Sure enough, when the doors opened on the 10^th floor, we all tumbled out.  Everyone but me streamed to the right, sitting down at a row of seats stacked against a wall.  It was my first time at the LGBT Center. I stood outside of the elevator bank wondering where volunteers were supposed to go.

A petite woman behind the reception desk looked up and motioned me forward with a friendly smile. She took my information and warmly invited me to wait in in the semi-circle of chairs in front of her.

My eyes traveled to the other side of the reception area. One by one, people disappeared into an alcove around the corner, and a few minutes later, exited back onto the elevator with plastic bags full of groceries.

My confusion must have shown on my face, because out of the blue, the receptionist stated matter-of-factly to me, “We operate a community food bank, too.”

“Oh,” I nodded. Immediately, I looked down at my jeans. How many bags of food could I have bought for the price of these, I wondered guiltily.

“It’s OK,” the receptionist said. I looked up and found her keen eyes on me.  She chuckled. “Don’t ever quit your day job to become a poker player,” she advised gently, before picking up the ringing phone.

I studied her.  She wore the end-of-the-workweek all over her face. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was slightly ruffled, her mascara a touch blurred.  There was a chip in the coral nail polish on one of her fingers. But her voice was unfailingly polite and professional as she expertly directed callers, paged staff members and took messages.  She spoke graciously to an irate caller; it sounded to me like he was apologizing to her by the end of their conversation. “All in a day’s work,” she sighed out loud.

She stood up and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Alice.  I used to be a volunteer here, too, when I first moved to the city. Then they offered me a paid position. This is a great place. I love it here. You will too.”

“You live in the city?” I ventured. “I’m kind of envious. I like being able to walk everywhere, but my wife has a thing for grass and trees.”

“Sometimes grass and trees are overrated,” she answered, and a cloud came over her face. She sat back down wearily.  “I lived in the suburbs too, before I moved here.”

And then, unbidden, Alice told me her story.

“I used to be Al. Now I’m Alice,” she began.

Fifteen years ago, Alice left home after finishing high school. “I shouldn’t say ‘left home,’ I should say ‘kicked out,’” she clarified.  “My family wasn’t, uh, supportive. My parents wanted to put me into a mental hospital, but when I refused to go – well, let’s just say my leaving was a mutual parting of the ways.”

Alice had one friend in high school, a straight male. He stuck by her through thick and thin. After graduation, they got jobs, shared an apartment and socialized together.  “He was a great guy. Always had my back,” Alice said.

Nothing in their relationship changed when Alice started the transition process. One Saturday night, the two roommates went out as usual to their neighborhood bar. Alice decided to leave early. She left the bar alone and started walking home. She didn’t know that two friends of her roommate’s had been seated at a corner table, watching.

On a dark alley behind the bar, the roommate and his friends attacked Alice. They beat her unconscious and then fled the scene. Alice was discovered hours later and taken to the hospital.  On the way, she expired and was resuscitated in the ambulance. She was put into a medically-induced coma to help heal her severe head trauma. In addition to her skull fractures, she had multiple broken bones and internal injuries.

“You know what?” Alice asked.  “The worst part wasn’t the pain. That was bad enough, but what hurt the most was when I found out later my roommate was behind it. He had planned the whole thing with his friends.”

She shook her head, dislodging the memory.  She looked at me. “Oh yes,” she responded to my unspoken question.  “All of them were caught, and now they’re in jail for attempted murder.”  Alice’s voice brightened. “I give the police credit though. Back then, you know, I thought they’d just look at me and laugh, say I got what was coming to me. But they were really sympathetic and kind. I didn’t expect that.”

The phone buzzed.  Alice picked it up, then turned to me. “You can go in now, he’s ready for you,” she said.

“Now those guys are put away for a long time. They’re there, and I’m here,” she continued, spreading her arms across the desk.

“And I’m HERE,” she repeated, with a happy smile.

I was looking for a new position because my current commute was killing me. On good days, it was over an hour door-to-door. Routinely, though, traffic gridlock more than doubled my travel time. After yet another 7:30 p.m. arrival home, frustrated and starving, I announced to TDL, “That’s it! I can’t do this anymore.”

As I waited in the reception area on the day of my interview, I was confident and calm. Until I realized – new company, new boss, new coworkers invited a whole new set of opinions on my personal life. Panic set in. Immediately I thought, is the commute really that bad? Are you sure about this? For a fleeting second, I considered making up an excuse and running the hell out of there.  

The first and only time I had come out at work was about five years prior, via an email to my boss, who had requested personal details for a company announcement. When I told her I had a wife, not a husband, her response had been immediate, non-judgmental and warm. I felt safe. Now, in these different surroundings, the familiar anxiety was again rising to the surface.

I’d grown comfortable being out at work. Long ago I stopped caring about what people think of me. I’ve been both closeted and out at work, and being out is better. I’ve grown immune to the occasional slur or negative comment that sometimes comes my way at work. I love having TDL’s picture on my desk. I refuse to edit myself any more in casual conversations about my weekend or vacation plans.

