Take A Letter, Maria

I have to thank Secrets I Can’t Keep for this idea.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Dear Subway Restaurant,

When I come in and give you my order and you ask me what kind of bread I want, don’t insist I select my bread from the picture on the glass and let me order only to tell me that all you have is wheat or white.  And don’t look at me like I’m a criminal because I walk out after you start the sandwiches because you don’t know what goes on your own sandwiches and put so little meat on it, it bears no resemblance to the picture on the menu.  All hail Quizno’s!

Not Going There Again,
HAH

—–

Dear Middle School Principal,

I’m in the final year of three kids going through your school.  Do you think, for once, you could provide your automatic phone notification more than one day in advance for things like awards ceremonies, back to school nights, and other things I want to attend, but can’t because I get absolutely no warning?   It just seems to me that six hundred sets of parents have to bend to your freakin’ poor planning just a little too frequently.  How about providing a start time and sticking to it and letting us know what grades start when so I don’t have to sit through 400 names of people I don’t know and couldn’t give a shit about?

Sick of Public Officiousness,
HAH

—–

Dear Western Dental, 

Thousands of dollars have been paid in advance to you to provide orthodontic treatment to two kids.  Your office is dirty, loud, disorganized, your records aren’t kept current, you make people wait forever even if they arrive on time, and you staff doesn’t know its right hand from its left—been sniffing the happy gas, or that works for you?   I can see the $$ flash in your eyes when someone with private insurance walks in and I’d love it if Medi-Cal audited your ass.

Kiss My Root Canal,
HAH

—-

On a lighter note—hey Guy—stole this from the Cap’n, but wanted you to have it so I plundered

.

Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian: Does My 6-Year-Old Need To Know?

Dear MAL -

Dear MAL,

I have a 6 year old son from a previous marriage, and he’s grown close to my girlfriend of 2 years. My girlfriend and I are openly affectionate around him and with him, and he knows we love each other and him. He calls her my “friend” and it’s never been an issue for him. His dad and I are civil, so I think he is taught tolerance/acceptance with his dad, too. I’ve been really happy that my son sees the love in his family and hasn’t been taught stereotypes that are hurtful.

My girlfriend and I recently met a woman who’s been with her partner for 10 years and has helped raise her partner’s son since he was 2. They live together and are a family. She told us that they were recently “outed” to her son at school, though. Despite their living situation, he had never thought of his mom as a lesbian, and it was startling for him to hear her called names when he’d never thought that he was in an LGBT family.

It surprised me: I haven’t been using the words gay and lesbian to my son because it’s never been an issue. But now I wonder if I’m not giving him tools to deal with intolerance as he gets older. I’ve since brought up the words, and he listened but I couldn’t tell if it made much of an impact. I don’t think he has much of a frame of reference yet.

I was wondering what you thought. Even if it’s not a big deal in our households, should we make it a big deal to our kids? Should we actively teach them that they will likely hear negative comments, or wait until they ask and take those opportunities?

Queer Mama

Dear Queer Mama,

Six, huh? Well, kids, they are smart, you know, and know way more than we think they do. Lots of questions pop up, like, do you and your girlfriend cohabitate? And, most importantly, where do you live? Attitudes vary, even among the elementary school set, thanks to some other parents and staff. My heart sunk a little for your friends who were outed, causing their child such a shock. I kind of thought of it like finding out you’re adopted at age 35. WTF?

Do you identify as a lesbian? Have you dealt with your own internalized homophobia? We all probably have a bit here and there, no matter our situation. I don’t say that to be insulting—but merely as something to put in the palm of your hand, to roll around, and allow to take shape as you ponder what it means to you to be lesbian. Beyond giving him tools – it’s good for him to know you have an identity beyond mom.

Kids need to know that their situation may be different from that of their playmates and classmates. Whether that’s sitting down and explaining to him how different families are made up or reading “Heather Has Two Mommies,” or plunking in a DVD of “Buddy G” with accompanying discussion. He’s going to get teased or worse, and that’s the way it will, sadly, probably be—but that should not be tolerated and becomes an issue for the administration of his school to deal with in tandem with you if that does occur. He should know it might occur. However, I do believe you have to provide a healthy understanding in him that his situation is different—not bad, and not abnormal, just different. Help him come up with responses that work for him to counter any teasing.

