Thursday, January 31, 2002


It's been so humid and warm all week I've been wearing shorts and a T-shirt here in Texas. Meanwhile, my friends up north are having storms and snow and sleet all over the place.
It has cooled down a bit here, to 57 degrees, but that's not winter weather.
I couldn't make it in winters up North. I'd never leave the house. I'd be one of those wackos wearing a miner's light on my head and being treated for Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Zed is up in Canada right now, gleeful over the coming blizzard. She walks to and from work! Outdoors!
That makes me wonder, if you are a Canadian and you hate cold weather, where do you live? It's not like America where you can move to Phoenix or Miami to avoid the cold.
Hey, I heard Celine Dionne's husband Rene has a $10,000 a week gambling habit. Can you imagine supporting a partner who spends that kind of jack on gambling? Especially one who looks like that dude? Yeecch.
Celine: "Oui, Rene, he likes to go to zee casino while I stays home with zees skeeny babee." Uh huh.

Wednesday, January 30, 2002

Still Stupified

I cannot lose the thought of Noelle Bush and her dire stupidness the other day.
I mean, what was she thinking? Here's what: gotta get zoned gotta get zoned gotta get zoned...
If Jeb can help his brother steal an entire election, can't he notice his kid is looking like Marilyn Manson with that stringy hair and the white eyeballs?
Hell, even if she WAS having an anxiety attack, all she had to do was call Daddy's house and they'd send a limo over to rush her to the ER where she'd get all the legit dope she wanted.
Bitch has no patience!

Suspended Animation

I am too sick to function at 100% and too well to be in bed.
I can smell but I can't breathe. I am coughing but it's not painful coughing.
My hearing is fine, if fine means I have a fishbowl on my head. I am using five Kleenex per minute and have no skin left under my nose.
And, in the midst of all this, I have developed a crush on yet another Canadian.
For months I have been avoiding it. I have allowed myself constant distractions, pretended not to think of her, only called her a little bit, but it's too late.
I am smitten.
And she's wayyy Canadian, with the 'oat' and 'aboat' and the ice skates and the snow and that gentle, polite thing they have going, ey?
And she's sane, romantic and thoughtful, so I have no idea how to handle her.
I guess I may start with a few haiku.

Here I go again
Another Canadian
Hey! Zed rhymes with bed!

She'll die reading these
She had no hint I'd write this
I bet she's blushing

Canada? Why me?
I'm in Texas, far away
and hockey bores me
Anxious Bush

>>TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) - Gov. Jeb Bush's 24-year-old daughter was arrested at a pharmacy drive-through window Tuesday on charges of trying to buy the anti-anxiety drug Xanax with a fraudulent prescription. Authorities said Noelle Bush, President Bush's niece, apparently posed as a doctor and called in the phony prescription after suffering a panic attack Monday night. Noelle Bush, who was to start a new job Tuesday at a software company, was jailed and released pending arraignment. <<

How stupid are these Bush progeny?
First Dubya's twins try to use fake IDs to buy booze in Austin and this one tries to score some Xanax at a Walgreen's at 1 a.m.
She's the President's niece and the Governor's daughter, what's to panic about a new job?
Gee, it's late and I can't sleep. I think I'll call Walgreen's, pose as my physician and scrip me up some phenobarbital. Can I get anyone anything else while I am at it?

Tuesday, January 29, 2002

Sleepy Tuesday

Okay, maybe I overdid it yesterday.
If my life was the Seven Dwarves, their names would be Sleepy, Sneezy, Snotty, Sweaty, Wheezy, Dopey and Phlegmy.

Monday, January 28, 2002

Foggy Monday

Okay, I am better now. Not completely better, but good enough to move out of the sickroom and into the rest of the house where mountains of used Kleenex were strewn about by a certain undersupervised butterscotch kitten.
While I was sick I see CBS snuck behind my back and canceled The Ellen Show. I actually only saw it once because they kept moving it around and preempting it.
It seemed at least as good as Everybody Loves Raymond, I mean, at least it had one fuckable person in it.
Ellen did slide down my list, however, when I discovered she was an Aquarius and not a Capricorn. Now I can see how she could tolerate Anne Heche's planetary adventures.
I had an Aquarius girlfriend once. We moved to LA together in our early 20's and were staying in a little hotel in Redondo Beach while we looked for an apartment. She used her last $20 to buy a hamster, a cage and a squeaky running wheel for our hotel room.

Sunday, January 27, 2002

I Just Have to Say Something.

I have been bumping into this story all week and I just have to say, of all the lesbians on the planet, are these two the best they could come up with as potential lesbo breeders?
Egads. Looks like somebody with a wicked sense of humor Photoshopped them using the rug beater tool.
Day Five. Still alive.

Yesterday was like a hokey 70's movie where the heroine is on some bad acid and the same bad guitar riffs keep playing over and over.
I can't remember anything from yesterday except the words decongestant and antihistamine, and I think the former was supposed to clear out the ear pressure, so I squirted some in via my now-calloused nasal passages.
Then I took two Tylenol PM and awakened hours later without the earache, but drenched in sweat.
I think I had soup and I know I had orange juice. I've lost 6 pounds since Tuesday.
I think diet and exercise might actually be preferable to this.
I've had to resort to using Burt's Bees Hand Salve to ease the nose and lip chafing from all the nose blowing. If it gets any redder, I'll have to get some udder balm at the feed store.
My sense of smell may never come back. I put my whole nose in a Vicks bottle and it didn't register any scent. Note to myself: this may be a good day to clean the litter boxes.
As to my kitties, well, all I can say is used Kleenex + Oriental rugs= I need a wife.
Nyquil now has a new Nyquil Plus Cough formula that's excellent. It's a little like raspberry liqueur, and cheaper than Chambord, so I may use it to make Kir Royales next time I entertain.
Writing this blog has tired me out so I am going back to bed.

Saturday, January 26, 2002

Day Four. Earache.

What rings nonstop and hurts like hell?
My left ear. Yep, now I have an earache.
Any home remedies out there?
I really don't want this to get to the antibiotic stage.
I wish my mother was here, she'd know what to do.

Friday, January 25, 2002

Golden Globes

Did anyone besides me notice they left out the Harry Potter movie in this year's Golden Globes? How did that happen, when 'In the Bedroom' got several nominations?
Day Three. Ugh

Okay, this can't be a cold, it's got to be the flu.
I look like Sid Viscious right before he OD'ed.
I have no sense of smell. My sinuses are swollen like tennis balls under my skin.
Even the kitties are taking it easy on me.
They say a bad cold is a sign of emotional confusion coming to a head. I can see that.
But now I have to go back to bed.

Thursday, January 24, 2002

Ugh. Day Two

Still sick. Fever and chills. Possible brain damage.
Have bad kitties who don't observe sickroom quiet.
It's 69ºF at 5:44 am. Hot in here.
Still no site meter. Still delirious.
Need cute nurse stat. Amateurs welcome.

Wednesday, January 23, 2002


I am sick. Full blown sick. I have deep bronchitis and a fever. I am afraid to cough because it feels like I am coughing up staples.
I also have laryngitis.
The kitties are taking advantage and fighting like dinosaurs, knowing I can't yell at them. They are very bad boys.
It's hot in Texas today. It's 78 degrees out. That's almost 80. I am sweating like a horse.
Birds are singing outside. Feels like a parallel universe.
I wish I could rub snow on my hot face.
I am delirious.

Sleep? What's that?

I have some severe bronchitis developing, so around midnight I made some herb tea and threw in a few glugs of Seagram's Seven for that hot toddy effect. Now I am wide awake and pondering life and its absurdities once again.
Dig this:
A friend and I had a run-in a few days ago.
I once was eyeing her as a potential new girlfriend, but I wanted her first to save herself from some destructive behaviors, and heal from a recent breakup with an unfaithful, paranoid, manipulative, know it all, unemployed moocher.
My friend thought I was telling her to get lost. I was just exasperated and spoke bluntly, as we Taureans are sometimes wont to do.
Anyway, we had about four days or so of no contact. Yesterday we talked.
Seems she has "met someone" and she said (get this) this person now "owns her."
After four days, from a chatroom meeting, never having laid eyes on this woman, she actually said this woman OWNS her.
Kerrrack that whip!
'Nuff said.

