I was up before my alarm this morning, and decided it was time for Waffle House. I was on the road by 7:00, and had a lovely conversation at the breakfast bar with some serious hikers. They told me some places to look, and I asked if there was anything around here (Dumfries) that I shouldn’t miss. They told me that the Marine museum was cool, so I said I would check it out. Before I did that, though, all three wipers on my car (I have one of those cute little rear ones) needed to be replaced, so I set out for Wal-Mart (shut it). I got three Rain-X brand, but the book was wrong and none of them fit. So I took them back off the car, returned them to Wal-Mart, and headed to AutoZone, where I should have gone in the first place. They had the front to, but the rear was out of stock. They told me that they could hold one for me at another store, and they listed several. Apparently, I do not know Virginia as well as I thought I did, because I thought Stafford was on my way back to Maryland. As it turns out, not so much. Stafford is way the hell out into nothing, about 15-ish miles from Fredericksburg, or “FredVegas” to locals. I do not know why they call it FredVegas. It is the AntiVegas…. but I’ve heard it referred to as such since 2001, so I know it’s not a new phenomenon (menomenon). Fredericksburg is about the size of Longview, Texas in 1980. Though I did see a few tattoo shops, I believe that is the limit to their Vegas-ness…. because of course if I was only a few miles from there, I had to see what it looked like.

So I went antiquing in a few stores (didn’t find anything I’d be caught dead with… much less alive), took pictures of the foliage, and stopped for a beer at Capital Ale House. Then, when I looked at the food menu, I decided I needed a pimento grilled cheese sandwich with ham and bread and butter pickles. NEEDED.

The main drag in “FredVegas” looks a lot like The Strand in Galveston…. so familiar and warm. All that was missing was a Yaga Ragz and King’s Candy.

I also got a chance to do some grieving, because I looked up Dana’s old high school on my GPS and walked around. I’d hoped that she’d be along with me for that ride, but no matter. It felt good to be on my own, just taking it in. I didn’t cry, but I almost did when I realized that a spider had gotten under my sleeve when I got back in the car… and in fact, the first time I went there, I didn’t take any pictures… just drove off toward FredVegas and then realized I wanted pictures, so I drove back. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have anywhere to be. It was just me and my little egg car, my Eggsy, and our NPR One (coolest app on earth). I call my car Egsy because he’s my favorite spy in Kingsmen: The Secret Service, and in my head, Mike Meyers as Austin Powers always says, “your spy car’s a YARIS?”

And in conclusion, here’s some of the pictures I took:

First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.

-Epictetus

I generally leave for work really early so that I get there just as the office is opening. Several times, I’ve gotten there before there was even anyone to unlock the door. In light of this, I saw a police car on the side of the road with one policeman trying his best to change a tire. I’m no expert except in holding things, so I pulled up in front of him and asked him if he needed any help. He said no, he was good, but thanked me profusely for stopping. I said, “thank you for your service,” and got back into my car feeling that at least if I couldn’t help, I payed attention to the Good Samaritan law. In this day and age, I wonder if he thought I was stopping to shoot him while he was down, so I approached carefully and yelled before I got to him that if he needed help, I was available.

The Good Samaritan law comes from the Bible, a parable about how two men on opposite sides politically came together when something like that seemed impossible. The injured man’s own people “Kitty-ed” him, a phrase I use for Kitty Genovese, who was murdered because no one wanted to get involved for fear of being thought as suspect. Literally, no one did anything.

It took an outsider, a hated man in that territory, to see need and respond to it. I can’t think of a more apt description than stopping to help a white policeman, someone I am groomed to hate because of all the bullshit I see with inequality with arrests and the sheer number of blacks being incarcerated for the smallest of things. White college kids carrying pot are just “boys being boys,” and black ones stay in the system forever… and let me remind you that this happens in Washington, DC, where laws state that pot is legal to begin with.

So I, this wholly other, stopped to help someone in need even though I was wary to do so. I was the Samaritan, and I felt every bit of it.

My last Good Friday was abominable, and I felt like starting this one out right. As I told Susan, “I want to be right with God and my neighbor.” This helped me to feel like I was putting words into action and not just saying things to make myself feel better. It reminds me of Argo, my little lost lamb (although she is not so little… she’s a badass with muscle to prove it). In that entry, I talked about putting actions behind my words, rather than just saying and not doing. The peace offering was a special order from Share a Coke, a bottle that says “Share a Coke with Argo.” It never arrived, but the sentiment was the same… I have done you wrong and I don’t want to ever do that again. To want a response, again, was not giving just for the spirit of it. It gave me something to give something to her.

I am finding that the Good Fridays of my life are slowing taking on “resurrection in the middle of the mess.” We blessed and released our relationship, so all is well even though we don’t communicate. I didn’t want my past to be my only narrative, that source of anger that bubbled up in me without an appropriate outlet. I wish to God I could have been the friend she needed, instead of regressing into my abused nature.

Susan came into my life at the perfect time, my stranger on a train (literally) that doesn’t mind hearing me out in the same way I want to hear her. I feel that I have more tools in my emotional toolbox, and I want to be able to show them… to be the friend to her that I couldn’t be to Argo because I was so damaged at the time. I still can’t believe some of the things I said to push her away, and the blowback was enormous… just enormous… because for every hot button I used to push on her, she knew all of mine as well. The weak spots that would hurt, and they did…. enormously so.

It is my life’s work to put that in my past, and to become the wounded healer both Jesus and Henri Nouwen want me to be. I pray every day for both my own healing and the healing of others for the destruction I caused. I pray for Dana, that she will one day work past her hurt and anger so that we can at least have a less awkward relationship than we would have if we were constantly running into each other. I pray for Aaron and the way I bitch-slapped him for wanting to move to Austin after his divorce, because moving after mine was so hypocritical, and in effect, abandoning someone I’d really grown to love… showing me was true, deep friendship meant without the undercurrent of sex that led me to believe sex and friendship were the same thing.

That is the mark that Diane left on me, another part of my life’s work to erase that is coming along nicely. The thing that gives me hope is that Dana and Aaron continue to be friends, and so even if I am not there, they at least have each other. I miss the days of hanging out with the two of them, in effect Aaron being our “third mike” like Jimmy Norton on the Opie & Anthony show. However, I could not be in that situation any longer, because that piece of me fell apart, and I knew I could never go back. To say why is to betray someone I love dearly, but sufficed to say I wanted to be a different person and I got it.

My little town (Silver Spring, MD) rescued me. Hayat was the first call I made when looking for a room on Craig’s List, and even though I can afford my own apartment now, I don’t want to move. I like having a family around that checks in when I am sick, depressed, or both. They are Lebanese, wholly other to me, and the wholly, holy other I needed to get my life back on track.

For instance, the checking in came when I texted Hayat and said, “do you have a little bit of whiskey I could have? My cold is so bad that I want to make a hot toddy.” She said she didn’t have any whiskey, but she would leave brandy on the kitchen counter. I added it to some black tea with lemon and sugar in the raw (I didn’t have any honey), and within a few minutes, I felt better.

It has always been like this, from the first day. A family I could count on that would help me when I was down and get excited for me when I was up.

This company is the same way. We all have a good time while we’re working hard, and I can’t imagine life without any one of them…. which is why I’m usually the first one here and the last to leave. I don’t get overtime because I’m salaried, but I have drive to finish projects and not leave them in the middle just because it’s 6:00. Today we’re having burgers delivered for lunch, and I got a “hypocrite,” a veggie burger with crisp bacon. I am salivating just thinking about it.

Good Samaritans abound if you’re looking for them. If you are in the middle of your own Good Friday, they will help you find your Easter.

Amen.

