Kid Love = Universal Love

This is not a Democratic post.

Or a Republican one.

It's a post about love.

A love that knows no bounds or boundaries.

Kid Love.

This post is best told in pictures...

Pictures of April's 18-year-old nephew Josh.

Josh is a Marine.



A proud one.

Josh loves kids.

Always has.

Josh has made some new friends in the four months he's been away from us.







One kid, a small boy, followed Josh everywhere.

He was Josh's favorite.

One day, he showed up and he was hurt.

He'd been burned. Scalded by some hot water.

The small boy was in great pain, but his family could do nothing for him.

They were poor.

Josh couldn't stand to see the boy suffer.

He hugged him. Told him it would be all right.

Then he went and got him some medicine.

He showed him how to use it.

He healed him. In many, many ways.

Josh,

Your family misses you. We love you. We pray for your safety every day. There is a picture of you on our nightstand. April looks at it every night before she drifts off to sleep. Stay safe and come home.

Through the Lookin' Glass.

I'm feeling completely un-original today.

Thank God for other bloggers.

You can totally rip off their posts and pretend you're the brilliant one.

This is probably where I should thank Lori over at Hahn at Home.

Lori, thanks for letting me steal this from you. I owe you. Collect from Magical Samantha :)

Through the Lookin' Glass:

Disclosure:
All the answers that follow are mine - unless Lori provided a funnier answer that I couldn't best. Then I knowingly and willfully plagiarized her.

My uncle once: tried to be funny. No go.

Never in my life: have I been a super model. I'm pretty pissed about it.

When I was five: I thought I could do anything. Including being a super model. Damn my teachers for encouraging imagination and self-esteem. They could CLEARLY see I was a midget. Way to set me up...

High School was: where I learned to hate Mad Dog 20/20. Cherry flavor. *shudder*

I will never forget: seeing my dog's eye hanging by the optic nerve and resting on her cheek. She refused to let our big dawg Stewart eat her dinner and he head butted her.

It's all fun and games 'till someone loses an eye.

Trust me.

I once met: my other personalities. We don't get along.

There’s this girl I know who: writes a hysterical blog (i just found it). Check out Amanda's blog HERE (but if you think she's funnier than me, pretend this never happened)

Once, at a bar: shit. I can't remember. I was drunk. Duh.

By noon, I’m usually: worn out from running 15.5 miles. Uphill. In the snow. Whilst wearing 7 swimsuits for drag.

Last night: I considered screaming at Blemish for DRIVING THROUGH MY FRONT YARD while we were gone for the holidays (neighbors filled us in when we got home). I now have a huge rut in my yard and he ruined a piece of my driveway. More police action to follow. I may go to prison, people. I'm serious...

If I only had: been there when Brittany decided life would be better without Justin Timberlake.

Next time I go to church: I'll make sure it's not one that urges me to get in touch with my masculine side. That last one confused me. I'm trying to get RID of this mustache, not keep it.

Terry Schiavo: knew what she was doing when she married him.

What worries me most: is the stack of restraining orders Mariska Hargitay has taken out on me. I know she loves me. Her eyes tell me so. She can't deny what she feels for me. I won't let her.

When I turn my head left, I see: a diet coke can. Durh.

When I turn my head right, I see: my one-eyed dog licking a pillow. I never said I had smart dogs.

What I miss most about the eighties: I had an excuse for my pimples.

If I was a character in Shakespeare, I’d be: way sexy when I spoke.

By this time next year: I’ll prolly be a super model.

A better name for me would be: Conchita Meriluchio. Beautiful, no?

I have a hard time understanding: period.

If I ever go back to school I’ll: have more affairs with professors. Shit. I mean, have AN affair with a professor.

You know I like you if: I don't hate you.

If I ever won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: whoever wrote the book that I plagiarized. It seems fair....

Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: should probably colonize and raise a flag.

Take my advice, never: be funnier than me. I won't like you.

My ideal breakfast is: diet coke. durh.

A song I love, but do not own is: Any and everything by Colbie Calliat

If you visit my hometown, I suggest: Dramamine. I moved every three years (military brat).

Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: should never have anything to do with Olympic track events.

Why won’t people: just admit they're gay instead of trying to pass hate legislation (to cover up the fact that they are gay?)

If you spend the night at my house: mitts of my diet coke. unless you aren't attached to having hands and arms. then, go ahead. i dare you.

I’d stop my wedding: if she didn't show up. Can you say AWKWARD? I'd keep the gifts though.

The world could do without: Blemish. Trust me.

I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: do pretty much any household chore.

My favorite blond is: my mom. (Lori, keeping your answer. It's true, it's true).

Paper clips are more useful than: belly lint.

If I do anything well, it’s: faint when people around me are bleeding. I'm wicked good at it!

