Rose-Owls and Pumpkin Girls

The election is almost here.

For the most part, I try not to get political, both because I don't have the bandwidth for the arguments, and because I'm just so tired from being angry all the time. But I'm hearing the usual "oh, the bad storm that has done so much damage is because of ALL THE GAY," and according to the Mitt Romney campaign...

"As president, Mitt will not only appoint an Attorney General who will defend the Defense of Marriage Act—a bipartisan law passed by Congress and signed by President Clinton—but he will also champion a Federal Marriage Amendment to the Constitution defining marriage as between one man and one woman."

Gay marriage is now so terrifying and troublesome that it needs to be banned constitutionally? What?

So let me tell you what gay marriage looks like to me.

Same sex marriage was legalized in California in 2008. It was rendered illegal that same year, by Proposition 8, but before that happened, thousands of gay and lesbian couples were able to sign their marriage licenses and take their wedding vows. My middle sister, the one I call Young James Dean, was one of the happy women who took the hand of the woman she loved and promised, legally, to stay with her forever.

It was not a fancy marriage. YJD and her girlfriend (now wife) were both worried that same sex marriage would be made illegal before they could formalize their union. So I, my mother, and my youngest sister joined YJD, her girlfriend, and her girlfriend's family at the city courthouse.

They were both nervous and terrified and ecstatic. They signed their papers and affirmed that they knew what they were doing, and we were all escorted up to see the Justice of the Peace.

It was a hot day. No one was dressed particularly fancily. YJD had a silver sixpence in her shoe that I'd bought from a local rare coin dealer; there were no other wedding accoutrements in place. We didn't need them.

The Justice of the Peace asked if they would do all the things a spouse is meant to do: they said that they would. And they were pronounced married in the eyes of the State of California. Both of them kissed the bride. We had the wedding dinner at Denny's. Bride of YJD's father paid for it. For their wedding gift, I had their marriage certificate nicely framed, and it hangs in their front hall. They are raising Bride of YJD's three children together. They have bought a house together. They're happy, and they're healthy, and if any God really and truly disapproved of same sex marriage, He (or She) wouldn't have shown it with a hurricane: that's inefficient. We live in earthquake country, after all.

But the ground didn't shake. Every day my sister wakes up, loving her wife, and the ground doesn't open up and swallow them whole. They've had their problems—all marriages do—but none of those problems have been scored for Locusts in C Minor, accompanied by Plague of Frogs.

Look: I can appreciate the religious angle. I can appreciate saying "my church says this isn't cool." But my church does think it's cool. My church thinks it's awesome. And the separation of church and state means that giving my sister a marriage license and a big box of legal protection to be used on the day when, Great Pumpkin forbid, something happens to Bride of YJD...that didn't do a thing to change the churches. Individual churches can perform same sex marriage, or not, as their scripture demands.

Young James Dean's marriage has not damaged my relationships, or the relationships of our youngest sister. They have not undermined the lives and loves of those around them. The only thing gay marriage has done to my family is bring us more love, every day.

The world needs more love.

And I am so glad my sister found her wife.

Happy Halloween, everybody, and Happy New Year's Eve to those of you who share my particular calendar. May the Great Pumpkin smile upon you tonight, bringing you candles which burn brightly, candy that never goes stale, corn mazes as complicated as the twisting choices of the heart, and costumes that are inventive, interesting, and not solely founded on the idea that "slutty" and "spooky" are one and the same.

(Lo, if you choose to be Sexy Red Riding Hood or Smoking Hot Super Grover on this night, I salute you, because you're wearing a costume, and I don't question how other people want to celebrate this night of nights. But if you're doing it because you don't think you have a choice, or because you can't think of anything else, call upon the Great Pumpkin. He's the Squash. He'll hook you up.)

I spent last night with my mother and sister at the Pirates of Emerson Haunted House Park, where we demonstrated that sometimes money can buy happiness, since it was money that got us through the gates, and money that allowed us to spring for Speed Passes, thus bypassing the huge "night before Halloween, let's party at the haunted houses" lines. I also demonstrated my eerie spatial memory by tearing through the corn maze in less than ten minutes, trailed by a cluster of lost-looking thrill-seekers who had been wandering the maze for over an hour before I came through Walking With Purpose. Had I been one of the Children of the Corn trolling for victims, He Who Walks Behind the Rows would have eaten very, very well.

Today, my back is out, and so I'm wearing my Starfleet bathrobe (in Sciences blue) over slouchy jeans and an athletic shirt, representing the few, the proud, the bored Starfleet Academy graduate students. Give me replicator coffee or give me death.

Enjoy this holiday. The walls of the world are thin today, and whether your personal year turns tomorrow or two months from tomorrow, thank you for spending this year here, with me.

