I survived a bachelorette weekend. An epic tale in 6 paragraphs.

Last weekend I went to a foreign land. Seattle. But not actually Seattle. We were close to Seattle, in the same way that the North America is close to Mars. I was in Leavenworth, WA. And I participated in some cultural activities. And no, I am not talking about dressing up in lederhosen and enjoying a beer garden. Except that we did enjoy a beer garden while sipping drinks from a bottle of wine. But we’re rebels like that.

So what is my point? I was getting to that. Be patient. And welcome back from your visit to the Leavenworth web site. That town has its own font. I was on a girl’s weekend/bachelorette party. And maybe it’s just me, but this is a little awkward as a lesbian. Mostly because people don’t know whether they should invite my spouse. They should not. And the bachelorette is one of my coolest friends, so she already knows not to invite my spouse. So it was not awkward.

But just in case you are thinking about inviting a lesbian couple to your bachelorette weekend, don’t. Unless they are the entertainment, in which case tip them well, because women make 73 cents for every dollar that a man makes. And as you already know, these types of performances require lots of dollar bills and 73 cents is just way to hard to tuck into a g string. But I digress.

Girls weekends, in spite of the name, are not really a gender thing although they do involve lingerie. But mostly they are about one half of a bunch of couples and one single lady, getting together without their spouses and without their kids and then talking about those people the whole time. And they are about underwear. And sometimes fake penises.

But the girls I was with were classy, so there were no fake penises to drink cocktails out of or wear on your head. Which means that I didn’t fit in at all. Because I have a whole collection of fake penises. Except I call them dildos, but whatever. And none of them have straws in them, so you cannot drink out of them. But some of them do have straps, so I suppose you could wear them on your head if you wanted to, but I don’t, because they don’t work very well that way. Or maybe they do, and I am just not very open-minded.

But let’s move on, because this is getting really personal and mildly embarrassing. And because this weekend was not about me, it was about the bachelorette. And it was about drinking. And that is why I’m only posting once this week. Because I was tired and hung over on Monday. And I was spending time trying penises on my head to see if it could work that way. The end.

underwear

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© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

We’re not gay enough or something. So maybe I’ll just punch myself in the head.

I got a phone call on Monday from a guy named Andrew which is awesome, because I love phone calls. Andrew is the casting producer for Punched in the Head Productions, a film company that makes “not-so-serious” productions. This phone call was even better than I expected, because he wasn’t actually planning on punching me in the head, which is good because that would be serious, and these folks are supposed to be “not-so-serious.” And I’m not-so-serious, so I knew Andrew and I would hit it off.

Andrew was trolling the internet looking for LGBT families to cast on a new show on Bravo, and he found my blog. So he called me. And it was great. Except that the show he is casting for is called “Bravo’s Extreme Guide to Parenting,” and we couldn’t come up with anything extreme about my family. Maybe that was extremely lazy of us, but not lazy enough to be on TV. And we talked a little bit about how gay my family is, but it’s not THAT gay. I’m not sure what that means, but being gay and having two kids is no longer extreme, so that was great news. And I won’t have to wash my hair and lose 50 pounds, so I’ll look good on TV. So that’s a big relief. And now I’ve got a new friend on Facebook, which is always awesome! And he’s in a relationship with someone named Gilbert, which gets extra bonus points in my book because that’s kind of gay and because his boyfriend’s name is Gilbert.

So, if you live in a cave with your bisexual, transgendered lover and your triplets that you are raising to be Evangelical Muslims, while you wear nothing but fur and hunt for your own food using weapons recreated from The Hunger Games movie, then you might want to give Andrew a call. He’s looking for you.

Andrew Hecht
917-838-3571

punchedinhead

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© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Gay expertise not included

When people find out that you’re gay, they sometimes have questions. Heck! When I found out I was gay, I had questions. What kinds of questions, you ask? Good question! (I’m trying to set a record for the most use of the word “question” in a single post.)

Any question that starts with the following: Why do gay people [blank]?

Example: Why do gay people cut their hair so short?

Uh, they do? Now I have a question, too. Do gay people cut their hair short?

I usually start to panic when something like this happens, because I am supposed to be a gay expert after all, because I am gay. And I want to be sure that I’m toeing the line. Doing my part to be gay enough to do good for all gay people and gayness in the world. And if there is something I don’t know about being gay, well then, maybe I’m not gay.

