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.

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? 

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.

;)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pedestal

When I was a little girl I adored my father. When I say adored I mean I idolized my father. There was a pedestal with three tiers, and on the highest one, edging Jesus out by several inches, was my father. Trailing in third was Michael Jackson -- Michael Jackson in the yellow poster that hung on my bedroom wall, not Michael with the unfortunate face and straight greasy curls.

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.

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'.

Crying While Sleeping

Almost ten years ago, I walked into Dr. Dosh's office. A psychologist recommended to me by my auntie (who is a psychiatrist). I wasn't sure how I felt about talking to a man. I felt I would feel better exposing my deepest self in front of a female. How was I going to tell some man about my life, about the hurts and all the intimacies and all those scary dark places no one had ever been introduced to?

But I went. And I sat in his office for several years.

And I loved him.

There were moments when I questioned his sanity. He often interrupted me to talk to me about his life, his own struggles, a passage he might have been impacted by in a book about Buddhism. Sometimes he would go and copy passages from his books on meditation and living in the moment and being present while we were still "in session." Honestly, I think my "reduced" price of 120.00/hour was overpriced and sometimes I think we probably should have come out even steven from the therapy and insights I gave to him. I'm kidding. Mostly.

And I loved him.

He was probably, next to my father (maybe even above my father) the first male person in my life who I could just be with. He was the first person I told my biggest secrets to, and the first person I basically "came out" to. And despite anything I brought to him, and how many times I lay on the couch sobbing about some ouch I had experienced decades before him or anyone loved me enough, he never wavered. He never left me.

Until he died.

Some days, like today, I wake up missing him. Maybe the part of me that misses him is already tender due to some hormonal imbalance in my brain or hormonal womanly thing. I don't know. But this morning I dreamed that I was in his office. And it was exactly how I remembered it. I knew he wasn't there, but I went to his office building in my dream -- to see the empty office and feel maybe that he was there. I wanted to tell him about so many things. Some things that I still struggle with but more than that I wanted to tell him that I did it. I dared to love someone who would love me back in that way he had talked to me about way back when. I wanted to tell him how terrified I was and still am but how I keep moving forward despite it because no amount of fear is going to kill me. I want to tell him that I finally am listening to him. I wanted to see his face when I told him, the smile that would reach the corners of his eyes beneath his spectacles. I wanted to see him excitedly reaching for yet another book, pointing out the passsage " here" he would say. It says "right here" that you would get "here." Eventually.

In my dream there were Christmas cards displayed on his door the way he used to. I would search for my card sometimes around the holidays. It was like some testament that I did belong there. That I had a place in his life. That maybe he loved me as much as I loved him.

I think it would be impossible.

Sometime in the dream I realized that he wasn't there. He really wasn't, despite every physical evidence that he would be; the apple on the corner of his desk he would eat between patients -- the scattered files on his desk and his mac-book opened to his appointments -- all of them still current. Patients who would come into this alive yet dead office, sit there on the couch that absorbed so many stories. When it hit me in the dream I started to cry. I felt myself wailing, sure I was crying outloud in my awake world. I woke myself up -- crying  --

But my face was completely dry.

I miss him today maybe more than I have missed him since he died several months ago of cancer. The feeling that I can never tell him in person the obstacles I've cleared and about the book I wrote and about this wonderful person I have fallen in love with and still fall a bit more in love with every single day .... is indescribable. It's like crying in a dream, waking up from it, knowing everyone in the world heard your sobs, then realizing it was all inside.

All just a terrible dream.

Real

 I spent eleven full days in the middle of Minnesota with her. One of those days I dressed up (slightly) for a party we had at the house. I didn't bother putting on makeup, but I did do my hair. For the rest of the vacation I showered, put on deodorant, pulled my hair back into a ponytail holder, and then wore Cutters Deep Woods Repellant as perfume.

Ok -- so two things happened which I think coincide with my somewhat random introduction up there.

1. Jay forwards me this video of this makeup artist on youtube. I've seen her before -- she's a pretty girl without makeup but when she puts on makeup she totally is transformed. It's something to behold -- the power of makeup. But I love makeup so I'm not even shocked that a girl can go from average to goddess in a matter of minutes. And yes, I said minutes. Any girl knows that "putting on a face" (when practiced for more than half of your life) doesn't take long at all. The title of this video is something about femmes and how they (we) can't be trusted. The comments on this video are filled with men mostly saying how they would never wait that long for this girl to get ready (not the girl pictured in my pictures above, by the way -- just using the picture as an example of a before and after makeup illustration) and the other comments are women who brag about how they don't have to wear makeup because they are gorgeous without it.

