So I am sitting at work tonight bored off my ass. Bored enough to pick up a Reader's Digest at the corner store. As I am thumbing through I read an article on how to say "I Love You" in six words. There were a couple dozen examples. So I text up this idea to all my Forward happy friends: Valentine's Day is soon. Challenge: Describe a love or relationship in 6 words. Forward to friends.
I didn't get back a lot of interesting stuff. For one, the ex sends "Her confident voice, I took note". Now I don't know if that was about me, or some other piece of ass. Frankly I don't care today. Why I'm even bothering to text or forward shit to the ex escapes me. As I am sure that feeling is mutual at this point.
What came next was a shock, and true indication that my Gay-Dar is in need of re-calibration:
"Her sweet words made me fall" Muah :X (blush)
followed by: "I am your student. Teach me."
followed by: "OMG... I really have a serious crush" Wait that's technically more than 6 words! LOL
When I say Hottie, no shit. She is smokin' H.O.T.
I have known Hottie for just over a year. Never once did my Gy-Dar ping. She has always been friendly and smiling, a hugger. She has listened to my rants about my (then) loud mouthed - know it all - got tits and no brain - gossipy EMT partner. So through a couple of text exchanges she tells me she has always had a crush on me. She always liked any chance to give me hugs at work. She loves the way I can be such a bitch when I'm trying to get the job done, and recoup back to a sweet laid back girl.
Wha, wha, Whut? (I'M STUNNED AND SPEECHLESS!!!)
We continued the text exchange, and I'm nearly peeing my pants with school girl giggles. I think my partner got nauseated, cuz he went inside the fire station to hang out with the firemen.
So she wants to take me to Le Buzz on Thursday. Then she asks if I have plans after work. As if! She invites me out for an after work beer.
We sat and talked shit about my former EMT partner. She tells me how she always thought my girlfriend was stuck-up when she would see her bringing me to work or picking me up. We drank beer and had a few shots. I sang Karaoke and she pole danced for me while I sang. Then she get up from her side of the booth and comes and sits beside me, close beside me. We snuggle up close and talk some more. She nuzzles in close. Oh Goddess, she smelled so great. It was amazing to have a soft, delicate, girlie girl all snuggled up beside me.
She has paramedic class early in the morning, so we couldn't make a late night of it. I walked her to her car. She leaned in and kissed me for what seemed like forever. Cliche, I know. But her lips were so soft, and full, and luscious. Kissing her was delicious.
I can't wait until Thursday. Envious eyes will be on me when I walk in with this amazingly beautiful girl on my arm. I totally understand why Butches are so territorial!
I'm sitting here at my computer with a serious case of blue-balls. Hey, I can have blue-balls. My girl-cock is already purple. LOL.
I need a cool drink of...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I was reminded.....
Out of sheer boredom on the slow nights... that it can be really fun to fuck with dispatch. Most of them don't even realize it either. That's even funnier.
Ambulance Driver had such an exchange last night apparently:
Ambulance Driver: Radio Traffic From Last Night
Dispatcher: "Borg Unit Four, you have an assault/rape at Masquerade, 1384 Waterfront. 23-year-old male at the rear entrance."
Temporary Partner: "What's Masquerade?"
Ambulance Driver: "Local gay bar. They have an awesome drag show on Wednesday nights."
Temporary Partner [on radio]: "Dispatch, where did you say the patient was again?"
Dispatcher: "Unit Four, your injury is going to be at the rear entrance."
TP: "Ummmm, okay."
Back in the old days, when Fulton County Communications handled Grady EMS's dispatching, one of our primary posts was in Buckhead. On Friday and Saturday nights we would move from our usual post at AFD Sta 21 over to the middle of the old bar district.
Much better eye candy!!!
One bar even had a huge clear glass picture window with scantily clad "window girls" who would take turns sitting precariously in a sex-swing and swinging all night, much to the delight of passers by, the foot-patrol cops, and us pervy EMS folk.
Every weekend there were the typical bar brawls. APD would respond, and request EMS to patch up the arrested party's boo-boos before hauling them to jail. Our favorite was Club Uranus!! Our self-claimed Friday and Saturday night post was in eye-shot of Uranus, and the "window girls". It made working the night shift every weekend so worth it. But nothing beat asking Fulton County Dispatch repeatedly for the name of the bar:
Fulton Co: 7916 prepare to copy. You're responding to a 23 yo male, assaulted in Uranus, APD on scene.
Grady 196: Sorry radio, can you re advise your traffic, we have a lot of crowd noise here at post...
Fulton Co: 196, you are responding to an assault in Uranus.
Grady 196: Are you advising there's an assault in Uranus?
Fulton Co: 10-4, male assaulted in Uranus. APD is on scene. Your clear to enter.
Grady 196: Clear, APD has ok'd entry to Uranus. Show us at scene... In Uranus.
That exchange could have gone on all night and never lost a single ounce of funny!!!
Ambulance Driver had such an exchange last night apparently:
Ambulance Driver: Radio Traffic From Last Night
Dispatcher: "Borg Unit Four, you have an assault/rape at Masquerade, 1384 Waterfront. 23-year-old male at the rear entrance."
Temporary Partner: "What's Masquerade?"
Ambulance Driver: "Local gay bar. They have an awesome drag show on Wednesday nights."
Temporary Partner [on radio]: "Dispatch, where did you say the patient was again?"
Dispatcher: "Unit Four, your injury is going to be at the rear entrance."
TP: "Ummmm, okay."
Back in the old days, when Fulton County Communications handled Grady EMS's dispatching, one of our primary posts was in Buckhead. On Friday and Saturday nights we would move from our usual post at AFD Sta 21 over to the middle of the old bar district.
Much better eye candy!!!
One bar even had a huge clear glass picture window with scantily clad "window girls" who would take turns sitting precariously in a sex-swing and swinging all night, much to the delight of passers by, the foot-patrol cops, and us pervy EMS folk.
Every weekend there were the typical bar brawls. APD would respond, and request EMS to patch up the arrested party's boo-boos before hauling them to jail. Our favorite was Club Uranus!! Our self-claimed Friday and Saturday night post was in eye-shot of Uranus, and the "window girls". It made working the night shift every weekend so worth it. But nothing beat asking Fulton County Dispatch repeatedly for the name of the bar:
Fulton Co: 7916 prepare to copy. You're responding to a 23 yo male, assaulted in Uranus, APD on scene.
Grady 196: Sorry radio, can you re advise your traffic, we have a lot of crowd noise here at post...
Fulton Co: 196, you are responding to an assault in Uranus.
Grady 196: Are you advising there's an assault in Uranus?
Fulton Co: 10-4, male assaulted in Uranus. APD is on scene. Your clear to enter.
Grady 196: Clear, APD has ok'd entry to Uranus. Show us at scene... In Uranus.
That exchange could have gone on all night and never lost a single ounce of funny!!!
I can Butch for that...
So lately I have been reassessing a lot of things in life. Most especially when it comes to relationships, sexuality labels, and gender expectations. Reading "The Leather Daddy and The Femme" (by Carol Queen) on Friday certainly didn't help. I have discovered that, for being typically labeled a "Femme", I'm an aggressive top... with a voracious sexual appetite. Actually, my friend Suzette told me one day that she has always just thought of me as androgynous, a happy blend of both butch and femme qualities, never having totally dressed outwardly as either, and having the equal attitude of both sides. Yet, Nat disagrees, not seeing past the french manicured nails and quasi femme hairstyle. I like to say that I can change a flat tire in high heels. I love muscle cars and Mac cosmetics. I rode my tough ass motorcycle with a Barbie-pink turtle shell helmet and matching backpack.That's what I hate about labels. As a somewhat outwardly femme according to my nail salon and hair stylist, I'm not supposed to want to strap-up and fuck a luscious lipstick, tough butch, or cute boi into a quivering corporal orgasm. Why? Because that's not what most other femme's want to do? Femmes are supposed to be the pillow queens? Well, not this "femme".
Now that I think about it, with the exception of Jordan, all of my long term relationships have been with totally bottom "Butches" and "Boi's"... but not so bottom that they are willing to yield themselves to "the hardware" on a regular basis. Jordan was a wonderful blend of half top and half bottom, so that we both gave and received equally. Actually only one time for each of the others did any of them ever flatback it for the serious girl-cock. But in all other aspects they would all but wear a t-shirt that read "pillow queen" in big girly pink letters, taking everything I offered and begging for more. But that is the secret life of a bottom butch. An outwardly "top" in the streets, ferrally territorial over their girl, a purring submissive bottom in the sheets.
I have an undeniable attraction to Boi's and Butches. They make my blood boil with steamy lustiness. I can also appreciate the totally sexy femininity of a lipstick, as well as all girls in between. I love women. But I have an unquenched desire to do a lot more experimentation with the hardware, and it looks like I am going to have to shed my lust for Boi's and Butches and find a femme who's willing to play.
I recently met an undeniable femme who might just be the one. However, this one does not come without clauses and exceptions. She talks freely about her attraction to -and brief experiences with- women, but she is still hung up on men. Cops, firemen, and paramedics to be precise. She's a "Badge Bunny". I got the badge and paramedic part covered. Hell, honestly I even have the cock part covered... if she can get into girl-cock that is. Every bit of my GayDar pings her as queer. As for my assessment of her just not knowing the totality of her queerness yet, that may just be wishful thinking. She may very well be just another part-time bisexual that will only ever let go of those inhibitions when she knocks back a few. She is certainly not relationship material. And, I'm quiet ok with that. There is a streak of man-whore to my streak of butchness that just wants to be friends-with-benefits.
Last night, I met Nat for shop talk over dinner and desert. We discussed the nuances of harnesses and girl-cocks, techniques, and smut. While that was certainly the inspiration I needed to finally invest in a good leather harness to accessorize the girl-cock sleeping in the drawer by my bed, it left me with a serious case of unquenched desire to put it right to use.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A Doormat's Test of Strength and Willpower...
So the girlfriend left for the holidays to visit her family in West Virginia on Dec 22. Original plan was for Dec 20, but her weekly worker's comp check didn't arrive until Monday. Also, the original plan was to return on Dec 28, because I had borrowed my mom's SUV for the week while she was gone so I could have a way to the new job. On the 26th she informs me that she will be staying until the 31st. Screw my mom needing her vehicle back for doctors appointments on the 29th. Screw me for needing a reliable way to work. Cuz it's all about her.
Well, she stayed until the 31st. Mom cancelled her appointments so I could keep her vehicle and get to work. On Jan 1st mom is expecting to get her car back, and girlfriend wants to show her ass about having to drive the hour up and the hour back. So off I go, begging a ride home from a friend who lives an hour away in the other direction. Confused yet?
So friend brings me home that night, and I have to work 24hr shifts for the next two days. During my 24's, girlfriend informs me that she has realized that she has been so homesick that she is seriously considering moving back home to be closer to her parents. Yeah, so screw our relationship too I guess. Not to mention the ass load of debt we have accrued since she and I were both out of work at the same time. $1200 behind on the rent. MY credit cards are maxed out for new tires and new brakes on HER jeep. Utilities are due. I took out a $3000 high interest loan anticipating her worker's comp settlement, to carry us over until I got back to work. All very convenient to just want OUT - since her worker's comp settlement will be here any day. $37,500. But guess who will be stuck with the debt.
When I get home at noon on the 4th, after a late call at work and girlfriend's unexpected errands, I'm supposed to see a client in my home office at 2:00, which is a DISASTER. And mentally I am in no shape to provide counsel to anyone else, cuz MY head isn't screwed on straight after the bomb she just dropped about moving out and moving back home. So, I get my ass chewed when I cancel my client. I might see one client every month or two. At $75 bucks... that isn't going to pay the bills. I have to sacrifice my slow starting holistics business for a job that will actually pay the bills. But what do I get for my responsible decision...? An ass chewing about how I never put my heart into shit, and that I give up too easily. This all and all brawl of an argument results in drama drama drama. And I've about had all I can take.
So I kindly show girlfriend the door. She was so dead set on going home to mom and dad, and leaving me here to pick up the pieces (emotionally and financially) anyway.
The crazy bitch she cheated on me with got me fired from my last Paramedic job by taking personal pics off girlfriends phone and e-mailing them anonymously to my boss for the sole malicious purpose of getting me fired. What kinda pics you might ask? Cleavage shots in my uniform while getting dressed for work, taken in a gas station bathroom.
Oh and lets mention that from psycho bitch's blog (my former stylist that she was screwing during the summer) that she didn't get the engine warm before she called that crazy bitch and started spilling her guts about how terrible of a person I am and how this manipulative bitch who tried to wreck our relationship was sooo right about me. Yeah whatever.
I had to go to the sheriff's office and file a stalking and harassment report on Crazy Bitch, so they can investigate all the shit from this summer. There is no way I can afford to loose my job again when the whim strikes her to send this shit to my new job. Now the ex doesn't want to talk to the detective... after ADMITTING that Crazy Bitch was the one who did this shit!!!
All her nasty posts and comments on my blog is why I had to start over here at the new site, and take all my personal life off the old blog. That's a damn shame. I don't want her to have any ammo to fuck with my life. She's done it before. I have no doubt that soon she will try again.
The true test of my strength and will power will arrive sometime late Wednesday or early Thursday. She has to come from mommy & daddy's to Georgia for her final doctor's appointment before her worker's comp settlement cashes out. I refuse to bend. I refuse to be the fucking doormat any longer.
My outlook has changed.
I am tired of sacrificing.
I am tired of arguing over stupid shit.
IF SHE WANTS ME IN HER LIFE...
THEN SHE WILL FIND A WAY TO
PUT ME THERE!!!
I'm tired of chasing her.
And frankly, I'm not so sure I want her
brand of bullshit anymore, anyway.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
It’s Time... (DRAFT)
I have linked around to other bloggers via Ambulance Driver Files, visiting here and there. A couple of days ago I stumbled into Real Live Lesbian's Blog. And while snooping around there, I read one of her featured past blogs Suicide - Full Story.... and so I write:
It was New Year's Eve. Y2K. Either the whole world would end at midnight tonight, or we would wake up in the morning just as poor and miserable as we were this morning. I had just graduated EMT school and was about to take all my licensing exams. While waiting for all this to come about, I was working this ridiculous minimum wage job at the neighborhood pizza spot, delivering pizzas to rednecks who have no concept of tipping the delivery girl. I was barely breaking even, but the lights were still on and we were eating. Michael had gotten a job here too, which helped. Our other friend, Eric, stayed at home because he was emotionally recovering from yet another traumatic explosion in his 6 year on again, off again, relationship. The three of us had been tight friends since 1995. They were my gay boys, and I was their lesbian fag-hag. We had our ups and downs, but we made it work.
Like I said, it was New Year's Eve. I was running my ass off, delivering pizzas to drunken rednecks and big parties. Dick Clark could not count fast enough for me. We were open late that night to catch up with the damage done during this 4-5 hours of pure hell. And wouldn't 'cha know it, when I thought I would get back to the restaurant to help clean and close and do all my end of shift duties, a late order comes in.
