Dating Death? Rx: Muck Remover and Ice Cubes

When I was a teen, I learned a key thing about dating from “Ann” and “Ben.” They were heterosexuals, but it happens in gay relationships too. Here it is—each lover borrows behaviors from the other. This is Mimicry101. We do it as early as the first month of life when a parent sticks out its tongue and we reply with the same message. We do it for talking and dancing and dating and every everything that can move from one person and stow-away in another.

When a relationship begins, lovers mimic the other, sending a message that perpetuates cuteness and cuddling. When a relationship ends, the mockingbird effect can begin again for the lover(s) who hasn’t let go. It’s creepy to your friends, but—if they love you—they realize it’s a means for you to deal with the loss. (Perceptive friends monitor the intensity of your borrowed identity, watch for decreased uses and then send signals when you’ve stowed away in your lost lover’s personality and are offering no sign that you'll come out. Perceptive sadists throw you in a bath of ice cubes when you’re brain has been on fire too long. Still, the message gets to you before you waste ½ a decade of your life.) Love is love in many forms.

I first realized that people temporarily don their lover’s characteristics after Ann and Ben ended their torrid teen tryst. She had been a shy girl who was tyrannically sheltered by her parents. Ben was a guy who had the credentials to be trusted. He rescued her on Friday nights. Two weeks before graduation, Ann’s dad allowed her go to the beach with girlfriends, and then she left. I mean she really left. Ann went on a romp, following an unemployed guy to the other end of the world state. Because of lifelong brainwashing, she married the stranger on the day that they had sex, and then she called her parents and asked for bus fare(s).

Over the next year, I watched Ben become more like Ann; I watched Ann become more like Ben. (She became animated and daring in her mismatched marriage. He became sensible and less of a pompous ass. Those are the generic things that I can describe.) They morphed, making up for missing parts that each had grown to love in the other. Maybe you’ve seen this lost-love mimicry with dearly parted couples? (Or, maybe you’ve seen a friend take a lover who resembles the old lover— like when Richard Gere fell in love with Pretty Woman (Julia Roberts) and then married Cindy Crawford? (Didn’t they look soooo eerily similar?) That’s where we see Gere adapt.) Lost lovers find a way to make up for what’s missing with an ex’s absence.

Letting go of a relationship is like the famous study by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, in On Death and Dying. Originally, she published 7 stages. But—after a decade long recession, fastfood value meals, and bulk warehouses—there are 5 stages:
· Denial
· Anger
· Bargaining
· Depression
· Acceptance

E.K.R.’s stages are—rightfully so—traumatic. Survivors go through these phases of hell after a loved one’s death. This lost-love mimicry of Ann and Ben occurs at the onset of the breakup, when the prematurely-parted one is knee-deep in denial—certainly, before anger.

But after the termination of a love affair, there are two (living) survivors. They can’t talk to each other if they expect to live normal lives ever again. (I have a friend who has a decade long friendship with an ex. They have a modified version of the relationship they decided to terminate. I can’t say it’s unhealthy, but it’s weird because others can see why they broke up but can’t determine if they broke up.) Separation is the key to passing through the light and into the next love.

I went through semblances of Kubler-Ross’ phases after all three break-ups. I touched-down for a mini-vacation (in hell), got gnarled and twisted in a myriad of all, and escaped. This time, it took Bear to come over and say, “Snap the f*@# out of it. You’re getting laid tonight.” Oh yes—it was a nice promise, and Bear at the bar made for a great distraction, but she has not fulfilled her threat to date.

If you’re going through a breakup, ruminating through your mind is a nice Molotov of ex-thing’s good and bad spirits. In these, hope that she left the good stuff in your decanter. There’s no point in trying to remember who you were before. That girl is curled up on a pallet and under the back blankets of your mind. She’ll come out after she sleeps off this apocalyptic hangover.