And by the way: I just went to the bathroom. I've gotten really good at it.

the end.

Oh. 'Cept for one more thing.

Thank you Margo Moon for makin' me part of the Cowgirl Posse!!!

Yippeee Kai Yay!

Meet the Family.

I have to be the only daughter on the planet who receives voice mails like this one from her mother:

Yesterday. 2:47pm.

"Hey Feather.

It's mom.

I'm in the car with your dad.

We're driving to our play and he keeps farting.

It's nasty.

Anyway, I thought of you and wanted to give you a call.

Love you.

Call me back."

....

Anyone else get these?

Right.

I didn't think so.

Most moms don't immediately think of their daughters just because their husbands let a putrid fart.

Truth be told, I'm shocked my mom had the breath to call at all.

My dad's farts will shrivel your insides and leave you gasping, no...begging for air.

Wait.

Maybe that's why she called.

She thought she was going to die and wanted to tell me she loved me.

THAT makes total sense.

OK...so the call wasn't so weird after all...

Top 5 Tips for Shopping on Black Friday

5. DON'T BE ASKERRED TO FIGHT.

Seriously. Bring your brass knuckles.

Some soccer mom will steal, right out from under you, both the parking spot you've been scouting for hours AND the very last Princess Me dress.

You know the one. The one that your niece said she'd DIE over if she didn't get it for Christmas.

Right. That one.

Don't let her get away with it. I didn't.


4. MAKE SURE TO HAVE PROPER ID.

For when you get detained by the KB Toys security guard because you issued a teeny-weeny threat to the soccer mom.

I wasn't serious.

Sheesh.


3. KEEP EXPECTATIONS LOW. VERY LOW.

The folks working the registers didn't want to serve you LAST week.

They pretty much hate your guts on Black Friday.

They had to get up at midnight to open the store.

They've spent hours dodging harried customers who were assaulting the aisles, fighting each other to be the first to get a laptop, TV or GPS system.

They don't want to deal with your coupons, questions, indecisiveness or your irritation at having to stand in line for hours (even if it DOES appear that there are 12 empty registers and 14 employees "overseeing" the store - read, doing nothing.)

How dare you question that.


2. DON'T GO HUNGRY.

You'll be sorry.

Because no one else will have thought to eat either - their heads full of sales papers, coupons, long lines and family holiday wish lists.

Every single establishment that even LOOKS like it serves food will have a two hour wait.

Even the lil' pretzel and lemonade stand in the mall will have a line that wraps around Santa's play land. Of course, there's only one person working and she'd rather be making out with her high school boyfriend, but that's neither here nor there.

Just make sure you eat.


1. GO EARLY.

And by early, I mean, early enough to pick off whoever was crazy enough to forgo sleep and stand in line for hours...in the dark...in the cold.

Your brass knuckles will come in handy.

So will the nutrients from the meal you remembered to eat.

And the element of surprise - I find yelling "Shit! That store over there just opened!" works on some tired, frost-bitten folks.

....

So, there you have it.

Black Friday...it's all about the preparation, kids.

I realize I probably should have posted this BEFORE the biggest shopping day of the year, but I haven't ventured out in years and I needed to make sure my tips were still relevant.

They are.

Happy Turkey Day!!

Here's hoping that wherever you are, and whomever you are celebrating with...

you remember to eat dessert first.

always eat dessert first.

that way you know you have room for it.

for more helpful "how to gain a million pounds during a holiday meal" tips, feel free to contact me.

I am experienced and come with references and a photo of my fat ass.

Cheers!

ps. I'm more thankful for my girlfriend, my friends and my family than I have ever been.

Ever.

pss. I'm also truly thankful for my amazing online network of blogging friends - ya'll rock! Thanks for reading and for commenting.

now where's that dessert....

Sit and Spit.

I'm six years older than my brother Brett..which means that for a good portion of our youth, I was bigger and stronger than he was.

My size advantage was a huge perk whenever he needed to be tortured.

My most favorite torture treatment involved me pushing my scrawny brother over onto his back and straddling him so that I was sitting on his stomach. I'd hold his arms over his head and hock a big ol' loogie.

Once I felt like I had a sufficient amount of spit collected in my mouth, I'd bring my face close to his and ignoring his screams, I'd let it dangle, slowly, from my lips.

Once it got within millimeters of his face, I'd slurp it back up.

Repeat cycle.

Again.

And then again.

If my mother heard his pleas for help, she ignored them.

I'd eventually stop...after Brett promised to make my bed, do my chores and let me watch whatever I wanted on TV that night.

Welp, as you might expect, Brett grew bigger and stronger and developed his own forms of torture. I've paid dearly for terrorizing him. Over and over and over again.

Needless to say, my loogie trick has been dormant, collecting dust and living only in my favorite childhood memories.

Until yesterday.

