Love in One Act

ACT I
SUNDAY MORNING, FALL 2012

The McHeberly kitchen. Standing in the thimble-sized kitchen is Whack-A-Muse, the oldest member of the household. She is finishing up the dishes, when her wife walks down the hallway and stops at the end of the kitchen counter. She has a white and pink electric razor in her hand.

Wife   You want me to shave your mustache?

Whack-A-Muse  (looking at the razor) You didn't just use that on your--

Wife   No!

WAM   Were you embarrassed to be seen with me at the play last night?

Wife   Not at all.

WAM   It's okay if you were. Maybe the way I was standing under the light caught--

Wife   (laughs) No. I just had these out and figured, you know.

WAM  (without hesitation) Sure! But should we get out of the kitchen?

Wife   Yes. Let's go in the living room, in the light.

WAM follows Wife into the living room. Wife turns, takes WAM by the shoulders and positions her just so in a block of sunshine. Wife turns on the electric lady razor and raises it to WAM's upper lip. WAM stretches her mouth to make it easier on Wife, and to ensure the tiny black hairs are erased.

Wife   (satisfied, Wife turns off the razor) There.

WAM   How's my eyebrows look? The ones that grow into my hair?

Wife turns the razor back on and starts shaving the side of WAM's forehead.

Once Wife is finished, WAM uses her pointer finger and rubs between her eyebrows. Without a word, Wife turns the razor back on.

WAM  I don't know if I trust you shaving between my eyebrows.

Wife   I know, but trust me. It'll be okay.

WAM   You can't shave straight down. You gotta angle it. I don't want you to shave off half my eyebrows like you--

Wife   (firmly) I know. It'll be fine.

Wife, again, raises the razor and delicately shaves between WAM's eyebrows.

WAM   Better?

Wife   Yes.

They kiss.

Big Fucking Deal

On the eve of the election, I'm feeling all kinds of, well, feelings. My belief system aligns more with President Obama’s, but truthfully, nothing in my daily life changes, regardless of who is steering the ship. But, this year, things feel different. For the first time in our nation's history, the sitting President, Barack Obama, thinks I have the right to get married. And that feels like a Big Fucking Deal.

When I excitedly asked a family member if she'd heard the President’s announcement, all she had to say was, "Well yeah! He wants those votes!"

Right. Votes. Forget that it took 223 years for the President of the United States to “want” a gay's vote. Forget that no president before Obama has ever supported gay marriage. Forget that the family member’s daughter is one of those.

My own mother reducing Obama's support of gay marriage as an attempt to garner more votes blatantly shows how easily the love I have for my wife can be dismissed.

And I'm fucking over it.

Legalizing gay marriage makes our love recognizable, something people can understand and wrap their heads around. Yes, it is just like The Bachelorette but the Bachelorette chooses a woman instead of a man. That’s a Big Fucking Deal.

So thank you, Mr. President, for telling our nation that, yes, love is love. Thank you for being the voice of profound change in my life. And thank you for being the only man I want (in the White House).

Because, like it or not, my life is a Big Fucking Deal.

A Casual Rapency

I'll admit I sometimes picture myself aiming a fleshy wand at the toilet. I can’t help wonder what it would feel like to have my genitalia on the outside...until I see a man vomit, roll around on the ground, and turn an unnatural shade of red after getting kicked in the dick. Then I don't wonder so much.

I wonder if Richard Mourdock ever pictures himself needing to sit down to pee, calmly tinkling the need to aim away. I wonder if he ever thinks about how it feels to walk down a street, alone, always on high alert. I wonder if he ever thinks about all his might being overpowered. About having a knife held to his throat. Foreign saliva dripping on his face. Having his body forcibly split, opened. I wonder if he ever thinks about being so scared he wishes for death to come.

I wonder if Richard ever thinks about how looking down at a swollen belly is a trigger. How a body splitting apart, again, pushing out God’s Good Will Baby, is a constant reminder of violence and fear.

I wonder if he thinks the way he talks about rape seems callously casual.

I wonder if he thinks at all.

Urban Legend: The Scissoring Lesbians

Everyone knows that lesbian intimacy revolves around fluffy pillows, Laura Ashley wallpaper, white cotton panties, vanilla scented candles, and rubbing our smooth private Barbie parts together, also known as scissoring. That's why sewing rooms--the lesbian equivalent to gay men's bath houses--are so popular in the Pacific Northwest.

The act of scissoring can be traced back to the late 1700s in Ireland. Fiona McDonnell couldn't fit on the bed on account of her family's kindness. After neighboring family, the O'Learys, lost their home in an unexpected fire, the McDonnells opened their home to the family of five. But bedtime posed a challenge. There were eight children but room for only seven on the bed. It was the eldest O'Leary son, Eoin, who suggested Fiona and his sister Shannon open their legs, just so, in order to fit in such a way that two bodies take up only one space. He said they could save even more space by taking off their nightgowns but failed to make a strong case to back his logic.

You couldn't blame him for trying. 

