Weirdly Happy Sexual Revolutionary

I’ve always been weird.

I used to want to fit in, and I never quite managed. I’m glad I lived into the Grand Age of Weirdness, as I like to call the times we are all living in right now, in February of 2016. Now I hear things like, “KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD!” and I think, ah, the time of my people is NOW. 

I’m weird in ways that contradict each individual weirdness, if you look at only the surface labels.

I am many- labeled.

I am a woman married to a man (watch that implied heterosexuality) for 23 years.

I am completely queer – I love all human forms, and while I lean hetero in attraction, I have had many female/female relationships. I’ve had a relationship with one person who identified as gender fluid. 

I am romantically and/or sexually involved with other people than my husband. (all openly)

I am a “church lady” (I’m on the board! In my second term!)

I am a social justice activist (AK-47s and tanks and riot gear don’t ruffle my feathers after the tent city protest in Maricopa County in 2012).

I am a member of my local political affiliation’s committee, twice elected now.

I am a holistic health counselor, trained in New York at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition.

I am a massage therapist at a swanky spa.

and a hilarious speaker who is given to swearing like a sailor when the time is appropriate to do so!

I had weirdly colored hair back in the mid-1980’s. (I was given the nickname “Rainbow Brite”, after a popular cartoon character at the time. I was unamused.) I have funky looking teeth (genetic thing, and no, I’m not going to pay a bunch of money to have them fixed) I’m still overweight, which isn’t weird anymore, sadly. I am, and I always forget this, light brown in skin tone, so I’m constantly being told I’m whatever ethnic background people are projecting onto me. And I opted out of having children, which, as a woman, I hear, is VERY weird.

Whew.

So the most important way in which I am set aside from others is that I’m still happily married to my sweetheart of 27 years, and we have never been sexually and/or romantically exclusive. We did not set out to be sexual revolutionaries, but hey, it’s been happening since 1987, so I thought I’d write a book about the Best Practices of Sexual Non-Exclusivity*. I’ve started writing for three specific audiences: people who are already enmeshed in non-exclusivity (whether openly or not), people considering non-exclusivity, and people like my co-workers and fellow congregants, who want to know “OH MY GOD HOW THE HELL DOES *that* WORK?!?!” My friend Deena laughed when I told her what I was writing, “I can’t wait to buy your book. You lead such an interesting life!”

So I’m writing it now. This week. I’ve started. If you have topics to add/request research on, let me know. I’ll credit you if the fates (and you!) allow! 

Stay weird, or stay not-so-weird, your choice!

I love you all!

MariaUnfiltered

 

 

 

Me, Mom, and More Love

More Love by Kim Carnes
Lyrics!

     From the time I could first sing, back in South Carolina, I sang to every song on the radio, including ABBA, Barry Manilow, and even the Grateful Dead. My mom remembers me singing, in the littlest, girliest voice available, “…riding that train, high on cocaine/Casey Jones you better watch your speed…” to her delight and maybe faint horror.

My mom and dad had moved thousands of miles from home, where their whole families lived, in Arizona.  Back then, my older (half-) brother from my dad’s first marriage, wasn’t living with us yet. My younger brother wouldn’t come along for many years.

Singing together was important to us. My mom and I once heard, “You and Me Against the World,” by Helen Reddy, and we called it “our song,” because my father was frequently away for months at a time, on a submarine, with no contact between when he left and when he came home.  It definitely felt like just the two of us could do anything, as long as we were together. Once, as an adult, I heard that song while traveling to see my parents, while driving over the Tappan Zee Bridge. I was fairly sobbing by the time I got to the end, with Helen and her daughter speaking to one another, “I love you mommy,” and “I love you, too baby.” In fact, I can barely type the title of that song without my eyes watering up. (Ok, I can’t. They’re wet NOW.)

Somewhere after that, I stopped singing aloud where everyone could hear me.  Maybe it’s because I was realizing that I had a lisp. I definitely remember being self-conscious about my singing after a lot of my parents’ friends made a big deal about it if they heard me. I was always on pitch, and I had great rhythm. Even though nobody ever made fun of my singing that I remember, I hid my light under a barrel for a few years.

My mom and dad loved a good time. They were not drinkers, but they were known to get up on the dance floor at the slightest provocation. Now that we had moved back into a military community after living in the sticks near Saratoga Springs, my mom would go out dancing with her friends when my dad was gone for one to three months at a time. Although I had stopped singing publicly, I still listened to the ever-present pop radio, and sang when I thought nobody could hear me. I was honing my tool, sharpening it for when I would need it…

One day my mom and I were on a mundane errand, the kind you forget easily. I remember that day, though: it was a cool, crisp day, and my mom was driving us along the Thames river, in Groton, CT, in our candy-apple red and white family Ford F150 pickup, and I was happily next to my mom on the red vinyl bench seat. Then, the song… first the synthesized violins, then Kim Carnes vocalizing, “ooooooh, ooooh…” and I started quietly singing along. I couldn’t even help it.

My mom listened, intently, without me noticing at first. When I realized it, though, I decided to give it my all. I was singing the verses well, but it was during the choruses that I let myself really belt it out.

“I want to give you more love
and more joy
than the age of time
could ever destroy

Oh, honey now,
Our love is so sound
Gonna take about a hundred lifetimes
To live it down,
Wear it down, and tear it down”

By the last echoing of the chorus, I knew my mom was listening and enjoying my singing. I was even vamping a bit…having real fun!

A little girl singing, “…Wear it down, I said tear it dowwwnn…*” hit my mom smiling. And when I was done, I was beaming. My mom complemented me, “oh, I love hearing you sing: you sound great! You haven’t sung out loud like that in years! What made you decide to start again?”

I immediately answered, “Well, you have a lot of friends, everyone likes you, you’re always going dancing and having fun, and you always sing out, so I am too, because when I grow up, I want to be just like you!”

I know now, from our conversations over the years about this moment, that my mother had that same polarized reaction to my commentary: delight and terror. “Well, you must have been practicing. You sounded great! Sing out when you can!”

I’ve been a part of eight or nine chorus/choirs. In two of those instances, I was bullied by other students (in middle school and high school). Because I can sing without reading music, and sound great doing it, I never learned how to really read music. So imagine becoming an adult and then constantly being insulted, condescended to by the leader of a singing group. I left all those abusive situations. Making music should be FUN!

I still sing out loud. Every morning, noon, and night. When somebody compliments me, which happens frequently, I express my thanks appropriately, and if I can say so, I’ll tell them, it’s fun, and I’m glad I can sing out like my mom always does.

And I’m just like her now. Fun, funny, and well-loved. Thanks, mom. Thanks, Kim Carnes.

(*Listen to the Kim Carnes version and you’ll hear that in the last chorus.)