No Clever Title Comes to Mind...

I feel completely and totally brain dead.

Which is why I'm stoked that, for the second weekend in a row, Apes and I are heading out of town for another quick get away.

This time we'll be joined by our pals Heidi and Teri - ya'll 'member them, right? They're the blissfully in lurve newlyweds.

Should be a good time.

Not sure yet how many photos I'll be able to post...you never know what that crazy Heidi will do... (love you, Heidi!)

Apes and I thoroughly enjoyed our getaway last weekend. We slept and read. Read and slept.

We needed it.

There aren't enough hours in the day:

Work has been exhausting for both of us.

We've been up late at night, scouring the Internet, trying to plan our vacation (coming up in mid-March). Thank God Lisa is as amazing as she is - she's going to meet us at the train station in Paris and make sure we don't end up looking like ridiculous tourists.

We're also trying to get ready to remodel our upstairs bathroom. My parents are driving down from Boston the first weekend in March and providing free labor, so Apes and I have been scurrying around, picking out toilets, sinks, knobs, tile, grout, blah blah blah.

The money in our bank account is dwindling faster than Nicole Richie's baby fat.

Not to mention there just doesn't seem to be enough hours in the flippin' day. (Mom, I said flippin', not fuckin', just for you. Yer welcome).

We're leaving tomorrow afternoon, so I'll have to cut the cord again and leave my blogging world behind until Monday.

I DO have several excellent blogs to recommend, though!

They are:

www.realitybanned.blogspot.com

www.honestape.net

www.reticentwriter.blogspot.com

www.tina-cious.com

www.hoperadio.blogspot.com

Have a great weekend, kids!

H

I grew up against all odds.

Writing a novel that revolves around a surfer chick has definitely brought back some memorable childhood memories for me.

The only surfing I've ever done has been with my body and not on a board.

It didn't end well. I think I still have a few scars to prove it.

My family was vacationing in Hawaii before making the big move to Osan Air Force Base in Korea.

I was about 11 years old and owned the cutest little red and white bikini.

Even more adorable than the bikini was the Buddha belly I had to go with it.

I have photos, but even I have some shame.

My family hit the beach and after hours of pouring sand down each other's suits and making sure we were going to have painful sunburns, my dad said:

"Hey, Feather - wanna learn to body surf?"

I looked out over the water and the waves seemed not-so-scary to my 11-year old brain.

I should have known better than to let my dad take me out.

He cares nothing about my personal safety if it means having a good laugh.

Like the time he told me, at the ski resort in Colorado, that there were plenty of medium-level slopes at the top of a very intimidating-looking mountain.

He swore. Even crossed his heart.

I hopped onto the lift and knew my cooperation was a bad idea the moment he began cackling uncontrollably.

We slid off the lift and it didn't take me long to realize that there was only ONE way back down the mountain. I hung my skis over a 90-degree ledge and all I could see were moguls and people wiping out.

The kind of wipe-outs that result in parallelization or death.

I wanted to kill him.

I should have known better, but I didn't.

My judgment was just as poor that day in Hawaii.

My father and I left my mom and 4 year-old brother, Brett, on the beach and waded into the ocean.

I was a competitive swimmer, so getting out to where the waves were swelling was not an issue.

Realizing just how big the waves actually were when I got there was a bit of an issue.

I started to freak out a bit.

"Just calm down, Heather," my dad said, with a twinkle in his eye. "It'll be fun. You just swim out in front of a wave and right before it breaks, you lay your body out and let it carry you as far as it can. I'll hold onto your arm the first time. Okay?"

"Uh-huh," I said, certain I was agreeing to death by drowning.

But I refused to let him know just how scared I was.

Dying by wave was way better than being teased unmercifully for wussing out.

A wave swelled behind us and my dad yelled, "GO! Start swimming!"

He swam close to me and as the wave began to break, I followed his lead and laid my body out, stretching long.

I felt his hand grip my left arm.

It was exhilarating.

For about 2 seconds.

The next thing I knew, my dad and I were yanked underwater, spinning head over heels in furious circles.

I opened my mouth to scream, only to inhale a belly full of water.

What was probably seconds felt like a half hour before we finally resurfaced for air.

There was enough time for my dad to yell "Are you okay?!" and for both of us to take a gulp of air before the second wave hit us and sent us through the under-water spin cycle again.

My dad was still gripping my arm tightly, but his hold was slipping.

This undertow was stronger than the first and it beat our bodies against the ocean floor, scraping our skin and bruising our backs and legs.

I felt my dad let go.

That's when I really got scared.

I knew he'd never let go unless he couldn't help it.

My chest hurt. I needed to breathe.

After what felt like an eternity, I felt my body bob to the surface and found myself looking at nothing but water for as far as I could see.