Nothing makes me feel more like a stereotypical woman than driving. I often watch the YouTube video entitled This is Why Women Shouldn’t Drive to make myself feel a little better. Again, this is stereotypical. I can’t think of a better driver than Dana, which is one of the many reasons I miss being married to her. Even if she did turn into the football coach/driver’s ed teacher when I was driving, it was nice to have a second pair of eyes. The last time I drove Lindsay’s Yaris with Dana in the car was during Lindsay’s wedding weekend. Dana would have driven home, but she was incapacitated due to being bit on the foot by a “floating breast implant,” otherwise known as a Portuguese Man O’ War. I peed on it for her since she couldn’t reach it on her own, and when that didn’t work, we went to a convenience store and bought some chewing tobacco to make a paste, which actually did make things a lot better. So here’s a tip. If you’re going to the beach, make sure Red Man is in your first aid kit. Plus, trying to pee on Dana’s foot is when I realized what love should be.

I will say in my defense that I never got a speeding ticket or a red light camera ticket in my other Toyota, a Corolla gifted by Matt when he got his new Jeep. The Yaris comes with its own set of blind spots, and so do I. I have gotten two red light camera tickets since I’ve gotten my car, mostly because the lights are not over the road, but on the sides, sometimes behind trees and bushes so that I cannot readily see them. Plus, I was driving in an unfamiliar area and looking at my GPS a little too hard.

“I was caught” going 51 in a 35 in Takoma Park, but when I looked at my calendar, I realized that it probably wasn’t me. Unfortunately, they only got pictures of the license plate and not who was driving, so I didn’t have any recourse in the matter. I’d left my car in a garage that day and given my spare to the parking attendant. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have time to go after the parking garage, and the ticket was only $40. The red light cameras are $150 a pop, but they don’t accrue points on your insurance, so I just paid those as well. I also sent Lindsay a copy of my insurance and a statement that I was driving so she can prove to her insurance company that she wasn’t driving and therefore, the ticket shouldn’t count against *her* insurance. I hope it’s enough. Making things harder for her in her life is at the bottom of my to-do list, ALWAYS.

Right now, the car is registered in Lindsay’s name because she couldn’t find the title, and the last thing I wanted was for her to have tickets in DC, because eventually she’ll want to drive here. Because I go home and watch Netflix every night and eat peanut butter sandwiches, I had plenty of money to pay all three without breaking a sweat. It’s enough to wish I’d never taken on the responsibility of owning a car, but it for damn sure is nice that I don’t have to wait for the bus when it is butt-cold outside. The fact that it is supposedly spring in MD doesn’t mean a thing. When I arrived last year, in April, there was still snow on the ground. I still need to get secondary mirrors so that I can see beyond the length of the car, and now that I’ve had three tickets, it’s probably time to go to O’Reilly’s or similar. I meant to get them a long time ago, and just forgot.

When I said I was giving up my old stories for Lent in order to make room for new ones, this is not exactly the story I wanted to tell. Plus, I haven’t been able to truly let go of them anyway, so forgive me… I know not what I do.

Melissa has ghosted and the only thing I can think of as to why is that when I asked her for her e-mail addres, she got my real name and Googled me. If that is the case, good riddance. I don’t want to be friends with anyone who cannot accept me for who I am. It is also possible that with being a foreign service officer, she’s just off the grid. Some foreign service officers also work closely with the CIA, so it’s possible that she can’t reach out, not that she doesn’t want to. But we’ve had some good laughs, and it was fun while it lasted nonetheless. “Cojones de carne” will give me enough laughs for a lifetime. The only reason I can think of that she might not be involved with intelligence is that she is based here in DC and not overseas (at least for the moment). I cannot imagine what it would be like to be in Belgium, Syria, etc. Plus, ISIS is no joke.

She is dead now, so I’ll never know, but Dana’s Auntie Bert was a foreign service officer, stuck in Dien Bien Phu when it fell. She was old enough that the CIA had not been formed, and was still the OSS. I pretend that Auntie Bert was friends with Julia & Paul Child. None of this can be confirmed, because even if Bert was intelligence, it’s not like we’d ever find out… especially since she’s not a part of my family anymore…. another completely sad reality in my divorce from Dana.

My dad has always maintained that Station Chief in the Foreign Service is CIA. Dana’s dad says it’s more likely a janitor to go unnoticed. But again, nothing that can be verified because we aren’t supposed to know the names of those people, and I think it’s better that way. Most people would be terrified were Oz to be revealed. I am just sad that Auntie Bert died before I got to meet her. I don’t think she would have told me anything about her intelligence work had she done any, but I do think that her above-board stories would have been fascinating.

I’ve also never met my great uncle, Foster Fort, who supposedly died when his helicopter crashed during a coup in Africa. He is my father’s mother’s brother, another mystery in our family begging to be solved, but no way to find out anything because we’re not supposed to go down that rabbit hole. Because it’s been so long, I can imagine that one of the stars on the CIA wall for fallen officers is his.

Watching Covert Affairs is one of the most enlightening things I’ve ever done, because it gives a real insight into what goes on. Of course there is more in terms of the drama of television, but the offices look right. It kind of feels like you’re there. Valerie Plame is the technical advisor on the show, and it’s worth the Amazon Prime membership to check it out. One of the things I learned from the show is that the CIA does indeed have a Domestic Protection Division, but it’s not connected to the FBI. It’s in charge of watching international incidents that could end up on our soil… the only parallel I can draw is to The Blacklist and how Red Reddington stops international criminals in the US at times.

The FBI trying to hack into the iPhone is at the forefront of the news, and I think it will become the NSA’s next project. I do not know how I feel about this. I am of the mind that no one has private information anymore… it’s just information now. Using a bit of code to get into iPhones that may contain messages that plan terrorist attacks might be a good thing. I’ve always thought that in my own life, the best way to protect myself is just not to be interesting. But we are kidding ourselves if we don’t think that our phones already provide enough information for the police and the FBI to track us. Between GPS, triangulation on cell phone towers and wi-fi signals, we are pretty much on the grid all the time. For instance, the speeding ticket didn’t come from getting pulled over, but by some drone monitoring speed.

The lesson in that is just to let people honk at me and not go with the flow of traffic. Perhaps they have no idea that you can get speeding tickets in the mail… although I am proud of DC that they think your insurance going up is punishment enough. $40 is the cheapest speeding ticket I’ve ever had in my life. It doesn’t matter if the police are visible. You can’t catch the drones.

It’s amazing how much our society has changed even in the last ten years. With a Trump presidency, privacy will go out the window altogether. At this point, I do not see a lot of hope for Bernie except as Hillary’s running mate, which would be awesome because it would give Bernie enough political capital to run on his own. I also think that Bernie and Hillary would work well together, given the fact that they both believe in a lot of the same ideals. Hillary has been fighting for the Health Care Bill of Rights since Bill became president in 1992. I know that the Vice President is usually relegated to attending funerals, but if Frank Underwood is any indication, Vice Presidents can have a lot of power if they know how to use it. I don’t know if Bernie Sanders is politically astute enough to whip votes in the Senate, but let’s hope so.

But let me be clear. If it is not over for Bernie Sanders, I will vote for him, too. I just think that mathematically, the nomination will go to Hillary, and I can’t think of a better role-maker in terms of First Dude than Bill Clinton. That’s the thing about Bill and Hillary. Because Bernie is so absolutely leftist, I don’t think he will appeal to moderate voters. But lots of liberal Republicans (lonely at parties these days) and independent voters were swayed by them. I have always been a (Bill) Clinton Democrat. Someone who leans left and plays to the center, believing in reaching across the aisle to get it handled.

Let me also say that Mitch McConnell is a Delta Bravo, which is “douchebag” in military slang. Hold the fucking phone. You won’t consider a nominee for the Supreme Court unless the NRA approves? Who bought you, sir? We can tell. How many millions of dollars did they give you to make that assinine statement?

