Telling, or deciding who and when to tell has been one of the most anxiety-ridden thing I’ve had to do in regards to my lesbian identity. I had to make decisions about my mom, my siblings, other family members, my friends, acquaintances, church members, co-workers, everyone.  Even the strangers we meet in the streets automatically make judgments or assumptions about our (homo and hetero) relationships, gender and sexuality. I had to decide how I wanted to deal with it all.

In graduate school, I was neither in nor out. I was the queen of DADT.

Of course, there was that one favorite classmate of mine who figured it out almost immediately. I would neither confirm or deny, but for him, the cat was out of the bag.  We shared a wink and a smile, and both went back to whatever conversation we were originally having. I will always love him for that. And it felt good to know that if wasn’t that big of a deal.

In talking about the GF, I simply said my significant other, my partner or the asexual “them”.  However, it didn’t take my closest classmates very long to realize that the only reason a person would use those particular words was if they had something to hide. And I am reminded of a particular raucous, tequila filled night where I slipped up and said her. I hoped that no one noticed.

On Diversity Day we watched a series of skits designed to inform us of all the ways we could look like racist, prejudiced a-holes, even when we don’t mean to be. While I was visibly awkward and disturbed by the display of We Love Everyone –even the Blacks, the Jews, the Homos and Women– propaganda, I was NOT going to use that moment to tell my professors and classmates of my super minority status.

It wasn’t until our second year when a group of us were thinking of renting a house together that I thought, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should come clean.  And with the eight of us standing in a Kroger parking lot discussing the pros and cons of a communal living arrangement, I in full dramatic fashion, proclaimed myself a lesbian. My friends just looked at me with silly grins, as if they A. Needed a warning and B. Didn’t already know.

Even if they didn’t care, I felt good about it.  And I felt good about waiting to share. In entering graduate school, I made a conscious decision not to be the token lesbian. I wanted to be liked and judged on the merits of my character, wittiness, drinking ability, and intellectual prowess, not on the sex of the person with whom that I share my life.

And waiting helped me accomplish that.

It’s been even longer than that since I spent many a Saturday morning in front of the public library trying to convince people to, once they returned their library books, vote early (or simply register to vote and by the way, would they consider voting for Barack Obama and these other politicians that I think are pretty cool.

I was, and still am for the most part, inspired by Barack Obama and his near meteoric rise from Chicago no-name to POTUS. I really didn’t get all the “hope” bullshit, I didn’t believe that what America needed was HOPE—what we needed was someone with at least a little bit of intelligence to get in the White House and do what needed to be done. I FIRMLY stood behind Barack, praying that he really would bring the right kind of change to the States.

And so I have to admit that I’m a little let down.

Not that Barack isn’t doing the best he can. Let’s be for real, America was in trouble WAY before he stepped foot in the Oval Office for the first time. And all this economic crisis, housing bubble, bank bailout crap is still taking center stage. He did not create the shitstorm he’s currently wading through.

But still, dammit, I had an AGENDA! I just KNEW that by this point in the presidency we would have glorious universal healthcare, the wars in Iraq and Afganistan would be over – with all the Jews and Christians and Muslims of the world, sitting together singing Kumbaya. I figured at this point we’d (Barack and I) would start dealing with domestic issues like increasing access to public transportation in our largest metro areas, ending homelessness and increasing affordable housing stock, enhancing high speed internet connections in rural areas, fixing public education, letting gays get married, reversing global warming, perfecting the electric car, and maybe, just maybe, walking on water.

Unfortunately, this economic mega-crisis isn’t the only thing that’s stopping Barack’s and my progress. Why? Because America is still a two party system, and the other party (and fake members of our own party) continue to dig their stupid little feet into the mud, and pout and tantrum and not do ANYTHING productive. They pander and pussyfoot and act all mampy-pampy.

And, bless their hearts, the Repulicans , at this point, are just being spiteful and obstinate. I really don’t think that they have issues with the MERIT of some of Obama’s policies, they just say no as the starting point of their negotiations.