Then I heard my mother screaming and I turned to face the other direction.

I was actually pretty close to the shore.

My father surfaced a second later, gasping for air and looking for me.

We drug our scraped and battered bodies from the water and stumbled to our beach towels.

My mom yelled at both of us for making her worry that we were dead and my dad hugged me, saying:

"I'm so sorry I let go. I tried to hold on as long as I could."

"I know Dad, it's okay."

"I'm glad you're all right."

"Mhmmm."

"Just lay down and rest," he said, smiling mischievously and gingerly spreading out on his towel. "We'll try it again tomorrow..."

It's amazing I'm alive....

A peek. At my novel.

I'm actually a bit nervous about posting this sneak peek at my novel.

It's a VERY rough draft and will undoubtedly go through a million more revisions - but it gives a quick overview of the main character (as she exists in my mind this very minute).

I'm not sure why posting an excerpt from my novel feels different than posting a random story about whatever silly-ness happens to be going on in my life.

But it does.

I feel a bit more vulnerable.

Maybe it's because I'm attempting to create an entire story and make it believable instead of doing what comes easily and naturally for me - which is use sarcasm and humor to report the details of my life.

I've talked about writing a novel for 10 years.

This is the first time I've ever actually written more than a paragraph.

Your feedback is absolutely welcome - just remember it's a first draft and this is a small excerpt. (*she types nervously*)

All work is copywrited (HF2008) and may not be reproduced or reprinted.

Bad, horrible, excruciating things will happen to you if you ignore the copy write. :)

Here goes:

“Well, shit,” Regan muttered, threading her fingers through her sandy blond hair as she sat up in bed and re-read the flimsy, paper-napkin note that she’d found in place of Jess, the hot brunette she’d been dating for the past six months.

Regan,
Last night was incredible... You certainly know how to make love to a woman - I just don’t think you know how to LOVE a woman. I’m tired of waiting for you to learn the difference. Relationships aren’t just sex - even if it’s amazing sex. I want to be invited into your life, not just your bed. Silly me to think I was the girl who could change you.

Don’t call.
Jess.

Regan growled and threw the napkin back on the pillow where she found it. She swung her tan, slender legs over the bed and sat on its edge, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door.

Morning head-fog could not hide the brilliance of her piercing blue eyes. She ran her tongue over her bright white teeth, exposing the dimple that dug deep into her right cheek. Her breasts were small, but she liked them that way. It made paddling on her surf board easy. Her body was long and lean, something that she could thank genetics, surfing and daily 5-mile jogs for.

The sun was high enough in the California sky to sneak through the bedroom window. It danced off the necklace she never took off.

Her dad’s necklace.

Out of habit, she brought a hand up to the silver chain that she’d had shortened into a choker. She didn’t have to read the inscription on the square, silver plate of the necklace to know what it read.

Love you, Love me.

She dropped her hand back to the bed and chose to ignore the pain that always came with missing her father. She turned her attention back to her reflection.

Her shoulder length blond hair was post-sex tousled and for a moment, Regan found herself smiling as she smoothed her hair, remembering how Jess had quivered at the slightest touch.

“Jesus, you’re a fuck up!” Regan said aloud, chastising herself for doing exactly what Jess accused her of - focusing on the sex instead of the person she was having sex with. She should be upset. Probably more upset than she was.

“But let’s face it, you’re not,” Jess said to herself as she stood up and stretched, arching her arms behind her back. She stepped over the box of Sticky Bumps surf wax samples that she needed to take to the store and made her way to the other side of the room where she rummaged through an open dresser drawer for a swimsuit and some board shorts.

At just under six feet tall, Regan could have modeled for any one of the top surf companies. Swim apparel clung to her body in a way most women ached for. Regan never thought anything about it. Her effortlessness made whatever she was wearing that much hotter and turned the heads of both men and women.

Holes in ripped jeans showed just enough bronzed skin. Tank tops were tight enough to show the perfect roundness of her breasts. She sported big belt buckles before everyone else decided they were cool. Most women in Huntington Beach spent hours trying to accomplish a look that took Regan less than 5 minutes.

She’d been hounded by modeling and acting scouts her whole life- on her surfboard, in her shop, at restaurants, in public bathrooms. She wasn’t interested.

Ever since her father died in a car crash just two weeks before she turned 16, the only thing she ever wanted to do was make her father proud. The only way she knew to do that was to make sure that Pullin’ Tail, the surf shop that he opened before she was born, continued to be known as the premiere store of its kind. The store was her dad’s second favorite thing in the world. She had been his first.

