I feel that I'm a pretty patient person when it comes to dealing with people's foolishness. Maybe during certain times of my life, I find myself being a bit more ... difficult than other times. But overall, I'm pretty reasonable.
But I have my "hot spots." Those spots where, if touched, I lose my mind and get all kinds of aggravated and dramatic. There aren't many. But there are some. And I'm about to describe one of those hot spots.
If you, in your eagerness to post some controversial stuff, or in your sweet disposition feel posting the latest news on measles is the least you could do for your fellow Americans, forget to research what you are about to post -- We (you and I) are going to have problems remaining friends. Because when I find out that the nonsense you posted is total and complete bullshit, and that you just wasted valuable minutes of my life because I had to do the research your ass should have done before you posted about it, and THEN when I tell you that what you posted is bullshit and you refuse to take it off your time line without any explanation or clue that it is bullshit, thus continuing the spread of the false information ...
*takes big breath*
I'm going to delete your ass. I can't have stupid friends like you.
Just last night, I ran across a post on a "friend's" timeline about the ever terrifying illness Ebola. Now, I'm older than a few decades. I've been around for the real conspiracies regarding illnesses. And what I wasn't personally alive for, I know people who were -- and have heard from them. Yes, we had a government that covered up some serious shit. We had some people who were injected with diseases just to see what would happen. By the government. And let's not forget the cover up and mislabeling of AIDS in the 80's. And then, not so long ago, there was that whole thing with women losing their uterus and ability to carry children when our government dumped toxic waste in the middle of "nowhere" without telling residents in the area that they were being poisoned. And of course most of the people affected were minority women -- migrant workers and the like. So yes. We have a government that covers up shit. A lot of shit. But if you run across an article (ONE ARTICLE) that says there is an outbreak of Ebola in a city near you -- and there has been NOTHING on any of the other websites like, I don't know, MSNBC or CNN or nothing reported on any news station. Then you need to, for the sake of world peace, look into it. You have to. It's your duty. And when your misinformed ass decides to overlook the fact that this article came off of a website that has in it's description a disclaimer (A DISCLAIMER) that says that it's satirical and that nothing should be taken seriously and that names are made up except for with celebrities or sports figures, um ... then you really should listen to me (or anyone with a brain) when they say your article about the latest outbreak is bullshit.
But you don't. You leave that mess up on your timeline. You don't even acknowledge to your other friends or people who might come across the damn article that it's a farce. That it's satire. That it's false. You'd have your friends in a large metropolitan area freaking out. Running around scared. Using their time that they could have been using for something productive -- worrying about shit that they don't have to even worry about. Not to mention the number of calls generated to health officials, taking away time that they could be spending really dealing with this issue (and other issues that are far more pressing!)
I don't even think I can adequately put into words how much I can not stand people that spread around gossip bullshit on facebook or twitter or wherever. Not to mention my complete disdain for this website that thinks it's funny to spread a story around like it's a joke. It's not something to joke about.
I look up everything. Before I post anything on my page I look things up. Before I comment on something that has anything to do with real life problems or issues, I look shit up. I hate the thought of being made a fool of, so in the event I post something and someone tells me that I've just posted some bullshit, I'm taking it down. ESPECIALLY if it's spreading something harmful to a large group of people. People who are already scared. People who are already misinformed. Do you know what happens with a bunch of misinformed and scared people? Do you care?
So, I can't be your friend if you post nonsense like this. Mistakes happen. In our humanness we sometimes make mistakes. We like drama. Controversy. And as much as some of us hate to be scared or worried or angry, we sure gravitate towards things that make us feel all of these things. I'm guilty too. But I can't have it on my page anymore. I have to limit the bullshit I have and spread. And if you don't care about the truth and accuracy -- then ...
Unfriend.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Monday, October 6, 2014
Are You Coming Back?
When I was almost twenty-four years old, I got on a plane and headed to California. Just like that. I don't think I thought about it for more than a few days. It was something I felt I just needed to do. So, my Minnesota behind boarded a plane and landed in Sunny California. Or rather, what would have been Sunny California if it hadn't been in the middle of the night. My Auntie and Uncle and four-year-old cousin came to the Airport and picked me up. The first thing I noticed when I got out of the airport was the smog. And then the palm trees. I thought they were just movie props. And then we got on the freeway and headed "home."
The first night away from everything familiar (and I was not one of those kids who loved being home. I left every chance I got!) and it hit me. I was away from everything familiar. I was starting over. And there, next to my cousin, in a full size bed -- far away from the lakes and the mosquitoes and star filled nights and long summer days and fall leaves and the smell of spring when the snow just starts to melt, I started to sob. There was this finality to it. I knew, deep down in my heart, that I wasn't going to come back.
Ok. So, let me make things clear for everyone who is reading this (as well as J.S. who is probably thinking "oh hell no. You will go home, woman!"): I am planning on coming back to California.
This is what we are calling a long test run. I'll go for a month. See if we kill each other (we won't), See if I will be able to stand Omaha (It's just a town to me right now, I have no idea what it's about), check out the job markets and look at the schools and sort of have a vacation while meeting the rest of Jay's family. But I know that feeling. I had it when I got on the plane to come to California.
When I moved to California I was moving from a small one bedroom apartment that I solidified into a room at my then best friend Michelle's apartment. There were books and childhood things that I packed into boxes and had a friend of mine ship for a very good deal through his job that I shall not name in order to protect his not so innocent but willing to do anything for a good friend ass. It was strange sitting in a strange town with boxes of your life surrounding you. But those things kept me from feeling... lost.
Still, I was homesick. I had no intention of going back. But I was homesick. There is comfort in familiar.
So yes. I'm coming back. This time. But this trip is ... everything. It's the beginning of the shape of things without knowing what that shape might be.
My friends here are the ones who are reminding me of just how big of a deal it is -- this trip. I don't want to sound all deep and dark. It's not a sad thing. It's a big thing. There is a difference. It's an exciting big thing. That sounds pornographic. It's ... significant. And saying goodbye (for now) doesn't make me sad to the point that I'll change my mind. It makes me sad that I'm going to miss them, but that there is something so much better waiting for me. It makes me sad that I can't have both and that, given the choice, I would always choose her.
It's that feeling I had when I came to California way back in 1992: "I'll miss all of you. But I can give you up," my heart said.
It's saying that same thing now. For a much different reason, but the ending is the same. I can leave here for her. Not without effort, not without tears and feeling a bit homesick. But I can leave here. For her. For us.
It is so fucking worth it.
The first night away from everything familiar (and I was not one of those kids who loved being home. I left every chance I got!) and it hit me. I was away from everything familiar. I was starting over. And there, next to my cousin, in a full size bed -- far away from the lakes and the mosquitoes and star filled nights and long summer days and fall leaves and the smell of spring when the snow just starts to melt, I started to sob. There was this finality to it. I knew, deep down in my heart, that I wasn't going to come back.
Ok. So, let me make things clear for everyone who is reading this (as well as J.S. who is probably thinking "oh hell no. You will go home, woman!"): I am planning on coming back to California.
This is what we are calling a long test run. I'll go for a month. See if we kill each other (we won't), See if I will be able to stand Omaha (It's just a town to me right now, I have no idea what it's about), check out the job markets and look at the schools and sort of have a vacation while meeting the rest of Jay's family. But I know that feeling. I had it when I got on the plane to come to California.
When I moved to California I was moving from a small one bedroom apartment that I solidified into a room at my then best friend Michelle's apartment. There were books and childhood things that I packed into boxes and had a friend of mine ship for a very good deal through his job that I shall not name in order to protect his not so innocent but willing to do anything for a good friend ass. It was strange sitting in a strange town with boxes of your life surrounding you. But those things kept me from feeling... lost.
Still, I was homesick. I had no intention of going back. But I was homesick. There is comfort in familiar.
So yes. I'm coming back. This time. But this trip is ... everything. It's the beginning of the shape of things without knowing what that shape might be.
My friends here are the ones who are reminding me of just how big of a deal it is -- this trip. I don't want to sound all deep and dark. It's not a sad thing. It's a big thing. There is a difference. It's an exciting big thing. That sounds pornographic. It's ... significant. And saying goodbye (for now) doesn't make me sad to the point that I'll change my mind. It makes me sad that I'm going to miss them, but that there is something so much better waiting for me. It makes me sad that I can't have both and that, given the choice, I would always choose her.
It's that feeling I had when I came to California way back in 1992: "I'll miss all of you. But I can give you up," my heart said.
It's saying that same thing now. For a much different reason, but the ending is the same. I can leave here for her. Not without effort, not without tears and feeling a bit homesick. But I can leave here. For her. For us.
It is so fucking worth it.
Friday, October 3, 2014
On the Twelfth Day...
I know it's been forever since I've written. It's not that I don't have things to write about (or muse about. or bitch about. or laugh about...,) it's that I have so much on my mind that it's sometimes hard to squeeze it all into a topic I can write about in five or six paragraphs.
Since I can't sleep, I decided to just ... babble.
I'll be leaving for Omaha in twelve days. Janelle lives there in case you're wondering what the hell I'm doing moving to Omaha. And I'm not moving to Omaha YET. I'm just ... visiting Omaha. Trying it on for size. Seeing how we fit together. Omaha, I mean. Maybe Janelle, too. But mostly Omaha.
If you've caught Janelle's blog, you probably have heard that while Janelle and I have pretty much accepted the fact that we will be together indefinitely, there are certain things we haven't done yet. I'm pretty sure she mentioned that. Didn't she? Last few blogs, probably? Anyway... yeah. Ok, so this is the scoop on all of that.
When you're in a long distance relationship, there is this weird dichotomy. Part of you knows your girlfriend better than you know yourself. I know that in a few hours, she's going to wake up because she has to use the bathroom at the same time every morning. She'll message me in about five hours asking me if I am awake, and those texts will continue every hour (which really shows great restraint as I know she'd probably text me every five minutes because she has the patience of a fruit fly...as do I) until I wake up. I know when she's about to ask me what I'm doing. I know that as soon as I answer a question she asks me, she'll tell me "never mind, Babe" because she will have already found the answer on her own. I joke about us being an old married couple but I really believe that there's a large part of us that is. And it's cute. So I know her. I know what she's thinking a lot of times, and I also know that we can sit on the phone having conversations while neither of us talks. But it's more than all that cliche canned stuff. I know her. And I breathe with her even when I can't feel the rise and fall of her chest.
So while we know one another mentally, we still don't know each other all that well physically. We're still awkward for the first few hours -- matching what we have learned about one another with the actual physical being of the person we have come to know. It's strangely beautiful and scary as hell all at the same time. When we were in Minnesota, it took until the time she left (well, maybe a few days before) until I knew I knew her. Until the physical know of her matched up with the mental know of her. If that makes any sense. We were together for eleven days. This time we will be together for thirty something. In Minnesota we had eleven days where we were physically together many hours. This time I'll be physically getting to know her at the same time I'm physically getting to know a city. And she'll be working. It's likely that we may never be physical during the entire trip. I wish I could say "just kidding" after that statement.
Nope. Still not saying it.
We'll be fine. I'm not really all that worried. But it is interesting. And it does take a certain amount of patience and understanding because this whole Long Distance Relationship for over -- what? six months now? - is challenging. It's not at all easy. Very much worth it. But not at all easy. And I thought I'd be honest about it because it might help someone else who is insane enough to be in a long distance relationship. Some of the best art happens by a insane artist's hand. I'm just sayin'. ;)
All this trepidation aside, this is the happiest I've been in a long time. It's not just the Janelle Cupcake factor, it's moving towards something I want and need in my life. It's the starting on a new journey with someone who gets me, wants me, and loves me. It's taking a leap forward -- not knowing where I'll land, but knowing I'll be fine when I do.
Ready, set, go!
Since I can't sleep, I decided to just ... babble.
I'll be leaving for Omaha in twelve days. Janelle lives there in case you're wondering what the hell I'm doing moving to Omaha. And I'm not moving to Omaha YET. I'm just ... visiting Omaha. Trying it on for size. Seeing how we fit together. Omaha, I mean. Maybe Janelle, too. But mostly Omaha.
If you've caught Janelle's blog, you probably have heard that while Janelle and I have pretty much accepted the fact that we will be together indefinitely, there are certain things we haven't done yet. I'm pretty sure she mentioned that. Didn't she? Last few blogs, probably? Anyway... yeah. Ok, so this is the scoop on all of that.
When you're in a long distance relationship, there is this weird dichotomy. Part of you knows your girlfriend better than you know yourself. I know that in a few hours, she's going to wake up because she has to use the bathroom at the same time every morning. She'll message me in about five hours asking me if I am awake, and those texts will continue every hour (which really shows great restraint as I know she'd probably text me every five minutes because she has the patience of a fruit fly...as do I) until I wake up. I know when she's about to ask me what I'm doing. I know that as soon as I answer a question she asks me, she'll tell me "never mind, Babe" because she will have already found the answer on her own. I joke about us being an old married couple but I really believe that there's a large part of us that is. And it's cute. So I know her. I know what she's thinking a lot of times, and I also know that we can sit on the phone having conversations while neither of us talks. But it's more than all that cliche canned stuff. I know her. And I breathe with her even when I can't feel the rise and fall of her chest.
So while we know one another mentally, we still don't know each other all that well physically. We're still awkward for the first few hours -- matching what we have learned about one another with the actual physical being of the person we have come to know. It's strangely beautiful and scary as hell all at the same time. When we were in Minnesota, it took until the time she left (well, maybe a few days before) until I knew I knew her. Until the physical know of her matched up with the mental know of her. If that makes any sense. We were together for eleven days. This time we will be together for thirty something. In Minnesota we had eleven days where we were physically together many hours. This time I'll be physically getting to know her at the same time I'm physically getting to know a city. And she'll be working. It's likely that we may never be physical during the entire trip. I wish I could say "just kidding" after that statement.
Nope. Still not saying it.
We'll be fine. I'm not really all that worried. But it is interesting. And it does take a certain amount of patience and understanding because this whole Long Distance Relationship for over -- what? six months now? - is challenging. It's not at all easy. Very much worth it. But not at all easy. And I thought I'd be honest about it because it might help someone else who is insane enough to be in a long distance relationship. Some of the best art happens by a insane artist's hand. I'm just sayin'. ;)
All this trepidation aside, this is the happiest I've been in a long time. It's not just the Janelle Cupcake factor, it's moving towards something I want and need in my life. It's the starting on a new journey with someone who gets me, wants me, and loves me. It's taking a leap forward -- not knowing where I'll land, but knowing I'll be fine when I do.
Ready, set, go!
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Sex doesn't equal love
Yesterday, I worked on the page Lesbian Love and Advice. I love working the page when there is discussion, and last night there was plenty of it. I asked a question about sex in the morning. I think my words were something like:
The response I got was (paraphrased):
Or something like that.
