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, :)

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?"

Drop the Drawbridge and We Will Show You Our Bellies!

“When I was a little boy…”

Nope.  There’s a song in there, but it’s not mine.

When I was a little lesbian, a friend and I went into this bar.  It was the kind of bar that mothers warn children about; it’s the kind of bar that burns memories into your mind that aloe can’t ooze away.  So—being back in Austin—I had the opportunity to go back, and I did.

Austin—especially that area—has changed, become trendy, and the bar has modified their marketing.  But now, condos are encroaching and a new one will ultimately bring the death of The Chaindrive as well as 200 year old oak trees where Davy Crockett probably slept on his way to the Alamo. 

I was in the neighborhood for a “networking” event with the Austin Gay&Lesbian Chamber of Commerce.  It’s a good group of business owners who get together and swap cards.  The Rainforest Partnership (http://www.rainforestpartnership.org/) spread out trays of munchies and stocked a bar. (Both staples made us gay while the philanthropists talked about their mission in a land far away that might be preserved if humans, here, would stop exhausting about and consuming so much stuff.)  Because these particular hostesses aren’t gay and about 20% of the attendees are gay-friendly, I’m used to bumping into a real and in-the-flesh straight person who has infiltrated our fortress.  In this case, they had actually dropped the drawbridge so we could cross their moat. 

I begin a conversation with a woman who is indubitably a mom. You know my gay aunt was a mom, but this one had a different rhythm.  She hands me her card…”

And we begin to talk about her work with faith-based parents who are actually trying to maintain a relationship with God as well as their gay child(s).

“WAIT!”  and, “don’t leave.” I know you’ve heard this spill. You’re probably yawning or pissed off that I would bring it up, here, in our private, safe place. 

“After all we’ve been through?!” you might have already said to me at supersonic, angry speed.

“I know.” This problem came up at the last Austin Gay&Lesbian Chamber luncheon after another friendly was supposed to be introducing her business.

Instead, she launched a presentation about being a kid, with her goofy siblings, on the family farm.  

“We didn’t know that our church was bringing gays to show them what their family could be like.”  She goes on to say, “When I started my business, I wanted to specialize in gay tax law so that I could…”

Well, you can imagine that this didn’t go over with the boys—at all! They were all haughty and angry that she would even say the word ‘religion’ in front of them.  “Did she really expect them to forgive her for brainwashing those gay men!”  And, it didn’t go over with the girls because they just wanted to learn about her tax business. “Why didn't she get to the point?” And, I thought it was awesome that she showed her belly.  (But, I was wearing a Vince Camuto dress that day, and how is it not possible to feel great in that?)

So, this woman—Susan, the mom—had walked from Rainforest, across the street, and into Chaindrive.  She sits down with a longneck and her husband—right there—where men have done some pretty excruciating things to each other with and without wearing or slapping leather against raw skin.  But, there wasn’t much chance that we were going to talk about that with them.

After the first hour of listening to the old and young gays, it was clear that the friendlies just wanted to be...with us.  They might have been only as comfortable as I am whenever I invite myself to a Hispanic family’s fiesta. (I’ve done it to strangers and distant friends of friends because I’m white bread.  I need to get a little culture somewhere. Often, I’m the only one who speaks English, but I don’t care because they make the best friggin’ homemade everything, and then we all smile and baile!)  My example might not apply. But I’m trying to say, "Not all people communicate with words. Sometimes it's good to just sit and swap energy without our mouth-a-phones."

But the friendlies listened, actively, to my rant about Christians “who have a responsibility to witness to the souls of gays” and “not turn their backs on children who were raised to have a relationship with God” while they “build and support outreach programs for prisoners who have murdered and raped…”  You can imagine that this topic, colliding with my 3^rd longneck, ushered in a personal pain about my paternal DNA donor who showed me one too many Bible verses about unconditional love.  But, these two listened—actively without saying, “You’ve got to let that go; you’ve got to get over it; you’ve got to move on."  They weren’t trying to ease their guilt by easing my pain.  They were just being human…with me.

