’m playing Fallout 3, that’s really what I’m doing. The trust goes both ways. In order to make my spouse feel safe about me disappearing with other people, she has to be in on the plan.

But at no time, not now, not a little while from now, not ever, am I likely to hear “can I join your Fallout 3 team?”

Dana and I both care very much for our companions, people we see as an extension to our family that help us make it so… because when we are off with our companions, having fun, we have an opportunity for new conversation, new enlightenment, and not the stifling energy of a meeting of the minds where the sync has already happened for the last five days every five minutes ad nauseum.

I only hesitate to use the word “friend” because it doesn’t mean enough. The Doctor is routinely in situations that threaten the lives of them all. What would happen if Rory decided to choose only his wife, and not everyone else? No. Friends count just as much, which is why so many people are missing out on deep relationships with a multitude of people. They decide that they only have the capacity to love one person at a time.

 

 

It is an auspicious day. Today is the day I will post the fiftieth article on this blog. When I started a month ago, I had no idea that by today, I would have written approximately 100,000 words. I’m going to take a break today and let you have the floor. Let’s CELEBRATE!!!!

FIFTY POSTS!

STORIES HAS REACHED FIFTY POSTS!

Let’s party.

Quietly.

Just a Bit of Warning:

If you don’t have time for a really long post, you might want to save it until you do.

Love,
Leslie

———————–

There was a moment last week, and many of you read it on Facebook, wherein the only words to my post were “I’m going to drive out the Gorge on Saturday and I’ve got an extra seat in the truck. Takers, you know how to find me. It’s not like it’s hard.” There’s been a lot of drama swirling in my head lately (which, I assure you, has nothing to with my current reality and everything to do with creating a new one) (Please don’t call me to ask if anything is wrong) (Really). I am working very hard to let money come to me, instead of working for it.

I know that initially sounds terrible, but I don’t mean it in the absolutely white-entitlement way it sounds (Ok, maybe. Thanks for calling me on my shit. You’re a peach). I mean that I am looking for ways of setting up my web site, my Facebook page, whatever to make money for me when I’m not here (like, at my “real job”). I don’t mean “not working” in terms of being lazy. I mean not working in terms of direct trading of services for dollars.

In my family, we call the ability to do that “sitting around, smoking cigars, and owning stuff.” Actually, that’s not what we call the ability. That is the very definition (for the ENTIRE McLanemy clan) of filthy stinking rich. The first time we heard that phrase, the person telling the story had just come home from a middle school friend’s house, where there was an elevator inside. I definitely don’t have to achieve that level of fame.

I will be happy when we can stop buying spaghetti and mushroom sauce at Dollar Tree like it’s going out of style. I will be happy when I don’t have to wonder if I’m spending too much money on Dr Pepper when COLA is so much less. I will be happy when I don’t think about how to come up with next month’s rent instead of having enough money in the bank to do what we really want. Because what we really want is so much bigger than what we really have.

That’s the immediate dream. That’s the dream that can’t take off soon enough. I’ve been writing for long enough now that I’m not intimidated by people like Dooce, Mrs. Kennedy, and The Bloggess. I look at them and I don’t think “wow… they’re so much better writers than me.” I think “I’m every bit as good a writer as those women, so how did they get to the top of the field? Is it still possible to earn a living while blogging, or has that ship sailed?” So many bloggers that would have made it got wiped out by the Dot Com bust, and I’m not sure that the medium has quite recovered in this economy.

One of two things will happen: 1) Your content is so star-spangled awesome (quite an image, Aaron Sorkin) that advertisers come to you and offer you money to hawk their wares. 2) Your content is so star-spangled awesome that a conglomerate like HuffPost, Gawker, etc. will buy you out.

And technically, those are just the two things most likely to happen. There is a third, but it is so rare that you probably have the same odds of winning the Olympics: your content is so star-spangled awesome that a movie or TV writer sees your stuff and offers you a series with William Shatner.

If the web site takes off and this is actually possible, I do not want to go back to a full-time job. I want to earn a living so that I have time to create a vision and implement it. This web site is ultimately not about me. It is about you, and the wonderful things we can do together if we become a community. That’s the vision. Not a web site, but the online place to go when you need a place… you know? I don’t want this weblog to become all about God, but God appears because I’m interested in the divine. But at the same time, I want this community to have the same feel of a church- where we care about each other and ask what’s going on in each other’s lives.

