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March 3rd’s Been Good To me

Um…hello?  Check, check…testing 1, 2, 3.  Yup.  Still here.  In a wild swing out of routine, I’ve not been posting every day for a variety of reasons.  March 3^rd has been very, very good to me.  Especially the last three March 3rds.  Two years ago, on March 1^st, I moved out of the home that my ex-partner and I owned together.  She kept the house, I kept my share of the equity to start over.  I just needed to go.  Over the course of March 1, 2, and 3, a friend of mine, and someone I dated briefly several years ago came to help me.  Well, as is often the case with lesbians, she helped me in more ways than one and helped remind me that I was still desirable, lovable, and worthy.  She arrived as healer in a very difficult time when I wasn’t sure I could do it all on my own, questioned whether anyone would ever care about me again, or that I was indeed the generally pretty decent person I once believed myself to be.  Without strings—just caring and compassion.  She left me on the 3^rd, feeling human again.

Fast forward one year.  On March 3^rd, after trying to live with the aftermath of the ex who wouldn’t leave me alone, I signed a lease at a new place in a new area.  Had to jump through some pretty major hoops, but that day, I was able to sleep with both eyes closed.  I stopped gripping the 9 iron as I slept.  I still had a lot of things to deal with, as moving is an expensive and logistical nightmare, but I got through it and now feel as though this is my home.  As both a Cancer and an introvert, home is where I pull my good juju.  My life has improved four-fold.  I’m healthier, happier, exercise more, eat better, and have a circle of quality friends in my life.  My children are more relaxed, feel safe, and, are, as J-Man reminds me often, taller than they were a year ago.

So, March 3^rd rolled around here yesterday.  As preface to this day, over the course of the past few months, I’ve been seeking a new job.  The next step.  The next big challenge.  Don’t get me wrong, the firm I’ve been with these last nearly four years is a fine one and has offered me incredible opportunity to grow and stretch and learn.  But, it’s time to go.  The job I took is no longer the job I have.  The phone rang mid-afternoon and the caller made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.  I took the call in what I call my “2^nd office” in the parking lot of the building next to mine, slowly thanked him and concluded my call using my best professional voice, then raised my hands in the air, and leaped into the air repeatedly yelling, “Yeah….yes!  Yee-haw!”  I ignored the looks of passers-by, smiled to myself and walked back into my office to finish my day.

Yes, March 3^rd and me—we’re real tight.

Rotten Bastards

When I started this blog I had hoped to impart some of my political opinions, but decided that there was a vast wasteland full of political commentators in blogland as it was and most of them were going to be far more eloquent than I, or at least far more verbose. It’s probably no surprise that I’m just about as liberal as I can be. But, I also have a couple of things I swing pretty conservatively on. But, today is a day I have to vent.  And, I only bring one solution.

I get pretty sick to my stomach when I read things like SF Mayor Gavin Newsom’s alcohol-fueled affair with his friend’s wife (both of whom were on the City payroll, I believe) last year. But, Gavin does some good stuff and has had some successes in a city where the problems of homelessness, affordability, and a decaying infrastructure are pretty serious. He’s a champion of gay rights and takes bold steps to make things right for the large segment of his constituency who then and now do not share equal marriage rights with straight people. Then I read about that hack in Detroit, Kwame Kilpatrick, who sounds to be about the most corrupt politician since Tammany Hall days. His city lies in financial ruin and he’s dipping his pen in company ink and his courting tool of choice is city-paid text messages. It looks like once that case is laid out for the world to see there will be far more nefarious news. Dumb ass. Is it just inherent that if you are a politician you are going to also be corrupted in one form or fashion?

After about year five of Bush’s reign, I gave up trying to make any change during his reign of incompetence. Sure, I’d bitch and I’d vote, but what else was left? He and his cronies have pretty much sewn up any avenue for the American people to truly understand or do anything about the damage he has caused them in the areas of civil liberties and personal, unobstructed freedoms we are Constitutionally entitled to all supposedly done in the name of “protecting us from terrorism.” I am still stunned that after the first four years, people could actually vote for him again. Now, he’s a worn-out, tired-out, failure of a president who is going to be leaving us in not only a serious recession, but also in the midst of a war we neither afford in terms of our world political position, its cost in human lives, nor its actual financial costs. Our country’s debt is increasingly owned by foreign countries, our monetary unit is losing strength, and his ilk still deny the reality of global warming by keeping rules and regulations “business friendly.” Kyoto? We don’t need no stinkin’ Kyoto Accord! What has he done for us? Not a damn thing at my house, that’s for sure.

