Lesbie Friends

Wednesday, March 06, 2013

Yesterday was the greatest. I heard back from my editor telling me to basically see whatever I want at SXSW and write about it. Got some quality writing done, landed another lil' gig that pays all crazy-like, and I ordered a NEW MacBook Air! Whaaaahoooo! As I was falling asleep I told myself, "Today was exceptional. So tomorrow is probably gonna suck."

And it does. To start, there's no snooze button on someone waking you with, "You've slept nearly eight hours, anything more is a sign of depression!" Writing is just meh today, and then over lunch Gabe and I discovered that my childhood idol-turned-mentor blocked me on Facebook! Gabe's friends with her. Those talentless kids who also took voice lessons are friends with her. Even her ex girlfriend is friends with her. What did I do?! I was her favorite!

I should start with the tale of her raging talent, beauty and charisma. When I was a kid, she was perfect. She was my Madonna (of course I mean the singer). She was a successful stage actress who found a place for me under her colorful wing. After a bad Dorothy Parker habit of mumbling, she helped me grow into the loud, proud and somewhat obnoxious beast I am today. At the lowest point in my life this woman brought me back. I thought our relationship was Pygmalion. Now I'm wondering if she saw it as Frankenstein-ish.

Susan is the third lesbian to block me on Facebook this year. The first was a close talker from my knitting group who took my hands into her clammy own and repeated, "Boys are filth, boys are dirt," after I'd been cheated on. When I confronted her via email on why I'd been defriended, she replied only, "Go with goddess."

She was the only member of our knitting group to lack alcohol when she hosted, so not a major loss in the friendship department.

The second girl was my best friend in high school. She was secretly in love with me, though pretended to like boys, and finally confessed just as Gabe and I were falling in faux straight teen love. I couldn't handle her confession. It was too traumatic to think the girl I'd been so intimate with had sexual desires involving me. My behavior towards her then remains one of my greatest shames - which is what I messaged her on Facebook. Just an apology and told her how wonderful her life looked (she's a photographer now who does a lot of eating disorder stuff). I didn't expect to hear back. More importantly, I didn't expect to be blocked. But I was.

And now the most exquisite and amazing woman I've ever known has blocked me too. She was the only one who could pull my teenage heart up and out of the Romeo and Juliet-like despair of learning Gabe preferred Romeo and Romeo. She hadn't just broken down and rebuilt my singing voice, but she is one of the people responsible for changing me from girl to woman.

And now she wants nothing to do with this woman. It's confusing but it doesn't hurt the way I thought it could. I feel flattered. Obviously I did - or am - something so jarring that she had to block it from her daily view. I'm the kind of person that people love or hate. On the plus side, I get a lot of good, solid lovin' this way.

That girl from high school who took secret pleasure in me trying on bras while she oogled my boobies never heard a mean word from me, despite how hurt and scared her affections made me feel. I told her I couldn't handle the news and that was that. For me. For her it was probably crippling. I wish for the sake of our fantastic friendship I could've flipped it, but there's only so much you can do at sixteen years. Only the disappearance of this last one - my late and great lady idol - resonates. The other two felt like a child beating on the bottom of a pot for a few minutes. The shock of this last one was a hiroshima to my heart.

Though I'd like answers, my own imagination will top any explanations they could give: These ladies loved me - inappropriately and maybe too much. Sure. I'll take it! Or they hated me. One thing I've learned in this wacky ol' world is that it's nearly impossible to hate anyone you didn't first love. But I do think this reinforces my theory that I would've made a far superior lesbian or man. Whatever I am, flopping around from emotionally-unavalable male to emotionally-unavailable male, is quite endearing. And there's just something about invoking such severe emotions in people that I can't help feeling flattered by.

Sure, I'll go with goddess. But I can't guarantee she'll like it. 

The Next Best Thing Interview

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

I was tagged by the adorable and talented writer supreme, Kate Hill Cantrill to participate in this new interview project sweepin' the nation called The Next Big Thing. Writers answer a set of questions regarding their recently published book, a forthcoming book, or a work in progress. Then we tag other writers to do the same. I'm going to conduct my interview based on the memoir I've been writing all year (YES, memoir and I can HEAR your eyes rolling).

TNBT: What is the working title of the book?

A Wolf In Sheep's Magic Underwear
How a Psychic Girl Converted to Mormonism for True Love

Obviously, that's a working title and I realize it's working too hard. You think the wolf is my ex, but he's wonderful and sweet (and rather sheep-like in the religious sense). I'm the damn wolf. But did I jump through enough hoops to wear their magic underwear? You buy the book and tell me! (Just buy the book, I already know how it ends.)