I walked into the bedroom and there was April, laying on her back, on the bed.

She'd just gotten home from work and wanted a few "quiet minutes."

Quiet schmiet.

Within seconds, the idea popped into my head and I was twelve years old again.

I charged the bed, jumped on top of her and started laughing hysterically.

Her eyes popped open and she immediately started struggling.

She knew something bad was about to go down.

I fought to get her arms above her head, and then got my big loogie ready.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK.

"Heather! Heather! What are you doing? Stop it! Let me up!"

Slowly I bent my head down and started to let it drop.

She lost her damn mind.

"OH MY GOD. Stop! Stop!" She started flinging her head left and right.

It's hard to dangle spit when you are laughing so hard you're crying.

Really hard.

"HEATHER! You know I have flavors of OCD! STOP! Please. PLEASE. Stop!"

Ya'll, I couldn't if I wanted to. Not at this point.

I was hysterical.

The loogie was so long it was THISCLOSE to her face.

I tried to slurp it up.

Too late.

It dropped.

Right on her nose.

"ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! GOD HEATHER!!!!"

She threw me off of her and ran into the bathroom.

I think I remained on the bed, in a fit of giggles, for about 20 minutes.

Which is how long it took her to wash her face 100 times over.

She said I should be ashamed. And that I'm too grown for such behavior.

Clearly she doesn't know me at all.

I'd do it again.

And will.

Off to Grandma's House We Go....

Apes and I are getting ready to hit the road - we're on our way to visit her Mom and Mamaw for the Thanksgiving Day Holiday.

I don't have time to post a new blog today...but hold tight and I promise you that Mamaw will give me something to blog about. It'll probably be something similar to THIS older post...:

Grannys and Gays...Oh My!
I love me some Mamaw Erma, I do.
Hell, I hope I'm as spry as April's grandma (Mamaw) when I'm 84...and that someone is writing a blog about me.

Here's a snapshot: she sleeps with a gun, locks her bedroom door to keep the crazies out (it's just us in the house when we visit, but I guess I see her point), and if she doesn't have her hearing aides in, you can bet her response to you will be "WHAT? I DON'T HEAR TOO GOOD."

I always know when April is talking to Mamaw on the phone because she starts screaming. And by screaming, I mean I think *I* have permanent hearing loss.

At the end of every call, Mamaw will say to April, "You tell That Girl I love her."

She calls me "That Girl" not because she's being rude, but because she truly can't remember my name. Even though April and I have dated for two years.

It doesn't bother me. I think it's sweet.

At the very least, I was CERTAIN it was an indication that she knew April and I are more than just room mates.

I mean, sure, she's old and can't hear, but Lord, she's not blind. They've never had "the talk," but April and I sleep in the same bed when we visit. We hug - a lot. April never comes home without me and she's had several girl friends before me (we won't get into numbers here, but rest assured Mamaw has met her fair share of gay girls...).

We assumed she knew and just preferred not to talk about it. Until April's mom called after we got home from a family trip we took to Myrtle Beach.

April and I, , April's mom and Mamaw, and April's sister Teri and her husband Jay, spent a few days together. We had a blast. I had a particularly good time sparring with Jay. He's funny as all get out and we're constantly digging at each other, going for the biggest laugh. There's lots of butt smacking and teasing...It's what we do.

So, April's mom calls and she's busting a gut. She's just had dinner with Mamaw and Mamaw is concerned. Out of the blue, she says," I wouldn't trust THAT GIRL. I wouldn't. Not if I were Teri. You can tell she's after Jay. She is. I'm telling you, I wouldn't trust her."

April's mom said she had to get up from the dinner table and leave the room. Had she stayed, Mamaw probably wouldn't have heard her laughing, but you never know. Sometimes we question how deaf she really is. She's a smart lady and could have us all fooled.

I stood dumbfounded as April relayed this story to me.

By way of explanation, April went on to say that paranoia is not uncommon as people age and that I DID smack Jay's butt several times. And that he DID say he loved me a lot. And back in Mamaw's day, that kind of teasing meant you liked the boy.

BACK IN MAMAW'S DAY you wore rags instead of tampons and still bought Cokes for a nickel..COME ON.

April's mom made us promise we wouldn't tell Mamaw and we never would. But I have to admit I was worried my relationship with her would change now that she viewed me as a man-hungry, wanna-be husband-stealing hussy. Would she still love THIS GIRL?

Turns out, I had nothing to worry about. We went home this past weekend and Mamaw didn't greet me at the door with a scarlet letter. Just the opposite. I got VERY close to Mamaw Erma this trip. ...

Mamaw wanted her nails painted and April didn't hesitate to offer MY services. I didn't think too much about it until April told Mamaw "to take a bath and make sure to clean her toe nails really good and scrub in between her toes."

I made myself look down at Mamaw's feet. Yellow, long, hard, icky nails.