Using the words may or may not make an impact today, but becoming comfortable with them and understanding them in a positive context and not the negative one he’ll run across on the playground is very important. Keep talking to him. It’s not making it a “big deal,” but is going to ground him in reality.

My kids have always known I am lesbian. But, they have a lot of pressure to conform. I remember one day when my oldest boy was having new friends over and my then partner and I had our anniversary cards up on the counter. He ran in ahead of his friends, scooped up all the cards, tossed them behind the toaster, and then went out to bring his friends in. We gave him the latitude to do what was comfortable to him at that point in his life. We didn’t walk around proclaiming our lesbianism—we carpooled, PTA’d, were friendly with the neighbors, had kids to our house for weekends, and did all the things other parents did. No one ever said anything to us about being lesbian – though they all knew – but they also knew we were a family. The kids responded to the fact that they could feel safe about being in a family that was different.

I could go on and on how that has developed through their teen years, but you get the idea.

Here’s what I’d recommend: Check out the local chapter of Colage in your area. It’s a great organization that was created for the children of alternative families. See if it’s something that might benefit your son as he grows—he may need to find others like himself who belong to a family that isn’t heteronormative. Even if they don’t have a chapter near you, you and your family can take advantage of their programs and he can take advantage of the pen pal program and email lists for kids his age.

Let me know how this goes, huh?

Pride Parent,
MAL

My Living Will

Okay, I never do this, but I interrupted my Saturday morning slavedriver routine in getting the kids to do their chores to read this:

Last night my sister and I were sitting in the den and I said to her, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all. If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”

 

So, she got up, unplugged the computer and threw out my wine.

 

She’s such a bitch.

 

Six Quirky Things

Phew, these things are really making the rounds. I was asked by Teckc and Mid-Life Clarity to list some habits/quirky things about me.

 

1. I must have a grocery store on the way home from work. Not work-house-grocery. It must be work-grocery-house. I have moved if I got a new job and this wasn’t the case.

2. I have to brush my teeth before I get in the shower. It’s just enough time for the hot water to work its way upstairs.

3. I have a few things decorating the house—picture frames, candle things, stuff like that. I can tell to the ¼” if they’ve been moved – they then don’t look right, so I move them back. I’m not OCD, really.

4. I used to say I’d eat just about anything, except hominy. Not true. Turns out there are all kinds of things I’m not fond of and no amount of cajoling is going to change my mind. I discovered at age 46 that I’m high maintenance.

5.  When I eat Uni, I’ve been told I look as though I have reached another place—kind of a Hitachi Magic Wand look, only Uni is less noisy.

6. I have calendars, reminder, notes, sticky notes, clues, Outlook tasks, blah, blah, blah for everything. I still forget them. The only way to remember these days is if I write it on my hand – I seem to be able to hang onto that somehow.

Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian: Should I Come Out At Work?

Heather, at Wishful Writer, is a finalist for the 2008 Bloggies under the GLBT category. Be sure to go vote for this extremely funny and thoughtful writer right away and vote often.

Dear MAL:

I’ve just started a new job in the “corporate” world. I’m struggling with the decision to come out to my co-workers. I’ve been out at previous jobs, but this is my first time in this type of environment. I’ve talked in abstracts for so long it’s actually second nature to me. I tend not to tell people unless directly asked, but I have not actively been hiding who I am. I still shop in the men’s department (even when with co-workers) and wear my masculine casual wear after work and on weekends. I think they know, but are afraid to ask. How do I put it out there in a casual way?

Suddenly Corporate

Dear Suddenly,

Honey, where I come from, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s a freakin’ duck. Or, in this case, a dyke. Seriously, you have to consider where you are. Is it safe? That first. If it isn’t safe, keep yourself safe. Some states are safer than others – Ohio, for example, is in the basement, ranking dead last (50^th) in protections for LGBT people.

You could always wear your “I’m not gay but my girlfriend is” t-shirt to work. That is subtle, right? Or greet strangers with, “Hi, I’m Suddenly Corporate and I’m a dyke, thank the Goddess, nice looking wife you have there.” Pepper your language with off color jokes or exhibit other inappropriate workplace behavior. Become a negative stereotype so they can all nod and smugly say to themselves, “Ah, yes, I knew they were like that.”

