Throwback Boy Bands and Other Serious Topics

I probably first heard the New Kids on the Block at age 12. By 14, I knew every word to every song, had parties to watch their Pay Per View concerts, owned every cassette, every poster, and more copies of Tiger Beat than you can imagine. I saw them perform live in 1993 and it was (at the time) the best night of my life. Yeah, I was THAT girl.

As an adult, I haven’t seen much of them. What I have seen is a society that has repeatedly told me that my body type is unattractive. I’ve seen a diet industry try to convince me that I am not good enough unless I am constantly on this bandwagon leading me to thin perfection. I have seen Diet Coke and Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig and even beer with 64 calories try to persuade me to be a better version of myself- if better means nothing other than 75 pounds lighter than who I already am.

In October, I went for my annual exam at my doctor’s office. She was surprised (I know this because she said so) that my blood pressure, blood sugar, enzymes, (and whatever the hell they’re measuring in all the labs and vitals and swabs they take to find flaws in your biological design) were all perfect. I’m paraphrasing, but in essence, my doctor told me that I was too fat to be so healthy and I should be thankful. I told her that I’m quite thankful and contrary to the number on the scale- which she seemed to place a lot of stock in- I am very healthy. I eat a balanced diet. I have fresh veggies every day. I keep fruit on hand. I drink water. And for the record, I also eat ice cream if I want it.

I have struggled (as most people have) with body image most of my life. On that day in my doctor’s office, when I expected to hear the worst, I was instead greeted with a message of health. I was also greeted with disbelief, but the part I focused on was health. Yay me! I spent the next few days really looking at myself. I discovered that I’m not ugly- in fact, I’m kinda cute. I have an incredible sense of humor, I am caring and loving and generous and non-judgmental. But because I have curves- voluptuous, proportionate curves- I should want to change? No freaking way. Thus begins my journey of self love.

I find my heart breaking when I hear young people talking about their weight, their size, their need to stay thin and attractive. It devastates me to think that the next generation will hurt inside and torture themselves for this ideal picture of beauty. I am angry. I am broken. I want to change something- anything!- to make the world a different place for my kids. I decided to start with myself. My focus is not on weight or dress size. I am learning to love my body- all 225 pounds of it. (Yep. I said it.) I’m hot. If you don’t agree, it’s okay. I probably won’t be getting naked with you anyway, so you’re safe.

This is the part where I tie it together. I promise.

 I rarely watch music videos, MTV is stupid nowadays and I am usually into music for the sake of the music. My imagination creates a video based on my interpretation of the lyrics, the tone, and the beat. Occasionally, my BFF will insist that I watch a video on VH1 in the mornings and I will occasionally oblige. I had watched a video with her a few days ago and just left it on for background music. I heard the new NKOTB song Remix. As a fan from way back, I wanted to check the guys out, see what’s up. Instead, I found myself immersed in the story in this video. The song is about a woman who gets tired of blending in, being judged, being laughed at, and becomes okay with herself and how hot they (the five guys of my teenage dreams) think she is. The woman featured in this video is a beautiful actress by the name of Artemis Pebdani. She is a curvy girl. She is dancing like no one is watching, even though everybody is watching. She shakes her groove thing very provocatively with a drooling Donnie Wahlberg who sings out to her “I love the sexy thing you turned into.” Maybe he’s a great actor nowadays, but I believed him. I think he really wanted her. And you know why? She was HOT! She’s naturally a pretty girl, but the self confidence she exudes in this video is magnetic. If she knows she’s that awesome, who am I to question her?

Guess what- I am awesome, too. So are you. Be healthy; take care of you first. I’ve learned that the “picture of health” is hidden somewhere underneath my plus sized clothes, stretch marks, and my thighs that rub together. If you don’t like something about yourself, change it. If someone else doesn’t like something about you, that is their own stuff. Don’t haul the baggage of what others think of you. Please love yourself. Do it for your own sanity. But also do it for my kids. Do it so that they can believe in themselves. Do it so that my son will choose a partner who is perfect for him and not for society. Do it so that my daughter can love herself and never question whether 5 pounds will make her more or less attractive.  Do it. And remember this: it’s okay (and recommended) to fall in love with yourself.

And sometimes, you treat the person you’re in love with to a guilt-free dessert.

Dear Boston,

It all began as a young girl in Alabama, watching Celtics games with my family and Red Sox games with my grandpa. I felt a connection to Boston as a kindergartener. My grandmother used to travel to Boston regularly for business and I remember this twinge of jealousy; I hoped one day to have her job, just to be closer to the city I felt was my “other home”. She once returned from Boston and brought me a small, ceramic teddy bear souvenir; it was my prized possession.

