Kali's Tipping Point

I’m a bad parent.  Since this move and new job, I work too much. I leave Sweet Georgia Brown alone all day.  When I come home, whether it’s been 12 minutes or 12 hours, she is barking before I can unlock the door; she runs around the coffee table and the couch; she squeals for me to recognize her. 

She loves me even though I’ve got too much shizzizzle on my shoulders to be a good parent.

It would be cruel­­­­ if I didn’t recognize her anx when I let her inside, or when I’m making my dinner, or while I’m working at my laptop a bit more.  It would be cruel if I didn’t stop and inhale this much love.  She has so much to give.  Why don’t I just take it? 

Sometimes I am that ignorant because I’m just too tired to stop.  Still, she believes in me. I’m her imprint. I’m the only one who loves her, and that fact makes me her primary concern from the minute I let her out to the minute I let her inside our home.

Love makes its imprint.  I know.  I’ve been in Georgia’s shoes for over a year—in love with someone who barely recognizes me.  Sure, I get that call one or two times a week; “What are you doing? Why don’t you come over?” And, I go even though I’ve been resenting that she is always late with her love.  I go because she’s my imprint.  She’s my only known hope for a love outlet, right?

I've got to step back and acknowledge that there’s a difference between me and Sweet Georgia Brown. She is fiscally dependent on me; she doesn’t have opposable thumbs which lends to better salaries; and, she doesn’t have that extra consciousness.  She just goes and goes and goes around with crazed excitement, barking her professions of love even after examples of my negligences.  That's what I've been doing with my lover, ignoring all of her ignoring because I was crazed to see her.

But what I got is that, as a human, I’m supposed to be able to watch my thoughts. SGB doesn't have that.  I’m supposed to think about the thoughts that don’t work for my benefit and change my behavior.  If SGB was able to do that, she'd probably shrug at my presence and go play on a computer or something.  I'm supposed to stop letting thoughts put unhealthy activities in motion.  I know can demonstrate that ability during random mundane tasks.  I just have a bit of trouble where imprints and other subliminal drivers are …driving. 

You can see that I’ve been grappling with two very strong inklings.  There's the imprint that’s driving my primeval activities and the consciousness that’s babysitting all of it.  On the one hand, I have a tailored self-expression through energy exchanges; on the other, I have developed a reflexive disgust for my lover’s usury. What helped me to my tipping point? Anger.  It was the reflexive manifestation of this third contributor that freed me.  Have you ever met 'anger'?  She's also a primeval urge that rescues with destruction...like the goddess Kali.

Over these months, I've been making observations and adding them like coins on imaginary scales. One side has been getting heavier for too many months. Finally, I had this ridiculous but very effective outburst, crying for some kind recognition.  "HEY! My imprint is working really hard to work things out."  It was the drama-queen  and not the logical observer in me that changed my future and freed me from that love outlet. I wish it had been different but let’s face it--, the logical one is lazy and is always procrastinating.

It’s clear, now.  Each imprint was born in its body to benefit its bearer. Its value is in the love that it originates, generates and propagates.

That's probably good. I gotta run.  Georgia wants me to put away this laptop, so we can have a long talk about what love feels like.  Who'd have thought that a dog could say so much?

Burnings, Yearnings and Bonfires

I am alone before I meet a lover, and I am alone after it's over.  You might assume these states would feel the same, bringing me a respite in equilibrium.  But, I happen to know that life feels lighter before love than after.  Love forever changes the soul and its psyche, weighing it with experiences that seem impossible to release for the great bonfire. 

With love comes desires.  They rush forward, seducing my mind so that it might cooperate with my heart and start gathering stuff.  I open to possibilities. Enticements pile up.  I take a breath to inventory all of my new treasures.  I sort, categorize and prioritize. Love must be honored because it offers hope to old cravings.  Breathing, Sweating, Dancing-, I deserve these antics and more. 

I let love simmer, bringing warmth to my belly.  These longings are mine and I am full with power from love's promises.  My lonely wanderer, who has been snoring, wakes.  She offers a list, pleading, "Satiate me."  I couldn't have known how much love would demand.  I must experience all of its elixirs. 

Like Rip Van Winkle, I need to get my orientation. The world has changed and I have this power, love's force.  But, I'm confused and without a reliable compass.  This love didn't come with my former life or one of my lovers.  Adjustments are necessary. 

It's so very difficult to know the unknown.  Too much to manage, keeping love happy.  She's a bastard sometimes.  I reason that it's really not fair to drop all of my needs in my lover's lap; and, she feels foreign; and, she's not doing what love suggested she might.  I'm lost in this new space. It's not very pleasant.  

