Madness

One of the things about being interviewed by Blog Interviewer a couple weeks ago, is that in the process, I also ran across a pretty cool blog.  I think we all read the blogs we relate to best.  I lean towards the blogs of the middle-aged survivor with a sense of humor, the Midwesterner in either sensibility or location, or the well-spoken Lesbian.  Dale is Canadian, straight, and a little off the wall.  He’s also, apparently, extremely funny looking—at least his profile picture so indicates.  This is Dale.

In reading his blog, I ran across a memory that probably seared more deeply into my psyche than the Apollo 1 disaster, Vietnam, or the assassinations of JFK/RFK/MLK/Malcolm X. 

Jonestown.  After a visit made out of concerns by some of his constituents, Rep. Leo Ryan of San Francisco and four others were murdered by members of The People’s Temple, led by the Reverend Jim Jones, in 1978 as the Ryan party tried to return to the US via a small airstrip in Guyana.  A day later, the paranoid, drug-addled former San Francisco minister ordered 900 of his mostly African American followers to drink death in plastic cup—Kool-Aid laden with cyanide.  Of those, 287 were children.  Those resisting were shot or shot up, so the theory goes, with one of the many syringes found lying around the grounds. 

When rescuers and the military arrived, they found a human sea of horror—and the startling contrast of dead bodies dressed in tropical and festive colors, bloating prematurely in the sun.  Grown rescuers wept as they picked up dead child after dead child.

And, it was all brought to us in glorious color via our network news for weeks following the event.  I was 17 then—within weeks of leaving home—I was a news junkie and mesmerized by the story.  I hadn’t felt the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, the Holocaust, or the Great Stalinist Purges.  I felt this.

This brought the madness of power and the power of madness home to me in a way I couldn’t forget, but caused me to fervently and futilely hope for my young mind’s return to its previously unsullied state.

I hope you’ll be as moved by this interview with Jonestown survivor and eldest son of Jim Jones as I was today:  The Hour:  George Stroumboulopoulos’ interview with Stephan Jones

If we can’t live in peace then let’s die in peace. We are not committing suicide-it’s a revolutionary act. ~ Jim Jones, 1978

Um, Yeah

As much as I adore the written word, it often fails to convey the subtleties and nuance behind the words. E-mail doesn’t come close to capturing the body language, the facial expressions, the inflection, or the spirit of intent.  Case in point:  here are four examples of the same phrase, each with a different intent.  Try it out loud.  There will be a quiz later.

You gotta dig a woman who slaves over a hot stove to make a fabulous picnic lunch, ½ of which ends up being devoured by sea gulls when the two of you leave your cash, credit cards, keys, and very expensive camera and food—in containers–unattended because you’ve completely forgotten they exist as you walk miles up the beach, talking and osculating as though you owned the damned beach—only to return and find out the swarm of gangsta’ gulls actually own it—and apparently have thumbs to open stuff—having made camp on your turf, as all of your human neighbors limply whine, “Um, we all tried to save your food, but the birds won.” 

Um, yeah.

You gotta dig a woman who after an hour walking on the beach, looks you square in the eyes, smiles seductively, and says, “Don’t you just wake up every day glad you’re a Lesbian?” and then tosses you down on the blanket to remind you why you are.

Um, yeah.

You gotta dig a woman who brings Mastermind to the beach.  Yes, Mastermind, the 1960s code-breaking board game that requires thinking.  Thinking after osculating. 

Um, yeah.

You gotta dig a woman who can sit quietly and listen to the music as you drive through the hairpin curves on coastal Highway 1 in the dark—and knows you both know that the moon is full above you, sparkling and glimmering off the water as she gently holds onto your hand.

Um, yeah.

Cool sunset, huh?

The soul that can speak through the eyes, can also kiss with a gaze.

~ Gustav Adolfo Becquer

My Day Off

Perfection.

Warm weather, soft sand, light breezes, and cool ocean water.

Laughter, and laughter, and though I am surprised, more laughter.

Music.  Sustenance.  Touch.

Sweetness, grace, and light.

Senses fully engaged.

Living in the moment.

There is nothing more perfect than that.

Is She Or Isn’t She?

I hope you enjoy this vintage entry from HAH.

Two white guys in suits and gray flannel winter coats meet on the street.  You can tell they are Capitol staffers because they have their hands firmly clenched around their Blackberries/Treos, have a rushed, I’m really important expression on their faces, and typically speak in unrecognizable Legislatese.  Many of their sentences start with, “Last night, when I was speaking with Arnold…”

Two Lesbians meet and frequently don’t realize it.  Back in the day, meeting like-minded women meant sneaking into a dark, smoky bar that might be raided by the cops at any moment.  Having no models, we assigned gender roles which caused the butch/femme stereotypes to take hold.  Nobody ever told us there was another way.  It was easy to identify each other though, because there you all were, at the bar. 

