Sounds Like....

Here's yet another reason why I love my dad.

No matter how old I am, I can call him and say:

"Okay, so the gears in my car are popping and I'm hearing this pop-schwwww-pop-scwwww-grrr noise. Know what that is?"

He'll think for a second and give me his opinion.

He's usually right.

Even though he's in Boston and I'm in Virginia and he can't see my car.

Or hear the noise for himself.

When I was in college at FSU, my car died on the highway and the first call I made was to my dad.

To tell him all the noises my car made before it completely died on me.

It was 2am.

His time.

My parents were living in Italy.

No ocean was going to separate me from my sound diagnostician.

Today, I called my dad with the estimate from the shop.

A whopping $1,600 to fix my clutch issue.

I told him I thought April was going to sell my car and give me a POGO stick.

She's tired of bleeding money when it comes to my Saab.

Being the super dad that he is, he called the shop to talk to them.

Make sure I wasn't being taken for a ride.

I love that man.

And I love that he can still make me feel like daddy's little girl.

No matter how old I get.

And that sounds like....awwwwwwwwwww

If you know my dad, don't tell him I was mushy.

He'll get a big head.

Seriously.

Time's a Runnin' Out...

Today is the last day you can vote for your favorite blogs in the 2008 Bloggie Awards!

If'n you wanna vote for me (she says, crossing her fingers), click on the link to the right of this post ----->.

Once you submit your email for voting purposes, you'll have to verify the link they send to your email account - in order for your vote to count.

THANK ALL OF YOU who have gone out of your way to help secure votes for me.

I'm still really blown away by it all and regardless of the outcome, I already feel like I've won.

I've experienced a big surge in new readers.

New readers become new friends - and for me, that's what it's all about!

Happy voting!

Update. On 3pm.

Six months ago, I published a blog titled 3pm.

I have an update on that blog. But first, here's how the post read:

3pm.

The time of April's doctor's appointment today.

We rode in relative silence on the way to the hospital.

She had that look. The furrowed brow, the focused eyes, the jumping leg.

I touched her knee. Softly.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

"Yeah," she said. Looking in my eyes...and then away, quickly.

"Hey, I want you to know something." I squeezed her knee.

She looked at me as I pulled the car into a spot. Her chin quivered.

"I will love you if you don't have hair. I will love you if you don't have breasts. I will ALWAYS love you."

I meant it.

If the doctor's x-rays showed that April has breast cancer, I'd be scared, I'd be sad, I'd be mad, but I wouldn't be absent.

April rested her head on my shoulder as tears streamed quietly down her cheeks, leaving miniature puddles on her leg.

"Thank you," she said. "I love you."

"I love you too."

We walked into the office and they called her back.

One hour passed.

I started to pace, trying to peek behind the receptionist's desk to see if I could catch a glance of April. I couldn't.

Two hours passed and I started, on three different occasions, to ask about her. I didn't. I wanted to know and was scared to know.

Every time the door opened, I caught my breath. And let it out in quick bursts when it wasn't her on the other side.

Finally. She came out and searched the waiting room for me.

I met her eyes...desperate to know what truth they held.

She smiled. I smiled. We walked out and hugged.

The doctor was looking for a lump felt in an earlier routine gynecologist visit. He had to take several x-rays to make sure he knew what he was looking at.

Thankfully, it doesn't appear to be cancer.

He told April he wants to see her in six months just to be sure.

He can see her in six months just as long as I get to see her for the next sixty years.

......

update:

Welp, it's been six months and Apes went in for her follow-up appointment today.

Even though she felt pretty good about things, she was still nervous.

I was trying not to be.

Thankfully, we have good news.

The doc says Ape's breasts are perfectly healthy and she doesn't have to come back for a year.

We are relieved and grateful.

And also HUGE believers in annual exams.

Please, please...if you do nothing else for yourself, make sure you are religious about your annual exams.

Early detection is so important.

Learning the truth about a lump can be scary, but not facing it can cost valuable time.

In honor of Ape's appointment today, we're buying several Save Second Base t-shirts.



I first learned about the campaign after reading one of Lisa's posts.

I loved the story behind the shirts and meant to buy one.

But before I could get to it, my friend Laura beat me to it.

She purchased a shirt for me and put it in the mail.

I LOVE it.

Now, I'd like to buy a few more to give to friends and family.

The shirts are adorable and the woman behind the slogan is truly inspiring.

Check out the website. You'll be glad you did.

Hello. It seems so simple....

I'm almost embarrassed to post this, but it's happening.

And it's awkward.

I have no idea if you'll relate (or if you'll just think this is ridiculous), but here's the story:

There's this woman, about my age, who goes to our gym.

We see her ALL the time.

She's in my yoga class - two mats over.

I feel like I know her better than I should during some of our more complicated poses.

She's in my Body Pump class - the row behind me, three steps over.

We nearly trip over each other at the end of every class, trying to put away whatever weights we willingly selected to torture our bodies with.

It's been weeks of walking by each other, sweating near each other, hanging out in downward-facing-dog together...

After the first week or so, I felt like I should say hello...something....

I started to feel like it was somehow rude or unfriendly not to.

But then, I'd think, 'well, she's not saying anything either,'...and the moment would pass.

She'd be off to a different part of the gym.

Now that it's been several weeks of us NOT acknowledging each other, it's kind of gotten a bit awkward.

We don't even make eye contact when we brush by each other.