Another AOL acquaintance of mine met some cowboi butch in California online, sold all her belongings, used the cash to U-Haul what little she kept, and moved cross country to 'marry' this bulldork.
About three days into their marriage, the cowboi said, "This is not what I pictured." Then she went camping over the weekend with her "new love."
My pal had to pack up her things, borrow money to crawl home to the East Coast, and along the way her car engine blew up. Plus she has a parrot in the car with her.

I know this woman who lives way up North. She's very sweet, smart, funny and attractive. She's very sane and normal. She seems sincere. She's very thoughtful. She makes sense when she talks. She listens. Her last lover was a long while ago. She has a job. She has a life. She's not desperate to U-Haul, or be owned, or mooch off anyone, or fly across the border to start a new life. She never crowds me, never pushes me away, and always treats me kindly. And she has an ice skater's butt.

Tuesday, January 22, 2002

Grey Bird Rocks!

I have a new template and I am very happy with it, most of all because my kitten James is immortalized in photos at the top of my blogsite.
My humble thanks to my friend and blog guru GreyBird for this effort, and to Queer Poet for her many emergency blog interventions.
Yes, James is wearing a little argyle sweater and yes, he is a real kitty, not a stuffed toy.
See, until he was about a month old everyone thought he was a she.
After I found out she was a he, we started dressing him like a male so he'd get used to it. Turns out he rather enjoyed wearing clothes as an infant, and he has a bathrobe and got a larger sweater for Christmas.
He no longer cares to wear clothing, but he's still easy to dress, even at 5 months and 11 pounds.
Is that all there is?

Singer Peggy Lee died yesterday at age 81.
She was best known for her Grammy winning song, "Is That All There Is?" but I will always remember her for her song, "Fever."
That was the sexiest song I'd ever heard when I was a kid.
In the 70's when I was living in Los Angeles, my roommate Irene was first generation Polish American, so she knew a lot of Polish immigrants in the area.
One of them was Peggy Lee's chauffeur. He picked us up one day and we got to ride around town in her limo.
She always seemed kind of cool and weird, so it doesn't surprise me she was a Gemini.

Monday, January 21, 2002

Bathtub Gin, the Charleston and 23 Skiddoo

My grandmother died yesterday at the age of 102.
She was a flapper (big time party girl) in the Roaring 20's, and lived a wild, long and happy life in the San Diego area.
I last saw her when I was about 14.
We weren't close, but as I recall she an amusing old gal.
She died on my father and his twin sister's birthday, January 20.
They just turned 82.
How ironic is it that the old girl held out till the twins' birthday?
There are no accidents.
Rest in Peace, Grandma.
I am a Thief.

Suzy over at Queer Poet's Society did a pet peeves blog and I have waited the requisite one day before I steal her idea and write my own. Thanks, Suze.

-I hate it when I am with a friend who can't observe an occasional moment of silence. Not every sight and sound needs a comment.
-I hate watery Chinese food, or even worse when a dish comes floating in a pool of white, slithering, flavorless liquid.
-I hate seeing toothpicks used in public, and don't even get me started on floss.
-I hate it when a song comes on the car radio and someone sings louder than the real singer does.
-I hate drop-in company.
-I hate it when someone assumes just because I am a Texan that I live in the sticks, voted for Bush, carry a gun and use y'all in the singular.
-I have a friend from New Orleans who uses the phrase "anyhow most how ways" when she's about to get off the phone or wrap up a conversation. I hate that phrase.
-I hate typos in books and I hate it when people use multisyllabic words incorrectly.
-I hate cell phones and cordless phones.
-I hate square toed shoes.
-I hate the smell of beans or cabbage cooking.
-I hate dogs who hump my leg or sniff my crotch.
-I hate right wing radio talk shows.
-I hate it when people can't handle their liquor or drugs.

Last night on "60 Minutes" they featured a female Air Force Colonel/fighter pilot who was suing the U.S. government because they ordered her to wear a long black robe and head covering when she was off-base in Saudi Arabia.
They also would not let her drive a car or sit in the front seat of a car, and her male driver had to say she was his wife if any Saudi asked.
The Colonel is not only a fighter pilot and Harvard grad, she is also a Roman Catholic. Forcing a Catholic into Muslim garb is like making a Jew wear a big crucifix when in Rome.
The government said it was for the female military member's protection. Yes, protection for a woman with enough balls to drop bombs from a U.S. fighter plane.
American male soldiers are not allowed to wear Middle Eastern garb of any kind when off-base in Saudi, or elsewhere in the Middle East.
It just goes to show you how intolerant of women those Middle Eastern bastards are, and how chicken shit our military is toward women who serve in the armed forces.
If she is risking her life in defense of her country, she damn sure ought to be able to wear her uniform, medals and all, anywhere in the world she wants.
This is just one example of why the military has fucked up, sexist double standards and needs to respect the rights of all its members.
I hope she wins her lawsuit, and if the Saudis can't take it, fuck them. Why are we allied with these sexist Saudi pricks, anyway? Women have more rights in Iran and Iraq.
How scary is that?

My Puma

James, my 5 month old kitten, has turned into a puma. He's enormous and manly now, swaggering through the house like he should be wearing a wife beater undershirt and drinking a beer.
He was chewing on an electrical cord the other day, so I picked him up to say a very emphatic NO to him. His ears flattened sideways and he just glared at me, defiantly trying to get away.
He used to hang his little head in shame when he'd get in trouble. Ha!
Last night as I was asleep, he casually walked over my face during his nightly bed patrol. He just doesn't understand who provides the kibble in this house.
He's teething on the edges of my coffee table, like a dog.
Last night he stood up on the couch on his hind legs, trying to reach the shadows on the ceiling cast by flickering candles. He stayed there for several moments, perfectly upright. It was scary.
If there was kitten kindergarten, I'd enroll him. He's getting a lot of attitude.
Just when I am ready to turn him into a yard cat, he reverts to kittenhood, curls up in a not so tiny ball and purrs himself to sleep.
I just weighed him. Twelve pounds seems a bit much for a 5 month old, but he's all muscle. His big brother Bart only weighs a few more pounds, and he's huge.
Bart's just about had it with the baby. I haven't got the heart to tell him James is only half grown...

Sunday, January 20, 2002

Country Songs I Plan to Write

She Said She's Bi, I Said Bye Bye
She's My Hot Tomato, So Lettuce Alone
If You Want Me to Love You For Your Mind, Stop Shakin' Your Behind
My Dog Kisses Sweeter Than You
Walls are Thin in a Mobile Home
I Wish I'd Never Gotten that Tattoo
The Trouble with Mermaids is Their Bottoms Don't Come off
Do Your Boots Still Have My Lipstick Prints?
I Forgot to Ask if You Loved Somebody Else
You Left with the Bagels, So I Changed the Locks
Officer Arrest Her, She Stole My Dadgum Heart
If You Loved Me in My Pickup, Can't You Love Me in My Bed?
I Gave You Silk but You Shoulda Got Burlap
My Heart is the Weakest Link
She's a Heineken in a Budweiser World
More Insomnia

I went to bed at 11:30 and started to read this incredible murder mystery set in 18th century France. I usually hate period novels set in foreign countries, but this one is so juicy I couldn't resist.
It's called 'Perfume,' translated from the original German and written by Patrick Süskind. I've had it for more than ten years, so it's a re-read but with my memory, that's not a problem.
When the author described women, it was done with such sensuality and detail, it woke me up. Made me restless, wishing I had a girlfriend I was already settled in with, without all the new love jitters.
I pulled a few Tarot cards before I got out of bed and they weirded me out. They were the two of cups and another page (or knight) of cups.
It's like a mystery woman is out there, circling like a cougar. Could be someone from my past, but I am not sure how far back in time. Very unsettling.
I am starting to feel like an older, butch version of Carrie Bradshaw, writing a column for some breezy New York newspaper about love, sex and life, the latter of which is about all I have going on right now.
I think I am in romance limbo.
Maybe I need a hobby. Besides this one, I mean.

