Epitaph

I wrote about my epitaph once before, but if I were to die today, it would read, "Died of a Broken Heart."

- the lady love

I'm Throwing Out A Life Line...

...is anybody out there?

I've learned a lot of lessons along the way:

1) I must learn to accept myself, my lot in life. If I'm alive, then I might as well live. It's the only way I won't be miserable, but it feels pretty miserable to have to admit all the ways I fall short of being an ideal woman. I know that might seem self indulgent, but the first step of this process of self acceptance is to not feel guilty about the accident of birth - the random circumstances I was born into. I recognize and am cosmically grateful for my fortunes, but every person's hell is uniquely theirs. And it's not really comparable to anybody else's hell, no matter how charmed or tragic their hell may be. There will always be someone who has it worse than me, but that doesn't make my own problems any less valid. It makes it my reality. And let me just say that facing some of the realities about myself is brutal.

2) Stay away from Trouble. Trouble is bad news. I know how to recognize Trouble almost instantly, though I'm cautiously open to giving Trouble the benefit of the doubt. Trouble wears many masks and comes in many forms, but Trouble always establishes a pattern of behavior early on. Heed the signs and manage and/or preferably terminate as needed. Kill. The. Urge. The most troubling thing about Trouble, however, is the mirror it holds up to me. Do I like what I see?

3) I might not be fighting for literal and physical survival like a lot of people, but it's relative. Not being preoccupied with basic existence opens up a whole new jar of Fucking Sucks.

4) I'm not saying that I'm not freaked out at least a little by it, because I don't really know what happens next. However, I'm pretty at peace with the whole death thing. It's gonna happen just like life happens, so I might as well be fine with it. Sounds morose; perhaps it's just more apathetic. Some might call it depression or another clinical mental illness. Either way, I'm okay with that. Whatever.

5) Moving forward in my life might mean leaving behind people who've been an important part of it for nearly 20 years. Something's gotta change. Like, now. Living with someone who has serious substance abuse issues, a constant need to be validated with male attention, and a tendency to talk in excruciating detail about every aspect of the day-to-day is driving me insane.

I sound very unhappy, huh? I'm really not, though. At least not 75% of the time. And the other 25%? Well, no one but you knows about that.

- the lady love

The Groove Is Back

I miss writing, so I'm starting again with 20 things about me:

1. I taught myself how to tie my own shoes at three years old. I was such the over-achiever back then but not so much anymore.

2. When I was nine years old, I won a front-end alignment from the radio station by answering a trivia question about local history. I didn’t even know what a front-end alignment was.

3. I made a blind man flinch several times in the passenger seat of my 1975 Toyota Corona while taking mountain road curves on two wheels. That's when I realized I needed to become a better driver.

4. I had a 7"x4" tumor removed from my leg and walked with a cane for seven months afterwards. The handle of the cane was a detailed sculpture of a dog's head carved from soapstone.

5. I painted fire hydrants for a whole summer.

6. I sneeze like your grandpa.

7. I was recently moved to tears by an episode of What Not To Wear on TLC.

8. I do not enjoy fireworks at all.

9. I think I have cancer at least once a week. Different kinds.

10. I never broke any bones as a kid and have broken way too many as an adult, leg and arm among them.

11. I get bored and move a lot. In the past 15 years, I've moved to a new home 20 times.

12. I fell in front of this chick running up a flight of stairs and totally blew her image of me. I know because she told my friend.

13. I once rode horses through the woods off the coast of Alaska.

14. I got so pissed at my friend John playing X-Men on Playstation that I threw a controller at him and stormed out. Just to press my buttons, when I checked my email later that evening, there was a link to an anger management website from him.

15. I got stuck floating down a river for nine hours at night in a styrofoam sailboat that my friend's dad got from the KOOL cigarettes catalog in the 1960s. I nearly froze to death.

16. I just remembered I have some grape Big League Chew gum in my purse and am gonna chew some right now.

17. I got a full scholarship to college.

18. The best part about having kids would be naming them and dressing them. Therefore I have decided that childbearing is not in anyone's best interest. Instead I should opt for a My Buddy.

19. I live with a fem-bot.

20. I want to be rolled up and smoked when I die.

~ the lady love

Is that a table tent in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Bang, Bang

Atlanta is one of those cities where many neighborhoods are simultaneously nice and ghetto. I live in one such neighborhood. But Sunday night when I heard a nearby "bang, bang", I got a little rattled - more so than usual. With the recent murder of my neighbor coupled with my weekend viewings of Blood Diamond and The Departed, I guess I was a bit gun-shy, so to speak.

My roommate and I were just finishing up a movie late Sunday evening when the two shots sounded off. I muted the tv and tentatively peeked out the window, looking and listening intently. Heather began to poke fun at me - asking me if I wanted to go outside on the porch and smoke a cigarette. Laughter (on her part) ensued. She egged me on, giving me hell for being such a wuss.

Next thing we know, a subsequent "bang, bang, bang" rang out - even closer than the first two shots. Heather, who was sitting in the chair by the window - hit the deck running to the back of house while she ducked to dodge flyaway bullets. I followed suit, though my broken leg was not happy about my attempt to run.

Her husband was in the back in their bedroom watching the Super Bowl. We explained what was going on, but then he told us that the game had just ended, so it had to be fireworks going off.

Ummm, yeah. Fireworks. That's what we thought. Fireworks.

The good news is that I've not let Heather live down the moment she sprang from her chair and took off running. I'm still laughing at that sight.

~ the lady

Once More, With Feeling

A great thing happened the other night. Just, really, great.

I was hanging out with Amy and Dan at their house. And usually when I hang out with them at their place, we end up breaking into song. I recall one night a few months ago when we somehow ended up singing '70s and '80s karaoke in their living room by way of their digital cable - just the three of us, sitting around and laughing and singing together. So it wasn't unusual the other night when Dan grabbed his guitar and announced they should do "Easy Like Sunday Morning" for me while Amy accompanied him on the piano. So they did, and I just listened and enjoyed their rendition because I had bronchitis and couldn't sing along even if I had wanted to.

After they finished the song, Amy casually started playing around on the piano - playing something soft and pretty that aroused my curiosity, so I said, "That's really nice. Really pretty. What is it?" She said it was just something she'd been working on. "Really?" I asked, "Cool. I wanna hear more." She said okay, disappeared to her room momentarily, and returned with a sheet of paper. She resumed her place at the keyboard and began to play.

"I really like that. I could see writing a song to that." Then she said, "Well let me tell you some of the words I've got so far."

"Really? You mean you're actually writing a song with words and all? Wow. Cool."

After a nice intro, Amy began to sing, "I touch the fire and it freezes me..."

I immediately burst into laughter. "Oh my god! That's hilarious." See, I recognized the song instantly from the musical episode "Once More, With Feeling" from season five of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. "Man, you really had me going there for a second. I thought you were actually writing a song. That's awesome, though."

She didn't respond but kept her attention focused on the music.

Dan was sitting next to me. I turned to him and explained why I was so amused. "See, this is a song from an episode... blah blah blah..."

He nodded with a sudden sense of understanding. "Yeeeaaah, okay. I remember seeing that." Then, all of a sudden and completely unexpectedly, Dan began to sing along.

Huh? What? What in the world was going on here? I've known Dan for a good long while - many years, in fact. I had no idea that he was familiar enough with Buffy to launch into song like that, and trust me, that's something I was certain I would have known about him. I was so confused, and I sat there dumbfounded trying to put together the pieces of this developing puzzle.

Next thing I knew, Dan arose from the couch and wandered over next to Amy at the piano while he continued to sing. And they didn't just sing - they sang harmonies and different parts. It was so strange because it was oddly similar to the way the singing occurred in the episode itself. See, in the episode, the whole town was under the spell of this demon, and no one was immune to his wily ways. Everyone uncontrollably sang all the dialogue. For a second I even had a dream-like feeling that I was in my own version of the episode. Ha!

They pressed on through the end of the song, and by the time it had ended - amidst my amusement and confusion and enjoyment - I had come to the conclusion that they had been practicing this little number. There was just no possible way that this incident was as spontaneous as it had appeared to be. When they finished, I exclaimed, "You guys have been practicing this, haven't you?!"

They laughed with joy and excitement. They told me they came up with the idea the weekend I broke my leg. They thought it just plain sucked for me, so they wanted to do something to make me happy. They had been practicing steadily for a month - learning the music, the words, the harmonies, the parts. They had even told people about their plan. So when Dan learned that I was coming over, he covertly asked Amy, "Do you think we're ready? Do you think we can pull it off? We have to do it. Who knows? It might be months before the three of us were in this situation again."

So they did it. Apparently, they discussed potential scenarios to make it happen in a way to that seemed natural, and they were thrilled with how organically the moment came together. They couldn't have wanted their scheme to go more seamlessly than it did. Amy even said she knew I was hooked as soon as I asked her what it was that she was playing. "Yes!" she thought.

Afterwards, we sat together and laughed. We recounted the scenario and the thoughts that were going through each of our heads as the event played out. And we smiled a lot. I was so pleased and touched that they would do this for me, they were giddy about my reactions from start to finish, and they were happy with themselves for pulling it off.

Once more with feeling wasn't necessary this time, though. They did it with enough feeling the first time to keep me in grins all week long.

~ the lady

Epitaph

Burris recently asked, "What would you like as your epitaph?"

