Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Windham Whispers

Non-coincidently, this story also took place in October. It was the year 2002, and my girlfriend and I went to go to this bed and breakfast in Windham, NY. The foliage was just gorgeous and it was the perfect time to escape the busyness of the city. We only planned to go for the weekend, so we left on Friday morning and got there by mid-afternoon.

The bed & breakfast was this ‘gay friendly’ establishment that encouraged people of all kinds to visit. This nice lady and her life partner owned it. When we drove up to the house, it was this beautiful and charming white colonial, with black shutters. There was a candle lit in every window which gave it a warm feeling. It was overcast that day, a little darker outside than usual. When we got out of the car, we noticed that there were men working on one part of the house to add on another addition. (This was a detail they failed to mention.)

Madelene and I walked into the home, and we were greeted by the owner’s entire family. They all introduced themselves graciously, and began talking about the history of the house—which was quite interesting. The house was used back in the early thirties for the mafia. They held meetings in this house up in the country. An old Italian man sold it and it remained untouched for quite some time…until "Sarah" (the owner--who will remain anonymous with a different name) bought it with her partner to start a bed & breakfast.

Sarah brought us up to our room to get settled. “Here you go girls,” she said, as we peeked our heads into a room that looked much like an eerie dollhouse. Everything was pink and frilly. At the end of the room, it narrowed off into an attic-like roof, where it gets lower. I was puzzled that they gave us this room. It was small, and very childlike. There was this tiny little table with two chairs around it. On the table there were two mini bottles of brandy with two small cordial glasses. The bathroom was small, yet very clean. I just had a bad feeling about it. Sarah explained that there were no other guests in this house during that weekend for some reason. Their peak time is in the winter, because they are located right near a skiing resort. Fair. I totally understood, and was quite pleased with this actually. I needed some peace and quiet.

After unpacking a few items, I decided I wanted to see another room. This one was freaking me out. I walked down the long cherry wood colored staircase, into the living room, where the family was congregated.

“Is everything okay?” Sarah asked, as she got up from the couch.
“Oh, everything is just beautiful. I was just wondering if I could possibly see the other rooms by any chance, since there is no one else is staying here this weekend.”
“Why sure! Follow me, I’m so sorry I didn’t offer that to you!”

I can see she was very sincere about this- and it was her first year in the business. She guided me upstairs, and we grabbed Madelene to come with us. We walked across the hall into this other room.

This was the room. I don’t know what told me ‘this is it’—but I said, “Yes!” It was so nice. It had nice dark colors, rich blues, and mahogany furniture. The curtains were white and beautiful lace that flowed as the breeze swept through the room, since it was just cleaned. They were airing it out. The bathroom was gorgeous and all redone antique style. There was a bigger table with two chairs that had the same two mini bottles of brandy on it. I could see that this room was totally prepared for a guest. I wasn’t concerned about a thing.

After Sarah left the room, I began to unpack happily. I was so thrilled. As I started to open the drawers and add my clothes and other items in, I noticed a few flies swarming near the window frantically and erratically. They had the window open all the way without a screen, so that the room would be fully aired out. I didn’t think twice about it. Flies never hurt anyone. But why were their so many when it was so bitterly cold that day? I didn’t get it, but I didn’t care. I just shut the windows and turned up the heat a tad.

Our phone rang, and it was Sarah inviting us down for some wine and cheese before we headed out to the nearby village to have some dinner. I was delighted actually, and wasn’t used to the b&b treatment. This was my first time staying at one of these establishments.

Madelene and I got showered and dressed up, and headed downstairs to meet Sarah and her family.

“Well hello,” the mother says, staring at me intensely, “I’m surprised that you wanted the room you requested.”
“Oh, well it’s lovely—I’m much more comfortable in that room.”
“Really??!!” She said, almost gasping. She even shot a glance over at Sarah, as Sarah began to slug down her cabernet, trying not to speak.
“Please, join us.” The mother says, pouring wine in our glasses and pushing the cheese platter over towards us.

They inquired about our lives, as we inquired about theirs, and how they came about deciding to own a bed & breakfast. We felt at home. There was a beautiful fire that they made, and the whole place was just so inviting. The people were amazingly friendly. But wouldn’t you be, if we were your only customers? They were a bit ‘too friendly’. I just chucked it up to desperation.

After our cheese and wine, we headed off to a steakhouse nearby. After dinner, we came back home and went upstairs to our room. I got undressed and ready for bed. We decided to break open those mini bottles of brandy and talk a bit. We had a great time and just spoke of how we dreamed of having a house this cozy…and just as nice. Time went on, and it was getting very late. We decided to go to bed.

(Yes, I’m editing a lot out…So forget about it!)

While trying to sleep, I began hearing people whispering. There weren’t any breaks in the whispers either. It was as if two people were enthusiastically whispering about us. I lifted my head to hear it better—and then it went away. I thought the owners were probably gossiping like two little hens talking about the two lesbians that just came in that day. I put my head back on the pillow, and the whispers were back! I tried listening intently, but all I can hear were whispers without words. It was dark in the room, and yet, I saw Madelene slowly sneak her hand over to the nightstand to grab her glasses. Did she hear this too?

“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Okay.”

I put my head back on the pillow, and again—whispers! So I got out of bed and decided to put my ear against the floor to hear if there were any whispers coming from below.

Nothing.

“What are you doing?” Madelene asked.
“Do you hear that?”
“Yes!!! I can’t sleep because of it! And it’s coming from my pillow!!!” She said, relieved that she wasn’t the only one going crazy here.

We tested it out a million times. Each time, it was coming from the pillow. I even picked up my pillow and put it to my ear. It was there! We were up all…fricken…night. By 7am, I was in the shower, and packing up our things. Madelene wanted to at least go downstairs to have breakfast with the family.

“No. I will not go down there- I am not hungry! I want to go home. You go have breakfast, and I’ll pack up everything.” I said, hurrying to get the hell outa’ that house.

When Madelene came back into the room after she ate breakfast, we decided to come up with some weird plan to get out of there early without disrespecting the owners. We didn’t know what excuse to use.

“I’ll just say I have a family emergency to tend to. I don’t care if they don’t refund us back the money—let’s just go!” I said.
“Okay.”

We walked down the staircase and into the living room to meet Sarah and her mother. We apologized for our abrupt exit, and explained that we had a family emergency. She didn’t look surprised. She gave us back our entire amount of money we paid to stay there and wished us well.

Later that week, we went searching for information regarding that house and its history. It was stated in documents we found, that the mafia would have these meetings up in the country at this house for privacy. There were reportedly deaths that occurred in this place, due to the nature of who owned it. People were killed and murdered in these rooms—especially the left wing room that was located in the corner…which was our room. That was the ‘main room’ where the murders occurred.

Remember I remarked about the flies and how erratic they were? A lot of people and ghost hunters believe that when you see flies zipping around erratically—especially when it’s cold outside, it’s usually a sign of a spiritual presence. There were many of them before we left dinner. The night we stayed there, I had a fight with this one fly that nearly defeated me!

I don’t want to give this place a bad name, because Sarah and her mom were so graciously nice to us—but all I could say is, be aware of a gay friendly bed & breakfast located in Windham, NY. I won’t say which one it is…but there’s only one. I wish them the best in business, I’m just sad to see they bought a house with such a traumatic history to it. But at least their realtor released this information to them, before they bought the house...and I am very grateful that Sarah released some of this information to us as well.

Look up the history of any bed & breakfast…I’m sure they have a ghost story or two to tell.

Monday, October 30, 2006

A Trip to "Hell"

In October of 1987, I met a girl named Cheryl in school. We rode the bus together when I lived in upstate New York. We had a lot of the same interests. We had four wheel motorcycles, traveled through the Appalachian trails and hung out with the same friends. We always gravitated to the nearby firehouse parking lot to play kickball with the other kids. She always invited me over, but her house was up the road on top of this huge hill. It looked spooky.

One day I took her up on her offer. She invited me to come over after school. I could get off the bus with her instead of my usual stop. My mother kept begging me not to go there. I didn’t know why she didn’t like Cheryl, but she kept saying, “It’s not that I don’t like her, just don’t go there!” I never knew why my mother kept insisting me not to visit my friend.

Curiosity got the best of me of course, and I ended up getting off at her stop. I remember looking straight up at a desolate hill full of overgrown grass that probably has never been mowed, and broken down white fences surrounding this three story white house, with many little windows all over it. The walk up the hill seemed to last forever, and the feeling I got while walking inside was incredible.

We first walked into the kitchen. It looked very industrial, with high ceilings, an old sink that big restaurants use and yellowy stained tiled walls. The living room was huge. The odd part about it was, there was hardly any furniture in it but an old couch and a television set with rabbit ears. The coffee table with a skimpy little wooden staple just to put beverages and snacks on. Everything was dusty. I remembered that much.

“Deb, you gotta see this! When my parents and I moved in here, this was still here—come inside this room!” Cheryl said, as she took my hand and guided me down a long hallway all the way down to a door with a frosted window on it that said, “BAR”.

We walked inside, and to my left, was a long wooden bar with stools beside it. The rest of the room had old tables—much like the structure of her coffee table inside her living room. Everything was dusty in there too. I looked around, and there were little porch-like screened in windows on each side of the room. In fact, the entire room had a separate entrance to it as well.

