How to Close an Interesting Year.

Tam and I consider 2010 to be an interesting year, and by interesting, I mean ACK! Oh my fucking BRAINS, what the hell was that?

To be honest, I don’t even remember how the hell it started, but I do know 2009 was kind of a pisser/bummer of a year end with the divorce and everything, so 2010 didn’t start out as anything too spectacular (despite the horoscope insisting otherwise: banner year, stellar things happening, blah, blah, blah…).

There were good things that happened, great things too. And a few not-so-great things, but let’s not dwell on those not-so-good moments, ok? In fact, please excuse me while I push those little bastard moments right over the nearest cliff.

Oh, much better!

But the end of the year has turned out to be equally hilarious as it is frustrating.

For example, Tam and I had to hit the grocery store. We frequent this particular store because they know us, it’s not a department store, so the parking lot is smaller as is the store itself, and they’re gay friendly. At least, they’re friendly to us.

While we were standing in line, a Snarfy Old Dude was busy perusing the supermarket tabloids, when he pulled one out and in a loud voice quoted the headline, “Who’s Gay and Who’s Not?”
I looked over at him and said, “I am.”
Snarfy Old Dude suddenly found it difficult to say anything else.
Tam and I found it difficult to not stand there laughing like a couple of deranged hyenas.

When we got home, I wanted to check on the status of a bank transfer, so I got online, discovered nothing was doing what it was supposed to be doing, and I got a little cranky. I pulled up the “contact us” information of the financial institution, took down the numbers and the options I wanted on their phone tree, and made the call.

I wanted to talk to a live operator. I needed to verbally eviscerate some miserable wretch because my money wasn’t where it was supposed to be and I was concerned. When I say “concerned,” I really mean pissed as hell. I dialed the number, and pressed the option I got from the online information.
The same online information that was written on the bank’s website.
And learned it was not a viable option! Excuse me?
My grip on the phone receiver tightened. I waited, listening again to the options, and pressed a different button, one that I knew would not give me the information I wanted, but what the hell?
At the end of that waste of time, it gave me the chance to get information on transfers and which button I needed to push to get to said information. I pushed that button. That very button their automated operator TOLD me to push for that information.
And learned THAT was not a viable option either and I needed to make another selection!
Then? Then I did a very childish thing. I began smacking the button pad on the phone, hitting several of them at once while casting aspersions on the species and parentage of the engineers of such a technological nightmare as that phone tree. Childish? Yes, indeed. Satisfying? HELLS YES!
What’s better? In the middle of my tirade, a voice came over the line stating that I would now be connected to a live operator.

Do you think they heard me?

Solstice Celebration!

We celebrated Solstice and what a great day it was!

It started out with a long-overdue luncheon with a group of gals I’ve known for about 20 years. We try to meet up once a month, but we’re not always successful.

We’re busy girls, you know, and one of us is going to be a GRANDMA in July! (No, it’s NOT me, sorry). Wow… yeah… one of my best friends is going to be a grandma.

Please hold while I wrap my brain around this fact…

Asl;kflkjsdfklkg asdfksdfklskla fklajkleiognakl;df asdf ghallsdljk s!!!! holyshit!!!!!

Thank you.

Anyway, these are women who have been with me (and me with them) through thick and thin, hell and high water, marriages, divorces, death and birth.

And coming out.

These are women who stood by me when I came out of the closet. These good Christian women did not judge me, they accepted me, embraced me, and occasionally poke fun at me (“So, Tooth ‘fairy’ has taken on a whole new meaning at your house then?”), and I’ve had the honor of returning all those favors in kind.

Yesterday was the first time we’d been able to get together in several months, and wow, so much has happened for all of us. Fortunately, the staff at the restaurant knew this and did not press us to hurry up and move along. Even after three hours! Probably has a lot to do with the good tipping practices we employ.

After that, I arrived home to find a marvelous spread of MORE FOOD! that my beloved partner set out for Solstice. The original plan had been to have her offspring over for Solstice and mine would visit on Christmas. However, things have a tendency to not go as planned, so when I got home, two of my children were there and Tam was still waiting for her out-of-town daughter (The Hair) to arrive. Her older son would not be able to come over, as he had to work.

The Hair showed up about the same time my youngest made an appearance and food was devoured. We sat around laughing, swapping stories, and munching on such fare as fresh veggies, multi-grain rolls with sliced meats and cheeses, mustards of a myriad of flavors (cranberry mustard on ham and Swiss = YUM!). The Hair’s roommate had also joined us and brought home made strawberry marshmallows and oh!my!brains! what bliss! They were especially awesome when roasted.

I suppose it was a good thing I had such an awesome Solstice, because the next day was the one I’d scheduled to be my “get the last of the gifts purchased” day, which involves a trip to hell the mall.

Tam and her youngest (Li’l Red) joined me and my sons, and we planned to divide and conquer. This meant I had to drive to the mall. Through traffic. Holiday traffic. Not a fan of it, believe me. The stress began approximately two blocks from home when Tam mentioned the name of a local mall. The place USED to be called “SouthCenter” because of its location: South of Seattle and kind of in the middle of everything.

Then some folks bought it and changed the name to include the “word” Shoppingtown.

Shoppingtown?! For some reason, that particular turn of phrase makes me lose my shit every time I hear it. Shoppingtown sounds like something you’d hear out of the sticky face of a four-year-old, dressed in layers of fluffy pink chiffon, with snappy Mary Janes, and a fucking “hello kitty” purse dangling from her white gloved hands as she skips along with her pony-tail swinging and little birds chirping and flitting overhead…

What? I told you I hated that term. Shopping-fucking-town… sheesh.

So, that was how the adventure started, and when we tossed in a shit-load of idiot drivers and some low blood-sugar, wow, what a fun time we had just getting there!

But now most of my shopping is complete. I have a couple more things I’d like to get, but they may have to wait until after the holiday when they go on sale. Or even later, like after I’ve paid all my bills and have another payday under my belt at the end of January, and yes, I DO hate getting paid only once a month, especially when they “do us a favor” by paying us REALLY early in December “just in time for Christmas shopping,” making that six weeks until the next check feel like a bloody eternity, rife with pink chiffon, snappy little Mary Jane’s and a fucking “hello kitty” purse that is filled with air because it’s taking payday for-fucking-ever to arrive…

WHAT???

On top of all this? We’re trying to plan a trip down to see my parents for a few days before we have to head back to work. My parents, a.k.a. those people who haven’t quite figured out that I’ve grown up a bit over the years and actually have a clue about some things. Oh and I’m a lesbian, which seems to amuse my mother. No, I don’t know why, I just know she asks a LOT of questions.

Please excuse me while I stick my head in this handy little Hello Kitty purse and attempt to regulate my breathing.

Bye-Bye, Birdie Bird

My bird died.

