Dear UNfriend,

Dear UNfriend,

I'm sorry for not having written sooner. I've been thinking about you, more lately than, sadly, I ever really did when we were friends. My quest for the almighty dollar (work) and my search for the right words have kept me from this letter far too long. But today, I have stumbled upon both the time and the verbiage to say what I've been wanting to say for a long while now. I hope you will listen and hear me with an open mind and equally open heart.

Several weeks ago I, and many of your other acquaintances, received a letter from your wife. (I am hesitant to say 'ex' simply because I don't know what the situation is between you and her...and the reality is that I really don't need to know. It's just not my business.) I will say my still somewhat 'hopeful for everlasting love' self was surprised by that letter and its unexpected message. And my somewhat 'jaded cuz she took my dog, house and car' self simply said that I trust both of you to be strong, smart, kind women who will make whatever decisions need to be made with grace and dignity and compassion for one another.

Having said all of that now, I regretfully admit that I probably would not have reached out to you at all if it hadn't been for the Ravens vs Jets football game a few weeks back. You probably remember the one...I'm pretty sure the Ravens annihilated your precious Jets. Nevertheless, while Wifey and I were half watching the game and half playing Words with Friends, (ok...1/4 watching and 3/4 playing Words with Friends), I thought it might be cute/evil/haha funny to prod you a little bit via Facebook about the ineptness of the Jets strategy, etc. But lo and behold, when I went to send you a message, I discovered that I had been 'unfriended'. Imagine that! ME! UNfriended?

Of course this probably wasn't the first time someone 'unfriended' me. And Lord knows, I have 'unfriended' a few folks via Facebook and in real life over the years. It's really no big deal and I'm sure my psyche and my self esteem will remain annoyingly in tact. BUT...this little discovery of being unfriended by you got me to thinking about the people I ALMOST unfriended and I wanted to share that with you. I don't know if it will matter to you or simply just piss you off but I feel incredibly compelled to explain it to you.

A few years ago, my ex wife (FDA) came to me after 8 months of what I thought was a pretty good marriage and told me that she no longer wanted to be married. To this day, the only reason she has ever given me was that she felt as though I would opt to leave her someday and so she believed it would be easier for her to go now instead of spending more time with me waiting for me to leave. I didn't get it then and I don't get it now BUT if I had any inkling of how to reach her now, I'd send her a great big ol' thank you card for doing me the biggest favor EVER and setting me free to find 'the one'.

Anyway...amidst all of that commotion and sadness and overwhelming loss, I tried to do something that, if I had actually succeeded, I know I would have regretted for the rest of my life.

You see, my experience had always been that in the end, the friends you came into the relationship with are the only ones you leave with. It kinda makes sense. Yours, mine, still mine after the bouquet dies and the dress no longer fits. It's sort of an unspoken.

And so, going off of those past experiences, I assumed (and yes it did make an ass out of me) that the friends I had met through her/because of her already long established relationship with them, would turn and stroll out the door with her... and my dog, my house and my car (just sayin...) I even went so far as to tell them "Look, I know you're gonna go. Hell, you gotta go. I don't blame you. I've had a great time with you and you've made a difference in my world but you are HER friends and I understand. Thanks for letting me play with yous. It's been fun."

But you know what Unfriend? They didn't go. They didn't go and they didn't let me go. I'm not really sure why but I'm ever grateful. It would have made sense for us to part ways,(and we all know how much I like for things to 'make sense'), but we didn't and I am more appreciative for that more often than they might know.

So dear Unfriend, the truth, not to be blunt, but to 'keep it real' is that you and I were friends via friends. I've been where you are...on the outside of the circle. I'm not going to pretend that because of this letter you and I will suddenly become BFFs and spend our days talking about BFF stuff, but I am hoping that you will at least give some of the people you were fortunate enough to meet through a significant other a chance to surpass your expectations. No promises that they will...but they might. And you won't know if you don't open yourself up for it.

Those friends of my ex...those ones who were HER friends, her BEST friends...guess what...now they are my friends too. My BEST friends too.

And I know that it can be awkward and weird to be friends with an ex's friends. There's absolutely no denying that! There could be moments YEARS into the friendship that you will still be finding photos of those shared friends and you turned backwards on the fridge after the ex visits their camper. It happens...so what? And sometimes you'll learn through them of the ex's adventures and new loves and even though she won't speak to you, you will still have a 'connection'...as wanted or unwanted as that might be. In my experience, those moments are worth all of the other wonderful moments you'll share with them.

Unfriend, I don't know you that well. I only know you through a friend of the friends I made through my ex. We're not gonna become the friends that I have become with Patersue, but...I guess it was just important to me to let you know that you don't have to exclude/seperate/unfriend folks just because you know them through a significant other. Some people like you for you. For YOU...the individual...

Again, I'm not sure why I felt prompted to write this other than to urge you and anyone else out there to take a chance on the ex's friends. Don't push them away if they don't want to go. There just might be a PaterSue in your future too.

And so...Unfriend...and unfriend's significant other...I don't know either of you all that well, but I do know that you have both lived a lot of life and had to endure some not so happy moments in previous relationships. I have faith that whatever final decision is made, each of you will be just fine in the end...beit together or separate. And given my excessive age and experience and need to make the world a better place...I just want to encourage you to each maybe not reach out but at least not exclude the other's friends as potential life long buddies just because of how they came into your lives.

Patersue...thanks.

Wifey...thanks too. (but for a very different reason!)

Oprah...The New Rosie Show...not good.

Just Sayin...

Kristi

Just keep swimming....

Mercy! It's been a long time. So much has happened. Some good, some that didn't seem all that good but is turning out to be good, and mostly just a whole lot of 'that's life'.

I wanted to share it all but realized that six months of my life is equivalent to 17 years in 'normal' people's lives...especially since I have inherited my mother's knack for telling lengthy but oh so interesting stories.

I'm gonna narrow it down to what's on my mind at the moment and hope to rehash the rest in future blogs. If you're lucky, the battery on my bluetooth keyboard will conk out before it gets too long.

A little over two months ago, I was unexpectedly dimissed from my job. No real reason was given other than 'the numbers'. 'The numbers' were the same numbers that I watched, studied, monitored daily and was fairly consistently awarded bonuses because of. And yet, boss man opted to use that as his excuse. In hindsight, I guess it sounded better than 'my nutso wife who is chocked full of insecurity and finds herself increasingly intimidated by the staffs voiced desire to have her step aside and let you, the office manager, lead the way thinks I should dismiss you depsite your proven ability to increase profits and reduce accounts receivable.' Just sayin'...

Okay...before we go too much further, let's get to the point of why this in on my mind today and what suddenly made it worthy of attention. What finally prompted me to air my dirty little secret, to break out the ol' keyboard and make a little magic happen here in the land of blogdom?

Today, I fiound a job... but moreover, today a friend lost hers.

Knowing of my plight and not of my new job, she texted me and asked what she should be feeling...what emotions are to be expected? The first thing that came to mind was what was drilled into my head by a counselor, a couples therapist and a shrink after Ms. Rose opted to remove herself from this world...Grief.

My off the cuff advice:

Dude...if your ride is anything like mine...Get ready for the five stages of grief. They don't just apply to death...they apply to loss...loss of
home, friendship, relationships...and yes...even crappy jobs that you bitched about but never really wanted to be without. And just so you
know....they suck! A lot ta ta! Keep in mind...they are experienced in no particular order and some stages last a lot longer than
others...but they all happen at some point in some fashion. Denial, anger, acceptance, bargaining and depression.

Anyway...back to the reason for this blog...I started thinking about my experiences/emotions/actions during the past two months and about what my friend is surely going to survive during her own stint and...well...I thought it might be nice to give her a little advice from one gov'ment dependent to another.

Now...granted...I am not a shrink. I don't want to be one and it has never been on my list of 'shit to do...'. I do think shrinks have good advice and great perspectives and enlightening insight. And I think that as helpful as they can be and have been to me, it is important to always do what you feel comfortable with in the end. Letting them govern your actions isn't always wise. ( are you listening FDA?)

Given that lengthy and probably unnecessary disclaimer (not to mention, unnecessary jab at an ex)...listen and learn...

