Archives for September 2008

Burglar victims wake to spice rub, sausage attack.

Really, my favorite news story in forEVer.

That was awesome. Really. Even better than I thought it would be.

1. No stress at all. We didn’t even really tell anyone about it until Monday and only invited my sisters and La’s brother and sister-in-law to the ceremony. It just happened that Lala’s parents told us on Tuesday that they’d be in the area, so they got to be there too, which was unplanned but amazing.

2. Did I mention no stress? I dug my dress out of the coat closet an hour before we were supposed to leave. Yep. Still looked okay. Lala got held up at work and got home twenty minutes before we had to leave, and she made it with time to spare.

3. I was NOT the only lesbian knitter there getting married! Nancy Roberts, of Machine Knitting to Dye For fame (she’s a genius), was marrying her long-time partner, Adrianna. So great. We lurve them.

4. The hair! Lala’s had her orange stripe for a while now and I realized our photos might look kind of funny. I called her two days before the wedding and said, "I’ve been thinking. You know, I’m just not that comfortable with the idea of you have orange hair in our wedding photos." Then I paused, a LONG time, in which I heard her brain scrambling for some way to save her hair. Then I said, "Unless I have orange hair, too! Will you dye mine tonight?"

5. Pictures (more over here):

At the clerk’s desk, waiting to get our license. So. Cool.

Waiting for our justice of the peace to come git us and take us upstairs where the magic happens.

I have gathered you all here today….

Lala, me, Adrianna, and Nancy. You  can tell who’s part of which couple by the color arrangements. (Nancy dyed that green yarn that Adrianna knitted up so beautifully. I wish I’d captured the sweater better…..)

Gittin’ hitched.

The ring part!

All done.

Yay.

Gotta have a Rachael self-portrait style shot.

Outside Jack London’s cabin.

At dinner, at Soizic (right before sister Bethany (right) got slammed with a screaming migraine. Poor kiddo). Fantastic dinner. Thank you, Tony!

Sister Christy and me. We might have had a few drinks by then. But maybe not. You never know.

Hooooray!

6. After a family dinner, we had a drink-up with friends at Baggy’s By The Lake, where we had our first date. Everyone appeared to have a good time. I certainly did. I believe there was bourbon and dancing involved, but again, that might just be a rumor. More party pictures over at my Flickr set.

7. We learned that Baggy’s is a $30 cab-ride (not bad) home, given that the cabbie is employed by Grand Theft Auto. Damn.  I swear, if he could have popped a wheelie with his cab, he would have. Apparently Lala was terrified, but it felt like one big video game to me.

8. Love is good.

Driving home tonight after getting Lala her super-cheap bass (yay, bass!) off Craigslist in San Jose, we passed a truck with a bumper sticker on it that said, "Marriage = one man, one woman."

I don’t normally react to bumper stickers since I live in the Bay Area, and you never know who’s carrying, but I stuck my tongue out at him. He looked rather startled.

I mean, really. How is that okay?

It’s like this:

1. We believe (don’t we?) in equal rights for men and women.
2. If a man can marry a woman, then saying a woman can’t marry a woman means women don’t have the same rights as men do. It’s the same reasoning that interracial marriage is allowed (gasp!). If a white man can marry a white woman, with equal rights a black man can marry a white woman, too.
3. It’s that easy, and that’s the bottom line. This line of simple reasoning is why the California Supreme Court is allowing Lala and I to get married today.

His bumper sticker was hateful. I understand that he has the freedom of speech, natch, and I don’t argue that I want it taken off his bumper. He’s got every right. But what an ass. He probably doesn’t even get that he’s being so hateful, so queer-bashing. "I just think marriage should be between a man and a woman. What’s wrong with that? California has domestic partnerships, and that’s pretty good. I know some gay people. I support them having domestic partnerships. Let them have that. Just not marriage." I’ve actually heard people say this, thinking this is an argument. They can’t back it up any more than to say that it’s the way things have always been, and it’s what their pastor says. Not good enough, my erstwhile friend.

Marriage equals love. I know plenty of straight people who are dying to get out of the situation I’ve been trying to get into for years. I’m honored to be entering into this with my best friend, my sexy Lala, and if they take this away from us in the vote in November, we’ll have to get all married again when we get it legalized again. And really, how long is my dress going to be in fashion? Pictures to follow. Thanks for loving us, and for fighting the good fight with your vote.  MWAH!

