Now that gay marriage is becoming a reality for the United States, the last few that don’t have it and don’t want it are fighting even harder. Gay bashing has gone up, and agreeing to disagree has gone down. It’s too important now. I don’t think I would have such ill will had Texas not already started drafting legislation to circumvent the Supreme Court on its federal decision. As of right now, the government of the state of Texas is on my shit list, and I want to take them down for all they’re worth….. which is not much.

The problem is knowing how to do it. There are plenty of Texans that accept and even further the idea of marriage equality, but they are being drowned out by a congress awash in “Christianity.” It offends me that what they’re doing they’re calling “traditional.” That is a line of horse shit. HORSE SHIT. It’s not that it’s tradition. It’s that Republican candidates can’t get elected without pandering to a conservative religious base, and their churches all say that homosexuality is wrong, so the politicians who could probably give two shits about gay marriage all of the sudden start this tirade against it because it doesn’t cost anything to give people rights, but it does cost them their seats. The GLBT community is the last politically acceptable group to hate. For instance, yesterday on Facebook I had a guy tell me that somewhere there are people trying to get it legislated so that monkeys have rights and that I could just marry my monkey. First of all, he’s already married, thankyouverymuch. Second of all, WHAT? He also said something about how I should be able to marry my dog because aren’t people close to their dogs? I said that you can’t go with the dog argument because a dog cannot give consent- it’s like raping a child- and second of all, a dog cannot hold a pen to sign a contract.

He also said that my dildo was probably bigger than him, but that didn’t take much. I think he was trying to be funny, but guys say this shit to me all the time like it’s nothing and I am so tired. It gets so old that I internalize it and don’t even remember it’s not normal anymore and spout that shit to other people because I’m as fucked up as they are. Common decency has to make a comeback, which has to start with me and yet, I rebel against it at the same time. I grew up in such a fish bowl that being shocking is just my MO. It’s my teenage rebellion way into my 30s because it never really started when it was supposed to and in a lot of ways, my development was arrested at 14 and I am just now learning the pros and cons of good manners and whipping bullies into submission. I’m never going to be one of those people who is as direct and clean as a soldier. I don’t have that code of honor. I don’t have any code of honor, and I am trying to make a True North out of a compass that’s been rubbed by a magnet too many times. I’m not ldooking for a fight, but if you start it, I’ll by God finish it, mostly because I have been so meek and mild my whole life that I’ve never taken up much room. I have the ability to be so quiet and small you wouldn’t even know I was in a room if you weren’t looking for me. I have my moments where I am talkative, but they come less and less often as I age, and the personality change I underwent as a teenager was drastic. I smiled less and less. I came out of my shell only rarely, especially after the kids in my 10th grade English class decided that they were going to call themselves a family and made me the dog. They asked me to bark routinely until I grabbed one of the girls by the lapels and pushed her up against the stairs and threatened to push her over if she didn’t stop that shit. I will never forget the look in her eyes. For a moment, the bully shrank and she was scared of me. She should have been. I would have ensured that she cracked her head on the linoleum, because she had tortured me every day of high school until that moment.

I feel the same way about gay rights. I have prayed for change. I have been polite. I have understood how the Christian right has managed to hoodwink people into believing that homos are evil because they threaten the Christian way of life, even though plenty of gay people have faith.

And now, I’m done. The president of Gambia wants to slit all gay people’s throats? I hope someone slits his, first. No good can come of a president who wants to execute people, because there’s precious little anyone can do to stop him. I feel the same way about leaving Texas. I was polite for as long as I could be and then finally just decided to get the hell out. Argo and I were talking about Texas when we first met and I said that I didn’t do well there because I just walked around with this big chip on my shoulder all the time because people say and do things both without thinking and with extreme prejudice that make it where my mind doesn’t leave my own plight and how sorry I feel for myself that I have to put up with this shit all day long, every day of every year. I have actually explained how I felt and heard, “tough shit, dipshit.” Not once, not twice, but many, many times since I came out in 1990. I wanted to be one of those Martin Luther King, Jr. type characters when I was very young. Wanted to lead Texas into equality. Now, 25 years later, I have decided to stop spending energy on it that could be used for actual change instead of always feeling like I am knee deep in dark molasses.

The change has to begin with me, though. I have to learn that the vocabulary of a teenage line cook is not always going to do me favors. I have to learn to get what I want without resorting to being a hothead jackass with a God complex, because it doesn’t take much and I will try and own your ass, because 25 years is a long time to be mad about something and not have it boil over into the rest of my life. I don’t need that kind of anger in every situation, and I am trying like hell to get it to back down. I breathe. I drink tea. I take long baths and sit in the sunshine. I exercise regularly. I eat vegan food most days, and when I don’t, I feel the repercussions because I’m not getting the same nutrients and I don’t feel as well. I am trying to make it so that every day feels some modicum of sameness, so that my schedule doesn’t feel out of control. All of these things are working to manage my anger and then some conservative asshole picks a fight with me and I am back in that small place, struggling to stand up to a bully because I don’t have much practice at it. I cannot just make my point. I will send a drone with a voice signature because you made the egregious mistake of using “female” as an insult.

No, he wasn’t worth it. He was just some asshole looking to fight just for fighting’s sake. I could have taken the high road, but I didn’t. I told him I would wipe the floor with him, and I did. He ended up conceding defeat with a picture of a flame that looked like a hand with the middle finger up.

Maybe he had to go marry his monkey.

I got to talk to Dana last night for the first time in over a week. That hasn’t happened in 12 years, us going 8 days without talking. I needed space and I took it, because she didn’t sound like the Dana I know the last time I talked to her, and I needed to sit in that fact. I needed to sit with the fact that OF COURSE she’s not going to sound the same. We’re not the same kind of people to each other. I just needed her best friend vibe to come through the phone, and it did. We’d been chatting online and I realized what bullshit that was and I called her (LOOK AT ME! I CALLED SOMEONE!). It was then that I realized I would never chat with her online ever again, because it was setting us up for an Argo-like failure in communication to do so. Dana is not a writer. Dana is a talker. I’m never going to get “the real Dana” if we’re writing. So, I think that chat is best used to make appointments to talk and FaceTime and Hangout and Skype. I originally chatted her up to tell her that Pri-Diddy wants to see her and if she has time, would she like to meet with the three of us (Pri-Diddy, her wife Elena- they’re getting married on Saturday, and me)? She said……………. wait for it………….. yes! Not sure about timing because even though we’re both in the area, her parents live over an hour from me by car. We’ll just have to see. But what I know is that Dana’s WANT to see me is more important than the making of the plans.

Oh my Jesus my day got better in a hurry. My Dana. The one for whom my heart beats in a best friend way even if we never reconnect romantically. She makes me laugh like no one in the world, and nowhere was that more apparent than on my front porch last night. She told me what was going on at her work, how “our cats” are doing, and how her friends are. It was just like when we were separated by miles before, when I lived in Houston and she was still in PDX…. except it was better, because she did not get distracted by the TV and start narrating the plot as she was watching. 😛 Seriously, I know the plot to every M*A*S*H episode ever broadcast just from being on the phone with Dana. Her reply to that, and I can predict this one, would be “oh…. come on… you’re exaggerating. Two thirds.”

Everyone in the house thinks that I’m batshit crazy that I want to talk to my ex. They’re straight. They don’t understand that lesbians only have two kinds of breakups…… thermonuclear war and best friends. I hope you guys understand it better than they do, especially my readers who have been with us from the beginning and saw the way we cared for each other before we fell in love. So much that my dad thought the entire reason I was moving back to Portland was for her. It wasn’t, but it quickly became that once I got there because we realized what idiots we’d been for not trusting our friends’ instincts the first time around. Yes, it’s true. Everyone talked about us and we swore up and down that nothing could ever happen between us because we were both too high-maintenance. Hey, that’s a good line. Maybe we should go back to it, D3 (Darling Dangerous Dana).

Now I have to start thinking about what I’m going to get her for her birthday. I am good at this game. I get creative. For her 30th birthday, I went to the Dollar Tree and got her 30 presents. Now she’s going to be 40, which is too young for denture cream and too old for…. wait a minute. Dana’s not too old for anything. Maybe I’ll get her some bath crayons and a rubber ducky. Her shower is white. She could paint that bitch up. 🙂

Technically, I could say that I’ve already gotten her a birthday present because I moved into a house that was already furnished after I’d already bought a TARDIS shower curtain for myself and realized I didn’t have to take it with me. I’m not going to do that to her, though. The “I already got you a present” line is unacceptable. Maybe I will get her a Metro card, tongue in cheek. I am really trying to sell her on DC, because she is so damn happy in Houston that it’s completely irritating to me. We are SO FAR AWAY! Plus, I still remember the days of “I could never live in Houston. It’s TOO HOT.” She visited me in July and it was all downhill from there.

