2015 – Page 2 – Yellow Brick Missives

July 13, 2015July 13, 2015

The Next Frontier: Getting Published

Someone’s scraping a shovel against the sidewalk outside, and I’m hugging Toby – much to his dismay.

Usually Andy’s the one coddling The Tobes, but this morning I require a little extra reassurance, and Toby’s blobby self is exactly what I need.

I’m re-reading my query letter for the 400th time, ensuring that the email formatting isn’t going to jack everything up, and double-checking that I did everything exactly the way I was instructed to by the publisher’s website. By the time I get to the last period, I’m exhausted.

My shaky lil finger hovers over the “Send” button for a few seconds.

“Here we go, Tobes!”

He shifts uncomfortably, and hops out of the chair to attack his eyeless Piglet doll.

I send the email, then check my Sent folder to make sure everything looks alright. I exhale, wander around the living room for a minute, and gather my thoughts. This is the first step of many, but getting here has been harder than I thought.

***

It’s hard to believe that over two and a half years ago, I was jabbering about writing a book. And then I worked and worked and worked, and it felt like the closer I got to the end, the longer the process was going to take. Especially when I realized I had to write a proposal on top of everything else.

But after some intense proposal writing and query letter development, I feel as though I’m pretty good to go. It took a while to figure out how best to structure my proposal – mostly because all of the available articles on the Internets tell you a hundred different ways to write one. But I distilled out what I felt worked best for me and infused the proposal with humor – because if nothing else, I want it to accurately reflect me and my personality.

In all honesty, I had no idea that a proposal was so involved – that it’d need its own table of contents. Between the marketing and promotion sections, the chapter-by-chapter summaries, and all of the other goodies, my proposal ended up being 30 pages. And sure, that’s probably way too long. But at least this way I can pull out parts that various agents/publishing houses may require – and I won’t have to reinvent the wheel every single time.

Late yesterday, I finished re-reading the full memoir – whilst spot-editing for little grammatical mistakes. I cut a few things here, added there. But then, around bedtime, I realized I was as done as I’ll be – and not just with one task, but with everything.

And now, I’m in that terrifying phase of shopping my memoir around to see if anyone wants to bite. In many ways, I’m back at the starting line.

But I’m ready to race.

July 12, 2015

Succulent This!

What a witty title. It’s like I’m channeling my inner hormone-raging teen who doesn’t know the first thing about sexy time.

Anyway. GET YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER AND INTO THE DIRT.

Since Andy has been traveling like crazy, I figured a great way to relax him would be to make him help me bring my crackpot idea of an indoor succulent garden to fruition. Especially since all the herbs I planted died in the past few weeks’ heat wave – except the mint, praise be (because if that goes, we’re doomed).

See, both of us appreciate the calming effects of indoor greenery – especially since we haven’t had anything approximating an outdoor space since Raleigh. And even that was pretty hazardous. BUT NOW, we have a teeny succulent garden in an antique dough bowl. Because we’re raging gays who love to incorporate antiques into anything we can.

How do you construct this wonderful, life-changing succulent garden, dearest Green Guru? you’re asking your computer screens.

WELL, let me show you.

Step 1: Get Yo Antiquin’ Pants On!

If you don’t have superfluous antique dough bowls laying around, you’re a loser and you should hate yourself. Just kidding! You should pride yourself on not being crazy hoarders like us. But if you love American Primitive goodies, or want a unique planter, waddle to your nearest antique store and poke around their outdoor stuff, or look for an old utilitarian box like this one that we just sold.

So, like I was saying, find this amazing thing and hold it up so that your photographer can take a cheesy, not-at-all-staged photo.

(Also, be sure to wear a shirt with a socially conscious message so that Dan Savage will see your blog post and exclaim to his lovely family that they should go out and do this project IMMEDIATELY and then invite us over to ogle it and laugh at the world in all its weirdness.)

Step 2: The Secret Ingredient!

Add obese Chihuahua.

Kidding!

Step 3a: Walk the Line[r]

Since I didn’t want to damage the actual dough bowl, I made makeshift “liners” out of two large compostable bags (got them at Target). And then I nested a small plastic water catcher in the bottom center, on top of the bottom liner. This way, any water that percolates down should get caught in this reservoir.

Step 3b: Start Layering!

I layered a bit of Cactus Mix (small bag) atop the bottom liner and in the reservoir – just to help absorb any percolating water.

Step 3c: Layer 2 (Take Some Scissors to That Old Bag)

Unlike the bottom liner, I perforated the top liner so that most of the holes were over the plastic reservoir in the second liner layer – so that any percolating water would most likely funnel into it.

Step 4: More soil!

Add soil little by little, spreading it out to leave about an inch of the exposed bag layer around the bowl’s circumference.

Again, I didn’t want the soil directly touching the wood, so the exposed bag around the edges is for buffering purposes. (Plus, whenever I need to refresh the soil, I can dust off the edges and pull up on these bags – bringing each layer out in one large section.)

(Also, make sure your hair looks decent.)

Step 5: Succulent Staging!

Unpot, arrange, and plant your succulents as you’d like.

(Double chin optional.)

Step 6: Roll the Bowl!

To triply protect the integrity of the wooden bowl, we cut a paper towel roll into strips (length-wise), and then cut those in half. We bent each along the middle and arranged them around the circumference, to (again) direct water to the center and down to the reservoir. (This was totally not part of the original plan, but makes the next step so much easier.)

Step 7: Sprinkle in the Sparklies

Use decorative stone fill (or marbles, or googly eyes) and in-fill the space behind the cardboard pieces, and then cover them – working your way to the middle. We completely filled the outside areas and over the tops of the bags and cardboard first, and then moved inward. We didn’t cover the soil completely around the succulents, just so water could get to the roots a bit more easily.