2. Jay posts a picture of the two of us on the pontoon in Minnesota. Perfectly adorable picture but my hair is a living nightmare. I laughed and then quickly removed it. Some pictures aren't for everyone. And then I posted a message to her telling her to quit posting pictures at my least adorable.

No one complains when a woman looks like the woman in the video. No one says her makeup is over the top. Her application was flawless, and even though she looked different she was still beautiful. If her picture was posted on the singles page, she would have gotten hundreds of likes and comments. No one would have made an issue of the time she spent putting on makeup. It would have been a non-issue for 99.9 percent of the people. The problem arose when people saw what she looked like before and realized that there was a chance they might have been "duped."

Do people really think that kind of pretty happens naturally? There are beautiful people without makeup, nails, weaves, and special lighting, of course. I consider myself to be one of them. But the beauty that the majority of the people respond to daily is not effortless.

I chose to completely go to the opposite extreme with Jay. I didn't primp even the tiniest bit. I made sure I was clean and my teeth were brushed, but despite the makeup I packed, my face was naked with barely a stitch of moisturizer on it. Maybe I wanted to make sure she was okay with my "before" before I gave her my "after." Maybe I wanted her to actually see me -- the real naked me -- before I gave her the made up me. Maybe my subconscious was testing her.

My point is -- hmmm. What is my point?

Some women primp and powder and twist and gloss for the men and women who admire them. Before talking about how gross and unnatural it is for girls to spend time painting on their faces, perhaps spend eleven days on a pontoon with the girl of your dreams without any help from any cosmetics and see if you're still "on board" when it comes to believing she is beautiful. Instead of complaining about weaves and how girls are afraid to be seen without them, maybe spend more time praising girls with naturally curly hair. Maybe take "nappy" out of your vocabulary and embrace her curls and kinks.

If you want real then embrace her when she shows it to you: uneven skin tone, nonexistant eyebrows, wimpy eyelashes, unruly edges and all.

Pray For Me?

A friend of my aunt and uncle's came to pick us up at the airport the other night.

She talks a lot.

She's one of those people who, when she talks, realizes she's talking a lot and then says something like, "Enough about me, what about you." before interrupting again to talk more about herself. Heard all about how she cleaned my aunt and uncle's house, how she rearranged cupboards and how she loved to vacuum. How she and my dog had become great friends (stop the lies - Jackson only has eyes and a heart for his mama!) and on and on and on and on.

Usually people who talk incessantly like this, I ignore. People who lie a lot can not stand silence -- they fear that people might be piecing together their stories and are about to bust them. If people who lie can keep talking long enough to wear out their listeners, then they have a chance of keeping their "stories" going. I see it all the time online -- pretenders who need to keep their audiences captive. They hardly step off line to live their glorious lives. They hide under masks of confidence that really sound pathetically needy.

This woman -- this friend of my auntie and uncle -- is no different.

As she was talking, she sensed that I was not active in her production. So she pulled the homosexual card.

"I have a friend who is doing ministries with homosexual people in Los Angeles," she said.

I did not comment.

"Oh," my uncle said. It sounded like a warning.

She didn't heed it.

"Yeah, he says that we should stop preaching to homosexuals and just love them instead."

What the...

My father is a pastor. So is my uncle.. or rather, so was my uncle before he left the ministry and went into financial planning. I've grown up in the church. Never, ever have I been told that someone is going to minister directly to me and love me "despite my homosexuality" which is really what this woman was saying to me: We've given up on converting you, so we'll just pray and love you even though you're a sick homosexual.

She went on to say something about no one's sin being greater than another person's and that is when I cleared my throat and told her that I wasn't sinning.

My father doesn't minister to me any more than he ministers to anyone else in his life. I am not in more need of prayer than anyone else is and my "lifestyle" does not need a special subgroup in the Sinners and Saints manual. If someone thinks my "sin" isn't any more than their sin, then they can go ahead with all that. But don't drag me into the discussion -- I don't subscribe to it.

I am not sinning. Loving someone is not a sin. The bible says that a man who lies down with a man the way that he would lie down with a woman is an abomination. An abomination is not a sin, and I don't have time to school anyone or give out vocabulary lessons. It's not my interpretation of the bible, it's simple comprehension that they teach in second grade. In order to understand what you are reading you must first have context. And your context is sadly lacking if you line up what you view to be my "sin" next to your sin of gossiping, cheating, lying, stealing or murder. My loving my girlfriend is not chiseled into a stone tablet (or two.) Jesus did not speak on my supposed sin, so seriously, sit down with that. "You" don't have to set up a special ministry section to tend to me and my friends anymore than you should set up a special ministry section to tend to you and your friends.

