My New Year's Resolutions

1. I resolve to lose 2 to 4 pounds this year. (May as well keep expectations reasonable)
2. I resolve to have more sex and "talk about my feelings" less.
3. I resolve to not think about smoking one way or another.
4. I resolve to always cuss slightly less than whomever I am with, so I can maintain an air of moral superiority.
5. I resolve to never say, "I think the President is handling things very well."
6. I resolve to invent a borderline personality disorder detector one can wear on a belt or key ring.
7. I resolve to fall in love with the perfect woman this year.
8. I resolve to avoid any close contact with Geminis this year.
9. I resolve to stop ending so many sentences with "ey?"
10. I resolve to get my oil changed soon.
11. I resolve to put lotion on my elbows more often.
12. I resolve to go on at least one cool vacation with a fairly sane person.
13. I resolve to avoid creepy people who suck me emotionally dry this year.
14. I resolve to be as happy as I can, as often as I can.
15. I resolve to make $20,000 more than I did last year.

Happy New Year!

The omens are there.
This morning after a friend treated me to breakfast, I bought a scratch off lottery ticket and won five bucks. Then in the mail one of my VISA card companies refunded $20 in credit I had. Then I found out I got a raise from one of my monthly income sources.
Wait, there's more!
I can't exactly talk about it yet, but suffice it to say I am working on an exciting new project that holds many potential rewards ...and the pay promises to be quite a nice chunk, with extra incentives thrown in if I work fast.
It looks like it'll take about 3.5 months to fully mount this project, but so far the creative exchange has been deeply fulfilling, and the client seems eager to see what I have to offer.
After taking a few months off to regroup, all I can say is it'll feel good to get back in the saddle again.
Happy New Year, everyone!

Sunday Afternoon

Odd thing.
I've had three calls today from three separate tribes, inviting me out for a pre-New Years bar hop-around. I guess people are into practicing for getting drunk on New Year's Eve, but I just can't get into it.
Besides, the cops have ruined getting drunk anymore.
They have taken away the time honored Texas tradition of having open containers in our cars, and they are ultra picky about drunk driving nowadays.
Okay, I am sorry if I am being cavalier, and I am sure at least someone reading this had lost someone to a drunken idiot behind the wheel, but I don't mean those guys.
What I mean is it's not fun to go out and drink anymore.
One glass of Merlot with dinner and you might get tagged with a DUI on the way home.
If you refuse to blow for the cops, they take your license anyway.
If the vice angels came to me and said I had to give up liquor or chocolate, I'd give up liquor.
My best friend Anna is a recovering alkie, for 15 years now. I never have to worry about her calling me drunk, her getting sloppy and puking on my couch, or her assigning her emotional debris to me for disposal. That AA program seems to turn out pretty fair minded people who know what the fuck is going on.
I am thinking seriously of spending NYE with her, not drinking, just hanging out.
Then when I leave after midnight, all I have to worry about is dodging drunk drivers and not getting pulled over by the cops for Driving While Sleepy.

iMac Horrors

I have an iMac, a nice sort of turquoise/aqua model.
She's moody when I try to reconfigure anything on her, so I pretty much leave her as is and trust that she'll give me what I want, when I want it.
After this morning's rounds of e-mail and IM's, I logged off and wandered away.
When I returned a few hours later, the screen was gray.
That was cool, it just meant she was napping.
So I rattled her mouse and nothing happened. Then I reset her and nothing happened. Then I reset three more times and nothing happened.
In a panic (since my computer tech told me just three days ago her iMac was in the Mac hospital with a nasty case of blackscreen) I just flipped off the switch on my surge protector, flipped it back on and presto, she was on again.
I made three signs of the cross in gratitude, and commenced with my online bidness.
I can't remember what I promised God I'd give up in return for her coming on again, so I guess I'll go with orange soda, lima beans and broccoli.
Meanwhile, my year is ending happily.
I dreamed that my ex wanted to come back to me and I said no and meant it this time.
Finally letting her go must be like how it feels when a heroin addict finally stops puking and sweating and trembling from withdrawal.
She was, afterall, a bad addiction for me. But I don't feel the tug anymore.

Thursday after Christmas

Okay, okay, no more haiku for a while. Jeeze.
Well, I changed my blogger password so a certain turd couldn't come in and monkey around with everything. After the Blog security hacking during Christmas, we should all consider changing passwords.
My favorite old Uncle Al died yesterday in Los Angeles.
His ticker gave out after a retirement filled with world travel, big cruises and quick trips to Vegas. He was a great guy and I'll miss him, except for his loyalty to the L.A. Lakers. Last time I talked to him, he was on his cell phone in a car, calling me to rub it in that his Lakers had just beaten my Spurs. It may sound irreverent, but to us it was a tender, meaningful moment. Godspeed, Uncle Al.
Meanwhile, my friend I've been fretting about broke up with her moocher girlfriend over the holidays. She's gonna be fine, I know, she's got tons of support and she's very sharp.
Still, getting dumped over Christmas is a bitch. Much better to be dumped in the fall, before you Christmas shop for the slimeball.
Last time I lived with someone (a very nice woman who reads this blog) and we broke up, I found great solace in reclaiming closet space and getting the cactus plant away from my coffee maker. She found the same- she got to keep her teapot on the stove again and all her decorative kitchen doodads all over her counterspace.
She got to put the crochet doilies back on her towels in the bathroom and her potpourri all over the house in little jars. And she got to play that goddam Rippington music all she wanted, and I got my loud funk back.
Now she has a nice lover I fixed her up with and they do things together I'd never dream of wanting to do, like going camping every weekend in her travel trailer.
I get to do whatever I want with whomever I want.
So, being single again does have it's upside.

Christmas Haiku

Lovely gift wrapping
Can't wait to see what's inside
Oh, a Chia pet

I waited all year
To give you this special treat
Here's your fruitcake back

Oh this is so nice
So fleecy ...and shocking pink
Sears has lovely clothes

How patriotic!
A big book by George Dubya
And look! Crayons too

How sweet of you, friend
A huge bag of catnip for
My hyper kitten

You know me so well
A gift certificate for
The Christian Bookstore

This wine must be good
They even thought to add an
Expiration date

A practical gift!
A nice, sturdy vibrator
By Black and Decker!

Christmas Morning

Enough with being politically correct, Merry Christmas, one and all.
I was up early for no particular reason and read some random blogs, one about a Brit girl in Los Angeles who calls herself a shitkicker. She needs to pop on over to Texas to get a clearer understanding of that term.
Dinner was great last night, except for the bad filets mignon. One bite and I knew it was spoiled, so I scooped up hers and mine, bites and all, and baggied them up to return to the store tomorrow. Cest la boeuf.
All the candy and cookies and eggnog yesterday made me so full I could barely stay awake through Ab Fab last night. Thankfully my dinner companion was just as beat and went home early. We didn't even crack open the wine she brought.
Today is freeform family Christmas- no specified time, no organized dinner, nobody is quite sure who is coming and nobody seems to be bothered by it. Suits me fine.

I just want this year to be over and start next year with a tabula rasa.

2001 was an awful year for me and for most of us.
I had endometrial cancer, major surgery, then a long, slow recovery. Bush became president. The Lakers won the NBA title. My sister had a ticket to Paris scheduled to depart September 12. She had planned to have her birthday lunch at the Ritz.
In 2001, I loved the wrong woman far too much for far too long, and then the World Trade Center thing happened. I feel like I lived the year on a rickety carnival ride that would not stop to let me off.
But I am still standing, healthy now, no more nutty girlfriend, a wonderful baby kitty boy, good friends and a loving, albeit eccentric, family.
So it is a merry Christmas, and I wish serenity to everyone who reads this.

Is my comment reblogger broken, or am I just a total haircut blogging bore?

Christmas Eve Day: Noonish

Well, even if I tried I couldn't be in a bad mood today.
My friends Tricia and Irene just popped in with a little basket of homemade exotic cookies. I have never seen cookies like these. Cinnamon pinwheels, sage thumbprints, shortbreads, iced things, curly cue things, jam filled things, the works. How sweet was that?
Tonight I am making filet mignon, baked potatoes and salad, and my old friend Elaine is coming over to watch AbFab. She's bringing wine and lots of it, so it should be a great evening.
I read in the news some idiot boarded a plane with plastique explosives in his high top sneakers. The flight attendants and a half dozen passengers subdued him and belted him to his seat. A couple of doctors on board sedated him and another guy held a fire extinguisher to his face in case he acted up again. The news photo showed him with a shiner the size of a mini donut. I hope he has time to enter himself in the Darwin Awards, the stupid shmuck.
Wouldn't it be nice if everyone just behaved themselves one day of the year? I mean, it doesn't have to be on Christmas Day, but I just wish the world would pick one day not to be violent or nasty or sneaky or abusive or criminal or dogmatic or irritating or stingy or chicken shit.
I am going to do my part tomorrow. As I drive up to Austin, I am not going to tailgate, shoot the finger, fail to signal lane changes, or drive faster than 85 mph. Then once I get there, I am not going to use any variation of the word fuck all day and night. Even if someone gives me a fucking Chia Pet.