Step 8: REVEL IN YOUR GREAT CREATION

You’re done! You’ve re-purposed a beloved antique and given it a new life.

And now, our apartment is full of beautiful green things!

Some of which look like marijuana plants, but they’re totally not. For a second opinion of the marijuananess of our plants, we called Amy Adams, but she was too concerned about her lunatic husband in Big Eyes to be of any help.

(And pay no attention to that hideous, but necessary fan.)

Now, gaze again upon the beauty and wonder of your creation from another angle. And remember that you did this together. Or solo. Whatever. I don’t judge. You made something cool, and that’s a fun accomplishment.

Hopefully I won’t have to write a follow up post explaining that the liners failed and the dough bowl rotted out and all the succulents died.

Until then, we’ll be here in our city garden full of tropical, invasive species that’ll never see the outside world.

Yay, environment! Now, go make something cool – and have fun doing it.

July 9, 2015

Downsizing Space, Upsizing Life*

The other day I was reading this hilarious tiny house post by the witty blogger behind Hipstercrite, and found myself screaming, “GODDAMMIT, YES!”

Let me first caveat this by saying that, like Hipstercrite, I wholeheartedly acknowledge all the positive things tiny houses represent: environmental conservation, recycling (e.g., you quite literally poo where you eat), de-materialism (it should be a word), blah blah blah good things. Hell, my parents live in a semi-subterranean, off-grid hobbit house in the middle of the woods. (But it’s more than one room.)

I get it. Being good to the earth is awesome.

But you know what else is awesome? Being good to yourself. Which means giving yourself space enough to think, eat, contemplate life’s mysteries, watch movies, and poo without the smell competing with the chili bubbling on the stove outside the tiny house’s bathroom “door” (it’s a curtain, y’all).

It’s no secret that I love talking and writing about design, mostly because I don’t know the professional ins and outs, and wing it whenever I’m decorating our apartment. But I have to say, if Andy and I ever moved into a tiny house, we’d probably end up getting a divorce approximately 6 minutes after walking through the door. (Although it’d probably make for good reality TV: Two Gays, One Tiny House, and An Obese Chihuahua: Who’ll Come Out On Top…or Dead?!)

We both love having our own space. Which is why our historic apartment in Raleigh was amazing. In fact, the other day Apartment Therapy re-posted our House Tour in their “Pride at Home” series following the SCOTUS decision. That was pretty awesome, not just for its timing and the fact I finally felt like an all-star, but also for the window it gave us into our lives a few years back.

We re-toured it, and remarked about how most of the stuff we saw has since been sold or gifted away. (And it also gave me an opportunity for ample self-loathing when I saw myself in those skinny pants, and my hippie hair. Oy!) Then we looked around our Seattle digs, and realized just how much we’ve downsized since moving from North Carolina to California to Seattle.

I mean, when we first landed in California, we were in a 450 square foot studio apartment in Koreatown, and most of our stuff was in a Gardena storage facility (oh, how little we knew the geography). Which, coming from our 1,100 square foot historic Raleigh duplex, felt like a glorified walk-in closet.

Thankfully, the only thing we did right with that apartment was sign a 6-month lease.

And then we were off to West Hollywood – a step up space-wise with an actual bedroom and generous living-dining room. Still, it was maybe 850 square feet – quite a bit smaller than what we were used to. Thankfully, it had a great deal of built-in storage – so all of our random crap (and some furniture) was stowed away.

But then Seattle happened. We loved the new-old space immediately. But when the boxes kept coming and coming and coming, and the movers bid me a “good luck” with nods to the cardboard box forest behind me, I realized that this apartment was quite a bit smaller than our WeHe digs. (We never knew how big our WeHo place was, because the square footage was never listed.)

Not only that, but we have one closet.

And when I mean one closet, I don’t mean one walk-in closet and five other closets.

I mean one closet in the whole apartment. Granted, it’s a walk-in, but when you factor in all of the random domestic detritus you always need but have to store (towels, blankets, clothes, coats, umbrellas, ironing board, cleaning products, that one box of holiday decor you allow your husband to have…), you need at least two closets. The only other “closet” we have is completely occupied by our stackable washer-dryer, for which I’ll gladly sacrifice the space.

Honestly, though, as annoying as it’s been having only one closet, it keeps us honest. No hoarding clothes or shoes or furniture. Our space is full enough now, so anything new we bring it means something else goes out.

Except for Fiesta. There’s always room for rare I-will-cut-you-for-that Fiesta pieces. (One of the main reasons why we could never live in a tiny house.)

We’ve culled a lot. And when I mean a lot, I mean that the only decorative stuff we have is what we see (except for some framed art under the bed – that ain’t going anywhere). And the only furniture we retained are pieces that pull double-duty, except for those necessary chairs. So our sideboards and cabinets hold dishes (all of which we use) and DVDs, and all of our clothes and shoes and coats and tools and gardening supplies are stored in the bedroom dressers and walk-in closet.

Even though this move was exhausting because of majorly downsizing, it was totally worth it. Do we love stuff? Absolutely. But we don’t need more of it to feel like we’ve succeeded in life, nor do we need a tiny house to convince us that we’re leading a quintessentially “simple life.”

And while this is the smallest apartment we’ve ever lived in (and will probably ever live in), it goes without saying that it’s still more than most folks in the world have. There’s something about living in a small(er) space that anchors this in the fore of my mind; it reminds me to be thankful for this little slice of life, and to cherish everything in it – because what we’ve chosen to retain is what we feel matters most.

