Salon.com > Johanna Gohmann

The dirty words we dare not say

Tue, 09 Aug 2011 00:30:00 +0000

I was minutes before a second date with an Irish guy I liked a great deal when a text from him popped up on my phone. It said something along the lines of, "If you're late, I'll have to kick your butt!"

It was meant to be flirtatious, but it stopped me dead in my tracks. He'd used the dreaded b-word. Why oh why? This could be a problem for us. I was going to have to say something. God only knew what other awful words the Irish might use.

As we sat across from each other at a candlelit table, he reached for my hand, and instead I handed him a napkin onto which I'd scrawled two of my most hated words. "Listen." I smiled at him. "I know this is weird, but if you could keep from saying these words, it would be really great."

He eyed me warily, perhaps wondering if this was a standard American custom -- the word exchange. He flipped the napkin over, and read aloud: "Moist. Butt."

I instantly regretted the order in which I'd written them down. This was certainly not the romantic imagery with which I intended to kick off the night.

"I have a problem with certain ... words," I sputtered. He nodded slowly, and I waited to see if he was going to excuse himself, hop a cab to JFK, and slip quietly back across the Atlantic.

Snooki cures my OCD

Fri, 20 May 2011 19:01:00 +0000

There are few things more brain-frying and panic-inducing than a New York City apartment hunt. More pleasant activities include urinary tract infections and burying beloved pets. And so, after my husband and I put in yet another application for a Brooklyn apartment, we found ourselves sitting on the sofa like sleepwalkers. As we cracked a bottle of wine, I reached for the remote, seeking respite from the anxiety wheel in my brain. I flipped past several informative news programs and a biography of Ashton Kutcher, and then I found it -- the brain balm I was craving: There was Teresa Giudice, looking ever so much like "The Predator" in Prada boots. I watched as she yowled at her sister about someone's christening, and I inhaled deeply. Something in my chest blessedly loosened, and I relaxed back into the couch.

I watch reality TV. And not of the "Extreme Makeover Home Edition" life-affirming variety. I watch "Jersey Shore," "Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" and any of "The Real Housewives." I watched "The Hills." I watched "The City." And were someone to sneak a look at my iTunes, they would see I even watched the short-lived "Kell on Earth."

My Irish lessons in grief

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 19:28:00 +0000

I was standing in a kitchen in Northern Ireland, baking chocolate muffins from a box, when I got the news that my husband's father had passed away. David and I had just learned the night before that his dad had untreatable cancer, and that it had gone undiagnosed for quite some time. We'd barely had time to process this news when a call came the very next morning informing us that his dad was in a coma. David jumped into a car with his mother and siblings, and they rushed off to the hospital.

I stayed behind at his parents' house so I could look after David's young nephew. The child would only agree to eat muffins, and I was anxiously rinsing mix from a bowl, awaiting an update. Then the text I had been dreading popped up on my phone. Just two words: "It's over."

The swell of hills was just outside the window. The shades of green blurred with my tears, until the colors seemed to swirl into the pale blue sky. A mere month and a half before, David and I had been dancing at our wedding. And now, so soon into our life together, the storm clouds had descended.

The night I ditched my gay prom date

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 13:18:00 +0000

The story of Constance McMillen's prom fiasco has been headline bait for weeks. The story is so absurd in so many ways, the mind reels. A lesbian isn't allowed to prom? Then the school throws a fake prom instead? It's like a bad episode of "Saved by the Bell." But while everyone rages about the Mississippi school -- how could they do such a thing? what were they thinking? -- all I can think about is those kids who went to the prom without her. I wonder if they'll regret their decision to celebrate their "night to remember" while shutting out a friend. I know I do.

My own prom date was a hilarious guy named Troy. He was tall, had half his head shaved, and loved punk rock. This was unusual enough for our sleepy Midwestern town, but on top of that, he was also the only openly gay student in our Catholic high school. Looking back, I'm astounded by the courage this must have taken; our school was far from progressive. We had a herd of farm boy football players who roamed the halls, and in between spitting into their Styrofoam dip cups, they liked to shout "faggot" at Troy and anyone else who didn’t meet their approval.