Linking Lesbians Between Lands

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Never Make an Impression at Church

I have to remember to wear a bra.  I’m going to the church where people hug—a lot—,and I will be hugged by all shapes and sizes.  If I don’t wear a bra, there will be two lasting impressions—not only because it’s really cold inside every single building in the south during the summer—but also because I’m from Texas and don’t need AC to be below 75 degrees—anywhere, anytime.  After the hugging, I wouldn’t want for the impressions to last too long and get in the way of the minister’s message.

 I try to think about things like that.  It wouldn’t be good if I was the reason that someone didn’t pay attention, didn’t get the message about growing and nurturing their spiritual seeds -> was mean to someone at work -> lost his job or was impatient in traffic -> got in a car wreck -> hurt someone.  I can’t take on all of that, so I pull the restraints around my shoulders and accept the donning of this prop one more day of the week.  (I think the need for small-breasted women to wear bras is false marketing from “Them” and “They” who have been negligent naysayers since the dawning of human consciousness; however, we’re stuck with their subliminal messages until someone hunts down the Them-They twins and wags the forefinger at them, giving them what-for.)

Needless to say, I don’t think I need a bra because I’ve never had a baby and still have my teen—size breasts, which is okay with me because I can sleep on my belly (which gives me bags under my eyes), can go surfing (which would be great if I lived near the ocean), and can hug someone closer to my heart than someone with >C size breasts (which isn’t as snuggly of a hug as a DD one).  With all of the pros and cons weighed, I think I need to go to church to ask God why I didn’t get bigger breasts.  I’ll add this to my list of things for monkey mind to investigate when the rest of the me(s) are emptying out the week’s thoughts. 

I learned how to meditate when Ex#3 and I moved to SoCal.  Being the daughter of a wanna-be minister, I had too many religious non-sequitors bouncing off of the sides of my mind’s globe.  Despite my desire to be a missionary when I was in high school, I had mostly given up on speaking to God by the time I reached college and immediately after the second day of my Psy of Women class.  See, it’s not so simple that I can press all of the relationship dynamics into one of those 25₵ gumball machine plastic containers and say that it’s about being rejected by Christ(ians) for being gay.   After a series of not understanding most of everything, I had given up having conversations with God unless I wanted to discuss the injustices of the world which were directly affecting me at that very moment.  Whether God cares about me or not, it’s never beneficial to have a relationship with any other being where the only conversation is, “I showed up to chew you out.”  Right? 

About 7 years ago, Ex#3 and I started a new life together in SoCal.  We found a Unity church which was open to pseudo-psychic lesbians like me.  There, we met people who attended all kinds of spiritual gatherings.  That New Year’s Eve, we went to Laguna Beach and chanted/meditated with a couple hundred Hindus.  I was hopped up on cold medicine and the entire experience was so surreal that I’m pretty sure I saw Ganesh dancing with a long colorful scarf.  Anyhoo, in SoCal, I learned how to talk to God without debating the too familiar dogma because during meditation there isn’t much my monkey mind or ego can question.

It’s a good thing that I have this practice in my life because I’ll have to do it here, today.  In typing up these thoughts—and stopping to make sourdough French toast with maple syrup crusted banana slices and fresh cantaloupe on the side—I’ve lost track of time and there’s no way I’m going to be dressed before they shut the chapel doors.  I won’t have to imprison the girls but the Levis will have to come off because I’ve got to get out in the yard and trim the spreading, sprawling ivy.  Good for me that God is everywhere because I’m not going to hear the message that will nurture my spiritual seeds.  The other thing I’ll miss is the people and their ever-enduring hugging.  If you missed this kind of morning too, go out and hug a straight person today and whisper to your mind’s eye, “We are all one…until someone builds a shuttle for the planet without bras.”   

An IDGAD Day for Everyone!!

Tonight was the first night that I thought about something I’d like to do with my next girlfriend.  (We’re not going to talk about that! I’ve been watching the lesbian series and have been taking lots of mental notes.  There will be lots of belly kisses as well as off-camera moaning, gasping, and aching.  I can do all of that.)  I was surprised to find that I was thinking of an imaginary partner and considering that it was the time of day when I would say, “How was your day?”  Seeing that I had no one to ask, I did the most frugal thing and asked myself.

     
         “I had an I don’t give a damn day.”

That made me smile and I opened a Corona. 

It would be good if everyone had a day of the week to say, “I don’t give a damn.”  It could be that simple.  She could some home and whatever needed to be done, she could just say, “IDGAD,” and then we would go to plan “whatever.”  She + she = 2 whatever evenings.  This is a good thing!

Maybe I could create an IDGAD token and put a hole in it.  The queen for the day could wear it around her neck.   This reminds me of when I was a senior in high school. We took the eighth graders to a camp in a remote valley in west Texas.  

“Let’s go canoeing,” I instructed before anyone could unpack.

The particular site is Laity Lodge—it has everything that a camper could ever ask for.  Looking back, it’s not only amazing that I was given this opportunity but that knucklehead principals and parents would let the likes of us care for their children and skip classes for an entire week.

I head down to the lake with campers following me like ducks to the pond and instruct them to pick one of the many canoes.  Six people in each canoe (eighth grade girls pack well).   Here we go with the unsynchronized momentums of those unpracticed ones who picked up paddles.  My memory fails me about what happened next, but I know that I was responsible for tipping—sinking—the canoe, and then my little eighth graders dropped to the bottom of the dirty lake.  Later that night, at roundup, I was awarded the bonehead award.  It was the thigh of a calf or some mammal, and it had a hole in the middle so that the honoree could wear it for 24 hours.  I think the IDGAD lanyard is going to go a lot better.

I will implement this idea as soon as I get a girl who will sign up for after work routines with me.  But for now, I have to think about the importance of this qualitatively different kind of thought.  This milestone means that I’m using a new part of my mind.  The question is, “If my heart beats in Baton Rouge, will anyone hear it?”  My other option is to dart out looking for the unknown.  I’ll be there and she’ll be where?  I’m staying put.