Plus, it’s sort of fun transitioning formerly decorative stuff into the functional realm (e.g., the dough bowl that used to hold pine cones in my parents’ house, looked Spartan and old and beautifully empty in our WeHo apartment, and will now be turned into a container for a succulent garden in Seattle).

But there is such a thing as too small a space, and I need more than one pan to cook with.

My ideal is to have another bedroom for guests (or, you know, a kid) and another bathroom. (I also like to occasionally channel Mary-Louise Parker in The Client and tell Toby that all I want is “A little white** house with a walk-in closet.” (Nix the white.) It’d also be great not to have to design everything along a wall in our living room, but I’m done worrying about “design rules.”

I think our space works just fine, and doesn’t look half bad either. So while we won’t be investing in a tiny house anytime soon, I’ll take some of the tenets from that ascetic lifestyle and map it onto our slightly more material-bloated, less claustrophobic 745 square foot Capitol Hill perch.

After all, Toby’s not about to pare-down any of his toys.

(*I’m pretty sure upsizing isn’t a word. But it should be.)

July 1, 2015July 1, 2015

For Hire

While executing a 313-point turn to get back into our parking space – yay, garage construction! – I think about everything I did wrong during the interview:

Talked too much
Said “and the like” 500 times
Didn’t stand up to shake one interviewer’s hand

But then I remember what I did right:

Had three copies of my resume and cover letter on hand (I anticipated there’d be more than one interviewer, especially since it was a second-round)
Maintained eye contact, switching between interviewers appropriately
Referred back to the interviewer’s question at the end of my answer
Interjected humorous anecdotes where appropriate
Wore comfortable, professional clothes tailored to the organization
Kept the “umms” and “looks into space” to a minimum
Wove the org’s key mission terms and phrases into my answers
Answered completely and honestly

Back in the apartment, my mind whirls with all the interview’s conversational tidbits, and I reach for the half-eaten pint of Smokey Rocky Road ice cream that Andy and I got for our anniversary. And after scraping the bottom, spooning up the melty goodness, I decide I did pretty well on this interview. Whether that’ll actually translate into me getting the job remains to be seen, but for now, my part is complete.

I quickly rap out a thank-you email to my interviewers, send it, then collapse into a heap while Toby pulls apart a slew of Disney toys.

But before I get too relaxed, I push myself to do something I’ve come to do whilst job hunting – apply for another job immediately after an interview, regardless of whether it’s a first- or second- round interview. This way, should I get the “thanks but no thanks” email in the next few days, I won’t be utterly crushed, wondering what in the world I’ll do.

My strategy is pretty simple: apply for one job every single day. Two if I’m feeling up to it. More if I’m super caffeinated and ready to fly. Persistence and perseverance are the two drivers for any job hunter. If you don’t apply, don’t expect a solution; if you devolve into sobs and squeals and halt all hunting whenever you get an automated rejection, nothing will change. This is all pretty straight-forward logic, but it’s taken me a while to fully get it.

Right after we both decided to quit our jobs, but before we moved to California, I envied Andy’s ability to apply for 10-20 jobs a day while I barely applied to 1. The trick was to have an absurdly strong cover letter and resume that, taken together, could easily be a ticket to any job within your subject area – with just slight alterations per role. After a complete, drastic overhaul of my resume and cover letter, I was ready – which really came in handy while we moved.

Since then, it’s been about me applying in a rapid-fire, consistent fashion so that my options don’t run dry. Because rejections suck (like the one I just got from the nonprofit located a block from our apartment!), and I know they’ll easily derail me if I don’t have other potential prospects floating around out there.

And when job apps translate into a first-round interview, I begin reacquainting myself with my best practices:

Print out my resume and tailored cover letter (whatever app materials I sent in), as well as the job announcement – and have them on hand
Clear my throat and do a few “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3” exercises to loosen up the ol’ vocal chords to prevent my voice from cracking or squeaking during introductions
Do conscious breathing for the five minutes before the call
Have a bottle or glass of water nearby in case my throat gets scratchy from talking
(Per Andy) Use ear buds in lieu of holding the phone – this way I feel less encumbered and freer, which also allows me to talk with my hands (this always helps me think)
If I can’t do the interview at home – like this last time when our building’s fire alarm check was scheduled at the exact time of my phone interview – I drive to a park or somewhere quiet and shaded
ALWAYS have at least three questions for them – my most favorite being: “How would you define success for this role?” (credit: Andy), “What personality traits do you most value in your staff?” (credit: ME!), “What are the next steps in the process?” (credit: Andy)

And should a killer phone interview spur a second-round interview, I remind myself to do all the things I mentioned above – especially dressing comfortably (and appropriately) for the job.

Of course, there’re going to be foibles here and there with any interview. Like today, I completely forgot my phone, but thankfully I’d jotted down the address with directions (should technology fail me) – and I pulled a few other rookie moves (also see above).

Regardless of whether or not I get this job, I know that I did my best, had some laughs, and met some interesting people. And, I’ll kept my eyes on the horizon and my prospect plate full (apply, apply, apply!). Sooner or later, I’ll take the plunge back into the employment pool.

Until then, I’ll keep Toby company. (And will try to avoid the eye-less gaze of his victims.)

June 30, 2015

The First Year: Lessons of the Marital Kind

I’m chasing a massive dust bunny across the living room floor when Andy calls for the fourth time in the past minute.

“Hey.”

“Hey. So they need all of our past addresses. This is so fucking stupid. What was our Raleigh address?”

I recite the street number, then quickly look up the zip code. In the background, he repeats everything to the customer service representative, followed by our Koreatown address, and West Hollywood address. The last, it seems, is the ticket. “Hallelujah! Alright. Hold on a minute.”

He mutes her, and then returns to me.

