Love. Like. Life.

My last romantic relationship ended four-hundred and seventy-five years ago.  

That's an exaggeration but that is what it feels like most days.  

Most days I do not lament the presence of a significant other.  

Some days I do.  

Most days I feel ready to dip my toes in those waters.  

Some days I do not. 

Most days I am too busy with family, friends, the pooch, work, and related stuff to feel any emptiness.  

Some days I am not.  

In between time, I do things I need to get through the day: talk, laugh, cry, think, throw, catch, sleep, and dream. 

Different things, different days.   

Take gentle care.  

Happy Autumn. 

 

New Month

Happy July.  

In the wise words of Lorraine Hansberry, "Never be afraid to sit and think."  

Sitting.  

Thinking. 

Unafraid.  

Take gentle care.  

Snack Happy

Recently I celebrated my tenth anniversary with my current employer. Please note that the folks who hired me are no longer with the firm (due to an amicable merger and eventual resignations due to other factors) but the spirit and the nature of the larger company still exist, most days. :-)   

Soon this space will celebrate an anniversary as well.  (March 29, 2006, was the first post) The second was published in May, 2006.)

I have ruminated over the last several months about both spaces; how long will working remotely be a perk that holds me in place? How attractive would a different position have to be to entice? Am I as ready to stop the grind altogether? 

And in this space? Should it remain Middle Girl (I have to admit to not being in love with the moniker)--I am a long, long way from the "girl" stage of life and have to admit more, I have an issue with referring to adult women as, "girl" (even in the cultural colloquial, "sister girl" manner). 

That's a blog for another day. 

But, re-brand to...what? 

Beyond what to call it, am I still drawn to publish thoughts, art, and beyond? Am I encouraged, motivated, and entertained, by the engagement of others (btw: yes!)  But, enough to work to grow, expand, and shift the focus for even greater engagement? Or Is the current level enough--and for how long, how much?   

Some folks who left blogging when folks were leaving to head over to the lands of other social media platforms have begun to return to this platform; each for their own reasons.  It isn't a flock by any stretch but, encouraging, to be sure. 

Not prolific recently as in years past, (140 posts in 2006) the space has begun to feel a tad abandoned, held taut by a slim thread.  That said, I have routinely felt more at home here than on any other platform, for what that is worth. 

Much, I think. 

Still, I also feel a pull for some kind of change. 

Or not; this is anniversary musing or the prospect of Spring. 

And So It Has Begun

MicroBlog Monday 

Nothing says "Happy New Year" like cuddling up with your long haired orange tabby and having said tabby sneeze in your face. Wiping cat snot off one's glasses at 4 in the morning is the pinnacle of woo-hoo, let me tell ya.  

Or, in other words, business (and beginnings of days) as usual. Buttah, the catdog, is ramping up his campaign to be top pet. That, and the colder weather drives him (and his elusive brother, Pete) in my room more often these days, causing the pooch's anxiety level to rise. 

The day proceeded apace with the usual things happening at pretty much the usual time for Friday was a workday; the shift filled with explaining to various patients why they owe what they owe, what their insurance didn't cover and in some cases, why. And, talking with insurance companies to follow-up on non-payments, providing the necessary information so they claims may be reconsidered. And reconciling accounts, applying credits to debits and sending out statements. 

And then, it was time to come home where the pooch, long-haired orange tabby and is ever elusive brother wait to be tended. 

Playing behind the scenes of the business as usual days are the other things; books to read, things to do, stuff to get, music (ear worms, like the themes to TV shows, I'll spare you which) 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th quarter goals and / or projects and words, and images. Words and images. Words and images, popping in and out of my mind. 

And speaking of words, inspired by my friend, I present to you my word of the year: c-r-e-a-t-e, manifested artistically and otherwise. The otherwise will likely revolve around the pooch, the long haired orange tabby, catdog and his ever elusive brother, Pete. 

Bienvenida a Miércoles

click on image for link 

Just a couple of thoughts on this, the last day of twenty-fourteen: 

 Did you know that the Morton Salt Company's tag line for a long while was, "when it rains it pours"?  No one was injured by the wall of salt or the collapsing wall.