After some thought (and it didn't take much thought), I came up with this:

She Loved. A Lot.

Yeah. That's it.

~ the lady

Not So Guilty Pleasure

Don't discount the talent of one Justin Timberlake based on his boy-band background, his popularity on MTV, or his over-exposure on commercial radio. The boy's got mojo.

I first gave him a listen when this girl I was digging on surprised me by being really into him. I laughed at first in disbelief, much like some ignorant folk used to do (and still do) to me upon the mention of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So before passing judgment on his music, I thought I should at least listen to it first. Well, that was probably three years ago, and coincidentally, his first solo CD is still in regular rotation in my car (in fact, I think it’s in my disc player right now). It’s got some kickin’ tracks save for a few sappy ballads that force my hand to the ‘skip’ button.

He recently released a new album and I had yet to give it a go – until today. I previewed the 12 songs on Amazon.com just a few minutes ago, and folks, I’m heading directly to the music store as soon as I get off work.

~ the lady

she sleeps (finally)

A Gay Area Becomes A Gray Area

One thing in the past you could pretty much always count on was gay men being... well... gay. But something's changed. I've noticed a strange phenom in the past year and a half. I've got a couple token gay men as friends, and on a few occasions over the years, I've found myself at gay bars with them. Not my top choice of places to hang out since I'm not a gay man, but ya know, I always have a good time.

As I was saying, in years past the one thing I could count on was to never be cruised in boy bar. Makes sense, right? I am a chick after all. But things have changed. I don't know if it's desperation and any warm body will do, or if it's alcohol consumption blurring the lines, or even if it's gay men being more open to the idea of being with a woman, but every single time I go to gay town I get hit on these days. Huh?

Now, I'm not talking about being playfully flirted with. I'm talking "hey baby, let's get it on." For real. Last summer, I had a man in a gay bar beg me to let him take me into the bathroom and "at least suck my tits" after I turned down his invitation to go home with him. Another instance I had a guy stalk me while proffering explicit sex acts despite having told him to piss off several times. Finally I had to completely shut him down after he followed me out to the sidewalk as I waited curb-side for my cab. I could go on, but I think you get my point.

Then last night it happened again! While meeting up with a friend at a gay establishment before heading off to our final destination, a gay man approached me and told me he was buying me a shot. Okay, fine by me. So we chatted for a few minutes. It was his birthday, and he was out celebrating. Next thing I know, he's telling me that he wants to take me home and do sex-type things with me. When I responded, "Ummmm, but you're gay," he said, "I've eaten at the Y plenty of times, and I'm very, very oral. I could make a meal out of that (as he nodded towards my crotch)." I shit you not. So I politely told him he should probably find a nice boy to take home with him instead.

I gotta tell you, folks, I am reeeally confused.

--------

Next post: A talk about the savage insomnia I've been battling for six full weeks now. It's been brutal, and now I've got to go and try to sleep. Yeah right.

~ the lady

Who Would You Die For?

I was watching an episode of Firefly earlier tonight. Arguably my favorite. War Stories, it's called. And I realized the reason why I think Joss Whedon is a genius. And since I'm not a hyperbolist, I don't mean 'genius' as it is mundanely used (like Kate Hudson referring to Cameron Crowe as a genius at least twice during her Academy Award acceptance speech). I mean it in the real way.

The point is, besides being funny, original, and well-written with interesting storylines and thoughtful character development, he and his people truly understand and deftly portray the the subtle nuances of interpersonal relationships. And it's flawless the way he expertly weaves it all together while posing scenarios that test and reveal the morality and integrity of each character's fundamental humanness. Oh yeah, and it's entertaining as hell. I mean, come on, they're space pirates.

Among a bevy of moral dilemmas posed in this particular episode, one situation had me asking myself what I'd do if it were me. See, one of the characters had to choose who got to live between two of her crew members being held and tortured by a gangster - choose between her husband or her long-time military compadre (also the ship's captain).

So I asked myself if I had no other options and had to choose any one person out of the rest of the world to live or die, whose life would I save? I immediately narrowed it down to two, but then I'd have to pick between them. Which one would it be?

Well, it would depend on the situation, of course, but the one I chose tonight is the one who's not whole yet. The one who's still figuring things out but I know is immensely good. And that means I'd sacrifice the other one - also immensely good, loving, merciful, and tender. But one's got the peace that the other one doesn't - that most everyone I know doesn't. And I swear to god I actually started crying, right there in front of my tv, by myself, in my living room.

There are other people I would die for, I'm sure. And for a second I wondered if anyone would choose me. Then I remembered something that had drifted away from me to the back of my memory.

It had to have been 10 years ago, but a good friend of mine had graduated from college. It was summer time, and I was staying with my parents for a while during my break from school. My friend had a job interview in the smallish town where I was raised, so her boyfriend escorted her an hour and a half from the city to her interview where she would be tied up for several hours. So, we arranged for him and me to hang out that evening while she did her thing.

I had spent time with him before when she and I were roommates with three other girls at 110 S. Blanche. We all lived together in a dilapidated but charming house in the town's ghetto. The house was tucked away on two acres in a holler bordered by miles of woods. There was a spring house and a bamboo forest on the land, and the house itself was old and slipshod, and just very... odd. We always had guests at the house, so naturally he was among them. He was sigificantly older - a real man in his forties to be exact - and he lived in the city. He would come up sometimes on the weekends. He was very interesting and earthy and artistic, and he had big hands and liked to dance. Anyway, yeah, so I'd spent some time with him but never one-on-one, so I never really got to know him well.

After he dropped her off at her interview, he picked me up at my parents' house, and we attended a local show choir performance. Afterwards, we drove to Chattanooga's pedestrian bridge and walked over the Tennessee River in downtown. And we talked. Then we stopped by the house of some artist friends of his. They took us to some dive jazz club where we had drinks and listened to these old guys play some mean jazz.

On our drive back home, we got into a discussion. I'm not even sure how it came up, but he told me somthing. He told me that his girlfriend - my good friend - said to him once that she would die for me. He told me he found her comment to speak strongly about my character, and it made him curious about me. I don't even remember how I responded upon hearing that, but I remember feeling deeply moved. I remember how powerful to me that sentiment was - and still is today.

My friend and I are still very close. I never told her about that talk with him, but I've never forgotten it, either. Even if it's not the case today, it was the case for at least that one moment in time. And knowing that - knowing for a split second that she could care about me so much to make such a claim - inspires me to be the kind of person worthy of it.

I'm far from perfect. Yeah, I know, hard to believe, right? (I'm smirking as I write.) I make mistakes and have my struggles. Sometimes I do or say the wrong thing. Yet, despite my shortcomings, I believe in being the kind of person who would die for someone. And being the kind of person that someone would die for.

~ the lady

Don't Tell Me What To Do

It's true. I don't like to be told what to do. You could say that I'm somewhat anti-authority, although "anti-authority" might be a bit of a misnomer since I've never been rebellious when it comes to, say, a supervisor in a professional capacity. I never defied my parents, either. But, in general, I don't abide stupid rules or people who tell me what I can or can't do or should or shouldn't do. In fact, it usually has the exact opposite effect. I become extremely resistant. And the more pressure that is put on me, the less likely I am to do what you want me to do.

If you want me to do something for you, then just ask me nicely. I'll most likely oblige you. If you want me to do something that you think is in my best interest or "just because," then it's probably best to just keep your mouth shut unless I ask you for your support or opinion.

Unless, of course, you're slung up in bed with me. Then I might not mind so much.

~ the lady love

Breathing Room

This past weekend I undertook a massive re-organization project of stuff that's been piling up for the past couple years and that, likewise, I've been pushing aside for a couple years now. I've slowly dealt with it 'til it was whittled down to the confines of my room, but my room for the past four months has served as nothing more than a place to crash and a vault for all this... shit. And what I realized is how much I was being hindered by the maelstrom otherwise known as my room.

There's a whole list of legitimate reasons why it grew so out of control. Whatever. There's always reasons, right? So the real issue at hand was tackling the heap that was beginning to resemble the clay mountain Roy built in his home in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Ironically, I'm typically a very tidy person, and as long as no one peaked behind door number three, you'd still think it were the case. But in classic form, the steeper the mountain got, the more I avoided climbing it.

I'm not exactly sure what inspired me to dive into it with fervor this weekend, but I did - until it was all done. Now I'm luxuriating in my cozy space as if it were Inara's shuttle.

Interestingly, as I sifted and sorted my way through the clutter, 80% of it was stuff that I'd been lugging around for two or three years that I neither wanted nor needed, and I wondered why it was exactly that I'd held onto it for so long. Sure, a good deal of it was stuff I'd tossed aside with the intention of dealing with later until later became now, but some of it was stuff I hadn't touched or used or even thought about in years. And true, there was also the obligatory notion that some of it was gifted to me by my mother or whomever else, so I just couldn't get rid of it. You know what I mean. But what about all the other stuff? All that stuff that just took up space and created disorder in my life? How could I let it get to this point? I guess I'm human.

Coincidentally, I'm not even a packrat. I usually like to keep my possessions to a minimum (art is the only exception). I really don't even have a lot of stuff. Like Ani Difranco, I value my portability. Yet here I was toting around boxes of junk that truly oppressed me and prevented me from living the kind of full life that I want to live.