I know it sounds strange and still, that draw to Boston was always in me. As a teenager, I dreamed of attending Boston College. There was no internet in those days, so I actually had to work pretty hard to research the city. I knew Boston geography, I had a secret bookmark on the appropriate section in the encyclopedia, I studied the history of the city. I just felt like a Bostonian.

I have never lived there. I didn’t even visit until I was 30 years old. I can count on one hand the number of times that I’ve walked those streets, admired the architecture, and listened to the accents of people I wanted to be.

I did spend a few years of my life in southern Maine and no other place I’ve lived compares to New England. It’s a unique community; there’s a sense of camaraderie amongst the people. As a Red Sox fan to the core, I talk smack about the Yankees fans; and at the end of the day, we’re all brothers and sisters. It’s the New England way.

I’m not a runner- certainly not of the marathon variety- and I’ve been known to make jokes about my desire to run, or the lack thereof. The impact of the Boston Marathon bombing has touched me as if I were exhausted after a 26.2 mile run. As I watched the coverage of the Marathon tragedy, my heart ached for “my people”. I was broken at the lost sense of safety in their own homes. I hurt for the people who witnessed the horror, the families who lost their loved ones, the ones like me whose hearts were broken from the love of that amazing city, who value the lives of all people, those who have a heart for strangers, and every single person who was affected by this nightmare in the city of my heart.
 

Five years ago, I left New England. My family in Alabama needed me; they still do. Although my house is here, I am a southerner by birth, and proud of my heritage, I assure you, I am- and always have been- a New Englander at heart. I am Boston.

Marriage in the USA

                Once upon a time in Las Vegas, a man stumbles into a bar and tries hard to focus his eyes onto the *hopefully* stunning lady across the room. He approaches her and offers to buy the next round. She giggles uncontrollably through his stuttering, slurred proposition, then politely accepts and offers him a seat. After a few hours, becoming more intoxicated with every new drink, they come to realize she is visiting from New Jersey, he from Texas. The drinks flow like water, the laughter continues, the physical contact grows in intensity. He says, “let’s get married!” She says, “yes!” They proceed to the nearest chapel (which is barely a block from the bar of their meeting), whip out their IDs, take vows, and she becomes Mrs. What-was-his-name-again?

 

                Meanwhile in Michigan, Nancy is 47 and has been married four times. She can’t seem to find Mr Right. But she tries husbands on like shoes you aren’t sure how they’ll fit when you’re in them all day and if they hurt her feet too much, she’ll just pitch them out. (She has a great divorce attorney who has gotten her a fair settlement from each of the husbands- always enough to keep her afloat until the next one comes along.) Her intentions are good; she wants a forever commitment. They just never turn out that way. She doesn’t even bother to change her last name on official documents anymore. She’s been seeing Robert, 60, for about three months now and he has popped the question. Robert is a nice man, spoils her with flowers, compliments, and a weekend getaway or two. She accepts. Maybe Robert is the guy of her dreams. Nancy forgets all the Roberts of her past- the ones who became abusive or the ladies’ man or just stopped being nice after that trip down the aisle; instead she thought about the potential and headed off to the courthouse for another marriage license. After all, if things didn’t work out, she could always get another divorce.

 

                Jim is 82, a successful entrepreneur, and a lonesome widower with a heart condition. Maria is 23, a beautiful high school graduate, aspiring model/actress, whose efforts at success have not paid the bills. She takes his order at a coffee shop and quickly learns of his financial (and health) status. Each day, he comes into the shop for his morning cup and a read and Maria took excellent care of him. She sat down at his table, got to know him, and seduced him- mind, body, and spirit. He brought her gifts, paid her bills, and eventually asked her to move in with him. He took the bait; she simply needed to set the hook. Jim listened as she told him she couldn’t live with any man she wasn’t married to, so naturally, he presented her with a fat diamond. She became his manipulating wife, counting the days until his heart finally gave out and she inherited his fortune. She told her disgusted friends, “I’ll marry for money the first time; the second time for love.”

 

                These three scenarios play out every day in the US. They are perfectly legal marriages, not born of love and commitment, but of selfishness, irresponsibility, and immorality. They have not reduced your idea of what family and marriage mean to you, even if you disagree with these choices. They have not removed any dignity or sanctity from your own legal marriage.