So, I say—it’s our time for healing.  We’ve been playing into the hands of those who want us to disappear.  No more cowering in dark places on bar stools. Our souls get to breathe, swapping energy with all kinds of other (healthy) souls like They and Them do every day of their lives.

Our minority clan is at that time in history where stinky ol' Aunt Ethel wants to give us a wet hug and a tight kiss.  It's our chance to open up and embrace those people who have slammed, and sometimes nailed, our closet doors shut, and picketed the sidewalks in front of boy scout dens, and dismissed millions of us for having the potential to marry livestock since the first patriarchs of the Bible brought their floods, locusts, and human sacrifices.

Humanity has waited at least 10,000 years. It's a great time to be alive—, dear baby God! If we’re going to be accepted by them, we have to accept them.  It’s a simple equation kind of mental math: war makes war, good sees good, etc. 

We teeter on the precipice of a new day and our generation is privileged to participate in it. Before each soul releases its mortal coil, we—the gays—deserve to be seen and heard (and I’ve been single for 3 years, so I need to be felt).  The only way they’re going to know that we too bruise and bleed is for us to show our own bellies.  And, that's going to be tough through this evolution. 

"Are you with me?"

We all have different packaging.  There’s not a 1 single phenotypical characteristic that we wear that says, "Hello, I’m a fag.”  So, rip off that tag.  It should be clear that we belong with them….because we are them. 

And now it’s time. You’re gonna get it because I need to say it, because #3 moved me to SoCal where I mediated with the best of the granola crunchers, and because you really want it, and you really need to hear it…

“We are all one.”

Now roll over and show me your belly!

Let's Not Talk About It

We need to talk about it.  I've shied from the topic, but there's a threshold that each of us, ladies and drag-queen fakers, will cross.  That's when we will cry like banshees—releasing our pain into vacuous winds.
I want to be clear that I haven’t seen 'it.'  But--, it is throb, throb, throbbing on my horizon like a neon sign in a border town, short'd-out.  Everyone knows that I'm moving toward it.  This moment of matriculation waits, sandwiched and dormant between my smile scars.
Younger friends don't linger as long as they used to. That prompts me to fear that 'it' is obvious. So, I'm not sure what to do or how to dismiss or contain the anx that my young friends have for me... and for themselves (eventually).  'It' is a hateful thing, it is.  And, it will have me.

I'd only been back to Austin a few weeks when a strange guy from Cuba (literally off the plane from Miami, and then coming from a free night's stay with Austin's finest officers) said at the bar, in the boy's bar, “What was it like?” I knew exactly what he meant.  “I haven’t crossed that threshold, yet—thank you very much!”  And then his boyfriends distracted this country’s visitor with a sugary shot of something fruity that he didn't need (more of). 

         Since I know that I’m headed to the other side of Promise Land—, I’m not sure what I think I can do about it.  Did I ever, in the course of the last 30 years, receive a courtesy call on the 27th day?

         "Hell no!" 

         And, it’s not like I get to check a box:

⃝ go

⃝ NO GO!

…somewhere, and send my mandate to the Comptroller of my biological ecological order. If I'd ever had such an option--, it got lost in the mail that was forwarding from Baton Rouge.  Anyhoo, it's probably too late because I’ve begun to glisten.  (NOTE: I said ‘glisten’, not break out in hot hives.) 

         I can always date someone who might show me how to get through it.  She can reassure me of life on the other side. 

        “I’ve always dated women a bit older than me—two weeks, four years, and eight years older,” I tell myself.  “And it’s not like it slowed any of the other, older, women in my life.” 

        But, I feel like a vampire with a heightened sense.  Their blood flow has a different rhythm—I can feel it ooze, trudging uphill as if it doesn't have enough iron to get all the way up to the heart and freshen their systems.  Healthy bloodflow is like those pantyliner commercials where butterflies dip down to dance on sundropped hillsides. 

        “Why does the voice change?” I ask my mom.

        “I don’t know,” she says politely.

