Another Bloody Blogging Lesbian

Crumbs

2013-01-16T12:58:00.000-05:00

Trying. to breathe. life. into
Decaying crusty. crumbs

Making meringues. out of air.
Measuring up. with no tape

Is this the new all time low
Or the crevice before the summit

Promises with no. action
Movement with no. ripple
Breeze with no. air

The bumblebee flies anyway

Lesbian Dating 103

2012-12-14T12:08:00.000-05:00

The harsh reality of online dating

Ok - here goes nothing.... it's been a while. Let me get you up to speed.

Boston Pride is always an amazingly good time. Some of my best stories are born somewhere between P-Town and Pride. Esmee is the largest lesbian block party on the eastern seaboard - it's like a Warsaw ghetto of dykes... once you are in, there is no way out. If the crazy religious zealots only realized we were walled in - they could sprinkle the area with mind altering, brainwashing chemicals that doled out the gay cure. Of course for us older single lesbians that don't do drugs - Esmee could be considered the gay cure. Don't get me wrong, it is fun, fun, fun... and girls just wanna...

Casting my eyes across the sea of drunk, Mardi-Gras bead wearing lesbo's, I wonder if my future ex-wife is out there showing her boobs for some plastic beads on a string and I seriously hope not. I also hope she is not privy to ancient history of how we used to strip in the upstairs window for the crowd below and by we, I mean...you know.

I rode as a BOB in Dykes on Bikes for Boston Pride 2012. For those of you who don't know what that is... BOB stands for "Bitch on the Back". I agree , it really should be BOTB - but BOB is so much easier to say, especially when drunk.

Some women find the term BOB demeaning. I, however see it more as an opportunity to wear silver snakeskin stiletto's with a lot of sparkly make-up and THAT my friends, is never demeaning.

I had taken a recent hiatus from lesbian dating after my last relationship went up in flames with a mere shred of suspicion that perhaps my partner had a strong interest in Munchausen by Proxy.

( I figured it was probably a good idea to take a break from dating when my choices led me to believe someone I willingly entered into a relationship with, may 'currently be' or may 'currently have' the desire to poison me).

This stellar experience left me single and ambivalent toward meeting anyone. Not that I was against it, I just hadn't felt a strong enough desire to pursue meeting new people with an eye for possible dates. I may have murmured some typical complaints about the single life but c'mon - I didn't really mean them.

Back to Boston:

The bike, on which I am the lesbian "BOB", belongs to the poster child for 11 years of lesbian domesticity who also happens to be one of my closest friends. Apparently our family values differ but we have the same sense of humor - so it works. She chooses this particular Pride to try to play match-maker, matchmaker, make me a match.

Let it be said that in all our years of friendship - never before has she attempted such a ludicrous feat. I'm not exactly the person most people would say "Oh, I know just the girl for you!". For the most part, Lesbians don't know what to do with me never mind set me up with their poor unsuspecting friends. I'm OK with that, I think...

Prior to my silver snakeskin arrival, she is grilling the newest member of her - biker gang? - motorcycle club? - whatever, you call it. The new gal is single, just moved back to the area and seems like she can hold her own. These observations lead to the enthusiastic declaration "Ooooohhh, you should meet my friend - she's single too".

That one statement leads me into a Summer that has been challenging to navigate and impossible to decipher. I'm still trying to work it out, I'll let you know how that goes. Anyhow, a screaming exchange in my driveway (because that's always fun) after being told to STFU (Shut the fuck up) and my own screamed gauntlet of "I should date other people - that aren't you" gets the response that, yes - indeed I should. Not exactly what I was going for.

When are our more testosterone driven women going to realize that just because we SAY something, it doesn't mean we MEAN it?

So I about turn, huff into my house, slam the door, sit down at the computer and join a dating website. That was the appropriate response, right?

I have joined these sites before and whilst I have conversed with many people, I have never actually gone on a date. I was so determined that this time was going to be different and this time I would actually follow through... fuck her! Aren't you glad you weren't on THAT site?

Website Date One:

A therapist wants to meet me for coffee.

I agree to the date in spite of varied friends feedback:

"Do you REALLY think that's a good idea?"

"A therapist? A shrink? You? Oh this is not going to go well..."

"A WHAT???!!" keels over in laughter, holding stomach, wiping away tears...

Granted it had the possibility of being really bad or, it could have been really good or even better, I could have gotten some much needed free therapy and maybe dinner.

We meet for coffee at a Starbucks and situate ourselves in some very comfy leather armchairs. Her opening line is "Tell me about your Mother". If you have ever read anything I have written, you know enough to know that opener is as bad as the chick in P-Town that said "Tell me about your childhood". I saw the twinkle in her eye and she cracked up laughing. It was perfect! To her credit, she was not in the least "shrink" like and we talked for hours. There was no love connection but she is definitely a keeper and I enjoy her shrinky dink dink friendship very much.

I had finally broken the seal of dating in the digital age. Heartened that I made a new friend and she wasn't a serial killer or a bearded man from Virginia trying to save my soul for from the devil, I decided to continue my adventure with some confidence that this wasn't so bad after all.

Website Date Two

A dog trainer wants to go out for dinner.

A dog trainer? Now we are talking!! Could there be a finer match for me in cyberspace... really? With my love of all things dog? This is exciting... I can pick her brain, talk about my dogs till the cows come home without getting that glazed over look as someone checks their watch and says "Wow, is that really the time?"

This one looked really promising. We bantered back and forth, our insane irritation with people and love of animals almost had me convinced, in theory, she could quite possibly be my soul mate. That was until she showed up on our date in white (awkwardly mid thigh length)shorts, a denim button down and a t-shirt portraying a wolf howling at the moon. Probably sounds quite shallow - did I fail to mention the inch wide middle parting through the long black hair and the leather choker that made me gasp for air, simply by looking at it?

I excused myself to the bathroom.

I pulled it together and decided I could easily make it through dinner, after all weren't there ten thousand things about dog training I wanted to ask a professional? I kept the Sangria flowing and the conversation impersonal . I actually loved being able to sit there and discuss pack behavior, territorial alphas and dog-human evolution throughout the ages, that is, until she cried.

She didn't just cry, it was in the middle of dinner and she forewarned me. In fact, she told me in no uncertain terms she was going to cry. Mid sentence about dog nutrition I found myself confused and bewildered. I looked at her and said "You're really gonna cry? About what? I don't get it". At that moment I was unceremoniously tossed into the middle of a Seinfeld episode and no-one had bothered to tell me the story line. I thought perhaps it was a weird dog trainer joke and maybe she was about to howl at the pitcher of red fruity sangria I was trying to suck down through a straw. Nope, it was no joke.

My date dissolved into tears. She buried her face in her oversized floral cloth napkin. It was quite the performance and I, for once, was speechless. She did manage to spit out the following statement " You have no idea how many people pretend, but you are the real deal".

Now this may sound callous and perhaps it is but WHAT THE FUCK? That statement doesn't mean anything and if it does there's no reason to cry about it. Did she mean because I really like dogs or because I put real pictures online and described myself as best I could from my perspective? I didn't want an explanation, it was weird enough that talking about dog food made her borderline hysterical. I did the only thing I knew how to do... I kept talking. Yup, just went right ahead as if it wasn't happening. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk... Thankfully my tactic worked and her crying subsided before I ran out of things to say. Ha! Right? Like that would ever happen!! The only thing I couldn't talk my way out of would be the crying Sirens from Greek mythology. I know enough to stay away from those bitches! The dog trainer had nothing on them.

Overall, the food was good and I enjoyed the topic of conversation, so all was not lost. That is until she tried to get me to go home with her. I almost escaped. I made it to the car, managed to get in AND close the door before any awkward embrace could transpire. She stood there, waiting - so I had to crack my window to hear what she was saying... I'm not usually an ignorer of what is happening in front of my face - No, I'm more of an acknowledger, let's talk about it kinda gal. Oh no - not in this situation. This chick wanted to teach me to sit, stay, roll over and beg. In light of her alpha dog physical posturing (which admittedly - she was very good at) as she made her request that I stay at her place, I simply ignored it, talked over and around it, said thank you for dinner and drove away.

A barrage of text messages came through in an attempt to get me to turn around. There was one referring to my consumption of Sangria... Seriously? I'm usually a Scotch drinker but I opted for the Sangria to ensure I was more than capable of driving away after I took one look at those daisy dukes howling at the wolf... wait, no - never mind... those shorts were howling at something, I can only hope it was a wolf.

Disappointing as it was not to find my one true love, I plowed through it and responded only once to her cycle of eleven text messages. In her desperation she was not displaying a calm assertive energy, Cesar Millan would not have been pleased.

Website Date Three:

Betti the Butch

In light of my recent exposure, I'm now considering myself a pro at the online dating stuff. Hence I have decided to show a friend how to set up an online profile to meet other single women. As I'm sitting there working my online demonstration, a window pops up and someone is typing directly to me in real time. Whaaaaat? lost in my own density, I hadn't realized this site had an instant message capability. Cool!! So I start chatting with this girl back and forth. Boy, is she funny! Quick, witty, picks up on my jokes... This banter goes on for a couple of days, Betti asks for my phone number and starts calling and calling and calling. I don't really like to talk on the phone but Betti made it easy for me. She didn't stop calling till I answered and then she didn't stop talking until I hung up.

We made a date to get together mid afternoon on a Sunday.

In light of all that could possibly go wrong I suggested we each bring a gift for the other, a consolation prize if you will - since the first blind date could actually mark the end of our fun little friendship. I really had no idea how prophetic that notion truly would be. I had such a good time with my 'booby' prize gift bag. I included a garish glass ring, mad-libs, a magnetic cowboy drawing kit, dog cheese and a print out of curse words in sign language. Yes - I did say dog cheese.

I saw my date angel walking across the parking lot of the British Beer Company and I remembered just how doomed I was in the arena of dating. Most people post pictures of themselves 5 years younger and 50 pounds lighter - not Betti the Butch. No, I think since she put her profile together she must have been on a hunger strike for world peace or something similar. She was skittish, scrawny and had an inability to maintain eye contact. Trying to look on the bright side, I decided she was just nervous.

We settle at a high top bar table, order a couple of drink and peruse the menu. As I am trying to decide between fish n chips or a club sandwich I am berated with a line of - in your face - questioning. "So, do you think I'm hot?" "Are you attracted to me?" "Do I look like my pictures?" "I'm hot right, huh? huh? huh?"

My response? Well I know what it should have been. I should have said "I'm sorry but I just found out I have an incurable wasting disease that is communicable and I must leave the country for a desert island and terminate all contact with the outside world.... CHECK PLEASE!"

Instead, I said "Who asks that?" and "Am I asking you these things? Can we just get to know each other a little?" (by little, I meant - VERY little). At this point I'm still putting her weird behavior down to nerves and am trying to make her feel somewhat comfortable. I redirect the conversation by giving her my gift bag, hoping we can at least move the focus. It didn't go so well. She seemed confused by the whole thing even though everything in the bag was connected to a conversation or joke we had previously shared. I mean, I know I can be confusing - so I let it go.

Side-note, I have a love of language and profanity. I believe you can take power out of words or put power into words depending on usage and context. My only holdback is children. No, not the word... you know those little people that will one day become big people? Yes, those. Children should really grasp the concept of language and learn the basics before they move on to make it a tad more flowery and colorful, kinda like walking before you can run.

The place was full of kids. Betti was loud and getting louder, every other word was a screaming profanity. I pointed out the little ears around us and she made it very clear that she didn't give a flying F**K.

"Waitress, I'm sorry to do this to you - but would you mind terribly if we moved to an outside table?"

The waitress was a true delight and had no problem re-seating us on the patio. The only other inhabited table outside had 2 adults, 3 children and a baby... Great!!

I asked Betti how long she had lived in the area, who her friends were, what they did for fun... She became defensive and wanted to know why I was interrogating her. I consider those getting to know you questions. However, if she wanted me to demonstrate my interrogation tactics...

I believe it was in that moment I realized just how dumb I was.

Betti, was wasted!

She had shown up wasted and she was getting more wasted by the minute. How had I missed this huge glaring neon actuality? I had missed it by giving her the benefit of the doubt and by thinking she was nervous and may possibly be high functioning aspergers or slightly autistic. How did I even think that??? It's insulting to all the people I know who have these conditions and it was way too kind of an observation, therefore I apologize wholeheartedly - it was a stressful situation.

As she ordered another beer, I asked her how many drinks she had had prior to meeting me. She vacillated between 1 and 3 beers, angrily declaring that it was justifiable since blind dates were anxiety ridden. I agreed, however a whole case of beer may have been overdoing it. She then asked me to go bowling with her after lunch. Um, ok. I had driven over an hour to meet her and figured a loud bowling alley would kind of be like a saving grace to the day. I was channeling Duece Bigalow the Male Gigolo when I realized I didn't have any socks. I spied a TJ Maxx across the parking lot and left bombed Betti to pay the check as I went in search of socks. One pair of coach sneakers later... I picked up Betti and drove the gas station.

To her credit, she attempted to pump gas for me. She dropped the gas cap, couldn't figure out the pump, barely got the nozzle in the car... I went inside to pee. She was sitting in the passenger seat, radio on full blast looking a tad comatose. Picking my gas cap off the floor, I removed the pump nozzle and closed up my tank.

Slurring now, "What? You had to re-do it because I didn't do it right?" "No, my sweet drunk skittish psycho angel - I didn't want to drag a gas pump behind us as the police tried to decipher which fumes were coming from where"

(It amazes me that people are offended by what I actually say - when the dialogue in my head is so much worse... You're offended by THAT.. Wow, you should hear what I'm really thinking....)

I smiled gracefully, shook my head and drove us right back to the parking lot.

She freaked. No, she really freaked...

"What? What are you doing? Are you leaving? Are you done?"

"I think you should go sleep it off and call me when you sober up, I need to go home"

Indignant "I am NOT sleeping in your car"

"No, that is correct. You are not sleeping in my car, you can sleep in your own car though"

"I'm not getting out of this car, I'll never see you again"

Ladies! There is some real tried and true logic, right there and apparently this has happened to her before.

"Betti, I'm not arguing with you, just go sleep it off and call me. I understand being nervous, but can we do this again, sober perhaps?"

She refused to get out of the car so I calmly rolled down my window, settled into my seat and started chain smoking. If you can't get em out.... smoke em out! just saying!!

She wanted to know the difference between her drinking and me smoking... seriously??

I put myself on repeat and refused to have any dialogue with her other than "Betti, get out of my car"

Then came the barrage of insults and name calling culminating in the one statement that will stay with me for a very long time "What do I care if I never see you again, you're so Jersey Shore anyway"

What? WHAT? I had never even seen Jersey Shore but I knew she was insulting me on the grandest scale she could muster.

"Get the fuck out of my car"

She did. I drove away.

