Dear Santa Part II

I must thank you for granting my x-mas wish. Even though I likely should be thanking Senator Lieberman.

The result is hope that me and the woman I am falling in love with may not be so far away from the life we hope to lead together.

Thank you. A million times thank you.

dear santa

All I want this year for Christmas is the repeal of the ridiculous military policy that is Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

Thank you.

maybe its just me...

Apparently I have a brain that traps everything in it and won't let any memories go.

The X just sent me a video to a song we both used to listen to obsessively...In fact it was on one of the first mix CDs I made her. And she sent it to me. Like I had never heard it.

Really X? Sigh.

Maybe its time to just write this one off.

viscountess francaise

Typical Sunday ritual in NYC for nearly 2.5 years: My partner-in-crime-and-in-love and I drank coffee in our petite home with our three cats and dog. She worked on her projects, I read the New York Times. I always start with the wedding section. There is something masochistic about this, especially in the shadow of said partner. Engaged and broken up ten times over. Nothing ever fit right, everything was always in flux. But nevertheless I dreamt of Williams and Sonoma wedding registries fulfilled (we’d had two), white dresses (I’d bought one and returned it a week later tearfully) and the thought that someone, anyone would be willing to stand in front of everyone I love and scream at the top of their lungs “I LOVE YOU!”

So each and every Sunday went this way. Me signing my dreams into thin newspaper. Staining my fingers with ink; my teeth with coffee. Her blissfully unaware of my swoons over fanciful dreams that I knew would never be reality. At least not with her.

But one Sunday in July, I opened the newspaper to see her. A brief tryst of mine I’d all but locked away in my brittle heart. The woman that left me sobbing on my living room floor after she rode off into the sunrise on her motorcycle, never to be seen again.

We met at a birthday party in Phnom Penh, during my sojourn into expatriotism in Cambodia. To say Cambodia was devoid of lesbians was an understatement. At best count there were only 10 or so. And even then, they were mostly partnered off. But there she was and there I was. We sat awkwardly unsure as whether to call out the other. And finally it slipped out “My ex-GIRLfriend”. We both stopped dead in our tracks and giggled. Now that it was out in the open, we spoke openly about the women we had left at home. The frustration that we felt being gay in Cambodia, our experiences at various upper echelon institutes of higher education.

And that was that. Three blissful months of speaking an odd mixture of Khmer, French and English all while gallivanting around on motorcycles. We ran errands together. Spent time entangled in sheets speaking whispers of dreams. We argued over topics of philanthropy, NGO policy, water distribution issues and much more. I took care of her during a delerious fever; fed her soup and made the compresses. All the while, I knew I was but the fill-in housewife. Knew there was a woman back stateside whom I could not even begin to compare to. This was a delusion, but one that we both bought into willingly.

We had thought we’d have more time. My plan had been to spend at least the following semester in Phnom Penh, but due to unforeseen circumstances I was leaving on New Year’s Eve. She was leaving before Christmas and wouldn’t be home until after I had left.

The morning came for her to return home for the holidays, and I knew I would soon be a distant memory. She said her goodbyes, kissed me, and rode away…..

And now, nearly two years later, there she was, smiling ear to ear with her now wife, printed on millions of copies of the Times. Both were dressed in white with the Northern California ocean as their picturesque backdrop. The article read something like this: "Lady A and Lady B wed in San Francisco among friends and family. Lady A (my lady) is the daughter of Viscount A and the late Viscountess A".

Well, shit was all I could think to mutter.

The woman who left me alone in Cambodia with my heart all but shattered was god damned French royalty.

closing november

Every holiday season, since I met the one who calls me Wednesday, I have found myself measuring the holiday season differently than I did before. I measure my holiday's on her. Probably because before I met her, I never thought about the holidays. Ever. They came and went. I unwrapped presents, took red-eye flights around the country, and ate turkey until my sides burst. She on the other hand, had iconic beliefs of what the holiday season should be. Perfectly trimmed trees, happy families, Its a Wonderful Life playing on the television. Its the season of her birthday, thanksgiving and christmas. And to her, it mattered.

Our first November brought us stolen kisses that were not meant for either of us. Birthday's celebrated in hidden darkness with bottles of Jest Red and nights cuddled under down comforters in dormitories.

Our second November led me to her house at the base of Vermont to celebrate her birth with her downtrodden, wine soaked mother who was nursing an aching heart. Only a few weeks later to whisk her from one fancy restaurant to another in the big apple. Afterward we stole home, hands entangled, more fleeting kisses. Directly following, I attempted to provide succor to her lobster-allergy-induced sickness. Christmas morning we shared mix tapes, and exchanged gifts over a brunch befit for kings--pomegranate seeds, goat cheese infused scrambles, champagne.

I still have that mix. The perfumes she saw as being 'iconically me' still sit in a box on my window.

