In retrospect, I’d say my grandmother was “a character”.  She was what some might call “feisty” or “spirited” or even “eccentric”.  I just knew she felt like my other half.  I loved being with her and we used to laugh so hard at things. As an adult, having spent time with kids under 10, their senses of humor are still developing and can be a bit dodgy, so you laugh with them because they’re cute, but it seems my grandmother genuinely found me funny. I thought she was hilarious.

I’d sleep over at her house quite often and once we were lying in the dark, giggling and thinking of all the words we could for throwing up. Hearing your grandmother, who despite being eccentric, was pretty well-to-do and uppercrusty, say things like “barf” and “upchuck” and then laugh with you about it — that was awesome. It’s a weird memory to cherish, but I do.

Before my grandmother and my dad were at odds, she adored him. She used to wear a t-shirt that read “Jerry’s Mother in Law”, back when having your own t-shirts made was all the rage in the early 80′s.

My grandmother appreciated the finer things, but that didn’t stop her from liking chili from a can and beer in a glass.  Often we’d have Dennison’s chili for dinner with saltines, I with a Dr. Pepper (her other favorite thing), she with a beer poured into a tall pilsner glass. We’d have this fine dinner, she in her leather wingback chair, I seated on the floor beside her, using her ottoman as a table while we watched T.J. Hooker.

My grandmother had the most delicate hands. They were old and touched with arthritis, but they were soft with backs that were purple and thin-skinned, like bruised berries under a phyllo pastry.

My grandmother often got wrong numbers. Apparently, it was just one number off from the San Diego Fish Market, so she’d often get calls at early hours asking about mackeral or halibut or whatever. She also used to get calls from someone with an accent who, upon my grandmother saying hello, would demand, “Stat Choo?! Stat CHOOOO?!” in a thick accent, which always amused her. Sometimes she’d reply in turn and they’d go back and forth for a minute or two before hanging up.

One of my favorite quirks of hers is that she hated to be called anything but “Grandmother”. Grandma was too casual, in her opinion and Granny was downright vulgar. Nana was geriatric, she said, but Grandmother was refined and respectful, so that’s how she rolled.

I miss my grandmother sometimes. She’s one of the few family members I can say I felt I knew as a person and not just as an authority figure or parent.  I’ve been dabbling a bit in genealogy lately and when it comes to her, I’ve hit a dead end.  There was always some “family secrets” and stuff we didn’t discuss and I knew her sisters were her half sisters, so it’s made me even more curious about her past and my overall family history.

I won’t see her in heaven, because I don’t believe in that, but I can say that I sense her with me sometimes — usually when I’m drinking beer from a glass.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia. Art by Keith Haring.

It’s National Coming Out Day! This is such an important day in so many people’s lives. I wonder sometimes how many actually wait until this specific day to come out or if it’s more of a symbolic day for them. Probably a bit of both.

I’ve never had to come out to anyone — not in an official capacity anyway. I think the closest I ever got was telling my estranged aunt that I had a girlfriend back in 2000. But since we were estranged, I felt no nervousness, it was, for me, a non-issue and nothing she said was going to affect my relationship (a relationship which ended in a ball of fire and girldrama, naturally).

I consider myself  lucky in this aspect.  Not having much family sort of eliminates the need to please or worry of judgement.  I skipped the wailing sobs of a mother who thinks she’ll never have grandchildren (which is ludicrous, by the way). It negated the potential disapproving glances from old school aunts or uncles at family gatherings. I just sidestepped that whole thing.  I’d rather have a family to tell, by all means — I know they would have been relatively cool (after a few whispered concerns about how I’m known by the company I keep) — but I guess the point I’m making is that it’s never been a source of angst for me. I love who I love and that’s my business. Period.

