The day is bright, the sun is out, the weather is spring-like and I’m in love! The snow has melted and I can see the grass. The trees are bare, but the birds are perched on the first available branch; chirping songs that makes my heart sing. Don’t worry. This is temporary. It’s the strong espresso I drink in the morning. It’s almost like crack to me. In about a half hour, I’ll crash. The sad thing is, I don’t go for another fix until the next morning. My crack dealer is Shoprite. They supply my grinds to give me that morning high.
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.