The NRA is the bane of this country’s existence, even baiting children into owning guns by making them come in all sorts of colors and “zombie themes.”

Let me also say for the record that I am not necessarily against this, as long as their parents are trained gun owners themselves and want their kids to learn gun safety at a young age so that by the time they are adults, they know the pain they are capable of inflicting on animals and humans alike. Especially with animals, they need to take the animal’s sacrifice into consideration and bless what they’ve shot, giving thanks for the food it provides.

And on that note, it’s time for me to go, but I will leave you with a piece of sage advice. I didn’t write it, but it’s still so true you can take it to the bank:

Never, never kill a mockingbird.

Last night was the lock-in at Takoma Park Presbyterian Church. We started by playing Jenga with soda fridge-pack boxes, something I’d never thought of and am putting here in the pensieve to steal for later…. As the night went on, the tagline became “the power of the Fresca,” because the boys decided that the Fresca boxes had magical powers. Well, children, when you mix Fresca with sangria, it does. You’re welcome.

No, of course I didn’t really say that out loud. But I know you have to check, right? It is still me after all. I don’t know how my dad came up with the idea, but seriously, it is delcious. Fizzy and perfect and not too alcoholic so great for sitting out by the pool. Maybe it was, as my grandmother would say, “an old commando trick I learned in the Army.” My grandmother was never in the Army. It was just funny.

I came home around midnight as my coughing got worse and worse, so I’m writing this to you from my iPad and Bluetooth keyboard while in bed with the electric blanket on. It’s supposed to get cold, perhaps even snow tomorrow. I am sick enough that I think I’m just going to stay here until I have to go to work on Monday. Nothing repairs me more than sleep, and I never miss a valid excuse to binge Netflix. I will probably spend some time with the Scriptures, tomorrow being Palm/Passion Sunday and all. I think that over time, Palm and Passion Sundays got mixed together because people have stopped taking the time to go to church on Good Friday, so combining the Sundays was a way to make Easter make sense. I personally love Good Friday, after a long battle of not. It is a way to take one day to reflect on my own Good Fridays, so that Easter will come again, brighter and more glorious than before.

Last year was the worst Good Friday I’d ever had in my life, because I broke up my family butt-good, and it will never go back together. I saw some good advice, though, that sometimes you burn bridges to keep from crossing them again. I would add an addendum, though, that things look different after space and time. Sometimes burning a bridge is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and that’s so true you can take it to the bank.

I had to take a long, hard look at how that strategy was working out for me, thus, the Worst. Good Friday. Ever (see Jeff Daniels in the first scene of The Newsroom as to how I want you to read this sentence). I was on my knees in pain and confusion last year, and I think in some respects, I haven’t given myself permission to stand back up. I didn’t give myself permission for redemption, because I didn’t deserve it, at least in my own mind. I’d hurt a friend who’d become dear to me and my wife of seven years. Just blew both relationships out of the water with RPGs designed to hurt. Alas, people who need attantion the most ask for it in the most inappropriate of ways, and I was no exception. In those moments, I needed to be loved more than less, but I could not expect it of them because I was actively pushing them away. I couldn’t expect them to fight against the tide. Cries for help were masked as rage, because I didn’t know how to handle myself. If I was “too much to handle” for Dana, it was nothing compared to how painful it was for me to be with me during that time, and yet, I had no choice. I would say that 90% of recovery from mental issues is learning to love yourself despite them, and the other 10% is learning emotional tools to deal with yourself when these issues pop up. Medication can only do so much. Coping mechanisms are essential.

But I digress.

I had to learn to rely on my own God-piece, the one that tells me I am right and good and yells at me a lot to remember it.

The first time the Rev. Dr. Susan Leo asked me to take over for her at Bridgeport UCC, I walked around with R, M temporarily tattoed on the inside of my palm with a Sharpie Marker for five weeks. That’s because she wrote a beautiful affirmation, and I wanted to make sure that when I got up in front of the congregation to say it, I would get it right:

We are God’s children, wonderfully made…
And as fallible as we are, we are no mistake.

Be Responsible and let go of guilt
Be Mindful, and carry no shame.

Believe the Good News of the Gospel.
You are loved unconditionally by God.

When I hear it in my head, it’s the vooice of a young girl. I took my youth group at Bridgeport on a retreat to the Oregon coast in 2004, and we had worship on that Sunday morning. Hearing those words of affirmation from a teenager is the voice that carries me to this day. Everything looks better through the eyes of a child…. the lens of a faith untampered, unjaded.

Perhapd that is because teenagers turn to the divine to get away from the hell sittin’ on a Ritz that is middle school and high school, no matter how much fun the classes are. For instancce, 7th grade was the best and worst academic year I’d ever had in my life, becuase my classes were amazing and yet, my attention wasn’t on them.

I wrestled with God in an empty austin-stone cathedral, my Good Fridays relentless as I worried about the woman I loved.

I was an atypical tween and teen, so I work with youth to ensure that nothing like that happens to them, or if it does, that they know that they have a safe space to tell. To be received. To get the reassurance that it’s not their fault if they need it. I would never offer these blessings unless asked, but I know what signs to watch for. Not only do I have my own experiences, but I have taken a class on how to keep kids safe, and it resonated with me hardcore.

Last night when I arrived at the lock-in, the kids were talking about the news. They were talking about some court case or another, where when a girl was raped, the lawyer for the defendant said, “did you try closing your legs?” I briefly thought about intervening, telling them that this wasn’t appropriate conversation for a church lock-in, but I realized that I would have been wrong in doing so. The sixth grade class is doing a program right now on sex and sexuality called “Our Whole Lives,” or OWL for short. I am sure that there is a section on abuse, but I am not teaching the class, so I don’t know where they are in it. So I just let them be and listened, watching out for fights and anything major, but otherwise aloof and observant. They were waiting for things to officially start and just sitting on the playground equipment, talking. They were all in agreement that the treatment of the teenage girl was unfair.

Then one of the girls brought up a case by saying that when Hillary Clinton was a lawyer, in one of her cases she said to a 12-year-old girl who’d been raped, “maybe you just like seducing older men.” This is completely unverified, and I don’t know where the girl got the information to be able to talk about it in the first place. I also wondered where I’ve been that this is normal everyday playground talk now.

When I told Susan about this course I’d taken on trying to prevent abuse, she said something like “kids see this shit all over the Internet and think it’s normal behavior.” Well, I suppose it is normal…. to the pedophile. I understand the pathology of pedophiles, that they are children in adult bodies whose minds haven’t aged up so that they think adults are attractive. They still want the girls and/or boys they couldn’t get when they were that age, so they just keep trying. Understanding how it happens does not give me much compassion or forgiveness, but it does put pedophilia in perspective as a valid mental illness that can be managed….. in jail.

My nothing box is pleased that Jared Fogle got the shit beat out of him. My God-self struggles to offer forgiveness to all people, regardless of their fallibilities. Abuse is a dragon to be defeated and I am just one St. George…. but there are plenty of us out here, trying to make a difference.

I’ve wandered down a path into my own mind, so back to the playground. The kids transitioned from talking about rape to playing Jenga seamlessly, as if rape culture was just another thing. Not a gargantuan monster, just a thing that needs to be dealt with. It was astounding, really, just to listen.

My mind was going 3,500 miles a minute but my outward appearance was calm to the point of stoned, thanks to one of the other volunteers who had cough syrup with codeine on her. My cough has progressed to the point where codeine was welcome, as was guafenisen as I polished off a 32-ounce bottle of water. I am grateful that I was sent home at midnight, so I slept comfortably without dreaming. But when I awoke, my mind was on the kids and how to deal with the enormity of their new world.

Maybe a can of Fresca would help?