Saturday, January 19, 2002

From the Bedroom

I saw that movie tonight and time stood still. No really, this almost three hour movie was slow like New England can be.
It reminded me of the time I've spent in New England, with all the antiques and the yellow light streaming through lace curtains and the little harbors and fishing villages and slowpokes and ladies dressed in beige L.L. Bean cardigans with sensible shoes, with little floppy canvas hats and gardening gloves.
Sissy Spacek is a great actor, but a New Englander she ain't. Stick to roles below the Mason Dixon line, Sis.
I simply must rush to another movie soon to get the visions of this slow, yellow tinged, slightly blurry tortoise of a movie out of my head.
I give it one thumb, poised sideways.
The only redeeming feature was it wasn't filmed in autumn and I didn't have to see a million exterior shots of those Yankee beloved fucking autumn leaves.
And to think I've been craving clam chowder lately. Ha!

Friday, January 18, 2002

The Funny Girl Network: Shameless Pandering

If you are funny and a lesbian, I have a little e-mail list you can join.
The list has been around since 1999 and we don't fight much. Sometimes it's actually funny. We have more than 50 members from all over the world.
It's also a great way to meet other lesbians as online or even in-person friends, lovers, whatever.
Look to the right of this blogsite and see a hyperlink you can press to join us
(thanks to Queer Poet for installing it).
Inexplicable Shpilkes

I had a bad dream last night.
Not a scary nightmare, it was more about an event that never happened with a former lover, some friends and a shifty colleague.
Yeecch, the whole thing gave me such a stomach ache, I had to take Pepto when I woke up. It dug up far too many bones.
Luckily my kitten James was kind enough to stick a paw in my face to awaken me from the bad dream. He has no patience with me tossing and turning while he's trying to sleep.
I hardly ever remember dreams, but this one was unsettling because it was so real.
In this dream I had a livid red welt on my chest, right over my heart, like a bright scarlet bruise.
I am a Taurus, I don't like that kind of spooky symbolic shit.
I picked a Tarot card this morning to see if anything unusual was up and I got The Lovers card. Kind of gave me the cold shivers.
In an early morning e-mail, my pal Gare the astrologer warned that Mercury was entering retrograde (again) and will be spinning backwards starting at 3:52 pm est today until 12:28 pm est February 8.
He warned against travel, buying electronics and sticking one's foot in one's mouth.
I believe I am going to lay low for the next three weeks.

Thursday, January 17, 2002

Winter in San Antonio and Beguiling Strangers

It's 74ºF outside right now at about 5 pm. That's just too warm for mid January.

My pal Suze and I were playing a fun game we invented today called, "guess who's reading our blogs."
I was thinking a beautiful but somewhat introverted English professor named Jennifer was reading mine, too shy to reblog, but enamored nonetheless.
Suze was sort of being dragged into the game, so I had to make hers up for her.
I pictured for her a handsome young retired colonel, living off her pension and writing poems from the porch of her lakeside cottage.
Suze balked, she doesn't want a poet. So I made her a novelist whom I named Clydeen, after her father, the general.
Suze balked at the name Clydeen. She's so damn picky.
The game ended after that, because Suze has no patience for games that last more than three minutes.
That brings me to my question.
If you were single and had a fantasy ideal woman blog reader out there, what would she be like?
Ten Reasons to Stay Single

1. Saves on razor blades and shaving cream
2. Don't have to share the TV clicker
3. You can read long into the night without the light bothering anyone
4. The CD's in the stack are all ones you've picked out
5. Closet space is all yours
6. No sweating about anyone's relatives but your own
7. Nobody cares if your hair looks like Ace Ventura or Bob's Big Boy
8. You know when you are running out of milk and/or Cokes
9. No panic about morning breath
10.Snoring and flatulence go unfettered and free
Romance is Dead, as Suzy Said

After reading Suzy's treatise on romance being dead (The Queer Poet link-->)
I have to concur, it is dead, or at least severely wounded.
I used to feel the rush of a new relationship in every strand of my DNA, the waiting, the anticipation, the heart pounding, the fugue state, the five-hour telephone calls, the floral deliveries, the silk wrapped packages, the scented love letters, the inscribed books, the CDs specially burnt for her, the e-cards, the e-mail, the works.
They knew me at the post office, first from sending packages to Massachusetts, then to Montreal. Now I only mail an occasional package to a friend or relative. When I go in now, they act like I'm just another stooge off the street.
I once sent a 6-pack of 8 ounce Cokes overnight mail to a lover who'd never had them in the small bottles before. Cost me $48, but what the hell, I was in love.
I think I may have depleted my love arsenal. Seems like everyone around me has.
Now I meet someone and hold back.
I test the waters. I am suspicious. I am quid pro quo. I must give off the scent of charred ruins, because I am burnt out and can't find a way to jump-start new romance anymore.
I dated a woman here in town before the holidays and we always met at a restaurant or bar, never in each other's homes. I once picked her up for a date at her ex lover's house, and that's as close as it got.
I used to make seduction dinners with 50 candles burning, carefully selected CDs stacked up, flowers, china, cloth napkins. I'd make exotic dishes with rare ingredients I'd have to go to three stores to find, and the wine would take me another hour to select. I'd put rose petals between the ironed sheets for later.
It all seems like a distant memory now.
I don't bend over backward unless she does, and she never does.
Seems everyone is standing here, but looking back toward the past. Everyone seems shell-shocked, like we were all in love last year, or year before last, and we never quite got over it.
It's not even depressing, it's just sort of bittersweet like the James Ingram song "Just Once."
It's like knowing I once had it in me, and wondering if I'll ever feel that way again.
Suzy says she's not going to accept anything but romance in a relationship.
I am saying I hope it still exists inside of me.

Wednesday, January 16, 2002

Reblog Haiku

Comments, where are you?
I type and type and type more
You read, then you leave.

If I cut myself
Do I not bleed, or if I
blog, do you all read?

How hard is it to
Reblog a wee L O L?
Is it arthritis?

I admit my sins
I am a comment Jez'bel
So gimme some, babe

Comment allez-vous
Sounds like French words meaning
Comment, all of you!
Unlucky Company Names

In the 60's and 70's there was a dietetic candy called Ayds.
Users were supposed to chew a couple of the little caramel candies and drink something hot before meals and they'd swell up and decrease your appetite.
Their slogan was, "Lose weight with Ayds!"
Now comes another product.
"Hey Karen, did you get any Spam today?"
"Tons, but I deleted it."
Those poor Spam makers in Minnesota now have their somewhat good name sullied by association with junk e-mail. Who can they sue? Who started it?
I'd feel sorry for them if Spam the food wasn't some horrible mystery treyf swine I'd rather die than eat.
Saudi Arabia

Did you know our so-called allies in the middle east, Saudi Arabia, recently beheaded three guys for being gay? Apparently the Saudi queens were calling themselves married and had the gall to try to verbally defend themselves against neighborhood castigation.
The government stepped in and tried, convicted and beheaded them.
In the 70's, my father was a contract negotiator for the U.S. Air Force. He was sent to Saudi Arabia on temporary duty. When he returned, he was freaked out at how brutal Saudi men could be.
If a man got on a bus and a woman was already seated, he would simply grab her by the face and fling her to the floor so he could sit.
The Saudis don't shake hands because they wipe their asses with their fingers.
When two Saudi businessmen make a deal, it is not uncommon to celebrate the deal by offering one's young son to the other for a bit of man-boy sex.
I was a reporter during the Persian Gulf war. We sent a female reporter to Saudi to cover it for our newspaper. She had to wear a veil and was not allowed to drive in Saudi, but in Iraq or Iran, she could have driven with her head uncovered.
Osama bin Laden was born in Saudi Arabia, but he left because they were too liberal.
Between U.S. Military presence in Saudi and the new Pizza Hut, bin Laden was convinced Saudi had become Satan's playhouse.
Not for queers it hasn't.