We have no idea how old he was, but he flew into Tam’s life about 12 years ago. They saw that little cockatiel in the yard, the weather was starting to get cold, so she and her kids spent the next day or so trying to catch him. He finally found himself under a overturned laundry basket and was taken inside the house.

All the accoutrements were purchased, and a name was given: Pokey.

He was a neurotic, feather pulling, untagged little tyrant who refused to bond with anyone. Well, he tried to bond with Tam’s mom, but she’s more of a dog person, so that didn’t quite work out.

Then Tam moved in with me, and somehow I managed to persuade Pokey to become my friend. It didn’t take long for the two of us to bond, and for the first time in my life, I felt there was a pet that was truly mine. I was his favorite.

He would shriek a greeting the moment he heard me come home, and make all kinds of racket until I greeted him properly. Many of my clothes were adorned by bird poop, because, well, birds poop rather indiscriminately. We would “schmoozle” each other and his little feet would be so warm on my arm.

Pokey was a frequent visitor at my computer, and I considered him my muse. I did some of my best writing with him perched there. Not always, though. There were moments I spent more time keeping him off my keyboard, where he would attempt to eat the symbols off the keys, or just stroll around and act like he was about to poop. Again.

So, he was at least 13 years old when he flew over the Rainbow Bridge. Some people say that’s only midlife for a bird, others say that’s about all you get. Whatever. As far as I’m concerned, it wasn’t long enough. Ten more years wouldn’t have been long enough. I only got to enjoy him for a little over a year.

But it was a good year for both of us.

We buried him outside the office window, his favorite toy hanging in the apple tree next to his grave. Later that afternoon, I had to run an errand, I didn’t really want to be alone, but I was a big girl and did what needed to be done. When I was on my way home, teary and sad, something caught my eye.

Right there, over the valley where I live, was a rainbow…

SNOW!

We’ve had our first official snow of the year and oh, what fun!

As usual, there was panic because in the Pacific NW (at least in my particular area) snow isn’t that common, so when we get it we get weird. Also, we have hills. Kind of steep ones, with lots of twists and turns in them. Unfortunately, we have a tendency to get all excited and drive our cars over steep precipices, into ditches, or just leave them in the middle of the road when we realize it’s too slippery to continue in the direction we had been traveling.

It’s not that we can’t find a different way to get to our destination; it’s just that if we had to choose between the smell of our own urine and feces in an enclosed vehicle or getting out and walking, we’ll always choose a lively game of dodge-car any damn day.

That’s why I love my car. It can, and will, go anywhere, and because my mother was very good at insisting I learn how to drive in the snow when I was a new driver, I can do wonderful things with my car. Like, you know, get to where I’m going and still retain all my pee and poo inside my body. Yes, I’m THAT awesome!

The worst thing to happen to me was that time the car I was driving lost traction and we ended up in a slow 360 spin across the road, over a curb and into a field. Spawn was just a tiny monster and my first thought was “don’tletmybabygethurt.” I did not evacuate my bladder or my bowels.

Neither did Spawn. Her first thought was not PANIC! It was “Do ‘gain, Mommy.”

It could have been worse, but I kept my head and didn’t roll the car. Probably because I was going too damn slow for that to happen.

Anyway, I think the best part about the snow today was one of the kids in class. He’s never seen the stuff. We were on our way to the cafeteria, when my charge unexpectedly wheeled his chair over to some snow-covered benches and proceeded to investigate this new white fluff all over the place.

He got very excited and proceeded to tell everyone about it, wheeling his chair around like a maniac, laughing and showing everyone his…empty hand! Wait! Where’s the snow? He tried to go back and get some more, but it was lunch time and I promised him it would still be there later. Thankfully, I was right.

So now, most of the district employees are begging for a two-hour late start (which means we don’t have to make up the day later in the year). The chant has begun.

2-hour late start! 2-hour late start! 2-hour late start!

I am F.A.T.

I pledge to myself, that I will do my best
To keep my eyes from looking for judgment
When I eat all of my dinner in a restaurant.
I do not want to take half of it home in a box,
Where it sits to grow cold and bacteria,
Or get left behind.
I will carry it home in my stomach;
That’s what my stomach is for,
Even though I’m fat.

I pledge to myself, that I will do my best
To keep my ears from searching for cruelty
As I look at pretty things in clothing stores
And the clerk says
“We do not carry anything in your size,”
In a scornful voice that drips loathing.
It is their loss of capital;
I can take my money elsewhere.
Even though I’m fat.

I pledge to myself, that I will do my best
To feel beautiful even when
Those who think otherwise
Cast their foul words my way.
Their opinions matter less to me
Than the opinion of my lover
Who insists I am beautiful
Even when I feel like shit.
Even though I’m fat.

I pledge to myself, that I will do my best
To accept who I am,
How I am,
And whenever I am,
Even if those around me refuse to do so.
I can live my life the way I want;
I will sing and dance and laugh.
Even though I’m fat.

I pledge to myself, that I will do my best
To not let the word “fat”
Mean anything cruel or ugly.
It is a word.
I am F.A.T. …
Fabulous
Attractive
Talented.

And I'm loved.
Even though I'm fat.

Turning Points

That phrase popped into my head the other day after Tam and I had just watched this video:





We started talking, and at one point she apologized in case something she had ever said made me feel bad. I assured her that throughout our long years of friendship, we’d both said things that hurt, but those things happen when people are talking.

Later, I got to thinking about the video and our conversation and I realized that a turning point isn’t necessarily a single shining moment; it’s the culmination of many illuminating circumstances that finally lead us to the point where we’re ready and able to make a change, whether it’s for the better or worse.

A childhood of people telling me I’d be so pretty if I “just lost some weight” built turning points of low self esteem. It wasn’t any one moment, although there are several that have burned themselves into my memory and the pain is nearly as intense as when it first happened. But I don’t count them as turning points, just points of illumination, road markers that are gradually leading me into the land of self loathing.

When I did finally lose “all that weight,” I felt better, pretty, even attractive, but always in danger of losing my grip on that place. I became involved in a very toxic relationship and when I gained a LOT of weight during pregnancy, he took much pleasure in reminding me of my failures as a wife, a woman, a human being.

“Turning point” makes it sound like there was a defining moment that suddenly altered the course of this juggernaut. But it was a collection of moments that were brought into focus by a single action that stayed my hand from a regretful mistake. The turning began after that, and it was still gradual.

Later, I found another toxic male to shape my life, and while he accepted me as I was (he insisted body image wasn’t as important as what was inside) he took out his frustrations in other ways, leaving bruises on both my psyche and my body.

There was no turning point there. I was finally lucky enough to make him so angry he “punished” me by leaving and refusing to speak to me for two weeks. During that time, I was able to come to grips and move on, although I hadn’t yet realized how bad he was for me and I ached to have him back in my life. Why? Because he said it didn’t matter if I was fat, he loved ME, and even with the violence, that idea of acceptance made him hard to give up.