But yet, sitting across from the two women who controlled my potential employment, I was hoping (praying) that they’d confine themselves to business topics only. I reassured myself that no matter what their unknown individual beliefs or political leanings related to LGBT issues were, the language on their website affirmed their commitment to diversity.  I pushed aside the thought that the text was probably written by a wordsmith like myself, and may not reflect what goes on at the company in the day-to-day.  I listened intently for any clues in the conversation revealing their sentiments diverged from the company’s stated policy.

Two other people visited the conference room in 15 minute increments to ask specific questions. NB and BB stayed throughout. We were winding down when things took a turn.

BB had one final question. The job description required heavy writing experience, and she stated they were looking for someone “passionate” about writing.  She asked, “Do you write in your spare time, for pleasure? Do you have your own blog, for instance?”

I hesitated.

“Yes, I write a blog.”

BB leaned forward, interested. “Oh, really? What’s it about?”

Rapidly, my mind flitted through my options:  1) Why not just disclose everything all at once and get it over with? No, no, no.  2) After the offer, discuss privately with the HR director. Get her take on it. 3) Best to assess the lay of the land first. Wait a few months (or a year or ten) and casually bring up the subject one day. Or, 4) Simply place TDL’s photo on your desk and wait for the inevitable questions to follow.

The seconds were ticking away. I had to say something.

I hedged. “Well, it’s a personal blog. You could say I’ve led an interesting life.”

“Oh.” BB sounded disappointed.

NB cleared her throat. “Interesting life?” she repeated softly. I glanced over at her. She was staring at me with a downturned, sardonic smile. Suddenly I realized NB and I belonged to the same small industry networking group that met monthly. A little voice crept into my head. She knows.

I lifted my chin; my enthusiasm returned. “Yes, my life’s been interesting. People seem to like what I write.” I mentioned authoring guest posts, and told them how many followers I had.

Both women sat up straighter. NB said, “Well, I guess other people find it interesting, too.” BB smiled broadly.  “We’ll definitely be getting back to you,” she said, shaking my hand.

I berated myself the whole way home. What’s wrong with you? You had the perfect opportunity, a gift-wrapped lead-in. You blew it, completely and totally.

I asked myself why. The answer made me sick to my stomach.  Because, in that moment, you were afraid. What a coward!

I don’t know if they’ll request a second interview. But one thing I do know — if given another chance, I decided – I promised myself – to be forthright.  If necessary, I’ll bring up the subject myself.

I’m not going back into the closet for anything, not even a 15-minute commute.

If there ever was a time when I needed my mother’s calm and sage advice and the comfort of Terry’s sweet voice on the other end of the phone, this is it.

I’ve just learned, via the family grapevine, that my son requests I attend his wedding alone, without TDL. I am invited, but she is definitely, pointedly, most awfully, not. Making matters worse, I shouldn’t expect the courtesy of a phone call from my son.  The bad news will be conveyed via the printed invitation only. My worst-case scenario (see post: “Mom(bian) of the Groom”) has come true.

I should have seen this coming. There were all sorts of clues misguided me attributed to a bride who had it all together, someone admirably nonchalant at a supposedly stressful time.  For the past year I ignored the bride’s family’s rebuffs of my numerous offers to help with anything and everything; the cheerfully casual non-answers I received to my carefully-timed texts to my son’s fiancée asking for updates; how tight-lipped and non-committal other members of my family were whenever I inquired into the wedding planning.

I should have connected the dots because, unfortunately, I’ve been in this situation twice before.

My eldest daughter was married in a civil ceremony at a courthouse ten years ago. There were only a handful of us, just the immediate family. The couple asked TDL to sign the marriage license.  It is one of TDL’s proudest moments; she reminds me of it every year at their anniversary.

Years later, my second-oldest daughter included me in all the preparations for her wedding, from the dress selection to evaluating reception venues.  TDL and I were very excited about everything.

Two months before the wedding, I took TDL shopping for her outfit. To my stunned surprise, TDL – who hasn’t worn a skirt since 1984 – made a beeline for the ladies’ dresses section. As she browsed through the racks she wore a grim but determined expression. “For Amanda, for her wedding, I’ll wear a dress.”   She fussed over the fit of her selection. “Is it too long? Too short? Does it need to get taken in here or here?”  “You look fantastic!” I said. “But we’ll have to practice walking in those heels.”

When I described TDL’s dress to my daughter, she informed me that I was to come alone.  Her father proclaimed he would boycott the wedding and/or cause a scene if TDL showed up. I was the single lady minus a plus-one at the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony and the reception.

TDL’s dress is in the back of her closet.  The tags are still on it.

When my youngest daughter called me to discuss plans for her wedding, I told her I wouldn’t be attending unless she included TDL as well. I argued that if TDL were my husband of 17 years, I wouldn’t consider going without him, either.