Daughter was telling me a story a while back and during the telling of the story she used the term, "funeral park" which was used in place of cemetery, which she couldn't remember the name of the place where the dead are buried at the time. And since then, well, funeral park is now our term for cemetery.

Son said just this morning that he wants to act, sing, dance, and play music like Nina Simone-with a reckless, yet purposeful abandon. He is learning to play the harmonica and acoustic guitar. Just this past Sunday he got on stage at his favorite club during the weekly jam session. He is turning into a Mississippi Delta blues man before our very eyes. So fun.  

I don't really want to look back on twenty-fourteen except as to recall the ideas for work, learning, and . . . growth and how best to expand upon those ideas. Moreover, finding a way to stay the course, so to speak, in terms of not only getting projects off the ground but executing to fruition. 

On that note, the Mandala Discovery journey begins again tomorrow. I didn't sign up for another go 'round as I didn't finish the first. But, finish the first (as well as possibly repeating some of the prompts) will happen within the first quarter of twenty-fifteen. 

The second anniversary of my mother's death is looming and even as I type that, the emotion wells. The tears flow, not quite as often, but  . . still. At the end of "Cooley High" one of our (me and mom's) favorite movies there is a funeral scene and the song, "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday" is featured. I was finally able to load the dvd into the player, but cannot watch it to the very end. 

While not particularly driven by gadgetry, I wish I had a device that would record my thoughts without benefit of me having to speak (or write). For, many ideas come on the fly (so to speak)  and more often than not, an inconvenient time and place. Try recalling any of those thoughts, ideas, epiphanies later. 

I have to cut this off here as I must get out the door within the next 8 minutes to have any hope of getting to work on time. But, lastly and not at all least, this: The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing is on the January 2015 calendar page. And on that note,  feliz año nuevo 

Like Pulling Teeth

 The title, until about five minutes ago (it is 11:52 pm) was going to be . . "I've got idioms on my mind"  (you know, like sung to, "You Are Always On My Mind") which is in reference to the fact that I was going to write and post this entry last night might one thing and then another thing and then . . well, I went to bed thinking and feeling like the entire week (and it was only Wednesday) was like . . yeah, the title.

But when I got up this morning the title was gone. Vanished. Out of my mind. All day I was trying to remember and all day nothing. Na da. Zilch. Finally, I just said the hell with it, forget the plan, do something about idioms (in general) and move the frack on. Hence, :the new title idea.

After an evening of quality time with Cinnamon and Buttah (Pete requires no such interaction save the sneers exchanged when kibble is dropped in his bowl) heating and eating dinner, cleaning the kitchen, beginning and finishing two holiday greetings (with "love lists" enclosed to be posted Friday I sat down to dash off the, "I've got idioms on my mind" post still hoping to get to bed by eleven. Until someone woke from their mid-evening slumber eager to share a rousing, amusing, and winding tale of a dry cleaner's passion, fake Valentino suits, sweat stains and more . .  

It was in the midst of that story where the original idiom (like pulling teeth) that prompted the idea or the post I was going to write last night, that was lost during the course of the day, reappeared. Waving hello, howyadoin? like nothing ever happened.

And now, still, not saying what was on my mind to say last night (or rather, Wednesday night, for it is now very early Friday morning) it shall have to keep for another time. For time, is no longer on my side. Five AM will roll around much too soon and . . . damn, now Cinnamon is pacing. Must get dressed so she can poop. She only paces when she needs to poop. Or after vomiting. Since she hasn't vomited, out we go.

Happy Friday getting here was like pulling teeth.

Over One Hundred

My first blog post is dated March 29, 2006. In 2006 there were one hundred and forty others for a total of 141. Each year through 2010 yielded over one hundred posts with 2008 being the most prolific with one hundred and seventy. 

There were over fifty posts in 2011 but since then, less than. 

