Heading through the Stargate

Quacky now has an internal gyroscope that tells her exactly what orientation in space she wants to have. Tilt her too far one way, she quacks in protest. She leans too far forward, she whines. Don't dare place her so that her feet are higher than her head.

It also seems that she always knows exactly where she does or doesn't want to be, and what she should be playing with at any given moment. We used to be able to trick her by taking the dangerous plastic wrapper away and replacing it with her neigh-bear or something equally exciting. This no longer works. Expect to surrender your potato chip bag for at least 15 minutes before snacking in peace.

I wish her parents had one ounce of the certainty she possesses. Counting down the days...

30 day notice

It's official. Our landlord has been notified that our apartment will be vacated, cleaned, and our keys will be turned in by January 26th. Neither of us have jobs, we don't have a place to live, but we're headed north to Portland. The strange part is that none of this feels strange at all. We pride ourselves on our spontaneity, and somehow always figure things out without much anxiety. 

We've survived poverty, nine months of being on crutches followed closely by nine months of vomiting daily, unemployment, a wedding with our dysfunctional families,  depression, and homelessness. Things like finding jobs and moving stuff, a dog, and a baby are simple tasks. Blindly starting over only five hours away from here does not phase us. 

The hard part is trying to decide whether living in a place with unsurpassed outdoor recreational activities, near an amazing friend from the Midwest, is still better than going back to our hometown to be near family and even more friends. So far, all we can do is move onward. Attempting to find a place to fit in. Giving our dream of living "out West" another chance before possibly dragging ourselves with our tail between our legs back to a place we never could appreciate when we lived there.

Our relocation has taught us so much about ourselves and the people in our lives. We have no regrets. Let's get packing.

Attractive, Inaccessible People

I place all of the following people in the same category in my brain. I believe the title might be: If Pornography Were Made Tasteful, Here are the Stars. It seems strange, but I think says a lot about me.

Mary Louise Parker

Justin Kirk

Meryl Streep

David Hyde Pierce

Gregory House, MD (not Hugh Laurie, though, he's too nice in real life)

Angelina Jolie, (but not Brad Pitt, nice guy but kind of gross)

Julia Styles

Ennis Del Mar (but not Heath Ledger, only sexy when gay and wearing a cowboy hat)

I usually can't stand the typical straight commercially "attractive" people making out scenes in movies. I'm more of a Nicole Kidman and Jude Law in Cold Mountain kind of girl. My friend Lassie and I have discussed an idea of porn for smart people, which involves a mixture of some of the above actors, written by Alan Ball and directed by Michel Gondry. 

I wonder if I'll be in trouble for telling our secret.

Corner of Terror

I appeared in my Grandma's living room, which is actually the combination living room/dining room/breakfast nook/kitchen due to the (strange) open floor plan. Grandpa was sweeping out one of the corners, which was full of cobwebs, which were full of dead bugs and things. At this point, I was pretty sure I was dreaming. Not because I live 2,500 miles away from that house, but because the Grandma I know would never have a corner full of yucky things.

For a while now, Grandma has had this mental and/or maybe physical breakdown, so maybe my subconscious was worried about who is cleaning her house. At any rate, suddenly Longitude was there, and he said he would sweep out the yucky things, and I was supposed to discard them once they got to the center of the room.

First, a dead pill bug. I don't know what they're really called, and I could easily look it up, but you know, those tiny black things that curl up when you touch them. Fine, here's a picture. It's curled, dried carcass was gently swept to the center of the room. I turned, and suddenly it became a massive slug bred with a hermit crab, alive and sliming a trail. I was incredibly terrified, but I knew it was my job to get rid of it. 

As I pondered a way to deal with the first creature, (salt it? chase it? can you flush a cat-sized object down the toilet?) the second one, an ant sized locust-type shell, was brushed near my feet. I looked down and it had become a huge serpent, coiled and angry. Over and over, small mildly gross particles turned into increasingly ominous animals. I woke up before I had formed my extermination plan.

I worry about my emotional well-being after dreams like this. But I don't dwell on it, because my physical well-being is so much more compromised. Still working on Maslow's Safety, and even some days success in the Physiological category is all I can hope for.

The Next Post Won’t Be Depressing

I have many ideas for posts that begin to take shape, but then something more pressing seeps in and I can’t focus beyond it, so I’m giving in. As our lives are somehow turning toward a move to Portland, and therefore away from the Midwest, I am thinking about the amazing people I will not likely be closer to anytime soon. This I can deal with, at least for now. As it happens, I am looking forward to a more Urban existence, and will most likely be nearer to some dear friends anyway, but that story is for another day.

I have a friend who will never be closer to us, no matter where we move in this life.