Don't get me started.

But that's fine. You pray for me and my homosexuality.

I'll pray for you, too.

Scratch

The mosquitoes are bad in Minnesota. Really bad. There's been lots of rain and the water in the rivers, ponds, fields  -- hell -- even a few roadways -- are high. Water and Mosquitoes are lovers.

My mother and father were hardly bit during our time in Minnesota. Often times I'd be outside and they'd be carrying on like nothing was happening. Meanwhile, my virgin Southern California skin was being raped by hungry and violent blood-thirsty assholes called Mosquitoes.

At first they didn't itch that badly. I'd itch a little and then it would pass and there would just be this red welt bump thing left as a reminder of my violation. But then it was time to leave. As if they sensed I would forget them, several mosquitoes attached my feet and ankles. And when I tell you these bites itch like hell I mean exactly that: They. Itch. Like. Hell. I wish I could cut off my feet so the itching would stop. I'm not even being dramatic.

Curious about scratching I looked it up. This is what I found:

"So why does scratching feel so good? Carstens said scratching might turn on nerves that stimulate pleasure systems in the brain."

This is going to be a rough transition, but hang in there with me. I think this is going to be profound. Or really stupid.

All this scratching got me thinking about exes. 

This last month I have been busy being in love. Like really probably for the first time in love. In the past I always left one foot out of the love equation, just so I couldn't really get all the way hurt. It didn't help (much), but the practice of not giving my all to any one person was a hard habit to break. There are people who can let go of interests quickly. There are people who can let go of exes quickly. I'm not really one of them. I hang on to possibilities and talk and chat and obsess and do all kinds of other unhealthy things until I'm like 90 percent sure something is going to happen and by then it's usually way too late. I flirt and I'm casual and I keep my options open and I even hang onto unhealthy relationships much like chronic dieters hang onto the 4 sizes too small pair of pants: you know you're never going to fit into them but your closet looks so bleak without them hanging there that you keep them forever.

Exes and possibilities are like scratching. They turn on the nerves that stimulate pleasure systems in the brain. Until they don't.

So I literally had to stop scratching the itch. I stopped talking to people who were four sizes too small for me. I let myself be comfortable in the realization that someone could actually know all of me and love me and that would be more than enough for me to handle. I stopped reading old emails or old messages or old facebook posts or whatever caused me to itch more. I focused on... I focused on her.

I think there are some people, like my parents, who never really get that many bites after awhile. They don't itch. I told my father that the mosquitoes are just tired of his blood. They saw me coming and needed a new "fix." I think there are some bugs that just love to irritate you and go on to another when they realize their poison isn't affecting you.

It took eleven days for me to realize what the ointment was. I'm looking forward to dousing myself in it for the rest of my life. 

There are better ways to stimulate pleasure systems.

World Issues

It's strange to be ending my vacation in much of the same way it started -- with a party. Beginning tomorrow we will have a family reunion at my parent's home. We're expecting about 89 people. Luckily only 80 of them will be spending the night. I'm exaggerating. A little.

I'm at the point of my vacation where I'm beyond impressing. I just wanna sleep until noon about, sit by the stream, and read a book or two. I don't wanna put on a smile for anyone, or pretend to remember cousins I don't have any idea about.

Family reunions take a lot out of me. I'm not going to pull the adoption card -- well, maybe I'll pull it out for just a few moments: it's hard to be surrounded by people who will undoubtedly know who I am because I'm the only black person amongst them, but still feel like a complete stranger among people who all have the same blood running through their veins, have the same cute nose sitting on their faces, and even share the same diseases, heart problems, and bone structure. I get tired of the questions and the ten minute brief on what I've been up to and what I think is important. And the Lokens (my mother's family) are all thinkers.

Imagine this: 13 children growing up in a small 3 bedroom farm house in the middle of North Dakota back in the 20's -- and every single one of them going off to college. The Lokens are filled with doctors and dentists and nurses and teachers.

There is no "So, what's your favorite subject in school" small talk. Today, one of my aunties asked me: "So Kari, tell me what you think is the biggest problem we face in the world today and what would you do to help solve it if money and resources were no issue?" After I looked at her for a minute considering if my passing my higher level math class so that maybe I could think of getting a Masters in Creative Writing was a "world problem," she edited her question slightly and asked, "Ok, well how about telling me what moves you emotionally and spiritually? What does Kari care about most?"