I looked back at April.

She wasn't doing a very good job hiding her joy at my uncomfortableness.

I mouthed "this is L-O-V-E".

I waited for Mamaw to shower and then I held her feet in my hands and applied some lovely OPI color. I drew the line at cutting her toe nails.

Not long after, April and her mom went out shopping.

I sat down at the table to do some writing and Mamaw went into her room (her locked room) to get ready to go out.

There I was, eating some low-fat Pringles when Mamaw came down the hallway in nothing but her pants...holding out her bra and asking me to help her put it on.

I still haven't recovered.

April and her mother found it all quite amusing when they got home. I bet it was funny....if you weren't me. Probably really funny.

The next day, and an hour or so before we left the house to attend a wedding, Mamaw came out of her room asking for help putting her panty hose on.

I looked at April and with my eyes, I told her "it's YOUR TURN. I'm done".

She didn't argue. How could she?

April went over to help Mamaw, but it quickly became apparent that it was a two-person job.

The hose were tight and Mamaw's arthritis prohibited her from grabbing one side.

I growled internally and headed over to the rocking chair where Mamaw was sitting. I assumed my position.

Together, April and I tugged and pulled, listening as Mamaw reminded us OVER and OVER again that "the dark spot in the middle of the hose has to go between my legs!"

We had sweat dripping in our eyes and sore muscles from tugging. We were, however, successful.

So, there you have it. I'm THAT GIRL. The one who will do anything for Mamaw Erma because I think she's fantastic - even if she has yellow toe nails and no problem walking around with her boobies flying all over the place.

What's not to love?

ps...i also get a kick out of our miscommunication when her hearing aides are out.

Example:

Me: "Mamaw, that dinner was really good! I have some great steak left over for you."

Mamaw: "I don't want any damn cake! My doctor says I'm getting too fat. I don't like my doctor too much."

See. I heart her.

How can you not?

Patience...Grasshopper

I think I might be one of the most impatient people on the planet.

It's a big problem for me and I recognize it.

So much so that it's my standard answer to the job interview question: "What is your greatest weakness?"

Probably explains why I don't receive many offers.

But it's true.

April swears my I'm going to give myself a heart attack.

I say if I'm going to have a heart attack, she should at least let me drink my gallon of egg nog in peace.

I am aware of the caloric count. Damn it.

I digress.

Today, I was driving down a busy street when a guy pulled out RIGHT in front of me. And by right in front of me, I mean I think I saw God's white light.

THERE WAS NO ONE BEHIND ME.

Who does that? Seriously. Who?

I lost my mind. Road Rage. I was so mad I gave him the middle finger - and every other one, just for good measure.

April just stared at me from the passenger seat.

"Heather, either you are going to have ridiculous blood pressure, or you're going to kill yourself."

"I don't need to kill myself when that bastard is out on the road and can do it for me."

"Mhmm. Breathe....breathe...."

I gave her the finger too. Damn therapists.

The thing is, I don't think I could control it even if I wanted to.

My reaction to things is pretty immediate - whether it's good, bad, or impatient.

If I've explained the same thing several times (and I have to do it again), I get snappy.

If I am ready to be finished with something and April isn't, I can be pretty miserable.

If your job is to help me, and you don't, I'm not very understanding.

If you pull out in front of me and THERE IS NO ONE BEHIND ME, your car better be faster than mine.

'Member when the movie Karate Kid came out and Miyagi was teaching a young Ralph Macchio patience (and some mad fighting skills) by making him wax a bunch of cars.

Wax on. Wax off.

Ralph complained and wanted to quit, but Miyagi said:

"Patience, young grasshopper...."

Pretty much everyone in my life has uttered that phrase to me at least once.

I never did like that Miyagi guy.

Or waxing my car.

Tics.

It's true...

I've been called a weepy, sappy, person before - but I don't normally start my Sunday mornings by crying in bed.

Damn Tivo and Montel Williams.

I had no idea what I was in for when I pressed PLAY.

I watched a few segments about a courageous mother fighting her son's Autism.

Who knew that 1 in 99 children are born with it? That's a frightening statistic.

I got a lump in my throat as this mom talked about how isolating it is to have a child who doesn't speak, connect or even seem like he knows you.

My lip quivered as Kenneth Bock, a prominent DAN (Defeat Autism Now) doctor, offered to help this woman's son in any way possible.

I don't know if I've ever seen a person truly light up with hope before. From the inside out. This woman did. I watched it happen.

I gave a watery smile.

Clearly teetering on the edge of a major feel-good cry, I was defenseless against Montel's next guest.

Brie.

Brie broke my heart.

Brie turned me into a blubbering idiot.

Brie may be the only talk show guest ever to convince me to open my wallet.

She has the most aggressive form of Tourettes, a condition that causes extreme body and vocal tics.