So, off I go. Some late night partiers just had to order a couple of pizza's and a pasta dish, with a side salad. I'm driving up and down this section of Warren Road looking for for the address on the order. Of course it's dark. Of course there are no street lights here. Of course it's poorly numbered. Actually, it's NOT even really numbered at all. I only found a cluster of mailboxes beside one driveway where this address should be... and all three have the same family name on them as the order. Damn.
I turn cautiously down the driveway. It's important to drive slowly. Out here, if you pull up into the wrong yard or knock on the wrong door you can get your ass shot. There a lot of old skool country folks here still. Sometimes what they do, they don't want strangers knowing. Even as our little community grows, folks even on the skirts of being in "neighborhoods" still make home-brew and moonshine. Some grow weed. These days some of them cook meth. The last thing you want to do is be mistaken for police, DEA, or a snooping neighbor. As I creep along, I am relieved that the porch light on the middle shack begins to flash on and off. Yes, shack. Thankfully they have been watching for my arrival.
The yard is dotted with a few junk cars and trucks, rusted farm equipment, old crates, and piles of beer cans hopefully, to be recycled, but probably not. There is a barking dog somewhere in the distance. Great. There were chickens on the loose. Even better. This "house" if you will, has obviously been added to several times over its life, each section made of different materials. Reluctantly, I pull closer to the house and park my truck. Gathering the items in the order, I know there is no tip waiting for me here.
As I get out of my truck, I reach back in to pick up the order. My back is to the house. That probably wasn't a good idea. Suddenly I hear, "I'm glad you got here. Thought I was gonna have to skin one of these chickens. I got the munchies like a mo-fo." I wasn't sure what caught my attention first, the fact that she obviously smokes weed, or that her voice was sexy as hell.
Dare I glimpse?
My gawd! This was the hawtest baby dyke I've ever seen! Right away she noticed the rainbow sticker on the dark tinted back window of my Dakota. She didn't hesitate to tell me how happy she was to know she wasn't the only lesbian out here in the sticks. She explains how she is staying here with her dad for a while because she just broke up with her "ole lady". We chat like old friends for probably 15 minutes until the conversation is broken by my cell phone ringing. It was my boss wanting to know where the hell I was, screaming with his ill-contained Napoleon Syndrome that this was my only order and the address less than two miles away. I explained how I had a hard time finding the place, blah blah blah, but I was with the customer and I would be on my way back to clean the restaurant in a minute. I got a rush of courage and gave her my cell phone number and roughly told her where I lived, and said we should hang out sometime. I didn't even get her name.
Although she was constantly on my mind (and in my dreams), I didn't hear from her. I wished I had thought to get her number. I was smart enough not to ever go back to her dad's. He probably would shoot me, not knowing me. At least two weeks had passed. Eric had moved on to his next short lived relationship with some guy he met on the internet. I had dropped Michael off at work and had been out and about, running errands, doing laundry over in the bustling crossroads of Shannon. I returned home to find a strange car in my yard. A beat up early 80's Cutlass, shit brown and rusted the same color in a few places. Much to my delight, she got out. My heart fluttered.
She had paid attention when I told her where I lived. Apparently she had paid close attention, because she found me. She had actually called my job and found out when I was off, and decided to drop by... and had been waiting a couple of hours for my return. That's patience. Or persistence. Or stalking?
She chuckled when she properly introduced herself as Jordan. Much to my delight, she came bearing gifts of weed, and wanted to hang out for rest of the day. We smoked, talked, laughed, and got to know each other. Oh my gawd, I was sooo in love with this girl. I was blown away by the fact that although she had bounced back and forth between living with her mother and father, for most of her life she had only lived a mile or so from the farm I grew up on.
Until recently, we had never met. Then I discovered the reason why. I had just celebrated my 25th birthday. She was 17. She could not get into any of the local bars or pubs I went to. She certainly couldn't get into any gay bars. Most importantly... she was jail-bait. Serious jail-bait at 17 in Georgia. Not only was gay and lesbian sex still on the on the law books as "sodomy", but to partake in same-sex relations with anyone under the age of 18 was felonious child molestation - although age of consent was 16 for heterosexual activity.
She was flirting with me, hard core flirting. At times the conversation was undeniably sexual. What my ears heard, my appetite ate and stored for future dreams. She was no first-timer. She was experienced. Very experienced. At 17, she spoke of things I'd never even dreamt of, but at 25, I now really wanted to try... with her! And when she leaned in to kiss me, hard reality set in. I couldn't. I wanted to. But the last thing I wanted was her old man beating down my door, raising hell about how I took advantage of his daughter, and being carried away by the police. And I explained this to her. She looked confused. Apparently she'd never been turned down before, especially by older women. I wasn't sure how to feel about that.
She would call now and then, or drop by to burn one. We ran into each other now and then over the next year. Eventually, she met someone and moved away to Smyrna. I married my new job in Atlanta. Around that time I also met Candice, who I would end up spending the next 5 years with. Candice and I broke up for a few weeks during the summer of 2002. And with her amazing intuition, Jordan found me online one night and sent me an instant message. Within an hour or so I had managed to be dressed and driving toward Atlanta. She wanted to spend the evening hanging out together.
I remember this night clearly. Candice and I were "taking time off", and I had just caught her talking to some other chick online. I knew that Jordan was still interested, and now she was legal. I followed the directions she gave as I kept her on the phone, and arrived at her quasi-ghetto apartment just outside of Atlanta. She came outside to meet me. Dear Lord, she was hawt.
She needed to ride into Atlanta to pick up a special package for tonight. By this time I was intimately familiar with all corners of Atlanta, all the shady neighborhoods, after working for Grady. We headed off to a part of Atlanta known as the West End. More specifically Ashby Street. I waited nervously in the truck while she went it to make her purchase. I was the only white girl for miles (who wasn't working the streets). Being on duty in the ambulance is completely different. That ambulance, and the uniform, gives you automatic street cred with the dealers and thugs. We've saved many of them. But in my own truck, in street clothes, off duty... I was a sitting duck.
Apparently she knew these folks well, because her transaction didn't require call-ahead reservations. Within a couple of minutes we were on our way back to her apartment on the north side of town. Along the way I saw a broke down car full of teenage girls. Stranded after going to a concert in Atlanta, they had a flat. Although they were in the stretch between Atlanta's ghetto and Cobb County's suburbia, they were still too close to be left out here to wait for Triple A. I turned back around and stopped to see if we could help. It was a just flat tire, which I could easily solve. I told the driver to call triple A and cancel her request.
As I began changing the tire, in my heels and finery, I realized that this baby-butch had absolutely NO IDEA about how to change tires, much less where to find the jack and spare. I gave an silent internal chuckle and chalked it up to her relatively young age. God knows, I'd had plenty of junker cars over the years, and out of necessity had become quiet the shade-tree mechanic. Surely she's have plenty of time to learn how to fix her own cars.
It was New Year's Eve. Y2K. Either the whole world would end at midnight tonight, or we would wake up in the morning just as poor and miserable as we were this morning. I had just graduated EMT school and was about to take all my licensing exams. While waiting for all this to come about, I was working this ridiculous minimum wage job at the neighborhood pizza spot, delivering pizzas to rednecks who have no concept of tipping the delivery girl. I was barely breaking even, but the lights were still on and we were eating. Michael had gotten a job here too, which helped. Our other friend, Eric, stayed at home because he was emotionally recovering from yet another traumatic explosion in his 6 year on again, off again, relationship. The three of us had been tight friends since 1995. They were my gay boys, and I was their lesbian fag-hag. We had our ups and downs, but we made it work.
Like I said, it was New Year's Eve. I was running my ass off, delivering pizzas to drunken rednecks and big parties. Dick Clark could not count fast enough for me. We were open late that night to catch up with the damage done during this 4-5 hours of pure hell. And wouldn't 'cha know it, when I thought I would get back to the restaurant to help clean and close and do all my end of shift duties, a late order comes in.
So, off I go. Some late night partiers just had to order a couple of pizza's and a pasta dish, with a side salad. I'm driving up and down this section of Warren Road looking for for the address on the order. Of course it's dark. Of course there are no street lights here. Of course it's poorly numbered. Actually, it's NOT even really numbered at all. I only found a cluster of mailboxes beside one driveway where this address should be... and all three have the same family name on them as the order. Damn.
I turn cautiously down the driveway. It's important to drive slowly. Out here, if you pull up into the wrong yard or knock on the wrong door you can get your ass shot. There a lot of old skool country folks here still. Sometimes what they do, they don't want strangers knowing. Even as our little community grows, folks even on the skirts of being in "neighborhoods" still make home-brew and moonshine. Some grow weed. These days some of them cook meth. The last thing you want to do is be mistaken for police, DEA, or a snooping neighbor. As I creep along, I am relieved that the porch light on the middle shack begins to flash on and off. Yes, shack. Thankfully they have been watching for my arrival.
The yard is dotted with a few junk cars and trucks, rusted farm equipment, old crates, and piles of beer cans hopefully, to be recycled, but probably not. There is a barking dog somewhere in the distance. Great. There were chickens on the loose. Even better. This "house" if you will, has obviously been added to several times over its life, each section made of different materials. Reluctantly, I pull closer to the house and park my truck. Gathering the items in the order, I know there is no tip waiting for me here.
As I get out of my truck, I reach back in to pick up the order. My back is to the house. That probably wasn't a good idea. Suddenly I hear, "I'm glad you got here. Thought I was gonna have to skin one of these chickens. I got the munchies like a mo-fo." I wasn't sure what caught my attention first, the fact that she obviously smokes weed, or that her voice was sexy as hell.
Dare I glimpse?
My gawd! This was the hawtest baby dyke I've ever seen! Right away she noticed the rainbow sticker on the dark tinted back window of my Dakota. She didn't hesitate to tell me how happy she was to know she wasn't the only lesbian out here in the sticks. She explains how she is staying here with her dad for a while because she just broke up with her "ole lady". We chat like old friends for probably 15 minutes until the conversation is broken by my cell phone ringing. It was my boss wanting to know where the hell I was, screaming with his ill-contained Napoleon Syndrome that this was my only order and the address less than two miles away. I explained how I had a hard time finding the place, blah blah blah, but I was with the customer and I would be on my way back to clean the restaurant in a minute. I got a rush of courage and gave her my cell phone number and roughly told her where I lived, and said we should hang out sometime. I didn't even get her name.
Although she was constantly on my mind (and in my dreams), I didn't hear from her. I wished I had thought to get her number. I was smart enough not to ever go back to her dad's. He probably would shoot me, not knowing me. At least two weeks had passed. Eric had moved on to his next short lived relationship with some guy he met on the internet. I had dropped Michael off at work and had been out and about, running errands, doing laundry over in the bustling crossroads of Shannon. I returned home to find a strange car in my yard. A beat up early 80's Cutlass, shit brown and rusted the same color in a few places. Much to my delight, she got out. My heart fluttered.
She had paid attention when I told her where I lived. Apparently she had paid close attention, because she found me. She had actually called my job and found out when I was off, and decided to drop by... and had been waiting a couple of hours for my return. That's patience. Or persistence. Or stalking?
She chuckled when she properly introduced herself as Jordan. Much to my delight, she came bearing gifts of weed, and wanted to hang out for rest of the day. We smoked, talked, laughed, and got to know each other. Oh my gawd, I was sooo in love with this girl. I was blown away by the fact that although she had bounced back and forth between living with her mother and father, for most of her life she had only lived a mile or so from the farm I grew up on.
Until recently, we had never met. Then I discovered the reason why. I had just celebrated my 25th birthday. She was 17. She could not get into any of the local bars or pubs I went to. She certainly couldn't get into any gay bars. Most importantly... she was jail-bait. Serious jail-bait at 17 in Georgia. Not only was gay and lesbian sex still on the on the law books as "sodomy", but to partake in same-sex relations with anyone under the age of 18 was felonious child molestation - although age of consent was 16 for heterosexual activity.
She was flirting with me, hard core flirting. At times the conversation was undeniably sexual. What my ears heard, my appetite ate and stored for future dreams. She was no first-timer. She was experienced. Very experienced. At 17, she spoke of things I'd never even dreamt of, but at 25, I now really wanted to try... with her! And when she leaned in to kiss me, hard reality set in. I couldn't. I wanted to. But the last thing I wanted was her old man beating down my door, raising hell about how I took advantage of his daughter, and being carried away by the police. And I explained this to her. She looked confused. Apparently she'd never been turned down before, especially by older women. I wasn't sure how to feel about that.
She would call now and then, or drop by to burn one. We ran into each other now and then over the next year. Eventually, she met someone and moved away to Smyrna. I married my new job in Atlanta. Around that time I also met Candice, who I would end up spending the next 5 years with. Candice and I broke up for a few weeks during the summer of 2002. And with her amazing intuition, Jordan found me online one night and sent me an instant message. Within an hour or so I had managed to be dressed and driving toward Atlanta. She wanted to spend the evening hanging out together.
I remember this night clearly. Candice and I were "taking time off", and I had just caught her talking to some other chick online. I knew that Jordan was still interested, and now she was legal. I followed the directions she gave as I kept her on the phone, and arrived at her quasi-ghetto apartment just outside of Atlanta. She came outside to meet me. Dear Lord, she was hawt.
She needed to ride into Atlanta to pick up a special package for tonight. By this time I was intimately familiar with all corners of Atlanta, all the shady neighborhoods, after working for Grady. We headed off to a part of Atlanta known as the West End. More specifically Ashby Street. I waited nervously in the truck while she went it to make her purchase. I was the only white girl for miles (who wasn't working the streets). Being on duty in the ambulance is completely different. That ambulance, and the uniform, gives you automatic street cred with the dealers and thugs. We've saved many of them. But in my own truck, in street clothes, off duty... I was a sitting duck.
Apparently she knew these folks well, because her transaction didn't require call-ahead reservations. Within a couple of minutes we were on our way back to her apartment on the north side of town. Along the way I saw a broke down car full of teenage girls. Stranded after going to a concert in Atlanta, they had a flat. Although they were in the stretch between Atlanta's ghetto and Cobb County's suburbia, they were still too close to be left out here to wait for Triple A. I turned back around and stopped to see if we could help. It was a just flat tire, which I could easily solve. I told the driver to call triple A and cancel her request.
As I began changing the tire, in my heels and finery, I realized that this baby-butch had absolutely NO IDEA about how to change tires, much less where to find the jack and spare. I gave an silent internal chuckle and chalked it up to her relatively young age. God knows, I'd had plenty of junker cars over the years, and out of necessity had become quiet the shade-tree mechanic. Surely she's have plenty of time to learn how to fix her own cars.
(SCREAM)
Originally Posted on 1/6/08
There are probably about 100 individual things I really want to scream and rant and vent and punch holes in walls about right now. But none of those actions will solve a damn thing. The only resolution is to take the reins of my life and drive forward -- madly forward, even though I have no idea where I am going.
I am taking a blogging hiatus. If I get on here too soon, I will just be too tempted to spill out the shit that is on my mind.
There are probably about 100 individual things I really want to scream and rant and vent and punch holes in walls about right now. But none of those actions will solve a damn thing. The only resolution is to take the reins of my life and drive forward -- madly forward, even though I have no idea where I am going.