“This used to be a biker bar way back in the early sixties to late seventies.” Cheryl said.
“Oh cool.” I replied, not knowing what else to say. I didn’t know they had bars up in my area, since we lived in a very woodsy neighborhood. There was even a bar across the street near the lake. I looked around some more, and then followed Cheryl back out into the hallway, where we came from.

Then we heard a loud noise along with some screeching sounds; much like someone moving furniture around.

We walked slowly back towards the door that said, “BAR” on it. She opened it up and screamed, “Oh shit!” I walked in, and noticed all the stools were on top of the bar, and all of the chairs were on top of the tables. We ran back into the kitchen. The entire place started shaking—pots were moving and dishes and plates inside the cabinets were clanking due to the vibrations. I picked up the receiver of the phone that was on the wall. I remember it was one of those old ITT light green wall phones. I dialed my mother, and stuttered, as I tried to ask her to pick me up. My hands were shaking, and I could barely get the receiver back on it’s cradle.

“Come wait with me outside Cheryl!” She walked me outside, and began telling me that this was a common occurrence in her home. She was used to it, but wasn’t that afraid anymore. I nearly fainted out of fear! She was only there with her parents for a couple of years, but I don’t think I could ever get used to that kind of activity in my home. I was already done with the ‘boogieman phase’ while growing up, and realized there were no such thing as ghosts…until I encountered this.

My mother came driving up the hill in her car. I said my goodbyes to Cheryl and hopped in the car.

“Are you okay?” My mother asked. How could I tell her what happened, after she had told me for many years that there were no such thing as ghosts.
“I’m fine. I just got scared mom. Nothing happened…I just want to go home.” I replied, as I sobbed like a big baby.
“Good. I’m glad you called me. You sure nothing happened?”
“Yeah.”

I kept my mouth shut for years. I didn’t want people thinking I was freaking out. They would have sent me to some psyche ward or juvenile center for whacks. I would have been riding that small minivan bus to school instead. (Years later, they ended up giving our neighborhood that bus anyway!)

When I got home, I had dinner, watched some TV, and then went to sleep. I will never, ever forget the dream I had that night. It was so vivid, that it was practically real.

In the dream, I was walking down a cement staircase into a dungeon-like church. There were torches and candles all over the walls, lighting up the stairwell. To my right, there was a huge room with cathedral ceilings. A crowd of people prayed around a circle. A pentagram was in the center of this circle they were praying around. The candles that were on the magnificent sculpted tables were stunningly beautiful—yet eerie. There was gothic architecture everywhere and windows from the middle ages. The floor was designed with beautiful black stone-like tiles that were strategically placed to show you where to go—almost like a path.

I first approached a man that looked like Vlad Tepes, (Dracula), but not so tacky looking. He was handsome and well dressed. Silently, he reached out for my hand to take me to the circle. He was just like one of the elders at the Christian churches guiding you to your seat. Same concept.

Long dream short---this dream interpreted what hell would look like. It’s not some place where you’re constantly in flames. It’s living with earthly desires having the same negative emotions forever and ever. See, people who don’t believe in heaven, simply are satisfied with the offer Satan has for you.

For instance, you can live in constant lust, having sex with anyone you want without the thought of, “I’m gonna go to hell for this!” (‘Cause you’re already there.) You can have as much money as you want. You can buy absolutely anything you want at any time. Materialistic things are at your fingers. You basically can live out your wildest fantasies without it being a “sin” anymore.

Here’s the catch: You have to live with depression, anxiety, feelings of guilt and remorse. You have to live with physical pain and still feel as though you’re constantly living in the carnal nature. Pain and suffering is something that is attached to the extreme highs of earthly pleasures. This is hell.

Think about this. The pentagram symbolizes all the qualities of earth: Wood, fire, earth metal and water. These are all “of the earth”. God, the Holy Ghost, and all of our own spirits are not of this earth. So in Satanism, they worship the extremities of the positive nature that earth has to offer, but they also have to deal with the negative aspects that the world has to offer for the rest of eternity.

With that dream, I now understand what hell is. It’s almost like living on earth forever basically.

Aside from the dream, and into reality, I did have spiritual experiences that enabled me to believe that there's SO much better to be offered. Our bodies are so heavy, and we’re always in pain, but our tolerance to it all has surpassed the levels of basic feeling. Just to pick up your arm is too much effort. Just to even breathe is too much effort. We’re so used to it, that we don’t even realize how hard our bodies are working. Our spirit suffers here on earth as well. Emotion turmoil as well as spiritual conflict all go hand-in-hand with the struggle that humankind has to endure here on earth. There is nothing like an outer body experience from the positive forces of God. He has shown me that His feeling of love and His mere presence is a million times greater than having 100 orgasms. I’m telling you this in a blunt manner, because I want you to understand how we feel, when we’re in the throws of passion—thinking it has to be the best feeling in the entire world.

It isn’t…compared to what God has to offer. Believe me, I know, and I have felt this—so I am grateful. I have been to both spectrums of the good and bad. I have felt the heaviness of hell, and the wonderful feeling of effortless euphoria of heaven. And it wasn’t even at its full capacity!

Satan lures you in, by thinking there’s no such thing as “hell” per se, there’s just things down at his place that you would have fun with. True, true… But, the thing he doesn’t mention is that it’s an eternal ticket to life on earth, but ten times worse. He will entice you by giving you everything you have ever wanted here on earth. It’s lame, because he basically cheats you out of the greatness of heaven. There is no comparison.

Ever wonder why people worship Satan? I've always asked this question. “How can people worship the devil if they know that they’re going to be cast into a pit of fire?”

Because the devil insists that it’s all good down there. It’s what “you” want. It’s what you’ve always desired. He’ll even tap into your deepest forbidden desires and use that to catch your attention. He’ll come as an angel of light—a total disguise from what you’re use to imagining him as. Total deception.

Now granted, my experience with ‘hell’, has only been a dream (or nightmare) if you will…but I remember things so vividly, that they all come flooding back with details of things I’ve seen, people I met and places I’ve gone. It was all too real. On the other hand, you also have the right to believe that when I had my “Godly spiritual encounter’, I was probably under a psychotic moment of some sort. That’s fine. For me, it was real. It was unbelievably earth shattering to witness both. I have more of an understanding of what is deceiving and what is truthfully all love and greatness. Two ends of the spectrum.

So now, I’m in the middle of the extreme spectrums, telling you about my experiences. Why am I telling you this? Why am I choosing to tell you now? Is it because it’s close to Halloween? Is it because I’m going off on one of my religious rants? Or is it for another reason?

The other day, my mother sat me down and told me what happened at the old bar they used to go to… The one Cheryl lived in. I had no knowledge of this. She chose to tell me 'now'.

In the late sixties, my mother and father would go over to the bar. It was on the borderline of New Jersey and New York. Back then, New York had a state law that people 18 and over could drink. In New Jersey, the age was 21 to drink. So kids that were 18 yrs old would drive up to the New York border to go to this bar. Hundreds of people would be crammed in this barroom full of draft beer and shots of hard whiskey. Everybody of every type was there…The good and the bad.

Rumor has it that there were satanic rituals being held there in the basement, as well as sacrifices made on the other side of the lake from that bar. They killed many people, leaving body parts all over this particular section near the lake. It was said that many bodies were thrown down into the mines that were found there. This one street had tons of them—which had signs everywhere warning hikers and visitors to not step foot into that one section. I even saw this for myself.

The road that this house was on, led you to another road that went behind the lake. They called this, “Hell”. When I was growing up, I never knew why they called it “Hell”, it was so beautiful, with a gorgeous lake and woods all over. My friends and I would party there and never thought twice about it. It was desolate, and no one ever bothered you. We never saw cops swing by or people cruising on that road. It was a rundown rocky road that led into the main community.

Now that I have just recently found out why my mother never wanted me at Cheryl’s house—and was grateful I didn’t go into their basement…I understand what the scare was, because I went down to the basement in my dream. I even described it perfectly—as they have heard it to be. Is this one big coincidence? Maybe. Is it spooky? Definitely.

So this “BAR”, was apart of the huge homicide that had taken place in “Hell”, (which has a real road name to it and always has.) To locals, when we say, “Oh it’s right near Hell,” they automatically know where that is. To other people, they look at you as if you had horns on your head.

Finally, everything added up the other day. My mother told me the truth about that house, and I now know the truth of what those people did in there, and why Hell is so famous today.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Admitting You Have a Problem is the First Step...

It’s always nice when your parents think of you. It’s great when they get you little trinkets of whatever- just because they thought of you. Well, in my case, it’s like a bomb exploded. My father seems to go overboard with little trinkets, and buys the whole warehouse full of whatever it is, so he doesn’t run out. I mean, you can literally back a truck up to the house and poor all the little knickknacks inside.

“Deb! Look wha I gotchya!” I come running over, noticing there were these really cool tiny lights that shine a tint of purple—like those new Mercedes do. I use it to read a menu in a restaurant or bar when it’s too dark inside. Great! Well he bought 500 of them.

