Measurments

My key no longer turned the lock to the front door to our home. Motionless for a moment, I stood peering through the glass panes, into the space that served as my only semblance of a home since I moved to Philadelphia nearly eight years ago. The fading words of a conversation we once had found themselves in the back of my throat; in her heart-felt cool way, she assured me Marlyn Road was her house, but it was our home. But now, in what felt to be a life time later, I was being kept out.

Some may call it "breaking and entering"; I would like to consider it "by any means necessary", but I eventually found my way into the house, despite her calculated efforts to restrict me. With only the imaginary crooning of Bitter seeping through the cracks of the floor, I moved as a ghost from room to room, searching for some evidence of my existence there. I came up null.

The void on the kitchen wall, which once held obscure art she rummaged from a yard sale and gave me as a gift, was now blank and eagerly awaiting for her, or someone new, to fill its space. The top of the covered radiator which functioned as the place to dash unopened mail, until we were ready to deal with its contents, was free and clear of our unsorted proof that we once resided there. A single toothbrush rested in a new holder on the bathroom counter.

I returned to the garage where she made the effort to purge my "things" into haphazard trash bags and tilting towers of boxed books and pots. Among my possession was the shabby scarf I knitted for her 2 years ago. Later on, I found the Dr. Seuss Oh, the Places You'll Go mug I gave to her as part of an assignment (give a gift, just because) from The Love Dare book we began to work through in a grasping effort to resurrect what had perished between us at some point that we could never quit determine.

Saving only what would fit in my suitcase, and two bags to be shoved into my already overflowing storage unit, I lined the stone wall in front of her house with 8 bags of the things I was forced to leave behind. But more than the material possessions I was relinquishing, I was letting go of a life that no longer belonged to me, a heart that never fully allowed itself to be mine, and the fears that suffocated any hope of a fulfilling marriage.

I wanted this, right? I wanted to be free to live where my heart and head aligned. Where passion swelled the walls around us, and my lover desired the very smell of my skin. But I was left wanting; she remained guarded. And in the end, we were both exhausted.

My affection for the person she is will remain unchanged. I can only hope that in her efforts to reclaim her space, she might reclaim the bites of herself that she lost in us. I pray that her gentle spirit will continue to seek health love and that she may return to the illuminating woman, with that contagious smile, I first met on July 11, 2007.

As for now, she would be home soon and I was to be gone by then. I placed her engagement rings on the dining room table next to a shallow vase of fresh cut hydrangeas.

Honey, I'm home!

"Hello?" she called from the front room, dropping her computer bag somewhere in the vacant living room, and making her way through the house.

From the kitchen, "I'm in here," I directed. Megan came around the corner.

"Hello, Dear." she said. She often called me "Dear" which only confirmed my suspicion that she was an old man trapped in a young woman's body. Megan's fancy for corn-cob pipes and plaid shorts was no coincidence. But more importantly than that, this was the first time that Megan was greeting me in OUR new home.

Prior to signing my name next to Megan's, nearly fifty times, I took a lil' something to take the edge off. So, as I sign my name in the very blood the flowed through my veins, I coasted through the process, knowing that it would finally hit me...Megan and I bought a whole house together (Look out for Our First Home...According to Me).

Engagement--Check!
First Home--Check!
Wedding and Baby-- Coming soon!

Whose life was this, running like a well-oiled machine? When did my life become...normal? And, I am perfectly okay with normal. As a matter of fact, I welcome normal with open arms and a big fat kiss on the lips, pleading. "Where have you been all my life?" Past Cherisse would have recoiled at the thought of normalcy. I am an artist; tortured soul and all. However, somewhere between chugging red wine while composing Emily-like prose by candle light, and that fate-sealing walk on the beach, when Megan said, "Of course I will marry you." this life of mine has been a-okay.

Baby Talk

"I want a baby." I blurted after some FB surfing, and stumbling across a very pregnant picture of my college roomie. She looked beautiful; belly exposed and resting over a long flowing white skirt.

Megan sat across from me, eyes glued to a line in the the newspaper. She was silent. Maybe she was enthralled by the story and didn't hear me. "Babe?" Again, nothing. But, I noticed a clench in her jaw; it's this thing she does when she is uncomfortable and wants to fly out of the room.
"Why are you ignoring me?" With that, I move to where she sat, pushed the paper from her hand, and forced her to hug me.
"I'm not ignoring you. I know you want a baby." She finally responded, a hint of a smile coming across her face.
"When can I have one?" I plead in the cutest voice I could muster.
"After the wedding."

Well, what did that mean? After the wedding could be a month or two later. It could mean the following year...or years! "Right after the wedding?" I asked. She didn't answer; she couldn't, because every muscle in her face was paralyzed by fear. I decided I needed to go into another room and write.