TNBT: Where did the idea come from for the book?

I fell in love with one of my best friends and he told me he couldn't bear to love me back knowing that we'd be separated in The Celestial Kingdom (ie, Bonus Level of Mormon Heaven). So with a bottle of wine in my belly, I told him, "Take me to church!"

He did and two months later I was baptized. David Archuleta attended (and he sat with me every Sunday that he was in Hollywood). But it wasn't as simple as getting baptized. Mormons have a whole slew of rules. A big one for me is that gay love doesn't count. Many "Christian" churches threw money into Prop Eight - money that could have been better spent, oh, I dunno, FEEDING STARVING PEOPLE. It's nearly impossible for me to show support, let alone tolerance, to such a wasteful act of bigotry. What would Jesus do? Block the unions of consenting adults who love each other or save thousands of dying children? RIGHT.

Another problem was that I couldn't have coffee, non-herbal tea (bye, bye green tea and your fabulous antioxidants), ALCOHOL, or ALCOHOL (the latter was a pretty big deal). Not to mention how outright sexist the Mormon church remains. Women get to plan parties or have babies. That's basically the gist. And as if that wasn't enough reduction of my character, to be together forever we would have to be "sealed" in a Mormon temple. But to obtain the Temple Recommend, I would first have to give 10% of my income to the church - an organization that considered my gay loved ones to be second-class citizens. And after we were sealed, I would have to wear the dreaded Mormon garments. The thing about their garments is no more tank tops, skirts above the knee or low-cut ANYTHING. I would even have to wear my bra on the outside of them. This life of modesty and restraint was the farthest thing from what I wanted. But I did want him.

TNBT: What genre does your book fall under?

Comedic Mistake Memoir. But also... Spirituality. I pray. I believe in stuff, but nothing to which a Hallmark quote is applicable. And I found something in Mormonism that I never expected - something that reinforced my sense of a force greater than us. Mormon people are REMARKABLY GOOD. I went looking for religion as a teen and was kicked out of a Baptist church not once, but three times (a lady). I've had some serious Shirley MacLaine-esque encounters that will require a second book (though a three book deal would be a dream!) I know there's more than just us. But I don't believe for a moment that it's the mansions, Cadillacs and perfect bodies that Mormonism promises for its heaven. (Seriously - each one of those three things is mentioned in the hymns.)

Mormons have a saying: Fake it til you make it. After my hope turned sour I tried faking it to be with this man I loved so madly. But you can't force yourself into a Joseph Smith shaped box for anyone. However, since my bout with Mormonism I now consider myself a closet Christian. I'm not at all religious, but I strive to apply Jesusisms to daily life. I do the same with Buddha, too. I treat Christianity as a philosophy instead of a religion and it's really working out. I'm kinder, more patient and more charitable with my time and gifts. Sadly, there's no place to meet up with likeminded types on Sunday mornings other than brunch with my Jewish or gay friends. I believe in a "god" who doesn't have access to us. I believe in a "god" who can't hear us. And I believe that any woman or man who tells you they know how it works has given up on freethinking. To me, that's the ultimate sin. Nobody knows. And that's the point. If religion saved anyone then we wouldn't have such a bounty of church leaders molesting children. I realized something while soul-searching for a year and a half in this marriage: We are all children. No one has it together. And we need to treat each other with the kindness, delicacy and TOLERANCE that we show to our young children. WWJD? That. He'd do that.

TNBT: What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Ryan Gosling and Jennifer Lawrence (What?! I want the kids to go see this and learn from my mistakes!) They're great actors, not to mention that I'd eat three day old sushi left at room temperature off of either of their bodies. And if they were in my movie there's an exceptional chance of that happening, right?

TNBT: What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

While working as a popular phone psychic, a liberal feminist falls for a remarkably handsome and hilarious Mormon fella whom she must marry just to maintain an adult relationship.

TNBT: Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The crazy-ass life I haphazardly signed up for and a beautiful man whose babies I wanted to push straight out of my girl parts. But mostly sweet-talk like, "I can't fall in love with you here and be separated in the afterlife, broken-hearted for all of eternity." I knew we probably wouldn't make it, but I loved him so much and I'm kinda proud that I'll try anything once. Even goddamned Mormonism. I'm still hoping that afterlife is real, mostly so I can kick Joseph Smith square in the dick.