I am taking a blogging hiatus. If I get on here too soon, I will just be too tempted to spill out the shit that is on my mind.
White Lies, Black Lies, and What Lies In Between...
Originally Posted on 12/25/08
I will freely admit that I am an accomplished artist of spinning white lies. The kind you tell the cable company for sympathy so they will work with you to keep the internet and TV on. The kind that keeps bill collectors from blowing your phone up with harassing calls. The kind that spares someone's feelings when you forget their birthday. The kind that will excuse your expected presence from a family function you just don't feel up to making. Yeah, those are the little white lies I am really good at.
Then there are black lies. The flat out malicious lies that ruin peoples' lives. The one's that cost people their jobs, wreck marriages, break up happy homes, tarnish reputations, turn children against parents. I could site examples, but why beat dead horses? Those lies you never recover from. Not really. You move on, but their scars are still ugly and painful. The kind of scars that never heal and go away. You spend your days trying not to dwell when you have been hurt by them, because if you do you become crippled, Life screeches to a halt.
But what most folks don't think about are the lies that lie in-between. These are the lies that hurt people, sometimes just as deeply, yet the person telling them will still try to justify them. In their own minds it makes perfect sense to do what they are doing. Maybe the mentality is that the end result will justify their means.
I can admit that I am guilty of utilizing a few of these Gray Lies, if you will, over the years. I'm not proud of them. At the moment one of these Gray Lies spilled forth from my lips, I had found myself in some sort of deep shit. Sometimes self created. Sometimes not. But in those moments where the absolute truth was not an option (for whatever reason), where there was sheer panic and need for immediate action, I have not always made the best decision in which direction to take. And I admit that. With that said, I don't feel that I am casting stones in a glass house so much with my feelings on the topic. I will also find a way to take responsibility for the ensuing fall out from my Gray Lies (or white lies for that matter), and I try my damnedest to mend any broken fences along the way.
I have spent several months wrapped up in someone else's Grey Lie. I can understand their discomfort with telling the truth. I can understand the fallout they feel would rain down upon them. What I wish for is that the person telling this Grey Lie to be able understand how absolutely devastating it is to me to be the topic of this lie. To be told one minute that you are their one-and-only-everything, and then completely deny you to the world the next, or at the very least minimize your existence or roll in their life... It is heartbreaking.
I came clean with my family about having this person in my life. I realized that there was no point in lying. It was a facade that could not realistically be maintained anyhow. It's difficult to keep up a lie to your family when they live 30 minutes away, call daily, and can drop by with a minute's notice. I also realized that once the honesty hit, so would the shock, but the truth would slowly wash over everyone and ebb the shock away. (I guess it's easier to maintain such a lie when your family lives 10 hours away and there is no risk of an unannounced visit maybe???)
I was completely devastated to learn that when this person's mom started asking direct questions about me, my relationship with this person, and my roll in their life (to which mom already knew the answers in her heart), mom wasn't provided a totally honest and direct answer. She was answered with avoidance, omission, and diluted truth.
It's my place to ask for forgiveness from them for my wrongs done. I don't need anyone to speak on my behalf for that. I shouldn't have anyone but me account for what I did wrong in our relationship. And I don't really see them taking it out on this person like they are convinced would happen. Just my opinion. Yet if I don't have a place in their reality, and currently exist in their minds and thoughts, I can't really have the opportunity to make a mends and someday regain their respect.
I took the initial heat with my family for my decision to bring this person back into my life. But in doing that, this person was subsequently and indirectly given an opportunity to prove their worth, prove their intentions, and regain respect. Not only with my family... but with me as well. I'd just like to have that same opportunity... because it means that much to me.
Right now I can't put to words how that makes me feel. But it certainly ain't good.
ps - Yeah.... Merry Christmas (sigh)
I will freely admit that I am an accomplished artist of spinning white lies. The kind you tell the cable company for sympathy so they will work with you to keep the internet and TV on. The kind that keeps bill collectors from blowing your phone up with harassing calls. The kind that spares someone's feelings when you forget their birthday. The kind that will excuse your expected presence from a family function you just don't feel up to making. Yeah, those are the little white lies I am really good at.
Then there are black lies. The flat out malicious lies that ruin peoples' lives. The one's that cost people their jobs, wreck marriages, break up happy homes, tarnish reputations, turn children against parents. I could site examples, but why beat dead horses? Those lies you never recover from. Not really. You move on, but their scars are still ugly and painful. The kind of scars that never heal and go away. You spend your days trying not to dwell when you have been hurt by them, because if you do you become crippled, Life screeches to a halt.
But what most folks don't think about are the lies that lie in-between. These are the lies that hurt people, sometimes just as deeply, yet the person telling them will still try to justify them. In their own minds it makes perfect sense to do what they are doing. Maybe the mentality is that the end result will justify their means.
I can admit that I am guilty of utilizing a few of these Gray Lies, if you will, over the years. I'm not proud of them. At the moment one of these Gray Lies spilled forth from my lips, I had found myself in some sort of deep shit. Sometimes self created. Sometimes not. But in those moments where the absolute truth was not an option (for whatever reason), where there was sheer panic and need for immediate action, I have not always made the best decision in which direction to take. And I admit that. With that said, I don't feel that I am casting stones in a glass house so much with my feelings on the topic. I will also find a way to take responsibility for the ensuing fall out from my Gray Lies (or white lies for that matter), and I try my damnedest to mend any broken fences along the way.
I have spent several months wrapped up in someone else's Grey Lie. I can understand their discomfort with telling the truth. I can understand the fallout they feel would rain down upon them. What I wish for is that the person telling this Grey Lie to be able understand how absolutely devastating it is to me to be the topic of this lie. To be told one minute that you are their one-and-only-everything, and then completely deny you to the world the next, or at the very least minimize your existence or roll in their life... It is heartbreaking.
I came clean with my family about having this person in my life. I realized that there was no point in lying. It was a facade that could not realistically be maintained anyhow. It's difficult to keep up a lie to your family when they live 30 minutes away, call daily, and can drop by with a minute's notice. I also realized that once the honesty hit, so would the shock, but the truth would slowly wash over everyone and ebb the shock away. (I guess it's easier to maintain such a lie when your family lives 10 hours away and there is no risk of an unannounced visit maybe???)
I was completely devastated to learn that when this person's mom started asking direct questions about me, my relationship with this person, and my roll in their life (to which mom already knew the answers in her heart), mom wasn't provided a totally honest and direct answer. She was answered with avoidance, omission, and diluted truth.
It's my place to ask for forgiveness from them for my wrongs done. I don't need anyone to speak on my behalf for that. I shouldn't have anyone but me account for what I did wrong in our relationship. And I don't really see them taking it out on this person like they are convinced would happen. Just my opinion. Yet if I don't have a place in their reality, and currently exist in their minds and thoughts, I can't really have the opportunity to make a mends and someday regain their respect.
I took the initial heat with my family for my decision to bring this person back into my life. But in doing that, this person was subsequently and indirectly given an opportunity to prove their worth, prove their intentions, and regain respect. Not only with my family... but with me as well. I'd just like to have that same opportunity... because it means that much to me.
Right now I can't put to words how that makes me feel. But it certainly ain't good.
ps - Yeah.... Merry Christmas (sigh)
Birthday Prozac? Paxil? .....Anyone?
Originally Posted on 12/18/08
I really just want to bitch for a minute.
I have no idea who, so many hundreds of years ago, thought "Alas! Let us now begin a tradition of zestful celebration for every anniversary of your birth. Nay, for every person's birth. Make it so!" But when I find out, I'd really like to just bitch-slap them. Thanks to their ingenious idea, every year we are built up to wondrous expectations for special birthday celebrations... usually meeting a disappointing reality.
This past summer, I spent the 3-4 days leading up to Lenya's birthday here with her, all while secretly planning a special weekend just for her. That plan was completely shit all over becausea slutty cougar someone with an quasi-interesting idea beat me to the draw. I've realized you've gotta be quick to make your reservations for someone's time if you want to be the one to honor their birthday. I was passed over for a small barbecue and a couple of Heineken 12-packs. Oh yeah, THAT was impressive! (not so much)
For the last five or so years, it has been established tradition for my fellow dissenters in the EMS, Fire Department, and APD ranks to caravan me over to PINK PONY, Atlanta's besttitty bar adult themed club, where the flash of a badge will get you in for free, leaving everyone an extra $10 (the precise cost of one more table dance). This has always proven to be one hellacious par-tay!
Last year's entourage was significantly thinned by the gossip and lies deliberately spread by Former Mouthy Partner at Grady. It was just Lenya, me, another medic, and his wife - subsequently a former stripper herself. We had a wonderfully raunchy time, and were -on several occasions- nearly booted out. A very tipsy Former Stripper Turned Housewife was table dancing for us and tables close by, FOR FREE, therefore cutting into the club's cash flow.
This last year, I have heard from -and seen- less and less of my old pals from Grady. Even that close handful who promised to stick by me through all the bullshit. I've not had one phone call thus far from any of them to make plans for my birthday. Not even the one's who live close by are offering to yank me out of my four walls for some cold beer tomorrow night.
My birthday technically begins in a few hours. So far, I have received ONE card, from my mom, and ONE myspace comment from a friend across the country that I have yet to meet in person. We are practically destitute, rolling coins from our change jar for gas to get to physical therapy appointments. I know that no matter what Lenya would LIKE to do for my birthday, we won't have the money to do anything besides sit at home, yet again, for another night, another Friday night.
This year looks to be a complete bust, fo' sho'!
Bartender, I'll take that shot of Paxil now....
And for all those "friends" who said they'd be sticking by me...
I really just want to bitch for a minute.
I have no idea who, so many hundreds of years ago, thought "Alas! Let us now begin a tradition of zestful celebration for every anniversary of your birth. Nay, for every person's birth. Make it so!" But when I find out, I'd really like to just bitch-slap them. Thanks to their ingenious idea, every year we are built up to wondrous expectations for special birthday celebrations... usually meeting a disappointing reality.
This past summer, I spent the 3-4 days leading up to Lenya's birthday here with her, all while secretly planning a special weekend just for her. That plan was completely shit all over because
For the last five or so years, it has been established tradition for my fellow dissenters in the EMS, Fire Department, and APD ranks to caravan me over to PINK PONY, Atlanta's best
Last year's entourage was significantly thinned by the gossip and lies deliberately spread by Former Mouthy Partner at Grady. It was just Lenya, me, another medic, and his wife - subsequently a former stripper herself. We had a wonderfully raunchy time, and were -on several occasions- nearly booted out. A very tipsy Former Stripper Turned Housewife was table dancing for us and tables close by, FOR FREE, therefore cutting into the club's cash flow.
This last year, I have heard from -and seen- less and less of my old pals from Grady. Even that close handful who promised to stick by me through all the bullshit. I've not had one phone call thus far from any of them to make plans for my birthday. Not even the one's who live close by are offering to yank me out of my four walls for some cold beer tomorrow night.
My birthday technically begins in a few hours. So far, I have received ONE card, from my mom, and ONE myspace comment from a friend across the country that I have yet to meet in person. We are practically destitute, rolling coins from our change jar for gas to get to physical therapy appointments. I know that no matter what Lenya would LIKE to do for my birthday, we won't have the money to do anything besides sit at home, yet again, for another night, another Friday night.
This year looks to be a complete bust, fo' sho'!
Bartender, I'll take that shot of Paxil now....
And for all those "friends" who said they'd be sticking by me...
Death of a Queen...
12/15/08
TIME'S TRIBUTE TO BETTIE PAGE
12/15/08
In Memoriam
BETTIE PAGE
April 22, 1923 - Dec 11, 2008
Official Obituary
"With deep personal sadness I must announce that my dear friend and client Bettie Page passed away at 6:41pm PST this evening in a Los Angles hospital. She died peacefully but had never regained consciousness after suffering a heart attack nine days ago. She captured the imagination of a generation of men and women with her free spirit and unabashed sensuality. She is the embodiment of beauty."
BETTIE PAGE
April 22, 1923 - Dec 11, 2008
Official Obituary
"With deep personal sadness I must announce that my dear friend and client Bettie Page passed away at 6:41pm PST this evening in a Los Angles hospital. She died peacefully but had never regained consciousness after suffering a heart attack nine days ago. She captured the imagination of a generation of men and women with her free spirit and unabashed sensuality. She is the embodiment of beauty."
-- Mark Roesler, business agent for Bettie Page
It's is not often that I find myself speechless. But I am quiet torn over such a loss of an icon. Bettie Page stamped her mark on our parent's sexual revolution, pin-up queens, smut, BDSM, and censorship - without much effort on her part. What she did paid her bills, and she thought it was fun. Maybe in her ignorance and innocence she honestly had no idea what men did while watching her 8mm films or browsing over her photos. Maybe she did. Either way, it opened many doors for lots of things we enjoy today.
Her early modeling paved the road for Maxim, and the annual Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition. She was one of the first centerfold models for Playboy, fast on the heels of Marilyn Monroe, which helped open the door for openly published sexy photography. Her short 8mm films inspired the erotic film makers of today.
I already hear the cries of protests. It's degrading to women. Blah blah blah. Oh, shut the fuck up already!!! If you have it, flaunt it. Use the womanly wiles that God gave you to get what you want in life. It's a power that often is un-tapped, often because of the centuries of the same oppression you whining women bitch about.
I'm really not one of these trendy young-un's who lives vicariously through reality TV, tabloid shows, and the voracious tenacity of the paparazzi. But there are those small few who have attained fame or notoriety over the years, that I can not ignore their passing. Bettie Page was one.
After the feds and postal service cut short her erotic films and poses under laws of "indecency" (*censorship*), she basically fell off the radar. Over the decades she lived through several failed marriages, depression, and several arrests involving violent rants of religious fervor resulting in lengthy hospitalizations in mental institutions.
Her last few years seemed calm and peaceful. She embraced fans young and old, posed for public photos, and autographed pictures and posters. What sucks most is that she died so shortly after finding peace in her turbulent life.
It's is not often that I find myself speechless. But I am quiet torn over such a loss of an icon. Bettie Page stamped her mark on our parent's sexual revolution, pin-up queens, smut, BDSM, and censorship - without much effort on her part. What she did paid her bills, and she thought it was fun. Maybe in her ignorance and innocence she honestly had no idea what men did while watching her 8mm films or browsing over her photos. Maybe she did. Either way, it opened many doors for lots of things we enjoy today.
Her early modeling paved the road for Maxim, and the annual Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition. She was one of the first centerfold models for Playboy, fast on the heels of Marilyn Monroe, which helped open the door for openly published sexy photography. Her short 8mm films inspired the erotic film makers of today.
I already hear the cries of protests. It's degrading to women. Blah blah blah. Oh, shut the fuck up already!!! If you have it, flaunt it. Use the womanly wiles that God gave you to get what you want in life. It's a power that often is un-tapped, often because of the centuries of the same oppression you whining women bitch about.
I'm really not one of these trendy young-un's who lives vicariously through reality TV, tabloid shows, and the voracious tenacity of the paparazzi. But there are those small few who have attained fame or notoriety over the years, that I can not ignore their passing. Bettie Page was one.
