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Showing posts from March, 2006

My Confession: I Cheated On My Girlfriend...

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It all happened so fast. I didn’t expect it at all really. She caught me by surprise. She grabbed my attention right when she walked through the door. Her hair was long and lustrous, and eyes that saw right through my soul. Her body was like a fine piece of art—that only could be admired from afar… so I thought. She started dancing and all I could do was stare in awe. Little beads of sweat were perspiring on her well-sculpted abs. Her skirt was low and her blouse was high. My rationalization of any situation I had at home disappeared, as both our eyes locked onto one another. We connected; we were tantalizing one another with eye contact. Her eyes told me that this dance wasn’t over. Her body language spoke to me, telling me she desired something other than ‘just a dance’. My eyes consented, telling her I would sign on the dotted line. I was available for the taking. As I ate my dinner and watched her dance seductively, I dropped my fork and was mesmerized by this gorgeous Latina

Squishy Situations

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It’s just getting worse. The dilemma of avoiding germs at all costs has me in a funk. From keeping little bottles of Purell’s instant hand sanitizers in each of my coats and one in my purse--to keeping a full bottle of rubbing alochol on my desk. This has truly become either an obsession or I’ve mastered the art of battling germs. Or have I? Even with the warmer weather coming in, I still find myself wearing gloves when I go to the grocery store so I don’t have to touch those shopping carts. Maybe I should just get those long fancy gloves looking like a princess on crack. Lovely. My girlfriend kissed my hand last night. What a gentleman, huh? ...No. She kissed my hand and all I could think of was, “I need my Purell!” What’s my deal? She holds my hand, looks at me and feels me pulling away a bit. She continues to stare at me and tries to draw my hand back in. Oh no sister! You are not kissing my hand again! I have this weird thing with anyone kissing my hand. (And no Madelene, no one

Greener Grass

Spring is in the air! Isn’t this the time when lovers get together? Birds are singing louder and the grass looks a whole lot greener? They say that love usually develops in the spring. What study is that? Apparently, from what I’m seeing, the most break ups happen between two people during this time. I have a slew of people I know and good friends who are either having a rocky relationship or parting. People are under the assumption that my girlfriend and I are ‘perfectly happy’. No. She gets fed up with me from time to time and we argue like any other dysfunctional couple. The occasional mango gets tossed at my head and periodically wine gets poured over hers. What are the ingredients for a ‘happy couple’? Who really knows? For me? It’s understanding and rationalizing the fact that each person in the relationship (party of two usually) are their own individual person. You do not own your partner or spouse. (Unless you paid good money for them…) It’s about respect. Sometimes I cro

Isn't It Time You Called Jenny Craig?...

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Did you ever have one of those ‘kill yourself with junk food’ weekends? Ugh. I’m sick to my stomach. Oh why oh why do I do this to myself? It’s almost the same as ‘I’ll never drink ever again’ when you’re hung over on a Sunday morning. Then what happens the weekend after that? Yep—you’re back on the saddle slugging them down like the rest of them. It all started with my father’s birthday. The family was over, and there were chips and dip laying all over every table available in the house. Great. My thighs are widening as I glance around the room. Sandwiches, potato and macaroni salad saturated in mayo with tons of other food like cheese & crackers. From fried little treats to other heart attacks on a plate were served up. The last thing I needed was to eat a slice of birthday cake. I just drank my espresso to possibly heighten my metabolism level. The healthiest thing there was all the delicious alcohol. (That’s in the category of health foods to me…just in case you’re wonderi

What a 'Trip'...

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Making plans with my buddy is always nice. Making plans and going through with them is even nicer. I haven’t seen my friend Bri is a long time, so we decided to meet at a local restaurant nearby to catch up. Now, when I say ‘local’, it’s more local for me. She knows I have this weird thing about driving up north. I figured I’d stop into the restaurant and sit at the bar to have a drink before Bri got there. She was running late. No problem. I used to bartend at this place, so I knew a few people here and there. I wasn’t worried about sitting there by myself enjoying a cocktail or three. I’m not sure if it was the type of people sitting around me, or if it was just an awkward mood I was in—but everyone and anyone who knows me wouldn’t doubt for a second that I could conjure up a conversation with all the barflies. That evening, it was different. The guy at the corner of the bar who was sitting four seats down just stared at me. No smile, no expression and no ‘hellos’. Okay, whatever.