Drawing from my experiences with Ann and Ben, and my studies in Psy101, I’ve identified the stages of a break-up—On Dating (and) Death. Kubler-Ross observed a totally different audience, so I propose these new ones:

· Denial          =  Partying ‘til Stupid
· Anger          =  Stalking after Stupid
· Bargaining    =  Sharing friends
· Depression   =  Creating Crazy
· Acceptance  =  Unfriending

You might feel like you’re stuck in muck in the middle of the black break-up forest. I say—leave this stage of Dating Death. Manifest the next one and the next and then get the heck out of this funk before the Dollar Stores clear their shelves of muck removal.

“All you have to do is keep your ears open and breathe. The rest is bonus.”

                                                                                                  -Me

For the most part, we all survive. An exception to this rule is if you are still sleeping in her clothes, wearing the clothes that you’re sleeping in, and channeling her voice as if it is your own. If this is you—you need a strong friend who can heave you into ball-and-claw tub that's full of ice cubes, and a new friend who will force you to form new stories and then hand you a towel and clean Levis.

You might feel desperate, suffocating. But, don’t reach for a new girl until you’re back to your new self. You might find that you’re using the ex-thing’s pick-up lines and swagger (that you formerly appreciated).  That would be way worse.  In no time, you’ll be in a serious situation because ex-thing has got to go. More, if you channel her to seduce your new next, you’ll be dating yourself and that’s just weird.

A Sexual Precedent

Watching the 25-year old handsome guy, I think, “He has the whole package.”  David Jay is adorable, fit and intelligent.  Although, it must be noted that, he’s filming (A)sexual.

Jay formed an international group, calling for people who identify as asexual.  They connect over the internet and share coming-out stories.  In a single year, 20,000 members joined his e-club. Then—for non-procreating reasons—a collection of the members met in San Francisco.  He invited them to his home.  They seemed uncomfortable.

“How’s he going to get this party going?” I wonder.

“What do people do at a party when no one is attracted to the other? I mean, everyone doesn’t have to be attracted to someone. It doesn’t have to be a big orgy, but someone has to bring the chemistry.”

“It’s like when mom made me join the Science Club,” I quieted my escalating self.

“Goddd, that was excruciating.”

David Jay’s group had gathered together to march in a gay pride parade.  Once there, many of the parade supporters were nice and inquisitive about the right of the Asexuals to participate.  A few lesbians interrogated him, wanting details of his sexual history, “Do you masturbate?” and “Can you orgasm?”  They were so very clinical about his “sexual orientation.”  And, of course, an uncle Mary or two had to act up.  

“I pity your poor soul,” said a shirtless man passing by David.

“Why?”
“Because I don’t stand for what you stand for.”

I think the calloused ones thought he was stealing their sexy-thing thunder, reminding that one can just abstain. The difference between the Marys and the Jays is that Marys have an ability to sustain (immediately after sex, while in a committed relationship, or while mending a broken heart), but the Jays don’t have a choice. They have to make themselves want it. They have to overcompensate, enduring kisses and cuddling which comes natural for many. For the first time, I feel like a part of the majority.

                                                                                                                                    

Anyhoo, David Jay was on The View and Montel.  When MSNBC introduces him, they describe him as “a ladies’ man.” I wonder how this could be.  He explains that asexuals are just like everyone else and shouldn’t be treated unfairly because of the way they were born. Here, here! 

He’s right.  The psychologists said there were no significant causal factors— meaning, the asexual didn’t show any more signs of trauma than sexuals.  Asexuals are as myriad a collective as the sex-oriented.  The self-identifying asexuals range from interesting extroverts to eccentric introverts.  There are guys and girls, gays and straights.  It doesn’t seem fair, but many of them can check the box in more than one category.  I begin to think that I might be asexual, but then I remember that only last week I was autistic, and I remind myself that if a practicing lesbian happened to be sitting next to me, we wouldn’t be watching this.

I like David Jay.  He’s adorable.  At first he comes off as very butch; but, at Pride, he’s a bit flirty, leaning in to kiss one of the guys (on the cheek).  He doesn’t say he’s straight, but he doesn’t say he’s gay; he is asexual.  At a University where he is the guest speaker, he shows the Shane (L-Word) graph of his love connections. His circle is solid-line connected, most immediately, to an imaginary boyfriend. 

