Inspired by the NBA playoffs

Make no mistake about it: wedding planning is a competition sport. It is a high stakes, no holds barred, winner take all slug fest that will break the spirit of even the strongest female. Sure, any self-respecting bride will feign ignorance, even repulsion, at the idea. But she’s only fooling herself. She knows that she’s in it to win it and nothing, not even a budget as tight as Star Jones’ skinny jeans, will stop her.

To be honest, most women probably don’t want the “happiest day of their life” to be a competition. How daunting to not only look your best, but to look better than every other bride’s best as well? And the food! Your reputation as a hostess lies in what you pray are the skilled and capable hands of a chef whose food you have only eaten once. But the kicker, the one thing that will either set your event apart or leave it dangling in the wind is the bar – open to be exact. Or so you hope. Otherwise, your big day could go down as a big no-no with the more “lush” of your guest list.

So what’s a bride to do? Give in to the pressure and declare an all-out assault on her personal sense of moderation (not to mention credit rating)? Or chuck up the deuces to the entire idea of a traditional wedding and elope in Vegas (which, honestly, might not be any better on her sense of moderation or credit rating)?

Me? I’m going to fight the good fight. I will throw a fabulous little shindig, traditional in some respects, not in others, and complete with all of things I find most important. The competition, so to speak, will be to see how happy I can make myself, not anyone else. Because, to be truthful, I know that the most important thing to my most important guests is a happy bride.

And an open bar.

Hopeless

Internet Exclusive

I'm nothing if not a preparer. I insist upon knowing what to expect in every new endeavor. Wedding gown shopping was no exception. Especially so because I had been looking forward to the day for no less than 20 (yes, 20) years and I wanted everything to be perfect.

The internet did not disappoint. It told me to carry a strapless bra and shoes about the same heel height that I expected to wear on the big day. The internet clued me in on the lingo as well so that I would be prepared to toss around "portrait neckline", "pick-ups" and "caviar beading" like a Vera Wang protege. The internet even warned me that I must be willing to stand in front of a complete stranger in my skivvies, while said stranger dressed me in layers of silk and organza. Ack!!

Actually, not ack. Any opportunity to be treated like child queen and fashion pioneer Marie Antoinette is always a plus in my book. Except for that unfortunate beheading part, of course.

All in all, I would say that the internet is a wonderful resource for brides to be venturing out on their first "find the wedding gown of my dreams" day. But there is one incredibly important piece of advice the internet did not have for brides. Until now.

Should you, the night before your shopping adventure, find yourself delayed in the airport for 2 hours, do not, I repeat, DO NOT get sloshed at the airport bar with the other stranded passengers. Sure, drinking with strangers while watching NCAA basketball is a fine way to spend any other Friday evening, except this one. Especially when the bartender offers $3 shots with any beer.

Ack!! (for real this time)

Hopeless

One time, at debate camp...

What a week.

Being in a long-distance relationship gives you many opportunities to think -- about why you miss people, whether missing people is healthy, and who, exactly, is worth missing. If you know me, then you won't be surprised to hear that I spent much of the last week, during which my Love was actually here, thinking about what I would miss most when she was gone.

And before you go rolling your eyes, it's not because I'm a pessimist. When I say that I soaked up every single possible moment that we had together, I do not exaggerate. But I am a realist. I knew, from experience, that when she left, I would feel it. I was just trying to understand what I would feel most.

An old maxim, probably taught to every debater, mock trialer, or other aspiring orator came to mind around mid-week -- primacy and recency. Very simply put, the things that will stick to your audience's minds like a 10 year old tongue to a freezing cold flag pole are what you begin with and what you end with. So start and end strong.

Perhaps I'm just an old debate nerd, but the same holds true when I spend time with my Love. What I look forward to the most, what makes her being here so much more than her not being here isn't what we do. It is how we begin the day with a giggle or end it with a sigh. It is our quiet time at day break and night fall that make us more us than anything else we do. It is the good morning and the good night that I knew my heart would remember, and miss, most.

I hate being right.

If I may be so bold as to offer a bit of advice, without presumption of wisdom, but only experience as my guide, it is to cherish your "good mornings" and "good nights". When debate camp is over, those are the stories you will tell.

Hopeless

Sister, Sister

What an amazing 2 weeks it has been. I turned 29, came out to my father, was damned to hell by grandmother, and have managed to NOT talk to Shay for over 30 minutes so that she can study for the bar exam, all without a single hint of mind numbing panic! My therapist won't recognize me.

