rainy days and tuesdays...

rambling along

singing a song

that i just wrote for me

won't be long

'til a new song

will be what i sing for me

time is spent in spades

sometimes staring at a wall

love is sometimes painted in shades

without any color at all

a paper a wall a piece of bark

some words and feelings

evoke one's art

the question my singing has led me to ask

is

where doth your art come from?

doth it arrive from all that you invisibly witness

or doth it be born with your hands making it spun?

is the poetry of which you write

right, clear sight, without fight

or does the rhyme

arrive only after manipulation time?

gently we go

moving so slow

like molasses dripping in winter snow

gently we grow

ever so slow

may we at least, one day,

find our way home

like that last autumn tree

that won't shake its leaves

holding on tight

like a roof to its eaves

i grasp hope in my palms

it cuts into my flesh

but i'll ne'er release

what i dreamed best.

jorge steven lopez

twinkling diamond

little boy, crystal star

i guess we haven't

come all that far

bodies' hacked or hung

those straight boys

show fags how it's done

how to live the life

live it right

not left

and certainly without swing

or a ring-a-ding ding

little island, little fare

reflects old systems over there

antiqued thoughts and values

doused in religious hues

little jorge

on a little island

with little minds and

little thoughts

and narrow ideas

of love

and what it looks like

starlight

starbright

crystal diamond boy

in the moonlight

little jorge

musta been gay

he was made that way

his shine

his beam

his smile

his gleam

some are too precious for this carbon safari

jorge steven lopez

paging blackie and blondie

i worship you both

love you both

indeed.

dime after dime

it all falls in line now

turned on a dime, how?

doesn't matter anyway

overnight

overall

in hushed tones

my own home's hall

where there was once

a fire

lie sopped ashes

and rusted wire

cutting and scratching

no need for hatching

any new ideas

this one needs cleaned up first

we used to give credit

but these days cash is

all we accept

where there once burned bright

there's long been no light,

don't tell me twice-

i ain't that nice

been here before

chasing the boar

round and round

the same steaming pile of stench

each angle

i am able to find another title

another label

another distraction

another excuse

time and again

it all falls in line now

turned on a dime, how?

doesn't matter anyway

been standing in line all day

waiting to just

pick a number.

jackhammers and silk

the map of the heart

never drawn

only felt

much like braille

arteries to bumps on page:

what does this say? do we turn here or not?

is this a dead end

or an on ramp to the very freeway

we've been searching for?

we can only guess

hope

wonder

talk

decide

weigh

outweigh

try to make

decisions

where the best of my self is

is always available,

the best of Me,

who is different

than the armored guard in me

therein lies the cruxt of moi:

marshmallows and knives

and almost everything in between,

then wrapped in a high IQ

it ain't christmas everyday

in this here mind

cotton balls and sledge hammers

meat grinders and old-lady knitters

kittens and piranhas

candy and coffee beans

all in one

the pedestal preachers

the priest who was known for his sermons, his preachings and teachings of honesty, integrity, i listened to him. i drank his words, closed my eyes as his ideas filled my insides, guiding me along my path of the unknown. the priest, father dean, as i called him, was often praised for his words and leanings towards peace and truth, love and acceptance. years of praise, of adulation, for this man, whose very sermon became a mantra of my own heart: truth and peace.

years passed before the hometown newspaper screamed the Real Truth: father dean was a liar, not at all a spreader of peace. (details unimportant.)the fact of which knocked me off my feet: when one RELIES on another's words for TRUTH.... there is no room for dishonesty. the discovery of father dean's true self broke me that day, burst my bubble of naivete, and i promised myself i wouldn't live that way.

but it still crosses my mind, the reality of father dean, a man we all packed into the pews for- a man we all poured our souls into, in hopes of some god-like love in return... his reality was the polar opposite of how he asked us to live.

they who shake their fists above their head

while screaming words we are all to live by

they need to sit down already

i must admit i've come to realize:

those who preach to others

are really preaching unto themselves

wishing they lived

their own mantra

pedestal preachers: sermons, ministers, celebrities, singers, writers, poets, whathaveyous.... they wish they lived in the manner that they tell you they live. cuz they don't.

bookmark

november. 2009.

life changes at all times.

change is another way to measure the passage of time, i suppose.

bookmarked.

three

bouncies

balloons

cakes

M&Ms

candy

tickles

laughs

hugs

candles

one

two

three

all of me

don't shoot the preschool stalker

so then this one time, i went to drop my toddlers off at preschool, and once i heard the metal clank of the security bar as it fell around the play yard pole, my soul shattered into as many pieces as there were pine needles at my feet, and i cried so hard that i couldn't catch my breath.

and then this other time, i went to drop my toddlers off at preschool, and once i heard the metal clank of the security bar as it fell around the play yard pole, i felt a little piece (or two) of myself break off, and i cried so hard that i pulled a weird little muscle in my neck.

attach

attach

attach

and then one day

i'm supposed to

just

let go?

you is only half a buck, mister fiddy.

"the gay tour"

fiddy cent called it

"the gay tour"

using "gay" as an insult, it seems

he calls himself fiddy

short for "fifty cents"

maybe if he weren't an ignorant, uneducated, bigot,

his nickname coulda been

"One Whole Dollah"

and he coulda called himself

Dollah

jussayin'.

happy anniversary

to us

to us

to us.

sunday

status update:

today i will have a one-on-one mommy date with a twin, i will visit my evelyn rose, i will eat lunch with old friends, i will cozy up inside with my family when it storms later, and then tonight, i will put myself to bed, knowing i've spend the day helping my children to grow into amazing, lovely members of this planet.

i can't think of a more important place to be.

i overheard johnnie rose say the other day, "oh, my fucking god". of course, the curse word was used in the right context, but still.... that's not what i want my preschooler to walk around exclaiming. so i turned to her very slowly and asked, 'johnnie rose, what did you say?" and she stopped in her tracks. her head slowly turned, as she realized she'd said something less than appropriate. she was quiet. so i asked again, "johnnie rose what did you say?" her big blue eyes looked up at me with doe-eyed innocence, and said, "oh, my fucking goodness."

that's why my career comes in last on my list of priorities. i don't wanna miss a thing.

truth and dare

i don't know if it's ever been a better time to stay home, and watch my toddlers grow. first year of school. first time for so many things. first first first.

is there anything quite so golden as the ability to be at home most of the time, teach my children manners face to face, on a daily basis, entertain them with stories and crafts, and actually mother the children i mothered? i don't think so. not even talk shows are that golden.

trust.

bless.

and today i wear white underwear. i guess i feel daring.

east coast sand man, east coast song

if the universe throws me a curve ball

that i'm pretty sure

i can smack out of the park

do i go for it? and rip the skin off

with my aluminum bat?

or do i turn away and remind myself

and others

that *I* have made

different

plans

and ignore the ball

as it rockets past my determination

whizzes through my independence

and leaves a hole the confidence of my choices

i have a foul mouth

because it keeps

everyone at arm's length away

at least, if not further;

dark words that offend pure ears

are my armor, my protection

if i am feeling particularly vulnerable

unsure, out of control,

and you are sitting next to me,

i might sprinkle your shoulder

with such inappropriate vocabulary such as

dildo

cunninglingus

pussy

fuck

shit

holy shit

bull shit

fucking

ass

damn

and so forth

i have got to find a less antagonizing, offensive way

to feel safe

than to spew profanity like a

lawnmower spews cut grass

well. yeah. recently, in the middle of an audition,

i realized it doesn't work for me anymore,

the whole: "i'm nervous so i'll slip into my Tourette's syndrome"

thank god for screen tests, or i'd never see my flaws so clearly

but i knew that the folks are onto something when the producers feedback about my appearance was so much like my couples counseling feedback: "You, on the left, maybe you could you be less aggressive, and maybe... clean up your language a little bit? this is daytime tv." (okay, my therapist never said that last part, i'm being silly.) i understood exactly what was meant by it.*sigh*

the first merry go round

to the big apple

was paved with dirt

and i rode on a broken animal

that didn't fly

time passes

and what was once golden

in time fades,

and it so often turns out to be pyrite after all

there's a sunset on the east cost that lulled me to sleep my first nights away from Home, Indiana, my mother, my friends, all that i ever knew... i was away, so far away

that east coast sunset

drips through the window shades

dances gently in the fading light

lullabye

and good night

east coast sunset light

coming around again

finding my palms

and holding tight to my fingers

and reminding me

that i've done it before

i've jumped

and the net appeared.

turn it over, the beauty rearranges itself

i'm sitting on honey's tour bus, huddled tight in someone else's blanket (one of five possible crew people- i don't know, i grabbed it from a random bunk of man smell), trying to figure out how to work the four seperate thermostats, hustling back and forth between the front of the bus (my temporary section) and the back of the bus (twins' temporary sections) to quiet their forced coughs and giggles. nobody's sleeping. honey's singing less than 50 yards from me, in some new jersey theatre, and i'm thrilled she'll have tomorrow off to spend with us.

isn't it funny how we can plan things so carefully, so simply, with such emotional caution, and controlled choices. but then... the universe pretends to be deaf.

i've been lucky enough to have faith in my destiny. my destiny, i do believe, is a culmination of my choices, and the choices are a reflection of how i truly feel about myself, my intentions, and my path in front of me.

i headed off to indiana at the start of the summer, with a careful map of the proceeding year, and then a outline of the next decade. i was to live simply, concentrating on children, and, sadly, living on the west coast, with perhaps visits back to the hoosier heartland for breathers.

but the universe, much like honey, played hard-to-hear.

and then the universe introduced me to two separate projects. with incredible women in charge, who can teach me things i don't know, and/or help me buff and shine what i know, but haven't used in a while.

what do they call those sand/water/frames that tilt upside down, with the sand sifting and silting all over, inside the glass frames? that's where i am right now: i have beautiful silky, sand, gorgeous, strong wooden frames, and water that tosses off prisms if you hold it up in the light. there will be differences, but not changes per se. i don't know if i can explain it better right now.

i don't know if i know more right now.

the sifting sliding sand and the watery unknown, i can only sit back and watch it all myself, and wonder what it will look like when it settles. i know for sure than the stillness we find next in the frames will have all of us caught in the prism of our own family. sometimes together, sometimes separate, but always a vision of beauty and unconditional love, swirling amidst the wonderments of tomorrow.

rain rainbows rain rainbows rain rainbows

freefall

an interview 

a proposal

an idea from a group of women

tossed my way

they asked if i wanted to 

come on board

um

ok

it's time for me to take a job- 

make some money

tell honey 

to sit

(if she even knows how)

it'll help bring my vocab back up to par as well

the broken english

of toddlers

has not done much for my language skills

do i want to

sort of yes

sort of no

lots of in between

it's like the time 

before the bald thing

we had no idea how far that experience would project us

into the zeitgeist 

mostly honey

but since i'm holding onto her comet's tail

me too

we had no idea 

we were on a different path than before

we had no idea for years

and sometimes i wonder 

if i've just started a new path

unbeknownst to me

the beginning of something else

not to be understood for years to come

one of those waves that you can't see

until it's too late

and crashing upon the shore 

breaking upon one's back

but i never know 

if my choices are leading me to 

the rain or the rainbow

that's when life is about faith in my own choices

a time for me to believe in me

that's when life is about every small turn

and how i choose to be

regardless the outcome.

'round the clock face in the blink of an eye

this blinking cursor

tells me nothing

each pulse asking me

What do you have to say

*sigh*

i'm not ready

at times, 

not often

but at times,

i feel like closing my eyes and

just riding the coaster

with no desire to try to capture it all

within the bounds of 

a simple 26 letters

the nicest thing

coupla girls from the gay sketch show

pecked out a most beautiful script

and asked me to be a part of it

their movie

i was beyond flattered 

and am beyond nervous

i'm not ready

a sweet story

the nicest thing

that's the name of it:

nicest thing

i hope it comes out by fall 2010

but that's me dreaming

again

coupla ladies in suits wanna 

sit me down and chat with me 

about tv and such

when it rains

it pours

yes, for me, two projects coming out of the woodwork

is "pouring"

umbrellas needed

i'm not ready

honey is still touring

and recording her next album,

the twins are potty trained

and starting school in the fall

my oldest 

meets me eye to eye now

and my second oldest shares my shoe size

i'm not ready

motherhood is so much more-

extends so far beyond 

anything i could have imagined-

and there is no warning of the 

tsunami tides 

of emotions

the ache to constantly shelter and protect and care for

one by one 

they hurl themselves to the starting line

ready to move to the next phase of it all:

life

ready, set, go

motherhood 

is like bleeding rainbows and 

laughing in gold waves

for me

but so often

the time sneaks by me

no matter how i try to pull in the reins

and i find my children 

bouncing with anticipation 

 ... i don't feel ready

and what i have realized

is that life

is not about being ready

in fact

it's the opposite:

life is 

not wearing helmets,

not wearing watches

not packing extra clothes 

not bringing a first aid kit

life is all about not being ready,

and how i handle it:

that tells me who i am

ready or not....

 

my angels and the nicest thing

the circle of life 

crazy eights for some

there comes a time 

when the light might release shadows

when the answers might become

questions themselves

just when my crazy eights 

start to make me dizzy

i stare into the faces of angels

their pull 

can bring me back to circles

eventually stopping the carousel

of up and down circus colors

the faces of angels

they soften my edges of confusion

their 2 year old selves unknowingly 

providing me with 35 year old answers

the faces of angels

honey and i

are gardening angels

sweet and precious, 

making our journey together

that much more divine

amplified each time their laughter

bounces off of our walls

hollywood beckons again

they find me through "contacts"

or maybe sure will power..

but i said yes to a movie

a darling little flick with a lot 

of potential

and isn't that what life's about anyway?

what CAN happen? 

why else do we get up in the morning?

(okay, and my shrink thinks it'd be a good idea to get me out of the house while the twins start some preschool classes. *sobs*)

so i got up one morning

and said yes

to something in showbizzzzzzzz.

will the movie come to fruition? 

ya never know, i say, ya never know...

but i read the script, and 

really it's lovely, it's charming,

it's "the nicest thing".

well, right after the faces of my angels, of course.

hometown runaway

i ran away from the root

thinking the root was going to make me rot

what i found 

is that by running from the root

i ran from the beginning

of all that i am and was and will be

"the hair of the dog"

returning to the city with 

the most fast food restaurants per capita

in the united states

returning to the town that 

was merely a backdrop for the 

play of our emotions and karmic payback

i cursed the town

the occupants 

the ignorance

the suffocation the bible thumpers 

placed upon those who do not thump

turned my back

to the beginning of me

no wonder i'm still looking for

pieces of me

full circle to get the pieces i ran from 

*

hometown runaway

she said 

there's not enough for me here

you offer me no sun

like NASA blastoff

she was gone to the east

chasing the sunrise

hoping a new day would pull the stars 

down from the sky, within reach of her 

outstretched fingertips

hometown runaway

thought there'd never be a day

she'd wanna head back that way

there's so much left to say

and so much to say  another day

hometown runaway

wants to see another day

seeks another way

to live

but this time

hometown runaway

stopped running, and found a way

to slay the sayers of nay

there's more than black and white- 

there's gray

hometown runaway 

going back home.

hollywood farm girl etheridge chooses not to live like closeted homos who hit on cops in bathroom stalls.

i find it a wee bit fascinating that i legally, formally, and across the board, changed my name to Etheridge years ago. and yet, as all of these reports are published about the "Prop Wait-We-Changed-Our-Minds-Git-To-The-Back-Of-The-Bus-Again". all the articles are talking about melissa etheridge married to tammy lynn michaels. which i find interesting. what if they were to report all of this with my REAL NAME: ETHERIDGE. it wouldn't make much sense, would it, if they wrote about "Melissa Etheridge can't marry Tammy Etheridge". 

how stupid does that sound? pretty stupid. and they know it.

so everyone keeps printing my "maiden name". they sure as hell aren't about to recognize my marriage if they can't even recognize my legal name.

loving v. virginia

you see, it's not about CHOOSING to be gay. it's about CHOOSING to be honest with ourselves and the people around us. ya can't CHOOSE to be black (except for back in the slavery days when light-colored slaves were able to pass themselves off as white... hmm... choosing to be black or white...) and ya can't CHOOSE what feelings to have for whom.

one can choose to be honest 

or 

dishonest

larry craig 

or  

billy jean king

loving v. virginia

i looked at my shoes and realized no one else is going to walk in them besides me.

"you have to stop panicking" she said to me. 

i know, i know, i know. i'll get there.

once upon a time in hollywood, there was a boil

to be honest, my closet is full of either torn up jeans or shorts, and sweats. there is another closet that honey uses for what i call her "liberace clothes". these are the clothes she wears purely for camera and on-stage  appearances. i do indeed take up a tiny corner of that liberace closet (heh) of my own, with i'm-still-not-that-skinny-yet glamour clothes. but until i lose another whatever poundage (if ever)... i have shorts and jeans and tshirts in my normal closet. 

honey is so sweet. she packed up the twins with me, and we headed off to fyancy boutique shopping place so that i could pick up something decent to wear for a school dinner thingie tonight that is not men's bermuda shorts or a man's shirt. (you know- my swim suit...) i was hoping for something in my size, which is not a 0 nor is it a 00... or a 2 or a 4 or a 6. anything above that size in this town, and you have to go to the men's department... anyhoo. there we were: malibu cross creek. a great playground, with no old sandy syringes or littered styrofoam cups with lipstick stains around the mouth, scattered about for small children to eat. i left honey at the swings with the twins, and off i went. 

i returned about a half hour later, to find them still at the bucket swings. honey was zoned out, the twins were zoned out, so i knew it was time to feed the three kids and get them into bed for naps. (heh heh) thats when i looked up and deep into a lens the size of my calf from across the park, 25-some feet away. through the thronging of screaming children, and half-wit parents, i saw this:

lookit her. sitting there. like a boil on a baby's ass. despite the saturday morning hour, and the other families and their children... there she oozed. when i pointed her out to honey, boil face threw that big ass lense into her hobo purse and looked away, as if she'd been studying the fog of the morning all along. i took out my camera. i wasn't sure what else to do. but i figured i'd at least have something to show from *this* side of the fishbowl.

she was far enough so that i couldn't count her big-wheel pores individually, but not far enough away to go unnoticed by all of us mothers.  as i stood to take another photo of her, a mother said behind me, "Do they really think we don't see them?" then the puss-filled pimple stood and shook the sand from her pear-shaped ass, her cuffed cut-off denim shorts showed pockets that screamed "I like to party like it's 1983!". she began to flip flop her pear ass around the playground, and i thought she was going to leave. nope. she circled back towards us, her hand in her hobo bag on her camera, like a bank robber to his gun as he enters the bank's doors.  as she passed by she exposed her haggard teeth in what i think was her poor face's version of a sarcastic smile, and then her boobs dragged her away to a store. she must've nursed like 10 or 12 sets of twins, poor thing.

 

the twins wanted to know what was happening, what were honey and i talking about... so i explained, being as honest and simple as possible. "sometimes, there are rude neighbors who like to take pictures of other neighbors. they have no life, no money, no job, and we call them GNATS." they nodded solemnly. "Rude," one of them repeated. one of the mothers at the bucket swings laughed, "what a great way to put it!" she said. another mother chimed in, "i cant believe they think we don't see them! those stupid people with their huge cameras- but they are the only ones here without kids! we're not blind!!!" this poor mother seemed even more upset than i was.  the kids and i headed off to find a place to sit, as we watched the big ass gnat wobble away. honey went to get some food, now that we had peace and quiet. 

but wait. she wasn't done with us yet. because she pretended to leave the area, we thought we were free birds. nope. as soon as we got some noodles for the twins, and salads for us, she buzzed into our light again:

she saw me pull out my camera, and almost jerked herself off her feet, she turned to leave so fast. again. (but not really.) by now the babies are wondering why honey and i are watching the rude neighbor. i didn't know what to say. at that point, honey and i started tossing stuff in a bag. "oh, it's time to go, no biggie, c'mon..." we said and cleaned up our mess. they helped, and soon we were ready to leave. but wait. here she comes again. 

oh. wait. this is the time i noticed she got on her jurassic cell phone, with all the leeches of town on speed dial. honey and i started to move faster. i had a feeling we were about to see who she was calling. 

honey and i tossed our garbage, and headed towards the car. as soon as i reached the parking lot, i noticed the man behind the tree. pussy. hiding. anyway, i pointed him out to honey, we put the kids in our arms and jogged a few paces to the car. suddenly, there were 6 or 8 of them. i don't know if they crawled out of each other's asses or what, but those f*ckers multiplied like rabbits in heat. here's the pussy behind the tree:

see that tree yonder? the tree with two trunks making a "V" shape, between the truck end (foreground) and the SUV bumper (background)? look close. zoom in, whatever you need. he's back there in all his nasty-sock glory. oh- and that SUV? um, i'm pretty sure that was one of the cars that ended up chasing us. allegedly, of course.  at this point, i lost track of my camera, so you'll have to envision this all while i describe it:

we ended up leaving the premises, and heading for a pharmacy to get honey some vitamins. but we couldn't cuz the gnats were there the second we found a parking spot. so we left, with them trailing right behind. a toyota, a VW, and two or three other mutt cars.  at some point we lost them on Las Virgennes. or maybe they gave up. or maybe they pulled to the side of the canyon to give each other hand jobs..?  i'm jussayin'.

 

it felt so farking good to pull up to our neighborhood and stop our car while our giant white security gates raised in silent permission to proceed onto the property. just us. quiet. 

our hearts were still beating fast, and our brows look permanently furrowed. i can't wait to spend more time in the midwest this summer. it should be a great gnat-free summer.  :-)

but i just wanna know... do these shorts make my ass look fat? 

orchestrating a *thunder clap* *lightening*

ummm.... this whole *thunder clap**lightening*  swine flu??? um... i don't believe it's any different that the *no thunder clap or lightening* flu that we all pass around at least bi-annually; we get fevers and throw up and get runny poos and are sick for several days. and yeah, some people die from the *no thunder clap* flu every year. gracious. now i might be wrong, like my blind self was with rick w. (another dubya), but i think orchestrating a "pandemic" (media hype, drama, lots of *thunder clap* *lightening*, misleading half-facts, and outright dishonest manipulation) is similar to orchestrating a need to go to war (media hype, drama, *thunder clap* and misleading half-facts, and outright manipulation).

i don't think i'm going to panic. i'll just have to wait and see. in the meantime, i'm going to keep my kids away from public playgrounds, we'll wash our hands a lot, and not share slobbery toys with kids we don't know .... um, just like when the *no thunder clap or lightening* flu is going around.

pills, princessa, percocet, pain, and planning wars

<---- this is the before photo, april 23

     this is the after photo, april 27---->

i think the united states should use deviated septum surgery as a new form of torture. it's similar to water-boarding, but with thick, bloody phlegm. 

and i've also discovered that i don't think i'll ever be able to find love for pills. i was feared this potential, especially with all the pill-loving within my family. (okay, only one person, but she loves pills enough for a dozen of us... i digress, perhaps with bitterness..?)   but during this weekend of pure torture, i have to say, the pills only made it worse. first the doc wanted me on vicodin, which i flatly refused. i now know that more than two vicodin within a year's time frame will set my gut to slow, snail-like, lava-oozing puke-age. after my c-section, they gave me percocet. which totally helped ease my first-time nursing pain as well (can you say "blisters on nipples?" now can you say "the pump was set too high?" now say "she almost sucked her damn titties off, forget about milk".) so this time i asked for percocet again, the haunting of my relative and her grasp on the pill bottles always in the back of my mind. so i order them with hesitation, and always leave extras in the bottom of the bottle. 

let me just say here and now, that those fucking pills make me NUTS. within minutes of taking them, i get hyper sensitive to sound and light, and then i get hot, and then i feel claustrophobic, and then i feel the need to run outside and rip my clothes off. this i ascertained from the second dosage of pain relief after the surgery, when i found myself ripping my pajamas off (again), and clawing at the back screen door (again), because "i need to be outside! i need to be out out out! get my clothes off!" (again). i ended up almost naked each time. that's when i said "screw the pain killers". so now i have a stockpile of vicodin and percocet in my medicine cabinet. 

that reminds me of a story. OOoooooh, another story. this one involves a legend. a legend that i will not name because... well... she'd have me killed. and i don't know if i'm joking or not. so. let's call her Princessa. honey and i were trying to sell a house some time ago... we'd had it on the market barely a day when the calls began to flood in. by the first weekend, we had Princessa on our doorstep, asking to have a "private viewing" of the house. so, unlike with other potential buyers, we left her in the house with our two realtors. our realtors were supposed to be there to answer any questions. but princessa dismissed them with a flick of her perfectly manicured hands. "i want to look alone" was what she cast off over her shoulder. the realtors left for the kitchen, and she headed straight upstairs, where she'd been directed for the master suite location. she was alone in our suite for about 10 minutes, we were told, and then she left with a bottle of leftover vicodin (lotta dental work) from my medicine cabinet, and my diamond watch. i noticed them gone right away, and told the realtors.... and there was some rumbling and mumbling for a few days, and then some fading voices after a week, and then... there was nothing. like nothing had ever happened. honey and i didn't go to the police. we couldn't wrap our brains around the fact that PRINCESSA came to our friggin' house and friggin' STOLE meds and JEWELRY. right? so we kept telling one another that the watch would show up. it actually had sentimental value, not just pretty diamonds. anyway... just a week later princessa called and wanted to come check out our house "alone" again (naturally), and at four o' clock, so that she could "see how the sunlight hits the house in the evening". i fucking kid you not. i said no way, we weren't giving any more "private, solo, unguided tours" of the house. princessa said no thanks and we didn't hear from her again. when i see photos of her, i scan her wrists to find my first christmas present from honey. 

long story not at all made shorter, i don't like to keep leftover pills in my cupboards because i'm afraid someone will steal my watch.  and here i have a pharmacy what with all the root canals last year, and now this surgery. but bottom line- i hate those little round balls of legal tripping. and some people don't. 

back to my deviancy. looks like i have two nostrils again instead of the holland tunnel and a butt crack. i smelled something the other day- something green and plant-like. i'm still not sure what it was.  this whole smell thing is new all over again.

and holy crappers. while laying around, trying not to rip off my clothes and scare the neighbors, i found myself on you tube. watching everything i could about 9/11.  darn if i agree with the theory that no airplane went into the pentagon on that morning, nor did a plane full of people go down in shanksville. as far as the rest of it all- i'm open to learning all the facts before i say more. i sat and watched professionally, demolitioned buildings fall on you tube for 10 hours today. the twin towers included.

i can attest, above all else mentioned, that if we open another torture chamber, we have GOT to offer deviated septum surgery as a choice for torture. a little phlegm-boarding, we'll have answers in no time. of course, the answers might not be what we want to hear, but when has that ever stopped us?

someone take the laptop from my hands. they're so chatty tonight. i haven't been able to talk in a few days, so i'm feeling verbally constipated. this helped relieve some of the pressure.

internet = colon cleanse ?

i won't be taking a picture of that.

proof that i am a deviant.

a deviated septum. this is what he called it. "zig zag" and "crooked all over" were some more descriptions he gave as he peered up through my nose, with a giant tweezer-like object. like a nasal pap smear, is what i thought to myself. 

it's been many months, maybe many years, since i've noted my nostrils asymmetry. no joke. most people have small differences in the two hemispheres of their faces, but my nostrils are twins like ahnold schwarzzie and danny devito in that 90's movie. one is nice and full, just inviting my fingers to sweep through with a tissue. the other hole? not so much. only flat stanley could fit through there right now. now i wish i had an excuse, like my cocaine use back in my bartending times were rough.... and my days were 98 hours long back then... but alas. nope. never tried it, don't want to. in fact, i've seen it in person only twice. 

oooh, i feel a story coming on. ah, let's see... it was 1997, and i was bartending at rubyfruits in the west village of nyc. it was a rocking thursday night, close to midnight, and my regulars were pouring in one after another. the red lights were wrapped around the ceiling, and the juke box had its routine playlist of melissa etheridge, kd lang, and indigo girls going at full blast. just to share, as a bartender, one's regulars are one's bread and butter. so the bartender had better recall the names of the regulars' parent, siblings, pets, lovers.... whatever has upset them in the past. and it's best for a bartender to pick up on conversations where it was left off with yesterday, or regular will feel slighted and prolly pout and undertip. (alcoholics can be like this. just part of the disease- no biggie. i digress.) some regulars do look at their bartenders as genuine friends. and sometimes... a bartender will find a genuine friend in a regular. that's happened. and that's another story. 