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I say in a concerned mother’s voice to Georgia, Cali, and Puff who are sharing one bed under the fire. 

I think back to a previous scene where he is with a ½ dozen friends.  David Jay is clearly smitten with one of the girls.  He doesn’t care that her boyfriend is watching him ogle.

“I’m confused,” I look for input from the snoring audience.

During the last few minutes, there’s a black screen with white letters, “Two Years Later.” For some reason, Jay filmed all of this and then nothing happened.  He has grown up.  He looks different.  I’m glad the director told him to wear the same groovy necklace because I wouldn’t have recognized him.  His energy is way off.  He’s not ear-to-ear smiles; he’s serious and somber, and he’s 27 in one of the most sexually active cities in the world.   

“I’m willing to put sex on the table for intimacy,” he forces the words through a half-utterance and deadpan stare. The guy looks defeated. His #1 girl ran off with her guy and his other girl ran off with a girl, and he’s realizing that he’s got to find a way to cope in a world where people pair up and shut the bedroom door.  Global mating is hell for soloist(s).

“Wow.” Put sex on the table. That’s such an odd concept. I imagine many people wouldn’t know how to take sex off the table, the couch, or the bed for intimacy.   More, I’m used to taking stuff off for the act of intimacy—like selfishness, hobbies and Levis. I’m not accustomed to putting things on it.  We start with those cards there.   

This guy truly begins from a different zenith point.  Throughout the film, you understand that he’s highly introspective and knows that he’s different.  While I, and most of the non-asexual interviewees, continually said “Huh?” and “how does a relationship without sex work,” David Jay knew his truth.  He’s piloting into earth’s atmosphere from a different angle and looking for a landing pad.  He wants what many of us seek through/amidst/because of sex.  He wants intimacy.  The question is, when he gets intimacy, will he elect to surrender his Asexual “president” badge? 

If any of you have a funny story or an amusing awakening about discovering the difference between intimacy and sex— please share!

Linking Lesbians Between Lands- 3200

Bienvenido, Maligayang Pagdating, Mingalaba, and آپ کا استقبال ہے !

Wow! We have a world presence. Well, that's not a big surprise that we're popping up everywhere- but it's great to see the connections come alive. Since the last post with this title, a few more countries have joined the gathering: Venezuela, Philippines, Burma, and Oman- Welcome!

It was so very great to receive B.B.'s story. Check out hers: http://twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/12/guest-blogger-2-finally-found-one.html

And while you're laying around dusting sugar plums off your girlfriend's belly, think of one to submit here... ")!

Super Freaky Silence Before The Brave New World

Just an hour ago, I was pulling out of the casino where I successfully made $23 dollars last for two full hours.  At the exit, I’m twisting off, with precision, the muffin top that came in my Hampton Inn “lunch bag.”  You can pick one up at the reception desk, on the way out, each morning.  It’s a nice way to give business wo(men) munchies. But there's not much lunch, it's more like brunch. 

I never eat the whole muffin.  The goodies are free, so I tear off the part I want, pop it in my mouth and toss the bottom out the window for the wolves and vermin who trek the side of the highway.  I’m kind of (calorie conscious and) altruistic that way. 

“That girl’s a super freak, super freak; she’s super freeeeeekeeyy- yaaaaoww!” I’m grooving at the gas pump, filling-up for my trek home tomorrow. A girl cruising by on a bike waves and says, “Hey!” or “Dance Fever” or something with a big fist bump in the night air.  I salute with a fist bump back at her and swing my hips toward the pump.

Heading west, I’m swishing side to side to the music. I like the power of this Chevy rental.  Wow! I never get this free upgrade, but the guys at Enterprise hooked me up this go ‘round.  Life is good even though (or maybe because) I’m alone. 

“Three days until our anniversary of the end,” I think about this time last year and realize—it will be the end of the world, 12-21-12.  