As I paid my grocery bill today, I wondered how I’m going to make these dollars I make stretch far enough to keep us safe, clothed, warm, and fed. I then filled up my gas tank. I pictured the day that the lines at the gas station would not be too long because no one can afford to fill up anymore. Of course, we haven’t invested in viable public transportation in most our cities, including mine, so get out the bicycle—hey, maybe that would solve the obesity problem our country—and, hey, the healthcare crisis too – if everyone is on their bike, they’ll be in better shape and won’t need to go to the doctor. That will cut pollution, force us to take jobs closer to our homes, and spur the economy. So, we can expect a new bicycle for every tax paying citizen instead of that ridiculous tax rebate he’s got coming our way. Right? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear this great idea in Bush’s next press conference. It’s as half-assed as all the rest of his ideas.

I’ve needed a laugh and well, I got one. Actually, I’ve had a couple since yesterday. The first was when I discovered Martini Cartwheels – brief glimpses inside the mind of a smart-ass, and now this from Hapless Tigger.

Diebold Accidentally Leaks Results Of 2008 Election Early

Friday Funk

Thanks to everyone who took time out to write to me regarding my post “Shades of Grey.” I had no idea it was going to resonate with people in such a personal way. Sorry I haven’t posted in a few days. It’s been a busy,eventful week. And, I’ve had a couple of major disappointments that left me in a slight state of despair. Not the, “I’m going to open the window to my office and jump,” kind of despair, but more of the “Jeez, doesn’t this shit ever get any easier?” kind of way. Neither of which I feel like discussing. So there. But, in the spirit of what has tended to be either an Ask the Middle Age Lesbian or a quizzerific day, I found this over at Life As We Know It. I’m not quite sure I get this whole LOLCat thing, but this one did make me laugh. I draw the line at doing the quiz though, but you can here: Which LOLCat are you?

And, in the spirit of distracting me from my own troubles, don’t forget, you can send in tales of your own confusion or concerns to Ask the Middle Age Lesbian at lori at hahnathome dot com. She’s standing by, ready to give you a piece of what remains of her mind.

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Help a Lesbian out - if you haven’t gone over to vote, please do.  My goal is 3rd - once you see the vote tally, you’ll see clearly why I’m not expecting to beat the deficit I currently have!  I really want to be able to say, “Been there, got the t-shirt (from Rainbow Depot).”  Thanks!

Shades Of Grey

I knew when I was growing up that wearing pants, boy’s sneakers, and a hat were comfortable to me. I knew I’d rather be swinging a bat or running a play into the end zone between the two perfectly placed Sycamore trees in Jon Tarr’s back yard. I knew that when the other girls were having tea parties for their Barbie dolls and stuffed animals that I’d rather be climbing a tree or riding my bike, pushing the envelope beyond the invisible line my mom said I was not to cross. As I grew up, I felt odd-girl out. I didn’t conform to the gender roles I could see blossoming in my classmates right before my eyes. The pressure was subtle. I was forced to wear dresses, taught to sit “like a lady” instead of sprawling out all over the place, given gifts at birthday and Christmas that didn’t fit, by relatives who didn’t know me. My parents always got me the things I wanted, not the things they thought I should want—I think they knew something on an subconscious level even if it wasn’t what they wanted to believe. I’d tear off any vestiges of femininity as soon as I hit the door at home after school—I felt like a schizophrenic trapped in a Librium haze without my pants and hat. As time went on and I attempted to goose-step into puberty, it was normal for my friends to suddenly become boy crazy. In moments, I tried that on for size. It didn’t feel totally right, but it seemed to bring my friends such great joy, I thought I must just be doing it wrong. It was really difficult, at times, to be different – if not always on the outside, then on the inside. The struggle was always in the forefront of all I said and did. It made for some lonely days as a kid—thank God for those other people who were having trouble conforming for their own reasons—we found each other. Eventually, I got comfortable in my body, this body of a woman I was somehow given. And, then, I reveled in being a woman. I got that I could have the body I had and be the person I wanted to be and if people thought me odd, well, I could live with that—it just took a while to get there. It just struck me one day, that there had been no room for shades of grey in those days.

The big breasted German nurse looking down at my newly arrived screeching, hungry form in the crib at the 97^th General Hospital in Frankfurt a/M, West Germany was the first woman to whom I was attracted. That’s what I tell people. Boys were for football and baseball, and digging in the dirt. For racing GI Joe jeeps down Garden Avenue. For the endless summer games of neighborhood kickball until the streetlights went on or the crisp fall evenings that brought games of twilight hide and seek. Or for casual, uncomplicated experimentation.