My daughter and I didn’t speak for months. In the end, I relented because she is my daughter and, as TDL pointed out, I would forever regret not seeing my little girl walk down the aisle. I went alone to the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony and the reception.

TDL spent my daughter’s wedding day at a baseball double-header with a friend.

Even with this history, we were hopeful that my son’s wedding would be different. All of us, TDL and my ex included, had finally managed to co-exist without bloodshed at two family gatherings, in the same house, at the same time, within the past twelve months. It took us 19 years, but it happened.

But now, here we are back at a familiar place. I don’t know how I will tell TDL, but I’m certain she will insist I go.  I’ll again be the single lady minus a plus-one at the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony and the reception.

I am hurt. I am angry. I truly believe that if I were married to a man or even just dating someone of the opposite sex, there would be no issue. Both I and my “significant other” would be invited; they’d tell the “ex” just to move on, be mature, get over it. But because my spouse is a woman, there is an entirely different conversation going on – one that reflects contempt for a long-term, loving and committed relationship of nearly two decades.  This, at an event where two people pledge their allegiance and enduring love to each other.

The irony is exquisite.

My mother’s family attended Green Street United Methodist Church for generations. It was the site of a strong, faith-based community, fostering a brotherhood that prayed for and supported each other in practical ways, in good times and bad. My mother spoke lovingly of casseroles and home visits from the congregation when her father was sick; of church-sponsored picnics and ice cream socials; of wearing hats, gloves and “hose” even on the stickiest Sundays; of midnight candlelight services on Christmas and pancake breakfasts after Easter sunrise observances.

My siblings and I spent magical summers on the family farm on the outskirts of Winston-Salem when we were little. My relatives went to Green Street Church every Sunday, but because our immediate family was Catholic, we accompanied them only occasionally. I still remember how steep the church’s front steps felt under my eight year-old legs.

I treasure idyllic images from those times:  the smell of the pines after the rain; the taste of Aunt Rose’s blackberry cobbler bubbling fresh from the oven; the iciness at the end of a rope swing-plunge into the lake; bumpy wagon rides through the woods; the gentle rhythm of porch rocking chairs on sultry evenings, while fireflies twinkled in the trees around us.

But I also remember other things, like “White Only” signs posted on water fountains, restrooms and waiting areas. Hearing my relatives address adult African-American men as “boys.” The way black people stepped aside for us with lowered eyes, on the sidewalk and in lines at stores and ticket counters. That time on a bus when an elderly black woman was made to give me her seat.

Five years ago, my mother and I returned to Winston-Salem on a last pilgrimage to her hometown.  It had been decades since either of us had been back, and I wondered what changes I would see.

My relatives and their friends remained deeply religious and patriotic, and troubled by many national trends they felt were leading us away from God’s plan for our country. They bemoaned the secularism overtaking the nation; deplored the mixing of the races and reproductive rights; criticized removal of the Confederate flag from public buildings; and even condemned scientific advancements through stem-cell research.

High on their list of worries was the developing acceptance of gays and lesbians. With loving concern and true distress at my spiritual state, they cautioned me to reexamine my life and recommit myself to God. Despite my polite arguments to the contrary, my 80-something Aunt Rose refused to give up on me. Patting my hand, she proclaimed confidently, “Katie’s too pretty for that, and still young enough to get a man. Don’t y’all worry, somebody’s gonna come along, sweep her off her feet.”

It struck me how people linked by DNA had ended up in such different places. For my mother, Aunt Rose and my southern relatives, religion guided their day-to-day existences. For me, religion had almost no relevance to my life.

Maybe seeing the church again would provide some answers. My mother was anxious to revisit it too, despite Aunt Rose’s stated misgivings. She warned us that it had fallen into disrepair.  “Attendance is way down, I hear,” she said, “It’s not the way you remember it.”

We went anyway. When we pulled up in front of the church, a hush came over us.  Deterioration was evident in the gaps in the brick, the neglected landscaping, and the plywood over formerly glittering stained glass windows.

Aunt Rose filled the silence. “After the coloreds—I mean, when the neighborhood changed, and everybody was allowed to join, the charter members didn’t like it, moved away. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a for-sale sign on it soon. Don’t know who’d buy it, though.”

Seeing the building’s physical decline hit my mother hard. I wanted to go inside, but she shook her head. She turned to my aunt in the back seat and said, “You were right, Rose. I guess you can’t go home again. I’ll just remember it the way it . . . used to be.”

I thought, how ironic and sad that a place of worship had suffered this fate after opening its doors to everyone. My relatives had joined the exodus to other churches because of it.

Idling on the curb that day, I didn’t know that a transformation of radical proportions was happening within the dwindling congregation. Had someone told me of the church’s courageous stand for inclusiveness five years later, I would not have believed it possible.

My mother and Aunt Rose are no longer with us, but I hope their well-loved church grows again as the cornerstone of the community, just the way they fondly remembered it.