I did, however, tell her that since she makes so damn much money (overtime, bitches. Look into it.) she needed to at least come here more often. Flights on Southwest are so cheap from Hobby to either DCA or IAD that we could meet for lunch for less than $200 if she plans it right. And it’s not like I’ll never go back to Houston, but we would honestly have more fun here because all she’d have to pay for is the flight. All the museums and the Zoo and everything is free. Plus, unsurprisingly, Dana has done a lot in DC, but not THAT much. She didn’t really grow up in the city. She grew up in a town that’s like, 40 minutes away, like growing up in Rosenburg and calling it Houston or growing up in Newberg and calling it Portland. Her hometown is called Dumfries, and I remember telling Dana the first time I met her all those years ago that Dumfries was one of my favorite places in Virginia because it’s the closest Waffle House to Alexandria.

I remember clearly Kathleen and I driving all the way out there because a Waffle House that was far away was better than no Waffle House at all. It’s not the best food in the world, but it tasted like home to us. It’s still the closest Waffle House to me, I think, but even if I took the Metro out to the last NoVa stop and Ubered from there, it would still be the most expensive waffles in history.

The other thing that Dana has never done that we’ll have to plan way in advance but is TOTALLY worth it is that Dana has never been to Manhattan. I want to show her “my NYC.” I’ve been there enough that I know we need to stay at The Time, we need tickets to a show, and we need to eat hot dogs until we explode because NYC hot dogs are really the only ones I like. It doesn’t matter if there are Chicago toppings on it, the hot dog itself is just better.

Trying to think of what color Dana will want at The Time. I am going to leave you with that sentence, because if you don’t know what I mean, you’ll just need to Google it.

Did I mention that I got to talk to Dana last night???????

I tried to kill you off, tried to forget that our relationship was sacred, tried to forget how much you meant to me. I tried so hard, because you didn’t want this relationship anymore and I did. I had this image of us walking arm in arm downtown, talking about our lives in a way that only we can. Walking arm in arm because you know that if we don’t, I will trip on a manhole cover and possibly fall in.

Falling into a manhole is an apt description, because I dug the tunnel myself. I sit in it daily, trying to work out what is what and where is where. I work backward from the death and into the days when we cared for each other in a way I’d never had with anyone else. I work backward from my sins into the wholeness I felt when you found me.

I have days where I remember everything, and all I can do is cry. I miss Dana, I miss you, and my tears won’t stop because it’s all my fault. Or at least, it is today. I feel off-kilter because I was so secure in both of you and now I am creating a future that doesn’t include you because that’s not what you want because of the way I behaved. I have shown both of you that I am capable of reacting like a wet cat with claws extended when I cannot function, or I forget who I am and who both of you are and start fighting with someone else that’s not even in the room. Transference and projection are deep injuries that I walk and talk with, trying to resolve. I never want to be in this place again, this feeling that I have no power to change the past and bring it into wholeness on my own.

I long for the days when we could just flip each other shit and enjoy each other’s company. I long for the days when I didn’t threaten you, I was just leslie, a woman standing in front of you broken, and you knew it and loved me anyway. I am lost in the end and trying to save the beginning, knowing that closure may never come from anyone but me. I hate my feelings of grief and regret because they bother me more than you will ever know. I am sobbing as I write this because the future I envisioned is gone at my own hand. I emotionally destroyed me, and sit in your love instead of your anger. When I do reread your anger, it’s a mixed bag of “I don’t think she understands where I’m coming from” and wishing that you’d heard me in the way that I intended instead of the way you took it. My words are heavy and when they come across the Internet they hurt, but never intentionally until my yard was threatened and I defended myself like a junkyard dog with a Napoleon complex.

I stare at your e-mail address in my followers list and wonder if you are listening without talking, because I can do enough talking for both of us. Trying to work it where I feel grief RIGHT NOW so that it doesn’t continue to weigh me down forever. Trying to process our demise so that six months from now, it’s less of an injury, like moving down from a heart attack to a scraped knee. It’s a shallower well of grief, so it looks different than I look now. If you came to my house, you would see my decadent porch and me curled up with a laptop, trying to let go and not knowing how. As I have said before, you took my grief and kissed my broken places so that light could shine from within, and I can’t forget that part. I can’t forget the way you are stitched into my heart.

I pray without ceasing that you are well, healthy and whole. I pray that God will prosper my ministry. I pray that I will be forgiven for the sins I committed in this relationship because I talked too much and not so much with the listening.

Not now, not ever again. I don’t want to bring out the worst in you, and I don’t want you to bring out the worst in me. I completely understand that this problem is not of us, it is of the Internet. If we’d met under different circumstances, I don’t think that we would have had our blowouts to begin with.

We’d have walked, arm-in-arm, linked because you know I’ll fall. When I trip, you’re there to catch me, because that’s what you’ve always done. I promise, Argo. I can catch anything you throw at me, because you do the same for me. I have not done that in the past. I’ve talked more than I’ve listened, and taken more than I’ve given. You are an enormous gift to the world, and not one that should have been cast aside. I should have taken you and held on to you and loved you until your fur fell off, my velveteen friend.

The end is the beginning is the end, our cycle in the months where emoting meant anger and unworthiness in response. There are days where I feel enormous, and you have given me some of them. Other days, I cry like a toy has been taken away, that ugly cry expressing so much pain and sorrow you have to get it out.

Grief this large shouldn’t just sit. It needs to be harnessed into miracles. I am working on them. Piece by piece by….. peace.

I am working backward because there are no do-overs, but there is a great deal of wisdom in learning about the past.

