Turns out being born Baptist precludes being born gay, in Alberta at least.

Girl in overalls and plaid shirt

Don’t judge a book by its coveralls.

Not long ago, our fair province had to introduce legislation mandating gay-straight alliances within all schools. If the students request it, schools will allow a safe LGTBQ space for anyone who seeks it. Sure, students shouldn’t have to ask, but at least something is in place if they do.

The Catholic school boards didn’t like the idea initially, but they have found a way to support the ruling within their schools, albeit with a nod to Catholic doctrine. The Baptists, on the other hand, have openly denied their students such a safe space.

To be fair to the Baptists (and I’m always fair, aren’t I?), none of their mostly-elementary-aged children are self-identified as LGTBQ. In this atmosphere of exclusion, even those children who identified as LGTBQ from a young age would shout it from the rooftops, don’t you think? If everyone around you told you that being gay was sinful, do you think you’d risk coming out if you were? Too many LGTBQ youth are homeless because they are kicked out after coming out.

Let me be the one to break the bad news to you, dear Baptists. Let’s say that 1 in 10 or so children fall on the LGTBQ spectrum. (My quick internet research revealed wide variations of this estimate, due partly to people’s reluctance to come out even when asked on anonymous questionnaires.) With 85 kids in their faith-based schools, let’s estimate 8.5 of them fall within a sexual or gender minority. Maybe the extra half indicates a bisexual child (yes, I’m joking; no offence intended, bisexuals).

There’s more bad news, Baptists. Whether or not children self-identify as LGTBQ (and I’m sure you’ve polled all 85 children in your schools, including those in kindergarten), whatever their sexual- or gender difference, they were born with it. Some of your precious little babies came out gay or transgender or whatever, whether or not they (or you) knew it. You may not have wanted them to be, but they were, and they are, and no amount of counselling or censure or denial will change that.

Some children realize from a very young age that they are different, whether or not they can label that difference. I was not aware I was gay from a very young age, although in my favourite picture as a toddler, I was wearing overalls. That would be a sure sign, especially were I wearing a matching plaid shirt, wouldn’t it?

Here’s another piece of enlightening information for the Baptists: one can be well aware of one’s LGTBQness without acting upon it, just as one can be well aware of one’s heterosexuality without having sexual relations with someone of the opposite gender. What is an unrequited high-school crush if not an awareness of one’s sexual proclivities? Are you genuinely worried your Grade 3 gay student will act on his awareness with another boy?

The Alberta government isn’t very happy with the Baptist school board right now for defying their legislation. Meanwhile, the Baptists insist they’re following the law because, since none of their students are gay, they don’t need gay-straight alliances. Wake up and spot the gay students, Baptists. Those students deserve a safe space to gather, especially in your atmosphere of exclusion.


How do I know thee? Let me count the ways.

Logo for the Not So Newlywed Game

Do you young’uns remember the Newlywed Game? It aired during my formative years, took a few decades off, and reappeared in 2009 for a few seasons. In it, a newly married husband and wife had to answer questions their spouse couldn’t hear. The couple was awarded points if the wife’s questions matched the husband’s, or the husband’s matched the wife’s. You get the idea. In the later version, even a few gay couples were on the show. That’s social progress for you.

This is my sixteenth Valentine’s Day with J. Sixteen whole years, and I know everything about her. I think we’d be masters at the Newlywed Game, even though we’re far from newlyweds. We’re not able to finish all of each other’s sentences (just most of them) but I can often predict what she’s thinking. I know her likes and dislikes, I know how we’re similar and different. Lately I’m batting close to 1000.

For example, when we were out walking yesterday, I pointed out a car colour I liked, and J. agreed but added, “I’d probably get sick of it.” I could have told you that even before she uttered the words. Call me psychic.

I can also predict with certainty that if J. likes a pair of shoes, I will not. “Why don’t you try these on, honey?” she says to me. “It’s alright, sweetie,” I respond, “they’re ugly/institutional/grandmotherly. They’re all yours, i.e., your feet can look ugly/institutional/grandmotherly.” As a skilled therapist, I can assure you that it’s healthy for couples to agree to disagree sometimes, especially on matters of such critical significance.

To prove how well we know one another (since the Newlywed Show is no longer an option), last night we both took a compelling questionnaire currently making its way around the internet, “Which country fits your personality?” J.’s responses classified her as UK (that’s obvious–she loves beer), while I classified myself as Japan. Japan? I didn’t even pick sushi as my favourite meal (immunocompromised diet and all)! J. laughed until she cried envisioning me as Japan.