It's the strangest thing.

Like...we both feel as if the time for introducing ourselves was weeks ago.

But we didn't.

So now, things are just weird.

A few days ago, I thought I'd nip this in the bud and offer a "hey!"

But I couldn't catch her eye in class.

I kept trying (it was becoming a game to me), but I suddenly realized it might appear as though I was checking her out.

Her fearing me as a potential stalker isn't going to solve this awkward problem.

It's ridiculous, I know.

But I've decided....

I'm going to say hello.

Without scaring her.

I think.

Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No.

That yes/no bit....

That's me going back and forth in my head.

Several of you'uns actually want to hear from someone other than me. (horror).

Ya'll want to ask questions.

Of my mother.

And April.

Get THEIR side of the story.

I'm not sure that's such a good idea.

They could make stuff up.

I already know Apes will say I exaggerate everything (which is a lie and if she wants to tell it, she should pen her own damn blog).

My mother will tell you she hates my potty mouth.

She's got me there.

I have one.

Dammit.

But I gave it some thought.

And I realized...it's my blog and I have veto power!

GAME ON!

My mom and April are willing, so I'm putting it out there.

If you have a question that you'd like to ask either of them, leave me a comment or email it to me at: wishfulwriterblog@yahoo.com.

I'll collect questions - if there are any - all week and then forward them on to the appropriate person.

They'll answer your questions as they have time and I'll post their responses as soon as I get 'em.

May the force be with me...

Usual Random Weekly Update.

Last night's Antigone Rising / Kirsten Price concert at the Birchmere was awesome!

And far as I could tell, my singing offended only the handful of people sitting closest to me.

At my table.

Ok, well, and maybe the people at the table right next to us.

On both sides.

But that's all.

Kirsten pretty much makes love to her guitar every minute of every song.

I've never seen anything like it. I'm sure she can sing well too, but I was distracted.

Anitogne Rising rocked out and blew everyone away.

My favorite part of the night happened when Cassidy, the lead singer, said: "this next song is about a one-night stand."

From the back of the very small room, a child asked, "Mom, what's a one night stand?"

I live for those moments.

Good times, good times.

Although several photos were taken last night, none were flattering of me. Which means, of course, I won't be posting any of them.

Instead, here's a flattering pic of Apes. I could look at her all day. And do.



In other news, my mother just found out about my Bloggie nomination and while she's very excited for me, her first words were:

"Oh my God. Me, your dad and your brother are all over that blog!"

"Right....," I said. "I warn you every time I see you that I have a blog and I'm not afraid to use it."

"I guess..." she trailed off.

I told April about the conversation and she laughed.

She said:

"How does your mother think *I* feel?!"

"You have a good point," I muttered. "You have it MUCH worse..."

Last but not least in the random update category, I think the gears on my Saab are about to give.

'Member back in August when the air conditioner went on the blink and it cost us $2,000.00?

I hate to think how much money we may bleed once this gets fixed.

The mere thought makes me want to use the F word. A lot.

But my mom gets all wonky when she sees I've used the F-word. And she'll probably be checking out today's post to find out more about the Bloggies and read old entries to see just how embarrassed she should be.

So out of respect for her today, I won't write the F-word where she can read it.

I'll just say it where she can't hear it.

Because I love her. And I'm a giver.

Me. In concert.

Well, I'm not actually IN concert.

I'm going TO a concert.

Tonight.

But I plan on singing loudly.

And therefore, can argue that I'm IN concert.

Which will probably piss off everyone who paid a pretty penny to see the performers in such an intimate setting.

Especially because I can't sing.

Not even a little bit.

So if you're planning on going to see Antigone Rising and Kirsten Price tonight, you'll want to chose a table far, FAR away from me.

Because, not only can I not sing, but I don't know all the words and I mumble during those parts.

Loudly.

Anyhoo...

Should anything happen tonight worth reporting, or should any flattering photos be taken of me (hahahahaha), I'll be sure to write a follow up post tomorrow... :)

Oh..there IS that lil' award I've been nominated for.

You know.

The Bloggies.

Votes can be submitted until the evening of January 31st.

I'm not above bribing people for votes, but until I have cold, hard cash to give away, all I can offer are a pair of old Sketchers and a mood ring.

So, if you haven't already done so and you're led to vote for me outta the goodness of your own heart, I'd really appreciate it.

A lot.

You can vote HERE (and scroll down to the GLBT category. You can also vote for blogs in a million other categories).

peace, love and puppies,

H

Six Things and A Bloggie Plea.

Ya'll, please vote! April says she'll take me to McDonalds if I win. This is serious. I need you!



Click HERE to vote and HERE to read the full post about my totally unexpected (but obviously welcome) nomination!

On to today's post.

It's a meme.

I'm supposed to share six non-important facts or quirks about myself.

I've told you people everything already.

You already know about my one-eyed dawg.

And how I nearly amputated my own finger when I was a toddler (trying to get to food in the kitchen...shocking, I know).

I told you how I hurt my arm trying to jump into my dad's Nissan all Duke's of Hazard style.

And that I hate mustard. There's no sense in it.

You know I love my Granny and that I named my guitar (that I can't play) after her. Bettye Ruth.

So....all that to say, I'm digging deep.

If you're totally bored reading this, you can thank Wendy and MLC because they tagged me.

I just do what I'm told.

Ask Apes.