I can tell 'you' that about 20 minutes ago what I cared most about was that a trip to Zorbaz cost me a goodnight talk with my darling. And that there is absolutely no reception for my laptop in the loft where I'll be sleeping for the next two nights. And that I'm considering spraying the upstairs loft with the "spider spray" aforementioned darling left behind in order to protect my poor body from even more insect itchy bites. About an hour ago I realized that my 47 year old self hardly fits in with my 20 something year old cousins, even though they insist I hang out with them (there was no way on God's green earth that I was going to a "barn" with them to take in bull riding and line dancing...) and that it's about 30 degrees hotter upstairs in the loft than it is downstairs.

I don't think my musings is what she had in mind.

I'm hardly thinking about world problems and what I can do to fix them. I'm thinking about my problems that feel as big as the world and wondering if I have time to conquer them at all. I'm thinking about how long it took me to "wake up" and if maybe it's possible that I waited too long. I'm thinking about this next phase of my life and looking at trivial things (more trivial than my lack of internet connection) and if maybe I should let a few of these time suckers go. I'm wondering if I have the courage and strength of mind to let go of the distractions and focus, for once, on myself and my goals. I'm thinking a lot about love. Wondering how it's even possible that I love her more now than ever and how it physically aches to not be able to tell her and show her every day just how much. I'm wondering if my little cousin sees how I look at her and her boyfriend (who is here for a day or two of the reunion) with envy -- I wish I was that young and that my darling was that close.

Not even sure what this blog is suppose to be about or what to name it at this point. I'm going to go upstairs, open up a book, and read it until I fall asleep. I'm going to pray that the next couple of days go by fast and that I find something worthwhile in the experience.

Oh -- before I fell asleep, I almost stumbled on what I wanted to write my next book about. I think I might write it about my mother. I think I'll write it about myself, too. I think I will write about the thirty or so years with her when I wondered if we could ever love one another even a tiny bit. And then the few years when suddenly I was the daughter she always wanted. And then I think I'll write about losing her again. And I think I'll make the daughter a Lesbian. But I don't think I'll make her black. Writing about trans-racial adoption, Lesbian issues and Alzheimer's disease just might be a bit too much, really. 

Not completely world issues -- even though sometimes it feels a bit like it.

Home

I was talking to my Aunt Margaret when it hit me: This place is not my home.

My "home" was on Bijou Lake -- about 10 miles outside of a tiny town in Minnesota. I grew up on that lake. I knew every step, every piece of wood, every rock that made up our fireplace. That place was my home. This place -- this place where my parents stay -- is not my home. And no matter how "cozy" it was -- no matter what pictures of me hung on the wall (and by the way there are none), no matter how many stories I could retell of how I stumbled on the steps or how I once dangled from the loft, dropping finally onto the couch below...no matter how many memories I could sing into the spaces and linens... this will never be my home.

I suppose it all sounds obviously obvious, but it just hit me.

What thought came after was a bit scarier: I want a home. I want a home that belongs to us. I want memories and paintings and choices of bedspreads and sheets and towels that we've made together. I want to have a place I can never be asked to move from. And as much as I would love for anyone to visit us to feel welcomed, I want them to also feel that it is obviously not their home so they can leave after they get done visiting.

I don't want a house. I don't want an apartment. I don't want a cabin or a condo or a duplex.

I want a home.

I can't wait to leave here so I can start my blueprint.

You Ain't Gonna Hear it From Me

I have always been a talker.

There are posts that people put on their statuses about how facebook is entertainment for them and nothing they talk about is really anything to do with them and blah blah blah... I'm not one of those people. If I post something on my page, I've experienced it. If I make a status about jealousy, I'm feeling it. If I make a post about pancakes and bacon, I'm hungry for it. I use facebook as my own personal diary, much to my loved one's dismay. I have two facebook pages: one that is for family and close friends and one for internet friends and a few of my closest friends and I'm deliberate on what I share where and who I share what with.

But there's one thing you will never see on any of my facebook pages.

There's one thing I will never, ever share.

Ever.

What is that you ask? I will never share my disagreements or heartaches regarding my current relationship -- or really -- ANY relationship I might be in.