I know that time is ticking, and I don’t want to waste another decade.  If my first girlfriend* was all about discovery, my second girlfriend was all about stability.  This was a respite that allowed me to prepare for third girlfriend who kept me moving.  Let’s not get into name calling.  Eventually, one of our mutual friends will discover this blog.  Besides, I’m a handful in my own regard.

If I’ve completed discovery, stability, and calamity, what’s next? (Does anyone recognize this pattern?  Does everyone lesbian find these milestones, in no specific order, before she dies?)  I’d like to know if these are the three options and whether each soul simply spirals up or down, stumbling upon one of the three positions throughout life.   If I were to spiral up and immediately spiral down, are there commercial breaks in between—like the Jimmy Dean sausage commercial that plays after every scene in Lip Service—, or will a position that I just exited and am reentering look like an entirely new experience?

Is this discovery, stability, and calamity process the trinity of lesbian dating or can I hope for a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh stage that will gather from the formers and bring meaning to the latter(s)?  I feel a tug to stay with this thought.  I must “be” or I won’t recognize that I was even there.  I know what to do—, I'll put the IGDAD around my neck, order take-out, and commence with the belly kisses and off-camera moaning.


*Girlfriend is defined by someone who I shared a rental agreement or mortgage with.  Since this happens after the second date, it isn't as strict a requirement as one might think. 

Looking for the Organics Behind the Mask

I grabbed a late lunch at 2:00-fish tacos. I know; it’s stupid to order tacos outside of the really good Mexican food epicenter, but I hadn’t yet made it back to the center of Louisiana and was hoping to hold onto my Texas weekend a few hours longer.  The menu called for breaded-fried white fillets. I ordered them grilled.  When the waitress dropped it off, I was startled by the manager who popped into view, “I want to know what you think!”  He was excited.  

“I’ll be back.”  

His excitement made me excited until I drained the taco of dripping oil.  I guess the cook decided to remove the coating but cook the way he cooks.  What made me push the platter away was the realization that the part of the fish they were using was that dark strip down the middle of the tilapia.  This use of unappealing meat is ok as long as everything stays covered up.

In Master’s program, I did my thesis on Jungian Archetypes.  Carl put forth the idea of a persona, a mask.  He said that when we introduce ourselves, we show off the parts that most clearly represent who we want ourselves to be perceived as.  (This works in various scenarios.  If you’re wanting to be perceived as a rebel, you put forth your best rebel attributes.   I might be ad-libbing here.  I’m not sure.)  I think the persona is like the breading on the fish.  It’s not necessary, but it's an option that will change the experience.  

Persona makes me think about the “best” stuff that I will probably, involuntarily, exhibit on any next date.  However, I have a default script that requires me to be authentic—organic—(thus the dis-settling feeling during on-the-spot moments and when stalking an attractive stranger in a bar), and I haven't been able to make my mind cough up items for a list of personable attributes that I might test out.  My mind seems to be okay with this limitation as there is always a list of different lists for it to attend to.  

On the way back to Baton Rouge, I thought through these ideas.  Now, I'm reading If the Buddha Dated.  The author references another thunker, “If we play hard to get or pour on the charm to attract someone to us, we plant the seeds for anger and mistrust […].”  Wow, that sounds like great advice—at first.  Being an organic being, I don’t want to plant distrust.  But, if I don’t pour on some charm, I won’t plant seeds of interest and there will be no need to worry about anger or mistrust.  I’ll leave the task of weighing out proportions of charm to misery for future case-by-case decisions.  Kasl continues, “If someone falls in love with our mask, we have two choices: either we wear the mask and lose ourselves, or remove the mask and risk losing the relationship.”  Wow, that sounds horrible—at first and throughout each of the dimensions of my mind. 

Ex#2 and I had a friend—let’s call her Lafitte—who was heartbroken about a breakup.  Lafitte had been with Meany for more than a decade, but she only told of good times during their first year.  (I’m going to go out on a limb and say that people can’t wear a mask for longer than four seasons.)  Meany’s darker side—the Shadow—began to eeek from the sides of her mask until it consumed her.  Unfortunately for Lafitte, Meany had seduced her good—real good—and Lafitte worked really hard to get Meany to be the sweet lover she had been during year one.  Ex#2 and I stood by and tried to support Lafitte, but we knew that after the surface niceties (her persona), Meany was mean.  Now that I’ve met Jung’s stuff, I understand that Meany was suffocating beneath the mask.  She was the backstrap of tilapia and needed for Lafitte to not find out that she was covered in fried breading and had lied about being the filet.  

I’m not going to tell you how Kasl concludes the chapter because I wouldn’t do it justice and I'm ready to go grab a really late dinner.  It seems like with the mask you get nowhere if you don’t put it on, and you’re far down the wrong path if you wear it too long.  I'll let you surmise the conundrum.  On any next first date, should an organic person be:

A.   breaded with a crispy golden coat 

B.   open on a half shell without cocktail sauce or crackers 

Pick-up trucks, Pick-up sticks, and Pick-up Lines

So that I have notes for the inside of my wrists next time, why don't you add the best pick-up line that you've ever used or heard?

Add details like the year you heard it, who delivered it, where you were or any relevant colorful info to the tag:

      "Smoking is hazardous to your health... and baby, you're killing me!"
                                                                                        - My Dad, 1955

Gay Pride 2012 in Austin- WoW!

Really good Mexican food almost everywhere, Half-Price Books, Schlotzky’s, Barton Springs, Gingerman Pub and the overall appreciation for personal diversity—these are the things I love about Austin.  And these are the things I’m thinking while my rental is climbing the turnaround toward an exit in Houston.  And, most important, I was thinking that I should have talked to that nice looking lady who was checking me out.