Once, when I lived in Texas and first started dating women, I got scolded at a party that was being broken up by mentioning to the police officer that we were “just a bunch of girls having lesbian fun”. (That’s how I was identifying at the time — I was new and hadn’t read the bisexual handbook yet. And yes, I’d clearly been drinking. Lesbians love wine. It’s in the handbook next to Jeeps and golden retrievers.)

“Don’t tell him that! They can arrest us for that here!”

I found that totally absurd, being the occasionally naive and always open-minded person that I am, but it was Texas and I was used to California police officers.  And legally, no, we couldn’t be arrested for being gay (anymore), but we certainly could be given a hard time.  I was also dating a black woman, which was like a double whammy in Texas according to my friends, so I was told to basically keep my mouth shut.

You may have guessed I don’t like to keep my mouth shut.  But I did and after several lewd comments, a few threats of tickets for public intox (even though we were inside an apartment) and one V-fingered facial gesture I won’t demonstrate, they left and I got an earful about the laws in Texas.

The next day, I volunteered the Gay and Lesbian Community Center to learn more about my rights, as a woman, as a member of the LGBT community, as a human being on planet Earth.

Last year, I talked about being a bisexual and how I’m not a fan of that label.  You can read more about that here, if you’re so inclined.

My heart and thoughts go out to those who are brave enough to come out to someone they care about today — and every day.  Be proud, be honest, be vocal and most of all, be who you really are.

I hate that term — how Neaderthal-ish.  Do you intend to go out and club dinner and drag your wife around by her hair?  Man cave. Give me a break.

I appreciate that everyone has a right to privacy.  Everyone needs some personal time without their significant other — or even a roommate — around. You need space, I get that. I cherish my time alone because ultimately, I was always really content living alone and while I’m happy, it is an adjustment living with another person 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

The standard argument I’ve heard is, “The wife/woman/girlfriend/significant other gets the rest of the house to decorate and do with what they want, I just want my own space that’s mine to put up my action figures/sports crap/ugly leather recliners so I can watch the game/play Magic the Gathering/jerk off in peace.”

While I can appreciate the desire for said space — what makes men think “the woman” gets the rest of the house, especially if they have kids?  Does the woman get her own “lady hut”, too?  Why do the men get to escape to a “man cave” that’s just for them when the woman is stuck with the messy living room or the kitchen and potentially screaming children? Where does “the woman” go to read her magazines/watch her programs/use her vibrator without interruption?  Why do only the men get to ‘escape’?

Now, I actually DO have my own space — my office is my domain.  But it is for work — I don’t hang out in here.  But, I decorate it how I want —  it’s pink and girlie and I have all my crap up that I probably, for aesthetic reasons, wouldn’t display in the rest of the  home.  Just as I wouldn’t love it if mikey hung a Fathead of DarthVader on the living room wall, I refrain from hanging hot pink velvet curtains in the living room.

I know most men aren’t into home decor, so they figure “the woman” gets that honor and therefore “controls” the rest of the house, but that is simply untrue.  My opinion is that couples should decorate mutually.  And while mikey trusts me with my design choices, I do usually ask for his opinion if I’m choosing a statement piece for the living room  – like a rug or a piece of furniture.  And fortunately, we both have somewhat quirky tastes, so it works out. Not always – I’m not saying I love having 20 Domos in the living room, but I don’t hate it (I love Domo, too) and it makes him happy, so we have 20 Domos in the living room.  It’s mikey’s space, too.

So, I don’t totally understand this sudden surge for the “man cave”? Is it because they feel like their wife takes over? Do they feel emasculated in their own home?  Why do a growing number of men feel they need to escape from their spouse and family into their own domain when they get home from work or on the weekends? Isn’t that when they’re supposed to spend time with their family?  And when do women get their own space, away from their husband who doesn’t listen to them talk anyway, away from their kids?  You’d need a house with 2 extra bedrooms just to accommodate everyone’s “personal space”, but doesn’t that defeat the whole point of living together?