As far as any of my readers and friends know, my life with Janelle is perfect. It's fairytale wonderful (it really is, by the way.) Things are moving along as they should. Hell -- we're even looking at real estate. My family and her family frequently get together and bbq and play spades together as far as anyone on here knows. :) I will only ever speak of the great things that are happening in my life in regards to my hunybunsugarpielovemuffincupcake.  You get the picture.

There isn't a reason why I would ever give anyone the pleasure of seeing my relationship falter or fail. I'm not so innocent and sweet or naive to realize that there are people in the world that literally get hard at the thought of strife in someone's life and I refuse to give anyone (other than the one I love) that much pleasure.

I don't get why people are so quick to hide who they are online in terms of status updates and the likes, but are posting every time their girlfriend or boyfriend f's up.  I don't understand why someone would give an emergency broadcast system alert on their relationship so that every thirsty and nosey ass can move on in and play captain ruin a home. Seriously -- explain that to me like I'm a five year old because I don't get it.

So -- consider this a tip from me to the universe. If you're waiting for some juicy shit on the relationship you're wasting your time because #1: Things really are going better than I could have ever imagined or written about and #2: I will never write about it if things aren't going well. The most you'll hear is how beautifully we made up after our two second disagreement we had on who was going to give who the first orgasm.  ;)

I'm just sayin'. <3 

I Don't Want To Cheat...

Can I just say how much I hate hearing (or reading) "I don't want to cheat on her, but..." ?!!

I can? Thank you.

I hate hearing people say about how they don't want to cheat. People say it as if they expect the hand of God to come out of the sky, reach down, and yank them away from all temptation. They say it like they are walking around, and some woman's vagina is propped up on the corner of 69 and Main, the sidewalk is crooked, and they are about to fall in but they don't want to cheat so someone please help.

I was in my twenties when I had this whole cheating thing figured out.

I was dating a man (yes, I was dating a man,) and he was being a total... dick. I was walking Jack at the park when this woman came over and introduced herself and started to play with my dog, commenting about how her dog had died and blah blah blah. Now, I was walking away from her and she was following me for a good three blocks when I noticed that she was just walking with me to talk to me (or play with my dog, not sure which was more prevalent in her mind.) I was pissed off at the person I was dating at the time, this attractive woman was giving me some much needed attention, and then she asked me for my number. Just as I was about to give her my number, thinking that -- hey -- she was a woman and probably not at all gay and besides, everyone needed more friends and I wasn't really going to do anything, we would just talk a little, it dawned on me that what I was doing was wrong. There was a little glimmer of something going on inside of me that told me that this was not going to be so innocent after all. And rather than risk cheating on someone, I declined the offer of "hanging out some time."

It's really easy to want attention and affection from someone else when the person you are with isn't available to give it to you. But you fix that shit or you break up before you cheat. There is no excuse for cheating on someone. None. They cheated on you and you want to get back at them? How about break up and find someone better. That's some great revenge. You need love and sex? How about you break up and find someone who can give it to you the way you'd like or masturbate until you get it. Cheating is just lazy. It's easier for people to run away from their issues into the arms or bed of someone new instead of breaking things off and handling your business like a grown up. 

When you cheat, you're presenting yourself to the world as an ugly, untrustworthy, greedy, selfish, immature and self-centered person.If you even utter the words "I don't want to cheat" you're a liar, too. You DO want to cheat, you just want someone who has more brains than you to talk you out of it.

The next time I hear someone say "I don't want to cheat but...." I'm going to call them a cheater and virtually kick them in their throats and warn their girlfriend/wife/lover.

That's all I gotta say about that.

Thunder and Lightning

It's been a long time since I've been in a thunderstorm -- and a severe thunderstorm at that. Janelle and I watched it for about five minutes last night. It was beautiful. The whole sky just lit up and then the zig zag of lightning would appear. There wasn't that much thunder, but when it happened the claps were was impressive.

I could be all poetic, I suppose, about what this all meant on the last night we were together, but I refuse to have this turn into a "first day without Janelle" "second day without Janelle" type blog.

You're welcome.

What it does remind me of are the moments of complete peacefulness before some awesome attention getting storming takes place. There wouldn't be this much green and beauty and water without the drama of thunderstorms.

Which brings me to my mother again.

I spoke to my auntie about her harshness, and to my somewhat strange delight (the kind of sick pleasure at knowing you're not the only person suffering under the abuse of a tyrant) we all agreed she's been a bit out of control to all of us. We've all decided that a sort of intervention might be needed. My auntie has a plan: we should suggest that my mom says "honey" after her orders. It might sound a bit better if, for example, my mother says "what did you say, HONEY?" instead of "what did you say?" I don't know when the exorcism (sorry, but it does seem like she's possessed sometimes!) will take place, but I do know that I'm currently in ignore mode until such a conversation takes place.

