Thoughts on Coming Out

The New Year is a big time for people to come out to friends and family. And this year is even more momentous because of the repeal of the ban on gays in the US military. While the logistics may take a bit of time, there are millions of people who no longer have to lie about who they are. Who are free to love who they love. And how can it possibly be a bad thing to have a little more honesty and love in the world?

I have had a few friends in my life “come out” to me. I use quotation marks there because they may have thought they were revealing some big secret, but I had long had my suspicions. I just never brought it up because I figured they hadn’t come to terms with it yet and they would eventually. Frankly, I never really cared that they were bisexual, homosexual, asexual, pansexual, or what have you. I liked them because they were interesting people. One was interested in theater, politics, and world travel. Even in high school he was active in politics and during our junior year, he participated in an exchange program in Germany. It was after experiencing the freedom of being a stranger there that he told me that he was bisexual. He went on to be a teacher in Mozambique. How frickin’ cool is that? And since he’s come back to the States, he’s married his long-time partner, taking advantage of the few places in this country where he can freely do so. Another was a girl I’ve known since about the first grade. She played cello, liked classical music, science fiction, and we were in Brownies, Girl Scouts, and Color Guard together. She loved musical scores. And although we have since lost touch, she was always a fascinating person to be around.

And while I may be an Army wife, I never married a soldier. I married a skinny punk rocker and when the economy tanked, the Army began to look awfully promising. First and foremost, we’re both liberals. We both grew up in the same diverse city with a wide variety of friends of every color, creed, and sexual orientation. And by and large, the Army has been something of a haven on that front. We’ve run into bigotry. I can’t deny that. And at times it has been shockingly strong (my husband has developed a certain wariness of soldiers from Arkansas based on the bile that has spewed from the mouths of those he’s met).

But we’ve also met with a sort of shoulder-shrugging acceptance of all differences that I think is unique to the military. Most people seem to figure that if you do the job and do it well, they couldn’t give a shit what you look like, what deity you believe in, or who you want to sleep with in your free time. And that gives me a lot of hope. 

~Lizzie

A Clean Start

Well, our vacuum cleaner is well and truly deceased. Finally. Alan and I flipped a coin for chores and I lost so I had to do the vacuuming and he got to clean the bathroom. Yes, I really would rather clean the bathroom than vacuum. That's primarily because this is a fairly large apartment and more importantly, it's a looooong apartment. And most of it is carpeted. It is secondarily because our vacuum cleaner is terrible and it seems like it requires the removal and fiddling with of all brushes, belts, and filters every time I use the damn thing. I've even had to unbend wire hangers to extract cat hair bezoars from its accordion tube guts. Thirdly, it's an incredibly disappointing task because the carpet never seems to be any cleaner when I'm done.

So, resigned to my vacuuming fate, I started in the bedroom. I must have gone over the same bit of pink fluff 10 times and it wasn't even pretending to pick it up. I stuck my hand over the intermittently spinning brush bar. Not enough stirring air to move a feather. I pulled off the hose. Perfectly fine. No need to retrieve the hanger. So I dragged it out to the living room and pulled the plate off the bottom. Okay, so there was a little hair wrapped around the brush bar. But certainly not enough to explain its complete uselessness. Still, I figured I might as well pull off what I could, so I snapped out the bar. Ah. Perhaps the problem is the glob of brittle, once-molten rubber underneath the cleanly snapped belt. I can only surmise that at some point, the brush bar stopped spinning, but the belt didn't. The friction of the belt as it tried in vain to turn the bar must have melted its inner surface to the bar. Unwilling to waste anymore time or energy on repairing a vacuum that never worked all that well in the first place, I have it a halfhearted kick in the canister and went to Sears.

So Alan and I are now the proud parents of a Dyson Ball DC25. It was ludicrously expensive at $536 (with tax), but on the other hand, it picked up every last pine needle, bit of tinsel, and fleck of candy wrapper that's been infecting our living room carpet since Christmas. Hell, this stupid thing might actually make me want to vacuum.

Okay, probably not.

But at the very least, it's not the fruitless task it once was.

So resquiescat in pace dear Dirt Devil. I suppose we're lucky that you never managed to burn the house down, so thanks for that. Maybe some kind and benevolent junk man will take you home and give you a second life. Or maybe not.

~Lizzie