Christmas Eve Day, Early Morning

I was awakened dodging kitten kisses at around 4:30 this morning.
My 4-month old kitten James has gotten into the habit of licking my face awake when he's ready for some kibble action.
I noticed about a dozen brand new kitten toys shoved to the side in favor of his new favorite toys, pecans. He likes to play pecan hockey on the kitchen floor.
Now he's precariously perched on the headrest of my computer chair, helping me groom my hair with his tongue. He's cute, but that's gross no matter who is doing it.

I was thinking about driving up to Austin today so I could spend Christmas Eve with my family. I probably won't though, we aren't that traditional and we'd just end up watching TV and nodding out early. We used to go to midnight mass when we were little and Catholic, but now my Catholicism has been reduced to collecting religious kitsch, like saints who have pinpoint laser lights flashing around their silhouettes, a 3-D holograph that turns Jesus into the Virgin Mary, a nun in a snowglobe, and a host of other heavenly doodads.

The family was supposed to have a wonderful dinner tomorrow, roasted beef tenderloin and Yorkshire pudding, but the last I heard we've switched to tamales. I am not rushing anywhere for tamales.

I would like to stay in a peaceful frame of mind today and tomorrow, so I am willfully refraining from reblogging on this idiot's blogsite, where she complains about not passing a computer test, all the while telling us how brilliant she is and how stupid the test was. People who intentionally throw in lots of technical jargon and multisyllabic, industry-specific nomenclature to seem smart just seem like blowhards to me.
This chick actually said now that she blew the test, we could consider her mortal like the rest of us. If it weren't Christmas time, the words know-it-all and asshole would spring to mind.

Also denting my Yuletide serenity is my worrying about a friend whose relationship is hitting the skids. She's not allowed to e-mail or call unless her girlfriend is away, so I remain concerned and unable to lend any support. It's really none of my business, but still I am concerned.

Queer As Folk

Poor Sharon Gless, what a horrible wig they make her wear. To think she used to be the dyke's dream woman.
QAF sort of depresses me. Nobody gets what they want and everyone sort of settles for what they get. The token dykes are totally unbelievable.
When I lived in L.A. I had a gay male roommate. He was a handsome bartender and we had gay men at the door day and night.
One older guy, a German who owned a beauty salon, used to bring him all kinds of corny clothes to wear, like polyester disco suits and white shoes (it was the 70's). Everyone wanted my roomate, and he was quite the social butterfly. He died of AIDS about seven years ago.
I'm glad I'm not a gay man. After 40, they are antiquities who better have money stashed away, or else.
Does anyone else watch this show?

Sunday

I feel like I am in a little protective cocoon.
Seems I always have a lover at Christmas time and this year I don't.
And that's fine. No, really, it's fine.
After a year of my being constantly kept off balance by loving a borderline, I am in a peaceful place with no arguments, no tears and no daily drama.
My friend I mentioned four blogs ago who was in an abusive relationship has apparently discovered her tyranical lover was cheating on her. Yep. The lazy bum stays at home and lives off my friend, then cheats on her to repay her. Sounds like she'll end up in the part of Hell where they pipe in Yoko Ono music.
Being single allows me the freedom to develop deeper friendships with a variety of people. It also allows me the right to read myself to sleep everynight with a warm kitten curled up beside me.
I don't have to report in to anyone, explain myself to anyone or justify anything I decide to anyone. I don't even have to shave my legs every day.
With all the problems I hear from my friends about their fucked up relationships, I am thinking it's nice to be free for a change.

Chocoholic Non Anonymous

This Christmas is shaping out to be great.
A friend from So Cal gave me a big box of See's nuts and chews chocolates, and a brand new friend sent me from Canada a box containing 10 fabulous Cadbury Crunchie bars- only the best candy bars on Earth, and not available in the United States.
I ate one while I was wrapping gifts and it made the whole ordeal bearable.
Which brings me to another point.
There may be plenty of nuts online, but I have made some very sweet and thoughful friends via the internet.
One friend recently sent me a video of Shrek, a movie I just refused to see because I assumed it was stupid. It was hysterically funny, and I am so grateful to her for insisting I see it.
Anyway, I wanted to publicly thank my pals for their thoughtful gestures, and it's okay that I am now a belt size wider and smell like chocolate.
My holidays are happier for having good friends in my life, on and offline. I have much to be grateful for. So thanks, friends.

Dyke Drama: Part Deux

I have to applaud my good friend Suzy for her insightful blog on boundaries within relationships.
Please see my blog links and check her blog out at Queer Poets' Society.
Suzy described in depth precisely the trampled boundaries my online friend is experiencing.
Love is not love if you cringe when the person thinks you've broken a rule.
Love is not love when you live your life tiptoeing on eggshells.
Bullies only try to control those they think they can get by with controlling. They need to be backed down or back off.
Suzy's piece was dead on.
Read it, you'll be glad you did.

Good Things

Ice skater Katarina Witt makes my eyes bulge, my pulse quicken and my heart leap.
She is not an airy fairy princess, she's a sex goddess. I am surprised she doesn't melt the ice when she skates.
If I was in the depths of depression, under the covers with the shades pulled, all it would take was two minutes of watching her skate and I'd be cured.
I saw her skate in person once. I was slack jawed.

Dyke Drudgery/Dyke Drama

I have a friend online who is stuck in a relationship with a dictator. She has no privacy, she has her e-mail read, and she is not allowed friends unless they meet with her lover's impossible criteria.
My friend is the breadwinner while her lover sits at home and micromanages their lives. The lover is in an industry where the least bit of initiative could result in a lucrative career, yet she seemingly prefers to stay home and make sure nobody penetrates their fortress- or her lover.
A love based on jealousy, insecurity and unreasonable demands is not love, it's control. Often the controller has no control over her own life, so she finds it easier to control others.
The mystery is why the victim stays.
I guess even a strait jacket provides some warmth.

Thursday

It would be wrong to do another haircut blog, so I will try to serve up some random bits instead.
I am still itching, but being stoned on Benydryl helps.
Tonight is Survivor, where I hope Lex the tattooed creep gets voted off.
Then on ER I hope Dr. Kerry Weaver, the uptight dyke, gets to shtup that cute firefighter. I am convinced Kerry is so uptight because she needs to get laid.
Okay, I am bored.
I got nothin' else to say.

Afternoon Itch Blog

After regaining a semblance of control over my itchy epidermis, I have snuggled into a much better mood on this mild and sunny afternoon.
My friend Elaine dropped by and we went outside to my backyard to gather pecans.
The leaves covered them to the point where we were cracking them with our feet.
I must have 100 pounds of them yet to be harvested.
We gathered a wastepaper can full, then came inside. My hands were itching.
By the time we got in, my hands were red like chili. So I washed them with Nutrigena face soap, gooped them up with Gold Bond Ointment, then splashed on some tea tree oil for good measure. Then I popped a Benydryl.
I smell like someone sprayed me with organic bug killer. I am also groggy like an old blues musician.
Okay, I admit it. This is a haircut blog.
You know, a blog where the person talks about nothing.
Ha. Gotcha.

Itchin' to Get Inside Your Kitchen

"The Two Fat Ladies," a British cooking show, features two rather large and greasy English ladies who go on location at various schools, churches and other places with kitchens and whip up a variety of traditional English slop.
Their self-performed theme song describes how they "are itchin' to get inside your kitchen."
I always thought that was gross, since they both looked like they would have to scratch themselves a lot.
Which brings me to my point.
I have developed general itchiness for the first time in my life.
Maybe I have seasonal dry skin, maybe it's yet another hormone thing, but for the last two days I have been itchy from neck to foot.
Benydryl just makes me go comatose, and I have things to do today.
After hearing a million remedies from well-meaning friends, I finally soaked in a tub with baking soda and warm water, then greased myself down with Gold Bond Ointment.
It's helping, but I am miffed about having to use any kind of fucking ointment. I smell like someone's old granny.
So now I am thinking about whether I'd want someone who's itchin' to be inside my kitchen.
I think not.
The two fat ladies should have said "twitchin' to get inside your kitchen."
Twitching I can handle. Itching I cannot.

Where's Waldo?

Maybe we should put toddlers in charge of U.S. satellite surveillance, and let them find Osama bin Laden. If they can find Waldo, maybe they can help the Department of Defense find bin Laden.
Saddam Hussein wears a black fedora outdoors, and his henchmen wear matching hats.
They do it because Saddam knows our satellites can identify details as small as a mustache.
So let's consider this. Osama bin Laden is likely traveling with an entourage. So Waldo is more like a clump of Waldos. I really think he could have been found by now, but each passing week nets the U.S. Military Industrial Complex more money, so I think there's been a lot of pussyfooting around.