Do you know what I’m happy about? Well, many things. But namely:

1. Gettin’ married again tomorrow. Yep. Third time’s the charm, right? We’re just doing a little justice-of-the-peace thing tomorrow afternoon with family followed by dinner out and then drinks at the bar where we had our first date. Legal! In this country! Or at least this state. Thanks, Tila Tequila!

2. Happy that I’m writing. I swear, since that conference a month and a half ago I haven’t missed a day of writing except for the four days I was camping. The change? DOING IT FIRST THING. And not accepting excuses from myself. Even though I work 12 hour shifts, and need to get up at 4:45am, I’ve been getting up around 3:45, before the alarm rings at 4am, just to write. The best part? The rest of the day feels great — you did what you really wanted to/had to do. You checked off that Big Life To Do and all the rest is just extra. I read something yesterday that basically summed it up: If you have to go to bed a little early with less TV watching/internet surfing time in order to get up early to chase your life’s dream, isn’t that worth it? Hell, yeah.

3. Happy that dogs is cute.

That’s Clara, AKA the Sand Monster, flying by. I like how the photo makes her look like she’s a really ugly, wet bird.

 

Beach! Even at high tide with seaweed grossness, it makes everyone happy.

I’d love to show you pictures of my weekend, but apart from a couple of really, really bad pictures taken of me while I was napping at the lake (Lala managed to get the camera out of my backpack which I was sleeping on without waking me), I didn’t manage to get any good ones.

It was a good weekend away. For the most part. Strawberry Music Festival is something I’ve almost always gone to with the family. Mom was always a huge part of it. I went by myself a couple of times, but that was different: that was by choice. This year I expected it to be kind of hard. And it was. Friday night I ended up with a migraine, which I brought upon myself by drinking beer at noon and then sleeping in the sun and then drinking more beer. Really, I’m not good with beer. I always forget that when it’s hot out, though.

Saturday was great, with the Knitters playing in the afternoon, Patti Griffin that night, and Lala’s band The Whoreshoes playing Evergreen Lodge later that night. The place was packed, and the crowd was high-energy. The Lodge is about a mile in the pitch-dark from camp, and there’s this wonderful spot between the two where you can’t hear music from either place. It’s just completely quiet and apart from a sprinkling of stars through the sugar pines, completely dark. I walked back alone and turned off my headlamp at this midpoint and sat on the side of the road, just feeling the dark and the quiet. It was wonderful. Then I had one (just one) Blair Witch thought and I hustled my ass back to camp, pronto.

Sunday was okay. The night was flipping rough. There’s a built-in sentimentality to the last night of camp. You’re regretting that the weekend is over, and you’re dreading packing up to leave the next morning. Usually I’m with my family and there’s that mad push-pull between loving them hard and wanting to get away. But Dad packed up and left early on Sunday, not staying till Monday (I suspect he was avoiding the pit I fell into, and he’s smart). And the sisters weren’t there. Lala was there, of course, but we were camped with her band so she was good and busy.

Sunday night was always the night we went to bed early. We’d leave the last show before its finish (or even skip it altogether). Mom would make tea and we’d sit around playing music half-heartedly. She’d offer us the rest of the hot water to pour on our washcloths to wash our faces before kissing good night. If we were at Live Oak, not Strawberry, we’d hear the last strains of the closing bagpipes floating in the distance. Mom LOVED hearing the bagpipes through the trees.

I lost everyone on Sunday (kind of on purpose) and then got good and sad. Dude. I just wandered around crying. Crying up at the stars, and lunging through the tent flap to hide whenever I heard people approaching our camp. Lala was so good to me, even when I told her I just wanted to be completely alone. She covered for me big time. I think she told our friends that I had another migraine. But no. I was just so sad, and so tired. I did get some of the best sleep ever that night, despite the fact that it got so cold both Lala and I were shivering at times. And the crying wasn’t bad. I wasn’t trying to get around it, or hide from it. It felt like some damn productive crying, you know?

But even with all that, it was a lovely time. I adore Lala’s band, and my absolute favorite time of the festival was Saturday afternoon during the afternoon break. Before we went to the Lake to cool off, the girls rehearsed some songs for their 46-song set (really) planned that night. There were two kids camping next to us who thought the gals were the MOST amazing things they’d ever seen, and they kept rhythm with the music with whatever instrument they had at hand (once, the little boy clapped his boat oars together, and he was totally in time with the beat). We loved them, and I caught them here. (Dad’s playing along, and what you can’t see is our friend Megan knitting while I’m spinning.)