Our hands were full back then with issues relating to our existence in the day-to-day. TDL had been “out” for years, but I was still closeted at work, afraid I’d lose my job. I edited my pronouns (“we” or “I” instead of “TDL and I”) and was careful in conversations involving my personal life.  In public we tiptoed around the truth of our relationship due to my divorce and custody issues.  Together and separately, we dealt with personal safety and anti-gay retaliation wherever we went, including from former friends and family members.

The ability to be married wasn’t top-of-mind for us – survival was. But the effects and implications of government-sanctioned discrimination took their toll.  In our early years together, it seemed as if the whole country judged us, whether it involved buying a piece of furniture (see post: No Bed for You!) or in the pronouncements of the legal system (see post: Judge: You Are the Scum of the Earth). As recently as five years ago the bank didn’t want to approve a mortgage for us, “two strangers,” buying a house together.

Over the years we’ve nursed each other through colds, the flu, stomach and sinus ailments, surgeries and breast cancer.  I supported us when she was out of work due to a layoff. She grieved with me at the funerals of my sister and my parents. I’ve stood frozen on the sidelines through 19 seasons watching TDL quarterback her flag football team. We’ve worked alongside each other cleaning and rehabbing houses for destitute mothers. We’ve soothed the kids through trials, tribulations, September 11^th, their first day behind the wheel, and their first day at college. Together we’ve kept vigil awaiting the births of three grandchildren.

By any standards, the past two decades have been completely “normal.”  Unremarkable, yet more fulfilling than I could have ever imagined, because I’ve shared it all with the person I love. In TDL I have what I always hoped for, and a relationship many tell us they envy.

We are married, in every way that matters – except for one.

Public opinion is softening, but I haven’t exactly noticed a “sea change.” We can still be fired for being gay in our state, LGBT people can still be denied housing or employment or adoption across the country, gay children are still rendered homeless when they come out, and still bullied to the point of suicide. Studies show a statistical increase in hate crimes, possibly due to the public’s greater awareness of our lives and issues, and the individual courage of those who choose to live openly.

Our finances don’t reflect a sea change, either. While I’m grateful TDL’s work extends health benefits to me as her partner, I am still taxed for that privilege, and we still must file as individuals.  We carry a higher percentage on our mortgage interest rate to cover the presumed risk of our owning a home together. And we have just completed jumping through very expensive hoops to finalize our last wishes legally in order to protect our futures in what is still a discriminatory environment.

It is my hope that in the debate about our status as equal citizens of this country, there will finally emerge the realization that behind all the rhetoric there are living, breathing people.  People like TDL and I, who have raised a family, abided by every law, contributed to our communities, and paid our taxes.  But unlike convicted murderers and other prisoners, TDL and I still don’t have the “right” to marry – even though we don’t have so much as a speeding ticket between us.

To those pondering if there is enough data to make an informed decision, I say this: It is hurtful to have every aspect of our lives publicly dissected and endlessly discussed. I wonder if many “traditional” marriages could withstand such scrutiny.  It breaks my heart to hear some characterize the life we built as a potentially harmful and dangerous “social experiment.”

Our lives are not experiments.  Our lives are not tests or trials or social science research.  Our lives reflect who we are: we are people – and citizens – too.

What will TJ’s new in-laws think of me, of us? Or of my son, whose mother is a lesbian?

What about that awkward moment when I introduce TDL to aunts and grannies at the bridal shower?

Suppose they request I come alone? Suppose TJ doesn’t want me involved in his wedding at all?

My kids had to overcome a lot with a Latebian as their mother.  Unlike the early days nearly two decades ago, time has healed many wounds between me and my girls.

Not so with my son. I remind myself that typically men are poor communicators. I know mothers take a back seat when their sons are in love. I swallow my sadness when I recall I’ve met his fiancée only once in the eight years they’ve been dating.

His engagement gave me hope. What new bride doesn’t want to be on good terms with her mother-in-law? Maybe she would construct a healing bridge between me and my son.

Eight months later and I was still hoping — and fearful. Nobody on the bride’s side had reached out to me. Their silence was ominous.

On the advice of my hairdresser, who recently was married and at my last appointment had expounded at length on “conduct becoming a good mother-in-law,” I emailed the bride’s mother (BM), introduced myself, and invited her to lunch.

She agreed without hesitation. A good sign, I thought.  On the appointed day and time, I arrived 15 minutes early. BM was already there. Yay, another good sign.

Over my menu, I smiled my warmest smile and said, “I’m so glad we decided to do this. I’m so pleased to finally meet you!”

She didn’t look up as she scanned the bill of fare. “Yes,” she said.

Hmmmmm. Not an auspicious start. Don’t jump to conclusions, Katie.

“I’m sorry to have ‘forced’ you (insert nervous laughter) to meet with me, but TJ is my youngest, he’s my only son, and I’m excited for him. So please forgive me – I’ve only ever been the mother of the bride. This is my first time at being mother of the groom, so I apologize if I’m overstepping.”

You’re gushing. Stay cool.

“No problem,” BM shrugged. “I was coming down here anyway today to meet my sister. So it all worked out.”