After the feds and postal service cut short her erotic films and poses under laws of "indecency" (*censorship*), she basically fell off the radar. Over the decades she lived through several failed marriages, depression, and several arrests involving violent rants of religious fervor resulting in lengthy hospitalizations in mental institutions.
Her last few years seemed calm and peaceful. She embraced fans young and old, posed for public photos, and autographed pictures and posters. What sucks most is that she died so shortly after finding peace in her turbulent life.
TIME'S TRIBUTE TO BETTIE PAGE
Beautiful Diversity
Originally Posted on 12/6/08
Today, I attended a creek-side service funeral. Very old fashioned in a lot of ways. No elaborate funeral home presentation. No expensive flowers and wreaths. No decorative casket. No expensive hearse. Just close friends and family, maybe 30 in attendance.
This frail little lady was the mother to a close friend, and a true Christian follower of Jesus' Word. She lived on a beautiful spread of rural acreage that a spring-fed creek flows through. It was her final wish to be cremated and her ashes spread in the creek to carry her across her land and out into the world.
What simple beauty!
Although I am not a subscriber to the Christian faith, per se, I was still very touched that her family followed her wishes to the letter, and that the pastor was brief and not too "preachy" in his eulogy. It was all very touching.
I think that this parallels my own wishes. I too want to be cremated. Embalming goes against my own personal beliefs in regards to the natural cycle of life. I want my ashes spread at a sentimental place so that I can return to Mother Earth. I don't want an expensive service. I don't want to be dressed in finery and put in a casket to shrivel up (but not return to dust). I don't dress this way in life. Why dress me this way in death? I've not been one for fancy cars, so don't carry me out in a big fine hearse when I leave. And most importantly... if you didn't buy me flowers in life... I can't really enjoy them when I am dead and gone. So keep your guilt-laden flora!!!
I have attended far too many funerals in my short 33 years. Many were for friends who lived way too fast and died way too soon. From all of this, I have seen a lot of things I DON'T want for my funeral... and I am very certain of what I do want!!!
Today, I attended a creek-side service funeral. Very old fashioned in a lot of ways. No elaborate funeral home presentation. No expensive flowers and wreaths. No decorative casket. No expensive hearse. Just close friends and family, maybe 30 in attendance.
This frail little lady was the mother to a close friend, and a true Christian follower of Jesus' Word. She lived on a beautiful spread of rural acreage that a spring-fed creek flows through. It was her final wish to be cremated and her ashes spread in the creek to carry her across her land and out into the world.
What simple beauty!
Although I am not a subscriber to the Christian faith, per se, I was still very touched that her family followed her wishes to the letter, and that the pastor was brief and not too "preachy" in his eulogy. It was all very touching.
I think that this parallels my own wishes. I too want to be cremated. Embalming goes against my own personal beliefs in regards to the natural cycle of life. I want my ashes spread at a sentimental place so that I can return to Mother Earth. I don't want an expensive service. I don't want to be dressed in finery and put in a casket to shrivel up (but not return to dust). I don't dress this way in life. Why dress me this way in death? I've not been one for fancy cars, so don't carry me out in a big fine hearse when I leave. And most importantly... if you didn't buy me flowers in life... I can't really enjoy them when I am dead and gone. So keep your guilt-laden flora!!!
I have attended far too many funerals in my short 33 years. Many were for friends who lived way too fast and died way too soon. From all of this, I have seen a lot of things I DON'T want for my funeral... and I am very certain of what I do want!!!
In loving memory of:
James "Jamie" Daniel Rhodes (my teen years confidant)
died on my 15th birthday 1989
Martha Catherine Jackson (my closest grandmother)
died 1991
Eric Scott Turney (Fiancee)
died 1995 of a suspected homicide, though ruled accidental
Connie Martin (high school friend, Jamie's girlfriend)
died 1996 - car crash
Mary-George Brandin (Grandmother)
died 2001 - Post Op Complications
Jeff Griffin - (best friend since kindergarten)
died 2003 - Substance Abuse and Suicide
Annie Hall - (EMT Partner at Grady)
died 2006 - Complications from Infection Contracted at Grady
Melinda "Jordan" Holder (Girlfriend/Domestic Partner)
died 2006 - Substance Abuse, PTSD, Police Related Shooting
Blogger Spotlight: POST SECRET
Originally Posted on 12/5/08
I don't know how many of you have heard of the
POST SECRET PROJECT.
I was delighted to see it on Dawg's Blogroll today, and it reminded me that I haven't sung it's praises here. I do it on myspace a lot, especially when I see secrets I identify with.
POST SECRET is an online art project where anonymous people depict their secrets on postcards that are mailed to the moderator. Every Sunday he puts up a new batch. My only complaint is that they are not archived.
The leader of this project has published 4-5 books contaning postcards that didn't make the website. Proceeds go to the national Suicide Hotline.
It's definately worth checking every week. It's the first thing I do when I wake up every Sunday!!!
I don't know how many of you have heard of the
POST SECRET PROJECT.
I was delighted to see it on Dawg's Blogroll today, and it reminded me that I haven't sung it's praises here. I do it on myspace a lot, especially when I see secrets I identify with.
POST SECRET is an online art project where anonymous people depict their secrets on postcards that are mailed to the moderator. Every Sunday he puts up a new batch. My only complaint is that they are not archived.
The leader of this project has published 4-5 books contaning postcards that didn't make the website. Proceeds go to the national Suicide Hotline.
It's definately worth checking every week. It's the first thing I do when I wake up every Sunday!!!
It's a Meme Thing...
Originally Posted on 12/10/08
Here’s a meme from Respiratory Therapy 101: Just Keep Breathing.
It’s 100 questions about (very random) things you have or have not done. You’re supposed to bold the ones you have done. I’ll tag EVERYBODY! Just leave a link to your post of the meme in my comments.
READY? SET?
GO!!!
1. Started your own blog. (Obviously!)
2. Slept under the stars. (Several Rainbow Family Gatherings - not the gay family. Look it up: http://www.welcomehome.org)
3. Played in a band. I played sax in school, and was the section leader all through high school, woodwinds captain my junior and senior year, participated in marching band and concert band, jazz ensemble, was given a superior rating at soloist competitions. Yeah, I’m a proud band geek. And... I managed to find the time to play keyboard and sing with my best friend Jeff’s garage band too.
4. Visited Hawaii.
5. Watched a meteor shower. (Every year!)
6. Given more than you can afford to charity.
7. Been to Disneyland.
8. Climbed a mountain. (I hiked to the top of Brasstown Bald, GA's highest peak.)
9. Held a praying mantis.
10. Sang a solo. (Hundreds of times at Karaoke, several times in High School musical productions)
11. Bungee jumped.
12. Visited Paris.
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea. (Only from the beach house.)
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch. (I’m learning to write Japanese Kanji.)
15. Adopted a child.
16. Had food poisoning. (Several times).
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty.
18. Grown your own vegetables. (Had a veggie garden every summer growing up!)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France.
20. Slept on an overnight train.
21. Had a pillow fight.
22. Hitch hiked. (Technically, yes. Although it was a generous police officer who gave me a ride to my friend’s house when my car broke down on the highway.)
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill. (Haven’t we all?)
24. Built a snow fort.
25. Held a lamb.
26. Gone skinny dipping.
27. Run a Marathon.
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice. (I saw the Venetian in Las Vegas, does that count?)
29. Seen a total eclipse.
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset.
31. Hit a home run.
32. Been on a cruise.
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person.
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors. (Recent generations anyway)
35. Seen an Amish community.
36. Taught yourself a new language.
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied. (Until my partner got bought out, I resigned from a good paying job to live in poverty this last year, and wound up fighting for worker’s comp for the last 6 months from an injury in 2005. You fill in the ending.)
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person.
39. Gone rock (wall) climbing.
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David.
41. Sung karaoke. (Many many times)
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt. (As a toddler, though too young to remember it)
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant.
44. Visited Africa.
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight. (In Myrtle Beach, SC.)
46. Been transported in an ambulance. (Daily, for 8 years - though never as a patient)
47. Had your portrait painted/drawn. (My grandmother had my portrait painted when I was 5)
48. Gone deep sea fishing.
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person.
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris.
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling.
52. Kissed in the rain. (Yup! It’s wonderful)
53. Played in the mud. (All the time as a child).
54. Gone to a drive-in theater. (Several times)
55. Been in a movie. (I was an extra for Disney’s Perfect Harmony!)
56. Visited the Great Wall of China.
57. Started a business. --YES!! http://www.PauldingHolistic.blogspot.com
58. Taken a martial arts class.
59. Visited Russia.
60. Served at a soup kitchen. (I worked for Grady - Close enough!)
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies. ---Bought plenty though!
62. Gone whale watching.
63. Got flowers for no reason. (Yes, occasionally...)
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma.
65. Gone sky diving. No reason for me to jump out of a perfectly good plane!
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp. No.
67. Bounced a check.
68. Flown in a helicopter.
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial.
71. Eaten Caviar. No
72. Pieced a quilt.
73. Stood in Times Square. No.
74. Toured the Everglades. (Yes, in October 2000)
75. Been fired from a job. Yeah, I can thank a psycho-stalking-bitch for that one!
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London. No.
77. Broken a bone.
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle. (Alas, I was forced by financial circumstances to sell her last month. -Sigh- It took the idiots in Washington over a year to figure out what the common man has felt for over a year!)
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person. Yes, but it was the same summer I saw Yellowstone. Toddler. No memory of it.
80. Published a book. Not yet. Working on that one though.
81. Visited the Vatican.
82. Bought a brand new car. See #78 - Repo’d earlier this year.
83. Walked in Jerusalem.
84. Had your picture in the newspaper. Several times.
85. Read the entire Bible. Why bother? I already know how it ends.
86. Visited the White House. – If a drive by viewing counts.
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating.
88. Had Chicken Pox
89. Saved someone’s life. Ahem... Paramedic, y’all...
90. Sat on a jury. Got called for Jury Duty, but Paramedic School was a great excuse.
91. Met someone famous. Oprah & Steadman, President and Rosalin Carter, TONS OF BANDS AND MUSICIANS... mostly from my private contract EMS gigs.
92. Joined a book club.
93. Lost a loved one. See previous post “Beautiful Diversity”
94. Had a baby. Three Miscarriages.
95. Seen the Alamo in person. Never been to Texas.
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake. No.
97. Been involved in a law suit. If there was a non-disclosure agreement, how do I answer?
98. Owned a cell phone.
99. Been stung by a bee.
100. Read an entire book in one day. Several times.
Here’s a meme from Respiratory Therapy 101: Just Keep Breathing.
It’s 100 questions about (very random) things you have or have not done. You’re supposed to bold the ones you have done. I’ll tag EVERYBODY! Just leave a link to your post of the meme in my comments.
READY? SET?
GO!!!
1. Started your own blog. (Obviously!)
2. Slept under the stars. (Several Rainbow Family Gatherings - not the gay family. Look it up: http://www.welcomehome.org)
3. Played in a band. I played sax in school, and was the section leader all through high school, woodwinds captain my junior and senior year, participated in marching band and concert band, jazz ensemble, was given a superior rating at soloist competitions. Yeah, I’m a proud band geek. And... I managed to find the time to play keyboard and sing with my best friend Jeff’s garage band too.
4. Visited Hawaii.
5. Watched a meteor shower. (Every year!)
6. Given more than you can afford to charity.
7. Been to Disneyland.
8. Climbed a mountain. (I hiked to the top of Brasstown Bald, GA's highest peak.)
9. Held a praying mantis.
10. Sang a solo. (Hundreds of times at Karaoke, several times in High School musical productions)
11. Bungee jumped.
12. Visited Paris.
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea. (Only from the beach house.)
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch. (I’m learning to write Japanese Kanji.)
15. Adopted a child.
16. Had food poisoning. (Several times).
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty.
18. Grown your own vegetables. (Had a veggie garden every summer growing up!)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France.
20. Slept on an overnight train.
21. Had a pillow fight.
22. Hitch hiked. (Technically, yes. Although it was a generous police officer who gave me a ride to my friend’s house when my car broke down on the highway.)
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill. (Haven’t we all?)
24. Built a snow fort.
25. Held a lamb.
26. Gone skinny dipping.
27. Run a Marathon.
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice. (I saw the Venetian in Las Vegas, does that count?)
29. Seen a total eclipse.
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset.
31. Hit a home run.
32. Been on a cruise.
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person.
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors. (Recent generations anyway)
35. Seen an Amish community.
36. Taught yourself a new language.
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied. (Until my partner got bought out, I resigned from a good paying job to live in poverty this last year, and wound up fighting for worker’s comp for the last 6 months from an injury in 2005. You fill in the ending.)
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person.
39. Gone rock (wall) climbing.
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David.
41. Sung karaoke. (Many many times)
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt. (As a toddler, though too young to remember it)
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant.
44. Visited Africa.
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight. (In Myrtle Beach, SC.)
46. Been transported in an ambulance. (Daily, for 8 years - though never as a patient)
47. Had your portrait painted/drawn. (My grandmother had my portrait painted when I was 5)
48. Gone deep sea fishing.
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person.
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris.
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling.
52. Kissed in the rain. (Yup! It’s wonderful)
53. Played in the mud. (All the time as a child).
54. Gone to a drive-in theater. (Several times)
55. Been in a movie. (I was an extra for Disney’s Perfect Harmony!)
56. Visited the Great Wall of China.
57. Started a business. --YES!! http://www.PauldingHolistic.blogspot.com
58. Taken a martial arts class.
59. Visited Russia.
60. Served at a soup kitchen. (I worked for Grady - Close enough!)
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies. ---Bought plenty though!
62. Gone whale watching.
63. Got flowers for no reason. (Yes, occasionally...)
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma.
65. Gone sky diving. No reason for me to jump out of a perfectly good plane!
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp. No.
67. Bounced a check.
68. Flown in a helicopter.
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial.
71. Eaten Caviar. No
72. Pieced a quilt.
73. Stood in Times Square. No.
74. Toured the Everglades. (Yes, in October 2000)
75. Been fired from a job. Yeah, I can thank a psycho-stalking-bitch for that one!
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London. No.
77. Broken a bone.
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle. (Alas, I was forced by financial circumstances to sell her last month. -Sigh- It took the idiots in Washington over a year to figure out what the common man has felt for over a year!)
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person. Yes, but it was the same summer I saw Yellowstone. Toddler. No memory of it.
80. Published a book. Not yet. Working on that one though.
81. Visited the Vatican.
82. Bought a brand new car. See #78 - Repo’d earlier this year.
83. Walked in Jerusalem.
84. Had your picture in the newspaper. Several times.
85. Read the entire Bible. Why bother? I already know how it ends.
86. Visited the White House. – If a drive by viewing counts.
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating.
88. Had Chicken Pox
89. Saved someone’s life. Ahem... Paramedic, y’all...
90. Sat on a jury. Got called for Jury Duty, but Paramedic School was a great excuse.
91. Met someone famous. Oprah & Steadman, President and Rosalin Carter, TONS OF BANDS AND MUSICIANS... mostly from my private contract EMS gigs.
