31 October 2008

"You're calling the wrong house."

That's what I said to the chipper young woman who called from "Yes on 8", asking to speak to Ruth. I also told her that what she was doing was hurtful and wrong, and that she needed to think about what she was doing. Then I hung up.

I should have said, "I don't want to talk to you, and neither does my wife."

I'd actually thought that if someone called, I'd try to engage them in dialogue. As it turns out, I was just proud of myself for not yelling at her and asking what I'd ever done to her, why her side was lying like a bunch of lying liars that lie, and why she was such a hateful bigot who couldn't mind her own fucking business and keep her nose out of my life.

I didn't say that. But I'm tired of being fucking nice to people who believe that I should be a second-class citizen, so I was sure thinking it. Loudly.

Sam Has Spoken

....and he's telling the motherfucking bigots to get off the motherfucking state constitution:

28 October 2008

Our Marriage: Let Us Show You It

If this is kind of disjointed and rambly, it's because I finally failed my "Save vs. Current Cold Virus". I felt like death insufficiently warmed over when I woke up yesterday morning, so I stayed home and slept most of the day. Telesilla made her awesome cold-weather lentil stew and did a load of laundry. I had some stew when I woke up, along with a couple of the cookies we made Sunday night. At some point, I may play some CoX and try to get the Zombie Apocalypse badges for more of my characters, and I may write a bit; Telesilla's still getting over her cold; she's gone to bed already and is asleep with the kitten curled up on the pillow next to her.

It's a pretty typical evening for us, really. Our idea of an exciting night is going out to dinner--if we're really feeling adventurous, we'll go somewhere other than the local tacqueria or the little cafe with the awesome crepes. Once a month, we'll go into the Bay Area to hang out with friends, and once a year for the past three years we've gone up to Sea Ranch in February with friends for a writing weekend.

This is pretty much our glamourous lesbian lifestyle: a couple of chubby middle-aged women in an apartment in Northern California with two cats, driving a 7-year-old Volkswagen Bug with fuzzy d20's hanging from the rearview mirror. This is what's being described as "Armageddon" and "more important than the presidential election" by some on the right. We're the great threat to "traditional marriage". We're the reason the California constitution has to be amended, because otherwise more people like us, might get married.

I've commented on several blogs now, asking for someone to list specific examples of how our marriage has harmed theirs--or affected their lives in any way. Strangely enough, no one's taken the challenge. No one's been able to explain exactly how traditional marriage has become such a fragile entity that it must be defended from a couple of geeky lesbian fangirls, or why 50%+1 of California voters should be allowed to decide whether my marriage is valid when I wake up on November 5.

I feel like I should say something profound, but the truth is that our marriage is made up of a collection of tiny, mundane moments--just like the marriage of everyone else I know. How is telling us that we can't get married because we're both girls any different than telling us we can't get married because I'm black and Telesilla's white? How is this so important that state law has to be changed? How is this--how are we--a threat to anyone?

The answer is simple: it isn't, and we're not. Proposition 8 is unfair, because it will write discrimination into law. Proposition 8 is unnecessary, because marriage doesn't need protecting from us. Proposition 8 is wrong, because it says that we don't deserve to be happy because of who we love.

07 October 2008


After weeks of poll numbers indicating that voters in CA were going to reject Prop 8, two new polls are showing it ahead.

Please, please, those of you in CA...get out and vote. I want to stay married.