Some People Don't Know When to Shut the Fuck Up

In 1990, a young man named Chris Jackson was drafted by the Denver Nuggets to play pro NBA basketball. He was good. In 1995 he scored 51 points during a single game.
Shortly afterwards, he converted to the Muslim faith and became Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf.
He refused to stand for pre-game national anthems because he said, "America stands for oppression and tyranny." The fans hated it. The owners were humiliated.
Branded a troublemaker, he was thrown out of the NBA a few years later.
Now 32, he says he'd like to get back into the NBA, but "racism and religious prejudice" have blackballed him.
Okay, I am an ACLU supporter and First Amendment devotee. However...
Recently interviewed by HBO's "Real Sports," Abdul-Rauf said there was no evidence bin Laden was guilty in the WTC/Pentagon attacks.
Then he alleged that some 13 Israeli immigrants were atop a building across the river from the WTC, filming the crash while they laughed merrily. He went on to say they were here on expired visas (There is no record of this allegation with the Immigration Service or the media).
When pressed, Abdul-Rauf implied the attacks were done by Israelis, not Arab terrorists.
For him to allege racism while he makes inconceivably racist allegations against Israelis is simply absurd.
Turns out there is a penalty on zealous stupidity.
Abdul-Rauf was making millions every year as an NBA athlete. Now he's living in Gulfport, Mississippi with no apparent means of support.
At age 32, he's almost over the hill for the NBA, and with that mouth he's just too stupid to get it.

Snow Showers and 38 Degrees

My AOL welcome screen this morning said the current weather report for San Antonio was snowy and 38 degrees.
Still groggy, I went outside to check and it's maybe 65 degrees and dewy.
It hasn't snowed here since 1983. AOL is just silly.
Every Christmas, AOL does tons of TV commercials and gains millions of new members. The service becomes sluggish and members get booted off a lot.
Every year, I contact AOL to complain. Every year, they blame my computer.
Maybe my AOL service is sluggish because of all the snow outside.

Holidays, Schmolidays

I have read 25 blogs that detail the state of unpreparedness for Christmas, so I will refrain from describing my own. Besides, I am about as ready as I am going to be.

An interesting phenomena occurred on Saturday.

My ex-girlfriend, with whom I'd had zero contact since a particularly acrimonious phone call on October 30, sent me an e-card for Christmas, followed by a handful of e-mails, asking me about an unusual loose gemstone she'd purchased.
The phenomena was that I didn't react with my usual rapture, swooning and longing for her to be back in my arms. It was more like seeing the Wizard of Oz from behind the curtain.
In my mind, the bad times had blurred and the good memories had glazed over everything during the six-week silence. I felt I'd never get over her, and had been indulging in some monumental self pity as a result.
But her e-mails were rather, well, boring. My heart failed to pound at the sight of her name. That was a wonderful new feeling for me.
I am sure she was testing the waters in her usual noncommittal way.
She divulged nothing of herself, and when I followed suit and responded to her questions about the rock in the driest of geological terms, she eventually thanked me and wished me happy holidays and bid me to "take care."
I did not reply.
I suppose I could follow the Wizard of Oz theme and sing, "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead," but she's not a witch, nor is she dead.
What she is is an ex-lover whose once almighty hold on me seems to have died.
Given some time to heal and mourn, I am finally realizing that I am basically a happy person with few problems in life.
She was a problem.
We fought more than we loved, and she severely burnt me at the end.
I was addicted to her, and the addiction was wearing me down.
I think I may be free now, and that's the phenomenal thing.

On the 8th Day of Christmas

My true love gave to me...
Oh wait, I am single, so I guess I am my own true love...
Therefore:

My true love gave to me
Eight bean tamales
Seven Spammy e-mails
Six calls to return
Five more gifts to buy
Four loads of laundry
Three depressed friends
Two naughty cats
And The Partridge Family on TV

Beware: Politics

By now the world has seen the videotape where Osama bin Laden gleefully discusses the WTC and Pentagon bombings and as much as admits his involvement.
People who knew he was involved now know better. People who think he's innocent are not convinced now that they've seen him on tape. They say the tape was doctored.
Idiots are going to be idiots, and a video won't change that.
What is shocking is that he hasn't been captured and executed.
Now Bush is talking about going after Saddam Hussein. And he's trying to get out of the anti ballistic missile treaty.
One thing at a time, Bush.
What about bin Laden? Finish what you start.
We know you are already milking the tax payers for all we're worth with this billion dollar a day war habit. We know your daddy's cronies are happily lining their pockets. We know you let the Enron thing slip in, hoping we wouldn't notice.
The economy is slipping worse every day.
Nothing is getting done in the country, nothing but war, more war and future war.
What started out to be defense of our country has turned into a squandering of defense assets and tax dollars, with nothing to show for it.
Get bin Laden. Get his cronies, Bush.
Then maybe we can consider Iraq, but even that won't stop terrorism.
Like Enron, this war is making a few people rich and hurting the rest of us economically.
Don't think we don't know that, Bush.

My list of things to do:

Christmas shop for all my friends and loved ones
Shell pecans, dip them in chocolate for extra gifts
Festoon the house with Christmas decorations
Wrap gifts with beautiful papers and bows
String Christmas lights outside of the house
Drive around looking at Christmas lights
Address and send cards
Make hot mulled cider
Play holiday music

What I have accomplished so far:

The Perfect Christmas

I love my family. We have streamlined Christmas this year.
Eat. Open gifts. Nap. Go home.
We all have e-mails with lists of what everyone wants.
Some are vague and leave room for creativity, some were made by my Virgo sister, who was kind enough to include colors, makes, models, serial numbers, where to buy, how many cubic inches of wrapping paper and ribbon would be required, and cost plus tax.

O Holy Night!

Life is (Almost) Complete Again

Ahhh. Reruns of "Six Feet Under" have begun.
Oz is back on. Tales of the City reruns are back on.
There's HBO and Showtime, and there's life.
Right now, the former are in the lead.

Tomorrow: Christmas shopping in Austin.
Oy vey.

Paul Lynde, I Never Knew Ye

Last night on A&E they did a biography on Paul Lynde, the famous screaming queen square in the middle of the Hollywood Squares.
I knew from childhood that he was gay, what I didn't know was he was a mean drunk and obsessively compulsive about his house.
He once had a housewarming and made all the guests stay outside so they didn't mess anything up (Typical Gemini, my ex was the same way about her pristine apartment).
One time at a gay bar, some guy started giving him a hard time and he put his cigarette out on the guy's cheek. Damn, now that's what I call a mean drunk.
Toward the end of his Hollywood Squares gig, he had writers doing all his ad lib remarks for him.
He sobered up before he died at age 55.

You say Osama, I say Oksana...

Osama bin Laden, Oksana Baiyul- even if I can't be bothered to check if I spelled her name correctly, note the similarity in first names. Both the terrorist and figure skater are bitches, if you ask me.
I haven't met the cave dweller, but I did meet the skater, backstage at the Alamodome, after one of those figure skating extravaganzas.
All the other skater superstars gave me their autographs, even the tense, slightly horsefaced Nancy Kerrigan. But when I approached the Russian iceberg Oksana, she frowned and said, "Nyet." I said, "Nyet?' She replied, "Nyet." I said, "Da." She said, "Nyet" and walked away.
I asked Todd of Todd and Jenny what her deal was. He said, "She's a bitch is what her deal is."
Osama, meanwhile, said all the terrorists who died attacking the Pentagon and WTC will "get virgins in the afterlife."
That brings me to the age-old question, if dogs get cats in Heaven, are the cats in Hell?
I only know one thing for sure:
Three syllable names that start with O and end with A make for Class A losers, except for Olivia, which is four syllables.

THE PISCES LESBIAN

Oy. To rid yourself of a Pisces lover, hell I don't know, Pisces all hate me because I am too gruff for their dainty little sensibilities. Just shoot them, I guess.
The Pisces lesbian is usually either a femme or an overly sensitive soft butch.
When I close my eyes and contemplate Pisces, all I see is pink satin with little glittery hearts and filigreed crystal teddy bears and baby ducks. I hear Anne Murray music.
The Pisces lesbian likes her romance dramatic. Think Elizabeth Taylor.
Even the tough ones like lots of goo-goo baby talk, hugs, bubble baths, sunshine, lollipops and roses.
Reality is an inconvenience to most of them. The drudgery of business and bill paying is like splashing ice water in their faces.
Pisces blogmaven Jill Matrix may be glib and fuckable online, but I can assure you she's not handing it out to just any dyke off the streets. For a Pisces to make love, she usually has to be in love, or at least in serious lust.
A Pisces lesbian likes her lover to handle things. She is often too twitchy to deal with the cable guy, the roofer or the loan officer. She needs a strong shoulder to lean on, and if you go through a weak period, it's okay, she'll make believe you are strong until you get your act back together.
Pisces also sometimes likes the wounded bird kind of lover. She's a sympathetic type, so someone who's a drunk, depressed, has writer's block, no job or a bum hip might appeal to the Florence Nightingale in her.
To woo a Pisces lesbian, write her a sonnet, in calligraphy on parchment. Tie it with a lacy pink ribbon. Take her to a sad movie and cry your eyes out so she can see how sensitive you are. If you see a wounded animal on the roadside, pull over and pick it up and rush it to the vet, no matter how gross it is. You can't get too mushy with a Pisces, so lay it on thick.
To dump a Pisces, be gruff. Bitch about her impractical ways. Tell her about the zillion sex partners you've had. Tell her of all the lovers you've had, she's the most...recent.
That high pitched screaming you hear will be her, while she's methodically cutting all your pants in half.