where the hell is that tangent i started with? right. nyc. bartending. regulars. killa vanilla. the scariest of my regulars. i never knew how sloshed she would be from night to night as she appeared at the bar's doorsteps. most often, she was turned away from alcohol, but somehow managed to remain wasted all night long. that night in '97, she called to me over the bar, "Tamm--m-m-m-m-m-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeee," and then flailed one arm above her head, while clutching the bar with her other arm. both positions looked accidental. "Yes?" i asked as i plunked my lemon slices back into the bars' little fruit cups. (a bartender has sidework to do such as cutting all the fruit, stocking napkins, washing glasses, liquor filling, etc.) i crossed over to her, peering out of the side of my eyes, to see if there were any other customers not quite so trashed that i could make a drink for instead of this one. but nope. all the ladies were grinding and happy for a moment. killa vanilla's arm flailed in giant circles above her head. "i hear you like to skeeee-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eee..." and then her other arm, still clutching the bar for dear life, somehow pulled her rather tall frame up and belly-flopped herself onto my freshly washed bar. dammit. but i thought about what she said. ski? i'd never skiied at that point. never in my life. i tried to envision how in the world she would have "heard" anything about me anyway... i was baffled. i leaned closer so that i could try to read her lips through the cacophony of that damn window song, and she spit on me as she grinned and slurred, "i hear you LIKE----TO---SKI!!!!" and then she flung her sky-writing hand at me, with a tiny baggie dangling by her fingertips. i ignored her thrust. "i've never skiied, but i do think i would like it." i answered honestly. (BTW, i did, and i do.) she pushed the baggie into my palm. the tiniest baggie my ignorance had ever seen. a clear baggie with baking powder in it. or so i thought. as fast as her hand had been in giving it to me, her hand was gone. she backed into the crowd and soon was just another darkened body in the crowd of dancers. 

i looked down at my hand. my common sense told me that killa vanilla didn't walk around handing out baggies of baking powder/soda in the middle of the night. my common sense had not much more knowledge about the situation. i turned the baggie over in my hand. and then it dawned on very slowly, and gently, as if coaxing an Amish grandfather onto an airplane. i began to sweat. being the recovering catholic and guilt-ridden midwestern girl that i was, i immediately feared police, cops, prison, and girlfriends just a wee bit more manly than i would have liked on the "outside" of the prison walls. i felt dirty. horrible. i needed to be rid of it immediately, and then i would never ever talk about it with anyone. no one ever had to know. so i threw up the cut-out piece of the bar counter, and shouted out to a waitress, "Watch the bar for me!" as i ducked into the thronging females. i dodged and ducked and slipped back to the restrooms. i cut the the front of the very long line (lesbian bar, duh, of course), and pled "Bartender!!" to the first gal. i took the next open door, threw the door shut behind me, and locked it. i gasped for breath as i wondered what to do with the screaming baggie of illegality in my sweaty little palms. i thought about throwing it in the trash, but then that seemed creepy. a baggie of coke floating around in the trash. so i turned to the toilet. ignoring the hand-written sign above that pleaded "Please don't flush ANYTHING but toilet paper down the toilet!" i threw that baggie into the bowl and flushed. i felt immediate peace. i was no longer on the verge of getting arrested. i'd seen COPS. that was no scenario for me. 

i made my way back to the bar and picked up on my sidework again while waiting for another miss to come up to my bar and order something. whew. disaster averted.

so. yeah. nope. wish i could say i was a coke fiend in those days, and that's why my nose is crumbling. but apparently having it broken several times as a child will do that to a nose. broken to the left, broken to the right, broken to the left again. and i hear that my life will be different once i am able to actually supply my brain with oxygen.  that'll be interesting to experience. i'd like to be able to smell again. i can't wait for the skin on my nose to heal from all the tearing off of the "breathe-right nose strips" while waiting for this surgery to approach. 

i'm not going to reveal what a scared sopping mess i am, how much i hate anesthesia, how much i hate having pain in my head, more than anywhere else on my body, or the amount of cleaning and organizing that i have been doing because i am so nervous. i don't need to talk about that stuff. 

deviated septum. i asked if he'd throw in a tummy tuck or something, and he said no. geez, he's so chintzy.

but check out that new photo up there. one of those nostrils is not like the other. 

happy april. i enjoy this particular week of April. special days, birthdays, earth days, herb days. happy april.

eating hats in shades of gray

sometimes 

ya gotta hold on to the surfboard 

with two hands

no arms leftover for 

blogs

sad but true

never permanent

for me 

i think

while dancing between black and white

i found finite shades of gray

much like the shades of skin 

shades of humor

shades of intelligence

shades of sexuality

shades of truth

shades of parenting

shades of loving

i don't think we really start to grow up until we are 30. birth at 30. you heard me. 

oh, and i almost forgot... rick. rick. rick rick rick rick rick. oh, ricky, dicky, ricker, dicker, rickeroo, dickeroo. i saw that. my friend ginger sent it to me via email. i heard you. i saw your mouth form words, and sounds came out that seemed to be telling me (subtextually, of course) that you lie like a rug. surely, rick, you can understand how i might be confused...?

now. i am going to have to find a hat that is edible. cuz i do believe one should eat a hat when one is wrong, or when one has misspoken, or when one regrets a decision, and wishes one had made another choice. really, any flavor of hat. tweed, cotton, hemp, linen, organic dyes or synthetic... just a hat. cuz i'd eat it right now.

to laugh or not to laugh

she said, "i can't believe what you have written online, in your blog."

i said, "i can't believe what i have NOT written online, in my blog."

and then i smiled. 

:-)

damn death

falling down while learning to ski. it's like a sick sense of humor, a really shitty script. it's not fair. two kids left to ache for a mother for the rest of their lives. and liam, poor soul, i can't even begin to imagine how he is feeling. 

sometimes i really really have to sit and take a minute because sorrow can be so sweeping. 

when the eyelids won't open for fear of what they'll see; when one grows deaf cuz what the ears hear is worse than death

when the truth 

continues to echo

like a knife to the back 

it might be time to go

when the empty nights 

far outnumber 

the friendly ones

it might be time to go

when the strain 

begins to wear 

at spiritual muscle

it might be time

when the bullets 

outweigh

integrity

it might be time

when the love is like 

a drought with no end sight

and the hatred is piercing 

like a sword in the stone

permanent

it might be time

might be time

we are family- aunts, uncles, cousins, and me.

I fell in love 

with several someones 

family

how does it happen that as a child, 

they are merely aunts and uncles and cousins,

but as a mother

with a desire to raise good children, 

they are more than relatives to me, 

they are my world of where i come from

Who I Am,

they have grown into examples 

of what to be 

i am watching them 

for ideas on raising children

i look to them for other ways to discipline

than by slapping a kids' nose until their nose breaks

again

a vision of Happily Ever After

looks so different depending on who's wearing it

what a lesson

someone else's Forever and Ever

may not look at all like mine

family

that i was blessed with 

the universe gave to me

a web of hands to catch me

when my mother could not

a web of love 

a web of support

aunts uncles cousins 

there is no need to run anymore

i can take my sneakers off, 

breathe deeply

and begin to look around

smiles where i thought there had been judgement

laughter where i imagined there would be disapproval

kind words when i thought i'd be met with deafening silence

how did i underestimate them all so?

i need to go home more

back to the roots 

back to the land that grew me

back to find answers 

clear up the fog of my childhood

bury some broken dreams

and bruised memories

to raise the pieces of me

i want to surround them with 

the other pieces of me

all of me

one place

much like when the angels sing 

as one wanders through the pearly gates, i imagine

that moment 

of all of me 

in one place

if you'd have told me 

back when i was making wishes on every star i could find

that i'd ache to return to 

the gentle arms that raised me

i'd never have believed you

but i also didn't know back then

that the wishes on stars-

whether they come to fruition or not-

wouldn't be nearly as thick and fulfilling 

as a day with family

a day with the people who paint my memories

and leave me feeling

like i was never orphaned to begin with

when the peace comes around

and family is joined 

it's time to open arms and fold in

the blessings 

of family

those who know you most

and love you all the same.

the morning special

i told myself i wouldn't need help with the twins when they were born. so what happened is that instead of having a nanny or night nurse, we hired my wife's tour accountant (who must possess some sort of inner mary poppins) who ended up living near/with us for almost 18 months. which was awesome for me, as it was like having an extra set of hands at all times. when it came time for her to get back to her real life (a house in the midwest, a cat, some family), i was barely ready to be a mom on my own. (oh, honey is around. but she is more in the "husbandry role" as i understand.) hence... i could really use some extra hands at times, especially when they were so little. 

when the twins were about 8 weeks old, i tried to find nannies, oh, i did. there were several that didn't last. the "hand-that-rocks-the-cradle" was my least favorite; then there was "can't i just raise your child myself" girl,  and "yo no english" sweetie, and finally, the one who didn't know how to install a car seat, and didn't feel like telling me that until my child (and the carseat) fell onto the floor of the SUV as i was buckling her into it. *sigh* i stopped looking for a nanny and begged the tour accountant to stay a little bit longer. that's then she brought in a lovely waitress from a steakhouse in atlanta, who had been a preschool teacher until family obligations called her away.  the situation worked out wonderfully. honey's tour accountant would come for two weeks while teacher was in atlanta, then the teacher would fly out for two weeks and the tour accountant would fly back home. alternating, we did it like that for awhile. and then the babies turned into toddlers, and everybody had to get back to real life (houses, pets, family). and once again, "What nanny agency would you like to use this time?" became the daily question that met me each morning. whether it was honey or someone else, i heard that inquiry each day. i finally said, "i am not going to use an agency; i don't know what i am going to do, but i am not going to use an agency". 

one morning, i was loading the twins out of the car, on our way to our favorite cafe. i suppose i'd call myself a regular there at this point. yeah, i can name two more more other customers by name now. and what they eat. yup, so there i was, a regular, coming in for another regular oatmeal and eggs breakfast... i asked the hostess for my favorite waitress' section, and off we went. as Super Waitress powered around the corner with all the grace of a tibetan monk, i sighed with relief- this was one waitress who knew how to help a mother out, i always thought. as usual, Super Waitress arrived with high chairs, extra napkins, ketchup, a fruit plate to keep the twins fed, crayons and paper. if i'd have looked, she would have prolly had a puppy in her sock, and a car battery behind her ear. as she was lifting my littlest daughter into her seat, it hit me like a water balloon- SPLAT. she could multi-task. she could cook, i was betting. she could keep more than ten things in mind, as a waitress always has to; she was kind and patient- something that *I* need to be around to learn more. i needed her to come to my house and be a Super Waitress with me. 

long story short- does it matter?- i approached her to work for us, she liked the idea, a little financial agreement was made, ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, i had a nanny/cook/mother's helper/godsend. we call her ezzi. and i've never had so much accomplished around the house. we clean side by side sometimes, but most of the time she beats me to it. she grocery shops with me, plays with a twin while making lunch, cleans her butt off, and doles out invaluable advice all the while. "Teh-eh-eh-eh-eh-mmmmy," she says in her permanent spanish accent, "you are like i used to be. you pay so much attention to everyone else. you are a mother, a wife, you clean... well, do you dance? what do you want to do? you need to get out of the house. let's go dancing. you come with me and my girlfriends, and you dance. you need this. time for you to be a wooooooh-men again, not just a mother..."  

seriously. you just never know what lies behind the talent of wait staff. and i never had to use an agency. and i'm never letting her go. i'm going to put a micro chip in her Super Woman cape. 

so when people ask me where i found such great help, i smile and tell them to start out by finding a great restaurant, and become a regular customer... ... ... ... ... 

serenity is a choice

if there's one book that needs to be written, it's called, "Perfect Mothering For Dummies". the problem is that i don't think that there is such a thing. i'm beginning to see that each child is different, and each child needs a slightly different parent. for instance, my daughter, she needs a few more feelings when being disciplined. she needs warmth and maybe some humor, and a big giant hug. my son, he just needs a firm "NO", and then a hug, and off he scampers, full of new lessons. 

after the razzi parade-pissing last month or so, i realized that the pap smears are going to chase my wife as long as there is an audience. okay. check. i decided to friggin' try to let go. that's right. i was born with hands of steel, ball into tight fists, but i've decided to try to unclench. or rather, attempt to unclench. now, what does unclench look like? good question. i'm not sure what "letting go" looks like, quite frankly. i'm going to try a few things to help acclimate myself to this new idea of hollywood, EDtv:  joeblow with a camera up my ass outside of a cafe.  since then i've done one different thing: i supplied a chum of mine with a photo of the twins, and allowed her to display them on her public site, for all to see. one little thing, and yet such a difference in me... there is not a twist of muscles in my gut when i'm nearing LAX for a flight, i don't blink before i go to public places where there "might be some of them", i even stopped wearing a baseball cap to parks. i feel a little freer, a little less restrained. and maybe it was merely self-restraints, i do not know right now. i only know that by me letting go of ONE THING to my chum (a photo), it allowed me to let go in many other places, at many other times. and i can't help but think to the little gay families out there that had a few cute faces to point at and help explain their own family's differences. *sigh*

unclench. 

atrophied muscles 

resurrected and selected 

to be stronger

longer

more than before

open to change, open to new

open to a clearing in the path

a way to get through without the 

scraping and scratching

life without constant friction

a choice: like happiness

muddy puddles

puddy muddles

right on through.

the understatement of hope

i went back to the house

back to the scene of the crimes

i drove past history,

not stopping as i cruised into the rest of my life

i don't know why i always felt that 

returning 

would somehow allow me the chance to 

erase what happened in the first place

but now i know

after all these times

no matter how often i tread 

through the waters of Life Gone By~

the memories don't fade, 

the questions multiply

and my eyes 

my eyes

they reach for a sky 

that will rain answers upon me

fill in the gaps

the blank spots

leave me with more than three little dots...

in the day of this,

i have one piece to the puzzle:

returning may never give me back 

the parts of me that were stolen

but returning does give me the sense

that all that really matters

is that 

i have won

i got out

got away

grew

built

fell

got up again

danced

and 

all the while

i kept hoping

hope:

a hop, skip, and a jump

from miracles.

I am my own Razzi

This is Johnnie Rose and Miller 

I don't like the chase of the little gnats, so I am hoping that posting a pic here will deter them from spooking the hell out of us in the future. 

little gnats at the cafe

honey has the cold i had last week... it's rainy and dreary here... and britney spears is moving into town, and is going to fuck up all of our hard-earned privacy.

we went to our neighborhood establishment yesterday: a little cafe that we frequent when we don't feel like cleaning up after a meal. a fine place to find childcare provider, if you know what to look for in a waitress. but that's another blog. and yesterday we had a fine meal of things i can't even recall right now.  when we left the restaurant, honey had the diaper bag, and many items that needed to GO IN the diaper bag. but honey is a rookie at diaper bags, so she was more spilling everything onto the sidewalk, as opposed to actually carrying the things to the car. each bounce of an item was punctuated with sound from honey: "Oh! Oh, NO! Hey! Up! AW! AW!GET IT!" after the first few hit the puddles, she seemed to stop trying to prevent anything from swimming in them. it seemed she became more entertained by it all, rather than bothered. i had a sleeping johnnie rose in my arms, in her socks, covered in maternal sweaters, and blissfully obscured from our reality for at least another hour. 

our friend essi stopped to gather the sticky cups and ketchup-splattered plates from the warm muddy slosh around honey's feet.  honey worked on herding miller, and i continued to do the "don't-wake-up-yet-you-need-another-hour" bounce. once the diaper bag was origami'ed into a backpack, neatly packed, we started our way to the car. 

that's when i noticed the guy sitting on the steps by the library. it's a seventh sense i have now, knowing who is really a fellow neighbor, and who is a sycophant with a photo lens. it must've been this guy's greasy hair, and ugly-ass green sweatshirt. don't wear ed hardy if you look like you're 8 months pregnant, dude. anway. he caught my gaze as i was watching him click his phone shut and say to a fast-approaching buddy, "Did you get it? I got it? You got it? Let's go!"

he watched me as i watched him. he jerked out of his lean, and started to cross our path, about 20 feet in front of us. he skipped down the curb into the parking lot, and it was coming out of my mouth before it went through my brain: "Honey! Paparazzi!" and in a moment shorter than a second, there were suddenly five or six 30-something drop-outs five feet in front of honey, carrying miller, and about 15 feet in front of me. honey walked faster. the human lizards were running backwards, with their cameras pointed at Honey and myself. back and forth.

CLICK CLICK CLICK from the cameras  *scuffle scuffle scuffle* from their sneakers skipping backwards on wet pavement. my mind took a sensory photo in that moment. sounds, smells, feels... heightened senses in times of trauma, one might tell me. i noticed essi at my side as we walked straight into the flashing gauntlet.

i know i went on automatic pilot. i know i lost feeling in all parts of my body, except for my legs, which I was willing silently to walk fast, but calm, fast but calm, fast but calm. honey was in the car, essi was in, i was the only one still out, arms full of angelic innocence, and the sweaty greasers were all around me. i could see their worn, unlaced sneakers through the tiny space between the brim of my hat, and my scarf. i was hoping they couldn't see my eyes. protecting myself, is so often really about just protecting my eyes, my gaze, my vision, what i take in. and all i could see were sneakers, so i was okay. i heard them asking each other as they clicked away, "who are we shooting? which one?" and i smiled. because young people are so stupid sometimes. but on they clicked. i got up in the car, baby in arms, and nobody was even settled before honey peeled out of the lot. "i just wanna get out of here!" honey shouted.

miller was curious about why strangers were taking his picture. i'm going to teach him to say "little gnats" when the razzi is around the next time. "little gnats." 

where's that doctor seuss book that helps us parents explain this kind of lifestyle to our children? 

that had never happened to us before, at our local neighborhood eatery. the cafe folks said it was because britney has moved into the neighborhood, and she is now frequenting MY cafe. dammit. so the razzi hang outside the friggin' joint now, waiting for a shot of miss brit's bits. dammit dammit dammit.

now what. we moved as far away from LA and the sycophant razzi as we can without losing custody of the older kids, in order to get some privacy. there's gotta be a way to live with that sort of gnat "normally". meaning, there's got to be a way to live with the risk of the razzi, and chill out when they come swarming. no fear, no freak... no anger... just keep on keepin' on. i must work on this.

but, in my fantasy... i'm ready for the next swarming. the next time i see razzi, i'm going to shout, "I JUST WANNA SAY HELLO TO ALL MY FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK!!!" is that so wrong? give some shout-outs?or maybe find a few items that i could do a "commercial" for as the paps scuffle us to our car? would they keep shooting me if i whipped out a tampon, and discussed the ill affects of having a bleached cork shoved in one's hoo-ha?

i must think some more on this.

little gnats.

Amen

may we journey forward with neighbors in hand
and hope's wings on our backs.

damn myself! miracles!

when the little guy spiked a fever a couple of days ago, i didn't sweat: we had four more days until the sandeeeeAAAAAAAGOOO (to quote the toddlers) trip. there was plenty of time for him to rest and get better before we were to leave. then i got sick last night, and the little girl was spiking a fever of 103.5 today at noon. that says to this mom, "hell, no, we won't go". who wants snotty noses and tylenol schedules to deal with at legoland? and that vice-like sensation betwixt my eyebrows? i can't see. i like to be able to see when i drive. so no sandeeeeAAAAAGOOOO, no inauguration, just snotty piles of tissues and hardened sleeve edges from where i didn't find a tissue in time to catch the headed-for-the-mouth sludge snot on a child's face, so i used my own shirt. it's a right every mother has: multi-tasking clothing. (as the undershirt comes off before bath, why not use it to dig out some little eye-crusties, and then wipe up that little puddle of water from the open water bottle, and THEN toss it in the lanudry hamper?)

honey was offered seats on the platform with obama (and 100 others) on inauguration day. that's right. i wasthisclose to friggin' HISTORY, damn myself!! that's the last time i put my children's best interests first. priorities schmiorities. stupid. i coulda been within "tear-drop-got-caught-on-the-wind-and-an-angel-turned-it-into-a-snowflake-then-the-wind-carried-it-across-and-it-landed-on-Michelle's-coat" distance. damn myself! i shoulda listened to my gut. i shoulda known honey would get invited to sit up there. well, hey. who knows? maybe the invite was for me and a guest? huh? maybe barry was a big fan of Popular, back in the day? i kid. and digress. damn myself! back on point. i can't f*cking believe there's no obama platform for me to attend, no sandeeeeAAAAAGOOOOO to travel to, and when i blow my nose, my snot smells funny. i wonder if sinus infections make your snot stink?

however, let me give thanks for obama being on the platform at all. i never thought i'd live through one cheney-er-bush term, let alone two... but holy crap i made it. most of us did. whew. and now michelle-er-obama is at the helm. heh heh

and that airplane in the hudson river? NOW i believe in miracles. i believe that perhaps miracles are most likely to occur when we have selfless compassion for our fellow neighbors, and offer up acts of kindness to the stranger right beside us. i never knew miracles would seem so simple.

holla obama, welcome michelle

honey has to be out of the virginia house by 4am, to get into the dc security line by 8am, to be able to be DONE with security by NOOOOOON. now that is also to be noted: 4am dc time is 1am our time at home. which is where her body's time clock will be attuned to, california time. egad.

i've got a stack of san diego fun that i am going to peruse and highlight tonight. of course, i'll need to start a list or two.... and no toddlers will be stirred awake in the middle of their night, to be dragged into crowds of millions, with no food or water for hours to come. that might make me a shallow ass MF.*shrug* i'll wear my obama shirt and my white knot.

no inauguration, except for my relations

obama. i was gonna be there, and cry on the damn lawn as he swore on the bible to be a good president. but then the parade people said no backpacks or baby carriers. and no picnic baskets or purses or duffle bags... basically, our family can go to the inauguration, but we will have to lug the twins with no carrier of any sort, bring no food or beverages (unless they fit in our pockets), and possibly opt for all of us to wear diapers. now, some might call me a party pooper, or a pooper of the party... but that is called HELL, my friends. HAY-ULL. so honey is going with the big kids, and i'm gonna go to the zoo with the twins. i hear that the zoo in san diego is awesome. GO OBAMA! honey will cry for me on the lawn. i will cry for her as she describes her bazillion security checks in three days. i will also be sure to pack extra grapes, cuz miller can watch the gorilla exhibit for hours.

there is the IDEA of being there with 5 million neighbors. and then there's a mother of two-slash-four's REALITY of it. and this year, i'll be at the zoo. but i'll definitely be there for obama's next inauguration.

the rock and roller's wife-style is wasted on me.

oh, for kryst's sake.

so no wonder when i googled "YAMAKA" nothing came up. for some reason, i didn't let that deter me, and so i wrote alllll about YAMAKAS. which i have just discovered is spelled YARMELKE. YARRRRRRR-MELK.

see why i should only be speaking for myself? i can't even write a nice little blog without completely fuckering up the spelling, and therefor, perhaps the point.

YARMELKE. that sounds like something you attach to cattle while they work the farmland.

YAMAKA. no such thing, kids. learn from me. YARMELKE. pronounced YAMAKA, but not spelled that way at all, oh, no.

*shaking my head*

mmmmmmkay. this isn't as bad of a faux pas as the oprah episode where i stick my head up my butt... but this comes durn close.

yarmelke.

*sigh*

time tattles authenticity or trickery

...and if he is lying, if he is a wolf in sheep's clothing, we'll see. we'll all see. a wolf in sheep's clothing will always end up exposed.

if his heart is open, and his hug was genuine... then we shall see that as well.

we are merely opening our hearts to love everyone, regardless of their sexual or religious orientation. isn't that what life is about? cuz if we only open our hearts to people that we deem "safe", then where's the hope for change? maybe... rick got enough attenntion for his anti-gay-ignorant-musings-as-stupid-as-coulter's-hot-air, and maybe... just maybe... he's seeing the error of his ways. or maybe he just wants a famous sinner in his church to draw a crowd or publicity.



it doesn't matter.

i've opened my heart. i've done the right thing. i've done the christian thing.

and now we all just have to sit back and watch the rickster.

time tattles authenticity or trickery...



no sweat. just love.

as the universe laughed at me, i got a little spittle in my eye

aw, dammit. so then the universe kicked me in my ass. i was hustling through the back door with arms full of solstice gifts when honey approached me, almost breathless.

"you'll never guess who the keynote speaker is at the Muslim [blah blah] tomorrow night." her eyes were round as my fist, and her glasses were sliding down her nose. multiple names ran through my mind. and then i knew. i knew in a moment. i knew in a moment the way a train can barrel through a car in a moment. not even enough time to inhale.

"fucking rick warren," i stated.

she nodded.

"shit. i just called him a dick in my blog."

she nodded faster. then she grinned a grin like only honey-with-an-idea can grin. that grinch grin when he thinks who-ville is screwed out of christmas, and they're all miserable? that kind of grin. "i've asked to speak to him for 10 minutes. we're all in this together-- i want to reach out and be in this as one. if we really ARE supposed to be tolerant, then we'll talk."

i was agape. i hear about this guy, and i'm calling him crude names of male anatomy parts. honey hears about this guy, and she's all peace-pipe-hold-my-hand-and-sing about it. we need more people like honey. i digress.

which is sometimes better than the point at the time. a digression.







dammit.

anti-gay and the KKK-- that's only fair.

ah, yes, obama, you're trying to be open-minded and embracing. i get it. you have rick warren up there to help bring together all sides of the country. and then you defended yourself, saying you were also having Dr Joseph Lowery, whose views are contrasting to the narrow-as-a-butt-crack rick warren. as if dr joseph represents gay rights, as much as dick warren represents anti-gay attitudes. yeah.

well, i did some research. and while dr joseph has done many many things for civil rights, his amazing efforts were for the black community. he worked along side dr martin luther king jr, as well. i get it. dr joe is a great man, a legend in our own time, and i am so glad to be introduced to him via the presidential inauguration... but he ain't no "equal and opposite" man that is going to be up there representing interests that oppose those of dick warren.

so... in the sense that you are trying to bring together all sides of the country, and unify us all, i would like to embrace that idea... and ask you to invite some VERY oppositional folks from the southern chapters of the KKK, to attend the ceremonies. you know- i just want to embrace all sides. i just know you don't want to insult us gays; and so to show us that there are no hard feelings about a persons personal views on races and sexuality, i think it is a great idea to include folks from all walks of life- anti gay AND anti black. if you can bring in an anti-gay thug, why can't you bring in some anti-black thugs?

what's wrong with that? i just want everyone to feel included.

i had no idea i'd have second guessing about my vote for obama vs. hilary. as long as obama is right, and he is inviting people from ALL WALKS of life, and INCLUSIVE of ALL perspectives, i'll overlook this one selfish oversight.... it'll be interesting to see if they have a group of the white hoods up there, or if they'll just have one single Grand Wizard up there to represent... maybe just a single burning cross? then there's no security check- just a pack of matches. easy breezy.




fucking rick warren, obama? really?

the cookies sang

sugar cookies
flour
rollers
aprons
cookie cutters
spatulas
more flour
sugar
more sugar
children's highs
with crashing lows
only to beg for more
up and down up and down
all day
bakers day
dearest friends
getting dearer as each year passes
dyed fingertips
tattle my weekend plans
i can't have another bite of cookie
for at least 10 minutes

and a gay angel
"no on prop 8" she sang
"too little too late!"
all the other little angels sang back
my guilt will reside only when i rectify
what i knocked over with my ignorant elbows
and i felt horrible all over again
bad oprah interview
bad bad

gay cookies
gay angels
inaugurations come and go
some will be historic
we'll go to the historic one
for sure

dc in january
pretty cold
they're all gonna need boots and long underwear
i need to start a list.....

and so it goes

blink

omg. even though i still hold the feelings that i shared on miss o... i'm starting to think some of my fellow brothers and sisters feel like i stabbed them in the back. hm. i can step back and put myself in their shoes, and i would perhaps have a similar reaction. i feel like i let millions of my kin down.









man that sucks. an opinion that can be heard as a direct knife to progress that countless other souls have dedicated their entire lives to, and then it seems that i go and smash it all to shit. shit. that would mean i suck. really. i really have to work on my public skills. and that whole SKYPE thing? shit. i didn't know i'd see myself beamed back to me, and i'd stare at my OWN FACE while i answered oprah. only problem was... due to the spacial difference (couple thousand miles), when "i" got beamed back to me, in the music room... "i" blinked two seconds after i blinked in real time. so i'd hear a question, a long silence as the question beamed to me, then i'd answer... but the me on the screen in front of me was lagging behind me just a second or two or three. now i'm normally pretty efficient when multi-tasking, but i think i went all goddamn "brady bunch episode where cindy is on the smart show, and blanks on the capital of louisiana"... and marcia (or jan?) whispers with urgency, "BATON ROUGE! BATON ROUGE!" seriously. i had that moment. i was cindy brady. fuck. i suck. i even had a quote written down from thomas jefferson. a damn good quote. but i got nervous. and the blinking.

blink

2 seconds later

i stare at the screen as i start to speak, noticing i've blinked back at myself on the screen in front of me. how weird it looks to BLINK on tv. think about it. BLINK. BLINK. WETMYEYEBALLS. which is exactly where i got stuck. that was my baton rouge moment. or the beginning of it anyway.

then i blinked back at me
i stopped
wtf was that? i thought
am i just gonna blink back at myself this whole time?