        She’s been a nurse for 30 years.  She knows. So, I present my question another way.
       “It’s not like my ears can detect that extra bit of bass in real life. But, there's a difference when we're on the phone.”

       “I don’t know,” mom repeats.

       She’s known me long enough.  It's not safe to follow some of my thoughts into the tunnel of despair.  She sits quietly until some other random stimulus interrupts our car ride and brings us to the junction of ice cream or margaritas or something yummy.  

To Have and to Hold Love

“How long?”

I raise an eyebrow like Mimi taught me.  It adds a slant to my pirate eye, complimenting my grin. It's my most readily available weapon.

“Hey there, I ask about you. That's my job. I'm you're friend."

I reply with a shrug, and I look passed feeble oaks with naked limbs.  “Three; it's been three. You know that.”

“Well, you look like a ghoul or something.  Besides, don't act bothered that I ask—, about you.”

I get up. The water is boiling or it's about to, and she is pricking anticipations that were pounding before I pushed the door bell button.

“I’m sorry—, but you're carrying so much dead weight. You need…” I hear her walk toward me in the kitchen nook.  "This isn’t healthy.”

My throat is full with something dry and heavy. I push out words while I hear her too close behind me. But, it's not unhealthy.”  I press her sternum, looking for a button so I can breathe, get space. I don’t look up. “We’re just too different.”

She finds enough of the pot handle to steer it.  The glass body drops and three microscopic bubbles sear my hand. She guides my other one with a loose lead, and I follow the folds of her cotton hoody. 

“I’m just going to take this off.”

I hold my breath. I hold the top buttons.

“No?” She looks up and cups the side of my face. “Ok, I’ll take these off.” She laughs that Joker laugh of soft glee while the five steel nubs pop in series, and then I’m standing with my flaky-white skin exposed in her intimate room with all the others who have been with her.  Here. 

She raises my hips to the top of her mattress, and I stretch out of my coat.  She opens every other inch while she talks of the first time I made her laugh, of that food fight that took us years to clean, of that weekend at the beach with her crazy ex, of that week in a cabin with mine, and of her love for me. 

“I love that we can share this love.” 

She presses, pulling the top sheet over us.

...but You Can Still Kiss Your Girlfriend at the Hippie Bizarre!

If there is some intelligent entity governing my life, I imagine that she is quite pleased with the timeliness of this personal project wrap-up.  Two years to the same weekend that #3 officially consummated her affair with ‘Diapers,’ the house closed.  So, this is full circle in linear time. 

Back then, I had been in Austin for the week, seeing old friends and checking out bands at The Armadillo Bazaar.  The plan was to hang and get grounded after a whirlwind of multi-state moves.  So, I’m standing there, listening to a familiar singer and I think, “I’ve got to find a way to get home (but we just bought a new one).”  I don’t know how I'll do it; #3 won’t ever agree to it.  So, I follow Bestie to the line for a lunchtime pint and decide that I will adult-up before the trek home. 

In less than 48 hours, the break-up email would come. I would be in IKEA, reading a list of measurements for new blinds for the new office in our new home, when hemorrhoids that I didn’t even know I had would drop and begin to implode inside. “Something is terribly wrong,” I would tell myself. And there on a public toilet, I would try to avoid the pain, playing with my smart phone that would effortlessly relay a crafted email.

“Stay with friends. I won’t be here when you get back,” #3 promised.

So, you can see—for the sake of closing this personal perseverance project—I must go to The Armadillo this year. I must stand where I stood two years ago when I knew that I needed—but didn’t yet know why I needed—to come home so that my feet might be anchored when the thundering effects of Fate’s synchronicity comes around the bend and knocks me in the chest.  “NOW,” It will command.  Through this ritual, I can really, truly know that everything will begin in the land of soy and honey.

This performer, Terri Hendrix, was the last band I saw before #2 and I packed a U-haul for Tallahassee.  On a Sunday afternoon, 2 dozen girl-girl dance partners scooted across the floor—with about a hundred straight people—in the oldest dance hall in Texas.  We got there first and got to drinkin’ first, and so we set the tone.