Earlier this morning, still in bed, we started talking about the house we are buying. I shared my vision for transforming the second bedroom into a Carrie Bradshaw closet, and how I imagined the office/writing room would be painted in a saturated shade of grey (very Emily Dickinson). Oh, and to be practical, we would need a small day bed in the office in case we had overnight guest. Megan broke in by saying that there is a whole other bedroom for guest.
"That's the Baby's room." I almost followed that with, "Duh!"
"But there's no baby, yet. You can't make it a baby room before there's even a baby."

I was puzzled. Why not?!? Here's the timeline, as I see it-- Wedding in August 2012, spend a few months adjusting to married life, then plan for a pregnancy in January 2013. One of the fabulous things about being in a same-sex relationship is that you can actually plan when and how you will get knocked-up. So, why can't I plan for the perfect room from OUR little bundle of love?

(By the way, Megan's perception of this exchange differs from mine.)

We Have a Dress...I Think.

After a week of being smacked to the ground by the flu, while settling into the first week of classes, I was barely able to remember how to spell my name, let alone think about wedding stuff. But, at last, I am back on my feet and back on track.

I hit a monumental moment in the wedding planning process-- I went dress shopping! My mother and sister live in a different state, and were unable to join me. So, I called on my fashionista friend (and fellow bride-to-be), Joelle, to play dress up with me. In a heart beat, Joelle was on a train from New Jersey, and Philly bound in no time.

We headed to Priscilla of Boston, in Ardmore, where we were greeted and promptly placed in the hands of a dress consultant named Sue. The three of us scanned the racks for the perfect little white number, coming up with 4 dresses. Sue had zero reservations about being in the fitting room, as she ushered me to "Shimmy, shimmy" my lower half into a dress that was a little snug at the bottom. When I emerged from the room, Joelle was there, camera ready, to snap shots of the dresses. At one point, a store manager came over to say I looked like I should be in a magazine. It was sheer extra-ocular muscle strength that allowed me to resist the urge to roll my eyes at the blatant sales tactics. Lets face it, when was the last time you saw a tattooed chick on the glossy pages of ANY bridal magazine. I smiled, however, and fell in love with the dress a little more.

Sue laid the complements on thick, as she slid a credit line application across the table. In a sort of whisper, she let me in on the fact that if I opened a line of credit today, it would knock 20% off the dress. Oh, and today was the last day of the offer. 20% felt subjective to me, but when Sue penned the discounted price of the dress on the back of her business card, the world seemed to change. Suddenly, I needed the dress, needed the line of credit, and needed it all NOW.

What was happening here? Prior to walking into the foyer of the Priscilla of Boston, I hardly imagined my dress being white, let alone it coming from a bridal salon. Suddenly, I was gushing over taffeta, and boning in the bodice, and tucks in fabric, and whether the dress was vanilla or ivory. And, I was seriously considering taking out a credit card to pay for it?! Sigh. We let Sue know we would be in touch, and left to grab a Chai Latte and consider the events of the day.

With some reflection, I am still head over heels for the dress I found. I am, however, removed from whatever chemical they pump through the vents of that place, where everyone becomes giddy with nuptial day delight. I was sucked into the sea of sequence and lace; Sue was Poseidon, poking me with her trident of complements. But now, safe on dry land, I see there are countless dresses out there to shimmy into.

Bluffing

In between bites of her chicken cheese steak, Alex curled the corner of her mouth and said, "I'm callin' your bluff." Her left field comment caught me off guard, so I forked my side salad. I was suddenly nervous and defensive. I went into a ramble about how I am happy and that this (marriage) is what I want. Alex listened, nodding a bit, then said nothing more. In our blazing silence, I began to wonder if my friend saw something in me I wasn't aware of. Had her history of listening to my rants on the impossibility of unconditional love and the soul raping power of marriage given her special goggles to see past my new found joy, and straight to the core of me? Was I still a nonbeliever dressed up in a childish dream?
By nature, I am, what some have called, impulsive (I call it passionate). With minimal warning, my feeling towards something can change; it suddenly becoming a grain of sand in my eye or the very reason I get out of bed in the morning. And, yes, I did wake up one morning deciding that I was going to give marriage another shot. Every now and then, when I find myself caught up in engagement party details, guest lists, and trying to predict if it's going to rain on August 4, 2012 (official wedding date), I have to remind myself that we are planning more than just a memorable day, we are planning a lifetime of memorable days. And, yes, it sometimes startles me. However, since the moment Megan said, "Yes!" I haven't been surer of anything in my life.
Maybe my capriciousness has left my dear Alex with her head spinning. Or, maybe it's a case of misery loves company.

"It's in my head!"

My eight slide PowerPoint presentation was fired up and ready to go when we sat down at June's for our official wedding planning chat. Each slide was accompanied by Adele's sweet rendition of Make You Feel My Love. My presentation corresponded with the Wedding Planning Worksheet I created and emailed to Megan earlier in the week; a tool to ensure her consideration in the essential elements of wedding planning. I strongly "suggested" that she print and complete the worksheet prior to our scheduled breakfast meeting.

