I’m Lori H. And I’m A Blogger

Hi.  I’m Lori.  I’m a blogger.  I’ve been a blogger for about a year and a half.  I started this as a way to get through the breakup of my long term relationship.  It helped.  I reconnected with my childhood friend Red Hog—that was even better medicine.

Turns out I liked writing again.  It allowed this brain that works with numbers all day long to work the other side of the brain without leaving the house alone under the control of teenagers.  And, as odd as it sounds to some, I’ve made friends here—friends whose blogs I read and friends who read my blog.  Some people just stop by once in a while…that’s nice too.  I’m not in the Top 100 bloggers getting 100 comments a day, but you know, that would be too much.  I tend to be kind of an extroverted introvert, so small groups work very well for me. 

I’m even going to meet one of my blogging buddies this summer over the 4^th – shout out to Kim, formerly operator of The Peace Tree, who will be joining me for a tour of the greater San Francisco area; her first trip to California.  Shout out to Mike S. who just can’t make the trip, but may have to take a phone call from us so he can enjoy in absentia.  Had Red Hog been able to attend, I’d have the start to the perfect multicultural joke:  “A Native American, a Mexican, and a Lesbian walked into a bar…”

The blog zigged and zagged for a while until I found my voice.  It wasn’t the voice I thought I had, but it didn’t sound like Elmer Fudd either, so it wasn’t a disaster.  It’s become a discipline I enjoy.  And, it’s become part of my expression of who I am.  Now, that’s kind of cool.

Today, I’m out of material…so, I’ll just simply say, “Thanks.”  Thanks for reading and thanks for your comments.  Oh, and if you feel like it, hit that “Sacramento Top 25” button, will ya’?

Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.
~ Cicero

Veni, Vidi, Ea Vicit

Apparently, my server did not crash and sizzle by being overloaded with responses to my call for dating applications yesterday.  Drats, foiled again.

Seems my good friend Red Hog had quite the weekend, graduating his twins from high school back in Iowa.  Very accomplished young Red Hogs they are too.  If you haven’t checked out his blog, you should.  Well, if’n you tend to lean liberal, anyway,  Congrats to Courtney & Clayton Wilcox!

The first day back after five glorious and quiet, relaxing days off was enough to make me set a new agenda for my career.  It’s called work/life balance.    Who knows, it may actually make me a better employee.  Yeah, that’s how I’ll spin it with the boss.

Some days, it might be fun being someone else going into the office.  Here is what the quiz gods have ordained…wow…I mean, people would be bowing, giving me gold, and women would be throwing themselves at my feet…I might even get to race a chariot or two..and who wouldn’t want a shot at being the one credited with bringing back the toga as a fashion trend?  The longer I thought about it, the better it sounded…until I got to the part that eventually, because some things never change, I’d have been sure to make an asp of myself.

What Historical Character Are You?

You are Julius Ceasar. You are open to other opinions but still are in charge. You are just and that is what concerns you most. Your friends are held very dear to you and you are patriotic. You may not know, but wisdom is one of your best qualities. Your advice is held in high regard by all you give it to. Your heart dwells only because your mind is too busy. Your modesty is what people like about you.

It’s Bound To Happen

Sometimes, it’s better to realize that it would be better to write nothing at all than to end up quoting lyrics from the Bee Gees, ”How Can You Mend A Broken Heart,” for example.

 

I wouldn’t be a proper Lesbian if I didn’t get myself into these occasional heart kerfuffles.  I mean, we are women, after all—running primarily on emotion—it’s bound to happen.   Bound—yes, that was a good movie—what a great Lesbian seduction scene—it almost made me want to become a plumber.  (Warning-by clicking on “Bound” you will be taken to YouTube where, due to the cliip’s adult nature, you have to sign in to your YouTube account, verifying you are over 18 years of age—now if that isn’t a reason to click, I don’t know what is.)  But, I digress. 

Healing can be a long, laborious and incredibly boring process.  Ask my friends.  I’m sure they would tell you though that I’ve listened to theirs, and they have to listen to mine—but they wish they didn’t have to—ah, the beauty of friendship.   

Then, there’s the terror, trepidation, and excitement of taking a dip back into the pool and seeing what’s out there and what dating would be like if the woman was actually in the same city as me.   Trying not to haul along all those well-traveled steamer trunks (for the non-Lesbian reader, we’re referring to baggage) with me that I’ve worked so hard to “allow” the Southwest Airlines baggage handlers to lose along the way.

