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...

Emotional Swiss Cheese

Photo by Matthew Kendig

Look at everything I’ve done in the past year, Maria. I broke up my family, I hurt my kids, and I did it all for NOTHING.

You didn’t break up your family for me.

No, but I would have never done it if I didn’t think you were the one.

I am the one, Sass. 

No, you’re not because the love of my life wouldn’t treat me like shit.  Because every time I give you my heart, you smash it to pieces.  It’s not safe with you.  Do you know how sick it makes me to think of someone else’s hands on me?  It was supposed to be you.

Baby… 

Don’t call me baby.  I’m not your baby.

You’re the love of my life, I never loved anyone the way I love you.

STOP IT! Stop saying that! Do you realize what a mindfuck that is?  It’s brainwashing!  You are not the love of my life; the love of my life would cherish me and respect me and want the best for me.

I want to meet a woman who is happy and whole, who will take my hand and we will walk through this life together.  No one is pulling the other one ahead, and no one is slowing the other one down. 

I want someone who is healthy and whole, not emotional fucking swiss cheese.

The day I knew I was a lesbian...

People scowl and make this groaning noise anytime I tell them that I still share my house with my ex-husband. They don’t seem to believe that our lives are peaceful and happy, and that the transition from partners to best friends was nearly effortless. The assumption is that divorce must be contentious.

Can't two mature, loving adults who reach the natural ending of their relationship still remain best friends?

My ex-husband always knew that I wasn’t 100% straight, so it wasn’t a big shock to him. I mean, we used to check out chicks together...

...and then go home and watch girl-on-girl porn.

In the year and a half that we've been separated, I never had the urge to go downstairs for a romp.  I mean, why would I want to relive that torture?  Okay, so the sex didn't exactly suck, but there's only so many times a person can disassociate before you start losing brain cells. 

But I do remember the exact day that I realized I may be more than bisexual-slept-with-a-girl-before, and was more likely a flaming homo.

It was October 2, 2006.

Sitting on the couch, I flipped through channels while my husband and I chatted. I settled on Oprah, who promised a NEVER SEEN BEFORE television event.

Oprah really is the ruler of the universe, isn't she?

I mean, how many ah-ha moments can one woman possibly have?

Hubby immediately got up to leave, but I pulled his hand and asked him to stay.

Now, in ten years of marriage we never watched TV together, much less Oprah.

The show, ironically, was called Wives Confess They Are Gay

My husband took one look at my face and later said he knew our marriage had an expiration date.

These women were not soccer moms; they were not butches wearing chain belts and polo shirts. Oh no, these women were gorgeous in their lipstick and their Jimmy Choos.  Intelligent, professional women.

I realized there were more women out there like me.

Five years passed before I told him I was sure I was gay and our marriage was over. I sometimes wonder why I am not grieving the end of this marriage and then I remember that I have been grieving it for over five years.

When it's done, it's done.