“The lesbians will be having fun today.  We won’t be sitting on the wayside and watching other people with the good legs God gave ‘em scoot on by.  Everyone will just need to grow up,” we declared by feeling and doing what straight people take for granted while they aimlessly exhaust about the earth. It was one of the last impressions I had of Texas and I took it with me on my many moves, silently self-professing that my love could dance if gays (and exhausting breeders) could get over themselves and grow up.

This adorable and talented Ms. Hendrix is the performer I watched when I had my epiphany at The Armadillo two years ago.  http://www.terrihendrix.com/music/  Clearly, Fate is telling me that she should be gay.  I should tell her.  I think I will, and we can live happily ever after.

“Why don’t you write a blog?” Dim Sum had phoned during the Hendrix show. I got back to her after I caught Anchorman2, a pint and a gourmet pretzel at the Alamo Drafthouse.

“I’m just taking in all of the pictures—sensory data is colliding.  Nothing connects enough to build a rhythm, to make a story.”

“Write about that. It seems to help.”

“I know—but the blog is supposed to be about lesbian dating, and I’m not doing, or watching, any of it.”

“Why does it have to be about that?”

“I don’t want to be a bore!”  But, I’m thinking and not admitting out loud, “I’ve spent the past five days walking around with Dicken’s ghost of Christmas Past. He won’t shut up about how stupid I was with #2.  God, there’s so much material.”

I glance over at two grass baskets that I bought for my house host, Betts.  She wants to put roots in them—potatoes and onions.  They are identical to two baskets that I toss’d during the move a mere three weeks ago.  I glance over.  They’re just on my front seat, rolling about with a bunch of other stuff I’d picked up throughout the weekend—not in bags with the store names on them.

“Wow! Walmart is already out of bags,” I had said when Betts and I were buying Christmas. The clerk was stacking our purchases on the turnstile that had empty arms for bags.

“No. We’re in Austin.”

“Hh?”

“No plastic bags anywhere in the city limits.”

(I remember when I shopped at the very first Whole Foods.  It was an old inner city store. You could roll an orange down the length of it, and the employees weren’t required to bathe if they didn’t have a rental agreement or know anyone who had a shower.  I always said, ‘There must be a required amount of THC in the bloodstream to work here.’ But, one guy shared an adage that I pocketed and shared in Tallahassee, ATL, OC, Roll Tide Land, and Cajun Country.  He looked up from an induced haze, retracted the plastic bag and refused to give my granola and OJ a co-habitating home, ‘Save the earth [man].’  Clearly, he was a prophet. But, this dictating of blind authority and refusing bags for others to choose or not to choose to save the earth reeks of communism and conservative controls.) “This measure is extreme even for the hippies.”

It’s always weird to start over, beginning again in a new city.  But, this is my city. And, I get lost every time I try to find once-familiar entrances to parking lots and theaters… or highways because there is this super toll road that is in the way of everything, and it is always empty. 

“Wow! Did anyone ask the hippies if they would pay to use this monstrosity?  Wait, are there any more hippies in Austin? Who the hell is running this joint if they aren’t?”

On the phone with Bestie—who was apologizing that I drove 37 miles to see a show on a Sunday afternoon and couldn’t find parking—said, with exasperation, that she and hubby got there 45 minutes early.

“We barely got a seat.” 

“I know. I have to get used to this pace. I remember what it was like—always leave 30 minutes early and expect at least one wreck along the way.  It’s just that it’s ‘break.’  I thought with the kids being gone (UT/St. Ed/ACC students) things would be a bit slower.”

“Yeah, not really. Austin is different.  You don’t really notice if the students (70,000+ of them!) are here or not.”

I stop to think about those 110 degree summers that were bearable because (at least) there is room for the wind to blow and for a spirit to breathe, and then I wonder deep inside—where authentic wonder and hemorrhoid pain comes from—, “Did anyone ask the hippies if this is what they wanted?” 

No More Voo-doo Until I Find My Mojo

I do love Voo-Doo. I wish there was some where I work so I could dash in for a quick one at lunch break. But, I have to think of reasons to not eat here.

