I’ve always known my older brother was gay. I knew he was a little different then other brothers when he would actually want to play dress up with me or when he would want to pal around with me and my girlfriends in high school.

When Biff (which is what we’re calling him today) was about 26 he moved back home. He had graduated from college and just wasn’t finding a decent job in the town he lived in. I had also just moved back home after my recent divorce. My younger brother and sister were still just kids. So for the first time in years, all four of us were under the same roof.

My parents house has a full apartment in the basement. There is a bathroom, laundry room, kitchen and bedroom and even its own entrance from the garage. I’m not sure why, but Biff got the apartment to himself and I just moved back into the bedroom I had before I got married. One day while he was at work my younger sister went into his apartment to borrow his phone book. He had a little table where he kept his phone. She assumed the phone book would be in the drawer to the table. Instead of finding his phone book when she opened the drawer she found his porn collection. And not just regular porn, no this was gay cowboy porn.

My younger sister was shocked to see this. She was only in junior high, so I’m pretty sure this was the first time she’d ever seen porn, let alone gay porn. And gay porn that belonged to the older brother who she had always felt close to. She didn’t know what to do with this information.

My sister kept this discovery to herself for a few months. It makes me sad to think of this little girl knowing this about my brother, but being afraid to discuss it with him. And being unsure who to talk to about this. After a while she told my Mom. I’m sure my Mom wasn’t surprised. Seriously, we wondered about Biff’s sexuality for quite some time.

Biff didn’t make it easy for us to know his preference. He lived with a girl for a while when he was in college. At the time of the gay porn incident he was dating a single mother from his work. So you can see how we weren’t really sure. I mean, we figured he was gay. But the fact that he kept dating women was a little confusing. I figured he just wasn’t sure yet. Or maybe that he was bi-sexual. I didn’t know.

About a year later my Mom told me about the stash under the phone in the basement. I went right downstairs into Biff’s apartment and looked in the drawer. Of course it was still there. I thumbed through one of the magazines and got a little laugh out of it. I’ve never really found cowboys to be attractive. Cowboys wearing cut offs and boots are really not attractive to me. Especially when their junk is hanging out. I won’t lie, the fact that my own dad and younger brother considered themselves to be cowboys made me a little leery.

That is where this story died.

At least for the next two years.

Of course all of us family members discussed it amongst ourselves. We just never discussed it with Biff. We knew he’d tell us when he was ready to tell us. My Mom later told me that she was hoping he would work though it and change his mind. We all know that wasn’t going to happen. I think a part of her knew that wasn’t going to happen either.

I moved out to Seattle and Biff came with me. We found a little studio apartment and lived together until The King and I got married. Myself, along with my parents, were just waiting for Biff to finally come out of the closet. We thought that the main reason he moved with me to Seattle was to get away from the conservative town we had grown up in and finally be true to himself.

Fast forward another year. The King and I were married and living up the street from Biff’s apartment. We saw him when his over the top antics didn’t push us over the edge. I remember the day he sat us down and said; I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and have finally come to the realization that I’m gay. I wasn’t sure why it was something he had to think so much about. I mean, if he would have just asked me I would have told him he was gay.

Since this wasn’t a huge shock to The King and I, we probably didn’t react in the way Biff had expected. I asked him what he wanted me to do with the information. He said he felt like it was his responsibility to tell our family and friends. I agreed and because we respected his wishes we told him we would wait for him to tell the family. My parents were planning on coming out to Seattle in a few months and I assumed he’d wait to discuss it with them then.

Tune in tomorrow to find out what happened next.

Plus I will answer the question everyone always has; how does your church-going family feel about Biff being gay?

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Head over to my other blog to read my about my latest New Thing, a review of mamasource.

I went to my 107th baby shower last night. That number may be a slight exaggeration, but it felt like my 107th. (Come to think of it, that number might not be that much of an exaggeration.)

Like most of the showers I attend, I love the lady it was for. I’m happy for her and her husband. I’m looking forward to meeting their little baby girl. I’m anxious to see them excel as parents.

But damn it, if I have to look at another 3-6 month pink onesie I might have to kill myself.

I was fortunate to be showered with love, kindness and fabulous gifts before Babboo was born. I was constantly overwhelmed with the generosity of others. It really was overwhelming. I couldn’t believe the outpouring of support. After seeing this shower last night I was reminded at how lucky I was back in my baby shower days.

I admit I wasn’t paying that close attention during the gift opening. You see, I was busy gossiping about the current state of Angelina and Brad’s relationship. What I did see was just a lot of pink; pink little dresses, pink socks, pink over-alls, pink pajamas, and even pink blankets. I didn’t see one bottle, one pack of diapers, or even a single toy.