I had to count to ten a few times before I responded. I told the young woman that she had taken my question out of context, and immediately wished I had some of my regulars around to stand up for me (lol!) I know that sometimes I might come off as ... as... serious maybe? But my friends and those who get my vibe generally know when I'm saying things sarcastically and when I'm not taking myself seriously at all. Tongue in cheek -- that's the phrase I was looking for. I say a whole lot of things tongue in cheek. I write about deep things sometimes and I like to think I'm philosophical, but anyone who knows me in real life knows that I joke around a lot more than I'm serious. This post was one of those times.
Sure, I generally wonder about people who have sex in the morning. I wonder when the morning breath no longer bothers you. I wonder when you get use to being seen in the mornings and knowing your partner thinks you're beautiful. But it is more than appearance, I'm not at my best in the morning and I'm sleep and groggy and generally a little grumpy until I get oriented.
But if I can go back to the statement about sex being about love. Um... no. Sex does not mean love.
It's not all butterflies and rainbows and sweet smelling lavender drifting up to envelope you. Sex is sometimes just about getting off. And when you want to get off or fuck, you don't want to look at a bunch of sleep boogers in your partner's eyes. Ruins the whole affect, don't you think. ;) Sex isn't about acceptance at all. It's about getting pleasure and delivering enough pleasure to your partner (maybe) so they can respond accordingly. Sex is fun. And carefree. And drama free. Sex is like babysitting a cute toddler. You know eventually the parent is going to come back and relieve you of your duties. You don't have to pay for college. You don't have to clean up vomit or deal with too much poop. Sex is easy and fast and usually delicious. It's the fairy tale. Any negativity that comes into sex ruins it faster than a child's temper tantrum ruins a person's dream of being a parent. You don't want reality when you have sex most of the time. Reality kills the vibe. Which is why people hate condoms. If you have to stop for a moment and put one on, all of a sudden you are thinking about diseases or the prevention of a disease or pregnancy. Mood ruined.
Making love is different. Making love is what happens when you know about the unflattering poses and the funny faces and you don't even mind. Making love means sex in the morning with boogers in the eyes and bad breath. Making love sees beyond all of the imperfections or changes the imperfections into (sing it with me) perfect imperfections. Because you have history and love as a foundation and not lust as one.
Sex doesn't equal love.
At least not always.
"I don't understand how people can have sex in the morning -- bad breath, sleep in their eyes, needing to get to work but wanting to go back to sleep once you're finished..." and I received a response that still has me thinking.
The response I got was (paraphrased):
Sex is about love and touch, hearing, smelling, tasting...it's not about all the things that you said. If it is, you shouldn't be having sex with that person anyway. Because sex is about love and you shouldn't have sex with someone you don't love.
Or something like that.
I had to count to ten a few times before I responded. I told the young woman that she had taken my question out of context, and immediately wished I had some of my regulars around to stand up for me (lol!) I know that sometimes I might come off as ... as... serious maybe? But my friends and those who get my vibe generally know when I'm saying things sarcastically and when I'm not taking myself seriously at all. Tongue in cheek -- that's the phrase I was looking for. I say a whole lot of things tongue in cheek. I write about deep things sometimes and I like to think I'm philosophical, but anyone who knows me in real life knows that I joke around a lot more than I'm serious. This post was one of those times.
Sure, I generally wonder about people who have sex in the morning. I wonder when the morning breath no longer bothers you. I wonder when you get use to being seen in the mornings and knowing your partner thinks you're beautiful. But it is more than appearance, I'm not at my best in the morning and I'm sleep and groggy and generally a little grumpy until I get oriented.
But if I can go back to the statement about sex being about love. Um... no. Sex does not mean love.
It's not all butterflies and rainbows and sweet smelling lavender drifting up to envelope you. Sex is sometimes just about getting off. And when you want to get off or fuck, you don't want to look at a bunch of sleep boogers in your partner's eyes. Ruins the whole affect, don't you think. ;) Sex isn't about acceptance at all. It's about getting pleasure and delivering enough pleasure to your partner (maybe) so they can respond accordingly. Sex is fun. And carefree. And drama free. Sex is like babysitting a cute toddler. You know eventually the parent is going to come back and relieve you of your duties. You don't have to pay for college. You don't have to clean up vomit or deal with too much poop. Sex is easy and fast and usually delicious. It's the fairy tale. Any negativity that comes into sex ruins it faster than a child's temper tantrum ruins a person's dream of being a parent. You don't want reality when you have sex most of the time. Reality kills the vibe. Which is why people hate condoms. If you have to stop for a moment and put one on, all of a sudden you are thinking about diseases or the prevention of a disease or pregnancy. Mood ruined.
Making love is different. Making love is what happens when you know about the unflattering poses and the funny faces and you don't even mind. Making love means sex in the morning with boogers in the eyes and bad breath. Making love sees beyond all of the imperfections or changes the imperfections into (sing it with me) perfect imperfections. Because you have history and love as a foundation and not lust as one.
Sex doesn't equal love.
At least not always.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
LDR -- Missing Her.
When preparing for questions for the Single's Page several months ago, I remember coming across an article on Long Distance Relationships. There were several helpful suggestions, things I had long since understood. But there was something about missing that sticks out in my mind. The author of the article said that you should never, ever, ever, under any circumstances spend a lot of time talking about how much you miss each other. She said when that happens, the relationship is pretty much doomed to fail.
I'm trying really hard not to talk to her about missing her. Especially since I'll be visiting her shortly.
But maybe this blog is the safe zone and I can let it all out in here. At least just for today, when it feels like "soon" will take forever to get here.
I miss Janelle. I miss her in ways that talking on the phone, laughing on the phone, typing to one another, and all the other things we do every day to stay connected don't even touch. Sometimes it's hard to breathe. And I don't want to tell her, because I don't want to bum her out because I know she misses me just as much. And also -- the article. The article says that when that's all you can talk about (missing each other) that your relationship is over.
We talk about a lot of other things. It's not just gloom and doom. But I'm sincerely over the distance. I'm over not being with her and not starting a life together. I'm over not physically being with her, too -- like just holding hands and feeling the weight of her arm on my body. And I want to kiss her. Like REALLY kiss her. And then there are other things, too. I won't go into detail. But man. It sucks.
Maybe tomorrow I'll write about something else.
But for tonight that's all my heart can manage.
I'm trying really hard not to talk to her about missing her. Especially since I'll be visiting her shortly.
But maybe this blog is the safe zone and I can let it all out in here. At least just for today, when it feels like "soon" will take forever to get here.
I miss Janelle. I miss her in ways that talking on the phone, laughing on the phone, typing to one another, and all the other things we do every day to stay connected don't even touch. Sometimes it's hard to breathe. And I don't want to tell her, because I don't want to bum her out because I know she misses me just as much. And also -- the article. The article says that when that's all you can talk about (missing each other) that your relationship is over.
We talk about a lot of other things. It's not just gloom and doom. But I'm sincerely over the distance. I'm over not being with her and not starting a life together. I'm over not physically being with her, too -- like just holding hands and feeling the weight of her arm on my body. And I want to kiss her. Like REALLY kiss her. And then there are other things, too. I won't go into detail. But man. It sucks.
Maybe tomorrow I'll write about something else.
But for tonight that's all my heart can manage.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
My Girlfriend Has a Best Friend...
My girlfriend has a best friend, and it's not me. Her name is Stacy, and she's known her forever. Well, not technically "forever" but they have a history. I'm only going to speak about the best friend component of their relationship or this blog will get too long. *grin* But Janelle told me about Stacy from the very beginning. And I knew that she was her best friend. And I was jealous.
Duh.
I mean, when a girl tells you she loves you, and then tells you that she also has a best friend that she also loves and that there is no way that you will be the best friend, you're going to have some sort of feelings about it, right?
The longer I live the more I realize that we have feelings that are authentic, and then we have those feelings we feel we are suppose to have. Women feel that we are suppose to be worried about other women because they are competition. We feel like we're supposed to feel jealous and so we do. But if you sit with your feelings long enough you realize that there's something else that is there under the surface, and usually it's just a bit of insecurity. As soon as you address that insecurity, you're fine. And so, that is what I did. I asked questions. And I listened. And I set aside the emotional part of me for a minute and looked at things logically. And then I decided I was going to love Stacy almost as much as Janelle did. Because if it hadn't been for Stacy, Janelle and I would not have made it "here."
We are told that our partner is suppose to be our best friend. "I tell my partner everything." "We have no secrets." "We are thick as thieves." Etc. Etc. and so on. Let me tell you something: My mother and my father have been married for 55 years. All you need to do is spend ten minutes with my parents to realize there ain't no way on God's green earth that my parents are best friends. My dad has a best friend. And my mother has two best friends. And those best friends hear all about my parent's idiosyncrasies. They hear all about how crazy each of them are: how my father only takes his ADD medication when he's doing something important and then bounces off walls and acts all forgetful when he's with my mother. And that my mother compulsively cleans the kitchen counter tops and cares too much about the little things like how the curtains hang and if the seams are showing. And their best friends pat them on the shoulder or give them hugs and then tell them how crazy their own spouses are and they have a drink or two. And then sometime in the evening one of the best friend's reminds my parent that they are freaking out over something that really doesn't matter in the long haul. And then my parents come home and are sweeties again and resign themselves to being married for another year or two.
I use to have a diary. I remember in one of my relationships, I kept my diary in the trunk of my car (should have been a hint) because I lived with my boyfriend at the time (another hint) and I knew he would read my diary if I left it out in the open. After a trip to the store one day, Kevin found my diary and proceeded to read it. He came up to my apartment, my diary in hand, and proceeded to ask me questions about everything that I had written. Why was I worried about our relationship (duh)? Why did I feel he didn't listen? Did I really feel that way about his smoking? Why did I say he made my skin crawl? Were the things I wrote in my diary true? Hell yeah they were. Were they an expression of how I felt most of the time? I didn't believe so. But writing it all out and venting about it helped me gather my thoughts and make sense of things. THAT is what a best friend is. And if your spouse is your best friend, who then will be your diary? Who is that person you can say anything to and who will not have their feelings be hurt or take things out of context or get all defensive or even tell you when you're being out of line and that you need to take a moment?
I don't believe Janelle needs to be my best friend. She is my friend and my partner and my lover and the cupcake of my life. Her attention span for my "venting" is about 2 days shorter than that of my best friend. And there isn't anything wrong with that. My best friend is not vested in the relationship the same way that Janelle is. She can offer solutions and advice that Janelle never will be able to offer because Janelle is too close to the subject at hand. And that best friend allows for us to have the intimacy that we have -- not void of the discussions that couples should have, but void of the extra stuff that happens when we just need to vent for a moment. Janelle can and does tell me everything. And I can and do tell her everything. Almost. But Janelle can not tell me about myself the way that she can vent to her best friend about me. And she needs to have that outlet. Just like I need the outlet.
I want the time that we have together to be more than best friend level. She's my best companion. It will be a gift if I can be the same for her.
Duh.
I mean, when a girl tells you she loves you, and then tells you that she also has a best friend that she also loves and that there is no way that you will be the best friend, you're going to have some sort of feelings about it, right?
The longer I live the more I realize that we have feelings that are authentic, and then we have those feelings we feel we are suppose to have. Women feel that we are suppose to be worried about other women because they are competition. We feel like we're supposed to feel jealous and so we do. But if you sit with your feelings long enough you realize that there's something else that is there under the surface, and usually it's just a bit of insecurity. As soon as you address that insecurity, you're fine. And so, that is what I did. I asked questions. And I listened. And I set aside the emotional part of me for a minute and looked at things logically. And then I decided I was going to love Stacy almost as much as Janelle did. Because if it hadn't been for Stacy, Janelle and I would not have made it "here."
We are told that our partner is suppose to be our best friend. "I tell my partner everything." "We have no secrets." "We are thick as thieves." Etc. Etc. and so on. Let me tell you something: My mother and my father have been married for 55 years. All you need to do is spend ten minutes with my parents to realize there ain't no way on God's green earth that my parents are best friends. My dad has a best friend. And my mother has two best friends. And those best friends hear all about my parent's idiosyncrasies. They hear all about how crazy each of them are: how my father only takes his ADD medication when he's doing something important and then bounces off walls and acts all forgetful when he's with my mother. And that my mother compulsively cleans the kitchen counter tops and cares too much about the little things like how the curtains hang and if the seams are showing. And their best friends pat them on the shoulder or give them hugs and then tell them how crazy their own spouses are and they have a drink or two. And then sometime in the evening one of the best friend's reminds my parent that they are freaking out over something that really doesn't matter in the long haul. And then my parents come home and are sweeties again and resign themselves to being married for another year or two.
I use to have a diary. I remember in one of my relationships, I kept my diary in the trunk of my car (should have been a hint) because I lived with my boyfriend at the time (another hint) and I knew he would read my diary if I left it out in the open. After a trip to the store one day, Kevin found my diary and proceeded to read it. He came up to my apartment, my diary in hand, and proceeded to ask me questions about everything that I had written. Why was I worried about our relationship (duh)? Why did I feel he didn't listen? Did I really feel that way about his smoking? Why did I say he made my skin crawl? Were the things I wrote in my diary true? Hell yeah they were. Were they an expression of how I felt most of the time? I didn't believe so. But writing it all out and venting about it helped me gather my thoughts and make sense of things. THAT is what a best friend is. And if your spouse is your best friend, who then will be your diary? Who is that person you can say anything to and who will not have their feelings be hurt or take things out of context or get all defensive or even tell you when you're being out of line and that you need to take a moment?
I don't believe Janelle needs to be my best friend. She is my friend and my partner and my lover and the cupcake of my life. Her attention span for my "venting" is about 2 days shorter than that of my best friend. And there isn't anything wrong with that. My best friend is not vested in the relationship the same way that Janelle is. She can offer solutions and advice that Janelle never will be able to offer because Janelle is too close to the subject at hand. And that best friend allows for us to have the intimacy that we have -- not void of the discussions that couples should have, but void of the extra stuff that happens when we just need to vent for a moment. Janelle can and does tell me everything. And I can and do tell her everything. Almost. But Janelle can not tell me about myself the way that she can vent to her best friend about me. And she needs to have that outlet. Just like I need the outlet.
I want the time that we have together to be more than best friend level. She's my best companion. It will be a gift if I can be the same for her.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
My Coming Out Story (Basically)
I wrote about this on my facebook page, but I figured since Jay's post is about Bisexuality, I should probably write my story. There are sure to be questions.
So, I was born in 1967 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin one spring morning in April.
I'll fast forward.
I never dated in high school. It was a combination of being the only black girl in a small school and also a bit of childhood history that included quite a bit of abuse. We won't get into all of that except to say this: there is certain abuse that when experienced as a kid can kind of screw up your whole conception of what sex and attraction mean.