“Get dat’ ding’ right dare’!” It was a box lying in the back of his pick up. I grabbed it and brought it inside. When I opened it, I noticed he bought the entire stock of those flashlights that need no batteries. You literally have to shake them up and down until you’re out of breath. How long does the light last for, you ask? Not even five seconds!
Now my father’s obsessed with video cameras. We have them all over the fricken house---at all angles---at every shot you can possibly think of. My apartment is upstairs from them, so my deck overlooks a beautiful view, as well as them viewing me sitting up there. They didn’t mean to, but they wanted to see the other side of the house just in case a squirrel comes in to invade us. When I have parties, I always tell me friends, “Listen, just go around the other side, and don’t do anything idiotic.” My father has a monitor in his living room where he watches TV, and one in his bedroom, that shows everyone pulling into the driveway. I’m not sure if this is his new form of entertainment, or a sick obsession. Sometimes I flip him the bird, just to see if he’s really watching. All I hear is this: “God damn it you crazy kid! Get outa’ here!!!” It echoes out through the house. For Halloween, I think I may play cruel joke on them, using their own cameras. I’m thinking more on the lines of faking a ghost-like image on their monitors. I have to find a way to get up there though without killing myself. Let me know if you have any ideas.

I love my dad- don’t get me wrong, but the older he gets, the more obsessed he gets with little knickknacks he sees on TV. Let me just tell you, we have boxes among boxes that have, “AS SEEN ON TV!” sign on them. He once bought the Magic Chef. It’s basically just a chopper. It’s great—no doubt, but he kept getting more and more and more and more. It was the company’s fault. You think he’s going to correct them? Of course not. He sat there with his collection of Magic Chefs and laughed. I told him he could go into business or hold a huge ass garage sale. Then you hear my mother, “Come on! Enough with these already!!!” My father pipes back, “Whaddya’ mean? Dis’ is a great deal! You crazy or sumptin’???” And then he just looks at me and says, “Your mudda’s crazy—see? I’m not da’ crazy one…your mudda’ is!”

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Superstition...or OCD?

To think that my worst fear has come to reality. I ran out of Purell hand sanitizer. There’s no turning back, except for that trip to the drug store to purchase more. My friend advises me I should stock up on the BJ family size—which is the size of a keg of beer. I’m not that obsessed, but I’m getting there. I keep trying to squeeze out the last drops of remaining Purell that was stuck to the sides of the bottle.

*Spsssssssssssss! Spsssssssssss!* is all that you hear coming from my office.

*Spsssssssssssss! Spsssssssssss!* again, trying to make sure there’s absolutely none left.

OCD isn’t just trying to be pathetically clean all the time. It’s other things as well. For instance, what do you think of someone who’s super super superstitious? Think about it.

“Step on a crack, break your mama’s back.” (Those of you who have sent the movie, “As Good as It Gets”, shows Jack Nicholson hopping through sidewalks, avoiding any crack to be seen. When he sees a cobblestone sidewalk, he nearly faints!)

“Don’t open that umbrella inside! It’s bad luck!” (Another OCD symptom. Think about it—it’s obsessive to think that bad luck will come to an open umbrella that needs drying off.)

“Don’t break that mirror! Seven years bad luck!” (Come on now…)

When I was a little girl, my grandmother would yell at me for placing my shoes on the table. I have no idea why I did this, but if I did, she was sure to correct me and tell me that it was bad luck if I did that. So anytime I see someone placing their shoes—even if they are super clean and new, I cringe and take them off immediately. I have no idea where that wives’ tale comes from, but it still bothers me till this day.

Okay, the number deal. I know, that’s a typical sign of the OCD mania. I used to do things in even numbers only. My favorite number was four—because I have three older sisters, making us four in total. I did this in numbers, but would avoid the number *6* for the entire family, fearing that two more 6’s would follow. Get me?

Now, I do things in threes. I know, stupid. I pump my lotion in threes, I pump the Purell in threes, I even spray my hair in threes. Three, being the trinity (Father, Son and the Holy Spirit) to give me protection and good luck. So it’s not too far off from all these other superstitions that everyone else has, right?

My socks have to be lined up evenly, and perfect. The line (the seam) by the toes have to be just right. It can’t be crooked or out of place. My whole day’s ruined if it is. My foot feels awkward and I feel unbalanced.

Now here’s something that I have to live with. I have come to terms with it, because I usually don’t see the number. I have a Nextel phone/two way radio. On the two way radio, you are assigned a totally different number other than your phone number. The ending numbers of mine, is “666”. It creeps me out and is scares me. When I worked for the phone company, I assigned a woman a telephone number with the last three digits of “666”. She was like, “OH NO!!! You assign me another number now!” I felt better, knowing there was someone else like me. But the difference is, I didn’t complain. I should have changed my number when I got it…but was embarrassed to show my OCD.

So what is the difference between OCD and superstitions? Do we all have it? Is it much like manic depressives being called bi-polar now? Is it a new word for something that has existed for years upon years?

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Weak...but Strong in Faith

There are definitely stereotypes to being a Christian, as well as stereotypes for being a homosexual. First of all, for the ‘typical Christian church-going individual’, you have this image of a married woman or man, who’s living the American dream. A nice big house with a white picket fence, a few kids and probably a dog and a cat. It’s a nice image actually. Is it perfect for everyone? No. Each person sets their goals and dreams differently to what they truly want out of life. Some don’t reach their goal, and some do. The stereotypes for the homosexual are simple. They seem to set the stage for promiscuity. This goes for all homosexuals, in the ‘extreme Christian’s’ view. We’re all different. Even heterosexuals can be promiscuous, as well as Church goers. Relationships and a loving union are much different than a person being promiscuous.

The other day, I was going through a bout of depression. I thought, “So many people think I’m weak in faith, because I love someone of the same gender.” It’s the total opposite though. My faith is so strong, that it’s practically knowledge. My personal relationship with God is like no other relationship I have ever had with a human being. My spiritual experiences have proven to me time and time again that God is real, and that God loves me, He loves you, and He even loves those who don’t know Him.

As I was praying, I asked for forgiveness for my sins, and prayed to God for strength and courage to get my message across and have it be heard by those who truly need it. I asked that God would give me the words to type out—that it wouldn’t be my own; yet my own experiences.

In a post called, “Good & Bad Spirits”, I discussed my love for alcohol, and how I grew up around it. I explained how it helped relieve my anxiety- and yes, I do know that it’s a problem. For me? It’s really not a problem, as long as it’s in moderation.

I prayed about it, and said, “I’m weak, but I’m strong in faith.”

God answered me.

“What’s better—to be weak in faith and strong minded with tons of willpower?”

I just sat that thinking how incredible that message was. Then I flipped open the bible, and it literally *fell* on this passage:

“My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness. So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may work through me. Since I know it is all for Christ’s good, I am quite content with my weaknesses and with insults, hardships, persecutions and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” ~2 Corinthians 12:9

So by my life, being the “Christian lesbian alcoholic”, I know that my faith is the most important thing.

“I am quite content with my weaknesses {alcohol} and with insults {people who judge and ridicule me for being a gay Christian as well as an alcoholic} hardships {challenges in life} persecutions {being harassed for being a Christian as well as a lesbian} and calamities." {any distress that occurs in my life}

Do people really want me to pretend I’m somebody else just because I claim Jesus as my Savior? I’m sure most of you would want me to tell you absolutely everything about me. You don’t want to hear preaching from someone who bible thumps and lectures you about your sins, yet they have their own sins to contend with, do you? For me, I would want to hear from someone who has been through the ringer, or who still struggles with being ‘perfect’—even though that’s not possible. You want to hear about someone with strong faith, yet the ability to relate to everyone as a ‘weak human being’ as we all are, or admit that we are. We’re all in this together, right? It's almost like an AA director holding a meeting, yet he/she has never touched a drop of alcohol before, and cannot relate to the people who she's trying to help.

God led me to a proverb that was written in a book that my friend Lisa got for me as a gift. It’s called, “Proverbs for Life for You”.

The proverb that stood out at me while I was praying was this one:

“Don’t hesitate to be bold in your convictions, especially when it comes to your faith. The only way some people will ever know the truth about God is to hear it from you, from someone who knows him personally. Take every opportunity to share your beliefs, and look to God for the courage to speak boldly. Ask him for the right words and the ability to speak them kindly and effectively. You can be sure he will do his part as you do yours.”

This is the whole reason why I started this blog—to share my beliefs with you, as a weak Christian strong in faith. I share explicit and funny stories about my life with you, so that you’ll see how imperfect I am. I share my beliefs of God with you, and how He helps me everyday. I want to reach out to those who feel too much guilt and shame to come to God, because of their sinful nature. The guilt and shame is not of God. The evil one wants you to think it’s from God…but it’s not. God encourages and edifies your spirit with love and hope…not guilt and shame. People will convict you and judge you left and right, but that’s God’s job. God didn’t hire mere humans to sit around and point out everyone’s sins. When people point fingers and make you feel bad for what you are, and what you did, and what you do—it’s usually a sign of their insecurity and uneasiness with their own life.

So when someone starts pointing the finger at you, remember they have three more pointing right back at them. Live for God, not for people.

Friday, October 20, 2006

To Lisa...A True Friend

Late nights staying up talking on the phone, you always had this talent to put my heart at ease. You anticipated the worst, not expecting me to laugh, but you somehow put that smile back on my face—making me giggle. Your clichés were endless. I used to call you on them, telling you, “STOP ALREADY!!!” But, I honestly loved every single corny cliché that came out of your mouth. It made me laugh, and it also made sense to every situation we were going through.