I did observe her for awhile with Janelle's help; she seems very content to be in her garden, tending to every row with frantic patience or in the kitchen cleaning like an obsessed driven woman. She cleaned out several drawers today while guests were there visiting. The guests were her cousins who live near by, so I thought she would be more interested in the conversation, but instead she cleaned (with soap and water) the drawers where the ziplock bags are stored. That's her comfort zone -- the place where she knows where things are and can keep track of what needs to be done. There is no taxing on her memory and when I think about that, I do feel compassion for my mom instead of anger over how she treats me. It's really not at all personal -- she treats everyone like that.

I think that my mom's memory is worse than we originally thought. She chooses to clean so she doesn't have to track conversations, or remember names or people. I noticed her dementia this year when she visited in California and under stress I'm sure it becomes even worse. We need to talk to her about it, and I'm not looking forward to the confrontation or the moment my mother realizes she's the focus of our concern and criticism. She will most likely become defensive, and then become very vulnerable which she'll combat by shutting us all out and weeping for an hour or so in her bedroom. But once it's out in the open we can all discuss how we are going to deal with it.

My aunt and uncle talked about the radio next to their bed that alerted them of the storm that was coming last night. The beeps grew louder the closer the storm got to our county. I feel like the moments where my mother has forgotten things I've told her (sometimes several times a day,) her constant misplacement of her glasses and blaming my father for misplacing them, her lack of participation in conversations, her anger -- are all beeps growing louder in intensity.

Maybe there's a beautiful Minnesota waiting inside of her -- and all that is needed for it to come alive is a little bit of water and noise -- a little bit of lightning and thunder.

Or maybe this is the calm and the storm has yet to hit us.

One Day Closer

Eleven days goes by fast when you're with someone you love.

This is what happened.

I spent eleven days with Janelle in the middle of the woods, with my family, while having my period for a few of those days, with my hair in need of a retwist BADLY, and no makeup.  Most of the time I smelled of Cutters Deep Woods Off, I snored badly, had three major melt downs lasting probably five minutes a piece. We slept in a cabin for the first few nights on an extremely soft mattress, I almost fell down a ravine, and we used each other's toes as scratching posts. While I exhibited great eating habits, I think I ate my weight in bbq, made breakfast for her only once, and got into an argument over the proper cutting up of bacon. I passed gas in front of her, snapped at my mother in front of her, and forced her to watch two girly movies with me but left her alone to fish on the last night because I was having an emotional breakdown.

I can safely say that the honeymoon period of our relationship has come to a close. But then, we never were traditionalist when it came to the perfect honeymoon period.

That's part of the reason I love her so much.

Janelle has never expected anything more than "flawed human" when it comes to me. She's quick to give me hugs, space, or kisses on the head, cheek, or lips when I need them the most. She's also quick to remind me that I'm not alone in "this" and that as much as I like to think I'm the lone survivor when it comes to long distance relationships, she will have a hard time saying goodbye to my crazy ass tomorrow too.

I'm not going to spend much time talking about it because I was already emotional tonight. I'm going to take a shower and cuddle up next to her and remind myself that for several months before this vacation, speaking on the phone was heaven and texting was enough. It will be enough again.

Like she said the other day, "We're one day closer to being together."

Thanks for helping me believe in love again, Cupcake.  See you again. Soon.

Mom Needed

This is going to be one of those entries. You've been warned.

My mother drives me absolutely 100% crazy. It always starts off decently, and then she just slowly loses her mind. I understand having people in your home, and that getting on your damn nerves. But she invited me here. She "allowed" the family reunion to take place. So the fact that she is bitchy, compulsive, picky, insulting, sarcastic, passive aggressive, and otherwise just a royal pain in my ass is causing me to consider having a drink at 10:13 in the morning.

I got up this morning -- pushed myself into the kitchen at 8:00AM to make breakfast for everyone: cinnamon pancakes, scrambled eggs, orange juice, bacon (turkey and pork) and then no one eats. I told them I was going to cook -- Jay was sick in bed with a migraine and stomach ache, dad was burning the f*** out of the bacon and my mother? My dear sweet mother was criticizing me for washing the dishes by hand as I went along (I was wasting water by doing it that way and not putting them in the dishwasher), making her own breakfast because mine wasn't good enough for her, wiping up after me even though I was fully capable of doing it on my own (and actually was)... basically nagging the ever living heck out of me.