Cheap New Yorkers

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It never seems to fail. I try to get a routine going and it comes crashing down to a halt. I’ve been trying to jog on the treadmill for about an hour each day. I found out my gym membership had just expired, so I figured---eh why not, jog for an hour in between work and see how that goes. I was going to do some home exercises as well. Now I’m kicking it in high gear. My heart’s pumping, I’m starting to sweat, and I’m at the 40 minute mark and figured, another twenty minutes and I’ll be done with this. I always do a cool down (walk slowly) so that my heart doesn't flip out in some seizure-like palpitation attack. ~^Poof^~ The treadmill stops. The computer and lighting on the panel goes off too. What the? I try to ignite this puppy back up again. Nothing. My heart’s still racing. I didn’t even cool down, which means the inevitable ---palpitations. I nearly flip out with anxiety because this is the one thing I was trying to avoid. Here’s the issue this year. We’re saving up for o

The Indians Are Gone

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“Oh no. Oh this is just horrible.” “What ma?” “Oh no. This can’t be.” My mother says, as she redials whatever number she was trying to get through. Now, I live above my parents. I love them with all my heart. But, their smoking somehow wafts up through the vents and into our lungs. “Oh no. The smoke shop isn’t answering their phone.” “Oh, they probably got raided again ma.” I said, almost jumping for joy. “But they have their answering machine on.” Mom says, doubting that their jig was up. “Ma—whaddya’ think they’re gonna do-- say, ‘Oh wait a minute fellas! I have to call the phone company first before I go to jail.’” I said, as I laughed at her. They get their cigarettes insanely cheap by the Indians who live on the reservations. They don’t have to pay taxes, so this works out well for all those in need of a cheap smoke. I headed into the other room to grab my laundry and I hear from the distance, “We’re gonna have to try to quit smoking.” I think I just heard angels singing. I

Interesting Commenter

It’s always a treat when I get an interesting and fun comment from an alias that’s unknown. You know, that angry little reader who’s steaming over some small detail about your life. It really does make you wonder how people can think this stuff up. I’ll explain my whole outlook on this after I show you what I mean. So as you know, I have been away from my computer for some time. I come back to read my comments this morning and found a little nugget stuffed in one of my archive posts . The name of this person was, “I know your type!” I know your type! said... You sound like a bi-girl,hon. You know,constantly whining, and sucking up to males. I notice you have alot of male posters here; have you ever wondered how they managed to find your blog? They typed in the word lesbian looking for some place to jack-off. Most lesbians don't have a problem with lesbians who want to look like you do. I pass for straight most times myself, but most of us DO have a problem with bi-sexuals{been wi

Happy Birthday Madelene!

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We’ve been through a lot together. The past twelve years that I have been getting to know you—I still have so much to learn about you. You surprise me everyday with new ideas and a new outlook on life. You encourage me, you lift my spirits up and you always let me know you love me. You show me unconditional love by not only your words, but with your actions. You speak to me from your heart; you do everything from your heart and it shows. You’re a beautiful person inside and out. You show love to people around you whether you know them or not. Your inner spirit proves to be an old soul, but it also shows how young at heart you really are. You don’t let another birthday intimidate you—you welcome it with opened arms. You embrace each age so gracefully; like a fine wine. You keep getting more beautiful with each day—with each year. I find you more beautiful than I did when I first met you. You’re my best friend. You understand me and you don’t judge me. You know that I have made mistakes

Last Impressions

You’ve got to be kidding. I mean seriously, why is it whenever you try to go to the grocery store in sweat pants and your hair up in a funky twisty thingie—you bump into that one person you’ve been dreading to see? The one person you don't want to see when your guard is down? I looked like death warmed over sifting through the produce section. Not a pretty sight—I assure you that. And talk about insecurity issues with my previous post . This was bad. It was her. It was my ex from a long time ago. The last time I had seen her, I made it a point to really put on my best ‘last impression’. I know, I know, first impression is like gold—but just think—the last impression is platinum. Know what I mean? Anyway, as I was squeezing all the melons in aisle one of the supermarket, I feel someone looking at me. I feel eyes darting my every move; I just felt it. I look over and it’s her. This girl broke my heart years ago, and here she was seeing if it was really me. Oh yeah, it was me alrig

Mirror Mirror On the Wall

What is it about us that make us feel insecure? I’ve had my share of bad hair days and tossing those old jeans aside to sliding into a pair of my ‘fat jeans’ to feel more at ease. Besides, I don’t want to pop a button into someone’s eye. Better safe than sorry. But what happens to our brain when we have this negative dialog with ourselves discussing our need to be beautiful? And when we’re less than what our brain ‘thinks’ should be beautiful—we end up in a depressive state of mind. Now each morning when I get out of the shower, I have this awful full length mirror. Oh yeah—that thing needs to go ASAP! This thing has been up on that wall for years. I don’t know why I don’t get rid of it; maybe it prevents me from grabbing just one more bite of that delicious pasta. Who knows. Anyway, this mirror must have been stolen from a circus because it literally shrinks and widens your body. Then again, maybe I’m the one with the distorted body image and I really look like that.

Doc! Give Me a Sex Change!

