I Am a Holy Woman (tm)

By WordyGrrl


Ever know a couple that's just such a perfect couple that they nearly make you sick up? Together more than a year, yet still putting mushy notes in each other's lunches, sending flowers and -- the kicker -- using actual snail mail to exchange smarmy, adoring cards? And they drop frequent hints that they're still burning up the 500-threadcount Laura Ashley sheets with each other.

My pal Miss A and her girlfriend Miss J are such a couple. Sure, they get teased about it, it's really refreshing to see two normal, sane women enjoying a healthy and happy relationship. A great pair of gals, and they're as much fun to hang out with individually as they are when they're together. Trite as it may sound, it's nice to see two nice people join forces to become a nice couple.

It's no surprise that they're thinking of getting married. After all, it's legal in California, which is a mere daytrip from Washington state. We've even joked about loading up an RV with other lesbian couples and doing a long weekend roadtrip there for that sole purpose. Now that'd be an adventure worthy of YouTube, eh?

So a few days ago, I get a call from Miss A. She and Miss J are out running errands, and they've just come up with a great idea. Apparently the idea that they'd like to have me officiate their union. I was so shocked, so tremendously honored that I nearly dropped the phone. I mean, it's one thing if they ask you to be a bridesmaid. But to actually DO the honors? Wow. Talk about feeling all warm and fuzzy.

"So start Googling and find out how you can become Sister Wordy or something," Miss A said. Five minutes and several keystrokes later, I became Reverend "WordyGrrl" (not my real name, duh) of the Universal Life Church. It's an organization so open-minded that their logo is a string of everybody else's religious logos, and their main motto is something along the lines of "Be Nice."

Called Miss A back, and let her know that if she's serious, things are a go. I am now legally able to enunciate some lovely verbiage and pronounce them married in the presence of two witnesses. Well, it'll be legal when same-sex marriage becomes legal in Washington state, but you get the idea.

In any case, I am now a Holy Woman ™ , invested with the power to say nice things at weddings and funerals. No word on their site about conducting exorcisms in the aisles of WalMart, but I'm hopeful. Scenes from that godawful remake of "The Crucible", starring Winona Ryder, are coming to mind. [Game idea: do a shot every time somebody calls out Goody's name.]



I've got so much to do! As a newly-ordained Holy woman ™, I need to design some raiments, create a dogma, a catma, it's endless!. Declare my kitchen a church, designate a finely-crafted microbrew as a sacramental wine, etc.Already decided that Girl Scouts Samoas will be the official "wafer," with the classic shortbread as backup in case any parishioners don't like coconut.

There's also a catch: I'm agnostic, a secular humanist. Meaning that my "belief" is that the existence of God/Godde can be neither proven nor disproven by science or logic.

I don’t slam religious beliefs at all; talking about it is as fascinating as recounting ancient Greek and Roman myths. Sometimes we need an emotional justification to explain the unexplainable. To put off grasping our mortality. To look at a leaf and ignore what we know about photosynthesis and to be simply amazed at how it changes color over the course of a few months.

As an agnostic Holy Woman ™, how does this work? If I'm not sure God/Godde exists, who am I entreating to listen? Whose blessing am I asking for?

Somewhere out there is a small child who's convinced there's a monster under the bed. A big, scaly smelly one with glow-in-the-dark eyes that nobody else can see. Just the kind of beast who needs to be exorcised, driven out with a few fancy phrases and a spritz of "holy water."

And there are a couple of sincere, loving women, a perfectly matched pair, who want to proclaim their one-ness before friends, family and whatever Supreme Being exists.

There are fears to be quashed, confirmation to be given, love to be celebrated. Who am I to remain inert? Somebody as to say something! Do something! Drape something around my neck, hand me a smudge stick or some of that leftover incense. This Holy Woman ™ has work to do, even if there's no giant, magical superbeing to tally it up.

The Anti-Reunion Reunion

By WordyGrrl

Ever get bored and ruminative at the same time? Listing off your favorite personal accomplishments can kill some time and give your ego a life. Among my fave victories is getting the hell out of Mississippi after high school and never going back. Sure, I've driven through the state, rolled down the windows long enough to enjoy the song of cicadas and that sweet, heavy lemony scent of full-blown magnolia blossoms on a steamy summer night. And then I held it until I could find a nice, clean gas station just over the state border.

For some reason, my southern alma mater has apparently become reunion crazy, throwing fests yearly instead of just humanely stopping at the 20-year mark back in 2005. Looking at the class website, it's pretty sad and somewhat shocking to see who's died, including a girl I had a major silent crush on. We're not that old yet, but we ARE getting older and who wants a reminder of the aging process? The elephant in the middle of the room that is our own mortality and lost youth?

