friends are like bras: close to your heart and there for support

My friend Nina is celebrating a birthday today. I know this because she told me so months ago when we became acquainted through blogging. Some months after I started my blog, I found hers via some link from some other blog. I commented on hers and she responded in kind. She went back to Inauguration and offered the bit of trivia about her birthday.

That is what I love about blogging.

During these past 12 months I’ve shared stories, stories of my past and present. Embedded within those stories are some hopes for my future. I’ve gone on journeys with these stories. I’ve ventured into some fictional exercises with posts like, Jolly and I’ve even been lucky ducky enough to have a post published in the brainchild of some cool ladies from Houston.

I was afforded the opportunity to attend a conference in Memphis, which in turn gave me the chance to meet those cool ladies, Elizabeth and Maxine in full living color and lesbian glory. How cool is that? Say it with me…waaaaaay cooooool ! ! !

Or to put it another way, too totally tubular !

Blogging has been for me, a voice different from that mom, daughter, sister, worker, friend voice I use daily. It is my voice, for me alone. Sharing that voice has prompted others to share, speaking to me through the comments and in some cases, email. Those comments and emails have helped clarify, raise questions, offered solutions, and on many occasions made me laugh out loud.

That is what I love about blogging.

It was the blogging I believe, that gave me the confidence to come out. Hitching up that confidence, I ventured further, endeavoring to meet other lesbian ladies. I held to the hope of finding some who would be friends and perhaps one who would be more. One such lady is currently positioning herself to be the jelly in my roll. How cool is that? Yep yep, that cool.

I’ve had fun, more than I thought I would. I’ve made friends, more than I thought plausible. That inaugural post ended with, I’m not quite sure where I’m going but I do hope the ride will be vigorous, entertaining and enlightening.

That, dear friends, thanks to all of you, it has and continues to be.

How cool is that?

Happy Birthday Nina!

...mooch some homemade hooch

I could be so much more productive if I didn't have to re-fax, re-mail.
(electronic or puhleeze snail), REITERATE, re-invent the freaking
wheel.

Insurance Broker: did you email that form?
Me: I faxed it, your assistant asked me to fax the form.
IB: When?
Me: January 16th
IB: Did we talk afterwards?
Me: Yes, several times
IB: Can you fax it again?
Me:....well, of course I can.

Once a day, every day, it seems, I must follow up with someone about something they should have done, only to be told they don't
have, can't find or don't remember the original contact.

You have any idea how annoying this is? Of course you do!

I think I'll mooch some homemade hooch, and go out for a lark, just to drive off these mean old....

Excuse Me

The idiom touts apples and good health, how one a day keeps doctors away. I'd read somewhere recently a quote attributed to Mae West, replacing orgasm with apples. Orgasms have nothing to do with the post, except that given a choice of an apple a day or an orgasm a day, to keep doctors at bay, well, I don't suppose I have to spell out the choice I'd make. Do I?

I do, however, like apples. Very much so. I eat them often. Not everyday, but very often. Eating apples, though, does present a problem, or shall I say, a challenge, as I do like to eat them on the run. Apples are the most portable of my favorite fruit selections. Eating apples on the run or in public present a problem for me because I belch after finishing the apple. No sooner do I swallow the last bite, does a barrage of belches well up and spew out like the dirty words that spew out of the mouth of the carpenter who has banged her hand with the hammer, again.

No other fruit or other food product produces this reaction. I suppose there could be worse reactions, so perhaps I shouldn't complain. If however, you do see me eating an apple, which you probably won't because as you might imagine, even though I might eat the apple on the run, I do tend to avoid being in the vicinity of people when I do...but, should you see me eating an apple, you will excuse me, while I take my leave until the belches have passed.

Violet Tendencies

Well, in all honesty, not violets, really. Or violets exclusively. Or violets obsessively. I do buy one or two every year and like the way of the ferns, they tend to fail me, or I them. not quite sure how the bargain is struck or where it goes awry. But awry it does go. I keep trying because I really do like violets. There is a violet in need of tending, in my office right now, in fact.

You may have noticed, it is Spring. As is my ritual, lately, I will get down and dirty with plants and flowers, inside and out. For the inside it will be mostly more non-flowering house plants . I had a couple of large plants or small trees, depending on your perspective, give me their final notices. They were with me a long time, but they apparently decided it was time to move on. That they did so simultaneously, oddly enough, softened the sting.