Here goes:

1) I don't buy into the whole "my bra and underwear have to match" girlie nonsense. I leave so little time for myself to get ready for work that it's a miracle I manage to put any on in the first place. As long as the only holes in my undergarments are for arms and legs, I'm good.

2) Here's how my parents found out I was gay. My mom suspected and cornered me in the public restroom of an Audi dealership. We were dressed formally for my cousin's wedding and killing time car shopping for my brother before the ceremony. True story. Thank God no one else needed to tinkle at the same time my mother needed to know if I was gay. I told the truth, she said she loved me, and my life started...really started...right then.

3) I almost always have dirt under my fingernails and I don't know why. I'm forever taking the stylus pen out of my Treo phone and using it to dig the dirt out from under my jagged nails (I'm a nail peeler too). Wow. I sound really attractive right now, don't I?

4) I have a mole in my right arm pit and it's a bitch to shave around. Please, someone, design a razor to help me out. I can't be the only person on the planet with this problem. I shouldn't live in fear of my mole. But I do. It bleeds if I'm not careful. Which is a lot. Help. Please.

5) I am not a fan of little woven baskets. I'm just not. I think I've finally weeded them all out of our house. Seriously. What is it with the baskets? One for rubber bands, one for toilet paper, one for magazines, one to hold all the other baskets I hate. No No No. Gone. All of them. I have no need for order, so bring on the disarray. April, however, will be covered in hives until we find a better solution.

6) Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby" still makes me smile. If I hear the words "ice" and "baby" in the same sentence I have to stop whatever I'm doing and sing the entire song - out loud - or else I can't get it off my mind or focus on something else.

Which, of course, means I have to sing it. Right now.

You can either imagine me singing really off tune, or you can just head on over to Wendy and MLC's blog sites to blame them for the nonsense you just read.

However.

I did warn you.

At least I spared you my thesis on the TiVo remote...

2008 Bloggie Finalist? REALLY?! Wow. Just Wow.

I'm still stunned that my little blog is a finalist in the GLBT category for the 2008 Bloggies.

I was at work today when I got the news.

There I was, my feet propped up on my desk, shooting on of my kids the evil eye for not doing his 3rd grade history lesson.

My phone vibrated.

I took it out from under my butt.

i kid, i kid.

I picked it up off the desk.

I had an email.

Lori had left a comment on my blog.

It read:

HEATHER! Don't scream.

You are a FINALIST for the 2008 Bloggies under the BEST GLBT category. We're spreading the word.

And - Lesbiatopia is in there too!

CONGRATULATIONS! Now, everybody - just go out there and vote now, there's only a few days to do it!

I re-read the email. Twice.

Then I put my phone down.

I picked it back up ... to see if the message was still there.

It was.

I threw caution to the wind and ran around the room like a crazy person.

The kids didn't bat an eyelash.

It's pretty typical behavior for me.

Winning the coveted Bloggie is going to be tough as I have some really incredible competition.

They are:

Lesbiatopia (one of my personal favorite sites)

Puntabulous

Perez Hilton

Good As You

I'm truly stoked that the GLBT community is included in these awards.

The sites listed above offer a great mix of humor, pertinent political information, sexual advice, coming-out tips, celebrity gossip and more.

Much more.

So, here's the deal.

Should, after perusing all the nominated sites in my category, you'd still like to vote for me, here's how you can do so:

Visit the Bloggies website HERE.

You'll see a whole bunch of information at the top of the page. Just keep scrolling down until you see the GLBT category.

VOTE! :)

Scroll all the way down to the end of the page and enter in whatever crazy code they give you.

Then give 'em your email.

They'll send a confirmation to your email account and you have to click on the link in order for your vote to be valid.

My guess is that's because they know I'd vote for myself a million times and give them bogus emails accounts.

Why? Because I have no shame.

Voting ends at 10:00pm on January 31st.

Once you've voted, if you could ask your friends, dogs, neighbors, co-workers, pizza delivery guy and facebook/myspace friends to vote, that would rock.

I'd be really grateful.

You can't see me right now, but I have my head bowed.

In gratitude.

I'm so thankful that I'm ignoring the fact that when I bow my head, I have a double chin.

Thanks to everyone who has supported, promoted and taken the time to comment on my blog.

A special shout out to CJ who has been with me from day one of this thing; to Paula for continuing to promote it via MIXX; and to Lori who already has a link up on her site for people to vote for me.

PS: Wendy and MLC both tagged me with a meme today.

Which means I'm working on coming up with six things to tell ya'll about myself.

That I haven't already told you.

I might be forced to make something up.

Or else subject you to how I think the manufacturers of the TIVO remote messed up on the buttons.

Decisions, decisions.

That post tomorrow :)

TOTAL Shock.

Lori just let me know I'm a finalist for the 2008 Bloggies award in the GLBT category.

I'm in disbelief. Seriously.

Shocked.

Excited.

Grateful. GRATEFUL.

Did I mention GRATEFUL?

I'm still at work and will post more on how you can vote for me, should you choose to, later tonight.

It is such an honor to be included in this category (I just kicked myself for actually writing that cliche, but it's true. Really, really true).

Thank you to EVERYONE who voted to keep me as a finalist!

Peace, love and puppies.

H

Do your 27 Dresses Fit Better than Fame?

I must be the only person on the planet who doesn't think Katherine Heigl is better than boobs on a girl right now.



She's EVERYWHERE.