I am officially a space cadet what with the Sudafed, guaifenesin, and dextromethorphan on board. Luckily, I’m not bad off enough to need codeine or antibiotics. I seem to get this every Easter and have since I was a kid. Most of the time, I spent hours practicing with the choir for an Easter anthem I’d never sing, because when Easter rolled around, I’d have full on laryngitis. Tonight is the youth group lock-in at the church, and it remains to be seen how long I will last. I just don’t want to leave Susannah in the lurch in terms of not having enough leaders to break out into small groups. This bad cold couldn’t have come at a worse time, but at least I have caffeine pills and all the meds I need to treat symptoms.

Tomorrow I am supposed to go and volunteer at A Wider Circle, but I may beg off on that, but not because I don’t want to. I just don’t know if I physically can. Especially after staying up all night, I’m not sure I’ll still have enough adrenaline to keep me going. When I take cold medication, generally my “get up and go” just goes.

Everyone has had to work/volunteer when they’ve been sick. I am not alone in this problem. I will go until I can’t anymore. The lock-in would have been so much easier for me when I was working nights at Alert Logic. Finally, some people to do things with that are actually on my schedule. God, that was one of the most isolating things I have ever done. My depression has never gotten so bad, so quick. I was just running on caffeine and adrenaline all the time, because the sleep I got during the day was not deep enough.

So I can stay up all night once, but completely flipping my schedule is not a feasible option anymore. I’m not 20.

It’s hard to believe I’ll be 39 on my next birthday. I haven’t been on the same track as most people, but I hope that it’s been good for me in terms of creativity. I have to look at it that way, because if I don’t, I feel deep, deep shame. I felt like I had the whole “adulting” thing down at Alert Logic, but the reality is that the enormity of my abuse hit me all at once and I finally broke. I have hope that this break was to make a beautiful omelet out of low-grade eggs. The best chefs are not the ones who cook with the best ingredients. They’re the ones that raise peasant food to perfection…. taking the parts that no one else wants and creating something great with them.

I got a note today that a sermon I wrote when I was in the middle of the mess was fantastic, and it made my day. It was in response to someone calling me crazy, a “killing ’em with kindness” project, not to take “crazy” personally but to put positive energy toward it instead of negative. I had to own “my crazy,” but it was essential to my sanity to say that crazy wasn’t bad. Just different. People with mental health issues see the world differently, and ask for attention in the most inappropriate of ways…. but when we make the effort to get healthy and it works, our visions change.

Or at least, that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Seeing the world differently is a challenge and not a flaw. I thought it was for a long time, because there are plenty of people who say to me, “you just don’t get it.” No, I don’t, because I often don’t see what you do. That’s why I value input. I would rather people discuss their differences with me than ghost, but I can’t stop them, and I won’t try.

Chasing after people makes me feel as if I am hard to love, and in a lot of ways, I am. Most of the time, I need to take a chill pill. My favorite activity in large groups is escaping to the bathroom for a few minutes of quiet.

I also realize how strong I am now, because I can read old entries with the eyes of another person, as if my writing came from someone else’s hand. I’ve read things that I’ve written that have moved me, and I don’t get that feeling on the first pass. It is only with a long passage of time that I can see this person emerging, this person that I am proud to get to know, because she is amazing and I can see it in black and white. Reminiscence comes in waves, like movies that play in my head… words into 3D modeling at its best. Trying to find the smallest part of myself, the thing that directs me, is the whole point of being single. Learning who I am without anyone else is a gargantuan task, but I’m up to it as long as I can reflect on the world, capturing the moment with a butterfly net.

Being able to look at myself, really look at both the good and the bad, is a propeller of enormous proportions. I realize that even when other people can’t love me, I can.

And for now, that is enough.

I would have been fine had this not been my Facebook memory today. However, I just cannot even. It’s one of my favorite pictures in life, and always will be. But I carry so much sadness over it, too, because it’s just a reminder of how bad everything got and how we destroyed our marriage from the inside out. It guts me like a fish to see pictures of us happy, because in a lot of ways, we were. The cutest couple on earth, witty banter included… even after our breakup. I saw an old entry that made me laugh out loud….

Leslie: Because we’re broken up, does that mean I can’t jump on you in the morning to wake you up?

Dana (eyes barely open): Don’t be an asshole.

I miss injecting humor into the “Danabase.”

But that was my schtick… Because we were in separate bedrooms, I used to jump on Dana pretty much every morning. When I sleep well, I am a ball of energy in the mornings. Dana, simply put, is not. She reminds me of my little sister in that way. Lindsay is not a morning person, either, so waking Dana up in the morning reminded me of my childhood, jumping on Lindsay in the same way.

It was such a cool thing having separate bedrooms, because we were allowed to take up our own space in the house and come together when we wanted it. We slept better, I think, which made me excited to see Dana after spending a few hours away from her…. but who am I kidding? I spent most of our marriage excited to see her, because she is a bundle of energy pretty much every other time of the day. People even commented on it, that they’d never seen a couple so excited to see each other, and that part of our marriage is something I will always miss. I hope that whomever we choose will also have those eyes for us. I am always of two minds on getting back together, that it would be the most wonderful and terrible thing ever. Wonderful in that I will always have those eyes for Dana, excited to see her and out of my mind with joy. And at the same time, not wanting to lapse into the people that we were to each other at the end. I don’t want to get back together and then realize that we broke up for a reason, capiche?

We also spent St. Patrick’s Day in the Irish pub where we worked, and the year we gave up alcohol for Lent, gorged ourselves on Kaliber, the NA put out by Guiness. It was actually really, really fun to drink beer all night and still remember everything that happened. 😛

If there’s anything I miss more than life, it was spending time with Dana at the pub, because when we worked together as a team, we were unstoppable. Being married to your kitchen partner has its advantages, because we could relay information quickly with just a look, and in a busy pub, seconds matter. I would definitely rehire.

We had a deal. At work, she was the chef and I was the sous. At home, I was the chef and she was the sous… But that came over time, because in the beginning she didn’t trust me with her All-Clad and I was relegated to grating cheese…. a running joke in our marriage, because if it’s funny once, it’s funny a thousand times. 😛

She gave me the greatest compliment of my life during that time, that my palate was better than hers [Editor’s Note: for those who don’t know her, Dana is Cordon Bleu certified, which is why the comment was so enormous to me]… which inevitably leads me to Chef and my greatest accomplishment in the kitchen. You’re going to think this is a small thing, but it spoke volumes to me. Chef and I were alone in the kitchen at Tapalaya, and he asked me to taste something. I said, “it needs salt.” Without missing a beat, Chef added salt. *I* told the Chef something, and *he* listened to *me.* My Chef was John-Michael Sadler Kinkaid, known to this web site as JMSK. He’s now at Pass & Provisions in Houston if you want to go and check him out.

On this day, memories are flooding out of me and I don’t really have a choice in the matter.

My last name is Lanagan, after all. There will never be a time in my life where St. Patrick’s Day isn’t important to me. Not only am I part Irish by birth, I will always remember Dana and I busting out corned beef, concannon, fish and chips, etc….. The official food of St. Paddy’s Day and loaded with memories for me as I move on with my life.

On some days, I am really good with it. On others, I am really not.

Today, I cannot even.

I found out that Amazon Prime not only includes videos, but music as well with no commercials. I can find pretty much anything I want, and they have good playlists as well. Right now I’m listening to “Celloverse” by 2Cellos. Yesterday I listened to the soundtrack from “Hamilton.” Both are excellent.

I have mixed feelings about Alexander Hamilton. He accomplished so much in the US, but he was also basically a Loyalist, so there’s that. He probably wanted Washington to be King of the United States, and I wish I was joking. I have no idea what would have happened if we’d inherited the monarchy, but I do know that we can consider the Kennedys, the Bushes, and the Clintons royalty. If Hillary Clinton had won in 2008, you could be 25 years old and never had a president other than a Clinton or a Bush. Weird.

