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That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream

Is This His Magical Way of Saying I'm Bossy?

Everyone should have a Serge around to write such nice things about them.


When The Night Takes A Deep Breath

I don't use my maiden name on Facebook. Never have. Mostly because I didn't really want to be found by old friends. Not that I don't have fond memories or that I don't love a whole bunch of people from my childhood, it's just that mostly I felt so judged while growing up that once I escaped Utah the liberation was so intoxicating I didn't need any pesky reminders of all the internal torment I felt growing up. Also, I was pissed. For a long time. At a lot of people who didn't know it and will likely never know. People who played a role in making me feel less than. Not worthy. Many of them had good intentions but just as many were so full of judgment it was leaking out of their ears. If I had to choose one word to describe my teen years I'd pick judgment.

Recently, after writing about my bisexuality (check out the comments after that post...yikes!) a high school friend who is also bisexual and married to a woman, asked me where I stand on The Kinsey Scale. The Kinsey Scale? Hadn't heard of it. I checked it out and pegged myself as falling somewhere between two and three. "2.5." I told another friend. "But if point-fives don't count, if pressed I would err toward 3."

Did you catch it? My Freudian slip? She did and immediately pointed it out. I subconsciously considered movement toward homosexuality to be an error. That Mormonism, it runs deep, even when you spend your entire life running from it.

A week or so ago I posted a bunch of photos from junior high and high school on Facebook and tagged several old friends. I've never done that kind of thing, preferring to lie low, as mentioned. And by lying low I mean not announcing myself to Mormon acquaintances from my youth. It's always awkward. You know how I am. Nearly every opinion I have seems to run contrary to those of almost everyone I grew up with so I end up censoring myself out of respect for them...Or do I censor myself out of fear of their judgment? I don't know. Either way, negotiating a friendship with Mormons from my past is always an awkward dance of sorting out where they stand on the spectrum. Are they Ann Coulter fans? Do they think that Bill O'Reilly fella is just the bees knees? Does my tendency to glory in usage of the word 'fuck' bother them? These are things I need to know in order to ascertain just how much Monica to give them in a conversation.

"Oh, your husband is the Bishop of your ward? How wonderful!" 10% Monica can be unleashed here.

"You go to church every week but you want to meet up for coffee?" 25% Monica is acceptable in this case.

"You were against that whole Prop 8 thing that went down?" 50% Monica is okay in this scenario.

You get the idea. It ends up being either completely superficial because everything is kept so light or the dance becomes so draining that it's easier to just take off my tap shoes and go home.

Last night, after a week of getting reacquainted with old friends via Facebook, I was lying in bed thinking about The Kinsey Scale and Mormonism. I wish there was a Kinsey Scale for Mormonism with 1 being totally devout and 6 being recovering Mormons like myself. It would make it all so much easier to communicate. Ah, he's a 4, so he can probably tolerate a couple curse words here. She's a 1 so she's probably going to be horrified by 90% of what comes out of my mouth.

For the longest time I wouldn't friend my favorite aunt on Facebook because she's as devout as they come. I didn't want to offend her but also, if I'm honest with myself, I was embarrassed for her to see me as I am. Embarrassed. I didn't want her to know I like the word 'fuck' or that I think girls are sexy as hell or that Facebook scripture quoters make me itchy as hell and that I'm really excited about Obamacare, website failure notwithstanding.

I finally friended her the other day and right before I put up the post about my bisexuality I noticed that she had updated her status with something about how tired she was of being called intolerant because she doesn't want gay people to have the right to get married. After hesitating, I posted the link anyway with a quote from the article.

And then it hit me as hard as a visitation from the Holy Ghost ever hit any Mormon: I'm not embarrassed about any of it anymore. All that residual Mormon guilt is gone. Finally, at 36, I can say that I'm really fucking proud of the person I have become. What I am embarrassed about: anyone who thinks being a good person is based on whether or not you have sex with the one you love before or after marriage, anyone who thinks it's okay to discriminate against anyone else because their leaders tell them instead of feeling deep down in their guts that something's wrong with that. I'm embarrassed for anyone who denies someone complete equality in the name of God. I'm embarrassed for anyone who judges anyone else based on who they love or who they're attracted to. And don't tell me you're not judging or you love all people you just hate the sin or any of that horseshit. If you think someone else shouldn't have the same rights and freedoms as you do based on who they love then you're judging.

Does it need to be said again? One look at the comments after my bisexual post on Yahoo hands you that answer on a silver platter. Yes. Again and again and again until there is no need to ever say it again.

Just let it go. Step back from that tree you've had your nose pressed against for your entire life and see the forest. Look at it! It's fucking glorious. Lush pine trees, spruces, hemlocks, maple trees, birch trees. Can you see those birds singing?