THE AQUARIUS LESBIAN

If you want to off your Aquarius lover, force her to wear khaki pants, a plain white shirt and sensible shoes. Take her to Denny's or some other cookie cutter franchise for dinner, then follow it up with a long, serious movie that requires heavy concentration.
She'll die of boredom before the final credits roll.
Aquarius needs constant stimulation. Like her Gemini and Libra air sign counterparts, she's likely to change her mind constantly. The Aquarius won't tolerate complaints about it, either. Careful not to cross her, she can be a moody one.
She's her own person and has very defined ideas of what she will and will not tolerate.
If you interest her, amuse her and don't crowd her, she'll be all over you like a warm Earth sign.
If you bore her, piss her off or smother her, she turns to gossamer and disappears.
Multi tasking was invented for Aquarius. She can install new software, talk on the phone, bake brownies and fix a toaster at the same time.
Aquarians often have piercing, clear eyes and nice hair.
When she turns her focus on you, she makes you feel like the only woman on Earth, that is, until she turns her focus on something else with equal intensity.
When she is focused she makes a great bed partner, but don't expect to languish in bed all weekend. She has theories to contemplate, projects to do, people to meet and animals to feed.
On the plus side, Aquarius makes a friendly, likable lesbian. On the downside, she can argue over absolutely nothing until dawn.
I have an Aquarius friend who likes to talk politics. We are both liberal Democrats, yet she'll find a point to argue ad nauseam just for the sake of arguing.
People scatter when they see her coming at a party. She just doesn't know when to keep things light and make simple chitchat.
Aquarians are global citizens. The plight of the Afghani woman is as serious and immediate to her as her lover's health and well-being.
To attract an Aquarius, play it cool. Be interesting. Strike up a cause you can be passionate about. Surprise her. Tell her you love her eccentricity.
To dump an Aquarius, expect her to run by your clock. Demand sex every night and belittle her if she doesn't deliver. Cling to her like a monkey and make a huge scene when she tries to disengage. Yawn in her face when she starts to explain her latest fixation.
Bore her.
That UFO you see in the night sky will be her, returning to the Mothership.

THE CAPRICORN LESBIAN

To kill a Capricorn, lay out an assortment of narcotic prescription drugs, some psychedelic mushrooms, peyote buttons, ecstasy, a few tabs of acid, a kilo of good pot, a case of wine, a few cheesecakes, and maybe a keg of beer. Think Elvis. Think Janis Joplin. You get the Capricornian picture.
Prone to excess, Capricorns work hard and play harder.
These elder Earth signs are like mountain goats who can stand all day and night on a steep mountain side without showing fatigue.
The Capricorn lesbian is sly.
She's sexy without trying, but first she has to relax, stop fretting about minutia, put down the broom or mop or pencil and focus.
She moves at her own pace, which is often slow and deliberate. Don't rush her. Well, you can try to rush her if you want, but she won't go any faster than she's going.
She is often clever and glib, dropping one liners with a deadpan expression. She can walk in a room and size up everyone in it with a few, well chosen, hilarious adjectives.
She likes money. She might scrimp or squander her money, but it's hers and what she does with it is her business, and she'll not hesitate to tell you so.
A Capricorn might take forever to fall in love, but once she does she is in up to her eyebrows and nothing her lover does can dissuade her devotion. Even after a nasty breakup, the Capricorn will mourn the loss far longer than average.
When hurt, she sulks, ruminates and stews.
When happy, she radiates joy and expects others to feel the same level of joy with her.
She's eccentric. Her space is often crammed with objects she collects.
I have seen Capricorn lesbians collect porcelain, old laboratory beakers and test tubes, beer steins, spoons, clothes, shoes, chicken statues, CDs, old 45 records, bird houses, rocks, dried flowers, movie star photos, pens and pencils, wine labels, Beanie Babies, pottery, jewelry, religious kitsch, you name it.
When a Capricorn lesbian comes to call, she'll bring in a bag or backpack, filled with goodies. They are very sweet about sharing trinkets with their friends and lovers.
Capricorn lesbians are very good women. They are sexually accommodating and passionate lovers. If you have nice breasts, Capricorn will appreciate them like no other.
But they have their dark sides.
When they get into a brooding mode, they are set in concrete. They can freeze you with a stare, then clam up for days on end. They can also hold a grudge far longer than necessary.
To seduce a Capricorn, they have to respect and admire you. They have to feel you a just a tad better than they are, at least in some area. Feed them, flatter them and rub their stiff shoulders. When you feel them start to thaw, pounce. They are earthy, they can take it.
To dump a Capricorn, embarrass her in public. Complain about how much time she spends at work. Engulf her with phone calls, pages, e-mail and unexpected visits. Pay someone to smash a pie in her face at her workplace.
That voodoo doll you find on your front porch will be from her.

TapTapTap...is this thing on?

Is anyone reading any of this? Just checking.

THE SAGITTARIUS LESBIAN

Given an audience and enough caffeine, a Sagittarius lesbian will talk herself to death.
Add some beer or Scotch and she might just drink herself over the edge.
Sagittarius lesbians are the adventure girls of the zodiac. Even the femmes give off a masculine sort of independence. The assume every woman is a feminist and loudly criticize those who aren't.
Easily bored with details, the Sagittarius likes the big picture, fast talking, fast driving, fast sports, fast food and fast women.
They may seem klutzy in their approach to life, but they are really just direct. Very direct. Some say too direct.
Take the ethereal, gentle, mercurial, heady Gemini and totally reverse that to get a feel for Sagittarius. The Sagittarius, oldest of the fire signs, wants to slap most Geminis for being so damned airy.
Sagittarius needs fun and excitement. They need to be around happy, carefree types lest they slip into one of their inconsolable black moods, which is pitiful to witness.
Your Sagittarius friend or lover might pretend to listen to your tales of woe, but save them for someone like Pisces or Cancer, who will truly sympathize. Sagittarius likes headlines, not detailed accounts of your story, whatever it is.
To make a Sagittarius laugh, put on a Martha Stewart Living video and watch her react to all the nitpicking and perfectionism. She'll think it's a comedy spoof.
If you're looking for hearts and flowers romance, keep looking because Sagittarius will be your best friend and lover, but she won't ever be the mushy, heart on her sleeve type.
They make great friends because their loyalty is carved in stone, and they won't care if you call them at 3 a.m. to help you fix a flat, or go have a burger.
If you're looking for a permanent relationship, don't bother with a Sag if you are the possessive or insecure type. They'll make you crazy with friends and family and coworkers and strangers being given the same priority as you.
Oh they are faithful, usually, they just don't need a lover to be the center of their universe. They and their interests are the center of their universe.
To seduce a Sagittarius, be her friend and lover. Be ready for adventure on a moment's notice. Make her laugh. Try not to notice she's a know-it-all.
To dump a Sagittarius, be cheap, be negative, demand she cuddle you, hang on her in public, crowd her, and be as clingy as possible.
The swoosh you hear will be the airplane she's on, flying out of your life.

THE SCORPIO LESBIAN

To knock off a Scorpio lesbian, just leave her to her own devices and eventually someone may take her on a long walk off a short pier. They do have a knack for pissing people off, after all.
Ahh, the Scorpio lesbian! Such mystery! Such dark, delicious allure.
Let's get something straight, there are two distinct types of Scorpio: the lowly lizard and the noble eagle. The eagles resent the bad rap the lizards give the sign, and the lizards encourage their bad girl image.
A former lover of mine, a Scorpio eagle, summed up the way they see things.
I said to her once, "Oh, you Scorpion, you are just a little bug and I could stomp you with my big Bull hoof."
She calmly looked at me and said, "I'd crawl up your leg and sting you in the eye."
Years later, when I related that story to another Scorpio I was dating, she chuckled and said, "Well, duh."
Scorpios are really quite lovable if they are relaxed. It's just hard to get them to relax, when there are so many threatening influences out there.
They are suspicious. You have to earn their trust.
They are paranoid. You have to be very open with them until they see you aren't an agent provocateur.
They will not readily return the favor.
They have their secrets. They have their dark sides. They have their mysteries.
All that is a smoke screen, because when you discover who they truly are, all that mystery is usually much ado about nothing.
Sex is the true secret to the Scorpio lesbian.
She uses sex for love, power, self esteem, physical gratification, reward, punishment, relaxation, excitement, fun, drama, pleasure, control, and every other emotion and motive you can name.
The lizards are usually great in bed. The eagles are often loftier, and though they are technically skilled, they don't consider sex akin to water, food, shelter and air like their lizard counterparts do.
So why all the fuss about Scorpio? Because they can be devious, plotting, vengeful and just plain mean when crossed.
They make great spies, cops, robbers, forensic pathologists, psychologists and researchers, because they love to investigate and delve into dark little secrets.
Most Scorpio lesbians are fine women. Some are lowdown, dirty little rats. You just have to run like hell when you sense a ratty one. That's all there is to it.
To seduce a Scorpio, talk about your sexual desires. Look good. Keep her guessing, she loves a mystery more than anything. Take her near the water. Plan a lot of one-on-one time. Tell her she's the most wonderful person you've ever known.
To dump a Scorpio, rifle through her personal property. Tell her she's boring in bed. Nag. Pour on the drama. Make scenes in public. Tell your friends about your sex life with her.
That sound you hear in the dead of night will be her, sneaking away under the cover of darkness, never to be seen again.