Trick or treat.

Things people have said to me recently:

"You look tired."
"You should take some time, you know. Some time to rest."
"You should sleep more."
"You have to take care of yourself."

At the end of the day, I do look tired. Why shouldn't I look tired? I am, after all, working two essentially full-time jobs: I get up at 5am every day to travel from my suburban home into San Francisco, where I put in an eight-hour day before repeating the commute in reverse, and spending the evening writing, editing, and trying to stay on top of my frankly horrifying inbox. When all my must-do items are checked off the list, I collapse on the couch with my cats, and watch mindless television to power down my brain. And then the next day, I do it all over again. On the weekends, I either write like my shoes are on fire, or go to conventions, where I have a lovely time, as long as I don't think too hard about how much catching up I'm going to have to do later.

Why do I do this? Why am I working two jobs, with a massive commute in the middle? It's not because I particularly need the money. I know how to make a pound of hamburger last for a week; it's not pretty, but I can do it. I may like to buy books and toys when the cash is coming in, but I do pretty well with amusing myself on what I have then the cash isn't there. So what's the big deal here?

The big deal is medical insurance. The big deal is what can happen to you when you don't have it. The big deal is that not everyone has friends who can put together an anthology of massively awesome authors to save them from bankruptcy* when they get sick, as people have a natural tendency to do.

Melissa Mia Hall didn't have the same option. She died last week of a treatable medical condition, because she couldn't afford to go to the doctor. She died alone in the night, of something modern medical technology could easily have fixed. And yes, they would have treated her if she'd gone to the emergency room, but she didn't go, because she knew—as the uninsured always learn, as I learned, when I didn't have insurance—that it would be expensive, and she couldn't afford to risk losing everything.

My mother doesn't have medical insurance. Neither does my youngest sister. I work two jobs because I need to have medical insurance, and because I live in honest fear of the day Rachel calls to tell me that Mom was having pain and didn't say anything, because she knew it would be expensive. And if that sounds overly dramatic, well. Take a look at either of the examples listed above. One woman who sought medical care and would have lost everything without her friends stepping in; one woman who chose to die rather than gamble with the loss of everything she'd worked for.

And that's why I look tired, and why I wish people would stop telling me how tired I look. I know how tired I look. I just don't see where I have any other choice.

(*If you missed this: Ravens in the Library was an anthology project organized to pay the medical bills of SJ "Sooj" Tucker when she got hit out of the blue by an illness that required serious hospital care. You can see my original post on the matter here. Without that book, Sooj would have been in a lot of financial trouble. I think that book saved her life as lived, even as the hospital saved her life as living.)

So I tend to post about things that make me happy (being a generally happy sort of girl), and that means I've mentioned the Cups and Cakes Bakery in San Francisco a time or two. They make awesome cupcakes which thrill and delight; they're easily accessible on foot or via public transit; and they're just generally awesome people, tolerant of my crazy requests and of things like my publisher asking them to let me film while they make a few dozen brain cupcakes. My love for this bakery has been well-earned, and well-justified.

Last night, after work, I went by the bakery to pick up a dozen cupcakes. It was my sister Rachel's girlfriend's thirtieth birthday, and we wanted to celebrate. (We wound up celebrating primarily by going to the Old Spaghetti Family, because we are hard-core, yo.) Since the flavors hadn't been posted online before I left the office, I called Rachel from the bakery to list off the cupcakes they had in stock.

"Chris said she really wanted Grasshopper* if they had it," she said.

"Well, they don't have Grasshopper," I replied, and kept discussing flavors with her, not really registering the fact that the cupcake ladies had gone into bucket-checking overdrive as they dug through the tubes of existing frosting. We finished our phone call. I went to place my order.

Jennifer, the owner, held up a tube of green frosting. "We can make you some Grasshoppers, if you want."

Yes. The cupcake bakery, without being asked, made my sister's girlfriend her favorite cupcakes on her birthday. Now, they did it because they happened to have the frosting on-hand, but still! How many places will go to that sort of trouble just to make somebody happy? We plied Chris with cupcakes and flowers and balloons and faux-Italian food, and she had about the best birthday of anybody ever, and it was partially due to the wonderful women of Cups and Cakes.

And also the cupcakes were delicious.

I love awesome people.

(*Chocolate cupcakes with peppermint frosting and a Junior Mint on top. They taste like Thin Mints magically transformed into cake, and they are punch-a-Girl Scout delicious.)

I am a magpie by nature and a flea market aficionado by nurture; I have a finely-honed nose for yard sales, second-hand stores, unexpected caches of used books, and little hole-in-the-wall junk shops on the verge of going out of business. I come by it honestly -- my mother and my grandmother both amassed collections that put mine to shame. In my mother's case, several times, since she keeps rebooting her stash and starting over from scratch. I sometimes suspect that we may be descended from dragons, except for the part where I don't really care much for spicy food.