Continuing on.
When I got to college, I dated men. And, throughout my life, I had what I perceived to be "healthy" relationships with men. I never had any "feelings" about men except the feeling that I enjoyed being wanted and I thought it was pretty much my duty to please men (well, anyone, really) and so I did what I had been trained since the age of seven to do.
I don't talk much about my abuse with Jay because I know that it would upset her. She has met my family, and there are many things that have been resolved, and I hate the thought of her having to go through the kind of pain one goes through when they hear of a loved one being hurt to the extent I was. It's not pretty. It wasn't pretty. But it's over now.
Moving on.
So I grew up thinking I had a job to do. I didn't check in with myself, and I grew up to be someone who was very disconnected from her body. I was in some really horrible relationships. I stayed when I should have left. I put up with shit that no one should really put up with. Looking back, I think punished myself for having had some of the experiences I had. I think I went on to abuse myself and picked up where my perpetrators had left off.
There was one moment when I knew that I was attracted to women. I felt things that I had never felt about a man -- felt attraction towards a woman that I had never felt towards a man. I thought this must mean, not that I was a Lesbian, but that I was simply Bisexual. And I went on believing I was for at least a year. It was easier. No matter how much shit I heard about how Bisexuals were nasty and diseased ridden and cheaters and blah blah blah, I thought that's what I was. There was no way I wanted to think of my past with men as something I did on auto pilot. Something that I did out of habit -- out of some obligation. That my "feelings" I felt were nothing. Just some fun house mirror where everything you see in the reflection is distorted.
But there you have it. I don't find men attractive beyond "pretty." I never think about the things I want to do with men, never have. I don't fantasize about men. Don't get fluttery or goofy or nervous. And so, at the age of 45 and a half, I realized I wasn't bisexual at all. I was really, quite simply, a Lesbian.
Now imagine my disgust I had realizing that I fit every "stereotype" of bisexuality that I had ever read about. Here I was saying I was just momentarily "confused" and that I said "Bisexual" until I had it figured out. And what about all the work I had done previously to bring Bisexuality out of the closet and bring some respect to the orientation? Would people think I deserted them? Would I be termed a fraud? What about the relationships I had with men -- some of them "nice" and not too terribly bad. What about that? Would they be referred to as just a "phase" I had gone through?
There is only one answer I can give to all those nagging questions: I can't worry about it. I can only be my authentic and true self and stop, once and for all, worrying about pleasing other people. Just can't do it anymore.
I do believe that Bisexuality is a legitimate thing. I believe there are people who do love someone based on who they are and not by what is (or isn't) hanging between their legs. I could never be someone to disregard what was between the legs. I am not attracted to men in that way -- and that isn't something that has happened or occurred because of my abuse, even though I am an incest survivor. I believe that my attraction, my comfort zone, my spirit is drawn to women and always has been. The abuse didn't make it happen, the abuse just confused me for years --- made the answer hard for me to see.
So there is my coming out story. Complex, but it's all basically there. I hope that in reading my story, people are more gentle with one another and allow for different stories and different experiences. We don't all have it so easy to just know in a linear kind of way who and what we are. We need to allow time for people to figure things out -- know that we all have our different experiences, our different ghosts to come to terms with. And those of us who are older and just "coming out", we need to remind ourselves to be gentle and patient with ourselves. Don't be so quick to label yourself. Know that it takes time to settle and for the repressed you to know it is safe to come out. You have time. We'll wait for you with open arms.
So, I was born in 1967 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin one spring morning in April.
I'll fast forward.
I never dated in high school. It was a combination of being the only black girl in a small school and also a bit of childhood history that included quite a bit of abuse. We won't get into all of that except to say this: there is certain abuse that when experienced as a kid can kind of screw up your whole conception of what sex and attraction mean.
Continuing on.
When I got to college, I dated men. And, throughout my life, I had what I perceived to be "healthy" relationships with men. I never had any "feelings" about men except the feeling that I enjoyed being wanted and I thought it was pretty much my duty to please men (well, anyone, really) and so I did what I had been trained since the age of seven to do.
I don't talk much about my abuse with Jay because I know that it would upset her. She has met my family, and there are many things that have been resolved, and I hate the thought of her having to go through the kind of pain one goes through when they hear of a loved one being hurt to the extent I was. It's not pretty. It wasn't pretty. But it's over now.
Moving on.
So I grew up thinking I had a job to do. I didn't check in with myself, and I grew up to be someone who was very disconnected from her body. I was in some really horrible relationships. I stayed when I should have left. I put up with shit that no one should really put up with. Looking back, I think punished myself for having had some of the experiences I had. I think I went on to abuse myself and picked up where my perpetrators had left off.
There was one moment when I knew that I was attracted to women. I felt things that I had never felt about a man -- felt attraction towards a woman that I had never felt towards a man. I thought this must mean, not that I was a Lesbian, but that I was simply Bisexual. And I went on believing I was for at least a year. It was easier. No matter how much shit I heard about how Bisexuals were nasty and diseased ridden and cheaters and blah blah blah, I thought that's what I was. There was no way I wanted to think of my past with men as something I did on auto pilot. Something that I did out of habit -- out of some obligation. That my "feelings" I felt were nothing. Just some fun house mirror where everything you see in the reflection is distorted.
But there you have it. I don't find men attractive beyond "pretty." I never think about the things I want to do with men, never have. I don't fantasize about men. Don't get fluttery or goofy or nervous. And so, at the age of 45 and a half, I realized I wasn't bisexual at all. I was really, quite simply, a Lesbian.
Now imagine my disgust I had realizing that I fit every "stereotype" of bisexuality that I had ever read about. Here I was saying I was just momentarily "confused" and that I said "Bisexual" until I had it figured out. And what about all the work I had done previously to bring Bisexuality out of the closet and bring some respect to the orientation? Would people think I deserted them? Would I be termed a fraud? What about the relationships I had with men -- some of them "nice" and not too terribly bad. What about that? Would they be referred to as just a "phase" I had gone through?
There is only one answer I can give to all those nagging questions: I can't worry about it. I can only be my authentic and true self and stop, once and for all, worrying about pleasing other people. Just can't do it anymore.
I do believe that Bisexuality is a legitimate thing. I believe there are people who do love someone based on who they are and not by what is (or isn't) hanging between their legs. I could never be someone to disregard what was between the legs. I am not attracted to men in that way -- and that isn't something that has happened or occurred because of my abuse, even though I am an incest survivor. I believe that my attraction, my comfort zone, my spirit is drawn to women and always has been. The abuse didn't make it happen, the abuse just confused me for years --- made the answer hard for me to see.
So there is my coming out story. Complex, but it's all basically there. I hope that in reading my story, people are more gentle with one another and allow for different stories and different experiences. We don't all have it so easy to just know in a linear kind of way who and what we are. We need to allow time for people to figure things out -- know that we all have our different experiences, our different ghosts to come to terms with. And those of us who are older and just "coming out", we need to remind ourselves to be gentle and patient with ourselves. Don't be so quick to label yourself. Know that it takes time to settle and for the repressed you to know it is safe to come out. You have time. We'll wait for you with open arms.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Need
My
mother has a few stories she tells me over and over again. These
stories are my “baby” stories...stories from when I was just adopted.
Barely four years old, I’m barely a baby. But these are the only stories
I have.
When my foster mother was alive, I thought it would be too much to ask her to remember another foster kid’s story. I didn’t ask her when I learned to walk. Or what my first word was. I knew it mattered, but I was too afraid she might not know the answer. Or that she would know the answer and I’d realize just how important she was to me before she ... well, before she wasn’t.
So when my mother tells me stories I listen. Sometimes I roll my eyes and question why she has to tell the story about me peeing my pants. Or when I mistook flies for birds and completely had a melt down in the front yard. But deep down inside I cherish every story she tells me. No matter how many times she decides to tell them. I can always figure something out about myself through them.
When my parents picked me up and brought me home with them, I sat in my mother’s lap that evening and shook. I didn’t talk for at least a month. Because I didn’t talk to my parents, when my mother took me to downtown Fargo, ND to shop, there on the corner, waiting for the light to change so we could cross, I wet my pants. The first few times my mother told me about my accident, I thought she was angry at me. I was potty trained. Why would I do such a thing? Through the years, her tone has changed. She understands that I wasn’t talking. To talk to my mother to tell her I had to go to the bathroom was, for me, much more dangerous than just peeing my pants in the middle of downtown. I didn’t know how to count on these strangers.
Being vulnerable isn’t something I do well. My pride and stubborn nature combine and the results aren’t ever pleasant. My instinct is to close in and figure things out myself when things don’t go well. If I need someone, and I learn to depend on them, what happens if they aren’t there when I do need them? What if I like it too much and miss it too much when it’s gone, because of course old tapes and experiences tell me that good, safe feelings don’t last for long.
Saying your fears out loud usually exposes them. I can barely write the sentences above without telling myself how silly I am. You don’t cheat yourself out of good things because of the possibility they might not last. That would be insane. The realist in me says that everything ends eventually. If I stopped doing or experiencing things because of that reality, then I’d experience nothing at all.
So what happens when the person you’ve fallen madly in love with asks you to need them? Yeah. Exactly. You admit you need her.
And let her in.
When my foster mother was alive, I thought it would be too much to ask her to remember another foster kid’s story. I didn’t ask her when I learned to walk. Or what my first word was. I knew it mattered, but I was too afraid she might not know the answer. Or that she would know the answer and I’d realize just how important she was to me before she ... well, before she wasn’t.
So when my mother tells me stories I listen. Sometimes I roll my eyes and question why she has to tell the story about me peeing my pants. Or when I mistook flies for birds and completely had a melt down in the front yard. But deep down inside I cherish every story she tells me. No matter how many times she decides to tell them. I can always figure something out about myself through them.
When my parents picked me up and brought me home with them, I sat in my mother’s lap that evening and shook. I didn’t talk for at least a month. Because I didn’t talk to my parents, when my mother took me to downtown Fargo, ND to shop, there on the corner, waiting for the light to change so we could cross, I wet my pants. The first few times my mother told me about my accident, I thought she was angry at me. I was potty trained. Why would I do such a thing? Through the years, her tone has changed. She understands that I wasn’t talking. To talk to my mother to tell her I had to go to the bathroom was, for me, much more dangerous than just peeing my pants in the middle of downtown. I didn’t know how to count on these strangers.
Being vulnerable isn’t something I do well. My pride and stubborn nature combine and the results aren’t ever pleasant. My instinct is to close in and figure things out myself when things don’t go well. If I need someone, and I learn to depend on them, what happens if they aren’t there when I do need them? What if I like it too much and miss it too much when it’s gone, because of course old tapes and experiences tell me that good, safe feelings don’t last for long.
Saying your fears out loud usually exposes them. I can barely write the sentences above without telling myself how silly I am. You don’t cheat yourself out of good things because of the possibility they might not last. That would be insane. The realist in me says that everything ends eventually. If I stopped doing or experiencing things because of that reality, then I’d experience nothing at all.
So what happens when the person you’ve fallen madly in love with asks you to need them? Yeah. Exactly. You admit you need her.
And let her in.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
You Femmes...
I'm trying to figure something out.
Why does "You Femmes" in response to something I say irritate me? It's not ten on the scale of irritations, but it's definitely over the five mark.
When my mother starts forgetting how many times she's asked me the same thing I don't flippantly tell her, "You Elders!" without answering her question. She wouldn't slap me, but her death stare would probably do the same thing.
When my father takes out his pocket knife and proceeds to dig out a splinter from his palm I don't say "You Men."
When my cousin exclaims about how easy her life was living in a suburb of California and having had a pony when she grew up I don't laugh and say, "You white Girls."
I also don't ever say to my girlfriend who doesn't really identify as a boi or a stud but sort of falls into the boi category, "You Bois" when she mumbles about being dragged through the mall by her mother.
I'm not my label. My personality and my choices and my decisions are things that are a part of me. And while they might fall into whatever stereotype a femme falls into, please allow me to explain, for clarification and understanding (which is what I'm assuming the throwing around of labels is attempting to do in some passive way) who exactly I am and why I might act the way I do and why that falls into many categories -- not just being a "you femme."
I like pink. Maybe my liking pink is something to do with my surroundings. Maybe not. I like nail polish and makeup and I call my shirts blouses and I only wear t-shirts when I'm working out or when I sleep. I like shoes but heels are fricken uncomfortable, so if I wear them I'm kicking them off as soon as we get to a location where I can. I like earrings and "girly" things, if you must. But I also can bait my own hook. I spent most of my childhood digging up worms in my back yard near the lake and threading rusty hooks through their squirmy little bodies. My father had a stump by the dock and when we caught enough fish for the day we would then scale, gut, and prepare the fish to eat. When I was about twelve years old I learned how to pan fry fish the way my daddy did. I also camped, know how to set up a tent, and could probably survive longer in the wilderness than my girlfriend could -- mostly because she hates the word "camp." I'm not afraid to swim in a lake -- those are the things that don't have sandy or rocky bottoms, by the way. I know how to sail, canoe, and drive a speed boat. I also know what to do if the motor floods, and I'm good with a set of oars. Learned that shit on the lake, not in a gym by the way. In addition to the above skills, I grew up with three brothers. I spent the better part of my forty-four years not talking about my emotions. Not showing my weakness. Not crying when someone hurt my feelings. Not flinching when boys set off firecrackers under my feet. I know first hand what it takes to not dissect my feelings to death and not hang onto old arguments. I know how to pretend that stepping on a nail doesn't hurt and how to "shake off" being punched in the gut -- either literally or figuratively, by the way.
You who say "you femme" in a way to summarize my life or my experiences, do not know me.
I'm not a sum of characteristics someone else has laid out based on stereotypes of me. And even if I was, how is that even an okay response for anything I've ever said? How is that even helpful?
I have seen just as many studs and bois and butch women obsess over the same type of stuff they accuse femmes of obsessing over. It takes me a minute to get ready to go out, but I knew a boi who could pack five suitcases (two just for her shoes) in comparison to my two suitcases and take twice as long getting ready to go anywhere. I've seen studs who don't want to get people mad at them so don't say a word ever about their mistreatment. I've seen studs who cry when they don't get their own way. I've seen studs who are passive aggressive, who play mind games and manipulate circles around any femme who supposedly does that in her sleep. We are all women, so we all have a level of emotional ability that allows us to nurture and be sensitive and have a certain ability to bond with another person in a way that fewer males by design are capable of doing. Just because you're male identified does not mean that you are, indeed, a male genetically.
Just because you are male identified does not mean that you have a dick, no matter how much you may try to act like one. You just might be acting like a "femme" your own damned selves. Don't get it twisted.
*deep breath*
Just please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stop summarizing all of me by my label, because I will, in true femme fashion (sarcasm intended), kick you in your pretend balls "you bois" go around holding.
