The Problem With A Career In Nursing

I lost a day of my life to the dreaded strep throat.  Almost 24 hours of sleep in a row, except those parts where I came down to take penicillin or pick up the kids from school.  Bizarre dreams full of a cast of characters akin to Around the World in 80 Days in which every has-been movie star made a cameo appearance, only in this case it was every person I’d ever met.   I’m almost human again.  The generous donor of the strep was my weekend nursing patient, Magical Samantha.  Poor girl is still not fully recovered.   Try as we might to keep the threat of exposure to a minimum, it didn’t work.  I won’t say I was blameless there.  My only defense is I would never have made a good nurse in real life—I have absolutely no problem sleeping with my patients.

It is curious – curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare. ~ Mark Twain

Goodbye Moll, We Hardly Knew Ye

Three years ago, in rural Yolo County, over 80 Collies, and asundry other critters, including a horse, were confiscated from an old man. The old man had also had over 50 Collies confiscated from him a few years prior in another county. He moved and started hoarding all over again. You’ve got to read the story here. Really. Read it. The guy, to this day, doesn’t think he did anything wrong.

This morning, I got word that one of the only puppies from this confiscation, Molly, had died at age three. She died of acute lymphoma. This was the dog I had fostered just prior to her placement with her permanent family. She lived the life of Riley in her last 16 months. She was adopted by a very well-off couple who love Collies. Molly was one of their favorites and she had it all—ocean-front living, playmates, love, and the very best care available.

Over three years ago, when my friend Dr. Cathy Toft, of the Road Home K-9 Rescue, and a board member of the rescue I work for, was asked to help with the evaluation, care, and placement of the dogs, she started something that would end up being all she lived and breathed for over two solid years. She rallied the animal community and through donations and pro bono services offered by the veterinary school at UC-Davis and various vet clinics, provided quality end of life services for those who would never be able to find a permanent home. She also got me to sign on for a relationship with rescue that continues today. She got most of the dogs prepared and placed with loving families.

Thirty of these dogs have died prematurely so far. Several died in Cathy’s arms. She took on the hardest cases herself. Many others died of lymphoma or other diseases associated with the overuse of vaccinations and pesticides and poor breeding.

I’m not PETA freak, but why is it someone can do this and still be out walking the streets? Twice. The toll these premature deaths are taking on the adoptive families is pretty high too. My thoughts: Yolo County needs to do everything in its power to make sure this man never, ever gets another animal in his possession. I am so pissed off, I can’t see straight (about the only thing I do straight on any kind of basis)

Molly, girl, I’ll always remember you—bye, baby!

The Road Home works with older, ill, and behaviorally challenged Collies. They help secure health services and provide rehabilitative training so the animals can again be placed in a permanent home.

Seriously, True Story

So, this person I know tells me today, and really it ISN’T me..though I wish I could claim the tale for my own…she finds herself visiting the number 69 recently with her girlfriend and the girlfriend instructs her to “back up” (Chris, this image is for you buddy)…so the person I know decides it’s the perfect time for impressions and says “beep…beep…beep” as she backs up.  I dunno, I’m just thinking I’ll never look at a truck backing up the same again.

Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian: What About The Ones Who Come Out Late?

Dear Middle Aged Lesbian:

If you could give any advice to a lezzie who came out later in life, what would it be? Doesn’t need to be just one thing, but please no dissertations since my attention span –oh, is that a ladybug chilling on my screen? As I was saying, can be on any subject; just deluge me with your vast wisdom oh sage one. What is that you’re saying? Too vague of a question? Pleeeease, you are talking to a lesbian for heaven’ sake. I await your response eagerly… hold on… gotta go, the ladybug is talking to me again and she gets cranky when I don’t pay attention…

Sincerely yours,
Former Wand User

Dear FWU,

Hmmm…no dissertation?  That’s going to be tough.  I am working on my dissertation:  Taxonomies in Lesbianism:  U-Haul, Emotional Unavailability, or Cheating Dog:  Dating the World One Woman at a Time.  But that’s beside the point, and only lengthening the response, which must be annoying the hell out of you, bossy woman.  You’re lucky I’m feeling all sentimental tonight, FWU, because I’m going to go easy on you.

Ok.  Here is my advice. 

• Don’t ever assume the woman you’re with is like the women you are no longer with. 
• Don’t let sex cloud your judgment, no matter how much tectonic material moves each time you orgasm with her.  Relationships need a foundation.  Take the time to build one if you really care about her.   Trust me, if you don’t, you’ll end up back out there trying to date in 3.2 years or less.
• Open your eyes, open your heart, and be present.  Don’t idealize her.  She’s human too and she’s going to do things differently—you can’t be surprised at that possibility once the “introductory offer” expires.
• Understand what the other party is truly looking for – the big move-in isn’t necessarily it, nor necessarily a monogamous relationship.  Talk to each other.  Discuss expectations when the time is right, don’t assume.   
• Be true to yourself, above all—if she’s the right one, you won’t have to compromise yourself (refer back to #2).
• Hang onto your Wand.  It’s more fun with two players, if that’s at all possible.