“Alright, thanks. I think that’ll do it.”

“Okay, breathe. Just think, this is the last time we’ll have to do this.”

We hang up, and I close the accordion binder bloated with our 401k paperwork. My mind drifts for a moment before a crunch-snap-crunch from the darkened bedroom pulls me back to the morning.

“TOBE!”

The noise stops abruptly. With his tail ducked, Toby pitter-patters into the living room, his saucer-like eyes cooing plaintively, “What can I do for you, dear father? I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. AND I CERTAINLY WASN’T CHEWING ON MY OVERFILLED TOY BASKET AT ALL. NOT WHEN I HAVE BAZILLIONS OF WONDERFUL TOYS.”

He performs his signature “I’m so cute” wiggle, and then investigates the dust bunny at my feet.

“No. That’s mine.”

He snorts, then attacks his Woody doll.

I sweep up the dusty blob, and add one more item to my to-do list. The phone rings again. It’s Andy.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS. I have to write a letter proving my current address. So I can request to change my password. So they can send me a new password. So I can roll this thing over…”

I reopen the binder.

This is our first year.

***

Andy and I met rather unexpectedly on May 5, 2012 – while we both volunteered for OutRaleigh 2012. We never exchanged numbers, only a handful of words and a few smiles; and then the sky opened up, and we parted ways in our respective mad dashes for cover. I didn’t even know his name until I asked a friend about him. A few weeks later, we met again, but still didn’t get anywhere. Only after I Facebook stalked him, messaged him, and waited for a week did we finally connect.

And the rest has become part of our story.

Today is our first anniversary as a married couple. And reflecting on the past year, and the years before, has been an interesting emotional ride.

Lots of people like to pontificate about what it takes to make a marriage work, but they often gloss over the less than lovely bits, making everyone else in a committed relationship wonder if they’re missing something – if their relationship isn’t sparkly-clean. Of course, every relationship has its own quirks from blending life experiences and their associated baggage. But I think there’re common threads for many, especially during the first year – regardless of who you marry. For me, I like to think back to when we first got together – trace our history through various relationship phases, and embody the lessons we’ve learned.

But before I delve into it, in reality, no particular phase was clearly demarcated or bracketed by experiences. Nothing happened in a linear fashion. After all, it’s not like Action 1 led to Action 2 led to Happy Resolution. Life’s not an after school special.

The Honeymoon Phase: Enjoying Each Other, Falling Off Friends’ Radar

Immediately after making it Facebook official, we were inseparable and I was smitten. Because he satisfied all of my major personality requirements:

Smart (we had to be able to have intelligent conversations, so he had to be my intellectual equal or smarter – and yes, I know that sounds snobby, but whatever)

Funny (laughter is wholly necessary to make it through anything)

Mature (emotional age at least equivalent to actual age)

Quietly kind (not all LOOK AT ME, I’M SO SWEET – the little gestures mean more)

Confident (confidence, not overwhelming pride)

So, we were set. And all about the selfies.

We did everything together; nothing could go wrong. Everything was popcorn and candy canes and movies and kisses and stubble burn. We were exhausted for all the right reasons.

But part of being so engrossed with one another – discovering our loves and pet peeves, our interests and dreams – came the necessary reduction in socialization (aka: falling off the friend radar). Friends undoubtedly wondered, “What the fuck? Too good for us now, huh?” But that wasn’t the case. We were learning that maintaining and fine-tuning a relationship took more time and energy than we originally thought. And that came with a price. But that didn’t mean we didn’t love our friends. We were just trying to develop a basis for our relationship. Even if it required a million selfies.

Settling In: Combining Households, Opening Arguments

There’re two schools of thought about moving in together: “Wait until marriage” and “Just get it over with.” For many reasons, we were in the second group. And I’m incredibly glad for it. Don’t get me wrong, there’re plenty of folks I know who didn’t combine households until the rings were exchanged, and they’re just fine. But combining households was a pretty big deal for us, and I know for certain that, had we waited, things would’ve been strained.

Like most people, Andy and I had to reconcile personal tastes, aesthetics, and sentiments in creating a home that reflected us both. I wholeheartedly admit that I’m a hard person to live with because I rarely budge on any of these issues. Thankfully, Andy dove in and we shed furniture, combined DVD collections (major step for two cinephiles), and bought furniture that we felt reflected our synthesized style.

But not before we had our very first fight. Over this sideboard:

We had two sideboards and I was ~~completely~~ vehemently opposed to getting rid of either of them. Because I sure as hell wasn’t going to allow his bedroom set into my our apartment. We ended up in silence (which we both hate). And I started filing through my emotions, and then I took stock of Andy. He was clearly upset – laying prone on the floor, staring at the ceiling. And then it happened.

“We can get rid of it.”

I didn’t even realize it was me saying it. But seeing him so upset triggered something, made me realize that a piece of furniture wasn’t worth bruised feelings.

“No, it’s okay. I actually like it. I was just being defensive.”

We listened to one another. We learned. We apologized. And we moved on. This was compromise. But more than that, each of us was putting the other’s feelings ahead of our own – a critical development point for us both.

We the Couple: Everyone Gets It…For Real. Shut Up.

We didn’t mean to do it. I don’t think anyone really does. But after moving in, after resolving the first fight, we began doing things not as Andy or Matt, but as “we.”

“We went to the movies.”

“We had a great time at so-and-so’s party.”

“We love red wine.”

“We just think that’s fabulous.”

We even jokingly called ourselves “Mandy.” This phase coincided with reacquainting with our friends – the ones we thought hated us for leaving them temporarily. Everything was no longer a singular, isolated activity. The “we” was peppered through everything, over-seasoning conversations and eliciting actual or internalized eye-rolls from friends.