Those five stages of grief...they are going to find you...they are going to happen. Just let them. Fighting it doesn't help. You are going to cry...just get the tissues ready. Odds are good you are going to doubt yourself. You'll probably spend at least one day extensively plotting your revenge, knowing the whole time you'll never act on it. When you do finally tell your friends and family, they are going to want to help and as much as you appreciate the gesture, it's probably just gonna piss you off. You are going to rehash the days leading up to the dismissal...a lot...and probably mostly as you try to fall asleep at night. Your eyes will bleed from reading hundreds of internet want ads. You'll get about a million 'Aflac' offers once you post your resume to the various sites. And cocky recruiters will blow up your celly all the day long. You'll be asked 'your reason for leaving' about a million times and find that you put a new and interesting spin on it each and every time.

You'll come to realize that unexpected unemployment is probably one of the most humbling endeavors ever. Speaking from experience...The last two months were less than easy...for me...and for wifey. Fortunately, FDA left me without a mortage since she took my house, and the one before that, Ms. Rose, left me without a chance in hell of ever getting an afforadable credit card since she must have 'forgot' to pay every single we bill we owed in the months before her suicide. So...as luck/life would have it, my monthly expenses were fairly minimal and actually manageable with severance, tax refunds and gov'ment unemployment money. So, in reality...the money wasn't the issue. But that didn't stop me from expecting the worse and spending every waking moment fretting about it.

You'll be angry and sad and rightfully pissed off a lot. And you'll quickly learn that your better (still employed) half will not let you take those emotions out on them more than once. You'll wonder how two people can create a load or more of laundry per day...especially since you'll wear the same PJ's all day long. If you have pets. you'll come to accept that they will be up your ass 24/7 and even the bathroom is not off limits to their prying eyes. You'll look forward to sweeping and eventually develop the perfect routine for your daily dishwasher load/unload event. You might even spend your first gov'ment check on remodeling the downstairs bathroom, complete with a revamped vanity, shelving, new paint, trim and flooring. Daily showering, as you will come to understand, isn't only unnecessary, but one of the many utility expenses you can attempt to control.

You'll become all too familiar with when you can file your webcert and when to expect 'the check'. If your spouse is anything like mine, they'll ooze unwavering optimism...which will again, in most instances piss you off as well as comfort you just a little. Grocery shopping will become a big day out and one of the few times you'll don more than sweats and a holey t-shirt. Forking over money for unexpected, as well as usual expenses, will feel as if the very life is being sucked out of your unemployed body. You'll discover that one can exist on doritos, chocolate chip eggos and gallons of diet coke. You'll feel extreme guilt fo every moment you are not surfing the net for jobs. Oh...and you'll probably throw up or at least feel like you're going to throw up...a lot.

With enough time, you will realize that Dr Phil is, in fact, a genius...angry birds is a stress reliever...and that you get up earlier when you don't have to than you ever did when you had a j- o- b. The future will seem dismal, every 'lead' will seem like a good idea and you'll start to rationalize why its okay to lessen your worth. You might become willing to accept less pay, less prestige, less than what you deserve. Good will give way to good enough. And after the first job is offered and refused, you'll begin to wonder if maybe you could have made it work. You'll catch yourself saying stuff like "any job is better than no job". BTW...you will be wrong and you'll know that the minute the right job does come along.

So, like I might have mentioned, I am not a shrink but I speak from experience, recent experience, and if there was any one piece of advice I could give you to make this moment a little less scary, less intimidating, less impossible, it would be to just keep swimming. Keep searching, keep looking, keep hoping, keep finding some way to keep on truckin'.

As you know, I turned down two jobs before finally accepting this one. And the one I accepted was all done over the phone. I have yet to met any of my coworkers. I have yet to see the office, judge the doctor, acclimate to the environment. I don't even know if any of the other employees' odd and irritating behaviors are going to prove blog worthy but I suppose we shall see come Monday. Have faith...sometimes that's all we got.

Friend, pal, buddy, fellow brethren of the unemployed, just like last night's supper, this too shall pass. It won't seem like it sometimes. And beer and denial and avoidance and self pity will seem like a really good idea at times. And I wish I could say that if you learn to lean on those around you, everything will be just fine. The reality is that you have to work this one out in your own head first, before the rest of us can even begin to be heard. And when you're ready, I promise you that I will be every bit as caring and as positive and as supportive to you as you have been with me. Until then, I will do my best to distract you from the situation at hand with funny stories, silly blogs and my personal list of places that honor the 'independence' card, cash your gov'ment check without crazy fees and, of course, acceptamos la wic.

Carry on-

Kristi

I've got a secret...

And NO Pat! It's not the kind of secret one just has to share when they are all drunk up, dressed in muddy boots, wearing chocolate fangs and crawling into bed with your wife.

I know that it’s been a while since I’ve written and I know that I’ve surely missed you far more than you’ve missed my long winded rants. However, we are in this together and if I have to read your daily horoscope updates, your farming reports and you what you ate for dinner, then surely you can cut a sista a break and spend a minute or 37 humoring me and my notions.

I have a secret...only it’s not really that much of a secret. In fact, it’s not even close to a secret...it’s more like a “I wish I had a secret” kind of secret. My secret? I’m the gay! Ok...that’s not really the secret...although at times it is a necessary omission. My ‘secret’ is that I have a skosh, a dash, a smidge, perhaps even a pinch of PTSD.

Starting about two weeks prior to Sept 19th, I make my way into my own personal hell and I generally linger, meander, and wander about in there until Halloween. At which time, I emerge from the cocoon, still wobbly from the transition, but usually sportin’ a brand new pair of oh so colorful wings that will carry me through, hopefully PTSD free, until September rolls around again.

Now I know that my PTSD is not your issue and that it might be too much of a downer for you to hear about on this beautiful fall day. But...there are a few reasons I am risking your disinterest in this and future blogs. Stick with me if you can.

Odds are excellent that if you are a follower, you know that my first girlfriend committed suicide mid September a few years ago (hence the onset of the PTSD season). And you probably know that I scattered her ashes Under The Boardwalk (a not so subliminal reference to a previous blog post) on Halloween (hence the end of the PTSD season). What you might not know is that every year during those corresponding months, I tend to find myself in the funk of all funks.

Memories surface. Some of which help to explain things I couldn’t understand at the time. They shed light on stuff like why I didn’t hear the gunshot even though I was only a few feet away or how did she find the gun and the bullets in their super secret separate spaces where I’d hidden them the weekend before when she wanted to use them on me? I guess the gain of knowledge is useful. I just wish it didn’t present itself mid slumber, or mid drive to work, or mid day dental patient chaos. I don’t really mind its need to be seen and heard, but I sure wish it would walk up and introduce itself a little more cordially. Something like “Hi. I’m here today to remind you that blah, blah, blah...” instead of “Yo biotch! Listen up...BLAH, BLAH, BLAH!!!!.”

I think what I dislike the most is the unpredictability of it all. It overtakes. All of my life I have been able to curb any emotion. Maybe not be stoic but I could keep myself from showing my vulnerability. I learned it very early on and I perfected it. Maybe not the coolest thing to be proud of, but I was. My emotional crying was mine. I was really, really good at sportin’ a very happy face. A ‘nothings wrong, yes I’m sure’ happy face. Now...not so much! But...I am delighted to report that this year, I have done much better at regaining some semblance of ‘I’m okay...really’.

Of course I’m not really okay. I’m getting brow beaten when I least expect it by vicious memories of a bipolar sociopathic successfully suicidal woman who I loved with every bit of me. BUT...now...this year...I am able to at least funnel those memories into parts of my day when I am alone. This wasn’t the case just one year ago. Progress...go me.

Last year, newly married and confident in my new wife’s ability and codependent willingness to suffer right along with me, I spent a lot of time crying in her presence. A lot of time ‘needing a minute’ to pretend to regain composure. A LOT of time puking. A whole lot of time puking, actually. It’s surprising how one little ‘flashback’ can illicit such a response. But it did...it still does. Instant sick sucks...but, the extra room around the waist band for those few months doesn’t.

Another crappy thing about the whole PTSD season is that after awhile, it gets a little boring. Sure the flashbacks are exciting and learning new stuff is always fascinating and the insomnia has done wonders for my iPad game playing, but after a while it’s just the same ol’ same ol’. Semi uncontrollable crying, unexplainable moments of rapid heartbeat and stress induced dizziness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Once you’ve experienced one dry heave, you’ve experienced them all. The new wears off really quickly...trust me. After two months, playing the suicide card (which is how wifey and Mistah Sue lovingly describe the process) isn’t nearly as much fun as it once was. It is tiring and wears one out! It takes a lot of energy to be ready at any given moment to be bombarded with craptastic, un-fun junk and to appear unfazed in the midst of people you love and hope to avoid exposing to your two month long escape from sanity. AND...as an added bonus...for whatever reason...our annual vacations seem to occur during Suicidtember. Last year, I got to share the peak of it atop a frozen drink shack in South Beach with 7 of our closet friends. This year, I rode a bike and then a van to a glacier in Alaska while a sweet man named Ben told me stories about the countryside as I cried in the back seat.