Nothing makes me happier than knowing I have a great book to read, waiting for me every night on my bedside table.
My ex was the best librarian I ever had. She got to the point where she'd either just send me my next book to read, or tell me what to order, and she was right on target 90% of the time.
I am rereading books I already have, adrift without anyone knowing my peculiar reading tastes anymore.
Makes me sad.
Random Thoughts

I wish these auto and truck companies would stop using the WTC attack as a guilt trip to sell their wares. They say, "Let's get America back on the road, don't let the terrorists win." What does buying a new Honda or Toyota have to do with the terrorists?

I see Quebec has opened it's new Ice Hotel. You get to stay in a room made of ice with an ice bed and ice furniture. I believe I already did my time in Quebec at the original ice hotel.

Women are too damn much trouble.
However, I had a really nice dream last night about a woman I'd never met, or maybe she was the ex of a woman I had dated or something. Anyway, it was very erotic and she was beautiful with great, long legs. You know things are strange in real life when in your dreams you notice and appreciate that your mystery woman has a good attention span.

Mountain cedar pollen is hazing the air in San Antonio right now. It gives one a headache and a sneezy, runny nose. They say stay indoors between 5 and 10 am to avoid the worst of it. The pollen under a microscope looks like little hooks that glom on to your clothes, skin and hair. I now have a new excuse not to harvest pecans.

Secretary of State Colin Powell is in Islamabad trying to soothe the tension between Pakistan and India so they don't nuke each others' brains out. Oh swell, let's get involved in something new to spend taxpayer dollars on. While he's there, let's all buy a Chevy truck to defray America's economic collapse while the government blows all our money getting into other people's business.
When he gets back, he has a "town hall meeting" scheduled on MTV. Yes, MTV, the one that plays videos for Gen X kids. I wonder if he's gonna wear a dreadlocks wig to better fit in? I cannot roll my eyes hard enough.

Dubya Bush choked on a pretzel and passed out the other day while he was alone in the Whitehouse family quarters watching a football game. His dog apparently saved him by barking him awake. No comment.

Tuesday, January 15, 2002

Headache blog

The trouble with having a horrible headache all day and into the night is when it goes away, it leaves a headache hole.
Am I crazy or does that make sense?
My head feels like there's a cavern inside, just dreading being filled with another headache.
Sorry, that's all I have in my head tonight, a headache hole.
Is That All There Is?

All I blog about lately is food and my kitten. My life is getting too simple.
I need a woman, damn it.
So here is my preliminary questionnaire for my next true love.

1. Are you crazy? If yes, how crazy?
2. Do you think romance exists anymore?
3. How many dogs do you have?
4. Do you hate cats?
5. Are your nails clean?
6. Do you have American citizenship?
7. Do you hate football?
8. Do you consider chocolate a staple?
9. Do you hear voices? If so, are they friendly voices?
10. Do you wear tube socks?
11. Do you wear tube tops?
12. Is your home on wheels? Was it ever on wheels?
13. Do you read books without pictures?
14. Do you bite or scratch?
15. Are you a Gemini?
16. Do you collect unicorns, teddy bears, thimbles or spoons?
17. Do your subjects and verbs agree? Do you know what I mean by that?
18. Do you have teeth?
19. Do you have a job or income source?
20. Who was President when you were born?
21. Do you have a symbiotic relationship with your ex?
22. Is your ex still hanging around?
23. Why?
24. Do you think she's "the one who got away"?
25. Do I have to like the bitch?
26. Are you butch, femme or in between?
27. Do you own guns, hunt or fish?
28. Do you eat deer or other wild game?
29. Do you like country music?
30. Plain or peanut?
31. Can you have sex without having to consult anyone before or after?
32. Would you multi-task when I needed attention?
33. Do people ever call you "sir"?
34. Does anyone ever call you 'Madam' or 'Mistress'?
35. Does snoring send you into a drastic personality change?

Monday, January 14, 2002

Dinner woes.

I was working this evening and didn't have time to make a salad, so I thought microwave popcorn would be nice.
Then I burnt it.
How hard is it to nuke a bag of microwave popcorn?
The corn was black and smoking when I took it out. The bag was charred around the edges.
I can make coq au vin. I can make lobster. I can make Chicken Kiev. I can make a pot roast you can slice with a 3x5 card. I can make cobbler. I can make my own Heath bars, for Crissakes, but I can't seem to nuke a bag of corn.
Oy, I need to start dating again. I need a woman to cook dinner for.
I am running a risk of turning into one of those bachelorettes who eats potato chips off her shirt and drinks cold coffee for dinner.
Help me, before I nuke again...

I can't put it off much longer.
My kitten James turned 5 months old on January 10 and his testicles are already the size of my first boyfriend's.
He's very large for his age and his nuts are embarrassingly ponderous.
I have to get him neutered before he starts spraying my furniture. It's a race against time.
Trouble is, I can barely face the thought of surrendering him to the veterinarian for what may be an overnight stay.
He's just a baby! He's MY baby.
Then when he comes home nutless and doped up, what if my big tomcat Bart wants to get even with him for his incessant kitten antics and whip the shit out of him?
James is the color of pastel butterscotch with white trim underneath. His fur is so short, he's actually fuzzy.
His kitty nuts are actually very cute, butterscotch with some white trim. He's obviously very proud of them, judging by how many times he tries to show them to me while I am sleeping.
He has a pink nose, lips and footpads. My mother thought he was either a female or, as she put it, a joto, which is slang Spanish for homosexual.
He loves to ride in cars, now this will traumatize him.
Am I crazy here for being so concerned?
I do know this sweet gay veterinarian who is wonderful, but one of the city's most expensive vets in the ritziest part of town. I may have to bite the bullet and take James to him.
He'll understand James. He'll kiss him and cuddle him.
Yeah, that's what I'll do. Who knows testicles better than a gay guy?

Good Morning! (Burp!)

On Saturday I had Mexican food for lunch, and a little birthday cake and coffee afterwards, so I ended up full all night and I skipped dinner.
I slept late this morning and by the time I showered and got dressed it was 1:15 and I was hungry as a bear.
And I mean a giant, Canadian Mountie-eating bear.
So I called my pal Patricia and arranged to pick her up 20 minutes later for breakfast.
We go to this coffee shop that serves breakfast all day, so we arrived around 1:45 and our favorite waitress handed us breakfast menus and a laminated "Special Breakfast Treats" page with full color photos.
I spied this horrendously huge, meat-heavy breakfast platter and the photo was so juicy and compelling and I was so hungry, I lost my mind and ordered it.
The platter filled my side of the booth table, with three eggs, two bacons, one sausage patty, a little slice of ham, hash browns and two biscuits. Then the worst case scenario occurred. I ate the whole damn thing.
Patricia wolfed down a three egg omelet, a ham steak and two slices of toast.
We each had three cups of coffee to boot.
Twenty dollars later, we waddled out into the bright sunlight and groaned like two heifers being led to market.
Now it's almost midnight and I haven't been able to consider another morsel of food all day and night. I drank some San Pelligrino mineral water to try to settle the basketball sized lump in my belly, but it only made me full again.
I think I ate my pork ration for the year in one meal. I think I was temporarily insane. I think I'll have salad tomorrow.
Question: Is a breakfast blog as boring as a haircut blog?

Sunday, January 13, 2002

No Politics!

My sweet friend Cris, who is recovering from surgery, has very diplomatically mentioned that my political blogs bore the living hell out of her.
All right already, no more politics for a while. Get well soon, Crispie.
That leaves the topics of food, lesbian relationships, life in Texas and ...lemme see...
My family and I celebrated my Mom's 89th birthday (she had me when she was 60) yesterday. It was so typical for my family. We started out the morning killing a bottle of champagne, then we went for Mexican food and killed a pitcher of margaritas.
In the parking lot before lunch, my eldest sister Rita the introverted lawyer was so buzzed she serenaded my mom with the Greenday song, "I Hope You Had the Time of Your Life."
Her very cute lover and I were in the front seat, getting kind of misty eyed listening to Rita sing and she said, "Rita wants that song at her funeral."
So I said, "Oh God, you and I are gonna cry our eyes out. We'll barely be able to have sex that night."
Then we went to the cemetery so Mom could say hi to her ancestors and siblings who went before her. We festooned all the graves with flowers, then we split.
Back at my house for cake and coffee, my kitten James managed to win over everyone with his affectionate little kitty routine.
Even my sister Jan who hates cats now wants to get one for her stupid little schnauzer Sam to have as a companion.
I put a little sweater on James, but he was extremely uncomfortable and ripped the neck and sleeves, so I had to unclothe him. He's very easy to dress for a cat, but he's not as malleable as he used to be once he's clothed.
The family left at 5 and I laid down for a nap and awakened in a daze around 7:30.
I am the youngest one in the family. I'll bet my old Mom is still asleep.

