Chatty Charlie

My father should start blogging. I can hear the roars of laughter coming from my mother and three sisters as I write this. Dad is still adjusting from the rotary telephones. My sister Carla gave him her old cell phone, which has the little number pad on it. His big fingers try to struggle to punch in the correct number.

My cell phone rings. I see “Dad” coming up on my caller id. Oh Lord. I know he is out on the job working on some machine doing excavating. Why does he want to chit-chat with me now?

“Hello?”
“Ah, yeah—is this Dempsey Pipes?”
“Dad, you dialed me idiot!”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha!" His big wheezy laugh was blaring out of my Nextel speakerphone, as I shook my head in disbelief.
He had mistaken “Debbie” from “Dempsey”. I’m going to bring him to an eye doctor if he calls me one more time.

My dad is a talker. He can talk your ear off sometimes. That’s what we love about him though. He has stories that are so incredible, sometimes too graphic; nevertheless, entertaining. Often enough, we hear the same stories, over and over again. I guess it gets better with age, like a fine wine. Hmm. If you try to leave while he is talking, he will continue to do so, until he is left talking to himself. He knows everything about anything. You ask him, he’ll tell you. He knows everything from cancer treatments, foods that cure health problems, to his excavating expertise and any kind of cooking recipes you can even imagine. He’ll also teach you how to hide evidence of a body while watching Forensic Files.

“Ahh what do they know—huh? They leave evidence around like dey’ wanna be caught! Ya stupidjas! Just get yourself a good butcher and call it a night! No- dese’idiots wanna get caught. Ahhh---whadya’ gonna do? Forgetabowd’it!” As he throws his arms up in the air.
“Lovely dad.”

Forget about even watching a movie with this man. He will tell you what “he” would have done. If you can last through an entire movie, and tolerate his massive smoke stacks that are being distributed throughout the living room, then I give you credit. I usually have to walk out of there within the first five minutes coughing like a mule. He’s a chain smoker.

All I hear is, “Just shut up now! Shush! Don’t tell me! Just shut up!” My mother screams back, frustrated that her movie is being dictated by some ‘loud mouth know it all Italian’.
“You don’t wanna hear da’troot! Du troot of da matta is, he shoulda’ just cut all his hands, feet and his head—throw it down da river in a suitcase. Simple. But you don’t wanna hear dis! Ahh---why am I even tellin’ you dis?”
“Shut up! Just shut up now!” Mom yells at him again, then she chuckles, as I stare at her—giving her that ‘wouldn’t wanna be you’ look.

Twenty below zero weather and dad is walking around with no shirt and a pair of shorts. He grabs an ice-cream out of the freezer.
“For the love of God, you’re not in Bermuda dad!”
“Yeah, but you drink a cold beer in dis weatha, huh?”
“Well, yeah, it a big sweater and some heavy jeans...Uh, you may want to lower the heat down to 85 degrees, instead of 95 degrees pop…”

What is it when our parents get older? They want to literally live in an oven. When you walk into their house, you feel as though you just opened a door to a sauna. You run inside to make sure everyone’s okay. And they are. They’re sitting around in shorts. What on God’s green earth are they doing??? My next step is to give them a one way ticket to Florida. The heat is everlasting.

Dad just got two of his teeth pulled. After they were pulled out, he had an abscess that was really getting infected. The doctor gave him antibiotics and pain killers. This helped for only a short period of time. Now we have figured out it was a nerve that was giving him all this pain. I hear him screaming bloody murder every time he eats something or talks.

“Everytime I tawk, ---AHHHHHH!----it hurts----AHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!----so----AHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!---much, ya know?---AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”
“Dad, don’t talk.”
“I can’t even-----AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!-----eat…------AHHHH!!!!!”
“This can be a blessing in disguise poppy.” I said, almost bursting into a giggle.
“Ah ya witch----AHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

As I am typing this post, dad called...