Other relationships, other instances, other shining moments, they all illuminated a path that I couldn’t see until I allowed myself the luxury of stepping back to see just where these moments were guiding me.

The path is dotted with sparks marking my way through joy and pain. It forms a long, slow arc that continues across the horizon and out of sight. But I know, in the end, it will lead me back; full circle, but one level up, back to that girl who thought she was worthy, despite not fitting into “regular” jeans.

Only this time? This time I’m old enough to tell those assholes who tell me I’d be pretty if I lost the weight, to get fucked. My children love me, my friends love me, my family loves me, and most important, Tam loves me the way I am.

That’s not a turning point, folks, it’s a safe landing zone.

NaNoWriMo Eve, a.k.a. Samhain, a.k.a. Halloween

It’s the evening before NaNoWriMo begins and this year will not see me putting fingers to keyboard at the stroke of midnight. Midnight will see my fingers, along with the rest of me, sleeping soundly. I hope. As soundly as one can when one expends restful hours listening for mischief outside after trick-or-treating should be over, or mischief inside after the Ancient of Dogs finally decides she needs to pee.

I would love to be able to get up nice and early and get started, but I know my best laid plans tend to go askew at the worst possible moments. Like tonight. I was hoping to get to bed early, but those darn little monsters keep knocking at the door, even though it’s after nine o’clock. It wouldn’t be so bad, but some of those kids are so cute, it makes my head explode.

Still, it’s NINE O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, PEOPLE, PUT THOSE LITTLE DARLINGS TO BED.

WHAT? Oh, sorry, I mean, what?

I have a sign on my front door. Actually, I have two signs up there all the time. One says, “No Soliciting” which is about as effective at deterring solicitors as a picket fence is at stopping a tidal wave. So, after having yet another person inform me that they are not soliciting, rather they are offering me a substantial savings on whatever they were selling.

So, I put up a sign that basically said, if you’re selling ANYTHING (including religion) ask yourself a couple questions, including “can I stop the bleeding in time for the rescue team to save me, or will that bitch answering the door have to bury another ‘not a solicitor’ in the backyard?”

It worked, at least for the most part. Now, they don’t knock, they just leave shit all over the front stoop. Now, I’ve included a mention of politicians and their ilk. I put the sign up on the door for tonight, because the doorbell is broken. I don’t want any trick-or-treaters to miss out on our candy because we didn’t hear them stomping around out there. Besides, if you don’t feed them, they will uproot some of your plants.

It has done a good job tonight, they’ve all knocked, and the parents are entertained, so everyone is a winner.

Except me. I’m tired and I want to go to bed, but there are people wandering around out there and I’d rather not lose any more plants to the zombies and vampires.

Tam and I put out our offering to our ancestors and now we’re about to turn into pumpkins for the night.

Hats off to an interesting October, and to what I hope will be a fabulous November of writing.

Words

Last post I mentioned a few words that I like. I forgot to mention “quart.” Not “quarter,” just “quart.” I know, bizarre, but true. There are certain words that just sound marvelous to me, and even a mundane one like “quart” can fit the bill.

Then there are the ones that make me laugh. Every damn time I hear one of them. Sometimes I don’t even need to hear the word, I just have to think of it and I get the giggles. The worst culprit for this childish behavior?

Fart.

Oh, dear gods, it makes me laugh. It wouldn’t be so bad, but one of my students is rather fond of the word and will shout it to the rafters (along with other things fart related, ie; stinky, poopy, and grunt (another giggle-spawner)). This makes for an interesting day at work, believe me.

The other night, Tam and I were in bed, discussing our day. It had been an unpleasant week for both of us, so that quiet, wind down at the end of the day is important. Sometimes, if we go to bed early, it can lead to something…romantic. That night, I was hoping for romance, and it was going great, until we started talking about words. She knows my Achilles heel. Just as I was leaning in for a kiss, she whispered, “fart.”

I got her back, though. We’d planned a romantic weekend at home. Her son was visiting his father, and mine was at work, so we had the place to ourselves. We were going to sort out the living room, then let things progress from there (and yes, we do have a strange sense of romance and foreplay). Those were our plans, but I fixed her wagon, yes indeed.

No, I didn’t fart (and yes, I do giggle every time I write it). Instead, I got sick. It’s very difficult to be romantic towards someone who sounds like the love child of Selma Diamond and Chuckie Finster.

Especially when she’s giggling and sneezing in your face.

Friday. Blessed, Blessed Friday

Da-yum, this week sucked. Work sucked, and finding time to get anything done at home sucked, simply because we were so damn tired from all the crapola at work, we just didn’t care.

My baby turns 19 this weekend and I’m feeling a little out-of-sorts about it. I have to schedule time to see him on his birthday. I realize this is something that happens to parents when their kids move out, but seriously, he’s still living with his father, so there shouldn’t be such a problem.

But that’s life, and I just need to deal with it. However, after this week at work, I’m not really into that whole “dealing with shit like an adult” mood, so instead I will whine about it for a while.

I think I need to take notes on the funny stuff that happens, because it’s getting harder to remember any of it at the end of the day week what-the-hell-ever.

The weather is turning chilly and I finally had to turn on the furnace, lest we all succumb to a state of torpor. Torpidity. I love that word! It ranks right up there with crocodilian, quart, and chalcedony. Ok, I also think Chlamydia is a lovely word and fun to spell, but, uh, no. Do. Not. Want.

…and my favorite number is 16, I’m an Aries/Pieces cuspidian (I just made that up, because that’s another thing I like to do) and people hate to play scrabble with me. Except for that one time, at Writer’s Camp…

Gawd, my head…where was I…?

I’m still slogging through the manuscript, but with fatigue constantly on hand to beat me senseless whenever I attempt to think, the process is going a lot slower than I’d hoped. I can still get it done before the next NaNoWriMo begins, but only if I sequester (another favorite word) myself away from family for the rest of this month and do nothing else. Except work. And sleep. Maybe shower a couple times.

It will get there, I promise. And? I just learned that another NaNoWriMo novel just hit the NYT best-seller list. Awesome sauce, man, awe some sauce.

I need to get busy…

How Not To Blog

Maybe I should title this one, "How to Not Blog."

It’s a good thing I didn’t make any promises about this blog…or join NaBloPoMo. Right now, I cannot think of any way to put up a post a week, much less one every damn day.

And it’s not like there hasn’t been anything happening that is blog-worthy, because folks, let’s face it, my life has some very odd people in it, and they make things blogable. No, it’s because I’ve managed to find things to keep me away from the blogosphere.

Important things.

Ok, maybe not ALL of them are important things, but enough of them are, that I find they justify my absence. Some of the time, anyway.

Let’s just get the nonsense and ridiculous things out of the way first. It’s the biggest time-suck, and definitely one of the most entertaining, but also the BIGGEST time-suck (yes, I know I said “time-suck” twice) has been Diablo II (expansion pack).