I will say it again: the vision is not for me. The vision is to create something amazing for you.

The good news is that the web site is taking off and I’ve gotten more love in the last month than I thought was possible in a written medium.

And that’s what I’m thinking as I’m busting my hump up the trail.

I have a mantra:

Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.

I am huffing and puffing hard because this is the first time in years I’ve been on the trail. But the mantra keeps up with me, over and over and over and over while Sisyphus laughs in schadenfreude.

Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.

The switchbacks are long and not really ready for the season. Obstacles in my way everywhere. Boulders, sticks, burrs where you step and you start looking up because it’s been .8 miles and the waterfall is just about to peek around the corner and I’m not going to make it… not going to make it… until I see you, wrapped in your rain jacket because the force is so great. Walking toward you because I don’t know anything in that moment except “I’m going to kiss her under the waterfall.”

The memory is not the kiss itself. Those kisses are long gone, kept in the memory box under my soul for safe keeping. What’s still under the waterfall is the joy I felt in that moment, similar to being born again.

Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.

Last night, I went to a Beltane party at the Borums’ farm in Newberg, OR. Here is a poem that came out of it. I had to redirect you to a Google Doc (unfortunately), because I don’t think the text editor in WordPress is very gifted with the rolling, sprawling nature of poetry. Enjoy.

Yesterday was brutal. Thursday chewed me up and spit me out. Dana and I had a fight in the morning, which actually brought us a lot closer but left me emotionally drained. Additionally, neither one of us had our psych meds on board, so we were both feeling like death warmed over.

I left her at work and drove to Costco to get our medication refills. And that’s when the bumper decided to come off the back of the car. On the freeway. 55mph dragging the bumper from Clackamas home. So I don’t know that the bumper is dragging. It’s not especially noisy, but all of the sudden, everyone on the freeway seems to be honking at me at once. When I finally realized what was going on, my inner opera voice came out… and by that, I don’t mean that I started singing. I mean that of all the ways my body has to make noise, that opera voice is PRETTY. DAMN. LOUD. Not going to lie, folks. A LOT of people heard me yelling “oh, SHIT!” on the 205. If only it had been during traffic. No one would have noticed. 🙂

So anyway, I find a little bar near the freeway because it’s the closest open driveway. I pull into the lot and call Dana. It’s miserably hot, and a cold beer is literally five steps away. Dana picks up the phone and I’m about to tell her that the car is toast and she’s just going to have to come pick me up when I’m done with my ice cold beer.

Luckily, I had the forethought to see if there was any way I could secure the bumper *right then.* I didn’t have a screwdriver, so I just wedged it as well as I could and told Dana that I was going to try and make it home so I could park the car.

I got home safely, and was starting to transfer all my stuff from Dana’s car to my truck. At that moment, the zipper on my backpack broke.

::facepalm::

I love Cringe, and I’ve always wanted to be on it. This was written when I was about 18.

Dear Fanagans,

There are so many things that Dana and I have shared over the years that have just made us dissolve into giggles, and I think our humor is why we’ll stay together until we die. We are not a complete conversation unless you have both of us, because we talk in tennis matches.

We have joked over the years that we share a brain, and that it was really hard when I lived in Houston. I felt the same way, even though I didn’t love her in a romantic sense at the time. I would like to think that if Dana and I hadn’t ended up together as a couple, we still would have gone down in history as famous friends, like Eleanor Roosevelt and Amelia Earheart… and by famous writer, I want to be known for writing and not how I came to my demise.

I have to believe I’m going to make it as a writer, because even though there is no evidence of it yet, I dream it so that one day, it will happen. It would be my dream to go down in history for writing letters- good letters that shake you up, make you think, and are something worth keeping LONG after you’ve received it. To me, it’s worth it to be vulnerable with more people than just my wife. It creates a safety net of closeness so that I’m not dependent on solely her. Writing gives me the chance to do just that.

I like the safety of the quiet to really think about what I want to say to you. I weight them because a letter, especially a handwritten letter, is one of the most clear ways to say, “I am not putting you on the spot.” Therefore, it tends to lead to people opening up to me, as well. It’s my favorite part of writing- reading the response. It’s often more important to me than what I sent to you. Not to get a response is such a rejection because I know that I’ve probably gone too far and caused injury without ever meaning to do so. I console myself with the thought that all people are slammed to the wall busy, and it’s not personal, and I move on.

