Crumbs

Trying. to breathe. life. into
Decaying crusty. crumbs

Making meringues. out of air.
Measuring up. with no tape

Is this the new all time low
Or the crevice before the summit

Promises with no. action
Movement with no. ripple
Breeze with no. air



The bumblebee flies anyway

Lesbian Dating 103

 

The harsh reality of online dating

 

Ok - here goes nothing.... it's been a while. Let me get you up to speed.

Boston Pride is always an amazingly good time. Some of my best stories are born somewhere between P-Town and Pride. Esmee is the largest lesbian block party on the eastern seaboard - it's like a Warsaw ghetto of dykes... once you are in, there is no way out. If the crazy religious zealots only realized we were walled in - they could sprinkle the area with mind altering, brainwashing chemicals that doled out the gay cure. Of course for us older single lesbians that don't do drugs - Esmee could be considered the gay cure. Don't get me wrong, it is fun, fun, fun... and girls just wanna...

Casting my eyes across the sea of drunk, Mardi-Gras bead wearing lesbo's, I wonder if my future ex-wife is out there showing her boobs for some plastic beads on a string and I seriously hope not.  I also hope she is not privy to ancient history of how we used to strip in the upstairs window for the crowd below and by we, I mean...you know.

I rode as a BOB in Dykes on Bikes for Boston Pride 2012. For those of you who don't know what that is... BOB stands for "Bitch on the Back". I agree , it really should be BOTB - but BOB is so much easier to say, especially when drunk.

Some women find the term BOB demeaning.  I, however see it more as an opportunity to wear silver snakeskin stiletto's with a lot of sparkly make-up and THAT my friends, is never demeaning.

 I had taken a recent hiatus from lesbian dating after my last relationship went up in flames with a mere shred of suspicion that perhaps my partner had a strong interest in Munchausen by Proxy.

( I figured it was probably a good idea to take a break from dating when my choices led me to believe someone I willingly entered into a relationship with, may 'currently be' or may 'currently have' the desire to poison me).

This stellar experience left me single and ambivalent toward meeting anyone. Not that I was against it, I just hadn't felt a strong enough desire to pursue meeting new people with an eye for possible dates. I may have murmured some typical complaints about the single life but c'mon - I didn't really mean them.

Back to Boston:

The bike, on which I am the lesbian "BOB",  belongs to the poster child for 11 years of lesbian domesticity who also happens to be one of my closest friends. Apparently our family values differ but we have the same sense of humor - so it works. She chooses this particular Pride to try to play match-maker, matchmaker, make me a match.

Let it be said that in all our years of friendship - never before has she attempted such a ludicrous feat. I'm not exactly the person most people would say "Oh, I know just the girl for you!". For the most part, Lesbians don't know what to do with me never mind set me up with their poor unsuspecting friends. I'm OK with that, I think...

Prior to my silver snakeskin arrival, she is grilling the newest member of her  - biker gang? - motorcycle club? - whatever, you call it.  The new gal is single, just moved back to the area and seems like she can hold her own. These observations lead to the enthusiastic declaration "Ooooohhh, you should meet my friend - she's single too".

That one statement leads me into a Summer that has been challenging to navigate and impossible to decipher. I'm still trying to work it out, I'll let you know how that goes.  Anyhow, a screaming exchange in my driveway (because that's always fun) after being told to STFU (Shut the fuck up) and my own screamed gauntlet of "I should date other people - that aren't you" gets the response that, yes - indeed I should. Not exactly what I was going for.

When are our more testosterone driven women going to realize that just because we SAY something, it doesn't mean we MEAN it?

So I about turn, huff into my house, slam the door, sit down at the computer and join a dating website. That was the appropriate response, right?

I have joined these sites before and whilst I have conversed with many people, I have never actually gone on a date. I was so determined that this time was going to be different and this time I would actually follow through... fuck her!  Aren't you glad you weren't on THAT site?

 

Website Date One:

A therapist wants to meet me for coffee.

I agree to the date in spite of varied friends feedback:

"Do you REALLY think that's a good idea?"  

"A therapist? A shrink? You? Oh this is not going to go well..."

"A WHAT???!!"  keels over in laughter, holding stomach, wiping away tears...

Granted it had the possibility of being really bad or, it could have been really good or even better,  I could have gotten some much needed free therapy and maybe dinner.

We meet for coffee at a Starbucks and situate ourselves in some very comfy leather armchairs. Her opening line is  "Tell me about your Mother".  If you have ever read anything I have written, you know enough to know that opener is as bad as the chick in P-Town that said "Tell me about your childhood". I saw the twinkle in her eye and she cracked up laughing. It was perfect!  To her credit, she was not in the least  "shrink" like and we talked for hours. There was no love connection but she is definitely a keeper and I enjoy her shrinky dink dink friendship very much.

I had finally broken the seal of dating in the digital age. Heartened that I made a new friend and she wasn't a serial killer or a bearded man from Virginia trying to save my soul for from the devil, I decided to continue my adventure with some confidence that this wasn't so bad after all.

Website Date Two

A dog trainer wants to go out for dinner.

A dog trainer? Now we are talking!! Could there be a finer match for me in cyberspace... really? With my love of all things dog? This is exciting... I can pick her brain, talk about my dogs till the cows come home without getting that glazed over look as someone checks their watch and says "Wow, is that really the time?"

This one looked really promising. We bantered back and forth, our insane irritation with people and love of animals almost had me convinced, in theory, she could quite possibly be my soul mate. That was until she showed up on our date in white (awkwardly mid thigh length)shorts, a denim button down and a t-shirt portraying a wolf howling at the moon. Probably sounds quite shallow - did I fail to mention the inch wide middle parting through the long black hair and the leather choker that made me gasp for air, simply by looking at it?

I excused myself to the bathroom.

I pulled it together and decided I could easily make it through dinner, after all weren't there ten thousand things about dog training I wanted to ask a professional? I kept the Sangria flowing and the conversation impersonal . I actually loved being able to sit there and discuss pack behavior, territorial alphas and dog-human evolution throughout the ages, that is, until she cried.

She didn't just cry, it was in the middle of dinner and she forewarned me. In fact, she told me in no uncertain terms she was going to cry. Mid sentence about dog nutrition I found myself confused and bewildered. I looked at her and said "You're really gonna cry? About what? I don't get it".  At that moment I was unceremoniously tossed into the middle of a Seinfeld episode and no-one had bothered to tell me the story line.  I thought perhaps it was a weird dog trainer joke and maybe she was about to howl at the pitcher of red fruity sangria I was trying to suck down through a straw. Nope, it was no joke.

My date dissolved into tears. She buried her face in her oversized floral cloth napkin. It was quite the performance and I, for once, was speechless. She did manage to spit out the following statement " You have no idea how many people pretend, but you are the real deal".

Now this may sound callous and perhaps it is but WHAT THE FUCK? That statement doesn't mean anything and if it does there's no reason to cry about it. Did she mean because I really like dogs or because I put real pictures online and described myself as best I could from my perspective? I didn't want an explanation, it was weird enough that talking about dog food made her borderline hysterical.  I did the only thing I knew how to do... I kept talking. Yup, just went right ahead as if it wasn't happening. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk... Thankfully my tactic worked and her crying subsided before I ran out of things to say. Ha! Right? Like that would ever happen!!  The only thing I couldn't talk my way out of would be the crying Sirens from Greek mythology. I know enough to stay away from those bitches! The dog trainer had nothing on them.