I picked up my new sparkle at the Macy’s jewelry counter.  I was glad to have all of the many acquisitions that I had acquired during the one-night rocket tour of Austin.  I wasn’t aware that I was still wearing the rainbow bracelet on my wrist until I looked at the time.  Not one person in the Houston mall stared at my wrist or looked with that seething “I love Jesus so I have to hate you” look.  (That’s so jr. high.)  Maybe most people really don’t care that some women who like men don’t want to share their bed or bank account with one.  It’s about love and not-love but not hate. The hate comes from a minority of vocal idiots like the ones outside of Gay Pride festivals.  People who spew hatred at non-antagonists have their own issues to address.  This is simple psychology. 

There were some really nasty ones across from the festival entrance.  Most of these protestors just have the repulsive signs, but it was clear that these rough-looking, sobered-up-to-be-a-better-human congregants were purposefully trying to bait festival go'rs with catcalls.  I was proud when passersby wished them love and then went in holding hands with friends and lovers.  One of the angry-because-no-one-cared-about-his-anti-Christian position almost got me when he said, “It’s an abomination for women to lay with women.” I happen to know that the Bible does not say this.  The tradition—that was written 5-10,000 years ago by nomadic tribesmen—condemns penetration.  Because women weren’t seen as having the ability to penetrate (with anything that matters), they are overlooked in the whole discussion.  Therefore, we lesbians will have to take turns on the other side of the gate, waiting for our gay boyfriends and then give the bouncer the nod.  It would probably be better if it were reversed. The boys would make themselves useful, grooming the bouncer’s wings or offering tips on how to hold the shoulders back while carrying the weight of wings.  Maybe we can build a garden by the gate, with a wicked infinitely tall fountain…and a network of watering pools for all of our deceased animals.  That would be a nice contribution.

What mostly comes to mind is that I can’t figure out what the heck these people are thinking.  As Americans, we enjoy and tolerate free speech but these Christian-not-Christ-like protestors seek out homosexual functions for the purpose of impersonating devils.  I tried to think, “Where else (in America) do people do this?”  People get nasty at political rallies and outside of corporations like Enron.  But, as a collective, we’re not either of those.   Hell, who would organize the lot of us?  I’ll tell you who—it would be the Selina and Cher impersonators who played awesome sets under the pavilion with about 500 cheering fans—1/3 of which raised their hands when asked for a count of the heterosexuals.

We are a small minority of people, celebrating the uniqueness of disparate lives for twelve hours once a year (not counting the Splash festival at Hippie Hollow).  Those sobered-up-to-be-a-better-human congregants don’t go to places where teenagers fornicate and quote verses with bullhorns.   And, we wouldn’t even think of organizing protests against their choices.  (Well, I just thought of it—, but I doubt the spewing would get the results that I want.)  Most of us understand the need for free will.  And, if this is the soul knowledge that I acquire while living as a 5-10% minority, it was worth a life’s investment. 

When I woke Sunday morning after the festivities, I drove with my besty and her hubby to pick up besty Jr. (I’m her official (fairy) godmother.)  Besty Jr. had been at her Senior Homecoming dance.  I wondered what it would be like if a portion of the 1,000+ gay Priders stood outside the high school with picket signs, bullhorns.  “You’re an abomination to God!”  Such an event wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by the community.  Fathers with rifles, mothers with wagging forefingers, and clergy who know what the Bible really means wouldn't stand for these demonstrations.  My girl would have probably come over, curtseyed in her cute dress and said, “What’s up?”  But she’s sweet and most of us don’t have her innocent strength for dealing with the kind of venom these I sobered-up-to-be-a-better-human congregants spew. 

During the 22 hours I was there, I was able to see half a dozen old friends and eat my fill of yummy Texas tacos.   I was reminiscing about being able to unite with friends—with me as my own audience—and thinking about a particular woman that I wished I had extended a simple “hello” to.  By the time I grew enough courage, I’d had a few beers and the higher hemispheres were pulling down the shades on my brain.  Bummer.  I wish I’d  written some notes on my wrist,  so that she might have had a chance to reciprocate interest. I wish I had been busy the entire ride home with imaginations of sharing vacations in foreign places and discovering hidden strengths that neither of us knew were alive deep inside.

But, I don’t need an out-of-town girlfriend; I don’t need one more reason to want to be in Austin; and, I don’t need to have empty time to imagine that she’s going to be everything I’ve ever been looking for.  There’s a high probability that any next “she” does crude personal grooming when no one’s looking, touts a strong annoying position, and/or cuts corners on her taxes.  (I do some of these things; I’ll leave the answer(s) to your imagination). This is how people are.  My imagination is incredible.  I have to have reality pop me in the forehead on a moment-to-moment basis, or I begin to believe that everything is just as it is suppose to be.  Wait, that's not all bad.

When I Had My First Hysterectomy...

I know I’m at the right place because the man wearing espadrilles has a 1x1 inch patch of hair on his chin and a few of the tiny women are wearing form fitting skirts and high heels that extend to a point about three inches from their toes.  At the entrance to the art exhibit, there’s an awesome picture of the front of an old fashion propeller plane that spans at least eighteen feet.  I think it would look cool in my house—that we’re selling soon—that I couldn’t ever afford. Still, it would look cool on any wall that could squeeze it in.  This reminds me of the art that I almost purchased for said home the five days before Christmas and one day before I got the breakup email.  I’m glad I don’t have to pack that monstrosity for my inevitable 1000 sq. ft peer-and-beam rental. But, I’m not talking or thinking about her tonight.  I’m with my buddy from camp and we’re both adults now, so I’m going to pretend to be one.

I’m standing behind Velma—who got her nickname at camp when we were on kitchen staff and decided to make Scooby Snacks that we would consume before, during, and after some midnight prank—when a foreign enough thought begins to surge from behind my head that I take notice.  It’s rising and curving over my brain hemispheres and then bamn!, it lands above my eyes.  It makes me want to reach out and hug Velma.  She’s not a lesbian and I’m not a switch hitter, but I’m taken by the familiarity of this old friend and the gratitude that we’ve kept the same camp spirit—a desire for fantasy and the realism of practicality.   It won’t surprise you that I only initiate hugs with friends who have multiple-decade familiarity.   Sitting here now, I realize that I have known Velma for multiple decades and therefore, it would have been perfectly fine for me to reach out, pull her in and squeeze her torso.  But the gravitational pull would have come from behind, and she might have been alarmed since we haven’t seen each other in twenty five years.  Besides all that, we were in a room full of her peers and being pretend adults.   Luckily, about that time, the art exhibit began, and they corralled ~50 people—artists— from the atrium to the main exhibit area. 