The irony of the store’s name, Pullin’ Tail, wasn’t lost on anyone in Regan’s life. Not with her reputation. For surfers, tail is slang for the end part of a surfboard. For her close friends, tail is what Regan pulled every time she took a hot girl home from the store, bar or beach. Somewhere, buried in her closet, was a “Champion Tail Puller” t-shirt that had been last year’s birthday gift from a pal.

Regan wasn’t necessarily proud of her reputation, but the alternative wasn’t an option for her. She’d loved her dad with everything she had - and she'd lost him. That pain crippled her. She couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone like that again. Besides, the store kept her way too busy for a real relationship and she liked having her freedom.

.....

I've written quite a bit more, but it's convoluted and in dire need of an initial edit.

I'm using the Power Writer software for my novel and I'm really digging it because it helps organize all my random thoughts and allows me to jump from chapter to chapter with ease.

I look forward to hearing your initial thoughts and feedback!

Peace, love and puppies,

H

Two Sides to Every Box...

So, a friend of ours at work has been taking Japanese Lingzhi pills and she's lost quite a bit of weight.

She looks great.

I know, I know.

If there were a magic pill, we'd all look like Heidi Klum.

Diet and exercise are the only true means of getting in shape.

I get it.

I'm skeptical about the pills too - but not so skeptical that I'm not going to try it (in conjunction with diet and exercise, of course).

I got nothing against trying to look like Heidi.

Believe it or not, Apes actually brought these lil' pills to MY attention.

But only after spending DAYS scouring the Internet for information about the pills and every ingredient in them.

I never doubt her research.

She reads independent reviews about independent reviews.

She said she could not find a single bad review or unhealthy ingredient associated with these pills.

She did so much research I've started calling her Dr. Apes.

According to her findings, the Japanese have been hiding this little secret from all us fatties for hundreds of years.

How could I argue with millions of skinny, fit, Japanese people?

Right. I couldn't.

We ordered a box.

It came today.

Here's what it looks like:



On one side of the box, there are directions in English:



And then there's THIS side:



Which probably reads something like (please read in your best Asian accent):

"Americans! You takie my pill. Full of rice only! But you thinkie it make you lose weight fast lrike. I makie big money off you. I have more pills on de Ebay too. Pill for eberything. You hair fall out - you takie my pill! You husband leabe you - you takie my pill! I love the Americans!"

Seriously. I'm pretty sure I saw the box laugh at me.

Wait...maybe it wasn't laughing at me.

Maybe it was flirting with me....because I look like Heidi already...

......
ps: Apes and I just booked our hotel in Paris! We are stoked. It's a little bit on the outskirts of town, but it's affordable and across the street from the Metro, so we'll have easy access to all the city's sights.

Less than one month to go!

And we'll be taking Olga with us!

Weekend Get Away.

Thank the good Lord for snow days that aren't really snow days.

The weather folk erroneously (at least in my neck of the woods) predicted snow and ice and were convincing enough that our county FINALLY decided to use one of its snow days.

We haven't had one all winter.

True, it's been 70 degrees in February, but still...

We've needed a break.

A paid break.

The situation was getting serious enough that I was contemplating climbing to the top of the school's roof and dumping buckets of ice in front of the administrative offices.

Figured they'd either be naive enough to believe we were in the middle of an ice storm or think it funny enough to just give us the damn day.

Thankfully, this "storm" came up and no scaling of school walls was necessary.

Which is good - I hadn't worked out all the details anyway.

So here we are with a day off and no weather to prohibit us from going anywhere.

*takes a break from writing to get on my knees and offer the Good Man upstairs my Diet Coke as a gesture of thanks. The lights flicker - and I translate the best I can. It's God saying he's honored, but not a soda drinker. I should drink it and think of Him. I do.*

All this to say, Apes and I are packing up the mutts, the board games, the vino and the starter logs for a weekend in the mountains.

I won't have access to the Internet, but I already know what I'll be doing:

- Kicking Ape's ass in Phase Ten

- Watching no less than 6 movies (no cable where we're going, but a DVD player)

- Cuddling with my girl and my pups

- Watching the sun rise. Who am I kidding - the sun set

- Eating nachos

- Appreciating the beauty of the landscape around us

She's yelling at me to get off the damn computer and come help her pack.

As if anything I pack is EVER done correctly.

I'll throw shit in a bag and be fine with it.

She has to fold, color coordinate, seal, stamp, and notarize every flippin' thing.

That's a totally different post.

Sigh.

Have a great weekend, people!

I'll catch up on Sunday.

Peace, Love and Pups,

Heather

Diet Coke, Wakes, Asses and Splotches.

A few days ago, Hope wanted to know more about her readers. She asked us to finish some sentences that she'd started.

She swears she's ready to hear the answers...