Girls were for listening to raptly, lying on my stomach, my hands tucked in little fists under my chin and legs swinging upward in the air behind me, as we lounged on the bed, gazing into each other’s eyes – Pink Floyd and Emerson, Lake & Palmer playing in the background – as they told me their secrets. Or for Saturday nights cuddled up with me in the sleeping bag during sleepovers on the basement floor. Girls were for playing strip poker in my room. Ending up under the covers with a rush of pubescent excitement that meant one thing to her and quite another to me. Poker seemed to be the only way to get her there. A warning to all mothers who require their daughters to keep the bedroom door open only if boys are visiting – this is probably not an entirely effective strategy.

To hear a particular girl whisper in my ear and rub my back and allow her fingers to linger and trace the rest of me, pausing deliberately here and there in our two-man tent during Girl Scout camp, after a long day spelunking and rappelling. We met in a “Same Time, Next Year” kind of way at camp each summer for many years. Dad, I hope you understand now why I declined attending your wedding – you see, you picked a day during those two weeks. There was no real choice. Though she lived in the same area and probably fifteen minutes from me, our time together was exclusively held to that two weeks each summer. We had one brief, but excited phone call each March when the Girl Scout camp schedule arrived by mail. I was beginning to understand what felt right. There was no one there in my Iowa hometown to talk with and no one to help me traverse what I was feeling or thinking. There was this secret life I led in my bed and in my head. I didn’t know what to call it or what it meant. I just knew that in the life I’d been dealt there, there was no room for shades of grey.

Punctuation marks. Men in my life have been but punctuation marks on my way to the next sentence, paragraph, or chapter. There was the question mark – the man I had to try just to say I had. There was the exclamation point – one of a pair of cowboys whom the woman I then longed for with all of my being and I picked up while traveling in West Texas one weekend – she going her way and I mine with said exclamation points. What was I gonna’ do? Scream out, “I want you, don’t go with him!!!” She came back all aglow and I, well, I just wanted to die for a whole bunch of reasons now all distilled down into that moment I saw her face as she walked back in the door. She’d right that with me eventually, if only for a time. There was a comma – the one who was just a pause – and, as is the case with many commas, entirely misplaced. And, then there was the period – the one I connected with and who was my friend for years – the one who had my back and made me laugh. Until the day the laughter stopped for good and I could no longer live in the black and white world that did not allow for my shades of grey.

But what did I meet when I was finally out and true and righteous and full of self-love and understanding? I found yet another world that was not always accepting of shades of grey. I found women who would not see me for who I am, but only as yet another newly out woman without the requisite pristine lesbian credentials on my Sapphic Vitae. Women who had apparently been blessed with a bravery I seemingly lacked or who had crashed head-on into self-understanding long before they were lead astray by the patriarchy. Women who identified me as not truly lesbian because I had, as encultured, made a segue or two on my way to being one with my shades of grey. I heard things like, “I only see women who are biologically lesbian.” What the fuck? I am! I was! But, my history was something they couldn’t see clearly through. So, I made a decision to leave out facts, keep things at a superficial level, and just play. That didn’t work either; it made me feel as though I was betraying the single thing I had fought so hard to find. It kept me unavailable. It had other costs as well which provided some of life’s hardest lessons. I’ve heard more than once, from friends who came out later in life that it had, “Never occurred to me, but it sure makes sense now.” How could that be? Well, it can be. That’s enough. It just is. That’s their truth. Not mine. We each get to carry our own truth.

This all happened many years ago, but, occasionally, I admit, I’ll still visit a “what if” moment—and just as quickly realize I had no other path to travel but the one I walked. I have a well of empathy for those who haven’t found the way to be true to themselves—and I know the price they are paying all too well. Those who deny or self-loathe or want to keep the safety and security of the trappings of their straight lives. Those who may want a 100% guarantee that if they make a leap, they won’t have regrets. Those who are ruled by fear or complacency or a misplaced understanding of fate. Those who simply say, “I can’t.” How grand life would be if there was a clear roadmap, where all detours and roadblocks and traffic jams and treacherous winding mountain roads could easily be avoided.

What I’ve come to realize is that there a world of nuance; each person’s path no more valid or worthy than another. There are women who are born lesbian, those who make a choice, those who dabble, those who identify as bisexual, those who come out late—those who live within a spectrum of subtlety. And, there are those, unfortunately, who will continue to struggle in their lives because they will never be able to find the way to break free and slip into the warm, enveloping, healing waters of that pool full of shades of grey.

