Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The only option for avoiding that horrific latex taste is to use Saran Wrap. What a romantic thought, huh?
“Hold on honey, let me grab the Saran Wrap!”
Heterosexuals and gay men have it fairly easy when it comes to this option. They can roll a condom on their penis, and have it stay there. Lesbians have to literally hold up this square, flat piece of floppy rubber-like paper on their partner’s genitalia and try to poke their tongue through this pliable barrier. Who thought of this? A woman’s anatomy is complex, and has so many different areas that need to be attended to. I’m not saying that the dental damn is a bad thing, and that it should not be used; I just wish that we had another option.
The other flip-side of this problem is the act of ‘genital-to-genital’ sex. Do you think a dam is going to stay in place during this activity? The most known case for lesbians to contract an STD is through genital-to-genital sex; through vaginal secretions. It baffles me that we have not come up with better solutions for “better sex”. Women have to get creative a lot of times. Sometimes we even resort to sexual toys. The one thing to remember is, when protecting yourself against an STD; always, always wash off your ‘pickle of love’ before using it on your partner, and vise/versa. Depending on the two people involved, this can be a very enjoyable way to experience a sexual encounter with someone, and yet—be safe. There are a lot of lesbians who do not prefer toys. They like the ‘natural way’.
If you are single and playing the field, either keep that Saran Wrap handy in your glove compartment, or consider using a fruit roll-up. I’d rather use that than a dental dam any day. The funniest thing is to watch these old sex therapists on television explain ways to have better sex, and answer questions from callers around the world. Have you seen this? An old lady comes on television and basically gives sexual advice in explicit form. The sex therapist was explaining how to use the dental dam. She held up the flat, square piece of rubber, and started darting her tongue through it. This was enough to make me turn from lesbian sex all together. I have to say, this was very comical. I give this lady credit for even going on television to demonstrate dental damns, vibrators, dildos and other wonderful things in her bag of tricks. No doubt, the best way to stay safe is abstinence, but…umm…really now. I can suggest it, but will you even listen? Will I even listen? I’d be a hypocrite to even give that advice.
Sex is a wonderful thing and should be enjoyed. It’s a shame that we have to fear it for dear life. The question remains, do all of us fear it? That is even a scarier thought. A lot of people do not fear unprotected sex, which makes for an unsafe community. Why have we become so careless--as if we didn’t care if we live or die? It is a matter of life or death. The consequences of our actions are crucial. Thinking before our actions is so important. Believe me, I was no angel when I was younger. I have had some wild days that will last me for a lifetime. We all had to sew our oats at a certain point in our lives, but there comes a time when we just need to settle down and get hit with a reality slap. I got hit with a huge scare in my life. When I was nine-teen years old, I went with a woman and had unprotected sex with her. Unbeknown to my knowledge, this beautiful woman who was four-teen years older than me was a prostitute. She led me to believe that she was monogamous in our relationship. Not only did I find out she was a prostitute, but she was also a drug user. My heart was literally broken. I loved this woman and thought the world of her. Why wasn’t she honest with me? We had unprotected sex, and I had to find out myself if I contracted anything.
I’ll never forget walking into the doctor’s office having to tell him that I was a ‘lesbian’ and that I had sex with someone who had numerous partners. I then requested an HIV test. They took blood tests and sent me on my way. “We’ll call you with the results...” It took two weeks for them to call me back with the results. Those two weeks were torture! The frustrating part about this was, when they did call, they asked me to come in. Come in??? That must mean bad news. I was shaking like a leaf. I thought right there, my life was over. I was about to be given the worse news of my life. As I sat in their office, the doctor calls me in. He sat me down and said, “Well, you’re not pregnant.” Err… Where did this guy get his degree? He then went on to explained how it is so important to have safe sex and lectured me on my irresponsibility. At this point, I thought he was about to give me bad news. He didn’t. I was HIV negative.
I was so happy and relieved to hear this, yet very pissed off at this doctor for putting me through the stress of ‘his little scare tactic’. I’m glad he did that though, because it gave me a slap of reality, and some sense of awareness. I went home feeling as though God had given me a new life; a new beginning. I just couldn’t believe how careless I was when I was young and dating numerous women at a time. I thought I was invincible; as though nothing could overcome me. I even went with straight women, brought home barmaids, had one night stands with women in night clubs, as well as have multiple girlfriends at the same time. It was careless and irresponsible behavior on my part, which I regret. In another aspect, I do believe that we all go through certain things in our lives in order to make us realize what’s really important. I think if I hadn’t gone through that crazy ‘wild life’---I think I would still be trying to sew my oats today—and a scarier thought, I probably wouldn’t be afraid of a sexually transmitted disease.
There was a time when I was working as a temp for a corporate company, and I started becoming close friends with my immediate supervisor. As time went on, we began to establish a friendship outside the office. She was married to a man that she has known practically all her life. The troublesome part of it was, he constantly cheated on her with other women. She confided in me and was upset, as well as confused. I made it known to her about my sexual orientation, and she was okay with it. The only thing that bothered me is how much she would remind me not to tell anyone in the company. For personal reasons, I didn’t plan on doing that anyway, but for her to remind me made me feel as though I should be ashamed of who I am.
Time went on, and we started spending every weekend together. We went out for lunch, got our nails done together, went shopping, had dinner and even had sleepovers. We were practically best friends at this point. Her husband worked long hours as a cop, and then went out every evening with his friends…(or so he said)
One evening, while dining at a local restaurant, she started asking me a ton of questions regarding my sexual preference, how long I have been gay, and would I ever date men again. We talked, and I was trying to be as honest and open as I could to her, since she was open with me. She then told me that she had a three year relationship with a woman before she married her husband. She said she was gay. How could this be? She married her husband out of fear of what her parents would think. He was a childhood friend who was in love with her, so she felt ‘comfortable’ marrying this man. Needless to say, we started being intimate and having unprotected sex not too long after that. Our relationship was an intense one. I fell in love with her and wanted more, which I knew that may never be possible.
I had to end everything due to my strong feelings towards her, and had to accept that she would never leave her husband for another woman. My point of this story is--having sexual encounters with this woman led me to the thought of her intimacy with her husband, as well as his intimacy with ‘other women’. So, by me having sex with her, I was ‘in a way’ having sex with her husband, and all of his mistresses. Where does that bring me? Yes, back to the ol’ doctor’s office for a check up. It was well worth it, and I was happy to find out, once again, that I was HIV negative.
Sometimes we all get into situations where we have no control over our actions due to our intense emotional bonds that we create. We don’t want to believe that the person that we fell in love with has a disease, so in most cases, we tend to block it out of our minds and continue being careless. Hopefully it doesn’t come to a point where the ‘scare’ becomes a reality. I do believe there are differences between gay men and lesbian women in the sexual aspect. Although, both men and women are all susceptible to all diseases if we are exposed to it, the increasing amount of men who are contracting the HIV virus is becoming almost mainstream. Since men are more opt to satisfy their sexual needs at will, the increasing amount of men who are catching this virus is overwhelming. There are certain groups where they call themselves, “Bug Chasers”. These groups of men actively seek HIV positive men to give him ‘the gift’----which is HIV. In their mindset, they would rather diminish the fear of contracting HIV, so that they can have sex with anyone they want, without a condom; without thoughts of ‘what if I catch it’. By contracting HIV, these men will set up “POZ parties” (HIV+ parties) so that there are no need for concerns. ‘Barebacking’---which means men having sex without protection is being practiced at an alarming rate. Barebacking parties are mostly found on the internet so that these men could have access to look this up at any given time. In their eyes, sex is worth all the medications and headaches that go along with being HIV positive. Since medicine today is doing a better job having HIV positive men live longer, the disease now is no longer considered, ‘dangerous’ in their eyes. There are stories where men catch HIV, to only die within that year. It depends on each individual and how strong their immune system is. (Mind you--Not all gay men are like this--it's just an increasing amount of the gay community who do participate in this sort of behavior.)
