ShannonCunningham’s blog

I knew this election year was going to be different.  I knew something needed to be different. 

Let me just say I’ve been a proud Hillary supporter through all of this and just like many of those who were devastated when she didn’t win the nomination, I too had to really believe that Barack Obama would be the right choice.  I would never do anything crazy, like vote Republican.  I did need to know that my vote was something I could stand behind 100%. 

You see, this election is the first time I felt that I actually mattered.  Not my vote, per se, but that someone truly was looking at for my moral being.  Being gay in these elections usually means having to choose between which candidate is less ashamed of supporting gay rights.

This election, I’m closer in age to the Presidential candidate than I am the hot shot NBA star.

This election, we got to hear 2 candidates methodically work through the nomination process across the US and back and really want me to talk about what I was hearing and what I wasn’t hearing.  Asking why? And hearing answers instead of deflection.

This election I actually watched, really watched, for the first time the Democratic National Convention and finally understood what it feels like to hear speeches that inspire, infuse and demand that hope is alive and well.

This election, I see how Al Gore’s message of every vote counts isn’t just about the ballot box;  It’s about each person’s obligation to speak up and have a say publically, is as important as which candidate you choose behind a voting booth curtain. 

This election, I didn’t see the candidate’s name, I saw “Change”. 

My very favorite part of Barack’s speech last night “…What the naysayers don't understand is that this election has never been about me. It's about you. It's about you.”

Finally, I get it.

I’ve been gay and out for about 12 years.  It’s interesting to see how life has changed for gays and towards gays during this time. 

I remember when Ellen came out and it was all anyone could talk about and gays gathered around our tvs and watched her character say “I’m gay”.  I don’t think I ever truly understood the power that moment had on the LGBT community. 

I remember when Matthew Shephard died.  And this time the gays gathered in the streets …we were angry.

I remember 8 years ago during the election when “gay rights” was neck and neck with abortion rights.  We all know where that value statement got us. 

I remember when we all knew the same 5 gay out celebrities: KD Lang, Melissa Etheridge, RuPaul,  Boy George and Richard Simmons (I’ll go out on a limb with the last one).

I remember when Will & Grace was the only ‘gay’ show on tv.

All within that last 12 years…

Which is why the past 2 weeks has really blown my mind.  Not only did Ellen Degeneres marry her partner…scratch that, her wife, Portia, their wedding  photo was the cover of People magazine. People magazine!?

A gay diver won the Olympic gold medal but mostly people focused on the fact that it wasn’t a Chinese diver.  Few if any similarities of Greg Louganis were mentioned. 

The Democratic National Convention is appealing to the LGBT community vs repealing or sidestepping it.  We have delegates.  Lots and lots of delegates!  Hell we have gotten mentions in nearly every speech and who didn’t catch the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Suits” comment.  You know what I mean *wink*.

Which brings me to today.  Today Del Martin passed away.  Del was an amazing lesbian activist all her life.  She and her partner were together for 55 years and the 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling that Hillary made this year can’t compare to the truly amazing grassroots campaign Del and Phyllis have worked on for the past half century for gay and lesbian rights. 

Perhaps Del’s passing is confirmation our fight to “Be” and “Be Gay” is finally over.  Of course there is the pesky Don’t Ask Don’t Tell thing and the other 48 states that don’t recognize gay marriage…yet. 

Maybe if I wait 2 more weeks I’ll see what I can do about that. 

Dear Minneapolis Airport,

I was more than happy to visit your city for a day trip. Even though it's 60 in Chicago for opening day for the Cubs. Sure, Minneapolis, you got a shitload of snow and it hasn't stopped falling since I got here at 8am. I was more than happy to bid you farewell for my scheduled 5pm departure.

I did not anticipate you would not only cancel my scheduled 5pm flight but take the liberty of rescheduling me on a flight that would leave tomorrow at 2:17PM. Did you not notice I had no luggage and had no intention of staying the night?

I was thrilled when the customer service person offered to confirm a seat on the 6:40pm back to Midway. Despite the fact that my car is at O'Hare I was more than happy to cab it across town to get my car.