You always sensed when I was down. You would come over with a handful of gifts. The thoughtfulness was overwhelming. Did I even deserve this? You brought me over a bottle of wine or a bouquet of Heinekens. How adorable was that? I never knew they made bouquets of beer! You knew I loved truffles. You made sure I had my stock of them. Cards, poems and little sentimental trinkets are still saved. The crystal owl still sits on my dresser. You knew that I had an obsession with owls and went out of your way to get that for me.

Countless nights at our favorite restaurant talking for hours over goblets of wine and delicious pasta, are my favorite memories. Summers spent at my house playing horseshoes, drinking beer, playing badminton and then going off to swim in my pool were so much fun. We would then throw a porterhouse on the barbeque and hang out till the wee hours of the night drinking my mocha espressos. You never liked black coffee before, until you met me. I don’t even think you liked coffee---period---until you met me.

I’ll never forget the time I took you out to the Irish pub down the street. You weren’t the type to mingle in a crowded room full of smiling eyes and cowboy hats. It was karaoke night, and Jeff, the karaoke leader saw his new prey---you. I could tell you were nervous, sitting at the sticky bar in your beautiful expensive outfit, trying to not look anyone in the eye. I introduced you to black & tan beer. We had to mingle with the natives. After a few brews, you let your hair down and we continued to make that a regular pit stop. We used to go with a dozen other girls and stay there till closing. They literally had to kick all of us out. Finally, you were up there with the rest of them—singing your heart out! “Love Will Keep Us Together” will always echo through my mind, remembering how many beers it took you to get up there and sing it.

Vacationing with you was like no other experience I have ever had. I think I broke a few ribs from laughing so hard! Our trip to Provincetown, MA was hysterical. All the women kept giving you their phone numbers. You would meet Madelene and me at the café in the morning to have breakfast with us. We would be sitting outside enjoying our smoked salmon on a bagel, waiting for you as we watched tons of people walk by. You would walk through the crowd in your Tom Cruise sunglasses, trying to be incognito—to hide yourself from that ‘bandana girl’ who was stalking you the entire time. She was there, watching you as you whizzed by quickly, sitting down, placing the menu in front of your face. She wasn’t stupid.

A few nights, we found ourselves dancing away in a crowd full of mullets and flannel shirts. We were the only ones dressed up. They gave us a green glow stick to indicate that we were single. My girlfriend watched, as I grabbed one—just so I could have fun and play single for one night. She laughed, and thought it was funny too. I wore them, because I hooked the glow sticks all over my jean hooks, my wrists and back pockets. I was glowing like a nuclear disaster! After hours of dancing, we walked back to our bed and breakfast. The two roads we had to walk weren’t long…but that night, we somehow made it seem we were walking for miles, laughing so hard that we had to stop and sit on each bench. At one point, you laughed so hard, you developed an anxiety attack. I had to pull you over into that little shop’s walkway to calm you down. I massaged your shoulders and it seemed to put you at ease.

When I was going through a rough break up, you came over and stayed with me. I cried to you, as you just sat there holding me, trying to comfort me. It worked. Not too long after that, you brought me to the hospital because I was having heart palpitations—which I thought was a heart attack. You drove from another state, to pick me up and bring me to the emergency room. I’ll never forget how you dropped everything for me. Thank you. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead right now. I was in a bad state of mind, and you always, always made sure I was okay. I love you for that!

We wrote songs together. You sang, as I played guitar. Our youth was in full swing when we were hanging out. You helped me edit my book, correcting me of any typos or weird phrased sentences. I’m still not perfect, but you’ve helped me come a long way with my writing. Thank you.

As time went on, we both got serious in our relationships. It seemed as though our visits and phone calls were getting less and less. Our emails were still frequent, but the personal contact and visits were almost next to zero. It happens. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about not hanging out as much, but I missed my best friend. I missed the only girl who made me laugh till I had an asthma attack. I missed the person who knew me…inside and out. How did you know me so well? You knew me better than some of my own blood!

Right now, I’m happy that we’re talking more and visiting one another more. We both have terrific significant others who enhance our friendship as well. The more the merrier! I want you to be happy, Lisa. You deserve only that. You’re a special woman with so many positive qualities. Anyone can see that. You give 110%. You never do anything half-assed and you never expect anything back in return.

I just wanted to write this letter publicly to you, so that you know, and everyone out there knows, what a wonderful, caring person you are. Remember what we used to say?

“You’re a ‘lifer’.”

You gave me a book called, “Proverbs For Life—For You”. Inside the book, you wrote:

“To my very dear friend & “personal champion”,

Whenever you have a trying day, try some of these. Never lose hold of your amazing spirit.

Love,
Lisa"

In the book are wonderful little proverbs and sayings to help you through whatever you’re challenged with. I still have this book, and still read it—whenever I’m faced with problems.

One of the proverbs that remind me of you is this one:

“It is better to have one true friend than all the acquaintances in the world.” ~Author unknown

You Lisa, are a true friend!

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Good & Bad Spirits

As most of you know, my love for alcohol goes way beyond the limits of moderation. It’s not my fault, it’s my parents. Yes, I’m blaming everything on my parents. My psychiatrist said so. Growing up in my Italian household, we always had red table wine with dinner, and scotch and brandy to relieve pain that any good dose of ibuprofen couldn’t handle.

Tooth ache? Take a shot of scotch!

Period cramps? Take a shot of brandy!

Gas pain? Drink some beer to get the bubbles out of your chest!

Feeling down? Have a martini to lift your ‘spirits’.

Now granted, I wasn’t allowed to drink during my teen years, however sneaking booze in my bedroom had become a fine art. I mastered the tip-toeing through the tulips over to the dry bar-- raiding any booze I could dowse into my iced-tea. I usually had one of my best friends waiting in my bedroom to join me. Who wants to drink alone?

One night, my two friends came over. We were fifteen years old at the time. We got a hold of a six pack of beer and a few oil cans of Foster’s. (Foster’s beer look like oil cans.) We drank up, and being that we were fairly lightweights and underage, our bodies didn’t absorb most of the alcohol flowing through our fresh livers. My mother caught wind of our drunken behavior and came running upstairs to see what the ruckus was.

“Beer? Beer? You’re gonna get a potbelly if you keep drinking that!” Those words still echo throughout my head as I look down, to see the spare tire that has developed throughout the years. Sit ups and crunches only get you so far when there’s a nice cold one sitting on your counter.

Holidays and special events at our house were always fun. My aunt and uncle from Brooklyn would come over with fine scotch, pastries and other mixed up processed meats in casings. Uncle Tony was never without his scotch on the rocks, and my Aunt Madeline was right behind him, saying cheers to her sister…which happens to be my mother. The house would become louder, and louder, as the scotch bottle began to sink lower and lower—almost on empty. Then there was demitasse with Sambuka to sober them up after dinner.

It wasn’t too long, after my teen years, that I developed a love for wine. I started drinking wine right after I got out of work with my dinner. It was a daily ritual.

“Drink red wine—it’s great for your heart!” My mother would say, making any alcoholic beverage beneficial to one’s health. Red wine became white wine became martinis became shots of vodka with a chaser of beer. I loved anything that thinned out my blood and made me feel good.

“She’s having an anxiety attack! Here! Take a shot!” My mother would say, as she’s handing me the bottle of vodka. Of course it’s going to take away my anxiety…for the meantime. So in my head—alcohol took away anxiety and panic. It was my medication…still is till this day!

The only problem with this concept is, the alcohol takes away the anxiety for the meantime, but when you wake up the next morning with DTs, you’re going through a whole other type of anxiety. So you try to relieve the anxiety with alcohol to develop a worse anxiety attack. It’s a vicious cycle.

So as I’m sitting in my psychiatrist’s office trying to sort through why I have anxiety and panic attacks, he asked me, “Do you think you have a problem with alcohol?”

“No, I don’t…I enjoy it very much.”
“Do you feel it contributes to your anxiety?”
“Do you?”
“It may be the problem. You experience a panic attack and reach for the alcohol…right?”
“Right.”
“So, does this contribute to your anxiety attacks?”
“No, it relieves it.”
(Doc chuckles, knowing my warped sense of humor. I know where he’s going with this, but the thought of AA has me shivering.)

If I’m so concerned about my fluctuation with weight and my fear that alcohol is the culprit, what will happen if I did go to AA with all those donuts, pastries and coffee they serve during their sessions? They basically substitute your addiction for another addiction.

“Here---give me all your booze and I’ll give you a bag of candy!”

What’s worse? At least the alcohol will ease your anxiety and make you feel better. Candy? You’ll feel hyper and develop a bigger potbelly!

“Here, give me your booze and I’ll give you a twelve pack of Duncan Donuts!”

Get me?

I think it’s great for those who attend AA and get the help they need. I think it’s also great when they don’t trade off addictions though. A good friend of mine went into detox, and then into a rehab to get rid of her booze addiction. So when she got out after 28 days, she gained 20 pounds. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but she was so depressed and down over her weight, she started doing the vinegar diet. This diet basically eats up the lining of your stomach. She lost weight alright, but ended up with a few stomach ulcers.

Everyone has their own little addictions. Some people love to eat. Some love to drink. A lot of people love the internet. There’s always one thing in our lives that make us go overboard, forgetting any concept of moderation whatsoever.