Has sex become such top priority for men that they are willing to risk their lives for it? What does that mean for lesbian women? The majority of lesbian women with HIV have already had an encounter with a man or they are bi-sexual. I’m not saying that you cannot contract the HIV virus through another woman, but in most studies, it shows that women mostly get HIV if they are heterosexual or have been with a man at one point in their lives. There are women who have contracted HIV through women, but not as much. It’s a rare occurrence, but should still be taken seriously. Mainly, if a woman had high risk activity in her past, such as unprotected sex, the use of intravenous drugs/unclean needles, then precautious should be taken. The topic of safe sex has become taboo for most lesbian women. HIV can be among anyone, even if they look healthy. Never be scared to ask your partner about their past, or their HIV status, or other STDs-- and never be afraid to both get tests together.
Monday, January 30, 2006
“Oh nothing.” I say—hoping that Madelene will forget that I missed the entire story she just told me. Of course she’ll turn around to see what’s going on, to see what I’m really tuning into.
So here’s last night’s eavesdrop story…
Meet 'Dick' and 'Jane'. Dick invited this lovely girl out for a drink. It was obvious these two had a history together. Dick was begging Jane to come back to him. Dick broke up with Jane after five years for another girl. (Boooooooooo!) After eight fun months of frolicking with another woman, Dick realizes that Jane is a better catch. Jane starts crying hysterically. She tries to hide her tears behind the beer taps.
“Why do you bring me out to a bar and do this? Couldn’t we have just grabbed a table?” Jane asks, as she wipes her tears away from her face.
“I love you, Jane. I realized that there’ll be only one person for me—the only one who has my heart---and that’s you.”
“I can’t believe you, Dick! You’ve lied to me way too many times. How am I supposed to trust what you say now?”
“I’ll be right back.” Dick says, as he steps away from the bar to use the little boy’s room.
“Are you okay?” I asked Jane, as I handed her a tissue.
“Yeah. I don’t know why he needs to do this in public. Every time his cell phone rings—it’s his girlfriend. How can I believe that he doesn’t want to be with her anymore?”
“I’m sorry. Well, he lost a good thing. We’ll definitely let him know that. This is my partner Madelene.” I said, scheming up a funny scenario. We started joking around with her and we bought her a drink. When Dick came back, he saw that we were laughing.
“Whaddya’ all laughing at?” He asks, as he sits back down on his stool.
“Oh nothing.” Jane says, as she lets out one more giggle.
"Not for nuttin’, but your girlfriend is just gorgeous! No disrespect or anything, but from a lesbian’s point of view, you are extremely lucky.”
“Errr…thanks….” Dick replies, as he looks at Jane suspiciously.
“I think she’s hitting on you.” He suggests to Jane. Jane just sat there and giggled the entire time, because she knew that we thought Dick was…well…a dick.
We have no idea why anyone would think Dick is a dick. Dick wants to have his cake and eat it too. Apparently, the cake he chose went bad, and he wants his little cupcake back. Poor Dick—so misunderstood. It’s no wonder some straight girls turn into full-fledged lesbians. Men like him, give ‘good guys’ a bad name. Sorry Jane. I hope you feel better and you meet a man who’s going to treat you well.
Okay, meet Paulie. He's gorgeous--I even have to admit! He’s better than my pharmacist. He’s great to talk to, and he knows my medication. All the ladies love this guy. And why wouldn't they? Just look at him. Now, I’ve been coming to this bar since I was one year old. No, it’s true. The owners even remember when my parents would take me there. They dressed me up in this awful yellow bonnet and flowery dress. My reputation there was forever ruined. The outfits my mother prepared for me were hideous to say the least. How could I ever show my face there again?
Well, after thirty-one years, I’m still going there--however, I have a much better sense of style. (I think...Anything's better than that awful yellow bonnet!) Memories at this bar have been sketched in the files of my mind forever. It’s also a restaurant as well. In the summer, this place becomes a lively outside bar with volleyball courts in the back and entertainment all year round. Sometimes they even have two to three bands playing at once—in different sections.
The scariest time I remember at this place, is when there was a tornado watch. My friend and I didn’t think much of it, because tornados usually don’t hit New York too bad. We live outside of the city, so it wasn’t a major concern. We sat outside enjoying our drinks after work. It was 5pm, and the sun gave off an orange hue—and the atmosphere was turning yellow. I felt as though I had one of those Blueblocker sunglasses on. I started to get nervous, because everything went still. The radio blared this long beep to alert their audience. They announced that we were under a tornado warning, and the very next town over from us got hit already. Then we saw the black clouds coming in—fast!
“Everyone! Come with me!” The bartender said, as he lifted up a flap that led into a basement. It was an actual bomb shelter built years ago. The bar wasn’t that packed. About twenty people filled up the basement. We heard the winds gust outside and felt the rumbles of chairs and other things knocking around above our heads. I was scared, holding my friend’s arm tightly. It took all of five minutes, and then it was calm again.
When we climbed back up, the sun was out, and it was a beautiful day again. There was no electric. Trees were knocked down, chairs from the outside bar were tossed around the parking lot, and leaves everywhere. Funny how a tornado can whip through a town within five minutes with this fierce weather—and then leaves you back to your beautiful day again.
There were many good times held at this place, and many other times that left me with questions. I experienced a lot in this little bar and grill. I had a few dates here, and met a few people that are still in my life today. I laughed, cried, fought, flirted, danced, played volleyball, kissed, listened to live music, drank my butt off, and enjoyed spending time with my family and loved ones at this little bar.
They say you never forget your first.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Mon·o·logue: v. mon·o·logued, also mon·o·logged mon·o·logu·ing, mon·o·log·ging mon·o·logues, mon errr…..What’s worse than that?
mon o·log ic (-l j k) or mon o·log i·cal (- -k l) adj. mon o·logu ist (m n -lôg st, -l g -) or mo·nol o·gist (m -n l -j st, m n -lôg st, -l g -) n.
Definition: A long speech made by one person, often monopolizing a conversation. In other words, shut the ~^bleep~^~up already!
What blog doesn’t monopolize a conversation? It’s almost as bad as reading some long-winded email from a friend. Or it’s almost as worse as spying on someone else’s email if you’re just a ‘lurker’. Even worse, it’s like talking when nobody’s listening. Now I’m depressing myself.
Where was I? Oh did I just pull a “Mike”? Sorry. I’ll try not to follow his style. Nor will I tryta’pulla’Stevo cuzdatz jis’not cool. Jis' sayin...
All I want to do is show you some fricken pictures of last night and all I do is keep yapping away. My apologies. I’m apologizing on my own blog. I’ve been living in other people’s comment sections earlier today, and it was just a mess. Sorry to Mike—I think someone actually told him to moderate his comments. They even advised him to delete me. Oh I’m so depressed!
Okay. So last night was fun. Madelene and I went out to our favorite restaurant.
“Hey! Bellas! You ova’ at da’ bar! Take care of our new a’bartenda!” The owner says, in his deep Italian accent. I’ve known him forever. The first time I met him, I believe I was like eight years old or something. He was working at another restaurant as a busboy. Yep. He was pouring my water every single time I took a sip.
I felt bad. It was the bartender’s first day. Being a ‘fill in’ bartender from time to time and having experience in that type of work years ago, I felt his pain. Especially in this highly demanding restaurant—he had his hands full. Regulars come in there all the time---picky ass regulars who want their bread burned to a perfect crisp. Italian customers who will knit pick at the slightest error you make. These customers aren’t your typical restaurant going folk---they mean business. For the love of God---didn’t I say Italian???
So we head over to the bar area. A nice looking gentleman awaits us with the typical white shirt, tie, slacks and even a dishrag hanging out of his pocket. It was actually nice seeing a little testosterone behind that bar. I love all my female bartenders who serve me there—and know every single thing I’m going to order—food-wise and drink-wise, but this was different. I enjoyed him. (No, I didn’t eat him up like a steak!)
I guess the bartender was nervous. He was pacing back and forth asking for help. The cash register was one of those touch-screen computers. I know them all too well, and wanted to help—but each system is designed so differently. Plus, I didn’t want to let him know I noticed him struggling. I waited in between drinks for him to figure things out, before I said, “Scuse’ me? Can I bother you for another chardonnay?” all low and sweet, so he wouldn’t get nervous.
Madelene orders are Michelob Light Ultra. What the??? What’s the point? It’s pure water to me. What’s wrong with an Amstel Light—which has a taste of a real beer? And—the truth is, there’s not much difference calorie-wise and carb-wise. Just a little tweek in their advertising—and BAM—you’re a sheep to those low-carb cults.
Anyway, after four fishbowl-like goblets full of chardonnay, the owner ventures behind the bar to help out the new guy a little.