You were kind enough to put me on stand by for the 4pm. A pipe dream- really.

I took a chance and asked the gate agent for the 6:40pm that was delayed till 7:50 if you had any seats on the 7pm O'Hare flight. You did! You took mercy on me and upgraded me to 1st class.

Bless you gate agent.

And though 7pm came and went I felt confident I would get home tonight. You kept me updated. My 7pm flight got delayed to 7:20, 7:40, 8:25, 9pm, 9:05...then you made the happy announcement that my inbound aircraft had landed. WOO HOO!!! Only a few more minutes.

Then nothing. No plane. The poor gate agent whom I had been so kind made the announcement that our flight had been cancelled! You directed me back to ticketing.

Ticketing is the kiss of death! That is almost a certain overnight stay.

But I had the golden ticket-- I had a first class ticket that I didn't pay for nor earn. I breezed past the group to the first class checkin...hey I did have a ticket. I wasn't line jumping!

One seat left on the 10:16pm to O'Hare. You were just as surprised as I was but you gave it to me. So here I sit with my 2nd first class ticket on my 6th potential outbound flight.

Please Minneapolis Airport. Please don't make me wear the same underwear two days in a row.

Signed,
Seat 3D 

In a recent conversation, the topic shifted to instruments and specifically what instruments do you play? 

I instantly had a panic attack regarding my grade school musical past.

In the 2nd grade my parents bought an organ. My mom thought it would be a nifty idea for all of us to learn how to play it so she found a flyer at the grocery store for an organ teacher. In walks Mrs. Harshman.

Mrs. Harshman was an odd duck. Even at 8yrs old I thought she was a piece of work. She was old and had this very precarious mole on her face that I felt was going to fall off any second and she had really long hair that she would constantly unravel and re-ravel into a bun.

Every Tuesday after school we took turns at the organ for 30 minutes while Mrs. Harshman and the metronome tapped out a beat. I was always the last to go (mostly because I hated it) and Mrs. Harshman's lesson seem to fade into her taking a nap on the chair next to me.

After a year my organ commitment was over and never had to play an instrument again.

Until 5th grade. 5th grade I was the official entry into "the band" and everyone seemed to play something even if it was only for a quarter.

I wanted to play the clarinet. My parents felt I wouldn't commit to it like my organ days (Jesus I was only 8). So instead of letting me have a clarinet they said I had to play the trombone.

Why the trombone? Because we had one in the garage and if I was gonna flake on another instrument they didn't want to shell out anymore cash. (Thanks for believing in me).

I 'played' the trombone for a year. I hated it too. Mostly I hated carrying that big ass trombone case on the bus every day. Or maybe I hated that it was too big for me. In order to reach 7th position I had to sit on a chair and anchor the placement with my foot because my 10yr old arm was too short to reach. Sad, really.

The best part about the trombone is that I wrote a story about it in college that won me first place in our literary magazine and a wad of cash to go with!

I guess to answer the question, I don't play any instruments today.

I sometimes forget why people fly.  I fly for work.  I fly so regularly that I sometimes forget that some people are not going to their next appointment or job site.  Some people are flying for reasons bigger than us.

Today I was sitting at my gate, F4, at O’Hare waiting for my flight to Pittsburg.  I’m sitting there emailing on my Blackberry and noticed what I would call a non-business traveler in the gate area.  He was about my age- mid 30’s- and had a Harley Davidson leather jacket and boots.  He looked like a stylish biker with perfectly styled hair and dark sunglasses.  I’m not sure why I noticed him.  Maybe because he wasn’t like us: the business traveler.

He took the empty seat near me, leaving a comfortable open seat between us.

 “Is that the Curve?”
“Huh? Oh yeah.  It’s the Curve.” 
“Cool.  Do you mind if I see it?  I am thinking about one…”
“Sure.” I hand over my Blackberry.  Something I normally would never do but I handed it over freely.  He asked a few questions but then he just started to talk.