Now, before you get all, “Bitch, please” on me, just let me explain. Tam and I have figured out how we can play together on BattleNet and it’s been a blast. We get a couple of characters and go rompy-stompy through some dungeon, or forest, or what-the-hell place, and kill monsters. I find it rather cathartic after dealing with middle school children all day long.

When I’m not saving the world from the demonic forces, I’ve actually been editing the novel. My plans on getting through chapter 10 over the weekend fell through, thanks to a nasty little virus I’d picked up (probably from work… or one of those putrid little demons I bonked with my “scepter of might” in the Blood Moore). But, progress is being made, and I’m also putting down ideas for the next NaNoWriMo (which begins soon… too soon).

Then there are the cards. Tam brought home a TON of cardstock in various colors, punches, glitters (man, that shit gets EVERYWHERE), and decorative-edge scissors. I’ve been immersed in sculpting cards again, and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. The Halloween ones have been some of my favorites, although the note cards are a blast to make. I’d like to add other embellishments to them, but right now, most of my supplies are buried behind and underneath stuff that has yet to be put away after Tam moved in. Over a year ago.

Because we’ve been busy… weren’t you paying attention? We’ve been killing demons and saving the world, jeeze…

Plus, we’re both back at work and this year has been really hard on both of us, physically. Because I like my job, I cannot write about it, you’ll just have to trust me when I say, “I’m glad I have quick reflexes, and I hope these kids don’t kill me before I can retire.” No, I’m serious. Para’s in my kind of classroom have a tendency to get broken.

On a lighter note, coffee.

Tam and I have started to think we’re under some kind of coffee curse. Shortly after she moved in, my old coffee maker sprung a leak. We sent my older son out to get a new one, because we were too broke to do it ourselves. That machine lasted three whole weeks before it refused to heat the water.

By that time, we had figured out we could afford to get something of quality and have it last. After some research on the topic, we saved our pennies, took the plunge, and purchased an electric percolator. Let me tell you, that was AWESOME coffee! And that coffee pot lasted almost six months!

Instant coffee? Not a favorite around here. So, in a fit of pique and “take that, Universe,” Tam went out and bought a stove-top percolator. We danced the dance of joy and took that first sip of wonder and rejoiced. This would be the last coffee pot we’d ever have to buy.

Famous last words.

Not even a week after our first pot of delicious coffee, the damn glass percolator thingy on the top of the pot broke. It. Was. Tragic. We went back to instant for a little while, hoping to find a replacement part, but none were forthcoming. So, after channeling my inner McGyver, I took some aluminum foil and formed a new little perc-o-dome. Now that we can’t see the color of the brew, we have figured out that as soon as it’s going full blast, we turn down the heat to “low” and leave it. When it’s quiet, we go out, remove the innards and serve up the coffee.

Yay, Universe! Yay, McGyver! Yay, coffee!

Yay, blog!

When the World Goes “Tilt”

Chalk it up to my age, but when I saw the posters with the kid’s photo, I was sad. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but nothing clicked.

Until today. Until they found his body. Tam’s son texted to let her know and I passed the information along to my youngest. That’s when he told me he had gone to school with Dwight and that’s when all the pieces fell into place. Dwight Clark and my son were buddies through grade school and middle school. They would have continued to hang out together, but the district had other plans and they ended up in different high schools.

There were four boys that stuck together, from kindergarten through middle school, nice guys. Good guys. I remember many a field trip with those four. Dwight was one of the good ones, easy to be around, not one for getting lost at the zoo or aquarium.

He graduated this last June and headed to Western Washington University. They found his body on Sunday. I was sad to learn the news, but it wasn’t until I connected all the dots in my memory that the world went “tilt” and my heart broke.

I sent another text to my youngest; “I just needed to tell you I love you.” But what I needed even more was his reply, “I love you too.”

Peek-a-BOO!

Oh, maaaannnn…

I just did something stupid. I just looked at my (sort of self-imposed) to-do list and nearly had a heart attack. There hasn’t been that much mayhem since Pandora had her little incident. At least with Pandora, she managed to keep Hope. Me? I blindly reached out and snagged Chaos by the tail.

Because I’m just that awesome.

Right now, I’m supposed to be taking full advantage of a quiet house and editing another chapter of the manuscript. I’m not. Instead, I messed around on Facebook for a little while, before turning my attention to the blog (and that would be AFTER I did a little blog reading. Not mine, just a few others.).

It’s the way I have always “managed” my life; make a list, then put it “somewhere safe.” Then, when I least expect it, I find the list and realize that I’ve not done any of it. Not only that, but things have been added in a mysterious handwriting in something that looks like blood.

Then parts of the house break and, well, priorities get shuffled and the next thing you know, there’s a new list tacked onto the old one and my bank account goes into hiding. Somewhere on that list is a new roof and gutters, as well as some foundation repairs that need to be done.

Either that, or I say, “screw it,” write the next best selling series and roll around in a room filled with money.

Then I’ll hire someone to handle that damn list.

Saturday Shopping

I… do not really like some kinds of shopping. Saying that might get me thrown out of the Girl Club, but seriously? To me, shopping for necessities on a Saturday is akin to taking a hammer to my head while simultaneously blasting insipid music through each ear drum AND flooding my already aching sinuses with migraine-inducing old-lady perfume.

No, I don’t exaggerate, what the hell makes you think I exaggerate? I have issues, that’s all, little issues that drive me nuts.

Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead shopping on a Saturday, but I don’t really feel much like going out for groceries after a day of attempting to convince special needs children they need to sit down while I teach them how to recognize their own names. It is physically and mentally draining, so shopping after a day of work would probably make me cry.

Shopping on a Saturday, however, may be worse and we try to avoid it at all costs. This time, however, we couldn’t wait until a better time. We were out of everything in the kitchen. Also, we get paid once a month in our school district, so that means we do most of our shopping when the paychecks are still warm. It’s also the same time that lots of folks get their monthly checks and have decided to wander around, clogging the aisles while trying to remember if they wanted tamarind paste or tamari sauce.

But this time, there were lots of errands that piled up on us, so we had to take them all on at once, which was probably one of the dumbest things we’ve ever done as a team. Our first stop was a nationally-known craft/fabric chain. The service is never exactly stellar at any of their stores, but today they managed to outdo themselves in the YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME! department.

I needed fabric for the classroom. Two yards off one bolt of fabric. No notions needed, just the flippin’ fabric. I took a number. I looked up. They were helping number 38. I had just drawn 41. I figured I could live with that, so I stood in line behind a mother/daughter team.

But the line did not move. It stayed static for a long time because the clerks were moving at glacial speed, when they moved at all. If they started talking to the customer about the weather or the project the customer was making, they stopped working, hands idle, only mouths moving.