i tried to find a place to look-
over in that corner? over there?

i tried to regain ground
well, oprah, i might have said...

blinkblink (real time)

i unknowingly hesitated as i watched to see how long it would take before
i would blink back at me
2 seconds later

blinkblink


what did oprah just say to me? omg- live. say anything! say anything! talk about family! i love them! they love me! empty air! empty air! shit!


blinkblink (real time)

2 seconds later

blinkblink

i would do it differently if i had to do it over again. i would duct tape my eyes shut, for one.


the youtube stuff of the marches, of the people, of my gay family, wanting CIVIL RIGHTS. shit. well.... i feel like i pissed all over their protests. and since i am married (fuck 'em) to who i am married to, aw, man... is that like if coretta scott king had an affair with a grand wizard of the kkk? is that how some people took it? i am serious about public speaking. i might need to take some of those classes. gimme a script, some words to memorize, and what feelings to throw in there, and i might come off half-intelligent, if i'm lucky... but goodness... oprah, and gail... and that pretty marc consuelos... and


blink (real time)

2 seconds later

blink



oprah is SO NEVER inviting me over for a slumber party now. i looked like a mule in headlights. and my gays... am i gonna have to give my toaster back? it's so used and dirty, i haven't cleaned the crumbs out in forever.... and there is a burn-y smell when you use it... but it can toast four slices at once, and is pretty cute.



and next time oprah calls, i am going to remember WHY I SAY NO to appearing on her show: i can't clearly speak what i am thinking, feeling... the complexity of my emotions, mixed with my pseudo-stalker appreciation for miss o.... it's not something we all need to see much. my stumbling.



blink




blink












blink



blink









blink


blink

a cape size fits all (aka: NO ON CAPE)

those superhero capes
they aren't meant as answers for all
i never claimed to fly faster than a speeding bullet
or scale a building 100 feet tall

i don't wanna live for the masses
my life only took on meaning
when i was born into mom and wife,
i don't wanna wear the superhero's suit
i don't wanna walk on water
i just wanna love my capeless life

i don't fly without assistance
and i rarely grow without resistance
but the shiny superhero cape
that you try to pin my shoulders and drape
some sort of responsibility
massive accountability
within just me?
that's an improbability

if my flying for me
seems like i may want to speak for thee
know there are many capes
waiting to be worn,
a true hero is made from
passion and a bullhorn

i'm not so much into the bullhorn part right now
and clearly my passion is in living prop 8
not public speaking

if you want a better hero
you can look into the mirror

i don't wanna live for the masses
my life only took on meaning
when i was born into mom and wife,
i don't wanna wear the superhero's suit
i don't wanna walk on water
i just wanna love my capeless life

gooey feelings

i might seem like i don't mind the confrontation, i might come across as cool and mellow and cool as ice (not)... but really, i was up all night puking due to nerves. some blankets, a few pillows and some washcloths and towels, nested all around the commode, and voila!! a decent night's sleep interrupted just a few times by my nocturnal wretching.


that's right. i don't care about technically, legally, forcing them to share that word with us. "marriage". besides, i already use "married" to describe my status... what're they gonna do, follow me around and correct me when i tell people i am married? i doubt it. though it's clear that some seem to have enough time on their hands to do just that. so, technically, legally, schmegally, religious persons can totally take that term and eat it- who cares? gimme a union, a civil partnership, whatever, i don't care. charge me the same, protect me the same, allow me the same choices, and call it what you want.

am i married? yes. i got married five years ago. nobody is gonna vote that away. you're going to have to vote my tongue out of my mouth. but careful of the puking. puking happens near the tongue.






i just wanna share that if you eat gooey, yummy, chewey fruit roll ups (organic) as your last snack before bed... and you end up wretching in the night? gooey, stringy, sticky puke. that's all i'm sayin'.

o on 8

when oprah says "will you be on my show" i tend to say yes. not always. but usually. and tomorrow is no different. this whole prop 8 has my dear gay community up in arms, and fiercely battling for the progression of our own. progression. hmph. equality. hmph. ironic.

we are going to skype it from our music room, which is always an impressive room, what with honey's stringed gee-tars draping the walls. i wonder if anyone would notice if i hung oscar from one of the gee-tar holders? i don't even wanna talk about what to wear. a bathrobe is out: not flattering. pajamas, out: i wear briefs and a tshirt. not what the midwest wants to see representing prop 8. okay, that's not what ANYone wants to see representing prop 8. or representing anything, prop 8 or otherwise. you know. underwear, not appropriate. not on oprah. maybe jerry. not miss o.

please, god, don't let me ramble on like that when we're on oprah.

perhaps my every-other-day-shirt, barack obama face?

wait. what if i wear what i wore last time? heh. that's the kind of stupid stuff i find funny.

i was thinking about my family, my aunts and uncles, cousins, etc. and they're pretty religious. but they don't use the religion to belittle me or my family. when we hang out, my kids are just another one of the cousins, as am i. my wife is just another "spouse of so-and-so", like everyone else's spouse. when we play kickball, they don't aim at my face, all that stuff. i'm just regular family, like everyone else. then i thought about what my family might vote if they were to vote on prop 8. and sad to say... there might be one or two (handfuls) of family members that would vote yes on prop 8. simply because of how we were raised, and how much exposure they've had to alternative lifestyles, different cultures' morals... (rural indiana? not like a melting pot of society.) yet, somehow, i don't take it personally. maybe that's wrong, maybe i should be angry and asking them their opinion and if they support my gay marriage, and if not, WHY NOT?!! and that such stuff. but i guess... when i think about it... i don't feel the need to ask. they hug me, they love me, they accept all of my children, and care about my wife and her health, and our life together. i don't care what word they want to keep precious to themselves... "marriage"... that's okay... it doesn't take away how well they love me, or how often we've laughed together, or how deeply we've grieved together... my family's behavior speaks to me louder than any ink dot on a ballet.

gimme the same rights, the same taxations, all that stuff. and you can have your fistful of letters that form an english language word. it's not going to matter in 10 years. moot.









i had to look up moot, to make sure it was really a word. nothin' worse than trippin' over your soapbox as you're tryin' ta climb down from it.

a rose is a rose is a rose.

when the government declared the illegality of interracial marriages unconstitutional in the late 60s, it was not a unanimous decision. in fact, 80% of the country was against it. thank goodness the country led us into better perspectives, and didn't leave it up to the humanly flawed citizens. but now... we're going to VOTE on equality? "is this person the same value as that person? say ay or nay..."

would rosa have wanted the people to VOTE whether or not she could get on the bus? would martin have waited for a VOTE to see if everyone thought blacks should be equal? i think not.


no matter how many voters there are wrenching away MY RIGHTS into their bigotted hands.... you can't take my family away from me. you can't make us stop loving each other. you simply can't.

try to vote on that.



PRESIDENT OBAMA!!! if you can finally make it to first-class citizenship, then so can i. one day.

hope

indeed.

i voted today

omg, i think i need to throw up. or at least lay down next to the toilet for awhile. my stomach is full of vomiting butterflies. honey says nervousness and excitement are the same thing. gotta keep that in mind.

i peeked at my neighbor's ballot today, i admit it. she was about 75, and i was SURE she was gonna be all "yes on prop 8"... so, because i like to self mutilate, i peeked at her little cheat sheet she was using as she was poking her opinion through the little hole. it was wrong. i know it. but - oh, for hell's sake, who cares? i just wanted to see. so i peeked.

i could see all of her yesses and nos... but where was the prop 8?? i pretended to scratch my neck and then kiss miller... and holy shit.

no on prop 8. i was shocked. i was ready to see yes checked on her booklet, but, alas, it was not. i wanted to lean past our twenty inch high cardboard partition and smoosh her little body all up- hug her 'til her eyes popped out. i held myself back, but felt my excitement begin to grow. my hope is finally pulling on the reigns, asking to be set free. judging a book by its cover never works for me, i have to remember this.

i almost skipped back to the car, and i probably would have if i wasn't hefting a two-year-old uphill.

i voted today.

does no one else feel the need to throw up?

days of hope and a stinky shirt

i am currently wearing my obama shirt. gray. cotton. i think i am going to wear it everyday until the election. save for the few hours i might need to wash it here and there. i need me some barack in the white house. i've decided to envision the inauguration day: michelle should be wearing a smashing red coat that perhaps some great designer makes for her, of course. the little girls are wearing matching navy coats, with pristine white (good luck with that, michelle) matching faux-fur hand muffs, and ear muffs and scarves... president obama in perhaps a sharply-made (designer, again) camel-colored, wool-type coat. with a handsome scarf. shiny shoes. i see him in shiny shoes. and such a handsome face! such a wide-open-smile face that, as a neighbor, i'd love to see across my back fence. and he's totally the smartie i would want to sit next to during tests in junior high. (it was a very brief period, those plagiarism years. my apologies, sheri hayman and mrs. peggy morgan.) anyhoo. where was i? right! ENVISIONING.

and snow. just a little snow? a dusting perhaps. and then rosemary clooney and bing crosby will sweep in from stage right, singing honey's new song, "ring the bells", and then sal the muslim rock star and honey can enter from stage left, ringing the bells indeed. i see it. palin and her entourage of the partridge family shooters will not be there. except you just know that michelle, i bet since she's so nice, and she has such diplomatic skills, she'd prolly extend an invite to the alaskan brood. all 24 of 'em. and i don't care what they are wearing at obama's inauguration. okay, maybe i would care what trig is wearing. god, that baby is so damn cute, i swear, it makes me wanna adopt a DS baby. everytime i see palin-poodle on tv, and she's trotting around her baby, i wanna run over and scoop him up my arms, and nuzzle his little sleepy neck. (and put him to bed, and keep him on a routine, but that's thinking like a mother, which is not what palin is here for! she's here to run our country! shoot the moose! eat bear! now give her the baby to hold so she doesn't look too dyke-y. and a little more lipstick, please.) so, yes, i'd love to see what trig is wearing, but he's my only interest. where was i again?

anyway. right. so there he is. my man, my obama, up there, his invisible cape confidently snapping in the blustery washington wind, his solid shoulders, wise and humble, ready to lead us into a future of elsewhere. anywhere but here.

i feel like i am already holding my breath, and i'm not even in my voting booth yet. my body tells me there is something different that's going to happen, something new- a change in direction. like those days when mary poppins is either breezing in or out of town with her giant umbrella of magical songs and perfect pitches. (am i the only one who wanted to make out with mary poppins? i found her hot, even as a child. well, it was more of a julie andrews thing... but i do believe this is a sub-digression. a digression within a digression. i digress.)

now can i get a dick van dyke (heh) drawing me some victory in seven days. i think i'm gonna be ill. i've gotten so anxious about an election. the first one stolen was shocking 2000... but that next one, when honey was on chemo... and i had to tell her scaly pasty face who was barely halfway into her hellish ordeal, that the weasle-y excluder wouldn't be packing his stinky socks just yet. both bummers. and yet... this election means even more. i am thinking perhaps it is meaning more to other people, too. the girl at williams-sonoma... the man outside of starbucks... the man inside of starbucks... i wear my barack shirt, and suddenly, i live in a small european village. strangers talk to me, approach me, give me a thumbs up... i get even more hope from OTHERS when i wear my shirt.

i can see it. little snow flakes. cold day. my tears will freeze on my cheeks.

a calendar marking, bouncing light squared

pieces of me
rusty or bent
or halved or cut
or worn or faded
or torn or shredded
hues of blues

smeared and spread
evenly not

getting better
better can get ugly for a minute
ugly
i've experienced
can grow into a
swan

patience is needed
expensive, yes

and yet each morning
i never fail to count my blessings
just as there are many i hold
there are many i will gain
in addition to

gentle
dimly
softer
until there's almost never a need to squint







happy bday to you
happy rebirth to me.

another thought, one of many theories

i don't know how long ago he became racist. i am unsure how long his hatred for the foreignly colored skin has been nourished. i know that when i had (very little) visitation with him as a child, he was surrounded by folk whose skin was as light as ours, and their minds as narrow as a sidewalk crack.

anytime we'd pass an un-white person, there was a scoff under the breath, or a forceful glare if the "colored" was ignorant enough to dare make eye contact. as a small child, i saw my donor's hatred for non-whites as an extension of his inner hatred for anything, period. it was almost like there were times that he seemed filled with anger, with something explosive... and each time he spotted a black person, specifically a black man, there was an immediate response to that person's presence in our aryan bubble. i noted it all in my stillness, in my desperation to be invisible; i let him hate the strangers, and i stayed under his radar. his public abuse of them seemed to act like a tiny hole in an overblown balloon: just enough of a release to avoid self-combustion. i took note that his hatred had nothing to do with them, really. he hated them because he hated himself. and if he'd had a good morning for any reason... there was less gunfire at the non-whites on the sidewalks of town later on.

in racism, there is definitely an "us" vs. "them" mentality. "we" or "they". there is also a lot of bullshit that gets spewed as a way to release tension of the self, and there are a lot of cowardly, manless nocturnal activities that occur to instill fear in neighbors. if those klub members are so proud, why do they wear those bedsheets, and only set fire to crosses in the dark? why don't they take their masks off and be PROUD of that white supremacy they carry around in their miserable, lonely, ignorant hearts. burn that shit in broad daylight! c'mon! PRIDE! PRIDE! don't hide it in the dark! oh, wait. cowardly pride is a different thing entirely.

US vs THEM is what my racist-supreme donor taught me. unfortunately for him, it backfired. in many ways. (sometimes i empathize a black person's experience more than ... typical? usual? more than would make a white person comfortable?) i was at first puzzled by he and his friends' treatment of the "colored"... but that grew through the years, into an understanding that racism is misplaced anger. misplaced anger at one's childhood, at one's parents or lack thereof, at one's life in general, at the way Vietnam turned out... whatever. there are so many things that might make one angry... and for some reason, my donor, with his white skin, his turquoise eyes, and his blonde mane.... he loaded his anger, and pointed it right at anyone passing on the street. who was black. the funny thing is.... i always noted that after he shot a round of hatred at someone, it put him in a good mood for an hour or two. isn't that interesting. i do wonder if the only way my donor felt good about himself is if he spent some energy putting someone else down. it seemed obvious to me, as the only time he was whistling was when he had just pushed someone's face in the mud.

there is a lifetime of hurt under every racist.

obama. president obama. yessiree.... i think our destiny is on a new track, and we might indeed be airlifted out of this handbasket we are in that is heading straight to hell. i watched coverage of some whiteys at a sarah palin rally... "muslim!" "he's a nigger!" "his wife and he might be anti-white"..... they have these fears because these are their fears. i can guarantee you that my donor is not sitting in southern illinois wondering who will be the best choice for president. nope... i betcha five bucks, he and his pals are, rather, setting fire to crosses, and trying to scare the shit out of any neighborhood non-aryans. and talking about how "there ain't gonna be no blackies in da white house!"

i was going into a grocery the other day, and almost ran over a lovely octogenarian with, what else, delicious milk-chocolate colored skin. "oops!" we both said, and excused ourselves, smiled, and moved on in our day. i was thrilled for a brief minute. what crossed my mind was, "hey! you guys get to be president now!" as in- hey! there's gonna be "one of you" in the white house!!! racist thought, maybe, thinking "one of you"... but hey. i'm trying. anyway... within a split second... i understood why so many people are worried about obama indeed being elected president. because then "one of them" is in charge... and i think us whiteys are actually scared that the racism card might turn.... and us whiteys will be on the outside of the white house, and the darkies will be in the white house, in charge of us. are whiteys afraid they'll be forced into slavery? are whiteys afraid big black men might rape our white wives and children? are whiteys afraid that his presidency will bring about huge racial shifts, and suddenly the whiteys will make less to the dollar? are we afraid that us whiteys will all be sent to southern plantations to pick cotton and be beaten with leather whips and hooks for the rest of our lives?

it's like beating a kid up with a giant stick, and then being told we have to GIVE HIM the stick. oh, shit, wouldn't you worry that the big stick us about to be introduced to YOUR face?

i do think that there are fears that "they" will be as cruel and cold as "us", as "we" have been to them for so many centuries. but nobody says that. there is so much to acknowledge, accept, apologize for, and forgive. and sometimes i wonder if all of that societal struggle isn't placed directly on barack obama and his campaign for presidency.



















ps. i love barack obama. and i'd dance around in a tiny bikini on youtube to prove it, but i hear he is not a fan of that expression of appreciation. and i bet michelle wouldn't like me much either. so i won't. which is too bad. cuz i've got a KILLER navy blue tankini i was dying to show off.

golden joye, steps and twosomes

two days
'til two years
and then two wee ones,
a twosome and thensome,
will bloom in my hands
into two years of golden joy
joye
two years of finally seeing more
of who i am and where i come from
a twosome
who glued some
of the me's together
a twosome
who knew some
of what would quench
the thirst for completion
correction
who knew
it would be two

it's always been in twos for me
two golden ones
steps of gold, shall i say
and then two more golden ones
i like to say i was given two sets of twins in my life

in two days
a twosome
who grew some
and then some

two
two


don't blink

****the end of the world in our library ****by white. e.****

when she first told me of her most recent wish, i was silent. not because i didn't like the idea, but because i had no idea who this salmad hasboobeeyor-blahblahblah was.

"he's like Bono, but in the middle east! a muslim rock star!" she was desperately trying to explain this man and his status to me in layman's terms, eyes as round as saucers, her frameless tina fey glasses slipping down her nose with each accent of the syllables she spoke.

"oh, honey, that's awesome," i think was what i said as i pulled my body out from inside the washing machine. (those darn toddler socks are always finding their way into the teeeeeeniest of places.) i'm not gonna lie. there are things that honey educates herself upon that i haven't had the time and/or the notion to, yet. so often she shares not only her hopes and dreams with me, but within that, she explains so much history to me. so of course she had to tell me all about the middle east again, and the muslims, and the gaza strip... shit. i don't recall ANY of that being taught in general history class. wtf? so i make her repeat it to me alot when the topic comes up. i love it. my own personal history teacher. anyway, so here she is talking about this guy, Sal. and it's my understanding that indeed, he is muslim, and prays several times a day, and blah blah blah. being the egotistical whitey that i am, i thought i had him covered. i was sure i understood his beliefs. i wanted to make sure that i respected them when he came to the house. i would dress myself from wrist to ankle that day, wearing no makeup, and the children would be dressed in the same idea: modesty and cleanliness.

as i threw the missing sock into the dryer, honey explained, "i've asked him to come to the house and work on a song with me! he'll come next week." i made a mental note, and moved on to the vacuum.

the day came, and all was well. the babes had slept, eaten, played, and had a generally good morning. i told them that soon mama's new friend would come visit. "SSSSSAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL," i said over and over. they repeated in unison, "LLLLLLAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL". close enough.

when the doorbell echoed throughout the house (ie: the phone rang a series of rings), the dog barked, the cat huffed and puffed her way to the top of the entryway stairs, and i made myself scarce with the babies. kitchen. food. when in doubt, give the babies a soft carrot and a cup of water. whenever honey invites some business person over, i get flashes of "I Love Lucy" episodes stuck in my head on replay... the episodes where Ricky brings home a business person, usually entertainment, or MISUNDERSTOOD to be entertainment, and Lucy goes into overdrive, trying to figure out how to capture the interest of said guest, and thusward, thrust into fame! showbiz! excitement! in the past, i'd have just left the house for awhile, but with the babies and the teething, and the ritual and me being a mom and all... i decided it would be fine to just stay out of eyesight and earshot. which worked out so well. when he arrived, honey immediately brought him to the kitchen to meet us. and what entered the room then, was the most magical smell i had ever smelled. you read that right. he smelled FUCKING AWESOME. now maybe some would say he has a strong aroma... i like to think of it as CONFIDENT. "YES! I SMELL TERRIFIC!" is what i hear when i smell him. and yes, he smells terrific. anyway, as i was trying to grapple with this new fact (cologne is allowed on muslims? i was starting to get confused. i think i envisioned him to be more amish-like... anyway...), his massive frame entered our cathedral ceiling'ed kitchen/playroom/livingroom, and the babies fell silent. their eyes watched him closely. he stepped up gently to the table. i was startled at his gentleness, and warmth, his loveliness. again, the amish fantasy was slowly fading into a reality of... a man. a handsome, great-smelling, smiling man. he didn't seem to be "weird" or unusual at all. well, except for his hat, which was HUGE, and reminded me of a giant fur hat a russian might wear in the dead of winter. it was perhaps february in los angeles. but he smelled good. no joke.

soon he and honey went off to her office, and the babies went down to nap. i decided to finish off some of the "to do list" i had left from moving in to the house, and so after getting some pliers, i headed to our library. our library is a ways from the office and the twins' room, so i felt like i had ample space in which to make noise and tinker. so i began that long and arduous project of organizing the library books into their sections. sounds needless? you try hunting for a children's book, and explaining what the Madonna sex book is, and why it's wrapped in foil, and why is it next to "betty crockers easy-made dinners". so i began. some of the shelves needed to have their pegs moved, and more space made for taller books. at my most frustrating moment, i was struggling to re-peg a shelf, WITH the books on it. so half of the 25-pound shelf (encyclopedias, of course) is two inches shorter than the other half. and my shoulder wasn't going to hold the balance up much more. honey's office door swung open at that precise moment. i started to sweat. i was in a precarious position: standing on the top rung of our library ladder, poised several feet above the floor with a wooden shelf balanced on my body that is balancing on the ladder. shit. they started walking toward me. i tried to peg as fast i could! i was pulling and pushing those pegs in so quickly with my pliers, wishing i could finish and get out of this awkward position before Mr. Smell Good caught whiff of my predicament. how embarrassing. dumb ol' lucy. too late.

"honey, are you okay?" honey asked.

"Oh,yes!" i said with utmost confidence. i was confident that if they would just QUICKLY pass by, i could let the heavy shelf fall to the floor, books and all, and i would start over. nope. the man is a knight.

he picked up his pace and said in his deliciously thick accent, "can i help you?"

as he came closer, i recalled some of the things honey had told me about his culture and religion (one and the same? i don't know.) in my panic, the only thing i recalled was that women and men didn't commonly and casually touch a member of the opposite sex unless they are related (perhaps this is where i threw out my amish vision of sal, and replaced it with hasidic jewish sal?). so as this super nice guy with a creamed coffee face and great cologne approached, my panic slipped from panic into DESPERATELY IN NEED TO DISAPPEAR. a book began to slide towards my face, and the nice man began to jog across the entryway; i tried even harder to get the last peg in it's hole so that the shelf could rest, and the nice muslim wouldn't have to help me, thereby touching me in the process- thereby, making himself unclean!! or something like that... i thought of his wife- i became sure that SHE would be insulted if he touched another woman, and an unclean un-muslim woman at that!! i so desperately wanted to show him respect! i so needed him to understand that not all americans are close-minded and disrespectful of other religions and cultures... somehow, i put the pressure of iraq and america all on that shelf and those encyclopdias. sal reached my side, and easily swung his thick arms up to steady the now waterfall of books.

"are you okay?" he asked, no end in sight to the chaotic juggle i was dancing.

(you try catching encyclopedias, while perched on the top rung, AND trying to avoid touching the man who has come to your rescue- it is HARD coordination.)

"oh, honey!" i half-whispered, as sal caught another book. i looked at honey. "he's touching me! i don't want him to get in trouble! is he supposed to touch me? oh, no, oh, no, oh, no...!" i don't think they had any idea what the hell i was talking about. "honey!" i whispered across sal's hat, this time a bit more frantic and pleading, "it's okay! i don't need help! i don't need help! it's okay!" sal caught another book, but several more fell at his feet. it was another moment before the shelf was empty, and sal had an armful of books, and there were some more at my ladder's feet.

dammit. i felt horrible. i felt ashamed. i felt that by "allowing" our elbows and forearms to brush up against each other while we were catching book, i had insulted sal, thereby insulting his wife, his children, and shaming his entire family. i had heard about what happened to muslims who shamed their family: they were stoned or killed. in all honesty, all truthfulness.... there was an ignorant, ugly moment where i feared he would now have to be killed. i feared i had caused great shame to come to sal, for his arms had brushed up against me several times as the books fell. i wondered if he would have to say extra prayers and confess his sins to his muslim priest? would he have to bathe in special waters now? what horrid thing would come to sal now that he had touched my sweatshirt?

as i climbed down, my frantic panic would not leave me be, and i found myself blubbering, "honey, is it okay that he touched me? isn't that against his culture? oh, no, sal, i'm so sorry!" it was probably all he could do not throw the rest of the books at my ignorant little whitey head. they both explained that sal is more modern, and that everything was okay, there was nothing "wrong" and it's alllllll goooooooood. they left. like the jews, there is orthodox, and reformed. gotcha. you betcha. another thing they didn't teach me in my hoosier state.

and then i felt like an ass. both for being so clumsy with my respect, and for being so uninformed.

later on, i begged honey to ask him for the name of his cologne, and told her she'd have to wear it on Date Nights. we now have two giant bottles sitting in our bathroom, courtesy of my new muslim boyfriend, sal.

their song is out now, the one they worked on together. it gives me chills. so beautiful. and that sal has a gorgeous voice. who knew? he smells great AND he sounds great? hm. just like honey.

ring the bells. really, it's more of what the holidays are about for us. i'm hoping to use the winter solstice as a time to explore other religions, and share with the children what this time means to others. cuz we're all one, right? if we help educate others on the the different cultures of the world... then "they" become "we" and then... we are one. to know thyself, one must travel through thy neighbors grove. it takes knowing another to know within, and it takes knowing within, to know another.

for instance... to know me, i feel i must attempt to know sal and all of his beliefs, and then observe my responses. that will tell me alot about me. and to know sal, i must know me and the shortcomings that might intervene in all that sal has to teach me as another human being, knowing i've placed our differences aside.

ring the bells, my boyfriend is alive and well.

beautiful days and gay coupons

there is a looooong post stuck at the very tips of my fingers. however, i haven't had time to tap it out. in the meantime, i'm taking solace in the fact that the duggers (with their 18 kids) have several children who are teething as well. i have three. two little and one big. we keep running out of the numb-yer-gums medicine.

we had help taking care of the kids for awhile... but suddenly one day, i woke up and there was no one but me and honey and the kidlets. so i grabbed the dream and ran with it. i don't mind handling the four kids. i feel like i know them better when i am so much more hands on, with no cigarette breaks. while this does provide for a cozy little atmosphere in the house... i notice my sentences getting smaller and smaller, with less words, and more facial expressions. much like two year olds. "Mommy hungry. Mommy is going to eat. Mommy needs to go to the SSSSSSSTOOOOOOOOOORE." this is how i sound by 3 o'clock each day. Mommy is going to need a BRRRRRRREAK soon.

honey and i were married on September 20, 2003. gowns, flowers, table numbers, assignments, DJ AM, and a candy table for the children. so when people approach me and say "are you getting married?" i feel like i need to check over my shoulder to see if they are really talking to me. Me? You talking to me? Me with the lasagne noodles up to my elbows, a mop and bucket i need to wash out, a list of fifteen trinkets and trackets to pick up at the store... Me? Me with the poop smear on hand cuz i missed it after i was wiping a wee one, me with the grocery list started, a plan for the family for the week, and three birthday parties to start thinking about... you want to know if i want to get married?

darlin', i AM married.

now, do you mean, do i want to go get that gay certificate that gives us a percentage off of our taxes? HELL YES, i want that coupon!!! i love coupons! I CLIP FOR SAVINGS!!!!






and can i just say that the affects/effects that go along with IVF last for years. jussayin'. but when there comes a break in the clouds, it's like a brand new day. a brand new life. like meeting an old best friend you thought you'd lost and you would never, ever, EVER get that person back.

never does a light at the end of the tunnel look so bright as when one has been seeing dark for so long.

it's a beautiful day.

september 9

there's a bullhorn in front of my lips
that won't leave my words alone
they blare
out there
whatever i say
the letters are capitalized

when i later
wish i had kept them lower case



out loud
permanent



not so much right now



transient
fluid

star dust on the tail of a comet

poops and peeps and hopes and veeps, kaleidoscope woman

i wouldn't say they're potty-trained. some might say they are almost there... but i don't feel like putting expectations on the little pumpkins right now. so for today... i will say they did lots of peeps and poops on the potty, they were rewarded with cornpops (that's right, the cereal; turns out that M&Ms turn my children into nyc cokeheads on a saturday at midnight: eyes wide, running all over, and yammering a mile a minute... and the minute the chocolate starts to dwindle in their system... it's like watching heroin withdrawal... the pleading, the begging for more, just ONE MORE "eminemineminem?"). corn-pops works much better for us. so i was right- it was a good time to get off the road.. the twins weren't kidding about going potty all those months ago.. i thought it was all pretend and "let's practice for when we turn three!". alas, i was wrong. they want to wear underwear now, and use the potty now. they are just turning 22 months... and doing peeps on the potty. i'm not sure what to think of that, and so i don't.

