Make New Friends & Keep The Old

Friendships are part of the fabric of our life. 

Some friendships are sewn together with a nice loose basted stitch to hold them together…you know they won’t stay up forever, but you hope that the hem doesn’t fall out of your skirt before the end of the evening.

Others are constructed like the sturdiest Amish quilt; tight, double-stitching giving you the confidence that it will last throughout a lifetime, even if the quilt ends up in the cedar chest from time to time.

Sometimes, friends don’t act the way we hoped, don’t react in ways expected, and hurt us in ways unintended.  Friendship is never about the one; it’s always about the two.  There are responsibilities placed on both.  Sometimes, I think a strong friendship is built of sturdier stuff that the average marriage and when perfectly balanced, provides comfort like wrapping up in an old Amish quilt on a cold, rainy winter night.  Sometimes, they are but a transitory thing where some wild dancing occurred and both had a really great time, but damned if that skirt hem didn’t give out somewhere before closing time and sometime after that fifth Margarita where you ceased to care if anyone sees that crappy hem job—my God, what if it had been a broken heel instead?  One friendship has no less value than the other; but one is treasured far more.

Two of my friends, I know, fall in the category of quilts.  I’ve struggled with my feelings about both of them of late.  To one, I’ve wanted to scream:  “It’s too much!  Stop!  Your expectations are too much for me.”  To the other I’ve wanted to scream, “Hey, bub, have you no consideration for anyone but yourself?  Weren’t there two of us in this thing?  Where the hell have you been in these last five months when I needed you?”    

First off, what’s with all this screaming?  Yikes!  I love them both.  I have a feeling I’m not meeting expectations with one and have not had mine met by the other, and I haven’t discussed it with them.  A good friend would do that, I’m thinking…so, I guess I have a phone call or two to make.

We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Danger Will Robinson

My day sucked.  On ice. 

In the words of Em - “I know karate — and about 50 other dangerous words.”

Unfortunately, I didn’t know the words ”don’t touch the snotty, dirty door handles after all 500 people who were sick in my building this week touched everything” and have come down with something.  Enjoy your weekend.  Send kleenex and chicken soup.

Followup To Still Pissed Off

(Warning, foul language will be used very prolifically in the following post)

Hi,

Remember me?  Two tickets, two days.  Speeding ticket that I was fighting as a matter of principle?

I’m back, and don’t say you didn’t miss me, ‘cause I know you did.

Well, guess what?  I lost my trial by written declaration.  Found guilty on all counts.  But, huzzah, never fear there is one last avenue to cross, one last bastion of hope for my complete waste of civic time.  Trouble is, there is a single goddamn government employee who knows how to handle it.  (you may now pick yourself up from the floor after the shock has worn off)

It’s a little something called a “Trial de Novo.”  After contacting Mrs. Miller, my 9^th grade Latin teacher, I finally realized that basically this means “Judge, your ruling sucks, I don’t agree, and I want a real trial.”

There are some stipulations, however (see I am getting good at my Latin AND my understanding of the judicial system.  1. You must respond to the court within 20 days of the judgment (mine=GUILTY) and 2. There can be no “new evidence” presented at said trial.

Easy right?  Cue the telephone call.

Me=Hi, I’m calling about ticket number 101-80243-CX182(a), I haven’t heard anything regarding its status.

Phone operator (while clearly eating Doritos)=Hang on. (Hanging on continues for 12 minutes).  Yes, here it is, you were found guilty and a notice was sent out 7 days ago.

Me=I haven’t received any communication from the Court.

Dorito eating PO=(some grunting sound) Well, it says here you did

Me=FUCK! (only audible of person was able to read minds.)

Slam the phone down, jump in the truckster, head back to the courthouse to file my TDE.

Fast-forward to last week.  Again, no word.  No judgment.  No notification.  Did they even process the TDE on time?  Who the hell knows.  The court system is a black hole of which only those of the highest intelligence know how to maneuver (read: not me).

Cue ANOTHER telephone call.

Me=Hi, I’m calling about my Trial de Novo for ticket number 101-80243-CX182(a).

PO=Your what?

Me=(Now I have to explain to this moron what this actually means)

PO=Oh, only Mrs. K (not real name) knows about those, so you’ll have to talk with her.

Me=FUCK (see explanation above)

Next day… cue the telephone dialing music

Me=Hi, Mrs. K., can you PRETTY PLEASE let me know the status of my Trial de Novo

Mrs. K=Oh yes.  It was processed in time.

Me=Is there any reason why I received absolutely bupkis from the Court regarding my case, even though it was allegedly sent.  The only way I made this deadline was because I called.