Gladly, this year’s dose of ‘deal with its’ is almost over. There is a light and I can see it. I always know when it’s coming. There are always little signs, little sympathy powered beacons that start to surface when the pumpkin seeds start to roast. Every year is different. Last year I knew the end was near when Wifey looked at me across the elevator as I was drenched in my own tears, set off by who knows what this time, looking obviously very pekkid, and she asked if I was okay. Of course, immediately channeling my years of successful ‘happy face’ techniques, I said ‘yes. I am okay.’ She shook her all knowing head and said ‘Dude...you are one flashback away from puking!’. Equally appalled and highly aroused by her insensitivity to my situation, I laughed...not puked... which, in all honesty, is what was really on the agenda before her comment.

This year...today...I was reminded that the end is near via a song by 3 Doors Down called “Let Me Be Myself”. I’ve heard it before and never really paid much attention to it. Today, it made me think. (I tried to figure out how to link it to this blog so that you could click on it and listen, but obviously the PTSD has affected my patience and I just gave up on figuring out how to do it so I whimped and posted the lyrics instead). As you read them you will sorta need to assume that the ‘you’ in reference is PTSD. I know it’s a bit of a stretch but I really believe that you can do it if you just put your mind to it! (oh...and I omitted the ridiculous repetitive stuff. It sounds cool in the song but is just annoying when you’re charged with typing it over and over again!)

"Let Me Be Myself"

I guess i just got lost
Bein' someone else
I tried to kill the pain
Nothin ever helped
I left myself behind
Somewhere along the way
Hopin to come back around
To find myself someday

Lately i'm so tired of waiting for you
To say that it's ok, but tell me
Please, would you one time
Just let me be myself
So i can shine with my own light
Let me be myself
Would you let me be myself

I'll never find my heart
Behind someone else
I'll never see the light of day
Living in this cell
It's time to make my way
Into the world i knew
Take back all of these times
That i gave in to you

Lately i'm so tired of waiting for you
To say that it's ok, but tell me
Please, would you one time
Let me be myself
So i can shine with my own light
And let me be myself
For a while, if you don't mind
Let me be myself
So i can shine with my own light
Let me be myself

That's all i've ever wanted from this world
Is to let me be me

Please would you one time
Let me be myself
So i can shine with my own light
Let me be myself
Please would you one time
Let me be myself
So i can shine with my own light
Let me be myself
For a while, if you don't mind
Let me be myself
So i can shine with my own light
Let me be myself
Would you one time...
Let me be myself
Let me be me

Alrighty then...so...way back in the beginning, I mentioned that I have a reason or two for offering up such a bummer of a blog today.

#1...I am almost funk-free and can once again enjoy spreading the joy that surely every single one of you gets from reading whatever I write.

#2...a few persistent followers have become increasing insistent (borderline scary) that I just ‘blog damnit!’. As the ring leader of “okaysofar” I deem it my civic duty to do as I am told without question or hesitation. (wait...maybe that’s my wifely duty??)

#3... suicide has been in the limelight lately. Gay kids killing themselves. I don’t for one minute know why Ms. Rose killed herself. At this point, I just don’t care. And I am certainly not going to equate it to anything remotely related to bullying or insecurities or finding herself in the midst of others disapproval. She did what she did and I and her family and her friends all have no choice but to deal with it. Some daily, some annually and some for two months at a time when the leaves are turning and the cruise ships are sailing.

#4...work is a little slow and I find myself with very little to do at the moment and since the PTSD is about to depart in a few short days, I can spend it doing something more productive than verifying the number of Puffs in the box on my desk and/or blowing (sometimes accidentally) snot bubbles at the days’ patients. BTW...allergies are the best excuse EVER for impromptu red eyes and a snotty nose!

#5...and almost finally...Thanks to PaterSue for ‘keepin’ it real’ and being this year’s primary outlet. Oh...and to Wifey for pretending not to notice the red eyes and midnight voms. (love you)

#6...and now really finally...that Oprah woman hasn't called yet and her show is going off the air soon. Time to play the 'suicide card' in hopes of landing a book deal before she hits the road and I have to start all over with Dr Phil or Heaven forbid...Mr. Springer. (I will confess, I wouldn't mind seeing Pat snatch the wig off of some half dressed hoochie...but, I'm goin' hang on to Oprah hope as long as possible.)

So...people...my people... I’m back.

What’s next?

Kristi

Behind the curtain...

Well...it is once again time for yet another absolutely riveting blog about my world. As luck would have it, I had three things/events/episodes that happened to me this past weekend...all involving a curtain. I know. A curtain? Yeah...a curtain.

For a little added bonus (and because it just isn't every day that I get to talk about a curtain),Wifey...who shared all three events with me...has decided to offer up her unique and probably more accurate take on the same three moments.

That's right folks...Better break out the Jiffy pop, those yet un-lit candles, and even that bottle of sweet red wine you've been saving for something really special...we're about to make a little history!

BTW: we are writing these individually and simultaneously. I didn't want to risk her copying (or dictating) my thoughts. And...I've advised her that this is MY blog and she is not allowed to be more clever, witty, insightful or all around wonderful than I deem myself to be. (I'll let you know how that works out...) Any duplication of verbiage, ideas or recollections are purely by chance and most likely impossible given that we tend to see things in very different lights.

And now we go...

Okayso...you already know that we went to DC last Friday to file for our marriage license. And you know that I bitched about the possibility of extreme traffic and disgruntled city employees. (Allow me to say that I was absolutely on target with both predictions.) While we were there, waiting our turn, scanning the place for a seat, and checking out all the other lezzies, we noticed the curtain. I think it might have been a shower curtain and I also think it might have been from KMart's clearance bin. It was hanging where one might expect to find an actual door or at least a cubicle wall. We were, after all, in a government office building that First Lady Carter might have decorated herself and Drab was definitely the color palate...well, except for the Arbor. The large white flaking metal arbor with plastic flowers of every color dispersed within the coordinating plastic vine-like thingies. The arbor led to the curtain.

I'm not sure what material things were housed on the other side of THE curtain, but I do know that 'hope' and it's best friend 'promise' were over there...waiting patiently. I know this because as we sat there praying for our name to be called, we watched more than one couple pass under the arbor and through the curtain...along with a tiny black woman with a certificate in hand. Apparently, just on the other side of said curtain, couples (both gay and straight) were voluntarily entering into wedlock.

One couple (and the reason 'behind the curtain' came to be) was of specific interest to me. It was a lesbian couple. The 'groom' (cuz' you know there has to be a man and a woman) was thin-ish, blondish and appeared incredibly nervous-ish. She was wearing a white shirt, I think white pants and shaking almost uncontrollably. The 'bride', a beast of a woman was about 10 inches, if not more, taller. And looked like a Polar Bear-maybe the worlds largest polar bear ever...(yes...the white dress lends itself to this description all too well.) She seemed angry (possibly a city worker herself). The couple stood feet apart and never spoke to each other. I know this because, yes...I was staring.

The small black woman (a definite decedent of the chic on the poltergeist movies-only with a better tan) called their name and they, along with an entire wedding party, all dressed in matching teal dresses (not sure how I missed that) passed through the arbor and disappeared behind the curtain...thankfully leaving a wake of empty seats in their path which were quickly filled with folks looking to settle in until their turn came.

A few minutes later, the unemotional couple emerged again, from behind the curtain, stepping over the feet and dodging the bags and purses of those who had claimed their seats. The well tattooed photographer, followed by the 'groom' and then about half a dozen teal dresses and finally the beast...I mean bride... hurdled through the congestion and out the door.

Later, as Wifey and I paid our tab and made our way out of the courthouse, we saw the wedding clan posing for pictures. Their backdrop was that of a twelve foot chain link barricade and random news vans with their antennas telescoped to maximum length. Not exactly typical scenery...at least not at any of my weddings. As we walked to the car, I, not so secretly reveling in the fact that my ass was surely now part of their wedding pictures, became a little saddish. (No...not because I had worn baggy jeans and the robustness of my booty wasn't being properly presented for photography!)

I was sad because THIS was their wedding. Whatever happened behind that curtain was their memory. It wasn't like they had a ceremony elsewhere and then came to DC to make it legal. It was like this behind the curtain event complete with a little woman and a pink certificate, was the end all be all extent of their event...and they didn't look happy.