Dear Argo,

1. I cannot walk in high-heeled shoes properly. The last time I did, I thought my feet were going to have to be amputated at the end of the evening.
2. Current favorite beer: Bridgeport India Pale Ale
3. Current favorite wine: Rosemount Estates Pinot Noir
4. Current favorite spirit: Bailey’s Irish Cream
5. I am currently housesitting for my friends Ann and Scootter. Therefore, for the next three weeks, I have a dog. She is a boxer and her name is Radley. I love the name so much I might name my first daughter that, but she will never know it came from my best friends’ dog. Unless I’m mad.
6. Ann and Scootter call people they like by both their first and last names, and fortunately or unfortunately, I have picked up the habit. If I don’t call you by both your first and last names, though, it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. It just means I like other people than you MORE.
7. I do not like white wine, and I get migraine headaches from red. But does that stop me from ALWAYS picking red? NOOOOOOOOO.
8. I am married- but not emotionally… and divorced… but not legally. It’s very complicated. In short, no matter how much you love someone, do not fall for that old “let’s get a civil union certificate in Vermont” line.
9. I am a native Texan, but currently I reside in Oregon.
10. I have dated three women seriously… and two boys.
11. I met my current girlfriend through Friendster, and it has caused no amount of grief among my friends.
12. Especially when we moved in together after a month. Well, technically I’m just staying with her until I find a new apartment/house, but it was worth saying that just to give my parents a heart attack. 😉
13. I sing in an all-women’s chorus called Belle Voci. It means “beautiful voices” in Italian. Some days, I’m not so sure.
14. My father’s family is from Ireland, and there’s a fairly interesting story behind it. Apparently, our family is not related to anyone else with the last name of Lanagan in America because my great great great great great grandfather was the captain of a ship during Ireland’s cholera epidemic. Therefore, he was out to sea when it hit and our clan survived.
15. I am active in my church, Bridgeport United Church of Christ. I sing in the choir and I teach senior high Sunday School. If that doesn’t get me extra brownie points in heaven, I don’t know what will.
16. My father is the clinical coordinator for Angela McCain, M.D. Incidentally, Angela McCain, M.D. is my stepmother.
17. My mother is an elementary school teacher in a neighborhood so horrible that the teachers in the accompanying junior high and high school receive hazard pay. Her husband, my stepfather, is the Chief Financial Officer for the Port of Houston.
18. Once, on a job application in high school, I was asked this: “Give an example of extraordinary customer service.” I replied that one time a blind man had come into the Eckerds in which I was working and needed a greeting card for his daughter. So I read him an entire aisle’s worth of cards until he found just the right one. It didn’t happen to me. But it was a damn good story, a tearjerker even, so I wrote it anyway.
19. By now you’ve probably learned that for me, morality is a sliding scale. This happens to a lot of writers. I hope it doesn’t get in the way of our friendship.
20. I hope that clears up before I start seminary. I want to be a minister when I grow up.
21. The best book I’ve read this year is The Solace of Leaving Early by Haven Kimmel. I wish I could explain it to you, but I like very complicated stories and I only have so much room…
22. I also like John Grisham novels, however, as I believe that they are the literary equivalent of crack.
23. The man who sat next to me when I was volunteering at Oregon Public Broadcasting thought it was HYSTERICAL that I wanted to be a minister. I’m trying to decide if he thought that because I was sitting next to Jenn and clearly indicating that she was my girlfriend, or if he just knows me entirely too well for sitting next to me in that short of a time period.
24. I am horrible with e-mail. I try to keep on top of it as best I can, but I get so many a day that I think my brain is going to explode. So if I haven’t e-mailed you lately, don’t give up hope. One day I WILL wade through it all.
25. When I was in grade school, I was such a dork. I had braces and a headgear and I wore glasses. But just look at me now, baby!
26. I have met most of the really great trumpet players: Maynard Ferguson, Marvin Stamm, Dizzy Gillespie, Wynton Marsalis, Clark Terry, Barry Lee Hall, Jon Faddis, Dennis Dotson, Lew Soloff, etc. The story about meeting Jon Faddis is the funniest, because when I went to meet him I was absolutely punch drunk on the experience. I had just met Lew Soloff, the lead trumpet player for Blood, Sweat, and Tears, who thought that if I knew who he was then I must be a trumpet player myself (well, kinda…). He told me about an audition in New York for the Manhattan School of Music, which I took down for a friend. So after that, I was on cloud nine. I went to Faddis’s bus and told the guys already on board that I was a big, big fan and I wanted an autograph. Total MISTAKE. The guys started ragging on Faddis like, well… like junior high band geeks, frankly. So I finally get my autograph and my few minutes in the “FADDISPHERE” and I just about walked away on air.
27. I WATCHED CANADA SHUT OUT CHINA IN THE 2003 WORLD CUP, AND I WILL NEVER, EVER FORGET IT! Miracles do happen, and I was there for one of them.
28. I have managed to turn my girlfriend, Jenn’s, attic into usable space, but only because I have a futon and an electric blanket that can be turned up to HELL.
29. My favorite blogger in the whole wide world is Heather Armstrong of dooce.com.
30. My butt is starting to hurt, and I still have 70 more to go.
31. I was born in Tyler, Texas at a hospital that has a statue of Jesus looking like he is directing traffic.
32. I am still in touch with my first love.
33. I have always been a voracious reader, and I would rather read than do almost anything else.
34. Currently I am rereading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and reading David Sedaris’ Naked for the first time.
35. My grandfather died when I was in junior high, and I played Amazing Grace on my trumpet at the funeral.
36. What is really weird is that although the only people I’ve dated seriously have been my age, I don’t normally have friends that are the same age as me… but I do not discriminate. That’s just been a force of nature.
37. I am three years older than my mentor was when I met her, therefore I regret just a little bit not getting to “catch up” to her because she’s a different person now. We would have been great bad girls together.
38. I am starting a writing class on Sunday regarding spirituality. Our first assignment is writing about something that’s a curse as if it’s actually a blessing. So far, I’ve got nothin’.
39. For some reason, actresses do not appeal to me. Perhaps it’s because I prefer really down-to-earth, crunchy granola girls, or perhaps my crushes are on actors because I’d rather be them than be with them.
40. I’ve had four Diet Cokes today. It’s a sickness.
41. I have now been to Seattle, and while I was there, I ate at the restaurant in which the tiramisu scene is filmed. Or at least, I think it’s the tiramisu scene. There’s a big picture of Tom Hanks in the front window.
42. For the first time in my life, I am dating someone who is ALSO a first child… but we’re still very, very different.
43. My favorite recording artists (in no particular order): Eminem, They Might Be Giants, Ben Folds, Live, Panic in Detroit, Koufax, Indigo Girls, Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park, Staind, Tenacious D, and Weird Al Yankovic.
44. Favorite character in the Potterverse: Arthur Weasely. His fascination with the Muggle world is endlessly entertaining, particularly in the fifth book.
45. Though I’ve only seen him once on Comedy Central, my favorite comedian is Stephen Lynch. He does this great show with beautiful music where the lyrics are all twisted, such as, “Had to see you one more time, there’s somethin’ on my mind… How about bitch, gimme my money…. Gimme my money and I want it fast…
46. No, of course I’m not bitter. Why do you ask?
47. I have never cheated on anybody, but I do, much like Jimmy Carter, lust in my heart.
48. However, having been cheated ON does not make me a martyr. For long. Two months tops. Okay, four, but that’s my final offer.
49. My favorite driving experience was loading up Kathleen and Lindsay and going to Manhattan. I drove the entire time, and I wasn’t scared once. It’s a new record for me. In fact, it was especially cool cruising down West Side Highway and looking out over the water.
50. My two best friends in the whole wide world have the same name… Sorry if it’s not you.
51. I’ve really begun to feel the responsibility that is involved with the term “faith community.”
52. I often have ideas that do not stick with me, so when they do, I know that they’re worth pursuing. Right now my dream is to retire in Greenwich Village. Therefore, somebody better tell both Simon AND Schuster that I’m alive.
53. I wrote in my last 100 Things that my friend Giles is getting his Master’s degree at University of Montreal and I was wrong. He’s at McGill. In Canada, that’s like saying, “he’s at Harvard.”
54. My standards are bendable. If I truly hate a movie and all my friends want to watch it, I’ll go ahead and give in for the greater good. Though I think it’s prudent to think of a way my friends can pay me back for all the crappy movies I’ve sat through.
55. At ExxonMobil I had a 21-inch monitor and an Aeron chair. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
56. The reason my hair isn’t red anymore is that it costs money for hair dye and I’d rather spend that money on other things. But the hair will be red again when I have copious amounts of disposable income.
57. My favorite DC memory is standing on the roof of Molly’s apartment building watching the fireworks over the Potomac… and the ones in Virginia and Maryland in the distance.
58. Even though I am 26 years old, when I hear a song that was played a lot during my senior year in high school, I forget that I’ve aged at all. I particularly enjoy Back for Good by Take That, Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Deep Blue Something, and Santa Monica by Everclear.
59. I have daydreams of the lovers/friends/acquaintances I’ve lost over the years that will suddenly flock to me when I sell my first novel, short story, and or New Yorker article.
60. There is a cry that comes from deep within me that I know is the sound of true sorrow. Fortunately, I’ve only cried that cry three times: when my parents broke up, when my first love left for college, and when my first wife told me that we should get a divorce.
61. It’s been over a year, and I still can’t believe that I now have to say first wife. Because I still believe in marriage. It will just take a lot longer for me to enter into it.
62. My church is throwing a Halloween party on the 25th of October, and they have asked me to be Dr. Frankenstein. Perhaps because I have nice knockers?
63. Meagan was the first person to whom I ever wrote a REAL love letter, and when I gave it to her, I learned just how much time could slow down while people were reading.
64. My friend Chason says that I have a bigger smile than anyone he knows, and I really can’t dispute it.
65. My AOL Instant Messenger Buddy List has 42 people on it. My screen name is Leslian.
66. I was so premature when I was born that my six month old pictures look like the day I came home from the hospital.
67. I have a long scar on my chin because I busted it open three or four times and had to have stitches. I think each time was due to the concrete steps at my nursery school.
68. Speaking of injuries, I once had to be rushed to the doctor because I had watched my dad put in his contacts and then at school stuck a red sequin in my eye.
69. I’m not terribly fond of the Thanksgiving/Christmas holidays.
70. My biggest pet peeve is when something doesn’t go with my outfit. Like if I’m wearing a brown shirt and I don’t have brown shoes, or I’m wearing a belt that has a gold buckle and I can only find my silver earrings. Being ADD means that I’ve just learned to deal with it because I never remember to put things back where I found them… mostly because I don’t REMEMBER where I found them.
71. I love the heaviness of a good fountain pen, and the absolute dazzling quality of a good purple or deep red ink.
72. Radley just farted under my desk.
73. I have a membership to SuicideGirls. It was a birthday present that I did not ask for, but well loved nonetheless.
74. The thing I love and hate about being in long term relationships is that if they end and you move on, there are still really intimate details that you don’t need to know anymore that stay with you.
75. The entire time I’ve been writing this, little ants have been crawling around on my desk. Ew.
76. I’ve probably had 400 ideas about what to write on this list, but haven’t put them all down because I can’t think of a way to phrase them correctly. I am SUCH a writer.
77. My girlfriend has gotten to meet David Sedaris, and I am so jealous that I could spit nails. But not at her. Directly.
78. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I think about the piece I’ll write that will get me on Oprah. I don’t know why I like Oprah so much, but ever since she played Sofia in The Color Purple I’ve followed her career both as an actress and talk show host. I didn’t much care for Beloved, but I thought The Women of Brewster Place was great. I apologize if my admiration for all things Oprah makes me sound more like a Midwestern housewife than a crunchy granola Portland lesbian, but that’s just the way it is.
79. My hair is terrible in the mornings. Scootter calls it HAIR NOT FOUND IN NATURE.
80. There are only three commands that I would like to teach my dog if I ever have another one of my own: 1) Sit. 2) Lay down. 3) Bring Mama a Diet Coke.
81. I’ve only smoked pot once, and I will (probably) never do it again. The reason why is because Matt was using a broken lighter and set my fingernails on fire. If that isn’t enough of a deterrent, I don’t know what is. You might think that one cannot set one’s fingernails on fire, and you would be wrong, grasshopper. If there is plenty of acrylic on the tips, it lights most magnificently.
82. But I will sit in the backyard and smoke cloves with you if you bring me one, INSERT NAME HERE AND YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE(S).
83. I thought Spirited Away was the most fucked up movie I’d ever seen in my life and I can’t believe they show it to small children VOLUNTARILY.
84. I never knew true natural beauty until I went to the Columbia River Gorge for the first time.
85. Some of my best Portland memories so far are about being in a kitchen with lots of women and making soup… I’ll probably write about it- Divine Secrets of the Church Lady Sisterhood.
86. I’m not afraid to disagree with people as much as I used to be. My girlfriend can attest to that.
87. I am not the guy that you want implementing or wrapping up your project. But I am definitely the guy you want comin’ up with the ideas.
88. Listening to my friend talk to her father after the Cubs lost the NLCS championships made me incredibly homesick, not only because it made me miss my own dad, but because she and her dad have roughly the same accent as we do.
89. I opened a tampon just to see what was inside the little plastic thing. What do you mean, why? It wasn’t that exciting, so let me save you a tampon. It’s cotton. It’s string. No big whoop. I thought it was somehow going to be more than that if you have to put it in your hoopdedoo. Big disappointment.
90. I did not like breakfast food until I found French toast flavored bread. I think you are supposed to use it to make French toast, but I just like to put it in the toaster and then add butter. Normally my breakfast is a smorgasbord of whatever leftovers there are in the fridge.
91. I find it ironic that when I went to Boston, I was not nearly as taken with the history of the city as I was with The Real World firehouse.
92. Though I have several different online handles, I don’t generally let people call me by them because to me, when you get called by your online handle it is proof that you haven’t been spending enough time offline.
93. Last night I went walking with Radley and Kristen whereupon I proceeded to fall flat on my face on the sidewalk because I had my hands in my pockets and couldn’t break my fall. Surprisingly, I walked away with just a scrape on my pinky and on my knee. But they both hurt like a mofo this morning.
94. Sometimes, if I can’t get into whatever is being said at church, I lean up against my friend Diane or Matt and think about what I’ll wear when I meet Matt Damon.
95. I eat too much because I am such a foodie.
96. Before I was asked to play Dr. Frankenstein at the Halloween party, I had come up with several ways in which I could make a SpongeBob costume. That’s right, kiddies. I was going to be SpongeBob for Halloween. Bring it around town.
97. I am often accused of being on drugs and it is always a moment of displeasure for me when I have to reassure the accuser that no, really, I am this way. Sometimes even on purpose.
98. I should never get manicures. Each time my girlfriend has manicured my nails, I’ve forgotten about the polish and it just starts chipping away week after week. Since the last time she painted my nails I asked her to make them “margarita green,” it looks like I have little pieces of booger clinging to the ends of my fingers.
99. I am just now starting to realize what a gift I am to the world. Before now, I needed lots and lots of people telling me how wonderful I was and I didn’t really believe them.
100. I still remember how cold the surf was in the Pacific Ocean when I stepped into it.