Almost like the Kleenex commercial he shared how he lives in Bartlett and just finished building a house with his fiancé.  He’s going to Pittsburg because his grandfather died.  “A bereavement flight” he called it.  I never knew anyone who actually called it that. 

“My family is there and they all seem happy to see me.  I wonder why it takes this to see me.” I knew he was grieving more than his grandfather’s death.
“Ya know I’ve lived here for two and half years and have only been to downtown Chicago three times?” I just listened to him.  “The first time was to close on my house.”  His voice trailed off as he listed the two other times. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather.” I really meant it.  I didn’t say it because it was the right thing to say. 
“Thanks.”
“Are you ok?” It seemed like forever between when I asked the question and when he answered.
“Yeah.  Thanks for letting me see your Curve.”

He turned away.  He just sat there with his sunglasses never leaving his face.  Then the gate agent announced the flight was going to be delayed due to crew. 

“What’s that mean?” he turned back to me.
“We are waiting for enough people to fly the plane.  I’m not surprised.  Delays are pretty common.”

He reached in his jacket and pulled out his phone.

“Hey Dad”
“It’s me.”
“No, my flight is going to be about an hour late.”
”I’m not sure.”
”I’ll let you know.”
”Thanks Dad.”
“…I love you…” his voice trailed off like it did when he was telling me about his 3 visits to Chicago. 

He got up and walked away.  I pulled out my computer and started working.  The gate started filling up.  I was pretty focused on my work when I felt someone watching me.  I look around and see leather jacket guy looking my way. 

I politely acknowledged him and put my head back town toward my computer screen.  He moved his seat 3 times the hour between the announcement and boarding. 

I never did see him after that but I can’t stop thinking about him.  Who is he? Why did start opening up like that to me? 

Whoever you are, I’m hoping everything turns out OK for you. 

Respectfully Yours,

Traveler from Gate F4

 

I wrote this monologue for a writing class at Second City

(To be read outloud in your favorite white trash accent).

**********************************************************************************************************************************

 

 

I just finished waxin’ the ole El Camino.  I call her Marlene’s Machine.  Ya see- I’m Marlene.  Kinda cute, dontcha think?  And I hung a new pine scent air freshener from the rear view.  They were on sale at the Super America- 3 for 99cents.  I just went in to get a Mountain Dew and a scratch off and I saw ‘em at the register.  I know what you’re thinkin’ “what’s a foxy lil thing like you doin’ what such a sweet ride?”  Eddie, at the car lot, tried to get me to buy his momma’s old Corsica but how in the hell do you expect me to look like hot shit in a Corsica?  I suppose it would be nice to have a back seat so I can fit my baby seats in there, but if I’m driving around town lookin’all smokin’ in my acid washed jeans and tube top, the last thing I need is a bunch a kids in the backseat whalin’ about wantin’ to go to the McDonald’s.  Do you know how much Aqua Net it takes to get my hair this high?  And I ain’t gonna ruin it with my bratty kids tossin’ Fruit Loops at me.  Oh I know most mom’s give their kids Cheerios but those taste like rolled up cardboard and lil Eddie, yeah, Eddie from the car lot is his daddy, only he don’t know it, and Crystal, she’s my baby.  I named her after Crystal Gale.  After I heard her on that 8 track that was left in the El Camino, aka Marlene’s Machine- from the previous owner- I fell in love.  Oh not that kinda love.  I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that…it’s just that I don’t swing that way.  ‘Cept that one summer when I was playing softball in the women’s league.  It was right after I broke up with Eddie for the 6th time.  It was nice because all the girls would all pitch in and watch my kids when it was my turn at bat. That’s how I met Lou.  I think her real name was Louise but everybody called her Lou.  Anywho, she used to fix my car and that was a lot cheaper than takin’ it to Frank’s garage.  I see Frank about once a month for my child support for Crystal.   He agreed to give me $200 a month and a carton of Virginia Slims and I agreed to stop puttin’ his phone number on the men’s room wall at the truck stop over on 47.  Ya know, the one where the George Michael look-a-like hangs out?  Yeah, so one time Lou was over at my trailer, fixin’ my car and we were sharin’ a 15 pack of Schlitz…it’s always awkward when it’s an odd number like that.  Well, when we got to 15 she offered it to me.  Hell, she even opened it for me so I wouldn’t ruin my Lee Press On nails.  I got some at the Dollar Store.  They had the pre-painted pretty blue ones.  Can you believe they only cost me a dollar? I woulda got more but lil Eddie and Crystal wanted some Cheetos and I only had $2 dollars and some change from the ashtray on me, so when I get my check I’m gonna go back and hope they have some more.  I might get something nice for Lou, too.  I know I already told you I don’t swing that way.  I’m just trying to be nice since she’s so nice to me.  Plus I’m makin’ her my famous mayonnaise and Jell-O surprise, aka Marlene’s Jell-O Madness.  What makes it special is that I serve it little Dixie cups.  All the cookin’ shows say the gourmet way to serve desserts is in teenie tiny ceramic cups, but the only dishwasher I got is these two hands and I don’t want to break off my new nails washing all those little tiny tea cups.  Well it’s time for me to scoot on outta here.  I gotta squeeze the kids into the El Camino for the picnic.  It should be a hoot with Eddie, Frank and Lou all there.   I just hope a fight don’t break out on who’s gonna push me on the swing.  Tootles.    