I have spent the last two days locked in unending battle with my bedroom, where the phrase 'well, it still closes...' has been uttered more than once, and never in jest. I've toted out boxes and bags of debris, given my mother two large boxes of toys to take to my suddenly acquired* collection of nieces and nephews, mailed a bunch of holiday and birthday gifts -- some even for this year -- and taken out three bags of recycling.

It still looks vaguely as though an atomic bomb has gone off in here. Perhaps more worryingly, I'm still missing things. Where's the second volume of X-Men: The Complete Onslaught Saga? Where's my soundtrack to The Slipper and the Rose? Where, for the love of all that's holy, is the cat?

Actually, that's easy. The cat's in my suitcase, hoping to sneak to Seattle with me. Sorry, Lilly. I'm not quite that unobservant.

I don't think anyone can deny that this is an improvement -- all my dresser drawers are closed, you can see most of the rug, both my dressers are totally cleaned off, and my desk is only under about six inches of crap -- but really, I've just managed to get the place to the point where it looks like someone might be getting ready to clean. And I still haven't addressed the question of what I'm going to do with the big CD rack (homeless since the removal of the snake cage), or where the leftover penguins are supposed to go (I'm beginning to consider the garbage disposal).

Dear Great Pumpkin: if you see that Santa Claus guy heading for my place this year, please punch him in the nose and send over a maid service instead. They may need flamethrowers, machetes, and holy water. Oh, and Kevlar, because the cats are pointy and I suspect Nyssa may be undead.

Love, me.

(*It turns out that when your baby sister marries a woman who already has kids, and who has a sister of her own who also has kids, you become an aunt. Who knew?)

Dear Great Pumpkin;

I have been a very good girl since last Halloween. I have given cookies and candy and cake to people who needed them. I have been kind to spiders. I have revered the pumpkin in all its forms. I have not drowned anyone in a well. I have not unleashed an army of the living dead, obedient to my every whim, and commanded them to destroy all that which might oppose me. Also, I have not called down the pandemic. So clearly, I have spent the entire year on my very best behavior.

This year, Great Pumpkin, I am asking for the following gifts:

* Awesome cover art. Please, Great Pumpkin, make sure that the cover art for Rosemary and Rue is made entirely of wonderful, and save me from the terrible specter of the bimbo on the cover of my book. (To quote the Bohnhoffs: “She is sultry, she is sexy, she is nowhere in the text, she is the bimbo on the cover of my book.”) I have great faith in my cover artist and my publisher, but it never hurts to plead for supernatural aid from the most superior of all squash.

* A fantastic convention season. I’m going to be the Music Guest of Honor at Duckon, Great Pumpkin, and Jim Butcher is going to be the Author Guest of Honor. Please help me to be the very best Disney Halloween Princess that I can possibly be, and smite those things which might attempt to oppose me. Please assist me in winning the hearts of all those who meet me, and all me to position myself well for a best-selling novel. Also, please make sure there’s edible food within walking distance of the convention hotel.

* The perfect kittens. My oldest cat is very old, Great Pumpkin, and in the interests of keeping my younger cat from going insane, I am in the market for Siamese kittens. I am looking for a chocolate and a lilac, both Classic, both with the sweet temper and massive size that I associate with the breed. They need to be sturdy, or Lilly will devour them while I sleep, and that will both make me sad and force me to go looking for new kittens. I don’t have time to go through this twice, so please help me get it right the first time.

* Quick, successful sale of the InCryptid series, wherein the various members of the Price family alternately protect and pummel cryptid ass for the sake of the ecological balance of the planet. If you give me this, Great Pumpkin, I promise to find a way to work you into the narrative, either as a benevolent protector of the pumpkin patch, or as a destroyer of the weak. The choice is entirely yours. Also, if you can, could you make sure the contract is for the first four? Because I really want an excuse to write them all.

* Happiness for my entire family, including my recently-married baby sister and her wife. I am very tired of people trying to say that my baby sister’s marriage is in some way dangerous, Great Pumpkin. She’s happy for the first time, and it’s wonderful to watch, and if anything, her joy is a testament to why people get married at all, not a sign of the marital apocalypse. Please make the stupid go away, Great Pumpkin, so we can all stay happy.

* An army of velociraptors, genetically-engineered to obey only my commands, and equipped with lasers on their forearms. I promise I will only use them to bring glory to your name, Great Pumpkin, and that I will leave enough of the world’s population alive to properly honor you on the next Halloween.

I remain your faithful Halloween girl,
Seanan.