Sometimes, when my girlfriend buys me a bottle of red wine, I think, “Does she want to share this with me---or can I just save this for an afternoon while I’m writing?” And believe me, one bottle of red wine doesn’t go very far with me. One bottle is basically 3-4 glasses. Easily!

Now my reasoning for cutting down the alcohol content is because I’m getting older, and my metabolism is saying, “You’re mutha’ was right! Stop drinking and do some crunches!” This is going to be one difficult challenge to keep my love for wine/martinis and beer in check. (Or just in moderation.)

What’s your addiction? And be honest!

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Gynecologist Appointment

Pushing my limits to the extreme end of the “icky” side, I’m going to direct your attention over to my gynecologist’s appointment—so just beware. It may get explicit. “X” out if you are easily offended by…details.

As you all know and have heard, my OCD kicks up big time during the colder months. People are getting sick, catching colds and developing the flu. My stock in Purell is my safety blanket. The one thing I dread most of all, is walking into a medical/family doctor’s office. That’s where the big bugs are. I try to stay far away, unless I’m practically on my deathbed. Then they usually end up hauling my butt to the emergency room, because of my stubborn ways—and that’s even a hundred times worse than any doc’s office.

Anyway, you wouldn’t think going to the gynecologist would be alarming, as far as germs go. I never thought so. I sat in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine. And you know how much I rant about not touching those damn things, because of germs. But this isn’t about ‘sickness’, it’s about pap smears, ultrasounds and STD testing to me. Things are generally disinfected…so I thought.

“Deb?” The nurse calls out to me, motioning me to come into the second little waiting room. Not only was this a 45 minute wait, but I expected to see the doctor within seconds. She hops me on the scale, takes my blood pressure and then asks me some basic medical questions.

“He’s running three patients behind, so I apologize if you have to wait a little bit longer.” The nurse practitioner says, as she shuts the door before I can get a “NO!!!” out.

So here I am, in this small room the size of a porta potty. Great. I need reading material or something to prevent me from having a major anxiety attack. I start looking at the diagrams of the female anatomy. Like I don’t know this already. Frequent urination posters and information regarding different types of vaginal discharge. Hmm.

I started to get a bit tired, so I decided to sit down on that beautiful green vinyl recliner with the light paper rolled out onto it. The only difference between that chair and the one at my family doctor’s chair are the stirrups. Before I sat down, I noticed that the light paper sitting on the chair had a small drop right where the doctor slides your butt down to examine you.

Oh no!... They didn’t have the nurse change the paper? This room was used and not cleaned up before the next patient? My blood pressure starts rising, my pulse starts speeding up and now I am in full-fledge anxiety attack mode. My chest starts to hurt and I begin to panic. My thoughts were racing. “Do I just walk out of here? Do I just say I’m having chest pains and fly out of this office? Maybe I should just leave, hoping no one notices!” Before I can even decide on which excuse to use, the doctor comes in with his little clipboard.

I tense up. I don’t say one word about it. He introduces himself and walks over to his little sink and counter to fill out some paperwork and to ask me more medical questions. He glances over at the chair, wondering why I’m still standing up. He then begins to notice the crinkly used up dirty ass paper still lying there. He quickly attacks it—throwing out the old paper out, and wiping down the seat with rubbing alcohol. I love this guy! He recognized my OCD. I still was uneasy about sitting on that thing—but it was necessary.

Now keep in mind, he’s asking me questions that I already filled out on a medical sheet---which he has RIGHT in front of him.

“Age?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Last period?”
“The seventh.”
“Smoke?”
“No thanks.”
(He chuckles—thank God he has a sense of humor.)
“Alcohol consumption?”
“Way too much.”
“What’s way too much?”
“Two glasses of wine with dinner.” (Totally lied.)
“History of people you slept with---how many?”

*edited out*

“Are you sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“What type of protection do you use?”
“A pillow so my head doesn’t hit the wall.”
“What?”
“I’m gay doc. I also refuse to use those dental dams that taste like a car tire.”
“Oh.”
“How many partners?”
“Just one.”
“Great. Put this gown on and I will be back in a moment.”

He leaves the room. I have no idea where he’s going or what he’s doing, but now I’m alone-- sitting on that awful chair that was once soiled right before my very eyes. I’m marinating in germs and rubbing alcohol at this point. My anxiety goes up once again, and I’m starting to get those chest pains again. I start putting the gown which looked like a fricken tent! The thing was so large that it basically wrapped around me ten times. I was cold anyway, so I wrapped myself up.

He comes back in with the nurse. His bedside manners weren’t so great. He was too quiet, I was his last appointment, and he’s seen way too many crotches for one day. I’ve never “primped up” so much for someone in my life. Thank God he wasn’t in for a rude awakening!

He starts examining me with the nurse standing right there. I had this look on my face like, “PLEASE PLEASE GOD GET THIS OVER WITH!” Yes, I included a prayer to God in this post, for all of you cringing in disbelief over my topic right now.

“Are you okay?” The nurse asks as she's also putting on latex gloves..
“He could have at least bought me dinner, or offered me a strong martini!”

They both laugh, and the tension eases up in the room. Even if you go to these doctors every year, it’s still unnerving for two people sitting there analyzing your most valuable prized possession. My bread basket was fine, cervix smooth as a baby’s butt, and no STDs. Other blood work is being followed for next week. I did ask for the HPV test—as ANY woman should do. He informed me that you don’t need to ask for it anymore—they give it to you automatically.

(This was taken from the CDC website.)

Genital HPV infection is a sexually transmitted disease (STD) that is caused by human papillomavirus (HPV). Human papillomavirus is the name of a group of viruses that includes more than 100 different strains or types. More than 30 of these viruses are sexually transmitted, and they can infect the genital area of men and women including the skin of the penis, vulva (area outside the vagina), or anus, and the linings of the vagina, cervix, or rectum. Most people who become infected with HPV will not have any symptoms and will clear the infection on their own.

Some of these viruses are called "high-risk" types, and may cause abnormal Pap tests. They may also lead to cancer of the cervix, vulva, vagina, anus, or penis. Others are called "low-risk" types, and they may cause mild Pap test abnormalities or genital warts. Genital warts are single or multiple growths or bumps that appear in the genital area, and sometimes are cauliflower shaped.”

Heidi, are you cringing yet? I know CP deals with the last part of this paragraph being in the line of work she does. She has told me many stories regarding ‘fresh cauliflower’.

Okay, so point of this post was to inform women to get your tests done and always make sure that the HPV testing is included. The scary thing is that you have absolutely no symptoms. A regular breast exam is also important as well. Not too long ago, the doctors detected two large masses on my breast, and sent me to get a mammogram and an ultrasound to see if it was anything to be concerned with. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything. But, self exams and trips to the doctors will put your mind to rest. Also, early detection gives you better chances, if you do develop anything.

I’m done. If you have come this far, I applaud you. You’ve rummaged through some of my ‘icky’ posts and you’re still with me?

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Prescription: Laughter

It’s that time of the year again where I’m hesitant to touch any doorknob with my hand, or read any magazine that’s in my doctor's office. This is a job for Purell. Flu shots will be available soon, and out the door I go to get myself immune to whatever lurks outside my surroundings, trying to keep me in bed. Hmm. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. But the thought of getting sick is just traumatizing for me. I become a huge needy baby. My girlfriend becomes this stressed out, worn out, been there & done it type of nurse. That poor girl has her hands full!

The other night Amy and I went out to the bar. We drank a few drafts and then headed out to the diner to sober up. Amy gave me the fit of the giggles so bad, that I had to run into the ladies’ room to get my composure. I walked back out, sat down in my booth and tried to remain calm. Didn’t work. I start chuckling all over again. An older lady who was all alone came up to us. “I don’t mean to bother you, but your laughter made me giggle. It’s nice seeing two people laugh like that…” We felt bad for her, because she sat all by herself and walked out on her own into her little car. It silenced us for a bit, but we both wondered who she was going home to, or if she had anybody to share laughs with in life.

Now with the weather starting to brisk up again and the days are getting shorter, I feel a little depression cycle coming over me. I’m lucky to have friends and family who keep me laughing. It’s so healthy to just lose control over laughter. Don’t worry who’s looking…they’re probably wishing they were laughing with you...(or at you in some cases!) But, it’s so incredibly beneficial to have a good belly laugh once in a while---or everyday if you can.

Last night, I stayed up a bit late to watch the Monday Night Headlines on Jay Leno. Let me tell you—if you haven’t seen this segment on his show, it is the funniest thing on earth! I laughed so hard, I was crying! Maybe my sense of humor is warped, but these demented signs and articles that are either done incorrectly or misspelled are hilarious.

Please watch this if you want to laugh uncontrollably! This is why I love Monday nights.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Don’t Speak of Sex, Ménage à troises & Homosexuality You Immoral Woman!

There are many people, as you know, see me as an immoral woman who claims the Lord as her Savior. “How can she be a Christian, yet write posts about immoral issues and live a life of a lesbian?” For the majority of Christians out there, it’s understandable to think this way. For truly faithful people who live in Christ, in my opinion, would think differently. I want to share a story from the bible with you that may have you thinking, “Hmm, it’s all about faith then!”

“Jesus Anointed by a Sinful Woman”

One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to come to his home for a meal, so Jesus accepted the invitation and sat down to eat. A certain immoral woman heard he was there and brought a beautiful jar filled with expensive perfume. Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them.