THE LIBRA LESBIAN

To do away with a Libra, play to her innate self-indulgence. Given enough wine, women and song, the Libra lesbian will run her car up a tree while DUI.
Oh, sweet Libra, such a bastion of gentility and aesthetic pulchritude. How quaint thy matching retro bathroom accouterment, how pretty are thine field greens with balsamic raspberry vinaigrette.
How charming her coffee table, strewn with New Yorker magazines and Scottish toffees she bought at the most adorable shoppe whilst she was on holiday.
Okay, okay not all Libras are pretentious twits, but the majority who are screw it up for the rest of them.
Libra lesbians are great talkers. They love to go places to see and be seen. They are open minded beyond any sign. They are great diplomats. They are witty and outspoken in their own polite way. They play fair in games and sports.
Unlike their Virgo and Leo counterparts, there's no telling who a Libra will befriend.
A Libra lesbian party might include lesbians, drag queens, motorcycle gangs, midgets, their grandma, the grocery store clerk with her seven kids, dogs, professors and dope dealers.
The Libra will have manipulated everyone into bringing food or beverages, so the buffet will be bizarre, but there will be a buffet.
A Libra will take on any adventure. They love to go bye-bye, and they'll enjoy wherever they go as long as they get to lead the pack and decide where to go and how long to stay.
Do not quarrel with them over trivia.
They are never wrong, and if you prove them wrong, you are wrong for being so damned competitive and stubborn.
Planning to seduce a Libra lesbian?
Be perfect. Be prepared to be decisive, because they aren't. Ask her advice. Be artsy and learn to drop artsy peoples' names. Let her choose the music, and tell her she's a genius at selection. Buy her the perfect bouquet, the ideal painting, the most magnificent wine. Flash plenty of cash.
How to dump a Libra?
Tell her how old she's starting to look. Tell her to get off her lazy ass and make a decision. Stop ironing your party clothes. Take her to McDonald's and ask to go Dutch. Borrow money and don't pay it back. Answer the phone and stay on it during lovemaking.
That vague look in her eyes will say it's good-bye. She's sure not going to discuss it.

THE VIRGO LESBIAN

To kill a Virgo lesbian, take her CD's and spices out of alphabetical order. Tear a page out of her check register. Remove all the pens and pencils from her purse or briefcase. Speckle paint on several of her T-shirts. Splash water on her medicine cabinet mirror. Make all the pictures on the wall crooked. Tell her she looks sickly and give her a book of medical symptoms. She'll quickly go berserk and off herself.
Virgo lesbians are like pianos. When they are not upright, they are grand.
Virgo is the original "lady in the parlor and whore in the bedroom." Shhhh, don't tell anyone. For them, privacy is a holy sacrament. Especially sexual privacy.
Cursed with Gemini-like mental curiosity, their earthiness grounds them onto some semblance of sanity. Earth also gives them a curiously naughty, ribald sense of humor, which is totally incongruent considering their general prudishness.
The Virgo woman likes things and people tidy and shipshape.
She lives to serve, and will gladly help you clean up your act, your house and car. Messiness makes her edgy. Dirt and germs make her cringe.
She's a modest sort, and she'll bend over backward if you praise her. Criticize her or make her jealous, however, and she will turn into Lady Voldemort and torture you for the rest of your life.
Virgo is a sociable woman, sharp, outspoken and clever. Marcia Clark from the OJ Simpson trial, Sophia Loren and Meryl Streep exemplify Virgo's cool but friendly demeanor.
Virgos have a delightfully kinky sexual secret. They often like a little punishment in the sack. Maybe a little spanking, perhaps a little hot wax, but they all seem to like to pay for their guilty sensual pleasures somehow.
To seduce a Virgo, tell her how hard she works. Let her criticize you and tell her she's being constructive when she starts in. Don't whine or complain. Accept her hypochondria and show sympathy when she gets her next symptoms. Clean your shoes! Don't waste money or show off too much.
To dump a Virgo, be as dramatic as you can. Cry and/or scream at every opportunity.
Smoke cigarettes in her house and burn something like a table top or area rug. Belch. Fart. Tell everyone about your sex life and how kinky she is in private.
That icy chill you'll soon feel won't be the weather.

THE LEO LESBIAN

To kill a Leo, trick her into appearing on the Jerry Springer Show and expose some sordid sexual tidbits about her. Or tell the world she's penniless or dumb. She'll die of utter embarrassment.
Leo lesbians are simply luscious, if you like your woman sprinkled with plenty of ego and confidence.
When properly worshipped, the Leo woman will reward her lover with fabulous passion, romantic gifts, lavish praise and plenty of extravagance.
When improperly worshipped, Leo will cheat, say bitchy things and banish you from the royal boudoir. She may also bite your arm and claw your face.
Nobody on Earth throws a better party than a Leo lesbian. Only the best will do for their guests, and they spare no expense on food, drink and entertainment. Look no further than typical Leo, Martha Stewart.
For sex loving lesbians, Leos are a great choice. They are good in bed. Really good in bed.
The world may keep turning while Leo is making love, but in her bed, time and space are transcended and all her partner knows is she never wants it to end.
Leo will size up her lover, find out what she needs and give it to her. Well, that is if the partner measures up. Leo won't mess with losers, the downtrodden, the geeky or any otherwise socially unacceptable mates. A Leo's love is sorely tested if her usually successful mate has a downturn in luck.
To love a Leo, you better plan on making her the center of your universe. She won't tolerate a half-assed mate who doesn't demonstrate deep and abiding adoration on a daily basis.
Leo will have to be the one who decides on whether a relationship will commence from casual to serious. Just try to push her into anything she's not ready for. Ha! Good luck.
To seduce a Leo is fairly easy. Just pretend to be either a knight in shining armor (if she's femme) or a damsel in distress (if she's butch). Leos love to feel like the star of the movie, so they'll jump at the chance to rescue or be rescued and live happily ever after.
To dump a Leo, simply be indifferent, cheap or distracted. The queen of the jungle will soon be searching for fresh meat.

THE CANCER LESBIAN

To kill a Cancer, wait for a full moon and start to tease her. Tease her about her sentimentality, her mother, her moodiness, her corny hobbies and her haircut. She will probably kill you first, but the guilt will make her kill herself afterwards.
Cancer lesbians are usually very sweet, gentle women. They blush when they see you staring at them across a crowded room.
They kvell when they get attention, acting like it bothers them, but secretly loving it.
They hold everything inside, and when pushed to show too much of themselves, they sidle away until it's safe to come back.
The Cancer lesbian is not after flings and sexual romps. Even the most casual date is measured for her partnership potential, and she doesn't need to sleep with anyone just for kicks. She's the marrying kind, so don't go sniffing around for casual sex.
Cancer's home is a cozy little nest crammed with treasures and sentimental objects they'd rather die than lose. There are usually pets around who get treated like royalty. There will also be yummy things to eat and plenty of wine or other alcohol available.
While Cancers tend to be soft spoken, when they laugh they sound like they are insane.
Maybe the Moon makes then loony, but they all have very weird, often loud laughs.
If you can get one into the bedroom (better be patient), they are sensual, soft and loving. Their emotions blossom during sex, and they are easy to fall in love with.
Cancer lesbians are moody. They might not be bitchy moody, but they can get withdrawn and clam up. Don't bother to try and talk them out of it, either, and whatever you do never, ever intentionally try to piss one off.
To handle Cancer's moods, a few surefire remedies include foot rubs (they all love their own feet, for some reason), chocolate, sentimental music, a little toy, or just some old fashioned space. They won't discuss it, so don't bother trying.
To seduce a Cancer, show her your financial portfolio, introduce her to your mother, let her make the first move, buy her something antique or vintage, be gentle, tell her you dream of having a wife and picket fence one day, and cry with her at the movies.
To dump a Cancer, brag about all the lovers you've had, use terms like 'fuck' and 'piece of ass', flirt with her friends, tell her cooking is awful, and demand she go out to bars with you, several times a week.
You'll soon awaken to an empty house and a note pinned to your pillow, politely telling you to drop dead and go to hell.

THE GEMINI LESBIAN

To kill a Gemini (and you will probably want to at some point), lock her in an empty room with nothing to do. No books, computer, television, telephone, paper or writing tools, newspapers, magazines, nobody to talk to, no pets, no windows.
She's guaranteed to keel over from sheer boredom.
Gemini lesbians are usually beautiful or good looking. They are bright, shiny, active, witty and interesting.
They are also crazy as hell, every last one of them.
Think Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe, then throw in Melissa Etheridge for good measure. All Gemini.
We are talking high maintenance, lightning fast mind changes, decisions made on a bed of quicksand, waffling, wavering and otherwise total frustration.
Gemini thinks fast, talks a lot, remembers everything you said ...and nothing she said.
For a sign with so many shades of gray, they are usually very black and white with regard to the butch/femme dynamic.
They live in their heads, and everything must be filtered mentally before they can respond. Lovemaking in concept is deeper for them than the actual act.
Gemini must have constant mental stimulation before she can respond sexually. Bore her and she will turn from fascinating to iceberg in an instant.
When she changes her mind, which she will do often, she will tolerate no complaints.
A pissed-off Gemini is the proverbial ice princess, and she'll probably have to get bored with it before she'll let it go.
Criticizing a Gemini is a waste of time. She won't listen and she'll turn on you. She'll never hesitate to remind you of how you once betrayed her by questioning her judgment.
So why would anyone love a drama queen like so many Gemini women can be?
Because they are like catching a falling star. They light up a room. They are extraordinarily attractive and fun to be around, at least on a surface level. They have a knack for making their partners look better when they stand beside them.
When they focus on a lover, it's the warmest feeling on Earth. So what if the focus only lasts as long as it takes her to move on to the next interesting tidbit?
To seduce a Gemini, she must be dazzled with wit, a command of current events, a broad literary awareness, and a complete focus on her.
Never, ever let her think she's totally captured your heart, because once she knows she has, she'll be bored, twitchy and bitchy within hours.
To dump a Gemini, demand a lot of sex, be possessive, lay down a bunch of rules, make fun of the latest fad she's into, and be sure to bore her.
You'll wake up wondering if you dreamed her up, because she'll be gone without a trace.