Here goes (her portion of the sentences are in bold font):

After six....Diet Cokes, I'm ready to face the morning. Without the proper number of carbonated beverages in my system, my skin turns pasty, I start to shake uncontrollably and I'm pretty much the nastiest person you'd ever meet.

Seriously.

If I've not had my Diet Coke yet and I'm faced with the opportunity to save your life or head to the cafeteria to get a fountain pop, I'm hoping you have other options...

It doesn't matter...that I'm gay. Who I love is not important. THAT I love, is.

In another...life, I'll be born skinny with long legs. God owes me.

My mother always said...shit and damn. She really has no right to scold me for my foul mouth. But she does. Apparently, something about birthing me and feeding me and clothing me gives her that right.

There are times...when I'd sell my soul to be the gun on Mariska Hargitay's hip. Seriously. Shit...I'd GIVE my soul away. No...I'd PAY someone to take it.

At the wake...you people better laugh. And wear pink taffeta. Everyone must be in the ridiculous fabric. I demand it. I'll haunt you from the grave if you don't do it. You can't attend a wake and NOT laugh when you see a grown man in pink taffeta. I'm also considering making heels and fishnets another requirement. Wakes are drags...might as well make mine a drag show.

I gotta laugh too, people. I'm the one who died.

Consideration brings...no sexually transmitted diseases. Love safely, people. Love safely.

In 1986...I still thought my Coca Cola t-shirt made me look hot. But only if I could get my bangs to stand up a good 4 inches.

Don't laugh, but...when I was doing my internship in college, I sent out a press release to EVERY city in the state of Florida calling the Governor (and his office) asses. Did you know that if you leave the last "s" off the word assess, you have asses? And spell check doesn't catch it - because you've spelled the profanity correctly...

Without hesitation...I'd admit to burping, farting or picking my nose. So what.

Ordinarily, I never...would agree to watch incredibly boring movies, but in this case...Apes hacked into our Netflix account and was irresponsible with her movie picking.

I was driving to...the brink of crazy the other day and I... stopped just short of babbling in the streets. Thank God I live with a therapist.

If I ever...am mad, you'll know it. My chest, neck and cheeks turn fire engine red. Big, ugly splotches appear within seconds and give me away, even if I'm trying to control myself.

In my mind...I make perfect sense. Duh.

ART thou humble?

Welp, I see Apes made sure not to leave ya'll hanging last night.

I think it's adorable she took it upon herself to post a guest blog - but you DO realize she took some, um, liberties.

For which she paid for. Dearly.

Let's just say until this afternoon, she didn't know exactly how far I could spit or how hard I could pinch.

I'm doing much better today and even managed to find my happy place.

Thanks for all the fuzzy thoughts and offers to practice voodoo on my behalf. Ya'll are the best.

On to today's post:

At our party on Saturday night, a few co-workers fell in love with the art we have hanging on our walls.

I am an art fiend and very proud of the pieces I've collected over the years.

Some feel familiar and inviting (art: kathleen burke).


Some are vibrant (art: me under the guidance of vickie) .


Some are painted on old, warped pieces of wood (art: julie esch).


Some on old pieces of tin(art: julie esch).


All were painted by dear friends of mine, making each piece priceless.

The majority of the art hanging in our house was a gift from my friend Julie.

Julie and I met when I was living in Charlotte, NC.

We became fast friends, despite how opposite we were.

She was a mountain mama, always pairing hiking boots with shorts and refusing to tame her wild mane of red, curly hair.

She didn't own a TV (which I never understood) and actually enjoyed going to retreats where you couldn't talk or make eye contact with anyone for DAYS.

DAYS.

The mere thought makes me want to start screaming at the top of my lungs.

But we clicked.

Like sisters.

At the time, she was working in graphic design to pay the bills, but longed to be an artist living in Ashville.

She was constantly honing her craft.

Always painting. Usually on old pieces of wood.

Shutters.

Church doors.

Window panes.

Her talent amazed me. Stunned me.

Each time she gave me a piece (of art, people, of art), I felt as though she'd allowed me to leave with a tiny bit of her soul.

I'd cradle the art on the way home, protect it, hang it in the perfect spot.

One day, she called.

"Heath, could you come over? I'd like to paint you."

"SERIOUSLY? You want to paint me? Hell yeah!"

I was so flattered.

I'd never known her to do portraits, but thought it obvious...my beauty was too much and she needed to capture it.

I showered.

Dried my hair.

Put make up on.

Ran the block to her house.

Up the stairs, through the door (no knocking, of course), and into her studio.

"I'm here!"

"Wow, you look nice," she said, distracted, reaching for something behind her.

"Well, it's not every day an artist wants to paint me!"

"Uh huh," she said, turning around to face me.

"Okay, Heather, can you hold your left arm out like this?"

I did.