My longing drenched-, I turn from charred smolderings that have been spread out, suffocating across the pit where the fire was.  I must rescind to my cave and sleep a bit longer.  In my dreams, I won't feel the weight of love lost. 

A Zebra Walks Into a Bar...

I trot up to the watering hole and order a shot.  I need something to bring my heart, bring my mind back to life; I need something colorful. I salute the bartender—, a monkey who’s been in the circus and knows what I need before I have a chance to set my right hoof on the toe kick.  It grounds me, knowing that brass rod is stable and fixed to something sturdy. Glad that it's reliable.  

The monkey slides a shot glass my way.  I like its layers of colors—, a fitting shot, and I nay while I bring my head up.  Then, the solution hits the back of my tongue, and I make an uncharacteristically loud charging sound.  I can't help but to swing my muzzle from side to side with such voracity that any loose moisture from the shot or my saliva release and splay across the mahogany bar. Embarrassing. All of the peacocks are staring. I’ve startled them. They’ve got their tail feathers up and all spread out.

“Go on. That’s why you’re here,” the monkey encourages, and the bar keep— a llama, of course—winks with approval. 

I’m grateful to the chap, but I wouldn’t ever date a monkey.  They keep the world going—with their various services—but they’re unpredictable and only as attractive as a canvas bag.  Canvas bags are good.  I needed one in college. Function is about all you'll get.  Llamas can have ‘em. 

Wouldn’t date a llama either.  Who wants to always be waiting for them to check in and tell you what crazy ass thing they brought back from their daydreams?  It’s like dating someone on ‘shrooms. Shrooms for breakfast; shrooms for lunch; shrooms for a midnight snack.  Llamas would starve to death without monkeys.  But—, I guess we all would.

I love me some peacocks. God knows I do, but I gotta be careful. Peacocks kill me every time. 

Sveiki, Ta shiu cheet, Quechua, Zdravo, Goeiedag, Sallam, As-Salamu 'alayki, Вітаю, xin chào, Hola, Sveiki, Здравейте, Саламатсыңбы!, नमस्ते, Сәлеметсіз бе?, Habari

                                     
                                     All Around the World, Love Crumbles for Cats!

When I was a young one, and a young lesbian, there was this woman—I mean she was a real woman and not another college co-ed—who asked me out. It was going to be a real date.  We had been working together, so I was scared to go for at least two reasons.

On our second date, she brought her ex. I didn’t have one to bring because I was new at all of this and had only dated—slept with—one other female who was… let’s say 'unobtainable.' 

“Anyhoo!”

I remember exactly where we were, enjoying dinner.  I often drive by the empty, boarded-up building that will soon be a music venue off Manchaca and then glance over to where we worked together. I try to forget all of it.

To be fair, we worked at a psyche hospital, and it’s true what people say, “The staff is crazier than the patients. They're just better at hiding it.”  So, there we were—two female staffers on a date who worked on the same psyche unit—only a block from where we worked (so that anyone coming off the shift could peg us), and we were talking about what went wrong in her last relationship.

“Why did you break up?” I asked.

“She was crazy.”

“Really crazy, like in a psyche hospital crazy?” I hitched my thumb toward our stomping ground.

“No, get this—.” My date wrapped her mouth around a ball of spaghetti noodles, and then offered, “She was jealous of my cats.”

My neck cranked back like it still does 30 years later when I tell this story. (And, I tell it a lot!)  

“Who would be jealous of a cat?" I moved in with emphasis, demanding an answer from the victim. "How could someone who loves you be jealous of your cats?”  And then I sucked in my spaghetti noodles, and later we hooked up because that’s a successful lesbian date.  The exs come for dinner; they are dismissed; and, we get naked because we can’t get pregnant from...kissing.  

I knew we weren’t right for each other. To be honest, I just wanted to have the experience, and there were 2 months between semesters; also, we worked together. I wasn’t going to break up for at least two reasons or until I found someone. That’s what lesbians do.  They hook up; they get naked; and, they find a replacement so that they can keep getting naked because we’re gonna be around other girls anyways so one of them might as well be a girlfriend.

But, my date/colleague was a bit older.  She was able to visualize alone time and didn’t really have the parameters of “I’ve got nothing to do between now and Spring semester registration.” So, one day when I phoned to see if we were going to hook up, she said, “I haven’t really been at home much.”  And, “I need to hang with my cats.”  The next time she said, “I need to practice being alone… and be with my cats.” And the third time she said, “I’m not spending enough time with my cats.”