THE TAURUS LESBIAN

If you want to kill a Taurus, just bring in a few wheelbarrows of chocolate and leave her alone for a few hours.
Taurus are the bulls of the zodiac, not necessarily bull dykes, but bulls nonetheless.
Witness the bull in a field: placid, massive, minding his own business. Get too close, too soon and the bull will charge.
The basic Taurus lesbian is staid, slow moving, deliberate and, well, often dull as a box of sand. Other planetary influences can perk the bull up, which is good because she needs it. Taurus is often intelligent, but not interested in intellectual games of oneupsmanship.
On the plus side, Taurus is loyal, romantic, generous, affectionate, sensual and sexually quite thorough. They usually have nice breasts, too.
On the other side, Taurus can be stubborn, cranky, lazy, set in her ways and far too habit-bound.
Taurus can be the original couch potato, and often has the girth to prove it.
Or, Taurus can be the artist, sculptor, singer or other creative force in the community.
Sometimes Taurus is both, storing energy to fuel a creative outburst, then popping back into dormancy.
To the world, the Taurus might seem a little gruff, a little hard to get close to, a little difficult. Think Tauruses Candace Bergen as Murphy Brown, or Barbara Streisand as Barbra Streisand.
To the bull's lover, Taurus is devoted, faithful, patient, doting, affectionate and demonstrative, at least in private.
The bull can go along with things for a long time, perfectly placid and reasonable. If upset, she'll usually try to calmly explain the source of her discontent...once. If the situation is not rectified and the bull gets pushed, look out!
Aries anger might be like a sparkler, but Taurus anger burns like molten lava. Steer clear until the danger passes. It's best to let her contact you, once she's composed again.
To seduce a Taurus, let her chase you until you catch her. Crowding a bull is a waste of time and it freaks her out. Luxury and sensual activities always work. The bull was made for wining and dining.
To dump a Taurus, cheat, lie and flirt with other women right in front of her. Spend money foolishly. Insult her mother. Deny her affection and sex. You may find a few of your CD's sawed in half, otherwise you'll be free to go.

THE ARIES LESBIAN

If you want to kill an Aries, just dare her to do something foolish and dangerous.
Be sure and tell her it cannot be done.
Aries are the first sign of the zodiac and the babies of the fire signs.
They are spontaneous, fun loving party animals.
They are the ones who buy all those red cars.
They are competitive, and bad sports when they lose. They are like men, they don't like a lot of mush or talking about feelings, but they do like sex, and a lot of it.
If you are on the prowl for a good, hot one night stand, Aries is a great choice.
They talk, a lot. They talk back a lot, too.
Like sparklers, their tempers flare fast and burn out in minutes. They don't have the attention span to nurse a grudge.
They are independent. The hate to be pinned down. Jealousy and possessiveness bother them, even though they do cheat on occasion.
They can separate love and sex, that is unless you cheat on them, then love and sex become one. Or it doesn't.
Aries like to see big picture. Details annoy them. Dull people annoy them. Stupidity annoys them. Slowness annoys them.
If they are not the life of the party, their date is, and they stand in the limelight proudly beside them...at least for a few minutes, then they get bored and wander off.
They aren't too concerned about what others think.
They won't burden you with their hurt feelings and misty water color memories- who's got time for that crap?
They are usually attractive, with large expressive eyes and bright smiles. They take good care of themselves and often look younger than their years.
They are often quick, articulate and direct.
To seduce an Aries, just say, "Hey, I am attracted to you, let's go to bed."
To dump an Aries, smother her, demand an accounting of her time and how she spends her money, and insist she stays home every night.
The next sound you hear will be a red car, peeling out of the driveway.

Astrology for Lesbians

I have informally studied astrology since I was 12, and I have been a lesbian almost as long, so I am a self proclaimed expert on lesbians and their signs.
Many will bristle and offer caveats like, "Oh, the sun sign is just one of many facets of a chart." Too bad, this is free and it's sun signs only, so there.
...or they may say, "Yeah, but I am not like other Geminis."
To that I say bullshit, they all say that.

I'll start with Aries, probably tomorrow.
Stay tuned, you impatient little babyish fire starters!

Tinsel on My T-shirt
I can't quite get in the Christmas mood when the weather is in the 70's. I like the weather, don't get me wrong, it's just not Christmas weather.

Unwelcome Wagon
I have a new next door neighbor. I haven't met him yet but I've heard him on his cell phone in the driveway that separates our homes. He talks way too loud, like he's new to cell phones. He's a single man.
I hope he doesn't turn out to be one of those creeps who do things that make the media come around and force me to have to say, "He was a quiet guy, kept to himself a lot, and I am totally shocked he turned out to be..."

Astrology for Lesbians
I am planning to blog an astrology piece so people can get a bead on their lesbian potentials and friends. It'll be wildly accurate and guaranteed to offend everyone at least once or twice. Stay tuned.

James the Kitten
My kitten James, just shy of his 4th month, is huge. He's about 9 pounds now, eats like a lumberjack, beats up his 14 pound big brother Bart, and is otherwise a big fat baby. He thinks he's so funny when he stomps over my bed and flops down with his anus about a half inch from my face.
The other day I had figure skating on TV and James watched every second of it. He was literally paws against the screen, trying to catch the skaters. He almost caught Rudy Galindo, but all the glitter must have temporarily blinded him.

Chanukah Savings
Now that the Jewish Canadian Gemini and I have split up and have no contact, I guess she won't be getting those eight Chanukah gifts after all. Damn, I'd planned to make her a special Chanukah Tampon angel and now I have all this blue and white glitter for nothing. With Chanukah only five days away, I can forget about finding another Jewish lover to give an angel. Oh vell, nothing to get shpilkes about.

News Anchor, Pervert
ABC affiliate KSAT former news anchor Gerry Grant was arrested several months ago for receiving kiddy porn photos in an area motel. Word is he was doing fantasy child molesting with his favorite prostitute. Further word is he was actually going down to Mexico and having sex with little girls. Allegedly, the hooker turned him in because his fantasies were starting to include killing a child after having sex with her.
Now awaiting trial, he's working at a chic bakery called "Broadway Daily Bread."
I wouldn't want his nasty hands on my buns.

Christmas Shocking

Several years ago, my friend Elaine and I got together on a Sunday afternoon in December and popped in on people who either didn't like us or we didn't like.
"Surprise!" we'd say. They'd register shock, but have us in and we'd eat their cookies or other Christmas goodies, then leave. We called it doing our Christmas shocking.

Monday after the Blue Moon / Music Blog

Jeeze, I woke up in an unexplained funk this morning.
I slept way late and woke up feeling like I'd taken mega drugs last night, but all I had was a little brandy at around 8.
I had to put on Natalie Cole singing, "This Will Be" to perk myself up.
It's hard for me to count out time signatures in songs, but I think that song must be faster than a heartbeat. It's a therapeutic song, even if it is about romantic love that I am not currently feeling for anyone.
The Pointer Sisters used to record songs in something like a 32/16 beat to get dancers up on the floor. "I'm So Excited" was one of them. Damn song liked to kill me in my dancing fool youth.
I think George Harrison's death has hit me harder than I would have realized. Now we are down to two Beatles, and when they die I'll be officially an old geezer.
I listened to his song, "I Got My Mind Set on You" the other day and it brought back so many memories. I remember playing it while a nubile woman I wanted to date leaned into my car window and listened to it. It came thisclose to working on her.
I need to get a copy of "Who Let the Dogs Out" so I can play it real loud when the neighbors are playing Tejano music in their front yard.
I think they deserve a break from opera.

Sunday, Muddy Sunday

It's raining hard.
It's dark outside and it's only noonish.
I feel dark inside. Not sad, not upset, just dark and brooding like the weather.
I watched a large, black comedienne on TV last night, lambasting those stinky Arab guys who clerk at convenience stores. She was totally racist, but those clerks do sometimes smell like camel urine, so what the hell?
The Pakistani owner of the convenience store near my house is a dick. He is suspicious of everyone, sulky, rude and obnoxious. He sells expired milk and bread. He has shortchanged me more than a few times.
I had it out with him after he expected me to leave him a blank check before I gassed up my car. He can kiss my American citizen ass. Once I was wearing a wrist monitor to test my movement for an exercise program I was in. He asked if it was a police monitor or some parole thing, the ignorant fuck.
He doesn't stink, but he does wear stripes and plaids together, which is just as bad.
It's not his ethnicity that bothers me, it's the fact that he's a dick that bothers me.
My friend Elaine said black people loved pork chops because they are shaped like the continent of Africa. If I told that joke onstage I'd probably be booed for being a racist. But pork chops are shaped like Africa.
I could never be a comic on the lesbian circuit. They are too PC and would boo me off the stage and maybe pelt me with soy beans.
I am not a racist or a sexist, I am sick of everyone in general without prejudice. If I want to make fun of anyone, I'll do it and take the consequences.
People are too fucking touchy. Me included.