I Googled her name yesterday. I can’t fathom what I was hoping to find. Perhaps a memorial site put up by her parents that we were somehow not informed of? We all have small tidbits of cyberspace that will live on as long as the interweb does, and I did get several hits in reality. In my mind, I was going to find a YouTube video of her saying:

I’m fine. I’m content where I am. I miss you guys. When can we have another Thanksgiving in pajamas? I’ve learned the secret, and I will see you again.

The background song is always Breathe Me, and she is wearing red. This is not a dream. It’s a place my mind goes when I’ve had enough.

 

********************************

 

I have now learned a grief lesson twice over. There comes a point, months later, when the eye-popping, chest-caving-in type of sadness lessons, and life becomes a new normal. That has been the hardest time for me, by far.

I don’t like this. It’s not funny anymore. No, really, I want to see my friend again. I didn’t get enough yet. Let’s start over at the place where this all derailed, only this time let things end fairly. I spend time in the parallel universe where we are celebrating a wedding; Longitude is wearing a tux (a Hawaiian shirt?), and we are all barefoot on the beach.

Fast-forward to our daughter and theirs at a petting zoo, clambering all over the animals. Another day, at yet another backyard bonfire, her husband plays the guitar while she laughs and teases; they disappear into the tall rows of corn, leaving the rest of us to occupy their kids. “Mommy and Daddy will be back soon. They’re playing.”

In my mind it always goes much, much further. Logic tells me to stay away, grounded in reality. But somehow putting myself through pain, whether I’m daydreaming, watching Angels in America, or Googling, carries me.

December 1st Remembrance

I was wondering if, on this World AIDS Day, I could tell you about Jeff?

I’ve been thinking about him daily lately for reasons unknown. Whether it’s the anniversary of his death approaching, the fact that I met him in the Fall, or some other cosmic intervention I can’t be sure. I miss him.

Jeff was this strange, bouncy, slender, comic of a person. When referring to an aspect of his personality or one of his latest actions, we would say, “that’s Jeff”, and smile. It would take up much of the interweb to describe what his friendship meant to me, so I’ll try to keep to the point. He was an amazing hugger. I think his hugs changed the world.

I recently realized that the Catholic church was teaching me to hate, during my formative years, no less. It was not all bad; I am proud of some of what religion taught me, but that is another post.

A few days ago, I was at work, and an employee whom I had never met before admitted in casual conversation that she did not learn Spanish because she lived in California and “couldn’t stand the Mexicans”. I tried, as I often do, to put myself in her frame of mind, to try to understand why she would think this an acceptable statement. I suddenly, uncontrollably flashed back to a time almost ten years ago.

I remember an unsolicited feeling of disgust, fear, and self-loathing brought on by any mention of gay men (or lesbian women, to a lesser degree). For over twenty years, I had been brainwashed to “love the sinner, hate the sin”, and to pray for the dammed soul of those who “chose” to have same-sex relations. Shortly after high school, I was able to break free from the darkness of these thoughts and realize, thanks to life experience, that my church was unbelievably wrong. I now know that palpable feeling was hate, and I can’t figure out any explanation other than it was a learned behavior. The deepest undertow of this triggered reaction was always dislike for my self, because I like to think that my adult self was trying to emerge from under the flood of Catholic belief.

I remember being trained to say that I had no sympathy for those who “brought HIV on themselves”. Literally, trained. I actually remember being coached by our youth leader on how to “defend” myself against the influence of gay people. These beliefs were so deeply rooted in my brain that to this day I am still amazed sometimes that I am the person I’ve become. It must have taken a miracle, or an average man.

I can’t remember how I was convinced to take my first trip to a gay bar, with my new roommate. Jeff was sitting in the beer garden, laughing, and telling a story about getting stung by a bee while working at Dairy Queen. We were introduced, and since I was a nursing student, he asked me what he could have done to make the pain stop. I told him he could have used a paste of baking soda and water, and he said he had tried, but all he could find was gravy powder. So far, I could not figure out why I was supposed to be hating him. For the first time, my Pavlov’s dogs reaction had not been triggered. He went on to ask why there was a weird scab forming, and I said it was because his phagocytes were busy repairing the damage. “Oh girl, my phagocytes!” We laughed. I loved him.

Heading to C-Street became our weekly vigil. The love and acceptance poured over me and washed away that terrible, conditioned feeling I now know as hate. At the end of one night, Jeff hugged me goodbye. The bar was gone, music stopped, voices silenced. His hug was the kind that made you feel like you were the only one on Earth, and that the only place he wanted to be was in that embrace. I was overwhelmed by his affection, after only knowing each other a few short weeks.

He made up a name for me. He encouraged me during a difficult hairstyle transition. He made his boyfriend buy us drinks. We laughed at the regulars: Chew Cow, K-Mart Queen, Debbie. We cleaned the Dairy Queen when we weren’t getting paid so he could come to the bar sooner. My fondest memories are of that time in my life, and may always be. I had never experienced such unconditional acceptance. I knew from then on, I owed the same to Jeff, and every other person on the planet, and have never turned back.