TNBT: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

People get raging curiosity boners when they find out I've worked as a psychic. I almost had a job as "Busty Ghost Hunter" on Bravo, too. Much like when I was vegan, I don't make a lot of fanfare about being psychic. It brings on a lot of negative attention. I don't have anything to prove. Plus I think we're all psychic. It's like being able to run - some people do it faster and more gracefully than others. That's a terrible example, but you get my point. Unfortunately, the church doesn't even allow people to practice their psychic abilities on others except for the guy (male - NOT female) who issues Patriarchal Blessings. The church appoints their version of a psychic to tell your Mormon future.

Anyone curious about the inner workings of Mormonism is going to enjoy this tale. I made it into the sacred temple only once to perform Baptisms for The Dead. That was actually the straw that broke my back. The temples are, yet again, a waste of money. WWJD? Throw BILLIONS of dollars into temples, malls, and those creepy hunting reservations where wildlife is trapped for you to shoot it (yep, they did!) Or would JC be like, "Got two coats? Give one away! If your temple is so sacred, why do you need DOZENS of them? Feed some of these starving people!"

It all felt so hokey and wasteful. And believe it or not, my heart was absolutely open to this being "the one true church" as they claimed - as they all claim, I suppose. I wanted it to feel right. I wanted to give myself up entirely to this faith and live happily ever after with this lovable man. But an open heart wasn't enough.

TNBT: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Represented just as soon as someone emails me back (crosses her fingers and prays to gods and goddesses that only psychics know about). I self-published a few things and the payout has been great, though the reviews are about as iffy as my first marriage. Speaking of cults, don't write about Disney in a critical tone unless you want a lot of freaks all up in your life.

Now look at these super dooper writers I just tagged! Please check them out next Wednesday and don’t forget to check out Kate The Great! Up next: David Ellis DickersonVickie Fernandez and Ann Rushton

Love In The Midwets

Thursday, January 03, 2013

I've written a ton of blogs that I didn't publish, but now I'm kinda wishing I'd published one of those goofball-in-love-happy ones. Just to buffer between the misery.

Spent two months really, really in love. But then that third month was a dozy. Since Thanksgiving I've been up and down. And last night it happened. The Crazy came a knockin'.

Like Cancer cells or a secret love of 80s ballads, The Crazy is in each and every one of us. It's the accumulation of how we saw our parents fight, the things they took (and kept) from us, and each and every significant other to ever harm us. It's a big seething wad of ugliness and when you push someone too far, it comes flying at your head like a heavy ball that you just can't dodge. Last night that ball came in the form of, "You call yourself Catholic but we have premarital sex so you're a hypocrite and the fingers of priests smell like children!"

He called me many things, but "liar" wasn't one of them. I loved him. But it turns out we're not a match.

It's absurd. How many more notches do I need in my belt? For fuck's sake, I'M READY! Somebody awesome, PLEASE be ready too! And don't ruin my birthday, PLEASE. Or sit in the next room and leave me to fend for myself during Thanksgiving dinner with your family. I once quoted this brilliant lyric from Sondheim's Marry Me A Little to my newest ex.

"Want me more than others - not exclusively. That's the way it ought to be." 

He didn't like it. I tried explaining that it means we want to be with other people cos everyone does, but not more than we want to be with each other. The look on his face told me that we probably weren't gonna go very deep. But I tried to enjoy the wading as I hoped a flood gate might burst.

There was much bursting last night.

His religion was the artery I went for. "What Catholic doesn't believe in MARRIAGE?" I shouted. I don't like organized religion and when we began our relationship he lied about two very important things during my subtle screening process: He said he did not like watching TV. And he assured me that he was not at all religious. We've watched A LOT of TV. I can get into that now and then, but not when it's channel-surfin. Oh Jesus, no. It's as though he used TV to dumb me down before mentioning the pope, possibly wanting another Catholic wedding, and downloading Catholic books to his Nook. Sounds pretty religious to me. Organized religion is not for me, nor is it for my unborn/potentially never-existing children. I want them to find what works for them the way I did and without guilt. These are two very important components for me in building a relationship with someone. One reason I had such rewarding relationships with Jewish guys is because they're more traditional than religious (plus they never wrap my birthday presents in Xmas paper). TV and Catholicism. All up in my face. But I rolled with it because I'd already fallen in love with him.

