Let’s knock Heather at Wishful Writer into the Top 3 spot at BlogInterviewer - come on, we can do it - use your super powers (at work and home) - see which super powers you can call upon below!
You are Superman
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You are mild-mannered, good, |
Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian is going local – yes, local. I know you are just as excited as I am. I could go international, like Dear Abby, or national or even state-wide, but, to date, I’ve not been asked. So, local it is.
Sactown Media is launching in the coming weeks. And <drumroll>, Hahn at Home will be part of this “underground, independent, alternative information resource unlike anything Sacramento has seen before!” That’s what they told me to say.
I’ve never been underground. I wonder if they will issue me a black beret and black turtleneck? I’ve been practicing my Beat Generation look and Jack Kerouac writing style for minutes now. I’ve almost got the finger snapping down. Still, I’m a bit iffy on the whole, develop a coffee habit or become a junkie thing–and I don’t like dimly lit rooms, except the one I call my brain.
So, rock and roll on those Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian letters here at Hahn at Home and get into practice. I’m here to lend an ear. As well as my freely-offered advice. I may bite, but in a good way. MAL publishes here on HAH on Saturdays, so letter deadline is Friday morning!
What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take? ~ Jack Kerouac
When Karen at Earth2Karen hit me with this meme, I was at a loss. First childhood memory…hmmm. It’s not one memory, but snipettes of memory from the time I was age 4.
We lived on Edwards Street in Waterloo, IA. Back then, it was a poor, mostly African-American neighborhood on the North end of town. This was never a good neighborhood—last time I went to that street, a drug deal was going down between two hard core gang members in the middle of the street in front of me–and me in my then white Dodge minivan (I know, can’t ya’ just die?). The house was extremely small; a little box, really– one bedroom with another room that was called a bedroom, but was more like a closet. It was the room between my parent’s bedroom and the bathroom. My little sister was with us—and was already toddling.
Next door was a little neighborhood store—one of those places your mom would send you for a quart of milk or a loaf of bread and maybe let you keep the change to spend on penny candy. Just like my great grandma’s little house, the store was covered in that fake brick tar shingle. The store was called “Vern’s.” Vern & Goldie owned the house we lived in. On the other side of the store was an elementary school—all the kids walked by our house every day after school. I remember my mom saying we needed to move before I started school, because I was not going to go there. The back yard was tiny, surrounded by a short picket fence, abutting a cinder alley.
I remember going to Vern & Goldie’s and hanging out to talk. They loved kids and made a living from them. I got to talk to big kids when I was there. I’m sure the hard-earned pennies of 300 elementary school kids buying penny candy kept them open for years after the big grocery chains shut most places like theirs down.
Once, I was playing in the backyard and mom was in the house. I decided to open the gate to the alley. Off I wandered, exploring the entire length of the alley on our block. In a moment, I was lost. My mom was frantic. My feet hurt because I was walking on cinders. She found me and I did not venture out that way again.
I saw more than I wanted once when my dad forgot to shut the bathroom door, not knowing I was still awake. Ew.
My father chased a bat around with a broom all over the living room, finally killing it dead. Me, terrified it would turn me into a vampire if he didn’t.
We got our first wagon and I dragged Sistah up and down the sidewalk. That wagon played a part in our lives for many, many years after its first appearance.
We moved soon after into their first and only co-owned home. We’d have about six more years as a family. I thought it a shame I didn’t remember more of the times we did live as a family, but then I think—it’s probably good I don’t.
If you’d like to participate, please do.
Every man’s memory is his private literature. ~Aldous Huxley
I’ve thought all day how parents who’ve been through the teenage years never tell you the full story about parenting teens–otherwise the birth rate would be 0.0.
It’s really hard sometimes, having Notorious B.E.N. out of my purview. This is one good kid. I’ve said it before. He is the “perfect” child everyone wishes for—perfect in the sense he’s easy, outgoing, funny, and caring. Not so easy in that he has always been so very private, we haven’t known what is going on in his head. Sometimes, I worry for him in his inability to share his thoughts and feelings. I get boys. They don’t talk feelings. They are rarely in touch with them, so what’s to talk about? I’ve never doubted he’s been raised right, given a solid foundation, opportunities to make choices, and held responsible if those choices are faulty.