Black map of Japan overlaying red moon flag of JapanJ. thinks she knows me so well that she responded a second time for me to see if the outcome would be different. She must figure she’s a better judge of my character than I am, which is often true. What country did her responses make me? Japan, yet again. And she didn’t even pick sushi as my favourite meal either!

So of course the challenge was on: I re-rated her to see if, with my responses, she remained UKish. But no, according to me, she too was Japan! I have no idea why everything I touch turns to Japan. I even chose beer over tea for her, although she drinks a lot more tea than beer. Sure, I selected sushi for her but only because she loves sushi.

So I must concede that, although I may indeed know which car colours J. would quickly tire of, I clearly still have many things to learn about my beloved, as she obviously does about me. May we have many more years to improve our batting averages.

Happy Valentine’s Day. May you receive as much chocolate as I hope to. (Another relationship tip: there’s nothing wrong with the odd hint.)

In case you were worried, I’m still here.

If you recall, I wrote about the unanticipated responsibilities of the cancer patient a few weeks back. To summarize for those of you who may not have committed my posts to memory, I learned the hard way that I had to arrive reliably when expected or people would think I had died, or perhaps they’d worry about where I was, but you get my drift.

With this in mind, I am writing to assure you that I am not dead. I missed yoga Thursday, which is highly atypical, and I haven’t been spotted at my usual haunts (the grocery store, the library, the dog park) over the past few days, but I am indeed alive, just far from home.

On Wednesday, J and I had no trouble at all crossing the U.S. border, even as a gay married couple. I guess we don’t look like terrorists to President Idiot. (On that note, did you hear a two-year-old potential terrorist in need of brain surgery was allowed entry into the U.S. even before the courts lifted the travel ban? Turns out not all preschool Muslims are terrorists after all.)

Of course I feel guilty being here when others are fearing they will not be allowed into the country, but our trip was planned before (some call him POTUS, I call him) President Putz started undoing everything his predecessor had worked so hard to accomplish. We would have lost a lot of money had we cancelled. No travel insurance for the cancerous, remember?

So here we are, far south of the 49th parallel, escaping a brutally cold spell back home and taking a break from real life. J. is learning to forego marrying people for a week, which is a challenge given how much harder she’s been working since retiring. (I realize that last sentence is oxymoronic, yet consider who we’re talking about here.) Retirement, my tuchus, I say. Meanwhile, I am learning how to take a break from volunteering since I too have been biting off a bit more than I can chew (and I don’t mean food here) of late.

How perfect is this trip? Friendly customs agent, flight arrived on time, and the rented red VW Beetle practically drove itself to our well-situated and well-appointed apartment. I am thoroughly enjoying the gas stove I’ve always wanted, and, to J.’s amazement, I haven’t yet burned the place down! Sure I forgot toothpaste, but that problem was quickly remedied. Turns out Americans brush their teeth too.

Pug holding Trump toy in its mouthWe can walk to everything we need. We’ll easily score a gift for Jelly while we’re here in one of the fancy pet stores. Who am I kidding? We never bring home gifts for Jelly. She doesn’t realize we should since she’s a dog. If I do see a squeaky President Putz dog toy, though, I may not be able to help myself.

When I get back home, I’ll have real life to contend with, but for now, I’m enjoying my short-lived fantasy of no responsibilities, no obligations, and no cancer.

So if you were worried about my absence, worry no more. I’m busy living every vacation day like it is my last. Time to head out in search of that dog toy.

One of these gays is not like the other

Picture of female mechanic working on carI thought this blog was supposed to be about my travails with illness, but I’ve learned that other topics may drive up my readership. This past week, I have two new unsuspecting readers, which brings me to 250 followers. And I recently realized that people could follow the blog anonymously, so I’ll assume there are some of those, not to mention the occasional visitors. Thankfully, I have no idea how many people actually read my posts, so I’ll assume it’s every single one of you.

I know these past few posts have been so gay, but they’ve garnered a surge of interest, thankfully all supportive. No homophobes have weighed in, perhaps realizing that their comments will go directly into the trash. In the interest of my still being gay, I have one more post on this topic. Then I’ll move on.