Overall, the food was good and I enjoyed the topic of conversation, so all was not lost. That is until she tried to get me to go home with her. I almost escaped. I made it to the car, managed to get in AND close the door before any awkward embrace could transpire. She stood there, waiting - so  I had to crack my window to hear what she was saying... I'm not usually an ignorer of what is happening in front of my face - No, I'm more of an acknowledger, let's talk about it kinda gal. Oh no - not in this situation. This chick wanted to teach me to sit, stay, roll over and beg. In light of her alpha dog physical posturing (which admittedly - she was very good at) as she made her request that I stay at her place, I simply ignored it, talked over and around it, said thank you for dinner and drove away.

A barrage of text messages came through in an attempt to get me to turn around. There was one referring to my consumption of Sangria... Seriously? I'm usually a Scotch drinker but I opted for the Sangria to ensure I was more than capable of driving away after I took one look at those daisy dukes howling at the wolf... wait, no - never mind... those shorts were howling at something, I can only hope it was a wolf.

Disappointing as it was not to find my one true love, I plowed through it and responded only once to her cycle of eleven text messages.  In her desperation she was not displaying  a calm assertive energy, Cesar Millan would not have been pleased.

 

Website Date Three:

Betti the Butch

In light of my recent exposure, I'm now considering myself a pro at the online dating stuff. Hence I have decided to show a friend how to set up an online profile to meet other single women. As I'm sitting there working my online demonstration, a window pops up and someone is typing directly to me in real time. Whaaaaat? lost in my own density, I hadn't realized this site had an instant message capability. Cool!! So I start chatting with this girl back and forth. Boy, is she funny! Quick, witty, picks up on my jokes... This banter goes on for a couple of days, Betti asks for my phone number and starts calling and calling and calling. I don't really like to talk on the phone but Betti made it easy for me. She didn't stop calling till I answered and then she didn't stop talking until I hung up.

We made a date to get together mid afternoon on a Sunday.

In light of all that could possibly go wrong I suggested we each bring a gift for the other, a consolation prize if you will - since the first blind date could actually mark the end of our fun little friendship. I really had no idea how prophetic that notion truly would be. I had such a good time with my 'booby' prize gift bag. I included a garish glass ring, mad-libs, a magnetic cowboy drawing kit, dog cheese and a print out of curse words in sign language. Yes - I did say dog cheese.

I saw my date angel walking across the parking lot of the British Beer Company and I remembered just how doomed I was in the arena of dating. Most people post pictures of themselves 5 years younger and 50 pounds lighter - not Betti the Butch. No, I think since she put her profile together she must have been on a hunger strike for world peace or something similar. She was skittish, scrawny and had an inability to maintain eye contact. Trying to look on the bright side, I decided she was just nervous.

We settle at a high top bar table, order a couple of drink and peruse the menu. As I am trying to decide between fish n chips or a club sandwich I am berated with a line of - in your face - questioning. "So, do you think I'm hot?" "Are you attracted to me?" "Do I look like my pictures?" "I'm hot right, huh? huh? huh?"

My response? Well I know what it should have been. I should have said "I'm sorry but I just found out I have an incurable wasting disease that is communicable and I must leave the country for a desert island and terminate all contact with the outside world.... CHECK PLEASE!"

Instead, I said "Who asks that?" and "Am I asking you these things? Can we just get to know each other a little?" (by little, I meant - VERY little).  At this point I'm still putting her weird behavior down to nerves and am trying to make her feel somewhat comfortable. I redirect the conversation by giving her my gift bag, hoping we can at least move the focus. It didn't go so well. She seemed confused by the whole thing even though everything in the bag was connected to a conversation or joke we had previously shared. I mean, I know I can be confusing - so I let it go.

Side-note, I have a love of language and profanity. I believe you can take power out of words or put power into words depending on usage and context. My only holdback is children. No, not the word... you know those little people that will one day become big people? Yes, those. Children should really grasp the concept of language and learn the basics before they move on to make it a tad more flowery and colorful, kinda like walking before you can run.

The place was full of kids.  Betti was loud and getting louder, every other word was a screaming profanity. I pointed out the little ears around us and she made it very clear that she didn't give a flying F**K.

"Waitress, I'm sorry to do this to you - but would you mind terribly if we moved to an outside table?"

The waitress was a true delight and had no problem re-seating us on the patio. The only other inhabited table outside had 2 adults, 3 children and a baby... Great!! 

I asked Betti how long she had lived in the area, who her friends were, what they did for fun... She became defensive and wanted to know why I was interrogating her. I consider those getting to know you questions. However,  if she wanted me to demonstrate my interrogation tactics...

 I believe it was in that moment I realized just how dumb I was.

Betti, was wasted!

She had shown up wasted and she was getting more wasted by the minute.  How had I missed this huge glaring neon actuality? I had missed it by giving her the benefit of the doubt and by thinking she was nervous and may possibly be high functioning  aspergers or slightly autistic. How did I even think that??? It's insulting to all the people I know who have these conditions and it was way too kind of an observation, therefore I apologize wholeheartedly - it was a stressful situation.

As she ordered another beer, I asked her how many drinks she had had prior to meeting me. She vacillated between 1 and 3 beers, angrily declaring that it was justifiable since blind dates were anxiety ridden. I agreed, however a whole case of beer may have been overdoing it. She then asked me to go bowling with her after lunch. Um, ok. I had driven over an hour to meet her and figured a loud bowling alley would kind of be like a saving grace to the day. I was channeling Duece Bigalow the Male Gigolo when I realized I didn't have any socks. I spied a TJ Maxx across the parking lot and left bombed Betti to pay the check as I went in search of socks. One pair of coach sneakers later... I picked up Betti and drove the gas station.

To her credit, she attempted to pump gas for me. She dropped the gas cap, couldn't figure out the pump, barely got the nozzle in the car... I went inside to pee.  She was sitting in the passenger seat, radio on full blast looking a tad comatose. Picking my gas cap off the floor, I removed the pump nozzle and closed up my tank.

Slurring now, "What? You had to re-do it because I didn't do it right?"  "No, my sweet drunk skittish psycho angel - I didn't want to drag a gas pump behind us as the police tried to decipher which fumes were coming from where"

(It amazes me that people are offended by what I actually say - when the dialogue in my head is so much worse... You're offended by THAT.. Wow, you should hear what I'm really thinking....)

I smiled gracefully, shook my head and drove us right back to the parking lot.

She freaked. No, she really freaked...

"What? What are you doing? Are you leaving? Are you done?"

"I think you should go sleep it off and call me when you sober up, I need to go home"

Indignant "I am NOT sleeping in your car"

"No, that is correct. You are not sleeping in my car, you can sleep in your own car though"

"I'm not getting out of this car, I'll never see you again"

Ladies! There is some real tried and true logic, right there and apparently this has happened to her before.