And then a few months go by, and I get something beautiful. Equally thoughtful. Often something I will want to keep forever. Every e-mail you’ve ever sent me is still archived. I have a memory box, and every letter that I’ve ever received is in it, except for the ones from what I consider the most damaging memory of my teens. I used to hide my letters in my spare backpack kept in the very back of my closet. One day, the air conditioner went out and water seeped into the backpack quickly. I had friend back then that I used to pen pal with, and every letter she wrote me was in there. These were hard earned letters, sneaked from the mailbox when no one was looking. I’d been poring over them because they were as precious as fine silk. All of them. Gone in a moment. My house burned down when I was in sixth grade, and it was easier to grieve.

I still have the letters I wrote to my first girlfriend, because my letters were so important to me that I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing them again. As a bonus, she gave me all of hers as well. I was offended at the time that she didn’t want to keep my words, but now I have complete conversations. We’re friends again, so I saved the day. I could show her who she was back then, and she thought it was hilarious. To be almost thirty and reading the cringe-worthy words of her late teens made her laugh.

A few years ago, she and her then-wife came to my apartment in Houston and I got them all out. We sat for hours laughing at each other in the way that only old friends can. She is the reason my ex-girlfriends are *so* important to me. They know me, sometimes better than I know myself, and I never forget it. If you can get over old relationships, it’s worth it to keep former lovers as friends. After the appropriate amount of time for grief has passed, they are invaluable insight into what a crazy betch/deck you are. Make sure you meet and befriend your partner’s exes, too. They are precious gold in dealing with the love of your life you wish you could murder in their sleep.

As a bonus, after a while you realize how awesome it is that you aren’t with them anymore, and that staying together was overrated. Really cuts down on the possibility of an affair, kind of like using teaching kindergarten as birth control.

The other thing is that especially with handwritten letters, I’ve pored over them and when I go back and read them years later, it’s not only wanting to hear your words. It’s wanting to return to the energy space you gave me when I read them.

Love,
Leslie

p.s. Because I think I write letters the best, know that every word in this blog is a personal letter to you.

I can’t think of anything to say today, so you’re just going to have to wander around with me for a while until I find a groove. The post for today was supposed to be a web chat between Dana and me, but that lasted about five seconds before it got really offensive. I am sure that there will be other chat conversations that can be published, but not that one. That one’s just for me. 🙂

What to talk about instead?

Let’s see. Matt is coming over tonight so we can watch Season 5 of Doctor Who. Dana and I have been re-living our whole Who experience with Matt, starting from Season 1, Episode 1. It’s so fun to watch Doctor Who in reverse, because you get to see foreshadowing across seasons that you just have to wonder, “was that intentional?” I don’t know which episode is next, but soon is Vincent Van Gogh, and we will ALL need Kleenex for that one.

I’ve filed for unemployment, created several t-shirt designs, and started my own Fiverr ad, which I hope will add an income stream to my job search. While we’re ok for this month because everything is already paid, I have four weeks to come up with some money. Whether it’s busting my ass flipping houses or sitting at an executive conference table, the deadline is still the same. Trying to think of everything I can do for money (but I won’t do that.). It’s stressful, but not nearly as stressful as it would be if this month wasn’t already paid in full. 🙂

Right now, life is just percolating. Dana is my sun, moon, and stars. As long as that doesn’t change, I can take everything else.

I am reading a novel by Jodi Picoult called “Sing You Home,” (here’s the supporting CD) about a woman who starts out in a straight relationship and has two embryos left from an earlier IVF treatment. She wants to give them to her partner to carry a child, her ex-husband wants to give the embryos to his brother and his wife so that the kid can grow up in a Christian home.

So far, it is a lovely story, and I am enjoying it quite a bit. On the flip side, though, it magnifies every insecurity I’ve ever felt in my whole life, and each chapter feels like a therapy session. It’s all in there- what it feels like to be a gay teen, how scary it is to marry your partner in front of people when you’ve been told your whole life that it’s. just. not. done.

Of course, it’s done all the time, now. It’s just that my brain hasn’t caught up. When I was 14 or 15, a friend got married and the ceremony was simple- saying a blessing over your rings and it’s over. And only in front of each other, because it has to be a secret.