92. Joined a book club.
93. Lost a loved one. See previous post “Beautiful Diversity”
94. Had a baby. Three Miscarriages.
95. Seen the Alamo in person. Never been to Texas.
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake. No.
97. Been involved in a law suit. If there was a non-disclosure agreement, how do I answer?
98. Owned a cell phone.
99. Been stung by a bee.
100. Read an entire book in one day. Several times.
On Thanksgiving Turkey...
Originally Posted on 11/30/08
I am subjected to Food Network. Subjected. Often. Usually we Femmes are the ones peeking around for new recipes. Not at my house. I believe myself to be a fairly accomplished cook. I spent nine years in the restaurant business before deciding to "save lives" (insert hearty chuckles as you see fit). I learned a lot. So needless to say, Food Network usually bores me. However it completely consumes and titillates my Hunny.
It's a fare estimate to say that 50% of the active TV viewing at our house is spent watching Food Network. Please keep in mind that of all the time the TV is on, I might wield the remote control for maybe 10-15% of viewing choices. Often I'm consumed with other household tasks, or well, honestly.... here, blogging or myspacing. So for every 10 hours the TV is being watched, I pick 60-90 minutes of programming, Hunny picks the remaining 8-9 hours, and of that - 5 hours is Food Network. I have heard of food addiction, but not Food Network Addiction. She knows I am just kidding.
My Hunny, my Bad Boi, is addicted to Food Network, often doting over Alton Brown's quick wit and humor on Good Eats. Honestly, if I had to be tied to a chair watching Food Network, Alton Brown would be my relief. I absolutely hate the other shows, but I actually find Alton's skits and pop-culture parodies to be very entertaining, refreshing, even stimulating.
Until my 8 year marriage to Grady EMS, Mom and I would be spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents at Myrtle Beach. My grandmother would cook all week long, only to pack their vehicles and cart this seriously massive feast off to their inter-connected hotel suites for the weekend. She would host and feed our family, as well as the hoards of friends attending the annual bluegrass festival. Every year her honored guests were: Charlie Waller & The Country Gentleman - serious bluegrass royalty!
One thing I have tried to perfect yearly is my Thanksgiving Turkey, since I've only had a handful of Thanksgivings in my own home in recent years. It's been mostly experimentation to say the least. For a few years, Candice was subjected to dry turkeys, undercooked turkeys, and even once... a totally burnt turkey. Note to self: When cooking overnight before Thanksgiving -- remember to set the alarm as a reminder to check the bird!
Thanksgiving last year was... ummm. Well, you know the old saying Too many cooks spoil the broth? It's true. Mom came to visit. And between Mom, Lenya, and me things were seasoned. re-seasoned. My OCD was kickin in. I easily distracted, and wanted to run everyone out of the kitchen, and eventually the entire house. That Thanksgiving, the green beans were too salty to even smile and tolerate. The bread burnt, and poor Mr. Turkey -dry as hell.
During the days leading up to this year's Thanksgiving, a Good Eats episode entitled "Romancing the Bird" aired. Okay. You have my full attention, Mr. Brown. Let's get this bird done right! I was glued to the TV. I even went so far as logging into Food Network's Homepage to find Alton's ROAST TURKEY RECIPE.
I purchased our fine 15 pound Butterball Turkey a week before Thanksgiving so it had the optimum opportunity to slow thaw in the refrigerator. Come thanksgiving morning, I awoke early to allow my Hunny to sleep in and drug my tired and half-asleep ass to the kitchen to begin the arduous task to cooking our feast.
I made sure to snap a quasi-pornographic shot of my hand up the bird's ass for a pix-message to Candice. Our Holiday inside-joke for years was from the commercial where an obvious bachelor is on hold with the Butterball help line. After receiving the advice, he nervously asks the representative on the other end, "you want me to put my whut up the whut-whut?" --Classic!!! So up the bird's ass I go, searching for the disgusting tid-bits that some folks savor for the flavors added to giblet gravy. To that I say, GROSS! I understand that 100 years ago, times were tough, you had to use every part to make something useful. This is 2008. Despite our recent financial hardships, there is no way in hell I plan on sorting out turkey organs and neck bones to make some disgusting gravy.
This was odd. I found that the neck bones had fallen out of the plastic pouch. After retrieving both, I concluded that there must have been a fowl up (lol) at the processing plant, and the bag o'goodies must have ruptured before the turkey was bagged, and the rest of the whut-whuts must be hanging on some conveyor belt, rotting away. Oh well, no worries here.
I decide to brine the turkey in a simple saline solution, skipping Alton's fru-fru aromatic herbs. Sorry, Alton... I want to keep this simple and work up to fancy later on. So Mr. Turkey soaked while the ham baked. Our feast was 75% complete when Hunny awoke to the yummy smells of a nearly completed Thanksgiving Dinner. I had calculated the approximate cooking time, and with the blessings Alton's recipe and the verifications of the meat thermometer, our turkey was done. While the carry-over finished the turkey, the only thing left to do was bake the sweet potato casserole and re-heat the rolls.
The sweet potato casserole, my prized dish, is from my grandmother's legacy of Thanksgiving recipes -- the only one I was granted (although with some experimentation I have learned to make her Southern Green Beans). These are the thick and creamy, mashed sweet potatoes, topped with brown sugared pecans and toasted marshmallows. I'd even made up my own tasty cranberry sauce recipe.
Our feast was Divine! The turkey was perfect. As was the ham, garlic smashed potatoes, MawMaw's Southern Green Beans, Mac and Cheese, Sweet Potatoes, Rolls, and homemade cranberry sauce. We both stuffed ourselves stupid.
At the end of the night, Hunny was thoughtful enough to pack all the leftovers in the fridge. We were both too tired to strip the bird. So the whole shebang, disposable pan and bird, were wrapped and shoved in too. Today I needed to repack the leftovers into smaller containers to make some space. Thus, it was time to strip the bird, and toss out the carcass for the possums to feast upon. Guess what I discovered! Packed deeply within the chest cavity, and tucked beneath the flap of skin from the neck.... yup... the rest of the whut-whuts. Still nicely packed in a small plastic bag. Our perfect bird was still not quiet so perfect.
Oh well... there is next year. I think I will let Hunny cook Christmas Dinner. Just a few years into this ordeal and I'm ready to let someone else have a go at it. :-)
I am subjected to Food Network. Subjected. Often. Usually we Femmes are the ones peeking around for new recipes. Not at my house. I believe myself to be a fairly accomplished cook. I spent nine years in the restaurant business before deciding to "save lives" (insert hearty chuckles as you see fit). I learned a lot. So needless to say, Food Network usually bores me. However it completely consumes and titillates my Hunny.It's a fare estimate to say that 50% of the active TV viewing at our house is spent watching Food Network. Please keep in mind that of all the time the TV is on, I might wield the remote control for maybe 10-15% of viewing choices. Often I'm consumed with other household tasks, or well, honestly.... here, blogging or myspacing. So for every 10 hours the TV is being watched, I pick 60-90 minutes of programming, Hunny picks the remaining 8-9 hours, and of that - 5 hours is Food Network. I have heard of food addiction, but not Food Network Addiction. She knows I am just kidding.
My Hunny, my Bad Boi, is addicted to Food Network, often doting over Alton Brown's quick wit and humor on Good Eats. Honestly, if I had to be tied to a chair watching Food Network, Alton Brown would be my relief. I absolutely hate the other shows, but I actually find Alton's skits and pop-culture parodies to be very entertaining, refreshing, even stimulating.Until my 8 year marriage to Grady EMS, Mom and I would be spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents at Myrtle Beach. My grandmother would cook all week long, only to pack their vehicles and cart this seriously massive feast off to their inter-connected hotel suites for the weekend. She would host and feed our family, as well as the hoards of friends attending the annual bluegrass festival. Every year her honored guests were: Charlie Waller & The Country Gentleman - serious bluegrass royalty!
One thing I have tried to perfect yearly is my Thanksgiving Turkey, since I've only had a handful of Thanksgivings in my own home in recent years. It's been mostly experimentation to say the least. For a few years, Candice was subjected to dry turkeys, undercooked turkeys, and even once... a totally burnt turkey. Note to self: When cooking overnight before Thanksgiving -- remember to set the alarm as a reminder to check the bird!
Thanksgiving last year was... ummm. Well, you know the old saying Too many cooks spoil the broth? It's true. Mom came to visit. And between Mom, Lenya, and me things were seasoned. re-seasoned. My OCD was kickin in. I easily distracted, and wanted to run everyone out of the kitchen, and eventually the entire house. That Thanksgiving, the green beans were too salty to even smile and tolerate. The bread burnt, and poor Mr. Turkey -dry as hell.
During the days leading up to this year's Thanksgiving, a Good Eats episode entitled "Romancing the Bird" aired. Okay. You have my full attention, Mr. Brown. Let's get this bird done right! I was glued to the TV. I even went so far as logging into Food Network's Homepage to find Alton's ROAST TURKEY RECIPE.
I purchased our fine 15 pound Butterball Turkey a week before Thanksgiving so it had the optimum opportunity to slow thaw in the refrigerator. Come thanksgiving morning, I awoke early to allow my Hunny to sleep in and drug my tired and half-asleep ass to the kitchen to begin the arduous task to cooking our feast.
I made sure to snap a quasi-pornographic shot of my hand up the bird's ass for a pix-message to Candice. Our Holiday inside-joke for years was from the commercial where an obvious bachelor is on hold with the Butterball help line. After receiving the advice, he nervously asks the representative on the other end, "you want me to put my whut up the whut-whut?" --Classic!!! So up the bird's ass I go, searching for the disgusting tid-bits that some folks savor for the flavors added to giblet gravy. To that I say, GROSS! I understand that 100 years ago, times were tough, you had to use every part to make something useful. This is 2008. Despite our recent financial hardships, there is no way in hell I plan on sorting out turkey organs and neck bones to make some disgusting gravy.
This was odd. I found that the neck bones had fallen out of the plastic pouch. After retrieving both, I concluded that there must have been a fowl up (lol) at the processing plant, and the bag o'goodies must have ruptured before the turkey was bagged, and the rest of the whut-whuts must be hanging on some conveyor belt, rotting away. Oh well, no worries here.
I decide to brine the turkey in a simple saline solution, skipping Alton's fru-fru aromatic herbs. Sorry, Alton... I want to keep this simple and work up to fancy later on. So Mr. Turkey soaked while the ham baked. Our feast was 75% complete when Hunny awoke to the yummy smells of a nearly completed Thanksgiving Dinner. I had calculated the approximate cooking time, and with the blessings Alton's recipe and the verifications of the meat thermometer, our turkey was done. While the carry-over finished the turkey, the only thing left to do was bake the sweet potato casserole and re-heat the rolls.
The sweet potato casserole, my prized dish, is from my grandmother's legacy of Thanksgiving recipes -- the only one I was granted (although with some experimentation I have learned to make her Southern Green Beans). These are the thick and creamy, mashed sweet potatoes, topped with brown sugared pecans and toasted marshmallows. I'd even made up my own tasty cranberry sauce recipe.
Our feast was Divine! The turkey was perfect. As was the ham, garlic smashed potatoes, MawMaw's Southern Green Beans, Mac and Cheese, Sweet Potatoes, Rolls, and homemade cranberry sauce. We both stuffed ourselves stupid.At the end of the night, Hunny was thoughtful enough to pack all the leftovers in the fridge. We were both too tired to strip the bird. So the whole shebang, disposable pan and bird, were wrapped and shoved in too. Today I needed to repack the leftovers into smaller containers to make some space. Thus, it was time to strip the bird, and toss out the carcass for the possums to feast upon. Guess what I discovered! Packed deeply within the chest cavity, and tucked beneath the flap of skin from the neck.... yup... the rest of the whut-whuts. Still nicely packed in a small plastic bag. Our perfect bird was still not quiet so perfect.
Oh well... there is next year. I think I will let Hunny cook Christmas Dinner. Just a few years into this ordeal and I'm ready to let someone else have a go at it. :-)
The new love of my life...
Originally Posted on 11/19/08
All cuteness aside... anyone with suggestions for training, obedience, and house-breaking would be greatly appreciated. Believe it or not, she is amazingly smart. The cat hides in the kitchen cabinets and the closet, and has taught her how to open the closet door, which became her hide-go-poop spot for a couple of days, until I needed something out of the closet. A quick trip to Home Depot fixed that. Now the closet is "child-proof". Next on the child proofing list: Kitchen Cabinets.
She IS treat motivated, learning several new tricks her first couple of weeks with us. She sleeps on the bed, and first thing inthe morning I take her out She almost always goes 1 & 2. Treats and Praise seem to go a long way. However stern "NO's" are like talking to brick walls. Just ask the 3 pair of shoes and 1 pair of boots she has destroyed in three weeks. And it's the NICE shoes... never the $5 flipflops from Walmart.
All cuteness aside... anyone with suggestions for training, obedience, and house-breaking would be greatly appreciated. Believe it or not, she is amazingly smart. The cat hides in the kitchen cabinets and the closet, and has taught her how to open the closet door, which became her hide-go-poop spot for a couple of days, until I needed something out of the closet. A quick trip to Home Depot fixed that. Now the closet is "child-proof". Next on the child proofing list: Kitchen Cabinets.
She IS treat motivated, learning several new tricks her first couple of weeks with us. She sleeps on the bed, and first thing inthe morning I take her out She almost always goes 1 & 2. Treats and Praise seem to go a long way. However stern "NO's" are like talking to brick walls. Just ask the 3 pair of shoes and 1 pair of boots she has destroyed in three weeks. And it's the NICE shoes... never the $5 flipflops from Walmart.
Mad Props
Originally Posted on 10/23/08
I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank my good and kind friend John for a thoughtful deed.
I've known John for years now, working together on my Event Contracts with Med One. He's one busy man, working full time, usually working a second part time position, AND tossing in school hours here and there.
John read my recent rants about the worker's comp situation, being piss broke, unable to pay our bills, and barely able to buy suitable groceries. He took it upon himself to pass along that info to the big boss man over at the Kraft/Nabisco bakery in Atlanta.
This morning John shows up with this HUGE box of yummies to help out with our financial dilemma, graciously donated by the boss man at Kraft/Nabisco!
Our SPECIAL DELIVERY INCLUDED:
12 boxes of Cheese Ritz Bits
6 boxes of Better Cheddars
9 boxes of Honey Maid Cinnamon Graham Crackers
10 boxes of Nilla Wafers
13 packages of Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Cookies
3 large bags of Oyster Crackers
I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank my good and kind friend John for a thoughtful deed.
I've known John for years now, working together on my Event Contracts with Med One. He's one busy man, working full time, usually working a second part time position, AND tossing in school hours here and there.
John read my recent rants about the worker's comp situation, being piss broke, unable to pay our bills, and barely able to buy suitable groceries. He took it upon himself to pass along that info to the big boss man over at the Kraft/Nabisco bakery in Atlanta.
This morning John shows up with this HUGE box of yummies to help out with our financial dilemma, graciously donated by the boss man at Kraft/Nabisco!
