Yes, Adam and Steve

All over my Facebook feed, there are people posting, talking, supporting Marriage Equality today.  It’s truly an amazing thing.  What a different world it is today than it was five, ten, twenty years ago.

Last night, as the evening news talked about the Supreme Court challenges to California’s Proposition 8 and DOMA, as straight people were everywhere were talking about marriage being a civil right, it seemed a good a time as any to talk to my daughter about how this applies to our family.  She is just thirteen, the same age (or maybe even a little older) that I was when I discovered that my father was gay.  I found out by eavesdropping on my sister and a girlfriend talking derisively about my father’s boyfriend.

I remember the shock, the fear, the mild revulsion as I processed the information.  Back then, of course, one didn’t speak of such things.  It was perfectly acceptable to call people fags, homos and queers.  There weren’t any TV shows talking about gay people.   But then as I thought about the whole thing, I realized that it didn’t change anything.  I liked my dad’s boyfriend.  I didn’t want to think about them having sex any more than I wanted to think about my parents doing it.  So they were gay.  They were still good people.  Whatever.

We hardly ever spoke about the gay thing as a family.  My mother knew that I knew, but we didn’t speak of it.  My father knew that I knew, but we didn’t talk about it.  I certainly didn’t talk to my siblings about it.  And most of my friends were blissfully unaware of it.  Plenty of people had divorced parents, and my father’s boyfriend never made an appearance in our lives.  He just happened to be at the house if we went to visit my father.  But he didn’t come to funerals, graduations or weddings.  I worried what people would think if people found out he was gay.  What would they think of me?

But telling my daughter was an entirely different experience.  Of course “gay” still isn’t something that is widely accepted amongst her peer set.  Being called gay or queer at school is still considered negative.  But the plethora of information and familiarity her generation has with homosexuality through pop culture has led them to a much more open attitude about it.  Some people are gay, some are straight.  It’s just who you are.  My daughter shrugged her shoulders when I talked to her last night, as if the news was a: not at all a surprise (after all, she knows my father’s partner lives with him we see them together every Christmas) and b:  no big deal.  The stigma and the strangeness of it all just weren’t there as they were for me.  Gay is just part of life these days.

In fact, the only question my daughter had was how my father could marry my mother, since obviously you are who you are, and if he was gay, why would he choose a woman for a partner?  Explaining society in the 1960s, where being gay was simply not an option, where one got married because that was simply the only choice that existed, was hard to do.  Because she can’t even imagine a world where black people sat on the back of the bus and gay people couldn’t talk about who they were.  I told her that while my father loved my mother, and was happy to be a father and have a family, eventually he became very frustrated.  He was who he was, and eventually he had to live the life he was made to live, not the one that society forced on him.   I am still not sure it made a lot of sense to her, but she nodded and said she understood.

How wonderful it is to have that time, the time when being hateful and bigoted, seems strange and foreign instead of the norm.  We’re still not there yet, not by a long shot.  But the tides definitely have turned, in a big way.  I am not sure if the Supreme Court will be as far along as our society is….only time will tell.



I have tried to write several posts in the last several weeks here and each time, I just come up blank.  It’s not that I’m in a funk, or not doing anything interesting or anything like that.  It just doesn’t seem like I have much to say about any of it.

Meh.  Who cares about this stuff.

I’ve been working on a local 5K here in town.  Truth be told, I’m running the damn thing this year.  It’s a 20 year race that used to be run by a chiropractor here in town who is an avid runner, along with one of our police officers.  Originally the money raised went to our local DARE program and the Jaycees.  But then our DARE program disbanded and the people running the race got kind of tired of putting it all together.  Enter me and my fresh face last year, trying to raise money for our schools.  Long story short, I got the unpaid gig.  I’ve spent probably 15 hours a week for the last six weeks working on the thing, and it promises only to take more and more of my time until the race happens in June.  On the one hand, I’m super excited and proud of the work I’m doing.  But on the other, I’m pretty much doing it single handedly and that’s never fun.