We stand there for an introduction and then they corral us back into the atrium. The first exhibit that we discussed was probably titled “Grass.”  The artist steps up to 12x12 foot plot of poured concrete that has not-especially-exotic Beaumont Bermuda growing out of it.

            “This piece represents the lot under our home…” he explains.

“I don’t get this stuff,” I think and immediately begin to channel Bill Murray who comments on the pieces that “we” can’t interpret or fully appreciate without an artists’ tutelage. 

Velma works in this field and got us past security with a wave where we luckily bumped into a free wine bar.  When the crowd moved back into the main room, I swam upstream toward the wine bar for a refill and to grab Ritz crackers off of the “food” table.  On my heels was an artist, who had a bit of a German accent—, let’s call her Greta.  We had a quick burst of exchanges about our farcical reality, and then she leaned on the “wine bar” which was on casters and slid on her butt, and then she bounced up, and we meandered back into the main exhibit where we see the crowd has moved past a total 6 exhibits and there are about 26 more to go. 

I passed a cast iron tree that was growing out of the middle of an Egyptian-like gondola.  On the wall to the right was a bustier and man’s suit that were fixed stiff with plaster and then covered in fake $100 bills. Finally, I can hear the current artist.

                “My art has always been reflective of the state [of life] I’m in.  When I went through my first menopause…”

                “My god! There’s more than one?” All of the voices unified in terror and gasped an audible gasp.

                “I began to create works of female reproductive organs,” She’s standing next to something that looks like a female and a male silhouette except that he is headless and leaning his shoulder on her shoulder.  “I began to cast ovaries and the Fallopian tube systems.”

I look up and all of the men are staring at their feet.  Velma has moved to the last “room” of the exhibit and is signaling that I meet her near the exit.  I was game to stay, but the Ritz crackers weren’t soaking up the wine. Besides, I wanted to hang with Velma and talk about stupid stuff we did as camp staff.

               

It’s been a long road back to Texas.  I left with Ex#2 a decade ago.  Now, when I get to hug old friends there are parts of my brain that perk up light Christmas lights.  While I was standing behind Velma and feeling the surge to hug her, I realized that I don’t ever think that kind of thought anymore.  Maybe it’s because I have too many ‘-ishes’ along my double helixes: English, Danish, Finnish, etc.  I try to think about the last time I wanted to hug someone and can’t—oh yeah, it was Dim Sum during our California trip.  But, as an adult who’s safely buffered in routines and who’s experienced 8 out-of-town/out-of-state moves during the past decade, I never seem to have that rising surge from the back of the brain. 

Love Heroine is a hugger and so is Dim Sum’s husband.  MacTiger would let me hug him. They’re good huggers but they’re males and that’s not going to give me enough hugging to get me through the rest of my years.  I’ve got to figure out how to become a hugger.  This could be a first step, demonstrating a new initiative that will lead to a different type of love.  I’m good with that plan.  Ex#2 and I hugged a lot.  I remember how it felt natural and good, but I don’t think her new girl would like for me to fly to ATL for a refresher on hugging principles. 

It seems like I need to change the entrance fee.  Multiple decades is way too high a price.  I need to lower it lower than I’ve-known-you-for-a-decade-so-I-can-hug-you rate.  I need to be brave and hug someone who I haven’t seen in a decade, and hug someone who I’ve always wanted to hug, and hug someone who helps others, and hug someone who is standing alone, and hug someone who is standing on grass or near grass that’s planted in poured concrete and growing in an art museum, and hug anyone who is breathing.  I will practice that at Austin Pride today, “).

A Justifiable Want

When two girls break up, you lose stuff.  For a hetero couple, the man takes the man things and the woman takes the woman things, dividing up neutral things that divide naturally or with a chainsaw. But when two girls break up, there’s a chance that the one who professed love will take the shirt off your back.  So, about 25 work days after a breakup, your cube mates start noticing that your outfits don’t exactly match and something seems to be missing.

My first girlfriend and I were exactly the same size in blouses, pants and shoes.  We had just about the same taste in clothes, so when we split there wasn’t a big difference.  I took half of everything, and that division, in new math, left the underemployed grad with not much.  The current ex and I were like Mutt and Jeff. (We’ve got to get a lesbian version of this saying.  How about Melissa and Kristen?  No. They’re non-lesbians and it doesn’t flow.  Rosie and Kelli?  Well, that doesn’t work. I’ll talk to my marketing department.) Ex#3 wears bigger everything except I have bigger feet.  The only things we could share were props: purses, jewelry, etc. 

After nine months on an austere budget, I’m beginning to worry that my boss is going to pull me in his office and say, “You’ve got to invest in new clothes.” That would be embarrassing—because he’d really be grasping for something else.  It’s not that I don’t have professional clothes, I don’t have enough sparkle.  I just haven’t taken the time to go get some since she pruned the jewelry tree.

Lesbians don’t have enough of the kinds of traditions that are on the outside of the pleasure palace, heat hut, spark sack.  But, I can count on the high probability that one half of a lesbian couple is going to buy jewelry because she likes it, likes to buy presents for her girl, or works the counter at Macy’s.  My missing flares indicate that I haven’t taken care of my needs—even if they seem frivolous. 

So, I must say this often, “If I do this for her or I do these things while I’m with her, I can do them for me.”  I guess I needed to realize that sometimes what looks frivolous is a justifiable want.  For that reason, I’m heading to Austin for Pride.  While there, I’ll write the script for a lesbian film with that title.   I can’t wait for casting call when I have to sleep with both girl leads, “).