Jay says it's probably because my mother is introverted, a bit senile, and probably way tired of having people in her home. I don't see my mother often and this "mood" of hers (and whatever is causing it) reminds me why.

It's way more than that though...

Sometimes I feel like my mother has no idea what to do with me. I'm her daughter, and as such I feel like we should be close. Right? I always imagined these mother daughter talks we would have, and early on I pretty much realized that that wasn't going to happen. We are very different from one another, and even when we can bond over shared things, it's short-lived. She always wanted to have a daughter, she told me once, and well -- she bought me (adopted) so it's not like she "had" to have a daughter. My father wasn't much "help" when it came to girls either so --- what am I saying? I guess I'm saying I wish I had my mommy. Like had her in a way that moms and daughters have one another.

I need a new mommy right now. I don't think my mother is going to be back to her "almost normal" for several months. 

I'm taking applications...

That's All I Have to Say About That.

I love it here -- on the lake. It's peaceful and calm and the land around my parent's home is pretty untouched. Today on the pontoon we saw geese, loon, a deer and her fawn, a beaver, and plenty of fish that refused to be caught.

People wave when you drive by them on the road. At first I thought my father knew everyone, but waving is a way of acknowledging one another. It's sweet. It reminds you that you aren't alone out here and that even you, a stranger, is worthy of a "hello." 

People move without purpose. There is no rush. Maybe it's just the summer, but even people on their bikes and people out for a walk seem to be in their own little world and happy at whatever pace they happen to be locked into.

I haven't done a lick of writing. Of course, I didn't think I would for the first few weeks -- too much to look at. Too much to tuck away into my memory banks for times when I forget to breathe, or when I'm stuck in traffic in southern California, inhaling the smog and stress.

I'm trying not to think about the day after two tomorrows.

That's all I have to say about that.

Every minute I'm not inhaling every minute I get with her now seems like a waste of time.

That's really all I have to say about that.

Tomorrow is the fourth. We'll bbq of course, maybe take a ride out on the lake again, or maybe we'll sit on the dock and watch the fish jump. All of this will have to wait till after breakfast. I promised the family that I would make pancakes tomorrow. I figure I should cook at least one breakfast and pancakes reminds you of good times and home and comfort. All good things.

The syrup, flour, and bacon will momentarily chase the blues away.

That's all I have to say about that. :)

Pillow Princesses (Labels 101)

The very first woman I "talked" to was a touch-me-not stud. I didn't know what a touch-me-not stud was, so I had to do a little bit of research. I was never with her physically, but she talked a lot about her expectations in the bedroom. The biggest thing about ... T. was that she did not want any sort of "lesbian" type sex bullshit. No scissoring. No mutual masturbation type stuff, no lovey dovey girly shit (her words, not mine). I was surprised she enjoyed kissing, actually.

The idea of her touching me and me not being "allowed" to touch her back felt like I would have to sit on my hands or hold back a part of myself that is natural. I like to please. I like to give to my partner what she is giving to me.

But T. didn't want any of that.

So when I hear people describe "pillow princesses" as people who are selfish, I get a little bit ... angry.

If I had entered into a physical relationship with T., would I have been "selfish?" I most certainly would have been a pillow princess and aren't the two words in the LGBTQ community synonymous? 

If I'm giving my lover pleasure, I ... let me bold that ... I am getting something out of it. I get pleasure from seeing pleasure. I'm not some saint that is going around giving of myself and getting nothing in return -- not even the satisfaction of a job well done. Giving GIVES the GIVER pleasure. That's why we give. And anyone who says differently is either Jesus or a liar. Giving our lover pleasure gives something back to us. The person who is receiving also gets pleasure from the stimulus and the closeness and the other good stuff that is happening, but it's different. And there are people who really only receive pleasure from giving -- not so much from getting. Has nothing to do with their not wanting to be a woman. Or it might. But that's up to the person (not you) to decide.

But I digress.

If someone is GETTING pleasure from giving, then how does that make the pillow princess selfish?  Isn't the "pillow princess" simply allowing the person to get pleasure? And then, wouldn't that be the opposite of selfish? Wouldn't that be selfLESS?

Don't worry, I'll wait.

Femmes who are not "pillow princesses" often say, "I want to give my partner pleasure, too. I love to please them..." Wanting to please someone is not a selfless act, that is purely selfish. That's "self" driven. Driven by our want and our own desire. We (femmes) get something from pleasing our partner. We want to give them the same pleasure that we are feeling for our own wants and desires. Nothing wrong with that at all.