With the inaugural post (as you may choose to read) I mused a bit about where this thing is going to go. At  the time I had two adult (children) at home. I still do, except the son is back rather than never left. In addition, two cats and two dogs (though not at the same time, RIP Diva Dog )  have been added. 

There have been other life events along the way; sexual orientation declaration, graduations, career changes, relationship statuses, and the like. The biggest life event over the last eight years; the death of my dad and then, my mom. 

Over one hundred. 

Now, with over 850 published (and a couple of drafts) as much as then, I still don't know where this thing is going--but going ON it shall/ I have mentioned this before. I don't know that I've ever stated here in my own space, why I blog:  Simply put, I must. Now, more than ever before.  

Despite all the talk of numbers, over one hundred, it isn't about the quantity--though I beat myself up something fierce when I go for more than a week without one. With all there is on my mind to say, I can't (consistently) bring myself to write.

Weird, that.  . 

Anyhoo...consistency. discipline. re-discovery. re-awakening. pro activity over reactivity.  

Telling the tale, real or imagined. 

Peace. .  

And Just Like That, June. . . DONE

A month full of festivals, marches, parades, forms, commuting, rain, and sun, wind, and more rain, and more rain. Along  with all manner of ups and downs, fits and starts, ins and outs, a kind of stuttering, meandering, toddler-like frankenmonster steps toward a consistent discipline.

Mostly a pass but on a few fronts, fail.

Or, if not fail then certainly room for improvement.

And improve I shall.

There are too many things in my cramped condo. Now, granted there are two other adults who live with me in this cramped condo. Thus, some of the things do not belong to me. But, I will attend to my shrinking the number of things that do belong to me and work to convince the others to shrink their things as well.

Note: the convincing is directed at daughter as son has been living smaller for a while now. In fact, it is his example I want to follow. That guy's dedication and discipline is epic.And as you might imagine it causes me some joy and pain.

The purging of things is metaphoric. Of course, I have other things on my plate that need attending. Of course there is the juggle between work and play; striking the delicate balance needed to attend to most, and being okay that it isn't ALL.

At least, not all at once

First up, my personal space, my bedroom generally and my personal business (and art) files specifically.

Happy Pride and HELLO JULY.

It Began. It ContinUes.

sellf portrait 

Eight years and eight hundred and thirty one posts ago Middle Girl came into being; the companion piece for the journey of my life.

In the eight years of Middle Girl I saw my son graduate from college and  begin his career. He earned his first paycheck as an actor during his freshman year and has since, devoted his day-to-day to the pursuit of acting and related endeavors. His shift from treating acting as a career rather than a hobby changed him in ways that continue to manifest.

In the eight years of Middle Girl I saw my daughter become even more resolute in her pursuit of that which will make her happiest. She has worn a few educational and occupational hats in these eight years and is in the midst of more changes at this very moment. No matter where her life was, where it is, or where it is going, my daughter's core remains intact. She is a passionate young woman who works hard. She hasn't always made the best choices but continues to make the best of the choices made.

In the eight years of Middle Girl I have revealed my lesbianism to my son and daughter, community of bloggers and eventually, my mother. That revelation and the subsequent journey led me to the two women who at some point possessed my heart. While both relationships and the emotional holds are long gone both women remain close to my heart,  for the experiences they provided and what I learned about myself through those experiences and their respective gifts.

In the eight years of Middle Girl a career ended, another began and that, abandoned for a different style of opportunity. Each event taking a piece of me away but adding a component in its place. No matter what I'm doing to keep the lights on I remain committed to the goal: Work Hard. Do Good. Be Incredible. The current opportunity will allow time and space for community. And that was a major impetus for making the change.

Within the eight years of Middle Girl my dad died. And a few months later, my mom died. Long separated, to have lost them both within months, of the same disease, brought them together for me in a way the decades couldn't manage. My dad and I had been mostly estranged until the year prior to his death. We made our peace even as we didn't see eye-to-eye on the Yahweh, Jehovah, what-have-you front.