“In three days, everyone will wake and wonder if the clocks will work, if the money will still be in their savings account, or if the Mayas will rise from the dead and eat out our hearts.” 

I look up for my exit and hit the signal, “Maybe.”
But it won’t be my end of the world. That happened last year.
“And, I’m a full year away and further down my solitary path.” 

The realization that I’m almost to the anniversary date of receiving the email—“You must realize by now that I have feelings for [Olive Oil]”—causes me to look back at how far I’ve come. I shudder with the power of freedom. Tonight, I’m twisting off muffin tops and dancing to “she’s a super freak.”  

I'm not thinking about the end of the world when I enter the lobby of my on-the-road home. But, I look at the tv and see a media photo of one of the funerals.  Next, a photo of the six year old that the parents, community, and the nation buried today.  “It’s overwhelming.  It’s everywhere. I hope I never forget.”

But, I will forget the sharp points of this sadness  I’ve never been to Connecticut. I don’t have relatives or friends there. I don’t have children of my own.  Still—I am here, witnessing this tragedy and feeling pain that has no place to sit and be.  “It’s not my tragedy—except that I’m human, and I share some whack’d portion of it.” 

People seem to be reflective this week. The pace is slower and the cars are more patient when buyers should be bustling for Christmas bounty. We wait for an explanation from the press or the president.  If one comes, it won’t matter; it won’t make sense.  But compassion in any form makes the world better in small ways and in big ways and in any ways that can fit between.  The press reported Samaritans who were offering hugs to strangers, sleeping bags to the homeless, and Tweets that offered reliefs and gifts to various people around the nation.

As long as the radio stations can keep playing songs that make people move, as long as strangers keep offering anonymous fist bumps in the air, as long as the earth keeps cooling and heating and cooling and heating, and as long as human hearts share peace, love and tenderness with all kinds of super freaks, we can make it through the end of the world and onto the new path together.

Arousal and Nurtural Emotions

Before we open this can of worms, let me just say that I don’t know anything about autism.  I have no relatives or neighbors or co-workers with autism.  I applied for a job once where I would care for teens with autism, but I didn’t get a callback.  Once, a man came to the thinking church and talked about how he discovered that he had autism when he turned 50.  (I don’t think that you should worry about turning 50 for that reason.)  During his talk, I took a look at the church bulletin. There were “signs.”  I read the list and decided that I must be autistic too.  Clearly, I don’t understand it at all.  Despite my lack of credentials, I’m thinking I’ll follow this idea and type out loud.

On Touch, Kiefer Sutherland has a son who has autism.  This young actor shows no expressions. I imagine the director told the kid to stare at a point, stand, and say nothing. (I could soooo do this job.) However, for the rhetorical record, I don’t think this portrayal depicts the standard issue autistic pre-teen.  I couldn’t know.  (I’ve also watched Parenthood. It has an autistic pre-teen.  Other than the height and dark curly hair, the depictions aren’t similar. Hollywood directors need to compare notes if they want to educate the American people.) The autistic pre-teen in  Touch demonstrates no emotions.  His perpetual staring into an abyss and away from the given drama caused me to wonder if an autistic person could be gay.  I think it would be hell for a gay man to not be able to entertain.

Not knowing who to turn to, I Google’d the question.  I’m not the first.  In fact, an autistic man asked Yahoo! if it could be possible that he was gay.  That’s an odd question, birthing from within him.  It seems only he can know that answer.  However, I’ve met a few guys (and Dr. Love) who don’t know they are gay—so this is a compelling conundrum.  Maybe this man is grappling with the questions because he has an attraction to other men but doesn’t have an emotional connection, while he watches internal images of sexual trysts—, starring him!  That would certainly be confusing.  But, we can learn from his predicament—arousal and emotions are different.