And poor Obama, still trying to be bipartisan. I was flipping the channels on the TV the other day and stopped briefly at MSNBC or CNN or something and saw Obama say something to the effect of “Bipartisanship doesn’t mean me giving into what they want all the time, and them giving in to what I want none of the time.” Meh. It’s a good start I guess.

Wanna know what I think?

-F- bipartisanship.  –F the Democrats. –F the Republicans. –F the PACs and Interest Groups. –F the think tanks and policy wonks.  And while I’m at it, –F Congress and f-ing re-election.

A couple of weeks ago I came across the Iron Law of Oligarchy- which basically says that those in power will do whatever is needed to remain in power. I can’t even tell you the number of times I’ve seen this in action during my career, electeds who wuss out and don’t stand up for what’s right just because of the political reality of incumbency.  In DC it’s so much worse, where the stakes are oh so high and the money and power are addictive and intoxicating. Think about all the senators and representatives who have been sitting pretty and all self-important in the houses of Congress for longer than I’ve been born and haven’t accomplished anything useful. If it were up to me, 98% of Congress would be fired.

Policy making along the lines of political ideology, the latest gallup poll, or who’s flashing the biggest wad of money at you is not what’s hot in the streets.

Barack, dear friend that I stood for, campaigning – all day in the cold, wet rain on a lonely day in November – Be the exception to the rule. For the sake of all that is holy, all the newly minted voters that voted, for you, for the first time in their lives, for all the people that gave thanks to God and cried at the end of election night and during your inauguration, and for me, all the times I told some poor schmuck that their vote DOES matter, for all the Americans who you represent, for all the detractors that say you won’t be successful. For all of us, find and use your moral compass. Don’t succumb to the gathering and hoarding of power, don’t listen to the polls or the pundits. Forget about the corporate campaign funders. While we are at it, get rid of all the Clinton pundits on your staff telling you what to do. They are so 90’s anyway.

Barack, you’re a smart guy. I bet you even taught an Ethics class or two when you were an academic. I am confidence that you know right from wrong. Just… do the right thing. Stop worrying about what people will or won’t say. Ignore Fox News.

Make all those new grey hairs on your head worth it. Stop worrying. We trust you to do the right thing. We voted for you, so show us what REAL CHANGE looks like.

Just do the right thing. If that means being a bully to get good policies to pass, do it. If it means alienating folks that you would normally compromise with, do it. If it means calling people out on their asinine-ness, do. Flex your presidential muscle.

We voted for you because we thought you’d do a good job, do the right thing, and make us proud.

Don’t make us look stupid.

I don’t often talk about my sister Maretta, so I’m going to tell you a story about her today.  Maretta (Retta Feta) is only 18 months younger than me.  Apparently, my mother didn’t realize that she could get pregnant so quickly after birthing me.  For all intents and purposes, I cannot remember my life without Retta being a part of it. We went to the same elementary, middle and high schools. I used to hang out with her class and go with her on field trips. (I don’t know how I got out of my classes to attend all her events.) Maretta and I were never in the same class because Maretta has Down’s Syndrome.

Maretta’s Down’s Syndrome was never a issue in our family. Often when friends meet her for the first time they are surprised by it because we don’t think it’s something that needs to be explained in some way.  She was never treated any differently. Mama expected her to go to school and do well, the same as the rest of us.  Specialness was not a hot commodity in our family. Everyone is special. I’m special because I was the oldest, Maretta’s special because of Down’s Syndrome, Matthew’s special because he’s the only boy, and Michaele’s special because she’s the youngest. See how that works? No one was ever jealous and no one had “middle child syndrome”.

I’ll be the first to admit that my siblings and I don’t have a traditional sibling relationship. We just love each other too much, and we’ve always gotten along way too well.  That doesn’t mean that there haven’t been times when I’ve wanted to bang their heads together.  With Retta, I rarely wanted to bang her head against something; I was more likely to want to bang my head against something. She has never liked it when I’ve told her what to do, and she is WAY more stubborn than I am. And quite honestly, she’s stronger than I am, so I never could bang her head into anything the few times I’ve tried.