I wish that we could go back in time, where reaching across the aisle was a compliment instead of an attack. It would be better all the way around. Lyndon Johnson was famous for it. He didn’t get style points for upping the ante in the Viet Nam war, but he did for being a great legislator. Much better than Kennedy, anyway. I’m not knocking Kennedy’s legacy, just saying that it might have been different had he lived.

If both Garfield and Kennedy had lived, we would be so much further along in this racism bullshit, I assure you. By now, it might have even been a non-issue. Garfield was passionate about the rights of free blacks, and would have legislated to that effect.

The way I’m watching people hate each other scares me, but in DC, it is less of an issue than everywhere else, I think. DC is one of the few cities that truly has a black middle class. You don’t find that elsewhere in the country…. maybe Memphis.

It’s wading through the Amazon in our own country to get this problem solved. I can’t wait until it is. Racism rears its ugly head openly now, and perhaps that is the key to exorcising the demon. Polite racism is hard to detect and destroy.

Experiencing polite homophobia is the same raw deal. There are still judges that won’t accept gay people can raise children, and in some ways, I think they’re better parents because there are so few unwanted children in the gay community. I learned how much hard work it was to get pregnant, and I was not impressed.

The days of wishing Dana was my baby daddy are over, but remember…. BABY DADDY IS NOT A LEGAL RELATIONSHIP.

If it’s funny once, it’s funny a thousand times. That’s just how I roll.

Melissa, the foreign service officer I met on Tinder, is giving me some great lines. She accidentally asked for “balls of meat” instead of “meatballs” at a restaurant in Spanish. My only reply to that was “smooooooth.” I asked her what she said instead of “albondigas,” but she only replied “literally, balls of meat.” I can’t wait to see if she actually said “cojones de carne.” If she did, I will fall off my desk chair laughing.

I also told her my most embarrassing moment. I was preaching and when I finished, I fell off the stairs to the pulpit. It was fucking classic, and hard not to utter profanity as I was goin’ down. Angela the Red was with me, and I don’t think either of us will ever forget it.

It’s the kind of thing that would only happen to me. I was dressed in this ridiculous “Joyce Meyer” type outfit- red suit with a black and white shirt that made me look like a peppermint carnation in heels. Now when I preach, I wear comfortable clothes so I can keep my balance.

I have a palsy in my brain that affects my movement to a large degree, so if people don’t understand why I wear comfortable clothes to church, they’re just ignorant, not judgmental.

Think of me as Flynn White. Smart as a whip, but not so much with the moving around.

Just wading through the Amazon of my own mind, I guess.

Emotionally, I am sort of embarrassed about it, because people know there’s something off about me, but they don’t know what it is. Add the eye drift to it and I just look weird. Cute, but weird.

My tagline my entire life, I suppose. Right now it’s even worse because my hair won’t lay right and my CIA baseball cap is covered in fuzz and I couldn’t find my Rice baseball cap, so here I am at my desk with hair pointing everywhere, even after a hot shower and “Moco de Gorilla.”

I wonder what Melissa would think of that?

I’m gonna go check. Love you miss you mean it.

Taking a break from a day of SQL queries and deploying cubes and exporting data and all the stuff I need to do before 6:00p. Mondays are my busiest days, like they are for a lot of people. Data comes in at an alarming rate, and I am on the horn to catch it. I also spend a lot of my day working for a famous non-profit. I can’t tell you what it is, but I will leave a bread crumb… it stops stars on your arm.

Listening to a playlist I created on Spotify called “Kiss My Brass,” and includes stuff from John Williams, Wynton Marsalis, etc. It also includes the trumpet solo I played to get into HSPVA, “Petite Piece Concertante” by Guillame Ballay. It feels good to go back to that time in my life musically. I got to do a lot of things that other kids my age didn’t, like play a side-by-side concert with the Houston Symphony, conducted by Stephen Stein. I don’t remember a lot of what we played, but I do remember “Rodeo” by Aaron Copland. It was magnificent. I think I am a better singer than a trumpet player at this point, but I did enjoy it while it lasted.

“Fanfare for the Common Man” is now blasting in my ears, and it’s a mood lifter, for SURE. I remember playing that as well. Trumpet players are always trying to out-do each other, and I was no exception. I’d break out little snippets of “Grand Russian Fantasia” and “Cantaloop” while I was “warming up.” The only thing I didn’t get to do when I was that age was duet with Diane. We would have rocked it with “Summertime” or “Let the Bright Seraphim.” But that time in my life has passed, and I am sort of grateful. If I’d kept up with it, I’d be happy because I get frustrated that I’m not as good as I was when I was a kid. Getting into PVA required hours and hours of practice, and if there is anything I hate, it’s woodshedding… although I wonder if I would have been better at it had I been on ADD medication back in the day. I didn’t have enough focus to be able to play one measure eighty times, and that is the difference between good and great.

I do have that focus with singing, though, because I am sometimes amazed and sometimes disgusted at the sounds that come out of me… although as a trumpet player, I have learned that if you’re going to hit a bad note, at least splat it all over the back wall. If you’re going to make a mistake, at least do it right. 😛

Now Charles Ives’ Variation on America” is playing… a perfect analogy for our political climate. Donald Trump is all the minor seconds. He is just a political facepalm if ever I’ve seen one. He seems to be courting the “stupid fucknut” vote. In short, not a fan. In the words of Jed Bartlett, “these people don’t vote, do they?” Jesus, I hope not. In case you missed it, that was an actual prayer.

If there’s any hope in this, it’s that the other Republicans hate him enough to have a brokered convention.

I’m not satisfied with either Democratic candidate, but I’m satisfied enough not to vote Republican.

There’s this ad on now- T-mobile- that says you’re covered from NoVA to Adams Morgan, and I’m thinking that’s not really a brag because it’s not that far. Richmond to Baltimore would have been more effective…. but no one asked me.

This weekend was pretty incredible. I got to take my friend Scott to my little town, and we had lunch in Takoma Park. Then on Sunday, I went to Takoma Park Presbyterian for worship because that’s where some of my youth group attend. I’m keeping my membership at CCC, because ultimately, that’s where I belong. But if you want to go to Bridgeport UCC on the east coast, go there. The architecture is even so Portland- it’s in the round like Portland MCC.

At youth group, Mark, senior pastor of TPPC, Mark asked me if I’d be interested in pinch hitting for him, and I was grateful. I’ve been looking for a place to preach “in the flesh,” and I didn’t know if I’d get one on the East Coast or not. I did, and don’t think I’m not over the moon about it. I’m just not jumping up and down because I have a really bad cold and the Sudafed is making me a little out of it. I also led the parents through an exercise called the “Examen” Lenten practice, and it gave me some points in the moderation category. I realized that the purpose of this blog is that I can talk about my feelings because I’ve already written about them. I put my darkness out there as much as everyone else, because that’s what Lent represents- making amends for all the ways you’ve messed up.

When one of the parents said, “I’m really sorry about your divorce,” it meant more to me than diamonds. There’s nothing I can do to rectify my past, but there is always room to walk humbly and hope grace prevails.

Generally, it does.

Amen.

Yesterday I said that I was Frank Underwood to a T… and that was after I’d watched him murder someone. I knew what I meant, but I also wanted more clarity on it. So I was just sitting there waiting for Visual Studio to install, staring into space, when I realized that my blog was my own way of breaking the fourth wall, talking to the audience about the play that is my life. I was reminded of it when Aaron told me that watching the Fuller House pilot was worth it just for the fourth wall joke….. and it was.