The only way I can abide a true man cave is if the woman has one, too, or the guy’s wife decorates with country ducks and dried flowers and has her scrapbooking crap spread out across the living room. Then he has my permission to set up a compound in the backyard for all I care.

As I was fondling an especially soft blanket and wondering if I could justify purchasing my rabbit a swaddle covered in baby chicks, I heard a jarring FLAP-FLOP! FLAP-FLOP! sound. I turned around to find a scrawny, beanpole of an 11 to 12 year old girl, shuffling her platform flip-flops dramatically down the aisle, walking as though her limbs were attached with ball bearings and her feet were made of cement. As she passed, she gave me the stink-face made so popular by girls that age and continued FLAP-FLOP!-ing down the aisle, about 20 paces behind a mom who looked like she needed a stiff drink.

I dropped that baby blanket like it was laced with small pox and bought a bottle of wine instead.

The few times I have written to “purge”, it caused anxiety.  In the latter part of last year, I participated in a writing prompt meme that left much of my cheese flapping in the wind and I like my cheese kept wrapped. In the deli drawer. Under the low fat turkey.  I’ve thought about going back to close some of those posts, but then I feel like I’m going against what blogging is all about, so I’m undecided. It’s a lot of deeply personal information about my past and it makes me want a Xanax.

I like having a blog, though. Tenth Muse has been around since January 2003, but I had a web presence long before that, all the way back to ’96, hand-coded and full of starry backgrounds and animated devils and such.  I’ve been working on a redesign of this blog that I love, which is already inspiring me to write a bit more here, before it’s even online. But, I’m attached to Tenth Muse, so even if I don’t write that much here, I will likely keep it indefinitely.

I know my readership is totally not what it was in the early 2000′s, when the Internet pond was dinky and I was like, a medium-sized rainbow trout (heeeeeey! *snap*).   I’m totally ok with being more of a feather-tailed guppy in an Internet Ocean these days, but I do miss the exchanges that used to happen on blogs. The comments, the meeting of new people, the discovery of other new blogs.  Now it all happens on Twitter and while I’ve met a lot of great people, I’m starting to grow tired of every thought crammed into 140 characters.

Sometimes it feels like people are trying too hard.  Feeling like it’s not worth writing if I can’t be witty in a limited space makes me feel stifled.  And of course, the answer to that is “blog it”, but then I’m back to “writing for an audience” (that may or may not read it) and then I’m just chasing my feathery guppy tail.

I’m thinking about selling one of my other sites, PutDowntheDonut.com. I started it in 2003 after losing a bunch of weight and I brought it back because I was renewing my commitment to weight loss. I’d also received a lot of positive feedback about the original site, along with a lot of comments and emails asking when it would return over the years.  Perhaps I waited too long, perhaps there are just better sites out there now, but I’m just not feeling it. Even when I write something that feels really true to my style, the response is minimal and I just don’t care as much as I should about updating.  When I originally started the Donut, I felt accomplished, like I was inspiring people, but I just don’t feel that particular magic anymore.

I have other sites I’d like to launch — ideas I’ve had in my head, things I’m passionate about and could write about prolifically.  Am I still losing weight? Yes. I’ve lost 17 lbs since January 3rd, but I think with so many websites about that topic available now, I can leave the inspiration to someone else and start blogs about things that really excite me.

There was a time when writing for an audience was frowned upon, like it was disingenuous, like it wasn’t true to the purpose of blogging.  But I feel I’m at my most genuine when I write that way.  Being soft focus and sharing my tender underbelly feels uncomfortable and foreign to me.  Not that what I’ve said isn’t true — its painfully true — but putting it out there like that is just more intimate than I tend to be to strangers in real life, so it feels… awkward.  My grandmother instilled in me the old adage, “Don’t air your dirty laundry” from a young age, I guess.

There was a period where running ads on your blog was considered selling out, too, but that seems to be par for the course these days, along with writing for an audience.  So maybe, just maybe, I can relax and find my voice again.  Once upon a time, I actually wrote good blog posts.