"Great. And your right arm like this?"

I did.

"Perfect. Hold your arms just like that. I'm going to drape this sheet over your face and arms - don't drop them."

My arms flopped to my sides.

"You're going to put a SHEET over me?"

"Yeah, I need to paint the shape of a human body under a cover."

"Let me get this straight. You just need me to pose UNDER a sheet?"

"Right."

"Fucking figures. Fine. Just cover my ass up."

True story.

A little humility never hurt no one....

ps. Julie quit her job about a year later, moved to Ashville and began selling her work in galleries. Dreams do come true.

Jules, I love you. Even if you only used me for my body.

She Kills Me.

Screw sleep walking.

April sleep talks.

It drives me insane.

I used to engage in a dialogue with her...before I realized what was happening.

And before the scorpio in our bed.

Apes has been asleep for the past hour.

A dead sleep.

I've been curled up on my side of the bed, hugging my laptop and catching up on ya'lls blogs.

I was unprepared for her angry outburst.

"WHAT does she think she's doing?! I don't understand!"

Warily, I turned to look at her.

Her eyes were open, so it took me a moment to 100% determine if I should ignore her.

I should, and I did.

Unfortunately, her ability to pick up on social cues is limited when she's in this state.

"That doesn't make ANY SENSE! I mean, everyone has a whatever. I have a whatever! Everyone does whatever!"

"April," I said, trying to keep my voice un-irritated.

I nudged her.

She rolled over.

I started this blog.

Halfway through my post, she started in again:

"Can I try it? Why do you think the patches are?"

"April, I am blogging about you this very minute. I'd zip it if I were you."

She arched her eyebrows, mumbled and rolled over.

I got my own whatever.

Whatever.

ps. Hours after I posted this, April woke up.

Again.

To say:

"Money is good. People need money. To buy things. Like Love."

Now, I don't know what ya'll take from that, but I am pissed.

Why she gotta be dreaming about buying a prostitute?

Am I not enough?

Dammit.

Rock the Vote. For Lori.

Hey guys,

Please help me help Lori win the Lesbian Lifestyle Blog of the Year award!

Her blog is one of the top 5 finalists and she absolutely deserves to win.

Lori's writing is fresh, funny, heart-warming and relatable.

She's far too humble about the time, energy and love she showers upon children that others have forgotten and she is a constant source of inspiration for me.

She's also been a huge supporter of my writing and was instrumental in getting folks to vote for me for the 2008 Bloggies.

Please help me return the favor by voting for Hahn at Home HERE.

THANKS!

Perfect Imperfection.

I kind of feel like those two words sum up my life right now.

I'm no stranger to road blocks, arguments, insecurities, or faults, but life still feels pretty damn good right now.

In fact, life has never fit me better.

I'm chasing a writing career and making the most amazing friends in the process.

I can feel insecure about something, but thanks to April, I don't feel insecure AND alone. I used to feel both, before I met her, and those were dark times.

I'm learning to accept that not everyone is going to like who I am, what I say, or how I say it - and that's okay. It's really, really okay.

I've learned to cut myself a break when I screw up.

I'm trying to be less judgemental - but I'll be honest, I'm not where I need to be on this.

I've got an incredible relationship with both parents, and for that I'm grateful.

For years, I felt like all I had were puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit the way they should.

I'd try to force the picture together, fracturing myself even further.

Over time, I lived, learned, grew, loved, lost and evolved.

Eventually, the pieces began to fit.

Without effort.

I no longer fret about what my life will look like in ten years.

I prefer to spend my energy focusing on how I can make today look even better than it already does.

And today looks pretty darn good, kids.

See for yourselves:



Yeah...I know.

I'm thankful every day.

Fast Food Relapse.

I got busted tonight.

Big time.

*hangs head*

April and I have been on the work-out, diet bandwagon for several months now and we've actually done really well.

For the most part, I've gotten over my cravings and no longer look like a slobbering Saint Bernard at the mere thought of a donut, candy bar or any food containing the slightest bit of sugar.

For the most part.

I relapsed tonight.

The moment April told me she was going to have to stay late at work today, I knew what I was going to do.

I wasn't strong enough.

I needed artery-blocking food.

I waited until she left her office to lead a therapy group and I raided her wallet for a couple of dollars.

She'd never know.

At 3:15pm, I made sure she had a ride home, waived good-bye and headed up the hill to the car, a huge smile spreading across my face.

Hellllooooo Golden Arches!

Oh, how I've missed the drive-thru. The big speaker, the photos of yummy food, the back door where all the teenage employees hang out on their smoke breaks.

I was home.

I placed my order and raced home to eat it.

Who am I kidding. I didn't eat it. I inhaled it.

When I was done, I felt a little bit guilty.