She can't walk without assistance.

She's fearful about holding a fork.

She's accidentally stabbed herself in the stomach because of her tics.

She doesn't cook because a tic may make her grab a hot stove eye.

She couldn't even cry without interruption. She was trying, that much was clear.

But. the. tics. interrupted. her.

Saying "I'm fat" over and over again also got in the way of her tears.

She's not fat. She's beautiful.

And she's desperate for an experimental surgery where electrodes are connected from the brain through wires under the skin (beneath the scalp, neck and upper chest) to an implanted battery just beneath the collarbone.

The surgery isn't guaranteed to work, but several patients have experienced immediate and nearly complete resolution of symptoms.

The problem:

The surgery costs $80,000.00

Brie can't work. She doesn't have insurance.

She wants to work. Desperately.

She wants to walk. More than anything.

She wants people to stop laughing at her. The pain in her eyes says so.

Montel was clearly as moved as I was.

He set up a fund for Brie.

I was so touched that I'm going to contribute.

I wish I could find a video clip to post here and share with you.

The best I can do is ask you to check out a very small clip on Montel's site by clicking HERE (click on the picture in the article).

Please think about giving, even a small donation, if you:

can walk without falling

can talk without saying something offensive (that you didn't mean to say)

enjoy the ability to contribute to society

get to eat in restaurants without people pointing or laughing

have never broken a bone because your arms do what you tell them to

get to leave your home more than once a week

If you want to help change Brie's life, you can send a check made payable to "Brie's Medical Fund" to:

Brie's Medical Fund
P.O. BOX 6755
ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
28816

Gifts are not tax-deductible.

I know this post is way out of my norm, but I can't help it.

I was that moved. And I'm not even on my period.

Snores and Pits.

My dog Rosie is snoring right now.

It truly may be one of my most favorite sounds in the whole world.

It's a half snort, half wheeze.

I hope she starts dreaming soon. I love to watch her paw the air.

She's all curled up in April's pit.

That used to be my spot.

Before I got booted.

The two of them...sound asleep.

I love them so much it hurts sometimes.

...novel writing is coming along slowly. novel writing explains the short post tonight. novel writing also explains the 1/2 bottle of pinot in my belly....

I like my legs. I'd like to keep them.

So, April has pretty much been flying under the radar lately...giving me absolutely nothing to shame her about in my blog.

Not that she's easy to shame. Normally she just wraps herself in some therapeutic white light and repeats the "this is about her, not about me" mantra.

I still really don't have anything to SHAME her about, but I do need to vent for a second.

I should not fear amputation when out walking our dogs.

I just shouldn't.

But April absolutely refuses to practice leash etiquette.

We have three dogs...which, as you might expect, requires three leashes.

When going for a walk, one of us will grab two leashes, the other will lasso the last dog and be in charge of the plastic poop bag.

When *I* am the one walking two dogs at a time, I pay attention to the little things...like, oh...April's extremities.

If she's walking in front, I make sure to control how much slack I allow the retractable leashes so that there's no danger of her getting hog tied.

Being committed to April's safety has, at times, come at a cost. I can't tell you how many dislocated shoulders I've nearly suffered because one of our dogs spotted a stray cat and tested the leash limit.

You'd think she'd be grateful. Or at least show me the same courtesy.

Nope.

Apes gets completely lost in her own little world and lets the dogs run amok when she's responsible for walking two at a time.

Tonight's walk began with me jumping in and out of crossed leashes more times than I could count.

My irritated grunts and heavy sighs went unnoticed.

April was too busy patting herself on the back for making a "Fall" joke. That's right. A Fall joke. A seasonal "funny" that she made up all by herself.

She thinks there's no better time than the Fall to tell whoever you are irritated at to "leaf you alone."

Right. It's not funny.

Neither was her ignoring our dogs as they wrapped themselves so tightly around my legs that they nearly amputated them mid-calf.

It took several minutes to free myself. I spent the entire 120 seconds reminding April that her leash skills suck a big one.

I went so far as to remind her that we have a yard. With some grass. And even a fence.

A place for the dogs that doesn't require leashes or an ambulance.

I got no response.

I'm certain it's because she couldn't see me for the white light .... or hear me over her mantra.

The Sweetest Wish.

I never really had a favorite Thanksgiving moment until a few years ago.

Favorite traditions, yes. Favorite memory, not really.

A few of my favorite family traditions include:

- Playing the Chipmunks Christmas album while making the turkey dinner

- Family football

- Decorating our Christmas tree the weekend after our day of thanks.

I treasure those traditions, but not as much as I treasure this memory:

I'd flown home to Boston to spend Turkey day with my parents.

It was early in the morning and my mom and I were in the kitchen.