“Dempsey Pipe? Ha-ha-ha---AHHHHHHHHH!!!!”
“Dad, what did the doctor say?”
My sister interjected so that my father could shut that mouth of his.
“You were exactly right on your diagnosis. It was nerve damage and he needs to be on a certain medication and possible electronic therapy."
“Carla, we may want him to remain silent, if you catch my drift.” I said, knowing I was on speaker phone.
“What a wacko---AHHHHHHHHH!!!!” I hear him say in the background.
“Good, let him talk Carla. Poke him in the jaw for me!”

Growing up with dad, we expected these long-winded (almost blog-like stories) No wonder I am viewed as quite the "chatty Cathy" in some of my posts. I think I got it from dad.

Or as dad would say, “You got it from ya’mudda!”

My 100th Post

What a rambler I am; simply talking about my life. Why would anyone even care? Did you ever hear someone say, “Oh she told me her entire life story?” Maybe it’s because I don’t talk much about what really bothers me. I don’t even tell my psychiatrist half the sh*t I tell the blogger world. Interesting, huh? Maybe it’s because I get more feedback from posting than I do with telling Lurch. (My psychiatrist) Now, if someone who is a reader of my blog can prescribe me my meds, I’ll leave Lurch and stick to this.

No one knows me. They think they know me. They don’t. I’m the loudmouth lipstick lesbian who gets into controversial political and religious conversations just to get a rise out of people. I’m the girl every bartender in town knows.

“Where’s Deb tonight? She always sits right in this seat.”

I have my own assigned seat in over five local bars. I have my own assigned seat in Provincetown, MA in another five. All the bartenders know me there too. Why? I’m the big flirt. I’m flirtatious with any gender, because it’s my nature. Madelene knows that my personality has a flirtatious flare to it, yet innocently done with respect. Do some people get the wrong idea? Sure they do. Straight people don’t know how to handle me, except to blush; however, I don’t do this with just anyone—I have to genuinely like them as a person. I don’t do things with an agenda. If I don’t like someone, I will become invisible to them.

Who cares if I like them? What does it matter anyway? Does it validate some sort of insecurity for anyone? For me? Maybe I’m the way I am, due to my own insecurities. My ways are unique; they’re unpredictable. Is it bi-polar related? Hopefully. Then I can have a reason for my madness. Madelene insists that I always keep her on her toes. I can’t see the fun of being on your toes all the time. It must hurt at some point. I don’t mean to keep people on their toes—I keep myself on my toes more than people realize.

Then who am I—other than who I claim to be? I’m the insecure girl who doesn’t go out sometimes, because she feels too ugly. I’m the shy girl that doesn’t speak up, because I’m not an intellectual, as I make myself out to be with mere rhetoric words and opinions that clash with others. It’s like a man who has to compensate all his shortcomings with a Ferrari. I’m that “man”. I’m the sensitive soul who gets way too offended over simple critiques and suggestions—when all along, everyone thought I was strong enough to handle them. I’m the artist that can’t take criticism; therefore, I’m not a ‘real artist’…I'm simply a walking contradiction. I’m the girl who can get over a break up easily. I can actually forget about her instantly. Thoughts of her remain in the past. I lie too... I can pretend to not even care; to simply rule out any emotion that may slip from my tongue. Eventually, those hidden feelings reveal itself in an inappropriate way. I mess up. I’m not perfect. I’m the type that needs closure. What is closure anyway? Is it shutting the door to your past, or is it simply having the past linger before your very eyes? I’m the girl who can’t let go. I hold on to things for too long. I torture myself with obsessive thought patterns that drive me into a hole of depression. Forgive and forget. I can always forgive—the forgetting part I’m having an issue with. The dead horse has been beaten up several times. I can’t stop.

I carry on conversations that may upset my partner. I should shut up, and just tell my psychiatrist, but I’m afraid he doesn’t care. I feel inadequate because my partner does so much for me. Madelene is too good to me—maybe too good for me. I don’t feel I deserve her. I’m the luckiest girl alive. I try to make her happy, like buying her a card full of love sentiments, getting her favorite bottle of vodka which sits way too high on the shelf, or just simply getting the clothes from the dry cleaners. The littlest things make Madelene happy. She makes me happy.