“I hate your fucking cats,” I said to myself really loud on the inside, and then I remembered the night we ate spaghetti, and how we had dismissed her ex.  “Who hates their lover’s cats?” I had thought, but there I was … being a hater.

The truth is, well you know it.  Everyone’s got someone or something; everyone’s got an excuse for not doing what’s uncomfortable. Maybe they’re avoiding a form of intimacy, a co-ed, a mundane task, etc etc.

“Who knows?”

“Whatever.”

But, I learned something during that Christmas break which was more valuable than … most other stuff I’ve learned. 

“Order your spaghetti, invite in the ex, and look for her cat—whatever name it might go by."

Right?  It’s just best to get it all out before the end of the second date. We all know what happens then.

Let’s welcome some cool cats from all around the world : Latvia, Isle of Man, Peru, Serbia, Suriname, Kuwait, Pakistan, Belarus, Vietnam, Argentina, Lithuania, Bulgaria, Kyrgystan, Nepal, Kazakhstan & Uganda

That puts 2girlsR>1 in 67+us nations after 3 years. Woo-hoo! Thanks to all my sisters with wanderlust and a desire to note our presence. WE are not invisible; we are your friends, siblings, children; we are everywhere.  Thanks for making this happen, :)

Guest Blogger: How I Wound Up Moving to the Second-Most Conservative City in America…Twice

My feelings have ADD.

I sit on the bed in the back room of my friends’ house with my two dogs, reliving the day into which I managed to pack three major life events. But because I’m a lesbian who somehow forgot how to date, this story cannot begin here.

The twists and turns of life that led me to this point resemble the wad of emotions in the bubble above a confused cartoon character’s head. Or maybe it’s my head.

I grew up on such a sheltered, isolated patch of West Texas, attending an extraordinarily conservative church three times a week that the concept of homosexuality never appeared on my radar until I was a senior in high school. This despite a childhood in which (a) I often longed for the day I would become a boy so I could live as wonderful a life as my older brother; (b) I rejoiced that my younger sibling was a girl, to whom I could bequeath the ridiculous number useless dolls I’d been given in my six short years; and (c) my mom clarified to a new friend who asked about the genders of her children by saying, “I have one of each.”

So as a freshman in college, when I first kissed a girl—for 45 “non-straight” minutes—I shook for an equal amount of time in the dorm’s community bathroom expecting either to go to hell or to get thrown out of my church-affiliated school in short order. I spent the next decade in spiritual turmoil, trying to ignore my gayness while dating my first two girlfriends.

The tactic didn’t work. I was supremely irritated at God, so we (God and I) broke up. I moved to Seattle, never went to church, and began dating a woman from southern California. Several months later she moved to Seattle, and a few years after that we moved to Illinois so I could pursue a career opportunity.

Then the unthinkable happened: at a time when I could telecommute, she landed a job in the second-most conservative city in the nation, in my home state (to which I swore I’d never return), in West Texas. The life in my heart contracted like the cracked acres of desert land in summer.

Then the unimaginable happened: I met more lesbians than I had in Seattle. I met more Democrats than I had ever known. And I met more God-loving liberals than I had let myself consider existed, primarily through a pastor, scholar, and listener named Ted.

Ted began advancing social issues at his first appointment as a Methodist minister, prodding farmers to buy shoes for their migrant workers’ children so they could attend school. Then came integrating churches, women’s rights, feeding the homeless, and the heretical idea that God might actually love gay folks just as we are. It became clear God sent me to Lubbock to meet him, for only a man of his spirit, wisdom, and intellect could convince me to consider that was true. Around Ted I felt for the first time, and thus became interested in, a God of overwhelming, unconditional love.

My partner of 11 years and I split (so amicably we should have held a clinic), in part because her time in Lubbock needed to end yet I was at the height of my professional development to that point. She returned to southern California. I should have attended a clinic on how to date. About the only thing I did right was wait a year and a half before beginning again.

It felt like I was ready. I think I was ready. I know I wanted to be ready, and this witty woman with a sultry voice reeled me in too close before I realized her overly anxious nature clashed fiercely with my overly adventurous self. At least we had not moved in together.

Too shortly thereafter, a friend introduced me to a woman who’d just had her heart broken. She was the saddest person I’d ever met, contrary to her kind, positive Facebook postings and pictures that highlighted the most radiant face, sparkling blue eyes, and vivacious spirit I’d ever seen. We started dating around Christmas. By spring I was convinced I would eventually look into those eyes and say “I do.” The evening of the longest day of the year—which happened to be the day before my birthday—she left me for a doctor. At least we had not moved in together.