“I a’knew a’Deb-bie when I was a’only a busboy! She a’always treated me with a’respect and talked to me. Her a’family treated me so a’nicely!” He says, to the bartender loudly, so that I would hear.
”More water please!” I said, jokingly. Now he’s a proud owner of a very successful restaurant. He came a long way from being a busboy straight from Italy—to owning one of the best restaurants around the area.
There’s not one person who sits at this bar, who doesn’t order something to eat. It’s not possible with the good food they have there. We’re friends with some of the regulars who come strolling in for their quick dinner before they go back home to their wives. It’s usually a bunch of older Italian men surrounding the bar, unless the wife convinced one of them to bring them along. We always receive that old man perverted stare from across the bar. It’s okay though. I’d rather have one their looks than a ‘one eyebrow up--come hither-type of look’ from a younger guy. That’s just awful.
I’m tanked at this point. I didn’t eat much all day, and the alcohol took center stage. I figured I’d order my espresso with Sambuka to sober me up a little. I know Stevo, you don’t like that word either. It’s offensive. I’ll try not to use ‘sober’ anymore.
How can you go wrong with a little espresso? Well—yeah, it did have a large cordial glass full of Sambuka on the side. Let me tell you, I had one of the most ‘highest’ drunks ever! I was talking a mile a minute and I believe I was twitching almost. One of the old men probably thought it was a wink—not sure. Probably why I found a phone number in my pocket. “If a woman answers, hang up!”
There I am---laughing and giggling amongst all that testosterone flying in the air. You know it’s last call once the camera comes out. Oh yeah! That’s when Madelene needs to take my drunk ass back home where it belongs. I start taking pictures of the owner. He’s very modest. I told him I was going to plaster his face all over the net.
Last call, and we were all still talking and laughing—having a great time. This was the owner's attempt to call AA for me. He knew there was a major concern. The smile on his face is somewhat insulting, almost as if he doesn’t want me back at his bar anymore. Maybe he wanted to go home since it was almost closing time.
I can just hear him now, “Please a’take her outa’ here now! I can’t a’take it anymore!”
Naw, he wouldn’t do that to me. Or would he? We eventually left the bar, so they could go back to their lives and go home. Madelene and I continued our own little party at home. What the hell was I thinking? More cocktails on the way! I couldn’t believe it. I don’t even remember it. Apparently I had sex at some point of the evening. When you have to be told what happened the night before, that’s when you know you have a problem. But for me? It’s not a problem---I like forgetting sometimes. (But not the sex part—I wish I could remember that.) Of course it was with Madelene! I hear you all talking!
Needless to say, I am very hungover today. I took my much needed nap---thank you very much Mike for suggesting that… I promised pictures—so pictures you have. My eyes look like little slits and my smile is just way too wide. Drunk…ass!
I woke up this morning half crocked. I went to see my mother downstairs. I was shaking. “You cold mama?” My mother asked. Yes she calls me “mama’. It’s a term of endearment. Shush!... I explained to her that I was hungover.
That question is almost as bad as asking someone while their sleeping—“Are you sleeping?” Even when I come home and she’s outside where I park my car, she’ll ask, “Ya home?”
NO! I’m still out, I’ll be back later!
Gotta love her though. Wouldn’t have her any other way. Even if she does ask me the strangest questions.
“Have a drink—it’ll calm you.” She says, suggesting that I make a bloody mary. I couldn’t even think about having one. The thought nauseated me.
“Hey Deb!!! You gotta come and see what I got for ya!” My father calls out from his smoking room. I walk in and he’s shaking something uncontrollably.
“Dad? Whaddya’ doing?”
”I boughtchoo’ dese’ flashlights that need no batteries! All you do is shake em’ up and they light up like anything’!” He says, as he’s still shaking this God awful flashlight.
”I gotta’whole case of em’!” He says, proudly.
My mother shot him a look like he was some sort of madman packrat. He’s become an infomercial addict. He’s already got a truckload of the Magic Chef and probably ten cases of little keychain flashlights. This is worse than my drinking problem.
“Here—shake it and watch it light up!” He says, as his eyes light up like a kid’s.
I shook it. I was tired. I was shaking already due to the alcohol withdrawal. It was all I could do to yell, “You’re a crazy sonova’bitch!” But I love my dad, and it’s sort of comical watching him go through this psychotic phase of his.
“Ya fatha’ keeps buyin’ all dese’contraptions and junk on T.V. Debs!” My mother says, as she shakes her head in disapproval. That was my indicator that I needed to head back up to my apartment and sleep whatever alcohol I had left in my system off.
I hope you enjoyed my shameful evening. Oh no—wait---another big contradiction—or wait—an oxymoron that I can add to the list of names to call myself: The Christian republican lesbian alcoholic. That can’t sit right with you---unless you’re a ‘left winger’---they always love to see drunken republicans making a fools of themselves.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
The scary part is, anytime I have a pain or scream for help—I’m not taken seriously anymore. Madelene always takes me seriously, but she goes by protocol---she knows the drill: try to comfort her…if that doesn’t work, throw her in a bathroom full of steam…if that doesn’t work, off to the emergency room we go. A lot of my chest pains stems from my chronic bronchitis that turns into a full-fledged asthma attack. And at other times, it could just be anxiety. I can’t determine which is which. Thoughts in my head scream, “I’m dying! I’m dying!” Then I remember—I’m not breathing. How can someone forget to breathe? Isn’t that an involuntary action?
“Ya want a beer Debs?” Mom says, as I stand there holding my chest tight one evening. She knows that it’s most likely anxiety—so she offers me a beer.
“Sure ma…” I say, thinking maybe she’s right. It can’t hurt to find out.
“It’s probably gas!” She says, as she grabs me a beer. Lovely. I’m standing there thinking I’m dying and she’s blaming it on gas. She’s said that in front of people before too. It’s the most embarrassing statement ever!
“Burp it out.” She suggests.
“Ma! Come on! What do I look like?” I said—as a gulped down the beer like a hillbilly.
I’ll never forget the time when Madelene and I were separated for a couple of years. I had a date one night. I was getting ready to meet this girl at a restaurant nearby. I was really nervous, because it was one of my very first dates after my break up. I met the girl from a personal ad on the internet. We exchanged emails constantly, and then graduated to the phone. This woman had a personality like no other. We laughed all the time when we spoke. We decided it was time we finally met.
I remember hopping in my car, driving to Hallmark to pick up a “glad I met you card” (blank inside—had to write in my own words) and a box of chocolate truffles. I planned on keeping them in the car until the date was over; just in case I didn’t like her very much, I can always use a few chocolate pick me ups.
Immediately upon arrival at the restaurant, I park my car on the side of the road. I call my friend Lisa who was single back then as well. We were both in the dating pool trying to weed em’ out and select the lucky winner. Yeh.
“Lisa, I’m here already, she said she was driving a blue Camry….I am not sure if I dressed right or if she’ll like me.” I would tell Lisa all my worries and fears before my date, and she would always calm me down with words I needed to hear--even if it was bullshit. We did this for one another like two lunatics who just got out of an insane asylum.
“There she is! I gotta go! I hope I don’t trip on the way out of my car! These heels suck!—Call you later, I’ll tell you everything tonight.”
There she was, gorgeous, feminine, and dressed to the nines. Wow. Now that I know about her bubbly personality and great sense of humor, this is going to be good--unless she doesn’t dig me. Hmm. I approached her at the front of the restaurant. She hugs me…tight. Smiles from ear-to-ear on both of us, we talked for a few minutes, and then proceeded to enter the restaurant.
“So, did you have trouble getting here? Did you find it okay?” I asked just to start the conversation.
Why do people always say that once arriving somewhere that they are not familiar with? Of course they found it okay or they wouldn’t be sitting smack-dab in front of you nimrod! Sad but true, we say it as a conversation starter. Admit it--you do it too. Surprisingly, the conversation was quite boring. Where’s this waitress? I want a drink! Please loosen this girl up! It was as plain as day that this woman was extremely nervous, because her personality took a long vacation. Maybe it was me…who knows! I tried to talk, she tried, but nothing came out. Just blank stares across the table with a ‘teethy’ smile. Lord help me.