I’m the daughter that hides things from my mother—who already knows about ‘it’. I’m the sister that appears to be the comic relief in the family, when actually I’m the one who’s depressed. I’m the "funny lesbian sister" that drinks way too much, but doesn’t appear to be drunk. She doesn’t even appear to be a lesbian! She can hold her liquor. I’m the one who drinks a lot because I get too many anxiety attacks. It relieves me of my fears. That’s why I have two wooden legs. I’m the sister who’s unreliable, because I’ll break plans or babysitting duties, due to an unpredictable anxiety attack or bad period cramps. I have the best sisters in the world, because they already know ‘why’ I am the way I am. They love and accept me. They expect these things. I’m lucky that they’re so understanding.

My words can be fatal sometimes; killing you emotionally, with each verbal attack. I don’t mean it. I can blame it on PMS, I can blame it because something bad happened that day…The truth is, it’s my own insecurities that are hiding behind those vicious words. My words can be sweet, gentle, and loving. I can tell you something that will make your whole day. Those words are sincere. I can’t lie about positive words that I give generously, ~to those who deserve them~. I never miss an opportunity to compliment someone; they just may need to hear it that day. I try to be good, but sometimes, I can’t. I’m human. I love God, but I’m afraid that He’s angry at me. Doesn’t He know I come with imperfections? Didn’t He create me? Didn’t He create you?

Which brings me to one of my favorite scriptures:

Romans 7:14-25 “The law is good, then. The trouble is not with the law but with me, because I am sold into slavery, with sin as my master. I don’t understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do the very thing I hate. I know perfectly well that what I am doing is wrong, and my bad conscience shows that I agree that the law is good. But I can’t help myself, because it is sin inside me that makes me do these evil things. I know I am rotten through and through so far as my old sinful nature is concerned. No matter which way I turn, I can’t make myself do right. I want to, but I can’t. When I want to do good, I don’t. And when I try not to do wrong, I do it anyway. But if I am doing what I don’t want to do, I am not really the one doing it; the sin within me is doing it. It seems to be a fact of life that when I want to do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong. I love God’s law with all my heart. But there is another law at work within me that is at war with my mind. This law wins the fight and makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin? Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord. So you see how it is; In my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin.”

My flaws are ‘as is’. It comes with the package. I’m not perfect, so I’m going to accept myself the way I am.

My Side of the Story

"Come on Deb, you’ll be late for school, let’s go!”“Coming! Hold up!” I said, fumbling for the rest of my stuff trying to make it out the door. The bus never came to pick me up because I lived on a mountain that was one mile high up a dirt road. My mother had to drive me down to the bus stop every morning, or I could have walked. I never walked. There were no kids my age on that hill and it was too desolate. Never mind the bear problem- the neighbor’s dogs were to be feared. My parents never let me walk that hill alone anyway.

I was sixteen years old at the time and always managed a way to miss the bus. I did this purposely, because I didn’t like the kids I rode with. They all irritated me and I would isolate myself almost next to the front seat, so I wouldn’t get agitated. I always got carsick sitting on a bus for some reason, and my poor mother always ended up driving me to school. If I could catch my sister Cathy with her awesome little white pimped up Dodge Daytona to drive me in, I would beg if necessary. Her car was done up as if she was from the Bronx: spoilers from rear to front, moon roof, a sparkly metallic red decal of her name on each side of the door, and red velvet-like interior. All she needed were a couple of dice hanging from the rear view mirror. She was ‘cool’ though. She let me smoke with her. We listened to the same music, even though we were seven years apart.

My father and his construction crew were in the front room having coffee before work. They were all so eccentric looking. I never knew why these men would wear that kind of jewelry if they were going to run a machine or get their hands dirty. They would all come inside, filling up the entire house with strong cologne. Their hair always slicked back and done up, as if they were going out to paint the town red.

“Deb, let’s move it!” My mother shouted once again. I came running out into the living room, and we both headed out the door together. We stepped into her little Ford Bronco II. Mom started to back up the truck to turn it around in the driveway. We didn’t make it quite far, because a ton of white little cars came flying down the road with yellow flashing lights. They looked like the utility company cars. I was confused. Did we use way too much electric? Did I take too long doing my hair and suck up whatever energy they had left at the plant?