I think unintentionally, that’s how I’m treating gay weddings now. My brain hasn’t flipped the switch that this is now perfectly normal and I don’t have to worry that people are going to laugh at me. The fact that they wouldn’t laugh anyway is moot. It’s not about the guests at the wedding. It’s about me and my fear that all these horrible things will rain down on me if I do.

Part of my family is very traditionally conservative, and part of it isn’t. The choice to get married in front of everyone has me thinking more about how to bring both sides of my family together without hurting any of them.

Plus, Dana’s mom and dad have made it clear that they will not come if we get married, anyway. That’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax, and not necessarily something to be talked about here except that it affects me greatly and weighs on my heart like an anvil.

I also think I want children, but I don’t know for sure. What I Know For Sure (™ Oprah Winfrey) is that I don’t want children *right now.* We would be plunging a baby into poverty which is last on my list of things to do today. So before we get our money squared away, I can’t even dream that far.

But what I do know is that if I had the chance, I’d have a nuclear family in spite of not having a dad, because there would be two primary parents to this child, and a whole host of surrogates.

I want Volfe to teach our kids how to shoot guns, how to play in the dirt, how to fix their own cars from nose to tail so I don’t have to pay for their first dents and scratches as new drivers.

I want my kids to have Karen as a teacher and for them to learn:

Oh isn’t it a bit of luck
That I was born a yellow duck
With yellow socks and yellow shoes
So I can go wherever I choose!

I want Matt to teach my kids to swim and to “do their bubbles.” I want him to show my kids his land and all the wonderful farm animals and plants and gardens where you can wade into the dirt over your toes. I want Matt to read to our kid, because few people I know read more fantastic stories than he does.

I want them to know and love Rev. Tara, who is a blessing all on her own to our family.

I want Stacy Pever Anzick to baptize them and for the story to be that my kid peed all over her, just like I did to Bishop Crutchfield when I was that age.

I want Wayne Borum and SarahAnne Hazlewood to teach my kid how to be evil in just the right ways. I want SarahAnne to make me my first baby quilt, with a note stitched inside about how we’ll always have depression and Dr. Pepper to bind us together. I want Wayne to build something for the nursery that would serve as an heirloom when they have children.

I am also in love with the idea of my sister being an aunt. She’d be the kind of aunt that bought us “my moms rock” onesies and perhaps a “That’s How I Roll” t-shirt with a stroller on the front. She’d love my kid as if it were hers, and the same goes for her kids. I will love them as my own and be the kind of person you can come to when your parents are seriously making you skirt the edge of sanity. I know, I grew up with her.

I want Dana to teach our kids how to grill when they can see over the top of the grill. I want her to give my 16-year-old his first sip of beer while he’s outside grilling with “dad.” In fact, I want her to create for my kids what her dad created for her. I can picture a toddler following her around with a bubble mower, too.

I want to teach my kids the beauty of the Gorge, the newfallen snow on top of Mount Hood. I want my kids to meet everyone who has ever influenced my life, because I think I turned out okay.

I have this life that I cannot reach because I am afraid.

And this book showed me why.

Every step of the journey that Zoe and Vanessa take together is rife with problems no heterosexual will ever have to deal with in this lifetime.

Every step is so much harder, but luckily, getting easier. I hope that gay marriage comes quickly, because I’ve thought of this often. “What if Texas never gets gay marriage and I can’t give my kids the experience of being Texans, too?” What does it mean to be a Texan and raise an Oregonian, which is a much bigger question than my sexuality. 🙂

Like Vanessa, I am 35. Time is running out for a biological child.

We did it, once, Dana and me. We went to an OB/GYN, dressing up because we thought we were going to fall in love with our doctor. My dad and stepmom are both doctors and they’re wonderful. I didn’t have any fear walking in.

That dream was dashed when the OB/GYN was cold and austere. We hated her, we hated the office, and we hated that she pigeonholed us as poor and told us that we couldn’t afford her, so we should just “find a friend and GO HOME.”

I’m going to leave you with that image. I want you to feel all my anxiety bubble up to the top. Want you to feel that my emotions are valid, even if my logic is upside down and backwards. If you have evangelical friends, please share this post. I don’t think that Evangelicals realize how much emotional harm they’re doing when they don’t mean to. They’re scared of what they don’t know.

Just. Like. Me.