Mrs. K=There never was anything sent to you.  It’s all being processed now.  We have to give the officer proper time to respond and attend the trial as well.

Me=Yippee

Ok, so here’s what you are all thinking – this guy is an idiot.  What the hell is he doing?  Why not just pay the damn fine and live with it?  I would argue with you, but you’re right.

BTW, I ran said truckster into the side of a pole while leaving my parking spot from work yesterday.  There’s a nice new dent in it for ya’ll to admire if you see me.

FUCK

My Dream Lover, Apparently

Obviously, I’ve lost it.  My nights have been filled with really bizarre dreams. I just can’t ever seem to remember them somewhere along the way from the bed to the bathroom in the morning.  This morning, however, I woke up horrified and remembering part of it…I’d call my therapist, but she quit the biz—oddly, right at the end of my last round of therapy.

Cue Dream:  Somewhere in the mountains is a lodge that is really an Air Force mobile unit headquarters.  All of my old Air Force cronies are there and wearing the green BDUs (camouflage).  It was good to see them for sure.  Even that odd duck I worked for briefly named Major Miller popped by in desert BDUs.  After making a big announcement for everyone to meet, Colonel Rowe, the commander, handed out the “super secret plan” to all the division heads which was basically a piece of paper with black crayon drawings (obviously authored by a 4-year-old).  On the pieces of paper all the various divisions in the unit were drawn.  I tried to peer over the division chief’s shoulder and saw that it was a plan that had a bunch of crude circles drawn  with captions that said:  Operations:  45 (cut to 30), Logistics: 30 (cut to 10), and so on.  My division was 8 people and one had to go.  Everyone looked at me.  So much for dream job security.

I fled the scene and went to the parking lot where other people from my military past were talking to each other in various spots throughout the lot.  Then, the weirdest thing of all happened.  William Windom showed up – you know, the character actor – who I’d say wasn’t too bad looking in his younger days and in the great show, “My World & Welcome To It.” But, my God, in this dream he was more Dr. Seth Hazlitt on “Murder She Wrote!”  Yeah, that’s the one.  I’m trying to get into my Chevy SUV (me, drive a Chevy?  I don’t think so) and he’s declaring his undying love, kneeling on the ground, clinging desperately to my leg as I try to get in the car.  Then a church lady came by and berated him for being a married man fooling around with a Lesbian and then I woke up with a scream.

Vacation needed or not? And, Mr. Windom, I apologize for dragging you into this—it was totally unintentional, I assure you.

Dreams permit each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.

~ William Dement

Hey, Murph

Remember Murphy Brown?  The pit-bull Mike Wallace of a fictional newsmagazine, recovering alcoholic, globetrotter, insider’s insider inside the Beltway; Candace Bergen as Murphy Brown was all that.  Murphy had a couple of weak spots—she could never keep a man (I don’t want one) and she had a different assistant in every episode. Sometimes, the assistant, with his/her 30 seconds of airtime, would steal the show. 

My assistant quit today after six glorious days under my tutelage.  I’ve begun the hunt anew.  Murph had 93 assistants all told in her 10 years, not including her multiple nannies.  Oy, what have I gotten myself into?  I hope I don’t end up Murphy Brown incarnate.   Well, not unless I get $45,000 per episode, er, I mean workday. 

I am so tired.

I was waiting for the universe to dispense some justice but sometimes the universe is just too damn slow. The effects of putting Nair in someone’s styling gel, however, only take a few minutes. ~ Murphy Brown

Heartwarming Coming Out Story

Discovery, A&E, Bravo, HBO & Showtime.  One time, when I’d rotated back to the States, I was ecstatic to find cable TV had come so far.  I dove into endless hours of classic movies, documentaries, and a neverending supply of new movies I hadn’t seen in my seemingly blissful five years of TV-lessness.  I retired my one event programmable, 90-pound VCR that had a dial that turned to turn the channel, and bought a multi-programmable VCR.  All those series I’d missed while being a TV monk gave me endless hours of pleasure now.  And, there was something new called MTV that played music 24 hours a day.  Wow, that dates me.

I used to be with someone I’ll refer to as “Athlete’s Brain,” heck, let’s just shorten it to AB.  AB loved sports.  Football, hockey, baseball, golf, professional curling, you name it, AB loved it.  AB also loved me at one time and knew I did not love televised athletics.  We compromised—by not watching them in my presence…at first.  AB loved to visit the family so athletics could be watched, professional games could be attended; tailgate parties and jock talk could be had aplenty.  AB also loved ESPN and The Sports Channel. 