I drove to a friend's house on the verge of tears where I promptly disclosed that my date had called me Jersey Shore. They both keeled over with laughter and then one of them looked me dead in the eye and said "Oh honey, you are the farthest thing from Jersey Shore". They then poured me a glass of wine and made me sit through three episodes of Snookie on demand...

Butch Betti tried to contact me the following day and wanted to know why getting drunk and calling me names on the first date was a deal-breaker. I couldn't really explain it to her - I suggest she find the answers in a popular reality tv show... she didn't get the reference.

As I drove home that Sunday night the Disc Jockey was hosting a British Flash-Back hour. I sang along to cheesy bubble gum pop music, trying to blot out the day... I turned up the tune 'Wannabe' and wondered what had happened to

Scary, Baby, Ginger, Posh and Sporty.

That's what I needed back in my life, a little girl power, at least the Spice Girls brought a message a little farther up the food chain that the cast of Jersey Shore. I day-dreamed that it would be awesome if the Spice Girls were waiting for me at home to give me a good talking to. That thought sent me into a fit of giggles at the pure ridiculousness of it. Girls, spice and otherwise, all I can say to that is... beware of what you day-dream about.

Online dating etiquette:

Don't looked surprised or shocked when that 35yr old gainfully employed hot chick shows up and is really your 2nd cousins inbred daughter of another mother. Oh, and always bring tissues to a blind date, someone is going to end up in tears.

Common sense rule #3

If you send 11 texts messages and get only 1 reply - there probably won't be a second date.

For the Record:

Sangria is not Scotch and should never be confused with a real alcoholic beverage.

Wire Monkey

2012-07-28T03:53:00.002-04:00

So many promises implied

So many rabbit holes

Left empty again

Never knowing - never seeing

My soul is screaming

And I say I don't know - but I do know

I don't want to believe or accept - that what I am to you is entertainment -

To you I am nothing - I fill your time

How many times have I loved another...

And now I let every memory drift

unaccompanied

Ironic

Perhaps this is my time

Perhaps my transition

No, not to be fooled

Or so carried away I can no longer see

Wire monkey, I am

And I die a little more... every day

Dinner Date

2012-07-27T22:02:00.000-04:00

There's nothing to see here

2012-07-26T14:40:00.000-04:00

Why can't the simplest of things stay simple?

My hands on your skin - loving every bump, scar, ink...
your story absorbs through my hands and into my soul
we are forever changed...the magnitude and minutiae unknown as of yet

Stay the anger, stay the brittle surface
open your passion - open your heart - open your arms

I need not be possessed nor do I yearn to possess
I need someone to reach in and still my screaming demons
if just for a second, a minute

Always ready to run - I recognize myself in this obscure reflection
want to make you want to stay - to face and challenge and fight and quiet
so that I may also find my own way home

I feel dimmer now, as if you are choosing to unsee what you have seen
You are choosing to no longer see me
I am fading away, soon I won't exist - not in your world and perhaps not in mine

Oh sweet girl, if I could only heal your wounds... I can't even heal my own
Words? Language? Writing? It all seems for naught now... why invest so much energy
The ripple of repercussion widens with each breath - it is an echo of what once was

The heart is a fantastical creature
it only beats at night
It tells wild stories to your soul
And like a wide eyed child, you believe

Is it because of what I said in my note?

2011-06-02T02:12:00.000-04:00

World suicide prevention day is Sept 10th (every year). I wasn’t aware of that.

Irony has always been my friend.

9/10/10

My last meal wasn’t a turkey dinner or sushi followed by crème brulee….it was a tobelerone, chocolate milk, half a bottle of scotch, a mix of aspirin and advil gel caps which I then topped off with 32 over the counter sleeping “aids“.

Either that combination is not lethal or I have the constitution of a large herd of wild horses. Don’t try this at home because I personally am gravitating towards the latter.

Instead of putting me into the restful eternal sleep I thought I desired, it sent me into a paranoid state of hallucinogen which wasn‘t as much fun as people who have dropped LSD claim it to be. Shit, that shit was awful! I was being chased… there were dogs, flash lights, helicopters, cops, groups of no-good judgmental (ex) friends… chasing me all over Oakland beach and subsequent neighborhoods. Man, it sucked!

What sucked worse than the horrendous hallucinations was that I left my shoes in the car.

I was barefoot , running for my life (the one I was trying to abdicate) for about…. Ooooohhhh 10 to 12 hours. The good part (in perspective) was that the particular combination I chose to end my life with, in fact, must have caused a zero pain elevation of being , since I felt no pain and had managed to run, hide and climb as I acquired an unfathomable amount of splinters, pieces of glass and god knows what embedded in my feet. I could barely walk for weeks.

I could go on for pages about the whole event but really, who wants to talk about these things? No-body, that’s who. You learn this as a crash course if you ever go through such an event. No, I’m here to talk about “The Note”…. The final instructions, the final most important message you “think” you need to leave as your legacy.

My note began with references to Edie Izzard. Who, by the way, is a British Drag Queen comedian. As I was contemplating ending my life apparently it was IMPERATIVE that I ponder, wish and hope that Mr Izzard writes his own material.. Yeah, it was that important to me that I discussed it for the first third of my intended suicide note.

As I re-read this morbid document, it is hysterical to me that I really wanted to talk about his bit “The meek shall inherit the earth”…. because if they truly were “meek” we could take it away from them and they would say “Oh! You want it? Well since we are meek I suppose that would be ok with us”.

Really, how is one supposed to start a suicide note? It seemed completely appropriate to me at the time.

Now, if I were to do it again … that would be an entirely different matter altogether…. And as someone recently pointed out to me “ You popped your own cherry, you should now be a pro at this”. Hmmmm, good point, I don’t suppose many people get a “re-write” opportunity.

My re-write would not include declarations of love and ego boosts to people I “think” would be hurt by my self imposed demise…. Hell, No! This time it would be way more ego-centric…. Fuck you and I’m great… as opposed to I’m sorry, you are amazing, check out this comedian and feed the dogs….

I think this time I would begin my note with…

“I was once asked if I would go head first or feet first”

And for that, I will love you till the end of time… my friend of the heart and the sleeping pill.

xoxo

Favorite Lines NY roadtrip

2010-07-04T11:42:00.000-04:00

That's not happy to see me, is it?

I can't tell you what to do

Sorry, I think I'm deaf after spending 4 hours in the car

Um...

I don't think we'll be taking any pictures

Magic IPOD must be broken

S.O.S

Look Kids... Big Ben

How can something THAT pretty look so ugly?

SURPRISE!!

Keep the fucking Quarter

I guess we need to deactivate

A ninja with a broken arm... weird....

Well... I WAS planning on having my own "houseguest"

Are you OK in there?

Thanks for stopping by...

Is that Ketchup in your pants?

Make like a tree

It's like De ja Vue... except its dark and we are heading the other way

I think I need to make some edits

Wendy's?

(Jen, we didn't break anything - this trip - right??)

With love to my best road trip companion.... xoxo

My Mothers Mistress

2010-05-09T02:41:00.000-04:00

I guess it's an odd concept to most people, keeping the peace by hiding your relationship with the woman who gave you life. Secret conversations, private jokes, unspoken time spent together.

Or perhaps it is more prevalent than I think... Many of us are raised and controlled by Step-Parents who just don't have that same bond with us as they do with their own flesh and blood.

I have been my Mothers Mistress for 35 years now... since a man, not my biological Father, wandered into our lives and took center stage. I am grateful for his endless devotion to my Mother at a time in her life when she needed somebody to cling to. His loyalty, fidelity and friendship has never wavered nor has his jealous, controlling, demanding and childish possession waned.

A grown man so insecure he couldn't bear the idea of a mother alone with her child. Weekends spent sitting in the dark, refusing to eat, waiting at the window until she returned from her "work required weekend". Tantrums and Fury at time spent shopping for curtains without him because it required an excess of 3 hours absent from his company.

The constant "handling" of this man, a biological stranger in our midst. The lies and elusive stories drawn around our existence of Mother and Daughter grow a fury in my belly... Worse than that is the self loathing that comes from the voices in my soul... What is wrong with me that makes him so much more important? Living in the wake of a deceased sibling, the endless question of... "Was I the child slated to die?", "Did destiny twist the knife and take the wrong child?", "Would things have been different if the son had survived?".

This man had no male friends. He surrounded himself by women. Women took care of him, provided for him, nurtured him... Hating to be challenged in any way, not really being an Alpha Male by nature he retained Alpha Male status by environmental default.

Raising a son would have been problematic for sure... unfortunately for our family unit, I developed my brothers place and carried his alpha gene into the world.

Problematic is an understatement.

I didn't fight his place in our family, at my Mothers request I called him Dad and accepted him into my life. However, By my very nature, I challenge and I grow.

I grew to be my Mothers mistress and she allowed it.

On my own quest to be a Mother, things had to change. Old behaviors needed to be addressed or stopped.

The thought of my child accepting the dysfunction as I had... the idea that my child may have to play secret games to gain the love of a Grandmother... that my child would feel inadequate or witness my overcompensation for perceived inadequacies has forever changed me.

Before my beautifully perfectly imperfect child weighs my belly and my breast, before my life is gifted as the fertilizer for this clean slated soul... I roar!

Every mistress eventually becomes tired of the unfulfilled promises, the delaying tactics and eventually every mistress... has to face herself in the mirror and accept what she knew from that first whispered declaration of shallow pillow talk... "I'm going to leave my wife".

"Ssssshhhhh, Dad doesn't know..."

If you can't give me what I need... truthfully and unashamed... then I don't want it.

If you can't face your own deeds and partake in the accountability... then I don't want it.

I can no longer be my Mothers Mistress.

By Next Mothers Day, I plan to unashamedly, unconditionally hold up my love for the world to see... Next Mothers Day, I plan to vow to put my child first before all others... to love and defend... to nurture and encourage... but most of all to take great pride in loving openly and honestly.

I will roar and roar and roar again, to honor my place as a Mother.

Twenty Ten

2010-01-01T15:00:00.000-05:00

TWENTY TEN

Goodbye 2009. Without one jot of sorrow we counted down "Ten, Nine, Eight". Not that it has been a terrible year, it's just been a challenging year an eye opening year. "Seven, Six, Five" I have a profound respect for people who live with chronic pain and get out of bed anyway. "Four, Three" My personal flaws require a little more self awareness. "Two" Depression is insipid, it claws away at everything and everyone around you. "One" Never underestimate the power of love, good friends and family... There are people who will traverse every valley with you even if you don't want them to.

This year I asked Santa if he could deliver me the undeliverable.

"Dear Santa, Can you please just make me feel better for Christmas?"

After 5 months on this merry go round of doctors appointments, I think I'm actually turning a corner. Christmas Eve in the ER was fun and Christmas Day had its moments but since then every day seems to feel a little bit better. Hopefully my body is purging itself of whatever the hell this thing is.

I do not profess to understand much of the last five months but I do want to say "Thanks, Santa!"

I have managed my depression for 20 years. Some years I have had a good handle on it. anti-D's that work, an active gym membership, good diet, passion, hobbies and good friends... Other years aaarrrghhhh. How come we can always find more to say about the shitty stuff in life? I could write volumes about the not so well managed years!

The solitude of a rural life is tranquil until it becomes a beautiful prison. Then it becomes stark isolation. Having to rely on other people for your basic needs becomes a fiery anger that burns...

Personal Flaw Number One: I make a lousy patient

Being sick and not knowing why plays mind games with you. Maybe I really am crazy...

Personal Flaw Number Two: I always have to be capable and in control

Please Pardon my example but:

The Dike sprung a leak and there was no little Dutch boy to put his finger in the damn. Once the walls start to crumble, well.... they start to crumble.

Then the fucker had me again! Which, isn't such a bad thing - not this time. It becomes easier to recognize as the years go by. It doesn't matter which hat or coat the depression tries to disguise itself with... I see through the George Michael sunglasses - I know who you are.

And so.... we seek help, because depression and I cannot part ways without help.

I just started therapy to help me and Doomsday break up yet again and I really like my counselor though I'm not thrilled with the teachings of existentialism in a group therapy setting for depression "You are alone.... You are born alone... You die alone.... You singularly hold personal responsibility for your life and choices in the here and now" Sounds kinda depressing doesn't it? Ok, so I'm poking fun. The concepts are fine if you are trying to enlighten people to realize their personal power and to the fact that they have complete freedom to choose who they are in that moment - that they are not governed by history or by the identity they believe has been handed to them based on a lifetime of events - that in real time may only add up to about a week in x number of years.

The downside to teaching a simplified version of a more complex theory is like prejudice... you give people a little information, it's open to interpretation, it gets mangled and misused. My favorite pastime is listening to people quote the bible to support all kinds of Bullshit beliefs... there is something to be said for 'Ignorance is Bliss'.

I personally come from the Village Theory. Yah there is a joke in there about gay men in feathers.... I believe we are all connected, we are all intrinsically the same. Not that I like you people, but still... who really 'likes' their family? We are not alone, you are not alone... and if you ever feel like you are - my door is always open.

Personal Strength Number One: Humanity

Personal Strength Number Two: Compassion

It takes a villages to raise a child... and a few line dances to teach us all that its ok to look stupid sometimes.

I fear if I was straight up with doctors and therapists about some of my beliefs they truly would think I was crazy and lock me up - without passing GO. UFO's, psychics, re-incarnation....

Raised beneath the arms of a Georgia Pine... Oh sorry that's Zac Brown... I was raised in an atmosphere where looking good was critical... I don't know what I thought would happen if you didn't look good, but I knew it wasn't 'good'.

As such, my appearance has always been important to me. Not in the I will hover over every mirror in self admiration (yuck) but I'm not a run to the grocery in slippers and curlers kind of girl. Since I burned my face I don't like to go out much, I do have anxiety and even now - I know it doesn't look that bad but I am self conscious about social situations and about being judged. The weight gain doesn't help - I keep bitchin saying I've gone up 2 dress sizes - it's more like 1 and really, that's the least of my problems right now....

"I'm really anxious about going out tonight, I really don't want to go"
"What do you feel anxious about"
"I'm paranoid about my face, my speech gets screwed up, I haven't seen these people in like six months, I've gained weight, I feel like shit"
"So..."
"I'm gonna go"
"Good. You need to go. It is important to face your anxiety"

It didn't really go like that - but get the drift... therapist says... hey dumb shit - face your fears... only way to overcome social anxiety is ... DRUMROLL PLEASE.... be social... Right, right!

Off we trot, good little doobies... Pull into the parking lot ...BAM... car pulls in beside us and it's only one of my closest friends and another friend from our social group. We walk in the door... BAM... the person on the door who was not supposed to be there... also a good friend. Ok, this is getting easier. My N squared love affair shows her face (not wearing a cranberry sweater). There are no other people I would have rather brought in 2010 with.

We dance, laugh, sing Proud Mary waaaay too loud... I turn my girl and say "I'm really glad we came out tonight, this is awesome".

Do you feel the shoe? Should I talk more about all the fun or just cut right over to the bad apple?