This is all advice you’ve already received at some point in your life.  Live it, breathe it, be it.  Congratulations on your new relationship.  Don’t go missing any more trains unless you want to.

Crossing Ovaries for You,
MAL

I Got Me Sum Poosie

A couple of years ago, I had to go to Chicago on business.  While I was there, I swung by my hometown to visit some cousins and my great aunt.   On my first night, my cousins and I went out to enjoy all the diverse recreation Waterloo has to offer—we went bar hopping to four nearly-identical seedy, smoky bars where people wore flannel shirts or wife-beaters, drank Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, and where oddly, everyone seemed to know one of my cousins.  But, that’s another blog.  My two cousins were talking and one says to the other, “I go to the gay bar on Sundays for karaoke,”  I perked up considerably.  “Oh, where is that?”  I asked casually.  She told me and I changed the subject.  We had had a gay bar there since I was young, but you had to know how to find it, and every time I went home it was a different bar in a yet scruffier location.

The next night, after taking my great aunt out for dinner and a drink and dropping her home, I went to the much more upscale gay bar than those I remembered, which was also right in the middle of what passes for trendy there (we’ve come a long way, baby).  I met a bunch of friendly people who welcomed the returning warrior they’d never met and didn’t hold it against me that hadn’t been home in 25 years for more than a minute.  Mullets—I saw lots and lots of mullets.  But, they were all very nice.

One of them took me to the strip club across the street and introduced me around to the girls, many of whom were personal friends of my newfound friend. I’d never touched a stripper before, but one of them cozied right up to me on her break.  Then, we went back to the bar and watched a drag show.  The headliner had been shipped in all the way from Des Moines – it was the big time in Waterloo, IA that night.  We had a great time.  I bought a lot of drinks.  At the end of the night, I was rewarded by the gift of some pussy. 

I gleefully awaited my return home and waited to share my news with Uncle Doreen until our ritual weekend breakfast together.  We ate as I regaled her with tales of corporate craziness and my adventures at the gay bar back home and the strippers.  We finished our meal and started strolling down the sidewalk to our cars.  I very smoothly strutted to my car and as calmly as I could, looked at her with a guilty look on my face, and said, “Oh, and I got some pussy while I was home.” 

Now, mind you, I was still technically with my ex-partner then, but we hadn’t slept together for so long I could be technically reclassified a virgin—it was all over but packing the boxes.  I’d been through some tough times, but had never cheated on my ex. Uncle D. knew, though, I was ripe for the picking—her jaw dropped, her eyes got wide and she was, for the first time since I’ve known her, speechless.  Finally, she managed a very weak, “You….did…who…how?”  Like Superman, I put my fists on my hip, widened my stance (but, not in a Larry Craig kind of way) and said, “Damn right I did!”

I was trying not to die as I unlocked the passenger side of my car and excitedly added, “I even got a souvenir, want to see it?”

She pulled herself back from the brink of cardiac arrest with terror in her eyes as you could see her ticking through her mind what kind of souvenir that could be exactly and said, “Um, sure.”  I reached in the car and pulled this out:

Come on, it’s ME for god’s sake—you didn’t think I’d actually get any, did you? 

It’s Magic, I Know

Some of you who have been reading here a while (and thank you, by the way), know that the last couple of years have been years of transition for me.  Leaving a long relationship that should have been left years before, entering into a new one with high hopes and very sadly ending that after a few months, meeting a couple of nice women who got to a handful of dates, and then dating half the eligible over 40’s in Sacramento one bad date at a time. 

 

This past summer, I received an e-mail from someone through a personal ad.  She lived outside of my stated “geographical desirable area” within 15 miles of my house, but did seem extremely interesting, thought-provoking, and not too far away.  Still, I was pretty disheartened and fed up with the entire dating thing and had been on hiatus and in no hurry to do it again. 

 

We exchanged an occasional e-mail, which started by her saying, “I don’t have time to write, but want to…back soon!”  We had a bit of a bumpy start, both holding some strong opinions, but we looked a little deeper. Still, it didn’t keep me from trying to push her away by demanding we meet, at my convenience—then me setting the date for a month later.  She would not be deterred, for whatever insane reason, and agreed.  I half expected her to cancel, and if she didn’t, I probably would.  I just didn’t have it in me. 