Looking + Talking = Meeting

Last night, I went to see a movie with my work husband—let’s call him Love Heroine.  One Saturday night—shortly after my breakup—he didn’t have a date, so we picked a movie.  After it, we went for food (and Coronas).  The waitress comes, takes his order, and all but asks for his number.

                “Hellllrrrr!  I’d like to order,” I smiled but didn’t say.

                She winks at him and twirls away.

                “If we were really dating, I’d have a throw down during every date.”

He laughed his laugh that is appropriate for everything.

Love Heroine would love every bit of a Saturday night cat fight.  The men would be holding their Coronas at their hips, throwing money into the fight, and buy him buckets of ice cold Corona. 
          "Salud!" they'd all cheer.

We became friends soon after he was hired, and then we went through (big) breakups about the same time.  But, he’s heterosexual (and has that Latin magnetism), so he has dated throughout the past nine months.  I would hate him, but he’s been my rock—, keeping me sane, listening to outbursts about the injustices of the female reality, and alerting me of pretty girls all around. I’m learning a few things from him about getting a female’s attention. Turns out, you have to look at them and talk to them.  Who’d have guessed.  This is going to be tough. 

My plan has always been to watch from afar, scan their energy, and wait for a spirit guide to signal me into the action.  Initiating isn’t going to be easy—, but I stopped by the library and picked up two Young Adult books on How To.

During lunch at Whole Foods, I look up and there are two women my age, standing behind me.  I can unobnoxiously look at the one who is straight but my gadar is going off, so I’m trying to look around her to see what’s triggered the alarm.  For fear of looking desperate, I give up.  Just ahead is an adorable co-ed aged girl, ordering deli slices.  She’s giggly and happy and that’s what everyone on the rebound needs, but she’s way too young. 

I have a history of putting too much heat on my foods—must be a Texan thing.  I get up to get a few more ounces of water and while I’m waiting for the elderly lady to pay $4.58 for her 6 oz of soup, I imagine that she probably fed her entire family of eight (imaginary) children and husband (before trickle-down economics) on a dinner that cost less than that cup of hippie soup.  And for that nasty little thought, karma raised her ugly head.  Baammm! 

I look up to feel the lukewarm vibes of someone from a distance who was checking me out.  (They would have been hot vibes, but she was more than five feet away.  Anything beyond five feet exponentially decreases love heat per cubic foot.)   There I am, picking a sesame seed out of my left back molar, #15, with the tip of my tongue.  So, I miss my chance; but, according to the YA book, I get two points for actually looking at each opportunity.

My workmate and I get back to Cubicle World and I begin to hum along, getting important stuff done.  At some moment in the late afternoon, I feel imaginary oranges—the soft ones that are rotting on the inside but not yet gooey on the outside—hit the back of my head.
          "Pay attention!"

I hear a client in a senior manager’s office and for no logical, empirical, or tangible reason, I begin to believe to that the client is a female gay.  So, I bounce around the perimeter of said office and mind my own business, seining like a fisherwoman for gay sounds and clues. Unfortunately...I’m paralyzed without a plan—even if I wanted to lose my job for a foolhardy test of courage.

After work, I clean out the home office, packing a few boxes, and then settled into my routine.  After a bit longer, I text’d Love Heroine.  He’s on-the-road for the week.

“Are you tucked in?”

“Tucked in at Olive Garden, LOL. Watcha doing?”

“Watching a lesbian series,” I say daringly because I haven’t mentioned that I know where one is.

“Yay,” he texts with much jealousy.

“I’d tell you about it, but I’m sworn to secrecy unless you know the code.”

“The code?  Hmmmmmm.”

Have you ever noticed when guys don’t know something they have a way of enticing you to tell them what they don’t know?

“Do you have it?” I ask.

“Yes but it’s a secret.”

“Exactly,” I say.

He’s having a good time wherever he is. Hell—, he probably wrote the lesbian series that I’m watching.  

I’m taking notes from the show of how to approach a woman.

“What if I had pulled a ‘Frankie’ on her?,” I mention, to myself, the lesbian siren who is obviously on hiatus from a Swedish modeling career.

“Yah! Do it!” I say in agreement with myself.  "Stand outside the door, and when the client tries to leave, erect a blockade.  She’ll be forced to look into my sultry eyes (that have never seen so much eyeliner).  While the seconds become minutes and the tension builds, wait for her submissive acknowledgement of deep desire.  Only then, release her to a world of isolated hell where she’ll crave me until she has me,” I encourage myself for the next client-wanting-sex-with-a-stranger opportunity.

“Seriously—it’s Monday.  That stuff only happens on hump-day.”

I Can't Live- If Living is Without Lesbians; I Can't Live, I Can't Live Anymore...!

“The ego’s goal is […] autonomy.   Its purpose is to be separate [...].  It is the symbol of separation.” 

                                                                                                   -A Course in Miracles

The ego is one thing, but it’s my monkey mind that expends my energies and sends me off on tangents.  I spend so much time assigning parallel tasks, and then it comes back with these brilliant ideas that are way more interesting than whatever is going on in my world.

               

                “We harvest the sweet potatoes from the fields next door…”

                “We coat sand to crack the earth…”

                “We distill alcohol...”

Actually, this stuff is pretty interesting.  My early days in manufacturing allow me to like processes,watching disparate parts make something useful.  The other day I was watching a video that our team created for a grocery store distributor.  I welled up a few times while these fit but sweaty young  men raced pallet jacks to stack goods.  Together, humans make it all work and inadvertently meet each other’s needs.  What would the world be like if we all won the lottery?  Who would make my 1/2 Caf, Skim, heavy froth, upside-down Caramel Machiatto?  Who? One of the other millionaires? I don't think so.

In the meantime, this is what my monkey mind hears:

               

“I hate when my mom puts marshmallows on the sweet potatoes unless they get that crispy carbon coat like when we were on the beach and made a trash can of hurricanes.”