In first grade, my teacher for half a day was Mrs. Matthews. I didn’t like her very much, and I don’t think she liked me, either. I was one of those kids that couldn’t stay seated for more than a few minutes at a time, and then I wanted to get up and talk. It didn’t matter to whom. I would have talked to a sign post had it been available. Possibly it was the beginning of a long school career afflicted with Attention Deficit Disorder. Perhaps it was just that I was seven. At this point, I’ll never know. As for Mrs. Matthews, she was very overweight and had no patience for running after seven year olds, regardless of how much attention he or she was able to pay.

Which is probably why it’s such a blessing that for the other half of the day, I had Mrs. Grant… Mrs. Grant was everything that Mrs. Matthews was not. She was tall and slim and usually wore a bright-colored smock so that if the class wanted to play with finger paints at a moment’s notice, she was ready. In Mrs. Grant’s class, I don’t believe I was any more well-behaved than I was for Mrs. Matthews… with one slight exception. In Mrs. Grant’s class, every time I got out of my seat, I wanted to talk to HER.

And thus began my sordid tale of first grade Fatal Attraction.

It started out innocently enough. During one of our five minute conversations, Mrs. Grant let it slip that she had a daughter. “A daughter?” I thought, a little restless at the idea. As a first grader, it had never occurred to me that teachers had actual lives outside of school, or that they had other people to love besides their students. The thought nagged at me. “Mrs. Grant has a daughter that’s not me at her house? Mrs. Grant has a house? I thought she lived here, like Mrs. Matthews. Why would Mrs. Grant want to have a daughter at home when she has me here at school. I am a good reader and everything.” Surely it couldn’t be true, but there was only one way to find out. I would go to Mrs. Grant’s house and see this alleged daughter.

The thought of going to Mrs. Grant’s house stayed with me for the next few months as I became increasingly more curious about the lives that teachers lead when they’re not in front of the classroom. It just didn’t make any sense. Every day, when my mom dropped me off in the morning, Mrs. Matthews greeted us like she was just refreshed from a good night’s sleep, so it made sense to me that the teachers probably napped on our cots when we weren’t using them. In the afternoon, Mrs. Grant always looked glad to see us… as if she’d been waiting all this time just for us to show up.

You’ll have to forgive me, as this part of the story has grown very fuzzy with time, but the little bit I do remember is that somehow I was asked to raise money for something, and I asked Mrs. Grant if she wanted to buy whatever it was I was selling. She said yes, and I gave her the form which required her name, phone number, and ADDRESS.

When she gave me my paperwork, I glanced at her teacher-ish handwriting. It wasn’t at all squiggly or slanted like my mom and dad’s. I was able to read the address perfectly. 3728 Pine Street. PINE STREET? Mrs. Grant had lived on my street all this time and I didn’t even know it! Since I lived at 3102 Pine Street, I could probably walk there all by myself!

I waited for the day when Mrs. Grant’s goods would arrive with baited breath. It would only be a little while longer before the mystery was solved. I would get to see where Mrs. Grant lived. I would get to see the daughter that wasn’t me. And if I was really, really good, maybe I could even convince Mrs. Grant that I was a better daughter than her daughter and she could just throw that one out.

When the day arrived, I was so excited that I couldn’t even wait for a measly little thing like my parents to wake up so I could tell them where I was going. I packed Mrs. Grant’s goods, whatever they were, into the little basket on the front of my bike. I put my red London Fog coat on over my jeans and striped rugby shirt. I got on my bike, and rode down the driveway.

I got to the end of our block and stopped, checking both ways for cars like my dad had said. Once I knew the coast was clear, I rode across. All I had to do was follow the numbers. 3303, 3305, 3307… Gosh, it was a lot longer ride to Mrs. Grant’s house than I thought. Now the houses all looked unfamiliar and there was a dog barking at me and I felt afraid. But I couldn’t turn back. I needed to know where Mrs. Grant lived and I wasn’t going to stop until I found it.

Six blocks was entirely too far to ride on seven year old legs. By the time I reached Mrs. Grant’s driveway, I was huffing and puffing so hard I thought I might blow her house down. But inside, it was a small victory. I had ridden ALL THAT WAY by myself. And I was going to see where Mrs. Grant lived. I would be able to tell all my friends about it in first grade, and they probably wouldn’t even believe me anyway. Everybody knows that Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Matthews live at Parker Elementary, even the janitor. He told me himself.

Well. When I rang the doorbell, I was SHOCKED AND APPALLED. Mrs. Grant did not have on her smock. She did not have on one of her teacher dresses with the apples and the school buses. She was wearing HER PAJAMAS! And they WEREN’T EVEN NICE PAJAMAS, EITHER!

For the first time in my life, I felt shy. I didn’t know what to say, and frankly, I don’t think she did, either. I stood there kind of dumbly for a minute until she noticed that I had her stuff in the basket of my bike.

“Is that stuff for me?” she enquired.
“Yup.”
“Well… come on in. I’ll have to write you a check.”
“Ok.”

I had this strange feeling that even though I’d waited for this moment a long time, it was going to end with the contents of my breakfast on the floor. In order to keep my cool, I started looking around the room. Her husband was sitting in a lounge chair in the living room, staring at one of those enormous projection screen television sets that if you’re really close up you only see big red, green, and blue lights. The carpet was orange shag and looked like there were dogs in the family. My eyes lit on a number of (I thought, with my seven year old taste) tacky tchotchkes strewn about the mantle. And, sitting in the corner, was a girl slightly older than me.

I went and tugged on Mrs. Grant’s pajama sleeve and pointed at the girl.

“Who is that?” I asked.
“Oh, she replied. That’s Jennifer, my daughter.”
“Does she live here, too?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t she?”

I didn’t have an answer. Well, I did, but for some reason it just didn’t seem appropriate to say that she didn’t need any more kids if she was teaching all of us.

I left in a fog. The six blocks back to my house passed slowly, and I felt let down, like a Macy’s float after the parade.

********

There’s a familiar, throbbing pain in the middle of my stomach as I read the e-mail before me: “I do not want contact with you, including e-mail or phone. If there is ever a point that this changes, I will be the one to initiate it.” I’d gotten this e-mail based on a mistake I’d made, rooted in that deflated balloon feeling of wondering whether there was enough love to go around and not waiting for the safety and security of knowing for sure. I wonder sometimes if that’s where all of life’s mistakes are made- finding yourself in a space where you’re not sure if there’s enough love, and not having enough strength to just wait and see. Because for the most part, there always is.