My mother looked at me. She had a look on her face as though she expected this. I looked outside my window to see all the cars surrounding my house. There were men in black FBI uniforms sprawled out everywhere with big machine guns.
“Ma? Who are they? Do they have the wrong house? What’s going on?”
“Deb, just do what they say.” Mom said, as she clutched my arm tightly.
My mother’s car door was swung open by a masculine woman. She grabbed my mom right out of the car, turned her around and then handcuffed her right before my eyes. My mother just stared at me as she was being literally attacked by this Amazon-looking broad. She read my mother her rights.
“Do you have your license young lady?” the FBI lady asked me.
“Umm, yeah.”
“Drive yourself to school. Your mother is going to be away for a little while. I’m sure she won’t mind at this point that you’re taking her car.” She said in an authoritative tone.
I felt numb. I didn’t feel anything at all. I looked around and saw the FBI men rush into our house. All of them piling in one by one like little carpenter ants; they were so uniform. It was ‘organized.’ Ironic word to use in this story. I felt like I was in a dream state; just watching it like a movie unfolding. This couldn’t be happening. I finally see them taking out my father in handcuffs. My heart sank. I heard the female FBI officer being incredibly mean to my mother. My mom was being castigated by this witch. I wanted to grab her gun and shoot her in the heart, but I was too angry with my parents at that point.. Shouldn’t I be upset for them? What were they hiding from me? Why didn’t they warn me about this happening? They knew and didn’t tell me. As the youngest child of four, I always felt left in the dark. Everyone would whisper around me. Were they protecting me, or were they trying to give me a heart attack at the age of sixteen?

I began to climb into the driver’s seat. My body was automatically moving involuntary. I was in a state of shock. I started backing out of the driveway. I couldn’t do anything more to help my mother and father. As I was backing out, I stopped and looked at the house, as my father’s friends were all being arrested too, except for two of them. I didn’t quite understand it all at the time.

Driving down the road, I saw tractor-trailers hauling in backhoes and other heavy equipment over to my house. “Wow, my father must have had a big job to do today.” I thought, as I saw them all pass by. Then I saw my father’s best friend’s truck driving towards me. I blinked my lights at him to stop.
“Hey.” Tom says.
“Tom, don’t go up there. My parents got arrested for some reason, and there are tons of FBI agents on the property."
“Oh shit!” He says, as if he knew exactly what was going on.
Why am I the last to know about all of these things? I kept driving down the road in silence. No radio, no crying, just a blank stare at the road and racing thoughts. I pulled up to my school and parked in the teacher’s parking lot. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about parking tickets at this point. Reprimand me- I don’t give a shit. I wanted to see my teacher Barbara, who was also my personal friend. I trusted her with everything. We went out to lunch all the time. She was a true friend, even though we were years apart. I loved her like a sister.

I walk into the classroom. I look at her and didn’t say one word. Her eyes were fixed on me. I couldn’t break the stare---I started crying. She quickly grabbed me and pulled me out of the room. She hugged me outside the hallway.
“Deb, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I couldn’t answer her. It was the first outbreak of my crying. Through the sniffles and huffing of my hysteria, I tried to tell her what had happened. The only words that came out of my mouth were, “Ma’ma’ma’my parents……..uh…uh…..arrested…..uh…..uh……FBI took em’…”
“I know, I know…” She said.
How did she know this??? How come I didn’t have a clue? I didn’t even ask how she knew, I just felt better by her comforting me at that time. It didn’t matter how she knew- I just needed her. She hugged me while I was uncontrollably crying my eyes out, dowsing her nice blouse with my tears.
“Go take Katie and take the day off. Go to her house so you two can get out of here.” Barbara suggested. She was letting me take my best friend to go play hooky. Katie’s parents were never home, and we always ditched school to go to her house anyway and Barbara always knew about it. Katie was more than happy to get out of there, so she came with me. Katie had no clue what was going on until the teacher and I informed her of why we were being allowed to leave.
That day, I sat in Katie’s house. I remember how beautiful it was outside. It was a gorgeous March day, and we were sitting outside on her deck. I wasn’t saying much because I was still in shock. Katie always knew how to make me laugh, even at the oddest moments. I kept calling my house, but no one answered.
“Just stay here until someone answers. You can even spend the night here Deb.” Katie says, trying to make me feel better. It did.
I finally got my sister Cathy on the phone at 6pm. She told me that they were only holding mom there for a few more hours, but dad was a different story.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know Deb, just come home if you can. Be careful, there are workers and FBI agents scattered all over the property. They dug a hole thirty feet deep in the driveway, so an agent will be guiding you where to park.”
“What?”
“Just come home now Debbie.” She said, not wanting to elaborate any further.

