Last Saturday, I got a cryptic notice from Travis County suggesting, as best as I could understand it, that my last divorce—which happened over two years ago—did not, in fact, happen. As the courthouse was closed until Monday, this gave my adorable inner-neurotic plenty of time to race to all sorts of dark corners. This despite the fact that I possess a signed, stamped, official copy of the divorce decree, which I clutched to my bosom, like a newborn to the tit, for 48 hours straight waiting for word that the county clerk had made an error. Of the various scary places I visited in my mind, I imagined what still being married might mean. It could mean that my gay marriage to Warren—we have a domestic partnership so that I can have insurance— was void. This, in turn, could mean that I wasn’t legally insured when I had my womb ripped out last fall. Which could mean I might owe $20,000 to the insurance company or even that I might have to return to the hospital to have this faulty part reinstalled. more ›