In Case of Emergency

I have a quarter kilo of El Rey dark chocolate on my shelf, just waiting for the right crisis.
Like a fire extinguisher or other safety device, it stands at the ready.
When cookies won't do, when cake is not enough, there is my block of 100 percent flavor beans, brimming with rich chocolatey goodness.
I first read about El Rey chocolate a few years ago in Texas Monthly.
It's a Venezuelan import, believed to be the finest grade chocolate in all the world. Pastry chefs worldwide use it in their best recipes, much to the dismay of Swiss, German, French and Belgian chocolatiers.
When I read the article, it was only available in a few Texas cities, the closest being Fredericksburg, a town about 70 miles away.
I called my best friend Anna and we rushed to Fredericksburg that morning to get some. I bought two kilos.
Now I keep at least a quarter kilo on hand for medicinal purposes.
That I haven't had to break into it yet is a very good sign. But the day is young.

The fog is lifting.

I have had one hell of a November. Nothing has gone wrong, yet I have skulked around all month waiting for some impending disaster to envelop me.
As the month draws to a close, the ghost of my former lover is finally evaporating.
In retrospect I imbued her with so many virtuous qualities that I began to miss them, even though they were rarely glimpsed.
Now with some space and time (and some fervent prayers that she leave my consciousness) I can see her in a clearer light.
She never compromised, she was insanely capricious and she would have driven me stark staring berserk had we ever cohabited.
I have a friend here in town who is in the same boat.
We have discussed loving women who are not emotionally available, and have helped illustrate to each other through our own foibles the absurdity of it.
Basically, if it doesn't feel reciprocal and loving, it's probably not.
If she seems to be doing all the taking and not much giving, she probably is.
If she doesn't make you feel like a priority, you probably aren't.
If she says she has unfinished business with her ex, believe her.
If she says she doesn't deserve you, she probably doesn't.
I adored my ex, but she said she wasn't good enough for me and it didn't matter whether I thought she was, what mattered was she was coming from a place where she believed she wasn't. Her actions reinforced that.
She may have been good enough for me, but her self doubt and self hatred made her not good for me. Ha! A fine distinction.
Anyway...it's over and it's not starting up again. So now all I have to do is figure out what to do with all the energy I have now that I am no longer perseverating about her.

Damn, That's One Crazy Chick

I know this blogger, and I won't mention names but hers kind of rhymes with Crazy.
I have been reading her blog on the sly and she's sort of coming unglued, right before my eyes.
It appears to be the manic side of manic depression, but now they call it bipolar, so let's just say her bipolar bear is wayyy out of hibernation.
I am sure she is a high functioning bipolar, she's certainly an intelligent woman, it's just remarkable to see how she writes with her brain's high beams on.
So now I am worried that I may come unglued one day and people will read my blog and think, "Sheesh, she's really flipping out."
Okay, I have no diagnosed mental illnesses, save for a little generic depression now and then, but one never knows when one may snap.
After a year of loving a borderline personality, I have to admit I have been pondering mental illness and why lunatics seem to like me so much.
I like to think it's because I am eccentric, iconoclastic and accepting toward other eccentrics, even the nutters. At least that's what I like to think.
But then I read a blog where I see someone wigging out and I think, "Damn, she needs some serious meds adjusting."
Should I say something? Nahhh. I am not a therapist, and for all I know she's perfectly sane.
But then I am no cinematographer, either, but I can tell when a movie looks dark.

Tattoo You

I don't have any tattoos.
I may have gotten one, but two things stopped me.
My father got one on each forearm during WWII when he was a drunk sailor.
They were the old, blue kind and they weren't very nice after 50 years. He always wore long sleeved shirts to hide them.
Cynthia Marshall was a beautiful girl I went to high school with. She had a full color peacock tattooed between her lower abdomen and upper thigh. Three children and 30 years later, I suspect that peacock looks more like a dead duck now.
I don't mind them on others, just not on me.

Daytrippin'

On AOL this morning there was a localized blurb on my welcome menu that touted great daytrips to take in and around San Antonio.
San Antonio is the tourism mecca for Texas, so I expected to find several great getaways.
Nope. They mentioned the toilet seat museum in Alamo Heights, a fancy suburb here in town. Then they mentioned Seguin, Texas, home of the second largest pecan in the world.
I have driven by the "museum". It's in an old geezer's garage, plastered with decorated toilet seats. I have never actually stopped to view his treasures.
The pecan I have seen. It's a big cement pecan, about the size of a prize hog at the county fair. Nothing to travel to see, that's for sure.
I take tourists to a grocery store near the toilet museum called Central Market. They are so specialized they sell baby corn, like you get in Chinese food, still in the shuck. They have an entire aisle of hot sauces, candy bars from England, and sodas from Central America. Now that's a tourist attraction.
On the way to Seguin, there's a windowless shack painted red with a crudely lettered sign that says, "HOT FISH." That's a place that would likely be better than seeing the world's second biggest pecan.

Ho Ho Ho!

It never fails.
The weekend after Thanksgiving, Margie, my neighbor across the street covers her house with lights and bows and Santa statues and all the crap she can pile on. Even her rooftop is lined with lights.
In a few days after her lights are settled in, Andy the guy next door to her will try to top her. He wraps his house in an enormous bow and backlights it, then he brings in a cherry picker and does the treetops. Then he does his whole wrought iron fence and sidewalk in chaser lights.
Margie sees it and gets pissed and brings in fence lights, more bows, chaser lights and lines her driveway in more lights. And she puts out big pots of pointsettias.

What I do for Christmas is far more classy.

I make tampon angels.
Here's how:

Take a Playtex tampon and soak it in water, then tie a string around the neck to make a head, and flare out the bottom to make a skirt. Let that dry, then paint the face flesh color and add little beads for eyes, and paint on a nose and lips. Use a darker pink to make blush.
Add dryer lint for hair, drizzle some glitter on the dress and glue on little golden paper wings.
Add a paperclip hook and use as a tree ornament. If you get a 24 pack of Playtex tampons, you can make two dozen beautiful keepsakes to give as gifts or to keep as heirloom treasures.
Happy Holidays!

Mazel Tov: A Wedding Story

You know the wedding is going to be good when a week before you are invited to a liquor shower. Yep, a bunch of us journalists types got together and festooned the happy couple with bottles of premium booze to use at their wedding reception. They raked in quite the stash, too.
The wedding itself will be performed at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, a place with a lively reputation for sponsoring the annual gay and lesbian film festival, art shows, controversial speakers, hot concerts and a very cool Conjunto Festival poster contest each year.
The "minister" was ordained on the internet. Close enough, I say.
After the wedding, we'll push back the chairs and let the mariachis in. Bottles will be cracked open and the mayhem will begin.
At the liquor shower, Jennifer the bride-to-be cornered me (after she was finished jumping fully clad into the swimming pool) and said, "I want you to wise up my aunts at the wedding."
"Wise them up? How?" I replied.
"Well, they are both lesbians."
"What do you want me to do, hit on them?"
"No. They are both really butch."
"Eeeuuwww," I said. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Well, they are closeted, at least they think they are."
"So you want me to out them?"
"No, I want you to show them it's comfortable to be out."
"How?"
"I don't know, but you seem comfortable to be out."
"I am."
"Okay, then show them how to be like that."
"Oh...umm, okay I'll see what I can do."
"Oh, and one more thing," she said.
"What's that?"
"I want you to talk to my mother."
"About what?"
"Tell her to get off my back."
"Jennifer, just how drunk are you tonight?"
"Very."
I've known Adrian, the husband-to-be, since he was 18. I was his college newspaper editor and forced his first story on him.
"Adrian, quick, there are camels across the street, go cover it!"
"Huh? Camels? Why are there camels?"
"How the fuck should I know? You tell me!"
"But..."
"But, nothing! Go, go, go! Take a photographer with you!"
His story made the front page, above the fold. I worked him like a plow horse all semester after that. He became an outstanding journalist.
It should be a great wedding.
Wait till I get my hands on the mother and the aunts.