On every magazine cover, TV show and theater screen in America.

Don't get me wrong, she's pretty.

In fact, I had a little crush on her during the first few seasons of Grey's Anatomy.



Her character's quirky, a little spastic and delivers some of the best lines.

I liked that one of her front teeth is a little crooked.

I respected how she took up for T.R. Knight when fellow cast mate, Isaiah Washington, called him a fag and outed him to the world.

She seemed like a cool cat.

I was crushed out on her enough that I went to go see her first big movie, Knocked Up.



I laughed. A lot.

Then she started doing press for the movie.

She was less than humble.

A few of her quotes:

“The movie paints the women as shrews, as humorless and uptight, and it paints the men as goofy, fun-loving guys,” the actress told January's Vanity Fair.

and...

“It was hard for me to love the movie,” she said, even though the comedy elevated her asking price from $300,000 to $6 million for her next flick.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but it's my understanding that Katherine probably saw the script once or twice before she shot the movie, yes?

The content shouldn't have come as a big surprise.

Knocked Up catapulted her into a different realm of stardom and every interview I've read or watched on TV since the movie's release has proven her to be stuck up and stuck on herself.

At least in my humble opinion.

I'm so turned off by her attitude that I won't even go see her new flick, 27 Dresses.

Even though I think it looks really cute.

Which, I'm sure, will cause Katherine great strife and be the reason she takes a good, long look at her behavior.

Award! I wrote a speech. I'm not on strike.

I started blogging as a way for friends and family to keep up with my ridiculous ramblings.

And as a way to hone my writing.

Never did I even consider that blogging would introduce me to new friends who'd begin to FEEL like family.

That's been so much fun.

Apes and I are going to London and Paris in March and we'll be hooking up with Lisa, from OMYWORD.

We won't be alone.

We'll be bringing a special guest with us.

Olga, the traveling bra, will be stowed away in our suitcase (sorry, Olga, but we can't afford a third plane ticket. Lisa's already promised to make it up to you by hanging you from the titty top of the Eiffel Tower).

One of my very first blogging pals was Stealth. I feel like I've known her forever. She's a hysterical blogger, a gutsy woman and someone I'm proud to call my friend.

And those are just a few reasons why I'm honored she awarded my blog with the "You Cheer Me UP" badge. It's me who is grateful and thankful that she's part of my blogging family.



Since passing along along awards doesn't require protection and can't get anyone knocked up, I'd like to do my part.

Brian, over at The Office Blog, is responsible for me ruining several keyboards. I no longer drink my diet coke while reading his posts.

If you are a fan of the TV show The Office, you'll love this blog.

And if you leave Brian a comment, he'll respond.

And his responses are often funnier than the post.

Check him out, kids.

I want a finders fee.

Eye Eye Eye....

Two days after her Lasik surgery, Ape's vision is 20/15 in both eyes (so says the doctor after her check up yesterday).

Translation: my days of being a lazy, messy slob are over.

I liked it better when she had to keep her eyes closed right after surgery.

Now, she's back to seeing my gym clothes on the bathroom floor.

And my half-drunk diet coke on the coffee table.

She's even feeling well enough to use her eyes to give me "the look" after finding a skillet, caked with cooked eggs, in the sink.

Notice, I said IN THE SINK.

I'm getting better people.

A year ago, the pan would have been left on the desk in my office.

Now I use a plate. And a fork, instead of a spatula.

Growth in stages, growth in stages...

But enough about my eggs and back to Ape's eyes.

Lasik is the fast-food of eye care.

Every 30 minutes, the doctor was giving the gift of sight to a new patient.

I know how many surgeries he was doing because I watched them.

That's right.

I watched them.

Only a glass divider separated the lobby and the surgical room.

There was even a big screen that showed you the surgery - close up.

Here's Ape, on the table:



I'm not sure if I was supposed to be taking pictures, so I was all stealth like, holding my phone under my armpit and coughing to cover the "pshhhht" sound that my phone makes every time I take a photo.

If you're planning on having the surgery, don't read the next line.

...they pretty much cut the lens of your eye off using what looks like a can opener.

I had to sprawl out on the lobby floor the first time I watched it being done.

I even threw up in my mouth a little.

Ape swears you can't feel it.

It's probably affected me much more than it has her.

Once they cut the lens and flip it back, they dry your eye with this little sponge and then hit you with the laser.

The whole process, for both eyes, took less than 15 minutes.

The wait to have the surgery - 4 hours.

This particular office booked so many surgeries/consultations that people left happy with their eyes, but pissed with the service.

The wait probably had something to do with the fact this doctor has done all the Washington Redskin's eyes.

Waiting for April, I saw the surgery performed so many times that I'm certain I could do it myself.

I own a can opener.

Thirty minutes after her surgery, she emerged from the back area, wearing dark sunglasses and telling me that she'd been advised to keep her eyes closed if she could.

Immediately, I considered the benefits.

I smiled and took her arm.

Led her to the car.

At home, I put her to bed, helped with the million eye drops and secured her safety goggles.



Those goggles are a good idea.

I accidently elbowed her in my sleep.

RIGHT in the eye.

If she hadn't been wearing those things, our dog wouldn't be the only one-eyed creature in this house.

I have a super powerful elbow...

Here's what you DO need to know if you plan on having the surgery.

You can, and should, negotiate the price.

April knew a friend of hers who got the surgery for $1100 - for both eyes.