Fine. This couldn’t go on forever, right? Tam grabbed a couple of aspirin from my purse and took herself to the women’s room while I stood with the cart. She took a long time. When she got back, I hadn’t moved. Neither had the women in line in front of me. NEITHER HAD THE WOMEN AT THE COUNTER! Why? Because BOTH customers being waited on had forgotten important items for their project and had wandered off to find them. Evidently, that meant the clerks had to FREEZE until the customers returned.

Tam went to look at other fabric while I waited. Finally, the customers at the counter were done which meant I would be next in line. Oh, the joy!

That’s when I remembered nothing happens when there is talking, and customers must always wander away to find another bolt of fabric to be cut.

Tam looked my way and hurried back to where I was standing. When both customers had wandered off to find something else to be measured and cut, I turned to the woman in line behind me. “Here, have a number 41,” I said thrusting it into her hand, “I am finished with this place.” Then I wheeled my cart to an inconvenient location, and left the store.

“That went better than I thought it would,” Tam said, “I was expecting artillery shells at the very least.”
“I did the next best thing,” I said as we climbed into the car, “I let a huge fart at the door as we were leaving.”

Das Hounds

Readers from my last blog may remember I was sharing my domicile with various critters, two of which were dogs. Elder and Younger Hounds shed their fur in my home for over 16 years, and I consider myself blessed to be loved by such silly dogs.

Elder Hound came to us when my daughter, Spawn, turned 10. She’s turning 28 on her next birthday. That crazy canine wreaked such havoc in her puppy-hood, more than once I threatened to give her to the next door-to-door evangelist. She tormented our big dog until said big dog dished the trouble right back and nearly broke the puppy in the process. Later, Elder Hound (who was still the younger dog) escaped the yard and got hit by a car.

She was fine, but the car had a nasty dent in it.

When her older sister, Big Dog, was struck and killed by a car in 2001, I was devastated and vowed to never get another dog.

Three weeks later, Spawn told me of a poor beast who was on her third family and they had grown weary of her and were going to have her put down.

I was incensed. So incensed, I brought her home the next day.

Once Younger Hound discovered we were good people, she blossomed into an energetic bundle of goofiness that was hard to keep up with on a daily basis. We always joked that the two dogs would leave us in very different ways: Elder Hound would probably sleep her way across the Rainbow Bridge, and Younger Hound would most likely keel over, years later, in the middle of a wild romp around the back yard.

Elder Hound developed a strange lump that was proven to be a benign mass of fatty tissue. It didn’t bother her, and we didn’t worry about it. When Younger Hound developed the same thing, we didn’t worry either.

Fast forward a year and Younger Hound was starting to slow down. Not too surprising, since she was standing on the threshold of being 16 years old. I attributed a lot of her decline to age and the big changes in our lives, especially since her boy, Thing, had moved away.

Both dogs were moving slower, in fact, neither of them did much once the dinner hour was over. Getting Either dog to move was a difficult undertaking, because they were both mostly deaf. Sometimes the only thing that could get Elder Hound off the couch was Younger Hound’s piercing bark.

Then one night I heard a thump and a whimper. When I went to check, I found Younger Hound had collapsed on the floor and could not move. Thinking she was going to leave us, I spent most of that night on the floor next to her, but when I went to check on her in the morning, she was still with us. She wasn’t doing well, but she was still there.

I called Thing and Spawn, telling them it was time to come say good-bye. It was a sad time, and I felt so helpless. Finally, I could no longer wait for her to pass on her own and the next day, I took her to the vet to be put down.

I’ve never had to do anything like that before, and had no idea what to expect. The vet was so gentle and caring to both of us. He explained what to expect, and he was right. Nothing was a surprise. Heartbreaking, yes, but not surprising. Afterward, he said we (Tam and I) could stay with Younger Hound for as long as we wanted, then he left us alone.

It took a long time to stop thinking I was hearing her wander around the house. I missed the way she would keep her older “sister” from getting too lost in the back yard, by herding her toward the door when it was opened. I had her cremated, and her cremains returned. They came back in a lovely wooden box with a brass plaque on the lid with her name misspelled. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen and cried for days whenever I saw it.

Elder Hound misses her sister. Even though she sleeps 22 – 23 hours a day, she’s still very much a big part of our family, and is still spoiled rotten. But I see a marked difference on a weekly basis, and the dog who never missed a meal in her younger days, has slept through more than one.

I keep thinking I’ll wake up one morning and it will all be over. Tam will be the one to find her, because she’s the first one into the living room for her morning smoke. Neither of us is relishing that day, but you know, I can rest assured that I did my best to make those dogs’ lives as good and happy as possible.

Just as they have done for me.

It’s Not Because You’re Gay…

The minute I hear the words, “it’s not because you’re…” I know it’s EXACTLY because I’m whatever they don’t like, be it gay, fat, short, 50, divorced, whatever.

“It’s not because you’re gay.” My mother said those words to me not long ago after asking if I could stay with my father for a few days while she went visiting. My father has a tendency to fall and getting up is quite difficult for him. Personally, I think he’s not falling so much as he is throwing himself over the steep edge of their property so my mother doesn’t catch him smoking.

Anyway, she asked if I could venture down to their place to take care of my dad while she’s gone and I said, “we’d love to.”

“We?”
“Tam and I.”

That’s about the time the stammering began accompanied by a lot of hemming and hawing.

“I thought you’d be coming alone.”
“No. Tam and I can stay in the camp trailer. We’ll be fine.”
There was a long pause before my mother said, “ I’ll have to get back to you on this. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea for Tam to be down here with you. It’s not because you’re, um, you know, gay…”

Oh. Really?

Her excuse came a few days later when she called back and explained that she was afraid I’d be too busy paying attention to Tam than I would be to my father. While that made some sense to me, I was annoyed that she was treating me like an infatuated teenager, rather than her adult daughter. Her gay adult daughter.

I reminded her that there was no way she would have said anything of this nature to me if I was still married to my ex. But, the clincher was when I said, “Besides, there is no way I can lift Dad by myself if he throws himself over the edge of the property again. I’ll need help getting him back up to the house. If Tam and I can’t lift him, then one of us can go for help while the other stays with Dad.”

My logic. It was awesome.

But it also brings me to the latest issue of Nasty Neighbor. She never caused so much trouble when my ex was still there. Not that she was a stellar individual at that time. I mean, this is a woman who yelled at my boys when they were little. Why? Well, they left May baskets on her porch, and she came running out of her house yelling that there was a possum living under the quince bush in our side yard. Evidently, she was under the impression that my five and seven-year-old boys were in charge of landscaping the yard. Bitch never even thanked them for the flowers.

So, she’s never been terribly nice, nor has she made a good impression on most of the folks living around her. My parents owned the house where I’m currently living and Nasty Neighbor was there then, too. At one point, NN’s husband came out to talk to my mother and he apologized for his wife’s behavior, stating something like, “she’s going through the change, you know.”

But she never called the city on my ex and I, even though the yard looks pretty much the same as it does now. The difference is, I’m gay and she knows it. And it bothers her. Not enough to confront us directly, but rather by nasty notes left on our front door regarding the condition of our yard, then calling the city despite the fact that we’d been cleaning up “the mess” per her request.