                Now meet Jack and Bill. They’ve been together for 13 years. They have a relationship built on love, trust, and responsibility. They’ve committed their lives to one another years ago, sharing a home, equal responsibilities, and a life together. Living in Virginia, they have paid higher taxes than you, had to draft power of attorney documents to preserve the rights of their coupledom (which still may be fought in court) should one of them die, and while Jack’s job offers exceptional health insurance, Bill is not eligible to participate and must pay hundreds of dollars monthly for his diabetic supplies and medication.  They can’t get married in their state, in this country, because it may upset your view of what marriage truly is: commitment, love, trust, and respect…

                This is what we are striving for: equality for all people, an opportunity to take part not only in the benefits of marriage, but also the recognition that our relationships are worthy of acknowledgement. I don’t ask that you support the LGBT community with funds, protests, and attending pride events. I don’t even ask that you become an ally to the community. I don’t expect you to change your view of morality or disregard your religious beliefs- I value my own, it is intrinsic to who I am and wouldn’t want to be asked to give it up- but I do want you to consider affording the entire population basic rights. It will do no harm to your own belief system, but what it will do is provide a love and respect that is a part of the Golden Rule.

Butch, Femme, and Ke$ha sing it together now: We R who We R

I have told my story in a previous blog, but the last half of this blog is really relevant to conversations I've been having with some wonderful people in my life. I hope this tale sheds some light on the path of your own journey, gives you a place to refer when making judgements about someone else's identity, and provides you with peace to rest in your perfect "youness".

For me, coming out was a lot like this:

“You? Really? I mean… you don’t LOOK like a lesbian.”

Even my gay friends didn’t take me seriously. I thought I wasn’t “lesbian enough”. I hated it. I hated myself- for not fitting in, for not being “gay enough”, for not being taken seriously. So I did what I thought I had to do: I cut my hair, took off my nails, traded my skirts for cargo shorts, my diamonds for neck ties, and my lipstick for chapstick. I figured the only way anyone would believe me is if I looked the part. I arrived on the scene of my new life as a brand new woman- even I didn’t recognize her- but there was no mistaking this chick for a dyke. And it felt great. Except for the part where I didn’t know myself anymore.

At that time, all of the lesbians in my life either IDed as butch or bore no label at all. Each of them were what I call 100 footers (yes, I’m citing The L Word here). I knew none of the mythical creatures referred to as “lipstick lesbians”, I wasn’t even sure they existed. I knew it was where I’d fit, but I needed to be accepted in the community.

Allow me to clarify- I have never been butch. I didn’t spend a single second claiming that ID; I never felt it in my core; I merely hid behind a disguise: the disguise that I believed would *out* me, without the discomfort of the conversation mentioned above.

Then one day, while living in Portland, Maine, I met a few of the illusive ladies who identified as femme. Femme- probably the most beautiful word I had ever heard- it sounded like music; it lit a fire in my soul; it reminded me of the girl I had hidden away from the world; it gave me the courage to be. Femme…

I realized that no matter who I had transformed into on the outside, my insides had always been femme. I embraced the true Lori again. That weekend, I did everything I could to connect with that girl I had suppressed so deeply. And I had no idea what a struggle it would be.

I am again invisible as a lesbian. I’ve grown very accustomed to coming out. I’ve been completely out for nearly 9 years, but I still come out almost daily. I have done it so many times; it has become part of my getting-to-know-you speech. I have claimed a femme identity with pride for many years now. While it hasn’t always been easy, it has always been worth it to know myself fully.

I recently read an article that sent my blood boiling- it stated that femmes tailor their appearance to capture a man’s gaze. Absurd! The identity of femme is enveloped beautifully in our queerness. The author was a lesbian. That infuriated me. It reminded me of times that I have gone into the local gay bar and been stared at, shunned, and disregarded because I’m femme. This is my community, too, bitches!

On the flip side, there are femmes who haven’t exactly welcomed me into the fold; perhaps because I’m not femme enough for them. I am not high-femme; I do occasionally leave the house without make-up, in jeans, in sneakers, with a ponytail. That doesn’t make me less than, though these ladies (and I use the term loosely) might beg to differ.

I have discussed this topic with a few of my partners along the way (most of which ID as butch/stud), and have learned that my own plight is not unlike their own. I have heard things from them like, “I wasn’t butch enough because I know how to sew.” Or “She said I’m not really butch because I like to be fucked.” Or “I’m not butch enough because I date other butches.” I call bullshit.

Butch and femme are not only about personifying 100% traditional masculine/feminine roles. Hell, I plunged my own toilet this morning- I can assure you I am no damsel in distress. It is about who you are, how you feel about yourself, what makes you comfortable in your own skin. And those are not things someone else can determine for you.