"Betti, I'm not arguing with you, just go sleep it off and call me. I understand being nervous, but can we do this again, sober perhaps?"

She refused to get out of the car so I calmly rolled down my window, settled into my seat and started chain smoking. If you can't get em out.... smoke em out! just saying!!

She wanted to know the difference between her drinking and me smoking... seriously??

I put myself on repeat and refused to have any dialogue with her other than "Betti, get out of my car"

Then came the barrage of insults and name calling culminating in the one statement that will stay with me for a very long time "What do I care if I never see you again, you're so Jersey Shore anyway"

What? WHAT?  I had never even seen Jersey Shore but I knew she was insulting me on the grandest scale she could muster.

"Get the fuck out of my car"

She did. I drove away.

I drove to a friend's house on the verge of tears where I promptly disclosed that my date had called me Jersey Shore. They both keeled over with laughter and then one of them looked me dead in the eye and said "Oh honey, you are the farthest thing from Jersey Shore". They then poured me a glass of wine and made me sit through three episodes of Snookie on demand...

Butch Betti tried to contact me the following day and wanted to know why getting drunk and calling me names on the first date was a deal-breaker. I couldn't really explain it to her - I suggest she find the answers in a popular reality tv show... she didn't get the reference.

 

As I drove home that Sunday night the Disc Jockey was hosting a British Flash-Back hour. I sang along to cheesy bubble gum pop music, trying to blot out the day...  I turned up the tune 'Wannabe' and wondered what had happened to

Scary, Baby, Ginger, Posh and Sporty.

That's what I needed back in my life, a little girl power, at least the Spice Girls brought a message a little farther up the food chain that the cast of Jersey Shore. I day-dreamed that it would be awesome if the Spice Girls were waiting for me at home to give me a good talking to. That thought sent me into a fit of giggles at the pure ridiculousness of it. Girls, spice and otherwise, all I can say to that is... beware of what you day-dream about.

:)

Online dating etiquette: 

Don't looked surprised or shocked when that 35yr old gainfully employed hot chick shows up and is really your 2nd cousins inbred daughter of another mother. Oh, and always bring tissues to a blind date, someone is going to end up in tears.

Common sense rule #3

If you send 11 texts messages and get only 1 reply - there probably won't be a second date.

For the Record:

Sangria is not Scotch and should never be confused with a real alcoholic beverage.

 

Wire Monkey

So many promises implied

So many rabbit holes

Left empty again

Never knowing - never seeing

My soul is screaming

And I say I don't know - but I do know

I don't want to believe or accept - that what I am to you is entertainment -

To you I am nothing - I fill your time

How many times have I loved another...

And now I let every memory drift

unaccompanied

Ironic

Perhaps this is my time

Perhaps my transition

No, not to be fooled

Or so carried away I can no longer see                                                   

Wire monkey, I am

And I die a little more... every day

Dinner Date

There's nothing to see here

Why can't the simplest of things stay simple?



My hands on your skin - loving every bump, scar, ink...
your story absorbs through my hands and into my soul
we are forever changed...the magnitude and minutiae unknown as of yet


Stay the anger, stay the brittle surface
open your passion - open your heart - open your arms


I need not be possessed nor do I yearn to possess
I need someone to reach in and still my screaming demons
if just for a second, a minute


Always ready to run - I recognize myself in this obscure reflection
want to make you want to stay - to face and challenge and fight and quiet
so that I may also find my own way home


I feel dimmer now, as if you are choosing to unsee what you have seen
You are choosing to no longer see me
I am fading away, soon I won't exist - not in your world and perhaps not in mine


Oh sweet girl, if I could only heal your wounds... I can't even heal my own
Words? Language? Writing? It all seems for naught now... why invest so much energy
The ripple of repercussion widens with each breath - it is an echo of what once was

The heart is a fantastical creature
it only beats at night
It tells wild stories to your soul
And like a wide eyed child, you believe

Is it because of what I said in my note?

World suicide prevention day is Sept 10th (every year). I wasn’t aware of that.

Irony has always been my friend.

9/10/10

My last meal wasn’t a turkey dinner or sushi followed by crème brulee….it was a tobelerone, chocolate milk, half a bottle of scotch, a mix of aspirin and advil gel caps which I then topped off with 32 over the counter sleeping “aids“.

Either that combination is not lethal or I have the constitution of a large herd of wild horses. Don’t try this at home because I personally am gravitating towards the latter.

Instead of putting me into the restful eternal sleep I thought I desired, it sent me into a paranoid state of hallucinogen which wasn‘t as much fun as people who have dropped LSD claim it to be. Shit, that shit was awful! I was being chased… there were dogs, flash lights, helicopters, cops, groups of no-good judgmental (ex) friends… chasing me all over Oakland beach and subsequent neighborhoods. Man, it sucked!

What sucked worse than the horrendous hallucinations was that I left my shoes in the car.

I was barefoot , running for my life (the one I was trying to abdicate) for about…. Ooooohhhh 10 to 12 hours. The good part (in perspective) was that the particular combination I chose to end my life with, in fact, must have caused a zero pain elevation of being , since I felt no pain and had managed to run, hide and climb as I acquired an unfathomable amount of splinters, pieces of glass and god knows what embedded in my feet. I could barely walk for weeks.

I could go on for pages about the whole event but really, who wants to talk about these things? No-body, that’s who. You learn this as a crash course if you ever go through such an event. No, I’m here to talk about “The Note”…. The final instructions, the final most important message you “think” you need to leave as your legacy.

My note began with references to Edie Izzard. Who, by the way, is a British Drag Queen comedian. As I was contemplating ending my life apparently it was IMPERATIVE that I ponder, wish and hope that Mr Izzard writes his own material.. Yeah, it was that important to me that I discussed it for the first third of my intended suicide note.

As I re-read this morbid document, it is hysterical to me that I really wanted to talk about his bit “The meek shall inherit the earth”…. because if they truly were “meek” we could take it away from them and they would say “Oh! You want it? Well since we are meek I suppose that would be ok with us”.

Really, how is one supposed to start a suicide note? It seemed completely appropriate to me at the time.

Now, if I were to do it again … that would be an entirely different matter altogether…. And as someone recently pointed out to me “ You popped your own cherry, you should now be a pro at this”. Hmmmm, good point, I don’t suppose many people get a “re-write” opportunity.

My re-write would not include declarations of love and ego boosts to people I “think” would be hurt by my self imposed demise…. Hell, No! This time it would be way more ego-centric…. Fuck you and I’m great… as opposed to I’m sorry, you are amazing, check out this comedian and feed the dogs….

I think this time I would begin my note with…

“I was once asked if I would go head first or feet first”


And for that, I will love you till the end of time… my friend of the heart and the sleeping pill.

xoxo

Favorite Lines NY roadtrip

That's not happy to see me, is it?

I can't tell you what to do

Sorry, I think I'm deaf after spending 4 hours in the car

Um...

I don't think we'll be taking any pictures

Magic IPOD must be broken

S.O.S

Look Kids... Big Ben

How can something THAT pretty look so ugly?

SURPRISE!!

Keep the fucking Quarter

I guess we need to deactivate

A ninja with a broken arm... weird....

Well... I WAS planning on having my own "houseguest"

Are you OK in there?

