We’ve come a long way, but there’s a long way to go. Do we stand a chance if the US Supreme Court decides to take this on at last? Read the lengthy California opinion here: California Supreme Court Tosses Out Gay Marriage Ban in 4-3 Vote

A reader comment, and an excellent one at that:

“I am over the moon. I don’t believe the US Supreme Court has any jurisdiction over this decision - it was a legal opinion on the California constitution. I know there are opponents who will try to now change the constitution, but I found some interesting language in the ruling, “…we conclude that, under this state’s Constitution, the constitutionally based right to marry properly must be understood to encompass the core set of basic substantive legal rights and attributes traditionally associated with marriage that are so integral to an individual’s liberty and personal autonomy that they may not be eliminated or abrogated by the Legislature or by the electorate through the statutory initiative process.” So, makes me wonder if the matter is settled.

Wow.

TaraDharma“ 

Hard to believe, but my baby brother (half-brother) is turning 30 this year. I don’t really know him. I was 17 when I left home and he was a mere babe in arms, literally. For many years, he lived in a garage apartment at my dad’s until he moved into his shared apartment with his fiancée. Until then, his mom cooked and did his laundry.

Last weekend, they got married. She’s a chiropractor. Sounds good? Her new practice is in rural Arkansas. I’d shoot myself. He’s not a city boy exactly, he’s a suburbs boy. You know, where you can get to a major league baseball game in under an hour. What’s he thinking? Oh, yeah, lurve.

They knew I wasn’t coming to the wedding. The place in Arkansas is not on a direct route to anywhere and it would have been too expensive.

They registered at Target. I viewed the Target items and most had been spoken for or required me to have a clue about their taste and current possessions, except the Playstation. There was no way I was going to secure a premature place for them on the judicial divorce calendar before the marriage had even started by buying them a Playstation. So, I decided upon a check. Can’t go wrong there, right?

I go out and buy a very beautiful card with a lovely sentiment for Cory and his lovely bride Kari. I glance at the invitation to make sure I spell the girl’s name properly. I write out the check in their married name—Cory & Kari. I craft a beautiful sentiment about married life in the card. I pop the card into the mail and pat myself on the back for not waiting until the first anniversary to get around to it.

So, I’m talking to my sister last night and she says, “I can’t believe it, but the thank you note already arrived from Becky.”

I’m thinking I missed something. “Becky who?” I said.

“Cory’s new wife, Becky.”

Uh, oh.

I wondered why Kari didn’t sound right as I wrote it out. But, I thought it must be her given name.

Then, I realized that I had pulled out the invitation for the other wedding I’ve got coming up. Wrong bride.

I spent time last night crafting a menopausal-centric apology to my new sister-in-law and mailed it off. I hope she has a good sense of humor. She’s going to need it in this family.

Confession time. Bless me lesbians, for I have totally not gotten this whole social networking thing. MySpace? Well, I think I have had about seven messages on it in over a year. What, you mean I have to send messages to get messages?

Leztown? Um, can you say “round up the usual suspects?” Very fine and lovely subjects though they be. But, it’s kind of like being in the girl bar on Friday night anywhere in the United States.

Then, there’s Facebook. This is the one that befuddles me more than the rest.

While in the doctor’s office today, I was reading an old Newsweek that laid out what Facebook etiquette looks like. When it is or is not appropriate to ask to be “friends” or “poke” someone for example. People will rise up in righteous indignation if Facebook etiquette is not followed, yet don’t know how to write a handwritten thank you note nor to bring a hostess gift when being invited over for the first time.

I mean, I’ve not only got my pokes, but drinks to buy, snowballs to throw and flowers or fish to send. I can call them hipster names or call them gay—the gayest, if I want. I can play Scrabble or compete in a geography contest with my nearest and dearest “friends”—most of whom I have never and will probably never meet. There’s a fun wall and a super wall – I still haven’t figured out which does what. In fact, none of it makes any sense.

And, the only way to advance in most of these things in order to gain another coveted cyber flower or fish or higher ranking is to sell out the very friends, all 41 one of them, who have promised to stand by me until death – oh, wait, Facebook friends aren’t usually that kind of friend.

Thanks to Beancounters, I’ve put it all in perspective.

Second grade was the worst year of my entire educational existence. I had Mrs. T., nee Valentine, but who had no connection to hearts/love in my mind—I was quite sure she probably devoured the hearts of small animals or lost children on the weekends for fun if she hadn’t been able to take out her frustrations on her class in great enough quantity during the week. She made a point of calling out my weirdness whenever it popped out–usually in a very embarrassing way.