Maybe I'm looking at this whole thing too logically though.

A touch-me-not with the right person is not strange and hiding or rigid or whatever other negative term we want to give them. With a "pillow princess" they will be quite happy together and no one will be the wiser. Problems occur when we don't know the other person's role. We don't know how our partner receives or gives pleasure, and when it doesn't fit with our idea/s we throw out labels like "selfish" and "rigid" or "scared to be a woman" or whatever else is in our arsenal.

Am I missing something?

Define Stud (Labels 101)

STUD: A woman who adopts what would be considered masculine characteristics.
Alternate definition: A (traditionally) masculine man or woman, and especially a masculine lesbian. Often the “dominant” partner in a lesbian relationship, and especially of a butch/femme lesbian relationship.

Dressing in a masculine way does not make a woman into a lesbian, contrary to popular belief; it’s usually more convenient. Acting in a masculine way only means that’s the gender role that the person identifies with; it has nothing to do with their sexual life. A highly masculine man could be gay for all we know and a very feminine man could be straight for all we know, and both of these cases are frequent.

STUD: A dominant lesbian, usually butch. This is usually the type of dyke that has gender identity disorder (she thinks and wants to be a man). She takes on the very dominant role in relationships, the male role to be exact. She dresses like a man and acts like a man. There is nothing feminine about her. She is sometimes more of a man than some men. In bed she will only want to make love to her women with a strap on. She will not want women to touch her breast, or her vagina, go down on her or provide her with any type of pleasure. She wants to do all the pleasuring. She does not want women to touch her breast etc, because it reminds her that she is a woman.

STUD: A lesbian who takes a more dominant role in the relationship but can be attracted to femmes or other studs.

I like that studs swagger. Its masculine yet feminine at the same time.

 STUD: someone/something who is paid to get laid.

I could go on and on, but here are a few definitions of studs I've found online.  After reading these descriptions, I can't help but want to apologize to all the women who have asked the question "What is a stud" on Lesbian Love and Advice, and received "Google is your friend" as a response.

Google is clearly NOT your friend.

I'm attracted to masculine identified women. But I'm attracted to women. I don't need a woman to be a man in order for me to feel comfortable hanging around her. And yes, I say all of that for a reason because in my opinion, there are plenty of women who do. Plenty of women dating the most masculined identified and looking woman they can in order to "pass" or have their make believe white picket fence dream.

*deep breath*

For all the questions that I've read about studs "wanting" to be men, I have to say, there are tons of us (femmes) who are insisting that studs become men like creatures with barely a vagina. I've met several femmes who do this. All people need to do is listen to the messages that some women give others to know where the problem is coming from, and I'll go out on a limb to say that it's not the stud that wants to be the man as much as it's the femme on the studs arm that wants that.

What the f*** do we sound like, femmes, saying shit like "my stud better not ever want to be penetrated..." as if that means they are less a stud in our eyes. As if the feeling of pleasure somehow disappears when a woman declares herself a stud. As if the clitoris suddenly turns into a penis and can only get pleasure from being stroked rather than rubbed or something.

Yeah, I'm sure there are some studs who wanna go hard and hate being a woman and blah blah blah. I can't speak on that. But I can speak from the femme point of view. I was naive and young once, too. And I'm a "baby lesbian" -- I've only been out and about a few years. More on that later. I know it's difficult for some women to give up the dream of the family and the home and the life they see all over television and in romance novels. It takes a mature mind to be strong enough to be with a woman you are attracted to and know that (gasp) other people are going to know you are with a woman, too. I've been around other femmes who insist that their woman have short hair, hair on their legs, under their arms and a damn forest in between their legs because they can't tolerate something "soft" next to them. But to be fair, there are many straight women who think this way, too. They want the hard man, the man who doesn't cry, the man who will take out the garbage, go to work, pay the bills, build the home while they (the woman) makes the home, raises the children, etc. Ain't nothing wrong with those gender roles for those who want them.

*deeper breath*

Can we just be honest with one another and ourselves? There are some of us who really do want a stud. No crying, hard bodied, swag, strap wearing, no bra wearing, no baby having could pass and often does pass for a man type of woman. That's fine. Live your life. But then, again, if you are coming onto a page bemoaning the fact that women think you want to be a man, or worse are a woman who wonders why studs want to be men, you may want to: 1) identify the characteristics that are masculine and 2) examine your own ideas and definitions for studs.

It's coming from somewhere.