To quote my boifriend: That is all.
Why does "You Femmes" in response to something I say irritate me? It's not ten on the scale of irritations, but it's definitely over the five mark.
When my mother starts forgetting how many times she's asked me the same thing I don't flippantly tell her, "You Elders!" without answering her question. She wouldn't slap me, but her death stare would probably do the same thing.
When my father takes out his pocket knife and proceeds to dig out a splinter from his palm I don't say "You Men."
When my cousin exclaims about how easy her life was living in a suburb of California and having had a pony when she grew up I don't laugh and say, "You white Girls."
I also don't ever say to my girlfriend who doesn't really identify as a boi or a stud but sort of falls into the boi category, "You Bois" when she mumbles about being dragged through the mall by her mother.
I'm not my label. My personality and my choices and my decisions are things that are a part of me. And while they might fall into whatever stereotype a femme falls into, please allow me to explain, for clarification and understanding (which is what I'm assuming the throwing around of labels is attempting to do in some passive way) who exactly I am and why I might act the way I do and why that falls into many categories -- not just being a "you femme."
I like pink. Maybe my liking pink is something to do with my surroundings. Maybe not. I like nail polish and makeup and I call my shirts blouses and I only wear t-shirts when I'm working out or when I sleep. I like shoes but heels are fricken uncomfortable, so if I wear them I'm kicking them off as soon as we get to a location where I can. I like earrings and "girly" things, if you must. But I also can bait my own hook. I spent most of my childhood digging up worms in my back yard near the lake and threading rusty hooks through their squirmy little bodies. My father had a stump by the dock and when we caught enough fish for the day we would then scale, gut, and prepare the fish to eat. When I was about twelve years old I learned how to pan fry fish the way my daddy did. I also camped, know how to set up a tent, and could probably survive longer in the wilderness than my girlfriend could -- mostly because she hates the word "camp." I'm not afraid to swim in a lake -- those are the things that don't have sandy or rocky bottoms, by the way. I know how to sail, canoe, and drive a speed boat. I also know what to do if the motor floods, and I'm good with a set of oars. Learned that shit on the lake, not in a gym by the way. In addition to the above skills, I grew up with three brothers. I spent the better part of my forty-four years not talking about my emotions. Not showing my weakness. Not crying when someone hurt my feelings. Not flinching when boys set off firecrackers under my feet. I know first hand what it takes to not dissect my feelings to death and not hang onto old arguments. I know how to pretend that stepping on a nail doesn't hurt and how to "shake off" being punched in the gut -- either literally or figuratively, by the way.
You who say "you femme" in a way to summarize my life or my experiences, do not know me.
I'm not a sum of characteristics someone else has laid out based on stereotypes of me. And even if I was, how is that even an okay response for anything I've ever said? How is that even helpful?
I have seen just as many studs and bois and butch women obsess over the same type of stuff they accuse femmes of obsessing over. It takes me a minute to get ready to go out, but I knew a boi who could pack five suitcases (two just for her shoes) in comparison to my two suitcases and take twice as long getting ready to go anywhere. I've seen studs who don't want to get people mad at them so don't say a word ever about their mistreatment. I've seen studs who cry when they don't get their own way. I've seen studs who are passive aggressive, who play mind games and manipulate circles around any femme who supposedly does that in her sleep. We are all women, so we all have a level of emotional ability that allows us to nurture and be sensitive and have a certain ability to bond with another person in a way that fewer males by design are capable of doing. Just because you're male identified does not mean that you are, indeed, a male genetically.
Just because you are male identified does not mean that you have a dick, no matter how much you may try to act like one. You just might be acting like a "femme" your own damned selves. Don't get it twisted.
*deep breath*
Just please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stop summarizing all of me by my label, because I will, in true femme fashion (sarcasm intended), kick you in your pretend balls "you bois" go around holding.
To quote my boifriend: That is all.
Faux Dominance
It has taken me quite a few years to understand who I am. I was exposed to more than a little bit sexually (at a very young age), and as a result I grew up pretty fast. I've always had a keen awareness for things of adult nature -- probably many years before it was proper for me to know what I did. But with that knowledge came the opportunity to really understand things in a way that I feel very few people can reach. I've had many years to ruminate on the ins and outs of domination. Yeah. I said "ins and outs" for a reason. Because it's so much more than sex, but yet, that's where I see it expressed. We place the Stud/Boi etc. in this position to be the "top" and we think by "topping" someone you're the Dom. If you pay for her meal at dinner then you're the Dom. Make her fetch your slippers at night, get your beer or do your laundry. Suck your dick. Get on all fours and beg you for it. More often than not, being the Dom in a relationship means you call the shots in the relationship. Your way or the highway. "Dominate her" has come to mean some cave man mentality. There is no psychological work that needs to be done, nothing to earn or be given, and half the Doms out there don't even know that it has to do with the mind more than their genitals.
I did quite a bit of Dom/submissive work in my field of work. For years (and I do mean years) I worked and talked with people who were in the lifestyle so many people claim they know about. I saw first hand what it meant to have a Mistress and Master and what Dominant behavior looked like. I saw many, many submissive people and none of it looked a bit like anything I see flooding many a Lesbian website/facebook page/group. Femmes is not synonymous with submissive. Stud/Boi/Butch is not synonymous with Dom. That's worth reading over again.
I am what many would refer to as a femme. And coincidentally I do identify with being a submissive.
Thankfully, I understand what it is that I need in my life. It's not about being bent over and forced to take dick, or have my hands put over my head and fingered until I squirt or any of the other mainstream images we have "swallowed" like good little bois and girls. It's so much more than that. And, like I have told many submissive women and men through the years, one should be sure to give themselves to someone who truly understands the worth of the gift they are given.
So, I've given myself to a woman who understands that sometimes I need mental time outs. That sometimes I don't know how to settle myself down, that I think too much many times and that I can be extremely moody. She gets that it's not about ordering my food for me or giving me the flowers she thinks I should have. She is probably one of the most gentle people I know, but when she says "enough, baby" I know she means it. She has never talked to me about "top" and "bottom." She knows that our roles are fluid and that while we may play any number of roles in our future, we will always settle and find our true levels and accept each other. We both know it's not her job to provide for me, but I know she is capable. And while she enjoys the fact that I am her laundry fairy, she does know not to count on my femininity or submissiveness to do it for her but rather my loving and caring for her as my partner to motivate me.
And that is why I can give myself to her -- spiritually, physically, emotionally and one day soon, sexually ;), because she has shown me she can handle it. That she won't abuse it. That it's not some hoodie she puts on at the end of the day in order to get her kicks or rocks off. That she doesn't need to flex or boast about it for me to see it. I have given in ... for her. I know that there are many things I would argue with any number of people. I don't trust them to care for me the way I know Jay can. And she knows that my giving in and trusting her is about the most expensive thing I could ever give to her. There are times when I want to grab it back. There are many times I get scared. But at the end of the day I know that she has earned a part of me that no one else has ever had the right to own.
The Beginning...
I did quite a bit of Dom/submissive work in my field of work. For years (and I do mean years) I worked and talked with people who were in the lifestyle so many people claim they know about. I saw first hand what it meant to have a Mistress and Master and what Dominant behavior looked like. I saw many, many submissive people and none of it looked a bit like anything I see flooding many a Lesbian website/facebook page/group. Femmes is not synonymous with submissive. Stud/Boi/Butch is not synonymous with Dom. That's worth reading over again.
I am what many would refer to as a femme. And coincidentally I do identify with being a submissive.
Thankfully, I understand what it is that I need in my life. It's not about being bent over and forced to take dick, or have my hands put over my head and fingered until I squirt or any of the other mainstream images we have "swallowed" like good little bois and girls. It's so much more than that. And, like I have told many submissive women and men through the years, one should be sure to give themselves to someone who truly understands the worth of the gift they are given.
So, I've given myself to a woman who understands that sometimes I need mental time outs. That sometimes I don't know how to settle myself down, that I think too much many times and that I can be extremely moody. She gets that it's not about ordering my food for me or giving me the flowers she thinks I should have. She is probably one of the most gentle people I know, but when she says "enough, baby" I know she means it. She has never talked to me about "top" and "bottom." She knows that our roles are fluid and that while we may play any number of roles in our future, we will always settle and find our true levels and accept each other. We both know it's not her job to provide for me, but I know she is capable. And while she enjoys the fact that I am her laundry fairy, she does know not to count on my femininity or submissiveness to do it for her but rather my loving and caring for her as my partner to motivate me.
And that is why I can give myself to her -- spiritually, physically, emotionally and one day soon, sexually ;), because she has shown me she can handle it. That she won't abuse it. That it's not some hoodie she puts on at the end of the day in order to get her kicks or rocks off. That she doesn't need to flex or boast about it for me to see it. I have given in ... for her. I know that there are many things I would argue with any number of people. I don't trust them to care for me the way I know Jay can. And she knows that my giving in and trusting her is about the most expensive thing I could ever give to her. There are times when I want to grab it back. There are many times I get scared. But at the end of the day I know that she has earned a part of me that no one else has ever had the right to own.
The Beginning...
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
LDR Tales: Where'd You Go?
One day I just might write a book about Long Distance Relationships or LDRs as we kids call it these days. ;)
There's a whole culture around Long Distance Relationships. When are you officially "dating?" When do you meet? When do you announce you're a couple and is that before or after you meet? When and how do you say "I love you" and mean it more than the casual "Love ya" you do on the internet? When do you introduce her to the family? When do you say you're in a relationship and change your status? Then there's the communicating -- how will you talk to one another? How many texts is too much or too little and how much do you talk on the phone? Do you have conversations with other people when you're on the phone, watch television, do your homework or do you just talk on the phone and nothing else? Let's not forget the whole sex thing. Do you have skype sex, facetime sex or phone sex or a combination of all three and does this happen before or after you do it in person? And speaking about "in person"-- who goes to visit who? Who moves? Do you move in after you meet? How long do you do the LDR before you move?
Yup. There's at least a book worth of valuable information and guidelines just waiting to be scribed.
I don't have time for all of that, but I thought about sharing little things about my current LDR that I find amusing.
I think it started after we spent eleven days together. Before then, if one of us fell asleep on the phone, we'd be embarrassed. There would be apologies, emphatic declarations that neither of us snored, and then we'd hang up and go to our own corners of the bed thousands of miles away from each other. Ok, not thousands, but over a thousand. But when we met, suddenly sleeping together became our sleeping pill. Mainly hers. Sorry baby.
Now when we talk on the phone, she's going to be sleeping and I'll be listening to her breathe into the phone. It's gonna happen. It's just a matter of time. Sometimes I'll join her, but the time difference and her new work schedule means she's usually winding down as I'm just getting started. So we talk for awhile and then the sound of sleeping breathing noises begin. At first I'd hang up as soon as she fell asleep, but then she'd call me back. "Where'd you go?" she would ask. "Baby, you were asleep," I'd reply. "But I woke up and you were gone." Yeah. So now I stay on the phone for probably close to an hour. I mute the phone and watch television while she slumbers like a baby, and, like a parent does with a sleeping child, softly start warning her in her sleep that I'm going to go soon. If she argues in words that actually make sense, I stick around a bit longer. But if her words come out like some strange disjointed drugged up dream state, I hang up and know that she's out for at least four hours. Sometimes I join her and sleep alongside her, headset in, curled up, eyes closed --- it's almost like how it was when we were sleeping next to each other except I don't feel the weight of her arms flung over my body, or feel her curled around me until the moment we both get way too warm. Typically my snoring will overpower hers and she'll hang up on me and I'll wake up when things are too silent wondering where she went.
It's a routine now. A habit. The only way we can sleep. To many it will probably sound insane. Probably as insane as the two of us on the phone for hours when we're home. Or being on the phone when we're talking to other people, something that would normally drive me crazy but with her seems perfect. LDRs are insane. As insane as falling madly in love with someone who lives miles away from you -- someone whose voice you feel in your bones.
There's a whole culture around Long Distance Relationships. When are you officially "dating?" When do you meet? When do you announce you're a couple and is that before or after you meet? When and how do you say "I love you" and mean it more than the casual "Love ya" you do on the internet? When do you introduce her to the family? When do you say you're in a relationship and change your status? Then there's the communicating -- how will you talk to one another? How many texts is too much or too little and how much do you talk on the phone? Do you have conversations with other people when you're on the phone, watch television, do your homework or do you just talk on the phone and nothing else? Let's not forget the whole sex thing. Do you have skype sex, facetime sex or phone sex or a combination of all three and does this happen before or after you do it in person? And speaking about "in person"-- who goes to visit who? Who moves? Do you move in after you meet? How long do you do the LDR before you move?
Yup. There's at least a book worth of valuable information and guidelines just waiting to be scribed.
I don't have time for all of that, but I thought about sharing little things about my current LDR that I find amusing.
I think it started after we spent eleven days together. Before then, if one of us fell asleep on the phone, we'd be embarrassed. There would be apologies, emphatic declarations that neither of us snored, and then we'd hang up and go to our own corners of the bed thousands of miles away from each other. Ok, not thousands, but over a thousand. But when we met, suddenly sleeping together became our sleeping pill. Mainly hers. Sorry baby.
Now when we talk on the phone, she's going to be sleeping and I'll be listening to her breathe into the phone. It's gonna happen. It's just a matter of time. Sometimes I'll join her, but the time difference and her new work schedule means she's usually winding down as I'm just getting started. So we talk for awhile and then the sound of sleeping breathing noises begin. At first I'd hang up as soon as she fell asleep, but then she'd call me back. "Where'd you go?" she would ask. "Baby, you were asleep," I'd reply. "But I woke up and you were gone." Yeah. So now I stay on the phone for probably close to an hour. I mute the phone and watch television while she slumbers like a baby, and, like a parent does with a sleeping child, softly start warning her in her sleep that I'm going to go soon. If she argues in words that actually make sense, I stick around a bit longer. But if her words come out like some strange disjointed drugged up dream state, I hang up and know that she's out for at least four hours. Sometimes I join her and sleep alongside her, headset in, curled up, eyes closed --- it's almost like how it was when we were sleeping next to each other except I don't feel the weight of her arms flung over my body, or feel her curled around me until the moment we both get way too warm. Typically my snoring will overpower hers and she'll hang up on me and I'll wake up when things are too silent wondering where she went.
It's a routine now. A habit. The only way we can sleep. To many it will probably sound insane. Probably as insane as the two of us on the phone for hours when we're home. Or being on the phone when we're talking to other people, something that would normally drive me crazy but with her seems perfect. LDRs are insane. As insane as falling madly in love with someone who lives miles away from you -- someone whose voice you feel in your bones.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Karma
It's not that I don't believe in Karma. It's that I don't believe in Karma the way that most people on social media do. Or at least most of the people I know on social media.