Even ashamed.

April and I have been trying so hard to be good.

I had to hide the evidence.

I buried the trash in my OFFICE trash can.

Under a ton of garbage.

I felt pretty good about my hiding place.

I sprayed some Febreeze so the smell of fat-on-my-thighs was less recognizable.

Feeling assured I'd covered my tracks, I hopped in the shower.

April finally came home around 6ish and asked what I wanted to do for dinner.

Nonchalantly I told her I wasn't all that hungry and she should go ahead and fix herself something.

"You're not hungry at all? Man, I'm starving!"

I stayed quiet.

"All right, I'll fix myself something. There's oatmeal if you get hungry."

"Okay, thanks," I said.

Bullet dodged.

Or so I thought.

The eight o'clock hour found me upstairs in bed, answering emails on our laptop.

From our living room, I heard:

"HEATHER! Could the REASON you're not hungry be because you had a LARGE FRY and a McFLURRY for dinner?!"

I was stunned into silence.

How in the world....

"HELLO?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," I called down, knowing as I did so I sounded like a big, FAT liar.

"Uh-huh."

Turns out, my own damn dogs gave me away.

The smell of my fast food trash was too much for them and they unearthed it from under all the garbage and hauled the evidence into the living room.

Bastards.

*hangs head*

Takin' One for the Yipper.*

Clearly there's a theme in my life right now.

One that involves me....bleeding.

And I don't do well with blood.

'member Scary Kym?

Heather + Blood = Fainting.

Last night was no exception.

Apes and I had just put in a movie and curled up in bed.

Our pups Rosie and Jean Paul were stationed at our feet. We thought they were down for the count.

What we didn't know was that Jean Paul the poodle found a raw hide and had smuggled it into the bed.

We NEVER allow bones in the bed because they always pose a problem. Of the dog fight variety.

Within seconds of lying on the bed, Jean Paul and Rosie began their Cujo routine.

Both growling, fangs bared.

"Shit, he has a bone," I muttered, propping myself up, preparing to intervene before things got ugly.

Too late.

Rosie attacked.

What happened next was a big blur.

Poodle yelps, entangled fur balls, screaming and at some point, my thumb in Rosie's mouth.

She was aiming to take a bite out of the poodle's head.

In an effort to save him, I shoved my hand in the middle of the madness.

The next thing I knew, I felt Rosie's back teeth close like a vice on my left thumb.

She bit me so hard I was certain her teeth went clear through my finger.

I yanked my hand out of her mouth and immediately began checking it over for puncture wounds.

I didn't see any at first.

Then the blood started.

"Look at my hand!" I yelled to April, who was at the foot of the bed, checking Jean Paul over to see if he had any wounds.

He didn't. I took his beating.

I made my way into the bathroom and started running my thumb under cold water.

The blood was coming faster.

I sent April out into the hallway to get a rag for me to wrap my thumb in.

"You sure you're going to be okay?"

"Yeah, just hurry," I said.

The moment she stepped outta the bathroom, I knew it was going to happen.

My vision started to go. The yellow spots started dancing around in my head.

Next thing I knew, April was standing over me, yelling "Heather!"

I tried to sit up and she wouldn't let me.

She wrapped a towel around my thumb and placed a wet cloth on my forehead.

She ran me through the concussion drills:

"what's my name?"

"what is the last thing you remember?"

Whatever answers I gave convinced her I didn't have drain bramage.

She sat me up, dressed my wounds and got me diet coke all night long.

The poodle owes me.

Big time.





*April insists I give her credit for this blog title. I guess that's only fair...given she did come up with it...

By the skin of my brow...

All right. I finally got April to take the picture I needed in order to tell my tale of horror appropriately.

But before we get to the picture, a little background.

I am one of the lucky women who can grow a uni-brow in less than a week.

Seriously.

Bert (of Bert and Ernie fame) ain't got nothing on me.



Eyebrow maintenance is an absolute must.

I used to pay high-priced salons to keep my eyebrows coiffed, but a year ago, April convinced me she could save us money if I'd let her do it.

I was skeptical, but allowed her to wax my brows.

She's actually pretty good at it (save the few times she's dribbled hot wax down my cheek).

A few days ago, April noticed my brow was getting unruly.

Not only was there danger of my eyebrows meeting in the middle, but several of my hairs were getting long enough to braid.

I'm not trying to be America's Next Top Model, but I ain't trying to be Grandpa LongBrow neither.

April waxed my brows with little fanfare, but said she needed to tweeze the edges and trim the unruly hairs.

Unaware of my fate, I obediently followed her to our upstairs bathroom.

She pulled out a pair of tweezers and at a VERY quick clip, began what she called "cleaning up my lines."

I disagree.