Everyone got it: we were together, in a relationship, bound at the hip, boos. And as annoying as it was for them, it was okay. We were creating a foundation for our relationship – simply by its recognition by the people in our lives who mattered. So this thing we’d started became more real for us and our friends.

Meeting the Mommas-and-Them

When we realized that we were in this thing, we knew that it was only a matter of time before we met each other’s parents and sister. And we did in time. I went up to New York, and he went to Alabama. We were each examined, questioned, and assessed by the parents and our sisters, and we both passed despite the expected foibles and fretting. One thing that made meeting the families easier was having already moved in together; there was no question of “Is this a passing thing?” There was clearly something substantial there, so those questions could be discarded and replaced with more probing, incisive ones. Really, everyone won.

Now, not only was our boyfriendom validated by our friends, but our families were woven into it too. We started commenting on familial inner-workings, and figured out how we were going to fit into it all.

Working and Living: Financials and Healthcare

After the green lights were lit, we re-assumed business as usual – but as a bona fide unit. We had each other to confide in, and the everyday hubbub wasn’t quite as bad. We could vent to each other, and we felt like we were making something together. What we returned to each night wasn’t an apartment, it was our home. And part of making that home a solvent, self-sustaining thing was addressing financials and maintaining ourselves health-wise. Without addressing those things, we were really just playing house. Andy and I actually combined finances and apartments really early on – some would say absurdly early. But we did. And it worked.

We’re both incredibly detail- and plan- oriented, so we determined what made the most sense (whose healthcare would we use, how much to put into savings…). These were all very necessary, difficult steps. There was a lot of adulting that took place during this phase, and we both grew up quickly. Each of us swelled with pride – we’d taken these steps together. We were legitimizing this life with as much legal protection as we could.

[Finally] the Question: Yes

After being domesticated gays for a while, and moving across the country, we made it official. Planning a wedding is hard, even if it’s tiny. And it frayed our nerves. But both sides of the families met. We said “I do,” and we kept moving.

So many people say, “Marriage changes everything” – even if you’ve already lived together. And yes, there’s a distinct change – you’re officially in this relationship together. You’re no longer free agents – able to do what you want when you want it. There’s a process, a system of emotional checks and balances. The transition can be a little bumpy. Even with everything we’d already experienced, we still had more to learn after the big “M” solidified everything. It was no longer just a partnership, it was a marriage.

Peaks & Valleys: Marriage Ain’t Easy

As exciting as it was to be puttering along together – setting goals and doing our best to bring them to fruition – we had tiffs and spats and hit limits, and questioned ourselves each time.

“Is this argument the end?”

“What will I do?”

“I can do this, right?”

No one is perfect. And we all show ugliness at one point or another. All of those questions bubbled up, and we were forced to answer them. And after every quarrel, after every shouting match, we reconciled. Reconciliation is one thing that any marriage can’t do without. And while we’ve established many tenets for our relationship, one of the main ones is this: Never go to bed angry. No matter how exhausting the conversation has been, we never let the wound scab over without thoroughly cleaning it out. If there’s any shadow of a doubt that there’s still something lurking under the surface, we rip that scab right back off and bleed the grossness out. And then we heal. What I most value in our relationship is the transparency: If either of us is sad or depressed or angry, we address it. There’s no looking the other way.

We all filter our experiences – determining what’s worth getting angry, sad, or frustrated about – and it’s those experiences that matter, those that have an impact, those that’re worth sharing that should be addressed, especially if they’re impacting our moods. Sharing our experiences – the good, bad, horrifically ugly – has helped bind us together, and makes our marriage stronger. Working through the hard shit is totally worth it.

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

No matter how much hard shit we’ve both worked through – separately and together – there have come points where we’ve both asked ourselves, “Should I stay?”

This question is scary as fuck.

I’ve been there, and Andy’s been there. It springs from a dark place, or a particularly pointed argument – or some combination thereof. But when I got to that place, I had to disconnect for a moment, and ask some other difficult questions: “What if this ends? Will I be okay? Yes, I’ll be okay. I can manage. I’ll go on. It’ll be indescribably hard, but I won’t crumble. I’ll remain. I’ll live.”

As weirdly horrible as it may seem, this is the healthiest, most reassuring question I’ve ever asked myself. Because I’ve learned that to make our marriage work, I have to constantly maintain myself – I have to be certain that I can be there, that I can be supportive, that I can be my own person outside of being a “husband” or “partner.”

And immediately after that realization, I knew my answer to the overarching question – “Is it worth staying?” – was a resounding “Absolutely.”

Love is complex. Love is hard. And to fully understand it all, I sometimes have to break down my emotions, ask pointed questions of myself (“Am I doing enough?”, “Am I trying my best?”), and rebuild myself to fully realize how much I love Andy, and how much I love our marriage.

Wrinkles in Time: Officially Growing A Year Older Together

Today, we’re officially a year old. Andy and I have traveled across the country three times. We’ve been to the brink and back in every possible meaning of the phrase. We’ve rebuilt and recreated ourselves, and we’ve extended our life together to strengthen the lives of two furry beings.

We’ve said painful goodbyes, and heartfelt hellos in the three different cities we’ve called home.

We continue to make peace with ourselves – reconciling our own insecurities, our fears – and share a life, and enjoy everything in our own ways. We’re redefining our individual interests, and are branching out to avoid intense co-dependency – something we’ve experienced, which can lead to smothering and resentment. We’re learning to let go of the past, and embracing what comes with open eyes and minds.

We’re planning for our future more than ever, and are considering what it’ll mean to extend our lives yet again – this time for a less furry being.

We’re in it completely.

