Her Song

I wish in advance for a certain someone to forgive me for telling this story.

I don't like to tell this story, because every time I do, I start crying. It's the story of one of the happiest nights of my life. The story of a love that remains these five years later. The memory of a night I will never forget, a night I encapsulated into a song that will forever transport me to that night, no matter where I am or what I'm doing or who I'm with, that song will never, could never, belong to anyone else.

Once upon a time, in the winter of 2003, I met a beautiful and brilliant English teacher. Over the course of about two weeks, we spoke every night, exchanged daily e-mails, and finally, one night, she came to visit me.

We went to karaoke with my friends that night, our first date shared with thirty people, almost none of whom knew what was going on. They didn't know I was bisexual, let alone the fact that the beautiful woman I had invited to join us that night was my girlfriend. Now, usually when I do karaoke, I sing the same five or six songs in heavy rotation. I sing a couple Billy Joel songs, maybe some Norah Jones, and some lady always asks me to sing something awful, usually by Celine Dion. I don't know what possessed me to choose THAT song that night. I'd never sung it karaoke before, but it had always been one of my all-time favorites. It was a big decision. After all, the girl of my dreams was going to hear me. Whatever I chose had to be a good one. It had to be hers. This would normally be something I'd think about weeks in advance, but I didn't have that kind of time. I didn't know she was going to be there until about two hours before she arrived.

Our friends were seated in the back of the bar, I was on stage, and there was just a dance floor between me and this beautiful woman. I had been singing all week and my voice was cracking in places it never should have. But I sang anyway. I sang for her. And as I sung, I looked into those eyes, those beautiful slate blue eyes, beaming at me, the world faded away. I didn't care who noticed that I was singing to a girl. All I cared about was that this woman, this beautiful woman I cared so much about, she was looking at me-me!-the way she was. As far as I was concerned, no one else existed and nothing else mattered.

We danced for a while, not caring we were two girls in a redneck bar, subtly affectionate with one another. Not caring most of my friends were completely in the dark about our relationship. I whispered that I wanted to kiss her, and so I took her hand and we walked to the beach.

We walked for a while, just holding hands and talking about nothing. To this day, if I hear that song, I can close my eyes and see the reflection of the moonlight shining in her eyes, in her hair, on her skin. I can feel her body, soft and lithe, beneath my hands as I encircled her waist, holding her, dancing in the moonlight. I can smell the ocean. I can smell her hair, her perfume, her breath as I smiled and I kissed her. She was my first real kiss. The first person I ever kissed that I genuinely cared about. The first person I ever kissed that I loved in some fashion. I still love her. I always will.

Several weeks later, I went to visit her. We popped in Moulin Rouge (which I had brought for the express purpose that the song, her song, was in it) and proceeded to make out for approximately seven hours. I stopped for about three minutes, so I could hold her in my arms, stroking her beautiful face, kissing her neck, looking into those eyes, and sang to her.

Okay, so I'm a giant cheeseball, but that's just how it was.

Our relationship ended shortly thereafter, due to distance and many other factors, but we remain good friends. We turn to each other for advice, we've even seen each other once in a while, and when I get married, she's going to be one of my bridesmaids.

I told you that story to tell you this story.

There have always been three artists for whom I would do anything to see in concert. Those three artists are Billy Joel, Elton John, and Paul McCartney. In the summer of 2005, my mother, her husband, my brother, and I went to Las Vegas. I spent four days and three nights sitting at the nickel slots, having three or four drinks, and wandering around the city in what I would later term my Happy Place. (The Happy Place has been defined as the stage between tipsy and drunk when you're just happy to be there.)

Unbeknown to me, my mother's husband had purchased tickets for she and I to see Elton John's show at Caesar's Palace, The Red Piano.

He was incredible.

He played Daniel, which had my mother beaming. He played The Bitch is Back, during which I tried to sing along and make sure she didn't hear me cursing, because I don't curse in front of my mother. He played I'm Still Standing, and I tried in vain to control myself as all kinds of phallic objects popping up around the stage.

Elton John announces that he's going to play his last song, and I'm disappointed, if only because he didn't play The Song. Her Song. He talks about how he's been coming to the states for thirty-five years, that his career really began here. He says how much the love and loyalty we the fans have shown through those thirty-five years has meant to him, and he's never forgotten it.

And then he said it. "The word LOVE is spelled out on stage and I want to wish all of you lots of love in all your lives, and this song is for you."

I tried to contain myself. I tried to sing. I couldn't even mouth the lyrics beyond the second line, I was rendered speechless as he played that song, her song, with such passion, I just wept tears of joy as I relived that night over and over again. There are countless layers to why this was so meaningful to me.

First of all, it's fucking Elton John. He could sing me the phonebook as long as the tune is pretty.

It's one of my all-time favorite songs, and now one of my most meaningful songs.

And it belongs to someone who had a lasting impact on me.

But Elton John, the musician, the man, the gay man, understood. He had had first, forbidden love he kept hidden from almost everyone he cared about until much later. He got it. And that's what I took from the song. And I think, on a subconscious level, that's why I knew it was the right song to give to her.

I often wonder if she remembers that night, if she thinks of me, when she hears it.

I hope so.

If she should read this, she has my profound apology for more than likely embarrassing her in front of the whole interwebs. She should know that she is so much of the woman I have always aspired to be. She should also know that I treasure her friendship, and she has the best taste in music of anyone I've ever met. She should always, always remember she's beautiful, and she's still the best kisser I've ever had. :)

Happy Anniversary, Giants fans

A Heterosexual with Issues

According to Ted Haggard's recent interview with the LA Times, he is a "Heterosexual with Issues". Well, Ted, that makes two of us.