When the fiery redheaded Shannon suggested Eoin do the same with Thomas McDonnell, Eoin shook his head. He claimed it would look "too faggy." So it came to pass that Fiona and Shannon scissored night after night so neither had to sleep on the floor. 

Scissoring didn't become a lesbian sex act until the 1970s, after straight men decided it was a hot way for straight women to make "lesbian" porn together.

When my wife and get a hankering to scissor, we remember that scissoring is a straight person's idea of what lesbian sex is and stop before our legs go to sleep under the weight of the other person, an ankle gets rolled, or our hammies start cramping. Instead, we reach for our pillows and hit each other until one of them explodes and then we roll around in the feathers until we orgasm. To think we actually scissor each other is ridiculous.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do not use this for any legitimate purpose as it is historically inaccurate. 

It is true that scissoring is a straight man's fantasy but, in all fairness, there might be lesbians who actually do scissor each other, though I don't know of any. 

Open Letter: Boy Scouts of America

Dear Boy Scouts of America:

Bravo, gents. Bravo. You sure showed that self-assured eighteen-year-old a thing or two. Who does he think he is, anyway? Flaunting his highlights when it's understood only natural roots are rewarded. He knew the risks. He knew there was no tolerance for the Gay and yet he chose to pursue his Eagle Scout award in spite of your caveman mentality. The nerve of some people.

But you, BSOA, you've got the nerve of an 80's movie Russian terrorist! I pity the fool who refuses to acknowledge you are one tough nut. You never sweat, never break rank, never give in, and, most impressively, you bitch-slap motherfuckers back down to size when they least deserve expect it.

Pardon my French. I'm sure it's against the sash to use such colorful language. I'm excitable; I can't help it. You just don't know how much it thrills me to watch a group of adults nana nana boo boo the fuck out of a teenager. Fred Phelps couldn't do it better. Actually, he could. He could make signs, "reason" gay Eagle Scouts are why American soldiers are dying in Afghanistan.

Come to think of it, you might want to step it up a bit.

I'm sure the world rests easy knowing there's a group of adults out there who never shy away from putting a teenager in his gay place.

From one adult to another, go stick your head in doo doo.

Gaily yours,

Whack-A-Muse

How to Family Plan Under Romney Rule

I haven't lost all hope, but given President Obama's abysmal performance in last week's debate I've started making what little internal peace I can by picturing Mitt Romney in the White House. Mitt sitting in the Oval Office, signing bills into law; Mitt repeatedly pointing out that his cup of coffee starts being a cup of coffee at the grinding of beans but refusing to drink it until it's been brewed in the coffee machine. If President Romney comes to pass, family planning could look a lot different. So, I'm here to offer solutions.

When your local Planned Parenthood is defunded and closes, cutting you off to affordable contraception, make sure there is plenty of aspirin in the bedside table drawer. Falling asleep with an aspirin between your knees is easy, but come morning, when that rascally aspirin is lost in the sheets and your boyfriend or husband wants to stick his penis in you, you tell him you have a headache and take two aspirin. You'll find plenty in the bedside table.

If that doesn't work, tell him, "Sex is for procreation only." That's what republicans tell gays and lesbians when we say we want to get married. (Republicans can pretend we haven't figured out their sophisticated coding system all they want, but it doesn't take a lefty socialist to figure out when they say marriage they mean sex.) The rule applies here. Wear a goddamn Snuggy--America's version of a burqa--and your oversized, stretched-out period panties 24/7 if you have to.

Go gay. Only until you're reproductively ready, that is. It's a choice so it shouldn't be too hard. Two sockets bumping into each other cannot a child make.

But if you and your man-candy find yourselves in a moment of uncontrollable passion, and I can't stress this enough, make sure you always have illegitimate sex. (I don't need to spell this out, do I?)

Or you could simply vote for the other guy.

Tales from the Treadmill

It's that time of year again. The time of year that when the alarm clock sounds it is can't-see-shit dark outside. My wife and I fumble in pitch black when making the bed, misjudge and kiss chins and earlobes, trip over babies on the way to the light switch. The overhead bedroom light is too hostile that early in the morning, so we turn on the stairwell light. Once there's a light source, we go our separate ways. One of us heads upstairs with the babies, the other stays put to run on the treadmill. I go upstairs, turn off the light behind me.

I'm upstairs, in the loft. The babies are settling as I'm rounding out my first set of weights. I can hear the belt of the treadmill whirling, my wife's feet pad, pad, padding along. Suddenly, the belt is whirling alone. I'm not all that concerned. She steps off sometimes to do whatever it is she does. So I continue to focus on the weights in my hand, lifting them up and down, working my biceps.

Metal, falling to the ground. A dull thud followed by several other dull thuds. Unaccounted for sounds scream up to me from downstairs.

"Honey?" She doesn't answer. Oh god. My feet stutter down the steep loft steps as fast as they will go, dodge tail wagging babies through the living room, and take the more leveled set of steps down into the basement more quickly.