For the outside, I must clear leaves, twigs and other debris left over from the ravages of a Midwestern winter and more recently, that left by kids and others leaving the nearby McDonald's. I will then continue the work begun a few Springs ago, cultivating perennials, ground cover and shrubs already in place. I will plant more, fill in more. As I've mentioned before, it is a work in progress. Slow going because of more misses than hits and economic realities.
This year the call goes out to fellow owners. I am willing to do all the work (help will not be turned away) but I announced how it would be fabulous if any or all could contribute plants, shrubs, bulbs, top soil, mulch. I will provide information about zone suitable plants and specifics about what the experts feel will work best given our sun / shade exposures.

I don't know if any will heed the call. Given previous experiences with these people, I don't have any expectations. If I don't get any donations, the progress will continue along the current path. I won't be bothered, much, as there remains much to treat my tendencies.

plots: June 2005 shot by my mom

Jackie's Back!

Hooray! and Yahoo!

Can't believe I missed the premier episode of tee vee girlfriend's show, Work Out . I have an excellent excuse. A couple, actually. I'm sure I would be excused due to being on the phone wooing and cooing with actual girlfriend and then listening to daughter recount her boyfriend troubles into the wee winky hours of the morning. One must have priorities and proper perspective.

Thank goodness, though, that there are re-runs and hippy hippy hooray, marathon showings. Not to mention this wonderful invention called the Internet.

Bravo TV has episodes, blogs and all manner of fodder to feed an addict's fan's tank.

If you are looking for me, I'll be working out with Jackie.

Sprung? No! Spring.

It is my daughter's not so humble opinion that her 46, knocking on the door to 47 year-old mother, is sprung. She believes she has, again, in her not so humble opinion, several facts in evidence to support her position.

Not quite ready to concede her point, I will admit to feeling a buzz, a certain breeziness, the feeling of having some air in my oh so short hair. I offer however, several factors which may account for such a condition.

For instance, I have resolved to not get too totally tweaked about the work situation. In the not so immortal words of my oh so befuddled boss, 'it is what it is.' I believe it was Maya Angelou who said, if you don't like something, change it, if you can't change it, change your attitude. Don't complain. Well, I can't change it and I can't leave it, at least not now, so, I will do my best to maintain my decorum, professionalism, and personal standards. (That doesn't mean that I won't try to change it..because IT is pretty stupid and needs to change.)

I was able to get some of the owners of the condo association to agree, at least in principle, to donate some garden supplies, plants, mulch and such to aid in my continuing efforts to beautify out little piece of earth. This news and the possible confluence of events is certainly worthy of a buzz or two.

My mother, though still believing she is under surveillance, is much less anxious over the sight of taxicabs parked on her street that in years past. She has also had some resolution to some long standing health issues. Others remain, but getting some answers where there were only questions and confusions is comforting, to some degree.

There are other little triumphs, like losing nearly 8 lbs since mid-January, causing some pep to my steps, some glides to my strides, prompting my daughter to assign the sprung label to my general state of breeziness. I could make my case with any one of the reasons already stated. I'll offer another. One could chalk my buzz, the breeziness, up to the onset of Spring. Warm weather alone is cause enough for a buzz, a breeziness of steps and spirit.

I do not buy her contention that the buzz has anything at all to do with the cards, letters, emails, hours of telephone conversations, some past and the prospect of future kissing and...more, that a certain someone and I have shared over these past several weeks. No, I do not buy that, at all.

This buzz has nothing at all to do with correspondence, soft conversations and more. Not any of that, no. This buzz, my daughter, is not your sprung mother.

It's Spring! Darn it!

All In The Family

For some years, as a young woman, I harbored the illusion that my paternal ancestors were of French descent. I do not know how or exactly when I came upon the notion, but it was there. The idea of my French ancestry was lying dormant, awaiting the time and opportunity to be known out loud and in color.

At some point, I co-opted an accent for my last name, borrowing an extra syllable. Words like au revoir, bonjour and merci beaucoup were becoming part of my daily speech patterns. I'd even gone so far as to take a semester of French in an attempt to get closer to a heritage I'd presumed was mine.