Saturday, January 12, 2002

Speaking of Bush...

The latest issue of "Vanity Fair" features a photographic extravaganza of all the Presidential bigwigs, taken by Annie Lebovitz. Condaleezza Rice and the Bushwife were the only females in the upper echelon. Oy.
The worst part of the feature was Dubya's $1,000 suit combined with big old Texas-style silver belt buckle with the presidential seal on it. What a hick.
The extreme close-ups of some of the major players were truly frightening.
Dick Lord Voldemort Cheney, photographed in his office rather than "some undisclosed, secure location" looked great.
That's a relief, since he is the President.
Clinton Got Monica, Bush Got 'Layed'

....From Time Magazine:
....The fall of the house of Enron has reached the political phase.
The Bush Administration, having run up against its first honor-and-dignity issue in the person of Enron's former chief, longtime (and politically generous) Bush buddy Kenneth Lay, is fervently washing its hands of the whole mess.
George W. Bush on Thursday announced that he would have the Treasury Department look into the whole corporate pension issue "to make sure we learn from the past." Oh, and that he hadn't talked to Lay in who knows how long.
John Ashcroft, whose Justice Department launched its criminal investigation Thursday into Enron's fall — and the remarkable foresight of its top executives in parachuting out early and rich — recused himself and his chief of staff from the probe, just as designated attack Democrat Henry Waxman was dashing off a letter reminding Ashcroft that he'd received $25,000 from Enronites for a Senate re-election campaign. The exodus may not stop there; Bush SEC chairman Harvey Pitt once did some work for Arthur Andersen, the blind (and document-shredding) accounting watchdog in the drama, and could be next to eagerly recuse himself from ever having to give a press conference on his agency's investigation, either......

I'll make this brief.
Which President's dubious friendship will cost you more, Clinton's victimless blowjobs from Monica Lewinsky or Bush and his massive campaign contributions and potential embarrassment from his "close friendship" with the disgraced but still filthy rich former Chairman of Enron?
Did Whitewater affect your bank balance? Do you think the collapse of a multi billion dollar energy company will?

Friday, January 11, 2002

A Quick Haiku

Time's slipping away
Way too much to do these days
Be back blogging soon

Thursday, January 10, 2002


Who do you think is going to be the winner on Survivor?
Are you even watching?
The four remaining contestants, listed in my least-liked order are:

Lex the tattooed Northern Cal creep
Kim the old leather skinned lady
Tom the hayseed goat farmer
Ethan the Jewish soccer guy

Vote on my reblog.
What's Wrong With This Picture?

The Associated Press
KANDAHAR, Afghanistan (Jan. 10) - The new Afghan government is working to determine whether seven top Taliban leaders who surrendered and were then set free are ''war criminals'' and whether the decision to let them go was appropriate, the foreign ministry spokesman said....

Let's see if I have this straight.
The "new Afghan government" sets free seven top Taliban leaders instead of handing them over to the Americans?
This is obscene.
In fact, this is a job for the PORNOLIZER!

KANDAHARDON, Jackoff Afghanistan (Jan. 10) - The new finger fucker Afghan blow job government is working to determine whether seven top cocksucker Taliban leaders who surrendered and were then set free are "butt buddy war criminals" and whether the fucked-up decision to let them go was appropriate, the wanking pedophile cum soaked foreign ministry spokesman said.

My compliments to for assisting me in my assessment of the political screw-job perpetrated by the new Afghan government.

More Haiku

Ahh, Thursday morning!
Air so fresh and clean inside
It's litterbox day

Hospital visit
Scheduled to go see my ex
No more fibroids, babe!

Coffee's strong today
Tastes like jet plane propellant
With some Cremora

Have to exercise
Seems I have developed a
Big Blogger belly

Stayed up late last night
Compelling TV show was on
Showtime softy porn

Uh oh, a news leak
Seems Bush slowed down Taliban

Newsgirl Paula Zahn
About to get brake lines cut
You know, sneaky Bush

Wednesday, January 09, 2002

Where's Dick?

I am convinced that Vice President Dick Cheney and his boss George Dubya are reenacting Book 4 of Harry Potter.
If you haven't read all four books in the series, you best better move on because this won't make any sense.
My theory is that Dick (I usually use last names on second reference, but I like calling him "Dick") is Lord Voldemort and Dubya is his faithful but inept devotee, Wormtail.
Think about it.
When the WTC was attacked, who was sequestered in "a safe but secluded location"? Dick, that's who.
Was it his frail health, or was it because he is the true heir to the empire of evil, started by Salazar Herbert Walker Slytherin Bush? Or was it both? I wonder.
Where has Dick been keeping himself?
Since when does a war get declared and the President is all over the place being a walking target, while the Veep is under heavy security and never available for comment?
Ask yourself when was the last time you saw Dick on TV.
Is Wormtail just an expendable commodity while Voldemort stays safe while he regrows his skeletal system and plans to take over the wizards and the muggles?
Am I Harry Potter because this whole pile of secretive shit makes my head hurt?
Music Box Dancer, Shot by Outraged Neighborhood Woman

I know many of you live in colder climates and won't be able to relate to this, but as I write it's early January and 72º outside.
In San Antonio where I live, we have a year-round ice cream man who drives through the neighborhood every afternoon.
Working at home and living odd hours, I often take a nap sometime between 2 and 4 PM.
I can usually sleep through the loud, tinny, treble heavy, no-bass having ice cream truck music if he doesn't stop, but when the mangy bastard does stop, he leaves that fucked-up music on.
The music he plays is, "Music Box Dancer," a sappy 70's hit that sounds like a music box that when opened, features a plastic ballerina spinning around.
The other day during my naptime, some neighborhood bimbo in a tight sweater stopped the ice cream man and apparently struck up a lengthy conversation.
I laid in bed fuming, listening to the first 20 verses of that fucking song.
By verse 25, I was up, throwing on jeans, a sweater and shoes, and ready to go out and bust a move on that asshole.
Naturally, he had restarted his truck and was passing my house by the time I hit the front door.
Now I know the next time he does this, I may have to shoot him.
I don't have a gun, but I may need to walk down to the corner Sac n' Pac and buy one from one of the kids loitering outside.
Then I will calmly shoot out his speakers first, then him.
My question is this:
After I shoot him, will I want a Drumstick or an ice cream sandwich?
She's So Fine, There's no Telling Where the Money Went

A friend of mine is undone today because she reckons her lowlife, cheating lover left her once a chunk of money she came into ran out.
It made me think about money, co-mingling finances with lovers and all that entails.
I have always had a solution for that.
I don't do it.
Oh, I spend money on lovers, and lots of it, but I haven't spent any *with* lovers.
I have never had to saw a table in half or divide the CDs we bought together once things went awry.
Lots of lesbians high on commitment ceremonies and unions mingle finances with their partners, but I have never seen a case where, once the juices dried up, un-mingling finances was a civil and equitable process.
I don't know, maybe I don't believe in marriage between lesbians anymore.
Maybe I like the concept, but the few times I have been willing to consider entering into a partnership that included financial mixing, I was glad it didn't work out.
The last woman I loved was a foreigner. I wanted her to immigrate here and I was planning to start a charitable foundation so we could hire her and she could get a green card/work visa.
For the first time in my life, I wanted a lesbian marriage, a picket fence and a partner with whom I shared finances, debts, windfalls and pocket change.
Unfortunately, when we met I reminded her of a satanic ritual abuse victim she knew, plus she was still in love with her ex, so that pretty much dashed my marriage plans.
The question is, how could I be so blind as to think we could have a marriage and mingle finances without realizing our love was entirely unilateral?
Her ex was always in the picture, either as a ghost with whom she needed "closure" or someone she still loved, face to face and belly to belly.
See? I was willing to open my life and my finances to a woman who not only didn't love me, she loved someone else the whole time we were together.
Last I heard they are still together. I was apparently just a cameo player in a long movie starring those two. Her lover never even knew I existed. Still doesn't.
But it was my fault because I let my clitoris become my long term financial planner.
I have had to rethink my willingness to marry a woman.
Maybe I will fall in love again one day, and after three or four years if we are still together, we can look at some money mixing.
But her ex better be dead, and I better not remind her of the antichrist.