Our SPECIAL DELIVERY INCLUDED:
12 boxes of Cheese Ritz Bits
6 boxes of Better Cheddars
9 boxes of Honey Maid Cinnamon Graham Crackers
10 boxes of Nilla Wafers
13 packages of Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Cookies
3 large bags of Oyster Crackers
It will certainly put a dent in our grocery spending for sure!
First time in nearly a year...
Originally Posted on 9/29/08
.JPG)
On Saturday night, we made our first REAL excursion out to a club since MSR last Halloween. We were the personal guests of Ms. Isabella Diamante at the DIVA'S show at Stage Door in Tucker. Mom had been wanting to come down and bring her friend Margie to see Isabella's show for a while now, and this was a wonderful opportunity.
We invited Terri, our neighbor, who is ALWAYS stuck at home (not unlike us these days). Terri let her hair down, and we saw a side of her that we never knew exhisted. Terri can dance! Who knew?
Lenya and I even had a really nice night. We were able to put aside all the drama and hurt feelings from this summer, and have a great time. The evening actually gave us a sense of the old days, when we first got together, and things were totally OK. It was a nice feeling to go somewhere and leave all the bullshit at the door.
.JPG)
Isabella Diamante, my dearest friend, worked the floor.
.JPG)
Special Guest, Ms. Savannah Leigh - as Cher.
"If I Could Turn Back Time"
FLAWLESS!!!
.JPG)
On Saturday night, we made our first REAL excursion out to a club since MSR last Halloween. We were the personal guests of Ms. Isabella Diamante at the DIVA'S show at Stage Door in Tucker. Mom had been wanting to come down and bring her friend Margie to see Isabella's show for a while now, and this was a wonderful opportunity.We invited Terri, our neighbor, who is ALWAYS stuck at home (not unlike us these days). Terri let her hair down, and we saw a side of her that we never knew exhisted. Terri can dance! Who knew?
Lenya and I even had a really nice night. We were able to put aside all the drama and hurt feelings from this summer, and have a great time. The evening actually gave us a sense of the old days, when we first got together, and things were totally OK. It was a nice feeling to go somewhere and leave all the bullshit at the door.
.JPG)
Isabella Diamante, my dearest friend, worked the floor..JPG)
Special Guest, Ms. Savannah Leigh - as Cher."If I Could Turn Back Time"
FLAWLESS!!!
A Peaceful Place Between Past and Future
Originally Posted on 8/31/08
There is something to be said about living in the moment that cannot be overstated especially if you are going through a rough patch in your life. You normally find at any given moment if you stop and think about what it is that is bothering you, you will find that the things you are worrying about are things that have happened in the past or things you think will happen in the future. There is nothing you can do about what has happened in the past and there is no point worrying about what has not happened yet, in fact, by worrying about something that might happen you are drawing that event to you.
By living in the moment and focusing your mind on exactly what is going on around you right now you may find a peaceful place in between the past and the future. Living in the moment is real living and by staying focused in the moment and not projecting your thoughts forward or backward into the past or future you can step away from worry and fear. Most people worry on some level but the happiest of people worry about things the least.
Happiness is a state of contentment that has nothing to do with how many material possessions you have or how much money you have in the bank. A person who is happy has the power to create more happiness simply by staying happy. A sad person or someone who is constantly worried about the situations of their life brings more sad situations their way. How often is a negative event actually happening in your life? Negative events and situation rarely occur but when they do they only last for a second or two and then the event is over. It is by continuing to worry about the event that keeps you there.
When you are living in the moment you dismiss a negative event the moment it is over and move on without worrying about it of without thinking that event will come back to haunt you in the future. If anything, living in the moment allows you to come through a negative situation and immediately learn from the experience and know you will never let yourself go through that again by simply avoiding the mistakes you made previously that saw you encounter the negative event in the first place.
For example, if you have lost your job, instead of worrying about it and wishing you had made different decisions or worked harder while you were at your old job, consider what you have learned by the experience. Maybe you did not like the boss, you did not like the hours, the job was not right for you, you said something foolish or perhaps you were lazy. Whatever it was you did, let it go and move on. You cannot change what has happened but you can make a fresh start with the experience you have taken from your old job and any past mistakes you made. The same thing goes if your relationship has gone sour, learn from it and move on. There are a million other partners out there just like there are jobs and fresh, exciting opportunities.
When you are living in the moment you have the chance to transcend your past bad experiences and decide in this moment what direction your future will take. If you can live in the moment and remain happy your life will move from one happy episode to the next and if difficulties arise on the journey you will face them, deal with them and continue unfazed while moving from moment to moment.
There is something to be said about living in the moment that cannot be overstated especially if you are going through a rough patch in your life. You normally find at any given moment if you stop and think about what it is that is bothering you, you will find that the things you are worrying about are things that have happened in the past or things you think will happen in the future. There is nothing you can do about what has happened in the past and there is no point worrying about what has not happened yet, in fact, by worrying about something that might happen you are drawing that event to you.
By living in the moment and focusing your mind on exactly what is going on around you right now you may find a peaceful place in between the past and the future. Living in the moment is real living and by staying focused in the moment and not projecting your thoughts forward or backward into the past or future you can step away from worry and fear. Most people worry on some level but the happiest of people worry about things the least.
Happiness is a state of contentment that has nothing to do with how many material possessions you have or how much money you have in the bank. A person who is happy has the power to create more happiness simply by staying happy. A sad person or someone who is constantly worried about the situations of their life brings more sad situations their way. How often is a negative event actually happening in your life? Negative events and situation rarely occur but when they do they only last for a second or two and then the event is over. It is by continuing to worry about the event that keeps you there.
When you are living in the moment you dismiss a negative event the moment it is over and move on without worrying about it of without thinking that event will come back to haunt you in the future. If anything, living in the moment allows you to come through a negative situation and immediately learn from the experience and know you will never let yourself go through that again by simply avoiding the mistakes you made previously that saw you encounter the negative event in the first place.
For example, if you have lost your job, instead of worrying about it and wishing you had made different decisions or worked harder while you were at your old job, consider what you have learned by the experience. Maybe you did not like the boss, you did not like the hours, the job was not right for you, you said something foolish or perhaps you were lazy. Whatever it was you did, let it go and move on. You cannot change what has happened but you can make a fresh start with the experience you have taken from your old job and any past mistakes you made. The same thing goes if your relationship has gone sour, learn from it and move on. There are a million other partners out there just like there are jobs and fresh, exciting opportunities.
When you are living in the moment you have the chance to transcend your past bad experiences and decide in this moment what direction your future will take. If you can live in the moment and remain happy your life will move from one happy episode to the next and if difficulties arise on the journey you will face them, deal with them and continue unfazed while moving from moment to moment.
On being a Desperate Housewife...
Originally Posted on 8/23/08
I have had the better part of a month to discover that there was one significant portion of myself that I was really not so happy with... being a Desperate Housewife.
We are all too familiar with the popular TV show and it's (not too far from reality) portrait of a circle of friends (and sometimes enemies), in which the show's website describes as taking "a darkly comedic look at suburbia, where the secret lives of housewives aren't always what they seem".
I empathize greatly with the character Bree Van de Kamp Hodge, in my own struggle with O.C.D. and familial perfection. Going long periods of time with blinders on, I chose not to see the crumbling home life I swept under the rug every day. I worked 60-70 hour weeks, fought unsuccessfully to have the perfect home (and finally threw in the towel on that battle), and steamed forward determined, with the best of intentions, to "make it all work".
In my last few weeks of "relationship sabbatical", I have discovered unexpected happiness with starting over. I have had ample time to unpack my belongings and arrange my home to my likings. Then, there was all this time to reflect.
Like Bree, I experienced my own shock and horror of a reality check when I took off my rose tinted glasses one night. The ensuing fallout would have made several great TV episodes, had it actually been believable. I have since had time to look back and realize my own contributions to a crumbling relationship, and how my "full steam ahead" determination left one very important person behind... my fiancee. It's an all too late realization, which cost me the ultimate price. I lost the one person who meant more to me than anything else in this world. I lost sight of what was important in life, and spent far too much time focusing on what ended up being trivial things.
I also found clarity in my Spirituality, or the avoidance thereof for the last decade. I realized that I had been so completely engulfed in my EMS career, that I lost touch with something that was once such a vital part of my life. Once upon a time, when I worked my ass off as a restaurant manager for $7 an hour, I still had time for spiritual connectedness, meditation, road trips, camping, the celebration of the moon cycles, the wheel of the year, and even my own Divine Femininity. I had dear friends, who also followed the same Spiritual Path, who were as close to Coven Mates as you could be (without actually having formed a coven). We spent days at a time together, truly celebrating life... and living it. What a concept!
What I have felt in these last few weeks, and even months, has been a magnetic draw to dive back into Spiritual Life. Which I did, ceremoniously, last night. I can honestly say it has been years since I utilized a working altar, and actually DID spell work. And it felt wonderful! I was even blessed with the observation and occasional assistance of a friend who, in the past, has turned up a snarled lip based on her own misconceptions of Wicca and Paganism.
I am still fighting and appealing to draw my unemployment. I can barely get out of bed each morning, cursed with excruciating pain and chronic back problems. I search daily for a job with even the most basic of life sustaining wages. I am happy for one simple thing: I'm no longer a Desperate Housewife, nor will I ever be one again.
I have had the better part of a month to discover that there was one significant portion of myself that I was really not so happy with... being a Desperate Housewife.
We are all too familiar with the popular TV show and it's (not too far from reality) portrait of a circle of friends (and sometimes enemies), in which the show's website describes as taking "a darkly comedic look at suburbia, where the secret lives of housewives aren't always what they seem".
I empathize greatly with the character Bree Van de Kamp Hodge, in my own struggle with O.C.D. and familial perfection. Going long periods of time with blinders on, I chose not to see the crumbling home life I swept under the rug every day. I worked 60-70 hour weeks, fought unsuccessfully to have the perfect home (and finally threw in the towel on that battle), and steamed forward determined, with the best of intentions, to "make it all work".In my last few weeks of "relationship sabbatical", I have discovered unexpected happiness with starting over. I have had ample time to unpack my belongings and arrange my home to my likings. Then, there was all this time to reflect.
Like Bree, I experienced my own shock and horror of a reality check when I took off my rose tinted glasses one night. The ensuing fallout would have made several great TV episodes, had it actually been believable. I have since had time to look back and realize my own contributions to a crumbling relationship, and how my "full steam ahead" determination left one very important person behind... my fiancee. It's an all too late realization, which cost me the ultimate price. I lost the one person who meant more to me than anything else in this world. I lost sight of what was important in life, and spent far too much time focusing on what ended up being trivial things.I also found clarity in my Spirituality, or the avoidance thereof for the last decade. I realized that I had been so completely engulfed in my EMS career, that I lost touch with something that was once such a vital part of my life. Once upon a time, when I worked my ass off as a restaurant manager for $7 an hour, I still had time for spiritual connectedness, meditation, road trips, camping, the celebration of the moon cycles, the wheel of the year, and even my own Divine Femininity. I had dear friends, who also followed the same Spiritual Path, who were as close to Coven Mates as you could be (without actually having formed a coven). We spent days at a time together, truly celebrating life... and living it. What a concept!
What I have felt in these last few weeks, and even months, has been a magnetic draw to dive back into Spiritual Life. Which I did, ceremoniously, last night. I can honestly say it has been years since I utilized a working altar, and actually DID spell work. And it felt wonderful! I was even blessed with the observation and occasional assistance of a friend who, in the past, has turned up a snarled lip based on her own misconceptions of Wicca and Paganism.
I am still fighting and appealing to draw my unemployment. I can barely get out of bed each morning, cursed with excruciating pain and chronic back problems. I search daily for a job with even the most basic of life sustaining wages. I am happy for one simple thing: I'm no longer a Desperate Housewife, nor will I ever be one again.
I’m a terrible girlfriend...
Originally Posted on
8/19/08
I'm a terrible girlfriend. There, I said it.
It's 12:30 in the morning, and I am sitting at my computer with utmost boredom. Now that I rethink that - I have 15 different emotions and adjectives that could fit this scenario. I am being bad because I'm avoiding "the chat" with my Love. I have checked and re-checked e-mail accounts, read and re-read blogs, myspaced and re-myspaced, proofed and re-proofed my business website until I am completely left without a thing else to do but blog - all to avoid disappointing her once again.
Let me explain.
My significant other has a fascination and interest in body building that I am simply unable to fathom. So, she is sitting up in bed, 15 feet away, watching some body building DVD featuring Ahhnold Schwarzenegger, that she picked up at GNC a couple of months ago. Yes, I misspelled the name for my own humorous chuckle, and could give a crab's ass about spelling the last name correctly. I don't have much use for Ahhnold, whether he's body building, or movie making, or Gov-eh-nating. Never have.
I've heard the whole spiel about how this epic body building documentary is a classic. While I do appreciate the concept of fitness and gym memberships, I just don't get the whole body building thing. I don't fault her for her interest. But it's HER interest, and I can't begin to even fake mild interest. I just can't.
The rising level of testosterone emanating from my TV screen is nauseating me in my estrogen saturated quasi-feminist Pagan homestead. I have overheard Ahhnold's 5 minute rant on his comparisons of "pumping" (iron) to orgasms, repeatedly exclaiming how it's like cumming here, cumming there. All the while I cringe in disgust at his vernacular descriptions. There is some vague remnant of genteel femininity and Southern decorum that this lesbian inherited from both her grandmothers, which makes me want to wash his mouth out with soap. Not to be a hypocrite. I can out-cuss the best drunken sailors. But, dear gawd all mighty. Enough with the "cumming" already. My virginal ears were then subjected to repeated segments of grunts and groans, reminding me of bad dubbing in a 1984 porn flick. I think I was actually blushing.
I am a documentary whore, for certain. I will watch a documentary on just about anything. Documentaries on tribal cultures, suicides from the Golden Gate Bridge, recounting historical events, weather phenomena, how various food products are made, you name it. I watch Discovery, Discovery Health, and the Science channel religiously. Hell, I've bought out clearance bins at Blockbuster and Hollywood Video of documentaries no one else would obviously buy. But then again, I *DID* live in Clayton County for 5 years. I'm not even sure if 95% of the population could begin to spell the word documentary. But I, in my own flaws of intolerance, can't begin to understand people's interest in this stuff.
I find the muscular hypertrophy of body builders, disfiguring from even the best of nature's specimens. That's just it. I think it all goes against my deep rooted spiritual connection with Nature... -and all things natural. There is a natural appeal to firm bodies that obviously do hard labor for a living, or stay "fit". It all goes back to evolution and the animal instincts to find the best traits in mates for breeding and continuing your species. But beyond that, it escapes "Nature" and becomes UN-natural. And let's not even get on the topic of steroids, lest a soap box slides out of the closet, magically self-assembles in the middle of the floor like some trick gadget from a Dr. Seuss cartoon, tapping it's impatient wooden planks like a bored child's fingers on a kindergarten art table, while awaiting someone to climb on top and start spouting off a sermon with religious fervor.