 

She actually showed up on a train one night in early September.  I was there, waiting for her.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve been getting to know one another.  I think—no, I know that in all the years of dating, this is the first time it’s all been wrapped up in one package:  she’s attractive, has a big brain, loves cultural expression in many forms, is kind, funny, hot, emotionally healthy and expressive, responsible, politically aware, does a million things to make the world a better place, is thoughtful, and romantic—and, oh, yes, she cooks—well, very, very well.  She’s digging me as much as I’m digging her.  And, I really like her in addition to everything else.  Oh, and I’m CRAZY about her, did I mention that?

I was kind of wondering what this feeling is I get every time she calls or when I see her e-mail pop up in Outlook or when I catch sight of her in person.  Then, I remembered.  Her presence in my life makes me happier.

Don’t know what’s ahead, but I’m not going to think about that right now, I’m just going to experience this enchantment in the moment.  So, just thought I’d take a minute and introduce her.  She shall be called, “Magical Samantha” after Samantha Stevens, the woman of my dreams. 

Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much a heart can hold.
~Zelda Fitzgerald

HAH Guest Stars

Despite being a really shy person (seriously, stop laughing), there’s always been a part of me that wanted to be a performer.  I always imagined myself being like Jennifer Beals (or her dance stand-in) in Flashdance (but in baggy shorts and a t-shirt) or one of the kids in FAME, all lithe and limber and stuff, who could have danced and sang my way through puberty. That aside, I’m a mean chair dancer to this very day, as long as I’m sitting on it and not doing acrobatic kick-steps all around it.

For years, I spent time fantasizing about what it would be like to be an actor in NYC during the 30s and 40s being part of the old radio programs.  Back when AMC (American Movie Classics) was AMC and not a repository for rejected Lifetime for Women movies and actually played classic films, they also ran an original series about the people who worked in such a station, called Remember WENN.  That was my fantasy—to be doing what they were doing—and there it was, right there, on television for me to watch—no good reason for me to actually do it myself.  Or My Favorite Year, where the young scriptwriter on a Sid Caesar-esque early TV show who gets to hang out with the Erroll Flynn-ish bad boy, Alan Swann, and keep him out of trouble until show time.  That would suit me just fine—being a writer or radio performer involved in show business without actually having to have people see me in person!

I never went the drama route in high school—just too shy.  Never caught on to playing a musical instrument (piano teacher suggested I find another hobby and guitar teacher said come back when I could focus—which I never could).  Quit chorus in grade school to play softball.  In fact, I made very decisive and key decisions throughout my life to absolutely not be a performer. 

Until I worked for a major insurance company in Omaha (hmm, wonder what company that could have been?) and I was asked to participate in the filming of a training video.  I jumped at the chance—here was my opportunity to be a star.  So, they patted makeup on me, set me in a chair, put a phone next to my ear and had me read my script—up went the lights and… “Action”—um…oh, oh—my entire face started twitching; cheeks, lips, eyelids, mouth—I couldn’t even speak, my vocal chords were paralyzed.  I started perspiring heavily and felt faint—like the either going to pass out or puke kind of faint.  The lights blinded me and I began to see stars—I needed air, I just needed some freakin’ air.   I put the phone down, stood up and walked away, desperately trying to regain use of the muscles in my face, and find my voice, gladly leaving fame and fortune behind forever.  It was just a silly old pipe dream anyway.

But, today?  Today, I got to be the star I always wanted to be.  And, it was all thanks to my pardners over at  Starr Ann Chronicles, the best durned little cowgirl serial this side of Zorro.  I was cowgirl for the day as the new neighbor of Starr Ann and Margo Moon’s Happy Hands ranch (check out the actual true picture of me a few years ago riding Rusty—hey, get your mind out of the gutter, Rusty is a horse).   Even better, I am an absolutely AMAZING character there and can do ANYTHING, including cook well.  All the girls love me and I throw fabulous parties.  I am so digging my new fantasy life. 

And, while you’re there, please vote for the magnifico Margo at Blog Interviewer, she’s in the Top 10 and edging up and just needs a little more help to win those fabulous prizes.  You can vote from work and home every single day…I know, you can’t wait to get over there.  Neither can I!

Thanks All You Freakin’ Law & Order Politicians, You Suck

Yes, Guy, I stole this concept today…I’m tired and have only half the allotment of brain cells…remember, imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Bastards.  J-Man came home today with all his gift cards ripped off out of his wallet and yet another ID card stolen after they broke into his gym locker.  They broke the lock.  They took his cell phone (but fortunately, the gym teacher found it in a closet of all places).  They’d have taken his money, but he had that stolen two weeks ago, along with his ID.  All of these things need to be replaced, and guess who foots the bill?  Me—not those little bastards raised by bigger bastards who apparently think that’s just fine and dandy raising the next generation of thugs and bandits.  All of this in the school, in a locker room where anyone could have walked in and caught them.  And, poor J-Man, who knows I am not able to replace his lost loot.  Why…I have half a mind (and I really do today, by the way)…it was a very good weekend.