Body Snatchers

I meant to do my taxes this weekend, but instead, I slept in until I woke up Saturday. I know that sounds pretty damned good, but that would be 6:30 am. So, I ambled out to the kitchen for my Mountain Dew and noticed the refrigerator needed some cleaning out. Several hours later, the pantry was cleaned out, shelf paper installed, and the refrigerator was cleaned. Oh, it got worse. Then, I sat down with a cookbook – yes, I said cookbook – and planned out an actual menu for the actual entire week. I started feeling a little weak and funny during this, but I got through it. Then, I did something else odd – I had, at one point, remembered I’d seen people at the store with a piece of paper with a list of food items on it, pushing their carts, referring to this mystery list as they shopped. I pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down what I needed according to the recipe. Then, I actually went to the store and used that piece of paper with food items on it – and bought nothing besides those items. No double-praline ice cream, no totally saturated fat potato chips, no cheese sticks, no frozen pizza, no Stouffer’s Lasagna.

Magical Samantha graced the manse last night into this afternoon. It was divine. And, tonight, we dined on spaghetti with white clam sauce and the kids cleaned up. Help…I suspect we’re being taken over by the pod people.

Arkansas LGBTQ Resource Launches!

We were warned yesterday of a bad, bad storm headed our way. Winds expected in the 70 mph range. I didn’t want a repeat of last storm, when I was caught unawares, so I dashed out and bought the $3.50 flashlights instead of the $25 flashlights that littered the nearly-empty flashlight aisle only a month ago. I battened down the hatches in the yard and located the lighters so I could fire up a candle or two if need be. Thankfully, garbage came yesterday, so I shouldn’t have a repeat of that fiasco.

But, that’s not why I’m here today. I’m very excited to be able to let you know about this little project I was helping on–a great new LGBTQ community and counseling service—it’s now officially launched in the Little Rock, Arkansas area. Angie Bowen, a Wisconsin native and proud Cheesehead, moved to Arkansas a while back to be with her partner in crime, Sarah. She noted, with disappointment, the dearth of community and services available to queers and their families. With an education in guidance and counseling and a special interest in queer youth and their concerns, she rallied a local psychiatrist to help in her cause. And, as a result, the Arkansas LGBTQ Virtual Community & Online Counseling Center was born.

Since the idea first started exploding like a supernova, Angie has been working with other LGBTQ organizations and individuals in the area to try and create alliances with those who can join together to create a united front in the queer community of Little Rock. This is just the beginning and it’s very, very exciting.

Some of you were kind enough to donate to the cause with either money or services. Special thanks to the very special anonymous donor and Chris at the Red Hog Diary who helped pay for a chunk of their web hosting fees for the year and to Drowning Pisces for the design of the masthead and business cards. Cris, of That Side of the Moon, offered valuable advice based on her lengthy experience in the non-profit world.

So, if there are any Arkansans out there, this one’s for you, baby! And, if you’d like to help them get this really rolling and would like to donate either services or cash, go to their website and let them know. There is also a PayPal donation button available if you’d like to help them offset some of their startup costs.

Oh, and if there is a grant writer out there who would like to do a little pro bono – well, they could more than use the help. Let Angie know.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

Rippin’ from Pat at Against the Grain:

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well.An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly.You are also good at remembering information and convincing someone of your point of view.A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary.You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

From The Mind Of Uncle Doreen: Jesus, The Virgin Mary, & Dog Butts

My morning news was cluttered with yet another article about an image of a religious being found on some inanimate object. This morning’s article was about a pretzel that supposedly resembled the Madonna (not the singer) holding an infant. It baffles my mind that people determine this to be such a phenomena that the evening news must break from the earthquakes, famine and wars happening around the world to let us know that some minimum wage worker has discovered that the stain on the bottom of his nacho pan kinda looks like Jesus. I often ask myself “Ducky (that is what I call myself when no one is around), Ducky—why do these people always see a deity?” Quite frankly I can not imagine why any heavenly being would utilize a handmade tortilla to proclaim his or her presence. I did a Google search and found several images that to my eye look nothing like Jesus or the Virgin Mary yet others found them worthy enough to interrupt my evening news. This is what I see

Madonna and child on a pretzel or Rodin’s “Thinker”

Virgin Mary on toast or Marlene Dietrich

 

Virgin Mary on a fish stick or Charles Manson

 

Virgin Mary on a cooking pot or Picasso

Virgin Mary on a concrete wall or Bruce Willis

Jesus on a Nacho Pan or Osama Bin Laden

 

Jesus on the butt of a dog or simply the butt of a dog