The waitress comes to my rescue. I try to be all impressive, and took it upon myself to order one of the best red wines they had. What a freak—I should have just ordered an Amstel Light and a shot of vodka like I normally do. No, I had to be an idiot and take the ‘hoity-toity’ road.
“I’ll just have a cup of coffee please.” My date says in a low toned voice.
Did I just hear this correctly? It’s me, a bottle of wine, and her drinking coffee? You got to be kidding!
“Am I keeping you up?” I chuckled to make light of things.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I just got back from an AA meeting. I have a problem with alcohol.”
I felt so bad. If I would have known this girl had a drinking problem, I would have never, ever ordered something that would tease her temptation. I was Satan himself! It was way too late, because the waitress already popped the cork.
“Oh, please, I don’t mind if you have wine, in fact, it would make me uneasy if you didn’t drink it.” She said to me very convincingly.
I didn’t believe it, but what could I do now? I had to think of strategic moves in order to sip my wine. I even went as far as hiding the wine glass behind the bread basket. This was torture. I finally began to grasp the realization that I was not going to even drink this glass of wine, no less the whole entire bottle. The conversation was starting to liven up a bit, and she told me about her career as a massage therapist. Why are so many lesbians in this business? Please don’t answer that. Anyway, after dinner, I asked her if she would like to come over my house for some cappuccino. I make the best cappuccinos and delicious coffees, she had to give in. It was a cold winter evening, so I made a huge fire and the cappuccinos, as promised. She asked if it was okay if she smoked. I had no problem with it, although I am a reformed smoker—this was quite ironic. Reformed smoker dates reformed alcoholic. Lovely.
“Do you have lotion?” She asks as she sips her coffee and lights her cigarette for the tenth time.
“Excuse me? Lotion? Umm, sure. Be right back.” I get the lotion thinking that this chick is going to be aggressively forward. I was nervous. Why am I retrieving this lotion for her? Why did I agree? I could have simply said no, and that was that. I come back into the living room with a bottle of lotion in hand. She ducks out her cigarette and sits next to me on the couch.
“Do you know that massaging arms are very relaxing and stress relieving?” She said as she starts pumping the lotion into her hands.
“Hmm, I guess I’m fine with any part of my body being massaged.” I chuckled due to this awkward moment. She takes me left arm, and starts massaging this lotion on my forearm.
“I think forearms are very sexy.” She says as she rubs down my skin. Embarrassed over the fact that I shave and/or wax my arms, and usually don’t admit to it, I was glad it was freshly waxed that day, or she would have had stubble burn on her hands.
“You know, drinking is so awful for you. It really does a lot of damage to your liver. Drinking even can cause major health problems other than that.” This woman is lecturing me on drinking while she just puffed away half a pack of cigarettes in front of me while drinking her fourth cup of coffee that evening. Might as well just get it over with and smoke some crack! She was shaking like a leaf due to all the caffeine & nicotine intake. The nerve to lecture me you hypocrite! I brushed that comment off and said, “Ah well, we all have our evils.”
The night was coming to an end, and so was this arm massage. I decided that nothing else shaved or unshaved is going to get massaged. I walked her to the door and gave her the card and chocolates. I thanked her for a lovely evening. She reached over and kissed my lips very softly.
“Goodnight, thank you so much Deb.”
“Goodnight...” I closed the door and walked up to my bedroom so I can go to sleep. I should have aired the smoke out, but I was way too tired. As I was putting on my T.V. and getting into bed, my phone rings. It’s her.
“Deb, I just wanted to say I had such a great time with you. I got a 'ping' with you--major chemistry. Do you want to go out for dinner tomorrow again?”
“Oh, yeah, great.” I replied--too tired to dabble deeper into that comment.
Why did I say yes? Why did I just accept another date with this woman? Am I insane? I can’t even drink comfortably around her. That evening, I had a drink before meeting her. I went downstairs to where my mother lives, and I had a glass of wine. I told my mother about the dilemma I was having about my ‘date’.
“Ma, she’s got a problem with alcohol and goes to AA, so I feel like I can’t have a drink around her. I don’t want to tempt her.” I said, hoping my mother could give me some encouraging words.
“Oh Debbie! You can’t date her! Come on now! If you ever brought her to one of our family’s function---she’ll be knocked off that little wagon so fast—she won’t know what hit her! Are you kidding? You can’t date her! Why are you going?”
Words of wisdom from my mother. “Never date a person trying to recover from alcohol.” I thought it was comical actually. You would think my mother would encourage this date—since I hit the bottle a little more than usual. Naw, she wanted her daughter that took part in cocktail hours and martini-induced games of scrabble. My mother would be so disappointed if I gave up alcohol. So now, I don’t have my mother’s blessing—which means everything to me.
Now I had to venture off to see my date, who I knew wasn’t going to be ‘the one’, due to my mother forbidding this union. I’m not sure I was crazy about it either, but I had to go through with it. I couldn’t cancel at the last hour. My date and I met at a different restaurant. I was still kind of ‘tweeked’ over the fact that she lectured me about drinking wine. It’s not like I walk around the streets with a wine bottle in a brown bag. Come on! It’s wine with dinner. It’s normal. Get over it.
We sat down at a table and she looks around to notice that this place was very upscale and pricey, but it’s definitely not going to break the bank.
“Are you rich or something?” She asks me as she giggles. Who asks that? Even if I were super rich—who does that? What a rude question, even if done in jest.
“I hold my own, thank you.” I said anxiously waiting for the waiter to make his way over, because now I am ready to retaliate big time.The waiter finally comes and greets us.
“Hi my name is Larry and I will be more than happy to serve you tonight. May I start you off with a cocktail?”
“I think I’ll have something clear…I’ll have a 7UP with lemon please.” My date says as if she had just ordered the finest scotch in the house.
“And you? What would you like this evening?” The waiter addresses to me.
“Hmm…I think I’ll have something clear too… I’ll have a Grey Goose martini straight up-- extra olives please.”
“You know, I told my sponsor at AA about our date. She asked if I tasted the wine on your lips, and if that tempted me at all.” She says, almost indicating to me that she didn't want me to drink that evening.
"Well I'm drinking a vodka martini tonight--it shouldn't be so bad." I said, almost laughing hysterically in my mind.
I looked over at my date’s face to see her reaction, but she was too busy sipping her water. I believe it was a nervous reaction. During the whole course of that “last” date, I sipped my martini often, and I sipped my martini proud. I savored each vodka-soaked olive as if it were the most delicious thing in the world. That night, it was.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
This content contains religious and Christian-related material that some of another religion or sector may find offensive. I speak from my faith, and *not* to impose my religion on anyone. I always like to warn my readers before they start reading my beliefs and religious rants.
Having faith in God is a personal thing. Of course, in my beliefs, God loves all of us; regardless of flaws and imperfections. If God made us all ‘perfect’---than we wouldn’t need Him. Through our imperfections, we can experience what it means to fail and to succeed. I mean that in a positive way. We all need to hit rock bottom, before we can realize how good we truly have it.
A commenter on my previous post wrote, “Isn't the term ‘Christian lesbian’ an oxymoron???”
The assumption that gay & lesbians cannot be Christian makes me feel sad. Do people really think like this? If I love my partner of twelve years, does that mean I’m going to hell? Does that mean that I can’t love Jesus? Do I have to be some holy-rolling bible thumper in order to be Christian? Each Christian is different. Each person is different. All of us are so unique—that’s how God created us. (In my beliefs of course.)
How terrible it would be if a newborn baby said to its father and mother, “Why was I born? Why did you make me this way?” –Isaiah 45:10
I don’t think God put me on this earth—so that I would only sin and go to hell. Each and every one of us sins. Think about it—even gossiping is a sin---talking about someone else’s life is a sin.
There is a great analogy and ‘truth’ in the Jewish law that even applies to Christians as well.
“Whoever speaks with an evil speech — lashon hara — is as if he denied G-d . . . Evil speech kills three people — the one who says it, the one who accepts it, and the one about whom it is said.” — Maimonides, Hilchos Deos 7:3
Interesting, huh? Some people wouldn’t even think that would be a sin, but it is. What about white lies? That’s just as much of a sin than being homosexual is. Little lies such as, ‘where you’ve been’, ‘saying no when you don’t really mean it’, and ‘complimenting someone when you feel another way’. All of these are considered to be a form insincerity.