And then, weeding laboriously through the personal ads because Lord knows I don’t have time to figure out where they gather in person, those Lesbians, and then determine if they are:

1)       Single

2)       Sane

3)       Employed

4)       Fit a general profile of fitness and attractiveness

5)       Able to both carry on a conversation that doesn’t involve words like, “Last night at the bar…no, that was the night before at the bar,” and string a sentence together that doesn’t consist of all small letters and a bunch of emoticons

6)       Really single

7)       *NEW Live within 15 miles of my house 

Ah, to be me…young (well, okay, not so young—and very gray), footloose & fancy-free (well, I’m not that either), healthy (cough), wealthy (Brother, can you spare a dime?) and wise (ass maybe).  But, hey, I’m kinda cute and now I know how to grill—who could refuse?  I’m not going to let the team down–back in the game I go, by God, and I won’t go down without a fight (whoa, strike that).

So, for all of you single Lesbians out there, take a moment and fill out the dating application conveniently located on “Our Cast of Characters” at the bottom of the page – I look forward to hearing from you.

Grill O’My Heart

I don’t have many funny stories to share from the time with my former partner, or at least I no longer remember them at this point.  But, there were, during the early days, good times, especially when we were dating.    

She was a straight girl (I know).  She emailed in response to an ad I had placed for people to show me around Sacramento as I was slated to move there after the demise of the dot.com I worked for in the Bay Area became imminent.  She wrote a saucy little reply – if you’re a Lesbian and online dated, you’ve probably run across one – the “I’m sick of men, so I think I’ll try women” kind of reply.  Of course, I was incensed and immediately wrote her back saying in the most uncertain terms, I would not be anyone’s experiment in fence jumping.  Her charming and startling reply to my sharp lecture was enough to make me want to at least meet her.  She did everything wrong—she invited me to her house instead of a safe location where identities could be protected—and for dinner, not the obligatory coffee date.  By our third meeting, I was smitten with this intelligent, charming, attractive woman who also seemed to dig me.  So, I found myself driving back and forth from The Bay to the suburban town outside of Sacramento on a frequent basis.

One day, we decided to grill at her place.  The wine was purchased, the chicken was all marinated, and the grill all set up out back.  She handed me the matches and the lighter fluid and told me to get busy.  She explained her ex-husband did the grilling—she didn’t know how.  The look on my face did not, apparently, explain well enough that I had no freakin’ clue what to do either.  I had never operated a grill of any type before.  But, my andro-kinda sorta soft butch cred was on the line.  I turned and stood before the grill desperately trying to recall in my memory banks what I’d seen others do with a grill—I’d bluff my way through, I’d decided.  

I poured way too many briquets (I’ve since learned the entire bag is not necessary), soaked them with enough fluid to start the next great Chicago fire, and fired up the matches – POOF – flames as tall as me shot up from the grill.  I turned and smiled at her—yes, yes, I was exuding confidence—short some eyelashes, but confident nonetheless.  The flames kept going out so I kept adding more fluid, having no idea the sheer quantity of charcoal was not allowing any air through to sustain the flame.  Damn, why hadn’t I paid attention in Mr. Hazen’s science class?

I had a little glass of wine as she handed me the chicken.  It must be the right time – the flames were now small, so I tossed on the chicken, grease dripping into the flame causing it to engulf all the chicken in flame.  I quickly grabbed the pieces with the tongs and threw them back on the plate.  I waited.  It didn’t help the temperature out on the grill pad was a typical Sacramento 105 summer degrees.  Sweat was pouring from me as the girl kept calling out to me asking me how things were going as she worked in the kitchen to finish the preparations.  I kept reassuring her as I continued to make every mistake known to the grill chef.

Finally, after about what seemed like an hour, I pulled the completely dried out, burned chicken pieces off the grill and proudly displayed them on the plate to her.  She ate it, much to her credit, God knows how.

It was, my friends, the last time I grilled while with her.  She decided that though I might be handy in any number of ways with various tools and computers, I was not to be trusted with the grill.

Years later, and now that I’m alone again, I want to grill.  I miss the hamburgers and baby back ribs that are best with the smoky taste only a grill can provide.  You’d think I’d have paid more attention to how she did it with such ease, but I didn’t, dammit.  Today, I’m trying to grill on my own and only hope I don’t get the same disappointed looks from the children when their hamburgers look and taste like hockey pucks. 

Bad cooks — and the utter lack of reason in the kitchen — have delayed human development longest and impaired it most. ~ Friderich Nietzsche

In the immortal words of Ray Charles & Gladys Knight, “A broken heart is never whole again, ‘cause you lose too many pieces when it falls…”

Child O’Mine

I paid $40 today to fill my car, which was just under ¼ tank.  Gas is $3.35 per gallon.  I have a 16.5 gallon tank and get about 280 miles to a tank (city driving).  Given these facts, how long until I go bankrupt or have to put the kids up on eBAY?   Dubya, when was the last time you had to fill your own tank (and, I don’t mean that metaphorically, I figure that’s a given)?