I'm in the bedroom. The treadmill belt is still whirling. My wife, however, is gone. As I make my way around the bed, I see the top of her head, then her body. She starts to stand. Her running tights, on one side, expose half her butt. The other side of her running tights are covered in dog hair.

"Are you all right?! What happened?" I say.

She's running in the dark. Decides it's too dark. (No shit.) Steps off the treadmill to turn on the bathroom light. Going from darkness to light, she's blinded. She means to step onto the side of the treadmill and instead steps onto the belt...which is moving 6.2 miles per hour.

It's mayhem from there.

As her foot sweeps out from under her, she has just enough time to grab onto the treadmill's side handle. So, she's lying there, on the treadmill, right? The belt is slowly pulling down her pants, taking some skin with it, as she takes her time deciding the best course of action. Don't call out to your wife to come turn the treadmill off. That's ridiculous. Instead, decide the best option is to let go, fly off the end, and let the belt's propulsion throw your body into the bed. Yeah, do that. And that's what she does; hence, one side of her running tights being covered in dog hair.

Running is dangerous business. Treadmills are no joke. But, I swear to Christ, I'm still laughing.

Three Minute Matters

A fifteen minute walk outside my front door leads to a trailhead. The trailhead dumps out on to a wide dirt road where other trails offshoot. I like walking the road. I like the crunch, crunch, crunch under my feet. I like to watch the babies go off roading and return to me with their adventures dripping off their panting tongues, sticking in their fur, dirtying their paws. The babies and I have been walking this way for eight years.

It took me eight years to lose the basset.

The basset headed left, down a ravine; I headed right, towards the water. I wasn't worried. I knew she'd catch up. She always does.

I glanced behind me, waiting to see the tip of her white tail, listening for the jingle of her tags. Nothing. The mutt and I headed down the ravine, the last place I saw her. She wasn't there.

Weirdly, my wife texted me to see if I was okay. I told her I couldn't find the basset.

According to text time, I held my shit together for three minutes. In three minutes I transformed from a rational human being into Something Wasn't Right. Did she fall into a hole so dark and deep I'd never find her? Was her harness caught on a branch? Was she hurt? Bleeding? Was she snatched by a mountain lion? Did someone take her? Where did this someone come from?

My wife told me to go back to the place I lost her. I started walking back up the ravine when I heard barking. Frantic, nervous barking. As my head crested over the top of the ravine, there the basset sat, barking at me like I disappeared on her.

My wife knew all along the basset wasn't lost. I, on the other hand, lost everything in three minutes.

What's in a Name?

I told myself I would write a post every Monday. A fine idea until Monday rolls around and I need to find something interesting to say. What if I don't feel like being interesting? If my name was Paris Kardashian, my namesake would automatically make me interesting. I could be as dull as a butterknife yet Gawker would print my name thirty-seven times in one week. Snoop Dog would invite me to his barbecues.

And I'd go.

Not that securing invites to celebrity barbecues has ever been my aim. Although watching Jay Z throw Justin Bieber in the pool would be hilarious. And using the bathroom after Mariah Carey to find she doesn't wash her hands might be worth ten thousand dollars to TMZ.

Not that selling dirt on celebrities is my aim, either. Although ten thousand dollars grants a lot of my wishes. And once wishes are granted, doesn't it make it easier to kick open the immoral door to secretly take photos of Jennifer Aniston wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms--I imagine Snoop Dog's barbecues get intensely wild--for millions?

You bet it does.

If only I had a more interesting name.

Possibilities

We've discussed it many times, in crisp morning fog and under the sweltering afternoon sun; sitting in restaurants with white tablecloths and lounging on our battered leather sofa. I tell my wife to never discuss it with anyone but me: no one knows her like I do, they'll not understand. Does she want to be the woman in the room people whisper about? But she doesn't see it that way. When I claim it is scientifically impossible, she shrugs and says it is possible, her only proof originating from fictional books, popular television shows, and her dreams.

My wife mentions her elaborate escape plans, how we need to arm ourselves, how when it happens I'm to follow her blindly, at least once a week. Giving full decision making control to my wife makes me uneasy, but it will never happen so I agree. Sometimes it's easier to just let her get it out, uninterrupted, so we can move on to other things, like if we have enough money to get a new sofa, or how lesbians in movies seem to sleep with a lot of men.

I think about searching for a support group, a place where I can stand up and say, "Hi. My name is ____, and the love of my life, the heart inside my heart, thinks the zombie apocalypse is possible. I cannot convince her otherwise. What do I do?" Sympathetic faces will look back at me. Some will look at the floor, knowing all to well how if feels to try to reason with the unreasonable, finding it hard share another person's struggles when they have so many of their own. But some will look at me and nod, and in that instant I'll feel better, less like a melting iceberg housing a climate change naysayer.

Science better damn well prove me right because the thought of a bunch of brain-eating, blood-soaked, raggedy undead outside my door, groaning, clawing to get in, makes me want to piss my pants and swallow my tongue. Let's hope my wife has a plan for that. Just in case.