Does this haircut make me look gay?

While in Seattle for Pride weekend, I strolled past a trendly little hair salon in Capitol Hill.  Later over a slice of pizza, I told my friend I wanted to cut my hair but the thought of actually doing it made me nauseous.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Honestly...I'm afraid of giving up my heterosexual privilege."

She paused.  Looked at me. 

"All the more reason to do it."

Shit. 
She was right. 

So I ignored the gnawing in the pit of my stomach and let the pierced, tattooed, young girl take scissors to my hair.


This was the end result:

(That's me on the left with my friend J.)

Desperate housewife?  Not a chance.  (I don't think I need the rainbow bracelets anymore either, huh?)

"It is your life which is so close to my own
that I would not know where to drop the knife of separation."

-Mary Oliver

Moving out of the house and the life I built was not quite the celebration I thought it would be.  With every box that I placed in the Uhaul, I could feel the tears building up until they were choking me.

I agonized while packing those boxes.  After twelve years together, who knows what is whose anymore?  Is this CD his? Did my mom give this to us?  Does he have a sentimental attachment to this painting?  After a while, it just all becomes yours...together.

After we filled the truck and pulled the noisy door down and latched it shut, I hugged him goodbye and sobbed as I drove the truck 75 miles to my new home.

Later, I sent him a text:

You will always be my family.  I love you.

The key to freedom

It's an ugly little house.  Light blue painted wood siding with electric blue trim.  The entire house would fit in the first floor of the house I live in now.

I'm leaving behind the granite countertops (I agonized over choosing the right color) and stainless steel appliances  (top of the line, of course) and just signed a lease on this new, old place. 

In less than a week, I will turn the key in the front door and call this little ugly place home.  The first time I have lived alone in twelve years. 

The first time in twelve years that I will be able to make my own decisions, and live freely and openly, without the guise of straight, white, suburban housewife.

Sometimes the little bitch called self-doubt chimes in with her two cents:  You must be crazy to walk away--what are you doing??

...but then I think of that key, and I know I'm doing the right thing, even if it feels like severing a piece of my heart that I will never get back.

Suburbia never agreed with me anyway.

I had one of the most fantastic days of my life the other day.

I went to the Seattle Storm season opening game--5th row seats.  (For those of you who don't know, this is women's basketball.)

This was my view:

It should have been called dyke-o-mania for the number of hot gay women there.  Next time, I'm having business cards made up that say, "Hey gorgeous, call me" with my phone number and I'm going to hand them out as the ladies walk by. 

Afterwards, there was a pilgrimage of women to a nearby bar. 

I finally answered the eternal question:

where are all the hot chicks? 

Unn-freakin-believable!  I drank way too much beer.  Rocked the house by singing, “You Shook Me All Night Long” karaoke.  Got flashed some boobs, smoked a cigarette (I don't even smoke).  Then we went dancing.  I was drunk all day.

(As a healing mechanism, I highly recommend this course of action.)

One girl I was chatting with said she still lives with her ex-girfriend.  My first thought: wow, I could never be with someone who still lives with their ex.

Hello pot.  Meet kettle.

In the selfishness of my own coming out/getting divorced journey, I never really, truly put myself in her shoes.   I never realized how hard it must have been for her to be my girlfriend while I still live with my husband. 

I never thought how difficult it must have been for her to say goodnight to me while knowing that I’m going back to my husband's house. We’re still functioning as a family, even as a married couple (minus the bad sex…ha!).

In my mind, it was like, what’s the big deal?  We’re not sharing a room or a bed, we’re essentially just roommates. Our house is huge, big enough for us to share it.  It’s better for the kids this way; we can’t afford two households.  I was stubborn, making excuses, comfortable.

There were other problems with my ex-girlfriend and I, of course, but this period of no contact has allowed me to come to some realizations. 

One, I can’t continue to straddle two worlds. It’s not fair to anyone, and most of all, not fair to myself. Half in, half out. Suburban wife and mom during the day, single chick at night (am I really even single? No.) Two, I can't possibly give myself fully to a relationship while my life is still intertwined with my husband's.

So...I’m moving out. Packing boxes and cleaning out closets today.

Looking at houses tomorrow night.  Wish me luck?

They say you never really get over your first relationship with a woman...

My ex-girlfriend just told me that she doesn't want any contact with me anymore.  FOR A YEAR.  Said she needs to heal and move on; she needs to try to find someone who knows what they want. (Ironic because I'm pretty clear about what I want...)

I want to remember all the good things about our relationship and try to honor her place in my life, even if she no longer feels that I am worthy of a place in hers.

So what have I learned from being involved with a woman for over a year?

• I can feel again.  Wow. When we first started flirting and talking, I was on fire, literally electric and buzzing.  Couldn't sleep, didn't want to eat.  After being in a life-coma for the past 12 years, I will always remember this as one of the happiest, most exciting times of my life.
• Experiencing true intimacy: opening birthday presents in bed, writing love letters, dancing with her in the kitchen, reading aloud to each other.  The time when she laid on top of me, her hands on the sides of my face and said, "Welcome home," I felt something stir deep inside of me.  (It turned out to be the lesbian genie coming out of her bottle and that bitch just does not want to go back in.)
• So many firsts: my first Pride, the first time I've ever truly been in love with someone, my first strap-on, my first broken heart.
• The most passionate, incredible, scream-into-a-pillow-and-almost-pass-out sex of my life.

Wait, wait, wait...you know what?

This whole post, while nostalgic and overly romantic and sappy, is really just glossing over the facts of the present moment.


This baby dyke is at the developmental stage of a 16 year-old boy. I'm like a new vampire in a feeding frenzy wanting to bite everyone I see on the neck. 

Seattle is full of hot dykes.

I'm totally single and emotionally unattached now...and I need to taste the rainbow!

I'm officially declaring June my month of baby dyke debauchery.  (Bonus: it's Pride month!)

More adventures to come (pun intended), and I promise not to disappoint...