I Google'd "How is arousal related to emotions?"  I read a couple of paragraphs in various articles and realized that I can't fake my way through neuroscience (after bagging leaves for 4 hours and drinking 2 beers).  But, I found this article, "How do Emotion, Attention, Thought, and Arousal Work Together?"  Mark Pettinelli cites a study that found "arousal, emotion, and self-regulation can be [from] specific subconstructs revealing interesting patterns of relations."  So, arousal, emotion, and self-regulation come from different starting points. Most of the articles want to show a relationship from arousal to emotion to behavior and so it seems like there's a baton relay going on in our minds.  But, Pettinelli reminds that lots of stuff is going on at any given time.  He cites the original study:

     Two people may meet accidentally and discuss the weather or the latest television program in a casual

     fashion. Yet while this desultory conversation proceeds, there is an exchange of feeling tone, and each

     may begin to feel the effects of mutual attraction and warm feelings. This experience leads to other 

     meetings, until the participants are sufficiently aware of their feelings to make them a subject for 

     communication on the conscious level.

From this gestalt effect, we see that arousal, emotions, attention, and thought may be in competition with each other for their human bearer's decisions. 

Once on this train of thought, I began to wonder what it's like for an autistic person with (gay) sexual cravings.  Can one have sex if they  have an aversion to contact?  I imagine it’s hell to have sex but there’s an equal or greater hell to not have sex when you've got interrupting images that promise relief only with enactment.  Again, this situation—like the first—manifests in the straight world.  If autistic straight people find a way to have sex, then autistic gay people will too. 

Again, we can look to the masses to understand. Yawn.  I don’t like that I have a gay question and am returning to the straight camp for a sanity litmus.  

I need to get back to work for the American people.  Oh wait—that was what Pres. Clinton said after arousal [->emotion] ->sex.  I need to get back to my original idea. 

What’s the relationship between arousal and emotions and/or gay sex?  As ignorant as I am about autism, I imagine that followers of the They-Them twins think lesbians are attracted to girls because it arouses (positive) emotions.  Well, there is that; but, I am learning that arousal and emotions are not one in the same.  First, arousal comes, and then emotion(s) might come. If I’m lucky the sex comes.  Ahh- this is where I was going with this thought.  Relief.

If arousal occurs and then lends to an emotion, this shows Nature preceding Nurture.  Therefore, attraction is not a choice.  It’s a prepackaged trigger that competes for and directs its bearer to a solution before “what is learned” gets involved and makes a decision.

Thoughts?  I hope you feel comfortable saying pretty much anything after this unchartered odyssey...


- - -
http://cnx.org/content/m43583/latest/
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0002494/

Shouldn't You Test Drive the Other Model Before You Pay the Open Tab?

You know what it’s like when you go to a dentist for the first time.  The hygienist straps you in, puts tv remote in hand, and before you know it, you’re rooting for the gay boy—who is clearly a stow away—on Redneck Vacation.  This was me about 6 months ago.

I’d cracked a tooth on a popcorn kernel the weekend that Rotel came.  Somehow (beer), I made it through the weekend and into the chair of a new dentist the following Monday.  My old dentist was a white male with thick fingers, and he liked to talk about how Newt Gingrich was the only guy who deserved to be running for President.  Hmmm.

My aunt—who you met in “Life’s Gay Impressions”—always encouraged me to support female professionals.  “If you don’t know who to try out first, give your money to a woman.”  Maybe this was her way of finding and serendipitously supporting lesbian business owners.  But after living in 6 different states, I’d not yet found one with this random approach.

I’m strapped to the CW version of Survivor when she comes.  She’s wearing boots.  Soon, we are talking about Texas.  

“I’m from Corpus.”

“I’m from Corpus.”

Luck would have it—we were born in the same town.

I can’t turn to face her, and it wouldn’t matter because she’s wearing a mask and plastic eye guards for the people who gleek.  Somehow, I just know she’s attractive.  I can feel it in the back of my throat.  

“I don’t think I’m ready to date,” I remind the chorus in my mind that has been asleep for months but is wide awake and giddy.

“We’ve already married this cutie,” my democratic collective counters and trumps.