After a dehydrated month, what with all of the sobbing, I reconnected with an acquaintance on Facebook. She lived in Austin. I was fed up with my town, my work situation, and myself. She possessed more confidence than my past two girlfriends combined. I liked her aura. She invited me for a visit.  I broke my two steadfast rules: never quit a job before you have another, and never, ever move in with someone before you’ve experienced four seasons with her.

We drove the literal U-Haul to her house—the very day she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Our motto of “We’re in this together” lasted several months, which puts a positive spin on the fact that it didn’t last longer. My writing business was gaining momentum, but it wasn’t supporting me yet. She encouraged me to move out as quickly as possible. The only reason I didn’t hyperventilate was my very good friends’ offer of free room in Knoxville. They no doubt would have thrown in a good bit of board as well. I love my friends. I love the beauty of Knoxville. We could have biked and hiked and skied and splashed in the pool.

But it didn’t feel right. It just didn’t seem like I was finished in Austin yet. I needed to ride it out alone instead of run to safety.

So I moved into an apartment. I found a great church. I walked miles each day with the dogs, exploring various trails, creeks, and woods. Business picked up just enough to pay for my miserly existence. But I was withering emotionally because I could not gain a foothold on the social scene, primarily because subconsciously I had sequestered myself in fear of yet another hasty relationship. The emotional and financial trauma was taking its toll.

And then Ted began to die of bone cancer.

To explain his impact on me (and others) would require a book—which I am working on. Suffice it to say it cannot be overstated. So I spent most of Thanksgiving to New Years in Lubbock, attending his last church services at the retirement home where he taught (calling it preaching doesn’t do his Biblically contextual, historical, and practical messages justice). I followed him around town to speaking appearances, holiday parties, and his listening room like a puppy dog follows its human when they haven’t seen it in too long and want to make sure the separation never happens again.

But I knew that it would. Ted was already a hospice out-patient, which meant within a few months he would be listening to Jesus and asking him how he felt in the tabernacle and in his dad’s workshop and in the garden when his best buddies fell asleep during his supreme distress.

I spent so much time in Lubbock, simultaneously grieving and reconnecting, that those liberal, God-loving folks began asking if I had or was considering moving back. The notion resided so deeply hidden from my realm of possibility that not until the fifth asking did the question wallop my head like a 2x4 and loose the idea. Just as the universe slotted every gear perfectly for me to move to Austin in record time, it began the reversal process.

Six weeks later, here I sit, reflecting on this day in which I moved back to Lubbock, attended Ted’s service, and spoke at a fundraising event for my new job. I am pondering the marvel of life; of learning lessons; of growing; of experiencing different perspectives.

And of the magical, mysterious, and maddening timing of it all. I don’t know if it’s irony, or coincidence, or what, but:

• Ted’s life brought me to Lubbock the first time. His death brought me back. I am both sad he is gone and supremely grateful for the nine years I learned about love from him.
• My new (professionally a stretch) role at a breast cancer organization would not have been possible without going through the trauma that led me to, and that which occurred in, Austin. I am appreciative for both the opportunity and the relatively quick discovery about the purpose of the trauma.
• Unbeknownst to either of us until the deals were done, I will move my belongings back to Lubbock in the very same month as my ex with whom I first moved here. I am simply shaking my head in amusement, with nary a cell in my body interested in getting back together.
• The week before I began the interview process in Lubbock, I met a “woman of interest” in Austin to whom mutual friends had been trying to introduce me for six months. I am sad, thankful, confused, curious, disheartened, and yet, against the odds, feeling a glimmer of optimism that is most likely optimistic.

But, I have gotten to where I am today—and it is one of the most solid places, metaphorically, I’ve ever been—by being optimistic, by embracing all that life offers, by seizing opportunities, by being unapologetically goofy. So I will continue to do so while at the same time practicing the concepts of taking life one day at a time and trusting myself.

If this blog survives the stringent editorial review, perhaps I will share more someday.

-Zoe Tucker

I Want Someone Who Will Wrestle a Pit Bull

I woke up sick and tired.  I mean, it's flu season and not Summer sales season.  I need to get healthy and wealthy!

After the sun hit the winter horizon, I met a friend for a movie.  Many of Austin's theaters have limited seating to make extra space for food runners who bring--not just popcorn and junior mints--but pizzas, burgers and pints of beer, so they're not exactly stadium sized.  It's a great concept but you have to reserve seats days in advance. She took the initiative and bought mine.