It's more like "yanking my G-D face off."

April got to talking about something or other and forgot all about the sharp object she was using to grab at my face.

Before I knew what was happening, she'd pinched the ultra-sensitive part of my eyelid (BELOW my brow) and PULLED.

HARD.

I felt that shit in my toes.

I pushed her away, started screaming and ran to the mirror to see if I could still see out of that eye.

I could, but what I saw wasn't pretty.

A small chunk of skin was missing.

Slowly, I started to bleed.

Just a little bit, but bleed none-the-less.

I whirled around, and April was bent over.

Laughing.

Hysterically.

"YOU MAIMED ME!" I screamed, pointing to my bloody brow.

She tried to eek out an "I'm sorry," but it sounded more like "HAHAHAHAHAHAA."

I tried to escape the bathroom, but she grabbed my arm, wiped her tears, and said:

"Oh, come on. Don't be a baby! I won't use the tweasers anymore. At least let me trim the really long hairs. You've GOT to at least let me take care of those."

Warily, I considered her remarks.

"I won't hurt you, I promise. I'll be really careful."

Against my better judgment, I agreed.

I watched her reach beneath the sink and wondered what kind of little eyebrow tool she'd use to trim me up.

I racked my brain, trying to think if I'd ever seen an eyebrow trimming tool.

Couldn't think of a one.

Seconds later, she stood up and turned toward me...

With THESE in her hands....



"OH HELL NO!" I yelled, incredulous that she actually thought I'd let her NEAR me with those death tools.

"You really are trying to use those?!" I screamed, running from the bathroom.

April was doubled over. And serious. She was very serious.

Apparently, she does it all the time.

"OH HELL NO!"

Not a sole on the planet could blame me.

Not only had I just been maimed during a grooming session, but those VERY blue-handed death tools were used by April when she Edward-Scissor-handed off a piece of our dog's back.

Our dog needed an emergency trip to the vet and stiches.

Ain't no way she was touching me with those things.

Sweet Jesus.

Physically, I've healed.

Emotionally, I need more time.

Gimme What I Need, Woman!

April is being totally un-cooperative.

I NEED her to take a photo for me in order for ya'll to get the FULL picture of something that recently transpired between us.

As soon as I mentioned the photo, she caught a case of the "Oh my God Im so tired I can't keep my eyes open and I have to go directly to bed" syndrome.

It's Friday at 8:25pm.

She should get an Oscar for her performance.

However, playing dead didn't save her.

I refused to let her close her blood shot eyes until I heard:

"FINE! I'll take your damn picture tomorrow, now leave me alone!"

I can do without the attitude, but at least I'm getting my picture.

She knows I'm going to give her a LOT of shit about what happened.

Which explains her reluctance to willingly participate in getting shat on.

But I prevailed.

Make sure you check back tomorrow.

I swear, you'll laugh your asses off....or feel my pain.

My physical pain.

The kind that results in blood.

My blood.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried....

Queer Collection - Here We Come!

A few days ago, I received a hand-addressed envelope from someone in Las Vegas.

I dismissed it at first, assuming it was junk mail.

Direct marketers are getting more and more clever and the thought actually crossed my mind that some company probably hired a group of senior citizens to address envelopes in between pulling levers at penny slot machines.

Thank God curiosity got the better of me.

I tore open the envelope and found a letter stating that my writing submission, titled Our Baby Daddy, was selected for inclusion in the book Queer Collection: Prose and Poetry 2008.

The book is an international collection of work from GLBT authors, each sharing their own slice of life. It's slated to be published in June 2008.

I'm stoked that my relationship with Apes will be included in this anthology. Especially because it focuses on the next step in our relationship...making a baby.

The following is the text I submitted for consideration (yay!):

Our Baby Daddy

April and I have spent countless hours contemplating our baby daddy.

Finding the right sperm is a mind-boggling task.

Narrowing your criteria is a must.

Here are the qualifications April and I have decided are mandatory:

1) Dude has to have some brains. Especially since I'll be the birth mother 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 going to 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. We tell people this is because we want to keep all the options open for our child. The truth is, we'll need to know where to find Our Baby Daddy for a Come to Jesus meeting if our 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. I know that shit isn't in my genes.

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

I mean, obviously, we want him to have good swimmers. So if he's knocked someone else up, that's a good sign.

After arming ourselves with our criteria, April and I dedicated a weekend to trying to find a donor. We split up and began independent searches. Searching together was never an option. She's painfully slow on the computer and it leads to arguments. The goal was to move closer to getting knocked up...not broken up.

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

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.

A box popped up on my screen.

It read:

YOU HAVE 4 MATCHES.

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

It's the open donor thing. That's killing our numbers. But it's non-negotiable. Having a kid who identifies with Ann Coulter will not be acceptable and someone should be held accountable. Period.