“We could take trips to our hometown,” I give in too easy.  I begin to wonder what kind of music she’ll want to listen to on the long trip to South Texas where we’ll drive by our old high schools.

While I’m navigating through questions about our potential long-term goals, she begins to talk about her recent marriage.  He is from Mississippi. Luckily, they both like horses.

“Yuck,” the ‘me’ chorus descends.
“Has anyone told her that she’s setting off supersonic gaydar beams?” I raise my shoulders a bit to search for sane people in the dental dungeon.

I look at the assistant. But, she’s definitely not going to call out her boss.  She’ll wait until break when she can ante into the hygienists’ pool.  I imagine a white poster board with a matrix and these words in big, bold, black Sharpie, “WHEN WILL A CLIENT FIND THE KEY TO BREAK DOWN OUR GAY BOSS’ CLOSET?”  There are three old posters— 2009, 2010, 2011—, collecting dust under the break room table that has smeared queso from last month’s Thanksgiving party.

“I have the key!” I think today.  “I can stop this hellish game and unlock her closet!”

I’m in the chair—between cleanings—waiting to be fitted for a new night guard because I left the old one at a Hampton Inn where I live part-time.  Gopher couldn't find it. I'm sure it got wrapped up in the sheets, and the lady in charge of Laundry found it under a knot of wet ones when she transferred the load.  I wonder what she did with it. E-bay?

I try to think back to the details of her recent marriage to a "man." I count the months and wonder if she's Catholic enough to get the church to get her out of this pickle.  I wonder if there's an "I'm Gay" box to check on the Seeking An Annulment Form, 2012.

"Maybe it's not a man," me offers. 

“Did she say her fiancé's name?”  I can’t remember, but I remember that she said 'he' while the hygienist was sitting in the room.

“Maybe the staff covers for her, to maintain a professional reputation?”

“That’s stupid. People are homophobic, but this generation isn’t going to go along with an outright lie.” I answer me and then look to the wall and find the clue I'm not wanting to discover.  On her diplomas are two last names, hers and his.

“She’s soooo willingly crawling into bed with him every night.” 

After I pull the silly putty from my teeth, I twist to face my dentist who is lingering.  She’s always in the next room before I get a chance to wipe and remove my bib.  But, she's leaning on the wall, offering things to talk about. This is the first time that I’ve actually seen her.  All of my peripheral impressions, had built a collage face that was an inadequate representation.  (Being the excellent professional, she wears a mask—unlike the nasally dentist at Longhorn Dental in the summer of 1999 who breathed onto the back of my throat for a full hour with hot after-lunch gastric juices and gave me the worst flu my body cells have ever known.)  Bam!  The collage collides and smashes between us. She is strikingly beautiful. 

And, I stare.

I’m not sure if she was responding to my (subliminal) acknowledgment of her beauty, or if she was shaking from the transference that we shared.  It's like the lady on the elevator today. Sure, she looked like a frumpy house wife, but she picked those props to hide her basketball coach inner child. She did a good job of avoiding my eye contact, but I did a good job of pseudo-psychically letting her know that there would be other days in this rising and lowering box, and she would have to share energy & truth with me sooner or later.

When two gay people swap energy-truth, they can’t deny the unspoken recognition—and you know what I mean. For me and  Dr. Love, it was like someone took the gaydar and turned the knob all the way past the “Hellllrrrr!” mark.  There was no doubt about it.  She was sending it and I was feeling it. (That's when I began to collect images of her college dorm mate.  Dr. Love tries to erase it all, pretending that the tryst in Palm Springs didn’t place the bar a bit too high for all future vacations.)  I mean, she was sending crazy gaydar my way.  Even the straight hygienist must have felt the earth move.  She was already changing her bet for the white poster board and inserting my name. 

When I got home, I decided to vacuum the leaves and work out some restless energy.  Pushing the mower, I thought about how excited I was that my sacral chakra did in fact still work.  But, I was sad too.  I thought about how my alarmingly attractive dentist has made a choice that screams, “WRONG!” [to me]. 