***

Pride was a few days ago, and we ventured out sporadically. The spectrum of life seemed to flood by our building, and we stood there like stones in a stream as Toby did his business. So many people looking for someone special, or looking to be seen – trying to find someone for the night, or for longer.

And there we were, in the middle of it, two veterans with stained tees and a pooping dog. And I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.

June 28, 2015

Mahwage: No Longer the Final Frontier

Y’all know The Princess Bride priest-marriage scene probably got ridiculous play with the SCOTUS ruling regarding marriage, right?

“Mahhhhwage…is wot bwings us togethah todahhh. Mahhwwage…”

Ah, it never gets old.

Speaking of old news, isn’t it nice that marriage is now a non-issue? That our elected officials – or those who fudge the numbers/voting precinct lines/right people to get into office – can now take “gay marriage” off their plates and remove it as the crux of their (re)election platforms? I think I just heard a collective sigh of relief from across the nation. Except from those conservatives heading to that bastion of holiness, that birthplace of traditional values: Canada. Thank the gods Canadians don’t have anything resembling our “socialist healthcare,” and reserve the sacred covenant of matrimony for the majority!

In all seriousness, I’m really excited to see the national lens refocus on much larger, much more important issues than who I love.

Maybe it’s just the thumpa thumpa of Seattle Pride vibrating our windows and walls, or the rainbows veiling social media, but I’m feeling a surge of energy these past few days – like generations are finally coming together to effect meaningful change in this country. But of course, we have a long way to go.

Still, it’s hard not to reflect on these past few days and project forward – and think about all of the great changes we could see in our lifetimes. I mean it was only a few years ago that I was waving an ad hoc canvas-sign with others proclaiming their disgust for North Carolina’s Amendment One at rallies like this one:

or at marches like this:

And now, these particular signs are thankfully slipping into artifact territory, but their messages still ring true – harbingers of things to come, of more milestones we may be able to make tomorrow, the next day, and in the coming decades.

So, let’s celebrate this victory – hoot and holler and scream, “HOT DAMN! FINALLY!” And play said clip from The Princess Bride until our ears bleed.

And let’s absorb these amazing feelings, and pay them forward through everyday acts so that we can continue shaping a future that’s more complete and a Union that, to quote the President, is “a little more perfect.”

(And yes, our “dream board” – what we want out of life, etc. – is attached to the other protest sign. Fitting, no?)

June 26, 2015June 26, 2015

Same-Sex Marriage? Must Be the Fiery End Times. (But I Don’t Even Have A Sunburn.)

My brain is still a gelatinous blob of nothingness when Andy calls.

“Isn’t the news exciting?!”

With my mental hourglass still turning, waiting for my responses to load, my mind thumbs through options.

Did we have a baby?

Have we adopted another geriatric dog?

Did we win the lottery?

He senses my uncertainty – probably tipped off by the prolonged “Durrrrrr…uhhhh…”

“GAY MARRIAGE IS LEGAL!”

Toby smells himself. I awaken.

“HOLYFUCK…SHIT!”

Of course this would be the morning when I’d convinced myself not to immediately open Facebook. No, cut the cord a little bit. Give yourself some mental space to think. And so I’d stared at the morning light filtering through the windows, thought about my impending phone interview, and watched Toby drag his ass across the floor – ending at his food bowl where he waited expectantly.

So the SCOTUS ruling had been mentally supplanted a bit by my concern that Toby’s anal glands needed to be expressed again.

But now I know. And Andy gives me a minute to collect my thoughts, cry, and call him later.

Online, a giant rainbow cloaks every news page, and I can’t believe this day is actually here. We’d been on pins and needles before with DOMA, and every other time something idiotic was passed down from on high – on both federal and local levels. But now, we were equal in the eyes of the law.

And, most certainly, conservatives are soon to be calling this the END TIMES, what with “post-racial society” statements being tragically disproven, Confederate flags being removed, and LGBTQIAers being able to marry. Surely, society is caving in on itself like a dying star. Only rapture will save the righteous. But we’ve been through the End Times a couple times before, and I don’t even have a sunburn.

The enormity of this decision can’t be overstated. Not only is this a legal victory, it’s a moral victory. Now, rather than being demonized and dehumanized by legislation – by talks from hyper-conservative pundits, by stupid business owners given airtime – we FINALLY have something more substantial than DOMA being stricken down a year ago today. Today, we have the beginnings of a delicately balanced playing field – a harbinger of societal change and restructuration. Now is the time to celebrate, but also to remember there’re so many more fights to wage for fair housing, benefits, and everything in between.

It’s time to reach out and promote peace and understanding across the spectrum of humanity – while there’s this victory, there’s still a long way for this country to go on minority rights, and acknowledging racial tensions, climate change, a living wage, on and on ad nauseum.

We still have a long way to go as a country, but at least now our national whole is a little more colorful.

June 25, 2015

A [Wannabe] Writer’s Work is Never Done

After applying to another job, I decide to call it for the day. The worn leather sofa gives under my weight with a familiar umphah – an auditory reassurance that translates to “No, I’m not going to buckle beneath you. Even after those cupcakes.”

Toby whines to get on the sofa. His paw misdirects just so that he punches me in the nuts. I inhale sharply. Nonplussed, he stares expectantly, grunting a bit and trying to propel his stubby legs and body up onto the cushions. I acquiesce to cuteness overload and pull him up, excusing his gas as I do.

Our tower fan hums quietly, pulling in the chilled air and amplifying street noise filtering up through the open windows. Somewhere below us on 11th Avenue, a man uses a loudspeaker to rap about a cat, his score full of bellowed meows blended with a synthesized ice cream truck jingle. Toby pricks his ears at the loud meows, but seemingly remembers that he’s well enough away from the street to be comfortably unimpressed. A police siren pierces the jingle’s chorus, and the song is no more.