So, how the hell do we identify each other now? There really is no need to identify either butch or femme, and lots and lots of us don’t go to a bar, right?  We can be out in public, with our neighbors, and friends both gay and straight.  Straight woman have recently discovered comfortable shoes and cute, spiky haircuts; it’s become very confusing! 

We can be whatever and still be the same woman-loving dyke we want to be. What we do is buy Suburu’s, Volvo’s, and Toyota Rav 4s, which we immediately emblazon with stickers that say, “Hate is not a family value,” “I’m not gay, but my girlfriend is,” or with little rainbow stickers in the shape of a cat or a peace sign. 

Which is all fine and dandy—if the only contact we want with other Lesbians is racing up beside them on the freeway—only to wave as they go their way and we go ours. 

Sometimes, we are sly, like the woman who, when I was young and naïve and didn’t have a grasp of the lingo, asked me if I “was family.”  I had just watched a Godfather movie and said, “No, I’m not Italian, I’m Danish.”

Or, you could be like one of my close friends who assumes that everyone is Gay, unless proven otherwise.

Another option, if your Gaydar is pinging strong, is to use the more subtle approach.  Like I did today, while wearing my business clothes and grey flannel coat, standing at the counter of a City office talking to the clerk.  I was just trying to find some common ground as she was more than a little cranky.

“So,” says I, “I just think I’ve seen you.” 

“Oh,” says she, “Where?” 

“Hmm,” says I, “I don’t get out much—maybe the Suzanne Westenhoefer show in February?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” says she as recognition registered across her face, “I didn’t get to that one, but I’ve seen her many times.”

We were now both very clear, the rest of my transaction was much more enjoyable, and the people in line behind me were none the wiser. 

But, damn, there has to be an easier way, right?  Tell me, please!

My lesbianism is an act of Christian charity.  All those women out there praying for a man, and I’m giving them my share.  ~Rita Mae Brown

Slippery Socks

The last time I was this nervous, I was getting my Army physical, which included my very first GYN exam—“What do you mean spread my legs—and what the hell is that thing—no freakin’ way you’re getting that near me.” 

Fortunately, it wasn’t quite as trying—I just took a wrong turn.  I’m about to end up on beautiful Highway 24 and land right in the middle of the traffic jam at the Caldecott Tunnel when I veered off onto a road unknown, cell phone in hand, attempting to reach my best friend, who will surely get me out of this mess. I’ll leave the expletives to your imagination.  Once she got the GPS in her head going, she set my on my path.  Her last words to me were, “And I hope the Parking Gods are with you.”

Ah, the wise best friend, I soon discovered.  Berkeley is opposed to vehicles—they want people to walk—imagine.  But, that doesn’t bode well for the occasional unwary visitor.  Nor the 25,000 CAL football fans who were competing with me for the three available parking spots in the entire city yesterday afternoon.  But, park I did.  In a metered spot with a 2-hour limit—and me, with a leisurely lunch and 3-hour play ahead of me.  I decided to throw caution to the wind and just hope I didn’t get ticketed/towed.  I then put it out of my mind, for I had someone very much more pleasant to pay attention to. 

After lunch, we decided to stop by my car to drop off and pick up some things and reload the meter.  My passenger door recently developed an issue; it’s a Ford after all.  It doesn’t like to close unless handled in just the right way and I just haven’t had time to take it to the dealership.  I’m standing there, trying to be cool as my door will not shut.  THUNK, THUNK (uncomfortable laugh over shoulder), “This should just take…a…THUNK…second. THUNK.  Heh. Heh.”  Finally, I climbed in and used the tried and true method and closed it, but then had to climb over the seats and go out the other side.  Oh, yes…I am SO SMOOTH. 

Em helped dress me yesterday.  I had three outfits picked out and tried them all on for her. She’s a tough sell.  I finally got the thumbs-up and pulled out my favorite shoes, which I haven’t worn in months.  I also had new socks, which weren’t quite as thick as my usual socks and very slippery.  So, what I had going on inside my shoe was a slippery sock sliding my foot around in the extra space, knocking my foot from side to side.  Basically, I kept falling off my shoes–basically flat shoes at that—oh, yes, I will go down in the annals of dating as the one who fell off her shoes.

Walk and walk we did in my slippery socks—first through 25,000 football fans through the Berkeley campus–me falling off my shoes occasionally–and then, after the play and dinner, through 25,000 football fans through the Berkeley campus the other direction. 

But, you know what?  She didn’t seem to mind that I was a walking disaster area.  And I didn’t get a ticket. 