“Nature before Nurture,” I always say.  More often I say, “Function before Form.” In a sense, that applies here too. 

But, Dr. Love picked this wicked winding path, bought the white dress, and paid the open bar tab for a bunch of crazy relatives who don’t even appreciate Nature, or Texas, or Whataburgers.  Now, she’ll have to go her path.  When faced with a fork in the road, she’ll have to make a choice [after each sexy lesbian client [like me] gets strapped in].

I aim for a row of leaves and smile, realizing that I am due for a cleaning in 4 months.  I'll have to get a pair of boots, rough them up with dirt and dust, and torture her something crazy, ").

Guest Blogger #2: Finally Found the One

I spent most of my life wondering if i would remain alone or find love with that significant other.  I really didn't date much or put myself out there to finding that special someone.  I traded regretful dates with guys before I came out.  I was in a precipice of uncertainty and confusion about my perceptions and feelings toward wanting more with any female friend.  My youthful days in educational establishments, I remember being single and it was just helpful and very simple. There was not a worry that phased my eye, toward my own thoughts of being single.  I enlisted in the United States Army. This enlistment decision had served to be of great help in openness to my lesbian inquiries.  In my mind, being in the Army had opened heavens' gates to more women who freely, with no confusional chains liked other women.

I dated someone and it really didn't last it was bad from the start.  So I told myself I was not going to go looking for anyone it really seemed easier being a lone.  But one day I saw this women and just something inside me said she is someone special.  I felt compelled to talk to her, I didn't right away because she was new and I didn't want to bombard her.  For me I had feelings for her since the day I laid eyes on her.  I waited a couple days and then just out of the blue struck up a small conversation with her, it wasn't a long one just enough to get her to notice me.  Then from there on I just tried to make sure she still noticed me and that I was there.  Finally one day I got up the courage to ask her for her phone number, she gave it to me with no problem, she seemed happy to be giving it to me.  As soon as I had it i text her just to make sure she had my number and we could talk.  We started making plans to hangout nothing big and other people would be a long so it really wouldn't be a date or anything.  That weekend we went to a water slide and she flirted with me, it made me feel so good inside.  I loved just to talk to her and be around her.  From the start when I talked to her and was around her I just felt so comfortable.  But that weekend before the weekend was up I said something I shouldn't have because I scared myself about how I felt about her.  I thought I had screwed up royally with her.

I had to have surgery and she went out to the field for work.  So we didn't have much contact with each other, it made me realized how much I really liked her.  When she got back from the field I did anything I could to find her.  She was still nice to me, so I invited her over others where coming over too.  I didn't want her to feel awkward so I tried to make it a group thing.  I text her and I really wasn't sure she was going to come over.  So I just kept talking to her and trying to get her to come over.  By the time she came over everyone else was leaving so it was just to two of us.  We hung out and she stayed the night, but again and i don't know why I said what I said before again.  I was so mad at myself.  I wasn't sure I would ever have a chance with her again.  But I some how edged my way back in and told myself I was not going to screw things up again.

I am happy to say we are going on four months together and are happier then ever could imagine.  We have gone on trips together taking all the time we can to be together.  She makes me so happy, on a bad day she can make things better for me.  She says the same thing about me.  Every morning when I wake up I feel so grateful for having her in my life, I couldn't ask for anything more.  Now that I have meet her I can't imagine her not in my life.  This is going to be the first Holidays I have someone special I love in my life.  We are spending the Holidays together going away just to get away with each other.   I just can not wait.  I have fallen in love and it feels so good.

-B.B.

The Nice and Naughty Side of Saint Nichola

When I don’t go to the hugging church, I go to the thinking church.  (See Never Make an Impression at Church). The names of both start with “Unit” and this makes me feel complete, but I need both to feel balanced.  It had been sometime, and so it was time.

There, I discovered that today is the first day of Advent, and thus the beginning of Christmas season.  You might have been under the impression that this grand holiday—that never seems to get here soon enough and that many people use as an excuse to not get things done until their girlfriends say, “What? Are you waiting for Christmas?—started with Halloween or on Thanksgiving, but no. It begins today. 