The good news is that it's done now, and that's what's really important. But I guess if I take anything away from my experiences over the past two years, then it's this: I will never again allow myself to be distracted from taking care of myself. It only makes life a lot tougher later on. And at some point we're all gonna have to deal with ourselves - whether we like it or not.

~ the lady liberated

It's A Tough Life

Where I Come From

My mother is crazy, but in a good way. Sure, she drives me nuts sometimes just like mothers do, but I'm lucky to have a cool one. I was talking to my dad on the phone today, and he asked me if my sister had told me what my mother had done.

"No," I told him, "what'd she do this time?" I asked. It's hard telling. I've known the woman to do such random things as suddenly exclaiming, "Stop the car!" on a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive through the country so that she could fulfill the urge to run full-speed across an inviting field. Stuff like that.

So this time, she was telling my sister that she wished she could wash the car naked. It was so hot, and she was annoyed to have to wear clothes. My sister apparantly said, "I dare you. You wouldn't do it. I dare you!"

A short time passed, and my sister walked down to the basement where the garage door was open. She caught a glimpse of my mother's bare shoulder and spun around. There stood my mother fully naked in the driveway washing the car. Mind you, they live in a neighborhood with, well, neighbors.

"Mother!" my sister exclaimed. "What if Alan (the immediate next door neighbor) sees you? Please, put some clothes on! You're embarrassing me!"

My mother simply told her, "I don't care," as she proceeded to jump around the driveway in the buff so her breasts bounced around. Seriously.

That's not the only time I've known her to do something insane like that. When I was a senior in high school, our small town was hit by a legitimate blizzard. I know. Unusual for Georgia. Nonetheless, we were buried in 24 inches of snow and lost electricity, so we took our perishables to the patio and nestled them in the snow. I'm not sure whose crazy idea it was or how it even came up, but one of us dared my mother to strip down to her birthday suit and dive from the back door into the snow-covered patio.

And so she did.

~ the lady love

To You

This will be the last you know of me. And you really are a prick. I didn't think so before. But now? Now I really do. Like I don't even exist. Thanks.

Before, I mostly just felt sorry for you after we stopped talking - felt sorry for you being so detached from love, connectedness, and emotion, because it was so apparent that your detachment was nothing more than fear. Well, fear and lots and lots of practice at becoming a stone.

Shame on me for thinking that I could fill that empty space with light and love. Shame on me, for there is a difference between emptiness and nothingness, and you can't fill a shell wrapped around nothingness. And shame on me for playing the fool to lip service.

O, but poor, poor you! You've been done wrong before. Now everyone who comes after will pay the price.

Unlike you, I will not let the fact that you seduced me into laying down a healthy amount of caring before shitting all over it keep me from believing in the good in people.

Unlike you, I will not be beaten down and lose sight of my humanness - my ability to feel - just because some transgressor stole another shard of my innocence.

Unlike you, I will not become a zombie, carrying out a series of daily motions and calling it living. A constant cycle of wake, train, work, train, crappy tv, and sleep that keeps you from risking potential suffering that comes with really being alive.

Unlike you, I will not exist on fantasies alone, occasionally pulling someone else into them and telling myself that I'm keeping it real. Coincidentally, it reminds me of Giovanni Ribisi's character in I Love Your Work and his make-believe Christina Ricci. If only she could've been a real life dream girl.

Unlike you, I will not be trapped in the asylum of my own mind where the only gratification is deprivation. It's no more or no better than being trapped in a real institution, rocking away in a chair with the word "crazy" carved in its arm.

Go ahead and tell yourself that you're not so bad. That I was warned. Keep falling on that sword. Sleep easy at night knowing that you did it for my own good, as you rub yourself raw lying face down with it trapped between you and your mattress.

~ the lady love

On The Topic Of Breeding

I visited my sister this weekend. She birthed a baby recently. His name is Micah. Being with them made me think a lot. I learned something, too - three-month olds cannot sit up on their own. Found that out the hard way. Yeah.

Anyway, I've never really thought that I wanted children - pretty much since I was about 13. And people always give me the whole "oh, you'll change your mind" spiel, which I always acknowledge the slight possibility that, sure, I might change my mind someday, but not likely. It's the only reason I haven't had my tubes tied yet. Fact is, the most compelling thing for me about having a child would be naming it and dressing it. Seriously.

Then this weekend I had that feeling of being wowed by motherhood. It makes me admire and respect my sister so, sooo much, and I completely fall in love with that kid with every smile and coo. It made me contemplate for a quick minute that, if I wanted it, I could have it so easily. I could give life, steward it, give love, have that exclusive relationship between a parent and a child, etc. Man, that would be incredible.

But then the reality of it hits me. I do not have what it takes to be a mother. When you have a child, your life - in every action - becomes about taking care of them. (I know, I'm so very deep. Aren't you glad you have me to enlighten you with such profound thoughts?) Anyway, it's just not something I want to do, and I for damn sure wouldn't go it alone. I can't even imagine how difficult it would be to be a single mother. Sure, it might be selfish of me, but who cares? There's no mandate that I have to procreate, and at least I recognize this fact before I spit one out. I also don't feel like being childless will keep me from having a full life experience.

Then it occurred to me: I'm not entirely anti-kid. Should the right person come along, I just might be up for doing the family thing - but with one stipulation, of course. I couldn't be the primary caregiver. I'd have to have myself a Mr. Mom, and I'd be fine with a man who wanted to fulfill that role. I just can't (or won't), but I do feel very strongly about the primary caregiver of my hypothetical child being raised by myself and my partner. I know folks gotta do what they gotta do to provide for their families, but for me, it's how it'd have to be. Call me old-fashioned.

So yeah, I'll probably be a spinster when I grow up, and when I'm old, everyone can gossip about what must've been wrong with me to end up an old maid. Oh well. Such is life. But I'm okay with it.

~ the lady love

Dropped Like I'm Hot

I've spent the past few months getting to know someone. He initiated it, and while I wasn't looking to introduce anyone new into my life, I found myself interested in this new person. He was intelligent, funny, engaging, sexy, compelling, and attentive. I was honest and upfront about where I was in my life and about my experiences and current state of fragility, and each time that I expressed to him something that I figured would send him running for the hills, he surprised me with tenderness, understanding, and tenacity.

We both recongized this burgeoning relationship as friendship but, at the same time, acknowledged that there may be possibly something more between us yet to be discovered/determined. We were taking things slow and getting to know each other. Neither of us was in a place to make it something more serious. And though not immediately yet admittedly quickly, our interaction certainly became more than platonic.

Over the past three and half months, I gave this person more of my time and attention than anyone else in my life. I do not regret the decision to devote so much of my time to him. I chose to do so of my own volition. Quite simply, I enjoyed our time together and the joy he brought to my life.

Then, a few weeks ago, I needed to understand some things about him to put things in perspective for myself. What started out as what I thought a benign question turned into several days of tense conversation that eventually fragmented and, apparently eroded, our seemingly genuine relationship. Turns out, it wasn't so benign after all.

Perhaps I could've gone about things differently (better); perhaps he could've responded differently (better). Regardless, it doesn't matter who was right or wrong or that either of us were either right or wrong. Eventually, I did come to understand where he was coming from, though in the end, I was accused of being controlling and not being a "friend" by confessing to having certain doubts that motivated my method of inquiry (asking a question without providing context), which was a misguided and hurtful thing to say. For the record, "controlling" is one thing I can confidently say that I am not.

The heartbreaker is that now I've been dropped like I'm hot by someone who was important to me and to whom I thought I was important. So yeah, I'm sad about it. I guess I'll be clumped in with all the other assholes of the world for some reason unknown to me. But I think my biggest disappointment stems from the fact that he put a great deal of emphasis on how poor of friends people really are and how much he valued real, sincere friendship.

The thing is, true friends work through disagreements, miscommunications, and tough times. And I thought that's what we were. I thought that, while our relationship may change in certain ways after that dialogue, it didn't mean that the time we shared together would be a complete and total loss or that we would cease to share ourselves with each other.

I guess I thought wrong. Despite my efforts for a continuum of our friendship, it appears that I've been written off, and I'm not sure why, nor has he offered me any meaningful explanation as to why, a particularly baffling point since he was adamant that I discuss my thoughts/feelings that pertained to him. So here I am - a little confused but also relieved that I know now rather than 6 months or a year later.

Life is full of lessons. And, when it comes to people, I am amazed at how much I continue to learn. Each time I start getting to know someone new, especially when it's more than just platonic, I fool myself into thinking that if I'm honest and communicative I can prevent such breakdowns similar to what recently occurred. So at this point, all I can do is reflect and ask myself what I learned this time around.

So what is it that I've learned?

1) Take note when someone doesn't have meaningful friendships to speak of. (Obviously, this is subjective. Some circumstances dictate certain situations). It is more likely a reflection on them as opposed to the shittiness of the human race.

2) On a related note, consider what it means when a full-fledged argument arises out of something truly trivial. It's probably indicative of bigger interpersonal issues.

3) Proceed cautiously with anyone who speaks frequently about how badly people suck and how selfish they are. Anyone who talks a great deal about selfishness among other people is unlikely to recognize his own acts and aptitude of selfish behavior.

4) Heed it as a warning when someone expresses having issues with trust yet indicts you for admitting to any distrust, no matter how specific your scope of distrust may be.

5) Accept any compliment or notion of regard to be pertinent in the present tense only. They may very well be null and void outside the exact moment they are uttered.