I was thoroughly enjoying her company and thinking about how good it felt to finally REALLY connect. We've always been a close family, but until I came out to them, I always felt like a liar.

I was terrified if I told my parents who I really was, they'd disown me. Be ashamed. Be embarrassed.

I couldn't stand the thought.

But I told and they didn't. They didn't do any of that.

They struggled with it, to be sure, but my telling the truth did nothing but bring us closer and allow my parents to get to know me better.

I'm one of the lucky ones.

So, there we were, doing dishes together, laughing and singing along with the chipmunks.

I looked down and saw the wishbone of the turkey laying on top of the microwave.

I picked it up.

"Oh," my mom said. "I was saving that for you!"

I grinned and we each gripped a side.

At the last minute, I feared I had the weak side and I made her switch with me.

She just laughed.

I can be competitive.

"Okay," she grinned. "Make a wish."

I closed my eyes.

Made a wish.

Pulled.

The bone snapped.

I had the short end.

"DANG!" I yelled.

I hate losing.

But that feeling was only temporary.

I looked up and there were tears in my mother's eyes.

"It's okay, Heather," she said. "Because my wish was that your wish would come true."

Time stopped for me in that moment.

I am tearing up just writing about it.

I felt so much love in that statement and even more love as she hugged me tightly.

I will always cherish that blip in time.

I wanna know him.

NN (new neighbor) moved into the apartments to the right of our house (directly across from where Brenda Lee lives and searches for change).

He's probably in his late twenties.

He's super thin. Almost too thin.

I've never seen him wear anything but khaki pants and a blue and white striped shirt.

He walks with a bit of limp.

His hair is usually disheveled, but he has a good looking goatee.

He drives a white sedan, which he parks in the exact same spot every day.

And by "exact same spot", I mean he measures it (by lining up the side mirror of his car with a particular notch on the tree outside Brenda Lee's house).

He parks. Gets out. Looks to see if his car is lined up with the notch.

If not, he gets back in, re-parks.

Looks again.

I've seen him do this three or four times in a row.

Once he's parked, he gets out and circles his car.

I'm not sure what he's looking for.

After making a full rotation, he opens the left passenger side door.

If there's something in the backseat, he starts the unloading process.

One. thing. at. a. time.

Taking whatever it is from the backseat, across the street, up the stairs to his apartment complex.

Five minutes later, he's back at his car, ready to select the next item.

I've seen him take one can out of a grocery bag.

Across the street he goes, holding the can carefully, up the stairs and into his apartment.

It routinely takes him 20 minutes to unload one bag of groceries.

He's lived next door for several weeks now.

On multiple occasions, I've wanted to introduce myself.

But he always seems too focused on his rituals.

I hate to interrupt. And I know he probably wouldn't accept my help.

It's clearly obsessive compulsive disorder and I feel for him.

I want to meet him.

He intrigues me.

I'm sure he's a nice guy.

We need more of those 'round here.

Novel Idea.

So, I let Lisa talk me into writing a novel in November.

In October, it sounded like a great idea.

The thought of an online community of writers all busting their asses to commit a first draft to paper seemed to be just what I needed.

I've been trying to write a novel for, oh, 7 years.

Seven years.

The word procrastination doesn't even seem adequate anymore.

Lisa's nudging got me back on the bandwagon and I thought creating an online account would be like going to the gym.

I hate to sweat alone, but if I can hear the grunt and screams of other people experiencing the same pain, it helps.

Clearly, exercising my body and my mind are not one and the same (and who am I kidding...my ass hasn't been to the gym since March).

It's nearly mid November and I haven't written one word.

Not one.

I've thought about it a lot, but this is "Write a Novel in November" month.

Not..."Think About Writing a Novel in November" month.

Here's the problem (as I see it today):

I have no damn clue HOW to write a novel.

Sure, I have a bookcase full of books that tell me how, but that would require effort and I don't want to READ about writing a novel.

I just want to write one.

Without effort.

And have it be a best seller.

Without effort.

It's the effort thing that's ruining it for me.

Not having a clue about how to start or what to write about are also clear contributors to my no-novel-in-November.

It's all good though.

When I get stuck, I just shut my eyes and imagine sitting on Oprah's couch in two years, telling her how I never thought my best selling novel would ever see daylight. I tell her about this blog post. I wonder aloud about how amazing it is that I managed to write my first draft in just fifteen days. I recall how a wave of creativity flooded my body, allowing me to write non stop, page after page. I shed a tear and quiver as I remember being contacted by an agent and a publisher.

Okay. Fine.

I try to picture all that stuff.

What really comes to mind is me sitting on the couch handing my mom a copy of my book printed on used computer paper.

But she'll love it.

And probably even pretend to be Oprah.

Thermostat Wars.

Tonight may be the night April loses an arm.

Possibly both arms.

I'm ready to do whatever I have to do.