Thanks for stopping by...

Is that Ketchup in your pants?

Make like a tree

It's like De ja Vue... except its dark and we are heading the other way

I think I need to make some edits

Wendy's?



(Jen, we didn't break anything - this trip - right??)


With love to my best road trip companion.... xoxo

My Mothers Mistress

I guess it's an odd concept to most people, keeping the peace by hiding your relationship with the woman who gave you life. Secret conversations, private jokes, unspoken time spent together.

Or perhaps it is more prevalent than I think... Many of us are raised and controlled by Step-Parents who just don't have that same bond with us as they do with their own flesh and blood.

I have been my Mothers Mistress for 35 years now... since a man, not my biological Father, wandered into our lives and took center stage. I am grateful for his endless devotion to my Mother at a time in her life when she needed somebody to cling to. His loyalty, fidelity and friendship has never wavered nor has his jealous, controlling, demanding and childish possession waned.

A grown man so insecure he couldn't bear the idea of a mother alone with her child. Weekends spent sitting in the dark, refusing to eat, waiting at the window until she returned from her "work required weekend". Tantrums and Fury at time spent shopping for curtains without him because it required an excess of 3 hours absent from his company.

The constant "handling" of this man, a biological stranger in our midst. The lies and elusive stories drawn around our existence of Mother and Daughter grow a fury in my belly... Worse than that is the self loathing that comes from the voices in my soul... What is wrong with me that makes him so much more important? Living in the wake of a deceased sibling, the endless question of... "Was I the child slated to die?", "Did destiny twist the knife and take the wrong child?", "Would things have been different if the son had survived?".

This man had no male friends. He surrounded himself by women. Women took care of him, provided for him, nurtured him... Hating to be challenged in any way, not really being an Alpha Male by nature he retained Alpha Male status by environmental default.

Raising a son would have been problematic for sure... unfortunately for our family unit, I developed my brothers place and carried his alpha gene into the world.

Problematic is an understatement.

I didn't fight his place in our family, at my Mothers request I called him Dad and accepted him into my life. However, By my very nature, I challenge and I grow.

I grew to be my Mothers mistress and she allowed it.

On my own quest to be a Mother, things had to change. Old behaviors needed to be addressed or stopped.

The thought of my child accepting the dysfunction as I had... the idea that my child may have to play secret games to gain the love of a Grandmother... that my child would feel inadequate or witness my overcompensation for perceived inadequacies has forever changed me.

Before my beautifully perfectly imperfect child weighs my belly and my breast, before my life is gifted as the fertilizer for this clean slated soul... I roar!

Every mistress eventually becomes tired of the unfulfilled promises, the delaying tactics and eventually every mistress... has to face herself in the mirror and accept what she knew from that first whispered declaration of shallow pillow talk... "I'm going to leave my wife".

"Ssssshhhhh, Dad doesn't know..."

If you can't give me what I need... truthfully and unashamed... then I don't want it.

If you can't face your own deeds and partake in the accountability... then I don't want it.

I can no longer be my Mothers Mistress.

By Next Mothers Day, I plan to unashamedly, unconditionally hold up my love for the world to see... Next Mothers Day, I plan to vow to put my child first before all others... to love and defend... to nurture and encourage... but most of all to take great pride in loving openly and honestly.


I will roar and roar and roar again, to honor my place as a Mother.

Twenty Ten

TWENTY TEN

Goodbye 2009. Without one jot of sorrow we counted down "Ten, Nine, Eight". Not that it has been a terrible year, it's just been a challenging year an eye opening year. "Seven, Six, Five" I have a profound respect for people who live with chronic pain and get out of bed anyway. "Four, Three" My personal flaws require a little more self awareness. "Two" Depression is insipid, it claws away at everything and everyone around you. "One" Never underestimate the power of love, good friends and family... There are people who will traverse every valley with you even if you don't want them to.


This year I asked Santa if he could deliver me the undeliverable.

"Dear Santa, Can you please just make me feel better for Christmas?"

After 5 months on this merry go round of doctors appointments, I think I'm actually turning a corner. Christmas Eve in the ER was fun and Christmas Day had its moments but since then every day seems to feel a little bit better. Hopefully my body is purging itself of whatever the hell this thing is.

I do not profess to understand much of the last five months but I do want to say "Thanks, Santa!"


I have managed my depression for 20 years. Some years I have had a good handle on it. anti-D's that work, an active gym membership, good diet, passion, hobbies and good friends... Other years aaarrrghhhh. How come we can always find more to say about the shitty stuff in life? I could write volumes about the not so well managed years!

The solitude of a rural life is tranquil until it becomes a beautiful prison. Then it becomes stark isolation. Having to rely on other people for your basic needs becomes a fiery anger that burns...


Personal Flaw Number One: I make a lousy patient

Being sick and not knowing why plays mind games with you. Maybe I really am crazy...

Personal Flaw Number Two: I always have to be capable and in control


Please Pardon my example but:

The Dike sprung a leak and there was no little Dutch boy to put his finger in the damn. Once the walls start to crumble, well.... they start to crumble.

Then the fucker had me again! Which, isn't such a bad thing - not this time. It becomes easier to recognize as the years go by. It doesn't matter which hat or coat the depression tries to disguise itself with... I see through the George Michael sunglasses - I know who you are.

And so.... we seek help, because depression and I cannot part ways without help.

I just started therapy to help me and Doomsday break up yet again and I really like my counselor though I'm not thrilled with the teachings of existentialism in a group therapy setting for depression "You are alone.... You are born alone... You die alone.... You singularly hold personal responsibility for your life and choices in the here and now" Sounds kinda depressing doesn't it? Ok, so I'm poking fun. The concepts are fine if you are trying to enlighten people to realize their personal power and to the fact that they have complete freedom to choose who they are in that moment - that they are not governed by history or by the identity they believe has been handed to them based on a lifetime of events - that in real time may only add up to about a week in x number of years.

The downside to teaching a simplified version of a more complex theory is like prejudice... you give people a little information, it's open to interpretation, it gets mangled and misused. My favorite pastime is listening to people quote the bible to support all kinds of Bullshit beliefs... there is something to be said for 'Ignorance is Bliss'.

I personally come from the Village Theory. Yah there is a joke in there about gay men in feathers.... I believe we are all connected, we are all intrinsically the same. Not that I like you people, but still... who really 'likes' their family? We are not alone, you are not alone... and if you ever feel like you are - my door is always open.

Personal Strength Number One: Humanity

Personal Strength Number Two: Compassion


It takes a villages to raise a child... and a few line dances to teach us all that its ok to look stupid sometimes.

I fear if I was straight up with doctors and therapists about some of my beliefs they truly would think I was crazy and lock me up - without passing GO. UFO's, psychics, re-incarnation....



Raised beneath the arms of a Georgia Pine... Oh sorry that's Zac Brown... I was raised in an atmosphere where looking good was critical... I don't know what I thought would happen if you didn't look good, but I knew it wasn't 'good'.