I know people get married at courthouses all the time. I have been to a few. I know that it happens and I know that it can last years and years and even forever. I know that big, expensive, well planned marriages can end quite bitterly in a matter of months (8 to be exact) and that the venue does not a happy couple make.

I'm still not really sure why I felt so sad for them. Maybe it was because they looked so sad. Maybe it's because I think everything should be grand and over planned. Or... I suppose it could just be that I'm incredibly jealous because I will never know what 'magic' existed on the other side of that mysterious courthouse curtain.

Curtain #2...
If you follow our facebook pages, you already know that PaterSue, Wifey and I got tattoos on Saturday.

For as long as I have known Pat, she has been hellbent on NEVER getting a tattoo. Something about needles...blah...blah...blah. Then one day, sobriety and sanity be damned, she voiced a desire to be tattooed. And so...we all decided upon derivatives of Life Is Good T-shirt designs and booked our appointments with Emily at Have Fun. Be Lucky. in Hampden, MD. (Home of Cafe Hon and the best chipped beef on planet Earth.)

Now...I suppose I could tell you about the day: Pat being hopped up on horse tranquilizers or the equivalent; the dog that nearly peed on Mistah Sue as we waited outside on the sidewalk to deface various parts of our anatomy; the man whose excited dinker was practically poking out of his far too short satin jogging shorts; and/or the chic who was getting a tattoo over and around her fairly recent gunshot wound. But, with the addition of Wifey's take, this blog is already very long and you may be running out of Jiffy Pop and wine, so I'll get to the point/purpose/part about the curtain.

We spent about 6 hours there. It wasn't until after shop hours that all four of us were welcomed behind the curtain at the same time. Prior to that, only one or two of us were allowed beyond the black curtain that separated the showroom from the workroom. That's literally all it did. It certainly did not drown out the noise of that tiny needle penetrating the skin or Pat's laughter. (She was either too hopped up or is secretly a sadist.)

Anyway, Emily, our artist, was very kind and never once complained as she had to weave in and out and around us, our chairs, our RoFo steak fries and gigantic sodas in order to fetch her inks, and gloves and towels and such. She spent hours, poor thing, listening to us recall stories of our friendship, the reasons for our tattoos, and endless explanations of our inside jokes while she worked at trying to interpret and bring to life our ideas of what our tattoos meant to each of us. She was a good sport. Actually, she was a great sport.

I suppose I could go all philosophical on your ass and start spouting about how passing through that curtain and ceremoniously affixing ink to our skin souls transformed us from mere friends to super friends. And I could probably even segue back to how our new bond in the land of inkdom will probably last longer than the legal one taken by so many couples behind the courthouse curtain.

But the truth is I don't feel any particular new obligation (legal or otherwise) to Mistah Sue or Spicy Pat Thai. I don't feel any need to enter the date in my Blackberry or to pick out the perfect anniversary card to commemorate the event. I don't think our friendship magically got better or gained new strength or reached some new pinnacle. There were no spoken promises, no fancy dresses or diamonds, no clergy or pretty pink certificates.

I just happen to think that on the outside of that curtain we were pretty good friends...and on the other side, we became pretty good friends with really cool tattoos...and just one more story to add to the list. It's just kinds cool to think that someone you know wants to have something pricked into their skin in bold and flashy tattoo colors that will hopefully help to remind them of you once senility sets in.


Curtain #3...

To round out our weekend, PaterSue, Wifey and I attended a same sex wedding expo in Baltimore. Although both couples have already had commitment ceremonies and consider ourselves to be very married, we choose to attend for two reasons. #1...we didn't have anything else to do. #2...they promised goodie bags full of free stuff. (both vitally important points which tend to govern most of our 'what to do' decisions.)

The Expo was held in the Hippo. A gay bar, complete with a drag show/dance floor, a social room with a really big bar and pool tables and a smartly tucked away room for karaoke. The Hippo is certainly not a dive, but it ain't gonna make any one's top ten list either. It's just a bar on a block of many bars. But Sunday, this bar was transformed into a stalking wedding vendors paradise.

Now... I've planned a wedding or three in my day. One of which was momentarily interrupted by the squealing of pigs on their way to market. And whose owners decided to 'pop in' and get married (in their bib overalls) at Laverns' Wedding Chapel in Miami, OK just minutes before EH and I were to exchange our vows. And another ceremony where talk about the Royal Ambassador Flush port-a-potty lasted longer than the actual marriage. And, of course, that of Wifey and I's simple ceremony, the many details of which you've become so familiar with over the course of this blog.

Point is, by default, I happen to know my way around a wedding cake, interviewing DJ's, tastings by caterers, venue tours and officiant instructions. I am no stranger to choosing attire, invitations and appetizers. But all of my unfortunate experiences did not prepare me for my first ever wedding expo. These folks are serious! Viciously persistent and pushy peddlers of Pomp and Circumstance. Perfect example: I hate watermelon. But I found myself sucking down a watermelon mojito because one of the vendors insisted. I don't care for cake all that much but tasted quite a bit that day. I'm not really into flowers or pink anything, but repeatedly commented on the beauty of the massive pink table arrangement in the center of the dance floor. ANd in all fairness, there were some delicious crab concoctions, and our goodies bags were filled to the brim. We were fortunate enought to attend a semi informative workshop on financial things to think about before seeking legality and somehow scored a couple of bottles of expensive perfume for wifey.

AH...but what about the curtain, you ask? Ah yes...the curtain. Well. There were many curtains draped from the ceiling creating an airy, CSI Miami-like killer cabana effect over the dance floor. And I think we had to walk through a series of pulled back curtains in order to meander from room to romantically staged room. And it was either a curtain or a bad drag queens costume (or both) that seemed to be hanging in the corner of the karaoke bar...But the curtain that caught my attention was the one we pulled aside in order to step inside of the photo booth. One of those 'crawl inside, try to make room and a genuine smile before the timer goes off and captures your worst face ever' machines. Only this one was a little higher tech with options of color or black and white and, I think it had a mirror on the side to fancy up before the flash.

Of course it was cool and neato and would have been incorporated in every single one of my weddings had I known of its existence, but even more so, it was a quiet little respite from the pushy vendors, the obvious expense they were peddling and the reality of big wedding dreams. It was sweetly simple, real and easy to operate. All of my favorite things.

Drifting through the crowds of wedding planners, goodie bag seekers and vehement vendors, we were both incredibly uncomfortable having to 'make up' dates and details of our impending marriage. It's hard to explain that we are already married in our minds and the legality is a formality...and that we're just here to score a freebie...when you are being pushed and shoved by people reaching for a catered crab ball and a business card.

So this little window of 'just us' that existed behind the little black non-judmental curtain was refreshing and rejuvenating and exactly the split second of peace we needed to steal a kiss, make a funny face, and just be. And call me a romantic if you must, but there is just something really special about having your wife and her cake/crab/chocolate breath mere centimeters from your face while she is sitting on your lap, shrouded from the flower/crepe/picture pushin' predators, and saying just how very much she adores you.
___________________

Alright...let me apologize one more time for the length of this particualar blog. And let me reinterate that Wifey and I (at the time of posting this for Oprah and the whole wide world) did not read each other's take on these events.

Here's what she was given to work with...Behind the curtain. License, Tattoo and wedding expo. Let's see what the girl's got to offer. (And hey OPRAH...we are willing to tag team if need be to score a mention on your show, in your book or on your network.)
_________________________________________

WIFEY: INSERT TEXT HERE>
This past weekend certainly was a whirlwind version of the wacky, wonderful life I happen to live. A day in the life of Bettina (or P’nut if you will) is, in my opinion, a pretty cool day, but this weekend, well, this weekend was STELLAR! Kristi and I will most definitely have different takes on it- she’ll layer on creative adjectives and similes while I, well, who knows what I’ll come up with. Two sides to the same coin which will hopefully paint a pretty cool picture. Since K thought up the focal topic of “Behind the Curtain” I’ll try to stick with that, but I’m not making any promises.