The truth is— it’s not my ego but my monkey that separates me from my pursuits. It's like a beacon, always scanning the perimeter and looking for things to get into.  It's the reason I find reasons to be embarrassed about being gay.  Unfortunately, I’m a bit of an empath, so it picks up on other people’s energies and I briefly borrow their homophobia. Being a pseudo-psychic lesbian can make a person say things that sane people don’t say.  And, it’s my ego that saves me from making a fool of myself.  It has integrity. 

The Molotov cocktail is perfectly stirred whenever my monkey mind seduces my ego.  Logic races against the clock like the almost-hero in "The Hindenburg."  It must turn back the hands of time and separate the parts of “us” before the bomb explodes.

Thinking of this idea—that the ego is separate—makes me realize that my monkey mind is separate too.  I think the author of the Course of Miracles (who was heavily influenced by “the Voice” and a man with a PhD from a formidable institution) got it wrong.  There are lots of mes who are doing lots of things. So, I have to disagree with the quote, but I often disagree with scriptures written by humans when they don’t proof their pudding.  Truth has to be sound, I say. 

“Ego is not an enemy to be broken or demolished […].  We don’t want to get rid of the ego, we want to soften it, make it porous and receptive, so information, thoughts, and compassion flow in and out.”                                    -If the Buddha Dated

This sounds nice and it makes more sense to me—assimilate the ego—, but the title of the chapter is “Be Guided By Spirit, Not Ego," and she spends more time on the “rigid ego” and “inflated ego” than the healthy ego.  I have to say, I think she’s speaking from the popular position which is pound the ego.  Worse, I think she’s derailing from her message—which overall is great throughout the book—for the purpose of introducing a concept that was birthed by a man who has a completely different world view than most people on this planet.  If everyone has an ego, mine is different than Freud’s.  (I would like to strongly encourage all the ladies to take their ego out for a walk, once a day and get to know it, find out what it's got cooking.)

Maybe the people who are outspoken about pounding the ego have egos that need to be wrestled like a 100-foot python that’s wrapped around and ready to swallow.  If that’s truly their problem, I say pound it into submission and get its attention.  But, for me and for most lesbians that I’ve met—even Bear when she has that wooing confidence—, we don’t need to pound any part.  In fact, I would say that we need to invite the personalized ego out and say, “I’ve missed you old friend, and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen—since, ummm, 6^th grade—when you said I was smart enough to be a rocket scientist, or doctor or lawyer.”

I’m stoked that I’ve had >300 hits in 1 ½ weeks; but, I’ve only had a handful of comments and I think that 90% of the comments are from non-lesbians.  (That’s a words you don’t hear often!)  I had to ask my non-lesbian Dim Sum friend (who still doesn’t have an alias) if she thinks lesbians have been conditioned to not contribute to public opinions.  Maybe we’ve done such a good job as females, minorities, and slanderously-labeled degenerates that we’ve learned to not speak first or to not speak at all.  I hope this isn't true.  Lesbians have much to offer the world.  Most of us live in predominantly female groupings, so we’re more in touch with our Goddess nature than heterosexual females who continually swap energy with males. Is that a stretch?

I heard a statistic once that Lesbians and Gays make up 50% of the health care industry.  That’s a ludicrous statement but it’s probably a higher percentage than the 5-10% of the population which is our statistic. So, I Google’d “What percentage of…” and am offered a list of options.  I continued with, “What percentage of lesbians…”  Nothing.  Google offered nothing.  That’s not right.  We should have at least 1 statistic on Google—just one.  

It would be good if feminine power could manifest, and influence collective thought more often.  Let’s empower our dormant and/or discarded egos, pick something that is unique to our minority, and populate this question for Google.  Where should we start?

We have much untapped time, love, tenderness to offer the world.  So, when you're out with your ego in the park or mall, look around and ask, “What percentage of lesbians can the world do without?”

A One-way Flight with a Magic Hat in the Overhead

On the Atchafalaya bridge, I think, "Louisiana has a lot of long lanes." After the last post, I can’t stop thinking in alliteration strings.

Whenever I’m on a business trip, I try to think of the most fun thing to do within my parameters of space and time.  On my first job that required me to travel, I flew from Austin to SF area.  That was nice; I was spoiled.  On my second job, I had 75% travel From Tallahassee to Key West. That was nice; I collected tons of FF miles.  On my third job, I drive a government mini-van to remote areas of Louisiana. I try to think of the most fun thing to do within my 4 hours of reality. 

After dinner at the Mexican food restaurant, I come back to the Hampton and find Harry Potter. 

“Hello Harry,” I say in Ron’s voice.

Harry was picking out his first wand with the sort-of-nice, sort-of-creepy-uncle-like man.

           Background info: the same guy helped Harry’s parents get their wands. 

My expectations continue to lower after Harry’s first few tries.  (That’s a nice trick for authors who want readers to be excited when the characters actually get “it” right. Perhaps, you will be excited when I get it right!). 

Anyhoo, the idea of Harry having this magic extension made me think of how much I miss having a girlfriend.  But…that association doesn’t quite add up.   

“Why do you think your girlfriend is an extension?” Hermione’s voice asks.

“Because she becomes the second half of my thoughts.”

This meta-co-dependent relationship made me think of the time that I went to see a gypsy about painting my guardian angel.  She created pastel drawings of its image while she told me about our relationship—the many times it kept me from making a really bad decision.

Once I knew how to ring her up, I began to speak to my guardian angel as if she were on my shoulder.  For the sake of anonymity, let’s call my angel Athy-ra.  (I have her on double-time—trust me—; I can’t afford for you to be beckoning her).  I began making lists of things Athyra could do for me.  One day, I asked her to do something petty to some frustrating someone.

“I’m not your thug,” Athy-ra said.

“Hmmm. Is that what I meant?” 

I didn't think that's what I meant, but that's what I meant.  It’s good to know that your guardian angel isn’t send from the most powerful entity in the universe to be a personal thug.  Still, you can't blame a girl for needing a little muscle once in a while.

Maybe I think that magical forces should break down barriers, help me pick numbers at the crap table, and tongue tie bullies. Maybe I think that girlfriends are magical forces?  I’m not sure I like this math.