The advice is simple, Suddenly, be who you are. Don’t do anything differently than you would if you were “out.” Don’t make any announcements or pronouncements. Don’t change the way you dress, don’t change the way you talk or what you talk about. Don’t bring or not bring anyone to anything that you wouldn’t if you were out. Start speaking with pronouns. Keep paying your taxes and your rent. Be kind to children and animals. Show up for work on time, get along with your coworkers. Be yourself. That’s how we change the perceptions of those who are against us out of ignorance. Live your life. Ooops, that is coming out, isn’t it–it’s just not bustin’ out.

If someone asks you an inappropriate question, go to the Dear Abby school of tactful replies and say, “I can’t imagine why you think you could ask something like that,” or, just reply, “You first…come on, you can tell me.”

Just be cautious – if you have employers who don’t appreciate you being you, you may not be protected under the law, especially as a probationary employee. In fact, there’s a good chance you wouldn’t be until the laws change, if, say, you were in Ohio—and, honey, it’s been a struggle all over the damned country, ya’ know? Contact your local LGBT Community Center , HRC, Lambda Legal, or the NCLR for more about the laws protecting you in your state.

Best, MAL

They Protect Their Dead

Magical Samantha suggested I put up a link to email for Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian, so I have. If you have a question or a problem, don’t hesitate to ask the always nosy Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian by clicking on the link above.

I’ve been to lots of Redwood forests—listen to me, the jaded Northern Californian all of a sudden. But, I never noticed the trees like I did this weekend. Funny that. No country girl I, yet I spent time just watching some horses. I yakked with llamas, skittered with some wild turkeys, and I bleated at some goats.

While paying attention, something I get too busy to do too often, I noticed that many of the Redwoods were growing in a circle. These circles would bump into other circles, but you could definitely see that each tree in this wood was part of a distinctive circle of related trees. In the middle of the circle of trees, invariably there would stand the shell of what was once a mighty and very old Redwood. Struck that they would, throughout the ages, protect the one that gave them life.

The pictures are here. We will skip the part about how Magical Samantha was laughing at her “naturalist” girlfriend trying to figure out if of the animal with the fuzzy hump on its back was a camel or a goat. Just for clarification purposes, a camel is much bigger than a goat and that goat in question definitely needed a hump haircut.

What Didya’ Do This Weekend?

 

T’weren’t a B&B, it was a watertower. Yup. A watertower. Long story, but back in the OLDEN days (back when you were young, I reckon…heh) every home and business had to have its own watertower. So, we turned right at the ocean off of Highway 1, and we follow these directions and go down this barely two-land road marked, “Not a through road.” We travel down that road for about 4 miles or so, knowing full well there are houses somewhere back off the road, because we see smoke coming from this chimney and that, but we can’t see the forest through the trees or something like that and then we turn right past the big watertower that provides the water for their fire station, such as it is, and go down another road, through a darker forest. The road slowly narrows, sometimes down to one lane, barely, because there are two Redwoods in the way – one on each side of the place they made the road. We see a sign that says, “Slow down,” which seems kind of fortuitous on a number of levels, and then the road becomes dirt (or mud in this case). Choosing which of the three roads that forked in front of us, we decided to take the one less traveled. We coasted through a gate and into a meadow in the midst of which was our watertower. I’ll post pictures tomorrow, but it was incredible – what, besides the honeymoon being over in one way, but just starting in another and – out one side of the house we looked at majestic Redwood forest and the other, a pasture with goats and a meadow where all the sun seemed finally able to focus – it had to find its place – it sure wasn’t getting through those Redwoods.

I fell in love this weekend.

Batting .720 On The Cooking Thing

Motivation clearly comes from odd places. My review spurred me to stay in my jammies most of the day Saturday and redesign the website. I was told last night the blue matches my aura better. God forbid my aura should be caught out without the appropriate color scheme, right?

First, I thought I’d reflect on my cooking week:

Monday – Hamburger Helper

Tuesday – Trout Debacle

Wednesday – Legal Eagle cooks lasagna

Thursday – Uncle Doreen brings pizza

Friday – Dinner at Enotria

Saturday – Sistah Child cooks at her place

Sunday – Best Friend cooks at my place

This was a nearly-perfect no-cooking week, I just have to figure out how to do this every week, and I may not need that cooking wife after all.

Pop over to “Stuff I Like” to see the official results of the “What Kind of Cook Are You” quiz.