When Apes went for her consultation, the office quoted her a price of $4,000.

She mentioned her friend's price, and magically, the sales person dropped $800.00 off the quote.

April said no thanks and that she'd keep looking at other options.

The sales person made an issue of shuffling papers and even left the office for a minute.

She came back in, dropped her voice and whispered a "special" price, JUST for April.

$1,200.00.

But there was a catch.

She HAD to book that very minute.

April is the least spontaneous person on the planet when it comes to money.

She said she wanted to think about it.

The sales person warned April that she wouldn't be able to get the same price if she waited.

She said she'd risk it.

Several days later, April called back and said she'd do it if they'd honor the price of $1200.

Not surprisingly, they said the would. Normally, they wouldn't, but for her they would.

yeah yeah yeah.

Everyone April talked to on the day of her surgery paid $4-5,000.00.

For the same exact surgery.

I have no idea if negotiating for lipo or boob jobs work the same way, but it sure as hell wouldn't hurt to ask.

Blind April.

I'm exhausted.

And April is blind.

Temporarily.

She had Lasik surgery tonight and we just got home.

I'll have an entire blog about this tomorrow.

Tonight, I'm her seeing-eye-dog (if she calls me her "bitch" one more time, I'm going to trip her).

There is a plus side to her not being able to see...

I can throw my clothes all over the floor and she has no clue.

I feel FREE!

Here's a pic of her in her cool night-time goggles.

She gets to wear them while she sleeps for a full week.

Sexy, no?

Mixx it Up.

Just before the holidays, I wrote a post re: my displeasure that the popular Internet bookmarking site DIGG had begun not only banning gay content, but also deactivating the accounts of gay users.

Without explanation.

And without replying to the numerous emails and phone calls that flooded their corporate office.

Which, ironically, is headquartered in San Fransisco, California.

If DIGG were a company that outwardly stated they hate gays, well, then, it is what it is.

But they don't. On the contrary, they often advertise and target the gay population.

They want our dollars.

wrong. wrong. wrong.

Paula over at Lesbiatopia pushed the issue as far as she could and although she never got DIGG to respond, she did manage to get some gay media interested and they are on the case.

She also brought the issue to the attention of Tali, a heterosexual woman who wrote a spot-on article about the situation and was so moved, she's doing something about it. Check out her post HERE.

But enough about DIGG.

I'm tired of wasting space on them.

Besides, there's something much better out there.

Paula told me about it a few weeks ago and I'm loving it.

Mixx is another Internet bookmarking site and they HEART the gays!

And everyone else.

Not to mention it's easier to use than DIGG.

If increasing readership of your blog is a goal, start using it this very second.

Paula was kind enough to submit several of my posts and I've seen an immediate jump in my numbers.

I went to my stat counter and sure enough, the hits are coming from MIXX.

Ya'll write awesome blogs and more people should be reading them.

Give Mixx a shot.

After all, they're giving us gays one.

Body Buy-In.

Dear Heather:

You haven't bothered to acknowledge my existence for going on eight months, so I'm not sure what gives you the right to abuse me now.

You've stretched me, pulled me, strained me and cursed me so many times in the past three weeks that I've had no choice but to fight back.

Build lactic acid.

Make it burn every time you squat to pee.

You can't stop feeding me carbs cold turkey.

It's wrong and uncalled for.

Where are the fries? The mint chocolate chip malt shakes? The fried pickles?

You never even bothered to ASK me if I wanted to hold your heavy-ass leg in an awkward bird-flying-over-the dog yoga position.

And I don't care if that's not the real name of the move.

That shit takes everything I have.

The shaking you feel?

That's me, cussing you. A lot. Loudly.

All I'm asking for is a wee bit of respect.

Damn it.

Signed,

your thigh muscles.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

So, apparently, I have an abnormally high blink reflex.

Who knew?

I learned of my abnormality just yesterday.

At the eye doctor.

As I got fitted for my first pair of soft contacts.

It didn't go well.

And by didn't go well, I mean that the 13-year old boy sitting next to me got his contacts in and out a good 40 minutes before I did.

Fucking show-off.

I hate to put anything in my eyes.

Anything.

In fact, I'd rather let a million grains of sand roll around my cornea than put a single eye drop in.

Which explains why I debated about getting contacts for nearly 12 months.

In the end, I just couldn't handle another year of wearing glasses behind home plate or losing my frames somewhere in the middle of yoga class as I struggled to hold my downward-facing-dog.

I dreaded doing so, but I made my eye appointment anyway.

Turns out...I have astigmatism in both eyes.

Which requires a "more complex" contact lens.

I stopped listening to the doctor after he said something about having to "circle" the lenses onto my eyes - with my finger - to get them into place.

I was silenty debating how vital it really was to see while upside down in yoga.

The doctor turned me lose after my exam and one of his assistants approached me.

She had one of my contacts perched on the tip of her finger.

She explained she would put the lenses in for me the first time.

To make sure they were the right fit for me.

Her finger looked 4-feet long as it closed in on my eyeball.

blink. blink. blink.

"Hold your eye open," she said, calmly.

"I AM!" I said, my head tilted all the way back, tears running down my cheek.

"Your eye is actually closed," she said.

"It can't be!"

I honest to God was trying as hard as I could to keep my eye open.

Nothing going.

She actually had to put NUMBING drops in my eyes in order to get the suckers in.