I've got this ritual, covering the tops of saltines with burnt orange love sauce and then counting drips that fall from holes before the whole ka-bang is in my mouth.

"I need extra sauce," a take-out patron demands with heroine-addiction impetus.
"Oh yeah--you do!" I applaud in my mind but not out loud (because my mouth is full with a poor-man's appetizer.)

Besides, we patrons need to stick together, keep it quiet. No one here wants management to know how bad we need their spicy cane juice. They'll start charging to leave the bottle at the table.

Voo-Doo definitely has the best BBQ in my neighborhood--probably in the whole city. I came here after I lost a court case that my ex left me to fight. I came here after the master bedroom flooded. I came here immediately after...

I'll definitely need me some Voo-doo at the next stop.

"Wherever that might be".

Oh, I know! I told you I was going to Austin, but:

• the kids gotta eat 
• the job that i hated became my life-jacket
• life is wherever I breathe
• even if i'm single for the rest of my life
• because i could still be alone in Austin
• and, i have to start over
• and, i have to find a job
• and, i have kids to feed

Tonight, I don't have to make sense of it. I just need to eat my yummy 'Mardi Gras with smoked turkey, dried berries, diced mango, and hold the stinky-sock-goat-cheese salad', please. Tonight, I play in the yummy blackberry vinaigrette, drizzling non-sensical circles.

"I don't know how these crazy Cajuns haven't figure out how to batter this shi-zizzle, deep fry it, and cover it with more sauce."
"This $4*t is serious!"

I can't ever decide which one is best. I pick blind and then get too committed to remember THERE ARE OTHER OPTIONS. By then, I'm half crazed in a way that I haven't felt since the last time I was in Voo-doo. I look at the spice rack that has holes for other choices and reach out. I don't care which one. I just need to feed this force.

"I could easily stay with this one for the rest of my meal."

I've already covered all of my saltines with one of the two when I realize I'm halfway through my pallet refreshing pint, but I haven't tasted the third sauce. I hold its label to the light, savoring the last act.

"'Mojo'! Why did I ever go for the 'Tangy' or 'Traditional' first?"

And then--after two years of involuntary celibacy-,-this entire conversation resembles a dating pattern.

"God--I soooooooo need a girlfriend!"

Tools (only) My Heart Has

          My heart has already

          gone to Austin, and I

          fear that my mind

          doesn’t’ have the tools

          to lure it east of the

          Lone Star state line.

I got notice yesterday that we’re—finally—closing on the house next month. So, I text'd these thoughts to DimSum after a night of not sleeping. 

Tonight, I’m on a business trip with Love Heroine and some others I rarely travel with. We’re playing darts in a pub. I’m up against New Guy. I aim for ‘20’ but hit ‘4’.

“I’m going home,” I think of the lights that shine on the state capitol at Congress Avenue. 

In rapid succession, I think of five friends who will be less than 10 miles away from wherever I live. I think of homemade tortillas and Town Lake. My whole body shivers with excitement, and I’m glad that I have this wonderful secret.

“It’s time.”

New guy makes up crazy ways to throw the darts, and I think of soon-to-be Saturday nights in Austin. For New Year’s, I’ll be dancing in a room that’s sticky and smelly with not-so-straight-people. My heart races at the thought that the girl in a blue dress could be in the same spot at Oil Can Harry’s. I aim for ‘19’ but it bounces and the point sticks in the floor.

“I’m going home!”

The text to DimSum caused me to think of unknowns that come with moving to this ridiculously popular city. Sure, I have friends there, but I don’t have a job or place to live with my 3 pets. I have savings; but, will it last? Then, tears release anx when I feel truth knot up in my throat.

“At least I finally know where I need to be.”

It won’t be Florida—not Georgia, not Alabama, not Louisiana, not California. I’ve been on an incredible adventure this past decade, but it’s not easy to be a stranger in the South when you’re gay. My heart hurts for familiar faces that calibrate my soul.

“I’ll be home for the Armadillo Bazaar, SxSW, and Pride. Ahhhh, Hippie Hollow!"