I’m sick of the asshole kids who break glass all over the park sidewalks, thinking it’s funny for some reason as they watch all the dogs walking through the park.  Or the asswipes who think it’s just fine to break into houses, knowing full well the cops won’t even bother coming out.  Thankfully, my burglar was stupid enough to pour paint all over my house a while back, or I’d never have seen the women in blue.  Or even those asshats who spin donuts on the street next to a crosswalk, tossing out beer cans as they hoot and howl with idiotic glee.  Or steal cars right out of the driveway just because they can.

Seriously, once this high school thing is done, I am so moving to the country where I can just worry about meth labs, those inbred cousin country crime syndicates (you know, where they sit around on the porch playing the same bizarre song on the banjo all day as the meth addicts come by to pick up their stuff even as their teeth fall out of their mouth and spend all night poaching in the woods for some lost kayakers so they can get their squeal on), or white supremacist survivalists who think lesbians are a threat to the American way of life.  I’d move to another country, but, I have a feeling it sucks there too.

Thank God I love people so fucking much.

 

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind,
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

~ Bill Shakespeare

Lori’s Trip To The Local Farmer’s Market

Please note, scale of both are 18”.

My Linkie Love Finger Is Broken Now

I totally love blogging because of all the information I absorb and the very cool and wonderful people I meet.  It’s far different than a million cyber years ago when I used to entertain myself dropping by special interest chat rooms.  The people are bright and literate and all have an unique voice.   They are all, I sense, people I would love to hang out with in real time.  Some of them I have, and so far, that’s borne itself out. 

I’ve learned to speak Pirate over at the fine, strappin’ Cap’n Dyke’s place.  I’ve learned to speak cowgirl over at Margo’s place. 

I’ve learned about Maine at Mike’s and Dried Salmon County at Guy’s.  Ta’s experiences since she moved to Oregon have just about convinced me that it would be a great place to retire (but not to find a funded library).  Ann’s reintroduced me to Texas and LBP to England.  Been hanging out to see CC make her big transition back home.  Mid-staters CJ, Tekc, and Boo keep me connected to that part of the country.

I get great pleasure reading Clio as she figures it all out and watch as she begins to share more as she intertwines the talented writer, feminist, and intellect with the rest of her personae on her blog. 

I’ve watched Deborah fall in love and Nina regain a lost love.    I’m watching Lauren traverse coming out in high school and Bubake and RC traverse coming out in middle age.   Jester just makes me laugh.  And M~ and N~, who have found in each other something quite wonderful.

I go to Karina’s for pure artistry and Morse’s for art and politics. My cyber punk dose of Libertarianism I get from Becky and my Liberal I get from Chris. I get my queer news from AAL and my blue news from Blue Gal.  When I need to see it laid out plain as day, I visit Pam. 

Just now, I’m exploring that whole East Coast blogger thing going on with Suzanne, Heather, Pat, Val, Tina & Jess, WWG, Otter, Bent, Lynn and more.

So many of them are also moms, but my favorite mommy blogger is Robin.  Her family is the epitome of the modern gay family—loving, caring, nurturing, committed—oh, wait, that must be why those right-wing fundies are objecting to gay marriage, right—it will mess up the kids?

I’m getting around my own town.  I hang out with Melly, who showed up on my blog one day about a year ago.  She and Dave got me out of my house after months of not going anywhere except San Diego by introducing me to the local foodies.  I’ve watched Dawn move from self-employed graphic artist to second year high school art teacher and create resources for teachers all over the country where none existed.   I keep up with the urban crowd via RT Rider and RT Driver, articulate gents both.   Beanie always has a dry observation that makes me laugh and I love watching young Matthew achieve his dreams.

Wow, and I know I’ve left a lot out, so forgive me…but every blog on the blogroll is well worth reading and I hope you’ll check them all out. 

If someone had told me when I started this that I would actually grow quite attached to people I’ve never met, I’d have called them quite daft.  Wait…someone hand me a freakin’ Kleenex, I’m getting all weepy and shit.  Okay, I’m not, but still, you get the drift, right? 

This was going to be a brief sentence reminding everyone to go check out my updated blogroll, but, as usual, I got long-winded.  Going to go try and find something to wear for “Casual Friday,” the only day I can have pockets in my pants.