People that are such bad cooks, can’t be trusted.
(About the English on the G8 in 2005) ~ Jacques Chirac

The Catnip Is In The Room

Thanks to ALL of you so far who have nominated me at TLL for Lesbian Blog of the Year. If you want to nominate, please click the picture above and leave a comment. The rules are a little confusing, but just leave your nomination for your favorite Lesbian blog. Top five nominated sites will move on to the voting in the middle of February. Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian is up next.

I’m out of here for a couple of days so I can go oceanside with my baby. Ya’ll keep warm, stay dry (well, unless…heh), and be as good as you can to as many people as you are able.

“I,” she said, “Am in a catnip phase. I’m trying to stay focused, but there is catnip in the room.”

A common theme, it seems in this sisterhood we share. We were both raised by shared parents in the same town until we both left, two years apart, at 17, never to return. We both spent time moving here and there, to the next assignment, the next job, the next adventure.

We settled, briefly, at the same time and even in the same place. We both grew restless again. My restlessness found roots—due to needs outside of my own. She’s happy now, in her new home, in her new job. But, the catnip—it’s there, in the room, waiting to be chased, tossed around, and batted with both paws until it slides under the couch and is unreachable again.

“I’ve decided for my 5-year plan, I will either join Peace Corps, become a kept woman, or marry a European man and have a dual passport.”

“I am so tired of American men. They all watch football here. “

She went on to detail the man she sought—he’d be a man named Carlos, be 6’2, speak five languages, be of Chilean-French heritage and live in Northern Spain and the UK. He’d have a 15-year-old daughter who is just a hop, skip and jump from 18. He’d work in the hotel industry and have access to great rooms throughout Europe. He’d have a dual passport of his own. He’d look like a Kiefer Sutherland sort of chap.

“He’s not the one for me, but on the right path.”

I wasn’t paying close enough attention, it seemed.

“What, this isn’t your made up dream man?” I harkened back to the time about three or four years ago when we made her a scarecrow man who was a real heartthrob. The kids threw all their energy into making him the perfect man down to height and shoes and big heart, and I wrote the biography that was pinned to his chest when she got him for Christmas. He was named Raoul as I remember, for she has a penchant for the Mediterranean man, without the huge machismo factor—and he was perfect in every way, except for being a scarecrow man.

“No, no…he’s real,” she said.

I shook my head again, “What do you mean…you know him?”

“We talk all the time. I met him after I saw a website talking about the movie PS I Love You. You know, Hilary Swank, who we all know and love. She has this great Irish husband and he dies and she suffers.”

I’m still confused. What the hell is she talking about?

“So, I Googled Irish dating websites, because I was thinking I needed an Irish man.”

Huh? Okay, so I’m sort of following.

“And I joined a dating website for UK and Irish people. Then I decided that I wanted a man with kind of Scandinavian-Chilean thing going on, but he’s Chilean-French, close enough. He’s taller than me, that’s what matters. And he has a good accent and travels. If the Peace Corps or the kept woman thing don’t work out, I’m marrying a European man.”

“You are settled and you are a couple person. But you know—you know what I mean. You chase catnip too.”

So, the catnip–it’s in the room.

The sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness. ~ Joseph Conrad

Honesty Is The Best Policy?

So, I spent most of the day home with sick #2 kid.  Made chicken soup, tended fevered brow, in gloves and mask, ad nauseum (no pun intended).  Fortunately, signs of life are slowing returning.

Since I had a little time, I thought I’d actually make a dinner, and invited my sister over to celebrate the occasion.  Lovingly and carefully, I prepared three Trout fillets, made some specially seasoned baby potatoes and snapped and steamed some lovely fresh green beans.  Healthy, tasty, and just perfectly timed.

We sat down to dinner. 

HahnatHome:  So, how’s the Trout?

Sistah Child:  (Pause)  Well, they’re a little dry. Tasty, but dry.  Everything else tastes great.

HahnatHome:  (Tasting Trout)  OMG, it tastes like shit.

Sistah Child:  Nope, shit isn’t dry.

Okay, I can deal with the truth–but did Em have to snort her milk out her nose?  Traitors.  Hamburger Helper for the next month!

Is solace anywhere more comforting than that in the arms of a sister. ~ Alice Walker (MY ASS!)