My son’s wedding is getting closer, and I’ve been putting together the rehearsal dinner and shopping for dresses.  It is all very mother of the groom stuff to do.  The dress thing was insane.  My choices were either sexy teenager prom dress or dowager sixty year old beaded top and loose skirt with too many sequins to distract from the wrinkles of the person wearing it.  It was all just depressing.  I’m 42.  I get that I’m a young mother, and certainly everything about putting this thing together has reminded me of that every step of the way.  Not in a really great way, I might add.  More in the “yep, we’re all very aware you had this one under less than ideal circumstances” kind of way.


I’m working on my freelance web stuff fairly steadily, which is good.  It’s just enough work and income to make me feel like I’m not some slob sitting on my sofa watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns because there’s nothing else to do.  Except when the freelancing grids to a screeching halt, as it has for the last several weeks.  I’m chasing, chasing these clients trying to get them to respond to questions, offer up opinions, meet with me so I can finish their sites and of course, collect my paycheck.  I hate that part of freelancing.  You’re either on the client’s radar 24/7 and you find yourself working at 10am on a Sunday morning because they had an idea that had to be addressed Right. This. Second. or you’re the last thing on their to do list and you’re like an afterthought after all the other Very Important Things get done.


My husband has been traveling for three weeks now.  Normally not a huge thing, but after the first week he came home and threw out another possible job transfer, this one potentially overseas.  I don’t put a lot of credibility to it because it has happened so, so many times before and hardly ever pans out (especially since we moved to CT).  Still, the idea introduced just enough tension into my thought patterns of next week, next month, next year.  Will we be here?  Can we count on that?   Can I start making plans for the fall or next winter?


Only I could take these things in my life, all good things, and be so blase.  I’m working on an important community event and doing a good job, my son is getting married, my husband’s job is going well and so is mine.  Maybe it’s this interminable winter and it’s long, grey, snow filled days.  Maybe some sunshine and warmth would help me shake the meh.

Yay, Me

(I posted this on my fitness blog, but I feel kind of strongly about this….so I will share it here, too)

Today is race day for me.  I don’t normally race two weekends in a row, but last week’s race was a postponement from a few weeks prior.

But here’s the kicker:  you know what I caught myself saying yesterday to myself?

“It’s only a 5k.”  Whoa.  How far I have come, my friends.

I haven’t run a 5K race since November’s Veteran’s Day race.  After that I did a 5 mile Thanksgiving Day race, a 10K in early January in NYC, and then last week’s 4 mile Sweetheart run.  How is that for freaky?

Although I have been running since September 2011, I let myself fall out of training over last summer, due to heat and travel and frankly, laziness.  It’s hard to get yourself up out of bed at 5am to run, which was the only time good runs were happening in my world.  By September, I was so far off the grid that when I ran a totally flat 5K on 9/9, I struggled just to finish.  I didn’t walk any of it, but when I crossed the finish line it was at 40:03, my second slowest ever (my slowest being my first 5K, which included three monster hills….so this was probably on par).

I knew then that I had a choice.  I could either let this running thing go, or I could not.

And I chose not.

A few weeks after that, after some regular runs and a little more commitment on my part, I attended FitBloggin’.  That totally re-energized my commitment.  I had been thinking things like I was too fat to run.  That this was silly, my slow 12:25 miles were for losers.  That I shouldn’t bother at all because I was so slow and so chubby.

But it was at Fitbloggin’ that I realized runners come in all shapes and sizes.  That it didn’t matter sometimes if I was dead last.  Because dead last means you finished.  And finishing is a damn sight better than all of those who don’t even bother to try.  I was inspired by these women who looked like me who were conquering all sorts of amazing fitness goals.  I learned that it didn’t matter how long it takes you to get to a healthier place, but that every step along the way is a step in the right direction. Sometimes you move a little backwards.  But as long as you’re moving mostly forward, it’s good.  It’s life.  It’s good.

So today I will run a 5K with 2500 other people in New Haven.  I will enjoy every minute of my in the back of the pack race.  And at the end, they’ll hand me a beer, which I will use to toast myself.  Because I did it.  I finished.  And I will keep finishing again, and again, and again.

Yay, me.

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