As such, my appearance has always been important to me. Not in the I will hover over every mirror in self admiration (yuck) but I'm not a run to the grocery in slippers and curlers kind of girl. Since I burned my face I don't like to go out much, I do have anxiety and even now - I know it doesn't look that bad but I am self conscious about social situations and about being judged. The weight gain doesn't help - I keep bitchin saying I've gone up 2 dress sizes - it's more like 1 and really, that's the least of my problems right now....

"I'm really anxious about going out tonight, I really don't want to go"
"What do you feel anxious about"
"I'm paranoid about my face, my speech gets screwed up, I haven't seen these people in like six months, I've gained weight, I feel like shit"
"So..."
"I'm gonna go"
"Good. You need to go. It is important to face your anxiety"

It didn't really go like that - but get the drift... therapist says... hey dumb shit - face your fears... only way to overcome social anxiety is ... DRUMROLL PLEASE.... be social... Right, right!

Off we trot, good little doobies... Pull into the parking lot ...BAM... car pulls in beside us and it's only one of my closest friends and another friend from our social group. We walk in the door... BAM... the person on the door who was not supposed to be there... also a good friend. Ok, this is getting easier. My N squared love affair shows her face (not wearing a cranberry sweater). There are no other people I would have rather brought in 2010 with.

We dance, laugh, sing Proud Mary waaaay too loud... I turn my girl and say "I'm really glad we came out tonight, this is awesome".

Do you feel the shoe? Should I talk more about all the fun or just cut right over to the bad apple?

Well since I'm there already... Pillow Fluff - this apology is for you...

Let's recap.
Haven't been out to the gay bar much in all of 2009 and have barely left the house in 5 months. I live with someone - who accompanied me on the journey from 2009 to 2010. I'm taking medication that affects the enzymes in my liver so my alcohol tolerance in exceedingly low - therefore I consumed 2 drinks and 1 and 1/2 shots all night - mixed with a couple of sodas and a bottle of water. I danced with EVERYONE on the dance floor, I laughed and talked to the people around me and I think I went outside for 3 cigarettes. (Oh, and I peed twice).
End recap

I grabbed my cigarettes and headed for the patio. The cold air was the most amazing feeling after coming out of the hot and sweaty dance club. The snow made the usually grubby smokers paradise look clean and fluffy.
I was just taking a minute to myself thinking what a great night it had turned out to be. This is the part where I question peoples humanity, this is where I wonder what goes through peoples' minds when they decide to impart an unsolicited opinion on someone standing alone. Had I been with a group of friends would she have approached me? I doubt it. Bully's like to inflict their meanness when they perceive themselves to be in a higher position of social power.

This older, unattractive, slob of a woman sneered into my face

"You need to get your life together"

Huh?
What?
Surely she isn't talking to me. I have no earthly idea who she is

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, you need to get it together"

I was just shell shocked... stuck to the spot...

"Do I know you?"

"I know you"

Then she said my name and I was like, what the fuck??? Panic on the dance floor? What?

"What's your name?"

"Linda, I knew you ten years ago and you need to sort your life out"

With that she walked away.

Anxiety, Panic, Anger... Fight or Flight? Fuck this, fuck her.... I was just outraged with disbelief that someone would just be so apparently mean for no reason... so I went in pursuit.

"I think you have the wrong person"

Her friend started to apologize for her behavior and she screamed at her

"Don't fucking apologize for me, she knows who I am"

"I have no idea who you are and you don't know the first thing about me. You don't know where I live, what I do for a living, you don't know if I have children"
"You don't have any kids and I don't need to know, I know enough about you"

Nasty knickers sneered at me.

She kept trying to get in my face, re-iterating that she knew me ten years ago and the nickname she called me by is one that very few people use.

"Linda, what is your last name?"

"That's not important"

"Really? But it's important for you to tell me to get my life together when I have no idea who you are - you say you knew me ten years ago - ten years ago, my mother had breast cancer, ten years ago I was raped, ten years ago I cut off my hair with a bic razor and walked into a doctor's office and said please help me or I will kill myself"

Security began to hover

"You are using my childhood nickname that doesn't come with the nicest baggage in the world but you can't tell me your last name?"

I proceeded to tell her my entire full name, my full address (with zip code) and my phone number - which has been the same for 15 years - courtesy of crazy Susan- thank you.

"I am a bank manager, I am a landlord, I own multiple properties, I have 3 awesome dogs, I have a girlfriend I live with. Do you see my big fat belly? I could be someone's mother. I am listed in the phone book and I have nothing to hide from you or the rest of the world and yet you still can't tell me who you are".

At this point I had a cheering section. I believe it was security who said - "Good for you Girl!"

(I failed to mention I'm on crazy meds for depression and have been sick for half the year - never mind being financially drained - foreclosures - tax issues - so in one sense - she's right...I do need to get my life together)

I walked away - as she tried to accuse me of being a drunk mess... just stupid. Funny thing is if she had attacked me when I wasn't alone, I probably would have let it go. The worst thing you can do is attack me when I feel vulnerable, feral cat syndrome.... not a good idea

Personal Flaw Number 3
Feral Cat Syndrome

Personal Strength Number 3
Feral Cat Syndrome

Now if we were sharing unsolicited opinions about each other's lives... I hear the biggest loser might be looking for new contestants and Queer eye for the straight guy might go out on a limb and take on a one off episode featuring old, angry, homely lesbians for fashionable transformations... but I'm pretty sure she has a mirror - though the magic may have faded - it's still a mirror.

OOOps - there is my looking good conditioning....

Linda, you go ahead honey and look as homely as you can and let that mean spirit just hang right out and suffocate whatever beautiful untainted soul you brought with you into this world - existentialist theory teaches that you get to be exactly who you want to be in the here and now and wow - you really succeeded ( in at least that exercise). I'll keep my 1-800 Jenny comments to myself.

Ladies
If you have a belief about something that would drive you to approach a stranger and take a stand - Have the fucking balls to say - this is who I am and this what I believe. Otherwise.... Shut the fuck up.

MFCC!

The Coma Playlist

If you don't already have a coma playlist on your ipod... you need to make one. ASAP!

And by coma playlist... I mean, if you were in a coma for any period of time - what are your all time toe tapping faves? The songs you just seem can't help yourself sing away to...as you jump in on the chorus with a hairbrush or close the windows in the car as you visualize yourself as Aretha's back-up singer on the I95 rush hour commute.

I guess most people are a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) and have discussed their wishes with family members, so good for them. The rest of us Schmucks want all measures taken. I personally have a team of guard the plug people, hair, nail and make-up people as well as a living will with an attorney that states... my family cannot pull the plug.

It's not that I don't want to die or I wish to live in a much reduced capacity (well how much further could we really reduce it - at this point?). It's that I don't know what I want to happen to me afterwards...

I don't wanna be buried because the idea of decomposing ... worms... larve.. magg... ENOUGH! Just gross.

I don't want to be cremated because I don't want to be reduced to a pile of ash and I have a fear of dying in a fire...

I don't want to be buried at sea because I don't like fish touching my skin and drowning horrifies me...

I'd like to be frozen but it is really expensive and I hate to be cold!!

So what is left?

Life support and my coma playlist.

If I could spend eternity snuggled up nice and warm with my favorite tunes playing to my wandering spirit in the afterlife... well that is just a wonderful alternative.