My mom has always been, will always be, in my bones. We were together every day of her life, right until the very end. And while we had our disagreements and skirmishes over the years, she loved me like no one else has nor ever will. She was fierce in her devotion to me (and my brothers) despite often disagreeing with our respective approaches to our lives and loves. She worked to impart the benefit of her experiences and tried to give us what she felt we missed not having our dad in our lives.

And in spite of being a dyed-in-the-wool christian she gave me space to release the atheism I'd internalized for years. She, unlike my dad, didn't try to (re-recruit) me. She didn't totally understand since I was raised christian and she remained concerned for my soul, but she didn't haarangue me. About that, anyway.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

In the eight years of Middle Girl I made some lovely connections beyond the ladies previously noted; In the beginning of my blogging days there was a community of lesbian bloggers who welcomed me with open arms. And while most have stopped blogging, a few remain friends. Thanks to blogging I continue to meet inspirational, wonderful, entertaining, and engaging women.

Each year brought its own set of challenges, none more than last. The losses, the forced changes, the emotional and physical toll, the . . . everything was just so damn hard. And while I worked to work, keep an upbeat attitude, keep on with the business of "keeping on" it was so. damn. hard. and remains so, though, not quite as . . .

sharp.

In part, thanks to Middle Girl and what producing this space requires of me.

Thank you to all those who have visited in the past, who continue to visit, and to those who will visit down the road...for Middle Girl will continue. For another eight years? Remains to be seen. But for now, and the foreseeable future, I am embracing this companion on this journey of a life.

What She Said

She* said 

Back in the day, as they say, she made art. Some of the art, some of the time, received recognition. Some of the time said recognition meant being interviewed by various folk.

Back in the day, as they say, she made words. Some of the words, some of the time found themselves printed in one rag or another. Every now and again, the words printed in said rag (or another) brought out some kindly attention.

The picture is a depiction of one of those times. She doesn't remember if the interveiw was because of art or words. It may have quite possibly been both.

No one remembers. No one made note, or the note is long, long gone.

What she said to the woman holding the microphone was she enjoyed producing whatever; art or words or both. Said art or words or both represented life.

No, she doesn't really remember the interview but the best guess is, yes...fun. life. brief. fleeting.


*she: Deborah being interviewed because she did arty stuff that some folks liked and made mention, at times, honorably.

March Ink On

Greetings and Salutations;

Simply put, it is freaking cold~still. And there is more snow. I know, I know, it is winter and it is what happens in winter. E-X-C-E-P-T this is the snowiest in many, many years. Plus we've broken temperature (sub zero actual and windchill) records. If feels like it has been going on forever with no end in sight.

I am not ashamed to admit that I haven't done well with the conditions this winter. Never my favorite season, I had here-to-fore been able to tolerate the snow and the cold. Not this season. It is more than the record breaking, sub zero temps and biting wind chills. More than it being the snowiest season in many, many years. More than the extraordinary rudeness of property owners who haven't been clearing their walkways.

I have spent a number of minutes throughout a number of days being annoyed. And tired. And sore.
And . . more.

On the plus side, I haven't fallen down very much this season.

And now it is March. True, it snowed yesterday and it barely made it out of the teens today and there is more of the same on the way for the coming week.

But, it is March. There are changes afoot for me.  Not because it is March, but changes are a'comin'. It just works out that the changes are beginning in March. It is March and hopefully that means winter will give way to spring because it is March.

Simply put, I'm ready for it not to be so freaking cold. But, even if it is for many more days to come the changes that are coming will make it feel not quite so.

Welcome Women's History Month and here, here to some happy in March.

Fresh(er) (Re)Start

Charles Alston Art 

However many days ago I posted I silently promised that I'd post more frequently. It isn't as though good (and bad) things are happening most every minute of most every day. The problems are 1. deciding if any of those things are story worthy. 2. mustering up the creative energetic flow to tell any of the decided upon stories. 3. Feeling like something other than eating, drinking, sleeping, working, and worrying about all those things (or rather, the effect) and more in unequal measure.