This is usually the conversation I hear:
So let me get this right: Karma is the little thing that bites you in the ass when you do bad shit to other people. So tell me, please, in the above example, who did "Her" piss off in a former or current life to get the cheating b. that cheated on her? Because that's how it works, isn't it? Karma keeps track of all the bad things you do and then when you're least expecting it, it comes in and punishes you.
Another conversation that took place in a letter I received once on LLA and the response from more than half of the people who responded:
People tend to just ignore that part of Karma and think instead it means in this life -- here and now. What you do tomorrow will affect negatively or positively what you do today. You're a jerk today? Then someone is going to be a jerk to you tomorrow. You cheat on someone this weekend and you'll see. In a month, someone will cheat on you. You give to charity today? You will receive an abundance of good things later, too.
Now, I am not saying that Karma doesn't exist in some way, but I think it's been severely bastardized on social media. It's as if no one knows what to say so they just say "Karma" much like someone forks over the "Get Out Of Jail Free" card when they find themselves behind bars during a competitive game of Monopoly. "I don't know quite how to help you in this predicament, but Karma. Yeah. That's it. Karma is what screwed you. That bad Karma. Gotta watch out for her." *smh*
This might work well with adults who do crappy things. But what about children with diseases? What about babies that are born to only die shortly after due to some genetic disease or illness? What about children who are abused by teachers, parents, friends, family members, church people? What about good, upright, never-do-wrong citizens that just happen to wake up in the morning and take the wrong plane, train, or bus? Or human beings that just happen to be born on the wrong continent in the wrong century in the wrong lifetime? What did they do wrong to bring Karma on their asses? I'll wait...
Sometimes bad shit just happens and there isn't anything we can do about it. There are things that can't be explained. And sometimes when people do "bad" stuff, Karma just appears as themselves, little reminders. Sometimes "Karma" appears in bad choices of partners because you feel you don't deserve a good one. Or appears as a traffic ticket because you didn't take time in the morning for yourself, got in your car, and forgot your wallet on the dresser. Sometimes we subconsciously give ourselves "time outs" when we don't consciously know to take them. Sometimes we punish ourselves because it's too hard to move forward and to forgive ourselves. Yeah -- sometimes Karma is you. And sometimes people who do really bad shit, never see a lick of Karma ever. And if they do, it's so miniscule they barely feel it kick them in the shins. There are tons of evil people in the world that never "get theirs."
That person that hurt you was a jerk. You didn't deserve to be mistreated. But instead of figuring out your revenge, you should heal yourself so that the anger and resentment you feel inside doesn't destroy you. That would be pretty crazy, huh?
I believe in good vibes and energy. We attract good things and sometimes we attract bad things. Sometimes the junk that we have inside of us signals people who survive off of that junk. They smell you coming a mile away -- like attracts like, sometimes. If you are a cheater then I believe it's possible that you will attract people who are also cheaters. If you don't believe in your own self worth then I believe people who prey on people who have low self worth will have an easier time finding and hurting you than let's say, someone with a higher self worth. Sometimes life just isn't fair and bad things happen to really great and really good people.
Sometimes victims find it easier to blame themselves and find people in the world to continue treating them in the way they (the victim) feels they deserve than to see that sometimes life just doesn't make a lick of sense and sometimes we don't get what we deserve and sometimes things don't get better for a long time (and sometimes not at all...)
But that takes too long to explain. So... Karma. Yeah, Karma. Karma will fix it.
This is usually the conversation I hear:
Her: And that bitch cheated on me. I hate her. I gave her my all, my everything and what did she give me? Lies and more lies. I'm tired of crying. I'm going to go out right now and slash her tires. I'm going to key her car. I'm going to make her pay for the pain that I felt.
Her Friend: Girl. Don't even worry about it. Karma. Karma will bite her in the ass.
So let me get this right: Karma is the little thing that bites you in the ass when you do bad shit to other people. So tell me, please, in the above example, who did "Her" piss off in a former or current life to get the cheating b. that cheated on her? Because that's how it works, isn't it? Karma keeps track of all the bad things you do and then when you're least expecting it, it comes in and punishes you.
Another conversation that took place in a letter I received once on LLA and the response from more than half of the people who responded:
Dear LLA: I cheated on my girl. Yeah, I know it was wrong but things were going bad for a long time. So me and new girl were going strong when all of a sudden -- I just started to get a feeling. I knew she was doing something so I looked in her computer and saw the emails between her and her "bae." Apparently they love each other and want to be together and she was saying she made a terrible mistake and it was her she wanted. What do I do. My heart is broken. Signed: LostBefore I get too far ahead of myself, here's a definition of Karma -- simplified. Karma is defined as the summary of what you do in this life (or a previous life) having an affect on a future existence. Most of the people yelling the loudest about Karma don't even believe in another life outside of the one they are currently living, much less a future existence -- so how does that work exactly?
Dear Lost: Karma sucks, huh?
People tend to just ignore that part of Karma and think instead it means in this life -- here and now. What you do tomorrow will affect negatively or positively what you do today. You're a jerk today? Then someone is going to be a jerk to you tomorrow. You cheat on someone this weekend and you'll see. In a month, someone will cheat on you. You give to charity today? You will receive an abundance of good things later, too.
Now, I am not saying that Karma doesn't exist in some way, but I think it's been severely bastardized on social media. It's as if no one knows what to say so they just say "Karma" much like someone forks over the "Get Out Of Jail Free" card when they find themselves behind bars during a competitive game of Monopoly. "I don't know quite how to help you in this predicament, but Karma. Yeah. That's it. Karma is what screwed you. That bad Karma. Gotta watch out for her." *smh*
This might work well with adults who do crappy things. But what about children with diseases? What about babies that are born to only die shortly after due to some genetic disease or illness? What about children who are abused by teachers, parents, friends, family members, church people? What about good, upright, never-do-wrong citizens that just happen to wake up in the morning and take the wrong plane, train, or bus? Or human beings that just happen to be born on the wrong continent in the wrong century in the wrong lifetime? What did they do wrong to bring Karma on their asses? I'll wait...
Sometimes bad shit just happens and there isn't anything we can do about it. There are things that can't be explained. And sometimes when people do "bad" stuff, Karma just appears as themselves, little reminders. Sometimes "Karma" appears in bad choices of partners because you feel you don't deserve a good one. Or appears as a traffic ticket because you didn't take time in the morning for yourself, got in your car, and forgot your wallet on the dresser. Sometimes we subconsciously give ourselves "time outs" when we don't consciously know to take them. Sometimes we punish ourselves because it's too hard to move forward and to forgive ourselves. Yeah -- sometimes Karma is you. And sometimes people who do really bad shit, never see a lick of Karma ever. And if they do, it's so miniscule they barely feel it kick them in the shins. There are tons of evil people in the world that never "get theirs."
That person that hurt you was a jerk. You didn't deserve to be mistreated. But instead of figuring out your revenge, you should heal yourself so that the anger and resentment you feel inside doesn't destroy you. That would be pretty crazy, huh?
I believe in good vibes and energy. We attract good things and sometimes we attract bad things. Sometimes the junk that we have inside of us signals people who survive off of that junk. They smell you coming a mile away -- like attracts like, sometimes. If you are a cheater then I believe it's possible that you will attract people who are also cheaters. If you don't believe in your own self worth then I believe people who prey on people who have low self worth will have an easier time finding and hurting you than let's say, someone with a higher self worth. Sometimes life just isn't fair and bad things happen to really great and really good people.
Sometimes victims find it easier to blame themselves and find people in the world to continue treating them in the way they (the victim) feels they deserve than to see that sometimes life just doesn't make a lick of sense and sometimes we don't get what we deserve and sometimes things don't get better for a long time (and sometimes not at all...)
But that takes too long to explain. So... Karma. Yeah, Karma. Karma will fix it.
Monday, August 18, 2014
When Sad Leaves
Yesterday I sat down at my desk and started to type the beginnings of a poem -- I hoped. I saw it already on the paper -- a short blank verse documenting a scribe of gratefulness to every sadness I had ever experienced. Even the day my mother told my family I had died so she wouldn't have to see the reminder of the man she loved and lost got a pretty bird thank you. I would have pressed my lips firmly against the back of the envelope the way that long lost lover pen pals do sometimes. Maybe I'd mist it with a scent of sugar and almond butter, slip a picture inside in case the sadness needed a reminder of what I looked like back when it could have killed me.
Because now that I'm sitting here -- at this crossroads of high definition happy -- sadness even when pressed against me -- so close that I can smell the salt on its skin -- doesn't look the same. Even when it catches my breath and wrings it tightly, I can't be too upset at the drive-by.
Because just look...look at the presents sad leaves at my door after it says goodbye.
Monday, August 11, 2014
If You Pray Really Hard...
One of the stories featured this woman who was a Lesbian. Yeah. I said was.
She was what we old timers would call "butch" -- not a drop of "boi" in her. Short, short hair, no earrings, most comfortable in "men's" clothing, seemingly more dominant. A top. She went to church and became "saved." She was healed of her homosexuality. This means that someone actually brought her to church, and then encouraged her to step forward when they asked if anyone had any "demons" they needed exorcised. And some pastor who probably got his license on line for $35, put his hands on her forehead and proclaimed her "saved" from the homosexual demon.
Fine. Do what makes you happy, love.
Friends from the church escorted her home and proceeded to make her over. Gave her girl clothes, put earrings in her ears, prayed for a mate for her -- a nice man because "that's the type of person she deserves."
This woman had a son. And this son is gay. And wouldn't you know this woman brought her son to the church to be saved -- that is -- CURED of his homosexuality. And after her son refused, asking his mother to love him as he was, she said to the camera that she would rather die than to go back to the gay lifestyle. She would rather die. She would take herself out.
What. The. Frick?
Being gay is so bad that some type of conversion is necessary. And if that doesn't work, then only death can prevent the evilness that is seeping through your pores. Is that what the bible says?
If any church ever said this to me, I would be out of there. This is not church. What type of church could make you feel that anything you are and anything you do is so damned awful that if God can't cure it only death is the cure. What church would ever pray over someone and think that could change their sexuality or that a wardrobe change and tacky earrings could make you suddenly love penis.
If that works for you, then you should be happy. You should be jumping around and shopping at Macy's, polishing your nails and wearing extensions because that makes you excited. When you lay down and a man puts his penis inside of you, you should feel like you've "come home" and be thankful for having found your way. You should be telling others of your discovery OPEN to the possibility that this might not be their path and they will be just as loved and just as "saved" as you are. You most definitely shouldn't be sobbing about taking yourself out if you go back to who you were before. And you definitely shouldn't be telling your own flesh and blood that there is something wrong with him because he doesn't believe as you do.
I'm so disgusted that any church would do such a thing to their parishioners. So disgusted.
When I was eight years old, a friend told me that if I prayed hard enough God would make me white. Her suggesting I needed to pray was enough for me to believe that my being black was wrong. So I prayed. In the morning... well... you know. So I went around feeling ashamed that this somehow meant I hadn't prayed hard enough. My being black was a sign of my sinfulness and not being faithful enough.
This is about as ridiculous as someone's sexuality being a sign of sinfulness. And the likelihood of that being changed by prayer just as impossible.
But what do I know? If you pray realllllllllly hard...
Friday, August 1, 2014
"Dear Kari" Letter #1
I received this letter in my inbox today:
There is so much to write about on the subject of religion, and I foolishly thought I could just write it in a few hours. But I can't. It's too important and it's too intricate for me to just throw out a bunch of paragraphs and think I've done anything of value. I promise I will come back to Homosexuality and the Bible, but it will have to wait until I can properly do it justice.
But this letter is important and I will graze the subject of religion in answering it.
It's fine if your girlfriend doesn't consider herself gay, but she is entering into a gay relationship or same sex relationship, if you will. And that is important because sometimes in homophobic families people skate on by by not naming what they are doing and how they are feeling. If you are out of the closet and in a same sex relationship and want to say you aren't "gay" but everyone knows your girlfriend and you live out in the open then that's one thing. But saying you aren't anything is ... well... that's a tiny red flag for me.
*big breath*
Bottom Line:
As long as you are a secret, you are battling the closet you fought hard to come out of. As long as you are someone's secret, you are hiding a part of who you are. And as long as you hide a part of who you are, the more likely you are to feel ashamed. And feeling ashamed will lead to being angry -- and anger turned inward turns to depression. This is not healthy in any way, shape, or form.
I have a few suggestions: Find a church that is gay Friendly. Find and speak to a person in the church who can help you understand completely the literature that has been used against gay people (and black people and women and ....) and learn what the Bible is really saying about you. Bring your girlfriend with you. See if the pastor of the church offers counseling or find a counselor on your own who is familiar with LGBTQ issues. Watch and read any literature on the Bible and homosexuality you can get your hands on starting with "For the Bible Tells Me So."
If she does not eventually come out, despite her families beliefs, then she is in danger, and she is not open to being a suitable partner for you. It will be too hard on you (as you hint at in your letter) to be the secret. You might start to resent her, and that would be unfair. To both of you.
I thought I might be able to write a blog about religion and homosexuality today -- but I can't. It's just so much to get into and I have limited time at the moment. But I will talk about it -- a little bit at a time. For now let me say that the Bible does not condemn homosexuality. The Bible condemns people's misuse of each other for spiritual gain or for political gain. The examples in the bible of "homosexual acts" are just that -- acts. There is no homosexual relationship in the bible that is condemned -- there is only a bunch of behavior that is frowned upon. If God hated homosexuals as much as the fundamental Christians would like for us to believe, why doesn't he ever mention it? And why doesn't Jesus EVER say one single word about it. All the lessons on the mountains and all the fishing trips he and the disciples went on? You'd think he would have something to say about homosexuality if it was such a big deal, right?
Anyway -- it's a big subject. And I'm sorry that you're having to deal with it in your relationship. Take good care and find someone who can help you through this, bit by bit.
Good luck.
I am a lesbian and I am currently with a woman that I adore. She does not consider her self gay, she just fell in love with me as I did with her, and we have been discussing this subject. She knows her family will never accept this life style because they are very religious and do not believe or accept homosexuality, so I am a secret to her family and it's really starting to bother me. I am in need of guidance of my situation. I love this woman to death but I know no one will ever know because she is not in a position to let anyone even her close friends know of me.
There is so much to write about on the subject of religion, and I foolishly thought I could just write it in a few hours. But I can't. It's too important and it's too intricate for me to just throw out a bunch of paragraphs and think I've done anything of value. I promise I will come back to Homosexuality and the Bible, but it will have to wait until I can properly do it justice.
But this letter is important and I will graze the subject of religion in answering it.