no more formula, only almond milk now, and only in a "big boy" or "big girl" cup. i thought it was going to be a rough road to start down, the road of "no more bottles" (it was less than a week ago, so they had nice firm attachments to the bottles...). but i took my cousins' advice (for pacifiers) and did the following: i told the twins that they were a big girl and a big boy, and that it was time to give the bottles back to the store, so that other itty bitty bitty babies can use the bottles now. i gave them 3 days notice, and reminded them each time they went down for a nap or bedtime that there was only X amount of days until the itty bitty babies will need their baby bottles bottles... shockingly, i was met with just a little protest. some whimpering for awhile, and lots of snuggling... and then on the third day, before nap, we packed up the bottles together, put them in a bag, and headed off to Babies R Us to find a nice employee in the mood for a little improvisational skit. i headed to the bath department while my friend went in search of our actor. she returned in no time with a lovely college girl whose name tag read "Kimberly". kimberly deserves an oscar. in fact... i might have one i can lend out for just an hour or two for a small fee. anyway. kimberly told us she was going to give the bottles to the little babies and their mommies, so that the babies could get their milk, and not be hungry. the twins showed some sadness, but no confusion. they even nodded once or twice. i think i was more of a mess than anyone. it was all i could do not to burst into tears. i'm just SO NOT READY for them to be growing up so quickly. there are times that one of the twins might bump my breast too hard, and i could swear i feel my milk let down. why did they have to wean so quickly?? *sigh* will my mother's pride and joy ever surpass the longing i feel for them to slow down in their life- i only get them another 16 years before they will be off into their own lives. (only at times like this do i understand those folks who have 18 kids. permanent babyhood all around, forever. i guess until that mother pushes out her uterus one of these deliveries, huh? "it's a boy! it's the afterbirth! it's a .... uterus?" i bet she can sneeze and the little babushka plops right out into a handmade basket of organic, handknit, homemade cotten towels resting between her feet at the washing machine. well this is a slightly inappropriate road, even for me. i digress. somehow the bottle thing became all about me. shocking. anyhoo.) kimberly left, and the babies clung to me as i knelt down in front of the diaper bag section. he whined softly around my neck, and she asked, "Baba all gone?" for a moment, i thought i sensed two major meltdowns coming on- okay three, including me. public meltdowns are not so pretty, and i get snotty nosed when i cry, so i scooped them both into my arms, and headed for the exit. by the time we got to the car (and i could no longer feel anything but hot searing pain shooting through my arm muscles), we were onto songs and twinkling stars and big big big trucks. afterward, each time they went to bed for a few days, they asked for the Baba. and i reminded with with much gratitude how many babies they gave their bottles to- "Soooooooo Many Happy Babies!" was the mantra. and now it's over. they don't ask about it, and the one time i brought it up to see how they were feeling about the loss, they both ignored my questions, said "bye bye" or "all gone!", and asked me to read them a book or color, etc. not bad.

peeps on the potty, no bottles, an... did i mention they know some colors? red, blue, green, yellow, are the ones they know right off the bat. she knows her left from her right, and he can vacuum up a spilled cereal mess in five seconds flat. he eats three eggs in the mornings at times, and she can pack away melon like she's got a wooden leg or two. he's 29 pounds, she's 25 pounds. and shapes. stars, moon, square, triangle, circle, and oddly enough, OVAL. strange shape to connect with, but hey, who'm i to judge? i eat crappy cake decorations by the pageful.

they've both just finally mastered our family's favorite saying, "TWOOOOOOOOOO MOMMIES!!!!!!!!!!!" and they smile and hug us.

so. i get it. i am a mom, and a pretty damn good one, if i say so myself. (what ego?) i'm not perfect, and i'm sure many people would disagree with my choices (don't catch him if he's climbing- let him fall. he'll learn quicker about life in general, and how his choices will affect his own life). but i'm watching these two little cherubs flourish under my guidance (with the help of some friends- i need someone to watch them while i go to my shrink), and i have to say, i don't know that i've ever felt better about myself as a person. is that a good thing or a bad thing? to have confidence as a mother, but perhaps not so much confidence as an individual or in other areas of life? i must discuss this with myself at a later date.

obama and michelle. hell yeah. biden? yes, thank you. his wife? NO PLASTIC SURGERY- I LOVE YOU!!!

the grief i felt the night W. stole election #2 is only now starting to fade into the air like malibu's morning marine layer, so thick you can't see past your ribs sticking out. hope is the right choice for today. why do so many people seem to undervalue hope? hope is what tells you to breathe even if it hurts. hope is what tells you life will be better tomorrow, even if you have yet to experience a "better tomorrow". hope is what makes me wake up each morning and decide to be in my children's faces, raising them to be well-mannered, healthy, fun children and adults. hope tells me there will be an earth for them to inherit one day. hope reassures me that my efforts in this life isn't for naught. hope tells me there is something more to life than money and politics and keeping up with the joneses' and their weight losses. obama gives me hope. he gives me hope, and these days, i value that so much more than the hypocrisy of anyone who has been tortured almost to death, and then when freed from POW, votes that torture is okay to happen to other people. *cough* MCCAIN *cough* jussayin' integrity goes a long way with me. it might even be the only way with me. walk your talk, or don't waste my time. period.


the strangest part of all of this for me is... in the midst of it all, i can barely keep track of the candidates and the speeches, and the barbs and the skeletons... i've got two little ones who are potty training themselves... that's all my brain has time for right now. i've never felt so involved in life, and yet so removed from some aspects of life as well. sort of like my grown up side is slumbering right now. the grown up, political, outward reaching side is slumbering... but the on-call nurse/doctor, emergency soother 24/7, potty-trainer, home manager, and president of my own company called, "You Are Not The Boss, Mommy Is The Boss" is definitely on alert. i am hoping that at some point in the next year or so i'll find the balance of all of me. kaleidoscope woman.



honey wants me to go to some cancer thingie with her next week. ugh. i begged her not to make me go while i'm on my chubby side. (okay, i said the "f" word...) she insists. ugh. sometimes red carpet events feel like hanging out in a crackhouse for me: i have nothing in common with these people, i don't know who is real and who is behind a facade, i can't tell the difference between sane and insane... and i don't even want to try what they are selling. and i'd rather be doing my other drug: sugar. just smear that refined sugar into my eyeballs for a quick hit. shit. sugar is my downfall. if it was illegal, you'd find me packing it in balloons down my pants, too.

anyway, that's the next perspective i need to work on. my negativity of the red carpet. if honey ain't gonna put down the damn strings, i am gonna have to go to some of these fancy parties with her. and i'm already sick of hearing me bitch about it all.



did i mention the twins can count to 4? they won't be two until mid october. wtf am i supposed to do with that?


and next time, the DNC sound guy needs to turn DOWN philip's guitar, and TURN UP honey's voice. goodness.

tour's almost over. and so life goes on in our house.

sugar booger sugar booger

i was at a daycare center named Burgett's... in the 2-3 year olds' class, and i distinctly remember it was someone's birthday. this fella had a cake unlike anything i had ever seen before in my government-subsidized toddlerhood. it was long and rectangular, slathered in store-bought vanilla icing ("too expensive," id always been told), and then lovingly dotted with those store-bought, sugar cake toppers... the ones that you can get in alphabet form... pink or blue or yellow... ("too expensive," i'd always been told) ...and then one can get the sugary pieces in the theme of random cartoon characters... those cake decorations, cake topper things... flowers, animals, scooby-doo.... am i being clear?

well, this kid at Burgett's had some of these candy pieces in the shape of cars AND letters. a hot wheels theme, maybe. and it said, "happy birthday, alex!" in the sugary alphabet letters. light blue on white. but the only problem was.... i heard the teachers counting as we were to be lining up for the hand out of the cake. one teacher said quietly to the miss paula, who was cutting small pieces with a small plastic knife, "there won't be enough candy pieces for everyone." to which miss paula shrugged and muttered, "oh, well." she was a let-'em-feel-life-as-it-is type of gal. i liked her.

when i heard there might not be enough to go around, i knew i had to get in line fast to get a piece of those sugary cake toppers. i was hoping for a big one, a car... but a big letter would do just well, i reasoned silently. my mouth watered as i scrambled amongst my classmates, our elbows and knees ramming into each other with all the force of here-comes-the-sugar-enthusiasm. no one complained- no one felt a jab. there were more important things to think about: getting that dang sugar piece.

i neeeeeded it. i hadn't had sugar in daaaaaaaaaaays, and i needed a hit bad.

sadly, there were many 3 year olds, and many boys, and i was a puny li'l 2-year-old girl in stained jeans and a hand-me-down shirt from a boy cousin. i shrunk away from the violent shoving and careless pushing. too familiar. i ended up last in line. but i refused to give up hope. i thought that perhaps a dotted "i" would be left over, and the kind strange person in front of me would mayhaps give me the dangling dot? i tapped the young fella on the shoulder. i thought making friends would be a good first step to asking this favor. he was wearing navy plaid. not flannel, though. his jittery young body spun around suddenly, his chin almost swiping my forehead. i spotted something. i couldn't take my eyes off of it. it was unnerving, and yet magnetic and drew me towards thsi strange boy. it was a booger. a giant booger that covered his enire left nostril. HUGE. i mean, the size of this thing struck me silent like few things have, and suddenly i was at a loss for words. he continued to involuntarily bounce and tilt his head to the side. "WHAAAAT?" he yelled through his mouthful of haphazard teeth.

i wanted to pick it. i didn't care that it wasn't my booger. i suddenly had the awful, delightful, terrible, delicious, disgusting urge and need to pick it and inspect it. and perhaps.... if no one was looking... i would taste it. to see if everyone's boogers tasted the same. to the classmate, at that moment, i could say nothing, that clot, and the desire for such a clot, had immeasurably silenced me. so he bounced back around, turning towards the front. and he was just gonna let it sit there, no fun at all.

i could see his enthusiasm. it was clear he thought there were a katrillion sugar pieces. he wondered aloud if maybe we'd all git two big ol' pieces!! that dummy. i hated him with all my might in that moment. i immediately decided he was a stupid head, and remembered to not like the boy in the blue shirt at the next recess. but then i made another mental note to always look at his nose for boogers. anyway, he thought his stupid self was getting a big ol' piece and there he stood with a big juicy booger just sitting screaming for a finger to play with it for awhile and then cut it into pieces with a fingernail, and then flick the pieces away. my hope was fading and i needed a place to throw my disappointment. who has words at age 2? "stupid head", i called him again, just under my breath...

the cake cutting was uneven, and so was the sugar-piece give away... but worst of all... booger boy got the last piece of the sugar decoration toppers, and it was a big letter "H". i didn't even get a corner piece. i vowed to eat one of those candy pieces one day... one of those white-with-blue- alphabet things... maybe even eat a whole package by myself, the whole alphabet... for no reason at all. no birthday whatsoever... just the whole beautiful package of art candy all by myself for no reason at all. mmmm-mmmmm.

i never forgot that sugary decor, nor the booger. to this day, i can still see that stiff, pea green, circular booger when i think of this story. i have no temptation to pick other people's nostrils these days. no, wait, that is a lie. i'm always checking out the twins' nostrils for "blockage". i don't want them suffocating on some big booger, right? gotta clean 'em out and do a color-and-discharge check.

and when i'm being really really bad, and i am weighing more than usual... i sneak into the closest grocery store and find those sugar decors.... and buy them, and eat them on the way home, at the red lights. but not the dark or boldly-colored ones... as those will stain my teeth and my tongue and completely tattle on my juvenile, toxic, disgusting, amazing, sweet, childish desires like sugary pieces of white trash cake toppers. ever since i spent my first paper route money on a "HAPPY BIRTHDAY"/alphabet cake topper, i've been hooked on and off since. like heroin, i suppose. when i see homeless men on the sidewalks, nodding out from the heroin, i think, "i am right there with ya, man. if sugar was illegal..."

gummie bears
cake sugar things
pop tarts (cherry or brown sugar)
orange tic tacs
a little debbie nutty bar or two
brownies- but just the batter, not baked yet
heh

sugar
my crack
sometimes
i am on the wagon and
healthier, smaller
men stare more
i duck with discomfort...

other times
i eat without tasting
my best friends are drugstore candy aisles
and hidden stashes in my closet drawer
just like a crack addict
can find anything to smoke
i can find sugar in
anyone's pantries
i prefer batter to baked
and baked to drunk
grocery stores have the best selection
but i should have a
sugar-sober companion
to accompany me


sugar sugar
booger booger










yoohoo, you know who, please don't lecture me about this, or give me a big sigh followed by a "that's so UNHEALTHY look"... and don't ask me which drawer.

pausing

i read somewhere recently that honey and i are a significant display of gay marriage and gay families. that made me take pause. a long pause. a pause that continues to this moment. that's important: showing the uneducated how those different people called QUEER live life and raise families. i know my friend ro is big on sharing her family with the world. i admire that. she seems to do it so freely and lovingly. i ain't there yet.

but reading that article flipped something in my brain. perhaps it was the flip from being ego-driven to being collectively-driven?

my wife is famous. i'm no longer famous for much more than being married to her and having a family with her. which, thank you very much, is a feat unto itself, regardless of how breezy it might seem. :-) but her fame alone can cost us anonymity at times... i'm not complaining, just stating facts... so if we expose the twins to media, does this give permission to those freaky homeless stalkers with cameras to stalk us at the grocery store and try to get a shot of me in my cut off sweats and tummy rolls (thanks to my sugar addiction that seems to be in full swing at this point)? and if they do... won't those pictures ultimately find their way to a gay family somewhere, and a mother will point to us and say, "See? They are a gay family, just like us". i know that i am trying to spot gay families myself when we are out in the world-- i desperately would love for the twins to see more families like us. more "twooooooo mommies" families.

pause.

i know i want my privacy... and i know i want a change to happen in this world. i know i want others who are uneducated, ignorant with innocence, to see the truth, to see the reality: gay or straight, divorced or adopted, poor or affluent... it doesn't matter family comes in all shapes and sizes and pairings and shades. will the twins hate me one day if honey and i do decide to open up more with our family in the future? will i be sending them into therapy (for even more) if honey and i take them to a red carpet or two? breast cancer stuff is coming up.... the twins are honey and i's manifestation that we beat cancer, that we threw it out of our lives, and the Universe gave us two souls in which to raise in our gorgeous new clean environment. (read: no leeches and hangers-on anymore...) the twins coming into our life gave honey and i a new lease on hope and life and the future. october is an insanely significant month in our family unit...

still pausing.

grandpops

pops. you know, those little plastic pimples that transport fragiles so that they don't break during movement. you know, pops. you squeeze them between your fingers (or stomp your heels onto a sheet of them on the ground for a "hail of bullets" - if that is how one's imagination goes...) pops. grandpa used to have them by the yardful. so many. big ones, medium ones, little ones that fit betwee my forefinger and thumb perfectly. POP! POP! a sharp sudden crack that didn't make me cringe. i loved them. my grandpa had his kidney machine at home. in fact, he was THEEEEEE first at-home-dialysis patient who was able to have a kidney machine in his home. i wear this ancestral fact with great hoosier pride. grandma was his unofficial nurse who received her informal training from grandpa's nurses who made home visits. after a few years, she could stick grandpa's veins better than most of them. the great thing was, that all of his kidney machine parts were mailed to him- LOTS of fragile stuff. so LOTS of POPS!!! my sister and i LOVED it when he got new shipments for his machine- pops for days. or hours, depending on how fast we smashed through them.

it was a funny thing, that big old machine in the corner. it was a tiny house, and the kindey-replacement machine took up the size of one entire wall behind their lay-z-boy chairs. each morning that i was there on a kidney machine day (at the start, he was on it 4-5 days a week, 6 hours at a time), i was able to watch their ritual: my grandmother, an angel that god has sent to help many people Crossover, would begin by moving some furniture around. she'd scootch grandpa's chair here, the machine turned that way, the other chair there, a tv tray set up next to his chair so that he could reach his toast and horseradish sauce while he was on the machine, and of course, his ever present cigarettes and handy lighter. their house was a haze of ignorance and blessed partnering nicotine habits. even in his final days, on his death bed, grandma lit his cigarettes for him, as he couldn't inhale hard enough to get the damn tip lit. and by that time... there's no need to plug a crack when the ship is going down because the bottom fell out, you know? his body was passing into stillness, his spirit was about to go home- give the man a cigarette, for heaven's sake. it's not going to give him another decade with us if we try to stop him now.

anway. grandma always had to find two veins- one in each arm. so grandpa sat with his arms turned upward, resting on the armrests of his recliner. i memorized his old brown skin, leathered from spending too many young days in the farm fields with no hair nor hat to shade his farmboy life. his bruised and clotted arm was clearly tired of so many intrusions, and often bled for no darn reason other than grandpa brushed up on something too hard for a brief moment. but grandma always found the veins, and answered my young, uneducated questions evenly, and with saintly patience. i asked about each scar, each bump, each needle mark, each vein that had ruptured... every trace of the kidney war that was being ravaged inside of him, i could see on the skin of his arms. i did not find them ugly, the way a childhood chum of mine thought. "What happened to his arms? EW!" she cried. i did not understand her disgust. i found his arms to be very comforting, always full of stories, and gravelly chuckles.... i loved his scarred and mutilated arms. and it was clear my grandmother felt the same way. her hands so soft as they punctured him again with a long needle. i do not recall my grandfather ever flinching. i do not recall my grandmother ever having confusion.

when grandpa was "on the machine", it was rather dull. he took up most of the room in the tiny living room. leaving just enough space for my sister and i to play with their wad of clay, or color in a book, or play with our barbies (my barbies liked me to cut their hair really short, and wear Ken's clothes, i digress) .... and if she wasn't busy, grandma would read me book after book after book. that smoker's voice had such inflection, such distinct character voices.... i do believe the beginning of my story telling began with grandma's enjoyment and natural gift of it... and i do believe a spark of my humor comes from my cousin amy. but that's another story. that's another time. sweet amy. anyway. once the veins were poked, the machine humming , i would hear the rhythmic pump of his blood out of his body, through the long transparent tubes about as round as a mother's pinky, through the machine, and back into his body by route of his other vein, in his other arm. those transparent hoses of his blood would sway back and forth, engaged in the beating of his heart, his blood system, his organs, his cleansing.... grandpa would eat toast and horse radish, toast and honey, toast and peanut butter, you name it, he put it on toast. he might have even lit up some toast once to see if he could smoke it, who knows? he was a good man to me. his grandfathering seemed a bit forced at times, but knowing what i know now, i understand the infamous strain between my mother and my grandfather didn't provide for the warmest of atmospheres. yet i liked him. and he was good to me.



my babies, they love pops. we get them in the mail sometimes, when things are mailed to us that are breakable. an arrival of good pops gives me at least 20 long minutes to get some chores done, while babies are jumping on them, twisting them, pinching them, hitting them with hammers... whatever it takes. when those twins get drunk with power, popping those little firecracker pimples and squealing with the growth of self-confidence ("I DID THAT! ME!"), waves crash down on my head, waves of memories... sounds of that rhythmic pump pump pump moving grandpa's liquids through the synthetic cleaner and back into his body; the smell of old gray clay between my blistered monkey-bar fingers; the red red blood of my grandfather swinging in ropes just above his two fingers propping up his benson and hedges, the smoke twirling, dancing around his blood cleaning machine.

i was surprised at how beautiful i found his blood to be. a most beautiful clean red. i do believe that witnessing the vines of his life swinging in the tiny county of Benton in Indiana all those years ago.... i do believe i was able to learn the simple fragility of life at a young age. i watched my grandmother carry him through the years. perhaps i walked away with the lesson that life is fragile, and my grandmother is a monster of strength.

my childhood tends to teach me lessons long after i have passed it.





hmm. pops.

the best laid plans

the best laid plans
i see
are meant to teach us
to float
when we want to swim
to let go
when we want to grab hold
to breathe
when i really wanna hold my breath
forever

we will go home

i feel defeated

i've always been able to accomplish whatever i've set out to do. from making money at 10 (babysitting) and 11 (newspaper carrier)... to paying for my first car, a blue 1985 Honda Civic Hatchback, with its headlights giving the impression that it's a car with "crossed-eyes". but it was my baby. it was a manifestation of the culmination of my youthful sweat and tears as a waitress at 13 (off the books) and on the books until they fired me the morning after my senior prom, age 18. it was the night after f*cking prom, man... we had to go to king's island the following morning to do the "after prom" part... i wasn't about to give up that tradition to join marge and marcia and kenny slinging eggs to the born-agains who would run my ass off only to leave me pennies and nickles stuck to the table by the pool of syrup they'd fallen into. to this day, i don't know if my calling in "sick" was the right thing to do. but i went to king's island in cincinnati ohio with my dear john who was my first love, and who came out just ten years after me. delicious heart that boy has, he does. anyway, was it the right choice? they fired me, and i was never able to go back and get free biscuits and gravy. to this day, i don't know if it was the right turn at the fork in the road. long story short (too late), i tend to only say what i actually CAN do. those things, those emotions. those favors, those activities, all of those things: i only promise them if i truly believe i will fulfill them. pregnant with twins? f*ck that. i can still tour. outgrowing bathtubs, eating the entire contents of many mini-bars across america, hemmoroid cream runs at 10 pm on a sunday night in toronto. (i thought i was going to have to shove a hair brush up my ass to satisfy the overwhelming itching and tickle. steven, bless you, how did you find a tube of it. do i want to know? i should have another child just to make sure that fella has another kid named after him. seriously. the man is a super hero. but don't tell him. ugh. his ego. we wouldn't be able to deal. i believe this is digression #2.) back on point.

which was

we're going home
done with tour
even though honey is not

teeny things
already potty-training themselves
identifying shapes and colors
reaching for roots
that i am not giving them right now
as we go and go and go and go
time to go home
and stop

i'm changing my plans
doing something different
lord fasten my seat belt,
i hate a change in plans
but i've gotten much better at it

fear not

they need separate rooms now, as they are completely different sleepers. twin mattresses on their floors are the next step, i think. those toddler beds are going to look too small - sort of like how jonathan winters' character when he was a massive 3 year old or whatever - that is a "mork and mindy" recall, i believe. i enjoyed that show very much. but seeing robin williams in that tight red outfit gave me heebie jeebies. now lynda carter in "wonder woman", good lord.... those blue little panties.... her golden breasts- er- top... a little rope action with some growling, "ARggghhh... C'mere, this is a truth rope!" heh heh. i was in kindegarten. and it didn't seem that anyone else was dealing with lynda carter obsessions in kindergarten. is that an affect of the sexual abuse, or was it merely a young acknowledgement of my sexual awareness?

the ever after
forever and ever
i believe in that
the happily ever after
seems to be a bit detached from reality
and doesn't seem to promote growth

the speed bumps of life, i wonder,
mayhaps
the speed bumps are there to slow us down
and say
you're not paying attention to the right things
dearie
your lovers' garden is full of weeds-
time to spend some time in there
bringing back the blossoms

in the end
the children
they grow up
they move out
and it's back to the pair of lifetime mates
as it was in the beginning anyway,
rocking in the chairs
breathing and holding hands

peace

family and fame
love and marriage
a career that is famous
a love that is famous
all eyes spy for familiar
ups and downs

who wants to be
the only one
really?

the advice i hear echo back to me
when i meditate until i feel one with all
i hear that life is like
water tubing behind a speedboat at 60 mph
skimming the surface of this lake here in the midwest
you hang on
you might pee a little on the big bumps,
but that dries
and there's always going to be
time on the dock afterwards-
thats the life moment-

i would rather look back and remember laughing my ass off
as i was bounced through the rough spots--
i've learned so many times that
'tis time wasted praying for the bumps to stop

laughter has more gain, i believe


jump
jump
i say
jump


no more plans

going home
a success in that i know
my children
inside and out

it's time to settle down.

baby

congratulations, Marissa and Judah.

and a big fat sloppy tongue kiss to each of you new parents.

aimed for the stars, and caught some dreams

things change. this is something i am coming to terms with, and trying to dip in peace. the babies are not ready for daily drastic changes- a different hotel every night, different bed every night, nothing similar, etc. I think 21 months old might be a tad early for that. in a few years, it'll be different. so for now we just sort of plant ourselves in different places while honey continues to tour. right now we're in boston, where i've never spent much time, and we're having a blast so far. and the babies are much healthier and happier.

someone told me i looked like one of the Dixie Chicks (natalie maines- I've gotten it for years, already). i loved it. for some reason, i like not being "recognized". i wonder why that is. do i feel like more of a normal person? what the hell is normal??

when i go out with my friend steven, it's a trip. i like to walk behind him and watch the faces of passers-by. as we approach their personal space, their faces glance up to let us pass, until they see steven's face, and then they literally FREEZE. their bodies slow down, their faces freeze, their jaws fall open slightly, and their elbows begin the wild search for the buddy's ribs next to them. "LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!" frantic whispers are the background music when i walk with him. but very few approach him. it's a silent worship, and stunning moment for each of them. i think his experience of the world is very different from most people's experience of the world. how he remains so kind, i have yet to figure out.

when i go out with my friend ro, few peoples eyes bulge. few people have "controlled" reactions. mostly, in fact, the people shout out friendly salutations, like we're passing through the halls of a high school, betwixt the cold aluminum lockers, between classroom times. "hey, ro," one guy says, barely looking up from his newspaper. "ro! how's it going?" comes from another neighbor. time and time again, the people come up to her. "rosie!" says a mountain of brooklyn cop. "hey, rosie, my wife loves you!" comes another shout. they high five her, they laugh with her, share a joke. everyone assumes she is their buddy, and that she knows them like they know her. and i never see her flinch. i've got to learn those non-flinching techniques. i've got to learn that the kindness/voices of strangers is nothing to cringe from. *sigh*

when i go out with honey, she is often not recognized under her big baseball hat unless she speaks. sheesh. i remind her to keep her voice low when we go out, and even apply a falsetto if she needs. the attempts don't work all the time. when someone does see honey, they race for her, they run for her, their eyes tend to get misty, and they look at her like a friend they haven't seen since the car wreck last year. some reach for hugs, others want to tell her where they were when they saw her perform bald at the Grammys. Then they tell her how they responded (crying, laughing, fist-pumping), and then they tell her how many years they've been a cancer survivor. there are so many, you know. so many people who are getting cancer. (even one very famous gal was just treated for it, but she won't tell the public. she hides it. poor thing. she called honey for advice- as all hollywood people do now when the big "C" comes up in their household - but ignored the "don't be afraid to tell anyone" advice. and so i see her in the papers now, and i see her secret across her forehead, unlike anyone else sees it. still holding things in, that sweet girl. how will she make it to the other side, still using her old habits, i wonder sometimes. i digress.)

i love the way my life is right now. i love it. the babies are learning new things everyday; word, actions, manners, fun. i have a roof over my head, food if i am hungry, water for when i am thirsty, and soft clean clothes to wear. that's amazing- that's royalty! that's life! i know i am on the right track again when i am able to break down my life into simple needs, and all of them are met. i recall being hungry as i went to bed at night as a child. i recall being cold in the house, because our heat had been shut off... i recall not having a house to live in for a month or more (i was in second grade). i recall not having more than one pair of shoes (that were too small) in 7th grade. i didn't get shoes that fit for more than a year. i was surprised at how uncomfortable tight shoes felt on my growing feet.

my life really breaks down quite beautifully and simply. i only need to clear the din of afluenzic whining to realize my wealth has nothing to do with money- it has everything to do with fulfilled dreams and a little girl's armful of wishes. stars in hand. reached 'em.

life is not so much a wonder anymore. it's an experience.

i did not know children would turn my on/off switches to dimmer switches

if my relationship threatens yours
that's a problem of your marriage
not mine

my neighbors
some heterosexuals
their marriage affects me not at all
in fact, i don't even have much time to think about it;
between having a life, a wife, and kids and all
i'm BUSY, you see... having a marriage
while so many argue about
what
it
is



according to the dictionary i found online:
"to marry" means
-to unite intimately
-to combine, connect, or join so as to make more efficient, attractive, or profitable


exactly.


the churches and governments need to stay the f*ck out of it.



ego
ego
ego
human ego
so robust
so false
what a way to go through life
in an ego
never touching another.





i think i need a mommy-date. a date where i take myself out on a walk, and don't make sound affects of rockets or cars or musical instruments for at least two hours. i might even hold my own hand. make out with myself even.

i hate when people yell "GET A ROOM!" when i'm touching my no-no place in public. *sigh*

gay pride and antibiotics

storms in the east,
bunks that bite my head,
constant dizziness (known as "bus loaf")
sharing a cold with everyone on board
priceless, teddy bear bus drivers
with a magic touch for children

and then in the east,
little baby boy
bronchitis tonsillitis double ear infection
whammo
off the road we go
it might be a while before we hop on the bus again

gay pride today in nyc
but with sick boy and thunderstorms,
we stayed in the hotel room
i was proud and dry

all love
to all who reach for it

oklahoma to st louis, trying to beat the storm...