But I’m also tall. And people seem to have fewer questions about that, but again, I have few answers. And I feel like I’m am doing my part for tall people everywhere by just walking around being tall. I don’t belong to any tall groups. I don’t celebrate being tall on days set aside to celebrate tallness. I don’t play basketball. I can reach stuff on high shelves, so that’s pretty great. But I also don’t fit in some cars. But I don’t protest, because I wouldn’t want to be seen as against shortness. I am fairly certain that I’m taller than the average woman, but I don’t know exactly by how much. But I’m OK with that, because people don’t ask that question much, because, well, no one cares if you are tall or short. Its just the way it is. Unremarkable. Thank goodness.

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us

 

© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

When did you come out? And other questions that are difficult to answer.

A long time ago at a party during an awkward conversation, I was asked the following:

Her: When did you come out?

Me: Uh, last week? Next week?

I didn’t have an answer. And everyone makes assumptions. You’re out. You’re not out. You like tomatoes. And I suppose all of that is normal. But when you’re gay, at least right now in this world, you’re always coming out. At least I am.

Next week, I’m starting a new job at a small company. And my new boss sent an e-mail to the whole company outing me, already. Some people might be horrified by this. I was thankful! Coming out can sort of be a chore. And it’s still awkward. And it’s still news.

And sometimes it’s just weird. Three years ago, I went to an important-people-at-my-job Christmas party. We were asked to bring a guest (eg spouse) and I was 22 months pregnant (Remember? I’m an elephant). I couldn’t find a maternity cocktail dress, because we don’t live in L.A. where J. Lo shops, and I couldn’t afford a dress like that anyway, so I wore a “regular” cocktail dress, size 20, and put a belt on it. Lovely. And I took my spouse.

The party was magical. Sparkling water was sipped. Tiny foods that are hard to hold were consumed. And I yelled at a lot of people. Because cocktail parties are loud and no can hear you if you’re not shouting.

And then, we all came back to work on Monday.

As it turns out, one particular individual at the party was quite surprised that I showed up with a woman that I was calling my spouse. And he was none too happy about the fact that no one had informed him about this, before the party. So, naturally, he came to my desk to confront me.

“What are you?” he said.

Thinking all my life that it was fairly obvious that I was a human just like everyone else, I was shocked and confused by the question. I stared at him blankly.

“A Heffalump,” I said, because I couldn’t think of a better answer.

If you’re not intimately familiar with Winnie the Pooh stories, you would not know that a Heffalump is an imaginary elephant that Winnie the Pooh and Piglet try to capture. And he wasn’t a Winnie the Pooh fan, clearly.

“A what?” he said.

“You know, uh….. the character in Winnie the Pooh.” I shot a look of desperation at the woman who was sitting next to me, who also sat frozen in her chair. And we waited, very still, for this awkward moment of silence to pass. And since there was nothing else to clarify, he left.

I hope that never happens again, I thought. And later, much to my regret, I thought of a better answer. I should have said I’m a HOMO (sapien).

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beans

Is it OK to have a few glasses of wine and tell your new boss about your vagina?

Last night I was at a welcome dinner for the new senior executive in my department. And we were having drinks. And somehow the topic got around to “birth stories.” Now, before we move on, I was not aware until very recently that there was a name for this. But there is. Thankfully. Because this is one of the most memorable experiences in life, and by that I mean traumatic. Another human is trying to rip you in half, people. You can’t forget it.

So somehow the topic got around to giving birth and the crazy stuff that happens during that time. But why just pick on that moment? Crazy stuff happens when you’re out to dinner with your new boss and people order an alcoholic beverage. Or even when they are just drinking ice tea, like the guy standing next to me.

Anyway, my point is that I got in on this action. And started telling a story about a time before my child was born, when I thought my child was being born four weeks early, and we went to the hospital to find out.

We got to the birthing center around 9 p.m., and I was told to get undressed and put on one of those drafty, over-washed, smashed up hospital gowns and lie down on the bed. Various measuring devices were put on my belly to listen to the baby’s heartbeat and try to determine if I was having an contractions. I was not. So the nurse, just to be sure, did a physical exam. And just to be clear this is a nice doctor way of saying getting fisted. Or just to be crystal clear, she put as much of her hand as possible into my vagina and felt around.

There was nothing unusual going on in there. No party. No crimes being committed. The carbon monoxide detector was not going off. All was well in that small, dark part of the world, except it was now throbbing with pain. Which by the way, the doctors don’t tell you about before it happens. They describe this as pressure. You might feel a bit of pressure. Sure. Gird your loins, someone is going to put something somewhere that it doesn’t normally go and it’s going to hurt like a mo-fo.