It’s been 11 years.  #2—who I don’t write about but was the best thing that ever happened to my relentless frame filled with too much wanderlust—taught me about unconditional love and about making a home feel inviting. But, the world was my oyster; I needed adventure. So, we moved to Florida and then Georgia.  Whatever I was looking for wasn’t in Atlanta—with her—, so I followed #3 to California, to Alabama, to Louisiana where she would leave me for a 27-year old. (Not that there’s anything wrong with marrying someone who was in diapers the summer you left for college).

It’s all good; I’m better for the toils and troubles that come with this many moves and mysteries. I finally appreciate simple breaths and beliefs from random beings. I never took the time for strangers until I was one. 

“I’m going home.”

Tossing darts with my eyes not looking toward the bull’s eye, I'm thinking about how good it will feel to play darts at Gingerman on a Sunday afternoon with a pint of St. Arnold Brown in my bellly. And, I’m thinking about outdoor concerts at Bestie’s and Bestie Jr’s. I can feel the summer Texas heat rise through my thighs, and it makes me shiver.

A few months ago, I interviewed for a job with a great company that could give me a good job title. I can stay ‘there’ for the rest of my adult career, my life.

“Maybe they’ll call back before I pack everything?”

This crazed-hope scares me. It would mean life in a small city-town. I think of that last weekend in Austin, having breakfast with Wingman the morning after Pride, and thinking of all of the people who were celebrating their life in public. There were thousands. And, I am remembering the feeling I had, hoping to touch the hips of the girl in the blue dress.

Last weekend, trying to stay positive—so that I can put food on the table for Sweet Georgia Brown, Cali Surfer Girl, and Puff the Magic Dragonslayer—, I got a voyeur’s license for Cupid.com. I searched within 100 miles of that city-town. Not one lesbian seeks companionship.

“Can a place like that ever be home?” 

I think about living with a lover there and know that I’ll be half living. We won’t be out; I’ll for forever be introduced as her friend. Yuck.  Even if I never find another lover in Austin, I’ll be 3-D. There, lovers hold hands in broad day light.

“Imagine.”

“Everyone should live this life wherever they are.”

Kumbaya & Cowabunga!

There’s a crazed muse in me.  She has erratic but invigorating energy that lifts when it flows.  She’s responsible for most of the 2girlsR> posts, but my day reality has been so heavy that she can’t get in and lift the muck or find room to dance. That’s why I haven’t been writing; it’s not fair to drag you through it.  Also, there are no lesbians in Baton Rouge.  

I’m in Austin for a much needed R&R and PRIDE.  Things, they are a changin’.  In the mile long parade, the majority of floats and participants come from local churches. The not-haters are carrying signs. 

“We welcome you.”  

“God has a rainbow covenant.” 

Ahhhhhhh, Christians are embracing Christ’s spirit, and the proportion of haters:lovers is upsetting the status quo.  All of this kumbaya is wonderful and great but I need to find a lovely in my size and temperament.  

So, I look toward the end of the parade to be sure I can beat these 1,000+ partiers into Oil Can Harry’s. I go to order a tall and refreshing beverage, and it’s already packed. Temperatures are high and bodies are reeking.  I push and press toward the back patio where my wingman is making friends. She points to a pack of youngin's.

“I asked that girl if I could buy her a drink.”

“What happened?”

“I turned around and she took off with her beer, and mine.”

“Crap!”

Next to them is a lovely in a blue dress.  She looks like some(gay)one I used to admire from afar.  With the doubIe-whammy of familiarity and interest, I can’t help but to stare.  But, in a place like this on a night like this, staring at someone screams, “Horny stalker.” 

I’m too shy for this nonsense. I grab Wingman and we head to the dance floor.  After a beat and a bounce, I know I’ve made a mistake. I need to go back and utter non-sequitors. I jump off the stage and bump into a straight girl who wants to mock grind, I bob and weave to race down the half stairs.

Blue is gone.  Her friends are gone. There’s no trace that they were ever there, and it’s only been the length of half a song.