Do I really believe it’s not because we’re gay?

Not for one damn minute.

I Wasn't Going To...

I wasn't going to post today. In fact, to be totally honest with you, the day kind of came sneaking up on me; not quite clicking in my brain with the significance of the date.

Please don't think I don't remember, or that I have no respect for the dead, because believe me, I do remember and a part of me mourns for those who were taken from us that day.

And I mourn for those who have been taken from us in the name of that day ever since. Because, when you think about it, there are those who keep feeding that day as though it was a ravenous monster demanding human sacrifice.

It isn't. It's just a day, a date on a calendar. It’s a day when people are married, or are having children, or who are going out to celebrate something wonderful. These things keep happening on this date. The date demands no sacrifice.

There is nothing wrong with honoring those who were taken, by giving today a moment of silence, but don't give it any blood.

Or flames.

Or rage.

The time of rage is over. We can still be hurt and angry at the small group of people that changed the world, but we needn't rage. We need to remember that the whole world felt our pain that day, we weren't the only ones plunged into chaos.

We aren't the only ones who lost.

We aren't the only ones left, either.

Time did not stop. Life did not stop. They both keep moving along and they're not waiting for us to finally climb out of our bed of ashes and move along with them, they have things to do and places to go. So do we.

We have a world that needs peace. We have a planet that needs nurturing. We have children who need love. Love and a safe place to live.

I'm wiping the blood off my calendar. I'm going to move forward as best I can with the memories of this day, but I will not wear them like a ball and chain. I will honor it, and those who were lost, with a moment of silence, then I will move on and try to make some part of today a little bit better.

Summer’s End

Vacation has drawn to a close and I view its demise with mixed feelings. It’s been grand having summer off, being able to relax (ha!) and get lots of things accomplished (ha! Hahahahaha!). But there have been moments when I’ve realized that I kind of miss my job and the kids and stuff to do that gives me a paycheck. It’s not like I don’t have anything to do at home, it’s just home doesn’t write the checks, it just hands out the bills.

Yuck.

This year will be a little different at work. I’ll be teaching reading to groups of three students instead of working one-on-one. It’s not that the student I worked with last year no longer needs a 1:1, we just don’t have the staff.

As for home, well, we still have lots to do, after all, Tam still hasn’t finished unpacking yet (of course, I’m still finding boxes that were never unloaded after my ex and I moved into the house, so I guess there’s no real rush). And there’s yard work, thanks to a nasty neighbor. Ok, the yard work has always been there, but it’s something that we’ve worked on at our own pace (between jobs and other things that need our attention). But, nasty neighbor decided she doesn’t like us and called the code enforcement guys out to tell us to trim some shrubbery and tidy up the side yard.

That’s about the time we learned that nasty neighbor attached some birdfeeders to OUR fence (without permission). I’m thinking Nasty Neighbor is going to find her birdfeeders difficult to fill. Hell, she’s going to have to find them first. Oh, they’ll still be on her property (I’m not a thief), but they’ll be on her roof. Or under her car. Better still, I’ll just give them the old heave ho into the middle of her back yard. That way, I can return her things without trespassing on her property. See? I can be very considerate when I need to be.

What?

It’s probably a good thing summer is winding down and work will start up again. I’ll be too tired to cause trouble.

HA!

Introducing…

My life and my partner. After much deliberation and discussion, it’s been decided that my darling would like me to use her name on the blog. “After all,” she said, “we’re partners, shouldn’t partners use their real names?”

I reminded her that I never mentioned my ex-husband’s name on my old blog. Or my children’s real names, for that matter. Hell, I never even called our pets by their “real” names. I was kind of into, um, privacy to a certain extent.

Anyway, despite my reminding her of these facts, she remained unfazed.

So, in the spirit of blogginess and joy, I’d like to introduce you to Tam, my best friend, partner, kitchen queen, and all around awesome gal.

Tam and I have known each other since grade school. I still wonder why it took us so damn long to figure out we were meant to be together. She says it’s because we both had things to do, like large chunks of our lives to mess up, children to raise, and men to divorce.

While I was married, Tam and I would spend lots of time together, grocery shopping, mall crawling, and otherwise just enjoying each other’s company. After all, we’ve been best buds for…forever. She was one of the first to witness me coming out of the closet. Her response to that little piece of information was, “Yeah, I know.”

Evidently, the gay person is always the last to know they’re gay. Awesome.

We were both still married and remained that way for a few more years, then things began to fall apart for her and I continued to hold fast to my familiar lifestyle. Or rather my familiar “lie-style.” We supported each other as best friends do, through thick and thin with a few falling outs tossed in for good measure. After all, we’re both human and women with many emotions, so there is no such thing as smooth sailing.

Besides, I was having some very strong feelings that were getting harder and harder to ignore. At one point, I’d decided to throw caution to the wind and confess my love to her. It didn’t quite work out as planned: I never got to tell her and we ended up having a rather nasty fight that led to me cutting short a vacation.

But, I did eventually tell her, and she finally admitted that she felt the same toward me. It was a very difficult time, because I had to decide if I wanted to remain in the safety of a “normal” life, or give it all up to be with the woman I love.

It was an agonizing decision, for I wasn’t leaving an abusive mate, or one who had treated me particularly bad. He isn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but considering how horrible my first husband was, he is a gem. But I could feel myself longing for something that he could not give me, something I desperately wanted and needed in my life. I was afraid that we would become bitter and resentful toward each other. He knew I was gay, although when I came out to him ten years earlier, I said I was bi-sexual because I thought it would go over better. He told me I was going to go to hell. Yay, thanks.

My husband moved out and Tam moved in about a month later. We muddled through the usual stuff, dealt with unpleasantries, and both of us grew during that time. It wasn’t easy, but during that time, I’ve learned that I can live with much less than I thought I could, I am stronger than I thought I was, and I love more than I ever thought possible.

And…I am loved in return, and in such a way that it feels right. That good man I divorced couldn’t show affection, he was embarrassed by my appearance (I’m a rather large woman), and my lack of formal education bored him to distraction.

Tam accepts me as the large, uneducated woman that I am, and will even hold my hand in public (unless it’s scary public where we run the risk of putting ourselves in danger of verbal or physical harassment). We are cautious, but open. I am not an embarrassment to her.

Being gay in a small city like the one where we live is not the most comfortable thing to do. But we are frequently surprised by those who accept us (and relived when others simply ignore us), and on occasion, we know we’ve given someone else hope and courage to be themselves.

It’s the young woman who seemed relieved to see us walk in, obviously a couple (but not falling all over each other). She may be questioning herself and wondering if she’s alone in our fair city. I cannot begin to tell you what it’s like to find “family” in such a place. The relief is palpable. I suspect it’s like that for anyone in a fringe area of society. Finding someone who can relate to your particular situation means you’re not the pioneer you thought you had to be, someone has already blazed a trail.