But that part was done. And now I could go home, and come back to the hospital when I was actually in labor. So the nurse left, and I started putting on my clothes. And then she came back just as I was putting on my bra.

“Oh sorry!” she said when she noticed that I wasn’t completely dressed. And she started backing out of the room.

“Stop! Come in. You just had your hand in my vagina, it really doesn’t matter if you see me putting on my bra.”

“Yeah, that’s right. We’re BFFs now.”

(Nurses are AWESOME!)

And that is the story I was relaying to one woman, three guys who are thankfully highly comfortable with their masculinity (that’s the best!) and my new boss. So let’s just say I can’t wait to see everyone in the office this morning. Maybe they will ask me how my vagina is doing. (It’s fine. In case you are wondering.) On the plus side, at least I remember telling them this. It would be super awkward to walk in, have someone ask you how your vagina is doing, and have no idea why they are asking. It’s happened. But that’s a whole other story.

Do your parents mind if you are [fill in a word that means less than adequate here]?

I have a serious question (for a change). I hope you can help.

Every once in a while, someone asks me this question. “Do you parents mind that you are gay?” Sometimes it comes out like this: “Do you parents support your relationship?”

I never know what to say. First, because I don’t really have an answer. Yes, no, kind of. What does that look like, exactly? Parents supporting one’s relationship. I’m sure there are tons of straight people whose parents hate/dislike/are irritated by their child’s husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/lover. Do they get asked this question? Maybe I should start asking people this question at cocktail parties, if the person indicates that they are married or coupled in some way.

But I also kind of get it. Maybe. Sometimes it seems like the asker is trying to show empathy about my current position in society. But it also seems like they are also reinforcing a homophobic stereotype — that every gay person’s parents are disappointed that they are gay. What about the gay parents? Are they disappointed when their kids turn out straight?

The person who asked me this last night and who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent, had a legitimate reason for asking such a personal question. But once I was asked this question at a kegger. The guilty party was a former colleague who asks me if my parents “minded” if I was gay. Again, I didn’t know how to answer, but it did occur to me later to ask her if her parents minded that she was short and had red hair.

Do you have a good answer to this question?

The Hunt for Red October. Actually for sperm, but that doesn’t sound as cool or involve a missile.

When I was in junior high, they never explained what to do if you wanted to have a baby and you didn’t have a man in your life. Or sperm. Or at least a man whose sperm you wanted to get in the regular way. I definitely have men in my life. I love men. But we’ll talk about that later. My point is that I didn’t have a man in my life whose sperm I could have by just asking nicely.

So, after we decided to have a baby, we needed to find a way to get some sperm. Most couples don’t have this problem. At least that’s what I thought until I found that almost 10% of couples experience infertility problems. But 100% of lesbians experience infertility problems, if you count both of them together as a couple, which most people do, but some people do not. But that’s up to the Supreme Court to decide right now. Do you see how confusing this is? Let’s move on.

We needed sperm. That was obvious. And we weren’t the only ones that had noticed. My uncle did, too. He called me one night around my birthday in 2007. This is a man, whom I love, who is so full of love that he can almost never contain himself. His love is especially hard to contain when he’s had a few adult beverages and he’s on the phone with you and it’s your birthday.

I picked up the phone.

“Happy birthday. Are you going to have kids?” he says.

Do I know you? Oh. It’s Uncle Bernie.

“We are thinking about it.”

I cringed. I had already said too much! I shouldn’t have said anything. I thought about slamming down the phone. Faking a bad connection. He had a cheap cell phone. I could blame it on him.

But the door was open, and he unabashedly walked through it.

You should. Best thing that ever happened to me, he said. He knew a woman who wanted to have a child so she just went to a bar one night when she was ovulating (we ladies, we know these things using our supreme powers of intuition) and picked up a guy, and boom had a baby. You could do that, my uncle offered. It was inexpensive. And there would be lots of men who would be up for the task, he assured me.

I tried to picture it. But I doubted that it would work. Allow me to list the reasons:

1. Denver doesn’t have any bars. OK, that is a lie. But I didn’t know where any of them were. Especially ones with slutty, fertile men.

2. I would have to learn how to pick up men at said bars. That would take practice, and I didn’t have much time. I might have to take a picking-up-men-at-bars class and that would cost money. Wasted, I might add because I probably would only use those skills one other time, when I wanted to have another baby.

3. It might be really hard to track down the same slutty, fertile guy using only his first name and a foggy, well-drink induced memories of our one-night stand, if I wanted to have a second baby.

4. (And this is probably the most important one.) Pam would not let me.

So, this option was out. Next?

2beans

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