Brave new nuptials

1. Mark and Paula
"It's okay, we can try again next year," Paula choked back her tears as she reached her hand out for Mark's. 

"But I was certain that we'd pass this year.  I did everything right.  I stopped drinking tea.  I watched all of the Superbowl.  I even took those Saw Palmetto extract pills." I don't know if I can go through this again." He pulled his hand away from Paula's.

"How far off were you?"

"The counts were 22% below what they consider fertile.  Last time we were at 19% below, so we're getting better.  Just not good enough."

He threw down the official report and a stack of papers from the Office of Marriage Defense & Protection.  Across the top of the report in large red letters were the words, DENIED: INSUFFICIENT PROCREATIVE CAPACITY.

"You should go find someone who can actually marry you," he said in a bitter tone.

As he threw the report on the table, a pamphlet slipped out of the pile entitled, "Not Unlike Marriage, Only For You: A Guide to Civil Unions."

"What's that?" Paula asked.

"Just a pamphlet.  They always include it with the test results."

"Are you actually thinking about a civil union?  What would our families think?"


2. Olivia and Charles

At 62, Olivia had given up on finding love again.  She had tons of friends, a job that tapped her creative passions, and a wonderful home overlooking Raven's Gulch in an unincorporated part of the county that had yet to be over-run by MacMansions and Lexuses.  She took the Zumba class at the local community center on a whim and a recommendation from her office mate Marina who guaranteed to her that there was no better way to lose weight.  She had no idea that Zumba would be her gateway to love and romance.

At 61, Charles had recently lost his wife Allie after a mercifully quick but devastating bout of pancreatic cancer.  He felt he had barely had a chance to begin to mourn when his daughter Grace started insisting that he start "getting out there more." In fact, more than seven months had passed and Charles had rarely left his home, a condo in town that he and Allie had bought to "downscale" their life in anticipation of their retirement.  He spent most of his days reading, tracking his investments on-line, or tinkering with minor home improvement projects. Grace missed her mother, but she also missed her father.  The shut-in he had become was a man she did not know nor like. 

One drizzly Spring morning, Grace parked outside Charles' condo and beeped the horn of her Prius.  He trotted out, wearing new cross-trainers, stylish long-ish shorts, and a navy blue long sleeve t-shirt that fell perfectly on his 6'3 frame.  "Ready for Zumba?" Grace asked, a smile beaming across her face. 

In fact, he was not ready for Zumba.  Ten minutes into the class, he felt a twinge of pain in his lower back, three minutes later, the twinge was a full spasm and he was flat on his back.  Grace failed to notice her fallen father as she Zumba'd away, at the front of the class.  Olivia, on the other hand, stopped her work out, approached Charles's writhing body, and asked if he needed assistance.

From that moment, Olivia and Charles never looked back.  A sports drink break in the community center lounge turned into coffee which turned into a long walk which turned into dinner at Olivia's house which turned into a two day sleep over.  

Three months later, on a cloudless Summer morning, Charles brought Olivia her morning coffee and her I-Pad.  Olivia smiled, took a sip of coffee, and reached for her I-pad.  He could barely maintain his composure as he waited for her to open the tablet and start checking her NY Times online app, her typical morning routine. When she hit the NYT icon, the screen changed to kaleidoscope of white roses, with a photo of Charles in the center, on bended knee and a cartoon bubble stating, "Will you register as my domestic partner?"


3. Peter and Tod

"I had an idea last night.  What if instead of filing our fake federal return for state filing purposes as married filing separately, we do the fake federal return as married filing jointly?" Peter asked enthusiastically.

"What about trying the Community Property return this year?  I think the IRS wants us to do that since we are a gay married couple live in a community property state." Tod replied.

"Screw that.  We tried it last year and our taxes went up.  If the federal government doesn't recognize our marriage in other ways, why would assert our marriage only to penalize our ourselves? " Peter replied emphatically.