Last night, something life-altering happened to the “perfect” child. I had a message at 6:30 this morning from his father. I needed to call right away. Every terrible thing imaginable went through my mind, remembering my own Saturday nights out as a 17-year-old. I prayed, by breathing in and breathing out, that the words out of his father’s mouth wouldn’t be words I would have echoing in my head for the rest of my life.
“Notorious B. was arrested last night.” I sure didn’t think those words would be a relief.
Seems the boy was doing what untold millions of teens before him had done. Smoked pot. Only, he got caught doing it in a closed park. I just got off the phone with him. His father had the hard part, but Notorious B. dreaded talking to me for some reason. I discussed how doing stupid stuff took away choice. How I love him. Choices he had made now will not come to fruition. How I wish I could wrap him up and hug him until he got it. How he needed to dig himself out. How I love him. And, tomorrow is a new day to start over. Parts are not fixable. Parts are. He’s got to be the one to do it. He thought he could. How I love him. You can fuck up, but don’t be fucked up. And, I love him.
We’ll see what he does with his situation. He’s paying for his own attorney. I did learn he wasn’t “booked”—no fingerprints or photos—so perhaps it was just a misdemeanor ticket—these are the times I want to scream at his father—ask the right fucking questions!
Dating and getting to know someone is always a tricky thing. It’s an in-joke, this whole lesbian keep-the-girlfriends-as-friends thing, but there is some basis in fact. Be sure to see Michele Paradise’s “10 Rules for Lesbian Dating” (see Part II for the coverage of the friend issue) on You Tube. Check out Michelle’s website too – isn’t she a hottie?
A while back, I met nice woman. Surface was good. Rockets didn’t go off or anything, but she bore a closer look. I’ve come a long way, baby – I heard, in subtext, the most amazing things. She had no personal power. She was happy to parcel out blame to everyone, but never take responsibility for herself or the choices she made and never grabbed the opportunity she was given to make the changes she needed to fully live as an adult. Her parents, ex-husband, coworkers, and friends had all repeatedly let her down. It was a life full of, “If only…” When do we toss aside blaming others and grab the reigns ourselves to allow ourselves to develop to our potential—all that negativity just holds us back, right? It wasn’t a matter of judgment, but a matter of fit. I was on alert, and signs pointed—hell, giant neon 30-foot danger signs were flashing at me—life is too short for bitter. I never slept with her. I could have—10 years ago, I probably would have.
I like to think that I provided a disengagement from the situation that was kind and caring. Rejection, on any level, is never easy, but I had a well of empathy for being on the other end of that conversation and I have no regrets about the way it was handled.
Dating is a grand experiment in finding fit. How can we create a healthy, mutually-supportive situation, where our needs are mostly met, we can create a solid friendship, and still have a scintillating romantic relationship—all in one, gooey, wonderful package?
I think I’m on to something. Magical Samantha keeps surprising me…getting sick of hearing about her yet?
by Uncle Doreen
Sung to the tune of San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your) Hair by Scott McKenzie
If you use Teleflora
Beware your flowers will not get there
If you use Teleflora
Their customer service will not care
For those who use Teleflora
Order orchids, carnations will be there
When you use Teleflora
Gentle people start to pull out their hair
All across the nation such an aggravation
People in commotion
There’s a whole corporation with no good explanation
People in commotion screwing your emotions
For those who use Teleflora
You are flushing money down the drain
If twice you use Teleflora
Then honey, you’re just insane
If you use Teleflora
Beware your flowers will not get there…
In brief, I had a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with our friends Mellie & Dave, Dave’s folks, and Uncle Doreen. The food and company was fantastic. Mel has a nice little tradition where everyone has to bring an item with them that they are willing to part with, but has meaning to them. When each person selects something that speaks to them, the donator tells the story behind the item. Tonight, I came home with a small vial of lavender and myrrh that Mellie got when she used to belong to a woman’s drum circle. Very cool. I felt very fem-centric in that moment. It was a visit to remember, for many reasons. I thank them kindly for their friendship and hospitality. Oh, and for the leftovers!
Don’t forget, as the month comes to an end, to go vote for two very talented writers, Wishful Writer and Starr Ann Chronicles at BlogInterviewer.
I don’t have time to read crap. I don’t feel any compulsion to finish a book if it’s bad. I don’t read blogs that are badly written. I will totally read and re-visit blogs written about people I hold no common ground with, if it’s well-written. They can even be Republicans. When I do find a talented writer, I love to sing their praises (albeit in an totally off-key way) and today’s case is no different.