Long story short, I'm lost. Yes, I'm grieving runs deeper. I don't know who I am or what I want, for me. Or, I want too many things for me and

I can't sort it all out 

I can't sort it all out 

I can't sort it all out 

That said, the mandala lessons have helped. The daily prompts have ended as it was a 30-day journey. But, as of last weekend I completed up through lesson twenty-one. I will complete the others in my own time and space, as noted in some previous post. The 30 day journey will continue well beyond and beyond. 

Still . . . being alone, silent, sans color and light except when forced to be otherwise is the order of most days. The goal is to embrace those moments of joy, to seek them out, to create and extend that which brings the joyful noises. 

To wit: happy birthday wishes go out to my aunt (94) my brother (52) and my son (32). Congratulations to my daughter who has just completed the 2nd quarter of a culinary program and powered her way through the end (finally) of a toxic romanticized relationship. I am so proud of her while at the same time sorry I couldn't be more helpful. She says differently but I think she is being kind.

My son (the actor) is cast in a play opening soon with two more booked back-to-back. He has a small part in the pilot of a series premiering in a few weeks. He has auditions for two more screen projects in the coming days. He is writing again.

And I went out on Saturday, spent some time with some wonderful ladies via one of the meet-up groups. We watched an enlightening film followed by energetic conversation. That kind of thing should happen more frequently. 

Like writing. Like art. Like laughter.

Like, celebrating life. 

The Gift

My good friend Maxine gave me a gift*. Her gift offered entry into a community of sharing. A prompt will be presented each day. I can choose to participate or not. In either case, I get to see other entries, reflect and relate to my life, as needed. No pressure. No deadlines. No supplies to buy.

Today I chose to participate. The first prompt: PLAY.  Accompanying the above image the text as follows:

Throughout my childhood play meant music and bicycles, not necessarily together but all the better if such was the case. I am not a musician by any stretch but love music and the art of creating same. I am not an expert cyclist either but from my very first ride at age 7, reveled in the joy (and the freedom) it allowed. 2013 was an extremely trying and challenging year. For a variety of reasons that I have not been able to fully articulate, neither music or bicycling offered the solace I needed. I didn't play. I couldn't play. Now I feel as though I must play, if only for a little bit, everyday.

And so, here's to the first day of 2014 and my effort to bring some measure of play back into my day-to-day. 


*Mandala Discovery: 30 Days of Mandala Journaling

d is for . . .

In the many days since the previous post several topics, reasons to write presented themselves as possibly post-worthy. And then they were not, in fact, posted for they couldn't in all honesty post themselves. I would have to play blog post conduit and for one reason or another, I couldn't.

d is for December

And then there we were at year-end and if there is ever a topic ready-made for posting it is the looking back, looking ahead noise that permeates the end of one year and the beginning of another.  Memories take over, take control as does sense of resolve about the coming days, all 365 of 'em in one fell swoop. Oh wait, 2012 is a leap year, make that 366 days.
d is for dog
That post didn't write nor post itself either. Because as in previous days and prior posts not posted, I couldn't play blog post conduit, what with the trip to Houston, making room for the tree, preparations for the holiday meal, a short trip to Hoosier-ville, not to mention outside the home obligations, writing and posting (beyond that about making room for the tree) didn't work in the mix of things to say and do.
d is for Diva
And then here we are at the second day of the new year and finally a post is winding its way out of the ends of my fingers, off the tendrils of my mind. And this post is not at all about year ending, new year beginning or any resolve to be resolute*. This post is about the diva, our dog, Diamond.
Our sweet little fuzz face has been lethargic, losing weight, drinking beyond what you'd believe her body could hold and then of course, the body not holding it. A visit to the vet and a battery of tests reveal the underlying cause:

d is for diabetes
The news hit the other D rather hard. Her concern for the pup as well as her concern for caring for the pup (financially and otherwise) all causing, as one might expect, an overflow of emotions. The news hit this D rather hard too for the same reasons added to my concern for my daughter.
That was all several days ago and since then Diamond has been treated as an out-patient with fluids and d-daughter has administered several insulin injections, the vet tech training as well as sustaining relationships with a former co-worker (a vet M) playing vital roles is emotions calming and focusing on doing what we can to care for Diamond and care for one another.
D-dog has a bit more pep in her ten year old doggy steps and a bit more light in her eyes. She won't be well in that she won't be rid of diabetes but her condition can be treated and will be to the best of our ability. She won't be well but she is better today than she was in those days leading up to this day.
d is for Diamond our Diva, our ♥.  