Maretta is very caring and loving but, like all of us, she has her flaws. Maretta had a couple of years between her birth and our brother’s.  She was none too pleased to have Matt in the family.  She didn’t want to touch him, she didn’t want to play with him, she didn’t want him around and she had HELLA tantrums when he was a baby.  I, on the other hand, treated him like a new toy.

And when Kell was born a few years later, things weren’t much better. Maretta was indifferent to her at best.  Kell was is an attention whore, and I don’t think Maretta liked having this little screaming meanie monopolizing Mom’s and Dad’s and my attention. Maretta ignored her when she could and tolerated her when she had to. (Now they have a great relationship, and their closeness makes me proud and a little jealous).

Maretta’s disdain for children extends to all babies and toddlers. Under the best circumstances she ignores them and pretends that they don’t exist.

So when I, my Mom, Maretta and Michaele decided to visit Matthew’s wife and babies this Christmas we weren’t sure how Retta would react to the little ones.  Honestly, we weren’t sure how ANY of us would react.  We all were meeting Matt’s family (wife included) for the first time and it was a little scary for all of us.  Moreover, since Matt’s in Afghanistan, we could not even use him as a buffer.

Luckily, Christmas was AWESOME. My brother’s wife is really sweet and we had a lot of fun. We each made sure to get some one-on-one bonding time with Maria. And I, personally, think Matt did a good job of adding her to our family. And my boy has made some pretty babies.

The babies are the cutest creatures I have ever seen.  They are cuter than puppies, kittens, bunnies, and strawberry pie a la mode.  I am madly, dangerously, irreversibly in love.  And I’m not the only one.  Maretta couldn’t get enough of those children. Almost immediately she was curious about them, peeking over our shoulders so that she could get a good look at them while we held them, or showering them with kisses whenever they were close to her. And before long she wanted to hold them by herself and talk to them.  This was the ONLY time that Maretta has ever given two hoots about a kid, and now she’s cooing, and kissing and rocking this beautiful child. *shaking my head*

Life is grand. And I’m an auntie.

If we are Facebook friends, check out my “Christmas in Colorado photo album”. And if we aren’t facebook friends, check my photos out here.

I have to start this post by telling everyone that I’m not just getting fatter. I hope to GOD that I’m not getting fatter, since I pay 50 bucks a month for a gym membership and I spend 3+ hours several days a week working out and dealing with all the stuff that goes along with working out (travel, showering, etc)

Since starting to work out last year, I’ve toned up tremendously (I have thighs and buns of steel) but I haven’t seen the scale budge.  Honestly, I haven’t seen a difference in (most) of my clothes. It takes a huge weight gain before my clothes let me know that I’ve started gaining.  The latest weight gain took place during the two years that I was in MPA School drinking beer and exercising little (none in the first year, sporadically in the second year).  I’m just (in the past 6-8 months) starting to notice and, only recently, try to do something about it.

Because I’m something of a yo-yo weight loser I have about 3 different sizes of clothes.  The first (lowest sized) clothes are tight now, and I’ve moved on to the next largest size.  These clothes are supposed to fit.

So I was surprised last week, when, after only a few hours at work I realize how uncomfortable I am. I realize that my clothes are tight. And of course, as soon as I START to think about how the waistband of my pants is digging into my stomach, I can’t think of anything but my bloated stomach.

So after a couple more hours of labored breathing and hurting stomach, I vow that as soon as I get these clothes home, they are going into my “goodwill” pile.

Later, I get home; chuck the pants and the shirt (good riddance!) away, put on my favorite sweat pants and finally starts to breath normally.  When the GF get’s home, I, still sore from the day of poor circulation around my middle, tell her about giving the pants away.