Like many groovy things in Austin, you learn to avoid the crowds and swim against the traffic.  So, we opted to meet on a school night. There's a bistro connected to the theater so we arranged to arrive early and meet there. She'd already ordered an appetizer and gestured toward the second half of it. I'd been rushing all day and needed to take flu medicine-- so I grabbed a few of her pita triangles and shoved them in.  Of course--in my rush from the day--I forgot to grab my wallet, and so I slid into the table, pushed a few bites of her order toward my throat and said, "I'll have to treat next time."  I have no cash.

My friend--let's call her Scooter Springs--made a sweeping gestures as if to say, "I was done" or "it's yours now that I see that you are dying of bubonic plague."  With sustenance in my belly, and a glass of water that the waitress had brought to her, I popped some delinquent cold medicine and then relaxed for a first time all day.

Scooter Springs waited and watched, and then she opted to start.

"How's business?"
"It's ok."

This question is fair game in any scenario even if you work in a cube and don't have to worry about sales.  But, it has become such a common question that I'm beginning to wonder if people are talking about my lack of business when I'm not present.  Paranoia is setting in.  I've started to notice lasting stares where friends look for twitches or tics that can verify their fears of my financial crisis.  (What will help you understand the un-comforts behind this particular, reoccurring exchange is that there's nothing the inquisitor can do about the lack of housing in Austin and there's nothing I can do unless I pick up a hammer and start building (shantys)-- so, I'm generally brief each time the question is posed.)

"It's tough with no housing inventory."  And then I return the courtesy, "How's business with you?"

Scooter Springs wouldn't accept that explanation or my nonchalance. She isn't a close friend, but I respect her insight. It was ok that she took some liberties. So, I got a soft parental lecture about the value of a real job, a "9-to-5."

To her defense, she's one of many rationalists in my life. They've probably all gotten together on some common astral plane and decided that they can't worry about me another single stinking minute. I need to get my shizzizzle together for the good of all humanity.

"I can see her point," I yielded the floor to hear her position. "I could be saying the very same thing to someone".  I imagined me sitting on the other side of me.  "If I had a pot of gold coins, I'd have them all accounted for. And, I'd be worried that one might slip out, roll across the floor, slide in an unknown crack, and forever be lost."  I thought these things while I tried to hear her point. Then, I remembered that I'd left a pit bull in my garage and wondered if its jaws could take a side out of the washer like Jaws did with that boat.  This visual disrupted me enough to realize that she was still explaining the rules of the game when my flu symptoms tipped the scales of justice and my emotions shouted, "What-the-what?!"  I guess she's saying that if I'd get my life together, people could feel better about me. Themselves. Our friendship.

Enough said?  Not yet.  What got my attention came with the second half of the soldier up sermon.  "You're not going to have a relationship until you've got a reliable flow of money."  Maybe these words shouldn't be in quotes, but that's what I heard her say.

"Wow!" echoed against the chambers of my mind until I was rescued by thoughts of:

* all the people I've met who are happy despite their lack of money
* all the people who have everything and complain all day long about nothing

* all the people who are happy despite a surplus of money

So, I shared a story with Scooter Springs.

"There are alot of people who have all of the outside things in place but the inside is craaazy."
"True," she said.
"Because my life has been in flux for so long, I always know where my anchors are."  I looked up and opened my palm, and then I pointed to my chest. "I want someone who isn't looking for more trophies on the outside than on the in."

What Kind of Love Tube has Handles, Anyways?

Hold on to your breath— I have news… I met a girl and we weren’t (I repeat, we WERE NOT) in a vodka pool.  Hooray!  She is smart, has a healthy balance, and I really like the way her hips gently move to the beat of music that’s being piped in.  We’re not even gonna go into my jealousy for that clingy turtle neck that got 1:1 privileges throughout the evening.

“Wow!”

That and more are some of the machinations running through my head while I was gulping for air and watching her make dinner last night. Of course, the (polite) introvert in me can’t find a way to enunciate those feelings because I grew up in the South where girls don’t say things like that out loud to people they hardly know.  So, I’ve got to work on communicating more concretely*… if we make it to the point where those kinds of thoughts are welcome on the outside.  Right now, we’re interviewing each other for adaptable-enough characteristics, checking for fleas, and offering reading material to address all the layers of life: head, heart, & soul. 

I’ve been knowing since I left Louisiana that I need to keep my expectations in check if I meet someone to date, and so I’m using the adage from Terms of Endearment when Debra Winger was dying from cancer and her mom, Shirley McClain, was banging on the nurse's station.  As the doctor said to her, I'm saying to myself, "Hope for the best and prepare for the worst."  But, this is just love, not cancer, right?  This relationship will either:

   >  get to the next phase

   >  land in the friend zone, and we will wave to each other from opposite ends of the same lesbian gathering on some distant day**

I mean, it’s so easy in an all-girl community to just keep being girl…friends.  In fact, the perks can be better.  You get a ton of “extracurricular” honesty that a girlfriend rarely discovers (until after the breakup).  And, there never has to be a breakup.  Looking at the event from this perspective, friendship can be the marathon while swapping intimate energy is merely a sprint.