It's fine if your girlfriend doesn't consider herself gay, but she is entering into a gay relationship or same sex relationship, if you will. And that is important because sometimes in homophobic families people skate on by by not naming what they are doing and how they are feeling. If you are out of the closet and in a same sex relationship and want to say you aren't "gay" but everyone knows your girlfriend and you live out in the open then that's one thing. But saying you aren't anything is ... well... that's a tiny red flag for me.
*big breath*
Bottom Line:
As long as you are a secret, you are battling the closet you fought hard to come out of. As long as you are someone's secret, you are hiding a part of who you are. And as long as you hide a part of who you are, the more likely you are to feel ashamed. And feeling ashamed will lead to being angry -- and anger turned inward turns to depression. This is not healthy in any way, shape, or form.
I have a few suggestions: Find a church that is gay Friendly. Find and speak to a person in the church who can help you understand completely the literature that has been used against gay people (and black people and women and ....) and learn what the Bible is really saying about you. Bring your girlfriend with you. See if the pastor of the church offers counseling or find a counselor on your own who is familiar with LGBTQ issues. Watch and read any literature on the Bible and homosexuality you can get your hands on starting with "For the Bible Tells Me So."
If she does not eventually come out, despite her families beliefs, then she is in danger, and she is not open to being a suitable partner for you. It will be too hard on you (as you hint at in your letter) to be the secret. You might start to resent her, and that would be unfair. To both of you.
I thought I might be able to write a blog about religion and homosexuality today -- but I can't. It's just so much to get into and I have limited time at the moment. But I will talk about it -- a little bit at a time. For now let me say that the Bible does not condemn homosexuality. The Bible condemns people's misuse of each other for spiritual gain or for political gain. The examples in the bible of "homosexual acts" are just that -- acts. There is no homosexual relationship in the bible that is condemned -- there is only a bunch of behavior that is frowned upon. If God hated homosexuals as much as the fundamental Christians would like for us to believe, why doesn't he ever mention it? And why doesn't Jesus EVER say one single word about it. All the lessons on the mountains and all the fishing trips he and the disciples went on? You'd think he would have something to say about homosexuality if it was such a big deal, right?
Anyway -- it's a big subject. And I'm sorry that you're having to deal with it in your relationship. Take good care and find someone who can help you through this, bit by bit.
Good luck.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Facebook PDA
I was going to talk about Karma, but I think that's a post that will be better suited for tomorrow.
I just read through some of my Facebook posts on my wall. I skim through most videos unless they are something inspiring because I would rather not see bodies burned up or mothers disciplining their children or worse exploitations of children or violence towards animals while I'm enjoying my frosted flakes in the morning.
But that's just me.
I take in my friends requests for prayers or thoughts or good wishes on tests, job interviews, etc. I try to remember the birthdays so I can add my birthday wishes to the others. Sometimes I chime in and put in my 25 cents in discussions. I add my opinion when I think it matters or if I have something of value to share.
And then there are the love posts. Oh how they irritate some of you. Oh, I get it. When I was single there was nothing that irritated me more than a good love post. I'm being honest. I don't wanna know how you and your bae are doing because I have no bae. I had been lied to, cheated on, had my heart broken into tiny pieces -- During one particularly bad breakup my family took me to Westside Story. When Tony died, I clapped. That's what he got for falling in love. That bakery scene in Moonstruck? That was me. Johnny, not Loretta.
So of course now that I'm experiencing dating bliss, I wanna talk endlessly about her. Post pictures and quote sonnets by Shakespeare. And I know I'm over the top. And I know I'm mushy and probably make people throw up a little bit in their mouths.
But I'm 47 years old. Do you know how long I've waited to find someone who I can tolerate longer than a month? Someone who loves me and wants to spend time with me? Someone who is perfect for me in all her (get ready to gag) perfect imperfections?
A fricken long ass time, that's how long.
And now that I've found it I feel like screaming from the rooftops. And I will. Thank you.
We also live miles apart. Miles. Not a block some of you are complaining about on here. I don't have the luxury of kissing her Good Morning. I don't have the luxury of sending little love notes in her lunch before she heads off to work, or of putting a note on her dashboard, or surprising her at her job. I don't see her. So I'm going to blow kisses all over her virtual face on line. Post hearts in comments and probably do it even more now. No, I probably won't. I just said that out of spite and being stubborn.
If it nauseates you, if you can't stand it and think it's too much Facebook PDA for your tastes, feel free to unfriend, unsubscribe, unfollow or simply avoid my posts.
That's what I've been doing with the endless whining about how there are no good studs (or femmes), how the world is going to hell in a hand basket and there's nothing we can do about it, how Obama is comparable to Hitler and should be impeached (even though the whole process would take longer than the man has left in office -- but that's another blog), how ugly or fat or disgusting this person is at Walmart or on the beach posts some of you all are posting these days.
Seriously, people. There are worse things you could be reading on your feed other than someone's love fest. Even if you've watched the person breakup and get back together fifty times in the last week -- love isn't the worst thing to have on our facebook pages. Even misguided, young, or naive love.
Is it?
:)
Love you.
I just read through some of my Facebook posts on my wall. I skim through most videos unless they are something inspiring because I would rather not see bodies burned up or mothers disciplining their children or worse exploitations of children or violence towards animals while I'm enjoying my frosted flakes in the morning.
But that's just me.
I take in my friends requests for prayers or thoughts or good wishes on tests, job interviews, etc. I try to remember the birthdays so I can add my birthday wishes to the others. Sometimes I chime in and put in my 25 cents in discussions. I add my opinion when I think it matters or if I have something of value to share.
And then there are the love posts. Oh how they irritate some of you. Oh, I get it. When I was single there was nothing that irritated me more than a good love post. I'm being honest. I don't wanna know how you and your bae are doing because I have no bae. I had been lied to, cheated on, had my heart broken into tiny pieces -- During one particularly bad breakup my family took me to Westside Story. When Tony died, I clapped. That's what he got for falling in love. That bakery scene in Moonstruck? That was me. Johnny, not Loretta.
So of course now that I'm experiencing dating bliss, I wanna talk endlessly about her. Post pictures and quote sonnets by Shakespeare. And I know I'm over the top. And I know I'm mushy and probably make people throw up a little bit in their mouths.
But I'm 47 years old. Do you know how long I've waited to find someone who I can tolerate longer than a month? Someone who loves me and wants to spend time with me? Someone who is perfect for me in all her (get ready to gag) perfect imperfections?
A fricken long ass time, that's how long.
And now that I've found it I feel like screaming from the rooftops. And I will. Thank you.
We also live miles apart. Miles. Not a block some of you are complaining about on here. I don't have the luxury of kissing her Good Morning. I don't have the luxury of sending little love notes in her lunch before she heads off to work, or of putting a note on her dashboard, or surprising her at her job. I don't see her. So I'm going to blow kisses all over her virtual face on line. Post hearts in comments and probably do it even more now. No, I probably won't. I just said that out of spite and being stubborn.
If it nauseates you, if you can't stand it and think it's too much Facebook PDA for your tastes, feel free to unfriend, unsubscribe, unfollow or simply avoid my posts.
That's what I've been doing with the endless whining about how there are no good studs (or femmes), how the world is going to hell in a hand basket and there's nothing we can do about it, how Obama is comparable to Hitler and should be impeached (even though the whole process would take longer than the man has left in office -- but that's another blog), how ugly or fat or disgusting this person is at Walmart or on the beach posts some of you all are posting these days.
Seriously, people. There are worse things you could be reading on your feed other than someone's love fest. Even if you've watched the person breakup and get back together fifty times in the last week -- love isn't the worst thing to have on our facebook pages. Even misguided, young, or naive love.
Is it?
:)
Love you.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
But, We Had a Connection...
So this is what happened:
I was minding my own business (typical disclosure) when I happened upon (that means I was reading my facebook “group” pages for topics I’d like to discuss in more detail) this post (slightly altered to protect the innocent):
So, I (a stud) started talking to this girl on the internet. We really had a great vibe. We exchanged pictures and I really was attracted to her. She had nice long hair, dressed girly-girl (which I liked) and she was pretty. I was pleasantly surprised when we got along well on top of it, and we agreed to meet. When we went on the first date she dressed and looked exactly like the photos (whew). Dinner was great (I paid) and we shared a great kiss at the end of the evening. We immediately made plans to meet up again. We were dating for months when suddenly during a casual dinner out she showed up looking ... well... pretty much like me. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, she was wearing pants and a dress shirt (not blouse -- a shirt) and even her mannerisms were more like mine. I wasn’t a fan. I was still attempting to process this new development over dinner when she asked me where I got my hair cut. She said that she was thinking about cutting off her “to the middle of her back” tresses and sporting a style that more fit her likes. She said that she had come to the conclusion that she was more masculine identifying than feminine identifying and asked what I thought of that. What should I do? I’m not attracted AT ALL to her when she is looking more like a boi than the femme I thought she was. She said that she was afraid I wouldn’t date her if she told me in the beginning so approached me as a femme. She’s still a nice woman, but I don’t want to date someone who looks like me.
The comments this person got for posting this question were over the top. “You don’t deserve her!” “This is what’s wrong with our community today.” “You sound so superficial and stupid with that sh*t” and then my favorite of all lines, “Well, you fell in love with her for her, not her clothes.”
When people portray themselves as someone else and they get caught, they always say things like -- "Well, you fell in love with me -- not my job." or "You fell in love with me, not my clothes." or "You fell in love with me for what was in the inside and our connection, not what I look like." It’s like there’s a handbook and this page is highlighted AND dog-eared so nobody misses it.
Turn on any episode of Catfish and you’ll hear the same thing. A boy acting like he was a woman the whole time then meeting a guy can not think that his cyber skills will make up for the fact that he lied about HIS GENDER. A woman who claims she is a model and entrepreneur like Tyra Banks but then shows up and is overweight, barely making ends meet will immediately utter those words we Catfish watchers (and those of us who have experienced the nightmare of being catfished) know and hate: “But we had a connection. I only did this because I didn’t think you could fall in love with me the way I looked. But you did love me. And you can love me again. I’m still the same person.” That right there. “I’m still the same person.” No. You. Are. Not.
You, my poor delusional friend, are a liar. Everything you said, every lie you told to continue the front of being girly when you weren’t, of being a model when you weren’t, of being a female when you weren’t was a lie. Every time you opened up your mouth you were a big bold face fat ugly liar. And the person I (or anyone who has been in this predicament) liked/loved/was fond of was THAT person. And THAT person again was what? Yeah. A liar.
I can be as petty and superficial as I want to be. I can go after the prettiest girl or boi I want to. That’s MY decision. MY decision does not give a person a right to prey off of my superficiality by being the person they feel I would potentially fall for.
For the record I’m not that kind of superficial. But I do have preferences. I have likes and dislikes, though varied. But the connection I have to a person is built on who they are. And who they are is colored by the truths (and the lies) they tell. You have absolutely no right to even suggest that same connection still exists or even SHOULD exist.
So back to the scenario of the woman who fell in love with the girl who was a girly girl and now because of net bullying is made to feel like an asshole because she no longer wants to be with this girl who is a liar.
Really, fam? Really?
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Common Denominator
I have a brother who married the same woman twice.
He knew he was marrying her twice --- it wasn't a mistake. I mean, it wasn't by accident that he married her. It was a mistake that he married her. The second time.
My brother has also been married to a 2nd woman who I really never liked from the beginning. Glad I never held back my dislike of her, even when my parents were giving me the side eye and telling me to act my age when I made horse noises at her and commented about how one should make sure to curve their fingers under when holding out food for her to eat. I learned how to feed horses when I was responsible for taking my cousin to riding lessons -- I was just trying to be helpful.
When I was home visiting, my brother introduced me to a new girlfriend. They had been dating for about a year. I instantly liked her. Petite and spunky, this woman held her own. She was no one's "kid" much like the wife before had been. She had a career, was active and healthy and pushed my brother out of his comfort zones. I gave her a warm hug when we parted and told her I'd see her for a day (or two) during the family reunion. When my brother announced that they had broken things off a few weeks later, I had reached my limit. This girl, I thought, was THE girl that would turn it all around. She wasn't 25 years younger (wife #3), she wasn't cheating on my brother in the parking lots of her work (wife #1 & #2)... I mean -- I was hopeful! And then, just like that, disaster struck again.
I cannot find a single common thing in these women other than the fact that they were all white, they were all blonde, and they were all women. There weren't even common factors that led to the break up with my brother (well actually, there was with #1 and #2, but only because it was THE SAME WOMAN.) But all three women had my brother in common. My brother, as much as I love him and as much as it hurts me to say this, IS the common denominator.
I can give a list of people who I have dated -- men and women -- and I could show you the variety of skin color, height, weight, finances, religion, philosophies, family background. There are cheaters, liars, marijuana and tobacco users -- there are many, many different variances. But the one common thing they all share? Me. Well, not intimately -- that makes me sound like some equal opportunity ho, but seriously. They all have me in common. And I chose them. So really, I am the common denominator. If I wanna see why these relationships didn't work, I can't look to them to find my answers because they are varied. The true answer will come from only one place.
*checks mirror*
No one wants to do that though, it seems. And that's sad for them. People spend lifetimes looking at other people's faults and what they did in the relationship to cause you the pain and why do you keep picking these losers for mates and blah blah blah. Why indeed? What is it about ME that made me choose W, X, and Y before I chose Z. It's far easier for me to point fingers at all their mistakes and fuck ups but the truth is only really going to shine when I take a look in the mirror. Never taking that hard look at yourself costs you. Some people, I guess, don't mind the fee because as soon as a relationship ends they are off and hopping onto another person, never giving themselves an opportunity to reflect and get to know themselves well enough so they CAN choose a person who best suits them. Never giving themselves enough time to love their flaws so that they are best able to allow someone else to love them, too. Never giving themselves enough time to figure out if they are an asshole or not. You just might be one. Maybe you are way too selfish and all up in your ego and nasty to your partners. Maybe you're too spoiled and entitled -- too set in your ways to compromise. When will you ever figure it out if you're never alone long enough to reflect.
Hey, but what do I know? I'm just a forty-seven year old woman who has made plenty of wrong choices and writes a blog about many of them in hopes that her readers don't have to experience the shit.
;)
He knew he was marrying her twice --- it wasn't a mistake. I mean, it wasn't by accident that he married her. It was a mistake that he married her. The second time.
My brother has also been married to a 2nd woman who I really never liked from the beginning. Glad I never held back my dislike of her, even when my parents were giving me the side eye and telling me to act my age when I made horse noises at her and commented about how one should make sure to curve their fingers under when holding out food for her to eat. I learned how to feed horses when I was responsible for taking my cousin to riding lessons -- I was just trying to be helpful.