I drove up the mountain we lived on. There’s a little drop, going downward to get to my driveway. As I was driving down, an officer stopped me and told me to keep to my right. There were bright orange cones surrounding this massive hold they had dug in the driveway. I parked my car and got out. I saw so many agents roaming around. It was almost dark out. They had bright construction night-lights all set up and a few backhoes. I still didn’t get it.
I ran inside the house to talk to my sister.
“What is going on?”
“They think dad and his friends buried cars for insurance reasons, that’s all Deb. Mom is coming home soon, they took her to jail shortly, and dad will be home tomorrow. He’s being questioned.”
“Did they find any cars?”
“No.”

Something wasn’t being told. My sadness was now turning into anger. All these years for getting punished for minuscule things- they have the nerve to get arrested? What hurt the most was the fact that no one would tell me anything. They still wanted to keep me in the dark. “Oh she’s the baby, you can’t tell her.” All my life, I heard, “She’s the baby. She’s the baby.” Yeah, the youngest out of four, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew they were trying to protect me. I knew the reasons why they did what they had to do, but back then I didn’t understand it.
I went to school the following week. I broke out in severe acne. I was quiet and introverted. This was out of my character. On the bus going to school, the radio station the bus driver had on displayed my life, as I never knew it before.
“Two residents in our town were arrested the other day for money laundering through a local sanitation company. FBI officials excavated the property to see if they can discover bodies that were missing. This was told by an informant who claimed of the incidents. Mr. Pasquella is looking at ten years in a Federal prison and $100,000.00 bail. Now back to your favorite music!”

Everyone looked at me. I was a disease. I was to be feared, almost as if I were a vampire. I walked off that bus, and into the cafeteria to get a coffee.
“Hey Deb, bet your father’s wearing stripes right about now!” Some kid said to me, as he sat on the radiator next to the window. All his friends laughed with him. I guess I didn’t care though. Say what you will about them. I was still numb. It didn’t affect me. I grabbed my coffee and headed for the lecture hall. The local papers spread around like wildfire. They had a new story in there each day of the week following up on the case.
My friend Angela and I were staying close together. Her uncle was arrested too for the same case. She was ‘one of me’. We sat in class together and talked amongst ourselves. We never spoke about what happened though. We just gave one another the support we needed as friends. We never left each other’s side. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one going through this traumatic experience. Even though it was her uncle, she still knew what I was going through. After all, it was her family.

“You guys! Wait up!” One of our friends was running towards us, clenching her books to her side.
“What’s up?” I asked, as Angela stood there with a puzzled look on her face.
“Mrs. Brigs said the most awful thing. She told the whole class as she was reading the current events that the people involved should get the death penalty.”
Mrs. Brigs knew us. She knew our situation. Yes, she has her opinion, but her students were apart of this family. Even though it was our family, we didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. Every morning before I went to school, I would smoke pot to relieve the emotional distress. It relieved me of the stress of walking into that building to be judged. I had my first anxiety attack. I started having convulsions in class, and the teacher had to call my mother to bring me to the hospital. The anxiety attacks stayed with me as I grew older. I quit the pot ever since that anxiety attack, but the memories of that day still live within me.

Being judged and ridiculed for the next few months of school at the age of sixteen, I quit. Enough of this. I want out. I’m sick and tired of not only students criticizing me for my parents’ actions, but the teachers were even worse. I couldn’t handle it much longer. My acne problem grew worse, my anxiety attacks were fierce, and my attention span was next to none. I had no interest in school, learning or trying to make a better life for myself. I’m not blaming my parents, I’m blaming myself of the way I handled the whole situation.