Whenever I watch sports, a numb spot forms in the middle of my forehead and I begin to lose all awareness of what’s going on around me…kind of like going into a coma, I think.  The roar of the crowd and announcer’s voice drove me to the furthest end of the house, and left me praying it would soon be over.

We moved to the home we shared together in a different state and city.  I ordered up the delivery of the cable.  And, for once, I carefully read the instructions for the TV and for the cable box.  A girl can only take so much, after all.  I learned that the remote could be programmed.  When AB arrived home that day, ESPN and The Sports Channel were not on the lineup—apparently, our new provider did not offer any non-premium sports channels, I said with a straight face—what a shame.  Being the bookish sort, AB never quite caught on to the fact I had committed such a dastardly deed.

Soon, our relationship ended and I had packed my bags.  As I walked out the door, I decided there was still one more statement I needed to make.  AB, sitting on the couch, TV on, had the remote nearby.  I picked it up and within seconds a miracle occurred and ESPN flashed on the screen.   I put the remote down and walked out the door.

There had to be a solution—no more sports.  So, I became a Lesbian.   

Perfectly Perfect

It was an absolutely gloriously beautiful Northern California Spring day.  It almost makes up for the fact I am missing my special girl.  She’s swinging in Vegas this weekend with all of her sisters.  That would be just way too scary for me!  I am forbidden to mention her, but figure she won’t read this.  She did tell me that she is bringing back the Whatever Goes in Vegas, Stays in Vegas…she doesn’t like to follow the rules.

I still can’t get the mower started, but I did get my taxes done.  I spent time with my kids and even plan to cook dinner for a change.  I got a bunch of chores done and caught up on my blog reading.  The boy’s blog is really funny and perceptive, if you can get past his grammar, spelling and syntax.  This was a very good day.  And, I’ll leave it at that…oh, wait…did you JUST TELL SOMEONE? 

Congratulations to the Lesbian Lifestyle 2006 Lesbian Blog of the Year, Ham & Cheese on Wry.  Curly McDimple writes a wickedly funny little blog and I hope you’ll all stop over to visit her regularly.  Thanks all of you for your votes!

Winning is nice if you don’t lose your integrity in the process.

~ Arnold Horshak

Just Tell Someone

We had a little Valentine’s Day excitement in the area this year. The Clerk of Courts for neighboring Yolo County (home of ultra left wing UC Davis) decided to get her political opinion moxy on and announced she would be handing out “Certificates of Inequality” to queer couples unable to marry under California law. Obviously, it was viewed by some as a publicity stunt. Duh.

Freddie Oakley, a married mom of some kids, and the clerk in question, is entitled to have a political opinion, and to prepare such certificates with her own time and money. She ran for office as a politician with an opinion—why her deciding to observe the event in this way on the holy Hallmark day of love is pretty apparent—she wanted to be heard. And, the press came out. Most importantly, I agree with her, for the most part.

Protesters carrying those pesky little California polite protest signs showed up at the courthouse as predicted. Several couples took advantage of the offer of the certificate. More press ensued. And, it really didn’t make much difference either way—today.

Few minds were changed on Valentine’s Day because of this stunt. But, for every public official, celebrity, civic leader, church group and individual (hey, that’s you I’m talking about) who voice their disagreement with the continuing unequal treatment of taxpaying, consenting adults who love and have made a commitment in responsibility to a person of the same sex, it brings us that much closer to victory. All those faux-Family Values types just don’t get it—we’ll keep raising our families, whether we get your sanction or not—and they’ll turn out just fine­—we’ll just do it without health insurance, mutual Social Security benefits, and Federal tax benefits, but we shouldn’t have to–my tax money is as good as yours. I’m heartened that people like Freddie Oakley aren’t afraid to stand up and inevitably be accused of all sorts of skullduggery—you can be sure she’s even been pummeled with comments like, “You must be GAY!” Oh, the horror.

If you feel that this continuing inequity is wrong—tell someone! Try it out in front of the mirror–see how it rolls off the tongue–not so bad, huh? Then, try it out on your congregation, your neighbors, your friends, and your family. Tell your Congressman and Senators. Tell your loved one. Post it on your blog, send a Letter to the Editor of your local paper, tell your postal carrier. You can make a difference. You can. Just tell someone. Say the words out loud. Do it today, then do it again tomorrow. If you’re not afraid to speak up, then maybe they won’t be either.

 

“I think it’s time to end all discrimination against Gays, Lesbians, Bisexuals, and Transgendered people.” That’s all you have to say. Let’s call this the JUST TELL SOMEONE project. Pass it on. I’m counting on you.