I don’t know if my looks will ever get any better, but my pratfalls sure won’t. ~ Chevy Chase

 

I Love Me Some Women

I’ve been a little off this week (and not in the way I’m usually off).  The repeated and still unrepaired, long-standing frustrations that continue to plague me at the office are wearing me down.   It makes for one tired HAH when I get home. 

Then, I read or listen to the news.  Some guy actually got over an hour of airtime cumulatively yesterday because he put a freakin’ rattlesnake in his mouth, got bit, and nearly died.  I know I’d sure want the world to know about that stunt.  His mother must be so proud she raised such a bright, forward-thinking child.  Perhaps CNN aired it as a public service—to stem the tide of an epidemic of ass-hattery. 

I’m just glad the week is nearing an end.  I’m swearing off the news for a few days, just to help get my usually positive attitude about humanity back.  Possibly followed by some actual swearing. 

And, just when things were hanging heavily, a most excellent thing occurred this week.  I was in touch, for work purposes, with Robin at The Other Mother (she has another blog, The Big Window, which you may also enjoy), who runs Writers in the Schools, a reading/writing program for school-age children.  Our conversation then led me to Terris Grimes, who is working on a similar project here in Sacramento.  Imagine my delight when I found out Terris is the same Terris who wrote “Somebody Else’s Child,” an excellent mystery (among other written works) I read several years ago.  This conversation, in turn, became an opportunity for me to hook Terris up with my friend Cardte Hicks, who runs The Legends:  Kid’s First, a non-profit providing disadvantaged kids with after school tutoring, sports clinics and camps, and other resource assistance.  There might be some synchronicity between their organizations.  And, my friend LegalEagle, who may be helping Ms. Grimes with some technical assistance on a book she’s currently writing.  The reason for my original call didn’t pan out, but I am thrilled I got to speak with so many dynamic and inspiring women in one day!    

Have I mentioned how much I love women?      

One is not born a woman, one becomes one.  ~Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, 1949

Uncle Doreen’s Sex Driver’s Manual

Tonight’s guest blogger is Uncle Doreen. Give it up for her take on auto-romance.

Most of us remember as we approached our late teens how anxious we were to learn to drive a car. The excitement, the freedom, the “I am in charge” thrill pushed us to memorize the driver’s manual and all the mechanical and operational details of a 2-ton vehicle. Classes were taught, parents and teachers provided advice, and friends shared their experiences. The end result is most of us understand how to reasonably drive a car and get from point A to point B rather successfully.

Sometimes I wish that the same attention was given to other “drive” associated with the teenage years…

How different would my dating life be had I received accurate information at 16? If only I had had a class on what to expect instead of the rather poorly illustrated book left on my bed when I turned 13. If only those better informed adults in my life had shared their own mistakes and offered their words of wisdom rather than the cursory and vaguely sinister, “Be Careful,” shouted as the screen door slammed behind me as I ran out of the house to meet my friends. Just a little more information could have provided a wealth of knowledge that would have been shared among my peers instead of perpetuating the exaggerated stories of “the curse” and how we could get pregnant by kissing in a swimming pool.

So, I have decided to start my own manual. Something I can pass down for generations of lesbians to come (pun intended). I’m still roughing it out before it gets picked up as the next bestseller, but give me time:

Uncle Doreen’s Sex Driver’s Manual:

When choosing your method of “transportation” it is important to consider whether you are a Manual or Automatic kind of person. Being qualified to handle both definitely increases your flexibility in all situations. However, both have their advantages and disadvantages.

Manual – Has an independent energy source and is a traveling companion that will not alert airport security. The downside: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from over use.

Automatic – While it provides consistent power and an almost hands-free ride, there is the possibility that power failure is possible shortly before reaching a summit. Note that locating an electrical socket is not always possible.

Study Terms:

Parallel Parking: More commonly known as a threesome. Not many people can parallel park successfully. Often you may park too closely to another parallel parker and the third parker will get upset and furiously drive away.

Illegal Lane Change: Beginning a new relationship while still in your current one. This is often done unexpectedly at the first sign of a possible opening and without any signaling to anyone else in the other respective lanes.

Rear View Mirror: Reminiscing about past relationships. Although it is enjoyable to see where you have been, you may not notice the hazard ahead if your girlfriend knew what that smile was really about.

U-Turn: Going back to your ex-girlfriend

Illegal U-Turn: Going back to men.

Carpool: Dating exclusively within your own social circle. For those that do not enjoy a casual drive into other neighborhoods, this seems to be an effective method. Warning: It does eventually lead to everyone in the car feeling uncomfortable and eventually seeking out other means of social transportation.

On Board Storage: Depending on the person, emotional baggage may fit in a glove box, trunk, or if necessary, the overhead storage rack. Some individuals find that a trailer and hitch are useful. They never have to unload their baggage, can still fit more baggage in, and can easily take it from relationship to relationship

Speed: Some relationships take the slow scenic route, also known as the School Zone. Others insist on quicker gratification on the Autobahn. It is vital to determine which speed your partner is comfortable with or you will hear the inevitable words, “I think we are going too fast.”