At this point in the story, Harry has picked his wand, and the magic hat is picking Harry’s dorm. 

         “But where to put you?” It asks.
         “Not Slytherin; not Slytherin; not Slytherin; not Slytherin; not Slytherin; not Slytherin...”     

        “’Slytherin’ will help you on the way to greatness!”

Hmmm.  Maybe I don’t need a girlfriend or a thug.  I just need to wear that magic hat for a few seconds.

         “But where to put you?” the hat would ask.

         “Isla de Mujeres,” I would plead!
            

Planet Puster and its Purple Problem

On the planet Puster, people are pink.  All of them are born in one boring color.  Because the boys are all boys and the girls are all boys, pink boys birth the babies.  It’s best that way.  The Pusters have the purple problem.  At puberty, some of the pink boys—a very small portion—begin to turn purple.  

This chaotic color conundrum confounds the Pusters.  Life wouldn’t be life if there was more than one truth to stare you in the face.  Too much diversity creates disparity. 

Dan had been a daring Puster. He had wanted to become an attorney before he took the matrimonial vows Dana.  But, Dan began to become purple when he was 21.  He was a belated bloomer. By then, it was pretty clear that Dana was going to remain pink.

Most purples manifest the initiating hue, thistle, when they begin puberty.  This is the trickiest of times. Puster parents are perplexed but pacified when their pubescents are pranking about, still yielding pink hues. 

“What’s a parent to do but feel blessed that the pranking will pass but purple doesn’t disappear.”

Some purples pass puberty and take on the color of thistle later.  History books hearken of one who initiated thistle at 49 years which was a ridiculous waste of energy for his family because all Pusters die at 50.  Why did he even bother to emanate thistle?  He was considered to be the most selfish of all purples since time began to be recorded.

The purples can live longer, but it isn’t fair to the Pusters, so the purples are put to death—at an exorbitant cost.  This particular process is a huge burden on the purples’ portion.  During the year 0.1, the majority decided what to do with the majority’s money.

“The law has been the law since the beginning of Puster civilization,” each Puster swears during the swearing-in of one’s loyalty.

The Pusters voted that they shouldn’t have to pay for the purple’s cremations because the lot of them are transients.  Their fiscal system is based on fundamental math.  Furthermore, the spiritual system supports the logic; otherwise, the Pusters’ collective intelligence and/or its benevolent deity would introduce a better institution.   

“Who am I to say that all of the millions of people who preceded me—who gave us Puster civilization—are in err? I am not that wise,” many Pusters confess when confronted by the purple picketers.

The pink boys’ system announces its stability, and—in truth— it protects the purples who are unable to support themselves after age 50.  The young adult Pusters shouldn’t have to pay for their parent’s funerals as well as an alien purple’s welfare.  How would that be fair to the race? The Pusters must focus all of their energies on eradicating eggplants, violets, grapes, lavender, and slivers in rainbows.  They shouldn’t have to extend loyalty to purples that impersonated pure Pusters.

This story is a story in and of itself. But, if you want to know more about the Pusters, follow this link: http://twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/11/planet-pusters-purple-secession.html

Fleas on a Hot Tar Roof

The last time a car pulled into my drive that had been on a trek from Corpus to B-ham, it dropped off fleas full of a kitten—Puff the Magic Dragonslayer.  This time, the car emptied out my brother.  He had flown to our hometown to pick up his old Honda.

He is carrying three terminal illnesses, but we are all grateful because he’s been dealing with death since 1985.  Even the doctors at the U of Alabama hospital are in awe of his longevity.  I don’t know how many people know, but U of Alabama is curing people with AIDS.  I don’t care much for Roll Tiders, as they beat my Longhorns and then the Tigers, but I bow down to the care and respect that this hospital offers people with AIDS.  Unfortunately, my bro has three other problems.

After we watch Kathleen Madigan on Netflix and I enjoy his laughter, I start my nightly rituals.  I have to go to bed early because I have to get up early because I have to leave early so we can go to NOLA tomorrow.  I’m not sure what we’re going to do in the Quarter because he can’t walk for very long, but we are going to go. 

                “I haven’t been there since before Katrina,” he says.
                “I don’t think the streets smell any better,” I think.

On the way back from the curb where I drop off my Monday night package, I check the mail.  My belly gets flustered when I turn toward the mailbox.  I hate pulling down the metal lip because of the 5 quibillion rejection letters that I’ve received from stupid agents and publishers.  But on Mondays, I pick up the load because I feel sorry for the postman who will need space for the buy-my-stuff flyers that he’ll pack into the box on Tuesday. They should better group flyers.  Each house should get a post card that allows them to choose the groupings you’d most likely purchase. If a family truly needs a pizza coupon from every vendor in the 5 mile radius, every single week, marketers might want to throw in offers for beer and a gym membership.  They would have trouble prying coupons out of the Whole Foods guys for my package, but I could use more beer-and-burrito combo coupons!

               

I open the box and see a letter from my Ex’s Next.  I hate it when she sends their mail.  Her handwriting is stupid.  She must know that it bugs me, but she’s twentysomething and that's what you have to expect.  Anyhoo, whatever is inside is thick, and I think money!; but, it’s just thick paper stock with my Social Security Card. 

“I can’t believe you had something so sensitive, so important,” I think.  And then, I remember that Ex had something that was so much more sensitive and important than my identity.

This is supposed to be a blog about lesbian dating and here's my point. How many lesbians do you know who never date because they backfill before they have an opening?  I’ve known a lot.  No one teaches us how to date, so we do what we want. What's wrong with that? Nothing; not really anything because most of us don't procreate, so we don't have dependents to consider and when there's a break, there are rarely lawyers. Leaving something for something is almost uneventful. But, to the lesbian who doesn't take time to clear closets, her Next gets the clutter. Between Ex#1 and Ex#2, I went in a a second date with a girl who I should have never gone on a first date with. About 15 minutes after the waitress brought the chips and salsa, I thought, "Wow. I thought you brought a lot of baggage to the first date, but now I realize that was just your carry-on." She hadn't even started.