"Not to change the subject, but when combing through our shoebox of receipts and records I noticed that the San Francisco tax bill is just in your name.  Do you think the title is wrong?"

"It shouldn't be, but maybe they messed it up.  We should check that out.  Otherwise you'd face a huge hassle and a tax bill if I died before you."

"How is that possible, we're married?" now Tod was emphatic.

"Not in the eyes of the Federal government. As far as the IRS is concerned, you and I are unrelated people who happen to own some property together."

"As long as we're on this, what happens if one of us gets hospitalized when we're in a state that doesn't recognize our marriage?  Like Wisconsin, where we go once a year?"

"That's why we have those medical powers of attorney documents.  Not sure where they are, but we should probably travel with them.  Especially before we go to New Orleans next month."

"What would make all of this absurdity go away?" Tod braced himself for the delight of one of Peter's legal soliloquies.

"It's easy.  Repeal DOMA.  Enforce full faith and credit.  Done."

Sticks and stones...

Fag
I knew it when I wanted to try on that beaded  necklace.  The coral and brass strand that Mom wore with those orange hostess pajamas.

Fag
Why did Ernie and Bert interest me almost as much as Bob, the handsome non-muppet with the engaging smile and sweet singing voice?

Fag
A Barbie with a G.I. Joe head hanging out in the Malibu town home while a G.I. Joe with long flowing locks explored the backyard hedges in army fatigues.

Fag
Sitting on the toilet in my parent's bathroom watching my mother's nightly ritual of covering her face with Noxzema.  Time that was ours.

Fag
A snapshot of my 16th birthday with my mouth agape and my mask slipped off by the thrill and terror of ten friends hiding in the den.

Fag
I'm helping Mom distribute parting gifts of bubbles to her pre-school students and I so very much want to keep one for myself.

Fag
I have no idea how to hold this hammer, saw that 2x4 by hand, or apply wood glue to the joint.

Fag
Better students are sitting at their desks working on their assignments, said Mr. V.  Note to self, don't be like him.  Everyone knows what he is.

Fag
Manny wants to take me surfing in Santa Cruz.  Charlie is going too.  I'm torn.  If I hang out with Manny will I be guilty by association?  If I hang out with Charlie will I get to smell his hair?

Fag
I'm trying to write the pain away.  De-fang the word.  Repeat it enough so that it becomes nothing more than a syllable.

Fag
The NPR reporter sticks a microphone in a homophobe's face and let's her repeat the word three, four, maybe five times.  Balanced reporting?  Exposing the evil of the opposition? Doesn't really matter.

Fag
The word still stings.  Cuts me once, twice, three times, then twice more.  I'm bruised.  I'm bleeding.  I'm angry.  I'm enraged.

Fag
I'm weak.  I'm strong.  I'm fighting back.  I'm fighting myself.  I'm brought to my knees.  I'm standing tall.  I'm a

Fag.

A Comment to NPR about Broadcasting Homophobes

In covering the demonstrations outside the Supreme Court yesterday, I was shocked and dismayed that the reporter -- and her editors -- felt it appropriate to broadcast an opponent of marriage equality who repeatedly used the word "fag" in her comments.  While I understand the journalist's interest in presenting a full picture of the demonstrations, I imagine she could have generated plenty of comments from opponents of marriage equality from people who are not compelled to use the epithet "fag." Can you imagine broadcasting an opponent of Affirmative Action using the "N-word?"  Can you imagine broadcasting a sexist's use of the C-word?  The word fag is no less repulsive.  It is no less violent. 

Yesterday, the reporter almost seemed to chuckle at the animosity expressed between the marriage equality opponent and the proponent.  She almost seemed to bait the opponent into using the word again, and again.  Perhaps her motivation was to expose the offensive nature of the opponent's perspective, but that motivation was well-hidden. 