I designed my tattoo in PhotoShop, then took it to the artist. It took less than an hour, and really wasn’t painful because my adrenaline level was so high. What took the longest was searching through hours and hours worth of Christian artwork to ensure I had designed something original. Leslie’s tattoo

I chose the ichthus because of it’s ties to both early Christianity and professional ministry. After Jesus was crucified, Christians could not be open about their faith for fear of persecution. They created a kind of “underground railroad” system to determine who was trustworthy with information. To check and see if someone was “in the know,” one person would take his foot and draw the lower arc of the fish. If the person did share the same faith, he would respond by creating the other arc, thus completing the symbol. In terms of professional ministry, Jesus calls the disciples to be “fishers of people.”

The writing inside the fish is Hebrew for YHWH, or Yahweh. Yahweh is the name of the creator of the universe, and comes from the scripture where Moses asks God, “Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ Then what shall I tell them?” Then God says to Moses, “I am who I am.” Yahweh literally means “I am.”

It was also important to me to have a design signifying my faith without the use of the cross. As I have said before on this web site, Jesus’ death is not really a part of my “guiding principles,” because I believe that the political messages of equality that he gave the people of his time were way more important than the way that he died.

And, as I quipped to the tattoo artist, “look at it this way… if I lose my faith, I can always add feet.”

Once again, your Friday Five.

If you…

1. …owned a restaurant, what kind of food would you serve?

Oh, wow. I totally have this great fantasy going now. It would be an Indian restaurant, with every tacky, gaudy piece of Indian artwork ever produced inside. Our specialty would be Vindaloo curry, where the Vindaloo would be $1.95 and the water would be eight bucks. I would try to do the voiceovers for the commercials myself, but after we made enough money, I would ask Sir Ben Kingsley.

2. …owned a small store, what kind of merchandise would you sell?

My milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard, ya dig?

3. …wrote a book, what genre would it be?

This is actually very difficult, because eventually I do want to write a book and I’m convinced I only have one in me so I better get it “write.” When I was a teenager I used to come up with titles in homeroom.

a) an autobiography- Trumpet Players Don’t Wear Lipstick… would have been great had I actually turned out to be a trumpet player as planned in the eighth grade.

b) a non-fiction account of gay rights in America- If Silence = Death, Why Aren’t We Screaming? I came up with this one when I lived in Tom DeLay’s district because back then I didn’t know any other gay people and I assumed that if they were out there, they were being pretty damn quiet about it.

c) A novel for preteens- I am consistently amazed by all the GREAT fiction there is for preteens, like Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume, The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi, and Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging: Confessions of Georgia Nicolson by Louise Rennison. Incidentally, Confessions of Georgia Nicolson is a series, and the ones that follow are just as funny. They are On the Bright Side, I’m Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God, Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas, and Dancing in My Nuddy Pants. They’re a lot tamer than the titles seem… relax, Georgia’s British.

4. …ran a school, what would you teach?

a) How NOT to Drive
b) The Finer Points of Finesse: Good Writers Paraphrase, Great Writers Steal Outright
c) How to Negotiate a Better Grade by Making Your Professor a Web Site
d) Creating a Distraction When One’s Foot is in One’s Mouth
e) Learned Helplessness: the Blessing and the Curse
f) Channeling Your Inner Child for Fun and Profit
g) Diplomacy is the Best Policy, Bitch

5. …recorded an album, what kind of music would be on it?

If I had to perform everything myself, I would break it down like this:

4 tracks big band jazz (preferably me with Big Bop Nouveau)
2 tracks jazz combo (preferably me with The Bandwagon)
2 tracks jazz combo (preferably me singing with Jason Moran and the Bandwagon)
2 Indigo Girls covers with my sister singing the high fluty parts and me singing the raspy cigar and vodka parts
2 tracks ska with my sister as the vocalist and me as the wacky trumpet player in the back

Originally published in June of 2003 on Clever Title Goes Here.

I’ve been making my silly-yet-sheepish “just met a girl” face for about forty five minutes, and I’ve definitely been trying to tuck my hair behind my ear, which I do when I’m nervous and I like someone. What’s unfortunate is that my hair is cut around my ear now, so it really just looks like I’m tucking phantom hair… Gosh, I’m rambling. Well, that makes it official. I must really like her.

I wish I had taken pictures. I normally don’t have fun at clubs, but tonight was a blast. Gaby, Sarah, Allison, and I went to the Egyptian Room in celebration of Pride. Molly was standing by a post on the edge of the dance floor when Allison nudged me and told me to go ask her to dance. Whoa! Hold the phone. Me? Ask someone to dance? I’d rather ask them to give me a root canal. In what can only be explained as the Red Bull and vodka running through my system, I decided to play against type and see what happened. It was dark and noisy. If she said no, it wasn’t like there would be a choir heralding my rejection. Plus, I had the added bonus of my father’s voice running through my head, “All she can say is no.”

When she said yes, I nearly tripped and fell. I mean, it wasn’t the signing of the magna carta or anything, but it was a small victory. I do not picture myself as the type of person that picks people up at clubs. In fact, my view of my dating self is very much like the character that Drew Carey plays on The Drew Carey Show. So the fact that this totally cute girl said yes was really, really cool.

After we danced for a while, I asked her if she wanted to keep dancing or if she wanted to take a break and get a drink. She led me over to the bar, where we stood in what we thought was a line and talked for about twenty minutes. By the time we figured out that the “line” wasn’t going to move, last call had come and gone.

Luckily, we were still able to order sodas, so we sipped Diet Coke and talked some more. When her friends came over to tell her it was time to leave, I asked her for her phone number, wanting it with a sincerity that I hadn’t felt in months.

And then my friends came over to tell me it was time to go home. What great timing. I needed to get home… needed to get to my journal… had to make this moment last as long as possible…

Because I’ve been making my silly-yet-sheepish “just met a girl” face for about forty five minutes.

Originally published on Clever Title Goes Here as a two-part series in May of 2003.

I was not prepared.

In the suburbs of Houston, Texas, there isn’t a whole lot of hiking to be done. And when there is, it mostly involves stepping over strollers, skateboards, and geriatrics in the mall. There is no uphill, there are no gargantuan tree roots, and there is certainly no snow.

I was not prepared.

I showed up at the church at nine a.m. on Saturday, ready to greet the morning with gusto. We were going hiking, and I hadn’t had a good walk in a while. This was going to be fun. We were going to eat our lunches on the trail and then walk back home. I was approximating a sort of Brownie Troop atmosphere.

I was so not prepared.

We arrived at the base of Larch Mountain, which is when I felt the first of several lumps in my stomach. I thought to myself, “we’re at the base of a mountain. This is going to be pretty steep. I hope I’m wearing the right shoes.” The “work” boots I had bought in the little boys’ department at Payless suddenly seemed frighteningly inadequate. I wondered if I could just shut off my brain for a while and feel this thing out, because nothing is worse than trying to get through a situation when your brain is screaming obscenities at your adventurous-yet-often-misguided spirit.

I took a deep breath. It was time to get out of the car. A cool breeze greeted me, washing over my skin like a linen sheet that’s been line-dried in the middle of a meadow. “Wow, I thought. Anything that starts out like this can’t be all bad.” My group started heading towards the trail. I followed.

Three minutes later, I was breathing heavily and desperately wishing I had looked up hiking in an encyclopedia instead of trusting that my suburb-influenced definition would suffice in the Williamette Valley. Of course, if I had done any thinking at all beforehand, I might have come up with this: “I live in the Williamette Valley. That means that the entire city of Portland, Oregon is surrounded by MOUNTAINS! Note to self: most Portland outdoor activities involve going uphill or downhill with varying degrees of difficulty.”

Fat lot of good that information was doing me now, though… I began accepting my fate. I would fight valiantly, but I would probably die here. I wondered if the ski patrol existed on mountains where there was no skiing, because they would be the perfect knights in shining armor, whisking me down the mountain on their medically equipped go-carts. Then I began saying goodbye to all the things I loved about this life: Opera… As Seen on TV products… Hooters…

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice how far we had gone. All of the sudden, the temperature started getting cooler. The climb became a little less steep. I was energized in a way that I hadn’t been all day.

Which was good, because pretty soon after that I started hearing a familiar crunch from the people ahead of me. Two and two came together. Colder air. Less steep. Crunch. SNOW! WE WERE GOING TO HIKE ON A TRAIL COVERED IN SNOW?!?! Most of the group was in shorts, including me. At that point, though, there was no point in turning back. We were much closer to the end of the trail than we were to the beginning, and as long as no one fell and got wet, we wouldn’t have to worry about hypothermia.

It wasn’t very long before I realized that those of us in shorts had an advantage over those of us who weren’t. We could brush snow off our bare legs and the wind sweeping over them would help dry. However, if snow seeped into any pant-like fiber that wasn’t waterproof, it would stay wet and cold for a very long time. It’s honestly the only example I have of “less is more,” because those of you who know me best will know this- to me, more is always more.