If she even LOOKS like she's taking a step toward our thermostat, I'll gnaw her arms off with my teeth.

Seriously.

It may sound extreme, but she's a therapist and should KNOW how forcing someone to live and sleep in the freezing cold can mess with a person's (fragile) mental state.

April doesn't feel it's necessary to have the heat above 60 degrees (at any given time). I'm quite certain there are meat lockers warmer than 60 degrees.

Every time I pass the thermostat, I set it at 68. I wait for the fire icon to make an appearance and then run to the vent to make sure I hear it kick on. I'm always relieved to know I can take off six layers of clothing and actually ENJOY being in my own house.

Of course, the moment she hears the house rumble with heat, she goes into stealth mode....tip toeing down the stairs and inching along the walls until she reaches the thermostat, setting it back to "give Heather hypothermia."

She used to get away with it.

Now I'm onto her.

I've caught her coming down the stairs.

"AHA! Don't even think about it!"

"What?"

"Dude, I know what you are trying to do. You can just walk your happy ass right on past that thermostat."

She usually makes some plea and argues that our gas bill will put us in the poor house.

Blah blah blah.

I realize that I have a sensitivity to being cold, but her demands are unreasonable.

At this very moment, my hands are like ice cubes and I'm in a long sleeved shirt, sweat pants, a sweatshirt AND a jacket.

All because she insists on turning the heat to 60 every morning as we leave for work.

I hate coming home to a freezing, cold house, but she won that particular argument by saying something like, "you could get your hair cut and colored with the money we save!"

My need for $180 salon appointments momentarily clouded my judgment and I agreed.

The house was an ice box when we got home this afternoon.

In fact, it was so cold I felt compelled to ask April if our looking at frozen sperm this weekend confused her. I explained that frozen eggs aren't necessary.

After much therapeutic discussion, we agreed that whenever we're home, the thermostat can be set at 68.

But I've caught her cheating.

Edging it down to 65.

My body knows. I can sense the change.

Especially when she gets uber sneaky and turns the heat down when I'm sleeping.

That's right.

Sweet, little April waits until I'm most vulnerable to the cold and with little to no remorse, cuts off my heat supply.

I routinely wake up shivering with blue lips.

Who does that to someone they love?

It's proving to be a real problem.

And now that it's getting colder, we're having thermostat wars in the car too.

The kind that put both our lives at risk.

The madness needs to stop.

And if that requires April having stumps where her arms once were, then so be it.

Pickler Prevails.

I've never ever been a Kellie Pickler fan.

Not when she was playing dumb on American Idol.

Not when she got a lot of press because of her broken home life (even though I truly felt for her).

Not when she began to experience some success in Nashville.

I always kind of thought she was mediocre.

My mother has loved her from the beginning. She's tried to convert me.

I wasn't having it.

Tonight, I'm caving.

Her performance on the Country Music Awards moved me to tears.

I've heard her sing this particular song ("I Wonder") a million times on the radio.

I know it's dedicated to the mother who abandoned her as a little girl.

It's never moved me to tears.

It did tonight.

She broke down while singing it on stage and she took me with her.

So, fine.

I'll eat my words and say it...

I PICK PICKLER.

Here's a clip:



I hate when I have change my stance on something....

Our Baby Daddy.

Apes and I spent several hours this weekend contemplating our baby daddy.

Who knew frozen sperm came with so many options!

Prior to our search, we narrowed down our criteria:

1) Dude has to have some brains. Especially since I'll be the carrier and no child should ever start life with me being the smarter of the two genetic providers.

2) He should have a baby picture on file that makes us go "awwww," instead of "ooooh, bless his heart." Especially since the sperm bank is gonna charge us $50 to see his picture.

3) He has to be donating for the right reasons (or at least be smart enough to say he is). Anyone who answers the question of "Why are you donating?" with "I need beer money" is gonna have to set up shop in someone else's womb.

4) Our baby daddy should have a healthy family and be telling the truth when he reports that mom doesn't do heroin and pappy wasn't a drunk.

5) He's gonna have to be an "open donor" which means he agrees to keep his information on file should our kid decide to contact him after turning 18. I tell people we are choosing this option in case of a medical complication, but the truth is, I'll need to know where to find him for a Come to Jesus meeting if my kid wants to do crazy, unexplainable (and unacceptable) things like: listen to Rush Limbaugh or write a high school paper about Ann Coulter's positive contributions to society.

Other than those few things, we're not all that picky.

Obviously, we want him to have good swimmers, so if he's knocked someone else up, that's a good sign.

It ain't cheap to be gay and preggers.

Once we decided upon our frozen sperm criteria, April and I split up.

I holed up in our downstairs office while she curled up in the recliner in front of the fireplace.

Within moments, we were each logged into the Fairfax, VA cryobank website.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of selection....