Life as a Dyke

It’s still new to me, this lifestyle that I’ve finally accepted after years of self denial. Things I never gave a second thought to, now get second, third, and fourth thoughts. Things like holding hands.

In public.

Where people, people who aren’t my family, can see us.

That simple act is one I took for granted when my ex and I were married (at least in the first years of our marriage, back when he didn’t mind being seen holding the hand of a large woman). But now, when my partner and I go to the grocery store, there is a little bit of fumbling and quick-release moments that drive me crazy.

Oh, she’s fine with the whole public displays of couple-ness, it’s me. I’m a chicken shit. I dislike confrontation. Confrontation makes me shrill and incapable of sounding like a semi-intelligent human being. When confronted by someone who is determined to share their opinions of my lifestyle, I tend to wind up sounding like a demented dolphin on crack.

Probably because I’m a total coward. It’s easier to just shriek and freak than state my feelings calmly and rationally. At least I’ve managed to control the windmilling arms effect. That was never a good thing to do to strangers who foisted their opinions on me.

Still, I’d love to be able to walk around with my sweetie and not worry that someone is going to make a scene, or worse.

It’s the “or worse” that really makes me cautious. We may live in an enlightened society for the most part, but there are some folks who just turn their backs when it comes to justice for gays. To be perfectly honest here, I’m very allergic to having the shit beat out of me for the simple reason that I am a lesbian.

Being “out” in public gives me the same sensation that I get every time I come out to someone; it’s a jittery, “how are they going to take this” kind of feeling. It never gets easier, simply because every situation is different. Every situation has the potential to go either really well, or really bad. I know some day my being an “out” lesbian is not going sit right with someone and there will be confrontation. I’m going to have to choose to walk away, spazz out, or stand my ground.

I pray to the Goddess that I will have the strength and courage to stand my ground.

Names and Other Issues

She’s whining. She wants people to come to “our” blog, but since I’ve only barely given up the old one, I’m a bit leery of going forth with the new one so quickly. What if I bomb? What if I realize (once school starts up again) that I cannot keep it going because I’m too wiped from ducking and dodging my students to write anything.

“She” is my partner, and my best friend. She’s also my oldest friend and the topic of more than one post from the old blog. There, she was known as Killer, but after much discussion, it’s been decided that things need to change, and her blog moniker is one of them.

Unfortunately, she still hasn’t decided what she wants me to call her on the blog, so for now she’ll remain nameless.

So, what brings me to this blog? How did I land here and what’s with the name?

My old life was one of plenty and ease and deep familiarity. There was also a rather strong case of complacency that kept me at odds with myself. It was hard to give up what I had, but at the same time, I knew if I didn’t, both my ex and I would probably end up bitter and resentful of me.

Personally, I didn’t like the thought of that, so I did the unthinkable and walked away from it.

I’m not going to say I never looked back, because I did on occasion, but the regrets were small and based mostly on creature comforts that I had taken for granted. Those comforts weren’t the basic necessities, rather they were the fun things like shopping, dining out, and knowing that if an appliance broke, we could get it replaced immediately. I didn’t have to worry about paying the bills, because that was my ex’s job and he was very good at it.

Now, my income is about 1/8th of what it had been while married. It goes up to ¼ if I include my partner’s share. I have to remember to pay the bills when they’re due. Hell, I have to remember just what bills ARE due every month. Yay for auto pay.

Despite all that comfort, I wasn’t happy because both my husband and I like women. We split over irreconcilable similarities not differences. Believe it or not, that is not conducive to a happy marriage.

He knew about my preferences, I had told him ten years prior to our divorce, so it wasn’t a total surprise when I told him it was time to split the sheets. It wasn’t easy for either of us, but we’ve managed to remain on good terms and as time passes, it gets easier.

Falling in love with my best friend of 40 years was a pretty easy step. She moved in shortly after he moved out, but it wasn’t because we were ready for a relationship. She needed a place to live, and I couldn’t afford to live on my own. Our friendship grew and blossomed (quickly) into something more and took its natural course, right into pandemonium.

It wasn’t easy to blend our two families. Not that the kids weren’t accepting of our relationship (although my youngest was pretty pissed off about the divorce and decided to live with his father), but the joining of two groups is generally a difficult thing and as a result there have been lots of changes.

Her older son moved in with HIS dad, my older son moved into my garage (don’t worry, we put a bed and some other “furnishings” out there). Right now, we’re calling the hot water heater “art” because it makes him feel better. The “him” in that last sentence is my son, not the hot water heater. Her younger son is living in what used to be called “the Minion Nest” and he shares that space with the cats and assorted spiders that come to visit from the attic.

The offspring all had cute little names like Middle Minion (who became Bubba), Most Minor Minion (who became Thing), Monkey Boy (a.k.a. Beans) and Li’l Red. Cute. The female offspring also had cute names like Spawn and The Hair.

There were the cats known as the Furry Beasts 1, 2, 3, and 4; the dogs I referred to as Elder and Younger Hound; and I lived in The Manor with my husband the Lord Of The Manor (a.k.a. LOTM).

My mother was known as Grande Dame of the Universe and my father was The Prince Consort (or PC)

Lots of cute names fitting for that time of my life.

Now, Bubba doesn’t want to be known as Bubba, but like my partner, we’re still not sure what to call him. It’s a tough choice; how much of my past do I bring into this blog? My past is still there, my children are clear evidence of it, so it is not something that can be ignored. Moving forward is not always easy, no matter how necessary it may have become. I’ll try to keep looking the right direction and not drag too much of “the good old days” into my world.

After all, I’ve found a love I never knew existed and despite the hardships we’ve endured through financial problems and other moments of “ohjustfuckingkillmenow” I’m happy. I want to move forward. I can look back and smile but not linger, because that road ahead has a special lane for people like me. It’s the scenic route through a whole new world.

So climb aboard and fasten your seatbelts as we take a trip in the Dyke Lane.

Fun With “Mr. Sticky”

So, my sweetie and I were at the grocery store the other day, when we stumbled upon a demonstration of a “new” device, an “eco-friendly” lint roller, “Mr. Sticky.” Unlike most lint rollers, this one does not require the top layer be peeled off and thrown away, and unlike those bizarre lint brushes, if you accidently go backwards, you don’t get a wad of lint the size of a small dog sitting on your jacket.

My sweetie loves hats. Not just any hat, oh, no. She loves, and looks damn hot in Fedoras. Her favorite one is a black wool felt number that she wears in cooler weather and makes my knees weak.

The woman knows how to wear a hat. And a pin-stripe suit, but let’s not go there right now, ok?

One of the biggest issues with the aforementioned black Fedora is its penchant for collecting color-dulling lint. She goes through those damn paper lint rollers like nobody’s business. Ah, the price of total hotness…

Back to “Mr. Sticky” at the grocery store.