When I first started exploring blogs before I had a blog on my own, I ran across a Sacramento blog called A Gag Reflex. I read a chapter and was absolutely riveted. But, being the bone-head I am sometimes, I didn’t bookmark it and spent weeks trying to find it again. Was it, “Ball Gag,” “Gag Me With A Spoon,” “Gaggles of Geese?” I couldn’t remember. Finally, I remembered! I bookmarked it and read on…I couldn’t stop. I was sneaking chapters in between meetings and while on conference calls. When it ended, I kept saying to myself, “This needs to be a book.” Check it out and let me know what you think!
“Finally, after 13 years of searching… I found the man who was rumored to be my father- and asked him to take a DNA Test… while I blogged about it. Then, before I could edit my spelling… a whole bunch of incredible readers actually started reading it… and reading it… and reading it. Next thing you know I’ve got a lit agent and a little book deal… not that it’s been easy mind you. This blog documents the search for my identity… and the discovery of my sanity. Join me as I battle personal demons and sort through a wack-ass legacy…left to me by my dead, drug addict, and much loved con-artist Mother.”
Great news—Cori’s blog will be published in book form by Seal Press in the Fall of 2008. Don’t wait until she’s published, go take a look now.
Cori is also a talented jewelry designer. She asked me to let you know about her new site—so I’m here to tell you. You need cool jewelry for your girlfriend this holiday season. The place to get it is at Cori’s Etsy. Seriously, they are hot! And, what the hell, it’s always good to pump some money into women-owned businesses, eh?
I’m not a big believer in most holidays. I do, however, believe in the time off from work that often comes from them. I’m just as excited to have an extra day off as I was when I was 15 and we had a school day off. It’s t-i-m-e, baby. Something of which I have so little, and crave so much.
This one marks the beginning of the time I start redrawing commuter routes to begin the annual avoidance of many major streets and thoroughfares as the city wraps itself in a one, long, manic shopping spree. It means the rains will be coming soon and the cold has arrived, so I won’t be able to walk around my patio barefoot for a while. I will wake in darkness and fall asleep in darkness. Soon, I’ll fire up the furnace and wait for that funny smell caused by disuse to briefly waft through the air.
I think of Thanksgivings past, which tend, as I’ve gotten older, to blur into one sentimental ball of memory–playing with cousins, deftly snagging the drumstick and gizzard, and getting to break the wishbone as was my Grandmother-given right as oldest grandchild.
Since leaving home at 17, I have spent but one Thanksgiving home with my family of origin. In between, I’ve shared meals with friends and lovers, and now, with children—my family of choice in whatever place I find myself.
And, while still pissed off that we continue to perpetuate the history of the conquerors in our celebration of this particular holiday, I will indeed give thanks tomorrow. Thanks for all the opportunities, love, and lessons I’ve received from both my family of origin and my family of choice these past 46 Thanksgivings.
Hope yours is as abundant.
Honor the sacred.
Honor the Earth, our Mother.
Honor the Elders.
Honor all with whom we
share the Earth:
Four-leggeds, two-leggeds,
winged ones,
Swimmers, crawlers,
plant and rock people.
Walk in balance and beauty.
~ Native American Elder
Thanks to Cris at That Side of the Moon for giving me something to write about today.
My uncle once: knocked up someone besides his wife – and it’s come back to haunt his entire family 45 years later.
Never in my life: used any drug harder than pot (a million years ago)–which according to our Governator, shouldn’t be illegal.
When I was five: I crushed on my first teacher, Mrs. Primrose – and Tina Messenbrink (T. on left).
High School was: the holding cell during a prison term that lasted way too long.
I will never forget: the moment I fell in love the first time.
I once met: Ronald Reagan – don’t be hatin’ on me.
There’s this girl I know who: looks real good looking at me looking at her.
Once, at a bar: I look at the clock, the pool table, and how many quarters are up.
By noon, I’m usually: about done for the day and could use a nap.
Last night: spent watching Sarah Sidle make a less than dramatic exit from CSI.
If I only had: more time.
Next time I go to church: the building may crumble.
Terry Schiavo: who the fuck does Jeb Bush think he is?
What worries me most: is what will happen with my daughter when I’m gone.