So I say to you, my femme sisters: You are femme in your heels or sneakers. You are femme in a dress or jeans. You are femme in a ponytail or in full make-up. You are femme because that is who you are. I accept you, I do not judge you, and you are beautiful. PS: you are welcome in my femme-club any day.

And to my delicious butches, I say to you: You are butch whether you are working on a motorcycle or cooking dinner. You are butch even if you have long hair. You are butch whether you are stone or you like getting fucked. You are butch whether you bind your chest or not.  You are butch because that is who you are. I accept you, I do not judge you, and yes- you, too, are beautiful. Feel free to send me photos in your best necktie- it’s my favorite thing!

And to the rest of you: What does a lesbian look like? She looks like me. She may look like you. She may have tattoos and a Harley and shoot whiskey. She may have false eyelashes, amazing cleavage, and sip Cosmos. She may be any combination of that. She may be none of those things. Sometimes the dust jacket doesn’t reveal all that is the amazing book inside. Sometimes you just have to start reading to find out. And I, for one, am a pretty amazing read.

Responsible Parenting Isn't Always Pretty

I’ve been questioned- even admonished- for some of my parenting choices, simply because I don’t always follow the unwritten guide book about what parents should do. At the end of the day, it is my responsibility to turn these kids God gave me into adults that make the world a better place. I have always felt that I am the one who will have to live with the qualities I’ve instilled in them, the times I answered their tough questions with the truth, and the times I proactively broached uncomfortable- and important- topics with them.

For example, my son came to me when he was in the fourth grade and asked, “Mom? What’s a period?” I had a hysterectomy when he was three years old, so it isn’t really a topic that came up around the house very often. I said, “I will be happy to explain it to you; first I’d like you to tell me where you heard about it.” His answer, “at school.” Immediately, I begin to think of all the incorrect information 9 year old boys are passing around. I gave him detail about female anatomy, I drew him a diagram, I explained the monthly cycle at length. He looked horrified, I felt very pleased with myself. He then said to me, “Mom! I already know about that, I meant at school. You know, first period, second period..?”  Oops. I have learned two things from that experience: ALWAYS ask them to use the word in a sentence before defining it. I am awesome under pressure.

These stories aren’t always so warm and fuzzy. For example, my daughter asked me just the other day, “Mom, why did you tell me there was no Santa Claus when I was six?” I said, “Because you said, ‘tell me the truth, are you really Santa Claus?’ and I refuse to lie if you ask me a direct question. Now don’t we all feel better knowing that I’ll always tell you the truth, even if you don’t want to hear it?” The answer to that was likely no. I rest easy in knowing that she’ll get it someday.

It’s the times that I have real talks with my kids about real issues that they didn’t ask about- the ones I feel are valuable lessons, solid teaching experiences- that I bring up on my own that folks have the hardest time understanding. A lot of the concern is that I expose them to information too early, that my detail is too advanced, that my methods are questionable. I think when it comes to molding them into adults that I can be proud of, I can never go too far in giving them information.

Last night at dinner, I spoke with my kids about the Steubenville, OH rape case that has been all over the news. My son is closing in on 14 and my daughter is now 10. This story could have a lasting impact on their future choices as teenagers and adults. I told them the story- the series of poor choices, the irresponsible consumption of alcohol, the decision to consider an inability to give consent as consent, the onlookers who not only didn’t step in, but commemorated this crime in videos, photos, tweets, etc.- and I urged them to consider this event and its relevance to their own lives. We talked about the importance of not becoming so intoxicated that your ability to make good choices is impaired. We talked about consent- if someone is not a willing participant, it is force. Coercion is force. Failure to give consent is force. No always means no. “I’m not sure about this” means no. Anything less than yes means no. I stressed to my son that these boys are now registered sex offenders because they believed they could take advantage of this girl- she didn’t say no, she didn’t put up a fight, the situation didn’t allow her to. I stressed to my daughter that even amongst friends, these things happen. I stressed to them both that we are the kind of people who step in when someone is being treated unfairly. We are the kind of people who take that girl who is no longer capable of making good decisions out of the situation. If we are impaired, we are the kind of people who call mom and say, “can you come and get us? We need a ride.” And I am the kind of mom who will say, “You betcha.”

I’m sure there are people out there who would question my choice to “rob my children of their innocence” (in fact, I know there are. I’ve been told this before) but I believe that by pretending these things don’t exist, that my kids won’t be in these situations, that they’ll make the right decisions based on instinct is relying on a false hope that people always make good choices unless they’re “bad people”.