6) When someone seems to lose interest in you (degrees accepted) or you perceive a shift in the way someone engages you, don't try to rationlize possible reasons or tell yourself that it is your imagination. Take it for what it is unless otherwise advised (and only when the advisement is unsolicited) and trust your instincts.

7) It is definitely possible for a person to be logical to a flaw. It is important that someone demonstrate a healthy balance of emotion and logic.

8) Be wary of anyone who wants/expects you to share your thoughts, feelings, and opinions but doesn't reciprocate to a comparable extent.

9) Under no circumstances think that you are special or that someone views you as special or that what you share is unique.

10) (A) Never ignore the red flags no matter how insignificant they may seem, especially in comparison to everything else you think you know about someone. More importantly, if you don't do (A), then do not delude yourself into thinking that (B) if you address the issues that raise the red flags that you have resolved anything.

11) Never project your own willingness to share onto someone else. Just because you are willing to talk about your own thoughts and feelings by no means dictates that you will receive the same openness back (this is a biggie for me and one that I have to keep re-learning).

12) Do not assume that just because you share your experiences, insecurities, or fears that someone will take this information into consideration when it comes to their words and actions towards you. In fact, be prepared to hear in the end that "I never intended for this to be anything..." despite everything you could point out that would indicate otherwise. I'm not saying that things/feelings can't change. They can and do, but that statement has made me well up with tears more than once over the years because it has made me question my own sense of sanity and reality, especially when I know with surety that I provided multiple opportunities for this sentiment to be expressed. Going forward, I will just come to expect it.

And finally,

13) I think I really am a lesbian, because - DUDES.


~ the lady love

Four Times Harder

Part 1

Oh oh my my my
My man's up all night
Works me till I moan
Drives me out of my mind

Why it's so hard
Must be made out of cold steel
Why it's so hard
He's a man running my wheel

Just keep me burning
Just keeps me yearning
Put my whole body on fire
Burning whole body desire

Why it's so hard
Yeah taking me over
Why it's so hard
My cold steel soldier

Harder
Harder
Harder

Oh oh make me beg
Eats meat in my bed
Works me till I'm done
Mad dog can sure hunt

Why it's so hard
Must be made out of cold steel
Why it's so hard
C'mon Daddy drive my wheel

Harder
Harder
Harder

Why it's so hard
Money made out of cold steel
Why it's so hard
He's a turning my wheel

Harder
Harder
Harder
Yeah

(PJ Harvey)

-----

Part 2

Why'd you have to go and mess up something so fucking cool by making it harder than it had to be? I think you might even be kinda manipulative, but I hope I'm wrong.

-----

Part 3

I just watched the cats give each other a tongue bath. It was very homoerotic. I think I even heard one of them mew "harder".

-----

Part 4

One of my best buddies just migrated to Atlanta from DC after finishing up law school. Today at lunch she said two hilarious things. The first was that in 13 years she had never known me to be wrong about anything. Sweet of her to say how ever misguided it may have been. I laughed hard.

The second was that DC is full of people who were their class presidents and that everybody there drives like they are "The Shit". I laughed harder.


~ the lady love

Will There Be A Round Two?

My blog turned one year old today. I don't know if that should really matter, but I kinda like the idea of mile markers. See, the thing about mile markers is too many people let the mile markers dicate them: the way you should behave, what you should own and not own, how successful you should be professionally and personally, and the list goes on.

That's all fine if that's the way you choose to live. But I think, too many times, people don't even think about the fact that they even have a choice. Either they lose sight of the option altogether or they have never stopped to ask the question, "Why should I be/do/have anything by a certain age (read: time)."

I choose to not live by those mile markers. Instead, I just use them for what they are: measurements. It's not a bad idea to have a tangible gauge. It helps me to recognize patterns and keeps me from repeating mistakes.

So none of this "I should be married", "I should have kids", "I should be more successful", "I should" "I should" "I should" for me. Fuck that. No, I shouldn't, especially if it's not what I want. For me, it's more like, "Hey, idiot, how long are you gonna waste time on X" or "I want to work towards this in the next year" or "I really need to take care of this. It's been two years."

As for my blog, what does a year mean to me? It means that when I look back at the things I want my life to be about, I am actually doing it and have been for a year. Sometimes it's easy for me to not think of my blog as "writing", like if I say, "I really want to write more." And I just realized that I'm actually do it. Who cares if it's some measley and commonplace internet self publishing. I'm doing it.

Sure, it's all over place. Unfocused. Self indulgent. It's me. And now I'm finally getting around to my original intent of a post:

I watched a documentary on child pageants a few years ago. This one trashy Florida woman used her kid as a barbie doll. Poor kid's gonna be really screwed up. Aside from that I found something hilarious that I've never forgotten.

The woman takes her kid to Alabama to these two flaming queens' estate where they run a business training girls to win beauty pageants. They had three little winners of their own, kinda like their testimonals. Anyway, when the woman pulls up to their place, she just creams herself - the shallow, shallow, lustful hag that she is. And her measure of their wealth and success was captured in this one statement:

"Oh my god. This is soooo nice. Look, not one pine tree."

I didn't even know there was anything wrong with pine trees.

~the lady love

Self Indulgent Reminiscing

Man, I've had some good times in my life. I was thinking about some of them tonight, and it made me smile. I thought about back in my younger years when I drove this old 1975 Toyota Corona. It had a CB Radio and a loud speaker attached to the front center beneath the bumper. Then my friend Billy made me this mixed tape and one of the musical interludes was this random crazy circus-sounding music. So I'd load up my car with people and we'd drive around at 5 - 10 mph waving at people with the circus music broadcasting - like we were in a parade. We'd make frequent stops and yell out the windows at the make believe shriners to keep it moving. And sometimes, we'd even toss candy at the parade-goers on the sidewalks. Ahhh, good times.

We used to go camping a lot. John's Mountain was 30 minutes up the way. One summer night, a group of us went up in the middle of the week for a quick one-nighter. Later in the evening we did our camping ritual of relaxing around the fire, taking tokes and drinking liquor. Chelle drank half a bottle of Blue Raspberry Mad Dog (hey man, we were in college) and had to spend some time slumped over in the woods. When she came back, she was feeling the need to put something in her belly, and the chick sitting next to her was munching on Teddy Grahams, so she asked if she could have some. She put a couple in her mouth, started chewing, and a strange look came over her face right before she confusedly said, "These taste like sand." I still laugh at that today.

The next morning, all the girls were quite hungover and feeling queazy, and I was driving them back in my old car. Apparently, I used to drive like a bat out of hell (not anymore), but I knew the roads well - all the curves and hills, etc. - and drove them like I knew them well while the girls moaned in the back seat as they swayed back and forth in tandem with the car's motion.

I realized later just exactly how frightening my fast driving on those back roads was when my blind friend Tony and I made an afternoon trip up to John's Mountain to play in the water. On the way back, with his seeing-eye dog Quint sitting between his legs on the floorboard in the front seat, Tony kept jumping and flinching as we took those curves on two wheels. I think I slowed down after that. Nothing like a blind man to show you the error in your ways. Raymond Carver's Cathedral, anyone?

There was that time at midnight in the park in downtown Rome where the three rivers meet. We got busted for - gasp! - drugs. Chelle, Amy, Rebecca, and I had decided to walk to the top of 100-year old cemetary next to the park (it was one of the seven hills in the town that gave it its name), and when we arrived back at the park and chilled in the gazebo for a minute, Amy decided she wanted a cigarette, so she walked back to Chelle's car where she'd left them. At the same time, Chelle walked out of sight down to the edge of the river. Halfway to the car, Amy spotted three cop cars around Chelle's car, so she turned back to grab me and Rebecca. The three of us approached the car when the cops asked us where we'd been. "We took a walk to the top of Myrtle Hill," we told them. "At midnight?" they asked. "Don't you know how dangerous it is down here? There are all sorts of homos down here at night." Yeah, they actually said that.

Then they set up the scene for us. One of the cops was patrolling the park when he spotted Chelle's car. He looked around the park but saw no one. He peered into the car and saw girls' bags sitting on the seats, so out of concern and thinking some girl had gotten snatched up, they entered the unlocked car to look for identification. "Miss James, would you like to tell your friends what we found in your bag?" In a meek and tentative voice, Amy said, "Marijuana." (Ironically, it was the first bag Amy had ever purchased).

They asked us where "Miss Parks" was - the owner of the car. "We don't know," we told them, "She walked down by the river a few minutes ago." What kind of friends are you, they asked, to let your friend walk off by herself like that? Then they accused us of hiding her, but we told them we weren't. So they kept me and Rebecca and took Amy with them to look for her. As they started to walk off, Chelle comes walking up the hill and in a cheerful voice says, "Hey guys! What's going on?" The cops recap the situation to her, and they tell her in her bag they found a hookah, surgical clips to hold roaches, a vile of roaches, a bag of pot, a pipe, and rolling papers. Then they asked Chelle what all the empty cigarette boxes were in her car for. "Are they to hold your marijuana cigarettes," they asked? Confusedly, she told them no, that she just hadn't cleaned out her car. Next, one of the cops picked up one random box, opened it up, turned it over in his hand, and half a joint fell out. I shit you not.

Coincidentally, I used to nag Chelle for always carrying that stuff around with her. "It's going to get you in trouble," I would say to her, always being the voice of reason.