Friday marked the first half of a very significant process… applying for our wedding license. As you know, we had a wonderful ceremony last June and it was everything I could have imagined and more (ie: blow up dolls)! Since that day (and actually, there was a day WAY back when in the MD house that stands out as the day we really said “I will”… who cares if it happened in the shower) we have been married. Committed. Wives. It may not have had a legal document that went with it, but frankly, that isn’t what makes us married in our opinion. But when DC made gay marriage legal and the lovely state of MD said, well, yeah, we think we’ll recognize your homo wedding, Kristi and I started once again talking about marriage. Would we should we could we? Yes x3. So we hopped into the Prius, made our way to the DC courthouse and proceeded to get in line to file for our license. I can’t even imagine trying to describe the scene because I know Kristi will paint the best picture ever. The arbor with the silk flowers. The gigantic homo bride with her lesbo punk photographer and her wallflower bride. The teal green bridesmaid and mother of the bride dresses filing in and out of the “chapel behind the curtain” while the brides looked, well, bored really- they didn’t even walk out together and I didn’t see a smile!

Behind Curtain #1, which I couldn’t see behind, lives were joined together in matrimony. Behind curtain #1 was a state officiant who probably presides over a half dozen weddings a day. In the 35 minutes we were there, 2 sets of lesbian couples entered single and exited married. POOF! There must have been a wizard behind that curtain, no? We’re not getting married behind that curtain, but to me, standing in that gov’t office in DC, I knew that if I wanted to, I could actually MARRY the love of my life and it would be just like my parents, just like my sister and her fiancé who are getting married in 18 days, and just like anyone else who has an inny and an outie and choose to get hitched in this country. That’s a pretty cool curtain.

Curtain #2 had this incessant buzzing noise behind it and ALSO signified a big commitment. Curtain #2 was in the awesome tattoo shop in Hampden called Have Fun Be Lucky where our artist Emily adorned Kristi, Pat, Sue and me with new ink!! Kristi and I got different versions of the same tattoo which I have never done before. Tatt #14 is the first one that is at all “matchy” or has anything to do with a person I’ve been involved with. While she joked that I should get a big letter “K” somewhere on me, the tattoos I’ve gotten in the last 10 years or so have marked significant changes or periods in my life and I’ve never been keen on getting something representative of someone I was with. But see, this is KRISTI and she’s THE ONE and she’s my WIFER, so this time it’s different. So, all four of us picked Life is Good themed tatts and Kristi and I got versions of the same one with flowers in our wedding colors. Awwwww.  Behind that curtain, 4 friends (2 of whom have no ink) decided to do something permanent that will forever link them. Not only the designs but the experience. Pat was a trooper. Sue looked like she was going to fall asleep on the table. Kristi chatted away like someone was drawing on her with a sharpie and I, well, I groaned a lot cause that MFer HURT on my shoulder blade- I ain’t gonna lie!!!

We will talk about “the day we got inked” forever. We’ll talk about it over Labor day at camp and we’ll talk about it on the cruise in September. We will talk about it when Patersue come down for our DC wedding in November and I dare say we’ll talk about it when we are all old and grey (some of us have a head start over others in those two areas), recounting the long list of crazy, fun things we all did together. The great part is that we’ll most likely be talking about it while we’re on yet another wild, wonderful adventure.

Curtain #3 was more glitzy than the first 2. Curtain #3 had behind it flowers and cakes, champagne and photographers, chocolate fountains and appetizers in little pastry cups. Behind Curtain #3 was a wedding Expo held at the Hippo put on by Marry Me in DC, a great little company helping the homos get married. If you’re sensing a theme I can assure you, it’s all coincidence… I don’t think any of us planned on this weekend being all commitment all the time, but that’s the way it worked out. There’s something really cool about being in an all gay venue with dozens of other homo couples who are planning on doing something that just a few years ago, none of us thought we could do. We are going to stand in front of a preacher or a judge or some other legally recongized officiant (sorry Pat), say our vows and be MARRIED (legally in 6 states, Canada and sometimes California).

Behind Curtain #3 was a world of possibility. And while we won’t be calling up any of the wedding planners or cake makers or be picking out place settings and floral arrangments, we did learn about ways to change our last names, what paperwork it’s best to have to protect ourselves, and we saw business owners (no doubt with $ signs in their eyes but that’s ok) who see us as just another couple who is excited to live out their dream of marrying one another.


And here friends, is Curtain #4. I’m going to ask you all to picture for a second a beautiful, pumpkin orange curtain made of heavy, soft, flowing fabric. Behind it is a room, softly lit, with a particular song by Amos Lee playing in the background (Baby I Love You). There are a few chairs placed around so please, feel free to have a seat. There’s a glass of champagne next to you on a small table, have a sip while you wait. That’s me up in front, smiling at you, happy to see you’ve made it. We’re waiting for the guest of honor you see, my favorite person in the world… the one who makes me laugh so hard I cry, the one who knows me better than I know myself sometimes, the one who has wiped away the fears I had in my heart and replaced them with a love I’ve never known.

Here she comes… wondering what is waiting behind Curtain #4 only to find that it’s me (and you). See, the first time around, over Memorial Day 2009, Kristi Lynn asked me to marry her as we lay on the grass next to a pond at camp. The light reflecting in the pond was a mixture of the moon and the LOVE’s gas station/McDonalds sign… ahh, the romance. ;)

She tells me it’s my turn now and that perhaps I should ask her to be my legally wedded wife while we’re on the cruise in September, knowing that I have not had great luck asking for commitments on the open seas. So I have said pshaw to that idea and thought up this method instead.

Kristi Lynn Nelson,“in front” of our friends and family, knowing that you are always up for a surprise, will you do me the greatest honor of my life and legally marry me on November 13, 2010? Will you continue to laugh with me, dance with me, teach me things, learn from me, go on adventures, share the victories, plan for the future and love me forever as I will you?

You’re my best friend of all time and I want to share the best and the worst things this world has to offer with you, for always and forever. Other people might not fuss as much as me, or be as stubborn as you, or poop as much as… the puppies (you were worried there for a second weren’t you Mistah Sue) but this life we share is better than anything I could have ever dreamed up and I want it to always be that way.

So, I’ll sit here and wait patiently for you to read all of this and hope that you can post a response on your own blog. Friends… feel free to be encouraging!


Thanks for playing along...

K and W

So people...my people...Oprah’s people...guess what?

Right now, Wifey and I are on our merry way to Washington, DC. That’s right! I’m probably halfway between Baltimore and DC on 295, sitting in traffic and asking aloud “Don’t people around here have freaking day jobs?”

And why, pray tell, are we going to DC on a Friday afternoon?

Believe it or not, we are going to file for our marriage license!

Apparently, if’n you’re in the market for a partially legally recognized homo hitchin’, DC is one of the few places you can do just that. No...we don’t live in DC and well, Maryland isn’t MARRYland just yet (but it’s getting closer.)

So why are we headed south in surely excruciating traffic to eagerly fork over $45 bucks (that could/should be Alaskan Cruise Beer money) to the DC government? Well...it depends on who you ask.

Wifey says:

It’s another level of commitment that I’ve never shared with anyone, just like our wedding. It is something that says to the world, see, we’ve got the same piece of paper you do so treat us the same. It’s a responsibility and a privilege I want us to share. It’s something that bonds us even tighter (can that be possible?) to each other because it is a legal, ‘strings attached’ commitment that I am very willing to make. It means you still want to keep me.

As for me:

Yeah! What she said!

And...
even though we have already had our big fat lesbian wedding...complete with people, potato salad (from a trash bag) and plenty of pictures...

And...
even though we somehow managed to choke down a bite or two of that freezer burned anniversary cake a little over two whole months ago...peanut shells and all...
(I must say that I am quite pleased to finally have the freezer space again.)

And...
even though I know that today’s adventure is merely a formality. A necessary step to legally bind us in almost the same fashion as the breeding population...

And...
even though it isn’t federally, and in too many cases, family recognized...

And...
even though I loathe traffic, and having to add to the work load of already overworked/underpaid/sometimes rightfully pissed off city employees...

And...
even though this is just the first step in the process and we will have to trek back again in a few weeks to fetch the finished paperwork and then even back again on November 13th for the actual ceremony...

Even though all of these things...

Wifey...I'm just really glad that after more than a year of commitment ceremony-ness, you are still willing to marry me...legally or otherwise.

I know that you probably think that you deserve another big ol' ring as compensation for all that you tolerate on a daily basis. (Granted those damn puppies and/or PaterSue can be quite the handful!)

And...
I suppose that the odds are somewhat good that I might not be the easiest person to shack up with for so many consecutive months.

And...
I hope you know that it's (usually) not my intent to try your never ending patience, work your last nerve or push those big ol' buttons of yours.

And...
well, Wifey...(and all of yous out there eavesdropping on this oh so private moment)...It's been 17 months today since you first walked into my world. Since you rejuvenated my hope in forever and taught me that love at first sight is possible. We've already said our vows, exchanged rings and watched as our dear friends did their very best to float inflatable blowup dolls duct taped together in unmentionable positions down the river along with the flowers I requested.