Being gay is such a teensy part of my identity that I don’t think about it much anymore. Rather, every morning I wake up and, without fail, I remember that I have leukemia. I wake up and remember that I’m a psychologist, and I feel sad that I’m barely working. Then I trip as I get out of bed and remember that I’m still clumsy. Upon awakening, I rarely think, “I’m still gay!” Who cares?

I can count my close gay friends on one hand. Most of my, and our, friends are of the heterosexual persuasion. Sometimes I get sick of their pushing their straightness on us by, you know, holding hands as they walk down the street or smooching in public. “Get a room,” I say, or “That’s heterosexual privilege for you.” But mostly I’m okay with their straightness. I know they were born that way and even if they wanted to be gay, even if they really really tried, they wouldn’t make the team. We gays are a highly exclusive group.

I’ve also learned that, although I share a sexual orientation with other gays, that’s doesn’t make us buddies. Turns out gay people come in all shapes and sizes and colours. Not all gay gals are mechanics nor all gay men ballet dancers (except for Billy Elliott, of course). We’re everywhere doing everything that you straighties do.

So when friends approach me and say, “Hey, Annie, I have this really nice gay friend and I’d like to introduce you two,” I’m unsure how to respond. I consider asking, “Do we have anything else in common other than our gayitude?” I wonder, “Could I introduce you to my straight friend Breeder, since I’m sure you’d have a lot in common, being straight and all?” But my inside voice says, “I know you mean well, but do I have to?”

Many years ago, friends kindly invited J. and me over to meet a gay couple they knew. Our friends decided the four lesbos would get along famously, but J. and I determined within the first few minutes that we had absolutely nothing in common. I imagine the other lesbos felt similarly. Unsurprisingly, we four did not fall in homosexual friendship.

So if you don’t mind, I’ll keep hanging out with my straight friends. We have more in common; that’s why we’re friends after all. And you can hang around with your friends, gay or straight. I won’t judge.

Straight or gay, we’re more similar than different.

In my last post, I told you that our household is in most respects like yours, except for the two women at its helm. Upon review, I’m wondering whether I clearly addressed how typical our household really is.

There’s J. the breadwinner, now working just one job rather than two, while I sit around in my leisurewear watching Border Security and eating bonbons. (Occasionally I get off the couch to do volunteer work or go to yoga or make dinner, and the bonbons have become vegetables since my Great Sugar Revolution, but the leisurewear part is accurate.)

Now that J. is solely self-employed, and she does much of her work from home, she has officially made the basement into her office. All her Basset paraphernalia (pads and stapler and magnets and more) are occupying the desk. When she has inquiries to address or marriage ceremonies to write, she commutes downstairs, allowing us space from one another.

Even the most loving couples need space sometimes, don’t they? How much space depends on the couple. I’d say we’ve always been fairly independent.

Then J. decided to create a woman cave in the basement as well. That way, when I want to watch something boring like Food Network, she can go downstairs to watch her favourite hockey team, the Edmonton Oilers, lose. With the sound system on, J. feels like she’s in the stands with the fans.

J. tromps downstairs in the morning to work on her newly thriving business, poking her head up every so often when she’s hungry. She descends again in the afternoon to work some more. We eat dinner together, and then, if the Oilers are playing, J. heads back downstairs with a bowl of chips for the evening. Between her work and my own activities, we hardly see one another. Even Jelly, who is not allowed to shed on the basement rug, sulks and paces endlessly because she misses her favourite mother. Somehow, as J. has become firmly ensconced in the basement, I’ve become the nagging, neglected wife.

Imagine my surprise when J. resurfaced 20 minutes into last night’s hockey game, but only because her boys were already losing. (She’s fickle that way.) After watching one show together, I’d turned to the season finale of the Great American Baking Show, which unfortunately is not nearly as engaging as the Great British Baking Show. Nevertheless, we’ve been watching this competition since the start to ensure it remained a poor facsimile, so I expected J. might join me for the finale.

No such luck. Rather than watching with me, J. confessed she’d rather see her boys play, even if they’re losing. So downstairs she went again, and good thing she did because her boys came back from behind and won.

Are we really that different from any straight couple you know? Does it really matter? All I know is that I can look forward to J.’s company in the evenings when the Oilers aren’t playing. If I’m lucky, her hockey season will end early when her boys fail to make the playoffs. But please don’t tell her I said that. It wouldn’t go over well.

drawing of hockey player with quote "If I go missing and you're looking for me, I'm probably watching hockey."