Well since I'm there already... Pillow Fluff - this apology is for you...

Let's recap.
Haven't been out to the gay bar much in all of 2009 and have barely left the house in 5 months. I live with someone - who accompanied me on the journey from 2009 to 2010. I'm taking medication that affects the enzymes in my liver so my alcohol tolerance in exceedingly low - therefore I consumed 2 drinks and 1 and 1/2 shots all night - mixed with a couple of sodas and a bottle of water. I danced with EVERYONE on the dance floor, I laughed and talked to the people around me and I think I went outside for 3 cigarettes. (Oh, and I peed twice).
End recap

I grabbed my cigarettes and headed for the patio. The cold air was the most amazing feeling after coming out of the hot and sweaty dance club. The snow made the usually grubby smokers paradise look clean and fluffy.
I was just taking a minute to myself thinking what a great night it had turned out to be. This is the part where I question peoples humanity, this is where I wonder what goes through peoples' minds when they decide to impart an unsolicited opinion on someone standing alone. Had I been with a group of friends would she have approached me? I doubt it. Bully's like to inflict their meanness when they perceive themselves to be in a higher position of social power.

This older, unattractive, slob of a woman sneered into my face

"You need to get your life together"

Huh?
What?
Surely she isn't talking to me. I have no earthly idea who she is

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, you need to get it together"

I was just shell shocked... stuck to the spot...

"Do I know you?"

"I know you"

Then she said my name and I was like, what the fuck??? Panic on the dance floor? What?

"What's your name?"

"Linda, I knew you ten years ago and you need to sort your life out"

With that she walked away.

Anxiety, Panic, Anger... Fight or Flight? Fuck this, fuck her.... I was just outraged with disbelief that someone would just be so apparently mean for no reason... so I went in pursuit.

"I think you have the wrong person"

Her friend started to apologize for her behavior and she screamed at her

"Don't fucking apologize for me, she knows who I am"

"I have no idea who you are and you don't know the first thing about me. You don't know where I live, what I do for a living, you don't know if I have children"
"You don't have any kids and I don't need to know, I know enough about you"

Nasty knickers sneered at me.

She kept trying to get in my face, re-iterating that she knew me ten years ago and the nickname she called me by is one that very few people use.

"Linda, what is your last name?"

"That's not important"

"Really? But it's important for you to tell me to get my life together when I have no idea who you are - you say you knew me ten years ago - ten years ago, my mother had breast cancer, ten years ago I was raped, ten years ago I cut off my hair with a bic razor and walked into a doctor's office and said please help me or I will kill myself"

Security began to hover

"You are using my childhood nickname that doesn't come with the nicest baggage in the world but you can't tell me your last name?"

I proceeded to tell her my entire full name, my full address (with zip code) and my phone number - which has been the same for 15 years - courtesy of crazy Susan- thank you.

"I am a bank manager, I am a landlord, I own multiple properties, I have 3 awesome dogs, I have a girlfriend I live with. Do you see my big fat belly? I could be someone's mother. I am listed in the phone book and I have nothing to hide from you or the rest of the world and yet you still can't tell me who you are".

At this point I had a cheering section. I believe it was security who said - "Good for you Girl!"

(I failed to mention I'm on crazy meds for depression and have been sick for half the year - never mind being financially drained - foreclosures - tax issues - so in one sense - she's right...I do need to get my life together)

I walked away - as she tried to accuse me of being a drunk mess... just stupid. Funny thing is if she had attacked me when I wasn't alone, I probably would have let it go. The worst thing you can do is attack me when I feel vulnerable, feral cat syndrome.... not a good idea

Personal Flaw Number 3
Feral Cat Syndrome

Personal Strength Number 3
Feral Cat Syndrome

Now if we were sharing unsolicited opinions about each other's lives... I hear the biggest loser might be looking for new contestants and Queer eye for the straight guy might go out on a limb and take on a one off episode featuring old, angry, homely lesbians for fashionable transformations... but I'm pretty sure she has a mirror - though the magic may have faded - it's still a mirror.

OOOps - there is my looking good conditioning....

Linda, you go ahead honey and look as homely as you can and let that mean spirit just hang right out and suffocate whatever beautiful untainted soul you brought with you into this world - existentialist theory teaches that you get to be exactly who you want to be in the here and now and wow - you really succeeded ( in at least that exercise). I'll keep my 1-800 Jenny comments to myself.

Ladies
If you have a belief about something that would drive you to approach a stranger and take a stand - Have the fucking balls to say - this is who I am and this what I believe. Otherwise.... Shut the fuck up.

MFCC!

The Coma Playlist

2009-11-30T23:25:00.000-05:00

If you don't already have a coma playlist on your ipod... you need to make one. ASAP!

And by coma playlist... I mean, if you were in a coma for any period of time - what are your all time toe tapping faves? The songs you just seem can't help yourself sing away to...as you jump in on the chorus with a hairbrush or close the windows in the car as you visualize yourself as Aretha's back-up singer on the I95 rush hour commute.

I guess most people are a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) and have discussed their wishes with family members, so good for them. The rest of us Schmucks want all measures taken. I personally have a team of guard the plug people, hair, nail and make-up people as well as a living will with an attorney that states... my family cannot pull the plug.

It's not that I don't want to die or I wish to live in a much reduced capacity (well how much further could we really reduce it - at this point?). It's that I don't know what I want to happen to me afterwards...

I don't wanna be buried because the idea of decomposing ... worms... larve.. magg... ENOUGH! Just gross.

I don't want to be cremated because I don't want to be reduced to a pile of ash and I have a fear of dying in a fire...

I don't want to be buried at sea because I don't like fish touching my skin and drowning horrifies me...

I'd like to be frozen but it is really expensive and I hate to be cold!!

So what is left?

Life support and my coma playlist.

If I could spend eternity snuggled up nice and warm with my favorite tunes playing to my wandering spirit in the afterlife... well that is just a wonderful alternative.

Now people may think it's a little selfish, family and maybe friends would feel the need to visit or have no closure. Here is the closure... move on people... It's fine! Turn on ipod and leave the building.Books on tape.. a variety of music... dim lights and someone to take care of the eyebrows and any kamikaze whiskers....

Stick me in a home somewhere and have a funeral. Closure on demand... like cable but not really, at all.

Lou and I have discussed our funerals at length over the years. We have agreed that we both want the smallest church possible (so it looks packed-not an empty seat in the house). We both are requiring everyone to wear black (because Euro-trash is sexy). If you come, you must cry... we don't care in the who, why, what, where, when... think back to when you lost your Teddy Bear when you were 5.... just cry a little. We would like a couple of professional mourners in the back just to keep things moving.

Lou and I have a funeral pact. You may have a porn pact with a buddy (yes I have one of those too)... But I have a funeral pact with Louey.

Who-ever dies first... the other one must choose the optimum dramatic moment and throw themselves on the coffin, screaming "Take me with you!"

I've been to a lot of funerals over the years and I have created a short list of things I definitely want. I guess I would like to orchestrate the event from the grave as it were (or the nursing home- whatever). I've thrown a few successful themed events over the years, I'd like to at least have a hand in this particular farewell.

Hymns...

People? Really? The choice of hymns is just short of un-inspiring. I would like the hymns of my childhood (since I haven't been to church since). The waterloo junior school...morning assembly, where we sang 'Michael Row your Boat Ashore'; 'Morning has Broken'; ' All things Bright and Beautiful'; 'Onward Christian Soldiers' and my favorite...'The Calypso Carol'. (a reggae steel drum Christmas tune).

There is an old hymn book on my bookshelf somewhere... blue plastic cover... find it, dust it off... use it as a guide.

Marcy has a funeral song - that moves me every time I hear it... I believe that is widely known - I'd like that too.

Flowers...

Ok! None of this Bullshit about donating money in my name to some kid in hospital somewhere... I would like flowers... Many, many flowers. My whole life I have been a flower whore - please don't screw me now!! Jephry on Broadway is my favorite. The man is a genius and knows what I love! I like abstract... I like monochromatic arrangements or I like 2 dramatically opposing colors. I like dried wheat and Scottish Thistles... I like clean lines of glass and mood setting pieces. I like the unconventional - mood inspiring - thought provoking encounters of the floral kind. I like Calla Lillies when used unexpectedly and yet simply to reflect their delicate form and strong structure.

I do not like Roses... of any kind. I do not like flowers in plastic - like a serial killer who has decided to claim his signature as ...' Smothered by Plastic'. I do not like Birds of Paradise, anything prickly and I cannot abide anything that looks like it tried too hard to be unique. (If you have ever sent me roses and I claimed to like them... I am sorry... (Note:we are not together. end note.))

Prayer Card

No prayer Card for me. I don't want the dates of birth - death - coma ...whatever, on a card with a prayer and a picture. I don't know what date it is today - I don't know the date of my own Mothers birthday... dates and times are just not for me. Arrangements should be made with a time spread and begin when everyone gets there... like Greek time. That would make me Happy.

Instead of a prayer card - I would like funeral favors. A little pay it forward action. If I could impact anyone's life or leave something behind it would be...

Always pay the toll for the car behind you... it is such a small gesture with such a big impact.

For the road rage folk .... I would like those people to take a memorial card that says... "Maybe his wife is in Labor"; "Maybe her kid called with an emergency"; "Maybe He just got fired from his job"; "Perhaps that one girl she has been chasing, just sent her a text and said.... Come Over... I'm naked".

So instead of a Memorial/Prayer Card... How about a picture of me hanging upside down from the point street bridge with a directive to pay the toll and a few inspirational... 'they did not cut you off because they are assholes or because they personally hate you' words, to carry with them. My death, may indeed add years to their life!

I want one wild card slipped in there... one that says.. If she were ever to make her own porno - she wanted to call it "Smoke and Mirrors" - you know - just for laughs. I apologize ahead of time if it is your granny that pulls that one...

Finally...I have always envisioned my headstone as a statue of a tall Amazon Woman in a running pose, her hair streaming behind her. On the base I want my favorite quote of all time.

"Wild Women Don't Get The Blues"

Please don't put the statue by the nursing home...Oh and please... PLEASE... include the cause of death (even if it reads 'Eternal Coma'). There is nothing more frustrating than walking around a cemetery saying..."Wonder what happened to him?"

Please let me remind you, that Amazon Women removed their right breast as a standard practice - to enable them to throw Javelin and in order to not hinder their Archery skills. The Statue should be reflective.I would have been proud to have joined the many ranks of historic amazons and modern day survivors, had it been required. I am so very proud of all the women out there fighting for their lives and making amazonian forfeitures. You frequent my heart.

In My Father's House

2009-10-31T19:17:00.000-04:00

fa•ther / ˈfä[voicedth]ər/ • n. 1. a man in relation to his natural child or children. ∎ a man who has continuous care of a child, esp. by adoption; an adoptive father, stepfather, or foster father. ∎ a father-in-law. ∎ a male animal in relation to its offspring. ∎ (usu. fathers) poetic/lit. an ancestor. ∎ (also founding father) an important figure in the origin and early history of something. ∎ a man who gives care and protection to someone or something: the prince is widely regarded as the father of the nation. ∎ the oldest or most respected member of a society or other body. ∎ (the Father) (in Christian belief) the first person of the Trinity; God. ∎ (Father) poetic/lit. used in proper names, esp. when personifying time or a river, to suggest an old and venerable character: Father Thames.

In my Father's House

You were worthless until told you were worth something

In my Father's House

Everything you did and everything you said was subject to scrutiny and harsh criticism

In my Father's House

There were things you could do that were worthy of being ignored... for weeks... sometimes months

In My Father's House

If you were old enough to get there by yourself... you were old enough to make it home alone

In my Father's House

Everything you had was because he allowed you to have it

In my Father's House

The television was God

In my Father's House

Support and encouragement made you afraid of failure

In my Father's House

Your success belonged to him

In my Father's House

You were a nuisance
You were disposable
You were in the way
You were an unwelcome disruption

In my Father's House

Everything had to look good

In my Father's House

It is never your house...

Though, was my Father's House ever really HIS house?

Wait ...

In my Father's House....

He's not really my Father... It's just a game we play...

In My Father's House

America Runs on Dunkin

2009-05-18T13:11:00.000-04:00

So I had an idea for a reality TV show, which is kind of ironic since I don’t watch TV. Not at all. Nothing; Nada; Zip… Unless… I come over your house. Then you’ll find I’m absorbed, like a kid raised on an island that has never seen roller-skates or eaten a candy bar. Yup, you better switch off the tube if you want to have any decent interaction with me. Remote in hand, secretly searching for the country music video station… I swear, it’s a mini movie every 3 minutes… perfect for someone with a low attention span, Awesome!!! I love the serial killer stuff too. Those real crime TV shows are also a big attention grabber… “But Officer, please… you don’t understand… that bitch had it coming”.

Side Bar: It keeps coming up in conversation… I would be a big nasty cry-baby if I got arrested and had to go to court. However, I’m pretty convinced, once I was “in the joint” I’d handle myself pretty well. In fact it’s a secret fantasy of mine to get sent away… It’s a free Olivia land cruise for lesbians and if you have a uniform fetish… well, sigh… need I say more? Lookit, the girls ain’t going anywhere and hell isn’t prison like womens college where everyone is gay till graduation?

It has been said, (for reasons we shall not get into) that I could get a date anywhere there was a State Penitentiary.

I can see me running my game. I’d have the cigarette racket down, the heavy’s, the protection, the hair dye hookup not to mention a mini tattoo parlor. My only request would be that if I went down, my friend Gemma would have to go down with me… my right hand woman. She’d get those bitches in line lickety split and there would be plenty of time for her specialty… lickety split (ahem). Even a gangsters Moll gets a day off!

My sweet dream, no mortgage, no taxes, no grocery bill and women by the dozen at my disposal… Playboy Mansion PSHAW!

End Side Bar.

I never get to see it – but once it’s on (Television) it pulls me into the screen and holds me there in a semi conscious coma… it’s multi-media overload. When I eventually pull myself away from your media packaged brainwashing, that costs you daft amount of dollars every month… I get mad. Mad at myself for getting suckered in, mad because it is hours of my life I can never re-coup… of course I can spend ten hours on facebook and myspace… but that’s my poison and we’ve all got one.

This whole religious freedom thing has got me intrigued. America was shocking for me at twenty. I had never heard religious radio or seen religious programming. I really thought it was a dramatic phenomenon that Hollywood incorporated into movies because movies were FICTIOUS… Nope! Boy, was I wrong!

Trust me, I really was THAT naïve. The first time I saw the klu klutz klan on TV, I thought it was a joke. They were sitting there all ‘nonchalant like’… guests on a daytime TV talk show, if you don’t mind. Come on? It had to be a joke – with the white robes and the white hood? It was pure insanity and WHO in their right mind would let these idiots on a talk show and what grown man was gonna don that get-up on National Television?