a boy at the mall
i have age-dar now with toddlers
something in him
was eerily familiar
as we passed, me holding my son's hand
and he holding his mommy's hand
skin the color of chocolate
long forgotten, semi-bleached
from being left in the visiting sun
decked out in his Sunday Best
church, probably,
as we passed, his eyes lit up,
his hand reached out to me
our eyes held on
and could not stop connecting
i stopped in my path
he pulled from his mother's grasp
and ran to me,
"Hi! Hi!" he waved at me
over and over
like he was bumping into an old friend
at the market
i knelt before him, and got eye to eye
the best level for a child, i think
his name was letrell,
he was 21 months old
he was with his mom and grandma
his cheeks were the size of large oranges
and hung down over his collar, nearly to his
second button
i looked at his mother
"how do you not eat him" i asked her twice

he did not want to move on, his females did,
he did "knuckles" with both of my toddlers
and said "BYE! BYE!" with great satisfaction
for knowing the social skill,
but great sadness for knowing finally what it means

it was several minutes before the his sobs of
"Bye!... Bye!... Bye!..." faded away into the
cacophony of shoppers, teens, and store atmospheres



i do love the young ones
allowing themselves to orgnically connect
before they are conditioned
the way all mothers are supposed
to condition: don't talk to strangers

that little boy
with cheeks the half the size of my fist,
a beam of light
straight from heaven

babies make me a better person
i wonder if my babies have made me a better person

ugh. such cliches, this motherhood is.

now imagine
if all of those cliches
are true

yes. i bleed glitter now,
i am so filled with bliss
i speak in poems
and seek understanding
so that they'll know the whys
not just the whats




cascading rainbow water falls
whose splash melts into the soul,
scarring the body with droplets
of life and love
and prism-drunk truth.

peace be with you

the last time we were in this hotel, i was HUGELY pregnant, and could barely fit into the damn shower stall. i cannot begin to string together words to describe the wonder i have in watching my two toddlers run through the grass, discovering leaves and bugs of varying sizes. last time: inside me; this time: outside of me. and yet somehow, i don't feel seperate from them. in their eyes, i see my own joy; their bliss finds its way to my mouth, pushing it into an unknowing grin. i feel what they feel, sometimes i think they feel what i feel. the thought of kindergarten brings tears to my eyes, and a lump of unswallowed acceptance to my throat. because of this, i intend to handicap them in ways that will prevent them from ever being able to "leave the nest", so to speak. you know... skip teaching them social skills... tell them the world is full of big scary men like the current american president.... is this so wrong? keeping them to myself forever and ever? i do not see a problem with this.

phoenix. it's hot. like la.

my grandmother turns 80 this week. i thought about trying to get to her big party at the senior center, but it turns out we'll be just a few days off, so we wouldn't make it in time. i haven't seen my grandma in a long time. grandma jo(sephine). such a good catholic woman. did she go to mass? you betcha. she went more than once, sometimes three times a week. she and my grandfather took much comfort in sitting in their back pews, listening to the priest's voice bounce off of the pastel ceilings and giant wooden crucifxies. i went to church with them when i was little. i always fell asleep. oh, grandma, she'd get so mad. there was just so much about the stories i heard in that beautiful building that did not make sense. so i'd fall asleep. up, down, kneel, pull the foot rest out, put the foot rest in, kneel, stand, sit, chant, sign of the cross, up, down... the part i waited for with great anticipation: SHAKE HANDS WITH NEIGHBOR!... i really liked that part. my male cousins shook hands like they were having a wrestling match, we female cousins would smile and giggle and try not to guffaw (okay, that was me)... my aunts and uncles would sometimes hug each other... i actually really liked that part. if only catholicism had been more of the "hug your neighbor" idea..........


yeah. anyway... we'll be in clearwater in one week. i hope the babes sleep better tonight than last night. dear GAWD let the toe head boy sleep through the night without needing to toss and turn with me in my itsy bitsy bunk.

i have cher's "if i could turn back time" stuck in my head. hm. random.

kroozing busses and 'byes

i had wanted to blog about my poo attack at the krooz's party, but with the bus sitting outside, and a departure time of, oh, TOMORROW *thud* ... another time, i can talk about honey hanging with the porta-potty attendant for most of the party time, while i (literally) sat inside the loo, allowing by body to cleanse the nasty oil out of my system, and tasting all of the different flavors of gum they had in their clear plastic (cup) gum holder.

but there is the bus, in all of its waxed-brown glory, humming my name. i've got a little more work to do on it. some booster seats, and last minute stuff... blankies, stuffed animals and pillows, bottled water, hand towels... beach towels for all... more sunscreen... i think i need to start a list.


sweet hillary. i finally spell her name right. god bless her. you can't ask for a classier broad than her, and i hope she runs on the ticket with him. if she does, i do believe i'll take it as a sign that, in fact, there is a paradigm shift underway. please, oh, please, hil, don't think of your ego. first vp, and then p one day, not so bad, right?



seriously, a poo attack. at the kroozes. i never get out of the house anymore (until tomorrow when i leave for 3 months), and the one time i don my gay apparel, i eat the french fries at the party. which is a no-no with girdles, and perhaps some nerves, apparently. i have a very sensitive tummy. at least there were four porta-potties so that there wasn't a line of fabulous people staring at me when i exited.

here's what i have to say about 99% of the scientologists that i have met in this town so far: they are so damn sincere and kind, i often mistake them for canadians.

okee dokee. off to tour.



i'm procrastinating. whenever i leave, i feel like i am not ready. like i need four more days to prepare. but it's not that i need more time, really... i think i just suck at good byes.

memorial daze

okay. so the bus comes a week from tomorrow, and we leave a week from saturday. got it. i've got the "bunk guards" to keep the twins contained in their bunks while bouncing along at night. i've got my Mom's First Aid Kit full of arnica and band-aids. i'll start packing some of the toys slowly this week. we'll have a suitcase with some toys in it that will go into/out of hotels, and then we'll have a toy chest (plastic container sitting on rug grippy stuff) that lives in the back of the bus, in the "playroom" area. i'm used to traveling during the day, and sleeping in hotels at night. that's just the way honey did it when we met. and when in rome....
on someone else's bus... i hope the twins sleep okay on the bus. i'm hoping the bus' rocking will remind them of their in utero days. i cannot believe i did that. seriously. what was i thinking? i guess that goes to show the strength of a determined mother.

memorial day. i saw a photo of bush leaning over something, and i believe the photo was shown to evoke sympathetic emotions in me regarding w bush. but the photo only reminded that there is one person who ultimately had the ability to say no- to stand up and save some lives- some thousands and thousands of lives. but he didn't. yet there he leans, over some flowers, with that damn smirk. he stirs up primal anger in me- kindergarten crying and frustration. when i KNOW what i feel, i feel it so deep, and yet, i can't get it out of me- i can't give my feeling to anyone else, hoping they will carry it. you know those days in pre-school? when nothing seemed to clarify my feelings more than pure and simple screaming? no words, just open-mouthed, closed-eye screaming? louder with each breath? tears, hot and fast, rushing down my cheeks... a tantrum. why could no one help me, i recall thinking. i do not know that i had any idea exactly what i needed help with, but i do recall thinking no one understood. and only a very specific key of screeching could relieve the pressure i felt inside. i did not want to explode for heaven's sakes.

this is a button that bush presses inside of me. there are so many things i have to say to him, his face, his team, his image. the smother of suppression is beginning to affect me. eight years of breathing in a man whose god does not accept the core of my joy. my breath is shallow these days, and i watch the calendar with birthday morning eyes, counting down the days until he goes home. puts the chess pieces away and goes back to the moss-laden stone from under which he slithered. i feel a tantrum inside me, especially today. especially when i see him lean over some damn flowers trying desperately to hide his sneer.

memorial day.

winter, chem trails, two weeks.

i think i have reverse seasonal disorder. whenever it's sunny for too many days in a row, i get depressed. and when it's cloudy and chilly, preferably with a sprinkle of rain coming down, i feel great, like someone gave me a shot of serotonin, straight to to my brain. east. one day we'll move east. i need seasons like fish need water.

i've noticed that two or three days after i see chemtrails in the sky, it rains. chemtrails. very interesting. i have a theory that they affect the weather, perhaps with a focus on causing rain.

two weeks.

calm panic

omigoooooooood omigoooooooooood omigoooooooood

no panic.

thank goodness honey's new gold toe socks arrived. i did not know that it is easiest to find them at jcpenny. however, 12 new pair are gently tangled in the bottom of the hamper, waiting to be washed. i think i'm ready. when the long shiny busy rolls amiably into the front drive, i'll be cocked and loaded.

i need to put my boys and the rose on some bottom bunks, my wife and big girl will go up high, i'll take another bottom across from a babe, as will jj, and then steven will grab what's left over. he's easy like that. then there'll be junk bunk... it'll hold laundry bags, backpacks, purses, and other miscellaneous items that won't have a permanent home this summer.








underneath my calm panic lies tremendous excitement.

the shut-in outside of chicago

identity thieves must be some lonely, hungry people. yeah, i feel sorry for them, blah blah blah... and i'm territorial, detail-minded, backed by lawyers of the best sort, and not over my PPD. so don't fuck with me.

according to wikipedia:

rupert murdoch founded National Star (tabloid), and also owns the NY Post, and also owns Fox News. fox news is in bed with Bush, who relies on Murdoch's manipulation of the war "facts" to keep us Americans in the dark. murdoch is someone i do not admire, i do not feel he uses his energy for the forces of good. he completely supported the war, as did all of his 175 newspapers who were pro-war, and his channel Fox news did nothing but run pro-war propaganda in the time leading up to the war, and after. lies, lies, lies. where do i have time for that smog in my life? i have enough, living in LA's valley.

a nice lesbian mother like myself? i do not see a single way in which me having a "myspace" would help further me or my family's interests. my wife didn't want one until they told her that many identity thieves were already trying to pass themselves off as her on myspace. so they said that the bet way to combat it now and forever more is to have an "OFFICIAL" space there. honey doesn't ever go there, read her messages, check in, nothing. she never even glances at it. sorry if i disappoint. i'm the turd in the punchbowl, remember? i'm the spoiler. myspace is a great idea- an amazing tool to feel how we are all connected, we are all one. but i don't want to support rupert's businesses.



quick story and then i gotta go see what those babies are up to- it's far too quiet in there....

honey used to get threats from a woman in Chicago- or right outside of. death threats. crazy shit. "when you come here i will find you and kill you!" type shit. so she had security beefed up for awhile. for a year or so, she recieved these threats, and had to have giant men named "Junior" following her around. well, finally honey's "team" had had enough. so the next time she hit chicago for a concert, her security went to the police, and a group of security and police officers went to hunt this woman down.

well, they did find her. in her house. shut in. she was over 400 pounds, and hadn't left the home in years. poor thing. they said she nearly shit her pants when they showed up at her door. and when they saw who this threatening stalker really was: a sad, lonely, obese shut in with no contact with the outside world (other than ending stalkery letters to my wife). they softened a teeny bit. they realized this woman was incapable of carrying out any threats- literally. she could barely move her girth of sadness to open the door for them when they knocked. so they gave her a warning, and we've never ever heard from her again. i bet she still piddles a little when she thinks about that group of officers showing up on her doorstep...

fame. identity theft, death threats, first in line at the store, table at a restaurant, free stuff, invites to fab things, stalkers, security, razzi, bling, oh, on and on and on....

like everyone's life: aspects of my life are good and some are bothersome.

whenever i feel threatened by a stranger, or see something nasty written about me by someone i've never known (how do some strangers think they know me?), i think back to that poor woman who had permanently locked herself away to eat herself to death, but not without first taking some innocent people down with her into her vat of misery acid. what a sad lonely soul.





take nothing personally. i have to work on this.

the pendulum swings to the other side elsewhere

from 365.com

http://365gay.com/Newscon08/05/051908in.htm


two indian (chennai, india) women who were never allowed share a life together, poured the years of pain upon upon their bodies, in the form of kerosene, and set themselves afire. their bodies were found charred, and embracing.

love is all there is
above all else, certificates or not,

no one has the power to stop love;
we all only have the power to stop the pumping of blood

a stack of thought

how long until i leave again? 19 days? i'm not panicking.

i'm stacking. stacks over here for what goes "under the bus". stacks over there for what goes "on the bus". stacks sitting on the couch for "in the closet of the bus". stacks on the dresser for "do we need to take this?" stuff. stacks stacks stacks.

razor! i can't forget to pack the razor! i almost forgot.... right. razor. i said bandaids. agave nectar, the all-fruit juice popsicles, the non-dairy ice cream crap for the babies, plenty o' diapers.... swimsuits (or rather, pants and a t shirt and a razzi lens up my ass for me)... vitamins... fish oil pills... strollers... hats for all, did i say that? hats?

stacking
stacking
stacking
........

a village of women will show me the way, one by one

i've been finding my community in the women around me. my face to face neighbors. i was at a mom-an-pop diner the other week (my favorite kind of place to eat), and beside me sat a mother, a few years younger than me, her infant son about the same age as miller, and her husband. i didn't understand some of what they said in spanish as they halved their fried chicken plate and began to eat. i was busy with my own stack of pancakes, so i allowed myself to eavesdrop for awhile. they were discussing the fish in the tank before them (i'd never seen a fish tank in a diner either). after several moments of peaceful quiet, i broke the silence by asking her how many naps she was giving her son during the day. this girl,, this young woman, this fellow mother of mine, she didn't hesitate when answering me. "i finally told my mother-in-law to cut his naps from two a day to one a day- he wasn't sleeping at night!" i nodded vigorously, as i recalled my struggles with miller's need for sleep during the day, but his more important need for a solid night of sleep. and his two naps were really stinking up the sleeping at night... or so my mother instinct told me. she and i, we spoke for several minutes about sleep and naps and eating... i realized that each of us had been going on pure instinct to guide us through our virginal roads of motherhood. we compared notes and found that we each decided to mesh the two day naps together into one nap midday. she mentioned no mother alerting her to that wisdom... i certainly didn't have one either.... but our instincts led us to the same conclusion. and then her son let us know with a wail of his lungs that his plate was empty. we quickly closed down our motherhood meeting with curt nods and smiles. i knew as i turned towards the door to leave that motherhood is indeed all i ever wanted it to be and more. it is no wonder i felt half a woman before i had them. not every woman feels this, however, i must admit that my pregnancy and twins have introduced me to a side of life i never saw before- or perhaps, rather, a side of me i've never known. a side that makes me proud, that feels thick and aged; i am getting to know the grown up me, the mother in me. so far, i think i've known the child who was forced to mother as a literal babe. a child mothering is very different from a woman mothering. sometimes i see the children at the mall with their own children. each one pitching a bigger tantrum than the other, "Put on your shoe!" "No!" "Do it!" "No!" "I said you do it!" "Don't wanna! No!" and on and on... everyone's road is different, i see.

the girl at the diner. younger than me, helping light my hazy confusion with her own energy. she a girl, me a woman. she was probably only 23-24. (why does my ego call that a girl, but me a woman?) i walked away from her with confidence back in my stride. it will not be the last time i turn to stranger-friends for answers. nope. i often find that my stranger-friends are far wiser than i.

mothering. i read an article on mothering several days ago, and it left a mark on me. i will probably go back and read it again. when an article freckles my daydreaming, i know there is a reflection in there i didn't recognize, and i must go back to find my face. reread it. find myself, what i didn't recognize the first time around.


the girl in the diner. my sister, my teacher, my reflection.



the mother at the mall, the lady in the elevator, the woman at the drug store, the moms at school.... each one letting me copy off their test, with no judgement or hesitation, nothing but joy for having passed on some "right answers"... i have such love for the women, such love love love.

happy gay day .... 23 days until departure

california supreme court overturned the gay marriage ban.




tissues, sunglasses, baggies, reusable containers....

groceries: almond butter, butter, jelly, breads, apple cider vinegar, olive oil, asparagus, blueberries....


what if honey and i's relationship, committment, and devotion to our family and one another were to be recognized by the great authority of our country? what if our love comes out of the caves, and we are allowed to wear our hearts on our sleeves?


... cereals, almond milk, rice milk, did i say bandaids already? nail files, the deodorant rock thing....

imagine a woman, talking to herself

i have a list of "what to get". "what to solve", "pack this", and "last minute don't-forgets". i need a list of "to do's" started. hmmm..

one week ago i was saying to myself, "pfft, tour is not for another month- i don't need to be stressing out right now." however. i woke up a few days ago and heard my inner self scream, "motherf*cker! we're leaving for tour three weeks from tomorrow!" and then my inner self threw up.

don't get me wrong; i love going on tour. as i have said before, touring is pure heaven for a white trash, former latch-key kid like myself. a mobile home, extra long, with push out sides, and carpeting! wheeee-yew! i'm not kidding. i'm like a pig in shit. i love it. regardless of how many four star, five diamond, six poop hotels i stay in through the years, nothing can impress me more than a fyancy mobile home. which is a tour bus.

three weeks from a few days ago, the big bus will pull into our driveway, and i will spray the territory with my scent: sheets and blankets from home, photos taped to the mirrors and walls, cloth napkins and towels, utensils from our own drawer in the kitchen, and lots of over-the-door hat/coat/shoe storage containers, to name a few things. we'll each have a bunk, from babes to moms to uncle stevens and jj (our family's version of "alice" - like from the brady brunch- but intensely eco-friendly). and everyone has to take shoes off in the bus- i don't need a baby eating some crusty piece of dried dog poop that fell off of one of our sneakers after we walked through a park. shoes off at the door. just like home. there'll be "family space" in the front and the back of the bus. for the front... imagine, a school bus cut into thirds: the front third is family/kitchenette/toilet room, and the middle is bunks, and the last third is family room /closet/extra toilet room. and that is how we swagger through life: one moment we live in a 6500 (?) square foot house, and the next moment we are living in a 45 (?) foot bus. to be honest, i think i prefer the latter. it's much simpler. i find it easier to run the household when there is less house to hold.

laundry. not many options there. throughout the next 3 months, i can either pay an arm and a leg for the hotels to do it, or i can do it myself in the 1976 maytags i find in the back of the venues. again- i prefer the latter. however, seeing as how i will not have guaranteed access to maytags, i must take the position of camping instructor: "clean undies and socks for each day- wear your jammies over and over- pack extra changes of t-shirts!" and then i only buy my oldest boy dark shorts, to camouflage his days' journeys across rocks and over ponds, and down park slides. if we pack for the worst, but hope for the best, there's a chance they won't all look like homeless whinos by days' end. there's a chance i might look like one though. heh.

suitcases, who gets which one, duffle bags, toiletry bags, medicines of all sorts, a vat of arnica gel for the boys, washcloths for wiping hands and faces periodically, bath toys, hotel toys, bedtime books, rainy afternoon board games, decks of cards... safetly pins, sunscreen, scissors, bottled water, batteries, bandaids, stain remover squirt bottle for application on baby clothes right after meals... chargers, computer, nail clippers, hair brushes, barrettes, pens... crayons...



three weeks.

oh my goodness... i just glanced out the window and noticed that the green tips of one of our trees have turned red. like autumn, except it's may... i wonder what kind of tree it is.


toothbrushes, and don't forget toothpaste for babies... camera, baby sound-proof ear-muff thingies, ear plugs, honey's "stop-snoring" homeopathic stuff....


i'll leave first with the babies and jj. we'll make a pit stop on our way to florida. and ten days after departure LA, we'll arrive in Clearwater, and meet up with honey and steven. and then tour starts. since steven knows everything, on the first day of tour, i visually inspect his (literal) tennis shoes. and then i follow those shoes for the next 3 months. wherever they go, i go. i will teach this to the twins when we arrive in clearwater.

i need to make sure we have enough shampoo and conditioner... our newest foe, the PARABEN, has been banned from our contact, so i need to make sure we have enough non-toxic stuff. i've discovered it can be a real challenge to try to live carcinogenic-free in these united states...

sound machine, phone numbers, stamps and postcards, a book for me in case i get a couple of hours to myself, cash, fanny pack for the daily excursions we will take.... my watch, glue, some zit-cover up and mascara....

i wonder what the weather is going to be like in clearwater? i need to look that up. where's my "to do" list? hm. does the weather question go on "to do" or "to solve"? whatever. get it done.

sonofabtich. three weeks.

say what? nothing.

what does it feel like to publish a blog that doesn't say anything.









i wonder.

instead of wishing for your sobriety, i shall wish for my serenity.

in a way
saying nothing
says it all

in another way
saying it all
says nothing
i've found

i've huffed and puffed
until i thought her house of magic tricks
would blow in
and finally we'd collapse into one another's arms-
but no
childhood wasn't what i thought it was
and what i thought it was
wasn't that great to begin with
imagine my horror when my rose-tinted glasses
fell off

i've sang my confusion,
blared it, whistled it and
written it
i've asked begged pleaded and paid

what a cost
letting an emotional drunk
back in life
a sycophant pilled out of her skull
od'ed more than a handful of times
yet doesn't stop

i am not rich enough
to afford
what she brings with her
when she comes

there is not enough room
for all of those curved knives
her giant sweeps of massive manipulation
will splash us all in blood
again

and i eeeeeeeee iiiiiii
will always love you
sick but true
happy birthday to you
happy birthday
it's a big one
i won't contact you today
nor tomorrow either
but happy birthday to the life-giver
the life-shaker
my life lesson
happy birthday

i love you the best way i know how
while keeping everyone safe from harm

god bless you.

yeeeeesss, mark loves politics, the wiki tells me sooooo

some saturday night, in a smokey, hazy club... a stand up, known for her political crass, and her potty-mouth humor, decides to dig in. she was in san francisco, surrounded by her gays and gals... shit, if i was in that situation, i'd have prolly said a few more offensive things than calling hilary a whore. not that hillary would even come up in my stand up routine, unless we talk about how stinkin' great she looks in a suit. i'd have offended so many with my jokes about group incest, and a father who runs part of the KKK groups down south. oh, man, i'm so glad no one has ever taped me talking to honey in the bath tub. yet there was rhandi rhodes. deep dark pub, some smoke swirling the spotlight into more of a foglight... who had the recorder, i wonder? who waited two weeks or so to leak the tape? why not do it right away, like they did with that Kramer guy who went nutso using the "n" word? it didn't take two weeks for that to come out.

hmph. me thinks i smell something fishy, and it ain't my genitals.

i looked up Mark Green, president of air america. he is very verrrry political. editing or writing 21 books, including political best sellers. that always makes me suspicious, to find people who are in charge of tv or radio programming who seem to have a deeper-rooted interest in politics. and it appears that mark green has a keen interest in getting a political seat, according the the wikipedia page, anyway. interesting. for over 20 years. interesting.

rhandi was pro-obama. especially in these past coupla weeks. interesting. the tape was leaked in the past coupla weeks. mark green... hm... who are you supporting?

mark green, mark green, mark green.... i'm gonna remember that name. and i'm going to take note the next time i see him in a political arena. could his interest be more in politics, and not really rhandi rhodes' "whoring" at all?

american concentration camps, by Mouth

there are some people in my life that like to watch the government like hawks. and i appreciate that. this video was recently brought to my attention. it was sent with a message that let me know there are some government officials watching us "loudmouths", and in fact, we are living in 1943 Berlin. do i never learn? one year in softball, my uniform was grilled with the plastic letters above my #3 that spelled "MOUTH". the other years, my uniform said "Grace". grace cuz i played my ass off, and i always tore my knees up when sliding into base. i slid into a lot of bases, heh. bloody bloody games. wonderful! ahhh, the memories....

i digress.

one must give this news more thought. please watch this video, google for more info, and send it to your friends. then discuss.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=277826260716604258

oh, and a list:

http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/sociopolitica/esp_sociopol_FEMA02.htm

confessions of a housewife

my post-partum was/is pretty gnarly. i should've taken brooke's advice much sooner- "meds are A-OK!"

i haven't talked about the meds cuz i didn't want tom cruise to throw me on a couch and start jumping on me

IVF should come with warning labels and a therapist, meds in hand, and refills just a blink away

i love my therapist

i'm sort of excited about touring with the twins... coast to coast with them on OUTside of me now WHOOHOO!

i'm sort of nervous about touring with the twins... coast to coast with them on OUTside of me now YIKES!

i still lack grace when pressed by deceit, but i'm getting better. i'm taking dancing lessons

i believe in forever, fights and all

i love my life, yet i still dream regardless

sometimes, chosen family is often the only kind i feel i can relate to

i miss my old friend John, from high school

when i'm in a restaurant, i still stack my plates when i am finished... it's my secret way of helping the waitress bus the table... if you cut me open, i am one part farmgirl, one part waitress

when my twins kiss my lips and leave soggy trails of drool behind, i don't wipe it clean, i just rub that Love-Spit right in to my face. i love them, their spit, everything about them. but i won't drink out of the same bottle of water- they leave specks of food. spit, yes. specks of food? no

i don't think i'll post pics of twins.* but i'm not going to freak when others take pics of them. i want to share them with everyone, anyway.... but i won't offer them up to the piranhas myself. i wonder if that is the Right Answer... sometimes the right answer is right for a moment, and then changes with fluidity like the waves from low tide to high tide.

sometimes rightness is an evolving state... different rights for each degree of color from the prism of souls

inconvenient facts

superstorms

al told me about them in that little
slideshow he did about
the weather changing
and our destiny hanging by the silken thread of
bush's redneck, oil-paid, shiny necktie

superstorms

go back and watch that part of al's documentary
this is just the beginning
wait until the government is really honest
about the shortage of drinking water that is already
affecting our nation --
stock up on water
i am

superstorms
they aren't going to stop
they aren't going to slow down
they aren't going to get better
the storm season will soon disappear
and all year long we will have to
pay attention to the tornadoes
hurricanes
and
superstorms
nothing is 'seasonal' anymore

at weather.com
one can see how far the storm's palm reaches
half of our country is under seige
by roaring floods and winds

i sort of expect storm after storm after storm
i wonder how that will affect touring this summer
i hate driving into black clouds

superstorms
what an inconvenient truth.

we all find that which we seek.

i find it fascinating when people go to my friend's site and ask her questions about life. sometimes she gets people "asking things" that are really more of a "go shoot yourself in the face" type thing... and she handles them so beautifully. inspiring.

blogging about my life , including my kids, is apparently an invitation for stalkers. i did not know this. but there are opinions (everyone has one, much like an asshole) out there that by me blogging about my life: it is my fault that stalkerazzi's chased us on onto a "Baby Beach". The Baby Beach was supposed to be like a playground: you aren't allowed in unless you have a baby yourself. But just like there are perverts out there who molest the children, there are also stalkers with camera lenses the size of a submarine. no, we didn't see the photographer. no, we didn't send them any dirty looks. in fact, we went to the beach sunday and monday, thought nothing of anything else, and by thursday night, i was sent a link that showed our pics and it said "the family was at the beach today!" my guess? i guess that the people we rented the house from tipped off the camera dude, and all he did was camp out in front of our house and follow us each day. i'm still waiting for more photos from that time to crop up. and we don't have security at a Baby Beach... cuz who the fuck worries about a bunch of families on a BABY BEACH having 20 foot long zoom lenses that will point directly at my family for hours? it's weird though... Honey and I were very affectionate that day... and yet no photos of us hugging are around. or holding hands... hm. i find that very interesting. just fat "let's make fun of the lezzies who clearly aren't anorexics!" photos. life really is like elementary school:

-there are groups of kids that just play and don't worry about much else
-there are groups of kids that circle an unusual kid and point and laugh and make plans to make that kid feel bad bad bad (vultures, i call 'em. they are usually lonely and feel pretty ugly themselves)
-there are groups of kids that sit around and dream and talk and laugh and hope

i'm sure there are other groups as well, but those three stuck out at me, since there are such similar groups in Grown Up Land.

and for some reason, there are a few people that see the exposure of my babies as something i ASKED FOR as i was dreaming up ways to get away from getting beat up on a daily basis. i totally should have thought of that as the hands and fists wailed down on my head: BAM BAM BAM!!! "i wanna get out of here, get famous, get someone to love me... oh, gosh, i should beware though, that the razzi's will have a right to my privacy- oops, is my face bleeding?" SLAP BAM BAM BAM!!! yup. i missed that moment in time. i should've taken the beating and not bothered with the dreaming me out of it all. just like if a woman wears a skirt, and she is raped, it's her fault. love that theory. it's the same idea as "you wanted a job, you wanted fame, so shut up as we eat your privacy alive".

oh, and for those of you reading this, and getting ready to climb back into your darth vader forum to bitch about me (ps- LOVE the avatar of my ass- in fact, when looking at it from that angle, my ass looks great! it looks smaller than i thought. it makes me want to have my ass as my avatar as well!) just remember- to those of you darth vaders, you big mean people who belong back in fifth grade:

-you are coming here to seek what you need to see... we all find what we seek, even if it's only a mirage

-i am your reflection: what you hate about me, you hate about yourself. my traits that you hate are traits of your own that you hate. it's just easier to hate them on someone else, as opposed to hating ourselves. especially if we have a big ego that won't allow us to see our own short-comings

-i will continue to bitch about my life. i will bitch about turds that get stuck halfway out, i will bitch about cramping, cysts, giving money to sycophants and leeches, i will bitch about anyone who hides in the bushes and stalks my family, i will sing joy and praises and write about my history... but for all you 5th graders out there... i don't think there is much on this blog for you.

you should prolly just go back to playing guitar hero, and photoshopping your pets... this playground is nothing but pure trash for you, and there will be no improvement to your life by continuing to read this blog. so feel free to not come and read. feel free to find another lady to bash and project upon and bash... but please know: i can take it fine. i see your words, and when the (misplaced) utter hatred isn't making me laugh, it's making me feel sorry for you. and i wish i could help you. but i only have so much time. and my therapy appointments are for me, not for you.... and i already have two (four) kids, so maybe you can find a good therapist? then your acidic hatred of someone's wife who's barely famous won't eat you alive so much? i'm just concerned about some of you, loves....

anywho. back to life. back to blogging when i can. i hope i get more time. tour is coming up in a few months. here we go again.


my peace to my friends, my peace to my self-claimed foes, and most especially, my love love love to the creatures who hate me so much, they have not taken the time to find out why they love me. hatred is an extension of love.

and i love you love you love you each and every one. big and small, pock-marked or poor, rich or lonely (single). and if your hatred of me helps ease the life of those around you, please, tread on, my friend, tread on.

peace yourself outta here.