Conversations I had with my friends over the phone had to be at a minimal amount of ‘dirt’. All our phones were tapped. We were constantly being watched by the FBI. We even had two or three FBI agents sitting in trees outside in the woods, keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity. I always saw a gray van with tinted out windows up on the top of my hill; the ones you see on TV where they have all the satellite dishes and surveillance equipment. I felt like giving them the finger each time I passed by. I could understand if it were someone else they were spying on, but this was my father…and my family. It made me feel strange. Nevertheless, I guess it was necessary.

My father finally had his day in court. He had to go to Allendale Federal Prison for six months and six months home probation. That wasn’t so bad, but bad enough. The news did inform the public that there were no bodies found in my backyard. Why would anyone do that? It was a man who lied to the FBI agents in order to get out of his own mess. It was all hearsay and nothing else. The only crime my father was guilty for was being involved in a money-laundering scheme that put him away for six months and not being a rat. He kept his lips shut and did his time. We all make mistakes. I make mistakes. My anger subsided and I forgave my parents for being so secretive with me, and doing what they did. They were trying to support their family, but in a non-conventional way. During the time my father was away, I wrote him letters, and drew him funny comic pictures to keep him laughing. He loved it. He wrote me a letter. It was the very first letter I ever got from my dad. I still have it till this day.

My family stuck it out together- as a team. We didn’t turn on one another, as some families might have done. When my father returned home that first day, we had the whole family there to greet him. It was a new and fresh start for him, and for us…

The Critique That Broke the Camel's Back

“It’s simply not what the object is. You’re not drawing the actual subject.” Miss Griffen says, looking over my shoulder to see my replica on paper of what was sitting in the middle of the room. There was a pile of two by fours interlacing one another. We were supposed to draw these pieces of wood ‘as they were’; in the exact perspective that was given. Each person had to draw the same exact thing, but in a different point of view. We all sat in a circle with our big art desks and materials, trying to muster up something that looked like a pile of nothing.

“Your shading is off. The light is coming from behind the pile, not in front of it. Change the lighting.” She badgers me once again, as she took her enormous eraser, and made my shading disappear herself; as though I was just some little kid trying to finger paint.
“Deb, you’re an artist, why can’t you get this down right? This isn’t correct and I don’t want to give you a low grade.”
“Is art supposed to be ‘right’? I’m not into ‘draw what you see’ type of art. My type of art is very different from this. Art to me is supposed to be original.” I said, all frustrated with her comment. I give people credit that can sit down, and draw something exactly how it is.
“Do you want to pass my class or not? I’m trying to help you here.” Miss Griffen said, in a stern type of voice, almost as if she was giving me some sort of serious lecture—wearing nearly next to nothing. How was I supposed to concentrate when I was head over heals with my own teacher?

Needless to say, I purposely failed that class, to repeat it several times. Miss Griffen was known to get in trouble by our principle for wearing skirts that were the size of headbands. Was he gay? I didn’t get it. Why was he attacking this blonde bombshell? Well, now, being in my thirties, I know why. When I was only sixteen, I couldn’t fathom it. She was a work of art; a masterpiece. Her long blonde curly hair, which fell right near her waist, mesmerized me all throughout class. When she spoke to me, her huge, doe-like eyes would penetrate my every being. Her make up was a bit much, but in my eyes, I didn’t care if she needed a shovel to remove her foundation, I was in love. All the boys walked out of there crouching low, so no one would see their excitement.

She was on to me. She saw my artwork before by my former art teachers. I’m guessing she realized my motives. What were they anyway? For the love of God, I was only sixteen years old, and she was twenty-six! I always looked older than my age, so I thought it would work to my advantage.

“Okay, that’s it for today, remember, you have a test for tomorrow on the history of famous artists—be prepared folks! And Debbie, please stay after class, I need to speak with you.”
My heart raced and I was more than thrilled to stay after class. It was eighth period, the last class of the day. Was she going to ask me out for a bite to eat? Did she want to hang out with me? Is she going to confess her undying love for me?