What about shellfish? Do you eat shrimp cocktail once in a while? Enjoy a nice lobster dinner? In the book of Leviticus—this is considered an abomination to God—just as being homosexual is.
I find myself repeating a lot of these things in my posts, only due to questionings of my readers. That’s ‘okay’, and I welcome that. It’s interesting to see so many people inquiring about other lifestyles and ‘thought to be sins’, when they’re life is just as imperfect as mine.
“Stop judging others, and you will not be judged. For others will treat you as you treat them. Whatever measure you use in judging others, it will be used to measure how you are judged. And why worry about a speck in your friend’s eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying, ‘Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,’ when you can’t see past the log from your own eye; then perhaps you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye.” ~Matthew 7:5
It’s normal to judge others. We’re human. I do it at times. It can be involuntary, because we’re so accustomed to it. We’re visual creatures with opinions and different point of views—how can we ‘not’ be judgmental? It’s hard. It’s actually fascinating to see one kind of person judging another—based on the lives they live. It’s almost as if I go out to a bar, and say, “Oh my God! Look at her hair---it’s just awful!” Meanwhile, I’m having a real bad hair day myself—and look much like a poodle gone wild.
So the question remains, “Isn’t the term ‘Christian lesbian an oxymoron???”
No... Christian: ‘one who loves Christ’. A lot of people are under the assumption that the gay & lesbian community are “all” promiscuous. I can see if someone is out there having sex with every Joan, Jen & Sally—but if two people are together out of love---I don’t feel that's wrong. Even those who do sleep with every Joan, Jen & Sally---does that make them a bad person?
I truly believe that God knows each and every one of our hearts. Of course, faith goes along with action. To me, ‘action’ means to act with love. To love and do good for others. We’re never going to be perfect. We can go to confession a million times, but we will always mess up. It’s natural. We have conflicting forces within us. One force that is of our animalistic behavior—and the other force that is of the Spirit. They both clash. God knows that we would have this problem, which is why He brought His son down to earth to die on the cross for us. He gave us the gift of life. He forgave all of our sins. Jesus paid the ‘full price’…it’s whether or not we accept the gift.
There is forgiveness of sins for all who turn to me. ~Luke 24:47
My relationship with God is personal. I don’t feel that someone needs to attend church or ‘act holy’ in order to have a personal relationship with Jesus. There are some people who sit in Church every Sunday morning like clockwork that don’t even know the meaning of ‘having a relationship with God’. They’re accustomed to the ritual of attending church, but they don’t ‘know God’.
Anytime I ever ask God for something—He always answers me. It can be a general question regarding my personal life, or it can be a request for something. I rarely ask for financial help, because I always feel guilty about doing that. I’m learning each day to rely on God for everything—and take action for the things you have to. The other day, I was staring at my credit card bills, my car notes and other miscellaneous things to be paid off—and I decided to pray upon it. I sat down, meditated and prayed to God for help with my financial situation.
When I pray, you answer me; you encourage me by giving me the strength I need. ~Psalm: 138:3
The very next day—and I am not exaggerating---I received $800.00 from unclaimed money through my insurance company. They explained that their checks that were made out to me were never cashed, and they are issuing new ones for me and needed to know my current address. The checks that were in question were from five years ago. Amazing, right? God does things in His own timing. Everything works out ‘just so’. There are times when I ask, “Why aren’t you answering my prayers God!” Then I realize—it wasn’t in His will. There are some things that we ask for, that God does not want us to have. Remember, He sees the ‘big picture’, and we only see a small scope of the situation.
Believe me, I don’t know the meaning of life, but I do know that God works in mysterious ways. He understands our trials and all of our troubles here on earth—He was once here experiencing the same things we do. He relates—He knows---and He forgives.
A lot of you may think my blog is confusing. That’s understandable. One day I’ll talk about religion, the next day I’ll talk about sex, and then I have days where I talk about my psychotic depression. Those are all human-related topics. I’m not perfect. I don’t fit the image of ‘the perfect Christian’; this I know. Maybe that's why He uses 'me' to send His message. I’m a lesbian, who loves Jesus with all her heart and soul. Jesus is first on my list of anything in my life and afterlife. I would die for Him. This is how strong my faith is. No one can tear my faith down or discourage my love for Him. It’s just way too strong. My belief is so strong---that it’s no longer a belief—it’s more of ‘knowing’. I not only believe—but I know. He’s proven to me way too many times that He’s here. He’s shown me that I’m forgiven, and that I’m accepted in His eyes.
If God accepts me—then why should I care what others think? Why should you care what others think of your life? Never let people make you feel bad. People will always disappoint you—but God will never let you down.
Everyone has a cross to bear. We can try to be more accepting and understanding—or we can judge and ridicule everyone for the way they live. It’s up to you.
Monday, January 23, 2006
The beauty remains outside the house. For what’s inside is a whole other story. It’s Madelene’s turn to PMS. She has become one with the couch—in fact---I think I’ve lost her. She’s not coming back. Her tea consumption has reached its all time high, and her love for the travel and history channel has me inside my office blogging. I wanted to leave her alone for a bit so she can relax. I usually bug the hell out of her when we have the day to ourselves.
We’re already discussing going back to our beach house in Montauk. We go there every May, and we’re excited to be going again. This place just screams ‘relaxation’. Last year when we went, I got a bit tipsy, and well, almost burned the entire house down.
(I took this picture right outside of our deck...we're that close to the ocean...)
After sunbathing all day on the beach, I decided to make dinner for us back at the house. All week, we were dining out and racking up more charges on our card than possibly imaginable. I thought it would be a nice treat to grill some burgers on the barbeque and open a good bottle of red wine. Madelene agreed, we did our grocery shopping.
While preparing our food, I was already tapping into the wine. It was getting a little windy, and I was having trouble lighting up the barbeque down by the patio.
“Madelene! Help me with this! It won’t light! “
Madelene comes rushing down the stairs over to the patio area. We had these long wooden matches—but the wind was too gusty to even attempt to light it. So I decided to do the very thing I hate---pan fry the burgers. It’s just awful. I can’t stand the taste of pan fried burgers or steaks. It lacks the charcoal grilling taste. It didn’t matter though, I had my favorite wine and appetizers.
After dinner, we kept on drinking. I took it upon myself to venture out to the beach at 11pm with my wine.
“Come on Mad! Let’s go out to the beach!”
”Deb—it’s dark out…You usually get too scared to do that.”
“I know, but I wanna go!”
So we went. We laid on the sands and I anchored my glass of wine into the sand. I ran into the ocean—which I would never have done if I were sober. It was so much fun. I went into the ocean up to my knees splashing around. The moon was full and I was feeling it’s effects big time.
I grabbed my wine. The stem of the glass was rimmed with mounds of sand on it. My feet were covered in sand as well. I walked inside the beach house and sand went everywhere. We had maids that came in every single morning to clean, so it wasn’t a big deal. There were hard wooden floors and it was very easy to clean up. I sure wasn’t doing it.
We sat by the fire, and it was so nice and cozy just relaxing with my baby drinking our wine. Now, you would think this would be a ‘special moment’---nothing could go wrong at this point, right?
“Let me stoke the fire and put another log on.” I said, as I reached down for the stoker.
Was I blind? What was wrong with me? I was too drunk to decipher which was the stoker, and which was the dry straw broom. Guess which one I picked?
Yep. I picked the broom to stoke the fire. The whole broom went up in flames and I ran to the sink to put it out, but it only blasted up to the ceiling. “Oh sh*t! It’s not going out and it doesn’t fit all the way in the sink!”
Madelene rushed up and grabbed the broom, and tossed it in the bucket full of ashes. The anxiety left me sober. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I could have burned down the entire house. I didn’t touch anymore wine, but I did sit down to catch my breath.
Madelene then began laughing at me—after we knew we were ‘safe’. The entire trip was so comical. Each venture we have in the Hamptons becomes a new story.
One morning we were in our loft of the beach house. Madelene and I started messing around. In the midst of our love fest, we hear, “HOUSE CLEANING!” Then we heard footsteps making their way up to the second floor. The bedroom door was open, and to our horror, the two maids saw us---naked and in action!
“Ay dios Mio! I so soddy! So soddy---I come back later!” The maid yells out—trying not to look.