*as coined by ef

   

Seventy-One

My mother turned seventy-one a few days ago and to celebrate I took her out to breakfast this past Saturday. Normally, our trips to dining establishments (well, most any place actually) are fraught with,  well, just fraught.  Mom can be a challenge. But, as we both grow older I find that I'm developing a kind of barrier, I guess, to her, stuff, for lack of deeper, more comprehensive word.  I wrote the following for Our Big Gayborhood late last year which speaks a bit to the nature of that which is between me and my mother:

Skimming The Surface

My mother has decided that I’m complicated. Nothing I say or do can dissuade her from that assessment. In fact, everything I say or do, seems to serve to solidify the opinion she has come to in the past year or so since I came out to her.


She is either unable or unwilling to expound on that which renders me complicated. So, I can only speculate.
I suspect that the “complicated” tag transcends my sexuality.  I suspect that my mother is finally struggling to know who I am after all these years. I suspect that she has come to realize that our relationship for most of my life merely skimmed the surface of the who of us. That we never delved beyond the obvious or the mundane. I suspect she has come to believe that I do not espouse all her values. I suspect that said belief makes her extremely uneasy.


The eight years leading into and now the few out of my lesbian-flavored epiphany are all about discovery. I’d spent so many years prior hiding, suppressing, denying, and comporting myself to align ever-so-carefully with what I thought others wanted, that I cast barely a shadow of any authenticity. I walked the walk and talked the talk that everyone expected. Carefully coloring my life within the lines. In my mind, to do otherwise conscripted me to a lifetime of pain and suffering, in line with the messages delivered to me during my early years.


I suspect that she doesn’t believe me when I say, “I’m fine.” I suspect she believes our relationship is tenuous at best and non-existent at worst. I suspect that each time we disagree she believes it will be the last time we speak. I suspect she is afraid. She is afraid that I don’t love her (enough), that I don’t care (enough), that I don’t have (enough) in me to do what she’ll require as she loses more and more of her self-sufficiency. I suspect she doesn’t want that burden for me and me alone. I suspect she’s most afraid that we’ll run out of time, that we won’t be able to repair the mistakes of the past.


These years have been about discovery. I’ve discovered that I’m intensely fierce with my love.  I’ve discovered that my authenticity hasn’t and won’t bring the world to a crashing end. I’ve discovered that my mother is troubled. 


I’ve discovered it isn’t all about me. I’ve discovered that I can’t fix her; I can love, assist, and try to encourage her, to the best of my ability.  I’ve discovered that troubled or no, she is much stronger than she realizes. I’ve discovered that she supports me, complications and all.


She is either unable or unwilling to expound on that which renders me complicated. So, I can only speculate.


I suspect that the “complicated” tag transcends my sexuality and further that all the discoveries will ultimately lead to a happier, more fulfilled rest of each of our lives.

The recent outing was the most relaxed outing we'd shared in quite some time. We haven't worked out many of our issues, but we (or at least, I) have begun to develop behaviors that keep the complications from bubbling over our surfaces.  

Can't Think of A Title, But Don't Like "Un-titled"

1. My eyes are watery, yet dry and scratchy. Allergies.

2. Number one is making for challenging work days and yet another cause for sleepless nights.

3. Still, I manage to get another Gayborhood entry done.

4. I don't think I mentioned August's entry.

5. Have I mentioned how much fun these are to do? Oh sure, I agonize over a topic for a few days, but that's part of the fun. :)

6. If you're checking out the Gayborhood, YaY and Thank You.

7. If you're not . . . . well, think about it. Good stuff. Seriously.

8. My older brother is 52 today. Cheers to him, wherever he is.

9. My dad celebrated number 72 earlier this month. Cheers to him, wherever he is.

10. Several friends and acquaintances are experiencing some challenging times these days. I'm in the midst of my own challenging situation (beyond the watery, scratchy allergy eyes). But, this to all of you, my heart and thoughts are with you.