Gee, how generous of you to fit me in; glad you weren’t inconvenienced.  (That attitude will get you nowhere, Katie. Stop it!)

“I mean, I don’t want to intrude – I know you’re probably crazy-busy with plans – but I wanted to offer my help, if you need it. If you’d like an extra pair of hands –“

More gushing. Stop it.

The waitress came over to take our orders and collect our menus. BM didn’t respond. I prodded her, “So, how are the plans coming?”  

“Fine. My husband’s handling everything. He’s taking care of it.”

WTF? Her husband? Maybe you misinterpreted – ask again.

“Really, your husband?”

“Yes, he plans all of our family parties. It’s just not my thing.”

Your only daughter’s wedding is not your thing. Uh, OK. Come back to this later.

“Listen, I was wondering what I could do – financially, I mean.”

“Well, that’s up to them. I’ve always told my daughter, we’ll pay for college. Everything after that is up to her.”

OK, I get it. But let’s be real. Since the bride hasn’t found a job yet, technically my son will be paying for everything.

“Well, I thought – and please know, I don’t want to offend you. I thought that maybe . . . I paid for all of my girls’ wedding gowns and I would love – I’d be honored – if you would allow me to pay for the gown, or at least give some money toward it.”

BM drew herself up indignantly. “I can pay for my OWN DAUGHTER’S wedding gown, thank you very much!”

??? But you just said . . .

“I’m sorry if I insulted you. I didn’t mean to. I told you I was new at this mother-of-the-groom stuff. I was just trying to think of practical ways I could help.”

“NO THANK YOU! That won’t be necessary.”

(Katie’s inappropriate internal comment deleted.)  Move on. Now that you’ve got her attention, no time like the present to introduce another sticky topic.

“I also . . . want to bring up something else. I’m sure you know my circumstances. My partner and I have been together for 18 years.  I wanted to ask, is this – will it be – a problem for you? Is it going to create any issues at the wedding?”

Her gaze immediately traveled over my shoulder. “No.”

Your body language tells me something different.

“I want you to know I’m open to talking about it. If you have any questions, if there is something you’d like to ask, please do.”

“What you do with your personal life is up to you.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

“The main thing is I wouldn’t want you to think differently about TJ because of it.”

“TJ’s a wonderful young man. He’s like my own son.”

That’s great. But he already has a mother. Unless – he’s adopted you to replace me.

“That’s – wonderful of you to say that. Thank you.” Unconsciously, I put my hand to my heart. “Well if anything crops up later, if you have any concerns, or if there is anything you’re wondering about when you’re planning please let me know.”

“We know what we need to know. We don’t have any questions.” She stabbed viciously into her salad bowl.

No questions. Really?

Several minutes passed in silence. I tried again.

I asked what she did for a living. She spoke about her lawyer-sister, her professor-father, and her policeman-husband. When pressed, she said she was an insurance adjuster, “The one who hangs up on you when you have a claim,” she stated, without cracking a smile.  She didn’t ask me anything.  (She knows all she needs to know, remember?)

As we walked to our cars I again offered my help.

“I told you. We’re handling everything.” She sounded exasperated.

Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

“Ok, then, I’ll just wait to hear from you.”

She adjusted her scarf. “Right.”

This did not go as planned.

A few weeks later, the bride posted the wedding date and venue on Facebook.

It’s been a year since my lunch with BM. TJ’s wedding is now six months away. I haven’t heard anything more. I’m afraid to contact BM. I’d rather think they’re behind in their planning than that she’ll tell me what I don’t want to hear.

I’ve one option left — flee to the hair salon for root retouching and insight.

It delivered as promised – in the ‘Surprises!’ department.

I’m no newbie at this. I’ve done my time behind the table on numerous occasions. And as the mother of three well-married daughters, I’ve perfected the art of navigating crowded aisles at bridal shows, juggling armfuls of tchotchkes collected from representatives of every aspect of the wedding industry.

I know how these things are supposed to work. But on this particular occasion, I think they got it wrong.

The road leading to the venue had no signage, no cheerful, balloon-trimmed pop-ups with directional arrows spaced at regular intervals along the highway. The hotel’s entrance was similarly bare. In the parking lot I double-checked the address. “Are you sure this is it?” TDL asked.  We watched an elderly couple exit the double doors.  “Let’s go in. Maybe there’s someone we can ask,” I mused.  “Maybe it’s supposed to be a secret!” TDL joked.

In the lobby was a handmade poster on an easel advertising a local hospital’s reproductive services for LGBT couples.  In an inconspicuous corner a buzz-haired woman sat at a makeshift desk. She handed us a tote bag and directed us down a narrow hallway.

We entered a small, low-ceilinged room. It was quiet, almost somber.  A dozen people fidgeted nervously behind their tables.  There were representatives from two country clubs, two local hospitals, two photography studios, a lesbian website, an officiate, an attorney, someone from a leather-and-lace erotic lingerie establishment, and one bakery.