When I turn my head left, I see: my beautiful, 2-year-old tricolor smooth Collie, Gina.
When I turn my head right, I see: the darkness and my reflection in the window.
What I miss most about the eighties: the fact I was still traveling the world.
If I was a character in Shakespeare, I’d be: Touchstone—no, Jacques—no, Touchstone, er, Jacques—in “As You Like It.”
By this time next year: I’ll have figured out a way to make everybody in my life happy and still get what I want.
A better name for me would be: Splash, my Girl Scout counselor name – far more indicative of my playful nature (seen only by those I know very well)
I have a hard time understanding: abuse, injustice, idiocy (were I to make a joke about this, a priest, a Congressman, and George Bush would be walkin’ into a bar)
If I ever go back to school I’ll : get that master’s in museum science
You know I like you if: I talk to you for more than 10 seconds. I’ve got a little Calvin Coolidge going on. Remember the joke? Woman walks up to President Calvin Coolidge at a White House reception, and she shakes his hand—“Mr. President, I bet my husband I could get you to say three words.” Coolidge shook her hand and said, “You lose.”
If I ever won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: Al Gore, the inventor of the Internets.
Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: people I’d take to the beach for a little beachwalking, stone-skimming, and seashell collecting.
Take my advice, never: ride your bike with no hands and then wonder what it would be like to also close your eyes at the same time, and actually try it.
My ideal breakfast is: Mountain Dew, two eggs over medium, three slices of bacon, extra crispy hash browns, and wheat toast with apricot jam washed down with an overdose of Tricor.
A song I love, but do not own is: I don’t own any anymore, thanks to the burglar, so it’s wide open – and I need to replace several hundred of my favorites. Probably The Cure’s Love Song right now
If you visit my hometown, I suggest: doing a U-turn.
Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: flashbacks to the early 80s living in Europe
Why won’t people: just do things my way?
If you spend the night at my house: plan on spending it with me if you’re cute! Oops. That was pre-Magical Samantha. Now, I’d say, “I will provide you with a very nice guest room with private bath on the main floor. Except Sela Ward or Michelle Paradise – for them, I’d make an exception.
I’d stop my wedding for: I don’t believe in weddings.
The world could do without: the twisting of religious concepts—it’s the root of all evil in the world—in the Middle East, in the US, everywhere.
I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: sleep with a man. I’m heterophobic that way.
My favorite blonde is: my mom.
Paper clips are more useful than: rubber bands.
If I do anything well, it’s: kiss.
And by the way: 46 is the best year of my life!
Last year, the burglar sucked it all out of me. Almost to the day, it’s been one year since someone tried to strip me of my possessions and my dignity in a very personal way. It would be months until resolution and the issuance of a restraining order that gave me a sense of security once more. Oh, that and a move far, far away. Last Thanksgiving found me alone with a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup and soppy old movies on Lifetime while the kids visited their other family.
Last Christmas, I felt as though I had no home at all and didn’t decorate for the holidays. This was always a huge thing at my house, yet I had no heart for it. I felt a lot like Viktor Yushchenko after his poisoning…he knew something was up, but he didn’t know how he’d come to be poisoned, how deadly the dioxin was, and what exactly had been done to him–much less the far-reaching impact the poisoning would have on his life.
After confabbing with the children, we decided to go for it this year. I had to buy a tree again, which really wasn’t in the budget, but I did today. It’s nice. Thursday, we’ll be joining Melly and Dave for our Thanksgiving dinner. I’m grateful for my friends. Friday, we’ll be decorating our new home. Christmas Carols will be played. Hot cider will be made. We will tell stories about the tree ornaments as they come out of the box—each one has a history. I will wrap presents. I’ve already done a good chunk of my shopping, which is quite amazing to me and tells me that I am truly back to typical (I can’t use “normal” because Em says that just doesn’t suit our house nor the people in it) after two years of transition. Magical Samantha will be helping us—I’m absolutely thrilled that she wants to participate in the “other” part of my life, here in my home, where my center is located.
You’re Catch-22!
by Joseph Heller
Incredibly witty and funny, you have a taste for irony in all that you see. It seems that life has put you in perpetually untenable situations, and your sense of humor is all that gets you through them. These experiences have also made you an ardent pacifist, though you present your message with tongue sewn into cheek. You could coin a phrase that replaces the word “paradox” for millions of people.
Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.