When the Pharisee who was the host saw what was happening and who the woman was, he said to himself, “This proves that Jesus is no prophet. If God had really sent him, he would know what kind of woman is touching him. She’s a sinner!”

Then Jesus spoke up and answered his thoughts. “Simon,” he said to the Pharisee, “I have something to say to you.”
“All right. Teacher,” Simon replied, “go ahead.”

Then Jesus told him this story: “A man loaned money to two people—five hundred pieces of silver to one and fifty pieces to the other. But neither of them could repay him, so he kindly forgave them both, canceling their debts. Who do you suppose loved him more after that?”

Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the larger debt.”
“That’s right,” Jesus said. Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Look at this woman kneeling here. When I entered your home, you didn’t offer me water to wash the dust from my feet, but she has washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You didn’t give me a kiss of greeting, but she has kissed my feet again and again from the time I first came in. You neglected the courtesy of olive oil to anoint my head, but she has anointed my feet with rare perfume. I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love. Then Jesus said to the woman, “Your sins are forgiven.”

The men at the table said among themselves, “Who does this man think he is, going around forgiving sins?”
And Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” ~Luke 7:36-50

I know many of you already know this story. Sometimes biblical quotes and passages get mundane and redundant, but I wanted to write that all out for those of you who have never read that before. A lot of people don’t give Jesus enough credit. They don’t believe that He could actually forgive a sinner. In my interpretation of this passage—it clearly shows how merciful Jesus is. It also shows that if you love one another and respect one another with genuine affection, God takes notice of that. It’s how you treat others. Look at how many people love to judge someone who’s different, or someone who appears to sin more than the other.

My last post dealt with health issues that someone asked me about. I knew a little about it since I read up on practically everything regarding medical issues and health stuff…etc. Does that make me an immoral person, because I want to try and help someone out with a question? It may be something serious that the person is going through. She may have a health issue that needs to be looked at by a professional.

I spoke about a ménage à trois that one gentleman wanted to approach his fiance with. I felt it would have a lot of detromental possibilities and advised against it--since this wasn’t between the two people who loved one another. I am not judging people who do these things—I’m just giving my honest opinion when someone writes to me. I thought it would be fun to answer questions from my readers.

When someone emails me with a question, most likely it’s about my lifestyle, and questions about how I came out and how others accepted me, or didn’t accept me. It’s for those people scared of the unknown. Curiosity isn’t a bad thing. I enjoy speaking to down-to-earth people who aren’t afraid to cross certain ‘conversation lines’. That’s okay. We’re all human and we all have these thoughts in our heads.

A lady named Heidi commented. (As most of you have read.)

“Oh, I have a question. This isn't meant to be offensive, but I don't really care if it is, since most of the things you post are kind of explicit. Here it is.When I think about two women touching each other sexually it really grosses me out, it makes me gag. And nooo, this isn't because of my beliefs and because I think it's wrong and blah blah blah, so don't start ranting about that please. It's just that I could never be that way with another woman, it makes me sick to think about it. Most people who are straight seem to have a similar reaction whether they think it's okay to be gay or not. My question is...Are gay people grossed out by the thought of straight people having sex? Does it make them sick to think about doing it with the opposite sex?I am really just curious. Don't get mad at me because it makes me ill, I can't help how I feel, just like you say you can't.Feel free to answer my question, but please don't leave comments on my blog. I don't want icky stuff on there because I don't want to offend some of my sensitive readers, lol."

And those are her thoughts. But look where that came from? Does it sound as though her questions and comments came from love? Of course not. She had every intention to insult me and criticize me for what I talk about and how “icky” being a lesbian is. It was actually very juvenile of her to address it in that way—but that’s how some people react. They react like twelve year olds.

Another reader judged my relationship with my parter and my relationship with God. How can a lesbian be a Christian?

Easily. Faith and love for God. That’s how a lesbian can be a Christian. I’m not going to be a hypocrite and act all conservative and live my life one big lie. My relationship with God is precious to me. My relationship with my partner is also important to me.

If people get offended about the topics I write about, then they have that ability to hit “next” or click on the “x” box on the corner of their browser. I’m not trying to shove Christianity and homosexuality down anyone’s throats, but there are a lot of people who are in my situation who like to here a validation that God really does love them…and that God is very merciful.

We all have crosses to bear. Each of us have our own little battles of sin to deal with. And what’s life if you can’t laugh and talk about risque topics from time to time? There are worse topics to talk about. Mine were more on the medical aspect of things.

Isn’t it sad that so many “Christians” say they love, yet don’t act in love?

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Dr. Ruth & Sue Johanson -- I Need You!

Okay, so this is looking quite like the 'Dear Abby' sort of blog now. I’m not sure what transpired between a month ago till now, but it’s different, so I’m going with it. I have received numerous emails with questions that should be answered by a professional, but I’m more than willing to give my two cents, and even happier that my readers are willing to add theirs. I think it’s terrific that these people who are emailing me not only get a response from me, but they get to hear different point of views through your comments. I don’t comment anymore, because I already gave my opinion in the blog. (Just in case some of you were wondering why I’m left out in the comment section.) I just don’t want to overstep my boundaries and keep adding to the ‘advice’. Also, please keep in mind that I have permission from these people to blog about it. In fact, a few of them didn’t care if I ‘named names’… I’m not doing that though. Names and locations have been changed to protect the guilty.

Moving on. This one’s a doozey! In fact, I was very intrigued by this. Meet Suzie. She’s a ‘in the closet’ lesbian. She goes to college in upstate New York. She has known since she was a little girl that she has had an attraction for the same sex. She’s twenty years old and had a few encounters with some female friends, but nothing major. No serious relationships as of yet, but she has been seeing one girl for a little while now. Her feelings have developed much more than a friendship level, and she’s willing to take it to the next step---the ‘girlfriend status’.

Here’s the problem… Suzie (don’t you just love my made up names?) doesn’t enjoy oral sex with her gal friend. Of course she enjoys receiving…but when it comes to giving, she’s hesitant because her gal friend has a very strong distinct odor. Yes—I went there. This is an email I received---so just shush and listen!

So many people think oral sex is the only type of sex lesbians can have. Let me just say there are tons of ways lesbians can engage in sex---tons! Oral is just a bonus. But, getting back to Suzie’s problem with her gal friend, there are a few things to remember about being with someone who has a distinct odor.

{FYI: This is from what I have read through books and the internet. I am NOT a doctor! I can only tell you from what I have learned. Please talk to your doctor about this!!! I can’t stress that enough!}

Some women who run around all day at work, go to school or have a very active life, will most likely want to shower up before being intimate with you. Remember, each woman has her own scent—but hygiene should be top priority for any woman.

If she has a problem with her odor being “fishy” or “musty”, she may want to get herself checked out by a doctor. One problem that some women have is called bacterial vaginosis (BV). It’s an overgrowth of bacteria that resides in the vagina, producing a pungent aroma that may not be pleasing. Some women feel that douching would help this problem. It doesn’t. In fact, it only makes it worse. If this is the case, she needs to get antibiotics from her doctor. It also can be some type of other infection that she’s not aware of. For some people, it’s all about their diet; what they eat and how much sugar they consume.

Be very sensitive when approaching her with this subject. A lot of women are highly insecure about their genitals. Nothing like a crotch complex to lift someone’s day. But, I will say this, if you don’t think you enjoy the scent of a woman, you may need to seek other options or hope that your gal friend is more than understanding.

Here’s something else that I read upon this. Some women have rectocele. It’s like a bulge between the tissues that lie between the vagina and rectum. Most women get this from childbirth, but other causes can be related to bowel health and constipation. The tissues will lessen, therefore increasing the chances of fecal odor during sexual activities. I know, I was shocked when I learned of this.

If she doesn’t have an infection, bacterial vaginosis, rectocele or a hygiene problem, it’s most likely just “her”. Every woman is different. We come in different shapes, sizes, colors and scents. A woman’s aroma to some is an aphrodisiac. Her pheromones may be high—which is a good thing for some! Pheromones is all about the chemistry in a person’s make up. It can either lure you in…or lure you out.

So, now that we know it can be many things, you may want to either be honest with her and ask if she’ll see a doctor “because you’re concerned about her health”…or see if she was just having a bad day.

Thanks for emailing me with your question, and I am sorry if I was too blunt and high and mighty on my medical throne over here, but I wanted to make sure you knew some of the possibilities of what may be causing this.

Now, I leave it up to my readers to advise you on what to do. We have a lot of doctors in the house! Step up doctors and sex counselors!

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Ménage à trois

Now here’s a situation that you all may have heard of before. Bob has been dating this wonderful woman named Leslie for five years now. They both live in NYC. They plan on getting married next year with the hopes of having children and growing old together. Their relationship has its moments with little bumps of turbulences, but I think it’s safe to say that’s normal for anyone who’s been in a long term to experience that.

Bob says he loves Leslie with all his heart. He doesn’t want to marry anyone else, however, Bob has something he’s been wanting to do. He wants to invite a third party into the bedroom to spice things up a bit. He says the sex is good with his partner, but it tends to gets a little mundane now and then. Bob also states that sometimes, Leslie isn’t interested in sex that much. Bob wants it 4-5 times per week, and Leslie likes her 1-2 times per week.