If You Hate Politics, Step Away From the Monitor

I read a chilling piece in this month's Vanity Fair about Pakistan and what sniveling little weasels they are.
They are obviously on the side of the Talibans and Al Qaida, but they took our free money, borrowed even more at no interest and let us use their land and airspace because they knew if they didn't we'd kick their asses.
We are like little rich wimps in the schoolyard, giving out candy to make friends with hoodlum kids who take our candy but still think we are dweebs.
Pakistani government officials are total chicken shits.
Nobody wants to sign any agreements for fear the Taliban or Al Qaida will grab the money America has given Pakistan so they can rearm themselves and come back into power and kill anyone who authorized any recent pro-American agreements.
Pakistan has nuclear weapons, so does India, they hate each other and we are alienating both. It's such a dangerous game we are playing and nobody seems to see it.
It's been nearly four months since the WTC attack and we still haven't a clue about where Waldo bin Laden is. Now the Feds are saying they are more interested in blowing up munitions and training sites in the area than looking through shadows to find bin Laden.
When did they decide that?
If our government has given up trying to find bin Laden, is it worth a billion dollars a day to keep bombing Afghani dirt piles?
Meanwhile in this country, U.S. Immigration is trying to track down 6,000 Middle Eastern men here illegally in the U.S. who have ignored deportation notices.
Some PC politicians are worried that some legit Mohammed will be offended if he's profiled and questioned by the INS, so they are having a hell of a time trying to politely track down deportees.
We aren't accomplishing a damn thing in this war.
The U.S. took great pains to tell the enemy we have two female fighter pilots strafing them off the U.S.S. Carl Vinson. Did they really need to piss them off even more by telling them our chicks are bombing their dicks?
The Middle East doesn't like our way of life, our religious diversity, our government or our people. We can't change them by making them even more outraged, or scaring them half to death.
We shouldn't try to change them, they are entitled to their Neanderthal, sexist, racist, dogmatic way of doing things.
What we are doing in the Middle East is like an exterminator just killing rats in one bedroom and ignoring the rest of the rat infested three story house. We need to either get rid of all the rats or get out. But there's the rub. The Middle East is too full of rats to consider.
The U.S. government has done so many backroom secret deals with the rats, we don't even know which are the rats anymore, or who we like and who we hate.
We funded and trained bin Laden and his buddies to fuck with the Russians.
Now the Russians are being funded to help us fuck with the terrorists and lunatic fringe.
We armed Iran immediately after they held American hostages for a year.
When Iran Contra was about to blow up in the face of George H.W. Bush, we invaded Iraq but didn't kill their insane leader. Was it just a diversionary measure to keep Senior Bush and that dimwit Ronnie Reagan out of prison for high treason?
We give aid and protection to Israel, so why aren't they suited up and helping us? They have an Army that can do in a week what we can't manage in four months, so where are they in all this?
And George W. Bush is running the country.
We are in fucking trouble here and all the media are reporting are bomb craters in the Afghanistan dirt.
We are spending a billion dollars a day on nothing and people think Bush is doing a good job. He's an imbecile and the public is oblivious to it.
Pakistan is the lit fuse in all this and we need to get the hell away from them, get out of this stupid war until we have some kind of plan, and elect a new President who has an IQ higher than 90 and isn't generations deep in international political malfeasance.
I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Richard Nixon. He'd know what to do, the bastard.

Tuesday, January 08, 2002

Freakin' Bloody Blogger

I have tried 8 times today to post a blog and been thrown forcibly offline by the Blogger basilisk. So this is a test.

Monday, January 07, 2002

I don't know why, but this trick always amuses me

Pretend you are on the internet and you write what you think is a sweet love note to your bilingual girlfriend, using the alta vista translator.

You enter:

Hello my darling,
I am missing you so much, I wish we could just be in bed together on this chilly morning instead of so many miles apart.
Your big teddybear

and you translate it to French and send it to her:

Bonjour mon chéri,
Je suis manquant vous tellement, je souhaite que nous pourrions juste être dans le lit ensemble ce matin frais au lieu de tant de milles distants.
Votre grand teddybear

She thinks it so sweet, she translates it to German to send to her good friend Helga:

Geliebtes guten Tag mein bin,
Ich Sie so sehr fehlend, ich wünsche, daß wir soeben zusammen im Bett sein könnten dieser frische Morgen anstatt so sehr entfernter Meilen.
Ihre großen teddybear

Helga also liked it, what she could understand of it, so she decided to translate it back into French for her girlfriend Gigi:

Aimé bon jour
Mon je suis tellement manquant vous, moi souhaite que nous pourrions être dans le lit ce matin juste ensemble frais au lieu des milles tellement éloignés.
vos grands teddybear

Gigi meanwhile is a lazy French girl who casually scans the letter and hastily translates it for her secret lover in Italy. Angelina reads the following:

Buono giorno gradito mio,
Sono in modo da mancandoli, me desideri che potremmo essere nella base questo fresco intero di destra di mattina anziché le miglia così distanti.
L' amore,
Il vostro grande teddybear

Angelina, an international playgirl, sends the letter translated to her poor unsuspecting American girlfriend, Tracy:

Good appreciate day mine,
They are so as to mancandoli, me desires that we could be in the base this entire coolness of morning right rather than the distant miles therefore.
The love,
Your large one teddybear
Day Bloggin'

I dunno, maybe late at night taquitos and tangerines are interesting to me.
In the light of day, they seem rather inconsequential.
I met a man at Saturday's party who was a walking haircut blog.
Everyone is usually cool at that party, so I mistakenly assumed this bald fart who looked like Chris Elliott was a photojournalist or writer of some sort.
Turned out he was a fucking real estate agent whose burning desire was to do voice-over ads for himself on a local FM soft rock radio station.
He was the most boring shitheel in town.
He cornered my friend Elaine and I overheard him telling her what he fucking had for dinner, right down to the salad dressing.
I strolled over and said, "Wait, did I hear you telling her what you had for dinner?"
Then I walked away before he could answer, snickering at Elaine.
So later after he's had a snootful, he eyes me up and down and in his Foghorn Leghorn voice, he says, "So, whatter you, like just one of the guys, er what?"
So I said, "Yeah, motherfucker, and I tell people when to shorten their already too fucking long stories, just like a dude would."
So he's so stupid, he asks, "Whaddaya, think my stories are too long?"
So I said, "Man, you tell salad dressing stories."
All I could envision was him, sitting at a keyboard, blogging about his last fucking haircut.
As the party progressed, I approached my straight pal Tommy, the photojournalist who brought haircut blog with him to the party.
"Hey Tommy, what's with the fucking bore you dragged in?"
"Shit, I dunno, he's my Realtor. He asked what I was doing tonight and I said I was going to a party."
"And he asked to come?"
"No, he asked what kinda party and I said 'uh mostly a party for the gay and lesbian community.' "
"And he came anyway?"
"Yeah, I guess he's an equal opportunity bore."
Anyway, if you see a blogsite called "What I had for dinner," avoid it. It might be him.
Kitty Ass: An Update

Last night James was his old self again, sleeping peacefully at my side, rolled up in a warm little ball. No anus in my face all night, no funny business.
This morning he woke me up with his little 'ehh' meow and licked my chin. I could hear him purring.
Seems he was being vindictive because I came home too late the night before.
He was basically telling me to kiss his ass!
Et tu, Brute?
2:00 a.m. Tangerines and an Old Rock Dyke