Which, of course, prompted me to ask if I could score a bottle of my own numbing drops.

"Uh, no," she said, not amused. "That would not be good for your eyes over the long term..."

"Well, being two hours late for work every morning because I can't put these suckers in isn't going to be good for me either," I muttered under my breath.

"You have one of the strongest blink reflexes I've ever seen," she said. "That might make it harder for you."

"I'd rather have the best pair of legs you've ever seen," I said.

I don't think she got my humor. Maybe it would've been more funny if I actually had nice legs.

I dunno. But she didn't laugh.

Or act like she heard me.

She sent me back to the doctor for another evaluation.

He gave my bloodshot eyes his stamp of approval and released me back to the assistant who was going to teach me how to violate my own eyes.

For nearly an hour.

I finally managed to prove I am just-barely-capable of being the owner of contact lenses and I'm now in the trial period.

The lenses have been in for six hours and it's time to take them out.

I'm stalling.

My eyeballs know it.

They know what's coming.

I think they're sealing themselves shut.

And somewhere out there, there's a 13 year-old boy whose contacts probably just popped right out of his head, all on their own. Without incident.

Fucking show off.

Disambiguation?

Okie Dokie.

Both Hahn at Home and Drowning Pisces tagged me with this "Make your Own CD Cover" meme.

I followed the rules (shown below) and the outcome, was, well...exactly what I'd expect.

I swear.

Only *I* would end up with these results.

The rules were:

Go to……

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random

The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3

The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/

The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result as a comment in this post.

....................

My result?

wait for it

wait for it



That's right kids.

It's how I roll.

Two animals humping on a roof while I encourage everyone to show their privacies to the world.

Sounds about right.

Feel free to play along.

But know this...

Your cover will not be as perfect for you as mine is for me.

It's just not possible.

Dear Heather. Listen Up.

I've been reading some really great blog posts that revolve around writing your 13-year-old self a letter.

Hmmm.

What would I tell myself?

Not that the younger version of myself would listen.

I'd be too busy practicing my Madonna talent show routine and trying to figure out who should receive the other half of my Best Friend necklace.

But, I still find it a great exercise.

So, here goes:

Dear Heather,

Whatever you do, don't lose this letter. Seriously. It's imperative that you read it. You can thank me later. And trust me, I'll know if you took my advice. So don't be a stubborn shit.

Read it. Take notes.

About right now, you're having a wee problem with acne. I'm being kind. It's a big problem with acne. Bad news is, it's going to get worse. Good news is, two lovely women doctors are going to come up with a solution. It's called Proactive. And it works. You're going to have great, glowing skin. But until they release this magic formula, you're going to try everything. And I do mean everything. You should remember to look in the mirror every morning before you leave for school. That way, you'll catch yourself before you end up in first period with dried toothpaste all over your face. It's embarrassing and it doesn't work.

I also suggest not wasting so much of your evening prayer time asking God to take away your period. I'm sure he hears you, but I'm 33 now and still bleeding, so he clearly has other plans. You should probably start praying to pass Geometry. You're going to need all the help you can get.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but listen to mom's advice when she tells you the big, baggy sweatshirt with the paint blobs on it is not a good look. It'll come back to haunt you. As will the banana clips, mile-high bangs and colored rubber bands you wear around your braces. People are taking pictures.

You're not going to be part of a rock band. Sorry. Your singing voice never improves and although you buy a guitar, you never learn how to play it. You invest in several books, tapes and computer tutorials, but you get frustrated with them after the first 30 minutes and find something else to do. That being said, there is a kick-ass video game called Guitar Hero and you are a phenom. Super good. So, that's something.

Most importantly, Heather, don't freak out that unlike all of your other friends, you have absolutely zero interest in playing spin the bottle with a gaggle of boys. There's a reason that the thought of a boy sticking his tongue down your throat doesn't appeal to you. I'm just gonna come right out and say it. You're gay. A Lesbian.

I know you don't even know what that means right now. But you will. You'll experience strong attractions toward your friends and it'll scare the shit out of you. Don't be so scared. Because when you grow up, you'll learn that all of the girls you felt strongly for also turned out to be gay. Seriously. All of them.

Once you come to terms with it, you'll be terrified that your family will disown you. You'll go through a pretty big bout of depression and your best friend Jenni will be there to help and make you get out of bed. The depression isn't necessary. Mom and Dad are upset and struggle with it, but they come around and are very accepting.

So what I'm saying is, come out earlier! Live a little. Twenty-eight years old is TOO LONG to hide who you are. I'm asking you to come out before you head off to college. PLEASE. You owe it to me. I pulled zero tail in college. No girl should have to suffer that. You can change it.

There's tons of other things you should know, but I wanna leave you with some stuff to figure out on your own.

Oh - except, you should probably know that when Dad takes you out for a driving lesson, just because the light turns green, it doesn't mean you automatically get to turn left. You almost get crushed by oncoming traffic and it takes 5 years off of dad's life. He'd probably appreciate it if you wait until the coast is clear.

Big love,

Yourself.

Lurve for the L-Word.

I realize that not all of you who read my blog are gay.

I know that. I love you anyway.

Mostly because you keep coming back even though I have an obnoxious affinity for Mariska Hargitay.

You might not be gay, but you obviously like yerselves a funny gay girl.

I mean, I like to think I'm funny. Sometimes. A little bit. On occasion. But not big-head funny. Just ha-ha funny.