And she asked me which pants I’m giving away because I’m not allowed to give any away until she made sure that they aren’t the pants she liked to see me in.

*Shrugging*.  What am I going to do with her?

The story continues….

It has been unseasonably cold in Atlanta this winter, so I’m learning how to layer (Don’t judge me, I’m southern.  I shouldn’t have to layer).  I was wearing a button-down shirt under a sweater.   Somehow two of the shirt’s buttons have come undone, it’s tight around the shoulders and the sweater is itchy on my skin.  And I think I shrunk this sweater last time I washed it because it is RIDING UP along my stomach.

Not happy times.

Guess what?  I have more items for my “goodwill” bag.  (Yay for somebody.)

I think I need to go on a diet.

I’m also going to think about fundamentally changing the way that I dress.  Three out of five days a week something I wear to work makes me uncomfortable. I hate pants, shirts, and boots. I can’t wait until summer when I can wear skirts, dresses and flip flops. I NEVER feel this uncomfortable in a skirt (unless I’m cold).  I felt more uncomfortable yesterday than I did in 4^th grade gym class when I had to turn flips in a shirt without showing my ass. I need flowy pieces, tunics, elastic, cotton, things that breathe (so that I can breathe).

I need to go shopping.

And on a semi-related note…

Dear Mother Nature, Can I get some sunshine and 78 degree weather so that I don’t have to wear all these clothes? Puh -Puh -Please?

I’m a little obsessed with water; ocean, river and lake front properties make me drool. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of my favorite cities, San Francisco, Boston, Madison, and Miami are, in one way or another, on the water.  I blame my parents for this.

The nearest beach was about a three hour drive from where I grew up in  North Carolina and we would often head to the beach spontaneously for the day, an overnight or a long luxurious weekend. Driving to the beach and letting us kids splash around for a few hours, getting a great seafood meal, and driving home the same night was an easy and inexpensive way to trick us kids into behaving and to stop us from complaining that we never went anywhere. Dad (when he was there) or mom would load us into the station wagon and head for one or the other of our favorite beach spots.

I thought about this today. I’m at work wishing to high heaven that I was somewhere else.  I looked at the background of my island paradise on my computer, tried to go to my happy place, couldn’t and got a little angry.  I got so frustrated suddenly that I HAD to; ABSOLUTELY had to, change the picture.

So I did a google search on ocean pictures and found this one and I liked it. I could feel a headache coming on, so I took some deep breaths and stared at my new backdrop.

I can almost feel the heat and the dampness of the air.  I, just when I close my eyes, can smell the salt and sand coming off the water.  If I concentrate just a little bit, I can feel the lushness of the flowers. I run my fingers through the soft grittiness and smell the heady aroma of the dirt that produces such beautiful plant life. I relax just a little as I imagine myself in one of those corona commercials.  Beer in one hand, book in the other. No need for ipods, the world is my soundtrack. Ah, the life.

Don’t think that I’m just here getting my tan on at the beach.  After a morning swim, and a short “meditation” from my beach chair; I shower, dress (in something small and flowy, because it’s hot and I’m at home) and settle in my office for the day.

Where is my office, you ask? A screened-in porch at the back of my “house” where I can see and smell the ocean and hear the sounds of the birds and the waves.

In my office, I go to my computer and I write. I’m not sure yet what I’m writing. But I am. And, somehow, I know that I’m making people happy. And I’m making me happy.

And this is my life. Someone pays me to do this.

Suddenly, I am snapped out of my reverie by a ringing phone or a irritating laugh of a co-worker in a nearby cube. I shake my head and go back to reading the 50 page bill on my desk.  The one for which I’ve been asked to prepare a fiscal analysis. This analysis, like the other analyses I’ve done over the past six months, won’t make a huge difference in the world.