But in 1983, there were no cell phones, no internet and no chance of keeping in touch if numbers were lost or somebody moved without having a forwarding address to give you. And so shortly after graduation, we were blown to the four winds and lost touch with each, left alone to create our own lives, develop our own personas, careen madly through our 20s, reassess the damage in the 30s, and start getting invites to join AARP in our early 40s.

Sure, I had some really good times and a great bunch of friends in high school, but in all honesty, there were only two classmates I really gave a serious damn about meeting up with again after all these years. And thanks to the internet, I just found them a few months ago. We re-met via Classmates.com, coincidentally by cheating that site out of membership fees by posting pics of ourselves with our emails superimposed on them.

These were my main buds. My boys. And both of them were as out as one could be in Mississippi in 1983. That is, they were out to me and whichever boys they could furtively fumble with on the downest of the down-low. I listened to their stories and kept their secrets, interviewed them with a red Panasonic cassette recorder and did fashion shoots with a 110 camera. But I never came out to them. What can I say? I just wasn't ready to be as out as they were. The Klan was very openly active then and African Americans weren't the only groups being lynched in Mississippi then. Queers were, too. And besides, what if I was only a phase?

Turns out it wasn't. I am indeed a big, ol' flaming lesbo, among other things. A lot of other phases have come and gone since then, and "my boys" and I have been firing off the emails like mad. We're burning up bundles of bandwidth, trying to fill each other in on the phases, twists and turns our lives have taken since we spray-painted "Class of 83" on every available stop sign in Meridian.

David was an insecure, shy, skinny boy with a big nose and unruly mop of curly hair, overly concerned with wearng "the right labels" in order to be "popular." He recently appeared semi-nude for the cover for a coffee table book called "Men of the Sierras" and has a steady job in film production with Steven Spielberg's Dreamworks studio. Brad, an 80s version of Oscar Wilde with a penchant for blasphemous discourse, weed and canned wine coolers, gave up drama school for a gig with the state government as a health educator.

We overwhelmingly decided to blow off the official class reunion in favor of one of our own. The Anti-Reunion Reunion. Taking incomes into account, we decided to meet in the place where the one least able to afford travel lives. Having received no offer of a raise in 10 years, Brad was the "winner," meaning we'd all meet up at his place. In Gulfport, Mississippi.


Brad says Gulfport is different, that it's some kind of blue-minded oasis in a red state. And we are different now. My boys are men now, fully grown and entering the real prime of their lives. And I'm not that skinny, anti-social kid anymore, who relied on humor or conducting interviews of others to deflect questions about herself.

And so in September, I'll be flying to the Magnolia state I fled so many years ago, vowing never to return. I'll be coming out to the very people I should have come out to first -- those who came out to me, in a time and place in which it felt damn dangerous to do so. But I'll be back, older, wiser and far stronger than before. I'm a grown woman now. Since graduation day 1983, I've lived in a lot of different countries, been in a war, seen amazing beauty and heart-wrenching squalor (often in the same place). Learned the difference between bullshit that amuses me and bullshit I won't tolerate.

So here's to good friends and that old hometown of mine: The people who shaped my persona because they reveled in being different. And to the place that made me what I am simply because I refused to become a part of it.

The Colors of Pride

By WordyGrrl

The rainbow flag has become the most easily-recognized symbol of the worldwide gay and lesbian community. But as Pride month arrives, how many of us really know the meaning and history of the colors we wave around so happily at the parade?

The rainbow flag made its first appearance in the 1978 San Francisco Gay and Lesbian Freedom Day Parade. It was designed by San Francisco artist Gilbert Baker in response to a need for a logo or symbol that would encompass the entire community and could be used on an annual basis for pride-type events.

Baker and a team of thirty volunteers created two huge prototype flags for the parade, dyed and stitched by hand. These original flags featured eight stripes with each color representing a facet of a very diverse community: hot pink for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sun, green for nature, turquoise for art, indigo for harmony, and violet for spirit.

The next year Baker approached San Francisco Paramount Flag Company to mass-produce rainbow flags for the 1979 parade. Due to production constraints, hot pink was removed because the color was not commercially available, thus reducing the number of stripes to seven.

The November 1978 assassination of Harvey Milk, San Francisco's first openly gay supervisor, led to further changes in the flag. So that the gay community could display its sense of solidarity in the aftermath, the turquoise stripe was removed and indigo was replaced by royal blue. This enabled the colors to be divided equally along the parade route -- three on one side, three on the other.

This six-color version spread from San Francisco to other cities worldwide, and is now is officially recognized by the International Congress of Flag Makers. In 1994, a huge 30-foot-wide by one-mile-long rainbow flag was carried by 10,000 people in New York's Stonewall 25th Anniversary Parade.