There's the lazy susan effect. In small stagnant communities, we all start trading girlfriends. The wheel spins and whoever lands in front is next.  That’s crazy.  This dynamic reminds me of a conversation that I had with Mic-Monk.  I had to explain the “natural boundaries” between men and women couples.  Lesbians don't have them because we get the same secondary messages from society.  I wouldn’t want to get too many topics going at once, so we’ll save that conversation for later.  

When #1 and I broke up, a work buddy (a smart lesbian who had entered Recovery (it seems like that word deserves a capital ‘R’)) gave me good advice.

                “Ok.  All you need to do now is make it through the next four seasons.”

                “Huh?
                “You gotta go four full seasons. You gotta do the holidays alone and your birthday at least.”

                “Holidays alone?  What? Why would I do something like that?”

                “That's what you have to do before you find someone else.”

She was smart and she was right, but she was sober and had a ton more support groups.  It was Christmas, so that goal was 1.1 years away.  Still, I gave it the best try that I could.

Two weeks later, I dated the former almost-girlfriend who left me in the French Quarter (see blog entry #1).  Look how well that worked out!  Then, I did my time while I put myself to bed alone.  I made it six months before I met #2.  In that time, I bought my first house all by myself.  I learned a lot about what an anxious ball of nerves I can be and I developed some strengths that helped me build confidence.  Unfortunately, I had a really good job that allowed me to make a lot of money and I got to learn different lessons after that like how to not be so overly confident that you’re an insensitive ass.

With Ex #3, I’ve been alone for nine months.  It’s been rough and it's been good. When I’m ready, when I’ve sold this house and all of my hopes for #3 evaporate from my routines, I’ll stand in front of the tabla rasa and paint the season’s colors with a new someone. 

After dinner, my brother wanted to stop for fresh bread.  He talked about the last time he was in Paris.  He talked about next year when he’ll go to Paris.  I said, “I can go with you.”  And, tomorrow, I come home from work, get on the roof with the roofer and his brother-in-law and check whether the tar patch will hold before the next big storm, and then my brother and I will go to Vieux Carre and talk of France.

Bury Me in My Levis with a Frisbee and a Kiss

In the name of free press, I was gathering material last night.  My buddy—let’s call him MacTiger for the sake of anonymity—was chatting it up with two handsome fellows when I came in—let’s call them Free Willy and Rock.  I love men in the south because even when a lesbian walks into a gay bar a girl gets offers for a chair!

              “Well?” MacTiger says after 45 minutes of lively chatter.

              “Huh?” I smile back.

              “Do you want to sit where you can actually see the women?”

              “No.”

I remembered the flyer that I had printed before I left and the reason why I had called MacTiger to go with me to the boys’ bar (because there is a girls’ bar but it opens at midnight and I was too old to start at midnight when I was young enough to start at midnight).  

There are only a few Saturdays a year when more than two or three girls go out and that’s on the nights when LSU plays.  Finding this information by accident last week—after MacTiger and I lost $40 at the roulette table but got two free beers to drink while we sat on the deck of the casino boat and watched the sunset—put me into motion this week. But, I had only made it as far as a bar stool that’s tucked in a dark corner.

So, knowing that I’m a light weight and most of the girls will leave at half-time because LSU is pounding this unranked team, I count the minutes that I have left to execute my plan.  I begin to look around for where I could plant my flyer and where it would generate the most interest before management could wad it up.  It was fortuitous that I had to go to the bathroom because that gave me my only idea. 

After my next drink, I check on the status of my flyer and was ecstatic that 2 of the 8 tabs had been pulled off.  I have a fan base!  I popped up from the lieu and buttoned my Levis. 

          “You know, you could buy new jeans—something that compliments your figure,” my Ex had said when she pulled her new jeans out of the dryer to put in her overnight that she was packing for her tryst with the twentysomething.

          “You loved me in my Levis,” I said.

          She shrugged.  

“I’ll be buried in button-ups!” I screamed inside.     

I’ve already picked the pair that fits me best.  I don’t have a top, but it might be the tee that Rotel bought for me when we went to NOLA.  It’s black with yellow words, “I sometimes wonder why the Frisbee gets bigger, and then it hits me.”  If I can get the black to fade more, it will probably go with me and my Levis to heaven.

I feel something wet on the back of my arm and begin to turn around in the very small area like a cat chasing its tail and realize that a strip of the protective toilet paper has come up with my Levis and is popping water all around my backside. 

“God Almighty!  How would that look to my fan base?”

Feeling relieved, I slide-swagger back to my stool.  MacTiger hasn’t seen my blog, but he’s discussing the idea with Free Willy who wants to start a blog of his own.  For years he has been taking note of the lack of manners between men on porn-pick-up sites.  He’d like to start a "Ms. Manners" page so that men know when and what to say when and why.  I think this is a brilliant idea.  

We are not long into the conversation before the manager (who happens to be a lesbian!) pushes a flyer in front of us. Of course, I worry about the competition and wonder if she's torn up my flyer and is showing me what a real promotional looks like.  This one has color ink, but you'd expect that from the marketing director of a drag queen.  A marketing agent for a lesbian wouldn't have as much to work with — except the Levis. 

“This is why men don’t go out [in Baton Rouge],” Free Willy waves the promo in the air. 

MacTiger and Rock nod in agreement.

“Why do ‘we’ still do drag shows?  Who wants to see that?”

“Strippers!” MacTiger hollers over the football game that we’re not watching.  “We want male strippers!”

“It’s true. I would rather see male strippers than a drag show.”  MacTiger, Free Willy and Rock smile after my moment of an impossible shared thought.

With LSU creaming yet one more team, the charity-money-generating jambalaya sitting in our bellies, and the smoke rising in the poorly ventilated space, Free Willy had had enough for the night.  He dismissed himself.   I followed him out.  Looking over the parking lot, I thought it would be easy to leave my half-full Corona on the bar.  MacTiger could definitely take care of himself.  Still, I had not come this far to go home without at least a “hello.”  But, I did… but not for long.