I wondered: Where were the florists, the travel agents, the stationers with clever ideas for invitations and matching Save the Date cards, the wedding planners, the DJs, the jewelers, the makeup artists and the bridal dress shops?

TDL left me at the door and plunged right in. She went straight to the country club table and motioned me over. To one side of the table was a large image of a gazebo mounted on an easel, depicting a bride and groom staring adoringly at each other.

The two women and a man snapped to attention. They nodded when TDL said hello.  I recognized the country club as a site my daughter had considered for her wedding. I asked, “You host same-sex weddings here?”  The blonde woman’s mouth turned down at the corners. She looked away. The man assured me heartily that they did. I asked how many gay weddings had they hosted? He shifted his feet and said, “Ummm, well . . .”

I fingered the trifold brochure laid out on the table. The images were of traditional male/female couples. TDL asked if we could sign up to receive more information. Neither women moved.  Again, the man sprang into action. “Why, yes of course, please do.”

We proceeded to the next table, another country club that was “aligned” with the first. When TDL bent to add our information to their sign-in sheet, a woman hastily said, “Oh, no need to do that if you’ve signed the other one. Here, come spin our wheel. You could get a chocolate fountain for free!” TDL earned us a complimentary intermezzo course if we booked by the end of the month.

Next up was the Yum Yum Bakery’s table, displaying two wedding cakes. We admired the one decorated with edible seashells and sugar pearls. The baker seemed most pleased with the other cake, and mentioned she’d had it specially designed for this event. “I told them I needed something colorful for today,” she said.  It was a three-tiered confection covered in light blue fondant and garishly decorated with rainbow stripes around each layer. When we walked away, TDL said, “Nobody we know would order that cake! What was she thinking?”  “Because they think if we’re gay we require a rainbow splashed over everything,” I explained sardonically. “But at least she tried.”

Both photography booths displayed blown-up images of same-sex couples on their wedding days. The staff was enthusiastic and discussed with us the differences in photographing traditional couples and gay couples.  They expressed interest in our plans and made sure to obtain our information.

The attorney provided a thick handout that described legal ways LGBT couples could protect themselves. She offered a free 30-minute consultation. TDL tucked the woman’s card into her pocket.

The officiate’s table was unmanned. We bypassed the assisted reproductive technologies display. TDL pulled me away from the erotic lingerie booth. We looked around and realized that after only ten minutes, we’d seen everything. I peeked into our bag. Inside were a handful of pamphlets and papers, no giveaways or gadgets, not a free pen or even a stack of post-it notes. TDL saw the look on my face and said, “Ok, let’s go.”

Back in the car, I asked her, “Did you notice? Except for the photographers, no one asked about a wedding date. No one asked how long we’d been together. No one  — “

TDL interrupted, “I liked that you thanked all of the vendors for coming. That was nice.”

“Well, I really did appreciate that they came. It would have been nice to see them making more of an effort, though, like with their materials. I thought I’d get great ideas. But it seemed like some of them didn’t even want to talk to us. Not so sure how ‘gay-friendly’ they were.”

“Just don’t let it get to you.”

“It’s not just that,” I said. “I wouldn’t have minded, I would have felt differently about the whole thing, if  . . .”

“If what?”

“If one of them had just said ‘congratulations.’

My mother was one of those people. Non-judgmental and open-minded herself, she couldn’t accept that ‘in this day and age,’ TDL and I were treated differently. “You’ve always been sensitive, Katie,” she’d say.  “You take things to heart and your feelings get hurt.  People act or speak without thinking. They’re not deliberately mean or unkind.”

I tried to look at it from her perspective, but while Mom’s philosophy softened the blow, it didn’t erase my suspicion that I interpreted a stranger’s comment or behavior correctly. People could be deliberately mean, deliberately unkind.

Then one day something happened to change my mother’s attitude.

TDL and I visited Mom on weekends and often took her clothes shopping. She favored an expensive store that carried petite sizes to fit her small frame. Per our routine, she installed herself in a dressing room while we carried items in and out for her. The salespeople didn’t mind that we stayed for hours, especially when I periodically brought out armfuls of slacks, skirts and sweaters for the “she’s taking these” pile.

On one shopping trip, Mom and I were alone in the dressing room when she suddenly asked, “Katie, the whispers, the stares, the rudeness – is that what you’re talking about? I saw TDL asking that saleslady a question and the woman just walked away! Is that how it is?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s OK, Mom, we’re used to it,” I said.

“Well, I’m not used to it. It’s not OK with me! I don’t like it. Not one little bit.”

The woman at the checkout counter cheerfully rang up my mother’s purchases, smiling broadly when the total reached four figures. She handed Mom a glossy slip of paper advertising the store’s private sale scheduled a few weeks ahead. “We’d really love to have you,” the saleslady gushed. “It’s a fabulous party, we serve champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and you get first look at the new collection. We have prizes and – well, it’s a lot of fun. The store is closed to everyone except our invited guests. You can’t get in without an invitation so make sure you bring it with you.”