As the nation navigates the road towards marriage equality, maintaining civil discourse will be more crucial than ever.  The majority of Americans who now support marriage equality will only grow in numbers.  Those who have an irrational fear of marriage equality will likely become more angry, defensive, and hateful in their rhetoric.  Moving those opponents to move beyond epithets to civil arguments is critically important.  As we saw at the court yesterday -- and in the original Prop 8 trial -- there is no rational basis for their opposition to marriage equality other than the irrational bias we call homophobia. Ultimately, their arguments collapse on themselves, or suggest that we reserve marriage only for those who can prove fertility or intent to raise children.

Giving voice to their epithets may expose their homophobia, but it also legitimates it.  The word fag is used by bullies in elementary schools and street thugs who threaten and commit real violence.  It does not belong on NPR without filter or comment. 

Tod (Hill) rants about Todd (Akin)

In the current storm swirling about Missouri Republican senatorial nominee Todd Akin,  pundits from all sides have been focusing on his outrageous and offensive use of the term "legitimate rape."  Even in his retractions, the man has been unable to hide his misogyny, re-phrasing, "I meant forcible rape."  As opposed to what?  Welcome rape?  Accidental rape?  Rape is rape.  It's a violent sexual crime.  I hope the controversy catapults incumbent Senator McCaskill to victory in November.  

As the controversy builds momentum, what I feel to be the most concerning part of Akin's comments seems to have slid off the radar.  Akin full statement was, "If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."

Let's deconstruct the temple of ignorance represented by this second phrase:

"...the female body has ways..."

You know, that grand mystery of biology called the female body.  It has secret ways that started back when Eve ate the apple.  

"...shut that whole thing down..."

For a man who believes that life begins at conception, he's a bit casual with his language isn't he?  "That whole thing" would be a fertilized ovum implanting itself in a uterus, or in Akin's world, a citizen with unalienable rights.

And just how how does this secret process of "shutting it down" work?  Does he think women secrete RU-486 (the morning-after pill) naturally at-will?  If they did, I am sure people like Akin would have figured out how to outlaw it.  

The bottom line here is that anti-choice, anti-women politicians like Akin operate from absolute ignorance.  Akin is not just ignorant about the what language to use when describing sexual assault.   He is ignorant about the basics of human biology.  

I hope the voters of Missouri make sure he is never in the position to legislate his ignorance.

Okra, the philosopher

We have a lot to learn from Okra.

That's not the way most statements about Okra begin.  I find that people are bitterly divided about it.  "Yuck, it's so slimey," is one side of the argument.  "You've never had it deep fried," is the other side.  And then there are the converts, "I thought it was just a gooey green ingredient in gumbo until I had it grilled and dipped in sour cream."  Okra's first, and perhaps most fundamental lesson is:  Just try it.  Life is filled with things that at first whiff or taste can challenge our sensibilities.  If your first exposure to Okra was as the viscosity-provider for gumbo, you might not believe that it might be the vegetable equivalent to fried calamari.  Just try it.  Yes, it's slimey when sliced and diced.  Yes, when added to a pot it can look like airplane glue.  Take a deep breath, let it simmer, and soon the airplane glue disappears and you'll have a thick tasty stew made more tasty by the tender green nuggets that moments ago horrified you.  Just try it.  You might surprise yourself.

Buying Okra can be daunting.  Years ago I would go to the Farmer's Market and have to battle with the Laotian women combing through bushels of Okra to find the smaller, tender pods; ideally should the size of thumb knuckle.  Inevitably, I would lose out and end up with index finger-sized pods.  One can occasionally find Okra at Whole Foods or equivalent foodie palaces, but usually it looks a bit bruised and wilted.  Frozen is an option, frozen Okra works best in stews.  The lesson of sourcing Okra is: Do it Yourself.

Growing Okra brings rich rewards.  The first reward is purely visual.  Okra flowers are lemon yellow with a dark brown center and a defined pistil & stamen.  They look like hibiscus.  They bloom every morning and fade and wilt before the afternoon.  The lesson of the Okra flower:  Get up early and enjoy the morning.