:-)

forgive me father for i have sinned,

it has been 19 years since my last confession.

so now everyone knows i shop for my swimwear in the men's department at the GAP- tshirt and shorts. the funny thing was, i had been so paranoid about being accosted at the airport by 2 foot camera lenses, that i didn't even think about razzi being at the beach. i was going to post all about hawaii and the upcoming trip... but nooooo i wanted "privacy", no, i wanted "anonymity". and so off i go to hawaii, entire clan in hand, and next thing i know, there is a shot of my asshole, pointing straight up at the tropical sky through a baggy pair of Lesbian Mom Shorts, topped off neatly by (yet another) sensible, comfy shirt from the men's department. a shirt large enough to hide the issues i have been struggling with for years. by the time i saw the photo of me with a piece of my collar in my my fingers (catching the snot as it dribbled just out of my nostril), it felt like a priest had ripped open my journals at Easter Mass- and all of Big Gay Me was exposed. unwillingly. whether i asked for it or not by being famous/marrying famous-er, is beside the point. a kid like me, who was sexually abused as a child, well, i hate to feel exposed. and to feel both preyed upon and exposed to the public, perhaps even ridiculed? well, i don't wanna talk about how it rings old bells, and reminds me of weak buttons that my therapist and i are fixing. i heart my therapist. she says i'm not crazy, but i tell her gimme a couple more years, and she may change her mind. anyway, if you see any shots of me looking 5 pounds smaller, it's true: i had another giant ovarian cyst rupture later that night. what was that? cyst # 9? 10 now? whew. those are painful. i know, i know, i know. alkaline, alkaline, alkaline. i just threw out my poptarts and peppermint patties. it's interesting to have "before the rupture photos" though.

i am still pondering posting photos online of the twins. * more thought is needed.

and while others may laugh at honey's snorkel, it's what floats my boat.

geez, now i wonder if they have any other shots of me and my post-natal ass out? or picking my nose? or smoking that cigarette thingie? or scratching my crotch where the shaved hairs are starting to grow back? or pulling my thong from wa-a-a-a-ay out of my crack? examining my pores in the mirror, squeezing and pinching my way from forehead to chin? or readjusting my boobs in the nursing bra i can't seem to part with cuz it's too comfy? or sticking my pinky way down into my ear and giving a good "tweak"?

getting razzi'ed is like a Catholic's confession, only in "Surprise!" mode. you don't realize you're about to reveal some flaws and un-airbrushed real life cellulite, and vulnerable streaks of "under construction".... but you are. and in zoom mode, no less. for all to see and "leave comment"s for....

today i started to change into "decent" clothes to run to a store. then i thought of the razzi shot of my ass straight up, or me dabbing at my runny nose... and i realized, "it doesn't really matter anymore. if they are going to play hide and seek, i don't have time to waste playing with them." i need to stop worrying about how i might look if the clickers catch me blinded. so here's how i look, as a mother of multiple kids: sweats, sneakers, big baggy clothes. mostly in navy or browns or grays. all my whites have stains. and i don't always carry tissues. there. now you know most everything the razzi can expose of me. those are most of my confessions. (oh, and i should work on cleaning up my language in general, not just around the kids.) and i wipe front to back.










*note: in my heart, i have four children. however, henceforth, in order to simplify everyone's life and wallet, i will only speak of the two that are sole-ly and soul-ly mine and honey's. peace yourself out.

a handful of safety pins and watercolor hope

again... do i rest the laptop ON my pooch, or under it? if i rest the laptop under my pooch, then my pooch pushes my clicker thing, and mail is accidentally sent before i am done writing it. if i rest it over my pooch, i can't see the screen. i kid. it's not that big. okay, maybe it is. or not. whatever. i want a minimizer bra for my pooch. honey suggested situps. HA! i don't think so. i'd rather just bitch about it than actually break a sweat over it. yeesh.

at times i feel that living the life we do (money, cars, assistants, managers, private jets, etc) really does a disservice to the children. the life i live in is not typical, and it is very easy to become accustomed to certain things, thereby multiplying the chances of having TYPICAL life things feel aggravating. since the likelihood of the children building a life like this is narrow (i don't believe in trust fund babies- well, to be specific, i believe in them, and i have experienced that many are spoiled and empty of forethought or passion) *sigh* where was i? right. raising children in a purple world when they are more likely to live in an orange world. i feel as if we are missing out on opportunities to show them how to live one day. so i'm going to start with clipping coupons, showing them bargains and sales, and then looking at price tags before we buy things. Maybe the next time they ask for gum at the store, i can sort of turn the gum over in my hands, looking for a price, and when I don't find a price, i'll simply put it back and say "i don't know if we can afford it." and leave it at that. right? i don't know. i want a soup kitchen that provides an atmosphere where children can go and help. i think it would do a world of good to famous-people-kids if they were exposed to people that do hear the word "NO" each day; and if they can witness choices and the affect of them (you don't get homeless from working hard, and being healthy, and living an honest life, just my opinion and experience-- considering i was homeless once as a kid, i figure i have a little insight on that situation). i just want the kids to know what hard work is, what it can bring, and what laziness will bring upon them. we are just starting to let go of the remainder of people that live off of us. we pay their rent, food, bills, etc. just cuz they don't feel like getting a job. (i wish i had thought of that as a career: mooching.) i don't want to raise children to behave as if they need the the financial assistance of others to make a life for themselves. if my kids want to flip burgers, i don't care. they just better have integrity and pride when it comes to their burgers. and pay their bills themselves for f*ck's sake.

my pooch rests on my thighs when i sit on the potty. (too much information? eh- go read another blog, sweets, as i am sure there are just more offenses to come from me in the following words). sort of like having a pet in my lap every time i sit down.

valentine's day, huh? oy. another time for commercialism to grab us by the balls of our wallets, and make us spend money on trivial shit to relieve us of our guilt for the times we fight with our lover. i'll do an anonymous, random act of kindness for someone on behalf of honey today, and call that her gift from me. we love to anonymously pay the meal bills for nice strangers who sit next to us in restaurants. maybe something like that would be a good v-day gift to her.

miller is going through a "mommy only" phase right now. is it wrong if i find it to be the most delicious cry in the world? the "only you will do for my me" sort of cry? like stitches to a gash, they are, those twins. like sewing me back together, one wound at a time. and scar tissue tends to be stronger than healthy tissue, so i will be even stronger than before by the time they are done unknowingly healing me.

i'm learning how to raise children as i go through it each day. and raising the babies is sooooo different from raising my other ones. compare it to walking a dog while chained to a backyard post, versus walking a dog while on a leash down the block. same dog, same idea, same environment.... but totally different experiences.

today is Field Trip day. we go on a field trip to somewhere most wednesdays. i am so stinking blessed, i don't know what to do with myself some days, other than smile really really big and sometimes let out a laugh for no reason.

it's not about life being perfect, it's about finding the perfection in reality. thick, sticky, messy reality made of love, war wounds, memories, and hope and a few safety pins.

a pooch, and a dream or five

there's a soft, mobile piece of my lower tummy skin that is a daily reminder of who carried their chubby li'l butts for almost 9 months. it doesn't seem to go away, even if i lose a pound or five. in fact, if i lose any more weight, the skin fold simply grows. honey kisses it and reminds me of "the miracle of not just one life, but TWO lives" and "you're a woman, a mother" and blah blah blah. i'll tell you what i am: a saggy muffin-top. each day as i put my pants on one leg at a time, i spend a minute or five playing with my soft tummy skin. do i roll it and tuck it into my pants, thereby creating the need for me to go shopping for bigger pants? or do i simply wear my pants a little lower, letting my tummy hang as loose as horse balls, but never ever put on a tshirt again that doesn't allow for the extra room of my motherhood pooch? i've been choosing the latter. but then when i get in the car, i go through it all over again: do i tuck the lap belt OVER the pooch? or under the pooch? or, straight across it, which gives a sort of "old man on the way to the pub" look. i don't think it would be such an issue for me, if it weren't so mobile, and always reminding me that there's a tail to this comet, it's just on the front of me... swinging along one beat (or five beats) after the rest of me.

so i am back to wearing honey's pants, like i'm in the first trimester phase again. and i haven't given away my pre-pregnancy pants, because i think somewhere in the back of my mind, i'm hoping this pooch will shrink back to the size of the tummy of an underweight tv starlet. i'm beginning to think it's not going to happen. i am far from hating my body, thought, i want to be clear. how can i hate a body that is kissed almost hourly by two gorgeous creatures like my twinlies? whenever the babies see my belly (which is often, as they are beginning to get interested in people's belly buttons, and what specific part of the body one does pee from: the willy or the vagina? keepin' it simple) they like to stick their finger in my belly button and chuckle... and inevitably, one of them kisses it. swear to god. how can i hate something that is kissed so often? we've taught the twinlies some sign language, some manners, and hugging and kissing. i think those are some basic ground rules for us... anyway, they are the most demonstrative little kids i've ever seen. they seem to understand what a hug means ("i love you") what a kiss means ("make the boo better" or "i love you"), and they are always completely appropriate with the use of both. well, except today when johnnie rose bonked her head on a shelf, she kissed the shelf's booboo (!) before she sought after a kiss for her head bump. like, what kid does that? a 16 month old, for crying out loud! and she's trying to potty train herself... where is THAT chapter in those "what to expect in the infant years" book? i'm winging it at this point.

it's a gorgeous day today. as it was yesterday. these days, when the sun is up, but not too hot... and the waterfall sings me a lullaby of security, i do believe that i live a dream come true, or five. i live my cinderella-at-the-ball everyday. without a midnight to fear. my dreams have turned out to be better than i ever imagined, more than i ever hoped for, and all that i could ever want.




except maybe a a good pooch bra. i could use a good pooch bra.

digressing, politics, and writing without a destination

it's funny how sometimes i realize that there are people out there that seem to think my blog is something that needs resonded to, or needs to be commented on, or in general, needs any feedback whatsoever. what this blog is to me, in fact, is a gym for my thoughts. just working stuff out. sometimes the blogs i write aren't even supposed to be understood by anyone else- they are merely serving as bookmarks for my life: just keeping track of situations by writing cryptic blogs, to never be understood by anyone else but me. and that is fine with me. but my friend recently told me how frustrated she gets when she doesn't understand what i am saying.

"so don't read it," I suggested. her eyes flew open in shock at the idea.
"you don't want me to read it?" she asked incredulously.
"no, no," i said, "i'm just saying that if you don't understand it, don't read it over and over, and get frustrated. just move on.... find another site to read from to take up your time."

painting on the ceiling, remember? this is my cluttered kitchen drawer. this is my cookie made from the scraps of leftover dough. these are my opinions, that sometimes flux and change. ebb and flow... which is why i wish that i had read Hillary's letter to the gays before i went to my voting machine. wtf. that was an awesome letter she wrote. but why didn't she say that stuff sooner? why didn't she bring up the father's gay neighbor when she was on logo doing the debates? why didn't she say that story to honey in response to the gay marriage idea, instead of saying, "it's my personal opinion" that gays shouldn't MARRY, just domesticize their partnership. wtf. i loved her letter. it seemed so warm and loving and open and hopeful. and i just wish she had come up with that speech sooner. it might have won me over. that being said, i think she had more of the popular vote than anyone else that night. and my bet is she might be the next president of the united states. cool. i don't know if she and bill have a "deal" or whatever. i don't know why she didn't kick his ass to the curb after affair #8. but you know what? i never wanted bill to be my husband, i wanted him to make huge decisions for the country and myself. what goes on in their marriage is none of my business. i won't vote for her to be a good wife, i will vote for her to be a good president. i'm not sure when the hyper-interest in the politicians' lives became so apparent. oh, well. i only care about the affect they'll have on my government. in fact, i'd take bill getting a blowjob EVERYDAY over bush getting more money for exxon. i wonder if he gets a cut of it? like a kick-back if you will. that would be enough dough for at least one honey hunt a year, don'tcha think?

that was a HUUUGE digression.

back on point. this blog is very spur-of-the-moment. i rarely spellcheck, especially since i am such a champion speller. no kidding. i read the draft once, and if it makes sense, it is published, if it doesn't, it is not published. that's how simple it is. i rarely think about what i'm going to blog about before i sit down at my computer. in fact, i often think about what i *can't* blog about. for now. but man, i am going to have a KILLER autobiography in nine years. and i'll be publishing EVERYTHING in it. especially the stuff i can't discuss now. hee hee. oh, the details would make one's skin crawl, and perhaps allow for several chuckles. i can assure you it will be highly entertaining. and shocking. and full of truth. i'll leave out the details of the stalkers- well, most of them anyway...

don't come here looking for the answer. i am just gathering my own. don't come here looking for one thing, and then yell about how you didn't find it. maybe if you're looking for something specific, and i'm not giving it to you, you can go start your own blog. of course, i don't take criticism personally, as most people criticizing me, are not really commenting on my blog, but rather, relieving themselves of their own inner-anger or inner-self-hatred. you can't hate me without knowing me. if you know me and hate me, i'll assume you didn't like me cutting off your meal ticket, and you had to go get a real job for once in your life.

i might start thinking there is no digression in blogs.

mrs morgan was my literature hero growing up. a 7th grade teacher, who insisted on me writing as far as my potential could carry me. sometimes i feel the need to blog an "appropriate" piece of writing, in hopes that she'll find it online, and silently grade my writing. i fantasize she'd give me an "A", but without spell-checking, and all my run-on sentences, and the tangents i get lost on myself... i couldn't hope for higher than a "C" . sometimes i think i need mrs morgan in my life again to whip my writing ass into shape. you know? she'd make me write each day, at least once; and she'd make me care again about what comes out of the paper once my fingers have stopped moving.

is it morning nap time over already? i love my twins, AND having them doesn't leave much time for painting on the ceiling.

peace.

yes. much of it. (and more to come.)

on i seek, on i seek.

addiction is a fascinating thing. well, i suppose it's only fascinating if you've witnessed addicts and their behavior and then been puzzled by the results.

why the heck do i need to hide that i have addicts in my family? addictions run rampant. there was the time we ran out of food at donor's house while visiting him... and he made us wait in hunger for half a day until he ran out of beer and "needed" to run into town. so my sister gave us cheerios. leftover cheerios for six kids? not filling. ha. six kids. two kids times three wives... equals six. (six kids all having visitation at the same time- brilliant. it never happened again.) six kids ate cheerios from 6am to dinnertime. well. actually we ran out at lunch. but i don't think of this memory as a "boohoo" memory, it's more of an informative memory: a memory that gives me information long after i lived it. plus, i just can't find the space in myself to feel sorry for cheerio eaters- that little haitian boy's tongue was streaked yellow from the mud cookie. cheerios is far better than dirt.

i digressed. or maybe not.

i recall a love i had once. a love that i thought was love love love. it didn't matter how often she blacked out from her rolling rocks, it didn't matter how little affection she gave me... i only remember having the recurring thoughts "if i can just get her to stop drinking, we'd be perfect!!!" when, really, the alcohol intake is just a SIGN that something else is wrong deeper inside. there are those who have no compassion for addicts. i go through those periods, myself. i go through the idea of "Someone let her fall on her fucking face already, and if that means death, so be it". but if i think about it, really deep down think about it

i still can't believe someone would choose addiction over children. i witnessed it, experienced it, lived it before i was old enough to get my period. no wonder i sought it in relationships. i was a creature of comfort, never straying from my original script. back then anyway.

they suck from the bottle like there is an answer written on the bottom. but once they see the transparent glass or plastic at the point of emptiness, they simply reach for another bottle of promised land. i might always have a fascination with it- the wonder of how strong one's numbness must be to conquer the screaming voices within.

i find addiction to be familiar. when i see it living in front of me, thrown at me whenever i turn on my mail, i cannot help but watch and see if there are answers people are giving that i am not applying to my own questions. i watch others in similar situations, as i'm sure you can guess by now....

i have my own family member spiraling out of control. and she always has been. i just don't know if she's a stand-still cyclone... shrieking insanity in one place forever, or if she will continue to deteriorate. i think it's the latter. i've done interventions, i've pleaded for one to help us help themselves. i've done the counseling with the rehab counselor and patient. and yet no matter how many hoops we all jumped through, we found ourselves staring at her standing in her square one 42 days later. no change.

i find my fellow brothers and sisters can go through similar fates as myself. some of us struggle to find answers, some of us turn our backs and say "you did it to yourself". i'd like to give myself permission to stop seeking the why's of the situation.... i'd like to stop watching the train wreck that so eerily resembles my own memories- insanity, violence, disregard for any safety...

but on i seek, and on i seek.

the spear in your side, is me

don't know what made me think it. don't know if it's true- i only have a theory drenched in sympathy for one who spirals and spirals more...

i found several websites about crystal meth addiction. when i don't know much about something, i can spend so much time educating myself, googling, reading, soaking... crystal meth has made a huge rise in popularity recently, since 2000-ish. and while perusing the sites, i learned several things. for instance, i did not know that heavy continuous use of crystal meth for over a week (only a week?) can cause structural brain damage. STRUCTURAL. like the walls and floors of how one's brain is put together, that gets damaged. and once it causes brain damage, it can cause psychosis. i did not know that. in fact, it can cause schizophrenia-like psychosis. no shit, i am not kidding. (you betcher louisiana, i am not kidding.)

when one is "on meth" as they say, it can cause the person to stay awake for days. DAYS. daze. it can cause the person paranoia, unpredictability and even cause them to be violent.

it's cheap, hooks you after one hit, and can cause horrible skin irritations, looking like sudden onset acne, difficulty remembering, "black out days"...

one way of treatment seems to be putting the addict on a combination of antidepressants and antipsychotic medication with strict daily supervision of a psychiatrist who has the experience of treating drug-induced schizophrenia, by way of crystal meth.




all of this information doesn't mean the whole damn thing doesn't break my heart. a disease out of control, a mind frying in front of us. put that ambulance in a sizzling pan:

kids, this is your brain on drugs.

any questions?



of course, i'm just pulling all of this out of my bum. could be nothing. pure coinky-dink. it's not like a little birdy told me in this big ol' town.

understanding crazy for so many reasons

a little bit crazy can often be mistaken for
a bad thing
an unexplainable thing
but i find craziness
to be completely understandable,
and most of the time,
i find craziness to be an appropriate result
of preceding actions and situations

if i was star of the world at age 16,
on top, be all end all
reaching heights that the grownups around me
can only dream of
i'd feel pretty big
and important, possibly invincible
and totally fucking confused as to how *I*
the CHILD
became so important to so many people's happiness
especially my parents'


when one is at the Heights in
hollywoodland
that reality is not
a sane reality for the rest of us
in laundry land

people yes yes yes yes
whatever you want
anything you say
no questions asked
no rules, open the stores at 1am,
drink at age 16,
no chores, no responsibility
other than to
show up and look fab
and put on the show

the trip back from that land
is brutal
ugly
and often bloody
going from a place where 20 people care for you
like a giant baby
to a place where it might seem
like you're the abandoned baby
would make me
car-ra-ra-ra-razy

to hit the "top" in babyhood
i can only imagine
the vastness of the empty roads before her
after all... she has done it All,
Done It All already

where to go from here?

if i lived in a world surrounded by only
the same 30 people, that would become my world
and my reality
and the photos that come from my reality might
seem strange to others
but not to me
after all
it is
MY reality

my loneliness might lead me to
pick friends from that circle,
perhaps a date or two
someone to help me fill the drowning ache
of loss
loss of my On The Top reality
loss of my world, loss of my life
loss of who i am

if so many people tell a girl
You're on top!
You're the best!
You are THE STAR
once those people leave...
you have no one left telling you who you are
so you might need to make it up as you go along


being On The Top doesn't allow you
to live like a human
take out the trash
clean your toilet, poop scrapes and all

but it does give you a reality
like no other
endless riches and fortunes and open doors
with no boundaries
and never ever hearing the word

no


and when one is no longer in that reality
one might find the rest of the world crazy- not herself
after all....
she hadn't been the one who changed since the
slide from the top...
THEY change.

craziness can be a sane existence in one world
but not in the other world.

craziness is underrated
and understandable.


breaks my heart.
how long can she last?
i'd be in the asylum by now
pink wig and all
wondering how i used to be
such a perfect pop star
and now i'm not

fame is crazy-making
especially if you snort it at a young age.

mm, yes.

yes

some days are better than others
and that is when i try to remember
that all days
can be better than the last

my tom, his suzanne.

it never ceases to amaze me, my naivete. no matter how many deaths i experience in life, each time i think to myself, "but why? why did they have to go?" it doesn't matter if the death had been expected, and we were warned; it makes no difference if the passing was 107 and hadn't recognized me in a decade.... i don't seem to fully grasp death. why it's there, is it lonely, were they scared? are they okay now? it's very childish of me, i understand. and yet, reading about suzanne pleshette's passing brought me full swing into my baffled and bewildered child-like state of confusion.

the first dead body i ever saw was a great uncle. and i remember he looked like a sleeping rock. i had no recollection of knowing him while living, so i met him while he was lying in his beige satin-lined casket. i remember some of my mother's tears fell on his pasty folded hands, and i was very confused as to why he was wearing blush. and as usual, during some of the most painful times in life, my family found ways to laugh. so amidst the pain, there was also display of laughter- perhaps if for no other reason than using laughter as a way to release that which we don't understand inside, "why'd they have to go"? i only know that any memory i have of rosaries wrapped around hands are coupled with giant family potlucks and roaring, table pounding laughter.

great aunts, great uncles, grandpas, great grandmas, a stepfather, even a little girl who was killed by a nurse when she was drinking and driving. that funeral i understood the least: tiny little hands hugged by white gloves, a bonnet, and a teddy bear. she was half my age. once again, "why'd she go?"

i don't know if i shall ever find my answer to that question without stepping into my spirituality. and spirituality is sometimes the only thing capable of getting me through the painful times. spiritually, i know tom and suzanne are back together again. as was always meant to be.

but i still sit here in sunday sweats, the twittering of birds outside my sliding glass doors, the trickle of our waterfall reaching over the sound of a tiny plane far away.... and i wonder, "why'd she have to go? why did he have to go?" and i wonder what it does to our friendship- can i still call them friends? can i still love tom immensely? can i smile when i think of suzanne's sailor cackle? can i laugh when i watch our gag reel from Committed? can i keep the notes we exchanged over the last few years? can i play the good memories over and over when i get sad?" see? death and birth are so much the beautiful same thing, yet my human-ness steps in between my spirituality sometimes, and i am left with simple, earth-bound, human sadness.


it's so hard to let go with fingers, when one knows the heart will never.

Honey Hunts

iowa
new hampshire
nevada
texas
why are we still calling this a free nation? it's like no one is letting kucinich run for president. he's out there, he's trying, he's having fundraisers, at one point he was #4 in the running race. Perhaps a little too close for the #1 #2 #3 candidates? he is trying to be seen. but because he's not funded by bildergerg group. or a rockefeller. or a bush family ally. but time and again, for one watery excuse or another, "they" won't let kucinich debate or put his name on a ballot. which means he is scaring the hell out of somebody in charge. mmm, ahhh.

yes, texas... that reminds me of a story.... I've been sitting on it for years, as i am not as much of a turd in the punchbowl as i claim/wish to be who blurts out secrets because it feels so wrong to keep them in. i was in a tiny little restaurant, no more than a dozen diners and twice as many waitstaff that were nearly invisible and ghostlike as they filled waters and wines, ad dropped off plates, and swept crumbs. it was told by candle light, at a late dinner, to only a few of us, with only pauses in the story when a breeze of another would pass by. i can't name names or anything, but i'll tell you what: it's for real.






The Honey Hunt

Somewhere down south there is family that owns a very large ranch. Through the years, this ranch has hosted all sorts of parties and entertainment. The heirloom ranch was owned by a family of many. Generations of old, to the newest of the youngin's. Many family members would use it for various reasons, both personal and professional. One fella, he typically used it for personal reasons back in his day of whiskey. Especially for the annual Honey Hunt. Now, when it came time for the Honey Hunt, only one member of the family would use the ranch that weekend. Let's call that family member (false name here) Joe. So Joe and all of his big-wig, shin-dig, boozing friends (half a dozen?) would gather at the ranch for a weekend of good ol' boy fun, each one bringing their flavor of gun. And do you know what they'd do?

Someone would be sent off to town, to find a good-lookin (hopefully) illegal immigrant young lady. That friend would bring the pretty girl to the Joe's Family Ranch. Now here's where the fun begins. Once they had the girl hostage, their whiskey breath would carry the Game Rules across the room to her. And they'd tell the young woman this:

"You are on a giant private ranch right now. Pretty easy to get lost here, and no one is going to help you. We're going to free you, and give you a 30 minute head start. After those 30 minutes are up, though, we're coming to find you. We're gonna hunt you. And if we find you, you don't get to leave for a lo-o-ong while."

And then they'd let the young girl that nobody would ever believe anyway, run in maddening despair. This child who is someone's daughter would run like hell through the dried grasses, over the dusty acres and acres and thousands of acres, desperately trying to find her way out, over, away, anywhere but here with those pasty white men.... But few ever escaped. Most of these ladies were caught and gang-raped by Joe and his Schmoes.

You read that right: a Honey Hunt is when a woman is hunted like prey, sexual prey. And after they would finish destroying her body and soul, someone would drive her far far south, drop her off in the middle of nowhere, and warn her: "You can try to report this, but nobody will believe an illegal alien over this family." And he was right.

They picked illegal immigrants, knowing full well, they wouldn't have a legal leg to stand on because of their citizenship status, or lack thereof.

But the interesting thing is this: one of those Hunted Honey's didn't care who threatened her. After her kidnapping, 30 minutes of freedom, rape and beatings, .... you know what she did? She went to an American doctor, where he did the "rape kit" thing, and documented her injuries and the proof. Brave soul.



Now, one may call me crazy, a liar, a liberal fibbing asshole who wants to fuck a goat cuz i wanna marry my wife.... but what I tell you is true. And there are a handful of people that know this. A handful of "higher-ups". A handful of political savvies up in the ranks. AND .... there is one man, who has met the woman, has her affidavit, and wrote a book about the Honey Hunters. I heard it was going to come out a few years ago, and then I never heard about it again. But I know it will be disclosed one day. I can tell the story without the names (god rest her soul who told us this in the first place), but the names will bleed into the knowledge of us all one day.


True story.

so close to the end, and on we sleep.

please.

i'll be your best friend if you just watch this:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuBo4E77ZXo

INCEST IS BEST, WHO'D A GUESSED?

kucinich wanted to debate on NBC. at first, NBC said yes, then they said no. then they said yes, then they said no. then they said yes, after kucinich threatened legal action (and followed through by going to the Nevada Supreme Court yesterday), but in the end.... kucinich didn't get to debate.