I heard the door slam behind them. We laid there not saying a word. Then, we started laughing hysterically. We couldn’t stop laughing for a good twenty minutes. We were not only embarrassed, but embarrassed for the maids who saw two girls together in bed. If I walked into someone’s home while they were having sex, I would be horrified. I felt so bad for them, but it was one of the funniest moments Madelene and I ever encountered on vacation.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Buzz kill: “The plumba’s comin’ova to look at da’pipes. Dare’s a noise comin’ outa’ da’ well, and we dink’ itza’ leak.” My father says, as I make my way down the stairs to greet my parents hello.
“Today?...This morning?” I was disappointed that I couldn’t have my Saturday morning in peace without some large man screaming out to his partner, “Get me dis! Get me dat!” He was over about a month ago with his little sidekick putting in a new toilet for me. He’s abrasive and he makes me nervous. Of course, I can hide in another room and just wait until he’s done, but he always manages to get into that one room that I’m occupying. He invades my space. There’s always a pipe I don’t know about hidden under my couch somehow. It baffles me. The best part about this plumber we have is that he doesn’t sport the plumber’s crack. Major plus.
So now that my coffee high has dwindled, and the clouds started rolling in, my mood started dropping faster than Google’s stock. It was 10am, and it almost looked like night outside. My seasonal affective disorder kicked in big time, along with all my other manias. Lovely. This is definitely going to be a great day ahead.
Madelene called me up from work to check on how I was doing. She knew I was in a major funk the last couple of days. She was surprised when I picked up the phone on such a ‘high note’ due to the caffeine consumption. It almost sounded as if I won the lottery…either that or I was trying to audition for an auction. I always speak way too fast when I’m hopped up on coffee—especially espresso. We have our little annoying ‘habits’ that we created throughout our relationship before hanging up the phone or even while we’re together.
“I love you.”
“No…I love you more!”
“No!..I love you more!
“I love you more than you love me!”
I should surprise her and end it with, “Let’s break up!” It’ll be worth it by the look on her face. “NO! But I love you less!” Why do couples have their little weird habits? I’m not excluding myself here. Think about it—the pet names for one. I hate pet names. Madelene created one for me about ten years ago. She was over my house late at night planning to sleep over, so I went in the bathroom to freshen up and get ready for bed. I have very long curly hair, and at night, I put it up so high, that it looks like a mountain full of curls—almost like a mushroom cloud. It’s just comfy. I go back to the couch to watch TV with her, and out comes there words:
I didn’t want to turn around, because I was in fear that this would be my label for years to come. Whenever my male friends would stay over when I had parties, they used to call me “Pebbles”. That I can handle. It wasn’t a big deal to me—because these were my guy friends—not my lovers. So, Fraggle Rock turned into just plain ol’ fraggle. It’s still my name till this day. It even became a verb. One morning while preparing breakfast for myself, Madelene calls me from work.
“Hey sweetie, what are you doing?”
“Just fraggling.” I said, without even thinking about it.
I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth. I turned this awful name for myself into a fricken verb. Great. I’m labeled for life now. It’s not a big deal anymore--I’m quite used to it. The only embarrassing moment is when she forgets and calls me ‘fraggle’ in public. That’s just God awful.
When Madelene and I separated for a couple of years, I dated a couple of women who had the habit of ‘sweet talking’ me to death with pet names. I cringed at each little cute term they used.
“Sweet cheeks”, “baby doll”, “honey bunny”, “sugar lips”, “schnookims”, and so on. My best friend would make fun of me all the time, because I would always whine about these pet names that were given to me. She was definitely cursed—because now her current girlfriend gives her the names that used to make her skin crawl. They were just horrendous. I can only imagine how a man feels when a woman purges out these embarrassing names at them. I feel your pain guys.
Most straight people ask me, “Isn’t it a challenge to live with another woman? What about the PMS days? What if you two get it at the same time? Is it absolute chaos with all those hormones raging?”
It’s just ‘me’. Madelene is not of this earth—I swear. My emotions are so up and down, Madelene doesn’t know if I’m coming or going. Poor thing has to put up with me. She’s like a man, but in a feminine costume. We compliment each other very nicely. Or, she just compliments me. My mood swings and anxiety attacks is a force to be reckoned with. If I happen to be PMSing, she’ll come home and find me on the couch with a big blanket tossed on me, drinking a hot cup of green tea with a huge box of Kleenex on my side while watching sappy Lifetime movies. My eyes will be all puffy and red and my nose will be swollen from blowing it so many times.
“Nothing.” I mutter.
“You okay sweetie?”
“Yeh. Why?” (sniffle)
“You look sad.”
“I’m not sad.” I say, as I just finished watching Terms of Endearment for the 100th time.
Then comes the anger part.
“Sweetie, can I get something for you?” Madelene asks so graciously.
“No thanks.” I say, in a low voice.
“You sure honey?”
“Awe sweetie, let me do something for you- you sure you’re okay?”
“I’M SURE! I’M SURE! I’M SURE!!!” I scream, in a manic-depressive rage.
Then the guilt takes over. I wait for a few minutes so she doesn’t think I’m ‘too bi-polar’.
“I’m sorry sweetie.”
“It’s okay…” She says, but still keeping her distance. The look of fear in her eyes makes me feel just awful.
“I’m just not feeling good. Fricken PMSing and I’m sobbing over some corny movie.”
“I understand.” She says, carefully…as she puts her coat in the closet, trying to be busy and not get in the path of my psychotic moment.
Even sex messes me up. I’m manic with the one thing I love the most. I can outdo a seventeen year old hormonal boy with my high libido. Attacking Madelene for hours, as if she were a huge filet mignon, I’m definitely in the height of my sexual peak. I’m in my thirties, and I never really believed my sexual drive would increase. Well it did. After a couple of hours later, a few bruises here and there—I find myself in a freakish depression-like state. What the hell is wrong with me? I just had the best sex in my life, and I’m all weepy again. Then one of my ovaries starts pulsing, and then I realize that my hormones are just way out of control.
Madelene says that I definitely keep her on her toes. It’s never a dull moment with me. She even claims that’s the reason why she’s so in love with me—because I’m not boring. I’m unpredictable like a tornado. It’ll be calm and still---until the tornado takes over and wreaks havoc for all who’s in its path. I guess some people live for that excitement. I’m just glad Madelene does. She loves it. I think she’s definitely addicted to the excitement of the unknown. Is it good to be unpredictable?
When Madelene and I separated for a couple of years, back in 2000, I dated a woman who was much like myself. We were like a fricken time bomb together—ready to explode at the same time. (Yes in that way too) God forbid we would PMS at the same time—the hells would open up and suck us right in. We sat there like two mental patients yelling and screaming at one another—and then crying hysterical telling one another how much we were in love with each other. It was chaotic. We’d sometimes break up, to enjoy the make up sex. She’d wake me up at 4:30am for a little ‘wake up call’, and then we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms. Once we woke up, we looked at each other with hateful eyes.
“How come you never make coffee when we wake up?”
“Go make it yourself!”
“So get yourself something to eat-what do I look like?”
“Why do you let your God damn dog sleep in the bed with us?”
Those were happy days. There were definitely great times with my ex, and we are still friends till this day. I was actually allowed to write that—with her permission. We laugh at it now, because it was so comical. I’ll have to get her to write a post to tell her side of things. That would be very interesting. She has now found a very tolerable woman who puts up with her shenanigans much like Madelene puts up with mine. We laugh at the similarities that we both have as far as our living arrangements now—minus the Noah’s Ark she has going on in her home. What is it with lesbians and their desire to have twenty or more pets? Even though we went through a lot---she is one of my good friends who knows me all too well. In a way, it comforts me to have a friend who is able to read me like she does. I wouldn't trade anything in the world for the memories that we once created.
People think that lesbians are the most loyal and faithful people around. Think about this---they are always seeking to form some sort of cult-like group. It’s to meet other ‘friends of the same lifestyle’. Sure. The majority of them are in AA, and if they weren’t, I’d bet you anything that their little cult-like group they formed would become one huge orgy. It’s already in progress. This one slept with that girl while this one was still in a relationship. Potluck Thursdays and poker night Wednesdays have you wondering what’s really going on at these events. Some ladies even formed their own knitting group. That’s right up my alley. My friend Tara once walked into a knitting group at Barnes and Noble’s a while back, and had to run into an aisle full of ‘self-help’ books to muffle in her laugh. Poor girl was traumatized. I think she’s seeking psychiatric care now.