Right about now I want to climb in a cave and vomit until my discomfort and intolerance is purged from my body. I have no right to ask her to turn it off because neither of us have the luxury of one-on-one time with the TV right now. And when I judge body building as a hobby or sport, please... don't think I judge her. I really don't. I just don't have the ability to understand her (or anyone else's) interest in it. I have what is MY opinion, and while I would never, ever force it on her, I also understand that reciprocally, she probably don't understand people like me who "don't get it".
The ONE clip I did find amusing from this documentary is that the current Gov-eh-nator of the great state of Cah>-lee-fore-ne-yuh is on film...
--SMOKING POT!!!!
Well, there's that. ;-)
8/19/08
I'm a terrible girlfriend. There, I said it.
It's 12:30 in the morning, and I am sitting at my computer with utmost boredom. Now that I rethink that - I have 15 different emotions and adjectives that could fit this scenario. I am being bad because I'm avoiding "the chat" with my Love. I have checked and re-checked e-mail accounts, read and re-read blogs, myspaced and re-myspaced, proofed and re-proofed my business website until I am completely left without a thing else to do but blog - all to avoid disappointing her once again.
Let me explain.
My significant other has a fascination and interest in body building that I am simply unable to fathom. So, she is sitting up in bed, 15 feet away, watching some body building DVD featuring Ahhnold Schwarzenegger, that she picked up at GNC a couple of months ago. Yes, I misspelled the name for my own humorous chuckle, and could give a crab's ass about spelling the last name correctly. I don't have much use for Ahhnold, whether he's body building, or movie making, or Gov-eh-nating. Never have.I've heard the whole spiel about how this epic body building documentary is a classic. While I do appreciate the concept of fitness and gym memberships, I just don't get the whole body building thing. I don't fault her for her interest. But it's HER interest, and I can't begin to even fake mild interest. I just can't.
The rising level of testosterone emanating from my TV screen is nauseating me in my estrogen saturated quasi-feminist Pagan homestead. I have overheard Ahhnold's 5 minute rant on his comparisons of "pumping" (iron) to orgasms, repeatedly exclaiming how it's like cumming here, cumming there. All the while I cringe in disgust at his vernacular descriptions. There is some vague remnant of genteel femininity and Southern decorum that this lesbian inherited from both her grandmothers, which makes me want to wash his mouth out with soap. Not to be a hypocrite. I can out-cuss the best drunken sailors. But, dear gawd all mighty. Enough with the "cumming" already. My virginal ears were then subjected to repeated segments of grunts and groans, reminding me of bad dubbing in a 1984 porn flick. I think I was actually blushing.
I am a documentary whore, for certain. I will watch a documentary on just about anything. Documentaries on tribal cultures, suicides from the Golden Gate Bridge, recounting historical events, weather phenomena, how various food products are made, you name it. I watch Discovery, Discovery Health, and the Science channel religiously. Hell, I've bought out clearance bins at Blockbuster and Hollywood Video of documentaries no one else would obviously buy. But then again, I *DID* live in Clayton County for 5 years. I'm not even sure if 95% of the population could begin to spell the word documentary. But I, in my own flaws of intolerance, can't begin to understand people's interest in this stuff.
I find the muscular hypertrophy of body builders, disfiguring from even the best of nature's specimens. That's just it. I think it all goes against my deep rooted spiritual connection with Nature... -and all things natural. There is a natural appeal to firm bodies that obviously do hard labor for a living, or stay "fit". It all goes back to evolution and the animal instincts to find the best traits in mates for breeding and continuing your species. But beyond that, it escapes "Nature" and becomes UN-natural. And let's not even get on the topic of steroids, lest a soap box slides out of the closet, magically self-assembles in the middle of the floor like some trick gadget from a Dr. Seuss cartoon, tapping it's impatient wooden planks like a bored child's fingers on a kindergarten art table, while awaiting someone to climb on top and start spouting off a sermon with religious fervor.
Right about now I want to climb in a cave and vomit until my discomfort and intolerance is purged from my body. I have no right to ask her to turn it off because neither of us have the luxury of one-on-one time with the TV right now. And when I judge body building as a hobby or sport, please... don't think I judge her. I really don't. I just don't have the ability to understand her (or anyone else's) interest in it. I have what is MY opinion, and while I would never, ever force it on her, I also understand that reciprocally, she probably don't understand people like me who "don't get it".
The ONE clip I did find amusing from this documentary is that the current Gov-eh-nator of the great state of Cah>-lee-fore-ne-yuh is on film...
--SMOKING POT!!!!
Well, there's that. ;-)
Chrissa’s waxing nightmare...
Originally Posted on 8/18/08
Myspace friend Chrissa recently posted a blog on her home waxing nightmare. She asked if anyone else had a nightmarish story about waxing. Yeah, well... I have my own funny nightmare of a waxing story, which I shared with her on Myspace, and figured... why the hell not. So I will subject my readers, and give you all the gift of laughter this morning.
I had gone to a nail salon in Toco Hills to get a pedi and my nails done one day, between a myriad of errands. While soaking in the foot spa chair, I looked over their list of services and noticed they do waxing. I needed by brows done, so out of sheer curiosity I asked the tech what kinds of waxing they do. Her response was, "ohhh, we wocks every-ting"
Let me clarify that this is what I call a "sheep shearing" nail salon. They herd as many folks in and out in a hour as possible. It's quantity over quality in most cases. Immigrant workers seem to be paying off their green cards and travel expenses and such... basically another form of white slavery. I genuinely feel bad for most of them. They work their assess off from open to close, 7 days a week, while struggling to grasp conversational English in a nail salon. You know the conversations. "Are you married? You got kids?" Where you work?" All the while smiling and nodding, and have no clue what you mean when you tell them you have a domestic partner or girlfriend, your pets are your kids, and that you are a paramedic for Grady EMS. I try to have patience, and tip very well for a quality job. Hey, if you can tackle feet that spent 60-70 hours a week in combat boots, and I walk out with the feet of a debutant... you get a hefty tip.
So I make arrangements with the tech for a waxing session after my toes and nails are done, and we head to the back. As I lay on the table, she is kind and gentle as she applies the warm wax and rips the stray fur from my brow ridge. It wasn't so bad. So my mind begins to think... "You've never had a bikini wax. Why not go home and surprise the girlfriend with a cute lil landing strip?" Mistake #1.
I had always prided myself on meticulous home landscaping. I have always felt it was duty and necessity when locked into a girlfriend, if not a downright courtesy. So I endured the torture of hot wax on the who-who, which unlike my brows WAS NOT CONDITIONED TO WAXING!!! Still gasping breathlessly, I could not muster the strength to inspect the quality of her work, but how hard could it be? Really? Mistake #2. But I knew it would be a nice surprise for the girlfriend.
I arrived home later that afternoon, quiet amorous and proud of the little surprise I was about to share. With a little teasing and foreplay, I told her I had a surprise for her, which lead to the bedroom. I was dumbstruck when Jordan began to cackle like a drunk and psychotic bag-lady. I demanded to know what the hell was so funny. Between rolling chuckles, my girlfriend advised me that my who-who was so reddened and irritated it looked like a baboons ass in National Geographic, and that my landing strip would cause a major airplane crash. I was aghast as I looked in the mirror. Reddened was an understatement. And my landing strip was as jagged as Harry Potter's scar, and at one point was over an inch wide.
Still chuckling at my horror and infuriation, Jordan offered to "square up" my landscaping tragedy. So, we set up all the implements: Clippers, razor, shaving cream, etc. Mistake #3.
Let me tell you about Jordan. She was a qwerky lil butch. No tact. No diplomacy. Raised by a total small-town, redneck, white trash, Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer kind of family. God bless her lil heart. But I loved her. Despite all her ill manners, inappropriate comments, and lack of decorum. Quiet simply, she was one Skoal can shy of a rodeo at times.
About half way through "the procedure" her cell phone rang with a call from our only lesbian neighbor in the entire complex. As she answered, I'm sure our friend asked, "Whatcha doin?" because at that precise moment, Jordan exclaimed with a grunt, "Shavin my ole lady's pussy!" As if my pride and dignity needed one more stab that day! Luckily for me, our friend on the other end of the phone suffered as much shock as I did, and bowed out of the phone call. I was thankful. All I needed was my girl to have distraction, lest my poor nether-regions end up looking like a freshly shot white tail deer being field dressed on the first day of hunting season.
Much to my delight, she ended up performing "full removal" procedures, which guaranteed me full access to apply soothing lotions and creams for the next few days.
So what lessons did we learn?
1. Never let a crazed overworked Asian immigrant near your genitals with hot wax.
2. When someone DOES work on you - INSPECT BEFORE YOU LEAVE
3. Never let someone offer to "fix you up", while granting them access to a phone... - or any other electronic device for that matter.
New article on Amanda’s death...
Originally Posted on 8/17/08
Young mother's death leaves family in emotional and financial limbo
By Cecily Burt
Oakland Tribune
08/16/2008 07:23:44 PM PDT
OAKLAND — Seventy dollars. That's how much it cost each day Amanda Michelle Hunter's lifeless body lay stored at the morgue in downtown Oakland — $70 that her family didn't have.
Ever since Hunter, 23, was shot and killed in the early evening of July 23, her family has been on an emotional and financial roller coaster, treated one way when it looked like her death was a homicide, left set adrift when her death was ruled an accident.
Hunter, a mother of three children — 5, 3 and 2 — was fatally shot in the head by a bullet fired from an SKS assault rifle owned by her boyfriend, Jonathan Ho, 25, in his apartment on Mead Avenue in West Oakland.
Amanda's children are with her mother, who did not want her name used in this article, and Amanda's older sister, Candice Hunter, 28. They haven't yet told the children about their mom, and they make sure the oldest child is not within earshot when they speak about her death. Still, it's hard to hide the anger and frustration they feel over the way authorities have handled Amanda's case.
It didn't start out that way. In the fog after Hunter's death, Catholic Charities' crisis response team member Marilyn Harris called to offer grief support and guidance. She told the family they would be eligible to receive up to $7,500 for funeral expenses from the state victim's assistance fund administered by the Alameda County district attorney's office.
They set up an appointment for a Monday morning. Then, with the help of other relatives, they started making arrangements for a nice service.
But when they arrived for their Monday appointment, the victims fund counselor informed the family that they were ineligible for financial assistance because Amanda's death was an accident, not a homicide. The counselor, Candice said, implied that somehow Amanda bore responsibility because she was the one with the gun.
"It was awful," Candice said. "It was so insensitive."
Not what it seems...
Oakland police homicide Sgt. Todd Crutchfield caught the case that night. He said it appeared to be a homicide, and Ho was arrested. Ho's version of events — that it was all an accident —seemed far-fetched, he said. But blood spatter and other evidence from the crime scene, coupled with results from the autopsy and ballistics convinced Crutchfield that Ho was telling the truth.
Ho, who is on parole for felony drug possession and prohibited from owning guns, told investigators that he and Amanda had been having a "discussion" about the assault rifle because she didn't want it there. He said he was leaving when Amanda threw the weapon at him. The rifle rotated in the air and went off when the butt hit the carpeted floor, a bullet hitting Amanda in the head.
"We thought it was a boyfriend kills a girlfriend case" Crutchfield said. " When I heard his story, I thought no way. But his story lines up with the evidence. It would be an amazing feat for him to concoct this."
Police found four guns in the apartment, including the assault rifle, which Ho said he kept at the head of the bed. A roommate was downstairs and heard the gunshot. Ho said he yelled for the roommate to come upstairs, then told the roommate to go to a pay phone and call an ambulance. Ho had a cell phone but never called 9-1-1, Crutchfield said, adding that Ho was very distraught.
Ho has been in custody since the shooting. He reached a deal Thursday with the district attorney's office and pleaded no contest, the same as a guilty plea, to one felony count of gun possession. He will serve 16 months in state prison. There was no mention of Amanda, or the shooting that sparked his arrest.
Butch Ford, Alameda County deputy district attorney, said Ho could have gotten two years on the gun charge if he was convicted in a trial. This way, he goes to prison right away.
Ford admitted the case bothered him, but they can only charge what they can prove.
"Still seems hinky to me," Ford said. "But I trust the police to do their investigation. They looked at the autopsy, the trajectory of the bullet "... still, it's a weird case.
"The only story is his. He said she threw the gun, and it went off, but (if it weren't) for him having the gun, she would be alive. It's an extremely sad case."
Chilling news report....
The night of the shooting, Candice Hunter and her mom were home watching "So You Think You Can Dance" on television when the station broke in with news about an Oakland homicide. The broadcaster didn't give a name; the victim was described as an unidentified 23-year-old female. But both mother and sister instinctively knew it was Amanda.
"I called OPD first, and they connected me to the coroner," Candice recalled. "I told her about Amanda's tattoos, gave her birth date. They called us back half hour later. They said ..I'm sorry, it's your sister.' It was right before midnight on the 23rd."
Candice has asked for a copy of the police report and the autopsy, but so far has had no luck. She said Ho was very controlling and jealous of her sister, information she would share with the investigators if they would return her calls.
"We are trying to get records to try and figure out how this could happen," Candice Hunter said. "My sister couldn't stand guns."
Lisa Foster, director of the Victims/Witness Assistance Program in Alameda County, said she felt bad for the family and called OPD just to be sure there wasn't a mistake. She said the family can appeal the decision to the state Victim of Crime Compensation program.
The fund is created from fees and restitution paid by felons. Early on it excluded payments for victims who were on felony probation or parole, but that has been changed. Accidental deaths, even from gun violence, are still excluded, she said.
A relative wrote a check to the coroner so Amanda's body could be released. The service the family had started planning quickly had to be scrapped because they had no money to pay for it. After a closed-casket service, the body was cremated, and Amanda's 17-year-old brother never got to see his sister.
"I feel like she didn't matter to them "... because of where she was found,'' the mother said. " She wasn't a rich white girl from the hills."
To the family Amanda was an exuberant young girl who excelled at music, art and gymnastics and dreamed of becoming a teacher or a nurse. Amanda could walk into a kitchen that you'd swear had nothing in it and whip up a full-course meal, her mother said.
Now the family is pulling it together for the children. Everybody, including the two brothers, coordinate their schedules to care for the children while the others work.
Nearly every inch of the family apartment's white walls are covered with colorful paintings and other artwork created by Amanda's 5-year-old son. The living room still bears the remnants of the younger daughter's second birthday celebration Aug. 6.
The family is receiving counseling assistance from the victim's assistance program in Napa, where Amanda lived previously, so they can figure out the best way to break the news to the children.
They know it's probably too late to do anything about Amanda's case, but they'd like to see the criteria changed so other families who lose loved ones to gun violence can be helped, even if it is an accident.
"Its not just about the money for the burial; they didn't offer any other assistance, no counseling," Amanda's mother said. "It's not just about the money."
Reach Cecily Burt at 510 208-6441 or cburt@bayareanewsgroup.com.
The Amanda Hunter Memorial Fund
Donations may be sent to:
Wells Fargo Bank
Acct. No. 8812091935
4103 El Cerrito Plaza
El Cerrito, CA 94530
Young mother's death leaves family in emotional and financial limbo
By Cecily Burt
Oakland Tribune
08/16/2008 07:23:44 PM PDT
OAKLAND — Seventy dollars. That's how much it cost each day Amanda Michelle Hunter's lifeless body lay stored at the morgue in downtown Oakland — $70 that her family didn't have.