The problem with opening your own fourth wall is that others can get to the same conclusions you can much faster. They can, in a sense, “outfox” you… said with a smile because years and years and YEARS ago, I was drinking with Dana and Amy at my house. I kept whispering a little too loudly to Dana (about Amy) “don’t let her outfox me.” It’s one of those stories I don’t mind telling on myself, but would get mortified when Dana would tell it about me. Why? Because if there’s anything I hate losing control of, it’s the story. For instance, I will absolutely embarrass the crap out of myself, but I will not watch you do it. Mostly because I can embarrass myself better than you can and emotionally, it’s a lot easier than watching someone else tell one of my stories. They have a particular cadence in my spoken voice. One of these days, I’ll have to post an .MP3 or something of my greatest hits.

But you probably knew I was heading down a road toward disaster long before I did.

It was just sudo rm -rf / all over the place. For the uninitiated, that’s the command that will raise you to administrator privileges on linux box, and delete every file on it. Your OS, your data, everything.

I threw a match on gasoline to my entire life, not for any reason except that’s what I thought was going to happen anyway. It was better to push people away than it was to watch them walk on their own. For instance, if you look through my blog archives, you’ll see several entries about missing DC and wanting to move back, or that I’d asked Dana to put it back on the 3-5 year plan, or whatever. Then, when I wanted to move back without Dana, it was seen as completely bizarre. What was bizarre was moving to Houston in the first place. I should have known it would end badly. I had just thrown up a metric fuck tonne of emotions about abuse that had taken place there, and then thought it was a good idea to be reminded of them every day? At the time, it seemed very reasonable. Then, as Dana got more and more depressed, not reaching out to other teaching programs, living there made even less sense. There’s a certain emotional mood I only have when I’m in Houston that I don’t have anywhere else, and it’s a dark, dark place. I thought that in a sense, having Dana and Chef there would make it seem different.

It didn’t.

If I hadn’t moved back to DC, I would have moved somewhere. I briefly thought about Austin, but realized I didn’t know anyone there except James and I didn’t know the land at all. As a Virgo, an earth sign, I am very attached to setting. Therefore, I didn’t want to take off to a place I didn’t know at all. When Argo asked Dana if she needed a restraining order, I was angry and despondent because I thought that the city was big enough for both of us without crossing paths… mostly because it is.

I didn’t even want to meet her on the ground unless it was mutually agreed upon. It would have been humiliating just to run into each other. A surprise and not a good one for either of us. I am thankful that I have only seen a few pictures, so I doubt I would recognize her unless she specifically walked up to me and said, “hi, I’m Argo.” It’s not going to happen. It’s just not. The only reason that she’d probably recognize me more easily is that I sent her pics all the time. Like when I got a new haircut or something, I’d shoot her an e-mail to see if she thought it was cute. She’s so direct I knew I’d never get a bullshit answer… which in the South would be, “my… that is a haircut.”

Besides, how do you take an online rabbit hole and turn it into ladies who lunch? I couldn’t picture that happening, either. Mostly what I pictured was staring at each other to make sure the other was real.

When my family visits, I stare at them the same way. When I went to lunch with Lindsay, there were moments when I felt like I couldn’t stop staring, because it had been so long since I’d seen her in the flesh… although when I was living in Houston, we rarely got a chance to see each other because her job staffing the Mayor was so consuming that there was little chance we’d run into each other, even on purpose. She’s been to the DC area twice since I’ve been here, though, which is almost as much as I saw her there.

I also had this vision of late in life, that Dana, Lindsay, and Matt would all be here, anyway. That the fight would be over and we could all just be friends again… it’s no secret that part of the reason I moved here is that Dana’s parents live in the same town as the Waffle House… that our paths are perpendicular, but not parallel. That we would have the choice to run into each other again, if we both wanted it.

I’m not sure that I do, but there will never be a time in my life where if presented with the opportunity, I wouldn’t go. That’s just what’s up. If Dana hadn’t wanted to keep the door closed, I would have loved to see her at her birthday and Christmas.

And then I remember how painful it was to go out with Meag when she came back to Houston for visits and all of the sudden, it doesn’t seem like so much fun anymore.

I think it’s best that I’m on my own, and I will think that for a long time to come. I have nothing to offer a potential girlfriend because I need to spend my energy learning to adult. I have been an emotionally arrested teenager long enough. I am running toward my own dreams for myself, therapy and grad school and thinking bigger than I currently am. In the smallness of grieving for the life I lost, I cannot think ahead. But the thinking bigger is taking shape. I can only hope that by breaking the fourth wall, I am helping others to feel not so alone.

And if the responses are any indication, I am.

Amen.

I just introduced our IT guy to the magic of Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie’s Wes Borg doing Welcome to the Internet Helpdesk live. The first time I watched it, I felt like I was dying of asphyxiation, I was laughing so hard. Years later, it’s still funny, but when you’re watching it in a group of IT people for the first time, it’s just the most brilliant video you’ve ever seen in your life. It describes our jobs perfectly, and every reaction is spot on. By the time we got to 12:00 flasher, we were all doubled over together.

I also sent him a link to Bastard Operator from Hell. The first time I read it, I devoured every entry. It took about seven hours, because I was reading it in between calls on the night shift. It was hard not to laugh so loud everyone in the building could hear me. My coworker was reading it with me, and at about the same speed, but not quite… so I’d laugh and second later, when he got to the same part, he’d laugh. It went like that all night. Stifled laughter because it was just guffaw-worthy… the kind of laughter that you cannot help… the kind where tears and snot are running down your face as you try to hold it in…. like the time I discovered that there was a composer in the hymnal named P.P. Bliss in the middle of the sermon. I was maybe 11, so of course I just lost my snot (here are some of my other church stories). His real name is Philip, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why the Methodist hymnal lists him that way. Did they not realize what they were doing to pastors across the country as kids read the hymnal when they got bored? Not that I ever got bored in church, mind you……………

I’m on my lunch break, and it’s already been a day and a half. I stayed up way too late last night, and I am a ball of energy that I am sure will wear off shortly because I am jazzed on a 200mg caffeine tab and a cup of tea. Then, when I get to work, the assignment I have requires Micro$oft Visual Studio and it just won’t run on my computer. I have been fighting with it all morning. I finally gave up and switched to a burner laptop with Windows 7. I’m building and deploying cubes, which will mean nothing to most of you, but for the people who do, please understand that I am at the point where my eyebrows are going over my forehead trying to get this fucking thing to work. I really needed it to be lunchtime so I could decompress and get back to work. I might run to 7-Eleven just to get out of the office, but I doubt it. I’m not sure I have enough energy to get up from my desk. Have I mentioned it seems like it’s been a day and a half already?

I’m listening to my Spotify playlist called “High School,” and Amanda Marshall is singing Birmingham in my ears… turned up very loud to keep me awake. I was chair dancing to keep my energy up, but it’s not working anymore. Maybe the next song will be better. It just turned to an ad. If you were in high school in the ’90s, I’m pretty sure you’ll love this playlist. If you have more suggestions, add them in the comments. OMG. Now it’s Roxette. That ages me. It’s “Must Have Been Love.” Low energy. Skip. OMG. Now it’s The Tony Rich Project… Nobody Knows… Low energy but many, many memories attached to it. I’ve been listening to it since Meag and I broke up almost 20 years ago. I remember walking into a Walgreen’s with this playing overhead and just losing my shit in the middle of the store. It’s also on the Argo playlist, because there were a few times I died inside thinking about what a mess I’d made of our relationship. I will never get over it. Never. It’s just this huge emotional scar that will take years to scab over. The hardest part is absolutely knowing I dug that hole, and it feels like I will never get out… at times. At others, I allow myself to smile and remember that it happened at all. Actually, I take it back. The hardest part is that she’s not my first and last call anymore. Not literally calling. I hate the phone. But a few words over e-mail in the early morning and late at night were absolutely life-sustaining. When I lived in Portland, the three hour time difference worked well, because 4:00 AM in PDX is 7:00 AM in DC. At 4:00, I was in my stillest, smallest space… just writing into the night and receiving intelligent, well-thought out responses that made me laugh and cry (in a good way, sometimes laughing until I cried). She had the capability to remind me who I was, building me up from the scorched earth.