I mean, I knew the KKK was part of history with the burning crosses and all that – but I truly believed it was history like the Spanish Armada or the Battle of Hastings… Hailey’s Comet… the list goes on and on – in my own pea brain… the KKK was on the list with all these things… terrible crappy things that happened throughout history like the Holocaust – but NOPE… there they were – bold as brass in living color on my TV screen (back when I used to watch TV that is).

So ok, America is obsessed with Religion, Cults, Serial Killers and Reality TV… I have a fully functioning idea that will blow the other reality TV shows out of the water.

I want to infiltrate religions – with a spy cam.

Come on …. Think about it… It’s bloody BRILLIANT!

You (The American fast food, drive through thinkers) can sit home partaking in your favorite pastime and evaluate which religion fits your lifestyle best. I will even let you vote religions “off the Island” by sending a text message to a pre-determined 900 number that will allow me the kind of ‘Religious’ freedom I myself am in search of… The Almighty Dollar!!

Myself and the Moll of my choosing, will go underground in variety of organized cults and religions. The Moonies, Buddhists, Hare Krishna’s, Jew’s, Catholics, Protestants, Jehovah’s Witness, Wiken, Rastafarian, Unitarian, Scientology…. The list is endless.

Did you know….Raelism is one of the top 10 cults and is founded on the religion and beliefs of UFO’s. Weird way to put it, if you ask me. Shouldn’t it be based on Extra Terrestrials NOT on the space craft they fly down in to come visit us? Hmmmm… I wonder if Smoky and the Bandit founded a religion would it be based on 18 wheelers and Mack Trucks??

“Breaker, Breaker… 1, 9. Smokey Bear Ahead… Over and Out”

Heaven’s Gate… Need I say more? There is an introduction video on youtube. It begins with this statement… “Planet Earth, about to be recycled. Your only chance to evacuate… is to leave with us” combined with some weird sound track about riding your bike of a hill trying to fly…. WHAT? It’s completely NUTZ! Is it a recycled version of the Bumblebee flies anyway?? Hey, but don’t take my word for it….. In my reality TV show, you get to decide for yourself, you can vote them off or keep them for later evaluation in the ‘Top 10’!

I saw what you people did with Sanjaya on American Idol… I really think Heaven’s Gate has a good shot and coming out on top!!

If you know anything about me, you know episode one starts with a good look at the Church of the Latter Day Saints. It will amuse me to no end because true blue American’s will never tolerate a religion that doesn’t allow for Cigarettes, Coca-Cola, Coffee and an Excess of Red Meat.

Mormons get voted off the island first, because they don’t drink coffee and we all know “America runs on Dunkin….”

Please text your ideas for future reality shows to 1-900-sparklesmagee

(a bargain at only $9.99 per minute, all rights reserved)

The qualities one must possess In order to get laid

2009-05-17T21:45:00.001-04:00

The Butch girls only need posses one of two skills.

The ability to cook
Or
The ability to dance

If you can do either of these… then my friend, you are in luck! Femme chicks are suckers for a tomboy that can whip up a delectable treat from nothing at all at 2am and if you can’t do that… sweep her off their feet – literally. Nothing can get a girl to follow you home quicker than having her follow you around the dance floor first.

So I asked the question… what are the two qualities a girly girl must posses in order to have the same affect. I was told they must posses one of two things…

A nice… (Dramatic pause and cheeky grin) SMILE….
OR
A nice rack.

I suspect I was being told the same thing twice.

It can’t really be that simplistic… Can it?

Stay A'While Longer

2009-03-04T00:51:00.000-05:00

It’s a funny thing getting to know new people, always the same questions.

“Where are you from?”
“What do you do?”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

It comes up every time without fail. I hear the sibling question and I have a visible pause, an unsure pause of how to answer a seemingly innocuous question. You’d think it would get easier over time, but it doesn’t.

I am one of eight siblings. Easy enough, right?

3 stepsisters; 2 half brothers; 1 half sister; a brother and me.

The stepsisters are from my stepfather’s first marriage. The half brothers from my fathers second marriage. I’ve never met my half sister…she was conceived around the same time as my brother, we share the same father. My brother, Andrew, was the first born of my generation and died in a car accident when we were children.

For all intents and purposes I am an only child, raised singly in a household with my Mother and Stepfather.

One would think the easiest response would be to simply state that I am an only child. During my pause, that’s exactly what I am considering… but it feels dishonest. I can’t deny my brothers life, no matter how short – no matter how long ago. I throw the rest of the siblings in the mix to create a diversion, to ease the uncomfortable shifting of the inquisitor. Smoke and mirrors… my most effective tactic.

I figure if we converse about the crazy blended family I am suppressing the sympathetic murmurings of “I’m sorry” and “That’s awful”. I don’t want anyone to feel badly and I know it’s within my control to avoid the subject altogether but it just feels wrong. I weigh it up every time and his existence always wins – I can’t deny my Brother that.

This February marks what would have been his fortieth birthday, seven of his lifetimes have passed since that 5yr old blonde tow-head with the big brown eyes changed our lives forever.

I have spent 35 years imagining what he would have been like, what we would have been like. I have made him play many roles in my imagination (all against his will, of course). He has been my protective older brother, he has been a faggy gay boy, a square conservative married with 2.5 children a dog and a Volvo. Yup, just to get back at him for trapping my fingers in the door jamb and for not letting me play with him and his friends… He has been a stoner that wouldn’t leave the house, a homophobic jerk but mostly he has been my best friend. The one solid fun guy left on this planet that loved me for simply bearing the name of sister.

Self-involved as it may seem, I always made it about me. How my life would have been different… how having an older brother would have made everything easier. In my mind I wouldn’t have felt so alone or quite so lost.

He gave me the false belief that I was invincible… I could go anywhere, I could do anything and I could take risks other people shouldn’t. I convinced myself of this loosely based on the laws of probability. What were the chances that a mother would lose both children to tragic accidents? I pushed the envelope over and over again always with an odd sensation of being protected.

I was angry that he left me so abruptly. Did I say angry? I was pissed! I’d spent my first three years following him around, trying to be like him, doing whatever it took to get his attention. He went to pre-school so they had to send me early because apparently I just wasn’t having it. If he went…I was going too!

We fought over the top and bottom bunk, we fought over toys…he meticulously set up rows upon rows of tiny plastic soldiers and I, being the younger annoying sister, would knock them all over with the dramatic sweep of my arm… And then, he left. Gone.

Even now the grief shocks me. It’s a crashing wave that takes me down with it, for everything I lost; for everything I could have had. He is a phantom… my personal missing limb… I feel the pain of not being able to gesture with a sweeping open palm and announce “This is my brother, Andrew”. I feel the pain of not having the pleasure of tormenting him for being forty first.

I assumed his place in the birth order, now the eldest of the cousins. There were eight cousins and for every cousin there was a sibling…Eifion had Emma, Ben had Lucy and Sarah had James.

Eifion came into the world on the heels of Andrew’s exit. I nominated myself (in my own childish mind) into the role of elder and teacher. He was my boy and I use the term teacher very tongue in cheek… we rode bikes,played together, made up games, bought ice pops in every color and flavor and then spent hours experimenting with a variety of slush cups that inevitably all tasted the same. We stole bottles of woodpecker cider and got drunk in his room, hiding the evidence in his underwear drawer. I was long gone by the time my aunt decided to put his laundry away and he got to shoulder the bust alone.

We tortured our younger cousin, Emma. The most gorgeous, delicate little girl you ever saw. Laura Ashley had Emma in mind when she designed those lovely feminine floral prints and ruffled collars. How did we torture her? She followed us around just as I had followed Andrew. We refused to play with her; we teased her and made her cry… she tagged along anyway. If I twirled my hair, she twirled her hair. If I sucked my fingers for some childhood comfort, she followed suit.

The truth is, I adored her just as much… in a different way.

She was a tough cookie, boy could she fight. Like a little wild cat, scratching and hair pulling, screaming the whole while. She learned her feminine wiles early. She was as pretty as a porcelain doll and when Emma cried, adults melted. We couldn’t compete with that.

I don’t recall what we had done to piss her off, (probably a game of hide and seek where she hid and we didn't seek), what I do remember is Eifion and I lying on the floor, chins propped on hands, watching television. In flew this tiny wild banshee dressed in pink. Her delicate feet were flying as she hauled off and kicked her big brother right in the mouth. Before he could even react to the split lip, her eyes got really wide and she started to cry. As the adults came running to see what the hullabaloo was all about, Eifion sighed and returned to watching the TV. He was yelled at for upsetting his baby sister as she was comforted – all the while throwing covert smug smiles his way.

I loved being loved by Emma.

We shared a bed on sleepovers; she would curl up and wrap her arms around me. She giggled and told me she loved me over and over. My torturous humor was in full force even back then…

“You know what I think of you, Em?”

My memory can still hear her sweet girlish hopeful giggle

“What, what do think of me?”

Then I’d force out a “toot, toot’ fart as I dissolved into hysterics and the banshee went wild! Clawing and scratching her displeasure at my uncouth answer.

I make it sound like we excluded her, we really didn't. The three of us would roam all over Epworth Village. We played in the churchyard across the street making up games and daring each other to do silly things. We rode donkeys on Scarborough beach, we searched for special rocks and shells washed up and worn by years of sand lapping waves.

Eifion and his friends started a break-dancing crew... built ramps for skateboarding tricks that graduated into BMX stunts. Emma and I tried to be a good audience, laughing at their tomfoolery.

I wanted Eifion's Star Wars figurine collection so badly… he had the whole deal, (including the millennium falcon!). We set up zip lines across his bedroom so his collection of action men/GI Joe’s could infiltrate the storm troopers in a sneak attack.

Then...strawberry season. Three cousins let loose in strawberry fields with baskets and instructions to weigh in our pickings on our way out. I don’t know that we ever actually paid for picked strawberries… what I do know is that we would eat as many of them as our bellies could hold and our red stained fingers and cheeks were a dead give away that we weren’t so much as picking strawberries as we were eating them as fast as we could find them.

I’d give anything to bring those days back.

The days before Emma went to boarding school, before we all started to grow up… before we lost Eifion... the same way we lost Andrew.

No Mother should lose a child. No child should grow up unable to reach a woman named mother, so consumed by grief that there is nothing left. No family should lose their two eldest boys and two sisters should not know that same grief.

But, it happens. Sadly it happens every day.

June 1991: I was twenty years old, Eifion…soon to be eighteen and Emma was fifteen.

Emma was home from school for the summer, I was a nanny in Connecticut and Eifion had graduated from skateboards and BMX bikes to a motorcycle he loved to ride all over the flat Derbyshire countryside.

The same day Eifion lent five pounds to a buddy and headed to Scunthorpe, I took myself to a midnight movie. It seems surreal that as I watched Madonna and her entourage try to deep throat bottles, my family was in fracture.

I left the movie theatre and walked along the river overcome with emotion. I was crying and I didn’t know why, I knew I had to call home – right there and then.

From a parking lot in Westport CT, I called my Mother in England.

That’s the day my heart broke into a million fragments and it’s never been the same since.

I mean, you live with it but… there’s the before and then, there’s the after.

In one unstoppable moment I lost my brother and my mother. Him physically and her, well… Fate deals the hand and we are left to play the game. I lost both cousins that day in June 1991.

I’d like to imagine that grief brings a family together, but in my experience it doesn’t happen that way. It sends you to your own corners. The comfort of strangers is easier to take than the comfort of looking into eyes that bear the same brand of heartbreak.

Emma and I have never discussed losing Eifion. It’s a minefield that cannot be negotiated safely. Every once in a while we’ll tell stories or say “Remember when…” but those moments are rare and fleeting.

Intellectually my heart says, gather everyone you love close and cherish the precious time you have with them. Emotionally, I am my Mothers daughter. My heart dictates that in the game of loving and losing, the pain of loss is too great a risk to take.

Yes, I will hang upside down from a bridge in my underwear…but to break down and love people that leave too soon… I don’t know that I am capable of that dare devil feat.

I love fiercely, never lightly and I would give my life to protect my family… but this leaving too soon business has got to end.

My visible pause as a stranger asks me… “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” allows me the opportunity to acknowledge my brothers life. This most simple of questions doesn’t afford the room to pay tribute to the million thoughts and memories that come with it…

Living in my heart: Andrew, Grandad, Aunty Lynne, Eifion, SueB, Jenna

Can y’all stop leaving so soon?

A Grocery List By Any Other Name

2009-02-27T00:14:00.000-05:00

Relationships and I are fighting. We have been fighting for as long as I can remember. I often wonder if they only work out for the people who are willing to settle for companionship that lives in the heart of mediocrity or if they simply don’t work out for the people whose expectations were fed to them on a fairy tale coated silver spoon.

I’m afraid I fall completely into the second category. Yes, this “Americanized Cynical Brit” bought the fairytale. Hook, Line and Goddamn Sinker.

What is this relationship thing we speak of? Two people who commune in the same space, use the same sink to spit out their mouthwash and agree to grow old together? It doesn’t sound all that great to me. If it were sold as a lifetime of adventure and laughter with someone who loves every little fucked up thing about you… now we are starting to have a conversation my ears are perking to.

A friend recently wanted my views on relationships. Do they last? Are people really happy? Do couples ride out the long, hard, shitty periods to be rewarded by the soul filling golden years we are promised by every ..Hollywood.. blockbuster gracing the big screen? It was too big a question for me to answer. I tried… Boy! Did I ever…

As my mouth moved and the sound of my own voice swirled around and into my ‘shell like’, I realized I had no fucking idea! It sounded like hopeful rhetoric, even to me.

As I look back on my serial monogamy years, I have regrets. There are some relationships I shouldn’t have stayed in for one minute; I really should have stood in a puddle during a lightening storm longer. Some I wish I had stuck out, forgiven more and not bailed so quickly. They say you ‘just know’ when you meet that one person who is gonna reach in and string fairy lights around your heart… Well, I have had maybe 3 of those moments…That moment when I ‘just knew’,
but they didn’t bloody last did they? So where does that leave me…? Spewing unproven theories to a young ‘un that I don’t want tainted by the jade I have in my pocket.

The relationships I regret the most are the ones I was afraid to pursue. The ones I feigned ambivalence towards, the ones that ignited my vulnerability and just royally pissed me off. How can ordinary people touch the core of your soul and never know it?

It makes me wonder… If I have people living in my psyche that have touched my heart and changed my life without them ever knowing the impact of our worlds colliding, are there people out there that feel the same about me? That’s a funny concept… I can’t even begin to imagine.

What is it I really want out of this living experiment? I want the BOOM! The big love, the quiet simplicity of eyes meeting across a room and the surety of knowing…

Where is that? Can you find it on e-bay?

My neighbor came for breakfast this morning… her sister and boyfriend are apparently fucking like rabbits. They can’t keep their hands off each other. These Heathens go grocery shopping and somewhere between the frozen foods and the dairy section they just ‘HAVE’ to have each other… they whip out to the car, bring it on home and casually stroll back into the store to resume their price comparison of ground beef by the pound.