Too many luaus and firehouse parties to count. It’s relentless. They keep sending you email reminders of their next upcoming event---as if you can’t miss this one! This’ll be a hoot! Beverages will be available. Beverages, consisting of punch, soda and juices. What are we—a bunch of preschool children? I refuse to attend these events, only because I would rather mingle with my straight & gay buddies at the same time. I don’t feel a need to just congregate with ‘my own kind’---as if I have some catching disease. You think I live in a bubble? These women formed a bubble of their own—making them an exclusive lesbian cult. After each meeting, you’ll see a few u-hauls parked outside, just in case a couple of the girls hit it off really well. Lesbians always have this knack for moving in way too soon. This would be the very reason why they break up way too soon. Whenever a lesbian relationship starts up too soon, it usually becomes this explosive hormonal run-away train heading for the end of a cliff. The passion is in high gear and the anger is full of rage and anger. Every lesbian has the word 'drama' in her vocabulary. If you ever go snooping into the lesbian personals, take a look at how many women put this line in:
“I don’t want any drama!”
The ones who write it—are the ones who usually create it. It’s usually a sign that they aren’t over their ex-girlfriends. Lesbians usually cheat with their lover’s best friend or some sort of acquaintance. It never fails. I say that, only because I see it way too many times. I know I sound like I’m generalizing, but I’m only going by what I experienced and seen. Not every lesbian fits this description...only most of them.
Once the break up sets in, they have to sit down and talk about the cat custody. They usually refer their cats to 'the kids'. Who gets the kids? They now have in their possession--ten or more cats. Maybe a few dogs here and there—but lesbians prefer those felines that make your skin and body itch. It’s a major dilemma. Who gets which cats? This is the only real troublesome part of the break up, other than bumping into the new girlfriend. This can lead into a major ‘cat fight’.
I’ll be getting a lot of hate mail from that cult-like group. I usually do. Someone always gets their shorts in a bunch when I bash their little gatherings. I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a large manly-like woman at my front door wearing a pair of Birkenstock boots ready to ram it up my arse. The women are to be feared. They’re a whirlwind of bodybuilding, flannel shirt wearing, big steel toe wearing broads who wouldn’t think twice about taking down a ‘femme’ who isn’t ‘really a true lesbian’ in their eyes. I say that in jest of course.
With that being said, I’m signing off so my life isn’t in jeopardy. If you read this entire post- God bless ya! I give you credit.
Most rants are usually written while in PMS mode. Side effects include vomiting, diarrhea, sour stomach, leg cramps, eye strain and agitation. Drowsiness and fatigue can occur while reading such long-winded rants. Ask your doctor if this post is right for you.
Friday, January 20, 2006
The only people who truly know my anxiety and depression is my girlfriend of course, and my ex-girlfriend. Think about it, we often show our true colors to the people we love the most—outside from our family. Madelene gets to see me in my raw state of mind at times. Aside from that, she goes off to work, in fear that she won’t see me ever again. My anxiety has become her anxiety; her fear of losing me ‘for good’.
I’m okay though. Doc says so. Doc says that it’s normal to have anxiety & depression. I even told doc about my thoughts about suicide. I often back the statement up with my fear of going to hell—and that I wouldn’t want to disrespect God and take my own life. That would be like slapping God in the face with a gift He gave to me. I’m not that rude. I sometimes get angry at God, asking Him why I’m so sick and why I go through pain every single day of my life. It can be worse, I know that.
I do get answers. I have to be calm though. I can’t be walking around like a hysterical lunatic throwing the last of my crumpled up tissue full of tears in the waste basket. He tells me to sit down—take a deep breath—and know that this will pass. Sure—it’ll pass alright, just like cars on a highway—another hundred will come flying through. When will it end?
At night, I sometimes grab a glass of milk and watch TV to relax with Madelene. Milk seems to calm me. Lately, I’ve noticed I’ve been edgy after drinking milk; more on the lines of wackiness PMS-type of behavior. I lash out or start crying out of the blue. I didn’t realize what was happening to me. I just recently found out that the milk I was consuming was flooded with hormones. Oh lovely—just what I need. Out of habit, I had to have a glass of milk last night, and Madelene watched me drink it in fear. This morning, I was a complete mess. I should be out on a ledge somewhere, but instead, I’ll make my illness known to the world.
Before going about my day, I was planning on writing something funny; something to possibly lift someone else’s spirits up. I can’t do that today. I need to have my spirits lifted up. I almost didn’t write at all. I had no energy or motivation to. I said to myself, “Let me just check my comments to see what people left---and their funny remarks to make me laugh a little.” Then I came across so many wonderful people who left comments. I appreciate ‘all’ of them. Two stuck out that made me feel better. Those two that stuck out encouraged me to blog today.
Amz wrote a novel in my comment section. I love that—when people feel comfortable to blog within my blog. It’s great. I encourage it! Amz is an amazing writer. She talks about her life in such a raw form—that it makes her ‘real’. She’s not afraid of being human and letting others out there know, “You’re not the only one.” She’s an amazing person. This is what she wrote:
“You know what though, sometimes anxiety is good. Stop stuffing your feelings and they will stop overfilling your chest. I ended up married to the most horrible person when I was so doped up and I blame it partially being because I couldn't feel it was wrong. My grandma, mom, sister, brother and I all have anxiety attacks. I went to the emergency room twice because I couldn't breath. They thought I had asthma and gave me an inhaler...LOL, MISTAKE! If you are hyperventilating do NOT use an inhaler...haa aha haa... Anyhow, I handle my anxiety on my own again. The meds were too much...too weird...I laugh a lot at myself and that helps. I allow myself to stay home if I want. I don't force myself to do anything. I really am starting to learn you have to 'feel' your way through life and no matter what you feel it is OK. Anger, sadness, overjoyed, retarded, silly, all of it! It is all good!”
Amz really put it all out there. All of you who don’t think you help others by blogging---truth is---you do! I even consider your comments to be better therapy than I get from doc.
After reading her comment, I felt better. Someone out there knows what I suffer through. Someone else grabbed her inhaler thinking it was just hyperventilation and asthma problems--when in fact it was an anxiety attack. That stuff will make your heart race more than crack!
I went to grab some coffee, and then another comment came flying in. My buddy Leesa—who is an incredible blogger herself—wrote such a nice comment. Leesa’s posts are always funny, quick-witted and sometimes a bit risqué—but that’s what I love about her. Leesa’s also ‘real’ and isn’t afraid to show her true colors.
I thank all of you who encourage me. I’m so glad I found the blogworld. I’m glad I met wonderful people like Kathi, Os, Saurkraut, Geoffrey, Stevo & Crassius, Becca, Green, Romey, Natalia, Mella, Amazing Grace, Marcy, Bhakti, Miss 1999, Mike and Walking Contradiction to make me laugh and give me words that encourage me. I know I left a slew of people out of that list, but you know I appreciate every one of you! I apologize if I forgot a name—I’m just drained today.
Today is a mental health day. I’m going to walk three miles—even though the doctor at the emergency room told me that walking is bad. He states that it has no impact on the cardiovascular whatsoever. This is news to me. Whenever I come back from a brisk walk or jog, I’m sweating and out of breath. He even says running is bad--don't do it--your joints will pay for it later. This has no benefit at all? I’m so sick of hearing conflicting stories from doctors. I sometimes think I’m the normal one—and all the doctors need help.
I’m leaving off with this. Thank you for the people in my ‘real life’ who have put up with my manias. Thank you for the people who understand my wackiness. Thank you for the bloggers who come over to my site, and give me encouraging words. I also thank my friends who are out there wondering where I am—because I sometimes fail to call or write them. Sometimes I don’t feel well enough to contact certain people—which I hope they understand. They know I love them all. When I get a hold on my mental stability, you’ll be hearing back from me—promise! Then again, no one believes me, not even doc. What will it take for the doctors to prove that I'm not well? I'll be off for a few days.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
“Oh the glaciers are melting! It’s global warming! It’s the end of the world!” Oh what—we went up one friggin’ degree and these people on the Discovery channel want to get their ratings up and tell you that the sky is falling. Let’s get everybody into paranoia-mode. Great. More money for our fellow psychiatrists.