Our third was spent exchanging awkward emails across oceans. Myself in my own private version of developmental country heaven. Expat thanksgivings and christmases with deep fried turkey, torrential downpours and 70 degree heat. Just a few days after my arrival back to the states in mid-January, we spent a few days in her Astoria studio as she nursed my wounds from six months overseas. We drank rose champagne, ate chocolate raspberry pancakes, skipped around on subways. I fell in love with New York that trip and with her, all over again.

The forth, we saw each other. Once. At a restaurant in midtown. Her new boyfriend and far happier mother in tow. She and I awkwardly hugged in greeting. I, had made the move to New York, and was overwhelmed. Her boyfriend at the time spent the dinner occupying my ability to be appropriate, and it resulted in his prompt departure while her mother and I consumed whiskey at a dive bar on the upper west side. Pianos and stolen glances. Seamed stockings and crushed hopes.

The fifth, I watched her perform on stage. Something I hadn't seen her do in years. And I was transported back to the first three, because on stage its easy to love her. And whatever malice I felt towards her was completely forgotten.

The sixth (this year), I forgot her birthday. I will not see her, and we are likely to not speak beyond a few texts. One for my attempt to assuage her disappointment for forgetting her birthday, and one for her to accept my apology. And let us not forget the yearly "Happy thanksgiving" text I have always received.

Perhaps its best this way, to be separated by miles of Americana, living in our respective circles of existence.

But every time I dance a tanda...I think of her.
Every time I write a word on a page...I think of her.
Every time I decide that tonight is a garters and cuban heeled stockings night...I think of her.

I wish she weren't just a few pages in a scrapbook--A collection of scalloped edged images pasted into their respective pages categorized by foods ate, experiences shared, dreams lost, kisses missed, birthday texts and presents shelved.

If you read this, which you likely will (and likely won't respond to), know that there are days...like today...where I still dream of tuscan homes, claw-footed bathtubs, linen curtains, and you.

On my type of women

A few weeks back, I decided to make a sojourn into the netherworld that is Charlies. Our local country western/hip hop gay bar. I went with friends. The type of friends that a girl couldn't live without...The ones that ask you the hard questions. For example: "Why that girl? Why not that one over there?" "But the one you like is so...old." or "butch" or "strange" or "what have you".

Ok. So maybe I have a type. And maybe that type is shocking to people. And maybe that is ok.

Now this friend hasn't hung out with me in a number of years. She was my date to prom in high school and we have since gone our separate ways. Since we have reconvened in each others' lives she was shocked to see me shamelessly flirting with the professional boxer, with the long hair, the cowboy hat, the crowsfeet, whom is obviously a bit older than me. (9 years to be exact). Now in hindsight, she's not really my type. But she did seem to fit the following bill....

What can I say. I know what I want. And what I like.

I like my women rough around the edges. Seeing them covered in bruises from rugby matches, boxing practice, or a hard fall on a mountain bike stirs something in me. It shows me they have guts, they play hard and that they live on the edge. Knowing that a woman has been in a bar fight (not one that she started mind you), makes me feel like she can protect me. And that I will be safe with her...no matter what. Military women (well, one in particular at this point in time) are the bane of my ability to keep my 'shit together' without melting into one giant puddle.

Knowing about cars, car parts, engines, tools, motorcycles, bicycles, etc is key. Even just a thing or two. Without some knowledge of this, you are less than interesting to me.

Loves to be outdoors. But also knows when to call it quits, throw on a pot of tea/crack open a bottle or wine, and cuddle by the fire.

I want someone to take care of, but that someone should also be independent enough to live without me when I need to do my own exploring.

I like callouses on hands. Sore muscle aches to soothe. Wounds that need bandaging.

Rough hands and creases around the eyes are musts. There is nothing sexier than knowing that these things show proof a life well lived, and these details tell stories.

I may be a softer sort, built for the likes of Academia, but at the same time...I'm not so gentle either. I too play rugby, and enjoy working in the dirt. I just imagine myself doing that work alongside being a mother, with a wife that does harder labor than me and needs me to tend to her bruises, etc.

And I like them awkward, but proud. Quietly self-confident. Casting shy and shifty glances, kicking the ground as they walk. A sort of shuffle.

Peter Pan complexes are key. They should never want to grow old and should just be hell bent on staying young physically and mentally. Meaning they can run through the chicago airport in the neon hallway with me, stone cold sober, and find it to be the highlight of their day. Or maybe go to the park and jump in a piles of leaves, a chance to relive a blissful fall morning of our youth.

And that my friends, is my type.

mirror images

I've always had this problem...When looking in the mirror I've always felt a stranger looking back.

But recently, as in the past two weeks or so, the one looking back at me from the mirror feels familiar, I like her, she feels like home.

Hot damn people. This must mean I'm doing something right.