They took my backpack off my shoulder and searched it, but of course, found nothing in it. "Told you so," I told them. So then they lectured us, took all our illegal stuff, and sent us on our way. That was a close call.

One month later, it was Chelle's birthday, so another group of seven of us drove over to Alabama to Little River Canyon for some fun in the sun. We hiked down a rocky, steep path with a cooler of beer to a spot that had an impressive cliff and waterfall. There was a rope swing rigged up that you could use to jump off the cliff and into the water.

After nearly two hours, out of nowhere appears a park ranger. He tells us that he's been up on the mountain watching us for 45 minutes through binoculars (yeah, I bet he was). Then he tells us that we're in a dry county, and we've got a cooler of beer. That's illegal.

"You girls don't have anything else illegal do you, like drugs or firearms?" We didn't, but he searched all our stuff anyway. Then he arrested us. We went to the station and sat around a table as they filed police reports on everyone except me and Karah because we weren't drinking. Hey, look, I'm a good girl, what can I say? Then one of the girls started crying, and a couple more followed suit, begging them not to do anything to them.

The cops told us they'd make a deal with us. If the two girls who weren't drinking (me and Karah) agree to do a weekend of community service in the national park with the five other girls, they wouldn't file reports against them. Karah was headed back to Maryland for the summer, so that left me to step up for my girls. So I did.

A couple weeks later, we headed back up to the National Park on Memorial Day weekend to carry out our community service. First assignment from Ranger Rick: set up our camp and walk the grounds and pick up litter. Two hours later, he came and picked us up and took us to the lodge. Chelle and Amy got kitchen duty while the rest of us had to clean rooms at the lodge. That's where we met Phyllis, the lead maid who supervised us. She had an Native American lover named White Cloud, and we took smoke breaks with her after every two rooms we cleaned.

After a couple hours, Chelle and Amy finished up kitchen duty and joined us. Still today they talk about walking up to the lodge and seeing the hilarious sight of me with a doo-rag on my head, a towel tucked in the band of my shorts, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth as I pushed a cart of cleaning supplies. Funny thing about the lodge, too - they had matches with the slogan "Alabama - state of surprises!" so our motto for the trip became, "Surprise, girls! Dry county!"

After a couple more hours, we finished cleaning the lodge. It was only 4:00, but Ranger Rick told us we were done for the day, so go enjoy ourselves. So we did. We went back to the scene of the original crime and swam and sunbathed. In the evening, we headed back to our camp and cooked dinner over the fire. As the hour grew nigh, we thought how we sure would like to have some cocktails, but hey, we were in a dry county. That didn't stop us. We decided to make a 30-minute drive back to Georgia to the liquor store. On the way back, we realized that it may not be the wisest thing to get busted drinking in a dry county at our camp when that's exactly why we there doing community service in the first place, so we decided to get shitfaced in the car on the way back (except for the driver, of course) and dispose of the evidence before we got back. So that's what we did.

And it was fun.

~ the lady love

Horny Midgets Everywhere Grab Your Keys and Head to the Nearest Playground

A five-foot tall Nebraska man convicted on two counts of sexual assault against a child is too short for prison according to a Nebraska judge. The judge said that prison would not be a safe place for the tiny perv, so instead he got 10 years probation. WTF?

Yep. I saw it just moments ago on a news report to which my roommate, Jonathan, exclaims, "You know all the little midget perps are like 'SWEEEEET!' as he threw an Aresenio-style arm pump in the air.

Is anyone else as confused as I am?

~ ll

I'm Sorry I'm Not Available To Take Your Love Right Now

yesterday i saw
the iron curtain
around your heart

making me cry
making me wonder
bringing me down
but making me love you

making me sad
making me sorry and
a little afraid
but making me love you

yeah

(Over the Rhine)


Spurred by a couple out-of-the-blue phone calls from former flames and the dusting of silt leftover from a faded broken heart, I had a thought. Not a new one for me but one that I finally have the right words for, or one word rather. Availability.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a 5 year relationship that, while certainly had its imperfections, was also sort of... perfect. And when I say perfect, I don't mean formulaic (read: storybook), but rather, unfettered. The three middle years we spent long distance, but it didn't matter. We saw each other when we could. Sometimes it was weekly; sometimes it was three months, but it never changed our love, devotion or loyalty to each other. Sure, the longer spans were harder because we missed each other, but having someone's love like that, I felt contented. I never even had the urge to stray, nor did she.

But that's not what even made it so... ideal. What made it ideal was how available we were to one another. We occasionally talked about the what-ifs of forever, but we both knew forever is a really long time, so how could we even begin to know the people we would become in the next 5, 10 or 20 years? Even still, while we were in it together - in love, that is - we were available to each other. Unfettered from the emotional baggage, bitterness, broken hearts, skepticism and insecurities that come from years of - and I use this word tentatively - relationships with unavailable people.

One thing I've never been able to understand is that if most people want love, then why is it so hard to have it with someone? But then I realized that it really comes down to one thing: availability. Of course, that is if the other basic ingredients are there - things like attraction and compatability.

So many people are not available. Their trust has been broken by someone in the past: a friend, a lover, or a parent, or they've never truly experienced love: from a friend, a lover, or a parent. And as much as they want love, they can't shed their self protective barriers that would allow them to experience real love. Out of fear. Out of hurt. Out of ignorance.

But to actually have love, you have to be available to give and receive it. I've experienced some really great people in my life. Tender ones. Compassionate ones. Even loving ones. But when it comes to being accessible on a level that makes them vulnerable to me, they're unavailable. Their emotional baggage, bitterness, broken hearts, skepticism and insecurities are too present in their hearts and minds to let their past fall away.

And that's why Jenny was so lovely. We weren't scared of loving each other. We were available - emotionally, mentally, and physically - to share ourselves with each other. We didn't promise each other forever; we didn't have to. The only thing we promised was to never betray each other's trust. Sure, when we broke up, it wasn't all puppies, rainbows, and flowers, but among the tears and sadness and loss, we knew that our lives were leading us in different directions. Breaking up was the right thing to do.

Since then, I've experienced some really great people. Tender ones. Compassionate ones. Even loving ones. But also unavailable ones. You often hear people say you can't help who you fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants. I don't believe that. See, I think that we make a choice as to whether or not we make ourselves available to give and receive love. And if you aren't open to it, chances are it's not going to happen, and if you are too open to it, you could fall for somebody who never really wanted your love in the first place.

I started this post with the song Iron Curtain because of something I've learned from the unavailable people in my life after Jenny. When I see the iron curtain around someone's heart, it may make me cry, make me wonder, bring me down, make me sad, make me sorry, and a little afraid, but it doesn't make me love them, not anymore, at least. Yeah. Because that's when you hurt yourself - when you try to love someone who is not available to receive it - someone with an iron curtain around their heart.

So the next time I make myself available to give and receive love, it's going to be to someone who is available to give and receive it back. Isn't that what being "in love" is about - being "in" something with somebody who is in it with you?

I was in love once, and I may never be in it again. And to anyone whose outgoing message says, "I'm sorry I'm not available to take your love right now," I'll leave this message: what I really want is someone who's available to pick up the phone. My love won't be waiting on the line for long.

~ the lady love

Precious Thing

If you love me, sing with me.

~ ll

My Mess of Thoughts Bundled On Your Screen

What is up with the miracle water they sell on late-night tv? I mean, dude. Seriously. But it got me to thinking - scratching time around my chin - about people and how we are. Theoretically, I could sit here the rest of my life and spout off about this topic, but for the sake of actually be able to make this post, I'm gonna attempt an abridged stream-of-consiousness.

So here's the thing that got me going: the testimonials. I mean, here are these people who are feverishly proclaiming how this stuff changed their lives: gave them fortune/got them out of debt, healed uncurable diseases, whatever. Is it bullshit? Sure, they could be actors, but something about them speaks to a genuineness that you just can't fake. And if that's the case, they're real people who actually believe that this miracle water changed their lives.

So did it? Did it really changes their lives and fix their problems? If it weren't true (at least temporarily), it sure doesn't seem like they'd so passionately and so readily talk about all the great fortune that has happened to them since they got their mail-order miracle water.

It made me laugh at first in disbelief, then I had to remind myself that I am an educated and logical person, so the way I think is different than the way a lot of people think. So does that really make my way of thinking right or better? Why is logic or a more developed ability to reason superior to being emotional or reactionary?

The thing that got me at first about the miracle water pitch is how much it reminded me of tele-evangelists. I saw an America Undercover documentary once that suggested that, quite simply, the success of tele-evangelism is a result of mass hypnosis much in the same vein as Hitler used. Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, all I'm comparing here is application of mass hypnosis.

There are supposedly three types of people. Those who are highly susceptible to the power of suggestion, those moderate folks who are doubtful but can be swayed once they have enough evidence to convince them, and finally, those who are least resistant to suggestibility. I tend to think that you could even say these three categories are akin to progressive levels of the emotional and logical.

So in the case of tele-evangalists or the miracle water pitch, they capture the first group easily and then gain the confidence of the second group by using the first group to make their case. So when you've got someone testifying to the effects of the miracle water or you see a group of a hundred people falling over when Benny Hinn waves his hands, it allays the doubt in the moderate minds of the second group and converts them to believers.