 

Cursing was an interesting topic in my house.  My parents both cussed, which is an important distinction in the 70’s.  My parents said ass, asshole, shit, damn, hell, son-of-a-bitch and goddamn.  They never said ‘bitch’ as a stand alone and never, ever did I hear the “F” word. 

Usually the cursing was artfully woven into any sentence involving my first and middle name like, “Shannon Renee! Get your goddamn ass down here right now.  What in the hell is taking you so damn long?”  I think I was mentally diagramming sentences at an early age just to understand what my parents were saying and if there was a pending action on my part.   

For example, in the above rant, I learned:

“Understood ‘You” ” is the noun and “get” is the verb, “ass” is the direct object.  Now I get to draw the nifty little lines with the remaining rant. 

When we were really young I remember going to Grandma’s house every Wednesday during the summer where we got a full blown cussing lesson.  While the rest of the neighborhood kids were off to the pool for a day of splashing around, we got to hang out at Grandma’s house.

Grandma’s house was special because you could walk into her front door on the brightest of days and enter a haze filled cave like room.  I recall seeing the sun fighting it’s way into the grimy smoke covered windows of the dining room, illuminating the swirls of the camel unfiltered smokes that burned freely and unattended in random ashtrays about the room.   The ambiance was further accented with whiskey that my Grandpa would keep on a stand in the dining room.  He would pass through the dining room throughout the day and take a shot of Seagram’s Seven and a sip of water and head back into the bedroom to pass out.  I thought his shot glasses were so cute.  I secretly wanted to steal them and add them to my tiny tea cup set.  I figured they would be great for Kool Aid but I suppose in hindsight, having shot glasses in a tiny tea cup set for a six year old was too much of a cry for help. 

The actual cussing lesson was faithfully taught by Mom, Aunt Katie and Grandma and lovingly delivered around the dining room table, which doubled as their nickel stakes all day card game.  Each round was the same.  Someone would shuffle the cards, take a drag or two off of their cigarette, then call the game and deal the cards.  Then everyone would order their cards and grumble about their shitty hand.  Every once in a while they would try and mentor us by letting us slide their nickels into the middle of the pile.  The only thing that made the Wednesday card game somewhat bearable was the Tupperware cup of room temperature Pepsi we were given as a treat. 

Watching people play cards sucks, especially when you aren’t allowed to talk.  Each of us kids positioned ourselves between a grown-up and an ashtray and watched cards and cuss words glide across the filmy table.  On more than one occasion we got in trouble for allegedly giving away hands.  I was a kid; how the hell am I supposed to know what a good hand looks like?  Mostly we sat and wished someone to run out of nickels.