I’m still not entirely sure I believe it was ghosts or just my imagination, but it seemed quite real at the time.  Since my parents passed away when I was young, it could just be wishful thinking or my emotions putting ideas into my head — the skeptic in me has to concede that’s most likely the case. But what I saw, what I experienced, was so visceral, and in one case, totally out of left field, that it’s hard to not want to believe in ghosts.

When I was around 13, three years after my mom died, I went to visit some relatives my mom (and at one time, I) was very close to. (My godmother and great-great-aunt, who I’ve since realized were totally lesbians, which isn’t relevant to this story, but something I find sad no one ever spoke of, like it was a big dirty secret).

Anyway, there were photos of my mom all over the place, so it was hard to not think of her. When I went to bed that night, I felt fairly anxious. My dad didn’t talk a lot about my mom after she passed and didn’t really care for it when I brought her up, so it was a lot to be hit with all those images and talk of my mom. Anyway, I went to bed that night with kind of a knot in my stomach. As I was lying there, I felt something. I can’t quite explain it, but it was kind of like I was being spooned.  It sounds weird, but I was like someone laid down behind me and put their arms around me. It was almost tangible, like I could feel the weight of them.  Very strange. I was scared at first, but then suddenly not at all.  I felt better after that and went to sleep. I never told my aunts.

After my dad died in ’94, a month or so later I was standing at the kitchen sink in my parents’ house, washing dishes. In front of the sink was a garden window, where  you could put plants and things, that looked out over the pool.  I had my head down, scrubbing a dish, and casually, I glanced up and saw a man standing in the window from the waist up, wearing a red v-neck sweater and a white collared shirt. He had gray/white hair. It was one of those things where you glance up, then back down, but when I did a double-take, the man was gone. I didn’t get a lot of detail, but the feeling I got in the pit of my stomach was that it was my dad. That  could totally just be wishful thinking, but my dad had a red v-neck sweater he liked a lot and he did have salt n’ pepper hair — heavy on the salt (thanks for that, by the way, Dad).  I wasn’t scared, most just startled. You don’t expect to see a man in your window, but I ran outside and no one was there.

When I was living in Texas, around the age of 29, I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I walked around in the dark, like I always do, and when I came out of the bathroom and turned into my bedroom, I actually exclaimed, “Oh!” because there was a shape standing in my room at the corner foot of my bed.  Again, I didn’t feel scared, just startled. When I blinked to get a better view, it was gone.

It was a tall shape, a woman I sensed, for some reason. It didn’t feel menacing or scary. The shape seemed almost backlit at the time as the dark bedroom was so light in comparison to it. After a few seconds of confusion and looking around, I went back to bed, but I never forgot that. It was so real.  I never happened again and I chalked it up to being a dream since I’d just awakened, but the feeling in my gut says maybe not.

I used to watch some of those ghost hunting shows on TV with real interest — and sometimes they got very intriguing stuff  (namely Ghost Hunters and Ghost Adventures). Now, in their popularity, it seems like a lot of bullshit and posturing.  And that’s fine, I realize it’s a television show and therefore, the content should be taken with a grain of salt. But now I’m a little embarrassed to admit I’m interested in the paranormal.  I think believing in Jesus is a little like believing in the Easter Bunny, so it feels a bit like a double standard.  (No offense to any Jesus-believing readers, I respect your right to believe whatever you want, I just choose otherwise.)

Because there is scientific theory that could explain why these things could happen, it makes it easier for me to believe… albeit with a healthy dose of skepticism.

But if I start wearing crystals, rename myself Raven Wolf  Star and start calling the watchtowers of the north, please stage an intervention.