Click this box for ethnicity.

This one for education.

That one for eye color. Hair color. Blood type.

Click. Click. Click.

After filling in all the boxes (and creating my ideal baby daddy), I hit "view options" and shifted nervously in my seat, waiting to see if he even existed.

You have 4 matches popped up on my screen.

"Only FOUR?" I muttered. Seriously? Out of ALL the people leaving, um, deposits, only FOUR of them meet our criteria?

It's the open donor thing. Clearly they've been warned about lesbians like me.

Before we took our positions at opposite ends of the house, April and I agreed we'd do individual searches, pick our favorites and see if there was any crossover.

If there was, we'd spend the money on ordering baby photos, audio files, full questionnaires, and anything else that would help put a face on the sperm.

After I dissected all the information provided online for each donor, I looked at my list.

I'd whittled it down to Two.

One "Yeah, he looks great" and one "eh, borderline, but a cute baby photo could sway me."

I hollered, "I'm done!"

"I'm done too! Read me the donor numbers and we'll see if we have a match."

I rattled off the numbers and she confirmed we did.

One.

YEE HAW!

I drug him into the online "daddy shopping cart."

If he ends up being our winner, it'll cost us $673 for one vial of sperm.

$200 more than the sperm of someone who doesn't hold a Phd.

Which got me thinking....

I could love a baby who grew up to be a surfer...

I know I could.

Finding Fall.

It is absolutely perfect outside right now.

The sun is shining in an electric blue sky.

A constant breeze tickles my face.

The smell of fireplaces and dryer sheets mingle.

Little Joseph is riding his green tricycle down the uneven pavement.

Pumpkins continue to stand guard over front doorways.

Burnt-colored leaves litter the pavement, swishing with every step I take.

Cheers of joy echo in the air as moms and dads root from the sidelines at a nearby park.

My dog Stewart is sunning on the back porch, his brilliant blue eyes tracking the squirrels as they chase each other from branch to branch.

In the light of this amazing day, I find myself filled with gratitude for my slice of this thing we call life.

Grateful, I am.

Shameful.

I am so over apologies from people who are only sorry they got caught.

Dog The Bounty Hunter is an ass. If you haven't heard his racial tirade (left on his son's cell phone), HERE it is. He drops the N word more times than I bat my eyelashes and is enraged because his son is dating one of these "low lifes."

Now that the message has been released to the public, he is "embarrassed and sorry," and as you might expect, his words were "taken out of context." In fact, he is SO sorry that he's invited the Reverend Al Sharpton to counsel him and better educate him on the African American culture (not unlike radio show Imus's "emergency" meeting with Sharpton and Jesse Jackson after he referred to the women's Rutgers basketball team as "nappy headed hos".

Dog and Imus's REAL thoughts behind these meetings: "Oh, shit. I'm busted and I'm going to get fired and not make millions and millions of dollars. Quick, call my public relations people, have them write a very, very sincere apology and then invite any and all powerful black men to meet with me. Just make sure it's done publicly."

I have no doubt that after his "session of enlightenment" takes place, Dog will burn any "soiled" furniture that Sharpton sat on (or touched or even looked at) and will scrub his skin raw after making a public show of shaking the Reverend's hand.

Dog is only one in a very, very long list of stupid, racist, judgemental celebrities and public figures who are making these completely insincere apologies.

John Rich, of Big and Rich (country music group), recently did an interview and equated gay marriage with incest. The moment his comments spread like wildfire across radio and the Internet, he released a statement saying (shocker) that his "words were taken out of context" and he meant no "disrespect."

Oh. Sure. None taken. Besides, I was too busy trying to have sex with my goat to be offended anyway.

I just hope he can enter "gay rehab" like Isaiah Washington from Grey's Anatomy (TV show). I'm sure he'll NEVER EVER say "faggot" again.

At least, not out loud.

It really infuriates me.

I mean, if you are gonna spew your racist and homophobic thoughts, then at least stand by your hate-filled convictions. Don't insult me a second time by thinking I'll buy your pathetic attempt at public remorse.

You didn't write your apology. You don't even have any idea how it reads. You work for people who work for people and you all need to make money.

The end.

Be a racist. Or a homophobe.

That's who you are.

If you're going to be ignorant enough to voice your hatred, at least have the balls to stand by it and be an unemployed racist or homophobe.

Quick Note: I think I've lost my mind, but I let Lisa over at OMYWORD convince me to join a mass of writers who are all dedicated to writing a novel in November. If you too are crazy in the head and would like to conquer your fear of the novel (or just want to find out more information), visit the National Novel Writing Month website HERE.

Now that I've signed up, I'm ignoring the "what in the mother Hell am I doing?" cacophony rattling around in my head and trying to buckle down and do some writing. I might be a little absent this month as far as commenting on your blogs, but know I'm reading!