So many different kinds of trees and all of them are beautiful, all of them made by your god or his god or her god or the big bang or a mad scientist who looks like Bob Ross the painter guy on PBS.

Go outside, take a deep breath with the night, look up at the stars in the sky, open your arms wide and let in all of that love because that's all it is. That's all we're talking about here: the right to love and be loved and to celebrate that love by exchanging vows and receiving the same rights and benefits as others who love and are loved.

The Conductor

I took this photo while we were taking one of our family "nature walks" yesterday evening. The tree in the center looks like a conductor leading the forest in a symphony of nature-y things. See what a way I have with words there? 'Nature-y things.' I am clearly a master wordsmith, plucking word birds from telephone wires and releasing them, like wedding doves, into the air where they wing their way straight for your heart.

I am officially six months pregnant and the tiny babe is suddenly making a move to tear his way out of my belly in his quest for more room. The delicate butterfly flutterings have been replaced with crazed zombie scrabblings from the inside. Elbow thumps, feet bumps and tiny finger clawings. He just now thumped me directly behind the belly button, an exclamation point, if you will.

Would sir care for another mini candy bar from big brother and sister's Halloween stash? We are, unfortunately, out of Almond Joys but I can offer you a Snickers and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

He has a name. This is the first child we've called by his name since this early on. The other day Serge even tap-danced into the kitchen holding aloft a FedEx box from which he proudly procured the requisite wooden letters we plan to paint and hang on the wall of the little guy's room.

It's mostly done, the room. Like the insane people we have proven to be we have decided to move Henry into Violet's room and purchase bunk beds because we don't ever want our children to go to bed at a decent hour, apparently. Little Dude will take Henry's room and Serge and I will maintain our separate wings because we are not ready to unite in a bedroom any time soon. Make of that what you will, naysayers. Because I will bray nay right back atcha. I spent my life in my own room aside from that brief roommate thing at the University of Utah and mama likes her own space. Besides, marriage is a cobweb of compromises over money, home, parenting styles, bathroom sharing, remote controlage, angling for The Good Spot on the couch, can I not just have my own room? Is that too much to ask without a bunch of people clucking their tongues? And God, it's good. Especially now.

If you've ever tried to fall asleep while pregnant you know it's a task akin to climbing Mount Everest or some other nearly impossible feat. Unless I have two pillows behind my head, one in my arms, one jammed between my legs, one propping up stomach and one wedged into my back as I attempt to find the sweet spot - not quite on my side, not quite on my back - there will be no rest. For me or anyone daring to cross my path between the hours of 10pm and 7am.

Oh, I almost forgot! Because I've been neglecting you all so terribly lo these past few months I have decided to stop writing at MamaPop so I can devote more time to being here with you, because I am generous like that. Some of us have been gathering here for nearly a decade and it would be a shame to let it all go. But don't give up on just yet! There is someone there I would like you to meet. Someone who has also been with us for the decade...

Thought-Based Farts and Other Stories

I don't take farts lightly. They aren't a hilarious bodily function. They are an attack. An affront to my soul. Growing up with three brothers I bore the brunt of fart attacks. Held down, hands covering my mouth so I was forced to breathe out of my nose, and then the bomb would be dropped.

I recently tried to explain this to Serge, who in all fairness, doesn't fart around me. When he's awake, anyway. Sleeping is another matter entirely. I once tried to describe the tone of his sleeping farts to him, so stunned was I by their timbre, if you will.

"Oh, well. My farts aren't a bodily function." He breezily explained. "They are thought-based. I think so deeply that the thoughts need to find a way out. It's the thoughts combined with oxygen that you're hearing."


I've spent the past three months engaged in an online relationship. I'm certainly smitten. That's the word Serge used to describe the goings on. If you've been reading this blog since before my babies were born you likely know this person and your brain might drip out of your ears were I to type their name here. Any guesses? I'm such a tease.

I keep meaning to write more but have been consumed with my online relationship, writing for other websites, the tiny boy growing in my belly and lots of Halloween activities. But I'm still here! I swear! Come find me on Facebook (where, if you're very observant, you just might spot my online crush) because I'm always there if not here.

Speaking of Halloween, I have recently taken my new favorite photo. It's going to be a tough one to top. Serge ordered our Halloween costumes months ago, has been planning their debut and we finally got a chance to wear them over the weekend.

"I ran across the backyard in my Sully suit and hid behind the tree and I could hear my kids in the upstairs window squealing and giggling.

I heard my wife’s voice cry out, “It’s Sully! He’s in our yard!”

I peeked around the tree trunk and they spotted my big blue head and laughed with delight."

You can check out the rest of the photos and read about the costume debut here.

A Walk On The Wild Side

This video I made seven years ago when I lived in Brooklyn has more than nine million views on YouTube...But it ain't because of anything I did. It's all Lou Reed.

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