After the “Mr. Sticky” demo, we had a quick discussion and decided to take the plunge. After all, not only would we get the regular roller, we’d get a smaller “travel” roller that was perfectly suited for cleaning a hat. But wait, there was more! Besides the regular roller and the travel model, we were also getting the GIANT “Mr. Sticky!”

Now, this GIANT “Mr. Sticky” is about the size of a paint roller and sits on a long handle. He is perfect for getting under beds, and removing cobwebs from high, hard-to-reach places.

My darling dislikes cobwebs, and the thought of being able to remove them quickly and easily pleased her to no end.

When we returned home, my daughter (who wishes to remain known as Spawn) was at the house, so we (meaning my partner) decided to demonstrate our new friend, “Mr. Sticky.”

Before I continue, we have an odd habit of naming objects. The names are simple combinations of the title “Meester.” followed by the type of object, i.e. Meester. Toaster, Meester Cat… you get the picture. Why do we do it? Who the hell knows? We’re old enough to get away with shit like that and not care.

Anyway, once we convinced Spawn that we did NOT name Mr. Sticky, she was less confused and a little bit impressed with the device. Especially the GIANT one, which my love was eager to try out on the ceiling in the kitchen.

She pulled off the cover, extended the handle, and pressed the sticky roller to the smooth surface of the ceiling and stood there, not rolling.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s stuck.”
Spawn giggled.

My love gave it another push and the handle popped right off, leaving “Mr. Sticky” stuck over head.
“Great,” I said, “now what?”
Mr. Sticky answered that by suddenly releasing his grip on the ceiling and dropping into Spawn’s outstretched hand.

Fast forward a couple days. It was late, my love and I were exhausted from a day of yard work and were slowly crawling our aching bodies into bed. Just as I was about to turn out the light, I saw a spider on the ceiling. Not being a big fan of over-head type spiders, I exited the room and grabbed GIANT Mr. Sticky.

It. Did. Not. Go. Well.

There was sticking, swearing, and finally, gagging. Of course, the first thing to happen was the marvelous “Mr.” getting clingy with the rough texture of the bedroom ceiling. It took some time to figure out how I could roll it and still remove the offending critter. Or, sort of remove the spider. See, when “Mr. Sticky” is wet, either from water or spider goo, “Mr. Sticky” is no longer sticky, he’s disgusting.

The end result was a glob of guts smeared on the ceiling, more on Mr. Sticky, and a carcass dangling overhead.

Next time, I’ll just get Mr. Berretta and shoot the damn spider.

Fruit Dip

I’m thinking that might be the moniker I attach to my sweetie. See, she’s been pestering me about putting up a new blog post, which I would love to do, but it’s very difficult when the day is chopped up into little bits of “we need to be doing…”

So, we’re heading up to visit friends this afternoon. When I finally got her to tell me the time she wants to leave, I said, “ok, that gives me enough time to write a post.” This seemed to satisfy her.

As I began to put fingers to keyboard, she pulled out her latest food magazine, opened it up and said, “Fruit Dip.”

Really? RIGHT NOW?!?

Fruit Dip. Kind of fitting, now that I think about it. Oh, and yes, I’ll be paying for this post for a few days. There will be pouting. It will be everywhere, getting all over everything and do you have ANY idea how difficult it is to get pout out of clothes and furniture? Man, that stuff lingers.

I am so toast.

Anyway…

We’ve been very busy lately, working on the yard. It’s not a huge yard, but it is large enough to require a lot of attention, which is something we’ve not been giving it. Neither did my ex (although he did do his share, but his share usually involved chopping the hell out of some poor plant that I wanted to keep). My parents weren’t much on yard work either, and since they lived here for 40 years before I got the place, you can imagine the size of some of the shrubs. My mother has an amazing green thumb and can make just about anything grow anywhere. I swear, she could plant palm trees in Antarctica and they’d flourish.

The one thing she didn’t do was plan well. She planted them wherever there was space, and often times it was supposed to be temporary “until she could figure out the best spot to plant it permanently.” That’s why we have the slap-happy lilac bush that stands next to the front walk. Nothing says Western Washington like being smacked by a branch of wet leaves.

But, there is a neighborhood bitch fairy who doesn’t like chaos of any kind. Thanks to my mother, our yard is chaotic. The bitch fairy hates our yard. She left an ugly note on our front door, then called the city. The city guy was embarrassed and said, “well, just trim the overgrown stuff back, tidy up the side yard, and we’ll call it good. Until the next time she calls, anyway.” I’m guessing the Code Enforcement department is very familiar with my neighbor.

Yard work rhymes with hard work for a reason. There are parts of my body that are hurting a lot. But, the side yard looks pretty damn good, and after I finish stacking the firewood, it will look even better. However, the bushes that the bitch fairy was pitching her fit about have not been touched. I have a couple weeks before the city guy will come back for an inspection, so I’m taking my time getting to the thorns in her side (yard).

Mind you, the yard doesn’t look much different than it did when my ex lived here, but now that I’m out of the closet and living with the woman I love, all of a sudden, things get ugly over the fence. She hasn’t said anything directly, and I doubt she ever will, but if she does, I have a plan.

I’m going to ignore her. Pointedly ignore her. Turn my back on her and everything. I won’t flip her off, I won’t call her “bitch” (to her face, anyway). I will give her nothing to take to any more city officials. I will, however, annoy the shit out of her by kissing my girlfriend full on the lips while standing in my own backyard.

Because the most satisfying type of bitchery, is the subtle type. Well, subtly “in-your-face.” We gays can be good at that.

Some Answers, Some Plans

It took me a while, but I finally figured out why blogging had become such a difficult thing for me to do on a regular basis. Not only was my job taking up inordinate amounts of my time and energy, but so were my attempts to keep something alive that needed to be let go.

Like that blog about my life. The life that I changed so much it no longer existed, yet I was still trying to write in the same way. Stuff changes, the blog had to go. Besides, every time I read some of those older posts, I would start tearing up and get all morose.

I hate being morose.

So, I saved those posts and deleted the blog. Why did I save them? They're part of my history, and good or bad, that is still part of my life.

So, for those of you looking to hear about Spawn, Bubba, or Thing... well, I'm not sure you'll find them here. Or, what I'll call them. Those are their real nicknames, but those names are also tied to the old blog, so I'm a bit torn. Besides Killer has decided she no longer wants to be known as Killer, especially since that's not what I call her at home, so...

How much of my past do I want to bring forward? How much of my past wants to be moved?

I'll get with everyone and find out just how much of their lives they want on the blog and we'll go from there.

I make no promises on the frequency of posts, the humor content (or total lack thereof). In this blog, I'll talk about life as a gay woman adjusting to this new life while living in her childhood home.

That topic alone would fill a dozen blogs. But I’m only going to have this one about my life. My other blog is about writing.

Because there are some things that just won’t change, and my love of writing and sharing my world are two of them.