I went back to bed shortly after midnight and again took up the book I was reading, an autobiography called, "Anti Diva," by Canadian rocker Carole Pope from the defunct band called Rough Trade.
I had read half of it on the plane ride home from Montreal in October, but until recently almost anything Canadian besides Crunchie Bars and a few friends well west of Quebec made me cringe.
Pope is a gritty, scary looking dyke who has slept with a lot of women, most notably Dusty Springfield, whom I just adored.
Late in Pope's book, she brings up her own shock at entering menopause.
I think that's why I am up at 2 a.m. blogging and eating a tangerine.
It's that fucking menopause.
I thought I'd get to skip menopause, having had all my girl parts removed last April, but apparently it's a hormonal thing and we all have to pay.
I stay pretty even kiltered taking a horse piss-derived pill called Prempro, but it does have side effects, the most obvious being, 'I don't give a fuck' syndrome.
This manifests itself in my not giving a fuck about what others think of me, sleep becoming more of a concept than a nightly gig, and vacillating constantly between wanting to get laid, and not wanting to bother ever getting laid again.
One minute I am falling in love again. The next minute I am turning off the phones and putting a pillow over my head so the light is blocked and I can sleep.
My once-fierce temper has leveled out apres hysterectomy, but my tolerance for bullshit has thinned to a gossamer veil. I don't get mad, I get outta there.
I don't feel physically weak or decrepit, I just feel the cutting edge is a lot duller than it once was. I am usually in a good mood, but it's a dumb good mood, like a Forrest Gump good mood.
One thing is for sure, sleep comes and goes when it wants, and I have no organic control over it. I have no control over anything that comes next, but believe me, I'll never miss tampons.
Damn it, I Need Taquitos

It's midnight central standard time and I was in bed reading until 30 minutes ago.
My mind kept wandering, ricocheting from memory to memory until I realized what I needed was to get up, log on and warm up some beef taquitos.
For the uninitiated, a beef taquito is a thin, tightly rolled corn tortilla stuffed with slightly spicy beef and I think fried, then frozen and ready for reheating.
You dip them in salsa, sour cream or guacamole and wolf them down by the half dozen.
It's insane to eat 300 calories worth of taquitos at this hour, but I needed comfort and a woman just can't touch the kind of comfort a fist full of taquitos provides.
I am not in a depressed state of mind anymore.
After 2001 was finally over, I realized it was a tabula rasa and I could start to feel alive again.
Now I am in a rather pleasant fugue state.
Last night at the party I attended, at least 15 friends asked where I have been, with what looked like genuine concern in their eyes.
I hadn't realized that I'd been turning down almost every dinner and cocktail party invitation I'd received for the last three months.
I just said, "Uh, I've been stupid from anesthetics, and I was nursing a broken heart."
Talk about a conversation stopper.
They'd just say, "Aww, are you okay now?" and I'd say, "Yes," then change the subject.
I think I am okay. I can almost sleep six hours straight now without having to take any conk-out pills. Usually.
But tonight, my belly is warm from taquitos, my kitties are asleep in my bed waiting for me, and I think I'll pray for another day of fugue.
Women tire me out. Thinking about them tires me out. I can't figure out the ones from my past, and those in my present are even more confusing.
Taquitos, I understand. You warm them up and eat them.
Women should be so uncomplicated.

Sunday, January 06, 2002

Three Dimensions: Sometimes Too Many

I've been online for about five years, and I've met three women who were or could have been significant romantic connections.
The first resulted in a couple-year relationship, the middle was with a fucking snake who had me and three other women bamboozled into thinking she was for real, and the last was my most recent relationship, whom I mentioned in my previous blog.
I cannot understand how almost a year of daily e-mail, photo swaps, snail mail, phone calls and instant messaging can create such deep feelings of love, only to have them collapse on the first meeting.
Three dimensional chemistry is the single most important element of an Internet thing converting to a real-life thing, and it rarely makes the leap.
Even when an ex lover isn't still slithering around in the background like a Harry Potter dementor, 3-D chemistry still is what makes or breaks the connection.
My ex had a first-timer fling with a total nutcase a few years ago.
The woman was a satanic ritual abuse survivor who had to have the lights on all night and the house dark all day. She sounded as scary and sick as anyone I have ever heard described, and certainly worse than anyone I've ever encountered.
Before I met my recent ex, she said I was like a female version of her best friend in the world, her most trusted ally, her champion. I met him myself and he's a truly wonderful man. We even reminded each other of ourselves in person.
When I met my ex in person, however, she said I no longer reminded her of her best friend and champion, on sight I reminded her of the satanic ritual abuse survivor.
Isn't that a fucking kick in the face? It gave me chills down my spine and made me feel ghoulish. Just the thing to turn my butch swagger into a hunchback's stumbling gait.
There are two solutions to the problem of Internet chemistry.
1. Meet in person really fast and find out whether the chemistry is transferable to 3-D.
2. Waste a year or six months pussyfootin' around online and hope you don't remind her of some satanic fucking ritual abuse survivor when you meet.
I tell you, sometimes it's enough to make me want to throw my computer out into the street, turn on my fax and buy a fucking typewriter to run my business.

Guilt Trippin' Myself

Okay, the other day I was so damn sick of women I made a post about Personal Ads.
It was kind of funny, I'll admit, but it was also mean spirited, exaggerated, and now I feel somewhat guilty.
Truth be told, I loved my most recent ex so much, I went into another dimension after we split.
For months I isolated, I cried, I pouted, I considered calling her a million times, I imagined shooting her girlfriend in the ass, the whole magilla.
I just couldn't believe she didn't love me like I loved her when we finally met.
I just couldn't accept that she ran back to her horrendous ex lover.
I just couldn't understand how I could love someone so much, and believe in someone so much, and have it just crash down around me like a complete emotional implosion.
She was nutty for sure, but she was amazing in so many ways. Such brilliance, such a grasp on the intellectual plane, such a poetic, witty soul. Plus she was physically so beautiful, with eyes and a smile that could melt titanium.
It still grieves me to know we will never be. She was in bed with her ex less than a week after I left her side.
She never gave us a chance, her ex was between us the entire four days we had together. I could never again trust that her ex would be out of the picture, not after all the pain my lover caused me over her.
So I am more or less healed now, having finally accepted that I lost out to some fucking loser. But I figured if I could write a personal ad so mean about her, I may as well give her her propers, too.
I left that heart wrenching relationship a better woman. I know the depth of my ability to love better now. I know the danger of trampling my own boundaries for the sake of holding onto someone who was never mine to begin with.
I know now not to take my dreams too far until reality at least has taken root a little better.
On good days, I don't think of her. On bad days, the thought of her still fills me with nostalgia, tears and regret.
I hope one day a woman will love me as much as I loved her.

Kitten Jealousy/Kitten Pride

James, my 5-month-old kitten, is not used to me going out at night.
Last night I went to a party, the best party of the year in fact, and I came home about 2:30 a.m., slightly disheveled and smelling of Absolut.
I don't usually stay out late and I rarely drink much, so James was waiting on the chair near the front door, glaring at me as I entered the house.
I tried to pat his little kitty head, but he turned his face away then scampered off.
He bided his time until I fell asleep, then he moved ahead with his plan for vengeance.
He jumped on the bed, lifted his tail high and backed his anus as close to my face as possible.
I was awakened by the unsavory aroma.
"James, get your ass outta my face!" I said to him as I turned his little body around.
He immediately turned his ass back to my face.
I pushed him further down the bed. I fell back to sleep.
He played possum until he heard my sleep breathing, then he snuck back up and ass-faced me again.
It went on all night. I finally threw him off the bed and went back to sleep.
He jumped on my stomach, crawled back to my side and stuck his ass right against my nose. It was very disgusting.
I had to finally put a pillow over my head to put a barrier between my face and his stinky little kitten butt.
This morning there was no kitty/owner cuddling, no good morning licks, nothing.
He just woke up and strolled to his food bowl, waiting for me to sprinkle in the little pellets. No eye contact, no leg rubbing, nothing.
Sheesh. I imagine I'll find a turd in my party shoes later today.