And, at my age, how do I know I need someone enough to let them in?   When you’re young, there’s that K.D. Lang effect—constant craving.  But when older, you enter into a relationship knowing that those feelings start out innocent and then seduce you into a vacuum where you lose track of all that you are and can be, bartering your last capsules of hope for one more day of love heroin.  Once that source of euphoric power moves into your heart &/or bedroom, you’re sliding against the wet slippery sides of an imprisoning tube where benevolent beings didn’t install handles and there doesn’t seem to be an exit portal until one or the other does something so blatantly unethical or immoral that there’s a U.S. Postal Address Change Form taped to a suit case at the front door step.  Yikes!

 How does everything start out so awesome and end up so not?  Is there another way to do this thing called love?  So, I think about that love tube without handles and I wonder why the Goddess would create such a powerful experience but not create safeguards.  Doesn’t she love us enough to help us avoid unnecessary heartaches?  Then, an idea boomerangs toward me.   If we were able to stop at each good feeling and analyze it, it seems that the experience would no longer be good or a feeling but merely a one-dimensional thought.  Maybe the Goddess wants the mind to think and the heart to feel, and for both of them to make things work within the same experiences—without safeguards or advantages, one over the other.   

*Note:    Thank you Dim Sum for this morning's conversation, "How an abstract person can keep an concrete person's interest."

**Note:  Unlike most multiple choice tests, the longest answer is not necessarily the correct one

What Does the Buddha Know About Nothing?

     All things are emptiness because they don't possess a true essence or nature.  When I
     see something and believe it exists, the imagery comes from the dynamic spirit within me.
     This is the illusion.  We, humans, assume that objects and people have a particular nature,
     but we are really projecting our own essence.  
                                                    - a summary of readings from Thrangu Rinpoche

When I lived in Baton Rouge, Dim Sum turned me onto Tig Nataro.   (You can find her on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSwzYB545hY).   I imagined that if I lived in “a real city,” I could go see her perform.  Now, in Austin, I can; so, I will. 

The show is a few days away and I haven’t invited anyone.  I tried to entice Dim Sum, but she’s not booked an afternoon plane that I know of.  I thought a friend might buy the other ticket (since my size 4 pants are sliding off my hips and a return of cold cash would feed me for days), but I keep having this nagging reminder that I've met a few women this month. 

It doesn’t take a mathematician (or readers of this blog) to count the reasons why I need to ask a date to go with me to Tig Nataro, but my mind keeps making lists with friend’s names who could be delightful dates.  Am I avoiding?  You already know that I think about what I’m thinking about all of the time.  I can safely say that after an internal audit, the word or its synonyms haven’t passed through the ticker tape.  So, I walk with a cock’s confidence that I’m not avoiding dating since I REALLY, REALLY want to do whatever that looks like. Still, I’m not picking up the phone, and the words aren’t coming out of my mouth.  

I tell myself that it’s for the sake of ease.  It will be much more better if I ask a friend. It's on a school night. It would be rude to ask someone to endure that traffic.  Better, I’ll ask my couple friends if they want to buy both tickets and have a nice evening out.

“Hmmm.” I think. “It sounds like you’re a-v-o-i-d-i-n-g.”

“Or just lazy,” me echoes.

The truth is that if I go out on a date, so many terrible things could happen.  I won’t even list the dozen that quickly filled my brain between 4 and 5 today.  Instead, I’ll tell you a story.  Recently, I met a really nice woman.  We were having a delightful conversation when she offered to buy me a beer.  (This idea excited me because any carbs are welcomed for nourishment sake).  We return to the table and a few of her friends show up. I imagine my life with her (at least the next 10 summers and Thanksgivings), and I imagine sitting at the table with her friends, sharing meals year after year.  I imagine I'll be lucky to make it through the first one before the leader (every group has an alpha dog) realizes that I’m struggling.  Naturally, the pack will want to protect their friend before I prove to be a freeloader—, a good for nothing.

“Stop! You’re right.” 

“It’s worse—, I hadn’t even finished half of that beer. “

I looked at the remaining ounces and wanted to gulp them down, chasing my anxiety.  I know I’ve had it rough with all of the moves with #3, and I’m starting over in a town that is as familiar as foreign.  (Austin population was at 1M when I moved and is at 4M, now.)  But, I’ve got a lot to offer.  At least, that’s what people tell me, and they don’t even know about my extra Tig Nataro ticket. 