There have been times in my life, however infrequently, that I’ve had an official Valentine. It’s not often I’ve had anyone make a show of it — I’m not a “show-y” person.  I like sweet things — nice notes, maybe some flowers, folding the laundry without me asking for the 300th time.  You know, the little things. I don’t see the point of spending the National Debt on some mediocre flowers that are going to die in a day or two anyway.  Wait until February 15th — both flowers and candy are 50% off.  Bargains are romantic to someone who doesn’t really think frivolous displays of spending are a turn-on.  But again, that’s just me.

The first “real” Valentine I remember was from a boy in my kindergarten class who chased me around the slide telling me my lips were like “roooobies” in what I think he thought was a romantic movie star voice, but considering his 5 year old cinematic experience was limited, it sounded more like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.  It culminated in him planting a sloppy, snotty kiss on my face before the teacher made him sit in the corner during snack.

Then next was in high school — I was around 16 and “going with” a guy who was out of high school. (I don’t know where we thought we were ‘going’.)  But my parents didn’t know that, they just thought I was suddenly really into Bible Study. Little did they know I was skipping Bible Study to make out with the technically adult boy behind the church.  One night, said boy showed up at my house with flowers, a card and a stuffed dog, asking my parents if he could date me.  I never saw him again, but I really liked the stuffed dog.

After that, there was a lull in Valentines until I was around 24, when I dated a Really Great Guy who I am still friends with. He put so much effort into my Valentine — more than anyone else to this day — and it’s probably my most memorable Valentine’s Day.  He planned a trip up the coast to Solvang where we stayed in a little motel and then we went on a tour of Hearst Castle not far from there.  It was truly the sweetest effort. It’s just unfortunate in that it was overcast and drizzly, so we couldn’t really appreciate the spectacular views from Hearst Castle, I was inexplicably cranky and our bed, I’m convinced, was storing a dead body beneath it.  But it was really romantic, in theory, and despite all that, we had a good time.  We broke up amicably not long after that, but that is totally fine because he’s got a brilliant wife, kids and dogs and such now and I couldn’t be happier for them both. (Hello, said Really Great Guy’s wife! *waves*)

Over the years, I’ve received the occasional card or flowers from suitors, which I’ve always appreciated — except for that one girl who mailed me a collage of photos of my face cut out from the internet, pasted on a posterboard with angsty lyrics, including a link to an web shrine to me that played R.E.M. songs.  That was a little weird.

But I’ve always found the best Valentines to  be my friends. I couldn’t love them more.  And they’re not even required to buy me chocolate or edible underwear.  Cocktails, however, are encouraged.

I haven’t really wanted to talk much about it here because I don’t want every post to be “Boo hoo, Vegas sucks.”  I made a choice to move here — I didn’t have to, I could have stayed where I was, but I thought it was the right thing to do. I was pretty adamant about it, if you recall.  Mostly, I think I was talking myself into it.  But if anything, it’s made me really appreciative of California, even moreso than when I moved back to San Diego from Texas in 2003.

Don’t get me wrong, Las Vegas has had some perks — I got to see snow fall, which is rare for me and I love that. And the mountains are quite pretty. It’s not awful.  People do live here and have happy lives, I just don’t think it’s the place for me, personally.

I’m a vibrant person, a social butterfly. I love friends, I love talking to people and I lost of a lot of that interaction (and a lot of what makes good blog posts) when I started working for myself at home almost 8 years ago.  But I still had some social interaction, going out with my best gays and hitting up karaoke on occasion in San Diego. Now, I’m kind of a hermit, which has me a little depressed and that goes against every fiber of my being. I don’t do depressed.  I just keep twisting it positively and trying to think of it as a stepping stone to something else.

For now, we can save money…. though, I don’t know how much we’ll actually be able to save living here. So far, I’m not really seeing much savings or a huge difference from California. If nothing else, this adventure is a lesson in what I do want and what I don’t.