Leslie isn’t a lesbian, nor is she bi-sexual. She is head over heals in love with Bob. In fact, she’ll just about do anything for Bob. Leslie’s considering being with a woman…for Bob. They’ve talked it over and discussed the ‘rules and regulations’ of what goes on in the bedroom, as well as what goes on outside of the bedroom. They have established limitations and boundaries.

Now here’s the interesting part… Leslie is afraid that Bob will find the third party more attractive than she is, and Bob thinks that Leslie may like this trio or the third party a little more than she’s willing to admit. Leslie assures Bob that she is straight as an arrow—there’s no chances of her becoming a lesbian. “I believe people are born that way,” she stated to Bob.

Here’s my two cents, and then I will let my intelligent and insightful readers give their advice, like they did for Mr. & Mrs. Smith. (No relation to the movie!)

My list of possible “risks”:

1.) Pregnancy

2.) Disease

3.) Falling in love with third party (either party)

4.) Sex is better with the third party

5.) Bob or Leslie sneaks off secretly to meet third party

6.) The inevitable---breaking up

7.) Partner starts feeling insecure

8.) Third party becomes an obsessed stalker of some sort

9.) Jealousy

10.) Resentment

Please keep in mind, this is *only* my opinion of what I think of this scenario. I am not a doctor, psychologist or sex counselor. (That would be scary.) I have my own set of opinions that all of you out there have. So not only will my input count – but the people who are reading and/or can relate may help Bob and Leslie out even better.

I think of it like this… If you truly love your partner with all your heart, why would you want another person coming into that special union between you two? Even if the sex was getting a little mundane---spice it up! They have sex counseling all over New York. Play games in bed. Fill out little pieces of paper full of foreplay suggestions, and throw it into a hat. Each time you pick one, you have to act it out in hopes that one doesn’t ‘give in’ too soon. Role play. Oh come on—tell me none of you ever did this before? Come home pretending to be the plumber or handyman. She’s all alone in that big house and needs someone to fix her plumbing. Get me?

When two people are totally in love with one another, there’s no need for a third party in my opinion. Being “in love” with your partner/spouse/fiancé means that even if the sex isn’t all that—the emotional intimacy between the two of you will overcome whatever’s lacking. I’d rather have more emotional connection than just great sex. Sex is sex. You can get that anywhere. But when you are in love, and committed to one person, it makes it that much better. The bond strengthens and you become one with him/her.

I’m not saying that Bob doesn’t love Leslie enough, I’m just saying that maybe he should rethink this whole thing before he gets himself in a situation that he may soon regret. Fantasies are great---share them with her. But there’s a fine line between fantasy and acting out what has been acted out many times in your head. There are consequences that come along with all those fun ideas if acted out. I’ve even witnessed a good friend of mine lose her husband over this type of situation. The same can apply for Leslie. What if she thinks the third party has a stronger emotional bond? You just never know. Why risk it?

What are your thoughts for Bob & Leslie?

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

What's My Two Cents Worth?

You can blame it on the full moon, or you could just say that a lot of people are experiencing similar situations. I received a few emails regarding the exact same topic. I’m not going to display names out of respect and privacy. One lady said I could use her situation for a post, so I’m taking this opportunity, only because there were a few more emails that trickled in after hers with the same exact thing.

Believe me, I’m not an expert on relationships or being a big ole dyke here. I’m just me. I love my partner, I’m comfortable being who I am, and I respect those who have their own set of values and personal preferences. So with that, please take whatever advice or opinion I give you with a grain of salt. I’m not a doctor nor a psychologist—but I do see one every week! (Maybe that gives me some sort of credit?)

Let’s talk about Mrs. Smith. What?... Too general of a name for you? Deal with it. So, Mrs. Smith emails me. She states that she has been married to her husband for over twenty years. She has six kids and a happy and “content” home life. She’s watched her children get married and have beautiful grandchildren. Her life is full of love, family and friends. Her house is large, and the amount of food she cooks for her little army is enough to make you realize why her husband married her. She is truly an amazing woman.

Mrs. Smith is struggling with something that has been haunting her since she was a teenager. She’s gay. She’s known she’s preferred the same gender ever since she was a kid. She married her husband, because they were high school sweethearts, and it was the right thing to do. She was brought up in a very conservative home. More on the terms of “WASPY”, but I’m not sure if that’s a slang term for it. I’ll use it anyway. I apologize to those who are offended by the term. It’s the only way I can describe her lifestyle this early in the morning. For those who don’t know what WASP means, it’s “white Anglo,-Saxon Protestant. (Or just click on the WASP link I provided for further details.)

Mrs. Smith is in her mid-fifties. She’s not happy, yet she and her husband play the role of two loving parents who seem to have a happy well-rounded marriage. It’s all a façade. She said that her husband doesn’t pay attention to her any longer, and the desires that she had when she was younger are coming up to the surface. Her fear is that she’ll hurt her kids terribly. She doesn’t want to break up the family, but she is so incredibly unhappy with her current situation.

Cheating wouldn’t be the option. She goes online quite often, searching for blogs that have similar situations, or trying to find people who would understand her. Well, she found me. I’m not sure if I was any help to her, but I do have my set opinions.

I suggested trying to spice it up with her husband, to see if they could get the spark back into their marriage. She said that there wasn’t any to begin with. The whole marriage was a complete lie, so that she would inherit the family’s wealth and have children. Tough call, huh? Why do so many people think that money will make them happier? Some people think that having a lot of children will make them happier. No one knows how life will turn out if you have children—for all you know, you could end up with a few bad eggs that wreak havoc. I’m just saying. A lot of people refuse to think that they cannot be content with what is right in front of them.

Well, now that she has made her choices, which resulted in family and wealth, she now has to face the real issue: her sexuality. The biggest fear for Mrs. Smith is her children knowing anything. I suggested she probably should be honest with her husband, and see how he handles it. Take it from there. The first step is admitting to it. But, that calls for the risk of him telling one or two of the children. Admitting to it is very difficult, unless you have someone you’re already in love with. And she does. She has a friend that she fell madly in love with, but nothing has transpired as of yet. She’s preventing a beautiful relationship which she would be happier in, due to the choices she made in life.

I think of it like this… Mrs. Smith isn’t happy. Mr. Smith certainly isn’t happy either. Later on when all of this boils over, and the kids finally know, the love that they have between all of them will pull them together. It’s not my place to give advice on a marriage, but this situation can lead into depression, resentment and guilt if nothing were to happen. Either way, honesty is the best way to go about it in my opinion.

It's best to do this "now" than wait years later, right? I think it’s late to begin with, but to have your remaining years staying in a stagnant marriage with no love, no passion, no zest for life is like dying a slow death. There’s so much in life to experience. If you’re with someone who doesn’t ignite that flame for you—think about how many years of that person’s life you could waste. Think about how many years of “your” life you could waste. Marriage is sharing experiences together, vacationing together, traveling together and loving one another mutually…and equally. If the two desire to have children, then there’s that option. I’m even speaking for homosexual couples. People think homosexuals can’t have babies. Artificial insemination, adoption and sperm donors from a close friend are all on the table for anybody. You can do anything. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. You can.

People, places and things.

People change. People grow in and out of love. People change their minds, or have a change of heart. People may disappoint us and make us angry, but they’re human. It’s the inevitable. People set standards for one another and expect only the best. Give the benefit of the doubt, but always remember that we all make mistakes. Again, we’re human.

Places change. Places become home. Homes go on sale. Home is anywhere your heart desires to be; where your family stays to wait for you—even if it’s just your partner/spouse. Places are sentimental. There are places where people got engaged. Those unforgettable places will stay in the file cabinets of our minds forever. There are places that we sometimes need to go and get away from it all…even if that means your partner/spouse and family.

Things change. Circumstances can change instantly. Things can tear up a union, or make a situation better. Things can be sentimental as well—like a wedding ring or a necklace a loved one gave to you. They all hold meaning. There’s nothing wrong with keeping these valuable objects. Things are what people gave to us, to remind us that we were once loved—or still loved.

So, people places and things all add up to what? Life. And what changes on a consistent basis? Life! Sometimes it changes for the better, and sometimes it changes for the worse. With hope and faith, and realizing what you desire in life, you can have what you want. You can live the life you want. You can choose to be happy. A therapist once told me that I can choose to get out of my depression. He didn’t believe in medications. He believed in CBT (Cognitive Behavior Therapy) and the power of the mind to enable you to snap out of it. Again, you can do anything.

The power of the mind is great. The power of the Lord’s help is even greater. There’s this passage I say from the bible, right before I’m going to do something challenging…

“I can do everything with the help of Christ who gives me the strength I need.” ~Philippians 4:13

I say it three times before working out, before making a huge decision, or before approaching any obstacle. It really helps. Scientifically, you can say that it’s the power of the mind for those of you who are atheists, but spiritually, God gives me what I need, in order to get from point A. to point B.

So, Mrs. Smith, I don’t know what the “right” answer is for you, but all I can say is, if you’re that unhappy and you’re battling with depression, seek God. Pray to Him. Ask God to help you. He’ll never let you down. Pray and meditate. Don’t forget to listen though. God speaks to us in many ways. Be aware and open to the possibilities of subtle communication through the Spirit. Make sure you receive confirmation of the answer you received. Know that God loves you. He’ll give you anything you need—if it’s God willing. So before you start being honest with everyone, start being honest with God. Talk to the big guy first, before doing anything.