On that note, I think I need some creamer… Hmmm, the only question left: "Shaws or Stop n Shop?"

Bread

Butter

Milk

Eggs

Fuckin Like Rabbits

Frozen Peas

Corn

Ground Beef

xoxo

If I didn’t have to work – I’d winter in rehab and spend summers on the cape!

2009-02-19T18:36:00.000-05:00

Granted I was in P-Town for an entire week and the week flew by soooo quickly, but did I really need to drink EVERY single day? I guess the answer to that is bloody obvious…. Of course I did. Would it really be P-Town any other way?

It’s been said over and over again – P-Town really is a different animal…. In P-Town you will do things you just wouldn’t do anywhere else… like get into a stranger’s car or ask a taxi driver if you can pay them tomorrow once you have actually located your money. It’s just different.

The first night I handed my car keys to a gay man I had just met and let him drive off in my brand new car with my very drunk ex-girlfriend as I continued my own personal search for “alternative” entertainment. The following morning I did have a mini-freak out as it dawned on me he could have been a serial killer masquerading as a very effeminate, loud, brash, mildly entertaining faggot. Subsequently, I filed my “Almost Missing” Persons report at the Provincetown police station….

It’s amazing what you can’t remember about someone you have known for fifteen years.

“Ma’am, can you give me a description of this missing person”
“Um, well… she might not be missing”
“Maam, a description?”
“Um, She’s 5’10” with blonde hair, blue eyes and she’s kinda boyish”
“What was she wearing?”
“God, um… I don’t know but I looked cute!”
“Maam?”
“Sorry Officer, I’m just nervous. She must have been wearing jeans… she always wears jeans. Oh, and flip flops… she always wears flip flops and probably a white t-shirt with a button down”
“IS that what she was wearing or are you assuming”
“Um, um, I honestly don’t remember, but she always wears that kind of thing”

(Heavy Sigh from the Desk Officer)

“Any distinguishing features”
“Oh Yes! She’s very charming and has a slight southern drawl, she’s from Kentucky”
“Maam”
“I’m not helping, am I?”
“Not really”
“Maybe I should just call you back”

“What time did you last see her?”
“It was late”
“Do you have an aprox time?”
“I think it could have been after the bars closed but I’m not one hundred percent sure”

Silence on the other end of the phone

“Officer?”

“I really think I should just call you back, if she doesn’t show up”

She eventually turned up safe and sound. However, I quickly learnt that our new found faggoty friend had indeed acquired his driver’s license from the bottom of a crackerjack box…. My shiny new vehicle now had a variety of damage. The inside looked like the residue of a Beach Rave. Sand, empty liquor bottles, towels, driftwood and empty packs of cigarettes. Apparently in the attempts to find bathing suit attire, my neatly packed luggage had been turned upside down and ransacked. The worst of the damage was the sideswipe that they both still plead complete and total ignorance of.

Imagine with me for one second… You’re stuck in Quicksand next to a large oak tree and in order to save yourself you have to quickly shift from drive to reverse creating a rocking momentum with the vehicle in order to catapult yourself out to safety…. Yup, I think that about covers the dents and scratches I still proudly bear on my daily commute.

My ex survived the experience with just one small dog bite to the nose…I have to say, It was a better outcome than hearing that her body parts had been donated to feeding the homeless in Sheridan Square, Manhattan. (“I think” it was a better outcome). I was so happy to see her alive that I enthusiastically accepted the product of my own irresponsibility and dismissed any notion of investigating the internal or external damage to my new trusted steed and I even offered to pick up the liquor bill for the day ahead of us.

I’ve always been a consecutive skipper of T-Dance. This year I broke new ground. I committed to the T-Dance experience and I have to say, I don’t like it, not one bit… but like the trooper I am – If I say I’m gonna do something, I like to see it through. I suffered the experience daily in the hopes it would get better.

It’s weird to go drink, dance and meet chicks starting at 4 O’clock in the afternoon - knowing full well you are on this train until at least 3am. It’s not the event itself; it’s more of a schedule thing. I’ve never been (and never will be) a daytime napper. Once the party starts I like continuity – you can’t go fucking with my wave… I’m riding that shit all the way to shore or else I’m calling the coast guard with a drowning complaint.

Ready to go at 4pm, I’ve got my groove rocking… 5.30pm, I am completely invested in the Scotch supply at the Boatslip. 7pm rolls around and like “lemmings to the sea”, lesbians are following lesbians to nap, eat and chill out … Meanwhile, I’m on the crest of the wave headed straight for the Pied. Which, in case you ever wondered, is deserted at that hour and I got another 8 hours to go… It’s truly exhausting being this committed.

I’m totally open to the social experimentation of putting a couple of hundred lesbians in one room – feeding them unlimited amounts of alcohol and playing really loud dance music in the hopes they will stop averting their eyes and take a stab at making some human contact! Urika!! This shit actually works!!! There was bumping and grinding, there was actual conversation about politics and the downfalls of home ownership in this economy and then…. there was ‘PAT’.

Pat introduced herself to me

“Hi, I think I owe you an apology”
“You do?”
“You probably (hopefully) don’t remember me”
“I’m sorry, I’m drawing a blank”

With that kind of an opening statement – why wouldn’t you just leave it there? I obviously had no recollection of the meeting and if it really was apology worthy… why bring up old wounds? Sigh, Lesbians… just gotta purge their guilt.

“I was really obnoxious the first time you met me”
“Ah! Oh, honey people think I’m obnoxious all the time. If I don’t remember, it really can’t have been that bad”
“I’m friends with Karen Duke”

Long pause. We stare each other down. The penny starts to slowly drop. Pat… Hmmmm…. Pat?

“Pat?”
She nods
“You’re Pat? THAT Pat?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry. I know I followed you into the bathroom… but I don’t usually…”
“THE BATHROOM??? Do you remember pulling up my shirt and pushing me into a corner of the bar?”
“Um, I don’t think… I, um… not really”
“My friends had to save me from you – for real… REAL”
“I was drunk and I’m horrified...”
“You grabbed my boobs and tried to unzip…”
“K..K…K!! SShhhh! Stop! I remember following you into the bathroom and trying to kiss you …”

Now I’m laughing because the bathroom was the least of her worries. Pat, pretty much accosted me in full view of all the patrons at our local watering hole. ‘The girls’ were truly violated! The good news is I actually got laid out of the deal and not by Pat.

The girl that saved me from Pat, my rescuer, claimed me as her girlfriend for protection purposes and physically implanted herself between me and the onslaught of angry octopus hands. That in of itself deserved a few cocktails and an offer to spend the night, right?

Pat did not want to hear the grizzly details and she DEFINTELY did not want the girl she was with to bear witness to the retelling of events. Come on, you know that was virtually impossible, right? Alcohol and the opportunity to rag all over a complete stranger was too rich an opportunity to ignore. She was a good sport and since I have my own share of bad behavior horror stories I ragged on her a little and let her buy me drink, minus the boob grab.

Don’t get me wrong, T-Dance was a lot of fun. I spent one day just hanging out in the bathroom asking everyone how they met … that was worth the experience right there. Civilizations may have risen and fallen with men on battlefields… but women never stopped going to the bathroom to “talk privately”.

A mere personal observation and small piece of advice that you can take or leave… DON’T converse “privately” stall to stall. If you wanna talk to your buddy about the girl that showed up that you kinda like but not as much as she likes you… have a look-out, check the line, put a honing device on her baseball cap that sends you a text message when she’s within 12 feet of you… something!!

Yeah, that was awkward… I beat a hasty exit from my bathroom survey.

Spiritus, after the Pied closes, is my favorite place. I really enjoyed watching the girls play the waiting game to see if you were drunk enough to hook up and go home with them. It’s also the place where myspace meets the street.

“I know you! You friended me on myspace!”
“Well, you were worth 1.5 million on that buy your friends’ application; I wanted to see what all the fuss was about”

“Omg! I read your blogs. Did you really pee on someone?”

One woman asked me out at least seven times, she phrased it differently each time maybe hoping it would confuse me. My answer was the same negatory reaction each of the seven times. She finally advised me that I didn’t have to answer right then, I could sleep on it and let her know tomorrow. I thought that was a sweet gesture. Who doesn’t appreciate been given the time to think things over?

If we were playing “What do you think she does for a living” game… my guess would have been some kind of trial attorney. Of course you can’t really play that game in P-Town… I mean really what are your choices… Social Worker? Security Guard? Gym Teacher? Live in my parents’ basement, eat their Ring Dings and drive them nuts for a living?

The four categories are quite distinct and you easily tell them apart by the way they dance.

(social workers move slowly because of their heavy pot usage, security guards never dance with their back to the door, gym teachers make dancing to techno without breaking a sweat look like a walk in the park (and always wear whitey white ankle socks) and the basement dwellers… those girls are at the bar trying to get you to buy them a drink, saying they’ll dance IF a good song comes on next).

Trust the Theory! (At least try it and let me know).

I did spend one long night in my car with someone who I truly adore. We unfortunately have seemingly had a string of misfire dates that just never go well. It began at women’s week with bad case of getting to know you questions.

“Don’t lie, you love the attention”
“Not really, well I do… but I really just like to have a good time”
“You don’t let anyone see the real you, you just look like some good time girl”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think you let people see who you really are”
“And who is that?”
“I don’t know, I feel like I don’t know anything about you”
“Whaddya wanna know?”
“I dunno, tell me about your childhood…”

Sccccrreeeeching halt

“Trust me. You, don’t want to know about my childhood”
“Yes I do, tell me”

Upon later review with one of my closest friends… I ask her how she would have responded if a potential male date had said such a thing to her…

She about turned, stuck her ass up in the air and started to spank herself like a pony

“My childhood? Come on then big boy… let’s re-enact it… “Spank me like my Daddy did” Giddy-up”

At which point we both dissolved into tear streaming hysterics, our twisted humor is the reason we are friends.

The most charming encounter and offer I had was at the Pied itself. It went along the lines of…

“Come home and fuck me or I will pick someone else up and fuck them”

I know what you’re thinking… I know… Believe me, it was very hard to turn down.

I followed a similar path most days and for the entirety of W’s weeks, didn’t step inside Vixen once. Not because I don’t like Vixen, it just seemed to be too far to walk in heels. Yet at 4am, I walked the length of P-Town 3 fold in the same ‘kill me now’ shoes because drunk, it seemed like a good fucking idea. Except for one night when the historical walking tour to my bed just seemed like too far to go.

I had managed, yet again, to wander off losing my drunk-ass companions and found myself some lively entertainment outside Spiritus with a group of girls who wanted to buy me pizza and drive me home. Sounds like a nice, friendly group… right? I’m sure they were just lovely. I, however (being oppositional defiant) don’t like to accept rides home from strangers who are offering to take good care of me. No, I much prefer to pick out my own stranger and let them know that they ARE going to take care of me.

In the hub-bub of trying to get me to agree to go with them, I make eye contact with the driver of a Chester, Leicester child molester van, that was curb crawling the pizza crowd. (You know the kind, the van with the windows, curtains, carpet on the roof etc…). Eye contact made and apparently I had a plan.

This story had to be re-told to me as I have very vague recollections of how I ended up in the van… I don’t dispute the fact that I did indeed walk over there open the door and ask all the girls in the van to get out. Amid their confusion, I apparently informed them that the driver was now going to be driving me around town.

My Irish angel turned to her friends and told them to get out. It all happened really fast, kinda like a Chinese fire drill. They were out – I was in – and we were off!

As it turns out it was one of the best drunken decisions I ever made.

The driver and I drank the same scotch, smoked the same cigarettes were both 1st generation immigrants from over the pond… though when she tried to kiss me I really pissed her off by asking “What, are you 12?” to which she retorted that she was in fact 13 and asked if I was bi-sexual.

It was another screeching halted moment.

If you knew me, it’s a sore subject. I’ve been gay since I hit puberty but apparently I don’t look gay “enough”.

A smart cookie…my Irish princess. Somehow she knew the exact buttons to push to declare war. What she didn’t know was that she had in fact driven me to someone else’s house so I could curl up and dream sweet next to them, not her.

Score 1. for me

I exited the van none to gracefully or gratefully. The next morning I discovered I had lost my gold shiny purse. It’s contents included my car keys, wallet, favorite lipstick and slew of random phone numbers. FUCK!

I retraced my steps. It was nowhere to be found. I was advised to (again) call the Provincetown police and put in a lost and found request.

“Um, Hello officer….”

My car was now illegally parked in the middle of town. Less than a week old, thankfully, I had a spare key inside the console. I called AAA and made my way to the vehicle which had the cutest petal display across the windshield & a note under the wiper with a phone number and a request to get together sometime – when we could drink scotch and smoke cigarettes without yelling at each other.

Nothing like a slamming the door exit only to go back and say… ‘Um, I forgot my keys”

It was that kind of experience. I called and left her a voicemail in the sweetest voice I could muster. “Thank you for last night, you were very kind… sorry I yelled at you and Oh, by the way … did you happen to find a shiny gold purse in your van?”

Score 10. for her

I spent the rest of the day doing the stationary walk of shame. There’s nothing like hanging out in your club attire from the night before…on the busiest corner of Commercial Street. It was the longest I had actually been in one place all week. Waiting for AAA worked out fabulously. I saw people I hadn’t seen in years, most notably an old friend from New Jersey I had lost touch with. She berated me about losing my shit and we made plans to hang out that night. She nominated herself as the guardian of any and all of my belongings along whatever route our evening took us. Perfect!

Well it would have been perfect except that the last time I saw her and my 2nd purse I was heading to dance on the box at Pied. One cute little wave from the bar and my own display of showing an appreciate dance crowd my belly (another genius idea), she was gone! No-where to be found! This time I lost my phone, my spare car key, my second favorite lipstick and the rest of the cash I brought with me. Now I was truly fucked!

I’d been fairly composed about my first loss, but now my phone? My lifeline… Ok, it’s a CRACKBERRY. I was cut off, cruelly, in an instant from myspace, facebook, email and text messaging… I needed an emergency rehab pass. I broke… I did the only thing I knew to do.

I borrowed a phone and called my ex girlfriend, the Jewish Bloodhound. If anyone could figure out where our old friend had vanished in thin air to… it was her! As it turns out she was at a bar mitzvah in Georgia with my ex in-laws and yet, true to her nature, rose to the challenge anyway. It took her about four hours, she located the 2nd missing purse (apparently lodged under the head of our snoozing buddy now nursing a full blown P-Town hangover). Ahhhh, the sweet relief!

My crackberry and I were happily reunited over eggs, homefries and much black coffee. My voicemail was equivalent to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow only this rainbow ended with a shiny gold purse!!

WHAAAAT??? Oh yeah Baby!! My Irish Angel had left voicemail after voicemail. Upon her return to Boston she had discovered my belongings jammed between the passenger seat and door. Not only was she calling to tell me this but she was willing to drive back and hand over the goods!! Fucking, motherfucking FABULOUS!!