But regardless of size or variations on the rainbow theme, the Pride flag serves as both a celebration of unity and the diversity that our community represents. Let it also serve as a reminder of past struggles for acceptance and inclusion and the work that remains to be done, not only during Pride Month but all year 'round.

Date Night At Craigslist.com

By WordyGrrl

We will meet in a safe, public place. A coffee shop, probably. Always, there is the expectation of immediate chemistry. Love or Lust at first site or it's all off. If, within the next 30 minutes, we do not think each other potentially farkable at some point in the very near future, we'll simply cease communicating after this. No returned calls or email.

The downside is that I won't be hearing back from a fellow fan of early John Waters films who enjoys a good thrift store find and learning the difference between good wine and crappy wine. The upside is that I won't know about your inability to keep cocaine out of your nose or that you still haven't been able to get your alcoholic, jobless ex to move out.

We will spend the next several minutes asking each other very personal questions, expecting profound truthful answers, while we ourselves struggle to pose as the perfect date -- witty, charming, intelligent with just a certain touch of sexy mystery.

I'll know immediately that you're putting on an act to be witty, charming, etc, instead of just being yourself. And because it's the dating game, I can't be rude enough to say "Oh gawd, just knock it off. You're not that good an actress, and my disbelief isn't suspended." Because I'm doing the same thing myself, only because I think it's expected. And I'm feeling pretty sick about it, because it's so not real.

What I'm really thinking is that... I'm not in the mood for a friggin' job interview. I have things to do. I need three pairs of socks, a humidifier (for $30 or less) and I wouldn't mind picking up some movies at the library before it closes at 6pm. Ooh, I hope they have something by French and Saunders. Gawd, those women are brilliant and funny. And a foreign film that's so human and honest and poignant it makes my eyes leak. And a seriously good horror film that's real thriller-scary instead of being just shocking, blood-gushing gory trash. Those are a dime a dozen.

Anyway... Oh, yeah. We're on a date. Sorry. We have airs to put on.

It would be totally off the track if I told you what I needed to buy today and asked if you wanted to come along. Besides, I might find out what kind of socks you like, how good you are about sniffing out a bargain or what kind of movies you really like to watch. We might get hungry and I'd find out what your suggestions would be for a good snack -- and I'd see how you treat the restaurant staff. Are you a kind and friendly patron who tips well? Or are you one who considers the server "a servant, whose job it is to fawn over me with servitude?"

Those little things would tell me a helluva lot about who you really are in a very short amount of time, but because we're on a "first date" we have to ask and answer the official questions. Most of those seem to be based on "what will you do for me?" And I let you do the asking, because I'm polite.

"If I had a bad day, how would you cheer me up? Are you a top or a bottom? What are you into sexually? Do you have any baggage? Do you smoke weed? Are you completely over your ex?"

Again, there's the difference between what we think and what we say. It's not subterfuge. It's politeness, so I don't quite tell you the immediate, gut truth:

Sweetie, I only met you 15 minutes ago. I don't even know your last name, much less what makes you happy. And it's none of your goddamn business yet what I do in bed. Besides, just because I liked something with the ex doesn't mean I'll automatically like it with you. Or, you just might be the one to open up a deliciously kinky side of me nobody knew existed.

Baggage? If you define that as knowledge gained from past experiences, good or bad, then yes. I have learned what things I will roll my eyes over but let slide and what I absolutely will not put up with.

No, I don't lump marijuana in with all the other bad drugs. It really should be legalized, especially for medical reasons. However, I had a bad experience with a pothead roomie who never had money for her share of the rent but ALWAYS had money for weed. And she stayed stoned 24-7. If you're just the typical "I'll have a whiff once or twice a month" type, I'm good with that. But you'll have to prove that to me first. All because of that crappy roomie. See? That's baggage. Totally unfair, but there it is.

Am I "over" my ex? Well, yeah. I wouldn't be doing this dating thing if I was still somehow hoping I'd wake up and the past would magically cleanse and reverse itself. I have endured the relationship with the ex, accepted the lessons both good and bad, and have moved on. She's either basically a good person and we remain friends of a sort, or she's evil and I have cleanly cut off all ties with her and the vicious pack of bitches she surrounded herself with.

Another coffee? No, I shouldn't. It's after 4pm, and I want to sleep tonight. Besides we both seem a little jittery. Couldn't be this dating pressure, could it? Ha ha ha, of course not!

Well, I'd love to stay but I have some errands I have to run.

It was really nice meeting you, too!

Give me a holler if you see me online, okay?

Take care now! Don't worry about the table. I'll throw the cups and stuff away...