But here's the thing: what happens when things really do change for people? Is that bullshit? How else could you explain healing or good fortune? Well, for starters, the human mind is powerful, so it actually is possible for someone who hasn't walked in years to get up and take steps when their mind convinces them that they are cured. It's a strange phenomenon indeed and usually short-lived, however. Check in on them a week later and they're back confined to the wheelchair. But, for a moment, they actually did walk across the stage, or at least made those three steps.

I've often thought about religion much in the same way. That an inclination to believe in something that can't be grasped or measured comes from a place of emotional need. People have so much faith and believe so adamanantly that there is a higher power taking care of them. And often they actually do reap positive results. They see their lives change for the better, and they're motivated to modify their own behavior to live a more godly life. And when they don't have positive experiences, they keep on having faith, because well, the lord works in mysterious ways. And for the times when something good does happen, it's the power of the lord providing for them.

I've even thought before that projecting hope and faith outward and towards something greater than one's self - simply directing it away from yourself - alleviates a certain pressure that it's up to you and only you, thereby making people happier and more fulfilled. In a cosmic sense of feeling taken care of, you actually are taken care of, even if you're still doing the work to sustain yourself. But the lord gets the credit, and maybe that's okay. If confidence and faith in a higher power provide people the wherewithal, optimism, and motivation to not give up in life, then what's wrong with that?

I've seen it a lot, actually. It makes me wish sometimes that I could have faith. I don't disrespect it, either. My parents attribute their survival to the power and mercy of Christ.

Holy tangent, batman. I was intending to talk about logic vs. emotion. My point is, is it logical for a bottle of holy water, the touch of a self-proclaimed prophet, or even the grace of a mythical or otherworldly entity to be the answer to our problems? Of course not, because it doesn't make sense. I mean, isn't faith believing in something when there is no proof? But sometimes it does work, even if only in our own minds.

It seems to be a commonly held belief that logic is superior to emotion. But why is that really? Logic is nothing more than a science - a system of knowledge to explain the world and the phenoma of our existance. My main problem with science is that it is only a creation of the human mind. It's how we attempt to explain and comprehend. But, to me, the precision of science is confined to the ability of the human mind to identify patterns based on how the human mind processes information, but does that make it absolute? Sure it does, at least in our own minds. Or in the mind of an atheist. I guess that explains why I'm agnostic.

Of course, our reactions are shaped by our environment: what we think we're supposed to have, what is right or wrong, etc., so it follows that our emotions are a mere product of environment as well, dictating our reactions. However, the root of emotion is not, is it? The fact that we even have the ability to respond emotionally to the world around us is a natural part of us, just as the ability to develop systems of thought about the world is. So why is it that being logical is so much better than being emotional?

I often find myself trying to suppress my emotional self. I mean, who wants to be accused of being emotional? Being emotional has a negative connotation, doesn't it? Being emotional equates to being irrational. But how often do you associate a negative connotion with logic? You don't. And being a woman, I'm much easier to dismiss if I am emotional, because good god damn, I'm certainly not rational if I react from a place of feeling.

The trick is trying to find the balance. I don't want to stifle a natural part of who I am: the emotional part. I want to feel. So how is it that I can honor my emotional self yet still embrace the logic of logic? Well, I'm still not there yet - you know, figuring out the balance. But, dammit, as long as I don't cry over spilt emotion. I mean, if I got kicked in the balls, that'd be okay, because those would be logical tears: a mere manifestion and reaction to the physical pain of it all.

~ the lady love

Driven

My memory will not fail me now
And the rest is history

(Bergquist/Detweiler)

---

I know I've said it before: my memory is pretty remarkable. I used to think it was cool or that I was gifted or some shit like that, but in my old age I think it might just be my undoing. Inconsistency is one of the most aggravating (and most shared) qualities I find among other people. But if my memory weren't so good, I'd never even know it. And though you'd think it'd be better, what's worse is having irrefutable evidence right in front of me to remind me that, indeed, I remembered it correctly. Yet somehow it makes me feel even crazier.

I swear, people, I think it will eventually drive me over the edge. ~tll

Gone Too Long

Finally, my computer has been resurrected thanks to my friend Mike. Sure, it's been longer than your standard three days in the biblical sense (Wait, how long was Lazarus down for?), but Mike is his own sort of miracle worker. Man, I don't know what I'd do without him. He's my techie saviour, besides just being an all-around good guy and friend. Fortunately, his wife Heather is just as cool, loaning her husband out to me all the time.

Last night, during our third attempt to get this machine up and running again, Heather said, "Oh good. I was afraid it wasn't going to work." I looked at Heather and playfully said, "Come on. What you really mean is 'Is this chick ever going to leave so I can have my husband back?'"

You'd think after my virtual sabbatical I'd have a lot to say. Nope. I guess I've lost my voice, or perhaps just my opinions.

Oooh, saying that reminded me of a line from a poem that my extended college crush wrote (not about me). An excerpt:

...

the more you come around
the more I seem to wait
to try on thoughts
and lend out shirts
and watch you listen
while I lose opinions

...

I cannot believe I remembered that. That had to be 10 years ago. But re-reading those lines just now reminds me why I carried such a torch for him back then. I mean, that's just altogether hot. Even still to me now. The thing is, now I wouldn't be so patient or absurd to find his brooding, i.e. his inner conflict - sexy or compelling, no matter how sexy and compelling he was just for being him.

~ the lady love

The Day I Changed The World

Time just moved me into my thirty first year. Ten, no, eleven minutes ago, I officially got one year older. It's not just my day. Today is Earth Day. It's also Jack Nicholson's and Anna's (my Mini-Me) birthday. Tomorrow is someone else's day: Shakespeare's and Troy's birthday, in fact.

I am quiet tonight, not like last year. Last year was the party of a lifetime that lasted 'til daylight. I didn't want anything like that this year. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get to whisper "please don't stop" into someone's ear. That's the only birthday invitation I'm extending this year. It could happen. It could just as easily not happen. It's happened and not happened before. The last birthday I got to say those words was four years ago.

Last year was a mile marker, so I did it up right. This year, I'm playing it down.

I had actually forgotten several times this week that it was happening. It just hasn't been a big deal, and I've made no special plans. Yet when the clock struck midnight, all of a sudden I felt... weird. Vulnerable. A sense of expectation. Birthdays have this way of making you feel like that, which is ridiculous, I know. I'd like to think I was beyond it - you know, the sentiment that has been ingrained in us for a lifetime that somehow we're special and that this day is the one time each year when we should be celebrated. I mean, really, it's just another day. But I guess I'm not beyond it. Bummer.

Last year's celebration invitation:


~ the lady love

What's The Big (Hair) Deal?

Hair. Where do I begin?

It's amazing to me how much our (my) identity is wrapped up in our (my) hair. Seriously. Probably less so for men, though I did know a heartbreaker of a guy once whose sex appeal was largely tied to his wild, curly hair. Grace and I use to joke that he was like Samson and would talk about secretly cutting it off in the middle of the night much like Delilah did. Let's see how much action he'd get then.

I've known a few people, Lenny Kravitz not among them, who've had dreadlocks for years and finally cut them off. Years of energy caught up in their hair hanging off their heads, and when they cut them off, they'll often talk about how alive and liberated they feel. It's almost like a rite of passage. A letting go of the past. And I can relate. Each time I get a haircut, I feel lighter and more alive.

It's on my mind at the moment because I'm feeling a desperate need to be shorn. By general western cultural standards (for some reason the term "generally accepted accounting principles" oddly keeps coming to mind), I've got good hair for a white chick - thick, shiny, soft - the kind of hair that people always enviously say they wish they had. I go through these periods where I decide to grow it out - to have that kind of hair you see most often worn by daytime soap opera actors, a signature of femininity and beauty. So after a few years of wearing it somewhat short, it hangs past my shoulders now. And you'd think that when it got long like it is now, I'd be rock 'em sock 'em. Not so - at least not to me.

Instead I feel weighed down, gross, and even moody - a sure sign to me that it's time to shed the locks. So does my dire need for a haircut justify a whole blog post dedicated to my hair? Probably not, but my hair fixation today reminded me of a story that leads me back to my original statement about how much of our (my) identity is wrapped up in our (my) hair.

When I was about 21, there was a period of time when I thought I may have a nasty form of cancer. It was a very troubling time for me - multiple biopsies and doctor visits and MRIs and such to figure out if the massive tumor in my leg was going to kill me. The good news is that it didn't kill me nor was it cancer. The bad news is that the back of my left thigh is permanently and significantly disfigured from an intensive surgery and reconstructive process. A tattoo couldn't even make this bitch of a scar pretty. I even walked with a cane for several months (which coincidentally made me feel completely badass). Oh well. Glad it wasn't my face.

So what does this story have to do with my hair you may wonder? When I got the call explaining the results of the MRI, a split second panic had me dropping the phone and fearing that I was going to lose my leg. When I calmed down enough to find out that they weren't going to cut off my leg, the next thought that ran through my head - I shit you not - was that I wanted to cut off my hair. Ridiculous maybe, but true. I couldn't imagine thinking about taking care of my long mane while having cancer, going through chemotherapy, being laid up in a hospital bed flat on my stomach for six weeks post-op, and then the months of recovery and attention that my leg would require.