I glance back at my new happy place on my computer background.  One day.My

This morning I was researching slacking off as I normally do and came across a New York Times article about State of the Nation/Union/Country.  Apparently, the US isn’t the only county to have an annual State Address. I was intrigued, and clicked to see what other leaders have been talking about lately.  Mostly its boring, economic stuff but this one quote from Philippines President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo during her (yes, I said her) State of the Nation Address on July 27, 2009 took my by surprise and caused me to do a double read.

I did not become president to be popular. To work, to lead, to protect and preserve our country, our people — that is why I became president.  To those who want to be president, this advice: If you really want something done, just do it. Do it hard, do it well. Don’t pussyfoot. Don’t pander. And don’t say bad words in public.

Wouldn’t we be better off if all the world’s leaders felt and behaved this way?

What a wonderful idea.

Presumably, when two people decide to get married they have things in common. They know each other’s likes and dislikes, favorite foods, favorite movies, personal styles and so forth.  But more importantly, these two people are able to identify each other’s smells and the taste of one’s skin.  They know what they expect to feel when they touch a favorite body part.  If one were to hear the other’s voice at a distance, over the phone or across the way, they know unconsciously that it is them.

Countless times a day I think a thousand variations of “I have to share this with the GF!” when I read or see something that makes me laugh or cry. And I sometimes send her half a dozen emails when I read something that I know she will find interesting.

So when I hear about friends that have been in relationships as long or longer than myself going through the messiest of break-ups or even those that end because “We just aren’t right for each other anymore” I automatically put myself in their shoes and try to figure out what the GF and I can do to avoid their fates.

I understand what it feels like to want to spend the rest of your life with my best friend.  And it makes my stomach hurt to think about living my life without her in it.  I’ve lost best friends before, and it ain’t fun. I don’t want to go through that again.

When I see my newly single friends bouncing back from a break up, I marvel at how they do it.  How do you turn off the “I can’t wait to share this with them” button?  How do you forget about this person that meant so much to you? How does one go from sharing the most intimate details of life with a person to never speaking to them again?   Call me crazy, but I get attached.  Once I’ve shared myself with you, I find it difficult to just forget about all those details and go about my existence without at least wondering about the other person.

Unfortunately, the reality of life is that break-ups happen.  People, interests, desires all change. Sometimes we make stupid mistakes that change the course of our lives and relationships.  And while I know a break up would not literally kill me, that pain is not one that I relish having.  And maybe that’s why I try so hard to keep my relationship together.

If something goes wrong and outcomes are bad, I generally have someone else to blame for these decisions. And I often regret that I forfeited my own decision making power to someone else. At the very least, I kick myself in the ass for not being true to what I want.

Sometimes I just make impulsive, some would say rash, decisions. Those passionate, emotional, little-thought-required decisions are generally the ones that I am the happiest with. In those cases, even when/if I fall on my face, I get up and stand behind whatever decision I made. After all, I either got what I wanted or learned a huge lesson, right?

Some decisions, like my decision to go to Salem College, are a combination of both. My then-boyfriend was already in college in Winston Salem, so it made sense to me (in my 16 year old brain) that I should be looking at colleges in the same town so that we could be together forever. I scoped out the Winston Salem colleges and found two that looked good(Wake Forest University and Salem College).  I applied, was accepted and visited them both.

I visited WFU first and at best, I felt indifferent and at worst, I felt like my soul died a little on that campus.  But when I visited Salem, I felt immediately at home. The other colleges where I was accepted (and there were some good ones) didn’t stand a chance because I made an irrational, emotional decision. Salem was where I belonged, price, location, etc be damned! That decision changed the course of my life (for better and worse). But regardless of my mixed feelings about Salem, I never regretted my decision to attend that school. I went because there was an irrepressible calling here. It was like I was being tugged by something I couldn’t see.

I’m on the verge of making another illogical, emotional; some would probably say stupid, decision to try to be involved with something that I am extremely passionate about. (my true friends could probably guess it in 3 tries, it only took my mother 1) This decision (and what is likely to come out of it) won’t make me rich, likely won’t advance my career, is likely going to cost me money, and is going to make me do something that a few months ago I said I wouldn’t do.