One day Aunt Katie was having particularly bad cards dealt to her.  My little sister Kelly occupied the chair position slightly back, but between, Aunt Katie and Mom.  As Aunt Katie was considering which crappy card to play, she uttered the first cuss free sentence we had ever heard from her, “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun!” Kelly was four and rarely missed anything.  She sat up and eagerly responded by correcting her, “Aunt Katie, don’t you mean a son-of-a-bitch?” echoing her normal grumble when she was losing.

The rest of Kelly’s eagerness faded slowly as I watched both Mom and Aunt Katie flail their backhands towards Kelly mouth with a force so strong her chair fell over backwards.  I sat frozen for fear I was next.  Grandma leaped up and yelled at Aunt Katie and Mom and ran to see if Kelly was alright.  Instead of feeling sorry for her actions, Aunt Katie defended her actions. “That’ll teach you to repeat what I say.”  Dontcha just love a bad ass adult? 

I remember Mom and Grandma chiming in and telling Kelly she shouldn’t cuss.  She never said a word after that.  We also never sat at the dining room table during Wednesday card games.  

How do you handle phone calls from telemarketers?

I have the exact same schpeal for each caller.

"We do not accept phone solicitations of any kind at this number.  Please take any contact information regarding me or this number off your list. '

PAUSE

"Am I being clear?"

This is where there is a long pause from them and I state:

"I asked you if my request to you was clear.  I need you to acknowledge that you heard me."

This usually starts a debate from the caller that they are not "technically a solicitation." 

If you do not know me personally, this is considered a phone solicitation. 

Good Bye

"I HATE PHONE SOLICITORS!"

I love listening to Drex in the morning on KISS-FM.  It makes the crawl down Lake Shore Drive a bit more bearable.  My favorite calls are from the girls who claim they have experimented with lesbianism.

Experimented with lesbianism?  What does that mean exactly?  According to my of the 7^th grade science fair memory, could the following be an interpretation of the great lesbian experiment?

STEP 1: State the question to be solved

Here goes! Am I a lesbian?

STEP 2: Formulate the hypothesis (typically illustrated with an if/then statement)

Um…IF I’m a lesbian THEN…hell I don’t know THEN..

STEP 3: Develop a controlled environment (this is when you regulate all factors that could possibly influence or change the outcome of your experiment, leaving uncontrolled ONLY the thing to be tested.)

Three martinis ought to do it! Bartender

STEP 4: A controlled experiment must be set up once the variable is defined

I guess that means I have to experiment with a REAL lesbian and a FAKE lesbian. 

STEP 5: All materials and equipment must be gathered and all raw materials weighed in metric units

Sounds kinky. Cool.

STEP 6: A data collection chart and/or daily log must be created to record observations and material data

Is anyone else imagining a You Tube hit?

And finally the last step!

STEP 7: The validity of your results will be affected if you do not have enough test subjects.

I always thought that damn Tootie Pop Owl was being dirty in those commercials!

 

In conclusion, it is the opinion of this poster (who, incidentally is a real lesbian) that girls who use the term “experiment” when discussing any instances when they shacked up with a girl must come with proof of at least one pair of well worn Birkenstocks, membership to one or more softball teams, and a title to a Subaru! 

One of my favorite childhood toys was the infamous Easy Bake Oven.  Incidentally, it fetched $4.00 at a garage sale in 1983. 

I loved that I could make fresh baked brownies with nothing more than a pre-made mix, a splash of water and a 60watt bulb.  Martha who I say?

Today I learned the Easy Bake Oven is being recalled because children’s fingers could be trapped and cause burns. 

Are you serious?  First of all, if your kid is ‘curious’ enough to stick his/her meaty paws in the pass through before the 10 minute cooking time it up, they deserve to get burned.  By the way, when in the past 30 years, has there been a change to the Easy Bake Oven design except it that it may be safer to use?

I say if your stupid kid sticks his fingers in the tiny oven opening with an illuminated heat producing agent on the other side, the problem does not lie with the Easy Bake Oven design.

I see a Darwin Winner in the making!