NBC
owned by
GE

GE owns nuclear factories
GE has so much waste they need to find a place to stash
GE wants to dump the nuclear waste into the Yucca mountains
kucinich says
HELL NO

GE doesn't like kucinich
who won't let them dump poison in the
yucca mountains of nevada

so of course kucinich didn't debate on
GE- er- i mean NBC

NBC has corporate interests now

now the freedom of speech is owned
by corporations.

how does one forget to breathe?

separation
is not always
a
bad thing


sometimes
it allows one
to feel the truth
from afar.

shit happens. so do you sit in it, or clean it up and refuse to sit in shit again?

sometimes things break
and crazy glue is the answer
other times things shatter
and there is nothing to put it back together
no nail long enough
no hammer to swing hard enough
no glues
no tools
nothing to make it be
the way it was.

and so
if the
way it will be
is deadly
one must
move on move on move on
one foot
in front of the other foot

soap box. soap box. soap box.

i heard a mother complain to another at the mall, "i said to my oldest son, 'why don't you get off the computer? why are you always on myspace, myspace, myspace? Can't you get out and TALK to someone in REAL LIFE?!' and he didn't even look away from the screen as he answered me with a mumble!" the simple, loving, hard-working mom uncrossed and recrossed her keep-up-with-the-family-sneakered legs, and tossed back the rest of her starbucks coffee through un-glossed lips.

she was a little older than me, maybe later thirties. i'd gotten from earlier eavesdropping that her son was 12. in my head, i did some quick math... her son was a product of a woman... who was a product of the atari 2600 and coleco generations. man, that was some fi-i-i-ine pac-man playing. i liked that jungle-something, i loved popeye where he had to catch hearts for olive oyl... loved ms pac man and HATED friggin' q-bert. damn thing never moved the way i would jerk the joystick in my blistered, sweaty little hands. ahhh, those good ol' days when home video machines/games were just beginning to build popularity.

there were some kids in my class who had atari, some had coleco later on, and even later a very few die-hard-video-game-junkie-seniors had nintendo. and now, it seems that those video kids who left the joystick at home when they went to college, are now late thirties and perhaps turning their children towards the fun games they recalled as a child? but the games aren't the same, they are completely different. the details in them now, the sound affects, the visuals, the high-def televisions, the complete creation of a reality that looks, sounds, sometimes feels as real, as real life. and when someone has two choices: they can live in a world where they have no control over life, OR they can practice a virtual life over and over until they DO control their "reality".... which world do you think they wanna live in?

and myspace kids? those are just the kids a few years behind me who got really into nintendo 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and friggin' 19 or whatever. when kids are sitting inside a building, with false senses (fake smelly deordorizers or febreze, smelly detergent and non-static dryer sheets-which are carcinogens, polyester clothes and tubber toys with poisonous dyes) living life with their fingers and their mind, eyes glued to a screen... what else do you mothers expect them to do when they're older? MYSPACE. back to the whole "controlling their reality" idea. man, and as a teen in this day and age - hell at any age in this day and age, wouldn't you give just almost anything to be able to control some of this chaos?

so with that "control of reality" experience going on, the electric gadget business continue to invent electric, "screened" gadgets for younger and younger audiences. i went to look for an "excer-saucer" for the twins when it was age appropriate, and i couldn't find any that didn't look like they were child seats planted right in the middle of TIMES SQUARE. all these fake electronic lights, these fake sounds ("mooo!" said the computer) and so much much much much to look at. it was dizzying. i finally bought the excersaucer that allowed me to leave the "busy parts" off. i want my babies' brains to work hard at developing, and use their muscles,so i don't give them toys that allow them be passively entertained. which means that most of the presents they are given for whatever reason (bday, xmas, kid of famous parents, blah blah blah) are donated to the katrina victims. in fact, the only screen time the twins have ever had is some football on sundays. no, they don't watch, they just hear the sound from another room, toddle in long enough to see whatever the heck they can see in a few minutes, and then start their "let's go chiefs! let's go chiefs!" trick. it's not really a trick. it's more of a clap-clap-clap thing... anyway.

from babyhood to teenhood, and now into adulthood, screens and electronic relationships are encouraged everywhere. remember when those talking dolls came out wa-a-a-a-y back then? when the pretend friend uses real words, it doesn't seem to me to leave much room for creative play between the child and 4 sentences her "friend" can say.

the younger generations were trained by parents to turn to the screens. (tv, video games, tv, dvds, tv, computers, tv, get the picture?)

i wanted to tell the mother to get the screen out of her house. you want your son to have real relationships? don't allow flat-faced-screen realities. you want him to learn to talk face to face- put your cell phone down.

in accordance with our household theory, the babies have mostly wooden toys. big legos were introduced recently, but otherwise,they just play with things that are made... how to 'splain...toys that are made of "nature". they don't watch screens (except that chiefs loyalty thing for 3 minutes), they only have dolls with only dots for eyes, and half-circles of yarn for mouths; they don't watch tv, videos, dvds, or anything with a screen; and they won't for a long, long time. perhaps next year they can watch the family movie that honey makes every year. oh, yeah. and everywhere i go, i am told the twins are the best behaved babies X person has ever been around. or they are the calmest babies that Z person ever saw...

i think of it like this: if i fill my children's senses on overload: tv for hours, or video games that mock behavior i don't want the child displaying later (shooting people)... then it would only make sense... that later, when my child is in school, the room will be deathly quiet, and only the teacher's voice is filling my child's world- a world that has gotten used to BANG! ZIP! MOVE OUTTA THE WAY! GETIT! GET IT! SHOOT IT BANG BANG ZIP ZAP- my child might feel ready to jump out of its skin due to such "unnaturally quiet" surroundings. my child might be tempted to behave erratically to change the atmosphere in the class to match a more comfy atmostphere for himself/herself- something louder, more chaotic, and with more anxiety (am i gonna get my guy killed? how many guys do i have left? i need to shoot the bad guys before they shoot me!). but doctors don't talk about that either. so they'd prolly call my child difficult, and diagnose it with ADD or ADHD, gimme drugs to pacify the damage being done by continuing to let him live in Screen World, and move on. ADD and ADHD are caused by the overdoes of sugar (organic cane sugar, high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, pick-a-name-to-disguise-that-it-is-really-sugar) along with age-inappropriate /over-exposure to electronic machines and games and computers. and i wish more parents turned to intimately interacting with their child more to help with ADD, instead of putting them on drugs. that's not to say i think all drugs are bad. hell, i'd mention the doses i'm taking to help with my PPD, but i don't want tom cruise to slam me in the press, and drag my personal business all over the world, all while shaming me for trying to survive this time in life. i digress. the point is there are many other ways to treat "TMS"- too many screens. and i am sad that drugs is the first answer for so many uneducated parents and doctors.

tv can be poison. video games are poison. screens are unneccessary for so many. children need to feel what's real: leaves, dirt, wood... they don't need to climb on rubber play sets and fade into a world of screens and bells and whistles.

so i never said anything to the lady, i know she is trying her best to be a good mother... i am just so sad that people seem to be so out of touch with their children... and their children with them.

throw your tv out. play a game with your kid. make your kid get bored- boredom breeds creativity. otherwise, give 'em screens, buy them games, and teach them to live in a world of un-reality.

columbine, VA tech shooting, malls, etc.... screens disallow us to understand humanity and the preciousness of life. we are not a game.

bless you cindy

a long time ago i started mailing daily (on recycled paper in soy ink) postcards to nancy pelosi, that said IMPEACH BUSH on the back side and had a giant peace sign on the front. i've sent at least 350 so far. i sign them all, hoping to add some human touch.... but this last batch, i admit. i took my 100 postcards and sat at my kitchen desk, and i let her know how i feel. this time, instead of signing my name and sending off the postcard with a smile and a hope for another fundraising event at barbra streisand's house, i wrote things like "SHAME ON YOU" and "YOU ARE A DISAPPOINTMENT" "YOU ARE SLEEPING" "THE BLOOD WILL BE ON YOUR HANDS" "WAKE UP ALREADY!!!!!" and then signed my name. cuz now i'm pissed.

seriously. shame on you pelosi. so what if "it's impossible to impeach bush, we don't have that much of a majority". f*ck that, nancy. you took the VERY REASON we prayed for your victory position as speaker of the house, and took it off the table quicker than you can say "sell out"... speaker of what? i don't hear you saying anything.

shame on you. seriously, unless you get your act together, and start making SOME noise about the CRIMINALS in the WHITEHOUSE, you will lose my support, as well as others. geez. even if those republicans are being kidnapped by the neo-cons, even if they are dirty players and make politics look like a whiney sandbox on the playground full of sand throwers and poop sellers.... nancy, you make dems look like yellow-bellied, morally blinded, WEAK, DOORMATS.

and now cindy "sit down and quit drawing attention to the soldiers dying" sheehan is running against nancy for california state rep. and i just donated money to cindy. cuz i'm starting to believe in her. perhaps an angry mother whose life is stained with her son's blood will have more effect, have more gumption, have more balls, have less fear about doing the right thing: IMPEACHing the bungholes we call president and vice president.

the evolution of nature's rules

when i was a kid, growing up in the midwest, one of my first words was "tornado". (well, with my speech impediment that the therapists said i'd never recover from, it came out more like "nor-nado". i digress.) it took me a few years of studying my mother's reactions to the weather channel, her reactions to the clouds outside, her reaction to sirens when it got windy, before i understood that there are overwhelming, uncontrollable monsters that could come and suck our home right up it's hoover nose, with perhaps none of us ever to be heard from again. i learned early to watch the top left corner for little weather tags such as "severe thunderstorm watch" or "tornado watch" and beware my mother or babysitter's responses. i began to develope a little phobia of twisters. i became obsessed. i even began a 30-year relationship with tornadoes nightmares. tornado nightmares that would leave me breathlessly crying, wordlessly screaming, and drenched with terrified sweat. my therapist(s) have always found them interesting, and a great subject to discuss in our sessions. however, as a child, i'd have sometimes 3-4 a week, as i got older, i only had one once in awhile. and now i am delighted to say it's been several months since i've had a Tornado Dream, as i now call them.

so i became obsessed early on with weather, the weather channel, and the different climate in different areas of the united states. i learned that tornadoes are created when really hot weather meets really cold weather (springtime and fall specialties), and they start to dance in a circle. i learned that they are only "in season" during the spring and summertime and autumn months. i used to wait and wait and wait for the First Day Of Winter to pass through my life, as i knew then that i would be physically safe from tornadoes, even if i couldn't run from them in my dreams fast enough. i knew that winter time was my safe time. when i got older i asked my mom if there were any states that don't have tornadoes. "california" was her answer.

so here i am. no tornadoes yet. but we live on the west coast... and we had a warning about weather last week, so i flipped to my bookmark "weather.com" and shrieked as i saw the giant swirling mess off to the west of the california coast. i look at weather patterns now, i can recognize a hurricane almost as quickly as a meteorologist... and what i saw that day looked like hurricane clouds, swirls. things i usually see off the coast of florida, or south of jamaica. but instead, that day, it was heading towards us. that didn't make sense. i was curious when the news reported it as such: "hurricane force winds" "sustained winds that would be a hurricane 4". but no one said "a hurricane struck the west coast".

when i awoke this morning to read the headlines about the twisters in the midwest, my heart smacked my chest cavity with the force of 12-foot fall. twisters in january. not right. i wonder what other "rules" nature is about to break.

bless mother earth-she's just trying to rid herself of these toxic humans who rape her of her trees (her lungs), her coal (her liver), her oil (her blood), and stain her face with rivers of human red flowing for money.

*sigh* twisters in january. not right.

when the clock strikes 12, some of us, we wander

one night in my nocturnal stumblings
i came upon a painter
with no paint

"whatever shall you paint with?"
i asked the stranger friend
"my blood, most often
paints the clearest picture"
replied he, oh he of he

i noticed he had no brushes
"whatever shall make your strokes
'cross your canvas, sir?"
his teeth
what were left of them
smiled at me through his beard of life
"my faith makes my strokes...
my belief makes them broad
my fear makes them faded
my soul chooses the hue of it all"

in the dim of night
the paintless painter and i
we faced the moonlight
the red painter and i
brother and i
wandering the streets
our only art
being our selves
as deep as we can reach
far into crazy and beyond

we moved on
the slow drip of old rain from the rusted eaves
overhead
his boots carried him one way
mine another
sure to meet again
nocturnal artists who wander in the wet of night
for sure have something to teach one another

see you again
see you again

7th grade, mrs. morgan's class.

as my understanding of this parade we call Human Life evolves from one perception to the next, i find myself wanting to have a ridiculously long lunch date with my seventh grade english class. i wanna ask the small group of, what was it, 12, if Life is the ride they thought it was going to be back then? as we scribbled our copious notes from mrs, morgan's barking intelligence, why in the world did we think we knew so much? regina, i thought she was all but jesus himself. she was tall and had a perfect soft bob, natural wave, and glasses that resembled the beginnings of coke bottles. her kindness made her the beauty of the class- in my opinion. and scott's too, apparently, cuz later on after high school, regina and scott got married. i wanna know if sheri ever wishes she'd stayed my friend even after high school swept us away in the tides. i really missed her when we stopped hanging out. i liked sheri. she was really perky, and i wonder if my "what the hell is this thing called Life, cuz no one's home to teach me" wackiness overwhelmed her. i overwhelmed myself at times. and i sometimes still do. if i could, i wanna ask derek what the hell was he thinking when he broke into the high school 4 years later and created such a scene with S.W.A.T. and everything, all so he could rip off some tv's and electronics and sell 'em later- or something like that, if i remember the newspaper clippings correctly. and where did he get the guns? i vividly recall his second grade lips perfectly landing on my own during a game of "kiss 'em, ditch 'em" during morning recess. like tag, but with kissing. no tongue. (wish that babysitter of mine had taken a hint.) from second grade kisses, to advanced english classes in 7th grade, to waving guns at 4am in the bowels of a high school for money his family already had... i'd ask him what happened. you know? what the hell happened? damon. he was a little crush of mine. growing up, i dug older chicks (pe teachers and softball coaches) but threw my crushed-out feelings towards a "teddy bear" boy for awhile. i threw my feelings at a sweet teddy bear in 5th grade: damon. he was so nice, had such round freckled cheeks, and he hugged- HUGGED. this is when everyone else wanted to land their first kiss... but i'd scored my years back thanks to the molesting (hey, gina... i'm not even tempted to change your name here... BOO!), so i guess i got my first hug from damon. and my first hug meant (and still does) more to me than my first kiss. and that darn crush lasted. lasted in and out of the years, the awakenings of our social class differences, and well into junior high. it was only when his mother screamed at him to "quit hanging out with that dime store hood" when she thought i was out of earshot, that our mutual fondness for one another and peanut butter began to fade. which was unfortunate, cuz i coulda used that cover for the following years of "why do I want to kiss the girls more than ever?" self-loathing. denial can sometimes indeed be buried for long periods of time when one has another focus in life: like that sweet teddy bear damon. who i hear married his high school sweetheart and had kids. if we were sitting in mrs. morgan's 7th grade room, i'd just give him a hug. and i'd tell him that i use in my own home, the "if you leave a toy laying around the house for a day, without putting it away, it goes into the Time Out Box For A Month" rule that his mother used in their house. i think he was a good guy. after hugging him, i'd pass a note to sheri... who'd may be pass it to karyn, and natalie (was she in that class? i forget)... and we'd all agree to go for pizza later. and then, i'd apologize to mrs. morgan for taking some of my "please don't push me to my full potential" crankiness upon her, and i'd thank her. i'd tell her that her off-the-cuff suggestion about me going into acting (was that 1987?) one day in my adulthood, in fact, turned out to be a great idea. and then i'd show her a picture (album) of my beautiful family. and tell her about the magnet that hangs on my dryer: "sometimes on the way to a dream, you find a better one".

saving the world, the poo, and the smoosher

i don't accept plastic bags when shopping anymore. i haul 4-5 canvas bags around with me, each bag whispering an advertisement for the store from which it came. using canvas bags instead of paper or plastic is no chore at all at the grocery store. lots of people bring their own bag to the grocery store to bag their stuff. very european. but when it comes to malls, i don't see a plethora of people wrestling with their empty canvas bags, each rolled up and placed inside a slightly bigger one. when people see me coming now, they know two things: i will buy for a boy and a girl, whether it's a size 12-18 months, or a size 10 in big kid clothes.... AND they know i don't want wrapping tissue, or a bag to place my purchases in- i bag my own stuff, in my own bags, and i walk out with only the items i bought. i even make them take the shoe boxes to recycle. it might sound complicated or like a hassle, but let me tell you., i don't have 128 plastic/paper grocery bags slid between my washing machine and the wall... i don't have bag after bag to carry in from the car- i pack it myself in the store, and i rarely come home with more than a few small canvas bags to empty.

we are getting our "new" car (old to some other family, new to us)-- in diesel. as of february of 2008, each of our cars will run on bio diesel. and we'll fill the tank from our effin' GARAGE. we get what's called a "wet drop", which is when some dude with a giant gas tank truck who lives far away, will drive to our house, and fill our giant "gas barrels" with non-war, non-earth killing, domestic, renewable fuel. i can't wait. it's so easy... oh, so i'm low on gas today? no problem! it'll take me a minute to fill it from the barrel TEN FEET FROM THE HOUSE, and then i'm on my way.

so much easier than making dick rich. and feels better, too. how about that dick company raping that young girl? i wonder how easily dick would cover it up if it were mary cheney that had gotten gang-raped and help captive. oh, dick. i don't wanna stand next to you- between the lightning owed your head, and your karma.... and boy have you got it coming. i just wanna know: is your wife in denial, (she looks so sweet and naive in that photo you released of your grandbaby), or is she like a Mafia Wife, and she pretends to know nothing.... but she really LOVES the extra money and the shiny lifestyle? and your daughter mary- does she spend any of our blood money? oh, the irony of mary mary quite contrary. does she have mirrors in her home, or is she unable to face herself?

i'm not buying a lot of toys for the babies' holiday- i refuse to teach my children that once a year, in the name of a thousand-year old myth, we will bury them with toys and goodies that they won't care about anyway. they just want wooden spoons, a little pot with a lid, and some cheerios to "stir". they are very fond of mops, vacuums, and dusting with a rag. it's cute. but with two "helpers", my chores have expanded to being a one-hour chore, instead of a quick 15 minute clean up. but i'd have died to have ONE " little mommy's helper" a couple of years ago, so suddenly, my time is no longer as important. my time has become their time... and their time has become my education. i am being educated in living in the moment, loving each breath, laughing at the mistakes and pratfalls of life, and cheering them on until they can get up themselves. what valuable lessons to learn from such angelic creatures.

they like to poop in the tub, though, which is slowly getting to put a damper on bath time. three times in the last 5 days. inevitably, they get in the tub, and are splish-splashing.... when suddenly we will hear a little grunt, a whimper, and then a little face will pop over the tub. if it's miller- his face will be full of jest and screeching joy... if it's johnnie rose, she seems to understand pooping in the tub isn't the long-run goal, and she gets sad. either way, though, we figured out the first time, that regardless of any one's feelings about the floating poop- get them BOTH out immediately. cuz if you just lift out the pooper, the other twin is left with a very interesting, floating new "toy". which they will reach for and try to "smoosh" immediately. so bath time has a new ritual: when someone poops, i grab the pooper, and praise them ad dangle them over a sink (it's important to praise the pooping, as i don't want the poopers to get pooping anxiety).... and honey catches the poop. she's such a great poop catcher- she doesn't even flinch. in fact, she said she takes the chance to get a good look at the poop- "it's important for a mother to have a good understanding of her child's poop. poop is related directly to health". yeah. well. she can be the poop/rock star mom. i'll be the vacuuming/laundry mom.

and they've been walking for months now. MONTHS. they're only 14 months old. people see them run around the mall, and freak out, thinking they are little robots or dolls. yeah, i tell 'em. they're those new "I Poop Like A Real Baby" dolls.

honey is home for awhile- done with that roller coaster of publicity and album stuff. whew. i feel our roller coaster car slowing down and coming in for a stop. oy. fame, hollywood, holding what others seek.... what a trip. seussland, i tell ya.

oh the places you will go.

dear diary, december something, 2007

dear diary,

is anyone else finding al gore as lusciously sexy lately as I have been finding him? ooh, he's so intelligent and assertive, humbly commanding and warm, friendly and demanding. sexy. there was a photo of him pointing and reporting the inconvenient truth... he's my boy crush. if i could have a garage where i keep my tools and mechanic supplies, that reeks of gasoline and stale weed... i'd plaster the ugly walls with shiny posters of al gore. and kate jackson, circa 1980. and mary from "eight is enough". and tina turner, the B52's john denver and neil diamond. and carol burnett (for inspiration, not sexual fantasies), and robin williams and the muppets. and dennis k. and ricky martin, because his shaky bon bon is fucking INSANE. but in there, i'd hang a big glossy photo of that sexy al. lots of 'em. a couple with Tip, cuz she's a hot mama as well, but that's typical of me. she's a woman. i dig chicks.but al... al. there is a man with a thick, compassionate, emphatic, righteous, generous soul, no matter how often it is sucked dry by the war mongers. and i'd hang out and change my oil (that's all i know how to do, really), and surround myself with photos of al.



children get attached to things, like stuffed animals and blankets. i have no problem with that. as a therapist once said to me, "he's not going to walk down the aisle with a pacifier in his mouth." so. i encourage loving stuffed animals. well. johnnie rose has a doll, knit of beautiful, soft yarns in rich, delicious colors. her skirt is brightly striped, and her hands and feet and smile are pink. the rest of her yarn skin is the most intoxicating chocolate color. creamy milk chocolate. she and johnnie rose are pretty good friends. if i try to tuck another doll in bed with johnnie rose at bedtime, she shakes her head no and tosses the doll out of the crib. so. at first, i thought, "what would make a great name? an appropriate name?" for this new doll? i felt a little silly calling a brown-yarned doll "Ginnie Mae" or "Heather", right? so i thought i'd give her a socially conscious name, a name belonging to a person that might inspire johnnie rose to be a change-maker, help this world be a better place. there was only one name that fit: oprah. that's right. oprah. oprah and johnnie rose are closerthanthis. at first it felt strange and slightly schizophrenic, saying, "johnnie rose, do you want to hold oprah? do you want oprah in the stroller with you? do you want to share your pretzel with oprah?" and johnnie rose would grab her tight, feed her a pretzel, or just mash her slobber into oprah's face. well, of course, the name stuck. and i didn't think about how other people might hear us refer to Oprah now and again. the looks we get when oprah goes shopping at target with us and we're all yakking about "johnnie rose and oprah" this and "johnnie rose and oprah" that.... oh, my. i'm constantly whispering "oprah's her doll" to the mystified and hopeful passersby in the aisles.

miller. boy. my boy. a mom's boy. needs to be kissed and hugged, but then let him go cuz he has things to do. the first to whimper at a noise, the first to bang his wiffle bat into the window. boy. i can give the exact same toy to each of them, and their reactions to it are totally different: miller tries to pound it, make it change shape, see how hard he has to push it certain ways before it breaks... he beats the crap out of it, and doesn't think twice before dropping it/smashing it into the ground. johnnie rose, on the other hand, she will take the item, and hold it gently in her hand. then she will look at me, as if to ask "what is this?" i explain it to her, and she tries to mimic what i say: "this is to pound in the pegs!" i'll say. and she'll gently start tapping at the colored pegs. when it's miller's turn, he immediately starts hittingthe floor,the kitchen seats, the family room furniture... but once he's discovered all there is to discover about the now-broken toy, he will run to me for love and affection. he can't get enough kisses for his manliness and strength. he's like a candy store that overflows with sweets and chocolate rivers- he is a boy whose joy and enthusiasm runs over me like a sugar waterfall. so sweet i can barely eat it all.

i watch my son and daughter, both natural, and sharing every toy in the house (both use the toy vaccum, both use the toddlers pounding mallet/pegs, both like to wear hats of any kind)... and it really upsets me to think that men are running this planet. it's not natural. it goes against a man's natural state of mind to try to nurture nations and heal wounds and bridge divides. women should be in charge again. like we were so many thousands of years ago.

i guess that's all.


wait.

oh. one more thing. let's be real. let's be serious. if hilary gets in that oval office... that is one sexy bitch. regardless of whether or not i vote for her, she'd be a WOMAN in DA HOOOOOOUSE. and let's be real some more. that's kinda sexy.... hilary in her presidential suits, in charge of so many things... whoo... like a lady in uniform... okay. i admit it. (pretending honey weren't in the picture:) if i was an intern, and hilary was ruling the free world. man, i would totally suck her dick in that oval office without thinking twice about it. curve or no curve to the tip.

silence fell across the dusty files, as the bullhorn blared the whispered

out loud
my truth echoes
on pages further away
than my journals written by mine own

a hush
fell over the shadows in my library of secrets
as they all tilted their heads upward
my words shattering their confidence
like a jagged rock through the church's masterpiece window
they thought i'd keep the secrets forever
that's how i was trained

Another TV Show

the grammys aren't much better than a gossip column in motion.

i told honey months ago if she wanted a shot at anything, she needs to start showing her va-jay-jay a little more, and if she wants to WIN, then she's GOT to pick a drug and start shooting/snorting it; and be sure to have her powdered nose/track-marked arm visible when wandering through the streets in her boxers and bra.

the grammys ain't nothing more than a tv show. and the "popular" stars with the demo audience will "win".

Lights! Camera! Action!

*intro the theme music*

Waltzing in my constellation of thoughts.

when she waltzes she
is the first to fall
and the first to stand again
and spin
when she eats
she is the only one to dive in
with all ten fingers
and lick the plate
when she cries
she is the first to hush her yelps
and the last to understand
why

when she wakes each morning
flashback after flashback
of what once was
the way she swears it'll never be again
when she awakes
she awakes
and begins her journey again
step by step by step

life in the shade
darting the spotlight
the spotlight that changes
that which is being observed

one foot in front of the other
is a testament to faith and the belief
that my dirt path
leads me somewhere
other than in a circle of where i've been
and where i've promised i'd never go again.

faith in oneself
is more important than
faith in another self
god comes from within
not from without

who told you someone else was god
besides you?

the white man who swore a life of poverty, yet his
Prada costs the same as my mother's first paycheck
from Purdue University
and we had to sit in the back pew.

everyone is shooting everyone
cuz this way of life
doesn't work anymore
everyone
looking for another way to live
another way to carry on our feet
one in front of another
and when the Man In Charge is a criminal
and thinks nothing of sending our boys to a
death dance
what do our children learn?
killing is the answer- no talking, no compromising,
my way or death
guns guns guns guns
"just shoot 'em and shut 'em up."

it's like living in an abusive home again

someone get me out of here.
or give me better dreams at night

tick tock tick tock
sometimes life seems to be a waiting lesson-
breathe in and out... all the while waiting
to see what comes next
and if i can still waltz when
all is said and done.








indeed.
i can still waltz.

Where have all the journalists gone? pt II (click on this blog title)

Hollywood Farm Girl here, reporting the news.... Apparently the journalists of America have all gotten drunk at the local pub, and it's up to us, the bloggers of wee-faring blogs such as this, to bring to you good Americans, such important news such as this:

Please turn up your volume, ladies and gentlemen, and witness the only Presidential Candidate with balls... and Patriotic ones at that. Dennis Kucinich calls for the impeachment of one VP Cheney. Don't accept his invitation to go hunting this weekend, Denny.