Now it’s “Back for Good” by Take That!

Ironic.

Although that song belongs entirely to Meag…. it was “our song,” because it was on the mix tape she made me for my car. Yes, children. Mix. Tape. Google it.

A lot of the songs she put on that tape are in the high school playlist, because of course they are. I remember the days of buying calling cards so that we could talk a bit cheaper, because my phone bills went into the astronomical when Meag moved to New Brunswick.

She’s ghosted, and it hurts, but I’m good with it most days. Others, I really wish I had that friend that’s known me for 20 years. Knows absolutely everything about my ups and downs, and one day I will take a road trip back to Ottawa, whether we’re in touch or not. It’s one of my places. I still wear my Carleton Ravens sweatshirt often, especially in the office, where in the winter it’s like a meat freezer. We could age steaks in the bathroom.

But more about Meag ghosting. I choose to believe that nothing is wrong, she just wanted to close that chapter of her life. So does Dana. She actually used those words, “closing the chapter,” and it resonated with me. I respect it. I hate it, but I respect it. I am making new friends and hoping Scott moves here soon. He’s thinking about running for Congress later in his life, and God willing, I’ll still be here. If I could, I’d vote for him. Yes. I love him that much. I would sacrifice a straight D. I would vote for him just to get him here. 🙂

We’re going to spend the day together tomorrow, and I’m really looking forward to it. Hopefully I’ll have some pictures to post of us palling around. Did you hear that, Scott? I want *evidence.* When he arrived, we went to Off the Record. We didn’t see anyone we recognized, but it’s a life goal to go there with Kathy, my reporter friend that’s known me since I lived here the last time. Then, she worked for Congressional Quarterly, and Politico offered her an obscene amount of money. She’s my Zoey without the sleeping with people for stories.

Speaking of which, one of the reasons I’m trying to achieve wholeness is that in my nothing space, I am Frank Underwood to a T. I need to cut that shit out. Integration of my personality is key, because my nothing space has no limits. I think i have mentioned that before. I need to make my darkness of service, rather than being a total political monster. I can work people, and I know it now. Knowing is half the battle. Hail Cobra.

And on that note, my lunch break is over.

 

 

 

 

 

I thought I’d take a break to eat my honey oat bagel and write to you, because even ten or fifteen minutes is enough to post an update. I got my badly-needed haircut after driving to the salon, and I will never do that again. The route was through Rock Creek Park in the dark, and I don’t think there have been many more moments I’ve been more afraid. Just hairpin turns and no lighting except Eggsy’s.

I have officially named my car Eggsy, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it days ago. Eggsy is my favorite spy… from Kingsmen: The Secret Service. If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s hilarious and I think you will love it. It’s also infinitely quotable, so there’s that.

Martini. Gin, not vodka, obviously. Stirred for 10 seconds while glancing at an unopened bottle of vermouth. Thank you.

It’s 007 meets farce in the best kind of way.

So is my car.

Wouldn’t it be cool if all the Subways in DC were called “Metro?” I just thought of that, because I am having breakfast at Subway this morning, and I highly recommend it. I got a ham, egg, and cheese flatbread with guac and salsa. It was delicous, and I don’t think I’ll be hungry again until Thursday. I don’t have to leave for work for another hour, so I hooked my iPad to my iPhone for Internet access and I’m nursing a Coke Zero and writing to you. By the time this post is finished, I may or may not have nursed several. Oh, wow. Surprised. I’m using the HTML editor in the WordPress app and they’ve finally started turning tags blue so you can see them pick them out easier. It’s the little things, people.

Yesterday was very frustrating at work. I had a lot of problems with my computer and I spent more time troubleshooting them than I wanted, and I had shit to do. Normally, I’m really good at that stuff, but I know nothing about fixing software when developer tools error out. It was a lesson in how to Google. What I learned is that it was a Windows 10 issue with no fix and by then my eyebrows were about to go over my forehead, anyway, so I just wanted to throw my computer against the wall.

I did not.

When I got home, I crawled into bed and watched House of Cards. I’m late to the party- I’m only on Season 1, episode 8 or something like that. So far, I like it, but I’m not as gaga over it as I was Covert Affairs. Kevin Spacey’s southern accent drives me up the wall. I like his regular voice just fine. I do like Zoey Barnes, though, blogger that she is. #gozoey

I’m also intrigued by the character that is obviously a Katherine Graham ripoff. I don’t know all their names yet- I’ll get it eventually.

I’m trying to get caught up on Scandal, too, because I stopped watching it when Dana and I broke up, because it was kind of our thing, and I didn’t want to watch it without her, even though I knew she wasn’t coming back. The last episode I saw is the one where Jake shot James, I think. I heard a spoiler that Jake died, and I cried like it was a real person, because even if you’re a casual reader of this web site, you know I’ve had my own Jake and Fitz for years now.

I’m divorced because they kept switching roles, and of that, I am sure.

I chose Leslie.

Speaking of choosing Leslie, it’s time to go get cleaned up. My hair is so all over the place that I kind of look like Harry Potter. My eyebrows are bushy and have silver in them, which I don’t hate, but they look better all cleaned up. My eyebrows tend to take over my whole face. It’s special.

I also want to get my nails done, but I regret it every time because it slows down my typing, so I think I’ll skip that in favor of keeping them very, very short. I like it when my nails are smooth and professional, but it means more to me that my fingers can fly over the keys.

And speaking of flying over the keys, I’m going to leave early for work and see if I can get some of the work knocked out that I couldn’t accomplish yesterday because of stupid Windows 10. I am starting to feel like an idiot in the computer support department, because I’ve been using linux so long that I’ve forgotten more Windows/DOS than I really needed to…. It’s fine. It really is. But I feel the same way about Windows that I feel about playing my horn. It bothers me that I’m not as good as I used to be. It made me feel good that the IT guy couldn’t figure it out, either.

Stupid Windows 10. At least I’m fed and somewhat awake. Coke Zero fixes everything.

I think I may have been caught on a red light camera Friday night, because Waze was directing me and I didn’t see where I was going for a half second, and that’s all it takes. The ticket won’t be expensive, at least from what I’ve heard from Uber drivers, but it says a lot about my driving that I’ve had a car less than a week and already I’ve made a stupid mistake. Hopefully my insurance won’t go up by too much, but it’s just all the more reason why I didn’t want a car in the first place. I mean, I do, but I don’t. My driving record has been clean for a long time, and I wanted to keep it that way. Of course, not driving for almost a year really, really helped. At least it wasn’t a speeding ticket. I don’t speed at all, and there are thousands of drivers mad at me, I’m sure, because I am content to toodle along in the right lane. My car has a huge blind spot on the left-hand side, so I try not to move much. I’m going to go to Auto Zone after work and get a secondary mirror. I have to make this car last as long as possible, and wrecking it for damn sure won’t help.

I also need to get a few tools to change my sparkplugs, which I forgot I needed… or rather, on the Saturn it was much easier. However, I’ve watched five YouTube videos on the subject, and it’s not THAT much harder. The plugs are just a little harder to get to… if only Volfe was here. It’d be done already, because he carries the tools in the back of his truck. 🙂

I also got all the stuff I needed to detail her, including tire black and a new stick shift knob that lights up blue neon. The car is silver and the interior is blue and black, so it looks divine… literally. Ethereal in the dark. So at least if I did get caught on a red light camera, the picture will look good. It’s all about presentation.