The minister’s assistants dismissed the children and then they read letters to Santa.  These reminded me of colorful and whimsical things in his workshop or on his miracle sleigh.  While they read, I borrowed ideas for my letter:

Dear Santa,
I don’t need coal. It’s warm here, and I have a fireplace that starts when I push a button.

I hope that you are without flu this year.  Please tell Mrs. Claus to stock up on Oscillococcinum.  I’m pretty sure reindeers will like the sweet crunch if Dasher or Dancer aren’t up for the trip. It’s best to overlook the ingredients: hepatitis.  This must be a typo, or it is the only thing that truly tackles the flu.  When you’re in Europe, ask those crazy French chemists where they found enough hepatitis to put in this miracle cure. 

If my house sells before Christmas, I hope you find me and bring lots of things I don’t need.  I can’t think of anything—but, it would be great if you could drop off the tallest female elf that has some miracle making skills.  I could use her talents in many areas, and I will make sure she returns before Halloween when production ramps…

The assistants took their seats and the minister opens with a short history of Santa—a.k.a. Saint Nicholas.  I forget that he has roots in the church.  (When some people invoke his name, it comes with a tell-tale clause that crushes childlike delight.  But, his lasting spirit contributes much to the season’s happiness.  Shame on the grown-up curmudgeons. I like to think that Jesus isn’t jealous of other do-gooders.)  Because I’m resting my back against the thinking church pew, I bet that I’m about to hear a sermon with new insights.  Indeed, the minister delivers.

“St. Nicholas raised 3 people from the dead; he put coins in the shoes of little children; and, he increased a wheat supply to feed many,” the minister says with a grinch-who-brought-back-Christmas grin. 

St. Nick was a savior of sorts for many.  My hat goes off to the reindeer.  It seems they were most effective, touching down in most places before anyone even invented the idea of a 747.  The Turks saved his name, and the Dutch offered up one that stuck for almost everyone, Sinterklaas—The Good Saint.  In this thinking church, I’m enjoying the Santa≠Satan sermon.

The minister explains the psychology of Santa, as deciphered from letters by not-yet teens.  In them, there is much to know about tiny humans.  The author of The Psychology of Santa discovered that children who are polite—who write things like “I hope you are feeling well” and “how are the reindeer”—ask for fewer things.  Many openly request miracles like “I hope you will bring my best friend back” and “I wish that my parents wouldn’t fight.”  (Was that a “Yikes!” I heard?  My parents didn’t fight on Christmas, so this isn’t about me. The miracle is that Santa could make anyone not fight.  But then again, Santa would have a pretty good shot with that belly-full-of-jolly laugh).  Most important, it seems that—when the rubber hits the road and in the heat of thinking of stuff they deeply desire—children don’t very often ask for toys. 

The more I wonder about Santa, the more I wander into the obvious. What would Santa be like if a lesbian?  (I’m sure you are already thinking it or have thought it before.)   If our community had a benevolent being who could fly to the ends of the earth in one night, had a colony of elves, and gave presents to represent her unconditional love, what would she be like?  If anyone could talk to the magical and powerful reindeer, it would be a lesbian.  We’ve got that connection with mammals.  Right?

I’m gonna bet that lesbian Santa doesn’t look like Glenda the good witch, Ariel the mermaid, or even Cat Woman.  This Santa knows that she needs sensible shoes (and feet) to get the job done.  Her cosmology or cosmetology ensures that she’d have a pocket knife handy for the kind of emergencies that happen when you’re on your own, far from home, and needing to make miracles happen.  I’m not so sure about the white fluff on the skirt of the red coat.  But, if necessity deemed it so, I’d like to think that lesbian Santa would be practical.  And on the inside, she’d have a good heart, persevering amidst and despite social prejudices.  She’d show the strength to stay the course.  Unconditional love is unconditional love.  You get it, deserving or not.  Every miracle worker follows that golden rule.