But I’m going to do it anyway because if I woke up tomorrow and found that my uncle would give me money to quit my job, this one thing that I’m about to do- would be something on which I would dedicate large amounts of time and energy.

And damn it, it’s my life and I wanna do it.

But you know what, the longer I think about it (big mistake) the easier it becomes to try to talk myself out of it. Trust me, this decision isn’t practical, it’s a bit of a long shot, and I am nowhere close to having all the details all figured out.  But I’m like a cat, I *tend* to land on my feet. And details aren’t really my thing, they fall into place on their own.

And in this particular case, a wise person told me that they knew it was only a matter of time before I came around to this decision. She told me that my whole life has been in preparation for this moment.

And another wise person said that this particular thing is something that I’ve been talking about repeatedly for the whole time they’ve known me. This person damn near laid out a plan of attack based solely on all the random sh*t I’ve said over the years.

And I have another friend who told me that when I truly KNOW myself and allow me to be me, my purpose would reveal itself. (And I SWEAR she was talking about this.)

So anyway, I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, “What the hell do I want?” And my whole heart says, “This.”

And God help me, I’m going to listen.

Well. If you must know. I’ve spend the past couple of months writing fiction. I participated in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November.  The point of NaNoWriMo is to write a novel with a minimum of 50,000 words. I failed at getting to 50,000 words, at midnight on November 30 (the deadline), I had about 35,000 words.  In spite of this failure, I created a better writing habit, and have some great new tools to help me get my writing done.  And I have a great beginning to my novel.

December was Party (aka Networking) month.  I’m still looking for a better job, my super awesome life coach Jenny Ferry told me that the holidays are a great time to network.  I totally found that to be true, and at least a few times each week I was attending various lunches, receptions, and happy hours all devoted to networking, holiday cheer and getting me a job.  And when I wasn’t networking, I was likely writing or celebrating my birthday (aka MoniChrismas)

It’s 2010 now, and I’m back in the saddle. You can expect to see posts here (and here) at least once or twice a week.

I hope you had an amazing holiday season! And damn it, 2010 HAS to be better than 2009.

My birth in 1981 leaves me on the edge. I’m on the cusp of the Gen X/Gen Y split.  Sociologically, I completely identify with Gen Y. I boomeranged. I’m happily not married. I’m a job hopper. I fit all the criteria.

You would think that I would jump for joy at the prospect of having hundreds of Gen Y blogger feeds delivered to my Google Reader every day. You would think that I would be able to identify with, and be encouraged, educated and inspired by the writings of my generational compatriots.

Then I go to Brazen Careerist, which no doubt has given me access to a bunch of, in some cases, underrated bloggers who I love, but sometimes I scan the titles and think, “It this it?”

This is the best and the brightest? These are who we “feature”, who we ask to guest post, who get best blogger awards?

Are Gen Y bloggers only allowed to talk about Gen Y, social media, the internet, marketing, and entrepreneurship?

Ya know, I love a REALLY GREAT post about any of those subjects, but the “Top 5 Ways to Hack Blah Blak Blah” and the “Gen Y is different because yak yak yak” has been done to death.

Seriously. It’s dead.

Unless you have something COMPLETELY new and different to share, stop writing about being a member of Gen Y, social media, HR, marketing, career planning, or any number of boring and/or overdone topics. But if you blog about these topics because it’s your passion or brand, or it’s what you do for work, or you want to get noticed by an industry insider,  for God’s sake, make it interesting for the rest of us.

How can you make your blog posts more interesting? Make me care.

Your life is interesting. Relationships are interesting. Building bridges is interesting.  Having a conversation is interesting. Telling a great story is interesting. Making a difference is interesting. Exposing stupidity is interesting.  Overcoming is interesting. Making me jealous is interesting. Being inspiring is interesting. Being funny is interesting.

For goodness sakes, if you are going to write for the web, say something meaningful. Compel me to subscribe to you.  Be fucking interesting.