So while this kid is destined to be very well dressed, she won’t have any diapers. Or any bottles to drink out of.

Thankfully there was only one game the entire night. We were asked to write a nursery rhyme for the mom to share with her baby. The mom would choose her favorite. The hostess read us an example of the one she had just thrown together. It was beautifully written and put a lot of pressure on all of us to perform with such short notice.

Right, like I can just throw together a nursery rhyme. I didn’t even bring my rhyming dictionary with me.

I looked at the blank piece of paper for a while trying to come up with the first line.

There once was a girl from Nantucket.

I turned to May and said; “what else rhymes with Nantucket?”
She looked at me and mouthed; “f-u-c…!”

My eyes got big; “No, no, no. What else rhymes with it? Maybe something about a pacifier and wanting to ’suck it’? Crap, that’s not going to work. And now I can’t think of another opening line.”

After the time was up and we all turned in our masterpieces, the hostess read them out loud for the winner to be chosen. There were some pretty awesome ones. Poems about clouds and Jesus and teddy bears.

When it came time for her to pick her favorite she said, “I like the one about the hemorrhoids.”

Boo-yah! That was mine.

And now I’d like to present you with my winning nursery rhyme.

For Annie

Annie, do you like cats?

Don’t worry, you won’t always be fat.

You’ll soon be reintroduced to your feet.

And your baby you’ll meet.

Ryan will be a good Dad.

Oh yeah, and hemorrhoids are bad.

Seriously, that crap right there beat out real live rhyming poems about sweet babies floating on clouds alongside Jesus. I felt a little ashamed.

But not ashamed enough to stop me from posting it on the interweb for all to mock.

I remember being assigned to a presentation group in high school. We had to choose a subject and write a report on it. Once the report was written one of the members of the group had to present it in front the entire class. As I recall, my group was lame. So I took the initiative and decided that we’d do our report on The Beatles. You know, since I was already an expert and had all the reference material we’d need.

When it was time to choose who would present our report to the class, all eyes turned to me. There was no discussion. I was giving the presentation. Fine by me. I figured at least this way it would be presented the right way, the way I wanted. The way The Beatles deserved.

I heard somewhere yesterday that the people’s #1 fear is speaking in front of a large group.

The #2 fear is dying.

I tell you what. I’m much more afraid of dying then I am of speaking in front of people.

In college when I was given an assignment to speak in front of my class, I didn’t mind. When I was asked by my professor to help him do a presentation, I jumped at the chance. When my Mom would tell me how nervous she was about teaching a class to her Cub Scout pack, I laughed at her.

It just never bothered me.

A few years ago I was asked by some of my Church leaders to participate in what I like to refer to as my speaking tour. Every few months I go to a different Church congregation and speak to them on an assigned topic. These are real live adults (and families) I’m speaking to. People who know a thing or two about life. People I strive to emulate. I’ve spoken to them on topics as varied as my thoughts on becoming a Mom, just weeks after Babboo was born, and our trips to Europe.

Recently The King and I spoke to a group of over 100 teenagers. This was very daunting. The topic we were given? Our own teenage years and how they made us into the (cough) fine (cough) adults we are now. The highlight of the night was hearing The King tell a 17 year old audience member that his black eye would help attract the ladies. And also when he showed off his skull and cross bone socks. The King likes to keep it real. Me, on the other hand, well I just didn’t tell the whole truth about my teenage years.

I don’t have any secrets of how I overcome the fear of speaking in front of people. I don’t imagine the audience naked, especially when they are underage. I don’t try to avoid eye contact. I don’t try to picture myself on a beach in Mexico. I just get up there and say what I came to say. And then sit down.

Last week The King’s Mom asked me how I manage to speak so often and in front of so many people. She said that she could never do it. That it would freak her out so much.

The God-honest truth as to how I do it?

As soon as I finish and sit down, I know that’s it. I know it’s over. I know I’m in the clear. I don’t worry about what I said wrong, or what I could have said differently, or if my hair was parted on the wrong side. It’s too late. I don’t care, because it’s over. I’m done.

That is, until the next time I have to speak to a different group.

So tell me, is there anything you don’t mind doing that others hate to do? Are there people out there that actually like to clean toilets?

Yesterday was my yearly doctor visit. Stuff like that always makes me nervous. Will I have to take my clothes off? Will I something embarrassing? Will I smell? Will they discover a weird growth? Will they find cancer?

Lucky for me it was just my yearly eye exam.

Lucky for the doctor I didn’t take my clothes off.

Actually it was probably lucky for us both that I kept my clothes on. Let’s be honest.