I paid $40 today to fill my car, which was just under ¼ tank.  Gas is $3.35 per gallon.  I have a 16.5 gallon tank and get about 280 miles to a tank (city driving).  Given these facts, how long until I go bankrupt or have to put the kids up on eBAY?   Dubya, when was the last time you had to fill your own tank (and, I don’t mean that metaphorically, I figure that’s a given)?

If there was any doubt that #2 son marches to the beat of his own drummer, this from the newsfront:  We had linguine in clam sauce tonight, their favorite–I used sliced garlic from the jar and one large piece ended up on J-Man’s plate.  He and his twin sister had some sort of secret twin conversation (I don’t even attempt to figure those things out anymore) and he has been wearing the slice of garlic on his forehead since then. Please note the “crazy eyes.”   

Nature is fine, but I’m totally digging this nurture thing.

Don’t let anyone tell you that you have to be a certain way. Be unique. Be what you feel. ~ Melissa Etheridge

The Duke At 100

There aren’t manner die-hard Republican, card-carrying John Birch Society members whom I would allow to cross the threshold of my home, but I would make an exception for John Wayne.  Rabidly patriotic and fiercely conservative, Wayne would have been 100 today; Wayne died at 72 in 1979, the same year I was sent out in the adult world to make my way as a soldier in the US Army.  Most of the people in my office weren’t even born before he died.

He made a career of playing larger-than-life, hero bad-ass cops, soldiers, and cowboys.  I was always kind of partial to him because he started life in Iowa – in Winterset, as Marion Morrison.  Can you see a big, strong movie hero with a name like Marion?  I think the name change was a stroke of genius.  Into Hollywood he blew with his trademark swagger and voice that was unmistakable.

His stridently right-wing politics also made him a very divisive presence in the era of the turmoil caused in our country by our involvement in the communist witch hunts of the 50s and then during the Vietnam conflict of the 60s and 70s.  I remember watching “The Green Berets,” and listening to people at the house arguing about whether he was a sinner or a saint for making it with a very pro-war perspective.  Funny, though, when I watch that film now, it seems to be the quintessential anti-war movie, because the futility of it all is seems so very clear on the big screen.  I kind of wonder what he’d think about our current military situation.  The big thing I got from all of that is that he had the cult of personality to make a film like “Big Jim McClain” and the “Green Berets” to advance his own political agenda.

I didn’t like all his movies and his westerns I could take or leave for the most part, but there were a few I loved – like Fort Apache, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, The Searchers, Rio Lobo, Chisum, McClintock, and especially his last film, The Shootist.  I thought it was a fitting way to end a career – kind of like saying, “All those pretenders tried to take my throne before my time, and dammit, it ain’t happenin’–I’m going out my way.”

He also made some God-awful movies – let’s talk about “The Barbarian and the Geisha!.”  He never claimed to be a great actor though, thank goodness, because that would be easily argued and we might have missed out on a lot of entertainment – he was sort of a one-trick pony, but a smart pony that knew what his audiences wanted. 

But, one of my top 10 films is a John Wayne film – it was also a departure for him – but hey, it was a John Ford film, so I’m guessing he couldn’t resist – well, that an pairing up with the very lovely and sassy Maureen O’Hara – “The Quiet Man.”  As soon as I saw it, I decided I was moving immediately to the lush, green country of Ireland, getting a thatch-roofed cottage, a good, sturdy bicycle, a Guinness habit, and a Maureen O’Hara to court.  Well, seems I wasn’t allowed out after dark, so my trip was indefinitely delayed by a strict father.

 

Anyway, Duke–happy 100^th, Pilgrim.  And, in honor of that generation of American men (my father’s generation), who lived by his words…

Talk low, talk slow and don’t say too much. ~ John Wayne

Dear Diary: Day Two Of Vacation

Still not checking the work e-mail. Slept in until 9:30 am. Did radical experiment to see how long it would take to run the hot water out of the water heater by taking long shower. Joined buddy for iced tea at Butch & Nellie’s, the coffee shop of choice for the queer crowd. Sat outside on the patio out front with Uncle Doreen’s babe magnet, Roxie. Sightseeing was great. Don’t people in this town work during the day? What the hell have I been missing all these years of toiling away Monday-Friday – there is life outside of the office.

We solved major problems today – like the best way to recycle navel lint. And how pizza and beer labels could be used to create a 3-D “Last Supper” only instead of the usual characters, we’d replace them with those poker playing dogs instead. The St. Bernard playing Jesus and the Great Dane as Judas.

People kept asking Uncle Doreen what kind of dog Roxie is (she’s from Taiwan and is Heinz 57), so we made one up. We didn’t go with Bloffshire Terrier, Flerbaut Sheppard, or “Kung Pao Sheppard with a little Sweet and Sour Terrier.” She is now the new AKC standard for a Szechuan Sheppard.

All this deep thinking on vacation has made me tired—time for a nap. This time off is better than a week in Hawaii.