Weeks later when my purse delivering friend told me her van had been towed and she’d lost all HER shit in NYC, I did the right thing and drove to Boston to help her out with Mafioso Mike and the local law enforcement folks. One good turn begets another in my book. We are now somehow soul connected and she makes my world shine a little golder!

By far the most profoundly interesting person I met was Jim. A reclusive Vietnam Vet whose job was to teach jungle survival back in a time when men were dying for the most ridiculous reasons a government could invent. The lesson that stayed with me from that meeting was the first rule of survival.

I took a stab at it and failed… Take a moment and figure out what your response would be if some asked you:

“What is the first rule of survival?”

Right, so what’s your answer? (Please email me your first responses because I would love to know just how short I fell).

Ok – The first rule of survival is…. Drum roll please…

“KNOWING that your ass is on fire”

Right as this 65 year old guy, who I am pretty sure has saved countless lives, shared military jungle survival 101… I knew right in that moment… my ass WAS indeed on fire. It has been for a while. It’s not that I hadn’t known it – I had simply chosen to ignore it. It may still be smoldering… once I put it out once and for all, I’m pretty sure I’ll share that tale with you also.

So where did that leave me? Knowing my ass was on fire and I needed to go back to the house, pack up and head for a reality check. Somehow I still wasn’t ready to abandon dodge. We packed up the slightly dented car, headed to the Police Station – took care of the parking tickets from countless sets of missing keys and bad parking decisions. I called the taxi driver I owed money to and offered to pay him (he sweetly declined). So now what?

We had food, booze, movies and TA DA! The new car has a fucking DVD movie player!

FAMOUS LAST WORDS OF WOMENS WEEK… ”Let’s go to the beach and chill out. We can watch the waves, watch a movie and then drive home after the traffic subsides”.

Even now, it still sounds like a pretty good idea. Yeah, well it would have been except apparently the new car really needs to be running in order to watch a 2 hour movie or the damn battery drains!!!

I’d like the closing credits to roll up on Fox and I deciding to head home and the fucking car won’t start!!

Sigh, gotta love P-Town! Ok… now we gotta find someone with jumper cables…

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

Women’s Week Etiquette:

Don’t ask someone you don’t know about their childhood unless you know for sure they weren’t kept in a cage and fed scraps.

Common Sense Tip:

Take a Polaroid picture of everyone before they leave the house… you just never know when you’ll need it!

Shopping Tip:

Yes Ladies, Fanny packs are ugly… but they could be worth their weight in shiny gold purses… Oh, and a set of jumper cables is a pretty good investment too.

A Bull By Any Other Name....

2009-01-28T17:07:00.000-05:00

It's always on my worst day that I am inspired by the floppy blonde crowned creature from Kentucky whose family really does drive around with license plates that say things like "KY Twins" & "KY Mom".

These lovely cotton/ked wearing ladies truly have no idea why I am in peals of laughter at every family wedding as they drive up so proudly in their fancy sedans.... Come on Ladies??? Really?? KY Lubricating Jelly is an international product not a delicacy the Brits serve with crumpets!

You have to have sense of humor to explain the KY relatives and that she does. It also helps that we have known each other for so damn long and bounced the lesbian ping pong ball from friends to lovers and back to friends again. Who else really knows the right shit to say to you to break the funk wall?

We covered the bases... The new love in her life, her subsequent move to a magical State where the oxygen just isn't the same as other places, friends - new, old... come, gone...

As per usual we move on to human dynamics and relationships... human observations...

Fox and I have spent more time together in airports than people ever really need to... However, it is great fodder for people watching and dissecting human interactions.

It also deepens our aging laugh lines.

Somewhere in here the Mechanical Bull theory was born.

You see people that just don't match well - no complimenting each other in any aspect... mental, physical - nothing... These couplings usually depict one person who is somewhat free of spirit and another who is jealous, controlling, angry and bitter…

Shit why wouldn’t they be? We figure you’d have to be when you are hanging on by a fingernail to someone who by all intents and purposes lives in a totally different universe than you do.

These Grecians just experience the world differently. They move and inspire strangers on the street to “feel” something. These are the people we are talking about… the ones that make you turn your head and perform the pound dog screech “RRRRRrrrrrrrrrr” and scratch your head… How did THAT person end up with “THAT” person?

Come On! I know you’ve done it.

What we were trying to figure out is that base anger, the rage of the person hanging on for dear life. Shit, you landed the 747 – go for the ride… Truly!!

The anticipation of losing … of forthcoming rejection seems to be the crux of the problem. You seem mad at the world before you even get off the ride… Shit, Man!!

If you have 6.7 seconds on a Bull named Blue Manchu….

Make it that Mechanical Bull you rode drunk in Mexico….

Your friends gave you a shot of Tequila and dared you to mount that baby… didn’t you go up there knowing you were getting thrown off in front of 200 similarly nutty tourists?

You Hooted and Hollered the whole time… Laughing... Knowing you were taking a hard hit back towards the earths core. My point is, you went with it, you enjoyed it and you made a fool out of yourself.

Let’s assess what happened after you picked yourself up off the matt and re-entered the assembled throng.

The crowd cheered, patted you on the back, all of a sudden everyone in the place wanted to buy you a drink. All those damn tourists snapped your picture and it went into memory albums the world over….

“Oh My God Sheila, There was a mechanical bull in this bar in Mexico… friggin hysterical… this (guy/girl/chick/dude) jumped right up there… it was a blast! I wanted to do it but I lost my nerve at the last second. You know what? Next time we go to Mexico… I’m friggin doing it!”

The Mechanical Bull Theory

You mounted it… hoot, holler and ride that sucker for as long as you can... But when you inevitably come back down to earth… Don’t be mad… Take a picture and remember how much fun it was!

At least you had the balls to get up there in the first place!

New Years Eve and Other Adventures!

2009-01-03T13:10:00.001-05:00

I think I gained 10 pounds and at least 10 new wrinkles (in undisclosed locations) planning and putting together Buckle Up 2009. I do love to throw these things for sure and it really was a trip. I am not sorry that the “hunched over the laptop, chain smoking and eating every highly sugared product in sight” is over… Though... Of course, my mind is spinning with the next possible event we can put together. The crazy suggestions already started rolling in along with tips on how to successfully build a mud wrestling pit since the Nikapalooza mud pit didn’t work out to be everything we thought it would be!

Walking through the Snow-Storm in Gold Open Toed Sandals raised a few eyebrows which makes me think Dinah Shore should be the next trip or maybe a Mexico crew can be resurrected for 2009…

Ok Favorite Lines from New Years Eve

“I’m sorry Maam, this is a private party”
“It’s ok, we’re swingers... My 71 year old husband likes me to pick up women”
Stunned silence
“Just Kidding, we’re her parents”

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I was fucking some chick in the bathroom for like an hour”
“Well in that case… Good Girl! Now can we get back to work?”

“Call me anything you want… just please don’t call me your girlfriend”

“WTF? There’s lipstick around the vodka bottle”
“What dyke do you know that wears that shade of red and would do shots out of the bottle?”
“My daughter – the alcoholic… now give it to me”

“I listened to her sob story for 2 hours”
“What was she so upset about?”
“Dunno, I wasn’t listening”

“Are you for sale?”

“She works… She contributes… All she needs is a chance”
“But do you think she swallows?”

“Somebody needs to make a fucking decision and it’s not gonna be me”

“Are you gonna kiss me at midnight?
“I’m sorry, I have Polio”

“If I were gay… I’d have a piece of you”

“You left me a voicemail?”
“I don’t think so”
“Um…Yeah, you did… you might wanna listen to it…”

“OMG! You’re the girl on the VOICEMAIL!”

“No really, I don’t put out… I’m all talk“
(chorus of p-town voices)
“WE KNOW”

“I give a really good blow job”
“Do you think it’s genetic?”
“Shit, I don’t know…Ma?”

xoxo

S.M.

My Dog Hates Me!

2008-11-28T00:59:00.000-05:00

Every girl knows that the one fail safe remedy for those monthly “Aunt Flo” cramps is a nice steady string of kegel contractions.

I like to deliver my personal form of pain medication via my “magic wand” a tried and trusted method otherwise known as… a little taste of self determining heaven that comes with a long cord and plugs in behind my nightstand.

She really is the true gift that keeps on giving. I don’t have to tell her she’s pretty, witty or charming. Happy to deliver exactly what she promises, she never asks who is texting me at 3am. She is simply perfect.

I was recently asked “What? Battery operated isn’t good enough for you?”

Hell No! If I could find me a sexual partner that required a kick start and a stand… I’d take it!! Batteries are so 1992… Come on really? Who wants to be “RIGHT THERE” to then hear that tell tale battery whine sound… as you begin to buzz slightly lower and lower and lower and…. God Damn it!! Where is the Advil??

Not I, Ladies… Not I. No, I want a surefire consistent buzz!

What does this have to do with my usually adoring 8yr old German Shepard? Aha! I’m getting to that…

So my last period found me like a vice grip to the ovaries. It was a real doozy of menstrual cramp hell. The pain told me it was going to take a seriously committed relationship complete with U-Haul between “Wanda” and myself to elevate my girl parts to where they felt almost human again.

Man’s best friend apparently had other ideas.

Now, both of my dogs are pretty well trained in the bedroom department. They don’t stare… they don’t try to join in… they definitely don’t ask to go outside…No, my babies settle in and wait it out. I am blessed with discrete and considerate animals. Well, I thought I was…

That was until recently when I was in severe pain – chasing the “O” dragon as far as she would go… So, I was WAY past dinner and a movie with “Wanda” when my German Shepard (Mackie) decides to lie down on the power strip, subsequently shutting it down via the surge protector.

BOOM! Wanda has left the building along with Elvis and I am thrown unceremoniously back down the mountain I just spent the last ten minutes climbing.

Dammit, up I get – move the dog… switch the power cord back on and settle in for an attempt at round two towards the summit.

My eyes are closed and I am gaining ground pretty quickly, stupidly I open my eyes and BINGO… there’s my boy staring right at me with those big brown hound dog eyes… tongue hanging out – hot breath panting in my direction… that was a buzz kill... a true deflating moment. I beg my truest companion, in very few words, to go find a corner and lie down. He obligingly grumbles his way to a corner of the bedroom. I am back in business!

No time to be sweet talking foreplay with Wanda, we pick up where we left off. We have our little dance down to a fine art – so we skip past “GO”…pick up our “get out of jail free” card and are cruising towards Mayfair…. Jesus! Mother! & Joseph! The damn power goes off again. My sweet boy has scooted his butt right back onto the friggin power strip – OK, now I’m pissed.

In a verbal buckshot of frustration – I’m yelling at the damn dog to move his ass… how do I know he hates me? Because he moves off the power strip only to lay his hulking frame onto Wanda’s usually pretty lengthy cord.

I am so desperate to finish the job – I hit the reset on the power strip and give up on moving the dog.

Have you ever tried to write a check at the bank? You have, right? Ok, well you know the damn pen attached to the desk by a chain…Why is the chain is always too short? No matter where you go… it’s always too friggin short. I want to meet the pen chained to a desk designer. It has to be a man, it has to be. Every woman knows in order for them to be fun useable tools, pens and vibrators should always have ample cord length.

The only thing you can do with a pen on a chain is recreate your childhood penmanship inadequacies (Like it wasn’t embarrassing enough the first time around).

Apply this EXACT SAME THEORY to a corded vibrator.

It wasn’t the best date Wanda and I had ever been on but by sheer determination, we did make it all the way through the movie and even managed to share some buttered salty popcorn along the way. We didn’t bicker or argue, we didn’t seek couples counseling or support groups for people in similar situations… It did take a long time, however to her credit she was still the finest rendezvous I had had all week.

I think it’s pretty obvious my dog hates me. Why would he mess with me so badly otherwise? It’s not like I get my hands in the mix when he’s licking his balls and make him stop. I simply avert my eyes and pretend to be disgusted. I do make an effort to disguise my jealousy at this self ball licking talent. Man, if I could do that… Wanda and I would be over!
Don’t get me wrong, just like my other exes… I’d wish Wanda well and try to remain friends leaving open the smidgen of opportunity to perhaps pick up a date here and there during a dry spell.

You can’t blame a girl for leaving her options open.

Common Sense Rule to Vibrating Techniques:

Always try to plug “Friends of Wanda” directly into the wall, if at all avoidable – stay away from power strips with surge protectant switches.

Christmas Shopping Tip:
Search The Sharper Image high and low for wireless, non-corded vibrating devices for any ladies in your life that suffer from extreme menstrual crampage.
Find that item and you will shoot your way to the top of my Christmas card list!

Women's Week P-Town Part 1.

2008-10-30T08:27:00.000-04:00

People fascinate me - Lesbians and Lesbian culture is especially intriguing to me - for obvious reason, I mean really… I am a "little" invested. This is my tribe, ya know?

I just spent a week in P-Town for my first ever "women's week" experience…

It has been a week of loss and recovery. By that I mean, my wallet, my car keys (2sets), my money, my phone, my id and my traveling companion.

The week began as it meant to continue, a call to the police station and an "almost" missing persons report. As the week progressed and much alcohol was consumed…2 lost purses, more lost and found police reports, a call to AAA and an ex-girlfriend… everything but my dignity was recovered.

What I really want to know is why do ex- girlfriends have to know everything, really…

Why?

In order to regain my lost belongings I was forced to place a call to my ex girlfriend who was in Atlanta Georgia with her Mother attending a family Bar- Mitzvah. It's not exactly the phone call you want to make

"Um, Hi! Yeah… it's me. I appear to have lost a couple of things, do you happen to have Sally's friends phone number… I think she may know where my shit is…"

Sure enough – she tracked down my missing items like a bloodhound. It was reminiscent of the years following our break up. I swear she would hide things from me like my favorite pair of shoes and my tax return from 1999.

"Hey, it's me! Do you happen to know where my snakeskin boots are, the ones I bought in England?"

"Upstairs closet, top shelf… way in the back… the shoes your wore to my cousins wedding are up there with them"

"Shit! I've been looking for them too!"

"Well, if you need anything else…just call me"

"Um, actually... do you know where my taxes are?"

(Heavy Sigh - from the ex)

Ok, Back to Women's Week…

It seems to me (and anyone that possesses a reading level over the age of 8) that the stand up comic is to today's lesbian culture what folk musicians and Kum Ba Yah were to the lesbians back in the 70's. Just read the women's week guide – every 20-30 minutes you can catch a stand up comedy show of some description.

All I have to say about that is…. THANK GOD!

Way to go, lesbians!! We are now choosing to laugh at our selves rather than sitting around singing odes to butch gym teachers. I think it is a possibility that we could be on the verge of shaking our dumpy dour reputation as unfeminine, unfunny creatures. You know, the ones that just can't find a "good man" and therefore are forced to turn to lesbianism.