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You men have it so easy. What a rough couple of days. It’s been just horrific. Guys, if you don’t wish to read this due to feminine problems and what not … please look away! PMS. Well…actually, why do some of us call it “PMS” when in actuality, we’re speaking of the aftermath of PMS? Get me? Good. This is the problem. My aftermath of PMS is debilitating. Symptoms range from severe cramping to where I nearly pass out, vomiting, hot and cold flashes and muscle spasms. (I can't forget the awful mood swings!) When I was working at a telecommunications company with Tamar , we both had to be on the phones at all time. It was a call center. Our whole being was monitored by the phone. If we had to get up and go to the bathroom, we would have to log off on “24” to indicate it was a bathroom run. If we had to let them know anything---we had it coded in our phones and they would ‘time’ it. They could see, “Oh Deb has been in the lady’s room for two minutes…” After two minutes, a manager

What's Your Walk With God Like?

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This weekend was great. I got to spend time with my family which is always a fun event. I’m always stuck being the ‘bartender’, because I do that on the side---so it’s always, “Deb! Make us a martini! Deb! Make us a bloody mary! Deb! Deb! Deb!” Thank God I’m not a mechanic, they’d be asking me to fix their cars. Anyway, after getting my father completely ossified with gin martinis, we started talking about the new restaurant that opened up nearby. My girlfriend Madelene took me there the other night to celebrate the release of my book. The owner knows my father. He stated that ‘they went to school together’. No. Not ‘school’ per se, but the federal pen. Fine. Too much info for me? Maybe. It was nice that Madelene was going to treat me, but after the owner knowing who I was, everything seemed to be ‘whacked’ off the bill. “Tony asked me sumptin’ de’utha day.” My father says. “What?” “He asked if you were one of dose’ Jesus freaks.” He said, as his eyes were glistening from his sec

Wired On Espresso

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“Would you like any dessert?” The waitress said as she displayed an array of delicious evils in front of our faces. “Just an espresso and Sambuca on the side for me.” I replied. “Me too, I’ll have the same.” My girlfriend said, as she glanced at me with approval. She usually never attempts to drink espresso at night or after dinner —or at all. She’s more of a ~cream and sugar in my diluted java~ type of gal. The waitress came back over with our espressos and Sambuca. The espressos had a twist of lemon on the side. I always throw that in, and pour the Sambuca in for the sweetness. “Why would they put lemon in coffee?” Madelene says, as she threw in her lemon twist. She’s not used to drinking this, so I knew I was in for it. She’s going to be bouncing off the walls and up all night after drinking this little shot-like size of coffee. Once we came home, we were talking nonstop. We went from religion, politics to what’s going to happen on the next episode of “The L Word”. We discu

Apiphobia and Alcoholics Anonymous

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The smell of spring is in the air. What does that mean to me? The fear of summer soon lurks around the corner. What does that mean in general? Bees. Now, I went over to Bossy Britches , who inspired me to write this post. If you all haven’t visited this unique blog, you should take a gander. It revolves around bees. What does this mean for me? I will still read it, but with EpiPen in hand. Here’s the deal… I have manias. I have so many phobias and disorders to make your head spin. I’m okay with it, I just need a little help now and then. Meds come in handy, and alcohol comes in daily. I know, you’re thinking to yourself that I am allergic to bee stings. No. Not to my knowledge. See, the mere thought of one of these ugly creatures inserting their stinger in me makes me cringe and fear for my life. You hear about these people who have never been allergic to bees all their life—until one day, one particular bee gives them that ‘deadly sting’. They blow up like a fricken tick and die. Y

I'm Out!

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Finally! It’s out there! I’m out there! My book is officially available online as an e-book, and in two weeks, it will be available hard cover. Right now, it is listed on this site . In one week, it will be on Amazon.com. The Amazon.com button will be listed on my sidebar soon. It took some time, but it was well worth it. Short post, I know—but I’m going out to celebrate. Yes it’s not even noon yet. I’m heading out! Interested? Just click here to get your copy . Just go to the 'bookstore' and hit "A Prayer Away From Healing", and you'll see my book for sale. After reading all of your comments on this post, I decided to add on to this. Yes, there is an excerpt of my book on that website, but I wanted to give you an idea of what this book is about. A reader of my blog said, “Well, I’m not gay, and my life is pretty good, so I don’t need to read it.” It has nothing to do with being gay. My life does. This book is in the ‘gay and lesbian’ section, but it’s als

Walmart Sexual Harrassment...Or Not?

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Let’s get one thing straight. Just because I am fixated on Walmart this week, does not mean I am white trash, that I live among a village of a million trailers, or that I wear tongs while in a sundress drinking Bush beer. I do not trade blooming onion recipes with Olga next door, nor do I have pink flamingos poked in various spots of my lawn. We cool? Okay. Oh who am I kidding? I’m wearing big ol’ flip-flops now hanging out in my ripped Harley Davidson shirt (with no Harley in the driveway) sipping on some moonshine early in the a.m. hours. Lovely, right? Shall we go on? So, my sister calls me up. No no no, this is not a repeat of the previous blog. Listen. My oldest sister Dawn called me the other day explaining her experience in Walmart this past Sunday. She tried to pull it off as Nordstrom's, but I caught her bluff. Dawn made her way into that big foyer where you have to get your shopping cart. There’s usually an older man waiting there to get it for you. He’s the same g