Me and my homosexual lifestyle

Poster entitled the Gay Agenda, two men on a couch, says: "They worked at their jobs, they shopped for groceries, they went to the movies, they lived The Gay Agenda

Let me tell you all about my homosexual lifestyle. I am married to a woman, with whom I live. Our differences from all you heterosexuals end right about there.

J. and I own a house together. Although we don’t have children, we have co-parented a series of wayward dogs. We go on vacations together and eat dinner together and watch television together (unless there’s hockey on, in which case J. kindly goes downstairs). We do all the things that you straight folks do.

I’m telling you this because there’s been quite a lot of talk about the homosexual lifestyle in the editorial pages of our local paper recently, in reaction to the recent retirement of Bishop Fred Henry. Bishop Henry has been presiding over the Catholics in our fair city since 1996. His support of the poor and the vulnerable has been hard to hear over his unrelenting venomous rhetoric, particularly toward LGTBQ people like me. Sometimes it is hard to see the good in someone whose views are so vile.

You may think I am anti-Catholic but that is not the case. Some of my best friends are Catholics! Were Bishop Henry Jewish, I’d still take issue with his narrow-mindedness. I think Pope Francis is the cat’s meow (said with tongue in dog’s cheek), and I admire him for pushing the boundaries of traditional Catholic doctrine. Sure, there is room for improvement within Catholicism–you’re telling me a woman impregnated through sexual assault must carry that baby to term?–but those Catholics have come a long way in my lifetime.

Bishop Henry is rabidly anti-abortion and he fought the legalization of gay marriage vociferously. He was against HPV vaccination for preteen girls in Catholic schools, despite this vaccine’s cancer-preventing effects. Since premarital sex is verboten, Catholic schoolgirls shouldn’t need the vaccine, he claimed. (Thankfully, the Catholic school board allowed the vaccines.) He recently forbid gay-straight alliances within Catholic schools, despite the provincial education ministry mandating safe spaces for LGTBQ students. Bishop Henry’s views on transgenderism are just as ill informed. Where are all those poor Catholic transgender kids going to pee, let alone seek support from their peers?

My worst memory of Bishop Henry is an email exchange between my dear gay friend and Bishop Henry. The bishop’s hateful comments to my friend included, among other things, his equating homosexuality with pedophilia. Did you know that homosexuality and pedophilia were one and the same? Neither did I, because they’re not. Pedophiles have a sexual disorder. They are breaking the law and may go to prison if they engage in sex with a minor. In contrast, in 1967, our prime minister asserted, “There is no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation,” thereby decriminalizing homosexuality.

Bishop Henry’s supporters describe him as an enigmatic character who is outspoken on tough issues. Outspoken or not, when his views become hurtful and mean spirited and degrading, no one should have to hear him spewing his nasty rhetoric anymore. I’m hopeful that the new bishop will be kinder to those of us living our sinful homosexual lifestyle. I’ve chosen this lifestyle, just as I’d choose to be denigrated by someone as narrow and ignorant as Bishop Henry. Wouldn’t you?


My newfound fear of the pharmacy

Woman's hand receiving receipt and drugs from pharmacist

Did you see Freeheld? If not, skip it. The ratings weren’t great, and you’ll have to watch a woman die of cancer. It was a downer. The story is important though: It’s about a woman in the U.S. who wants her spouse to be eligible for her pension upon her death. No problem were her spouse male, but her spouse was female, hence the need for a movie. It’s based on a true story from the early 2000s.

We Canadians are so far ahead of the game. I’ve been on Judy’s benefit plan for years without issue, and I would have received her pension had she died before me. Human rights laws in Canada prevent discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, and Americans were flocking to our fair land to get hitched for years until marriage became legal in 2015 south of the border.

Which leads us to J.’s retirement, and with it the loss of her benefits. Since I was covered under her plan, I could go to the pharmacy, flash my disarming smile, and leave with a bundle of expensive life-sustaining drugs without paying a cent. My drug plan, which cost me $63.50 monthly, and hers, a minimal deduction on her paycheque, together covered every penny. When we looked at whether we could afford to retire, we included in our calculations my drug expenses without J.’s benefits, which are significant.

In the meantime, J.’s retirement date jumped around a bit before she finalized it. When she told me she’d finalized December 2, I jumped for joy because the bulk of my drugs were eligible for refills that very day, allowing me another three months’ stash for free. Or so I thought.