When I was home visiting, my brother introduced me to a new girlfriend. They had been dating for about a year. I instantly liked her. Petite and spunky, this woman held her own. She was no one's "kid" much like the wife before had been. She had a career, was active and healthy and pushed my brother out of his comfort zones. I gave her a warm hug when we parted and told her I'd see her for a day (or two) during the family reunion. When my brother announced that they had broken things off a few weeks later, I had reached my limit. This girl, I thought, was THE girl that would turn it all around. She wasn't 25 years younger (wife #3), she wasn't cheating on my brother in the parking lots of her work (wife #1 & #2)... I mean -- I was hopeful! And then, just like that, disaster struck again.
I cannot find a single common thing in these women other than the fact that they were all white, they were all blonde, and they were all women. There weren't even common factors that led to the break up with my brother (well actually, there was with #1 and #2, but only because it was THE SAME WOMAN.) But all three women had my brother in common. My brother, as much as I love him and as much as it hurts me to say this, IS the common denominator.
I can give a list of people who I have dated -- men and women -- and I could show you the variety of skin color, height, weight, finances, religion, philosophies, family background. There are cheaters, liars, marijuana and tobacco users -- there are many, many different variances. But the one common thing they all share? Me. Well, not intimately -- that makes me sound like some equal opportunity ho, but seriously. They all have me in common. And I chose them. So really, I am the common denominator. If I wanna see why these relationships didn't work, I can't look to them to find my answers because they are varied. The true answer will come from only one place.
*checks mirror*
No one wants to do that though, it seems. And that's sad for them. People spend lifetimes looking at other people's faults and what they did in the relationship to cause you the pain and why do you keep picking these losers for mates and blah blah blah. Why indeed? What is it about ME that made me choose W, X, and Y before I chose Z. It's far easier for me to point fingers at all their mistakes and fuck ups but the truth is only really going to shine when I take a look in the mirror. Never taking that hard look at yourself costs you. Some people, I guess, don't mind the fee because as soon as a relationship ends they are off and hopping onto another person, never giving themselves an opportunity to reflect and get to know themselves well enough so they CAN choose a person who best suits them. Never giving themselves enough time to love their flaws so that they are best able to allow someone else to love them, too. Never giving themselves enough time to figure out if they are an asshole or not. You just might be one. Maybe you are way too selfish and all up in your ego and nasty to your partners. Maybe you're too spoiled and entitled -- too set in your ways to compromise. When will you ever figure it out if you're never alone long enough to reflect.
Hey, but what do I know? I'm just a forty-seven year old woman who has made plenty of wrong choices and writes a blog about many of them in hopes that her readers don't have to experience the shit.
;)
Monday, July 28, 2014
Housecleaning
I don't think anyone can clean my bathroom as well as I can. I think I probably even clean the bathroom better than the professional housekeeper people.
I don't mean to be a snob about my bathroom cleaning habits, but I've seen the way other people clean them and I'm not a fan.
First step to cleaning a bathroom is understanding the tools one will need. Because I have often lived in a home with white people (and I love them), many of the tools I need are specific to deal with white people's hair. White people's hair can not be mopped up or swiffered up or even prayed away. You need the dry swiffer pads or a paper towel to first go in and wipe off counters, floors and toilets (and tubs) so that the white people hair is out of the way. If you do not do this very important step, you will be forever pulling white people's hair off of your hands and body through out the bathroom cleaning process. Like I said, I love my white people. But your hair is persistent as you know what. But back to the tools: you need to understand your tools. A mop is only going to carry you so far in a bathroom, then you need to just accept the fact that you'll be up close and personal behind the toilet with a rag to reach the places a mop won't reach. And while we're on the toilet, might as well just scrub that whole thing down on the outside because that's the only way it's getting clean.
Second step to cleaning the john is knowing it will not be a quick job. That little room that is no bigger than a cell in Orange is the New Black is deceiving. That room has tile and a tub and sink and toilet ... and well, you know. But you really don't until you start cleaning it. Then there are all the bottles in the showers and on your counter top -- they get dusty. The soap dish? Nasty. There's sorting and ... just take my word for it. It's not easy peasy. No professional bathroom cleaner ever says "I'll be right back" when they enter the room to clean it. No. One. We know it's going to take at least an hour. Only amateurs think that's a simple job.
Third step is realizing that while cleaning the shower, you're going to just end up taking a shower. Strip, and hop on in. Yes I know there's chemicals in some of the cleaning products -- that's why you should probably not use bleach or other harmful cleaning agents. Just get some Fresh and Clean stuff and a nice rag and use some elbow grease. The sweat running down your face in buckets? Don't you worry. You'll just take a shower afterward (carefully!) and you'll be good to go. Make sure you put down towels when you get out of the shower though and tread carefully. Seriously, don't mess up anything. And shower with the door open and the fan on so your mirror doesn't get messed up.
Fourth step is realizing that no matter how much you clean your bathroom , you'll still need to do maintenance along the way. Do a little bit at a time. It will save you a few minutes.
Maybe it's because I grew up in a home with three brothers. (A bathroom shared with three brothers is a whole other post with special tools (one including special sponges to wipe down the walls around toilets -- no explanation should be needed.)
Maybe it's because my mother is one of the biggest neat freaks I know. I spent almost a month with her in June/July and she cleaned the counter/island in the kitchen more times than can be healthy. My mother often threw fits when I didn't vacuum the carpet the right way (yes, there is a right way) or when I wouldn't scrub the floor in the right manner. Back then using a mop or swiffer thingee was pretty much against the law. Hands and knees, baby, that's the only way we washed floors when I was growing up. I'm not that fanatic with other rooms (yet) but I know I have the gene inside of me that could erupt at any moment and cause me to permanently turn into her and then Lord have mercy on all of your souls.
What's my point?
Oh yeah.
So when I mention that I'm cleaning the bathroom, know that it's serious business. I'm CLEANING the bathroom. I'm gonna walk out of that bathroom looking like I just got out of a two hour spin class on the hardest resistance. If you happen to walk by while I'm cleaning and consider "helping" or even wish to inform me that you have already cleaned the bathroom, just don't. Walk away.
I got this.
Really.
I don't mean to be a snob about my bathroom cleaning habits, but I've seen the way other people clean them and I'm not a fan.
First step to cleaning a bathroom is understanding the tools one will need. Because I have often lived in a home with white people (and I love them), many of the tools I need are specific to deal with white people's hair. White people's hair can not be mopped up or swiffered up or even prayed away. You need the dry swiffer pads or a paper towel to first go in and wipe off counters, floors and toilets (and tubs) so that the white people hair is out of the way. If you do not do this very important step, you will be forever pulling white people's hair off of your hands and body through out the bathroom cleaning process. Like I said, I love my white people. But your hair is persistent as you know what. But back to the tools: you need to understand your tools. A mop is only going to carry you so far in a bathroom, then you need to just accept the fact that you'll be up close and personal behind the toilet with a rag to reach the places a mop won't reach. And while we're on the toilet, might as well just scrub that whole thing down on the outside because that's the only way it's getting clean.
Second step to cleaning the john is knowing it will not be a quick job. That little room that is no bigger than a cell in Orange is the New Black is deceiving. That room has tile and a tub and sink and toilet ... and well, you know. But you really don't until you start cleaning it. Then there are all the bottles in the showers and on your counter top -- they get dusty. The soap dish? Nasty. There's sorting and ... just take my word for it. It's not easy peasy. No professional bathroom cleaner ever says "I'll be right back" when they enter the room to clean it. No. One. We know it's going to take at least an hour. Only amateurs think that's a simple job.
Third step is realizing that while cleaning the shower, you're going to just end up taking a shower. Strip, and hop on in. Yes I know there's chemicals in some of the cleaning products -- that's why you should probably not use bleach or other harmful cleaning agents. Just get some Fresh and Clean stuff and a nice rag and use some elbow grease. The sweat running down your face in buckets? Don't you worry. You'll just take a shower afterward (carefully!) and you'll be good to go. Make sure you put down towels when you get out of the shower though and tread carefully. Seriously, don't mess up anything. And shower with the door open and the fan on so your mirror doesn't get messed up.
Fourth step is realizing that no matter how much you clean your bathroom , you'll still need to do maintenance along the way. Do a little bit at a time. It will save you a few minutes.
Maybe it's because I grew up in a home with three brothers. (A bathroom shared with three brothers is a whole other post with special tools (one including special sponges to wipe down the walls around toilets -- no explanation should be needed.)
Maybe it's because my mother is one of the biggest neat freaks I know. I spent almost a month with her in June/July and she cleaned the counter/island in the kitchen more times than can be healthy. My mother often threw fits when I didn't vacuum the carpet the right way (yes, there is a right way) or when I wouldn't scrub the floor in the right manner. Back then using a mop or swiffer thingee was pretty much against the law. Hands and knees, baby, that's the only way we washed floors when I was growing up. I'm not that fanatic with other rooms (yet) but I know I have the gene inside of me that could erupt at any moment and cause me to permanently turn into her and then Lord have mercy on all of your souls.
What's my point?
Oh yeah.
So when I mention that I'm cleaning the bathroom, know that it's serious business. I'm CLEANING the bathroom. I'm gonna walk out of that bathroom looking like I just got out of a two hour spin class on the hardest resistance. If you happen to walk by while I'm cleaning and consider "helping" or even wish to inform me that you have already cleaned the bathroom, just don't. Walk away.
I got this.
Really.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Bitter.
She told me she was surprised that I wasn't bitter with all the stuff I've been exposed to. I told her I was too nice for that. But I think it's more that I push things away and don't think about things as much (See post about saving emails (DELETE) for later reference.)
I usually walk away. I state that I'm done and I swallow back all the things that I want to say. The next time I talk to the offending party, I've forgotten all about my gripes.
Sort of.
It's my blog, right? And reading people's rants is sort of entertaining, so this blog post won't be a total wash, right?
Alright then.
I am more than aware of how you tried to play me. I thought you were one of the mature ones, but really you were just in disguise: a child playing with adult toys pretending like you could read directions. You played the whole "I shouldn't be telling you this, and she said not to say anything to you but..." cards left and right and I arranged the cards by suit, ignoring that you, my darling, were a spade. The fact that you told me things that you weren't suppose to tell me because you needed to figure shit out didn't escape me. And that's when I stopped trusting anything you had to say. You were successful in making me back away from your cash cow, though. Did you eat it all at once or is there still parts of it in your freezer? You won another prize that you probably weren't counting on, and that is the end of whatever faux friendship we had in whatever fantasy reality we created here on facebook. Because, see, a person who tells you things in confidence that you run to talk to me about does not make you anyone I'm going to trust any part of myself with. Ever again.
I never hung around girls like you in high school, so your little methods escaped me at first. The whole "I don't like this person and here's why and I'm staying away..." while dumping information on me so that I would feel the same while supporting you so you could then run back and probably tell the other person all the things I said while I moved out of the way ... yeah. I didn't hang around girls in school that did that type of thing. I should have remembered my friend criteria for when I got to be forty-seven. Didn't think I needed to. No matter. You're both trifling.
I'm too trusting in that I feel perfectly safe telling people all kinds of things about myself. But I won't do that again. Whatever I tell anyone, I'll have control over. I'll place it here in my blog and you can chew on it and spit it out when the flavor has gone. I have someone I can trust my secrets to now. I don't need you anymore.
Please don't mistake my anger with bitterness. I'm not bitter, I'm awake. There is a difference. Bitter would mean I take all my irritation I have with you and place it on other people, making them pay for your sins instead of letting you have it.
You don't deserve my friendship, my trust... damn, you don't even deserve this post written about you. But here it is. Just for you. With a nice juicy red bow around it and a tag written in a language only you will understand.
Stay the hell away from me.
I don't need people like you in my life anymore.
You're taking up space for people who have earned a rightful place. People who respect how difficult it is to be here. People who won't collect data in an attempt to control me or keep me away from something or someone they want. People who have honor and who are decent human beings.
Yes, this is about you. No need to send me a message asking if it is.
Goodbye.
I usually walk away. I state that I'm done and I swallow back all the things that I want to say. The next time I talk to the offending party, I've forgotten all about my gripes.
Sort of.
It's my blog, right? And reading people's rants is sort of entertaining, so this blog post won't be a total wash, right?
Alright then.
I am more than aware of how you tried to play me. I thought you were one of the mature ones, but really you were just in disguise: a child playing with adult toys pretending like you could read directions. You played the whole "I shouldn't be telling you this, and she said not to say anything to you but..." cards left and right and I arranged the cards by suit, ignoring that you, my darling, were a spade. The fact that you told me things that you weren't suppose to tell me because you needed to figure shit out didn't escape me. And that's when I stopped trusting anything you had to say. You were successful in making me back away from your cash cow, though. Did you eat it all at once or is there still parts of it in your freezer? You won another prize that you probably weren't counting on, and that is the end of whatever faux friendship we had in whatever fantasy reality we created here on facebook. Because, see, a person who tells you things in confidence that you run to talk to me about does not make you anyone I'm going to trust any part of myself with. Ever again.
I never hung around girls like you in high school, so your little methods escaped me at first. The whole "I don't like this person and here's why and I'm staying away..." while dumping information on me so that I would feel the same while supporting you so you could then run back and probably tell the other person all the things I said while I moved out of the way ... yeah. I didn't hang around girls in school that did that type of thing. I should have remembered my friend criteria for when I got to be forty-seven. Didn't think I needed to. No matter. You're both trifling.
I'm too trusting in that I feel perfectly safe telling people all kinds of things about myself. But I won't do that again. Whatever I tell anyone, I'll have control over. I'll place it here in my blog and you can chew on it and spit it out when the flavor has gone. I have someone I can trust my secrets to now. I don't need you anymore.
Please don't mistake my anger with bitterness. I'm not bitter, I'm awake. There is a difference. Bitter would mean I take all my irritation I have with you and place it on other people, making them pay for your sins instead of letting you have it.
You don't deserve my friendship, my trust... damn, you don't even deserve this post written about you. But here it is. Just for you. With a nice juicy red bow around it and a tag written in a language only you will understand.
Stay the hell away from me.
I don't need people like you in my life anymore.
You're taking up space for people who have earned a rightful place. People who respect how difficult it is to be here. People who won't collect data in an attempt to control me or keep me away from something or someone they want. People who have honor and who are decent human beings.
Yes, this is about you. No need to send me a message asking if it is.
Goodbye.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Delete
I save things. Yes, I realize this probably means I'm a pack rat to a certain extent, but it's not to hoarder level. Yet. People can come into my room (well, maybe in a few hours, but still...) and be quite comfortable. Really.
But I hang onto things until I know I don't need them anymore. Usually this means until I move or do some deep cleaning. Don't judge me. Admitting the problem is the first step, right?
Anyway - I hold onto things. Especially emails. I know that there are folders and my inbox could look better without the thousands (yeah, I said thousands) of emails floating around in there. The other day I decided I could tackle a hundred of them (or so) and went to work.