I hope that whoever you are, whatever your situation, whether you choose to be as frank and open as I am, or if you prefer to be gentler and softer in your approach, that you do talk to your children about these situations. I pray that you tell your kids that consent is never implied. I pray that you teach your kids to stand up for what’s right, even when all of their peers are choosing differently. I wish for you that your children view you as a safe haven, a place where they will receive unconditional love, a place they can turn to always hear the truth- even when it hurts- and know that you are there for them when things get tough.

National Coming Out Day 2011

Every person in the LGBT community who has made that journey from the closet has a story.
Some of those stories are funny, some heartwarming, others are heartbreaking, even violent.
In the end, we all have a story. I've shared my story. The parts that were scary, exciting, and sexy.
I encourage you to tell your story. Your sexual orientation is nothing to fear.
For the straight allies ~ For the families who've welcomed us with open hearts, minds, and arms ~
For the friends who became family when our own turned their backs ~
For the ones who've lost their lives ~ For those who've suffered in silence ~
For all the ones who came out before me ~ For all the ones who will come out after me ~Thank you.

It is with PRIDE that I celebrate my sexuality today. And every day.

The Truth Hurts: but it hurts so good

"You're lying."

I sat, nearly crippled from the blow. I had shared something so personal, so secret, so real, so...me. Why was I left feeling as though I had spilled out my true self- for the first time in an unsafe environment, at least- only to be devalued, disregarded, and labeled a liar? And from the very people who claim to love unconditionally.

I had just come barreling out of the closet like I'd been a caged animal, met at the door with disapproval (which I'd anticipated) and disbelief (which I hadn't.) I was dumbfounded. I wrestled with how anyone would even think lying was an option. I made a semi-sub-conscious (if there is such a thing) decision that day. I was queer- and dammit, no one else would ever question it again.

I spent time looking at why I was so unbelievable as a lesbian. Frankly, I'm no 100 footer. Surveying all the dykes I knew at the the time- from my butch BFF to Ellen Degeneres- they pull off gay so much better than me. Maybe, I told myself, no one will ever take me seriously as a lesbian. So far, the reception into the club had been less than I'd hoped. And even the straighties think I'm a joke. This damsel in distress business was getting me nowhere. I began a transition at that moment- I didn't want to be a joke. I was real- I was queer. I wanted to be a part of the community. Some part of me believed something was wrong with me- questioning how I can be this feminine, sensual, womanly...lesbian? A contradiction if there ever was one!

Within weeks, I had replaced my wardrobe with sports bras and cargo shorts, and parted with my girly auburn locks and acrylic nails. Camo cargos, a black wife beater, and a flat top is how I arrived in Maine. And don't fuck with me, either--because now, I am a total badass dyke. You looked at me and you knew. People just assumed I was gay. What a relief! Finally, I'm "official." Never again would I have to struggle with my identity.

I couldn't have been more wrong...

While I looked that part, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I walked by the windows of stores and admired the sparkly dresses and the sexy shoes and the glittery make up. I reminded myself- those things aren't for dykes. And for god's sake, Lori- you ARE a dyke. I met a couple of... I'm not even sure what I would've labeled them at the time, but they were girls. With girlfriends. Real girls- like the one I used to be. Granted, there were only two of them in our group of maybe 20 lesbians. Odd balls? Maybe. The elusive, novelty "lipstick lesbians" I'd heard of, but never known? Definitely. (The fact that all the butches were drooling and practically worshipped them was just a bonus.)

I was jealous. Were they real? Did I have hope to be Lori the lesbian AND Lori the woman? Damn right, I did. I bought heels, skirts, real bras, worked with my stylist on a plan to grow back the hair I had so cold-heartedly dismissed, and got a mani-pedi. Immediately. I literally went to work in a button down and necktie one week and returned the next in heels and a skirt. I was itching to get out of the handsome gear and back into my boobalicious frocks-- I ran and never looked back.

This has always felt like a hard story to tell- I often struggle with how that looked to others, what it meant for me as a person. Am I really that wishy-washy? Is there any demographic who will take me seriously? Eventually, my friends forgot about it as though it were simply a bad haircut. And it was. *grin* Most of the people in my life now never knew me then, and this may even come as a huge surprise to some. Because...well... I'm such a femme.

I am femme. I am a proud femme. I am a member of the lesbian community who is both the holy grail and the myth. The femme. I love every part of it. I love the way it sounds, the way it reads, the way it looks, everything it implies. The letters themselves give me joy as I see them in front of me. Femme. Femme. FEMME.

This is a label I wear with pride. I embrace it. *I am femme...*