I checked out the profiles and available information on all four donors and whittled my list 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!," April yelled back. "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.

One match from this particular cryobank.

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....

Maybe our "he's gotta be smart" requirement isn't THAT important.

We could love a baby who grew up to air-brush T-shirts at the beach.

I know we could.

We like sand.

Weekend Photo Gallery...Brides, Guitars and Silly-ness.

I've finally downloaded the pics from our event-filled weekend and I'm here to say, they don't capture one iota of the fun we had...or the palpable love that Heidi and Teri share.

Here are a few pics from their civil union:









Here's where the silly-ness starts (friends really shouldn't let friends drink at wedding receptions):

Apes and Patti...what they were saying wasn't nearly as amusing as how they were saying it...


It's how MJ greets her friends...


Resting. Also known as waiting for champagne.


....

The second part of our weekend revolved around the Super Bowl...and of course, my Guitar Hero battle with our friends Heather and Teri.

Here's Heather attempting to beat my score:


Annnnnd, here are a few of me rocking out.





No need to ask who won.

But I'll tell you anyway.

I kicked Heather's ass.

All up, down and sideways.

I whammy-barred her too. Showed no mercy.

*takes a bow*

The weekend was amazing. Perfect.



We have some of the best friends ever.

Love you guys!

Yep. Random Weekend Update.

This is gonna be a short post thanks to my dog Stewart.

Apes and I spent the better part of the morning cleaning up after his, um, upset stomach.

I'll spare you the details except to say the last few hours have included: an entire roll of paper towels, dog clippers, several baths, a few loads of laundry, a mop and my gag reflex.

You get the picture.

We're now scrambling around the house, trying to get ready for Heidi and Teri's civil union later this evening. We're going to spend the night in northern Virginia and then head to a Super Bowl party in Maryland tomorrow.

We'll be watching the big game on the flat screen TV that some of our friends bought using the money they won from our Fantasy Football league.

They got lucky.

Apes and I cried when we handed over the winnings. We came in second.

I'm carving my initials in that fucking TV.

Lots of weekend photos to follow!

Have a good one, people :)

Say What You Say*

I've done a lot of thinking about this post.

Some folks have asked me if I plan on changing the focus of my blog now that readership numbers are up a bit (thanks to being a 2008 Bloggie finalist).

Will I try to become a blogging activist for gay and lesbian rights?

Don't I think I have an obligation to post information and topics for the benefit of the GLBT community?

My answer:

My blog is not going to change and it's already political.

At least in my mind.

I started this blog as a way for friends and family to keep up with my silly antics.

And as a way to hone my writing skills.

I'd been using email and Myspace prior to finding Blogger and thought having a website would make it easier for everyone involved.

I truly never imagined anyone other than a handful of people would read my ramblings or care what I was up to.

Looking back over the six months that I've been blogging, I marvel at the tremendous blogging community I've found and the friendships I've made.

I feel so incredibly lucky to have made the connections I have.

Which leads me to how my little blog IS political. Already.

Yes, I'm gay.

Most of my regular readers are NOT gay.

Who knows what their views about homosexuals were before they started reading my blog.

Perhaps they were homophobic.

Perhaps they never thought anything about it one way or the other.

Or, maybe they were already gay-friendly but never had a reason to speak out about the injustices we as gays and lesbians face.

I've received numerous emails telling me that people come back to my site because they identify and relate with my life. Gay and straight.

They have a special needs neighbor.

They work with emotionally disturbed children.

They have a wife, husband or partner who nags them because they're slobs.

Their dads used to tease them without mercy too.

What you see is what you get with me.

And April.

I'm no different in person than I am on this blog.

So if my blog and my personal stories are able to perhaps change the perception of what a lesbian or a lesbian relationship IS, then it's political.

If my blog helps people see that being gay is just ONE part of who I am and that sexuality doesn't define a person, then it's political.

If my blog is the reason a person decides, for the first time, to vote against hate legislation because they stop to think about how it will affect April and I, then my blog is political.

There is such fear and stigma associated with the GLBT community.

My hope is that my blog, in some way, normalizes my life for people who might have had erroneous preconceived notions about gay relationships.

Perhaps it might even help a young girl feel at ease if she's struggling with her sexuality and terrified of the feelings she's having for another woman. My blog won't be political for her, but perhaps it might be comforting.

There are plenty of purely political blogs out there serving their purpose.

My blog won't change.

I won't change.

Well, I might become a bit neater if April has her way.

And drink more water.

But other than that, no changes.

Peace, love and puppies,

Heather

* I'd like to thank Heather Green for inspiring the title of this blog. I'm still listening to your CD. Non stop.