Now people may think it's a little selfish, family and maybe friends would feel the need to visit or have no closure. Here is the closure... move on people... It's fine! Turn on ipod and leave the building.Books on tape.. a variety of music... dim lights and someone to take care of the eyebrows and any kamikaze whiskers....

Stick me in a home somewhere and have a funeral. Closure on demand... like cable but not really, at all.

Lou and I have discussed our funerals at length over the years. We have agreed that we both want the smallest church possible (so it looks packed-not an empty seat in the house). We both are requiring everyone to wear black (because Euro-trash is sexy). If you come, you must cry... we don't care in the who, why, what, where, when... think back to when you lost your Teddy Bear when you were 5.... just cry a little. We would like a couple of professional mourners in the back just to keep things moving.

Lou and I have a funeral pact. You may have a porn pact with a buddy (yes I have one of those too)... But I have a funeral pact with Louey.

Who-ever dies first... the other one must choose the optimum dramatic moment and throw themselves on the coffin, screaming "Take me with you!"

I've been to a lot of funerals over the years and I have created a short list of things I definitely want. I guess I would like to orchestrate the event from the grave as it were (or the nursing home- whatever). I've thrown a few successful themed events over the years, I'd like to at least have a hand in this particular farewell.

Hymns...

People? Really? The choice of hymns is just short of un-inspiring. I would like the hymns of my childhood (since I haven't been to church since). The waterloo junior school...morning assembly, where we sang 'Michael Row your Boat Ashore'; 'Morning has Broken'; ' All things Bright and Beautiful'; 'Onward Christian Soldiers' and my favorite...'The Calypso Carol'. (a reggae steel drum Christmas tune).

There is an old hymn book on my bookshelf somewhere... blue plastic cover... find it, dust it off... use it as a guide.

Marcy has a funeral song - that moves me every time I hear it... I believe that is widely known - I'd like that too.

Flowers...

Ok! None of this Bullshit about donating money in my name to some kid in hospital somewhere... I would like flowers... Many, many flowers. My whole life I have been a flower whore - please don't screw me now!! Jephry on Broadway is my favorite. The man is a genius and knows what I love! I like abstract... I like monochromatic arrangements or I like 2 dramatically opposing colors. I like dried wheat and Scottish Thistles... I like clean lines of glass and mood setting pieces. I like the unconventional - mood inspiring - thought provoking encounters of the floral kind. I like Calla Lillies when used unexpectedly and yet simply to reflect their delicate form and strong structure.

I do not like Roses... of any kind. I do not like flowers in plastic - like a serial killer who has decided to claim his signature as ...' Smothered by Plastic'. I do not like Birds of Paradise, anything prickly and I cannot abide anything that looks like it tried too hard to be unique. (If you have ever sent me roses and I claimed to like them... I am sorry... (Note:we are not together. end note.))

Prayer Card

No prayer Card for me. I don't want the dates of birth - death - coma ...whatever, on a card with a prayer and a picture. I don't know what date it is today - I don't know the date of my own Mothers birthday... dates and times are just not for me. Arrangements should be made with a time spread and begin when everyone gets there... like Greek time. That would make me Happy.

Instead of a prayer card - I would like funeral favors. A little pay it forward action. If I could impact anyone's life or leave something behind it would be...

Always pay the toll for the car behind you... it is such a small gesture with such a big impact.

For the road rage folk .... I would like those people to take a memorial card that says... "Maybe his wife is in Labor"; "Maybe her kid called with an emergency"; "Maybe He just got fired from his job"; "Perhaps that one girl she has been chasing, just sent her a text and said.... Come Over... I'm naked".

So instead of a Memorial/Prayer Card... How about a picture of me hanging upside down from the point street bridge with a directive to pay the toll and a few inspirational... 'they did not cut you off because they are assholes or because they personally hate you' words, to carry with them. My death, may indeed add years to their life!

I want one wild card slipped in there... one that says.. If she were ever to make her own porno - she wanted to call it "Smoke and Mirrors" - you know - just for laughs. I apologize ahead of time if it is your granny that pulls that one...

Finally...I have always envisioned my headstone as a statue of a tall Amazon Woman in a running pose, her hair streaming behind her. On the base I want my favorite quote of all time.

"Wild Women Don't Get The Blues"

Please don't put the statue by the nursing home...Oh and please... PLEASE... include the cause of death (even if it reads 'Eternal Coma'). There is nothing more frustrating than walking around a cemetery saying..."Wonder what happened to him?"








Please let me remind you, that Amazon Women removed their right breast as a standard practice - to enable them to throw Javelin and in order to not hinder their Archery skills. The Statue should be reflective.I would have been proud to have joined the many ranks of historic amazons and modern day survivors, had it been required. I am so very proud of all the women out there fighting for their lives and making amazonian forfeitures. You frequent my heart.

In My Father's House

fa•ther / ˈfä[voicedth]ər/ • n. 1. a man in relation to his natural child or children. ∎ a man who has continuous care of a child, esp. by adoption; an adoptive father, stepfather, or foster father. ∎ a father-in-law. ∎ a male animal in relation to its offspring. ∎ (usu. fathers) poetic/lit. an ancestor. ∎ (also founding father) an important figure in the origin and early history of something. ∎ a man who gives care and protection to someone or something: the prince is widely regarded as the father of the nation. ∎ the oldest or most respected member of a society or other body. ∎ (the Father) (in Christian belief) the first person of the Trinity; God. ∎ (Father) poetic/lit. used in proper names, esp. when personifying time or a river, to suggest an old and venerable character: Father Thames.


In my Father's House

You were worthless until told you were worth something

In my Father's House

Everything you did and everything you said was subject to scrutiny and harsh criticism

In my Father's House

There were things you could do that were worthy of being ignored... for weeks... sometimes months

In My Father's House

If you were old enough to get there by yourself... you were old enough to make it home alone





In my Father's House

Everything you had was because he allowed you to have it

In my Father's House

The television was God

In my Father's House

Support and encouragement made you afraid of failure

In my Father's House

Your success belonged to him

In my Father's House

You were a nuisance
You were disposable
You were in the way
You were an unwelcome disruption

In my Father's House

Everything had to look good




In my Father's House

It is never your house...

Though, was my Father's House ever really HIS house?

Wait ...

In my Father's House....

He's not really my Father... It's just a game we play...


In My Father's House

America Runs on Dunkin

So I had an idea for a reality TV show, which is kind of ironic since I don’t watch TV. Not at all. Nothing; Nada; Zip… Unless… I come over your house. Then you’ll find I’m absorbed, like a kid raised on an island that has never seen roller-skates or eaten a candy bar. Yup, you better switch off the tube if you want to have any decent interaction with me. Remote in hand, secretly searching for the country music video station… I swear, it’s a mini movie every 3 minutes… perfect for someone with a low attention span, Awesome!!! I love the serial killer stuff too. Those real crime TV shows are also a big attention grabber… “But Officer, please… you don’t understand… that bitch had it coming”.