The real rewards of growing Okra are culinary, but to reap the rewards requires discipline.  Ignore Okra, and the pods grow into giant, tough, inedible green missiles.  Harvested daily, your options for the tender pods are endless.  Small pods can be grilled or dry-fried, then eaten as an appetizer.  They can be sauteed with onions, tomatoes, and peppers for an instant vegetable gumbo.   They can be sliced or thrown in whole into any soup or stew.  Harvesting the small pods takes a good eye.  After a first round of snipping off the obvious pods, the four foot high Okra plants can seem picked clean.  This is the lesson of the Okra plant:  Look again.  Use a different angle.  Pull the plants aside.  Look from the bottom.  Look from the top.  Okra, and life, will give you rewards if you take a deep breath and change your perspective.

The final lessons of Okra are in the pan and on the plate and echo our first lesson: Just try it.  This odd little green pod, filled with seeds and slime, can deliver delight.   Just try it.  And try it a few different ways.  Variety is a good thing.

Grilled okra
Rinse okra.  Put on a grill.  Turn when slightly brown and blistered.  Turn again.  Toss with some salt and serve dipped in sour cream. (Variation:  Dry fry them in a cast iron skillet with a little oil.)

Instant veggie gumbo
Sautee onions and red pepper.  Add okra, either sliced or if small pods, whole.  Add chopped tomatoes.   Cook until okra is fork-able.

Senegalese stew
Sautee onions and red pepper.  Add diced chicken and cook through (or use left over roasted chicken).  Add okra and cook until tender.  Add chicken stock and simmer.  Take a cup of chicken stock and mix with peanut butter.  Add to stew.  Simmer.  Serve with diced tomatoes as a garnish.

Is it cheating if you use a mix?

Sorry, Mr. Krusteaz, but you should have eased up on your ego and not named your product after yourself.  Krusteaz?  Sounds like something to be removed from one's eyelids in the morning, not the basis of a delicious breakfast.  Krusteaz?  Maybe it would have worked for pie crust, "Don't fret over your pie crust, Krusteaz and makes pie crust a snap!" Krusteaz? Sounds like a Hogan's Heroes character, the bumbling Wermacht officer, Captain Krusteaz.

Poorly named product, aside, Krusteaz Buttermilk Pancake Mix is my secret weapon.  Like orange juice, it's not just for breakfast anymore.

Most summers I am overwhelmed with zucchini.  Turn your back on these squash and your garden becomes overwhelmed with obscene, forearm-sized monstrosities.  The British, who call zucchini by their french name courgette, call these over grown green giants marrows.

You can stuff a marrow with cheese, bread crumbs, and finely diced pieces of itself.  You can chop a marrow and stew it with tomatoes and eggplant for ratatouille.  You can make zucchini bread, muffins, and even chocolate cake, but by August, you're sick of it, and your friends are sick of it, and you risk an obscenity charge whenever you leave the house with a well-formed marrow stuck under your arm.

This is where Mr. Krusteaz's mix saves the day.  Grate three or four cups of a giant courgette, add some chopped herbs, a bit of grated gruyere and enough pancake mix to dust it all and you have the batter for zucchini blinis.  Spoon the batter into sand dollar sized shapes on the griddle, flip 'em, then serve them warm with creme fraiche and chopped basil.

The savory secrets of Krusteaz mix do not end with blinis.  Scared of real chile rellenos?  You know, the kind dipped in batter and deep fried? Skinning and seeding roasted poblano peppers is treacherous enough, but stuffing them and battering them without tearing the peppers into shreads? Forget about it.  Just slice the peppers in half, stuff them with cheese, and then pour a light batter of pancake mix over them and bake them at 400 for 25 minutes.  You'll save the hassle and mess of frying and probably save a few calories (but seriously, chile rellenos are probably not recommended for serious calorie counters.)