“Did you hear about New York? There’s going to be a category five hurricane. It happens every 70 years, and we’re due for one!” One girl says to me, as I’m on line at the pharmacy picking up my medication. Luckily I was next in line in case I really freaked out. Just pop a few pills and pat the girl on the back and then say, “Now now, everything’s gonna be alright.” Then walk away with a big smile.
I can’t go anywhere without someone telling me that the world is coming to an end. “Revelations! Oh dear God! Jesus is coming today!” A pastor says, as I sit in church and wonder when the steeple’s going to come crashing on my head. The sermon was about ‘big brother’ and how cameras are put out everywhere to invade our privacy—and act of the devil. To me? It's an act of security. Bush is out listening to everyone’s phone calls. Oh yeah right—like he wants to hear someone phone bonin’ their girlfriend or talk about their family problems. Doesn’t he have enough to deal with? For crying out loud--he’s out playing golf people! In my opinion, I feel safe that he’s tapping the phone lines. He wouldn’t do it to ‘you’ or ‘me’ per se, but he would tap the lines of those suspected in terrorism. People—get a friggin’ grip here!
This morning I thought I was going to meet my creator. I woke up with a shooting pain going up my arm and then into my chest. It literally slammed me right back down on the bed. I immediately popped an 82 mg of aspirin that I was advised to take everyday---until the news came on and said that my brain could start bleeding. Great. That’s such lovely thought. Damn nimrods and their new reports. “New studies show that aspirin may not be so great to take in case of a heart attack.” No—a triple bypass may do the trick!
Anyway, I call Madelene up at work and tell her about my problem. She comes rushing over to pick me up and take me to the emergency room. What? Call 911? Did you even read my previous post? I’d be left for dead.
Madelene’s driving like old lady Perkins with all the time in the world. I might as well have said my goodbyes to everyone on my cell phone and make out my will right there in the car. I didn’t want to say anything, because she was nice enough to bring me.
We walk into the emergency room and they throw me in with a nurse named ‘Debbie’. The room spelled like funky whatever, and I didn’t want to breathe in—making my pain even more intense.
“My name is Debbie, and I’ll be your nurse.”
“Hi, I’m Debbie too.”
“Oh how funny!”
“So what’s bothering you today?”
“Shooting pain up my arm into my chest. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Does it hurt when you move your arm?”
“A little.” I said, as I moved my arm around to check.
“Heaviness in the chest?” The nurse asked.
“Pain in the chest area though?”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a writer and do a lot of computer work.”
“Sounds like carpal tunnel.”
“Typing all day. Your nerves are all related and even go into your chest. Your vital signs are normal.” She says, as she takes the blood pressure machine off me and clips off the contraption she placed my finger in to check for my oxygen level.
“Wait behind that curtain for the doctor and he’ll be right with you. Also, please remove your clothing and put that gown on.” She suggests.
“Thanks.” I said grudgingly.
All this for carpal tunnel? I want to go home! I have to use the bathroom so bad and I don’t want to use the ER’s restroom for obvious reasons. I’m almost freaking out because it’s flu season, and people are breathing all over you in here. I’m definitely going to come down with something. Thank God I brought my antibacterial gel with me.
After waiting thirty minutes for the doctor, he comes walking in with a big smile. So, I smiled back to him. He was a tall black man with the nicest teeth I have ever seen on someone. I think he was smiling just to show his choppers off. Probably veneers.
“Well hello…(he looks at my chart to check my name) Debbie!” He shakes my hand with his damp hand.
"Oh--that's alcohol, don't worry." He says.
"Oh me too!" I said, now having my OCD rear its ugly head. I said it as if we had something in common.
“Chest pains, huh? You have to big of a smile to be having chest pains.”
“Well the nurse made a joke and said I had carpal tunnel.”
“Well, let’s take a look.” As he chuckled and got his stethoscope out to hear what’s brewing in my chest.
“Left ventricle……right ventricle…..aorta………sounds good to me." He says, as he points to each member of my heart. "I’m going to ask you a few questions.”
“Family history of someone dying of a heart attack in your immediate family?”
“We can certainly check you out with the EKG, but even if it shows nothing---it doesn’t mean you’re not having a heart attack. We have to do it anyway for insurance reasons.”
“Okay.” Those words just didn't sit well with me.
“Other than that, you seem very healthy to me.” He said, as he smiled and left me lying on the bed that someone may have died on. Yes—these are the thoughts that go through my mind.
“Come on Madelene! Let’s get outa’ here!” I said in a loud whisper, as I threw my hospital gown off and started fastening my bra.
“But he has to check you!”
Madelene! Didn’t you hear him? I’m fine, and even if I was having a heart attack, it would still appear as ‘normal’----it’s all a business. If God wants me to go---then he’ll take me now.”
We scrambled out of that germ infested hospital and went home. I’m so sick and tired of going to the ER for an anxiety related problem. The doctors insist that I can’t possibly be having a heart attack at the age of thirty-one. I’m too young. Then I see on the news that some kid that was twenty-five years old drops dead due to a massive heart attack. Who am I to believe? Everyone is telling me I’m alright. I’m not! In fact, my family doesn’t even believe me anymore when I tell them that something is wrong with me.
“Oh it’s all in your head.”
That’s great. So when I actually do have a heart attack—they’ll think I’m crying wolf. My sister believes that I’m going to live to be 120 years old due to all my hospital and doctor visits for being a hypochondriac. That’s probably true, but I don’t want to risk not going to a doctor if something doesn't feel right. I told my family, that when I die, I want them to engrave the words, "I told you something was wrong with me!" on my tombstone.
For the next few months, I refuse to watch the news or health shows on TV. It literally makes me insane. The new studies, the new reports of what not to eat, and what the FDA has pulled off the shelves which are all stored in my cabinets. I refuse to listen of stories telling me that vegetables carry more bacteria than an uncooked chicken. Yes---the news reported that the other day. And I’m not going to watch anymore weather channel stories. I’m practically living in fear, and soon enough I’ll be typing out of a damn bubble.
I need to go drink my wine now and wait for the new ice age. If you don’t hear from me within a few days---don’t call 911!!! They'll never come.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
While rummaging through the Italian parsley and basil at the supermarket, Madelene says, “Look—I think someone is hurt.” I turned around, and there was an older lady lying flat on the floor. One of the employees rushed over to help. She was knocked out cold. Madelene quickly called 911—as all the other people were standing around this poor lady. We weren’t sure if it was a slip and fall, or if she had a heart attack. Madelene noticed some blood coming out of her mouth.
“Someone call 911!” The employee shouted, but I guess out of his anxiety, he didn’t realize that each and every one of us was on the phone making that call. The crowd quickly grew with curious people—but no one helped. I stood back, near the produce section and waited for Madelene to come back. After she made the call to 911, we walked away, so we wouldn’t become one with that morbidly curious crowd.
I trusted that the EMT workers would be there promptly, so I went on with my business. Madelene and I are a great team while shopping. Our cart is usually overflowing and exceeding capacity with items that were never on the shopping list to begin with. To my surprise—it’s usually Madelene with the impulse shopping.
It took us a all of thirty minutes to finish our spree, and then we made our way onto that long dreaded check out line. I have my niece staying with us the next night, so my cart looks awfully confusing. From throwing hot dogs, string cheese and little cupcakes on the conveyer belt, to salad greens, tomatoes, different fruits, Weight Watcher dinners and then a 12 pack of beer---this check out girl must think, “Wow, she has a eating and drinking problem…Poor thing.” The alcoholic bulimic. What a mixture.
We made our way out the door, and piled in all our groceries in my SUV. Then we headed straight for the liquor store of course, to get our stash of good vodka. It’s a must in our household—even more important than milk.
As we walk out of the liquor store, I saw an ambulance pull up to the supermarket. It had to be at least 45 minutes later.
“This is ridiculous! There’s absolutely no excuse for the ambulance to be almost an hour late to help someone who was passed out—maybe even from a heart attack! That’s disgusting!” I yell out in the parking lot. I just couldn’t get over how late they were to respond. There must have been more than ten people on their cell phones making calls to 911 at the time of the incident.
So my fear of walking in the grocery store by myself has now gone to an all time high. I told Madelene, if I ever have a heart attack, I want a bracelet on my wrist saying, “Please call Madelene---screw 911!” I’ll trust her to shuffle me up to the ER—believe me, she’s done it numerous times before.
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