I know you’re thinking, “how did Leslie know all of this bare-legged strategy?” Simple. I fell approximately 358 times, and each time, I was able to shake it off and keep going (minus the nightmares in my mind of winding up ass-deep with no one around to call for help). The biggest problem, and all mountain hikers and climbers will back me up on this, was fatigue. I knew from skiing that you could sit down in packed snow and it would act as insulation from the cold, so therefore, each large blanket of packed snow that we passed looked like exactly that- a blanket. We had only been hiking for about four or five hours at this point, including lunch, and all I could think about was, “I wonder if everybody would be down with me just stopping right here to take a nap.” The water that I had brought was long gone thanks to very poor rationing and the idea that “certainly three bottles will be enough.” Though I wasn’t tired and whiny enough to start really coming down on myself for being stupid and uneducated about hiking, it was headed that way.

I slowed down my pace considerably, and doing it just killed me. Even though it was completely unrealistic, I had started out the day thinking that I would be one of the ones to finish first. The reason I wanted to do this escaped me then, but after having had some time to think about it, I know it’s this: Brianna, Sara, and Tania hike all the time, and it’s a big part of their hanging out together. I believed, and wrongly so, that if I could make it through this hike as one of the first finishers, than maybe I was tough enough to run with the big boys. (Let me tell you how ludicrous this was: Sara and Tania were laughing about how slow we were going, and I was doing good to hold on to both my lungs at one time.)

As my emotions started setting up for the pity party, my friend Holly slowed down her pace as well. She is a very experienced hiker, and I think she knew that I was having trouble keeping up. Feeling sorry for myself turned into the joy of knowing that I wouldn’t be alone. Holly gave me water. Holly said it was okay not to be Sir Edmund Hillary your first time out. Holly told me I was wearing the wrong shoes and carrying the wrong bag and that the next hike would go MUCH better.

I’m sorry… the next hike?

I looked up. We were at the edge of a highway. Elation rushed into every pore, every vein, every artery… we were here! Apparently, elation in my body also translates into channeling the spirit of John Lithgow. “I never thought I would see this moment,” I exclaimed. The group laughed. It was okay. They had no idea what an accomplishment this was for me. I’m not an athlete. Hell, I don’t even run if I’ve missed the bus.

Inside, I was glowing. I thought to myself, “yes… there will be many more hikes, because this is where God lives.” And the more I think about that statement, the more I know it to be true. We had started out in sunshine and cool breeze, and ended up in snow and fog. It was just so glorious and rich and… full.

The next morning at church, Wendy came up to me and handed me a small pin. I grabbed her and gave her the biggest hug. The pin reads: “Columbia River Girl Scout Council, Portland Oregon 1987.

That’s when I knew I had really made it.

Originally posted in March of 2004 on Clever Title Goes Here.

For some reason, my father really likes Walgreen’s. I mean, really. So he got all of us started really early on that if we were bored or restless or whatever, we could just go there and shop around. I mean, what else are you going to do? There are only so many places that are open after 10 pm, and Walgreen’s doesn’t even have a dress code.

Tonight, with many thoughts in my head and a heavy heart, I thought about what to do. I could call up some friends and see if they wanted to meet for a beer. I could go to or rent a movie. It came to me in a flash. I could go spend time with my thoughts AND shop for AS SEEN ON TV ™ products AT THE SAME TIME! It turned out to be more than I bargained for.

As I walked in the sliding glass door, a woman wearing a denim pantsuit came running up the makeup aisle. “I want to buy this foundation, she yelled. It’s free by rebate. I figgered I don’t actually need it, but if it’s free by rebate…” I was not feeling well. It was all I could do not to yell, “Lady, what makes you think you don’t need it?” Then I remembered that this trip was supposed to be about SELF reflection and I held my tongue.

I’m trying not to kid myself that I have the right to be bitter because I don’t have a girlfriend any longer… knowing that if anything could ease the pain, it would probably be found in this sublime crapfest of a store.

I shopped for hours. I didn’t find a damn thing.

The woman I met on Tinder is named Chanika, which rhymes with “Hannukah.” It was a GREAT evening, and I can’t wait to do it again. We ended up with drinks and Sri Lankan chicken curry, courtesy of the fact that Chanika is a badass cook. I’ve worked professionally and her knife skills look like it. She has nothing on me. She says it’s because when she cooks, she always cooks for large groups of people. I can attest- I have seen pictures of her village and like every small village, if you cook for one person, you’re cooking for them all.

Last night, the group was the two of us, the aforementioned gays, Dru and Steven, Chanika’s American “older sister,” Sarah, and the also aforementioned coworker, Shay. Chanika books appointments for the massage clinic, and Shay is a massage therapist. It was a good mix of people, and the conversation never faltered. Steven and Dru work for a company in Alexandria that coordinates between other companies like TicketMaster and StubHub. They’re sort of like customer service, except that they don’t actually have to talk to customers. I jokingly said, “JESUS. Where can I get a job like THAT?” They’re going to ask. Sarah is in the middle of planning a wedding, and her fiancee, honest to blog, looks like Bradley Cooper. She’s in between jobs, just like me, but it works out in her favor, as anyone who is in the middle of planning a wedding will tell you.

Chanika had just been released from the evils of finals. I said, “I know you probably haven’t gotten your grades back yet, but how do you feel they went?” She said that she already knew she had an A- for the semester in pharmacology, and was a bit perturbed that they wouldn’t give her the half a point she needed to make an A. I teased her about getting an Asian F, and she got the reference (Glee, if you’re wondering). She wants to be a nurse practitioner eventually, but says she needs some nursing experience, first. So far, the rotation she’s liked the best is oncology. I agreed with her- there’s a lot more actual patient care in oncology vs. being an ER nurse where the visit with each patient is relatively quick. I told her she might want to apply at Georgetown, because as a teaching hospital, she’ll see everything under the sun. That’s the key with medicine. If you haven’t seen it before, you won’t be able to diagnose it as easily.

I didn’t so much talk as just listen and soak up everyone else’s stories. I made lots of jokes, but in terms of actually revealing anything about myself, mostly it was age. No one in the room had heard of Bette Midler. Let THAT one sink in for a few minutes, bitches. Not even the gays had an opinion on Team Barbara vs. Team Bette, because they didn’t know who Streisand was, either. Steven, however, is not ignorant to music- he can freestyle rap like no one’s business. I was telling him that as a writer, rap is my favorite genre because it’s all stories. He agreed with me, but only to a certain point, saying there is a lot of shitty rap out there.

Ummmmm. Yes. There’s also a lot of shitty music in every genre, but I’m talking about the greats. Biggie. Tupac. Nas. Talib Kweli. Kendrick Lamar. Eminem. I asked him if he’d heard much Tupac, and Drew was like, “…..because he’s (Steven) is black?” I said, “no, because he can freestyle like a motherfucker, but it’s interesting that was your first leap.” To me, it would be like asking a country music singer if they liked George Jones and having someone else in the room say, “is that because he’s white?”

They won’t know who George Jones is, either.

With Chanika, though, age is relative. She doesn’t get a lot of cultural references anyway because she’s an international student, and the village where she lives in Sri Lanka is TINY. Her English is impeccable, but she also has her own Gloria Pritchett moments that make me laugh. I won’t share them because I don’t want to embarrass her, so you’ll just have to meet her in person. I am thinking this won’t be the last time we hang out, because their group is tight and to get an invitation was marvelous. They are definitely friends I could see growing with.

I just ended a sentence with a preposition. I’m having Gloria moments, too.

Chanika has a lot of responsibility on her shoulders because her family is working so hard to send her to school in the US. She takes it seriously, and her drive to give back is enormous. She can adult a hell of a lot better than I can, which gives me a drive to protect her from me because I’ve got shit to do before I am comfortable standing toe to toe with her. I may be older chronologically, but I think she’s a hundred years older than me mentally… a sage old owl in a young dyke body. I am comfortable enough to admit how much I don’t know, and I suppose that is the wisdom of being chronologically older. The drive to have the answer to everything is just gone.

My nurturer kicks in hardcore, though. For instance, Shay has lupus and I was on it in a half second. What are they treating you with? How long? Do you take pills or do infusion? How are your organs? She gave me a lot of food for thought because as a massage therapist, she does a combination of eastern and western medicine that turned on my brain like a supercomputer. In terms of actual clinical knowledge, what I know about SLE (systemic lupus erythematosus) could fit on the head of a pin. However, having worked in a rheumatology practice for two years, I at least know the right questions to ask.

Maybe next time, I’ll let them ask questions, too. 😉

I met someone on Tinder, like I said before, and we’ve been chatting enough that we want to meet. So, tonight I am getting together with her, her gay male best friends, and a coworker from the massage clinic where she works. We’re either going to sit around and talk, or go see The Avengers. Either way is fine with me. I just want to know who she is in real life, which, unsurprisingly, has become quite important to me. I have spent the last two years chatting with someone I adore to the ends of the earth, even though we have been so shitty to each other in the past that I’m not sure I deserve a real life meet-and-greet, and I’m not sure she does, either. To say that I don’t deserve it is undermining my own worth. We have both been equally shitty to each other, and as much as I make amends, she doesn’t. My behavior, according to her, is intolerable, while her behavior has been spot on perfect.