Unlike earlier in the week, the sky is an overcast grayish-white – giving the appearance that we’re floating in a cloud bank. Despite the lack of sun, it’s pleasantly soothing – preferred, in fact, to the hot days. The smell of steaming pretzel rolls from the restaurant downstairs fills the living room momentarily, and I salivate to such a degree that Pavlov himself would applaud. I think about the ramekins of cheese sauce that usually accompany the hearty, salty rolls and close my eyes. The granola bar I just ate doesn’t quite stack up.

A small pile of books sits on the kitchen table, and I’m nearly done with one of them. I bought them earlier this week for both pleasure and research. Because it seems that writing a memoir isn’t just that – there’re all sorts of comp background checks and other things to be done. Which is understandable, but somewhat deflating. Just when I think the hard part is over, it just means the real work begins. And that’s fine. I just have to keep going.

Post-move writing is always a bit difficult. Moving is hard, regardless of whatever I tell myself and no matter how exciting the new place happens to be. In a way, writing now becomes more of a chore – because at least with moving prep, I had an excuse for being a bit lax with the whole process. And every now and then, we all need breaks – welcomed respites from the grind of trying to achieve a long-held goal. But now that the dust has literally settled, it’s time to get back to it.

Re-reading my “final” manuscript draft yet again is terribly anxiety-inducing. So many questions bubble to the surface:

What if it’s horrible?

Is it long enough?

What if I don’t believe in it anymore?

What if I have nothing to really say?

What if it’s just not funny or engaging?

I’ve answered all these before – whilst gutting former iterations of this manuscript and reassembling the salvageable chapters into my own version of Frankenstein’s monster.

This time, it has to live – breathe with what I’ve given it.

And I think it does. Sure, I’ll have to give it CPR once the lovely agent I’ve yet to convince to believe in me returns it with plenty of red marks and a few “Gurl, you crazeh! Work on this shit” comments in the margins. But for now, I’m trying to focus on the less fun parts of getting an agent to notice me – developing a query letter and proposal. These things aren’t nearly as fun, mostly because they require me to look back down my long road of writing and ask myself more hard questions:

Who will want to read this?

Why did I write it?

Why am I the best person to write about this stuff?

Will anyone buy this, and how is this going to be marketed?

All these and more. To reconsider them is incredibly daunting and frustrating to say the least. Because it’s hard to critically assess my manuscript as a commodity – as something to buy and sell, as something other than memories and lessons sandwiched between [nonexistent] covers. What’s more, I have to have confidence and sell myself and it. I have to toot my own horn without overdoing it, clearly understand my competition and where this manuscript fits in, and stand by it no matter what. It’s all easier said than done.

But tripping over the what-ifs and fretting about its appeal are exercises in madness. Because what writer or wannabe hasn’t had the exact same concerns? From what I’ve read, it seems that this is the stage where most people fall off the wagon and never get back on – their fears and apprehensions get the better of them, and they don’t pursue this dream; or they think they don’t need to put in the extra work, and let the subsequent criticism sideline them indefinitely. Or worse, they remain in the “Oh, it just needs a little more work” purgatory and never escape.

Writing, and aspiring to be a writer, are two very different things. But as long as I keep this passion going, keep stoking these fiery-hot embers, I’ll make it. I’ve got to.

June 23, 2015

Under the Seattle Sun

Some wise traveler once said, “The more you move, the less difficult unpacking all of your shit becomes.” I’m paraphrasing. Or I may have made it up.

Much like our man-infested destiny out to the Left Coast, we expected a certain catharsis associated with our move from West Hollywood to Seattle. Mostly because we’d been all stressed out in LA, what with the traffic, and the traffic…and the traffic. And plenty of other things.

We were ready for a change, and we got it.

Sure, we went from living in the heart of Boystown to the heart of Capitol Hill, which is sort of the same thing. But at least here we’re not constantly bombarded with Ken dolls coiffing and puttering around in the middle of the day. Or jogging with their shirts off, making the rest of humanity feel like they’re at least 80 and pale and unkempt. Not that I’m projecting.

On the upside, being pale and frequently unkempt and less involved about how you look are three attributes that describe the average Seattlite. We win!

But seriously, we moved here for a change, and we’re enjoying all that comes with adjusting to our new home. And one of the first things we had to do was something we thought we already did: cull.

Our new-old place is great. But it’s a wee bit smaller than our WeHo place, which is saying something. And we have one closet. One. Uno. Which is why our apartment looked like the set of Grey Gardens 2: The Gays Next Door.

So we resolved to do the hard cull. The one you really don’t want to do. But we did.

Out went ALL THE THINGS that we liked but didn’t love, that were cute but served little to no purpose. Anything that wasn’t displayed in WeHo was immediately tossed/shoved into the Donate or Sell pile. We gutted our wardrobes and pared down our furniture. We went through every damn thing, even those fun financial accordion files we all have.

*Shudders*

And after multiple trips to the thrift store, and plenty of rearranging, we reclaimed our space.

And now, we can refocus on the goals we set for ourselves when we made the decision to move.

***

Last night, whilst Facebook arguing with idiots about the Charleston hate crime and the Confederate flag, I was listening to Under the Tuscan Sun, specifically Sandra Oh’s come-to-Jesus dinner with Diane Lane.

S.O.: “You know when you come across one of those empty shell people, and you think ‘What the hell happened to you?’ There came a time in each one of those lives when they were standing at a crossroads…”

And Diane interrupts and is like, “Crossroads, PAH!” And Sandra and I are like, “SHUT THE HELL UP, DIANE! GAH.”