So I directly went to my hair lady and had it chopped off - pixie-style. It was cute, sort of, but the problem was that it had the opposite of the desired effect. Instead of not thinking about my hair, I thought about it constantly. Of course, this was after I turned out to not have cancer, but nonetheless, I was more conscious and spent more time on my hair than ever before. Coincidentally, it even impacted other parts of my appearance. I often go without makeup, but when my hair was short, I wore more makeup more frequently. I was more thoughtful about wearing skirts, not wanting to look butch. And it annoyed the shit out of me that I was so vain that I cared enough to put more time and energy into any of this stuff. Instead of the standard 30 minutes it takes for me to get ready - including a shower - I was dedicating an entire hour to the daily beautification process.

The bottom line is, I was out of my hair comfort zone. Yep. That's right. I've got a hair comfort zone, and it falls right in between not too long and not too short. I get how ridiculously girly and shallow this all sounds, but actually, it's the exact opposite. When I'm in my hair comfort zone, I feel more myself and try less to project a certain type of appearance that I think I am supposed to have. And on hair-obsessed days like today, it keeps me from doing something radical and impulsive like shaving the shit off. Because then I really would become obnoxiously girly and vain, and that's just not me.

~ the lady coiffed

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

As I grow older, I have realized that I am less tolerant and less patient, and I want fewer ties to hold me down. Before, I never wanted to own property; now I don't even want a lease in my name. Before, there were things - like say, a set of lovely curtains or bookmaking materials - that I held onto. I thought, "I may use this again someday" or "But I love them." Now I look at my possessions and think, "What can I get rid of that I don't need?

That's why I hate grocery store club cards. I mean, I get it from a marketing/business perspective. Creating customer loyalty keeps them competitive with other stores by offering a club card of their own - not to mention keeping their brand visible by positioning it on everybody's keyring. What annoys me about it is that I just want to go to the grocery store, and usually that store is whichever one is in my vicinity when I think, "Oh yeah, I need stop at the store." Next thing I know I've got three different grocery store cards cluttering up my wallet. Oh well. That's life. I'm a slave to the man.

It's kind of sad for me to admit that part of feeling tied down comes from the repetitive motion of life. I clean my house on Friday and by the next Friday I have to clean it again. Every April I file taxes (or do I?) and register my car. Laundry is a constant. And every April I add a year to my age, but the day-to-day duties to live in this world are the same. The cycle of life becomes tedious, and I become bored, so I look for ways to break free from the things that require me to live by somebody else's rules: the government's, Kroger's, the landlord's, or my dirty underwear's.

It's not just things. It's people, too. I know this will sound entirely arrogant, but I'm just gonna say it: I'm popular. And that's nice. I think I appreciate popularity more since I spent my first 18 years feeling alienated, misunderstood, and lonely... feeling like I just never fit in. Always being told I was such a pretty girl but never having a boyfriend. Looking back on it now, I realize that most of my discontented formative years were my own fault for heightened expectations of self and self-imposed thoughts of not being good enough. Man, I could've had so much more fun had I gotten that stick out of my ass.

To have people appreciate, value, and enjoy my individuality as an adult is gratifying and affirming. On the flip side, I have found myself, from time to time, being tied to people that I really just... don't entirely enjoy or who take more than they give. It's not that I don't like them; I just don't have enough time or energy to give them. So over the past year, I've untangled myself from several of these ties as well.

Cultivating and maintaining meaningful relationships is an active and mutual endeavor, and at this point in my life, I'm operating at near capacity. So it's rare for someone new to come along who inspires me to give them my time, but sometimes they do. They breathe new life into me, and they make the mundane not feel so bothersome or tedious. They inspire me to create ties with them, not look for ways to shed them.

The most surprising thing about the new people I welcome into my life is their willingness to give as much as they take. It's not just about them, and over the years I've learned that - even with some really good people - it usually is more about them. I mean, let's face it: people are selfish. Self absorbed. Whatever. And I'll be the first to admit that I am, too. Why wouldn't I be? It's my life to live, so doesn't it make sense to, in general, think about myself first?

But there are varying degrees of selfishness. I've encountered all kinds. So when I meet someone who enjoys sharing or giving to me and wants nothing more than mutuality in return, it resonates with me because I'm not used to it. It blows me away, actually. And I've always got time for people like that, and just maybe if I'm lucky, they've got time for me.

~ the lady love

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me

Last night I dreamt
That somebody loved me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

Last night I felt
Real arms around me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

Sometimes I feel lame always posting songs or lyrics to my blog, but if you only knew how much I loved it, how much it is part of me, you would be ever so forgiving of my unoriginality.

So the stereo is spinning at this very moment and just spit out Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me by The Smiths. Man, I loooove this song, especially after that long, understated intro, and then, bam, the full band strikes and Morrissey lays down his smooth vocals, and just like the song's title, it's all aptly dreamy. I think it's that very moment that gets me in my gut so that I have to replay the song three times just to relive it again and again. And the first two verses just grab hold of me and won't let go. Every time. Every. Single. Time.

~ the lady love

Does Rape Turn You On?

The topic of forced fantasies, often referred to "rape fantasies", came up in a recent conversation with a friend. I have my own ideas about forced fantasies and what they mean, which I'm sure are wholly unoriginal, so please forgive me for having done zero research on the topic.

Does the average woman really fantasize about being raped? Hell no she doesn't. That's because, in my opinion, forced fantasies aren't really tales of rape.

Rape is a touchy subject. Merriam Webster's Dictionary (and I paraphrase here) defines rape as sexual intercourse carried out forcibly and against the will of the victim.

A quick digression: It is a commonly held viewpoint that rape, in fact, has nothing to do with sex but rather domination and power. Though not entirely, I tend to disagree with this perspective. I believe rape often has a lot do with sex. Otherwise, the valid cases we refer to as "date rape" would rarely occur. Date rape, in my opinion, more likely happens because of compromised judgement rather than the offender seeking domination and power.

As I said, regardless of whether it's rape or date rape, forced fantasies aren't really about rape at all. This would imply that one wants to be taken against her will, which in the case of a rape fantasy is a non sequitur. If a woman desires to be taken forcibly, then it's not really against her will now is it?

So why would a woman fantasize about forced sex in the context of rape? While the social idealogy of female sexuality has undoubtedly evolved over the years, there is an undeniable stigma that remains attached to a promiscuous woman: whore. In the case of rape fantasies, a woman is able to explore her sexuality and carnal desires guilt-free. She can have the sexual pleasure she so desires, say when she lusts after a stranger on the street or her handy man, but her reputation and virtue remain in tact if she is taken by him. If she is taken by him as opposed to being a willing party, then she escapes being a whore.

I also believe that forced fantasies may be an extension of gender roleplay. I believe that gender roles are actually quite natural. The problem with them is that, much like religion, we've created our own institution of rules and acceptable behavior that we subscribe to. So it follows that the problem with gender ideaology is that our social constructs disregard a person's right to choose which aspects of gender they identify with and manifest in their daily lives.

I've also observed that women often have a need to be desired by a man as a form of affirmation and acceptance. I'm not trying to say that men don't. Of course men want to be desired by women. However, it's more often the case that if a guy has a girlfriend, his buddies consider her "hands off" whereas women are more likely to be competitive for a man's attention and affection, even when it's her female friend's boyfriend.

It's hard to talk about this subject without all the cases of "but but but". Yes, I get it that I'm making huge generalizations here and there are always exceptions. And I for one am actually fortunate that my girlfriends and I respect each other much more than that to stoop to boyfriend stealing. However, my entire life I've seen it all around me in female-female friendships. So why is it that women tend to have a deeper need to be desired by a man, especially when she can take it away from another woman? For starters it says a lot about female self esteem. When a woman can take a man from another woman, it consciously or subconsciously translates as "I am more desirable".

So what does this have to do with forced fantasies? Well if we look at gender roles relative to men as the pursuer/aggressor, then a man taking a woman - in fantasy land - feeds a notion for a woman of being so desireable that a man will take it from her even if she is resistant.

What's ironic to me about the socially constructed ideas of gender roles is that they sometimes stand in direct opposition to our biology. It's actually women who do the choosing. We all know this. In the framework of men "spreading their seed", it's women who are the selective ones - finding the most suitable, prime sperm donor. But I digress.

With that said, I think forced fantasies are natural. In some way, sure, they perpetuate the gender role ideaology that feminism attempts to overcome, but hey, it's just a fantasy. It could also be said that these types of fantasies are progressive, meaning that by fantasizing about sexual freesom is a step towards breaking out of prescibed gender roles in reality. The next fantasy could be one where she doesn't have to be taken by force, but she actually wants it and can acknowledge it and accept it without feeling guilty for being a whore.

I admit that I've had my own sort of forced fantasy. I had never fleshed out a scene of any sort in my head, but I actually lived out this fantasy a few months ago, though it wasn't purposeful nor was I thinking about it directly when it happened. My experience didn't really have anything to do with the gender role argument I was making, which is ironic I know, but in a sense it does have a connection. In my experience, it was the conflict of my body actually wanting it but my mind telling me to say no.

And really, that's what I think forced fantasies are all about: wanting something that you think you shouldn't want and being absolved of the responsibility by having it taken from you.

~ the lady love

Delirium of Desire

A few years ago there was this girl. I first encountered her when my mom was in town nearly three years earlier. She served our lunch, and as the years went by I never forgot her. I don't know what it was about her, but she had something I wanted.

After that day, I'd see her out sometimes. At a bar one night. Two months later playing pool. Six months later at a restaurant. I'd always think to myself, "There's that cool girl." And she was. She was fucking cool, and I had never even talked to her save for that one time, that one lunch. And even then the exchange wasn't personal.