It really comes down to cost vs. worth.  I used to think California was just ridiculously overpriced. And it is, but is it worth it?  Yeah, it kinda is. San Diego is probably the most beautiful town in the country. Ok, I’m biased — but it’s my home and I’m a very proud San Diegan.  It’s worth the price for consistent weather, the year-round flip-flops, the ocean, and one thing I’ve missed a lot — the lovely Southern California sunlight… the way it looks in the afternoon, in the mornings… it’s just home to me. I miss chirping birds year round. I miss fresh air. I miss grass. I miss colors.

It’ll do for now and luckily, mikey is here. If he wasn’t here, I’d go insane. Well, if he wasn’t here, I’d not be here at all, but I’m grateful that he is. We keep each other company and he puts up with all my bitching, so hats off to him. He’s a good man.

I just need to schedule some “long weekend” trips back to San Diego to get my fix and arrange for friends to visit (because everyone wants to visit Vegas, right?).  Two years will go by quickly and hopefully, we can make the move back to California.

Somewhere in between, I’m sure I’ll find my juju again. It’s still here, it’s just hiding… in a casino, most likely.  Next to a fat lady with an oxygen tank and Hoveround.

Daniel and Richard are on the left, you just can't see them.

So, I live in Las Vegas now. Here I am, a dyed-in-the-wool California girl in the desert… if California girls wore wool. I’m sitting on my familiar couch, typing on my familiar laptop, watching my familiar TV in a totally unfamiliar house and a mostly unfamiliar city.  We dropped Daniel and Richard off at the airport a couple hours ago, Mike just left for work and it’s just me n’ the bun, getting to know this place.


Some things I’ve discovered thus far, in a handy unordered list:

• Drink a lot of water because man, it’s dry.
• This is a lot more house than I remembered and  despite my griping about how much stuff I have, it’s not enough to fill two-thirds of this place.
• Lupo by Wolfgang Puck at Mandalay stops serving at 10pm and one of the hostesses is a snatch.
• Liquidity at Luxor makes a really good martini… after you send back the first one and your waitress rolls her eyes at you.
• I can see the snow capped mountains from my office.
• There is a beautiful view of downtown, the Stratosphere and a bit of the Strip from the master bedroom.
• Lulu was calmer during the move than I was.
• If you live in a certain lovely gated community in San Diego, don’t park your UHaul on the street, even with a parking pass.  You’ll get towed and have to pay $228 to get it out all the while freaking out that your stuff has been stolen out of the back. But you can’t park outside the main neighborhood either because that’s  violating some other rule, so I guess they expect you to levitate your truck a mile above the earth until you’re ready to leave. Bollocks and a half.
• No one makes king-size fitted sheets, only Cal-King. I love you, California, you are my home state, but the whole world doesn’t revolve around your bed size.  Let’s pick one, shall we?  Twin. Full. Queen. KING. Just the one. Cripes.
• It takes three men and a handful of martinis to put together a king-size IKEA bedframe.
• My best gays are truly the best, all around. They drove the moving truck, they bought me vodka, they tolerated my crazy and still love me. And they didn’t even mind that I made them use mismatched towels.
• Don’t listen to virtual strangers when they tell you should look out for scorpions because apparently, this is not a problem. I was also told to wear shoes in the house, just in case I stepped on one, which had me in a tizzy and freaking out for Lulu’s safety and our own. Turns out, there are people who have lived here their entire lives and never seen one, let alone in the house. So that guy can suck it and pay for my therapy.
• There are strippers, minus the strip, that dance around in the middle of the casino floor in the Luxor.
• Speaking of strippers, Little Darlings off the 15 has actual footage of their (still clothed) strippers dancing on a massive screen. It’s no wonder there’s traffic congestion.
• Thanks to the Internet, what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay here.  Girl, please. They really need to retire that campaign.

That’s all for now. I have a few photos and when the house is presentable and doesn’t look like the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock, I’ll post a little tour.  Now I have to go find what box I put the thing in that allows me to do something that is probably in another box that doesn’t contain what I need. In the garage.  Next to an alleged scorpion.