Side Bar: It keeps coming up in conversation… I would be a big nasty cry-baby if I got arrested and had to go to court. However, I’m pretty convinced, once I was “in the joint” I’d handle myself pretty well. In fact it’s a secret fantasy of mine to get sent away… It’s a free Olivia land cruise for lesbians and if you have a uniform fetish… well, sigh… need I say more? Lookit, the girls ain’t going anywhere and hell isn’t prison like womens college where everyone is gay till graduation?

It has been said, (for reasons we shall not get into) that I could get a date anywhere there was a State Penitentiary.

I can see me running my game. I’d have the cigarette racket down, the heavy’s, the protection, the hair dye hookup not to mention a mini tattoo parlor. My only request would be that if I went down, my friend Gemma would have to go down with me… my right hand woman. She’d get those bitches in line lickety split and there would be plenty of time for her specialty… lickety split (ahem). Even a gangsters Moll gets a day off!

My sweet dream, no mortgage, no taxes, no grocery bill and women by the dozen at my disposal… Playboy Mansion PSHAW!

End Side Bar.

I never get to see it – but once it’s on (Television) it pulls me into the screen and holds me there in a semi conscious coma… it’s multi-media overload. When I eventually pull myself away from your media packaged brainwashing, that costs you daft amount of dollars every month… I get mad. Mad at myself for getting suckered in, mad because it is hours of my life I can never re-coup… of course I can spend ten hours on facebook and myspace… but that’s my poison and we’ve all got one.

This whole religious freedom thing has got me intrigued. America was shocking for me at twenty. I had never heard religious radio or seen religious programming. I really thought it was a dramatic phenomenon that Hollywood incorporated into movies because movies were FICTIOUS… Nope! Boy, was I wrong!

Trust me, I really was THAT naïve. The first time I saw the klu klutz klan on TV, I thought it was a joke. They were sitting there all ‘nonchalant like’… guests on a daytime TV talk show, if you don’t mind. Come on? It had to be a joke – with the white robes and the white hood? It was pure insanity and WHO in their right mind would let these idiots on a talk show and what grown man was gonna don that get-up on National Television?

I mean, I knew the KKK was part of history with the burning crosses and all that – but I truly believed it was history like the Spanish Armada or the Battle of Hastings… Hailey’s Comet… the list goes on and on – in my own pea brain… the KKK was on the list with all these things… terrible crappy things that happened throughout history like the Holocaust – but NOPE… there they were – bold as brass in living color on my TV screen (back when I used to watch TV that is).

So ok, America is obsessed with Religion, Cults, Serial Killers and Reality TV… I have a fully functioning idea that will blow the other reality TV shows out of the water.

I want to infiltrate religions – with a spy cam.

Come on …. Think about it… It’s bloody BRILLIANT!

You (The American fast food, drive through thinkers) can sit home partaking in your favorite pastime and evaluate which religion fits your lifestyle best. I will even let you vote religions “off the Island” by sending a text message to a pre-determined 900 number that will allow me the kind of ‘Religious’ freedom I myself am in search of… The Almighty Dollar!!

Myself and the Moll of my choosing, will go underground in variety of organized cults and religions. The Moonies, Buddhists, Hare Krishna’s, Jew’s, Catholics, Protestants, Jehovah’s Witness, Wiken, Rastafarian, Unitarian, Scientology…. The list is endless.

Did you know….Raelism is one of the top 10 cults and is founded on the religion and beliefs of UFO’s. Weird way to put it, if you ask me. Shouldn’t it be based on Extra Terrestrials NOT on the space craft they fly down in to come visit us? Hmmmm… I wonder if Smoky and the Bandit founded a religion would it be based on 18 wheelers and Mack Trucks??

“Breaker, Breaker… 1, 9. Smokey Bear Ahead… Over and Out”

Heaven’s Gate… Need I say more? There is an introduction video on youtube. It begins with this statement… “Planet Earth, about to be recycled. Your only chance to evacuate… is to leave with us” combined with some weird sound track about riding your bike of a hill trying to fly…. WHAT? It’s completely NUTZ! Is it a recycled version of the Bumblebee flies anyway?? Hey, but don’t take my word for it….. In my reality TV show, you get to decide for yourself, you can vote them off or keep them for later evaluation in the ‘Top 10’!

I saw what you people did with Sanjaya on American Idol… I really think Heaven’s Gate has a good shot and coming out on top!!

If you know anything about me, you know episode one starts with a good look at the Church of the Latter Day Saints. It will amuse me to no end because true blue American’s will never tolerate a religion that doesn’t allow for Cigarettes, Coca-Cola, Coffee and an Excess of Red Meat.

Mormons get voted off the island first, because they don’t drink coffee and we all know “America runs on Dunkin….”


Please text your ideas for future reality shows to 1-900-sparklesmagee


(a bargain at only $9.99 per minute, all rights reserved)

The qualities one must possess In order to get laid

The Butch girls only need posses one of two skills.

The ability to cook
Or
The ability to dance

If you can do either of these… then my friend, you are in luck! Femme chicks are suckers for a tomboy that can whip up a delectable treat from nothing at all at 2am and if you can’t do that… sweep her off their feet – literally. Nothing can get a girl to follow you home quicker than having her follow you around the dance floor first.

So I asked the question… what are the two qualities a girly girl must posses in order to have the same affect. I was told they must posses one of two things…

A nice… (Dramatic pause and cheeky grin) SMILE….
OR
A nice rack.

I suspect I was being told the same thing twice.

It can’t really be that simplistic… Can it?

Stay A'While Longer

It’s a funny thing getting to know new people, always the same questions.

“Where are you from?”
“What do you do?”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

It comes up every time without fail. I hear the sibling question and I have a visible pause, an unsure pause of how to answer a seemingly innocuous question. You’d think it would get easier over time, but it doesn’t.


I am one of eight siblings. Easy enough, right?

3 stepsisters; 2 half brothers; 1 half sister; a brother and me.

The stepsisters are from my stepfather’s first marriage. The half brothers from my fathers second marriage. I’ve never met my half sister…she was conceived around the same time as my brother, we share the same father. My brother, Andrew, was the first born of my generation and died in a car accident when we were children.

For all intents and purposes I am an only child, raised singly in a household with my Mother and Stepfather.

One would think the easiest response would be to simply state that I am an only child. During my pause, that’s exactly what I am considering… but it feels dishonest. I can’t deny my brothers life, no matter how short – no matter how long ago. I throw the rest of the siblings in the mix to create a diversion, to ease the uncomfortable shifting of the inquisitor. Smoke and mirrors… my most effective tactic.

I figure if we converse about the crazy blended family I am suppressing the sympathetic murmurings of “I’m sorry” and “That’s awful”. I don’t want anyone to feel badly and I know it’s within my control to avoid the subject altogether but it just feels wrong. I weigh it up every time and his existence always wins – I can’t deny my Brother that.

This February marks what would have been his fortieth birthday, seven of his lifetimes have passed since that 5yr old blonde tow-head with the big brown eyes changed our lives forever.

I have spent 35 years imagining what he would have been like, what we would have been like. I have made him play many roles in my imagination (all against his will, of course). He has been my protective older brother, he has been a faggy gay boy, a square conservative married with 2.5 children a dog and a Volvo. Yup, just to get back at him for trapping my fingers in the door jamb and for not letting me play with him and his friends… He has been a stoner that wouldn’t leave the house, a homophobic jerk but mostly he has been my best friend. The one solid fun guy left on this planet that loved me for simply bearing the name of sister.