I was impressed to see the folded pages at the table, next to her platter of buttery pancakes, perfectly scrambled cheese eggs and home fries. In my zeal, I asked Megan to go first. As she began talking, I noticed that the worksheets remained folded on the table. When I alluded to this, she told me she did not finish filling them out and that some of the things were in her head. I looked at her with bewilderment. Why would you keep things in your head, when I have provided a thorough template to assist you? With that, she unfolded them to reveal a BLANK form! The stark white of the pages were blinding. Not a single precomposed line was completed. I let out a string of incongruent consonants. My eyes widened, I grabbed the curls on my head and warned that I was about to get mad. "I have it in my head!" she assured me.

I narrowed my left eye and folded my arms across my chest, which is what I do when I believe that I am about catch Megan in a fumble. "So, what date did you come up with?" I asked. Yeah, there was an ounce of attitude mixed in.

"The date we were thinking about. July twenty...twenty fourth...wait..." She was stalling. She reached for her phone to pull up the calender.

"JUNE 29th, you mean?" I quickly volunteered, beating her to the phone. I think I rolled my eyes, or at least wanted to. I moved on to the next question, quickly asking her the time of day she thought the festivities should begin. She answered slightly quicker this time, "I want it to be in the day time." Hum...had she really given this thought or was she just flinging out answers, hoping they would deflect the daggers shooting from my eyes? I couldn't be sure, so I snapped the next question at her, sure that I would trip her up. "So, what's the budget?" After a brief explanation of how she came to the number, she confidently answered. Okay, okay. I uncrossed my arms. The questions that followed: theme, venue, attendants and colors, were all answered in a sort of "yeah, I was thinking..." kind of way, but answered, nevertheless. I unbunched my pan'ies and adjusted my snarl.

So, she did not have a slide show, magazine clippings, or even a dot of ink on the handy-dandy worksheet. But, my initial measure of effort expended proved to be irrelevant. She had done her homework, in her own way. Megan and I are different people; we address things with different urgency. I am learning that it doesn't make her way wrong, and mine right.

To further relinquish control, I asked Megan if there were any tasks, related to the planning, that she would like to take on. Without (much) hesitation, she offered to hold down the reception menu and cocktails. She even took on transportation.

Good job, Babe.

Criminal Intent?

We shared a blanket on the couch, while watching Criminal Intent. I was half-way paying attention to the episode; something about a father killing his family to ensure their entrance into the "Kingdom of Heaven". I was preoccupied with disappointment stemming from my failure to publish a post yesterday. Despite three attempts at writing something worthy of your time, and my effort, I came up empty.

During a commercial break, I thought of Megan's mother. A woman whom I completely adore and value in my life as a source of inspirational reminders; she's kind of like a walking fortune cookie filled with bible verses. She just knows what to say when I'm having a hard time. She recently helped me to quit smoking cigarettes, declaring that I was delivered from the evil of tobacco. I cringed as she decapitated each of the four remaining cigarettes I had left, while ignoring my pleas to leave me with one, in case of an emergency. The truth is, I wouldn't have made that choice, on that day, without her. And I'm better for it. Yesterday, I needed a dose of Ms. G's motherly support.

I mention to Megan that I considered sending this blog link to her mother (and brother). I'm not sure what response I was looking for. Maybe, "I know, Baby. But it's not the right time." Or,"Send it to her/them. We'll deal with the response together." I was not expecting Megan to get up from the couch, walk into the kitchen, and ask me an arbitrary question about...what did she ask me? I was puzzled. Had she heard me? Was I being dismissed?

When she crawled back under the covers, I took a deep breath and calmly asked, "Baby, why didn't you say anything when I said I considered sending the blog link to your mother?" Criminal Intent came back on, and maybe she was more interested in the episode than I was, but she simply responded, "Because, I understand why you consider sending it to her." That was it. I guess, technically, she answered my question. Maybe she did understand everything that was in my head around sending the link to Ms. G. Maybe she could feel my fear that the posts would be deleted without ever having a chance. Or, did she understand my hope that her mother would read my posts and, in time, accept me as the woman that is going to love her daughter forever? That she will be stuck with me, for the rest of my life, as her daughter-in-law.

Ms. G and I have a wonderful relationship and are oddly similar. She is truly interested in my love for aprons; I support her in her handbag purchase. We get our nails done together and buy each other cute trinkets. She tells me she loves me, and I believe her. Unfortunately, her beliefs will not allow her to support one of the most important step in Megan's life with me, our marriage.

What was Megan saying in her silence? I felt alone. Maybe she did, too. We said nothing more about it, and soon went to bed. She rolled over on her side; I draped my arm over her waist. I needed something to hold on to.