We're taught by our parents, by our friends, by the media, in schools, and by the church, that boys like girls, girls like boys, and a few girls like girls, a few boys like boys. We see evidence of heterosexuality and homosexuality, but very little evidence of bisexuality. We are told, subliminally and overtly, that we can't have it both ways, we have to choose. I think that's bullshit. I think they're envious.

I love men. I love all the things about men that every straight woman and gay man on the planet does. I love that most of the ones I seem to surround myself with tend to be laid back, smart, and play video games. I love the sex. I love the sex. I was even engaged to one, once.

But I've been attracted to women all my life, too. I love the strength and resilience of women. It's admirable. It's well-earned. I find them just as beautiful, sexy, and alluring as every straight guy and lesbian on the planet.

So where does that leave me?

I'm not a "heterosexual with issues". I'm a fucking bisexual. Always have been, always will be.

And so are you, Mr. Haggard.

Congratulations, Mr. President

Before the real work begins today, I would like to dedicate the following to Dick Chaney:

You Say You Want a Resolution...

Dear 2009,

Please be as amazing a year as 2008 was.

Please let me keep my close friends closer, and collect a few new ones along the way.

Please let me find a way to co-exist with my Dark Passenger. I can't stress how vitally important this one is. I don't really like to talk about my Dark Passenger with anyone, but I need this. I really need this.

Please let me go on more amazing adventures and excursions.

Please let him be as good for me as I believe he could be, and please let me not be afraid of it. I know the fact that he already knows my Dark Passenger (though he hasn't truly met her) and doesn't seem to be afraid of her is a Very Good Sign, but I'm still scared. Please let me find a way not to be.

Please let me be more open about my Dark Passenger with others who have one as well.

Please let me find a way to be fearless and selective at the same time.

Please let me find a way to repair friendships that have been damaged because of my own fuck-ups, especially with Rachel.

Please let me find a way to be Calm, Centered, and Focused.

Please let him be happy. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, even if I'm going to be playing a less active roll in his life than I would like. He is the very definition of a True Friend.

Please let me find the strength and courage to do what I need to do and get done what needs to get done.

Please let the Giants continue to have a good season (and next season as well), and to NOT make stupid draft choices. SAY NO TO TIM TEBOW. I know he isn't entering the draft this year and I don't care how good a quarterback he is, I don't want a fucking Gator Graduate throwing to my receivers.

Last year was a good year. Let's do that again, except that one thing. Shall we?

With Cautious Optimism,

-Jennifer

Contentment

If I could finish college and teach children to love music as much as I do and watch it impact their lives the way it changed mine.

If I could fall in love and get married once and forever.

If I could have a daughter, and teach her to love herself and watch her grow into a beautiful, strong, independent woman.

If I could travel the world.

If I could write a book.

If I could have those things, I would be content.

I don't need a huge house, three cars, or a condo overlooking Lake Michigan or Central Park.

I don't need a lot of money, just enough to have a home, raise my family, and travel. Money doesn't buy happiness, it breeds misery.

I don't need Florida State to win the national championship every year, or the Giants to win every super bowl, but it would be nice once in a while.

There are a lot of things I don't need.

But if I could have those things, a partner who loves me, three children, a cat, to teach music, and have the means to travel, that's all I need. And that's all I want.

On Women

I'm a modern, independent woman. I moved to the big bad city after a lifetime in the suburbs, and I'd never go back. Every woman in my family was raised to be beautiful, strong, and independent of the various men in our lives. Divorce is a plague in our family, and every married woman in my family has been divorced at least once, except a few who married in. We bake and gossip and shop together and know how to take care of our various men, but we know, first and foremost, how to take care of ourselves. We know not to count on anyone but ourselves and other women. All of us, from my grandmother to my three year old cousin, wear the pants in our relationships, and all our various men know it, from my grandfather to my uncle, my cousin's father.

There was a time when women didn't have the choices I do. Women can be doctors and scientists as well as educators and nurses. We can do anything. When I was born in 1983, there were almost no women holding seats in the House and Senate. They are still grossly underrepresented, but there has been progress. Now, there is a woman, a black woman, serving as Secretary of State, the highest office a woman has ever held in this country. I don't remember Geraldine Ferraro campaigning with Michael Dukaukis in 1988, but I do remember Hillary Clinton. I remember Condi Rice. I remember Nancy Pelosi. I remember Sarah Palin.

It doesn't matter which of these women I agree with, though I'm pretty sure you could figure it out. It's important for women to get out there on the national stage and teach the men a thing or two. We need to be the ones drafting legislation that will decide what women can and can't do with their bodies. We can be just as tough as men, we won't be afraid of getting our feelings hurt, and after delivering a speech on Education or the Environment or National Security, we can still go home and bake cookies with our kids. We can have it all.

Just as important as getting women into higher office is, of course, getting the right women in office. Just because she has a vagina doesn't mean I want her in office. Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton both have one, but I'd rather have four years of root canal surgery than see Sarah Palin sitting in Dick Chaney's chair, a heartbeat away from the presidency. I am terrified at the thought of that woman running the country. It's not sexist to fundamentally disagree with someone.

This is why I was so insulted the McCain campaign actually thought they could attract the women who supported Hillary Clinton by putting a woman on the ticket. They actually thought one woman is just as good as another, and women would vote for Sarah Palin because they wanted a woman in office. It has been said many times before, and I will say it again here: Sarah Palin is not Hillary Clinton. One woman is not as good as another, and just because she has a vagina, doesn't mean I'm going to vote for her. Remember all that I said about putting the right woman in office? Sarah Palin is not the right woman for office.