The truth is somewhere in the middle.

I’ve crossed lines, and so has she, by the nature of our internet crack relationship. But the lines we crossed were different in nature, and are like comparing “peanut butter and ladies.” I am devastated by the lines I crossed, because they drove her away. She is not capable of hearing how the lines she crossed changed me in kind.

So, no more internet crack for me. If you’re not willing to give me an address and a phone number, then we probably can’t be friends. I can’t go through it again, and I won’t. My personality divided in half and I ended up in a psych ward because I could not handle being married to Dana and having secrets with someone else. I was so “cracked out” that I couldn’t function, and luckily, the hospital was there to catch me. My cohort was amazing and listened through my wailing and gnashing of teeth.

And even still, I didn’t come completely clean, because I couldn’t. I didn’t think of either one of us as the problem. I blame the internet, and the wall it creates between two people so that they say anything and everything without really grasping how they’re changing each other because they cannot SEE IT.

So, no more “strangers on a train.” In a way, I am done with the internet. I crave real life, and I get out in it. I meet people all the time as a result of public transportation, and my reactions are real time instead of waiting with anxiety over a response that may not come for days…. if at all.

Yesterday, I met a guy named Barrington that wanted me to write all of his stories, because as he says, “they’re all true.” He learned how to cook in the military and cannot anymore because he has chronic pain and cannot lift more than five pounds. As a cook, this makes a job impossible. At Tapalaya, I routinely watched Dana carry 50 lb bags of flour up the stairs into dry storage. I could do it, too, but not without wheezing and possibly falling down the stairs. The funniest incidence of this is that I was putting away things in dry storage and came down the ladder facing the stairs instead of the kitchen. When I got to the bottom step, I didn’t know that there was a full rondo of fryer oil waiting to be given to a person with one of those cars that always smells like chicken. I stepped in it up to my knee. I was wearing leather shoes, though, and they really never looked better.

For once, my klutziness paid off.

Barrington is trying to get disability so that he can afford to move into an apartment. Right now his hustle is buying cigarettes at the 7-11 and selling them for a dollar apiece. He’s also a licensed massage therapist, so sometimes he’ll put out a chair and a tip jar. I told him that would eventually pay off and to keep at it. If you want to see him yourself, he’s usually close to the Silver Spring Metro, and I guarantee he’ll do a good job. I hired him for five minutes at a dollar a minute and now I can move my shoulders. I need to go back and get him to do my wrists. If you’re a computer geek, you need to go see him, too.

I told him that I’d really messed up by not learning a trade to the best of my ability. Cooking is the wrong one, because now I am getting too old to trust my knees for an entire shift. I should have gone to cosmetology school or something. My friend A-train went to Aveda and cracked me up with the fact that since they can’t test on animals, they test on little old ladies instead. I would have loved that job- R&D at Aveda with customers that would treat me like their grandchild.

Grandparents love me. Seriously. I used to go to the nursing home with my dad when he would preach there, and I am EXCELLENT at batting my eyes and saying, “tell me some more.” My favorites were always the old soldiers, because their stories were better than everyone else’s. No offense to non-military people, but there’s no way you can top them. It’s impossible. Don’t even try. However, old people love me because when they talk, I sit still and listen, which I gather doesn’t happen to them all that often.

Their stories are often sad, because they don’t talk about their early lives unless you ask. First they’ll talk about how lonely they are because they feel like they got dropped off and left in an alternate universe where EVERYONE ELSE is old but them. Seriously, old people feel like they’re 21 trapped in a body that’s betraying them one day at a time. it doesn’t take much to get them to open up about politics, religion, history….. they’ll talk about anything you want as long as you want because hey, they’re not on a schedule.

Hmmmmmmmm….. that gives me an idea. I’m going to apply to work in a nursing home. My mother was the recreational director at one when she was young and she loved it. I’m going to guess that not many people apply, because anything in geriatrics/gerontology scares most people to death, literally, because working with old people makes you face your own mortality regularly.

I’ve already faced mine. Several times, in fact. I’m not scared. I’ll do anything if you’ll just keep talking. I’m a writer, and your stories matter.

In real life.

You amaze me. Everything from your body to your personality. And by “your body,” I am not talking about attraction. I am talking about the ways your body stretched to accommodate new life, and how your personality stretched to go with it. I am humbled beyond belief at your ability to bounce back, even though in some ways, you don’t have a choice. I think it takes being an adult to really appreciate how much you’ve sacrificed for me, a child who may never have children but understands the magnitude of your gift.

I was going to be a mother. I read all the books, I prayed for my journey, and I happened upon the path more than once. However, it just didn’t take. Dana and I were embarrassed the first time we went to our OB/GYN, because she judged us on the clothes we were wearing and not, as Martin Luther King, Jr. so eloquently said, “the content of our character.” At the time we were making big bucks. I was working for a software company and Dana was working for a high-end grocery store. We did not need help with providing for a child, but at the same time, our doctor was right AND offensive when she said, “my pregnancies are $14,000 give or take. You can’t afford me. You should just find a friend and go home.” We’d put on our Sunday best for this appointment, and she crushed our dreams in 15 minutes. There was no way we’d go with a known donor, because we didn’t want to deal with a custody battle later.

We were so baby-crazy that eventually we decided to try to accept our fate. Every straight guy we asked was confused and wanted to sleep with me. They did not understand the concept of passing on genetic material without it. The gay one understood, and was up for it, but by the time we were ready to conceive, our finances weren’t. People kept telling us that if we waited until the right time, we’d never do it. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, because we weren’t going to bring a baby into the world in poverty. We did not put any investment into a baby after that, because we knew that our baby plans were on hold indefinitely, and we wore the shame of our OB/GYN appointment like button-downs. Maybe my next partner will want children, or already have some, and that’s ok with me. However, I am not looking to get my MRS. degree just to bring life into the world. I already have children and parents around me that need me as a support person now. I don’t have to wait for my own baby. Exhausted parents will give me theirs for hours at a time and that’s really all I need. To be close to a baby, because it makes my heart, body, mind relax in a way that I don’t get anywhere else.

BABIES ARE AWESOME.

I used to be a baby. I was awesome to someone, too. However, I was a difficult child for my mom to raise, because within minutes of being born, my lungs collapsed and I was deprived of oxygen, leaving a cerebral palsy with it. My parents never sued the hospital for malpractice, but they were well within their right. But, they reasoned, most of the problem was that I was born in East Texas in 1977. Unless they’d Life Flighted me to Dallas, there wasn’t much technology that would have saved me from always tripping on everything. Additionally, my eyes never learned to track together, so between that and the palsy, I have never physically moved in the world like everyone else. In fact, the only reason I can walk at all is due to my mother’s diligence in physical therapy every day. Her first move was to get me into a swimming class at 6 moths old, because babies are born with what’s called a “dolphin reflex,” which allows them to learn swimming at an incredible rate. By the time I was a year old, I could probably swim better than my mom could.

She also exercised my legs constantly, and at first, it was very painful for me. She would scream and cry just as much as I did, because I was using muscles that I hadn’t before and it hurt. I didn’t grow very fast. When I was a year old, I looked like I was still at 6 months, because I was eight weeks early with legs that couldn’t support me. In fact, my mother was in the grocery store once, and a woman insisted that she was a ventriloquist and was throwing her voice because I could talk in sentences.
It’s amazing what I could do verbally because I had no choice but to just lie there, not moving, but soaking up all the adult conversation I could muster. My first words were “car keys” and “peaches.” I have no idea where I got the idea for either one, but it set me on the path of being an intellectual that would never play baseball. I couldn’t run very well, and with no depth perception, I couldn’t tell how far the ball was from me so I could catch. I loved soccer because depth perception was easier when the ball was on the ground. Depth perception is also the reason I decided to give up my car and take public transportation. Honestly, I am regretting that decision a little bit, because since I have a cerebral palsy, I fall all the time when I’m walking. It’s not pretty. But at least I’ve been tripping on curbs since I was young, so scraped knees are just part of life. For instance, I have Neosporin on both knees right now.

Through it all, my mom has been my best cheerleader, because she’s the one that cured me of being disabled…. Because I surely would have been without her dedication.

When I think of what my mom went through to raise me, it gives me greater respect for all the sacrifices that mothers make for their children, because so far, I haven’t met a mother yet who’d say that their child needed more than they could give.

Amen.

It did not occur to me that since Nasim is from Iran, and only halfway fluent in English, that she might not know what a homosexual was. However, it DID occur to Samantha. Nasim had been very uncomfortable with men living in the house, and Samantha did not see me as any less of a threat… and good for her. It’s not that I thought I would ever hit on Nasim, but I might unintentionally make her feel nervous even with a compliment such as, “you look nice today.” Because for someone who doesn’t know what a homosexual is, they might be prone to think that I am a predator. I am inappropriate, loudmouth, and rarely think before I speak (and even when I do, see “inappropriate” for details). To someone who comes from a country where they kill people for being gay, Samantha thought it was easier to talk to them early. And by “them,” she meant both Nasim and her best friend Sahar, because she was originally living in my room, moved out to live with her boyfriend, and is now moving back into Courtney’s room (or at least, tentatively she is taking over Courtney’s room. At this point, it’s not solid.). Sahar is as lively and funny as Nasim, and it is hilarious to see them together. At first, ironically, I thought Nasim was gay, because Sahar stayed in her room overnight and I didn’t know that straight girls did that. I mean, at 14, ok. As adults? Not so much. But no. It would never occur to them to have sex with each other. First of all, they’re straight. Second of all, they’re Muslims. When Samantha told Hayat that she needed to talk to them, that’s when she found out that they were completely oblivious to me.