The Day After Thanksgiving

I have so much to be thankful for.
I drove 85 miles to Austin yesterday morning to be with my biological family for the holiday. All well over 40, we get along just fine.
We have an hilarious matriarch, who at 89 can still tell a room why George Dubya is an imbecile. She was nursing little glasses of cassis and feeling no pain.
My sister's lover-in-law (that's her lesbian lover's mother) is also a lesbian who
co-founded the Human Rights Campaign. She was there with cutting edge political gossip and a total disregard for any semblance of pretending to be straight.
My adopted sister, another lesbian, was there practicing Oriental medicine on my big brother's headache. It worked like magic.
Everyone in my family appreciates a nice spread, so we had two kinds of turkey, a spiral cut ham, mashed potatoes and potato salad, yams with Grand Marnier, some kind of creamed corn from some snazzy restaurant, little puffy rolls, green peas, and the best part was the way the gravy was served. No little gravy boat for this crowd, my sister serves it in a giant soup tureen with a huge ladle.
There were three kinds of pies, pecan, pumpkin and apple, all homemade.
I had brought with me some Nouveau Beaujolais, a bottle of cassis and some Cuban cigars.
I got home around 7 and was too tired to do anything but futz around on the computer.
I met an interesting woman online and we shared one of those "My Dinner With Andre" kinds of conversations. It spilled over to the telephone and ended in the wee hours.
I woke up wondering what that was all about, but smiling as I wondered.
Tonight is a liberal Mexican wedding between two journalist friends of mine. That's another blog.

Oh My God.

I am going out to a bar tonight after I watch the Spurs game with friends.
I hate bars, but I am going to meet a friend there for a drink. Maybe 4 drinks.
It's a lesbian bar. I have been there once, when I had out of town company who insisted we go.
But I am going, and I plan to have fun and pretend it's not smokey and loud.
That's my plan.
I'll just take off my bar clothes in the driveway and let them air out overnight before I go inside my house.
Yep. Looking forward to the bar.
Here's me, at the bar. I am visualizing it. Yep, there I am. At the bar.

Good Morning, Officers

This morning I was awakened by the doorbell. Outside my bedroom window, I could hear men talking. They noticed the "NO SALES REPS-EVER!" sign on my door but they kept ringing the doorbell.
On the third ring I answered the door and angrily asked "What do you want?"
The guy was hemming and hawing, so I said, "You read the sign, I don't want to buy anything, so get off my property."
"But we aren't selling anything," he said.
"Then get the fuck outta here," I replied.
He and his two other jumpsuit-clad homeboys walked next door, up the driveway and toward the backyard. Looked to me like nobody was home.
I went out to see what was up.
They were milling around and I said, "Y'all need to get back in your truck and get out of this neighborhood." They said they were supposed to be there. I said I was going to call the cops.
So I did.
In two minutes, three squad cars arrived.
Turns out the jerks were supposed to be next door, doing some kind of grunt work.
Why they felt the need to wake me up remains a mystery.
The cops took a report and left.
All I can say is, I hope those guys like opera, because I intend to blast it from my stereo speakers until they leave.

Harry Potter and Women

I am glad the HP movie sold a record number of seats to it's weekend premier. It was a wonderful movie everyone should see.
We attended the late late 10:40 showing and the theater had only 10 filled seats. Naturally the three hulking teen boys in the audience sat behind us and yacked through the movie.
Finally the last vestige of connection to my former girlfriend has been exorcised. She turned me on to the Potter books (sent them to me, actually) and it had been a yearlong dream of ours to see the movie together.
That dreamed came crashing down last night, just like all the others.
She likely saw the movie with her reconciled ex girlfriend, a dimwitted cow named Ramona whose only apparent redeeming quality is being a substantially wide shield against the wind.
But I have seen the movie now without her, and there's nothing left to hold us together. No more dreams for her to ruin, no more lies, no more histrionics, no more Andrea, period.
Meanwhile, what exists in her wake are a small bevy of women, most of whom have an enduring connection to someone they cannot have. Tedious.
I met a woman a few weeks ago who is very bright, kind, decent, attractive, with many other attributes. Alas, her life is mired in lots of unfinished business online. She has strong feelings for a woman she's never met, and for another she's never met or even spoken to.
Hard to compete with all these www.women. So I've decided not to.
Women are a lot of work. So much, in fact, we should take some leave from them on occasion. I believe this week I'll do just that.
Oh my God.
I've finally succumbed to the Great Lesbian Cliche: I need some space.

Dubya's Farm

George Dubya's "ranch" in Crawford, Texas is not a ranch, it's a farm.
He doesn't even ride horses, he drives around the "ranch" in a white SUV that doesn't even have any dents in it.
I don't think he even has any cows or horses. Maybe some sheep.
He ain't really a Texan, he's an East Coast prep school boy pretending to be a Texan.
The wife is a Texan. The twins are Texans. But Dubya, he's a Yankee, born in New Haven, Connecticut. He spent high school at Phillips Academy and Andover.
After high school, he went to Yale.
Nothing Texas about him. He just thinks it makes him look butcher to call himself a Texan rather than a Connecticuddlian.
Besides, Texas ranchers don't wear Dockers and Sperry Topsiders to do ranchwork.

Sometimes things just fall into place.

It's pouring rain outside. My house is strewn with the wreckage of a three month old kitten. My hair is sticking out on the side like Ace Ventura. I have laundry to do.
Social plans are stacking up like cordwood. I have RSVPs to make, gifts to buy, mail to send out, work to do.
I was feeling overwhelmed.
Then she called last night and said she'd be here this weekend.
Driving in from Colorado, 1023 miles to Texas, she's coming to meet me.
Now that's what I call girlfriend potential.

Wednesday Ruminations

If television is the opiate of the masses, then the internet must be the crack cocaine of the masses.
I have seen people do all kinds of screwy things because of chatrooms.
I knew this woman from England who got involved with this woman couple from Coney Island. She was doing both of them, unbeknownst to each other.
She worked for a mobile telephone service in the UK and got free long distance as a perk. She ran up a £3000 phone bill in one month calling across the pond. They fired her.
So she took her scant savings and flew to NYC to meet these women. I am not judging anyone, but the three of them exceeded 1,000 pounds of weight. All were shocked at the details the other left out. So the two black women from Coney Island and the one white woman from London were stuck in a tiny three floor walk-up, looking at each other in bemused, disappointed wonder.
They lived out the whole drama in the UK Lesbian Bi Gay chatroom. One would get on and dis the others. Then she'd get off and another would get on and hear how she'd been dissed. Then the third would get on and hear how the other two had dissed her.
Then she'd dis them. It ended quite badly. Nobody emerged with a lover, rather, all emerged with two new enemies.
Like driving by a car accident and trying to see blood, chatrooms are a morbid curiosity for me.
They are the cesspool of the internet. They often breed suspicion, adultery, gossip, intrigue, dishonesty and melodrama. Some people live out their lives in them, addicted like crack whores.
Much safer to be a blogger whore.

Late Night Haiku
(after the Michael Jackson TV special & too much coffee)

Whitney Houston, yo
Saw her with Michael Jackson
Karen Carpenter

Luther Vandross, like
Oprah, he looks better fat
Eat some pie, Luther

This woman I like
Very complicated, she
Sort of like physics

This woman I like
I think she needs chocolate
I think we all do

Paula Poundstone is back in trouble.
Seems she violated her parole by taking a "non-prescribed medication."
Is she the Robert Downey Jr. of the dykes? Is that the best we can do?
Okay, I am a Public Relations practitioner and I have some free PR for her:
Lose the fucking tie. Look around, Paula. No dykes wear ties.
Get that hair tamed down. There are products, use them.
She's creeping me out.

Where do I register my complaints?

I think those internet ads that strobe flash in your eyes ought to be felonies. They make my stomach flip. I could have a seizure! Also, that ad where you pound the gopher with a hammer is wrong, too. You should be able to pound him without being transported to some lame website.
They need ads that blow the scent of coffee or chocolate or cinnamon rolls through our CD ports. I'd like that.
Once I visited a boat magazine site and they sent me a free T-shirt. And I entered an online "I Slept With Clinton, Too" essay contest and won a T-shirt from them.
Sure beat that dumb gopher.

testing reblogger testing 123

Has anyone noticed...

Has anyone noticed that George Dubya is back to being a dumbass?
After all the flagwaving and Chevy Truck ad-inspired Americana, what remains is a country facing economic crisis, anthrax coming through the mail and a billion dollar a day war habit.
The other day Dubya pronounded "nuclear" new-cue-ler. That ain't right.
Seems Afghanistan rebels are taking over the Taliban strongholds day by day. Still no bin Laden.
We have spy satellites that can see a Homberg hat on Saddam Hussein, yet we can't find one cave dwelling nitwit in a leveled out country? Sounds fishy to me.
We have an airbus drop out of the sky onto a Queens neighborhood and we say, "Oh good, it probably was not a terrorist attack, just acute mechanical failure."
When you use the words 'just' and 'acute' together in a phrase, that says something about how enured we've become to all this shit going on.
I am just hoping bin Laden doesn't get his hands on any newculer weapons.

"Insanity is when you keep doing the same things and expect a different outcome."

I don't know to whom I should attribute that quote, but it's one my best friend keeps using on me.
I think I might just number my behaviors and use the numbers to describe my latest dilemma. "Hey Anna, I am doing a 3," I could say. That way she'd know I was mixed up with someone who was mixed up with someone else.
Or I could say, "Oh, I am having a 5 day." That would mean I decided to leave the 3 person.
Or I could say, "Things are great, I am having a 7 today." A 7 might mean a reconciliation after the 5, with the 3.
Maybe what I need are more 0 days. That would mean nothing is going on and things are the same as they were yesterday.

I had a blog, then too many people I knew were reading it, then I had to watch what I said. So this is my new one. Here I go.
Oh hell, I have nothing to say yet.