I could never figure out what "good man" meant and we've all heard it. Does it mean Hung? Gives good head? Won't beat you for serving brussel sprouts with dinner? I have come to the conclusion that it means filthy rich, impotent and welcomes your lesbian lover to move in to west wing of the Malibu mansion. If you know this man – please send him my way… I think I could be forced to make a life change.

With this new wave of beautiful, funny chiquitas…perhaps the straight people will finally accept the fact that I truly am one of the horned, card carrying members of our little club. Not that I am either of those things but I'm hoping it will impact me in some way.

Now I don't want you to think I am bashing the unshaven, patchouli wearing, earthy chicks hauling guitar cases around town. Please don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the lesbian folk musician. I have accumulated quite a few of the musically inclined type on my ex-gf rap sheet. I even have a professional pianist from Amsterdam on there and let me tell you… "Chopin" will never sound the same again… (ahem).

I considered working my way through the comics but thought better of it… I mean, really there's enough material out there in the world without having an auditorium of potential ex-wives laughing at my personal sexual escapades. At some point a 37 year old woman in a French maids outfit just isn't funny anymore.

The single women blew me away. The pick up lines were amazing – even to me! Now, forget the lesbian handbook, I think I missed the women's week "single woman's: handbook – I have never been yelled at so many times for my apparent failure in the making out department. Apparently the pre-requisite errs more to the side of making out with and sleeping with drunk chicks whose last names you don't know, can't spell and for the love of god…forget good pronunciation!!

If you try to swim upstream against this rule… you get yelled at!

And that my friends, is my next posting… Women's Week, Part 2

Sparkles

xoxo

Currently listening :
Lesbian Favorites: Women Like Us
By Various Artists
Release date: 1997-10-28

How To Fail A Personality Test

2008-10-20T22:23:00.001-04:00

So, here I am – some random hotel room in Connecticut, smoking in the bathroom with the fan on and the shower running – can of "Oust" at the ready and it occurs to me…

Don't people use hotel rooms to lose their virginity, do drugs and deal arms to foreign militia?

And I'm fucking smoking in the BATHROOM !

REALLY???

When did we all become so friggin conservative? It just about near kills me - the blandness of it all.

I'm going back to my roots – I have decided in this very minute. My goal every day from here to the tag on my toe – is to find one rule a day and break it… Is anyone up for that kind of challenge with me?

Currently listening : Personality Test By Henry's Anger

Indecent Proposals

2008-10-09T00:21:00.000-04:00

I think trying to see if your girlfriends parents friends would pay you for sex is quite amusing.... unfortunately my friends now ex-girlfriend didn't think so....Other people may think it was a dick move... I personally think it's comic genius and that's why I love you just the way you are!!!

Some of my favorite conversations recently....

1. " What would it be called if you didn't have sex for 5years but abstinence and celibacy didn't seem to fit as proper words?"
"I think that's what we like to call... a Lesbian Relationship"

2. "You have to love and respect me and if you can't do that then... you have to give me head"

3. "I swear I am going to kill him! I just know he is cheating on me"

"But princess, YOU are cheating on HIM!"
"I know, but he cannot prove it"

4. "I knew she would try to make me look like the dick in this break-up"
"You were TRYING to sleep with her parents friends for money…"
"So? She wouldn't introduce me to her parents… why would she care?"

(different conversation - same topic)

5. "It's not like I would have done it. I just wanted to see how much they would offer me"
"Like, how much are we talking?"
"I figured they'd offer me at least five grand"
"And you wouldn't have done it? What are you crazy? Babe... not for nothing, but...YOU could use five grand".

I confess to groaning and even swearing out loud when I get those ridiculous forwarded e-mails...

"Send this to ten people in ten minutes or you will never have sex again"

Hey people...guess what? I'm probably never going to have sex again anyway so I don't give a shit... keep sending em... my undoubted response will never change... DELETE!!

I got this a couple of days ago; it is almost worth all the crap you have forwarded to me over the years...hoping your phone will ring telling you that you won a million dollars.... Bear in mind, I did say ALMOST....

THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:

1. Innovative

2. Preliminary

3. Proliferation

4. Cinnamon

THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:

1. Thanks, but I don't want to have sex.

2. Nope, no more beer for me.

3. Sorry, but you're not really my type.

4. Good evening, officer. Isn't it lovely out tonight?

5. Oh, I couldn't. No one wants to hear me sing

And that my lovlies... is it for me, since I have to get up at the crack ass of 5am.... Good Night!

xoxox

Exactly how should a person clean their sex toys?

2008-10-06T14:42:00.000-04:00

It has been a good source of conversations – all this business of what to write next.

Everyone seems to have their favorite stories. Our gatherings have recently been filled with..."Oh my god, do you remember when…." "You have to write about that time when..."

The call is out for some classic "Dukey" Stories…. Karen Duke…. I will try to do her some justice, it is a challenge to bring to life a personality so large and compelling….. there are not enough words in the English language but as Dukey herself would say, "That being said..."

When she is on her game, Dukey is not the life of the party… she is the party. She can pretty much get anyone to do anything…. She is magnetic…. No matter who you are, she can get you to dance to her selected tune – it wouldn't surprise me to hear she had gotten cloistered roman catholic nuns doing body shots with the satin doll strippers… Yup – she's that good when she's "ON".

The flip side is when she's not – Oh, Holy Hell… But when you love her – you just gotta love it all, it's a helluva ride no matter where it takes you.

Meet Karen Duke

My personal tag line is:

"Have you met me?"

It means everything, it means nothing and sometimes it's just something absurd to say….

Karen Duke's Tag line has always been:

"Kid, you don't even know my middle name"

Always a variation on the same theme, in her cocky, boyish I got the world by the balls routine… what she is really saying is that you don't know her well enough to either say what you're saying or do what you're doing. As she is posturing her fine social graces over these poor people – you'll usually find me in the background saying "It's Marie…. Her middle name is Marie…" Would you expect any less of me?

Karen had a bad week… I mean a REALLY bad week…. It started with the hair dye…. an allergic reaction to a botched home hair dye attempt, my "swaggering, butchy" friend gave herself second degree chemical burns. Her neck and face were a mess.

A couple of days later she proceeded to fall down the basement stairs and tore her ankle up bad enough for a trip to the hospital where upon her limping, swollen,bandaged return home… her friends dog apparently took offense to the limping and bit her. I confess I'm already laughing because it does get worse. I realize it's not funny stuff but you just can't imagine that so many things could happen to one person in such a short amount of time; there's gotta be an element of humor in the horror!

Karen returned to the emergency room to get her hand bandaged up and a nice tetanus shot in the ass…. No word of a lie, same week… She got a call from relatives in Canada, her Father had died.

The services were in Canada and she needed to get there but couldn't drive…. Arm in a sling, ankle bandaged and swollen, burns on her neck and face – thank god someone stepped up to the plate and offered to drive her. Off they go on the not so fun mini road trip heading for the border by Niagara.

6 or 7 hours later they get to customs and realize Karen forgot to bring her license along with the rest of her wallet…. I kid you not!! There is no way around it – they have to go home get the stuff and have a trip "do-over".

Finally she makes it back across the border and the family she hasn't seen in years. Reconnecting with long lost aunts, uncles and cousins they are telling her stories and giving her memorabilia she didn't even know existed. For some reason an aunt had Karen's original birth certificate and decided now was a good time to hand it over…. I got the following phone call…

"I can't believe it"
"What?"
"I can't tell you"
"Karen what?"
"It's awful"
"Oh honey, I'm sorry it must be so hard"
"No, it's not that!"
"Huh? What do you mean? Then what is it?"
"It's my name"
"Your name?"
"My middle name…."

She sounds like she is gonna break down any second, like the world is ending… and please… at this point she owned the"I've had a bad week" saying….

"I'm not following honey; you're not making any sense"
"It's not Marie!"
"WHAT?"
"My middle name is NOT Marie!"
"Your middle name isn't Marie? Yes it is… Honey, it's always been Marie"
"It's MARY"

Silence on the phone – it's starting to dawn on me… she's actually trying to tell me something and I am desperately trying not to laugh at the plight of my dear, dear friend…..

"Nik, it's on my birth records… my middle name is Mary…"

I don't wish to appear callous... I had globs of sympathy for the hair dye chemical burns, busted leg, dog bite and her inability to get out of the country without any identification.... Her Father had just died and I have a heart filled with love for that kind of grief, but in that very moment....

The ONLY thing I could think of was......

"Hey Kid! You don't even know my middle name…"

It's too good of a weapon to ignore…. When the ball busting begins and strangers are drawn into her company….. you'll find me somewhere tossing out inflammatory comments…

"Hey Kid, don't listen to her – she doesn't know anything… Hell, she doesn't even know her own middle name!"

(told with love)

………………………………………………………………………………………

NEVER SLEEPING

At least 5 years prior …. A small crew of us went to Provincetown for a holiday weekend. We had an ocean front room with two beds, a pull out couch, kitchenette and balcony. Sounds nice, huh? Yeah… there were 9 of us sharing the room!! You heard me… NINE…. 3 to a bed, 2 on the couch and Foxy Brown was the floater… she hooked up 24/7 so we figured she really just needed a place to shower!!

Karen had recently started dating a cute 19year old baby dyke – just home from college with a hockey injury. The underage thing was mildly freaky but the girl was so damn cute, everyone adored her. Karen convinced most of us to go to the Pied at 3 or 4 in the afternoon before they started id'ing for the evening and just stay right through till close – since it was the only way to get cute baby dyke in the bar.

It was the summer of swishy pants; you know those sporty things you're supposed to wear if you're athletic? Well Karen started wearing them like it was her job; after all she was now dating a 19yr old field hockey player whose entire wardrobe consisted of 15 pairs of swishy pants and 10 baseball caps.

Not the most attractive choice on the planet but it wasn't the look of them that actually bothered me… it was the goddam swish, swish, swish, swish noise…. REALLY? You want to "Swish" EVERYWHERE you go? For Real?

The early hours of the 3rd night we had all fallen into our respective beds only Karen and her young love interest had not yet returned. They were last seen headed for a romantic stroll down the beach. They creep in an hour or so behind the rest of us. The room is in pitch darkness and they giggle their way into bed. Quiet ensues for about 5 minutes then it starts….

"Swish"
"Swish"

Quiet

"Swish"
"Swish"
"Swish"

Pause

"Swish"
"Swish"
"Swish"
"Swish"

Then comes the drunken sexy whisper

"You don't know what you do to me"

Up until that point I think each of us….. all 7, thought the remaining 6 were asleep. I know I personally was holding my breath trying not to let the amorous couple know I was wide awake – a listening audience to their swishy love fest.

From the pull out couch comes the comedic timing and sarcasm only "Mental Dental" (she's a dental hygienist) could execute….

"No…. but the rest of us do. We all know EXACTLY what you do to her!"

The room erupted in hysteria….

Lights snapped on and our swishy pant lovers were caught in the ridiculing glare of their closest friends….

The lesson of that particular trip?

Your friends are NEVER sleeping…….. and yes swishy gals – we now know exactly what she does to you and vice versa!!

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Nice To Meet Ya

The Swishy girls dated for about three years and then broke up. Cute Baby Dyke (now legal) dropped off the scene for quiet a few years. None of us saw much of her, when we did occasionally bump into her – she had leaned out and had really bloomed from cute baby dyke into a striking young woman.

Foxy Brown and Karen were out and about one night doing their usual work the bar for the cute girls, routine… The infamous, tried and tested… "You're hot, you need a shot" … cheesy as it sounds… works for them every time.

Fox strikes up a lively conversation with someone at the bar and orders a round of shots. Karen seeing shots in play, strides over to join the meet and greet – She shakes the woman's hand and introduces herself

"Hi, I'm Karen Duke, very nice to meet you"

Foxy Brown is just standing there with a screwy frown on her face – a puzzled look, the girl is just looking at her and saying nothing……Karen has no idea what just happened…Finally Fox spits out…

"You Dumbass!!! It's Kelly Silva…. You know? KELLY… You dated her... for THREE YEARS…. Swish, Swish, Swish?"

Dukey's response?

"Well, I can't remember everybody!"

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Exactly how should a person clean their sex toys?

Fox and I went away for the weekend and left Dukey to house sit for us. Saturday night, my phone rings it's Karen and she's getting ready to go to the club.

"Where are all your hair products… I can't find anything"
"K, go in the bathroom – everything you could possibly need and more is in the bathroom closet"
"Got it!"
"OK, have fun tonight, call if you need anything"

We resume our evening. Half an hour later the phone rings again,

"You have the crappiest hair products, this stuff doesn't do anything"
"Karen, there's a ton of stuff in there that you will like, just search through"
"I did already and this… what is it? Um, Toy stuff… doesn't do anything, what is it supposed to do?"
"Toy stuff? I don't know what you are talking about, what does it look like?"
"It's in a small spray bottle it's clear liquid"
"Dukey? What does it say on the bottle?"
"Hang on, um, it says… Toy Cleaner"
"What do you mean it doesn't do anything? Did you use it in your hair?"
"Yeah, I put a ton of it in there – it's not doing anything"

Fox heard "Toy Cleaner" and "did you put it in your hair? "she is beside herself….

"She didn't? What did she do? She used the toy cleaner?"

I nod because I can't speak… I catch my breath…

"Karen…. You put "TOY CLEANER" in your hair?"

"I told you this already"
"Karen, That's not a hair product!"
"What? What? But it's in with the hair products"
"Dukey, it says Toy Cleaner on the label… what did you think it did?"
"I thought it was that shiny stuff you use, it looks like it"

Fox and I are now peeing in our pants laughing….

We weren't there to see it – but I have the image in my mind of Karen "I don't know my middle name" Duke – standing in the bathroom mirror spraying "Sex Toy Cleaner" into her hair getting frustrated because the only thing it's doing is adding a nice layer of germ killing disinfectant to her scalp!

It really brings "clean hair" to a whole new level.

......................................................................................................................

THE BODYSHOT BIRTHDAY

Dukey's 40th birthday was a scene straight out of the movie "Fame"and "Flashdance" combined. It was tagged as the "Bodyshot Birthday" at least a week beforehand.

"It HAS to be the bodyshot birthday, doing bodyshots after 40 is crossing the line into creepy"

"Are you really telling me that after this weekend you are NEVER doing bodyshots ever again?"

"Yes! I'm telling you. There's a fine line between creepy and charming…. It's time to grow up – this is the last of the craziness and I am going out with a bang!"

I fix Dukey with a skeptical look and shake my head with a mixture of sadness at the possibility and complete utter disbelief that she is serious about retiring this bar room pastime that has spiced up many an otherwise uneventful evening….. I agree to the madness with a half conviction that she is actually serious about it.

It was INSANE!

I should end the story there with no further incriminating details…. However…. That would just be silly!!

Karen had every hot girl she spied that evening in some kind of compromising situation on tables, bent over chairs, laying flat out on the bar. At some point she threw out the challenge to have all the bartenders everywhere we went – on the bar covered in sugar… all I have to say is… mission accomplished!!