You know the funny I speak of.

Well, brace yourselves...there's another funny lesbian - BESIDES me!

I know. I know.

Who knew?

Beebo Brinker writes for Lesbiatopia and she's just done a fabulous write up of season five of the L-Word.



I'm behind in my L-Word watching (season 4 is in my Netflix queue), but I was curious and took a sneak peak at Beebo's writeup.

I laughed. A lot.

A really lot.

I'm actually considering skipping my Netflix queue and asking her to provide me with episode recaps for the season I missed - I'm pretty certain they'd be just as entertaining as the actual footage.

She's that clever.

So, even if you don't get a warm, fuzzy feeling every time you see a rainbow, I still think you might enjoy the post.

If you DO feel one with the rainbow and are a fan of the L-Word, go as fast as your little mouse will take you!

Read. COMMENT!

Show her the lurve.

After all, lurve is an L-Word.

Torture Recall. It Helps.

Six years separate my brother Brett and I.

Now that we're both adults, so do about twelve inches of height and I'm bitter.



Whenever I start to pine for that lost foot of height - which occurs, without fail, every time I try on a pair of pants in the kiddie section of any store - I make myself feel better by remembering one of the many times my father showed Brett no mercy.

My dad's a funny dude.

I've already written about the funny-man torture I've endured at his hands HERE.

But this post is about Brett's torture.

Not mine.

One of my favorite memories dates back to the mid 1980s.

Brett was four or five years old.

The Air Force had just relocated us to Osan, Korea, and we were out for a walk, trying to familiarize ourselves with the base.

As we meandered down the sidewalk, my father spontaneously picked a dandelion that waved at us from in between the cement cracks.



He tore off a piece of the green stem and turned to my brother.

He said,

"Brett, take this stem and hide it anywhere on your body. Anywhere. I'm going to keep the top, fuzzy part of the dandelion. I'm keeping it because it's magic. It's like a wand and I'll need it to find out where you've hidden the stem."

Brett's eyes lit up.

"Okay, dad. You turn around and close your eyes. DON'T CHEAT!"

My father, with a look of complete seriousness and concentration, turned away from my brother.

My mother and I watched as my brother scrunched his eyebrows, scratched his blond head, licked his lips and debated for what seemed like twenty minutes about where to hide the stem.

He put it in his pocket.

Then decided that was too obvious.

He saw us watching him.

He put a finger to his lips and shushed us.

He tried to put it in his ear.

It fell out.

He put it under his armpit.

It wouldn't stay.

Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance, he bent over, undid the Velcro strap on his little blue shoe, and stuck the stem on the Velcro.

He slapped the strap back over and yelled, "I'm ready!"

He was so proud of himself.

So proud.

In retrospect, it reminds me of that moment in the horror flick, Carrie.

You know the one.

She's so proud of herself, up on that stage, about to be crowned homecoming queen. Her eyes are sparkling, she feels like she's finally found her place among the popular kids.

And then they dump a bucket full of pig blood all over her.

This was Brett's "Carrie" moment.

He just KNEW he had my dad.

My mom and I thought he did too.

My dad turned around slowly and stepped closer to my brother.

The grin on Brett's face was nothing short of a full-on gloat.

With extreme precision, my father took the "magic" fuzzy part of the dandelion and started moving it up and down Brett's body.

He made this high-pitched "boop, boop, boop" noise, pausing in certain spots - Brett's pockets, stomach and hands.

More gloating from the kid.

My dad circled Brett's head.

"Boop, Boop, BOOPBOOPBOOPBOOP!"

The booping got loudest right around my brother's mouth.

"Open up Brett, my magic wand is telling me that the stem might be in your mouth. I need to check it out."

With a smug look, Brett opened his mouth.

He knew the stem wasn't in there.

Apparently, so did my dad.

He shoved the fuzzy dandelion in my brother's mouth and then fell to the ground laughing.

He was joined shortly by my mother and I.

Brett wasn't quite as amused.

He was too busy crying and trying to wipe the magic, white, fuzzy dandelion seeds off of his tongue.

Good times, kids.

Good times.

You see why recalling memories like this one helps me cope with having short, stubby legs....

Britney Spears. And My Soap Box.

I know I'm cynical.

For the most part.

So when *I* think that someone needs to be cut a break, they probably are well over due for one.

I know she feeds her kids Cheetos.

I know she has a bad hair weave.

I know she has no clue how to steer, park or wear underwear in a car.

All are in-excusable.

Britney Spears knows better.

But I truly believe she is suffering from mental illness and NEEDS room to breathe.

Whether her illness is genetic or induced by the chaos and drug use of her life this past year, I don't know.

I do know that she's made horrible mistakes.

She should lose custody of her kids until she gets well.

But she's NOT going to get well if she's not allowed to move (or ride in an ambulance) without a million people screaming at her and taking her picture.

She can't get well when the only people she'll allow to get close to her are people using her for her money. I know this is her choice, but the media isn't helping as she alienates her family more and more (a family that has made their own fair share of mistakes with Britney, but I believe they'd be better for her than the yahoos she's hanging out with now).

She can't get well when every news story, online article and printed paper relishes in her downfall and scrambles to point out all her failures as a human being.

I didn't feel for Paris. She was making dumb decisions - and I believed her to be in her right mind (what little of one she has).

I think Britney's situation is different.