S.O.: “…someplace where they had to decide to turn left or right. This is no time to be a chickenshit, Francis!”

Which is why Sandra Oh is my best friend forever.

Every single time I watch that scene, I smile. Because Andy and I have made concerted attempts to not become those people, and our efforts have paid off. It still takes work, just as anything does, but we’re starkly different people than the angry, exhausted shells we were in North Carolina (re: horrible jobs, that glitter incident), and were becoming in LA.

Later on, after listening to her BFF, Diane is Gaying-and-Awaying through Tuscany and is daydreaming about Bramasole, the Italian villa advertised in the real estate office window. And then the fabulous Lindsay Duncan walks up and counters Diane’s woe-is-me self.

D.L.: “I mean, who wouldn’t want to buy a villa in Tuscany. But the way my life is going, it’d probably be a terrible idea.”

L.D.: “Mmhmm. Terrible idea. Don’t you just love those?”

Which is why Lindsay Duncan is my best friend forever. And Diane Lane just decides to buy an Italian villa. (Sidenote: one of my life goals is to be a famous enough writer that I can just buy an Italian villa should Lindsay Duncan sidle up beside me with delicious gelato and say, “Gurl, just buy it!”)

We always think that doing the comfortable thing is the best – that it’s less stressful, more expected. That going against the grain, or venturing outside your comfort zone, is more trouble than it’s worth. But sometimes you just have to look past the terrible what-ifs of any endeavor or dream, and just go with it.

And when you go with it, you should – again, per the advice of our BFF, Lindsay – “Never lose your childish enthusiasm, and things will come your way” and “You have to live spherically, in many directions at once.”

Hell, when Diane finally listens to Lindsay and is all, “WHO NEEDS MARCELLO?” and gives in, she suddenly cooks five course meals for lunch and feigns disinterest when the cute Polish hottie is like, “Here, let me feed you poached pears.” And we’re all like, “JUST EAT THE GODDAMNED PEARS, DIANE! GAH.”

The gist of it all is simple: give in, stop trying, and embrace what comes. Because, as Sandra says later, “Life is strange.”

So while we’re here in Seattle, we’re going to keep working on ourselves – enriching our minds, and following our passions. And enjoying the twists and turns along the way that Diane remembers at the very end, when she’s written another book and is glitzing it up with her new beau and all her fashionable friends in her villa:

“Any arbitrary turn along the way, and I would be elsewhere, I would be different.”

I’ve already got some herbs growing (my green thumb goal for Seattle), the house is in order, and my mind is tuned back to writing – and, you know, looking for a job.

So, here we go again – another turn, another adventure.

June 23, 2015

A Heritage of Hate

Just when I think I’ve heard every absurd argument for keeping the Confederate flag flying, I’m treated to the latest – which I’ll paraphrase: “Well, the flag didn’t do anything wrong.”

Of course it didn’t. Symbols can’t do anything. But we can – mostly because we give symbols their power. After all, symbols are malleable things.

When we really get down to it, a symbol is a nexus – where the tangible world meets abstract thought. Symbols are time machines – allowing the past to inhabit and co-mingle with the future. They can embolden and destroy inasmuch as we allow them to.

Tragically, our society is light-years behind other nations in doing as much as we can to right the insidious wrongs of the past, including the long overdue retirement and removal of certain symbols from government-controlled, public spaces. What’s more, one of the only ways we seem to collectively act is when some horrific incident triggers a shock wave through our social consciousness. And even then, oftentimes nothing of substance is done. All that’s left is anger or confusion surrounding the memories of the dead – as with the cases of Rekia Boyd, Michael Brown, Kimberlee Randle-King, Trayvon Martin, Natasha McKenna, Eric Garner, John Crawford, Dante Parker, Ezell Ford, Freddie Gray, and all of the other women and men – LGBTQIA and straight alike – whose lives were cut short. We have moments of silence to remember. And then we forget. And we go about our days until another victim’s name reverberates in our heads, until another Sandy Hook or Aurora happens and we shake our heads and say “Something has to be done.” Just like I did when I woke up last Wednesday, opened Facebook, and wondered aloud, “What in the hell happened in Charleston?”

What we can do is this: face the facts. Who cherishes the Confederate flag and believes it honors the nation? I can think of a few groups. And there’s little to no racial diversity among them. Of course, when I’ve said that, I’ve heard the other argument (it’s more like a whine, really): “Just because I’m against taking down the Confederate flag doesn’t mean I’m a racist.” Actually, in all likelihood, it does. Let’s face it: anyone against this can only bumble through the semantic shuffle so long before the ugly bits that’re so often veiled are brought to light, or are woven into the tired, moldy chestnut about “heritage not hate.” Whose heritage exactly? Oh, right. The slave-holding Confederacy’s heritage. (And yes, of course there may have been some wonderfully decent people who thought slavery was as disgusting as it was, but got lumped into the rank-and-file and fought for the Confederacy. But you know what? I’m pretty sure those folks would be okay with removing the flag.)

As a born-and-bred southerner, I have to say I’ve never associated that flag with anything good or positive. It always elicited a visceral reaction – one of disgust and fear; it was (and still is) a tacitly understood warning. It’s a symbol whose past is drenched in blood, whose meaning has become so enmeshed with the disgusting atrocities of history that it largely fails to represent anything other than the violence and racism that wove it into existence.

If this country really wants to do something to start mending race relations, we have to start back at square one and remove symbols that celebrate dehumanization and subjugation.

The flag has to come down. It’s the only option.

We owe it to Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Rev. Daniel Simmons Sr., Rev. Sharonda Singleton, and Myra Thompson.

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