We bar-hopped leaving chaos in our wake – the birthday entourage doubling in numbers with every bar… we collected clientele and took them with us to our next targeted spot. Our final destination was a gay club downtown– typically a gay men's nightclub with a mixed clientele…. Body shots ensued. The gay guys were in love with the crazy chaotic lesbians who stormed the place and took no prisoners… if you were there you were part of the party.

The club promised to close down way too early for Karen's liking. Before the ugly lights came on, she slipped out and pulled her brand new black and chrome tricked out Mitsubishi Montero up onto the sidewalk in front of the club. All doors, windows, trunk and sunroof – wide open. The Souped up Stereo turned to max – dance music filled the city around us.

As the gay population poured out of the club – they were greeted by a street version of the dance party that was shutting its doors for the evening. It was crazy, everyone just stayed in the street – dancing, singing, making out… all kinds of boundaries were crossed… Gay guys were making out with the lesbians; lesbians were making out with each other… a couple of straight dudes from a bar up the street joined right in to the milieu. It was like a free-love convention right out of the 1960's.

A couple of us went up through the sunroof and were continuing the party on the rooftop terrace. From this vantage point we spotted the cop car in the parking lot across the street. Our city's fine law enforcement official was sitting watching the disorderly conduct with mild interest. I figured we were sunk for sure – he must have been waiting for back-up to come so he could disband the gathering of 100 or so drunken queens and dykes, right? It had the makings of a mini stonewall all over again! Nope!! Apparently, dude was just enjoying the show - he must have gotten a call because after half an hour or so he took off in the opposite directions – lights and sirens blaring.

No-one got hurt, no-one got arrested it was a surreal night of bodyshot birthday fun. The after effects weren't too bad either… It was repeatedly brought to my attention that I was probably responsible for the small dent on the roof of the Montero. Personally I blame the kissing bandit…. A 6 foot 3 inch straight dude that was up there having a good old time with the gay girls! I swear he was the one who wasn't aware of proper weight distribution techniques…

My GF and I stopped by Banana Republic the following week where my she proceeded to step on the sharp point of a security tag in the dressing room – it was a bloody mess. The nervous nellie staff member called for manager assistance…. Enter gorgeous gay guy… who stopped dead in his tracks. My first thought was…. he was squeamish and the blood was a shocker but no… "Oh my god! Wasn't I just making out with you two on Friday night?" The uptight staff member almost choked on her own saliva "Oooooohhhhh you two are great kissers" he then proceeded to be super charming and with true gay man flourish he gushed…. "I can give you a great deal on those pants if you promise not to sue…"

The following Saturday we headed out with very few expectations – after a night like that not even New Years Eve 1999 could compete… we were in for a long haul of just "OK" nights out. It was pretty mellow until Karen spotted a hot chick… she gave me the look – I saw the girl…. I saw the devil take root right on Dukey's shoulder.

"Nik…. Bodyshots?"
"Wait a minute creepy lady! Didn't you say…"

I couldn't even get the sentence out – she cut me off with a glare as she flashed her cocky grin at hot chick – did her boyish shoulder thing and went into full swagger…. Me? Yeah, I was at the bar ordering a round of lemon drops with extra sugar on the side…. So much for turning 40!!

Things I learnt so far in 2008

2008-10-06T14:04:00.000-04:00

Never to choose the sensible option

My body does not want to be impregnated quite as easily as I thought it would

To stay away from psychics – no matter how much fun it may sound at the time

My capacity to love and grieve is infinite

Feeling vulnerable pisses me off

My ego can be problematic

Most people have to be shown how to do a body shot

There are many things I never thought I would do and now that just seems so silly

Sharing yourself and your life really does bring a measure of joy to other people – even complete strangers you may never meet in person

Digging someone who doesn't dig you back is part of natures plan and actually isn't as bad as one would imagine

My personal cologne line will be called "I'll do what I want and then you'll thank me"

I really want my own porn film called "Smoke and Mirrors"

If I ever get a tattoo – I'm committed to one of those cute little Chinese designs… I swear I'm taking the delivery menu right into the tattoo parlor…it's gonna say Chicken Fried Rice

That Lovely British Girl... The one who pees on herself!

2008-09-23T01:15:00.000-04:00

It's funny how nicknames and sayings come into being, its almost like they have a life of their own. I am and will be forever know as "That lovely British girl, who pees on herself".

I have a few peeing stories, which I was so sweetly reminded of today by someone who knows every nook and cranny of my closet. Why would I share this information publicly? Well, it completely ties into my self depreciating sense of humor. I have always said…. "If it's funny it's fair game" and that my lovelies applies to me first and to you second.

So to share my humiliation, here goes nothing.

I once dated a girl named Little Lynne, we were together on and off for about a year. Both in our late teens we were still young British renegades with no real direction in life.

I have a million stories about this girl, she was trouble. Capital T trouble! I seem to go for that sort whenever the opportunity arises. (I think Slam would have been the troubled sort too).

Among other things, Lynne was obsessed with the idea of golden showers. She would constantly beg me to pee on her. I must have been destined to become an American citizen because I just couldn't get my head around the eroticism in the act of peeing on ones lover. My thoughts would always, without fail, go to the practicalities of such tomfoolery. The bed… the sheets…pee smell… the hygiene…you get the idea.

There's not much I would say no to if the gal I was sleeping with was really into it… but I have to say that on a scale of ONE to DID HELL FREEZE OVER? That really was a… did hell freeze over? Hmmmm…..No!

We were in the throws of sexual experimentation. We were young and thought we invented half of the stuff we came up with, which is quite amusing to think back on now.

At Lynne's request we had a threesome with our roommate, Debbie (not to be confused with Dumb Debbie – Thank You!). Yes…even in England dykes move in together on the 2nd date. We couldn't afford a u-haul which at the time really was fine… since all of our (combined) worldly possessions fit nicely into three Asda shopping bags. The move was smooth sailing as we boarded the number 58 bus and headed to our new home in Chorlton-cum-Hardy (you couldn't make this shit up if you tried). Three packed plastic grocery bags, she carried two of them and I begrudgingly carried the third. Oh – the good times…. Anyway, back to this threesome thingy…

Lynne apparently really dug Debbie therefore seizing the opportunity to cash in on the fact that Deb and her girlfriend Cheryl were in a humongous fight … I didn't care much either way, I mean the girl was nice enough…but not nice enough for me to wipe away her tears and then offer to fuck her.

I do hope Lynne became a Multi-Bagillionaire – because she was one hell of a sales person… I mean think of this…. "Come on honey, forget the Kleenex and the ice-cream, me and my girlfriend will have sex with you, that'll really give you something to cry about"… sadly, I'd wager, she isn't making six figures selling honest goods to a customer base…she's probably selling crack to junior high school kids in the bowels of Manchester…I have such great taste in women!!

Meanwhile back at the relationship ranch… the sales pitch was more along the lines of "You won't do the golden shower thing for me so at the very least you could do this… I mean, you like Debbie… you guys get along". Yeah … when we borrowed each others clothes!!

I considered it and since I had turned down repeated requests to convert our bedroom into a urinal (which I know really was quite selfish of me)… I agreed. The event didn't pan out exactly as Lynne had envisioned. The encounter turned primarily into a two-some with an audience of one. It seemed our "roomie" dug me a little more than she dug Lynne. I believe Lynne's statement to me the next day was "Let's not do that again", I'm guessing she didn't appreciate being the third wheel. That's the problem with threesomes… one person always gets left out.

Cheryl and Debbie made up and shortly thereafter Lynne and I moved to Hanbury Street in Miles Platting. The golden showers request remained in play. Because the threesome hadn't worked out "exactly" in her favor, Lynne used it as a negotiation tool… I finally buckled…

"Fine! Fine… Bloody Fine! But… there is no way I'm peeing on you in my bed"

A bizarre conversation to be having, at best.

"I'll do it in the bathtub"

She was over-fucking-joyed! I directed her to lay down in the tub and I would pee on her. Oh my God… why am I even writing this? The memory is excruciatingly humiliating and yet the image – which thankfully you don't have access to…. is hysterical!!

So there she is, this little "5 foot' nothing" Napoleon, lying in an empty tub… with me, the naked 5'9 Amazon, crouching over her trying to pee. I couldn't pee. I couldn't do it to save my life; I had gone completely pee shy. I ran the water in the sink… that wasn't working so I leant over and put my fingers in the stream of water to see if that would help… nothing… nada! I had her making those pee pee noises; you know what I'm talking about, the ones mothers make when their children have the same problem with a dammed up aqueduct. How sexy does this montage sound? Trust me, it felt about as sexy as it sounds…

I managed one tiny un-sexy dribble and I had had enough…. This show was over. The golden shower was attempted, failed and put to bed – forever!

She didn't ask me again – yet another thing that didn't live up to the fantasy in her head…. (Please refer to Lesbian Sex… it's called a "fantasy" for a reason).

Surely amidst my humiliation I have to get SOME props for even trying??? No? Sigh…. OH WELL! I must move on to my second peeing episode.

Less than five years later I was a resident in the States and no American girl I knew was asking me to even pee in front of her – so I figured I was safe, for now…

It was Easter of 1992, Big Bell had just gotten a fire engine red Kawasaki Vulcan, sport motorcycle. It was all cranked up – chrome, sport seats … Unfortunately, I have an aversion to motorcycles; I lost my cousin to bike accident in 1991 – needless to say – not my family's favorite mode of transportation. The loss was still so new and raw it was a huge deal for me to be around these steel ponies, let alone have someone I loved riding around on one.

The plan was to spend Easter Sunday with BB and family where I would meet BB's Mom for the first time. Momma B was making the family a ham dinner with all the fixings and maybe a little egg painting activity thrown in for fun. BB begged me to ride bitch over to Momma B's house… Bell was so excited and so proud of the new power toy that I didn't have it in me to rain all over the macho parade as it gathered speed.

There are only two people on the planet, as I live and breathe , that I trust enough to get on the back of one of those two wheel monsters. I just rode with Dykes on Bikes for Pride 2008 and what a bloody fiasco that was … let me tell you! Well, maybe another time…

Subsequently, Easter of 1992, I let go of my fear and saddled up for the short ride across town.

BB was in heaven!!

It was my summer of mini skirts and cowboy boots… quite the look!!

I had been shopping especially for the occasion and had discovered an amazing invention called a skort. I am a hater of shorts but sometimes skirts truly are just impractical, especially if you are engaged in any kind of physical activity that requires you to bend over. The SKORT is an amazing tool in a girl's wardrobe….. It looks like a skirt but in actual fact is really shorts with a skirt façade!! Genius!!!

Definitely not a motorcycle outfit – but apropos for Easter Dinner!

Macho Bell is driving the Vulcan mean machine wearing jeans, motorcycle boots and a black leather jacket, I am riding bitch in a blue skort, tank top and cowboy boots. We got the response Bell was looking for as we whipped through the outskirts of Boston. I was happy to oblige Bell's ever increasing testosterone filled ego….

We arrived at our destination in one piece. I loved Momma B on sight… we just bonded there and then for no particular reason and yet every one I can think of. The Ham was fabulous… The family was less than creative in their attempts at egg painting and I am putting myself at the front of the line for the least amount of skill and artistic talent…

Momma B did what mothers all over the world do…. She broke out the family photo albums to show off her babies! From dirty faced toddlers to prom pictures… we went through them all and there are some doozies in there let me tell you… I'm pretty sure BB would kill me if I described the prom outfit!!! LOL!!!

Well fed and well entertained I excused myself to go to the ladies room.

Women's clothing occasionally requires a physics degree to figure out exactly how certain pieces "work". I have many things in my closet that to the naked eye – you would be wondering… "What the Hell do you do with THAT?" – Forgive me, but… well, I was new to the "skort" world and I didn't fully understand it myself. In order to pee in a skirt you pull it up, now shorts… you pull them down…. So what, pray tell do you do with a skort which is neither a skirt nor a short?

It took me a minute but I finally figured it out… you pull it down like shorts…. though I didn't happen to account for all the excess flowy 'skirt" material. Yep…This genius somehow landed all the excess fabric into the toilet bowl and pee'ed all over it. As I stood up to flush I realized that the back of me was completely soaked.

So now what do you do? You're in someone's Mothers bathroom (who you've just met) and you are soaked through, covered in your own pee! I was horrified! I took the damn thing off and washed it in the sink… but now I was left with a sodden skort and nothing to put on…. I did the best job I could to wring it out and donned the now "not so great looking" wet rag.

The person that I am today… I would just own the situation and have a good laugh at myself – the younger version of me cared way too much about what others thought. I fought it but I eventually had to extract myself from the bathroom when even I, could no longer justify the time I had spent locked away agonizing over my wardrobe malfunction.

Fortunately BB was sitting on the couch by the door. I walked up behind the couch and tried out my sweetest quietest indoor voice, I half whispered…
"Bee, Come have a cigarette with me?"
"In a minute, come look at these pictures, Mom wanted you to see this.."

BB was engrossed in the family pictorial history. I upped my volume a little…

"BB, come have a cigarette, we'll look at those in a minute"
Bell can get really stubborn and single minded every once in a while… and picked that moment to make a stand for the family history.

"Come on Nik, Mom just got these out"
"I know, but I really want to go outside"
"We were just outside ten minutes ago, it won't kill you, I really want you to see these"

BB was not picking up what I was laying down. I put my hands on BB's shoulders and dug my nails into the flesh… I half hissed through clenched teeth and (what I was praying looked like) a very sweet smile to the rest of the family…

"NOW, BB…NOW!… come outside and have a cigarette with ME, NOW"

I spoke very slowly and articulated every word… stressing my point with a glare and raised eyebrows.

BB finally got the hint..

"OK! OK! We'll go have a cigarette, what's all the fuss about?"

I used Bells body as shield to get from behind the couch and out the door…. Bell took one look at me…

"What the HELL happened to you? What did you do?"

I regaled my bathroom woes, BB was in hysterics before I could even finish… sensitivity and discretion does not run in Bell's family.

The front door flew open – Oh the horror… Momma B…

"What is all the ruckus about? What's so funny?"

"It's Nik…"

BB spits out, pointing in my direction….

"She peed all over herself!"

In that moment… I became….

"That Lovely British Girl…. The one who pees on herself"

16 years later…. Momma B still refers to me in that manner … "And how is Nik, That lovely British girl that pees on herself?"

Like I said…. These things have a life of their own

Group Sex Etiquette is as follows:
A Threesome / Ménage is just a convenient term to use for having sex with multiple people. If you really want to engage in such skirmishes I find, even numbers work out much better for everyone involved.

Common Sense Rule 5.
When faced with a fashion choice…. Wash and Wear is ALWAYS the way to go

Christmas Shopping Tip
If in doubt….. Buy the girl a sweater

Currently listening : Sexy Pee Story Release date: 1995-11-21