But, since it’s National Coming Out Day and in light of recent events surrounding LGBT youth and the definition of marriage in our country, I think it’s important to demonstrate that I am not ashamed of who I am.  Not one bit.  For those who haven’t figured it out by now, I am equal opportunity: I’ve dated both men and women.

When I first started blogging, I’d just come off of a year long relationship with a woman who broke my heart into a zillion pieces. It kind of wrecked me when I broke up with her, but it had to be done.  She was my first real girlfriend, so it’s kind of a given that you get your heart broken on your first mission into the field, but it was a particularly tumultuous relationship filled with a considerable amount of deception and was extra painful.  I got over it, but even today, it still smarts a bit if I think about it too much.

I dated a few women casually after that.  In typical lesbian fashion, one wanted to move in before the server at Macaroni Grill had even brought the salad. Another was just too young for me and I don’t think I was gay enough for her.  Another was a casual fling, the night a dude stole my wallet in a gayborhood bar and got chased down an alley by a gang of angry women in Teva sandals.

Before my first girlfriend, I had dated men… like y’do… and after the Macaroni Grill incident, I kind of put dating on hold for a while.  Eventually, when I started dating again, there just weren’t any women that made me take notice.  Or perhaps my heart had just been too bruised that I was skittish, but eventually it was a man that caught my eye again.

My issue is mostly the label. I really dislike the term ‘bisexual’ because it just conjures images of 23-yr-old girls in halter tops doing body shots at some college bar, hoping to score free drinks from a douchebag with Backstreet Boys fashion sense.  And said douchebag is just hoping to score them.  I dislike it for every guy I’ve met that thinks, “Ayyy…. can I get in on that action?”  I dislike it for every jackass who thinks being bisexual means you swing or just need a good rogering to be turned into a proper straight chick.

Let me educate those people right now: being bisexual does not mean I’m easy, it doesn’t mean I’m just waiting for the right penis to come along, it  doesn’t mean you can get in on “that action”. (Trust me, you’d do a lot of benchwarming.) It doesn’t mean I can’t make up my mind, it doesn’t mean I want a three-way (or any other ‘way’), it doesn’t mean I’m a sex addict,  it doesn’t mean I’m being trendy and, my lesbian lovelies, it certainly doesn’t mean I will break your heart and leave you for a man.

But I still dislike the term ‘bisexual’ and there are no other viable options, which may be why I just don’t bring it up.  Gay is gay. Straight is straight. Queer is… just awkward.

There are no other terms for bisexual that don’t include the word “sex”, which I think just perpetuates the straight man’s fantasy.  Omnisexual, pansexual… all words for “I have more options”, but not only do they still include the word ‘sex’, they’re kind of pretentious, in my opinion.

Whether or not I like the word doesn’t change who I am and who I love. Right now, I’m in a relationship with a man and he’s wonderful… because of who he is and not his gender.  It doesn’t mean I don’t notice — I’m open minded, not blind. I’m either attracted to someone or I’m not, just like any other person, but I don’t subscribe to particular gender.

I think it’s important to be who you are and love who you love. You may have to fight a few battles to overturn stereotypes, you may need to endure some really hurtful words and actions, but it can get better. Being true to who you are will, eventually, allow you to live your best life, if I may get all Oprah for a second.

Being bisexual is like this awkward middle ground — not entirely accepted by the lesbian community, and gratuitously embraced by the straight one.  I don’t really give a damn what anyone thinks about it — I never have. I’ve been strangely “lucky” that due to my familial circumstances, whom I date has never been up for discussion or approval.

But even if it was, I am strong in my conviction that I love people, not parts.  Love is love, no matter what it’s wrapped in.

(If you’d like to participate in National Coming Out Day, but aren’t gay or bisexual, you can participate as a straight ally for equality. Check out the Human Rights Campaign website for more details.)