“My, that sounds wonderful!” Mom murmured, fingering the paper. “May I have two more? I’d like my daughter and her partner to come with me.”

Panic descended over the saleslady’s face. She blushed, and began furiously stuffing a sweater into a bag.  Her words tumbled out, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I think that’s the last one –” She briefly rummaged under the desk. “We placed an order for more.  Um, well, we have your address from your charge – when they come in, I’ll be sure to mail extras to you, OK?”

Mom put the paper on the counter. Smiling sweetly, she said, “Here, you may need this one for someone else. Just send three to me, will you, instead of two?” She leaned over the counter and said, “I spend a lot of money in this store. I like your clothes. Wouldn’t it be a shame if I couldn’t come because they weren’t invited?” Then she added sternly, “Do you understand?”

The saleslady’s face reddened again and she nodded curtly. TDL and I carried the bags outside. As we drove away, Mom said, “I’m going to put that date on my calendar. Let’s see what the mail brings.”

Mom circled the date on her calendar. The invitations never came.

Months later, I brought Mom’s mail to her and she lay in bed sifting through it while I tidied up her room.  “Here, honey, throw these away,” she said, handing me a small bundle.  I was halfway to the wastepaper basket in her bathroom when I stopped and held up a brightly colored mailer. On its cover was printed ‘Preferred Customer, We Miss You!’  in bold, red type.

“Look, Mom – you should save this, it’s from your favorite store. Wow, it’s got coupons and everything.”  I turned it over. “And you can use them on the new stuff, not just sale items.”

Mom waved her hand. “No, throw it away. I can spend my money anywhere I like.  And I won’t be spending it there. Never again.”

By now I’m used to the negative rhetoric in the national debate about my legitimacy as a full and equal citizen of this country.  I’m aware of those who blame me for global natural disasters, economic collapse, the disintegration of the family, and every other ill that comes down the pike.  I expect the occasional slurs from athletes, celebrities and ordinary people with opinions.

Maybe it’s the cumulative weight of these things on my soul, but lately I’ve been zoning in on the kind of stupid, irrelevant stuff that has TDL scratching her head and wondering what the heck is wrong with me.

I can’t escape it. Everyday life has me in a state of perpetual outrage – and it’s exhausting.

I realize I’m just another anonymous member of the LGBT community, and I try not to take it personally. But lately it feels intensely personal.  Here are two recent items that have sent me over the edge:

Jodi Arias Trial: Because Gay Men Are Just Naturally Funny

I’m such a fan of true crime that I devote an entire shelf in my bookcase to titles like Helter Skelter, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and Never Let Her Go.  I occasionally follow the Jodi Arias trial, the case of the woman who claims she killed her boyfriend in self-defense.  Recently I watched a replay of the defendant’s testimony. So what was my big take-away? I noticed that Arias was stone-faced throughout her salacious retelling of her sexual activities with the deceased. Her expression changed only once, when she described a former gay coworker.  Smiling apologetically at the jury as she struggled to find the words, she said, “And there was this other guy, a friend. Um, how shall I put this? I’m smiling because this guy, he’s funny – well, you know – he’s gay.” To illustrate, she flapped her arms flamboyantly.

Her characterization made me mad. I waited to hear what the legal commentators would say, and I got madder.  Although every other nuance of her body language, clothing and oral testimony was dissected endlessly, this comment was never mentioned.  To me, it is telling that Arias has no problem describing anal sex and BJs, yet she demurs at the word “gay.” My conclusion?  In trying to find common ground with the jury, I wager she’s correct that many of them share her belief. Of course, it’s OK to ridicule gay men because – well, you know, they’re just funny.

If A Bitch Can Be A Bride, What About Me?

My girly-girl guilty pleasure is Say Yes to the Dress. I’ve placidly watched legions of brides agonize over their desired silhouettes, from fit-and-flare to ball gowns. I ignore the minor twinge to my heartstrings when former customers return a few years later to purchase a dress for their second wedding, and I think it’s sweet (if a bit unwise financially) when married women plunk down thousands to be outfitted for a vow renewal ceremony.  But I went into a tizzy when a recent episode featured a female dog “bride” who presented for an appointment to have a gown custom designed for her upcoming nuptials.  The clip of the ceremony showed an officiant, a wedding cake, matching marital dog collars and a ballroom filled with guests who applauded after the vows were exchanged.  It was innocent fun for all – but not from where I was sitting.

Yes, the event was for charity. Yes, I love animals and don’t begrudge efforts to support shelters. But where were the voices shouting about this affront to the so-called sanctity of marriage? When my desire to legalize a union of 18 years is challenged at every turn by the state, bridal dress shops, wedding venues and bakeries, is it really OK for two dogs to be married while I await permission? The only principle it illustrates is that my marriage would have exactly the same effect on heterosexual unions as one consummated between two canines – and that is precisely no effect at all.