I was so ecstatic when we received our class assignments for the following year. The name on the piece of paper: Mrs. Haskell. I had seriously scored.

Mrs. Haskell had beautifully tanned skin - like Pocohantas. Her hair was styled in a modern way – not tied back in a bun or up in some kind of beehive hairdo like most teachers. She moved with a meandering grace. She never seemed in a hurry or out of sorts. She wore beautiful arts and crafts jewelry made of turquoise or artistically crafted metals. Her glasses were ahead of the times for teachers – no cat eye frames! She had a penchant for earth colors and turtle neck sweaters. She spoke with some kind of accent—it seemed very exotic to me. It might have meant that she was from Southern Iowa or the Southern US for all I knew. All I did know is she was the height of kindness. Besides having a beautiful smile, she was a good and patient teacher. If Iowans knew of Buddhism in those days, I’d bet she practiced.

Every day, she’d read from one of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. The class was fun. She challenged me in my reading. We had lots of opportunity to play in the arts – whether it be painting or theatre. She never embarrassed me. And, the proof of her near-perfection was the fact she somehow put up with Paul Kerr, the 3rd grade retread and master showman of our class. Show-n-tell was sure to bring a wild story from Paul that would cut into everyone’s time, but had us all in stitches. I was in heaven.

Except that time I got caught stealing a pack of Wild Cherry Lifesavers from Bob’s Rainbow Groceryland over the lunch hour one day. David Farris, the kid with me, did not get caught. He offered me one of his hijacked Spearmint Lifesavers as consolation for my getting busted, but I could not eat it. In fact, I would not go back for months after I apologized and made restitution. I was late getting back to class because of my involuntary detention at Bob’s while he called my mom.

I had to explain to Mrs. Haskell why I was late. I was so ashamed. But, she did not shame me further. In fact, she made me feel better about facing my situation and dealing with it. She probably did not know how important how she handled that moment had been to me. Maybe the reason she never felt a need to call out my weirdness was because she was a little different too. A crush was born.

Sometime that year, she stopped coming to class. We had a substitute. That sub would stay the rest of the semester. In the confusion, I took the opportunity to change my name to my more gender-neutral middle name. The sub agreed, but then I kept forgetting I’d done it and wouldn’t answer to it when she called on me. Oh, well.

I guess Mr. Haskell, who taught art at the university, got sick. I heard words bandied about, like, “Iron Lung.” Then, I heard he died. I was very sad for her.

I moved on to the next grade and another teacher who didn’t see me, only she would not be as mean as the one before Mrs. Haskell. Come May Day, I made Mrs. Haskell a May basket. My mom drove us along our basket route, I jumped out and ran up to her porch, dropped the basket and paused—through her large picture window I peeked into her world–I stood there for a long time–gazing over the artistic treasures –– and books, lots and lots of books—she had adventures I would someday have—and now I’d seen the future. Mom honked, so I rang the bell, and ran.

Viv spent most of the weekend here – I managed to engulf her in projects this weekend, hoping against hope she’d be game in return for food and wine. This time it was the tiny HDTV for my office and the cable box and the universal remote programming and close captioning and pairing my Bluetooth for both of my cell phones. Aye. I tried—took one look at the directions and threw it all up on the counter awaiting her arrival. She was in ecstasy—she’s such a geek.

The kids got me a Shiatsu massage pillow, a Pink CD, and a Eurosealer. Now, I’ve never imagined that I ever would need or want the former or the latter of these items, but I count myself very fortunate indeed to have them both now grace my abode.

Obscure joke of the day: Viv gets me at the most unexpected times. We’re cruising around on errands yesterday and we decided to get a movie—we settled on Juno—the kids would like it too.

I mentioned to her that I had also just picked up whole wheat popcorn and wanted to give it a try during the movie. She stopped. She looked at me with one of those “Ain’t you a bright one,” looks. I look back at her. Ball’s in my court. I quickly retrace my conversational steps until I realize what I’d said. I meant whole grain. We cracked up.

Then she said, “Well, if it’s whole wheat popcorn, it must have been made by Monsanto.”

If you care about our food supply and how it’s grown and what’s in those seeds that end up as grain in the bellies of the meat and dairy that eventually ends up in your stomach, or about those herbicides that leech into our groundwater and contaminate our soil, I recommend you read the Monsanto article from Vanity Fair or McSpotlight.org to get started.