I believe God has a sense of humor, so I believe that Jerry Falwell is now Liberace’s houseboy. ~ Doreen Lopez

James Herriott Hadn’t Met My Dogs

I have dogs.  If you’ve been to my house, that is readily apparent as soon as you pull up out front.  They have an uncanny ear that can distinguish “company cars” from the mere passer-by.  They sprawl across my chairs and stick their long snouts up to the window and start their greeting of the visitor rituals.  Once the visitor enters, they quickly determine if they are friend or foe.  Friends get some more greeting and I dart to intercept Gina from leaping upon them for a hearty leap up for the welcome tongue-slathering.  They have not met a foe.  So much for the watchdog concept.

 

Last night, we entertained a puppy so young and small it still has puppy breath.  It amazes me that my big oafish puppy, fully 70 pounds as of her vet visit last week, is so incredibly gentle with a little one.  She certainly gives no quarter to 80 pound Taz, her canine cousin.

My older Collie, Daisy, is a talker.  I mean, she talks.  She tells you in detail about everything—what Gina to into, how her day was while your were out, or why she’s disappointed in you for cheating on the healthy eating thing, because she smells Big Mac on your breath.  She is the arbiter of proper canine and teenager behavior in the house and supervises the visits of other dogs and teens pretty closely in my stead. 

I’ve been walking every weekday morning with both of my dogs as well as my sister and her dog.  We do it for both health and sanity.  My puppy drives me insane if she doesn’t get her walk—today, I’m off and slept in until 0545, the usual time for her walk.  It’s become a ritual.  My sister pulls up outside and regardless of their current position—whether it be on the floor licking themselves, drinking from the toilet, or using my pillow for a nap, they immediately race to the door.  I’ve learned to get their leashes on a couple minutes in advance.  They dance gleefully for a moment while I open the door, then we’re off to the races.  I’m saving up now for the shoulder replacement that looms in my future.  Gina, the puppy, zips to Taz and they do a little “Oh, I’m so happy to see you, it’s been so long” thing—a day is like 10 puppy years.  Then Taz pees.  He’s asserted his masculinity, so we’re ready to roll.

For the next little while, Taz and Gina spend their time figuring out who is going to be in front; both pulling at their leash until they make wheezing sounds.  Since we bi-peds are trying to “work it,” their competitiveness helps keep up our speed.   She gets distracted by any little thing that moves, invariably crossing over into my lane.  Learning to avoid falling on my ass has done wonders for my balance and agility. Daisy, however, gently and gracefully glides along without breaking stride, leash never taut, enjoying the scenery.  Occasionally, she’ll look up at me and say something, which sounds eerily like, “Kids these days—in my day, I learned to walk properly on the leash.” 

Dogs are simple creatures.  And, with my complex life, there is nothing better than walking in and getting jumped on a couple of times and told everything there is to know about the day in the life of a dog.

You can say any foolish thing to do to a dog, and the dog will give you a look that says, ‘My God, you’re right! I never would’ve thought of that! ~ Dave Berry

Slothful, Gluttonous, Sex Maniac

You know, I think of myself as a fairly low-maintenance, fairly responsible kind of girl. Sure, I love a good meal and some personal comfort…and yeah, I traded in a fuel-efficient car for one a little more powerful, but does that make me a bad person? I read an actual newspaper instead of reading online, killing trees and destroying the great ecosystem. I failed to fully embrace the company offer to swap my paid parking spot across the street for a monthly bus pass, thereby ensuring the doom of the entire planet with my gluttonous, slothful ways. Turns out my little itty-bitty contribution means not a lot.

Well, it turns out that China will surpass the US in carbon emissions by 2009. They have tripled their carbon dioxide output in the last 25 years, and it’s not slowing down–in fact, it’s accelerating each year. They grow half the fruits and vegetables in the world (of course they eat and drink most of that) and about a million other things that are exported (checked your dog and cat lately–the Chinese are responsible for that mass pet food recall due to toxic additives substituted for food grade gluten too). Their economy is booming and they continue to buy our debt which has some pretty serious implications. They contribute to the world’s agriculture in a big way, but they are also heavily coal-reliant. Remember those days of the US Industrial Age when our own skies were black and a coat of soot covered houses, cars, and streets until we figured out there were cleaner energy sources?

What the hell chance do we have of saving the planet in our our green-iosity if China and other burgeoning countries like India create a problem of this massive proportion? Hell, even toxins like sulfur dioxide and gaseous mercury that are barfed from Chinese smokestacks have migrated thousands of miles through the air and landed over here. Wouldn’t Mao be proud, he’s finally getting us.

And, I don’t see them making any change to their strategy of creating an ever-expanding economy. I’m bummed. So, since I’m not going to be a superstar in gluttony or sloth, I think I’ll work on that lust thing so I can at least go out with a smile on my face.

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