 

Bigotry’s birthplace is the sinister back room of the mind where plots and schemes are hatched for the persecution and oppression of other human beings. ~Bayard Ruskin

PR Stunt

Having an assistant is hard work.  I spent all this time—talking—explaining things—giving instructions.  I’d forgotten how much work it is.  But, once she got into the groove and I could let go, I think it went well today.  So, I did some long-neglected chores in the office and left, for the first time since we moved, with a clean desk.  That’s not to say it won’t turn into earthquake aftershocks first thing in the morning but, hey, I had my moment of peace at last.

So, while I was toiling away, most of the office snuck downstairs to watch the promotional event for the grand opening of McCormick & Schmick’s Seafood Restaurant.  It opens this weekend, but they are having a series of opening events through the weekend.  Their PR firm masterminded a stunt we upstairs like to call “fish tossing.”  When I heard they were pulling this stunt, I immediately had concern for the fish’s welfare.  Would the fish be alive?  I was prepared to get all PETA on them, but, thankfully that was not necessary as I think PETA are a bunch of reactionary idiots.  It was fine, they actually had a dead fish tossing contest-ew!

They got a number of civic leaders to show up to toss a fish outside on the street from person to person until it reached the kitchen and the frying pan.  The fish, of course, would be arriving by limousine—dressed in a Sacramento Rivercats minor league baseball team jersey.    

So, the PR team was running around making sure the event went smoothly and one of them had a headset and microphone on, talking to the various event team members, no doubt.  As the limo arrived, the most priceless thing I’ve heard in months came out of the event leader’s mouth with all seriousness deep into the mic, rising well above the level of actual importance of the event—and bringing me out of the fog of Winter:

“Cue the fish.”

Bigotry’s birthplace is the sinister back room of the mind where plots and schemes are hatched for the persecution and oppression of other human beings. ~Bayard Ruskin

Friendly Lesbian Book & Movie Review

I’ve worked for 40 days and 40 nights and had little sleep, despite my early to bed.    My new assistant started Monday and I am hoping there is some end in sight to the job consuming my life.  Perhaps not though—maybe it’s just me.

I don’t usually discuss my thoughts on various films or books but I saw a movie over the weekend on DVD that was really standout.  “Little Miss Sunshine” with Greg Kinnear and Toni Collette was quite a surprise.  Seems little Olive wants to be a beauty queen but she’s chubby, bespectacled, and about as un-Jon-Benet Ramsay like in the beauty queen department as a 6-year-old can get.  To top it off, her “trainer” for beauty events is her heroin-addicted grandfather, played by Alan Arkin.  The family, which seemed to provide a stunningly realistic but depressing look at our so called self-absorbed modern family, takes a little road trip to allow Olive her dream of competing in the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.  Various antics ensue involving the grandpa, voluntarily mute teenage brother, the gay suicidal uncle, and the loser dad and disgruntled mom.  Finally, the pageant arrives….and that’s when it gets interesting.  As photogenic and charming as the daughter is, if I had ever put her through one of those pageants, I would demand my own parenting license be revoked—oh, wait, it’s painfully obvious people involved in those little spectacles never had a license to begin with.  Disarmingly twisted, I would give this a 3.5. stars out of 4.  Thank you Alan Arkin for continuing to take those roles that Dame Judi Dench would dare not consider.

Finally, I see that author Janet Evanovich’s latest Stephanie Plum mystery novel once again topped the NY Times Bestseller list upon release.  For those who haven’t read the series, Stephanie Plum is a fairly inept bounty hunter who has managed to string two extremely macho men (a Trenton NJ police detective and a mysterious bad-boy Cuban-American ex-Army Ranger bounty hunter and personal protection specialist) along through the course of 13 novels and various short stories/novellas.  While pretty formulaic, Evanovich has an unsurpassed sense of humor and despite the retelling of similar stories throughout the series, manages to keep a bevy of fans entertained.  Her forays into other character lines haven’t proven as successful.  Here’s the key difference.  This character, and its associated peripheral characters, are likable—sometimes, you even end up liking the bad guys in a warped kind of way.  I can’t ever say I’ve read a series that screams “television series” the way this one does.  I’m wondering why no one else has thought of it.  Lord knows all the copycat series they launched in September that didn’t make it could have been replaced with something that is just enjoyable, light-hearted fare like this. 

And, Stephanie, if there’s one thing this Lesbian has to say:  “Stop carrying a purse—you can never get your pepper spray, handcuffs, or gun out of it and nearly get killed every time.  You are giving women a bad name.  Go with a nice thin wallet in the back pocket so when your car blows up, as it will, you’ll not have to replace your driver’s license and will have money for cab fare home!”