Fetching this license is just another step in the history of us... But don’t you dare think about adding it to our ever expanding list of anniversaries. (My phone only has so much room to store reminders!) It's just one more thing for us to share, one more first in life together. And yes...We've both been married before (some more than others) but never legally to someone with boobies. So, I guess by some accounts it's really no big deal and by others it is hugely...well...huge.

Since I met you all I have wanted to do is be with you (and buy a food dehydrator). Getting this license and then making it legal is just another way that I get to say I love you. It's just another path, another memory making moment, another $40 in scrapbook crap.

Sometimes I get a little sad that, like many, we've been asked to neatly hang the extent of our relationship in the closet when we visit certain members of our family. I wish we could fully share the importance of each other with everyone without the fear of rejection and/or causing someone a heart attack over Thanksgiving dinner. For me, fighting this traffic, jumping through hoops, dealing with some bitter city admin’s wicked case of Friday-itis, and sifting through paperwork galore to get this license is just a way to say 'Hey. Look. Someone somewhere says I'm just like you. I deserve the same as you. My love isn't less important, less powerful, or less real. I'm okay...and it's okay for you to be happy for me...and my lesbian lovah!' I'm hoping that if enough of us do it, make this effort, show this need for equality, that maybe someday it will happen. And keeping secrets from grandparents about how happy you are won't be necessary.

(Oh Oprah honey...We're doing our part...now it's up to you. Please...gently nudge your troops to hop on the bandwagon with us. Hell, Mistah Sue will even let Gayle drive the van.)

So...wish us luck. Hopefully traffic will be minimal and our civil servant will be gentle.

And oh yeah...Wifey. I love you.
(Can we register for a food dehydrator...PLEASE?)

K

Cowtown and beyond...

I know it’s been awhile since we hung out like we used to. I’ve been really busy with life and such. And to be perfectly honest this whole on-again/off-again thing with Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston really has me discombobulated.

A few of you have mentioned (begged-at least in my mind) that I should perhaps offer up a blog or two before I depart for the wilds of Alaska in just 29 days. I suppose I could throw a little something together.

Cowtown and beyond...

A few weeks ago PaterSue and I made our individual ways to Mantua New Jersey to celebrate Patruska’s (Sue’s sister) supposedly surprise birthday party. The party was to be held in the afternoon at Joann and Fran’s house next door. (I wish Wifey and I had rhyming names...) The plan was for us to occupy Patruska by having her show Wifey and I the many must see sights at a place called Cowtown whilst the gang commenced to decorating the premises. Afterwards we would deliver Patruska to the birthday venue.

Now...I don’t know what PaterSue’s travel experience from Blandon, Pa was like, but I do know that 95 North from Baltimore on a Friday during rush hour is not what I’d call a ‘happy place’ to be. Angry people inhabit that stretch of highway. Angry people on cell phones with overworked middle fingers and under exercised patience who seem to think roaming, bobbing, weaving and maneuvering themselves through stationary traffic will earn them a front row seat in life. In actuality, it just gets them to one of the MANY toll booths a nano second before the rest of us.

Along this pathway of overpopulated discontent, I stopped for my ritualistic too big Diet Coke and a tank of overpriced turnpike accessible fuel. Mind you, I had just left my nest of comfort in Baltimore where the crazies are easily identifiable and somewhat avoidable. But now I was in New Jersey where contact with momentarily incognito craziness would prove to be par for the course.

Yes...she did look kinda odd...but who wouldn’t in a fuchsia velour pant suit with bright white seams? And yeah...I don’t think her hair was ‘naturally’ orange. And no...I can’t recall the last time I saw someone smoking with the aid of one of those long plastic Cruella Deville filters. Sure...her voice was a little ‘scratchy and manly’ as she verbally violated her cellular device. And...so what if her lime green over sized manicure was ‘unusual’ by my standards... it seemed to compliment her near melanoma skin tone quite nicely. Truth is that none of this really fazed me as I passed by on my way to retrieve said diet coke and raid my bank account for more tolls. But what did catch my attention and alert me to her inner crazy was when I came back out of the store to find her sitting on the hood of her white 1980’s Cadillac, sparkly sandals thrown to the wayside, one foot on the big silver bumper and the other in her lap as those large lime green nails tried to manipulate gold plated clippers around her spread eagle and unpainted toe nails; all the while she used her right shoulder to secure her phone as she talked and clipped the afternoon away. Right there in the primo handicapped space...situated smack dab in front of the store where passersby were forced to shroud their hotdogs, iced coffees and barefoot spawn from the shards of clippage.

Now...

We all know that I have been fortunate enough to see many places in my life, share many moments with many people and revel in the oddities of humanity all across the good ol’ U.S. of A. Yet, I can say with absolute certainty that this introduction into the say it ain’t so mating habits of native New Jersey-ites, in this hopefully unconventionally natural habitat, ranks among the most peculiar.

However...my journey to/in Jersey had only just begun...

In a matter of hours, sans a GPS, I found myself alone in a tiny bar at the edge of a little town having a medium sized beer and a really big bowl of Parmesan and garlic encrusted streak fries whilst waiting for the clock to land a little closer to my expected arrival time (and for someone to text me directions since I had become quite lost many miles ago.) I decided to whip out the ol’ iPad and read a few pages of Chelsea Handler’s newest book. (Chelsea...if you’re out there...I am available to co-author and/or appear on your show...if I get to sit next to Chewy, of course.) Judging by the reaction of the bar regulars and wait staff, one would have thought I had just casually reached into my bright orange, four dollar and ninety five cent messenger bag with the unidentifiable stains and pulled out the only still in existence copy of the oh so Holy Grail! Obviously, iPad is not yet a staple in many New Jersey households. I didn’t get to read more than five words before Guy (I’m not making this up-it said it on the patch sewn only slightly askew on his blue Dickies work shirt) asked if’n that was one of those new iPaddys’. (Ha..he called it an iPaddy!) Lucky, the place had wireless and I was able to show those who feigned interest some of the coolness it possesses until Patruska called to say I should make my way over sooner rather than later.

When I arrived, Patruska and her daughter SS, were enjoying some delicious Sangria with Joann (the neighbor lady). Soon, PaterSue joined us, as did CS (Patruska’s husband) and Fran (neighbor man). We all sipped Sangria, about 6 bottles of it, and poked at inappropriate places on the iPad’s version of Web MD. Having been accused of being 14 year old boys for previous pokings, Sue and I refrained from, but eagerly encouraged others to poke freely.

I found it quite ‘comfortable’ that seven people over the age of 40 and a few under the age of 21 (some strangers, some lovers, some friends and some family) could spend a few hours chatting, sipping, poking and laughing with such ease. I’m sure the sipping helped with the whole process, but still...it was a great moment to deposit in my memory bank.

By now...you might have (at least should have) noticed that Wifey wasn’t mentioned in this little New Jersey Adventure...yet. She stayed behind on Friday to spend time with her Mom (from Fredonia NY) who showed up unexpectedly at our doorstep Wednesday night as a Birthday surprise. Much to HER surprise, we were lounging in less than lovely attire, had precariously (but rather expertly) stacked trash on top of trash in the kitchen because someone forgot to fetch trash bags, hadn’t made the bed in probably months and were waiting for morning to bathe and or ‘do a little something’ with our hair. Anyway...Wifey opted to meet us in NJ Saturday morning to explore Cowtown.

We had heard of this place...this Cowtown...on several occasions. At some point in my relationship with PaterSue I remember being present as Sue gifted a woman from Canada a hat she had acquired in Cowtown. I distinctly remember that I was not overly impressed with her generosity during this particular moment (although I have been many times since.) Truth is ...the hat was kinda ugly. Kinda more than ‘kinda’ really. But oh well, the chic seemed to relish it in a way only a drunken Canadian would if some American named Mistah Sue were to randomly gave her an ugly hat. Another frequent account involving Cowtown had to do with a scavenger hunt and the ever elusive tube socks with a specific color of stripe at the top. Needless to say, my impression of New Jersey’s famed Cowtown was not one of fashionistas frantically shopping for the next big ‘fad’ item to supplement their wardrobe. It was more of one that resembled that big flea market back home on Highway 97 between Prattville and Sapulpa that we so often frequented on Sundays with the other none church attending heathens.