I imagine this has happened to me before -- I get this burst of energy and decide I'm going to go after the inbox and then I step inside and find what I've been avoiding all along. There is a past in that there inbox.
Several years ago I ran into a psychopath. My first, I wasn't sure until I underwent a few years of therapy. It was probably one of the hardest things I've ever been through. Being lied to is like ... being raped emotionally with razor blades. Every lie I was told I had to go back and figure out (for my sanity) what the real truth was. Then I needed confirmation, which if you've ever dealt with a psychopath, is damned near impossible to determine as authentic. I hung onto the emails and the "confessions" as some sort of confirmation. I needed the proof that I wasn't losing my mind. I needed to know that I was right. I thought that would make me feel better.
I was so wrong.
When someone is a liar, and a very good one at that, there is no amount of proof, emails, confirmations, admittance, confessions, letters, apologies that will make you feel sane. There is no confirmation that will make the cuts not happen. There is no folder that you can bring up in a dark moment to give you guidance through the amount of lies assholes will toss your way. Holding onto reminders of liars just takes up space.
Space that could be used for more beautiful things.
Your confirmation is in your soul. Know you are right.
And then delete.
But I hang onto things until I know I don't need them anymore. Usually this means until I move or do some deep cleaning. Don't judge me. Admitting the problem is the first step, right?
Anyway - I hold onto things. Especially emails. I know that there are folders and my inbox could look better without the thousands (yeah, I said thousands) of emails floating around in there. The other day I decided I could tackle a hundred of them (or so) and went to work.
I imagine this has happened to me before -- I get this burst of energy and decide I'm going to go after the inbox and then I step inside and find what I've been avoiding all along. There is a past in that there inbox.
Several years ago I ran into a psychopath. My first, I wasn't sure until I underwent a few years of therapy. It was probably one of the hardest things I've ever been through. Being lied to is like ... being raped emotionally with razor blades. Every lie I was told I had to go back and figure out (for my sanity) what the real truth was. Then I needed confirmation, which if you've ever dealt with a psychopath, is damned near impossible to determine as authentic. I hung onto the emails and the "confessions" as some sort of confirmation. I needed the proof that I wasn't losing my mind. I needed to know that I was right. I thought that would make me feel better.
I was so wrong.
When someone is a liar, and a very good one at that, there is no amount of proof, emails, confirmations, admittance, confessions, letters, apologies that will make you feel sane. There is no confirmation that will make the cuts not happen. There is no folder that you can bring up in a dark moment to give you guidance through the amount of lies assholes will toss your way. Holding onto reminders of liars just takes up space.
Space that could be used for more beautiful things.
Your confirmation is in your soul. Know you are right.
And then delete.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Too Sexy
"I don't know what to write about."
"Write about sexiness."
"What about it."
"What makes someone sexy."
"Oooh."
I'm not conventional in my ideas about sexiness. I'm human in that I'm attracted to aesthetics. I can appreciate art and color and composition and all of those things combine to make something attractive. But sexiness... sexiness is something completely different.
A lot of people will say that it's the curve of the hip, the dip or curves of the neck, the sensitive spot where your hip meets your panties or the smoothness of a calf. It could be the way the top lip is a bit pouty or how it perfectly matches the bottom lip. It could be the soft hairs that gather at the nape of the neck. People have started to say that intelligence and confidence is sexy and while all these things make perfect sense and are sexy, it doesn't quite touch the true definition for me.
This is what is sexy to me:
If you can weave your words in such a way to grab someone's attention, make someone laugh or cry, explain some complicated emotion or concept with some well placed commas, periods and paragraph structure, you are sexy. If you know how to use words -- and not just by talking a lot, I mean by carefully choosing the words you'll use, almost to the point of manipulation, then you are sexy. You are sexy when you can easily bury someone in your words and nuances, but choose to spare a person's feelings. You are sexy as hell when you can put someone in their place with the fewest words possible.
If you are aware of the space your body takes up and you don't apologize for any of it, then you are sexy. I think it's sexy as hell when people take up space and don't allow anyone into their space without permission. They are not pushovers. They are not apologists. They are present and here and only allow people into their space who are worthy of being there. I think it's sexy when someone is aware of their place in the world and in the universe because when they invite me in I know I'm special.
If you are sensual you are sexy. If you like touch, kisses, hot showers, great lotion, if your skin is sensitive to touch and appreciative of the right things you are sexy. If you like your head rubbed, can get wet when someone you love touches the back of your hand with the tip of their fingers, delights in the feel of someone's breath against the back of their neck when spooning -- if you can remember what it felt like to almost have sex that one time and it has nothing to do with insertion, then you're sexy as hell to me.
If your eyes tell the truth, you are sexy.
If you smile a lot and each time you smile it raises the temperature in the room by several degrees then you are sexy.
If you can go toe to toe with me in a discussion not just because you can, but because you believe you are right, and can do so without succumbing to weak arguments and silly fallacies or emotional temper tantrums (cuz that's my trick), then you are sexy as fuck.
If you have someone in your family you love and care about and trust and look up to and take care of and don't disrespect you're sexy. If family is important to you even though your family is less than perfect, then you are sexy.
If you remember things I've told you you are sexy. If you keep my secrets you are sexy. If you maintain our privacy in our relationship no matter what, you are sexy.
If you are soft and strong you are sexy.
I think you're hella sexy if you wear glasses, like to read, dress well, smell good and care about your appearance overall.
I think you're more than sexy if you have goals (I didn't say money) and aren't afraid to reach for them.
I think you're sexiest when you sleep comfortably next to me, and sometimes touch me just to let me know you're still there or to remind yourself that I am still there, before going back to sleep.
I think it's sexy if you cook. Or bake. Or Successfully make anything in the kitchen without accident or fires.
There's so much more, but that's the beginning of my list. I'm sure Janelle looks great in a suit and tie. She looks great in her underwear and even better in a white button down or hoodie. But she's sexiest because of all the other things I mentioned. Clothing or body is just aesthetic. Sexy is so much more.
So much more.
"Write about sexiness."
"What about it."
"What makes someone sexy."
"Oooh."
I'm not conventional in my ideas about sexiness. I'm human in that I'm attracted to aesthetics. I can appreciate art and color and composition and all of those things combine to make something attractive. But sexiness... sexiness is something completely different.
A lot of people will say that it's the curve of the hip, the dip or curves of the neck, the sensitive spot where your hip meets your panties or the smoothness of a calf. It could be the way the top lip is a bit pouty or how it perfectly matches the bottom lip. It could be the soft hairs that gather at the nape of the neck. People have started to say that intelligence and confidence is sexy and while all these things make perfect sense and are sexy, it doesn't quite touch the true definition for me.
This is what is sexy to me:
If you can weave your words in such a way to grab someone's attention, make someone laugh or cry, explain some complicated emotion or concept with some well placed commas, periods and paragraph structure, you are sexy. If you know how to use words -- and not just by talking a lot, I mean by carefully choosing the words you'll use, almost to the point of manipulation, then you are sexy. You are sexy when you can easily bury someone in your words and nuances, but choose to spare a person's feelings. You are sexy as hell when you can put someone in their place with the fewest words possible.
If you are aware of the space your body takes up and you don't apologize for any of it, then you are sexy. I think it's sexy as hell when people take up space and don't allow anyone into their space without permission. They are not pushovers. They are not apologists. They are present and here and only allow people into their space who are worthy of being there. I think it's sexy when someone is aware of their place in the world and in the universe because when they invite me in I know I'm special.
If you are sensual you are sexy. If you like touch, kisses, hot showers, great lotion, if your skin is sensitive to touch and appreciative of the right things you are sexy. If you like your head rubbed, can get wet when someone you love touches the back of your hand with the tip of their fingers, delights in the feel of someone's breath against the back of their neck when spooning -- if you can remember what it felt like to almost have sex that one time and it has nothing to do with insertion, then you're sexy as hell to me.
If your eyes tell the truth, you are sexy.
If you smile a lot and each time you smile it raises the temperature in the room by several degrees then you are sexy.
If you can go toe to toe with me in a discussion not just because you can, but because you believe you are right, and can do so without succumbing to weak arguments and silly fallacies or emotional temper tantrums (cuz that's my trick), then you are sexy as fuck.
If you have someone in your family you love and care about and trust and look up to and take care of and don't disrespect you're sexy. If family is important to you even though your family is less than perfect, then you are sexy.
If you remember things I've told you you are sexy. If you keep my secrets you are sexy. If you maintain our privacy in our relationship no matter what, you are sexy.
If you are soft and strong you are sexy.
I think you're hella sexy if you wear glasses, like to read, dress well, smell good and care about your appearance overall.
I think you're more than sexy if you have goals (I didn't say money) and aren't afraid to reach for them.
I think you're sexiest when you sleep comfortably next to me, and sometimes touch me just to let me know you're still there or to remind yourself that I am still there, before going back to sleep.
I think it's sexy if you cook. Or bake. Or Successfully make anything in the kitchen without accident or fires.
There's so much more, but that's the beginning of my list. I'm sure Janelle looks great in a suit and tie. She looks great in her underwear and even better in a white button down or hoodie. But she's sexiest because of all the other things I mentioned. Clothing or body is just aesthetic. Sexy is so much more.
So much more.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Pedestal
My father would be hired to do Mother-Daughter teas in mildew-y smelling Lutheran Church basements. My mother rarely attended these teas, but my father and I would go because we were the "entertainment." Actually, my father was -- I was just his "Ed McMahon." I would guffaw and giggle and occasionally yell out the punchlines.
My father named his dummy Soren after the great Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard. He was the one who said that life could only be understood backwards, but lived forwards. Which makes sense when you think about it but now that I'm forty-seven sounds like I've been given the keys to a palace of truth. Seriously -- this life only makes sense in retrospect.
Soren (the dummy, not the philosopher) is made of wood and would sit on my father's knee. My dad is actually a great ventriloquist. I can hardly see his mouth move. But it's more than that -- when Soren is on his knee, it's like he's a person, too. People speak to Soren. They look into his wooden face with eyes that don't blink and wait for his responses. I could tell things to Soren that I would not tell to my father. Crazy, really. And when my father would tuck Soren inside his Samsonite suitcase at the end of the shows, I would go about my business as if nothing cruel were happening. In the suitcase Soren was just another puppet.
During the family reunion, Soren came back for a visit. I haven't seen him for years (and he really doesn't look like he's changed a bit -- same polyester suit and same bob hair cut) so it was good to see him. And just like before, I spoke to him and addressed him like he was separate from my father. Even when Soren forgot the same lyrics my father always forgot, I still thought "Poor Soren, he hasn't practiced this song in awhile and has gotten rusty."
I wish I exaggerated.
It's strange to say that a man who is so good at transference ... is that the right word... maybe? Anyway -- it's strange to say that a man who is so good at transference and trickery could be my childhood hero. I think even then I gave a lot of credit to someone who could help me forget. I adored anyone who could transfer me to another place and time or to a new reality outside of myself. Even at four, I was so stuck in my head -- so sure that the world was ever focused and dependent on me -- that anyone who could break that focus deserved not only my respect and love but my loyalty.
It was good to see Soren. It was good to see my father in his element. It was good to remember all the times I'd accompany the two of them and how special I felt being his biggest fan.
He's helped me get my pedestals in order.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Body Overboard.
I often have the television on in the background when I'm getting ready for the day, or even when I'm getting ready for the night. It's background noise that often becomes a distraction when speaking on the phone, finishing homework, working, um ... life.
Anyway...
Today as I was preparing for my day, I turned on the television and waited for one of my favorite movies to come on (A Simple Twist of Fate with Steve Martin.), I got entangled in a movie. Of course it was in the middle so I can't even pretend to know what is going on. But what caught my attention was this woman who killed her husband. Or wait, maybe he died of natural causes. Whatever. So then she buries him on a beach somewhere not in the United States (my detective skills at work I realized that it must have been in New Zealand somewhere...the accents, dahling.) So then this other guy comes along and discovers she's buried a dude on the beach and offers to find a more suitable burial place. They bury him in some person's front yard (cause that's always a good idea) and as he turns around she hits him over the head with a shovel. Then ties him up in a shed and locks the door. Then another guy comes along (I don't know where these guys keep coming from) and he offers to help her get rid of the guy in the shed. And they get on this boat (sail boat/ship of some kind) and throw this guy over the edge of the boat. By this time I am seriously covering my eyes because I'm thinking this new guy is toast. I heard they made it back to shore and when I opened my eyes she was bathing him after chopping up some onions. Where did the knife go? She's gonna stab you a la Fatal Attraction in the tub, dude. Run!
Actually he makes it. (Gotta hurry this along -- my movie is on!)
Ok, so I got to thinking... Why do people never learn? Several guys stumbled along as this woman was burying someone. For them to think this would never have happened to them is silly.
Facebook is a gift. It allows you the ability to see how people treat their significant others -- be it family, friends, children, etc. If someone on facebook is being disrespectful, obnoxious, shifty, dishonest, shady, a womanizer... then chances are that person will treat YOU the exact same way. Be observant.
If someone is tossing a body over the side of a ship and enlists your help, there will probably be someone solicited to do the same to your body.
Just sayin'.
Anyway...
Today as I was preparing for my day, I turned on the television and waited for one of my favorite movies to come on (A Simple Twist of Fate with Steve Martin.), I got entangled in a movie. Of course it was in the middle so I can't even pretend to know what is going on. But what caught my attention was this woman who killed her husband. Or wait, maybe he died of natural causes. Whatever. So then she buries him on a beach somewhere not in the United States (my detective skills at work I realized that it must have been in New Zealand somewhere...the accents, dahling.) So then this other guy comes along and discovers she's buried a dude on the beach and offers to find a more suitable burial place. They bury him in some person's front yard (cause that's always a good idea) and as he turns around she hits him over the head with a shovel. Then ties him up in a shed and locks the door. Then another guy comes along (I don't know where these guys keep coming from) and he offers to help her get rid of the guy in the shed. And they get on this boat (sail boat/ship of some kind) and throw this guy over the edge of the boat. By this time I am seriously covering my eyes because I'm thinking this new guy is toast. I heard they made it back to shore and when I opened my eyes she was bathing him after chopping up some onions. Where did the knife go? She's gonna stab you a la Fatal Attraction in the tub, dude. Run!
Actually he makes it. (Gotta hurry this along -- my movie is on!)
Ok, so I got to thinking... Why do people never learn? Several guys stumbled along as this woman was burying someone. For them to think this would never have happened to them is silly.
Facebook is a gift. It allows you the ability to see how people treat their significant others -- be it family, friends, children, etc. If someone on facebook is being disrespectful, obnoxious, shifty, dishonest, shady, a womanizer... then chances are that person will treat YOU the exact same way. Be observant.
If someone is tossing a body over the side of a ship and enlists your help, there will probably be someone solicited to do the same to your body.
Just sayin'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)