It’s been time for new glasses for a while now. I figured I should get some new ones before BlogHer. I found a new doctor to try out. One that I was assured carries lots and lots of cool frames. I am in the market for cool frames.

I arrived a little early to my appointment hoping to have some extra time to look at their frame selection. The King and my Sweet Babboo were going to meet up with me afterwards to help my choose my new pair.

I realized right away that there would be no need for The King to stop by. The frames were well over $500 each. My insurance will only pay $130. Which has always been plenty for me to get cool glasses. These $500 ones were even that cool. They were hip looking. But too hip. They were almost space-agy looking. Contrary to popular belief I do not go for the space-agy look.

After my appointment we high tailed it to our local bulk warehouse store to look at their eyeglass selection. The prices were much better. (Not as good as they could be, but much better.)

Unfortunately my eyes had been dilated and I was forced to wear my sunglasses at all time. So there I was walking around Costco at 7 o’clock at night with my toddler that kept screaming for “nanas” rocking my goofy $4.00 diamond studded sunglasses, ala Paris Hilton.

Dude, I looked like an ass. I felt like an ass. But damn it, my eyes were killing me.

(And also, my freakin’ forehead is like a six-head. It’s official, I’m getting bangs next week!)

We barley survived and headed home where we were greeted with a package.

The 100 Pack of Condoms arrived. And just to make sure we got our $20 worth, The King and Babboo took inventory. The King also may or may not have lined them up in order of which ones he wanted to try out first. I suggested we break it in by using the “Caution, Road Bumps” style first. His thoughts were to start with something a little more basic and work our way up to something bumpy.

Even if we don’t get to use the entire 100 pack before they all go bad, I was able to get this picture. Which, I think, is classic.

Edited to add: The King thinks he looks tougher with his eyes blacked out. I only do what I’m told. He also thinks bangs are a bad idea. But only because he hates to hear me bitch.

My bestest friend May (the one that is moving far, far away, but I refuse to admit it) e-mailed me this morning:

My husband woke me up this morning and wanted me to help him with an errand. He wanted to leave our 2 year old at home asleep alone. AGAIN! He thinks I’m crazy because I told him there was no way I would do this. Ever. Boys are so weird.

Yes, this is the second time he’s suggested they leave their sleeping toddler at home alone while they hurry and run an errand. He thinks this is no big deal. He thinks May is the silly one for pointing out how absurd this is.

Right, she’s the silly one.

I told her that under no circumstances can they leave their child at home alone. Even if she is asleep. I reminded her that this is how people wind up on the evening news. And then in jail.

Dude, being married is hard.

When I was about 12 years old my older brother and I got into a fight on our way home from the bus stop. I don’t remember what it was about, but words were said. Hurtful words. My mom sat me down and told me a story about when she was a teenager.

One spring day my uncles were playing a game together. The younger brother cheated and thus won the game. His older brother was upset. He got up and stormed out of the room telling his little brother; I wish you were dead!

The next day my 17 year old uncle got into a farming accident and died shortly after. My surviving uncle never forgave himself for the cruel words he said the day before.

My mom told me this story as a reminder that I needed to watch the words I said. She told me that I should never say something that I would later regret.

Words cannot be taken back.

I haven’t been very good at posting this week. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say. It’s that I don’t have anything nice to say.

I’m fed up. And fed up is not pretty on me. I’ve become an ugly person. An ugly person with no end in sight.

It boils down to the fact that I’m sick of living in this in-between state. I’m sick of making due with what were stuck with. What I thought would only be temporary has become my permanent. My life. The only thing I know.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have a yard. To have a place outside of my home to call my own. A place where I can throw a blanket down and hang out with my kid that isn’t inside surrounded by furniture and carpet.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have a bathroom to use while someone is in the other bathroom. Or a kitchen that we can fit in. Or appliances that work. Hell, I don’t even remember what it’s like to eat dinner at a table and not sitting on a couch with my plate resting on my lap.

I don’t know what it’s like to have my own bedroom without a crib in it. I’ve never had a nursery where I could hang up the artwork we bought for Babboo. I don’t own a dresser. I don’t have a place to keep my shoes. I don’t have room to hang up my jackets because our coat closet is housing baby clothes and a stroller.

I can’t remember what it’s like to be married to someone that you see when you get off work. I don’t remember what it’s like to spend a Saturday not stuck inside an apartment all day alone with a baby. I don’t remember what it’s like to eat dinner before 8:30 because you wait to eat with your husband. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone there to help me pick up the toys at the end of the night. I can’t remember what it’s like to have someone there to help you fold the laundry. Or dry as you wash.
I can’t remember what a normal marriage is like.

I’m afraid that it’s going to be like this forever. And I don’t know what to do.