Keep in mind that prior to this trip, Wifey and I’s only joint experience with New Jersey was on our honeymoon when we stayed at a funky little hotel in Wildwood and trekked over to Cape May on a daily basis. Cape May provides a VERY different atmosphere and picture of New Jersey than does Cowtown. Cape May is full of newlyweds with romance in their hearts. Cowtown is full of stuff that ‘fell off a truck’.

As you meander down the many, many aisles of wares housed on tables under tents, in reclaimed banana boxes under the beating sun, and/or on shelves in one of the many ‘primo’ spaces inside of one of the buildings, it becomes blatantly obvious why New Jersey has so many damn toll roads. It’s like a land locked Bermuda Triangle. What goes in on the back of a semi trailer comes out strapped to the ass end of somebody’s Monte Carlo. The state has obviously taken it upon themselves to compensate those retailers who are brave enough to attempt to distribute their goods in Greater New Jersey by collecting ridiculous amounts of tollage in order to offset insurance claims for the many things that seem to just ‘fall off ‘ of each and every truck that passes through the state.

Cowtown sells bras by the three pack; every size from runt to gargantuan can be found, as well as such highly sought after goods as knock off Nikes and expired Ex-Lax (both of which were surprisingly plentiful at more than one booth). Scarf dresses and T-shirts with state fair-like iron on motifs (circa 1974) were prevalent and well priced. Luggage seemed to be a big seller, along with Couch purses. (Pretty sure that should read Coach but for $50.00 dollars off, who really cares.) Shaved coconuts were cracked and the juice served lukewarm with a straw for $3.00. I watched a little boy serve bits and pieces of ‘meat’ slathered in, I’m assuming, some sort of BBQ sauce from atop a cardboard box. I heard a woman asked for a tooth pick to no avail and then watched for as long as I could without vomiting as she proceeded to skewer more than one chunk with her own large, but not lime green, fingernail.

Speaking of ‘meat’...even if you have zero interest in good deals, flea markets or New Jersey, I strongly suggest you make your way to Cowtown. There is something there that every meat loving American should witness first hand. Inside of one of the buildings (I’m not sure which one but I’m sure you could ask) is a place that sells chicken wings. I’m again assuming they are ‘chicken’. Given their size they could have been pterodactyl wings. Nevertheless, it isn’t the size that matters (yeah right! Tell that to an Asian man.), it’s the quantity. Imagine a Ferris wheel. Now imagine that each of those buckets on the Ferris wheel is filled to the heaping brim with slow roasting, pterodactyl sized chicken wings. Imagine a river of whatever drips off of slow roasting pterodactyl sized wings collecting in the bottom of a large, only slightly leaking (into the aisle), centuries old rotisserie with a goo ridden glass front.

Yep! That’s Cowtown!...at it’s finest folks!

Cowtown is indeed a most interesting place. From the mounds of cellular devices strewn on tables to the snake oil salespeople peddling them. From the roach coaches neatly lined up across the back forty to the tip top of the large cowboy statuary that stood out front.


Cowtown has everything!...well, except for the basketball sized beanbag that Fran asked us to drag back home.

Point is that we all walked away with a little memento. Wifey, after adequately batting her eyelashes, borrowed some money, and bought a purse. Pat got a doormat and some of that coconut juice. Mistah Sue had a pretzel and lemonade and Patruska got a dress. I, however, went directly for the good stuff.

Mistah Sue had casually mentioned that there was a beef jerky/hot sauce vendor situated within the Cowtown compound. Beef Jerky? AND Hot Sauce? My lesbian ears immediately perked up! Could this be Utopia? Right here in Jersey?

Flanked by Spicy Pat Thai and Wifey, we found the booth and began the process of sampling the sauces. In less than a minute we not only tasted four salsas, but also learned that our host was a single guy who would be willing to go home with any one (or all) of us. Upon hearing this offer I felt the power of Christ compel me to snidely ask “and then what would WE do with YOU?” Apparently, “anything you want” is his standard response irregardless of the asker’s sexual orientation. Which then caused me to ask if that included mowing the lawn (not that we have one, but it seemed to be the next logical question for this illogical communication). He quickly volunteered to do so nekkid if it would please us. Ewwwww......

Moving on to the jerky...

It was in neat little pouches complete with those silicone stay good pellets and was laced under a substantial piece of rope with a sign that sternly restricted me from fondly the meat. (Not what I would have expected from our overly flirtatious and suggestive host.) Explaining that I have a very discerning beef jerky palette and I must ‘feel’ it prior to ingesting it, he hesitantly allowed me to touch it on the grounds that he understood that some people are just more ‘texturally’ enticed. Whatever... I bought it. It was good. And none of us had to take him home and/or see his junk flopping behind a mower.

Leaving Cowtown, we stopped at a tavern for beer and snacks...well, mostly beer. It’s been a few weeks and I can’t remember the details, but I know that there was something odd/interesting/blog worthy about our waitress. Maybe it was her teeth? Could have been as simple as her gigantic Jersey hair? Or maybe she was donning one of those state fair T-shirts from Cowtown? (Nah...I know I would have remembered that!)

After an incredibly lengthy, impromptu and completely unnecessary trip to a local grocery store as a guise to stall delivery of the birthday girl, we returned to Mantua (aka Party Central).

I know that unlike it’s predecessors, this blog is already pretty lengthy (and I know you have a show to do Oprah), but there are some highlights of the birthday party that simply must be shared.

Let’s start with a swimming pool full of rubber ducks and giggling kids... and then later filled with Patruska and sister Sue stripping down to their flesh toned panties and bras for a little midnight swim. (Yes...I was the first one in...But I opted to wear boxers and a tank top.)

Next, let’s take a look at what I believe to be the little known Jersey custom of smearing the birthday cake on immediate family members.


And of course, every backyard birthday party should have a Ska band of teenagers playing in the background! This one is called NO SUCH LUCK and is remarkably good.





And lastly, probably the most interesting thing about the night was Patruska herself. Evidently, if it’s your birthday and you are 50 and drunk enough that your husband is acting as a bookie for bets from your friends and family on the exact time you’ll puke, you are supposed to announce your presence by raising your hands in the air (similar to the Y in the YMCA sing-a-longs) each and every time you move to a new position in the yard. There’s really no need to make a verbal announcement. You simply raise your hands and the world knows that you have arrived. It is implied, understood and I guess, in Jersey, it’s expected because no one but Wifey and I seemed to notice the phenomena.

Anyway, the party was great fun. Patruska is a good sport, not to mention quite good at keeping it a secret that she knew about the party the whole time. I feel for SS and CS. I know first hand how hard it can be to surprise someone.

Overall, I guess if I had to sum up our weekend in Jersey or had to offer a moment of purposeful reflection, I’d have to say...well...I don't really know what I'd say.

So...I asked Wifey and PaterSue to offer up their most memorable moments in hopes that it would spurn/spark/ignite my own moment worthy of reflection.

Wifey said "watching 3 grown (and I do mean GROWN)*did she just call us fat?* women strip down to their skivvy's, with not a care in the world, and plunge into the formerly duck strewn pool to cool off."

Pat said "chunky dunking". *again with the fat comments!*

Mistah Sue said "". Mistah Sue didn't say jack. Either the consumption of Coors permanently clouded her brain, or the weekend's events are too traumatic for her to sift through, or she is just too busy to play with us. So I'm gonna speak for her. Sue's favorite part of the weekend was playing a part in making a memory with her sister. (I don't think that swimming semi nude was that big of a deal for her. I mean, afterall, it wasn't the first time she's been san's suit in a swimming pool after midnight.) OH WAIT! At last, Mistah Sue has decided to join the party...here's what she said "The first thing that came to mind from that weekend was the Sangria night before and we used the iPad to touch the hoo".

I guess after those oh so philosophically poingant recollections, the best summation I can offer is that of the many things I have learned in my life, one of the most important is that there truly is a time and a place for everything...Beit flirtatious Jerky salesman at Cowtown, nail clipping convenience store freaks, Sangria induced WedMD pokings, or post party semi nude swimming pool adventures. And, yes...I know it's a tired, overused, generalistic statement, but maybe...just maybe..'What happens in Jersey should most definitely, under all circumstaces stay in Jersey'.

Peace out crew...

K
(Hey Oprah...perhaps my life is better suited for a TV reality show? I hear you're getting your own network soon. Hit a sista up!)

But it's just a dog....

or a cat, or a hamster, or a potbellied pig. Or it's just a gold fish, a ferret, a rabbit, or an ex husband.

A couple of days ago, friends of a friend who have since become our friends, had to unexpectedly bid farewell to their dog Tanner. Although I had only met Tanner Roo on a few brief occasions over the past many years, I feel compelled to address the topic of pet ownership. And to speak to anyone who has ever said or heard the words "but it's just a dog".