I wish I could give you more advice on what to do, but I don’t feel it’s my place to do so. I do know, that my heart goes out to you. I can only wish you happiness and contentment in your life---not the contentment where you’re ending up ‘settling for less than you want’-- I’m speaking of the type of contentment that makes your heart fill with joy.

You deserve only that.

So, maybe my readers can help you with their own advice and opinions to help you further along. I know that most of them are very intelligent and have some good insight about many things. I hope this helps!

Monday, October 09, 2006

Cows Mad Over E-Coli!!!

We’re down to nuts and berries folks! Okay, so last month is was the big ole spinach recall. One person died and two hundred people got sick. Fine. It’s over with—it’s off the shelves. Now in the news, beef gets recalled. No ground beef! No burgers! No steaks! Get them off your grill! Okay, so we’ll stick to chicken, fish and salads.

Nothing’s safe. I walked through the grocery store yesterday with Amy trying to find something good to eat for dinner. She wanted to get rice milk. Come on! Get the real stuff. Maybe I should have taken her advice hearing that milk can now have the same strain of e-coli bacteria. What is going on with our food and beverages? Our cows are pissed off!

Salad recall again! Green leafy salad was recalled and said it was from the irrigation water. It’s spreading the same e-coli bacteria. It was also reported that the juice from canned carrots was contaminated. Who drinks the juice of canned carrots? Who even likes canned carrots? A woman in Florida got paralyzed from the carrot juice, and three people in Georgia got respiratory failure from it.


I’ve had enough! Next time you see me, I’ll be in your local bar preparing you a delicious carrot juice martini and a big plate of filet mignon and a green leafy salad. Of course, I’ll serve carrots on the side.

Bon appetit!

Sunday, October 08, 2006

An Unforgettable Post

Please visit my friend's blog on his Christian views upon homosexuality and the guilt that goes along with it.

Click here to visit Ken!

Friday, October 06, 2006

American Idol Winner MIA



This is a video of a woman singing loudly while listening to her iPod--not realizing anyone else could hear her. Her daughters video taped this, as onlookers watched in hysterics! Too funny. Gotta watch this!

Enjoy your weekend everyone!

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

My Heterosexual Past

So I have developed some new readership, which I appreciate—courtesy of Dr. John. I received an email asking if my lifestyle defines me. No. I started this blog to encourage gays and lesbians to be comfortable with who they are. I wanted the ‘guilt and shame’ of being gay and being close to God at the same time to be relieved. But honestly, it was to brush up on my writing as well. I have a long way to go!

Now that I have readers who are 50% straight and 50% gay, I want to share part of my past with you. Even though I’ve always known I was attracted to women, I dated guys left and right. None of them lasted. I would usually date one guy for about two weeks, get bored, and then then move on. Sometimes, I would just date guys to cover up anyone’s assumption of my homosexuality---or desire to be.

Then there was him—a gorgeous middle-eastern man with big brown eyes, thick short black hair with the whitest smile you could ever imagine. I fell in love with him instantly. We were at a friend’s party. They had a huge house with a billiard room that had a huge bar inside it. He was sitting at the end of the bar. I came out of the kitchen, and saw him staring at me with those huge doe eyes. I smiled—and blushed unexpectedly! He was sitting alone drinking his beer. I didn’t know his age. I couldn’t even guess it. I knew he had to be about twenty years old or so, but it was hard to tell. I was sixteen years old at the time. I asked him if he wanted to play pool. Yes, I went up to him.

His English was a bit spotty, but his mere presence had captivated me. My best friend kept trying to lure me over to her group of friends—but I didn’t want to go. Kathy said, “Deb, come on, what are you doing with this man? He’s twice your age and he’s foreign!” I didn’t know what she meant. I soon found out that this guy was twenty-five years old. It was his birthday. So, basically he was nine years older than me, but he looked like ‘one of us’. He was short, slim, and stylish. I couldn’t tell his real age.

Needless to say, we started dating---seriously. He taught me a lot about his religion; being that he was Muslim, and at that time, my Christianity wasn’t strong. I was more agnostic than anything. I knew there was a God, and I grew up in a Catholic household. It was at the age of twenty-three when I became born again.

After a year of dating, we finally decided it was “time”. No, not marriage. I was scared. He had his own apartment and we always hung out there drinking beer and making out- but nothing went beyond that. One night, we were lying in his bed, and in the heat of everything, he looked at me—almost asking permission. It was then…I agreed. He was a virgin, and so was I. After that encounter, we couldn’t stop. We didn’t care where we were, who we were with, or what was going on around us. We were addicted to this 'new thing' that everyone raved about. In my mind, all I had to worry about was if I got pregnant. He wasn’t with anyone before me. I should have been smarter than that, but I was young and very naïve.

Our relationship wasn’t only about sex; we had a deep connection that went beyond anything else I’ve ever known. We were best friends. We went out, we did many things, from going out to lunch, flying kites, attending parties, walking through the park, to going out to the movies or just enjoying a quiet evening at home. We talked endlessly and shared stories about his country back in Pakistan and how he was born and mostly raised in London. He definitely had more of a history than I did, being that he was twenty-five and from another country. I listened intently. I held on to every word that came out of his mouth. After time, his English was amazing. He was becoming ‘Americanized’. (Not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but it helped him with his business.) He owned a chain of mini marts and gas stations, and was increasingly becoming more and more successful. (If you stereotype this—I will kick you in the shins!)

By the time I was eighteen years old, I quickly became an intern at a medical firm, and my hours were long during the day, and his hours were long during the night. We were passing ships without even living in the same quarters. He constantly thought I was cheating on him, due to the fact I was too tired to go see him at midnight when he got off from work. It affected our relationship greatly, and then there was the night I will never forget…

His car came cruising down my driveway fast. He was with his younger brother. He left his brother in the car and came inside to talk to me. I knew what it was. I grabbed a glass of water, and remembered my hands shaking frantically, because I knew he was breaking up with me. My heart was in my throat, and I thought I would just die if I heard those words come out of his mouth. He looked at me with those huge brown eyes, and I thought, “I’m never going to look into his eyes again!” I started crying before he even broke it off with me. I couldn’t hold it in. God! Why did I have to cry in front of him? He just hugged me, and said, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. Those words tore through my heart. The perfect man, who has treated me so good for these past couple of years, is ending it all. Why? I learned how to cook for him, how to make him feel comfortable, and I gave up my virginity to this man--at such an early age! How can he just end it like this? We spoke about marriage and having kids together. We spoke about the future and growing old with one another. It was all going down the tubes as he hugged me…for the last time.

After the door shut, and I saw his taillights going off in the distance, I saw my life end right there. I went into my bedroom, locked the door and went into my bathroom to cry. I cried hard. I threw up many times. I couldn’t hold anything in. It felt like someone had died. I was hunched over the toilet bowl screaming crying and ready to just die right there. My phone rang. I thought it may be him changing his mind. It was my friend Kathy.

“Deb…?”

(Silence)

“Deb!” She screamed out into the phone. “Are you okay?”

I said nothing. I cried into the phone. Within thirty minutes, I had fifteen of my closest friends in my bedroom consoling me. One girl even came from an hour away by bus just to comfort me. I wasn’t suicidal, but that’s what they thought. They didn’t want to leave me alone. They all stayed with me that night, making sure I wouldn’t do anything stupid. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated all my friends doing that for me. They were total angels for giving up their entire evening, just to be with a sap who just had her heart broken.

After a few months passed by, he called me again. It quickly turned into ‘sex with the ex’ type of situation. This happened weekly. There were no commitments, no agendas---just sex. I was content with it, but I quickly came to realize what I truly wanted…and it wasn’t with him. He realized that my interest was fading, and then he became desperate.

He proposed to me. He wanted to get married and have me living in his house ASAP. What? Now? Why? I didn’t understand it, until he found out what my real situation was all about. One of my friends had told him about a girl I started seeing---Madelene. He was shocked.

“What? It doesn’t make sense. It’s like dating your sister!” He said to me, uneducated about any type of homosexual lifestyle. He came from a country that considered homosexuality as bad as incest. His lack of understanding---was indeed---understandable. I knew he would react this way. I wasn’t offended.

He and I became friends, without the benefits, and he respected Madelene. He would come over to our apartment and help us out with anything that needed to be fixed, or simply to just have dinner with us. Our friendship grew even closer than ever, and he totally respected anything that Madelene and I had together. It was hard trying to explain my love for my partner to him, but I wanted him to know it wasn’t just a “roommate” type of situation. He tried a few times to engage in sex, but I reminded him about how real my situation really was.

Every year on April 15th, which is his birthday, I always send him a card. He is now happily married to a woman who he has been set up with that lived in Pakistan. She moved to the US for him, and they now have three beautiful children together. He wanted kids so badly. If I were to live a lie, and be with him, he probably wouldn’t have had all he does right now. I am so happy he got what he ‘truly’ wanted. He deserves that. In retrospect, I don’t regret one day with him, but I am glad that I made this decision…because he would have been married to a woman with other desires for the same sex.

I only wish him happiness…and I thank him for every single day he has spent with me. Thank you Mr. R for showing me how beautiful men really are!