“Is there a chance she was treading water in this sea for the past hour because she was waiting for me?”

“Crap!”

“She’s just what I want; she’s just what I need.”

After ~2 years without someone significant, I do need someone.  Plus, I’m getting old. If I’m ever going to be intimate with someone before I get wrinkled, it needs to happen soon.  I need for the last special someone to have a “when you were still attractive” memory before we get old and grey and too broken to get it up—our ‘love energy’ that is.

The woman in blue haunted me through the night. By the bewitching hour, I gave up and walked back to the hotel alone, crossing the bridge along Congress in the night sky’s light.  

“Alone.” 

I’d already dreamed of Blue a few times when Wingman rolled into the other bed.  This morning, I’m wondering if Blue will be at the breakfast buffet, reaching for her custom egg white veggie omelet.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I could say. Sure—I can find the words, now.

I imagine us exchanging digits in a hurried craze because we only have an hour to seal our love and eat our complimentary meals before the coffee kicks in and carries us to our disparate realities. I would reach for the sugar, or the salsa, before I remember that I hate long distance relationships.  But, I would promise to try…for the sake of love.

Hell.  There’s too much going on in my life to insert someone now.  With all I’ve been through, the tsunami has merely reached its crest, and it will fall before 60 more days if we don’t sell this house.  For the sake of love, I couldn’t involve someone in that muck.

“I can be strong as long as someone doesn’t tell me it’s okay to be weak,” I tell Wingman during breakfast. 

This sentiment brings a tear to both of our eyes because we’ve been friends since we were teens. I know it hurts to think of all that I’ve been through and there’s nothing she can do; plus, we’re both really hung over and emotions are way too convenient after 12 straight hours of drinking and then a night of dream dancing with a girl in blue suede shoes.

I need to paddle toward the tsunami and hope that I can shoot through the tube. I’ll be a better lover when my feet hit the shore. 

“Peace out, the surf's up!"

Guest Blogger #4: Merit for Marit's Sake

This entry was connected to a comment. But, it is a story in and of itself, ") :

I have an issue. I don't like to write in black and white. I certainly don't see the world in that way at all. Not to say grey, but; "Live in living COLOR."

But as it took me as long to type in this whole longggg address, I may as well make the most of it;-)

I pondered as I was nursing looming tendonitis from keyboarding the previously mentioned address; Is this rather cute woman I've been sending often rambling, lacking any sense of order sending me on a wild goose chase, just to send me to the land of "yer weird & bugger off?" I'm glad that isn't the case... yet.

I smoke like a flipping chimney out of Mary Poppins. She was kind of a prudish nanny and supercalifagilisticxbalocous aside, Miss. Poppins would have a heck of a time getting me off the ceiling. Weeee, flight from laughing too much!

Ah, yes, my smoking. true it is smelly habit. I started only five years ago, in Baton Rouge to be exact. Somebody said 90% of models smoke for weight control. Boom! I found me the nearest7/11 and bought Malboro's because that was only cigarette I knew the name of. Better for the waist line than bags of Bit-o-Honey's.

I will quit, someday. I will just wake up one morning and be done with them. That day has yet to arrive. Smokers are now quite a sub culture. 

We are banished to the outside nearly everywhere & when it is -15 degrees outside ya tend to band together.

Normal. You mentioned normality as being individualized, so true Grasshopper. Getting older, 'tis good to embrace ones individuality. FFolks, either like me or more often tThan not, after the polite niceities (so no how to spell that) people either think i'm a hoot or a glaze comes over their eyes as they look for a quick exit. I happen to like being quirky and wow, what I wouldn't do to to meet a woman who also isn't afraid to jump in puddles and are willing to not only take a risk on occaision, but to stop dead in their tracks because there is a field of daisies. Slow down enough to appriciate the beauty that surrounds us.

My dinner is ready. Loaded potatoe sticks and warm cookies. Yeah, that's the way to stay healthy ;-O

Goodbye and good luck i'd now like to sign, from the cheerleading squad of Edison High!   - Marit