About 6 years ago, I purposefully acquired a dog of my own (Moxie Lynn) a very energetic, disobedient, defiant and opinionated Carin Terrier. About 5 years ago, by default, I became sole guardian to Maycie Jo, a somewhat frail, odd, 'not quite right', but ridiciously lovable Carin Terrier.

Before this, I had never really wanted the responsibility that comes with having a pet. Sure, as a child, we had many cats and dogs and even white mice and hamsters, but momma was always around to make sure that they had food and water and all of the necessities. And throughout my legally married life, EH had more cats than even well seasoned lesbians can handle, but they were always 'outdoor' cats and he assumed complete responsibility for supplementing their feral feedings with a bucket of water and many bags of cat chow. His parents had a dog whose only positive attributes were that 1) he could bark non-stop for years at a time and 2) shed like a mofo every second of the day. And my parents had a random assortment of misfits who they insisted on labeling as our brothers (Earl and Bubba) and who, they have now expanded to include at least an even dozen or so, with the addition of such characters as Rusty Low Rider (a dachshund who would be an excellent candidate for doggie gastric bypass), Baby (a pit bull-like creature they keep quarantined in one of the many fences crisscrossing their back forty) and Maggie or Molly...I know it starts with an 'M' (who weighs more than my mother and insists on sitting on Step Dad Icky's lap as she (the dog) inhales her nightly pint o'ice cream. And then there's the cats. Pez and Stumpy...I think. Stumpy has half a tail and is fairly docile but elusive. Pez is the devil. No really...THE DEVIL! Pez is unpettable, unapproachable and meaner than hell. Pez will lurch off the back of a recliner and go straight for the jugular every time. (hmmm...maybe that's why AGIOK left. Perhaps she couldn't risk another nighttime attack during a holiday visit?) When Pez needs to be sequestered in the other room because of the expected presence of small children, Icky (the only one with extensive military training) grabs a water bottle and goes to work spritzing the damn cat until it makes it's way into a secluded bedroom. For reals! It's kinda funny and a lot scary knowing the beast is pissed off and running loose. For as many times as every member of my family has witnessed this, not a single one of us has ever volunteered to help Icky...and I, for one, usually exit the house until the coast is declared a cat free zone.

Anyway, until about 6 years ago, I had less than no interest in pets of any sort. Back in the day, EH had Australian Parrots and those outdoor cats, but I was pretty content not having to feed or water or bathe or care for any animal and this continued well into my move to Maryland. I was the one who said 'But it's just a dog.' The one who didn't understand or approve of dressing animals in t-shirts that cost more than the one I was wearing. I didn't get why people rearranged their entire lives to accommodate their pets. I actually made fun of Icky for splicing into his heat/air ducts so he could run it directly into Bubba and Earl's doghouses.

And then one night, lying on the chaise downstairs because I was once again denied the right to sleep in my king sized bed that I had paid for, I found myself watching one of those Westminster Dog Shows that so often frequent post midnight TV. They were spotlighting Australian Terriers. Talking about their loyalty and their agility and what great companions they tend to be. Given my current position in a diminishing relationship, I kinda fell in love the idea of having a 'great companion with extreme loyalty'...even if it meant it would have 4 legs and cost me a fortune.

The next morning, I searched the Internet for Australian Terriers. Quickly learning that $1500.00 was beyond my financial capacity, not to mention my inherent frugality, I typed in and I swear it to be so 'less expensive than an Australian terrier' and up popped 'Carin Terrier'. I looked for breeders in the area and came across one in Northern Maryland with one puppy left and at the bargain price of $800.00. I left work early, fought traffic all the way up the 270 corridor and eventually found the place. Greeted by a goat as I opened my car door, and then escorted through a series of both horse and cow barns, I next found myself standing in the middle of a small room with a 10 week old puppy running non stop circles around me as a farmer explained the highlights of said puppy. Without ever having actually held the dog, I paid the man and then he and I (much like Mistah Sue and I have done on multiple occasions) attempted to retrieve Moxie Lynn. (If only I would have known about the 'spray bottle technique' back then...)

And now...after 6 years of picking up deliberately misplaced poop, chasing after unfetched balls, and becoming a human pretzel late at night so as not to disturb their slumber, I finally understand why pet owners do what they do...

I was looking for a companion and I found it. My relationship with Moxie and Maycie has outlasted every lesbian relationship I have ever had (prior to wifey.) They were the ones who slept with me on that chaise for months...listening to me cry and choosing to snuggle closer the louder the sobbing became. Loud voices still make them skittish. They were there with me when we found Elisa...even trying in their usual way to wake her...and they waited with me on that doorstep as the helicopter circled and the ambulance came. I spent many nights gathering thoughts, looking for answers, hoping for hope and petting those puppies.

As my life has ebbed and flowed with new love, lost love, and momentarily lust these two have always been there with me. Surely missing me in my absence and welcoming me on my return. As a by product of my bad choices, bad luck and bad timing, they have been forced to endure everything that I have endured over the past 6 years and they still look happy to see me when I get home everyday.

I admitted once to being in love with my puppies. This resulted in AGIOK discussing this unhealthy fascination with our couples therapist. I believe that she even used the phrase "But they're just dogs". Having become the lone momma to little G-Dawg since our demise, I'd venture to guess that she too, now understands what it means to be a pet owner...what it means to be fascinated and intrigued and 'in love' with a dog.

I miss them when we travel without them. I love seeing them when they dig and play and run free which usually means I am chasing behind hoping their treat filled bodies will give out before my own snack filled body does. They are bratty and diva-esque. They bark when they see a man or a child or anything with wheels. Maycie attacks the TV when it projects anything animal-like including babies on all fours, cartoon animals or that damn gecko! Moxie hogs the bed...and the covers...and, on too many occasions, has proven to be the best darn Chastity belt ever!

They frustrate me to absolutely no end sometimes. They are disobedient and demanding. They have and freely give attitude. They are rulers of the roost and they know it. Hell, they expect it! Dogs can swim, right? Mine have life jackets just in case they get tired one of the two times per year they are forced to swim the length of PaterSue's pool. They have clothes and rain coats and little doggie booties. Grandma sends care packages that include treats from them and cookies for me. We have more pictures and video of our dogs than we do of ourselves. I know we spend more on their treats than we spend on groceries some weeks. Their beds are more comfortable than our own. They have steps to their own personal over sized chair and they'd really prefer that we not try to share it with them too often. They snore and unlike I do with Bettina, I let them. I postpone my own dinner anytime they decide it is treat time. They tear the toilet paper from the holder and I think it's kinda cute. They rip the stuffing out of the expensive toys and I take a picture. I'm not sure I'd be as lenient with a human child. And yeah...all you non-pet lovers...you're right. They are JUST dogs...but they are our dogs...and at times our only source of a 'great companion with extreme loyalty' and that makes them absolutely invaluable to us.

I don't have kids and can't imagine what parents of sick kids feel, but I can tell you that when one of my dogs is sick or limping or more lethargic than usual, I kinda panic. I feel their noses, pet their bellies and test their appetites with way too many treats. As much as they frustrate me. As much as they cost us. As much we have to sell a kidney to pay for a decent pet sitter just so we can score an anniversary weekend away, I love them. They are a part of me...maybe one of the better parts... and I simply can't imagine my life without them.

Now Folks, I had a different blog planned for this week...one that would surely woo Oprah, but when I heard about Tanner, I just wanted to take a minute and let Whip and Girlie and anyone who loved Tanner Roo know that I feel for you. His demise was tragic and unnecessary.

Given the circumstances, for me to offer up a simple 'he's in a better place now' would be pure crap. Tanner had a great life with you and he (and you) deserved the chance to play it out for many more years to come.

I don't know the whole story. I don't know the other dog's reason or future. But I can sympathize with your extreme loss and sadly say...Whip...I'm sorry that you are in this position and having to deal with this loss. It was always evident that he was a happy dog and that he brought a lot of happiness your way.

I have heard PaterSue recant tales of him with such fondness and I have seen bits and pieces of his scrapbook. I remember he and G-Dawg wrestling in Nancy's house a few times...and as I recall, he even let G-Dawg win.

He was a great dog, and for as little as I knew him, I will miss him too.

Ladies...Please do your best to rest assured that we all know what great mommas you were and what a great dog Tanner was. He was certainly more than 'just a dog'...


K

(PS...Moxie and Maycie...I love you...extra treats are on the way.)