Ever since Hunter, 23, was shot and killed in the early evening of July 23, her family has been on an emotional and financial roller coaster, treated one way when it looked like her death was a homicide, left set adrift when her death was ruled an accident.
Hunter, a mother of three children — 5, 3 and 2 — was fatally shot in the head by a bullet fired from an SKS assault rifle owned by her boyfriend, Jonathan Ho, 25, in his apartment on Mead Avenue in West Oakland.
Amanda's children are with her mother, who did not want her name used in this article, and Amanda's older sister, Candice Hunter, 28. They haven't yet told the children about their mom, and they make sure the oldest child is not within earshot when they speak about her death. Still, it's hard to hide the anger and frustration they feel over the way authorities have handled Amanda's case.
It didn't start out that way. In the fog after Hunter's death, Catholic Charities' crisis response team member Marilyn Harris called to offer grief support and guidance. She told the family they would be eligible to receive up to $7,500 for funeral expenses from the state victim's assistance fund administered by the Alameda County district attorney's office.
They set up an appointment for a Monday morning. Then, with the help of other relatives, they started making arrangements for a nice service.
But when they arrived for their Monday appointment, the victims fund counselor informed the family that they were ineligible for financial assistance because Amanda's death was an accident, not a homicide. The counselor, Candice said, implied that somehow Amanda bore responsibility because she was the one with the gun.
"It was awful," Candice said. "It was so insensitive."
Not what it seems...
Oakland police homicide Sgt. Todd Crutchfield caught the case that night. He said it appeared to be a homicide, and Ho was arrested. Ho's version of events — that it was all an accident —seemed far-fetched, he said. But blood spatter and other evidence from the crime scene, coupled with results from the autopsy and ballistics convinced Crutchfield that Ho was telling the truth.
Ho, who is on parole for felony drug possession and prohibited from owning guns, told investigators that he and Amanda had been having a "discussion" about the assault rifle because she didn't want it there. He said he was leaving when Amanda threw the weapon at him. The rifle rotated in the air and went off when the butt hit the carpeted floor, a bullet hitting Amanda in the head.
"We thought it was a boyfriend kills a girlfriend case" Crutchfield said. " When I heard his story, I thought no way. But his story lines up with the evidence. It would be an amazing feat for him to concoct this."
Police found four guns in the apartment, including the assault rifle, which Ho said he kept at the head of the bed. A roommate was downstairs and heard the gunshot. Ho said he yelled for the roommate to come upstairs, then told the roommate to go to a pay phone and call an ambulance. Ho had a cell phone but never called 9-1-1, Crutchfield said, adding that Ho was very distraught.
Ho has been in custody since the shooting. He reached a deal Thursday with the district attorney's office and pleaded no contest, the same as a guilty plea, to one felony count of gun possession. He will serve 16 months in state prison. There was no mention of Amanda, or the shooting that sparked his arrest.
Butch Ford, Alameda County deputy district attorney, said Ho could have gotten two years on the gun charge if he was convicted in a trial. This way, he goes to prison right away.
Ford admitted the case bothered him, but they can only charge what they can prove.
"Still seems hinky to me," Ford said. "But I trust the police to do their investigation. They looked at the autopsy, the trajectory of the bullet "... still, it's a weird case.
"The only story is his. He said she threw the gun, and it went off, but (if it weren't) for him having the gun, she would be alive. It's an extremely sad case."
Chilling news report....
The night of the shooting, Candice Hunter and her mom were home watching "So You Think You Can Dance" on television when the station broke in with news about an Oakland homicide. The broadcaster didn't give a name; the victim was described as an unidentified 23-year-old female. But both mother and sister instinctively knew it was Amanda.
"I called OPD first, and they connected me to the coroner," Candice recalled. "I told her about Amanda's tattoos, gave her birth date. They called us back half hour later. They said ..I'm sorry, it's your sister.' It was right before midnight on the 23rd."
Candice has asked for a copy of the police report and the autopsy, but so far has had no luck. She said Ho was very controlling and jealous of her sister, information she would share with the investigators if they would return her calls.
"We are trying to get records to try and figure out how this could happen," Candice Hunter said. "My sister couldn't stand guns."
Lisa Foster, director of the Victims/Witness Assistance Program in Alameda County, said she felt bad for the family and called OPD just to be sure there wasn't a mistake. She said the family can appeal the decision to the state Victim of Crime Compensation program.
The fund is created from fees and restitution paid by felons. Early on it excluded payments for victims who were on felony probation or parole, but that has been changed. Accidental deaths, even from gun violence, are still excluded, she said.
A relative wrote a check to the coroner so Amanda's body could be released. The service the family had started planning quickly had to be scrapped because they had no money to pay for it. After a closed-casket service, the body was cremated, and Amanda's 17-year-old brother never got to see his sister.
"I feel like she didn't matter to them "... because of where she was found,'' the mother said. " She wasn't a rich white girl from the hills."
To the family Amanda was an exuberant young girl who excelled at music, art and gymnastics and dreamed of becoming a teacher or a nurse. Amanda could walk into a kitchen that you'd swear had nothing in it and whip up a full-course meal, her mother said.
Now the family is pulling it together for the children. Everybody, including the two brothers, coordinate their schedules to care for the children while the others work.
Nearly every inch of the family apartment's white walls are covered with colorful paintings and other artwork created by Amanda's 5-year-old son. The living room still bears the remnants of the younger daughter's second birthday celebration Aug. 6.
The family is receiving counseling assistance from the victim's assistance program in Napa, where Amanda lived previously, so they can figure out the best way to break the news to the children.
They know it's probably too late to do anything about Amanda's case, but they'd like to see the criteria changed so other families who lose loved ones to gun violence can be helped, even if it is an accident.
"Its not just about the money for the burial; they didn't offer any other assistance, no counseling," Amanda's mother said. "It's not just about the money."
Reach Cecily Burt at 510 208-6441 or cburt@bayareanewsgroup.com.
The Amanda Hunter Memorial Fund
Donations may be sent to:
Wells Fargo Bank
Acct. No. 8812091935
4103 El Cerrito Plaza
El Cerrito, CA 94530
ROADTRIP
Originally Posted on 8/5/08
I have been awaiting this day for over a month. My favorite paperback writer, Sherrilyn Kenyon, was signing books last night at a special release party for new first hardback, Acheron. This book is said to be the hallmark of the "Dark Hunter" series.
I was blessed in recent days, to become reacquainted with a friend I lost touch with many months ago. And she was gracious enough to accompany me on this road trip. She admits now that she was hesitant, expecting another typical boring book signing - which this was not.
It's quiet a drive, and both of us being short on funds, had planned on making it an up and back in the same day. Just after lunch, we found the motivation to grab our things and head out. It was a nice drive up, broken with the occasional pee break and the "oh I forgot something - stop at Walmart moments.
I hadn't been in the Nashville downtown district since I was 19, and I didn't recognize a damn thing. It wasn't on the most pleasant of reasons for why my then roommate took me there. I will never complain about the confusion of Atlanta freeways our visitors must experience, as well as the lack of upkeep to roads here by the DOT. These were some confusing interchanges, and the pavement on the highways and freeways SUCKED! But with my handy GPS we found our destination in this strange town, after winding through several changes of freeway names and numbers.
Centennial park was beautiful, giving our own Piedmont park a fair run for the money! The location of the signing was at the Parthenon in the middle of the park - that impressed the shit outta this little Pagan!
We arrived promptly at 19:00 which was the scheduled start time, only to find a long line of nearly 150-200 other Sherrilyn Kenyon fans waiting patiently outside the doors in a line wound around the sidewalks outside. There were many folks dressed as characters from her books, goth girls, middle aged housewives, business professionals still in pantsuits from work, a few gay boys, a few lesbians, as well as numerous clueless spouses and partners obviously drug along for the ride.
I was truly surprised by the eclectic mix of folks and eye candy. The wait was for the event staff to separate the front end of the line into two parts. Those who had pre-ordered a book to be signed, and those of us who were unable to make the cut-off for the pre-order, but came in hopes of getting a signed copy on the eve of the national release. At the door, we paid for our books and got our passes to the party, and ended up with numbers 262 and 263, as all the pre-order folks were allowed to the front of the signing line.
We made our way up to the main floor only to discover that while waiting all this time, Mrs. Kenyon was only on #50 something. So we joined the long line for refreshments. We were delighted to learn that the event was being catered by THE MELTING POT!!! The table centerpiece was a 4ft chocolate fountain, with offerings of graham crackers, marshmallows, pretzels, and strawberries. And the strawberries were AWESOME! Well worth the hour wait!!!
In the refreshments hall, WARCHILD was playing. Warchild's front man is the author's brother, and the band is permanently linked to her books, as the band is favored by several characters. We hung out with the band, happy to learn that several members were from McDonough and Riverdale. HAD NO CLUE!!! We ALSO had no clue that Mrs. Kenyon is from RIVERDALE too!!! I actually remember that now from her Bio, but had forgotten.
While waiting for our group of numbers to be called, we made some new friends from all over, bullshitted and laughed, and exchanged e-mail addresses. We also made some discoveries about ourselves when talking to our new friends that the both of us seemed to avoid during this trip.
When the party started to wind down, due to the hours placed by the parks authority, we moved it outside the steps of the building, and Mrs. Kenyon continued to sign books, greet fans, and take pix.
We finally got our books signed around 1am, and drudged across the park, barefoot in the grass, to the car. As we left the city, we struck up a deep and meaningful conversation. We began to address things about ourselves that we both had lost along the ways of our lives, our hopes, our dreams, our wants, our needs, our fears, and things that fill the spaces in between.
About 30 miles down the road, we both said fuck-it, and agreed that it was too long of a drive back to Atlanta and agreed that a hotel was just the remedy. I fell into a deep medication induced slumber while awaiting my turn in the shower. And we both slept hard until housekeeping broke our dreams at 8am by barging in after only two knuckle taps on the door. Returning to sleep was unsuccessful for me, as always, when I have been startled awake. So we watched morning TV until checkout, and began our deliberately slow and relaxing ride home.
We chose to make several stops along the way to take some breathtaking photos of the natural surroundings, not being in any hurry to return to our everyday routines.
I would definitely have to say that this trip was the break we both needed, the time away from Atlanta we both needed, the time re-discovering our lost friendship we both needed, and the opportunity for open communication between the two of us we both needed.
In this last week I have felt so cleansed and blessed spiritually, enlightened really, and motivated domestically. I am just glad to have happiness lining the path ahead of me.
But I am even more blessed and happy to have my friend back. I have missed her!
I have been awaiting this day for over a month. My favorite paperback writer, Sherrilyn Kenyon, was signing books last night at a special release party for new first hardback, Acheron. This book is said to be the hallmark of the "Dark Hunter" series.I was blessed in recent days, to become reacquainted with a friend I lost touch with many months ago. And she was gracious enough to accompany me on this road trip. She admits now that she was hesitant, expecting another typical boring book signing - which this was not.
It's quiet a drive, and both of us being short on funds, had planned on making it an up and back in the same day. Just after lunch, we found the motivation to grab our things and head out. It was a nice drive up, broken with the occasional pee break and the "oh I forgot something - stop at Walmart moments.
I hadn't been in the Nashville downtown district since I was 19, and I didn't recognize a damn thing. It wasn't on the most pleasant of reasons for why my then roommate took me there. I will never complain about the confusion of Atlanta freeways our visitors must experience, as well as the lack of upkeep to roads here by the DOT. These were some confusing interchanges, and the pavement on the highways and freeways SUCKED! But with my handy GPS we found our destination in this strange town, after winding through several changes of freeway names and numbers.
Centennial park was beautiful, giving our own Piedmont park a fair run for the money! The location of the signing was at the Parthenon in the middle of the park - that impressed the shit outta this little Pagan!
We arrived promptly at 19:00 which was the scheduled start time, only to find a long line of nearly 150-200 other Sherrilyn Kenyon fans waiting patiently outside the doors in a line wound around the sidewalks outside. There were many folks dressed as characters from her books, goth girls, middle aged housewives, business professionals still in pantsuits from work, a few gay boys, a few lesbians, as well as numerous clueless spouses and partners obviously drug along for the ride.
I was truly surprised by the eclectic mix of folks and eye candy. The wait was for the event staff to separate the front end of the line into two parts. Those who had pre-ordered a book to be signed, and those of us who were unable to make the cut-off for the pre-order, but came in hopes of getting a signed copy on the eve of the national release. At the door, we paid for our books and got our passes to the party, and ended up with numbers 262 and 263, as all the pre-order folks were allowed to the front of the signing line.
We made our way up to the main floor only to discover that while waiting all this time, Mrs. Kenyon was only on #50 something. So we joined the long line for refreshments. We were delighted to learn that the event was being catered by THE MELTING POT!!! The table centerpiece was a 4ft chocolate fountain, with offerings of graham crackers, marshmallows, pretzels, and strawberries. And the strawberries were AWESOME! Well worth the hour wait!!!
In the refreshments hall, WARCHILD was playing. Warchild's front man is the author's brother, and the band is permanently linked to her books, as the band is favored by several characters. We hung out with the band, happy to learn that several members were from McDonough and Riverdale. HAD NO CLUE!!! We ALSO had no clue that Mrs. Kenyon is from RIVERDALE too!!! I actually remember that now from her Bio, but had forgotten.
While waiting for our group of numbers to be called, we made some new friends from all over, bullshitted and laughed, and exchanged e-mail addresses. We also made some discoveries about ourselves when talking to our new friends that the both of us seemed to avoid during this trip.
When the party started to wind down, due to the hours placed by the parks authority, we moved it outside the steps of the building, and Mrs. Kenyon continued to sign books, greet fans, and take pix.
We finally got our books signed around 1am, and drudged across the park, barefoot in the grass, to the car. As we left the city, we struck up a deep and meaningful conversation. We began to address things about ourselves that we both had lost along the ways of our lives, our hopes, our dreams, our wants, our needs, our fears, and things that fill the spaces in between.About 30 miles down the road, we both said fuck-it, and agreed that it was too long of a drive back to Atlanta and agreed that a hotel was just the remedy. I fell into a deep medication induced slumber while awaiting my turn in the shower. And we both slept hard until housekeeping broke our dreams at 8am by barging in after only two knuckle taps on the door. Returning to sleep was unsuccessful for me, as always, when I have been startled awake. So we watched morning TV until checkout, and began our deliberately slow and relaxing ride home.
We chose to make several stops along the way to take some breathtaking photos of the natural surroundings, not being in any hurry to return to our everyday routines.
I would definitely have to say that this trip was the break we both needed, the time away from Atlanta we both needed, the time re-discovering our lost friendship we both needed, and the opportunity for open communication between the two of us we both needed.
In this last week I have felt so cleansed and blessed spiritually, enlightened really, and motivated domestically. I am just glad to have happiness lining the path ahead of me.
But I am even more blessed and happy to have my friend back. I have missed her!
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