Peace.

Pinch Me, Pinch Me Knot

My co-worker's husband came by for a visit. She introduced him around, gave him and tour. He and I chatted a bit. After he left she told me that he commented about my age (and such). He said, "I thought Deborah would be older from your conversations. She's not that much older than you, is she?"

I'm twelve years older than my co-worker.

I was feeling pretty good until I got smashed by a hot flash. Though, flash is not really accurate. 'Tis actually a building of heat. More like a slow burn. Smoldering. And then sweat. Not, copious amounts of sweat, but certainly more than I've experienced my entire previous life.

An adjustment.

Speaking of slow, check out my take on speed dating. And while you're there, visit the other writers. Some kind of wonderful stuff happening over there where the queers write.

Chicago Spring. Really? Yep.

Spring is nearly twenty days gone but blustery winter is reluctant to let us go. Folks talk long and hard about the long and hard winters we suffer here in the city of big shoulders and rightly so. But even more conversation worthy are the unpredictable and spirit zapping springs.

Snow in April is probably more rare in actuality than it seems. But I, for one, always expect a kind of last burst of winter, that is to say very cold blustery days and even sometimes, snow. It seems as though we are in the midst of that right now. Cold, under 40 degrees, hat, coat, not quite gloves, cold start to the day today. Blustery winds, some rain and perhaps even a spot of snow. Ahhh, Spring.

Hopefully this burst will be short-lived. The forecast is for sun and upper 60 / lower 70 degree temps for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. It remains to be seen if the winter burst we are experiencing now is the last for this Spring. I, for one, hope that is the case.

p.s. My second article was published today. Thanks to Lori for the opportunity and for all the support, especially over the last couple days. It is great fun to not only write but also to be in the company of some pretty awesome folks.

photo credit

Come On Over

Come on go with me, come on over to my place Sorry, having a T. Pendergass moment there. Memories, not all bad. Ahem, moving on . . .



Some time ago I made mention of having to write a bio for something I'd talk about later. Now is later. My pal Lori got with some of her pals and together they created a place, a sensation, a Gayborhood. A Gayborhood that is bright and pretty, fun and informative, warm and inviting. And I'm not saying those things because I'm part of it. Well, I am, but not just because. :)

Without getting all mission statement on you, one of my reasons for blogging was to improve my discipline and diligence with regard to writing. I've always enjoyed writing, but it also has been mostly a private affair, a way to excise the mutterings in my being. For the past few years, I've wanted, needed more. And so, have been seeking and taking some advantage of some opportunities that filtered my way.

It is an honor to have been invited to contribute to the 'hood. A few of the other contributors I know and enjoy via blogs, many others I didn't know prior to O B Gayborhood, but am finding everyone a joy to read. So, come on over, come on over to our place.

I'd Blame It On the Rain

. . . if there had been rain. But no, only snow. Well, not even snow until today, just cold. Tomorrow is my second meeting of the Queer Writing group. I'm to come prepared to write, or with anything I've been working on, or . . .

And I'm blank. I haven't been working on anything, I can't seem to string together more than two coherent thoughts on any subject let alone stitch together any kind of creativity. The organizer offered up a prompt for those (like myself) who might need an umpf. Write about your favorite cartoon character. Create a scenario with them, a dialog between you and them.

Nothing.

Comes.

To.

Mind.

NaDa.

There was a nugget of an idea weaving around Betty Rubble , Wilma Flintstone and their coming out party in the party room of the yOni Spa.

. . . and then nothing. The thread just lies there, resisting any effort to work itself into the fabric of a tale.

So far.

Maybe something will materialize by 7:15 p.m. Wednesday, February 3, 2010.