The truth is that I’ve got all kinds of nonsense rambling around.  It’s good to be introspective but not to the point where I’ve carved up my strengths and bagged them for the bin. Being single is tough because no one touches you in an intimate way, emotionally or physically.  I’m stuck in my head 24/7.  Sometimes,on some days, a rude interruption from a lover would be the best cure-all.

“It’s just me against the world.”

But, being single can be rewarding.   I’m way less co-dependent.   I’m way more resourceful.  I get to sleep on both sides of the bed.  I get to eat anything directly out of any carton.  The list could go on.  The difference between being with someone and being someone seems to be that I’m accountable for my happiness.  If it’s not happening, it’s because I’m looking too far outside of my heart or head, seeing emptiness in objects and not living in my essence.

Frieda Whales says, "Give Peas a Chance and Share the Rainbows"

I spent the last two weeks of September preparing for PRIDE. (And, I spent  the past two recovering from it!)  In Austin, they have the parade in late Sept because it will finally be only 95 degrees hot.  Someone got smart and changed the rules.

“These summer parades are ridiculous.”

And, everyone said “Amen, you can't take off enough clothes!”

So, I was scrambling for SWAG.  (It’s that stuff people put their logo on and drop in a bag at a festival, conference, etc).  I’ve only been in Sales for a few months—, all of this is new.  When I realized I had a week to get my name on something, I knew I was in trouble. 

“I need rainbows!”

But, the gays stole the rainbow. 95% of Americans stopped buying them; China stopped making them; now, it’s hard to find them. I thought that maybe I would go to the east side of Austin that has a big Hispanic population.

“Mexico still makes rainbows,” I thought. “I could buy 500 pieces of something and print my logo on it.”

And, so I drove to the east side around noon and realized it was hot. I forgot about rainbows and started looking for aqua fresca stands, and then I thought that I might need to eat some lunch and popped into Joe’s Mexican bakery because it’s one of the last establishments that’s still in place or hasn’t changed names since the condos and new fancy buildings have begun to encroach. 

I used to live on the East side.  It was after college and before the area became trendy.  A friend who inherited a house that his dad built in the '40s let me live there for $100/month.  I used to walk across the field and I’d pass Joe’s.  I included it in my favorite poem, A Walking.  It’s 4 pages long but here’s a bit of it:

                                                                . . .

i hope,

a foot for each rail,

i want…

   I want

both feet on a rail,

   but my Body can’t balance—

i hop off.

   when forward takes my Soles

my weight falls

outside of those tracks;

   when me jars my Mind,

   my Crossroad dilemma dissipates,

i look up

over the ditch and through the marsh

and to the snot-green house,

   I am on my Way;

but i can’t take my body

and legs won’t go

   to that Apparition;

ugly before and uglier now—

    I feel ugly near its Frame.

will my head move

   from this Apparatus—

with its termite-eaten, swollen boards above

its warped, termite boards below;

   will my mind tend to my Mission

and buy my times?

                                                                                            

i should get some news and sit on the lumber;

     should I get some and not sit?

When will i know

   when I am There—

if i am before

   that Mound to climb?

six hundred feet far,

ahead of my head is joe’s mexican bakery,

      and with my Body balancing on

my legs

i am walking

    thinking of yellow molettos y pumpkin empanadas,

para mi angelo, la marana, mi amor.

      WHO remembers:

   to find enough Change

   to buy some News

   to go to the Pile;

to pass freddy’s house

faster than anywhere else,

because he pelts me with peaches;

when they are green—

   whip by Unseen,

   ‘cause We know

they’re not summer soft ones.

i ‘member

how to dart between his pellets—

   fasten my Worries

   lighten my Limbs

   glance beyond his Hailstorm,

moving quick as a speeding bullet.

i cross tracks and run on a road,

into some mud and find

      Silence.

   I stand forward

   stare Up,

into a chasm of sun’s flowers.

                                 

i see

black-brown buttons holding

green stems

holding blonde hairs,

   above My head;

   I know

      THEY

   give Life

to gold-white rays.

   I am full-length stretching

my arms

   touching Highest tips,

   Now.

i feel

   Their Fibers

   welcome Peace

   to Our body.

. . .

All of these memories and that yummy food made me forget about rainbows.  I dashed off to my next appointment with homemade tortillas in my belly.

Before the week was over, an artist made me my very own rainbow and we had them printed on car coasters.  It was fun to ask straight people.  All seemed eager to help me celebrate my people’s festival.  