I’ll withhold the rest of my rant for another post. I won’t mention TDL’s straight male coworker’s annoying fascination with the lesbian couple living next door who are “attractive enough to get a man.” Or how I sometimes avoid going to the doctor because I can’t bear another argument with the receptionist over insurance in my partner’s name. Or that our neighborhood YMCA told TDL and me we weren’t eligible for a family membership. Or how that elderly couple changed their seats to another table after I introduced TDL as my wife at a friend’s birthday party last year.

Just another day for a gay person in America.

I appreciate all that I have. I’m not a teenager kicked out of my home or bullied because of my orientation. I have friends and family, a job I enjoy, and enough of everything. I’m thrilled at how far we’ve come in the last few years and hopeful for the Supreme Court decisions in June. Intellectually it feels like we’re in the home stretch.

But during these gray Northeast winters, I find myself lapsing into memories of the little things that demonstrate how wide a gap remains.  And it’s hard not to take it personally.

The first time I was approached with the astounding possibility that I was gay happened early in my career, courtesy of Mary, a work colleague.

Our company was a remarkable place where flip-flops and jeans were acceptable board meeting attire. Employees came and went according to their own personal schedules. People shouted out their ideas at open employee meetings. The company’s founder was an aging, long-haired hippie with a Ph.D. from an Ivy League school, who was among the first to espouse radical workplace ideas like a liberal dress code, flex time, value of human capital, employee self-accountability, and employer-funded education.  We had regular pizza-and-beer lunch days, employee events every few months, and an employee game room.  All educational courses, from pottery-making to astrophysics, were fully reimbursed. On any given day, you’d be working beside former teachers or lawyers, doctoral candidates or high-school dropouts. The common thread was a passion for the company and the work we did.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that in this environment, Mary felt empowered to reveal what she said had been clear to her from the first time we met.

Like newbies everywhere, Mary wore that familiar, befuddled expression when she stepped off the elevator her first day. I happened to walk by. She asked me for directions. We chatted as I escorted her to her area. Our paths occasionally crossed. If we worked on a project together, we’d go to lunch. Sometimes I sat with her at employee meetings and events.  She was funny and smart and I was inexplicably drawn to her.

One morning I found an interoffice envelope on my chair. Inside was a slim, dog-eared book, with a note in Mary’s handwriting clipped to its faded cover. The note read, “The woman in the book reminds me of you. When you’re finished maybe you’ll tell me what you think.  Just please keep an open mind and don’t be mad. Mary.”

Naturally, I couldn’t wait to read it. I tore into it on the train going home. I finished it in two days.

The story was about two women friends. One was single; the other was considering ending her unhappy marriage. They went away together to the single woman’s cabin in the woods so the married woman could think about her relationship. Romance ensued. They ended up falling in love, but the married woman decided to return to her husband and make another go of it.  The end.

I puzzled over what Mary was trying to tell me. I had never disclosed much of my personal life to her – how did she know I was as miserable as the married character? How did Mary know I could relate? She was right — the woman in the book was a lot like me, right down to the way she preferred her spaghetti cooked (Al dente. But like me, the character made it mushy the way her husband liked it). Was Mary trying to tell me to hang in there, that I could make my marriage work if I tried hard enough? Knowing Mary, that couldn’t be it.

If she wanted to tell me she was a lesbian, her convoluted way of doing it disappointed me. I’d heard the rumors. I didn’t care what my coworkers said behind my back when Mary and I went to lunch together. It felt like she didn’t trust me enough, and it hurt.

I absolutely wanted to talk about it.  But I never got the chance.

Book in hand, I trolled by Mary’s desk several times the rest of the week, but she wasn’t there. To my relief, on Friday I saw her standing at her desk, her dark hair visible above the partition of her cubicle.

She was throwing items from her desk into a box. When I approached, she brushed her eyes furiously and looked away.

“Hey, Mary, where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you all week. I’ve got that book you lent me.”

“Thanks,” she said, grabbing the book and tossing it into the box.

“I finished it. Want to go to lunch today and talk?”

“Um, no, I won’t be here for lunch. I’m – leaving. Something came up. Personal – don’t want to talk about it.” She picked up the box and started to the elevator. I trotted behind.

“But Mary, you can’t just up and leave!  What’s happened? Will you call me later?”

Someone walked by and hooted, “What’s this? A lover’s quarrel?”

Mary rolled her eyes at the comment. “No, I won’t be calling you,” she replied abruptly.  With an exasperated sigh, she added, “And about the book – I only wanted to help – nothing more. Get that idea right out of your head.  Katie, wake up and look at yourself!  I mean, really look inside.  Open your eyes!”  She leaned in and whispered, “You know what I’m talking about. If you take a really good look, you’ll see what I saw when I first set eyes on you. And just maybe you’ll be happy.”

I stood there with my mouth open. The elevator door closed. Mary didn’t call me. I never saw or spoke to her again.

All these years later, I sometimes think of Mary. I wish I knew how or where to contact her – I’d like to tell her that among  TDL’s many attributes, she likes her spaghetti cooked al dente, just like me.