Saturday, January 05, 2002


I am sneezing once every three minutes. It's disturbing.
I have a huge party to attend tonight, the Three Kings Day party. I usually stay out all night at this party, whooping it up with journalists and queers until someone jumps in the pool and we all get cold from watching it.
This sneezing better not portend to be a cold or anything like that. If I am catching something, this party tonight will make whatever it is worse.
That did it. I am taking some Benydryl & Vitamin C and going back to bed.
Oh, and I have to amend my last blog.
A friend who always tells me I am so damn funny said she also wants to fuck me. That's always a welcome comment.
I hope I'm not sneezing when and if that time comes.

Friday, January 04, 2002

What she says/What she means

When a woman says:
We need to talk
She means:
We are fixin' to get into a fight

When a woman says:
You are so damn funny!
She means:
Too bad I don't want to fuck you

When a woman says:
I don't know what I'd do without you
She means:
Until my ex, who I can't get over, calls

When a woman says:
You are such a dear friend
She means:
The chances of you fucking me are slightly less than winning the lottery

When a woman says:
You are free to date whomever you please
She means:
Date someone else and I'll make your life a living, white hot hell

When a woman says:
Do you want a back rub?
She means:
Let's have some hot monkey jungle sex, baby

When a woman says:
The next lover you get will be lucky to have you
She means:
Don't even THINK it's gonna be me

When a woman says:
I need time to think
She means:
I need time to think up an excuse how to get out of this nightmare

When a woman says:
It's not you, it's me
She means:
It's you.
Personal Ads

I have decided I am going to place a personal ad, based on historical fact.

GWF desires LDR with Gemini foreigner. Must be attractive, articulate and have borderline personality disorder. OCD and sexual dysfunction a plus. If you like to walk on the beach, dissociate, talk constantly about your ex-lover, have me pay for everything, and like to hang up the phone as a communication style, then you are the gal for me. Naggers, hysterics and control freaks welcome. Bad taste in music essential.

GWF seeking permanent relationship with GWF with U-Haul credit card. Let's meet, get married that night and exclude everyone from our lives except for our eight cats. Call me and let's talk for five hours, then when I try to hang up, please whine.
A day lasts 24 hours, let's communicate for 20 of them. Outdated photo a must.

GWF seeking cute, active alcoholic with control issues. Let's do it your way! If you like to lay in bed and watch TV, shop at the liquor store for 1.75 liter bottles of booze, and lukewarm sex but no sleeping overnight, then call me. Bad musicians welcome. Let's get together soon for cocktails and breakfast!

GWF seeks very first Internet relationship with a New England Italian bitch on Lithium. Please tell lies, exaggerate, spy on me, hack into my AOL account, read my mail and accuse me of being a player, then cheat on me. Please weigh 75 more pounds than you say you do, smoke like a fiend and hold grudges. Mafia relatives an added bonus. Cheapskates welcome.
Verbal abusers an added bonus.
Love Is Stranger Than Fiction

"I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody coming over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about..."

-Joni Mitchell, "The Last Time I Saw Richard"

We lesbians often wingwalk from one relationship to the next, rarely unpacking baggage and expecting the new, improved love to clean up all the shit the villainous ex left behind.
Everyone knows shit needs to dry out a bit before it's swept up, else it smears all over the place.
Yet we persist in trying.
Rebounding is not a red flag in our community, it's a sacrament.
So immersed are we in the concept of "having the ideal lover," we often scramble for the recently single lesbian, knowing she won't be on the market for long.
How whacked is that?
When my lover and I split for the final, intractable time in October, I thought the idea of getting someone else's DNA on my bed linens and myself as soon as possible would provide the only relief I needed.
I started dating a local woman, and I almost settled for someone who was into football, country music and lots of social drinking, none of which interest me in the least.
Sweet as she was, all we did was knock back Crown Royal and talk about our exes, and that as you may know, is like sprinkling silica gel in your pants.
I have learned that when new interests trigger old responses, it means I am not as healed as I thought I was.
I spent a year dealing with a woman who could not exorcise the ghost of her horrendous ex lover. Her name came up far too often, yet I was unwilling to walk away and say "come back when you are over this" because I was afraid she'd never come back.
So I tolerated it all year and when we broke up, guess where she went? Straight back into her ex lover's flabby arms.
There was a lesson to be learned there, and if I didn't learn it, it's my own damn fault.
So my candle is out for now, and so is romance until I can find someone who isn't still sticky from her ex lover's fraudulent kisses, and still believes in her ridiculous alibis.

Wednesday, January 02, 2002

Freaky New Year

I just found out that Kara, a casual friend of mine, caught a bullet in the head on New Year's Eve.
I mean it, she literally caught it with her head.
It seems some dumb son of a bitch fired a bullet in the air to celebrate NYE, and the bullet came down and crashed into the top of Kara's head while she stood by an outdoor fire ring in my friend Martha's backyard.
My sister was at that party, standing nearby- it could have been her! Hell, I was at that same party year before last!
The cops said a bullet shot skyward can travel up to two miles and land who knows where. This time it was in Kara's head.
It didn't lodge in her skull, it just dented the fuck out of it, caused copious scalp bleeding and a subdural hematoma that required hospitalization and an overnight observation.
Idiots say, "guns don't kill people, people kill people."
Bullshit. People with guns kill (and injure) people, and guns are what make the difference.
Texas has a concealed gun law. It was Dubya's first legislation as incoming governor. You can take a little course in gun safety and legally carry a gun in your pants or purse. How fucked up is that?
I'll bet the dumb ass who shot into the sky didn't have a permit. He (I am sure it had to be a man) was probably drunk on beer, couldn't afford fireworks, and thought he'd be a he-man and shoot a gun into the sky.
Kara is a midwife. She delivers babies into the world for women who can't afford hospitals. She's a sweet woman with an even sweeter lover, my good friend Deirdre.
The U.S. constitution provides for the right to keep and bear arms. They made that law when you had to stuff a blunderbuss with pellets and gunpowder, and the whole process took a few minutes.
I am sure they didn't have in mind the rights of some drunk, dumb son of a bitch shooting a Saturday night special into the sky and plinking an innocent woman in the head.
The worst part is, the dumb bastard probably still doesn't know he did it. This could be a yearly ritual for him, for all we know.
Damn, I wish they could legislate against stupidity.

Here's the Thing

I used to think if I told a potential girlfriend I wanted to settle down and have a committed relationship, she'd be scared off.
So, I gave mixed messages and ended up never really settling down for long.
Now I am ready to settle down and that's the message I am giving.
If it scares off a potential girlfriend or partner, then she's probably not after the same thing, and it's best she move along so I can be ready for Ms Right.
I think that solves the mystery as to why I have never lived with anyone longer than three or four years. I guess I was afraid to admit I wanted to be there, so I acted like I didn't.
Well. That was simple, and it only took about 34 years to figure out.
Okay, so now I am ready to settle down in a trusting, loving, communicative relationship. Now what?

Tuesday, January 01, 2002

New Year's Day

Thank God 2001 is over. What a fucked up year.
Last night I skipped the whole rigmarole.
I stayed in and drank Cokes and watched 40 episodes of Sex and the City.
I have no hangover, no need to call anyone and apologize for anything I said or did last night, no regrets.
The street outside my house today is littered with fireworks remains.
It sounded like Afghanistan outside last night. They were blasting off those big ass, sky-filling chrysanthemum fireworks, detonating what sounded like small sticks of dynamite, shooting off whizzing things, concussion bombs, the works.
My neighborhood must be filled with men who have minuscule penises, to prompt such an ostentatious show of firepower.
I can only imagine what it would have been like if fireworks were legal inside city limits.
Even my ne'er-do-well handyman called me yesterday to see if he could borrow some money to buy some fireworks. I said, "Robert, think about what you are asking. One does not borrow money so he can purchase fireworks."
He must have wanted to celebrate being such a fucking pendejo.
All I know is, I was perfectly happy to bring in the new year with just one bright sparkler.