As the week progressed and more of the city put out their flags, I saw lots of rainbows.  There were celebrations at many businesses throughout the week, and I attended as many as possible in hopes that I could share mine.  

“Would you like a coaster?  It has a rainbow to make you happy on your way to and from work.” 

I assured the festival goers with each of the 150 that I handed out.  (Don’t do the math.  There’s a lot I’m not telling you about my distribution methods).

Since the theme of this year’s PRIDE festival was Oz-tin, every kind of rainbow added to the colors of the parade.  (Apple employees brought 3,500 people wearing one on each tee shirt!)  I loved being amidst so many of these symbols that used to tap open the hope button in my mind.  But, that was the ’70s and ’80s and before the gays stole it. 

“Can’t we share the rainbow?”

This concept reminds me of when my goddaughter was 3. She would sleep over once in a while.  My second girlfriend set up a toddler-sized lady bug dome tent and added a few layers of padding on the hardwoods.  She, me & #2 weren’t ready for her to sleep all the way down the hall, alone. 

In the morning, I’d fill her belly with syrup and bacon, and we’d drive her home.  On one particular morning, #2 found a bag of pretzels under the seat or in the door or somewhere.  She had a few, and I had a few.  From the back seat, we hear a peep.

“Share.” 

15 years later, I still hear her voice in my head. I say it to myself—with her innocence—when I’m offering or wanting something.  

So, this idea that gays stole the rainbow and hid it in clear sight makes me sad.  I don’t want the straights to be without this symbol of hope, but I can't force them to share.

P.S.

Here's a video of the crew I was with: https://www.flickr.com/photos/128255673@N06/15210261329/?fb_action_ids=1509145139324014&fb_action_types=flickr_photos%3Ashare&fb_ref=w

Skipping Past Yoga and Landing in the Vodka Stream

I've been going full-steam ahead since I got home.  I'm trying to build a network to support my new career and it's disheartening that I don't have the right tools in my toolchest.  $10K and 6 months invested, I'm back—, looking for a familiar job with former peers who live in cubicles.  But, I can't let regret take root.  I've got to keep keepin' on.

I'd been working with a family, giving them every free minute and jumping through hoops when I more needed sleep or exercise.  At the end of the third week, the husband called and said they were headed back to Ohio and didn't need the home we'd put the 4th contract on.  My insides were fiery hot while I calculated the gas I'd spent for 500 miles of futility.  But the call came just in time to be facing Friday night happy hour.  For that—I am grateful.

At the beginning of the day, I'd planned to go to laughing yoga. But my knees buckled and my heart fell out.  I sat still, visualizing how—envious that—Robin Williams got his ticket off this planet.  I had to shift gears and get out of my head, get near someone.  Laughter and thought of giving up the ghost don't go together, so I opened my events calendar (thank you Facebook, for giving me more to do than I could ever ask for!) and headed to the Austin Gay and Lesbian Film Festival fundraiser.

It was a pay $20 at the door and drink until the cabinet is dry, so I gulped Deep Eddie vodka with grapefruit and cranberry and Texas Tea and plain ol' regular flavors.  A nice man— let's call him Danman—adopted me.  We stood and watched an ice sculptorist who was dressed in thick leather and could have been mistaken for Eddie in Rocky Horror Picture Show.

When Danman would return with freebies,  we'd stand and watch the chainsaw slip through clear ice blocks, and I'd suck good vibes from Danman's aura.  (Hey—, he had plenty to spare!)  He was sweet; he was human, and I know that a benevolent deity sent him to keep me company until she wanted my attention.

You can imagine that I was p-l-a-s-t-e-r'd by the time she stood beside me, talking casually about the goings-on as if people drink custom-crafted vodka in motorcycle repair shops everyday.  She was 5 foot nothin' & 90 lbs wet, and I couldn't get oriented fast enough to form more than one dangling clause at a time.

"Is that your husband?" she asked when my partner in crime, Danman, went for another free round.
"Him?" I looked at my feet.  "He's nice."
"I thought you were married."
I stare forward, "Why?"
"You're with him."
Numb to the thought-- how anyone could confuse me for straight?
"It's the purse," She points.  "Are you gay?"
I cock my head back as if to say, what kind of question is that? And, the extra vodka in my system adds a few pounds of force to my equilibrium.
"I saw you."
I'm just beginning to find the connections between my mind and tongue. I turn to make sure she's not looking at, talking to, someone behind me.
"I saw you earlier.  I wanted to know you."
I feel her words push against the fruity vodka current, making it flow counter-clockwise.  I turn to her. "Wanna go outside--so we can talk?"