Then one night we came face to face, and she engaged me. Dare I say even charmed me? And she asked for my number. She called the next day and asked me out. Then she stood me up. Fucked up.

True to form, I couldn't just let that happen. It was wrong. I never got her number, so a couple weeks later I decided to have brunch at her restaurant. As I approached her, she looked up at me with a suprised and fearful look on her face. I greeted her and politely asked, "Why did you ask me out if you were just going to stand me up?" Fumbling around for the words, she nervously said, "I'm sorry. I forgot." With a smirk I replied, "Sure you did. Well, I know you're working, so I won't keep you." I walked back to my table and finished my meal.

Shortly thereafter she came outside to my table and pulled me aside. With her head half lowered she extended an apology.

"You could have called and canceled. I waited on you. I waited on you too long. I don't mind being canceled on, but not showing up was just... not cool."

She asked me if she could have one more chance, and I asked why she thought she deserved one. She said she knew that she didn't deserve anything from me, but please, could she try to make it up to me. I don't know why I said yes. There was just something about her.

"I get off work at 10:00 tonight, and I won't wait on you again. We'll see if you show up."

She did show up. We hung out. Had a few cocktails. Shot some pool. When it was time to go, she asked if I would give her a ride home. Certainly I could. When we got into my car, she stammered for a moment until she finally said, "When I saw you in the restaurant that day and you came up to me, I have never felt so ashamed in my life. I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry I stood you up. I'm sorry for not calling. I'm sorry for not calling later. I just... "

Then she handed me a crumpled up index card. "I wrote this," she said. "I have gone back and forth in my head all night about whether I should give it to you, but here. I wrote it for you."

I still have that beat up index card. It's lived in a drawer for the past three years, but I've always known exactly where it is. It read, "Once you get to know me you'll love to hate me. At least that's what they all eventually say. The look in your eyes tells me to stop and pay attention for once in my life, but my life never stops. It's constant like the pull of gravity - rarely questioned but always there. Apologies handed out at every turn like parking tickets. Can't wait 'til death - I mean rest. Same thing. Yet the power of life keeps on giving. The sanctity of people in my life is my fuel to keep on going - my own gravitational pull to my heart. Without I'm nothing."

I asked her, "So what's so bad about you?"

She hesitated for a moment then told me she was a drug dealer. She told me that's why she stood me up. She was at a party and doing a lot of business and was being completely selfish. She was aware that she was supposed to meet me but didn't call.

I don't know what it was about this moment that stirred me. Maybe it was her candid and genuine confession. She wasn't working me here. She was simply being honest. She had countenance. Perhaps it was forced by my own hand a little bit by confronting her in the restaurant, but here she was sitting in my car - this alcoholic and cocaine addict.

"Do you want to spend the night with me?" I asked. "Yes, I do," she said. So we went back to my house. We stood in my kitchen and I poured us both a shot of whiskey. Then I grabbed her head, pulled her to me and kissed her. It was good. Very good.

I took her upstairs to my bedroom. I kissed her up against the closet doors for a while then we climbed into bed, and she did things to me. She made it happen for me.

She left the next morning to go to work and asked me to come see her for brunch. "I don't think so," I told her. I didn't go to brunch. I went to sleep.

She called me that evening. She seemed strange, fumbling her words a bit like she wanted to tell me something.

"Whatever it is you're trying to say, go ahead and just say it," I said. That's when she told me she had a girlfriend. They were moving to Michigan together the next month.

"Okay," I said. "I would have preferred to have known that before we slept together, but okay."

She seemed really confused, and I was strangely confused myself. Why didn't all this bother me more? The fact that she stood me up. Or that she was a drug dealer. Or that she had a girlfriend. To this day I still am not sure.

We became friends. The last five weeks she was in town, we spent a lot of time together. It was fun. Then she left town, and we kept in touch.

She called me late one night in October, about four months after she moved away. She told me she was in love with me. I told her that I loved her, too, because I did, but with my next breath I told her that I would never be with her. No, I would never be her girl.

One night as I lay thinking about her, I wrote something. A love poem. But I never gave it to her. It was never really hers to have anyway.

Music of the moment : Lifelong Fling


The moon blind-sided the sky again
As we grabbed loose ends of the tide and then
The slippery slide
You know I can't say when
I ever took a ride that could slap me this silly
With roiling joy
Lazy as sin
Lyin' up in heaven with my special friend
And the space he's in
It can make a girl grin
In the beginning of a lifelong fling

I wrote down a dream
Folded the note
Slipped it in the pocket of my tattered coat

I wrote down a dream
In invisible ink
It never was mine I'm beginning to think

I wrote down a dream
What more could I do
I drew myself a picture and the picture was you

I wrote myself a riddle
I said, What I wouldn't do
To give something good
To a love like you

I wrote down a dream
Folded the note
Passed it to you we stepped in our boat

Sailed 'round the world
We were hoping to find
More than the sum of all we left behind

I wrote down a dream
But what was it now
And why does it feel so distant somehow

Did I take too long
Did I get it wrong
You're still the missing line in my favorite song

~ the lady love

Farte - The Smell of a Man

So a buddy of of mine and I were hanging out recently. He came straight from work to pick me up for dinner, and when I got into the car, it smelled like M. had competely deflated in there. I said, "Duuude, have you been rippin' 'em in here?" He goes, "Um, yeah, a little bit. I tried to air it out."

"M.! You must have drilled them into the upholstery. It smells like a mixture of lingering cologne and farts in here."

The next day I got an email from M.:

Dear Ms. Love,

I would like to introduce you to the new fragrance sweeping the nation for "real" men. It is called Farte (pronounced Fart-A) Musk. It is a lovely blend of natural botanicals mixed with the natural smell of a "Man". It is light and breezy and a scent you will not soon forget. What will those French come up with next? It is an irresistible smell and drives everyone wild. You've got to get some Farte today!

Hey, I enjoyed the rub last night and the fun and games. We will have to do that again real soon. Hope you have a good day. And don't forget to place an order for Farte.

Love ya,
M.

fuck the world

ABO Incompatibility

ABO incompatibility disease afflicts newborns whose mothers are blood type O, and who have a baby with type A, B, or AB. Guess what? Little Micah has ABO Incompatibility. He's in the special care unit now and who knows for how long.

With an ABO incompatibility, a mother makes antibodies against her baby's blood type. It doesn't happen if the mother and baby have the same blood type or if the baby is type O, since in that case, there is usually nothing to make antibodies against. These antibodies, if the mother is type O, can cross the placenta and can break down the baby's red blood cells after it is born, which may require phototherapy or even blood exchange transfusion.

Good god man. Coincidentally, my sister Amy had to have an blood exchange transfusion when she was 6 days old. It wasn't ABO Incompatibility, but it was similar and the effects were identical.

I just got the news and I swear my blood pressure just shot the fuck up.

~ the lady love

porking for love

Man, my day just got made. I received an email from a girl I used to know way back when - like 10 years ago. She was a cute and funny little thing and a smashing artist. I have fond memories of Karen, but what is really funny is to find out what fond memories she has of me. So today, I received this communique from Karen:

Subject: porking for love

You know what memory springs foremost to mind for me about you? here it is. valentine's day is approaching. you and i are in the lobby of krannert center [tll: the student center at our college]. we are talking about valentine's day. we make up this hil-AR-ious idea for a valentine. it will have a picture of a pig on the front. inside it will say, "happy valentine's day. let's pork." i am sure i have thought of that every valentine's day since and even some times in between.

some time i will have to visit atlanta. then you & i & grace could get together. i'd like that. i'd laugh my ass off.

word,
karen

Now that she brings it up, it does ring a bell, but man, what a fantastic way to be remembered! Also, it's great because I had forgotten how I used to be obsessed with the word "pork", especially when used as a verb. Seriously, I used to use the word "pork" as a verb as much as possible.

~ the lady love

The Story Of The Lefthanded Rake

When I was about eight or nine years old, I remember watching some documentary on pbs about how lefthanded people were X number of times more likely to be injured or killed using tools. The study asserted that, since 85% of the population was righthanded, tools were essentially made/designed for righthanded users by default, hence the increased chance of injury for lefthanded users.

Well, of course, I tried to use this new found knowledge to its greatest advantage. It just so happened to be autumn, and we had a yard with about 30 trees in it. That's right - time to rake the leaves.

I got on a soapbox about how it was dangerous for me to rake because I might get injured. So when my folks took a little trip down to the hardware store to stock up on yard supplies, they conveniently picked up a special lefthanded rake just for me.

Man, my lefthanded rake worked like a dream! I practically raked the whole yard by myself.

"How's that rake working for you, Love?" my parents would ask.

"Great!" I'd say.

Then, in college, my extended family was sitting at Thanksgiving dinner and telling funny stories of old when somebody said (my sister, I believe), "Hey, remember when you told Love you bought her a lefthanded rake?"

Everybody roared, except for me. I was so confused. I looked around perplexed and said, "What's so funny about my lefthanded rake?"

Once again, everyone roared. And that's about the time I realized that there's no such thing...

... as a lefthanded rake.

~ the lady duped

Baby Has Arrived

My sister had her baby yesterday. 16 hours of non-productive labor resulted in the most horrendous c-section ever. He did not want to come out. It took 4 people pushing and pulling to pull the little guy out. My sister is a champ. Tough as nails.

His name is Micah Benjamin. I call him gloworm.