On November 30, I approached my friendly pharmacist, Colin–we’re on a first-name basis after 15 years together–my list of renewable meds in hand. He informed me, to my dismay, that my calculations were off and I could not renew my prescriptions until December 12.

I was in a panic. I texted J., “I know your retirement party is today, but could you work until December 12 so I can refill all my prescriptions without cost?” Without even considering my request, J. selfishly declined. I was sad to learn I rated so low on her priority list, but I got over it.

I have been putting off seeing Colin, but this week, I will go to the pharmacy and seek those prescription refills. I will run out of my medications over the holiday if I don’t. I still have my drug coverage to soften the blow, but I will have to pay for whatever is not covered.  I will include this cost as a medical expense at tax time. It will not bankrupt us, and J. will not be forced back to work.

I remind myself that these drug expenses are a drop in the bucket relative to the medical expenses covered by the government, including, for example, all my doctors’ visits, hospital stays, and 100% of my prohibitively expensive daily chemotherapies.

I may turn to Kijiji to make up the difference. Anyone interested in buying my sugar stash? I have several untouched chocolate bars to spare. Sorry, no wine gums. I can’t even recall the last time I bought them.


I have to pee! A gay (but not happy) fable

Transgender washroom sign, with "Whichever" on it

I was out and about the other day and all of the sudden I really had to pee.

[Already you know this is a fable because people with liver problems never really have to pee, except for a few hours every morning when they are under the influence of their diuretics. Have you noticed I’ve never excused myself to use the washroom in all the years you’ve known me?]

I went looking for the public facilities and saw the sign for WOMEN. I was about to enter when a uniformed officer stopped me. “What do you think you’re doing?” the Washroom Police said sternly. “You can’t use this washroom. You’re gay. You will inevitably leer inappropriately at the other women in there and make them uncomfortable. I think you’d better use the washroom for MEN since you won’t cause any trouble there.”

So off I trotted to the washroom for MEN, but I encountered a few problems. First, I wasn’t sure how to use a urinal. Then I noticed the men in there weren’t so happy to have me see all their exposed you-know-whats. They screamed at me, told me I was a freak, and sent me out.

By this time I really had to go, and the Washroom Police were at a complete loss. The washroom for WOMEN wasn’t appropriate, and neither was the washroom for MEN. So the officer led me to a third washroom, a private one with no gender signage, and told me this was where I belonged. He stood outside until I was done. As I left, he told me I must use only this washroom in the future since I was now barred from entering the others.

From then on, I would alway remember to pee before I left the house.

The End.

Need I repeat this fable from the perspective of a transgender person or do you catch my drift? Which washroom would someone whose physical body is male but who is female in mind and spirit want to use? The one that matches her true gender. She has no interest in gawking at the other women in the washroom, and she is not at risk of sexually assaulting those women; she just wants to pee. (I am awestruck that people actually use these absurd arguments to deny transgender people entrance to the washroom of their choice.) Despite what some may fear, this woman is not an opportunist nor an exhibitionist. She just wants to pee where the other women pee.

Now what if this transgender person is a teenager in school? Adolescence is hard enough as it is; why make it harder by mandating which washroom a transgender student can use? And, no, in case you were wondering, creating a separate washroom for transgender students is not good enough. That solution only reinforces the notion that transgender people don’t belong with the rest of us. As if they don’t feel that way already.

So buzz off, Washroom Police. Live and let live. Or should I say, “Pee and let pee.”

Sometimes Pride comes before the fall


Cheesecake with fruit arranged around top in colours of rainbow

Other Canadian cities celebrate Pride over the summer, but we Calgarians wait until the Labour Day weekend. That way, Pride festivities in major cities aren’t competing for attendance. Some years, it’s a lovely, hot summer day, and others it feels like fall. Yesterday was firmly in the fall camp.

Nevertheless, people of all gender and sexual identities, straight people, and families, were out for the largest ever Pride celebration this weekend. Even the Shriners marched this year, donning their funny hats. Maybe they’ll bring their little red cars next year. One step at a time. One Shriner said, to explain his group’s attendance: “There will be gay parents of children in our hospitals.” Way to go, fellows.

Shriners marching in a parade

I spent the week preparing for a lovely day of hanging with the homos (phrasing courtesy of J.). I’ve taken the past two weeks to get in the spirit by listening to the Indigo Girls on repeat (those two lezzies make beautiful music together), watching Ellen every afternoon, and deciding which comfortable shoes to wear.