How funny, then, that the next item on my to do list is turning out to be a much bigger challenge than I ever imagined. You see, I'm going to ask my big sister to be in my wedding. I love my big sister. She has been my role model in every sense of the word. From Michael Jackson fanhood to Coogi sweater dresses, if L did it, it was gold in my mind. She doesn't exactly feel the same way about me. Ok, why am I lying. L couldn't stand my spoiled, whiny ass for the first 18 years. But now she can! In a manner of speaking. Like, she lets me in her bedroom now...

So I need L to be in my wedding. Sure, she's questioned the authenticity of my orientation and belittled my relationship. But nothing in life has ever been cool if it wasn't endorsed by L (white K Swiss included). And my wedding has to be cool. Not just cool. REALLY COOL. Like that birthday party with the giant bounce house in the backyard and cotton candy machine. Yeah, like that.

But she's going to say no. The odds of her taking part in the "abomination" over the objection of my grandmother are about even with odds of snow in the Bahamas tomorrow. Even in the age of global warming, it just ain't happening.

I love my sister. She means so much to me. I'm afraid that I don't mean enough to her.

Hopeless

Do I at least get a handbasket?

I could see Focus on the Family's reaction to the All My Children episode coming a mile away. The Gays accomplish something. FOTF stands up and hollers. It's like stabbing the annoying kid who sits in front of you with a pencil then smiling innocently when he yells out in pain. Who, us?

What I did NOT see coming was my grandmother bringing up that same episode at dinner Tuesday night. As a rule, I avoid all LGBTQ topics when I'm with her. We're still at the tip of the iceberg when it comes to all of the great recipes and cooking techniques I want her to share with me, so why bother with the contentious topics? Apparently, she didn't get the memo.

But I'm pretty sure she got the "Hopeless Doesn't Agree with you on LGBTQ Issues" memo, delivered by my very still head, softly spoken "oh"s and otherwise blank face in reaction to her rant against the lesbians. I confirmed delivery with my simple, yet very thorough, explanation regarding LGBT marriage rights in Connecticut which prompted the characters to travel to that state for their wedding.

And grandmother, true to form, responded with the "You're Going to Hell" memo by, well, saying that I am (the Gays are) going to hell.

Well when you put it that way...

Hopeless

Reality TV

I love Erica Kane. The heroine of daytime tv drama All My Children is the She-ra of soap operas (or she-wolf, depending on the story arc). Her character resume includes teenage rape victim, new york model, cosmetics empress and bride (at least a dozen times). Yesterday, Erica went where no daytime tv heroine had gone before - she became the mother of a lesbian bride!

Perhaps you're not a fan of soaps, and thus, not impressed. TV soaps were pushing the censorship envelope way before HBO and Showtime jumped on the bandwagon. Indeed, in a genre that has made its living off of disregarding social mores, a lesbian wedding was almost to be expected.

Focus on the Family wasn't impressed, either. The organization voiced its displeasure with the idea of a network introducing such programming into U.S. homes. The nerve of ABC!

Wait. Have they seen daytime television in the last 30 years?! Soaps would be scrambling for content without the adultery, lying, fornication, assaults, incest, murders, witchcraft, and did I mention SEX, that has become standard fare. Bianca's wedding could easily have been the most decent 60 minutes of daytime TV this decade.

Neil G. Giuliano of GLAAD is right. A lesbian wedding is reality. It is my reality. Probably not the mother of the bride part, on either side, but definitely the commitment, the excitement, the planning, and the sheer joy of a day when you covenant to share your life with your one true love.

And as a lesbian in desperate anticipation of her own nuptials (416 days!), the timing couldn't have been better. That e-mail forwarding father of mine is also a card-carrying All My Children fan. I think my next email will go something like this:

"Dear Daddy,

You and Erica Kane have an awful lot in common..."

Hopeless

E-mail

I was never so happy to receive a forwarded e-mail.

Not just any e-mail. But e-mail that let me know that everything would be ok. My "secret" wasn't going to end the world as I knew it. Which is a pretty easy thing to believe when you've been sitting on a letter for 6 months, debating, like a double-dutcher, when was the right time to jump in.

Summer? No, too much quality time together. Not to mention Mars' birthday.
Fall? No, Mars has soccer and I don't want to risk Dad missing out on that just to avoid me.
Holiday season? No, that'd be too much of a blower. The holidays are for celebration, not being railroaded by personal revelations no one saw coming.

Then he asked me what I wanted for my birthday. And the only thing I could come up with was "your acceptance." That's how February became the month and the 10th became the date. The excuses had run out and the need to free my psyche of this "secret" was too much to ignore any longer.

Now.

My hand shook. My breathing quickened, then stopped, only to double its pace again. When the initial shock of my brazen act subsided, an erie calm washed over me. It was over. He would either continue to love me, or he would not. Only time would tell.

Or an email.

I told my dad that I'm a lesbian, and, in reply, he forwarded me an e-mail. All was right with the world.

Hopeless