I could have “played straight” unknowingly for years, depending on how long it takes me to get over the two rabbits I was chasing and the grief when I realized I’d never catch either one, because they ran in opposite directions. I am talking to a Sri Lankan nursing student on Tinder, but at this point, it’s just a few lines of chat a day. No forward motion is happening, and I like it that way. I am looking for jobs, and she is in finals hell. It just feels good to have someone to text “good morning” that also texts back in kind. I have gotten used to being single, and at this point, it’s what I need more than anything. She’s ten years younger than me, and Samantha said, “you DO like ’em young.” I said, “I just swipe. It’s not dependent on who I like. It’s dependent on who texts back.” She said, “point well taken.” My age range on Tinder is like, 27 to 47 or something like that. I don’t care about age. I care if you’re a dumbass. If you can’t hold my attention intellectually, please take your fries and drive through. The thing that got me with this girl is that I asked her what her last final was in, and she said “pharmacology.” She passed the “not a dumbass” test with flying colors. We shall see what we shall see, but again, I’m not looking for anything but the first and last text of the day. Anything other than that is just icing.

If you think that I am moving on fast, first of all, shut the hell up. Second of all, I mourned Dana for the last two years of our relationship, because I could see the changes in both of us and how we were both letting go of each other while I was wrapped up in Internet crack. By the time I called it, we were still best friends, and even still attracted to each other, but being married was a whole different endeavor. Besides, remember that Dana is the one that when I’d calmed down after our fistfight enough to see reality again, didn’t want to get back together in the first place. She could see the horrible fighting patterns we’d developed just as clearly as I could. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with flirting with other women, because I am well enough to know my own limitations. I cannot start a hot and heavy relationship until I can really say that grief is at least almost behind me, and not an ever-present deluge.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

Hayat and Samantha did not know I was gay when I arrived, or if they did, they did not say anything to me. That is because our neighborhood is easily 40% homo, and it’s just not a deal. Yes, that’s right. I randomly picked a place to live and ended up in the gayest neighborhood in town. You can’t throw a rock without hitting a gay person from our porch (well, maybe for the purposes of this essay, that was inappropriate………… see “inappropriate” for details). Because of the neighborhood, it seemed implausible that Nasim did not know what a gay person is. However, because she doesn’t have a word for it, she would never even think that someone wasn’t a heterosexual to begin with. It tickles me that Rhonda & Ann come over to our house and sit on the porch with us and it still doesn’t click, because if you look up “dyke” in the dictionary, it’s just a picture of me and Rhonda. Thank God Samantha was on her toes.

Hayat’s approach was to tell them not to look at me as bad or wrong or anything like that, because I would be able to pick up on their distaste. She said, “Leslie will feel the same way you do when you wear your hijab in public and people stare at you.” It was the most perfect conversation ever, and I wish that Samantha had recorded it, because I would have liked to hear that sentence in Hayat’s voice. But no, Samantha and I were on the front porch shooting the shit about anything and everything, watching the dogs and the gay people and the straight people all together.

Because together, “we all fruit.”

I don’t feel well today. I think it’s because ever since I got here, I’ve forced myself to go someplace and since I don’t drive, that has entailed a lot of walking. Uber is a little more expensive than the bus, plus, if I Uber everywhere, I am defeating the purpose of walking. As I said earlier, when I first got here I was 117 pounds and barely hanging on to that. I had so much fear and anxiety that I would go days at a time without eating…… ironically, because I felt like I’d bit off more than I could chew.

I didn’t have any anxiety about moving to Maryland, though. I had anxiety because everyone does when they’re going through a divorce. Even if you initiate, you go into shock. I have to hand it to Dana, though, because I didn’t blindside her. We just came to a fork in the road and kissed goodbye. As I have also said earlier, I have had a lot of shitty breakups in my life, so it was nice that God gave me a break with this one.

I think it is directly correlated to how much time we spent being best friends before I fell in love with her. Dana was sure she wanted to be with me within six weeks of meeting me. I took three and a half years to see that she was right. I am not sure why, but moving to Houston together undid us. Dana was unhappy from day one, but not because of Houston itself. She was unhappy because she set a goal for herself that fell through, and it sent her into a downward spiral of unworthiness not unlike the one I was experiencing myself. Ultimately, two very depressed people undid each other, which is why we decided to move on. We’ve both agreed that when it was good, it was really, really good, and that maybe we’ll try again and maybe we won’t, because we are so special to each other that taking getting back together off the table is absurd. But let me be clear. It is not a *goal.* It is a possibility in a realm of millions of permutations.

That was a large journey for me. I had to come to that realization over time, because making it a goal wasn’t helping either one of us. We didn’t need to be in a relationship for our own sanity, especially with each other because it got ugly at the end. When you irk each other to that level, something’s got to give, and it was me that called it, and yet, something I regret. However, the words of Soren Kierkegaard ring in my ears. “You cannot live life backwards. You can only live it forwards.” Since I hear them all the time, they’re finally sinking in. However, in some cases I can live life backwards, because I have an incredible repository of past memories in this space. I cannot change the past, but I *can* keep from repeating it.

The past me would not be able to function right now. The past me would not even bother getting out of bed. This time, the “afterthemath” has been easier. This is because even though things got ugly with Dana at the end, we had time to make up and forgive each other before I moved to DC, and when I moved, my life took off in a great direction that I didn’t think would ever occur, because I was too depressed to think that I was capable of it.

Now, that is not a problem. This church will be a reality, and I got so fired up about it with Judy that I realized it just couldn’t NOT happen. I realized that I was driven to a level I’d never been before, and even though I have to get a “real job” to be able to support myself, if it pays enough, I can afford to work part time. For instance, all of my contracts at Dell payed close to $20/hour, even though I was just doing simple stuff like transferring data from one computer to another, and it was all automated by shell scripts (“Go away, or I will replace you with a very small shell script” is my favorite t-shirt on Thinkgeek.com). I am capable of a lot more than that, but the thing with Dell contracts is that you can choose when you want to work and what type of projects you want to take. I originally started with Robert Half Technology, and have my application in now. We’ll see what comes of it, as government contracts often take a long time to get going, but at least I know that I will be solvent eventually.

In the meantime, I am proud of the work that I do on this web site, because I know that there are people with me on my journey that have been with me since the beginning. I have a list of subscribers and how long they’ve been reading, and some of them go back to the very first entry. Maybe one day I will be “flaming liberal Christian Dooce.” Maybe I won’t. But at the same time, I feel like I am at least decent enough a writer to try. I am relentless with my flaws because if I don’t name it, I won’t erase it. I am the type person that will never be satisfied with stagnation. I am too curious about the world to always stay the same. I have also made enough mistakes in my life that it would be pathetic not to learn from them. Sometimes, the best life can offer is making new mistakes rather than old ones, so if everything feels like it’s going down the drain, at least you know it’s a different sink.

For instance, I finally broke down and got a keyboard and mouse so that I didn’t have to use the touchpad while I’m blogging. Erasing 800-1100 words (because it’s happened more than once) is c’nest pas acceptable. Sash, see how I did that there? Actually, my Canadians will think my Frenglish is funny, too….. or as Honore de Balzac once said, “60% of English is French badly pronounced.” Bad French pronunciation happens to be my specialty. I learned this by taking a French course by CD from Michel Thomas. I listened to the first CD over and over and over, because I would lose where I was in the process and start over just because. I am *that* person. The one who always goes back to the beginning, because as a Virgo, I can’t not. I may not be able to organize my stuff for more than a week at a time, but I am anal retentive about starting from the beginning when I lose my place. This is why I have watched the beginning of Casablanca six times, because I’ve fallen asleep before the end every time. In fact, I still haven’t seen the end. I haven’t seen the end of “Return of the Jedi,” either. This is because I fall asleep at the Ewoks every single time.

This leads me back to a hiking trip with Dana, wherein we were almost to the top of Angels’ Rest when she said, “you know that scene in Return of the Jedi where Yoda dies?” I said, “YODA DIES???????????” and promptly fell over into a bush. Seriously, no hands out, complete surprise, ass over teakettle.

Sorry if I spoiled the end. Too soon?

I am home today because after walking as much as I have, I hurt all over. Therefore, today is being spent in front of my computer because there are now no jobs in which you do not have to fill out an online application, even fast food. I am applying for everything from Linux geek to burger flipping, because I am a burger flippin’ ho as well (wink).

Who knows? I might even end up at a car wash.

I accept tips.