Hollywood Farm Girl, signing off. Have a great night and a lovely dawn.

my life. no apologies.

i remember watching oprah everyday back in the eighties, her hair larger and fluffier than any other's. beautiful. i liked her low voice, her no-nonsense warmth, and her quick-to-laugh-at-herself trait. i don't recall the specific of one show, i only have a vivid recollection of hearing her saying she'd been molested. and how it took her years to understand that it wasn't her fault, that it wasn't her shame to carry, and so on. i didn't hear the rest. i couldn't imagine having the confidence to say the things she was saying. it had never occurred to me to say my nightmares aloud, let alone share the facts with total strangers or an audience of fans. in that moment, in that ice-cold, bone chilling moment of shame-recognition, the securing thought fleeted through my mind: "i'll never tell anyone." and with the promise to myself to lock away the all-too-clear memories, i was able to swallow my spoonful of marshmallow fluff.

fast forward to counseling, psychotherapy, more therapy, and some group therapy, and some more.... and i have no shame in admitting that i was molested for many years during my childhood. boy, girl, relative, babysitter, the laundry list goes on and on. it has taken me f*ckin' years to treasure my beautiful body and know it as something other than everyone's angry, lonely playground. and i feel so brave and loving sharing this. cuz what if some young kid out there is reading this blog, and they've promised themselves to carry the toxic burden of sexual secrets for others' as well? o's healing aloud helped me, and perhaps me healing aloud, will help another. far be it from me to allow my

ego

to prevent me from living my spiritual life to its fullest. and i believe i can only live my spiritual life to its fullest when i am all of me, all the time, connecting to others who are all of them as much as they can be.

and the truth is, this isn't the blog of a perfect person. nor is this the blog of a person who pretends to be perfect, or even attempts to be perfect. (okay, sometimes, i try to be perfect. i fail each time. except with baking cookies. i digress.) yes, my wife is super famous, but i really still want to pretend i'm li'l ol' anonymous me in here to a certain extent. i simply say, "this is my life, no apologies".

i was abused very severely in my childhood- the details at this point in life tend to be rather boring and insignificant to the plotline. boring, boring, boring. but then i had an eighth grade music teacher save my life. i spent some time inflicting my own wounds, and wrestling with my own demons too joyfully; i've spent time gazing into my soul's prism of lives, and i've spent time re-wiring my mentality, emotionality. it needed to be done. i'm in touch with some of my family, and not others. i don't trust everyone in my family. i have some friends i've known since first grade, and some i've only just met in the OBGYN office. i'm not graceful when surrounded by deceit. i fucked someone once who was in a relationship (can i plead insanity by age? i was 21.) i've only had two other long-term girlfriends, and i never cheated on them. i have good points and bad points, some of which i am aware of and some of which i am not. i've found money on some days, and anonymously paid for others' meals, on other days.



feeling home again
in my skin again
landing amongst the
roses and softest grasses

all of me
spiritual and human
rolled into one
usually

my space
my blog
my place to paint on the ceiling
my life, no apologies

just wishing us all some peace.

eyeball to eyeball, honey and i

ah, bologna. the bologna show after-party. it's like a crowded frat party, really. i used to go to those once in a while, my senior year of high school. i hated them. so little room to breathe, and anywhere i looked was directly into another set of eyeballs just a few inches away. inevitably, the eyeballs belonged to a possesser of ass breath and a wet grin, stumbling forward that last inch... just enough to grope the unwelcome, mushy D-cups hanging from my chest. i more often than not chose VH1's standup spotlight over that fine hormonal heterosexual ritual. i digress.

there's people everywhere. EVERYWHERE. and everyone is dressed to the effin' nines. i hadn't seen that many real diamonds in one place since the *ahem* italian family *ahem* wedding i went to in jersery ten years back. there were classy dresses, whore-ish dresses, tight ones, bright ones, sexy tuxes, long nails, fake faces, longer lashes, faker boobs, oh my lord, it was eyebrow-raising, i must confess. if i'd had the magic, i'd have zapped myself into a fly and clung to the walls all night. the music was loud, so when having a conversation (such a silly venture in this atmosphere) one had to place one's mouth directly up to the other person's ear, and then SHOUT AT NEARLY FULL FORCE whatever it is one wants to share. needless to say, honey and i spent the night doing hand-squeezies, with each of us mentally listing our bath talk for later that night.

we laughed with mr pink hollywood, and giggled with mr old buddy, and hugged dear pal and wife, and passed a ... cigarette.... with some other after-award-show buddies. (AASB... someone you might not call up and ring for a date in "real life", but you LOVE to bump into them at these red carpet shindigs. i digress, for clarification.)

a great time was being had by all. until that slut slithered her bones through the crowd to "bump" into honey. this woman, seriously, it's pretty sad at this point. when honey and i were first dating, i figured the snakelady's glowing red eyes simply meant she had a naughty streak in her somewhere. hey- don't we all? but time after time, bump-in after bump-in, year after year, this snake is starting to shake her rattle louder at honey, rattle it sloppily even. she shakes her rattle in front of me now. you know, cuz having stress-induced colitis makes me effin' blind or something? anyway. so there we were, at the frat party of the year, me with my damn dress that was 6 inches too long, in my too-soon-to-wear-post-partum heels, feeling like i'm in friggin' 8th grade again: gawky and awkward and dorky. suddenly, from at least twenty sets of eyeballs away, i see her glowing red eyes. they didn't see me at first, so i ducked behind honey for shelter, and for some deep breaths. (fine, i had some anxiety, i admit it. continuing...) i poked my mouth up to honey's ear and squeezed her hand in a most loving "OH SHIT!" way. then i screamed as quietly as i could at honey, "juicy janet is coming!" (not her real name- duh) and then before my very eyes, the snake lady effortlessly poured through the crowd like water runs through pebbles, with only one target in mind: my wife. i don't know if juicy janet knew i was behind honey as she oozed her body up to honey. her tight dress clung to her flesh and bones like a tourniquet to a damaged limb. her hair was sprayed into shiny fixation. her heels made mine look like loafers. her boobs lived eight or nine floors above mine, and had never been milked by a double pump at 2am. she was a hollywood knockout, even according to hollywood, and she was oozing up against honey. i even bet her inner thighs didn't touch each other.

honey stopped walking as soon as ms juicy janet broke into honey's personal dance space: suddenly they were one of the sets of eyeball to eyeball. still not recognizing my eyeballs were right beside honey's eyeballs, the juicy snake swished her hips against honey's gorgeous navy jacket. i felt my hair rise on the back of my neck, canine-like. i watched her injected lips relflect the dim overhead lighting as she leaned in to kiss honey. just before her lips found my paradise, her eyeballs found my eyeballs. and then honey turned her head, and the slut got a cheek to kiss. her embarrassment wasn't obvious enough for me, as she deftly overlooked my existence, and strutted on inch by inch through the crowd, tossing a "congrats on the oscar, sweetie!" over her glimmering shoulder. honey twirled on her heel to face me.

we were eyeball to eyeball, and honey yelled directly into my face, "SHE SCARES ME!!!!" and then we laughed and laughed.


and laughed all the way home, into bath, into bed, and into dreamland... honey and i, we did. eyeball to eyeball.

i can pinch an inch of hope with my special k

www.dennis4president.com

i'd reconsider my stance on organized religion
(money-making bullshit pyramids
who take advantage of the aspired and the hopeful)
if he were to start one


hands up
i found the leader
who believes in love and peace
the way jesus did
and buddha and ghandi
and my evelyn

hands up
i'd join the choir
solo even
and sing the praises of
dennis k
sweet
dennis k

the world's a-changing before our very eyes
fires hurricanes tornadoes winds floods droughts
when is everyong going to put their books down
and start living with the truth they already have in their hearts?

how utterly vulnerable
a state of hope and trust can be

faith
is a hard thing to understand
convey
carry


i might hand my pocket full of hope
to special k
he seems to the be only one human enough to
represent the people
we
the
people
of
the
people
for
the
people
by
the
people

with his soul on the outside
nothing to hide
nothing to owe

the real deal
dennis.

bush-whacked? mmm. maybe just teeth cracked.

randi rhodes was really really really hurt when she ate the pavement in nyc. attack? eh. attack of a mugger or attack of a bad sneaker meets bad pavement?

still...
love and love and love to randi.

misquoting ladies and doting on babies

the phone rang. "what'd ya tell 'em?" she asked as soon as i greeted the ring.

"who's this?" i asked into the phone.

"it's me. so what'd ya tell 'em when they asked what a threesome was?" i could tell she was eating potato chips from the cacaphony of crunching coming from the receiver in my hand.

ah. judging from the tone of the voice, and the rudeness of the chip-eating... i knew who it was right away. only dearest friends from decades gone by can get away with that collegiate behavior. "oh, it's you.... what the hell are you talking about, silly?"

what followed proceeded to be somewhat of a nightmare. I found the headline online easily enough... and sure enough.. screaming from ocean to ocean... bullshit. i called honey right away. "did you say this? that he asked you about a threesome, and you let me explain it??" i couldn't imagine honey having said that so off-handedly, "Oh, golly, he asked about a threesome, ms. interviewer! Oh, hawhaw! Guffaw! Guffaw!" ...and i sure as hell didn't remember EVER explaining a threesome to him.

honey confirms my suspicions. "i NEVER said that!" her throaty voice raising an octave, making it almost as high as mine. "that is such a misquote! i was so so misquoted! i didn't say that at all!"

and so it goes. and should he ask, how would it be explained? "ah, it's a song about wanting more than one girlfriend or boyfriend" but from the looks of that article (that is now being sent all over the globe and back), it seems that our son asked a question specifically about threesomes, and i gave him the details on group sex. nope. didnt happen.

seriously. misquoting just sucks. i don't know if they think it makes the article more exciting or what... but so often the "grabbing headlines" are not true. the reporters today are more fiction writers. i know that is one reason i started this blog- to say what i need to say... from the horse's mouth and all... not through the grapevine of gossips... the TRUTH.

*sigh* and with that being said...

i've been thinking about my babies. i've been thinking about their faces, their beautiful faces, and how i feel like i am keeping the world from witnessing angels on earth by not posting photos of them for all the world to see. and then i think about kathie lee and cody and cassidy. and they seem to be turning out well. chastity bono... she's a good citizen, you know... i have concern about children having a parent's spotlight bleed over into the child's privacy... and what affects does it have on them in the longterm? and if KEEPING the babies out of the spotlight (going waaaay out of my way to make different choices to avoid razzi) causes me stress... then i suppose posting a photo of them here might indeed be a way to lessen that. i'll ask my therapist about this. i must admit, there is a huge difference between posting a photo of my tummy babies, and posting a photo of my step-babies. i have no fear of custody being challenged if i post my own babies' photos here. so my motherhood is safe with those two. and, again, cody and cassidy seem fairly well adjusted. lookit where they've come from... so i think my twins might indeed stay on their Genius Path and not be too harmed. i'll continue thinking about it. and if i post their photos, does that mean i am giving the razzi permission to harass them forever more? does that mean they are no longer allowed the right every (unfamous) american citizen has: the right to the pursuit of happiness, so long as it does not impede on another's happiness? something like that. i don't wanna ruin their lives by subjecting them to something that they are not emotionally or mentally capable of comprehending now or anytime in the near future.

to post or not to post. to be chased or not chased. to share my joy or dull my shine. good heavens.

dropping irony

truth. i stole my first melissa etheridge album in 1995 from the music store that briefly lived on 72nd and broadway. i had been told about her music, and i was told i'd enjoy it if i liked springsteen. not to mention the whole "i think i'm queer, and i no longer want to kill myself, so now what" phase i was going through. but i remember the cassette was something like ten bucks. and being an (underpaid) nanny, i didn't have the money to spend on the CHANCE i'd like it. and being a former latchkey kid, i'd learned a thing or two about sticky fingering items. (ugh. i'm not proud of it at all. i digress.) so i was made sure there wasn't anything that might "set off" an alarm.... and off i went into the sunny afternoon with the naked coverless cassette tucked into my underwear. oh, irony.

it was her "yes i am" album. and indeed... i f*cking loved it. loved it as much as the greatest hits of the supremes; loved it more than bruce's greatest; loved it almost as much as john denver's greatest. at that point, i was more than willing to invest in some more cassettes- paying this time, of course. so i went out and bought her first three albums. and for more than a year, maybe more than three, melissa etheridge's music became the soundtrack to my coming out . as i grew from self-acceptance into gay pride... the strength of my new-found self-love allowed me to dream the white-picket-fence-with-children-running-around-the-yard kind of dreams.... her cassette was playing somewhere in the background of my dreams. oh, irony.

as my nyc months swelled into years, i marched in parades, and nannied all sorts of angels and devils, and dated and learned and grew and learned some more. by the time i started bartending to free up my days for auditions, i knew all four of melissa etheridge's first cd's by heart. maybe i couldn't hit all the keys, or hold the notes as long, but as far as i was concerned, i was a rock star when i jammed to those albums. (that's the sign of a good album: it makes you want to star in your own rock concert as you drive in your car, windows up, still miles away from home.) at some point, your little secret came out... and i didn't played it as much as her others. at that point, my life had picked up activity, and i had less time to rock out, and more time to pick up bartending shifts. of course, the funny thing is... when one is in a lesbian bar, one might expect to hear appropo music, correct? so who did i hear playing in the bars as i cocktailed and bartended? yup. melissa etheridge. oh, irony.

that might sound nice, right? awesome music all night long. night after night after night after night afternight... after night... after night. even elvis starts to wear on you after eight hours a day, four days a week. plus, when i was trying to hear someone give me a drink order, that damn sandpaper waterfall was wailing her pain too loud so i'd have to shout "WHAT? WHAT DID YOU WANT?" all while i was thinking, "can melissa etheridge shut the f*ck up already?" by the time i'd been around the gay bars for a handful of years, i literally had the thought, "if i have to hear Come To My Window one more time, i'm gonna f*cking scream." oh, irony.

i was in a relationship (on-off-on-off-on-off) during this time. this particular lady liked to have a "list". a list is the collection of persons she'd be able to have a fling with if presented the chance, regardless of our monogamy agreement. such a stupid idea. i don't like lists. never have. if i have desires for another person, clearly, something is missing in the current relationship, and that would be the issue i would focus on, not whom i'd f*ck. i digress. the little lady i was dating had a list, nonetheless. it included people such as cheryl swoops, michael jordan (yeah, i know, wtf?), and madonna. she asked me to make a list. i couldn't think of a single stranger i'd want to be vulnerable and naked and intimate with, you know? she made suggestions, and i rejected them all. finally, she said, "how 'bout that melissa etheridge?" and since i wanted the little lady off my back, with a change of subject, i thought about melissa etheridge's personality: she seemed nice enough, and monogamous, and "old-fashioned": white- picket-fence dreams and kids. so i said yes. melissa etheridge would be my list. oh, irony.

as time wore on, and i forgot all about the list, i also stopped buying melissa etheridge albums. to be honest... i wanted more upbeat stuff; i had enough misery in my own life, that her songs didn't help me out of my funk at all. in fact, her songs seemed to be steeped in their own despair and angst, of which i already had enough of my own. oh, irony.

fast forward.

***************



ooops. babies are up, and ready to go play. more later.

song on an album

when i was first pregnant, i remember just wanting to eat taco bell and sleep next to the toilet. once i stopped taking my prenatal vitamins, my nausea subsided enough so that instead of hanging over the toilet bowl, i could lie in bed and hang over a wastebasket. and in between dry heaves and spitting, i'd sleep. oh, how i'd sleep in that first trimester! two, sometimes three naps a day. nothing was more satisfying than pizza and sleep by the time i was in my fourth month.

now, i also must say that my pregnancy coincided with huge inspirational hits for my wife. i'd eat a submarine sandwich, take a nap, and when i awoke, honey would have a new song to play for me. sometimes, if she'd been writing in the bedroom while i napped, her unheard-before-by-me song would seem familiar, it's lyrics reminding me of my recent dream, it's melody the soundtrack to my eyes-closed journeys.

and then there was this one time... honey and i had gone to a carnival. not a big carnival, more of a small county-fair type of carnival. of course, my lifelong addiction guided me straight to what turned out to be the one and only candy shop in the carnival. it was a very nice shop, sort of retro-ish diner: sparkly red plastic booths with chrome detail... a jukebox in the corner, some pies in the window in front the cash register. but it seemed to be closing time as all the chairs were turned upside down over the tables, and there were no people inside. all the lights were on, which was strange... but even stranger was who was walking towards us in a pearled-blue suit. linda evans. that's right. linda evans. but it was weird- she hadn't aged a single day since her dynasty days. NOT A DAY. she couldn't be a day past 40, i figured. and then linda evans made her way over to us, swishing her dynasty hips back and forth, her frosted makeup so pretty shimmery and icey i wanted to immediately get a makeover, era 1986. her shoulder pads were of course tucked well beneath her dress's fabric, and all of her spangly bangly jewelry was 18k gold. her light floral perfume wafted over to my dykey nose, a nose that does indeed appreciate a nice-smelling woman.

suddenly honey was no where to be found. then linda winked at me. seriously. linda evans MADE A PASS AT ME. i pretended not to notice as i turned around and started looking for honey outside the restaurant. but suddenly linda was blocking the door, my only way out. she winked at me again. DEAR GOD LINDA EVANS IS HITTING ON ME!! and truth be told, she was pretty attractive. but for heaven's sake, i am a MARRIED woman with vows and respect to uphold!

"i'm going to be upstairs." the slut informed me. "you ladies come on up. i'll be waiting..." and then she walked past the candy counters, the pie counters, and up some stairs that led to an apartment above the candy shop/restaurant. i immediately ran outside to look for honey, whom i found with no trouble.

"OH MY GOD, HONEY," i hissed into her ear, "LINDA EVANS WANTS TO HAVE A THREESOME WITH US!" i threw my eyes open wide to show my terror. it wasn't terror at humping the hot lady, beg your pardon, it was fear to be intimate with someone other than my wife. i don't dig that. for me. it doesn't work for me. i know there are open relationships, and swingers, and all of that, and it can work for whomever.... i don't wanna judge others. but the thought of having sex with someone other than my wife FREAKS ME OUT. i am so old-fashioned. anyway.

honey looked reassuringly as horrified as i did. as we headed back inside towards linda's candy apartment, she whispered back to me, "i don't wanna have a threesome! do you?"

"no!" i shrieked, trying to keep my rising terror from being too audible. "what do we do?"

she looked at me. i looked at her. she said, "i don't wanna be rude..."

"me neither!" i said.

we looked at each other.

"girrrrrls?" linda's growling voice beckoned to us from the stairs. we looked over a the staircase, and the light was hitting her just so, allowing her shadow to cast down upon the stair walls. "i've got a glass of wine for us..."

we froze. at some point, we had grabbed each others' hands, cuz by then, our hands were glued together. our eyes darted back and forth between her looming shadow on the stairs, and each other's eyes...

and then i woke up. honey was sitting on the little love seat in the bedroom, just 10 feet from my incubating body, strumming her guitar, and staring off into space.

"OHMYGODHONEYIJUSTHADTHEFUCKINGWEIRDESTDREAM," i choked out, only one eye even open yet. honey stopped playing with the strings and peered up at me through her glasses. "do you wanna sleep with anybody else? do you wanna have a threesome? are you still going to be attracted to me when i'm huge and pregnant? are you still gonna wanna kiss me when i'm done being pregnant and my body is all different? DO you wanna have a threesome? you don't, do you? cuz i don't, ever. do you wanna have a threesome?" i threw her every insecurity and doubt and wonder that poured out of my pregnant brain.

thank god, honey threw her head back and laughed and laughed her throaty laugh. she even took her glasses off and wiped her eyes. then, without another sound, she picked up her guitar again, strummed a few notes and wailed, "I DON'T WANNA HAAAAAVE A THREEESSOOOME.........."



the insecurities passed, more strange dreams came, and we laughed some more. now it's over a year later, the babies are here, my body is forever altered in the most beautiful, womanly, life-giving way.... and the damn dream is a song on honey's album. i feel a little silly seeing my pregnant dream in print. i feel a little silly having so many people know that i dreamed about linda evans wanting to do us like a stud at the rodeo.

eh. maybe the story makes me look daring and naughty. but really... i'm such a strange bird sometimes. linda evans? i never even watched dynasty... i had the hots for stepfanie kramer from hunter and nancy mckeon from facts of life.... why would i dream about linda evans? so weird... oh, well.

i think there are some clothes waiting to be folded, and some lunches to make, and diapers to be changed.







onclick="window.open('http://www.melissaetheridge.com/threesome/', > 'popup', 'width=350,height=150'); return false">Threesome

marble echoes of silken gravel

mmmkay. so i have to say there are times i am sooo glad that honey can sing as well as she does. she has this gig tomorrow night where she has to sing a song made famous by gladys knight. shit. gladys knight. honey's not the only one singing, of course... they asked some others, too. (i dont know who "they" is, but there's always a "they" somewhere, isn't there?) they asked smokey robinson, johnny mathis, maybe some others, and honey. (okay, they asked me, too, but i declined, if i have to sing "midnight train to georgia" one more time, and then get a standing ovation... oy. *yaaaaawn* ) mmmmkay, that list of folk? that is music, those are real singers. if you can step on stage with that mix, you have my respect. don't matter how underweight you are or how short your shirt is, darlin', you can't protools and lip sync yourself through that night, know what i'm sayin?

here's a(nother) reason to be with honey and her voice: she has to rehearse for those gigs, usually at home a few times first. and i get to sit 6 feet away pretending to blog about something else. hhhmmmm... it's nice. in her frayed jammie boxers, and washed-thin t-shirt, some biodegradeable slippers, and the cat purring around her legs.... there she stands, belting out a practice session, her corduroy voice clawing its way up the bathroom marble and splashing me with echoes. gravel draped in silk. good heavens, this is free, with a no drink minimum. love love love it.

naming a bastard

someone asked me why i wanted to take honey's name

growing up, the man i refer to as donor, was absent. worse than absent: he was inconsistently absent. and when he wasn't absent, he was abusive in many ways that are not important to this story. however, for traditional reasons, i was given donor's last name at birth. (and "donor" is really all heresay; donor liked to tell people i wasn't his child, and my mother had some affair with a used car salesman to conceive me. i rather like that tale better than the one i got, and i often wonder why i don't just go ahead and adopt that as my childhood story. but alas, the car salesman is dead, and i only met him once anyway, and i didn't get any "sperm-dar" from him, so i bet i really am that friggin' donor's child. ugh. ooh, i'm so proud of white hoods and burning crosses.... good ol' donor... i digress.) so there i was, born to a single mother, and given the name *smith.

farmgirl smith. and my mother was *jackie smith. then she got married and changed her name. she became jackie *shooter. later she divorced him and went back to jackie smith. years later she remarried a dude and became jackie smith-*johnson. then divorced him and went back to smith. by now, though, i was no longer smith, as i was living in manhattan, and ready to register at the Screen Actors Guild. so i changed my last name to *daisy (cuz "donor didn't deserve to see his name in lights," i always said). i picked it out of a phone book, and chose it cuz it was easy for casting agents to spell, and sounded good with my first name.

names
believe you me
i tell you the truth

a name can be nothing more
than a sign of cohabitation:
smith and smith and smith quite the bores
three family members-
who speak across the dinner table no more

a name can be
a machete that swipes your insides
and flings them outside:
faggot loser stupid dyke

a name can be the amplifier
of what exists within:
one family, two mothers
where peace and harmony begin

i have always wanted to build a home
t'was my deepest desire from whence my dreaming came
children, a wife, some laughing and maybe a dog
and someone to share my name

one name


i was done with mine
it had done its job
lit up the marquee with
something that was all me
bastard child me
my name in lights

one name
me and honey
our family

this bastard child
has come home.









*names have been changed to protect the guilty fuckers. i kid! names have been changed ... cuz ... it seems right?

hurry-canes to the truth

i wonder if all of those hurricanes hitting central america
are going to uncover the many artifacts
from our true beginning --
long before the white people
think we were born into a
garden of eden just several thousand years ago

i do believe the truth of our origins
will come to light sooner rather than later

and with the storms hitting so many
ruins from long ago
i wonder what
will be unearthed to teach us all
educate us more
than we have been taught about
Who We Are

either way
hurricanes as we've never seen before will come
and teachings that our society had long ago buried
will resurface
cuz you can't keep truth buried for long

seussicals and wallet wars and beautiful long boobs

sometimes i wanna blog, but for some reason, my 'puter doesn't upload my passwords automatically, which means i have to remember them on my own and enter them manually... and when i put that blog password in the same brain with my atm password, and my times tables from 3rd grade, my phone numbers, and honey's schedule, birthdays and the entire menu from the restaurant i waitressed at as a youngin'... well.... it means i don't get to blog at that moment. which means, as a mother of four, i might not get thirty more minutes wrapped together for another two weeks.

so i've gotten my gave-birth-to-twins body back in sha- ... well, back to where it was. i'm not a gym rat. i never have been. in fact, dare i say... deep down inside, i judge gym rats. i judge, more than a teensie bit, those people who need to WORK OUT! BE TOUGH! FEEL MY ARMS! LOOKIT MY SIX PACK! i find it to be quite asinine, some people's obsession with their exterior finish. it's like trying to sell me a car based on the wax job, you know? i feel like, "who gives a f*ck if you've got 2% body fat? you're boring. you spent the day at the gym." i really shouldn't judge so harshly. i am sure it eases a lot of people's ... um, stress? i dunno. i can think of a million other things i'd rather do. for starts, i'd rather have a dick sewn to the inside of my eyelid, before i'd ever wanna find myself at the gym.

which means, i have the body of a woman who gave birth to twins. and wait and wait as i might... the day hasn't come where i find flaws or ugliness in my maternal exterior. there's cushion in spots (good for nap-taking and hugging the booboos away), there's rolls in others (good for assuring a menstrual cycle), and there is sex-goddess all around. stretch marks? naaahhhh, my friend, those are the road maps to my children's hearts. long boobs? naaahhh, those are fun new toys i'm trying to learn to "twirl together" for, ahem, personal enjoyment. *wink wink nudge nudge* i can go on and on about the new and different ways i look beautiful.

i also know, that at times, when i enter the silly suessland of noodles and lollipops.... it's hard to hold on to my reality. when in seussland... so few people look sexy like me. so many want to look sexy, like, holocaust sexy. holicausties, i call 'em. and there i am, suddenly this side show circus freak, who will be buried in a piano box! i don't think i wanna do suessical land anymore. i am strongest in front of my mommy mirror, radiating love and being loved. juicy and real. honey and i talk about doing internet something. that'd be fun. no ties to war, money, lobbyists, drug companies... just us, made by us, all us. and we'll have the setting be a dough nut shop, and we'll eat donuts and then eat alkaline things like asparagus and fruit (for proper balance).

i keep seeing some stupid headline "BUSH SEES FATAL CAR WRECK!" hey, bushtard: that car wreck ain't nothing compared to what your troops see each day as they fight your Wallet War. you should see as many wrecks as deaths you have caused. jussayin'.

oh, and can i just be really honest now? i observe honey's career from afar, well, up close, and from afar, somehow at the same time. i think i am noticing that the white chicks seem less excited to perform around my honey. the sistahs (black, latina, whathaveyou) seem to enjoy her musically, a great deal. when i see groups of people perform on one stage (not all at once, but one after another), i see that so few want to share a stage with honey. XXX won't "open" for honey, but when honey offered to "open" for XXX, XXX refused to "follow" honey. well, duh. honey f*ckin' blows the roof off when she performs. who wants to try to bring the audience back from the moon after honey leaves the stage? she's got balls, she's got soul, she's a sistah on the inside. and the white chicks? eh. they've got protools.... honey is going to honor gladys knight next week. she was asked to honor tina turner last year. sistahs. SISTAAAAHS. our ethnic brothas and sistahs, they love honey's voice, passion, gift. ain't no SOUL sistahs and brothas intimidated by honey. the white folk? let's seee...... just watch with me. i wanna see some white chicks with talent that are willing to sing with honey. cuz it seems to me.... the ones who FAKE THEIR TALENT know that if they stand next to honey on stage.... their facade will crumble under the rich vibrations of honey's sandpaper waterfall. i might get raked across the coals for this, and i'll be misquoted left and right, and perhaps a burning cross or two will appear in my front yard. but i'm jussayin'. i guess some people are gifted in the musical department, and some people are gifted in the posing department.

i am sexy. i am round. my ass jiggles, as does my "balcony ass" (my ass above my ass). my boobs are longer- no, TALLER than before, and i feel great. i am no longer a tv star. i no longer want to be a tv star. i want joy, humanity, authenticity, warmth, humor, real life. and when i stroll through suessland with the holocausties, i lose perspective. i guess i need to work on that- i need to hold on to my center, hold on to my truth. regardless of what land i visit.

meditation for today: i am beautiful, always, everywhere, from inside out. i glow with love and truth. i breathe in joy, and breathe out peace. and if that doesn't work, my meditation will be, "at least i don't have a dick sewn to my eyelid."


i am beautiful.

rethinking my previous statement....

the point of the blog was to say... the girls today? they can't sing. they're entertainers, not musicians. not real. but here are some white chicks that had soul... and the list goes on, of course:
stevie nicks patsy cline joni mitchell alanis morisette janis joplin pink lisa marie presley dixie chicks (christina aguilera is spanish)...
and i can already think of a few more. hm.



okay. so there are a lot more white chicks with soul than i thought. good. way to represent, honkies!

will my protest get me thrown me in jail? ooOOoooOOooh. i've never done something so trendy!

dear ny post,

first, i am honored that someone at your paper reads my li'l blog. indeed, the blog of which you speak was vulgar and crass and such the like as that, i agree. swearing and vulgarity is a forte of mine. (i think i listened to bette midler's standup tapes far too young in life. i digress.) it seems that only extremism gets the message out these days, doesn't it? the Neo-Cons (or Modern-Day-Hitlers), the terrorists (that we created), the kids shooting other kids in school, the hollywood whorlets who show their vagina to the world AND go to jail AND still make magazine covers... see? so a lesbian, using filthy language, swearing and daring for the criminals to take the lamb's clothing off.... of course i make the ny post.

i bet you'll be surprised and disappointed to know that i've already had my mouth washed out with soap, a coupla times, in fact, when i was a kid. my caretaker, evelyn, was a believer in "soap cleans out the dirty words". and i was a believer in dirty words. i can clearly recall not only the taste of the soap in my mouth- but also the texture of the washrag as she rubbed it into my tongue. i guess she didn't rub hard enough, huh? LOL

thank you for spotlighting my anger, my absolute incense at the war-mongers in the white house. thank you. i feel so heard. there are so many more frustrated patriots like myself, and they will read your paper, find my blog, and so it will begin.

what's that quote/idea from Grapes of Wrath? something like "the government doesn't care when it's one farmer miserable in the field... but when there's two or more farmers... one must begin to worry- the more people there are, the harder it is to repress them, they could rise up in protest...."or something like that. nevertheless-- the point is that it is easy to repress one person at a time.... b