The fun doesn't have to stop there.  Eggplant torta?  Roast some eggplant --lightly painted in olive oil-- for 10-15 minutes in a 400 degree oven.  Sautee some onions and red peppers.  Mix an egg, a spoon full of yogurt or sour cream, and a 1/2 cup of parmesan with about a 1/2 cup of pancake mix.  In a cast iron skillet or round baking dish, place a layer of eggplant, peppers & onions,  batter, then a final layer of eggplant.  Top with thinly sliced tomatoes and more parmesan.  Bake at 400 for 25-30 minutes.

Embracing Husbands

In the sitcoms of my youth, husbands were often dragging their wives to important business dinners, inevitably leading to anxiety & antics.  Darren worked himself into a tizzy of worry that Samantha would reveal her witchcraft to the big client.  Maude's husband lived in fear that she would engage in a biting argument with his boss.  Even Mike Brady had to worry that dinner with the new client might be interrupted by some whacky plot line involving Carol, Alice and the kids.  In the world of sitcoms, despite plenty of tension and hilarity, these dinners would always have a happy resolution.  The presentation would win approval. The promotion would be granted.  The deal would be signed.  Usually this success was somehow related to the wife's noble, thoughtful, efforts.

It was in the spirit of this grand tradition of spousal duty that I joined Peter at a dinner with his legal colleagues last night.  It was a diverse group of colleagues from his firm and an array of cooperating firms from his current litigation.  Peter barely knew some of them.  I only knew the hosts.  Subsequently, the beginning of the night was filled with introductions.

There are three basic types of social introductions.

The first is the re-introduction.  I usually do this one myself.  "Hi, I am Tod, we met at that Holiday party a couple of years ago."  By diving in, I save the other person the potential embarrassment of trying to remember my name and save myself the embarrassment of the blank stare if they actually have no clue who I am.

The second is when one is introduced to someone connected to the introducer, in this case Peter, whom you have heard about and are genuinely happy, if not excited, about meeting. To a colleague who knows of my existence Peter needs to say nothing more than, "This is Tod."  My relationship to Peter is clear because he talks about me constantly in glowing terms.

The blind introduction can be the most uncomfortable.  In the case of last night, it is when Peter barely knows the person (and may even be struggling to remember their name).  "Hi Bill, this is Tod," does not suffice because Bill has no clue of my existence.  In this case, it is incumbent upon Peter to make clear to Bill who I am.  And who I am is Peter's husband.

Since October of 2008, Peter and I have been legally married in the state of California. After 14 years of being "partners" (a term which has complications in a room full of attorneys), as far as the state was concerned we became "spouses."  We never adopted that term, but lately we have been trying to use husband.  Every married woman I know calls her male spouse her husband, why shouldn't I?  I have to admit it has not always rolled off my tongue.  I don't want people to think I'm using air quotes or being ironic in anyway.  I don't want to have to explain to people, "We're part of the 28,000 couples who got married in the window before Prop 8 passed..."

Putting that potential verbal and social awkwardness aside, I have started to embrace the word husband.   Partly because I want better short hand in social situations to describe who Peter is to me.  Partly because to believe in marriage equality does not mean applying second class euphemisms to your marital status.  And partly, I admit, as an act of defiance.

So last night, on no fewer than ten occasions Peter introduced me as "My husband Tod."  The response from a not uniformly progressive crowd was interesting to observe.  Some people visibly winced.  Others appeared to be struggling to avoid appearing as if they were struggling.  Others appeared to struggle to process simultaneously the information that Peter was gay and that this tall man standing next to him was the man he lived with (and probably fucked) legally.  A few seemed un-phased, but still had a quizzical look on their faces, as if looking for the air quotes around the word.

The evening had none of the poignant resolution of those sitcoms.  I did nothing to embarrass Peter, win over his client's wife with my charm, or help to nail his big promotion by talking sports with his boss.  We were just a couple at a social function organized around business function.  Two husbands giving each other the signal when one of us needed rescue from a boring conversation about the expert witnesses at last week's trial.  Two husbands, quibbling over who would be the designated driver.  Two husbands relieved to head home once we agreed we would no longer be the first to leave.