I'm very sad. I loved this person a lot. I'm going to cry again tonight. Then I'm going to eat Ambien so that I can make it to Pilates class tomorrow. I'll miss his laugh, the way his eyes smile, how he'd jab me in the ribs then make fun of my feet, and his sense of humor. I'll miss his hugs and even his beard. I miss them already. I miss all of him, even the religion and TV watching. But I've done this before. I might even do it again. And that's a horrible way to look at a breakup so first I'll miss him. I'll wallow, cry, complain and agonize until I'm sick of those things. Then I'll meet someone else whose damage isn't too great and hopefully never unleashes The Crazy in me. That's a pipe dream. I just want someone who knows when he sees that mess that that's all it is: My mess. A big ol' sad blob flailing around trying to consume a human being but remaining powerless. It would help if his family is kind to me, too. Haven't done so well in that department lately either.

I guess what I really want in a mate is a billionaire orphan. Like Batman. Sure.

I get so hot over NICE these days. Brenna joked about that, but it's what made me fall so hard so fast. That first month he was so NICE. So suck it, therapists. I'm not looking for my dad.

And now for the embarrassing Facebook relationship status change. Now to run into people and tell them we broke up. Now to talk to every one of my best friends while eating only brownies and listening to Sam Cooke sing Blues and Gospel. There are worse things.

Fucking fuck. I was supposed to go to FRANCE by now! I was supposed to figure out what my next move was gonna be while finishing this book! I thought he was my next move. I thought we would move somewhere together. I'm not ready to get married, though I want to be ready. I want to set a course with somebody. But I'm not afraid of being alone - unless there's a ghost or poisonous spider nearby. I'm not afraid of people, which is probably why I jump right into each relationship wholeheartedly. My feelings never confuse me - the actions of other people do.

I'm thirty-seven years old now. It doesn't bother me because wisdom comes with each of those years. But it does apply some biological pressure in the sense that my eggs are getting close to spoiling. That wouldn't be so bad, I suppose. But I'm a nurturing type. I want children. I want a husband. I've known this about myself for a long time. And I thought I knew it about my ex-boyfriend.

He called me today but didn't have anything to say. Just wanted to see if I'd changed my mind. Then he laughed at me, but I wasn't trying to be funny. He laughed as I said goodbye like I was a joke. Last night when I broke it off he said, "At least now I won't have to worry about being peed on!"

It was the sort of statement that took me to a whole new plain in disastrous relationships. I'd had too much to drink the night we awkwardly hung out with his sister - a woman in no danger of championing my fan club - and I wet the bed. Again. Definitely not the first guy I ever peed on but hopefully the last. I just couldn't believe that line made the cut - "At least now I won't have to worry about being peed on!" Really? Since we fell in love I was worried he'd die, leave, or be cruel to me. Getting peed on (again) was the fear he chose to express as I ended our relationship. Pee.

I'm sure he was afraid of other things too. I just won't know what they are cos he was locked up tight. And I'm too old to go around smashing up the locks on other people. It works or it doesn't. I'm a long-haul kinda gal. I want to build with somebody. I want to look into the wrinkly face of an old man and compare notes.

A few months ago I was entering a restaurant when an old man fell down its stairs. Swear words blasted from him, but he was most worried about his little wife climbing to the rail above. I helped her down the two remaining steps, and all the while he kept shouting out, asking if she was okay as he tried to stand. They thanked me and he apologized for all the swearing. His hands were bleeding and I asked him to come inside for peroxide or I could bring some out. He took his wife's arm and thanked me anyway, saying they didn't live far from there and would be okay. It rattled me so badly that I called my boyfriend and cried. A few weeks later his grandmother told him the same story from her point of view. She passed away just before Christmas. I never actually met her aside from that night. Her husband approached us at The Mark Twain diner one afternoon weeks later as we sucked down homemade root beer. He remembered me. I'll never forget how worried he was. She was ill. He was bleeding on the pavement, struggling to get up, and get to her. I envied them. And even though they're without each other now, I still do.

Sometimes it feels like I'm more likely to win a million bucks in the lottery.

Despite the little bit of food I managed to eat today, I'm about to get rip-roaring drunk while Gchatting with Konk who just had her heart broken too. Gonna try talking her into moving to Austin with me. Thinking about L.A. again too. I could go back out, do some scriptwriting and standup, and see if it fulfills me. But first I'm gonna have a few more cries, a summer in NYC, and hopefully make it to France. First I'm gonna miss him until I'm sick of missing him. My sheets will be wet but only with tears.

For now.

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