Self-involved as it may seem, I always made it about me. How my life would have been different… how having an older brother would have made everything easier. In my mind I wouldn’t have felt so alone or quite so lost.

He gave me the false belief that I was invincible… I could go anywhere, I could do anything and I could take risks other people shouldn’t. I convinced myself of this loosely based on the laws of probability. What were the chances that a mother would lose both children to tragic accidents? I pushed the envelope over and over again always with an odd sensation of being protected.

I was angry that he left me so abruptly. Did I say angry? I was pissed! I’d spent my first three years following him around, trying to be like him, doing whatever it took to get his attention. He went to pre-school so they had to send me early because apparently I just wasn’t having it. If he went…I was going too!

We fought over the top and bottom bunk, we fought over toys…he meticulously set up rows upon rows of tiny plastic soldiers and I, being the younger annoying sister, would knock them all over with the dramatic sweep of my arm… And then, he left. Gone.

Even now the grief shocks me. It’s a crashing wave that takes me down with it, for everything I lost; for everything I could have had. He is a phantom… my personal missing limb… I feel the pain of not being able to gesture with a sweeping open palm and announce “This is my brother, Andrew”. I feel the pain of not having the pleasure of tormenting him for being forty first.

I assumed his place in the birth order, now the eldest of the cousins. There were eight cousins and for every cousin there was a sibling…Eifion had Emma, Ben had Lucy and Sarah had James.

Eifion came into the world on the heels of Andrew’s exit. I nominated myself (in my own childish mind) into the role of elder and teacher. He was my boy and I use the term teacher very tongue in cheek… we rode bikes,played together, made up games, bought ice pops in every color and flavor and then spent hours experimenting with a variety of slush cups that inevitably all tasted the same. We stole bottles of woodpecker cider and got drunk in his room, hiding the evidence in his underwear drawer. I was long gone by the time my aunt decided to put his laundry away and he got to shoulder the bust alone.

We tortured our younger cousin, Emma. The most gorgeous, delicate little girl you ever saw. Laura Ashley had Emma in mind when she designed those lovely feminine floral prints and ruffled collars. How did we torture her? She followed us around just as I had followed Andrew. We refused to play with her; we teased her and made her cry… she tagged along anyway. If I twirled my hair, she twirled her hair. If I sucked my fingers for some childhood comfort, she followed suit.

The truth is, I adored her just as much… in a different way.

She was a tough cookie, boy could she fight. Like a little wild cat, scratching and hair pulling, screaming the whole while. She learned her feminine wiles early. She was as pretty as a porcelain doll and when Emma cried, adults melted. We couldn’t compete with that.

I don’t recall what we had done to piss her off, (probably a game of hide and seek where she hid and we didn't seek), what I do remember is Eifion and I lying on the floor, chins propped on hands, watching television. In flew this tiny wild banshee dressed in pink. Her delicate feet were flying as she hauled off and kicked her big brother right in the mouth. Before he could even react to the split lip, her eyes got really wide and she started to cry. As the adults came running to see what the hullabaloo was all about, Eifion sighed and returned to watching the TV. He was yelled at for upsetting his baby sister as she was comforted – all the while throwing covert smug smiles his way.

I loved being loved by Emma.

We shared a bed on sleepovers; she would curl up and wrap her arms around me. She giggled and told me she loved me over and over. My torturous humor was in full force even back then…

“You know what I think of you, Em?”

My memory can still hear her sweet girlish hopeful giggle

“What, what do think of me?”

Then I’d force out a “toot, toot’ fart as I dissolved into hysterics and the banshee went wild! Clawing and scratching her displeasure at my uncouth answer.

I make it sound like we excluded her, we really didn't. The three of us would roam all over Epworth Village. We played in the churchyard across the street making up games and daring each other to do silly things. We rode donkeys on Scarborough beach, we searched for special rocks and shells washed up and worn by years of sand lapping waves.

Eifion and his friends started a break-dancing crew... built ramps for skateboarding tricks that graduated into BMX stunts. Emma and I tried to be a good audience, laughing at their tomfoolery.

I wanted Eifion's Star Wars figurine collection so badly… he had the whole deal, (including the millennium falcon!). We set up zip lines across his bedroom so his collection of action men/GI Joe’s could infiltrate the storm troopers in a sneak attack.

Then...strawberry season. Three cousins let loose in strawberry fields with baskets and instructions to weigh in our pickings on our way out. I don’t know that we ever actually paid for picked strawberries… what I do know is that we would eat as many of them as our bellies could hold and our red stained fingers and cheeks were a dead give away that we weren’t so much as picking strawberries as we were eating them as fast as we could find them.

I’d give anything to bring those days back.

The days before Emma went to boarding school, before we all started to grow up… before we lost Eifion... the same way we lost Andrew.

No Mother should lose a child. No child should grow up unable to reach a woman named mother, so consumed by grief that there is nothing left. No family should lose their two eldest boys and two sisters should not know that same grief.

But, it happens. Sadly it happens every day.

June 1991: I was twenty years old, Eifion…soon to be eighteen and Emma was fifteen.

Emma was home from school for the summer, I was a nanny in Connecticut and Eifion had graduated from skateboards and BMX bikes to a motorcycle he loved to ride all over the flat Derbyshire countryside.

The same day Eifion lent five pounds to a buddy and headed to Scunthorpe, I took myself to a midnight movie. It seems surreal that as I watched Madonna and her entourage try to deep throat bottles, my family was in fracture.

I left the movie theatre and walked along the river overcome with emotion. I was crying and I didn’t know why, I knew I had to call home – right there and then.

From a parking lot in Westport CT, I called my Mother in England.

That’s the day my heart broke into a million fragments and it’s never been the same since.

I mean, you live with it but… there’s the before and then, there’s the after.

In one unstoppable moment I lost my brother and my mother. Him physically and her, well… Fate deals the hand and we are left to play the game. I lost both cousins that day in June 1991.

I’d like to imagine that grief brings a family together, but in my experience it doesn’t happen that way. It sends you to your own corners. The comfort of strangers is easier to take than the comfort of looking into eyes that bear the same brand of heartbreak.

Emma and I have never discussed losing Eifion. It’s a minefield that cannot be negotiated safely. Every once in a while we’ll tell stories or say “Remember when…” but those moments are rare and fleeting.

Intellectually my heart says, gather everyone you love close and cherish the precious time you have with them. Emotionally, I am my Mothers daughter. My heart dictates that in the game of loving and losing, the pain of loss is too great a risk to take.

Yes, I will hang upside down from a bridge in my underwear…but to break down and love people that leave too soon… I don’t know that I am capable of that dare devil feat.

I love fiercely, never lightly and I would give my life to protect my family… but this leaving too soon business has got to end.

My visible pause as a stranger asks me… “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” allows me the opportunity to acknowledge my brothers life. This most simple of questions doesn’t afford the room to pay tribute to the million thoughts and memories that come with it…

Living in my heart: Andrew, Grandad, Aunty Lynne, Eifion, SueB, Jenna

Can y’all stop leaving so soon?