Or course, I was wrong. This notion of French ancestors is completely false, without merit. At least, that's what I've come to believe. Some preliminary investigation surrounding the origins of my last name seem to indicate that my paternal ancestors were more likely of Irish descent.

Further, some discovery reveals that my last name was at one time slang for what amounts to a laze-about or perhaps more accurately, someone who travels the least challenging path. Further still, I discovered that combined with another word, which coincidentally, is the family name of some related by marriage relatives, the Irish version of my last name roughly translates to 'kiss my ass.'

As you may imagine I was not overly excited about these discoveries. Yet, I remain interested not only in the origins of my name but the family heritage as well. I'm wondering if I might be distant relatives of the family wearing my last name, who produce a bourbon bearing that same name. The plot thickens.

Kiss Me. I'm Irish. Maybe.

Progeny

Something extra-ordinary happened while I was out of town, kissing my weekend away. My son and daughter talked with one another. The talking, in and of itself, is not that extra-ordinary. They talk all the time. They are two talkers, those kids of mine.

She usually says something like, “you are such a nerd” in rebuttal to one of his many stories. He usually says something to the tune of, “why do you talk like that?” in abject horror to one of hers. A healthy disdain for one another’s style seems to be the common glue holding them together.

I kid. My son admires his sister’s spirit and verve. My daughter, in turn, admires her brother’s talent and drive. Shhh…don’t tell them I know or that I told.

Yet, like many sibling sets they get a charge out of getting a rise out of each other and enjoy rousing bouts of good-natured teasing. One of my very deliberate acts and goals as a parent was to foster a good relationship between these two. I wanted them to be friends. I wanted them to be able to count on each other. I wanted them to have the relationship I couldn’t, didn’t, don’t share with my brothers.

This past weekend, while I was away, they talked. Really talked. True to their routines, understanding their respective roles, they kidded each other often. I know this because they each told me their own versions of their weekend exploits. Yet, somewhere in there, some real talking took place.

Late last night, very early this morning, my daughter, in the midst of telling me one thousand things, said, “You know what, that guy. (pointing at her brother’s bedroom door) is a great guy. He’s very smart and very insightful. He helped me a lot.” I did know.

Still, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Seriously.

They are two talkers, my son and my daughter. I’m so glad they talk with each other almost as much as they talk with me.

The Club

I kissed a girl
It nearly made me cry
Thinking ahead to the next time
Oh Me. Oh My.

I flew down to meet her
At first a bit tense
She stopped at a store
So we both could get some air

We hugged in the terminal
Talked a bit in the car
She asked what I'd like to do
I simply replied, 'please no bar.'

We get to her place
She has the scene all set
This feels like a dream
I am so glad we met.

I kissed a girl today
It nearly made me cry
We held each other really close
Oh Me. Oh My.

Don't Fret

Over a week ago, the email was drafted, refined, proofed and proofed again. Nervous about the implications and the results, I fussed and debated.

I began in a familiar fashion, "Hey Lady D", and with common grounds, our respective daughters and then sons. The topic of work, always safe but fertile territory provided the buffer for what was to come next.

On another front, I have something to tell you about me. For the past several years, most of my life really, but more profoundly in the past several years, I’ve experienced attractions to women. I suppressed it, buried it, dismissed it. I don’t want, can’t do that anymore. Last June I came out to M and D. I have yet to tell my mother, but that day is coming. I just wanted to clear this off, kinda like a 12-step, -hehehe- I’d hope we might have had a chance to get together for lunch or something, but our respective lives are working against us on the front.

I paste Synopsis and finish by saying how I’m hoping to find a woman with whom to share the rest of my life. I wish her family well.

Satisfied, I click send. And then I wait.

I wait for a return email, a phone call, a card or letter. I wait for acknowledgment. I wait for acceptance. I wait, not knowing, how she’ll react, how she will reply or even if she will. I wait for silence. I have experience with waiting for silence.

Six days. Six days later her address is one of the Incoming messages in my box. With some trepidation and nervousness, I open the mail. Following my pattern, she begins in a familiar fashion, "Hey Gurl" and onward with daughter, son and then work. She uses her upcoming adventure to Spain as the buffer. And then the verdict. I read the entire next section twice. I flash and hold onto snippets, thank you for sharing, glad you did, only want happiness for you.