I love Perez Hilton, but I'm disgusted by his coverage of Britters.

He's absolutely loving her breakdown, even mentioning that the "ambulance" coverage equaled 10 MILLION hits for his website in a single day.

He's posting all kinds of photoshopped pictures of Britney in straight jackets and I'm sure praying for more emotional turbulence in her life so that he can rake in the hits and the money from advertisers.

I'd agree that celebrities sign up for a life in the spotlight.

But we should know when enough is enough.

Enough is enough.

Britney Spears shouldn't have to die for people to realize that a little bit of time and space might be exactly what she needs to pull herself together.

Seriously.

Leave her alone.

I wish I had more power than I do.

Damn it.

Another AGM.

I'm not sure why, but most of my AGMs (awkward gay moments) revolve around softball.

Ya'll remember this one, right?

Well, before Apes and I began playing on the co-ed team I wrote about, we belonged to another team coached by Nate, a guy we work with.

Nate's a mess.

I think if he could turn himself into a lesbian, he would.

He's always making some kind of in-E-propriate remark that I should find offensive.

But I don't.

I just laugh and punch him in the gut.

Hard.

When we played for Nate's team, there was another girl named Heather.

After the first game, we decided it was too unnerving to hear, "duck, Heather!" and not know who they were screaming at.

We decided to go by last names.

Good idea...except it turned out that we have the same last name....except for the first letter. (example: Bitz and Mitz).

Um, okay. Weird. And not gonna work.

Numbers. We'd go by our jersey numbers.

Except Nate gave us the same number.

How does that happen?

We gave up and both responded to any direction given to a Heather.

Kinda worked in my favor....she's an exceptional ball player and I never grew tired of hearing "Awesome catch, Heather!"

I'd hear that, step forward (from my spot on the bench), and wave and bow.

Heather and I became pals (how could we not), and while I never told her I was a big homo, I assumed she knew.

After all,

April and I came to every game together.

We left together.

We sat together.

Apes supported me every time I missed the ball at bat (or accidentally caught it with my breasts).

We thought it was obvious.

Until I missed one game and Heather asked April if she knew where I lived and why I wasn't at the game.

Apes just smiled, said I had to work and that she had a good idea where I lived.

"Oh. Well, I guess she doesn't know....," I said.

The subject never came up again and last season, Apes and I joined another team that needed some players.

Fast forward to this morning.

The second I walk into work, Nate corners me and says, "girllllll, do I have a story for you!"

"Oh, Lord. What is it?"

"Okay, well, I was calling all the staff members yesterday to tell them I needed everyone to come in early this morning because we had to put the classrooms back together after the holidays, right?"

"Uh huh. Apes said you'd called."

"Right. Well, I, uh, I THOUGHT I was calling you, but I accidentally called the other Heather. The one from the softball team."

"Okay...."

"Okay, this is funny. So, I call and say, 'whaaat's up? It's Nate Dog.' And it's really quiet. She just says, 'Oh, hi.'"

"What did you do?" I asked, afraid.

"I thought it was weird you were so quiet, so I asked, 'Is this a bad time?' and she said, after a second, 'No.' and then it was quiet again. I had to ask if she was still on the line and she said yes. So, then I said, 'Well, tell April to get up off of you so I can talk to you!'"

"Oh, God."

Insert Nate's hysterical laughing.

"Dude, she didn't say a word. Then, I figured it out. I was like, 'This isn't Heather from work, is it? This is Heather from the softball team, right?' It was. I apologized for bothering her. But I did get to confirm she'd be playing third base for us next season. But it was funny, dog. Oh my God."

I just shook my head and laughed.

I think third-base Heather prolly knows I'm a big homo now.

Resolve. I have none.

New Year's Resolutions - they get the big middle finger from me.

I haven't made one in years.

I don't need the dawn of a New Year to confirm my inability to focus on anything that causes me pain, discomfort, embarrassment or highlights my inadequacy.

The gym (and any resolution to get fit) pretty much covers all those basis.

Seriously.

The pain starts before I even leave the damn house. I run up and down the stairs and all over a hundred times in an effort just to pack my gym bag.

Ipod? Upstairs.

Icy Hot? Downstairs.

The Penny Tree book? Upstairs.

Knee brace (proactive item...I'm carrying a lot of weight here and anything can happen)? downstairs.

Keys? Probably in the backyard somewhere.

Water? Kitchen. (tons of arm exercise happening here...what with the opening and closing of all those cabinets, searching for a water bottle).

You see my point. I don't actually need to go to the gym. I just need to pack for it.

Another resolution I used to make...learn a new language.

German was the first language I tried.

I can order a beer and tell you something is "around the corner."

That's it.

A few years ago, it was Spanish.

I invested a ton of money in CDs and online programs.

I felt nearly fluent by the time I took a Habitat Global Village trip to Nicaragua.

I wasn't.

An elder in the village explained to me that I'd told an an 8 year old girl that her husband was nice and she should marry her donkey. True story. I swear.



I'll stick to trying to master the English language.

It still trips me up.

Bettering yourself is SO over rated...

Immobile. Fingers.

Typing is difficult.

My fingers hurt.

It's April's fault.

She bought me a Play Station and Guitar Hero yesterday.

I played for 5 hours straight.

Hard. To. Type.

Fingers. Hurt.

Will blog later tonight after meds and liquor cure my finger pain.

Happy New Year!

...ouch...