It was a great day, except for two minor glitches. First, I was having a leukemia day, my first in as long as I can remember, so all I wanted to do was sleep. After a morning nap, I was semi-conscious, but the day was a hard slog. I was even too tired to cry during the parade, although I did tear up with all those emergency services folk and all the young marchers, including the families with kids. There were many brave and LBGTQ-supportive people there. I wish I’d been in a better space to appreciate the festivities, but I was still glad I went.

The other glitch related to J.’s work husband. You know what I mean–the person J. spends more time with than me every day at work, the one who loves the Oilers as much as she does, the one she shares her candy drawer with, the one who joins her for lunch when she needs a burger.

She has a work wife too, but I’m less threatened by her. I can’t say why, since they’re even closer. Maybe it’s because she’s not an Oilers’ fan.

To understand my dismay, you need to know that J. is in her element at the parade, not because she’s gayer than me but because she’s always at the front of the crowd interacting with the marchers and procuring the greatest swag. Yesterday she scored some rainbow sunglasses, a rainbow boa, a mini rainbow hat, perfect size for a dog (see below), not to mention a good haul of rainbow-coloured candy (Skittles, anyone?). Then, she gave all the candy to her work husband, when in the past, she would have given it to me. Ahem, those are my Skittles. Yes, I’ll admit I felt a bit threatened. I don’t know if his wife felt the same way. I should have asked her.

The work wife? J. gave her all the condoms, and there were many. No threat there.

Basset hound sitting wearing small rainbow cap


P.S. The annual Light the Night walk for Leukemia and Lymphoma is Saturday, October 15. Please let me know if you’d like to join us. The more the merrier.

The times they are a-changin’, and for the better.

Last weekend we attended a beautiful wedding. People had travelled from far and wide to participate in the celebration. What a privilege to witness this union between two very special people.

The ceremony took place in a stunning provincial park with a mountain backdrop. The day’s downpour let up just long enough for the outdoor knot tying. Because J. has known the bride for many years, she was honoured to act as officiant, which made the ceremony special for the couple and for her. She teared up upon seeing the couple escorted down the aisle by parents, everyone beaming with joy. The spouses wrote their own vows, which were funny and moving and loving. Of course I cried, but I wasn’t the only one. There were happy tears all around.

The couple, with the support of family and friends, had served as their own wedding planners, and they’d thought of everything. Umbrellas in case it rained, home-crafted hand fans in case it was too warm, and stunning flower arrangements.

The celebration followed in a lodge with floor-to-ceiling views of the mountains. The meal was mouthwatering, the desserts divine, and the penguin cake pops scrumptious. As if that weren’t enough, all guests received mini mason jars filled with Jelly Bellies. You know how much I LOVE Jelly Bellies.

Family and friends delivered moving after-dinner speeches, each one touching and heart felt. Everyone seemed so deeply happy for these two. It was evident that they had already been embraced wholeheartedly by their new extended families, who gushed with pride.

Did I neglect to mention that there were two brides? Yes, that’s right, two brides dressed in long white gowns, two brides throwing one bouquet together at the reception–not that well, I might add, for two accomplished fastpitch players–and two brides dancing their first dance as a married couple.

I’ve never been to a gay wedding before, except our mini version in our living room, sans dresses or speeches or Jelly Bellies. But why focus on the “gay” part, unless you mean “joyful”? Theirs was a wedding between two women who love and respect one another and want to spend the rest of their lives together. One bride said she’d never envisioned marriage in her future, and yet here she was. I’d say that’s reason for celebration.

This couple also intends to uphold many conventional marriage traditions. One wife will take the other’s last name, and they are marrying prior to starting a family. Together these women will make wonderful parents. Their progeny will grow up in a loving household with two doting mommies, and no doubt they will thrive, daddy or no daddy.

There was one small glitch for the happy couple, however. The morning of the wedding, one bride-to-be had to convince hotel staff that, although a bride in her hotel room had indeed already eaten breakfast, she had not yet because she was the other bride. It’s a story she’ll tell her grandchildren some day.

I was struck by the supportiveness of everyone in attendance, straight and gay, single and coupled, young and old. I trust that every guest was genuinely thrilled for the couple. Don’t these women deserve the same experience of marriage and family as anyone else? If you disagree, you may miss out on a darn good party someday.

Two brides at reception, sitting at head table both with Mrs. signs in front of them.