"Discovery will give you peace of mind when acceptance is embraced. Much Love, D"

And with that my oldest friend is in, on board. She shares in my full discovery, full disclosure. Fullness of life.

Spam. Vodka.

I didn't see much of my son this past week. He was up and out before me and I was in and down by the time he returned. The only evidence that he'd been in at all were the chicken carcasses and pizza boxes.

Sunday we played catch-up.

On our walk to the grocery store, a rare treat for me, (jeez he walks fast) he talked about his day job and all the changes that are afoot. He's about to change assignments and well, I don't remember all the particulars but he's excited about the prospect.

In the fruits and veggies section he talked about his substitute teaching gig. The great fun, anxiousness to do it again and being overjoyed about having received the payment as promised filled the time while I was picking over bananas.

While waiting for hot wings and potato salad from the deli section, he told me all about how promising the "Othello" project seemed and how disappointed he was when it fell through. "They were really disorganized, but they said they'd pay me anyway."

Between the meats and dairy is where I learned all about the past week as an under-study to 2 actors in one play, representing 4 roles. "There is a real possibility I might go on for at least one of them soon."

There was the whack house party on Saturday. We were at the check-out by this time. He went on to say how he hates house parties and he's going to stop going, no matter how much his friends urge. "I only went because Matt asked and because the apartment is in the neighborhood where I'll be looking for an apartment." During the walk home he reveals that he will start looking for an apartment in two weeks.

My son was loading his plate with hot wings and potato salad when he told me about the small, tight grocery store near where he works. How much he doesn't like the neighborhood and why he won't look for an apartment in the area. "Mom, the girls, from the college I think, fill their shopping baskets with Spam, vodka and nothing else."

He goes into his room to eat the mounds of food, watch (probably) a Fraiser dvd and then to nap a bit before he has to leave for the show.

Two weeks. He's going to start looking for an apartment in two weeks?

Pickles, Peppermint and Pomegranates

After nipping the tops off the large, juicy, spicy dill pickle, a peppermint stick is poked into the flesh. The pickle, peppermint combo is then dusted with powdered strawberry or cherry kool-aid.
For nearly a year Pam, Peggy and I would pool our pennies to score pickles, peppermint sticks and a package of kool-aid from the ‘penny’ candy story. We were in the third grade and we thought this concoction second only to Chic-O-Stiks.

I haven’t had a pickle in I don’t know when. I haven’t had the pickle, peppermint, kool-aid combo since the third grade. I moved away from Pam and Peggy and haven’t seen them or our treat since. The new neighborhood’s ‘penny’ candy store didn’t even sell pickles.

A few blocks from where I work there is a pickle factory and distribute business. Every so often, when the wind is just right, the vinegary, cucumber stench aroma from the plant reaches my nose and prompts a joyful little tromp down memory lane.

There are a number of pleasant food and food combo memories from childhood. There are also a number of very un-pleasant foods from childhood that I prefer not to remember or re-visit. The worst of the bad foot vignettes star beets and black-eyed peas. The peas I was convinced to re-visit with dire results. Beets, I thought I might be now mature enough to re-visit. I haven’t and I don’t think I will, now because...

I did recently re-visit a good food memory. Eating pomegranates was a childhood favorite. My friends and I, from the many neighborhoods I inhabited as a child, all indulged in pomegranates. We peeled and pulled the tangy, sour seeds from the pulpy center with reckless abandon. I remember our fingers being stained by the juicy seeds. I bought a pomegranate a few weeks ago for the first time in many years, bringing back a surge of a few happy times.

For my morning snack break, I broke open the pomegranate. I start to peel back the skin, dig through the pulp to plop out the seeds. I ate one and then two. I peeled more and found a cluster of seeds. A funny feeling started to come over me. Not a funny ha-ha happy, but funny icky, weird feeling. I kept peeling and eating. The creepy crawly, heebie jeebie, willie nillie feelings kept coming, intensifying. Each pull of pulp, each exposure of a cluster of the deep red seeds, brought on more itchy twitchies. I’m feeling a little goosey just thinking about it now.

Enough! After only a few seeds, I toss the whole thing in the trash. I take the bag out to dump it into the office dumpster. I wash my hands and all the while deciding that some things are best left in the past.