It’s nice to have a little bit of money to spend on fixing up my car, because she doesn’t need much work, but the health of the engine is paramount. The spark plugs need to be changed every 30,000 miles, so buying the tools to do it is a no-brainer. I also want to get some Rubbermaid tubs to keep the back orderly. I have enough cleaning stuff to necessitate the tub, and my room is small enough that keeping my car gear in the cargo area sounds better than trying to find a place for it upstairs. I also have grape soda back there, because I like having cold soda first thing in the morning. However, if it gets too cold, I’m going to be ecstatic that I put it in a bin. Nothin’ says lovin’ like grape soda sprayed all over your car.

I told Lindsay that she’d given me something to take care of, and it felt good because I don’t have babies or pets. It’s nice to have a hobby. 😛

The only thing is that I don’t know Maryland and DC at all. Everything I needed was in Alexandria, so when I lived here before, I didn’t have to go into the city unless I wanted to, and I know NoVA like the back of my hand. Driving in Maryland/DC is unfamiliar and therefore, scary. I am not to be trusted without some sort of GPS, even if I was paying attention to it too hard. Don’t feel sorry for me- I brought this upon myself. I just feel like a schmuck.

Which is why it made me feel like a rock star that I matched with someone on Tinder (looking for friends) that’s a foreign service officer. I told her that I’m a writer and I would kill to hear some of her stories. She’s fluent in like, five languages, which means there’s no limit to the amount of people she can have a conversation with where I’ll have no idea what she’s saying. However, I want to learn Arabic for my novel, so maybe she can teach me what I need to know, or at the very least, translate what I need the characters to say. Plus, some of her stories might make good novel scenarios if she doesn’t mind me lifting them.

In other news, I need a haircut.

Actually, I own a Toyota, but the title was just too funny to pas up. I’m waiting at Jiffy Lube to buy her a drink… and a good one. High mileage oil and everything. I figure that a Toyota will last until Jesus comes, and the guy working on my car agreed with me. You’d basically have to take a tire iron to a Toyota engine to get it to stop working. My sister is not as much of a gearhead as me, so I’m going to get a list of everything that needs to be done at this mileage so I can mete it out by paycheck. I know I’m going from here to O’Reilly’s to get her a new set of sparkplugs, and I topped her off with premium last night to clean the fuel injectors- as much as I could, anyway.

This morning I woke up at 4:00 and shined my boots, then went out and tried to RainX my car, but I got it all prepped and the RainX instructions said you can’t apply it when it’s under 40 degrees… and it was. It looks like we’re going to get some more precip, but it’s not cold enough anymore for snow. It’s just going to be cold rain, so when Scott flies in this afternoon, he’ll have the same weather he left.

I can’t decide whether to take my car or the Metro, because I don’t know how much luggage he has. We shall see what we shall see.

I met Scott at my friend Christy’s house, because he’s in a band with her fiancee. He’s a Republican, and I love him, anyway. 😛 He’s grateful to have someone to meet him at the airport, because DCA can be a scary place if you don’t know your way around. Plus, the Metro is intimidating if you don’t get a good conductor that will actually call out the stops before you get there. The best part is that his hotel is only .2 miles from the Metro, so even with luggage, it’s not a long haul.

My road trip last night was just what I needed to shake off the grief I felt the day before yesterday. I’m grateful to my sister for my car, because I never would have tried to pay for an Uber out there. They would have been the most expensive waffles on record. The food was good, but the service was *terrible.* I overtipped anyway, because I can’t think of anyone more laden than a waitress in a busy Waffle House.

I was surprised and pleased to learn that my mechanic is a trans man- it was obvious, at least to me. He is so hot. I wish I could take a picture. I would never transition, but at the same time, there are those moments where I wish I could take my boobs off so my clothes hang right. I wonder if there’s a way to make them detachable. Duct tape fixes everything. 😛

At the same time, there are other moments when I am such a girly girl. I love makeup and hair and all that shit. Sometimes I also wish that I had long hair, because with short hair, there is no throwing it back into a ponytail or a bun and going. I have to either shower or rinse my head every day. I try not to shower every single day because it really dries out my skin in this weather. But check this out! I found my favorite gel in the entire world, Gorilla Snot, at Giant. I thought only Mexican grocery stores carried it, because the last time I bought it, it was in one of those stores in Houston where *NO ONE* spoke English. There was a lot of “mi espanol es muy, mal… pero cuanto cuesto?” (My Spanish is very, very bad… but how much is this?). I also got better with my numbers because the cashiers couldn’t count back the change in English. Dana and I kept going there…. a lot, really, because it was on our way to Alert Logic and it was the best panaderia in town. I’m too lazy to look it up, but eventually I’ll give you a link. It’s basically Chimney Rock and Westpark.

The mechanic came in a little while ago while I was writing to Susan and he said, “you’re going to type in all your information. I saw you typing 80 words a minute on that Bluetooth.” I laughed and said, “sure.”

And on that note, I have to go. Love you miss you mean it.

Tonight when I got off work, I realized that I missed “home.” The Waffle House is in Dumfries, VA, so I saw my old haunts the entire way here…. even my old office building when I got lost trying to find my way off the toll road (I don’t have a tag yet). So I filled up with Shell just for spite. Actually, that was a joke. My time at ExxonMobil was pretty awesome, actually. I felt like I’d sold my soul to the devil, but at the same time I’ve never had kinder coworkers, ones that keep in touch with me to this day… though neither one of them live here anymore.

When I passed Little River Turnpike, though, that feeling of home was complete. Kathleen and I took that route every morning to get around the traffic on 95, so familiar to me that I could probably drive it blindfolded… though I won’t. I really love NoVA, but Maryland was the safer choice all around. Even Kathleen and I wanted to move there back in the day, because it seemed like they were much more tolerant of the whole gay thing… and they were.

Richmond controls Virginia’s laws, and in St. Bob’s country, you’re not going to see a lot of progress unless absolutely forced to participate. The DC area is tolerant of all, even Republicans, and when you live there, you kind of like to forget Richmond exists… or at least, I did. ExxonMobil has this funds match thingme where if you give money to a non-profit, they’ll match you dollar for dollar. So one of my coworkers gave that money to the Whitman-Walker clinic…. literally AND tongue in cheek because nothing was funnier to us than ExxonMobil donating money to them.

Then there was the day that a drunk Native American shot through the Alyeska pipeline and I was sitting in a meeting where this slideshow was being played in front of me. All the lights were off, the pictures projected practically lifesize on the wall, and the entire room turned when I said, a little too loudly, “UNCLE MATT!” Luckily, they laughed. My uncle Matt is a safety inspector for the Alyeska, and he travels from Fairbanks to Valdez, thus ending up in our picture show.

All these memories are just flooding out, and I feel *fantastic* (say that like Nine). I am back in my element. When I passed Woodbridge, I remembered my fairy godson, Joey, being born and walking out of the hospital crying because that Sunday was Father’s Day and my friend Rob (Joey’s father) was standing right next to me and Kathleen as we were walking out. I spent so much time with Joey, and he wouldn’t remember it, but I sure do. I remember learning the particular dance that would calm him down, and the sweet smell at the top of his head.

The first night I met Dana, she told me that her parents live in Dumfries, and I told her that the only thing I knew about Dumfries was that it was the closest Waffle House to DC. I am sure that there is a Waffle House in Maryland, but I didn’t look. I wanted a trip down memory lane, or memory freeway, as it were.

I am so happy that I moved back, and at the same time, I don’t regret anything. But I feel that something was waiting for me here, and now I have to find out what it is. For now, though, I’m going to eat cheese n’ eggs, raisin toast with apple butter, grits, and hash browns covered smothered and topped.

Amen.