Safety Harness: Should always be used in conjunction with a safety word.

Maps: If you don’t know where you are going, please stop and ask for directions. Nothing is more upsetting than having your passenger spend 15 minutes licking your belly button thinking they are actually accomplishing anything.

FUI (Fucking Under the Influence): Responsibility while consuming alcoholic beverages can not be stressed enough. Relationships that start as “the one night stand that stayed,” are destined for a bumpy ride.

Dead End: “We need to talk…”

Slippery When Wet: Self-explanatory. And if you need an explanation, it’s time to go back to sex driver’s ed.

Maintenance of your vehicle is vital. Who doesn’t enjoy that new car smell? Keeping your vehicle clean and in good running condition will ensure that passengers welcome a ride when offered. Trying to do last minute clean up before a date may work in a pinch, but my motto is, “If it smells like cologne, leave it alone.”

Mysterious Arrival

Well, Uncle Doreen, the slacker, got busy with work today, so didn’t finish her blog.   It will be well worth the wait, and hopefully will be available tomorrow.

Okay, I got seriously freaked out today.  I got home and there was a single carnation in an unfamiliar vase on my desk.  I asked J-Man—he didn’t know.  I asked Em—she didn’t know.  I was seriously stumped.  Was it a secret admirer? I started clicking through people with keys in my mind—no, none of them would have dared give me a carnation, much less come in without letting me know (yes, I know I swore I’d never give out another key after the great key debacle, but I have—to people I don’t sleep with)–or would they?    Was it a stalker who bribed a key-holder with sexual favors in return for letting her in–I mean some of them are in the same dire involuntary celibacy situation I am, only for longer–some much longer?  There was no note, no clue.

Then I looked down at the floor for some reason and noticed it was really shiny.  Further investigation found magically vacuumed rugs, a clean kitchen, and sparkling baseboards.  The new housekeeper left me a flower. 

The earth laughs in flowers. ~ ee cummings

Don’t Even Bother To Knock, Walk Right In

Really, it’s been quite the weekend.  You know, exciting things like random bra department pickups don’t really happen to me.  I know, you’re shocked, given my incredible charm, but they just don’t.   

In reality, I was doing life stuff:  shopping, doing six months of filing, paying bills, chauffeuring group dates for 14-year-olds, arbitrating squabbles, catching up with friends, negotiating plea deals for not cleaning rooms, filling 300-pound capacity bird feeders, and doing some bush trimming—hey, hey, those bushes outside, k?  Oh, and today is Notorious B.E.N.’s 17th birthday – wish you were here, baby! 

Of all the weird things to have stolen in the burglary last year, I had my outdoor power cord ripped off—the one that runs the hedge trimmers.  I know perfectly well the burglar already had two.  So, I bought another one.  I’m navigating this particularly tricky piece of landscaping and the trimmer stopped and sparks start shooting out of the cord.  ZZZZING—seems I hit the cord with the trimmer.  Still, I’m handy dyke and had adequate amounts of electrical tape to make the repair and finish the job (of course a truly handy dyke wouldn’t have sliced it in the first place, would she?).

On the career front, many fine hotel chains are now courting me—seems my renown for buzzing through mass quantities of laundry and sheet changing precedes me. 

Tears came into my life unexpectedly twice this week.  The first tears were my own, as I accidentally peeped into a window of memory of a love lost long ago.  The second were the tears of another, at the loss of one potential opportunity for love.  Just as the tears were unexpected, I know life opens unexpected doors that only need to be walked through to add to the heart’s experience.  I know her kind heart has many more doors to walk through, and I hope she opens them, strides right in, kicks off her shoes, and makes herself at home.

If you’d be interested in seeing a little J-Man in cross country action, check it out.

When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us.  ~Alexander Graham Bell

HAH Has Entered The Twilight Zone

Wow, I felt like I was tokin’ with Rod Serling in the Twilight Zone.  Did I miss posting?  The last thing I remember Friday, I was headed to Macy’s for a little bra shopping and next thing I know, it’s late Saturday night.  I woke up on my bed in covered in bras.

So, as the evening wore on, it started coming back to me.  I remember a vague image of me stepping into the lingerie section.  I was wandering aimlessly up and down the frilly aisles.   The room was kind of spinning.   I have a fuzzy memory of asking someone for help.  Looking back, I’m not entirely sure it was a Macy’s employee.  She had nice breasts though, and I asked if I could check out the softness and ease of wear of hers.  The rest is a blur.  I found this phone number by my toothbrush and I’m not quite sure what that means.  At least I don’t have to go bra shopping again for a while.

There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. ~ Rod Serling