Miss Griffen walked over to me with her high heel boots, her torn up tight jeans, and a blouse that left little to the imagination. Her eyes were fixed on me. As she approached me, she started to grin, as if she knew something.

“What’s going on Deb? I have seen you do some awesome work, and now you are hanging by a thread in my class. I don’t understand this.”
“I’m not good with art that is dictated.” I said, being both serious and facetious.
“Deb, this is simple stuff, you can do this.” She said, now resting her foot on the step of my stool, leaving her knee to touch mine. I was getting more nervous, and unable to look her in the eyes.
“I’m sorry if I’m not good enough in your eyes. I guess it’s a matter of opinion.” I looked down, and wanted to leave desperately at this point.

The sad part is, I really did try to do my best at the art, but I couldn’t comprehend or pay attention to any of the history of our famous artists. Back then, it would just give me a bad case of A.D.D. It was boring to me. I had no interest in it at all. Now, at my age, I’m trying to grasp all I can learn.

I gave up painting and drawing. I recently went into photography. I sold some of my pieces which I had on my website. I also sold prints on eBay. People who received them from all over the states were very happy with their purchase. I never had a complaint from these strangers who requested my work. As an artist, I can take critiques; that’s just part of the game.

I was asked to do a competition for a show that was being held at the gallery nearby, where I work. I was more than happy to show a few pieces that I had. The director of the gallery is very meticulous about the details that go into displaying your work. I admired that quality in her, she respected art, and she respected the pieces that belonged to others. As an artist herself, there’s no better person to display them.

Being in a competition doesn’t mean that they have to like your work. Everyone has a different opinion on what is ‘good art’. I know there are basic rules and guidelines regarding photography, but in my eyes, if you like what you see, and it touches a chord with you—then it’s good art work. There are prizes that are given away to the ‘best artist’, and people are able to purchase what is on display.

I recently spoke to a photographer for the National Geographic magazine. He has seen my work and has critiqued it very freely. Being an amateur, I don’t expect every single person to fall in love with every piece of mine, but somehow, I got discouraged once again. It brought me back to when I stopped painting and drawing.

These were his words:

"I'll tell you the truth. You are an amateur at photography, and hence your work should look like an amateurs, and people do not buy that kind of work unless the person is of super talent. (I have NEVER seen any of those around) Galleries are even less interested in amateur work. I have seen your images on your site, and there is good and bad. The good is that you have good exposure of the images, and some good colors in them. The bad is that being new to the craft you do not have the experience to see and compose good photo subjects. You have a wheelbarrow shot that is interesting, and the two B&W ones have promise, but the rest of the images are mostly what most photographers would call, "snapshots" like anyone can take. A gallery owner will see that and will have no interest in them. Even images that are on the above average side, a gallery or even gift shops, do not want them for one main reason that I hear all the time; "People do not buy framed photos if they are of anything that they feel they can go out with a camera and shoot themselves." It is that simple. To sell framed prints they have to be so good that the viewer will say, 'I wish I could take pictures like that!'"

I appreciate honesty, especially coming from a professional, but sometimes I guess I can be a little fragile and get discouraged quite easily. Here are some of my photos that I sell, and have had success with.

I'm sure he's right. Anyone can take these photos. For me, it's a matter of sentimental work. All of these places I have been to. All of these places made me feel calm. The sunrise is what I wake up to everyday--my home overlooks this. The picture of the building with the brook going through it, is where Madelene and I sat on the bridge, talking over coffee. Each picture represents something special to me. One lady who received a framed photo who lived in Iowa said, "I love this picture of the train tracks! I used to live in Warwick, New York, and as a child I walked these tracks with my friends. It brings back memories for me." Another gentleman bought the picture of the sunrise, because he lives on the actual lake that is shown in the picture. He couldn't believe that there were mountains behind his lake. I have many other photos that are very sentimental to us--which is the reason why they are all hanging on the wall in our home.

So, to me, art is a matter of personal opinion; it's what touches your heart. When I go into an art gallery, I rarely buy anything--unless is tugs at my heart.

Why do you buy art?

Sick & Sicker

“I can’t believe I’m going to sit there for forty-five minutes again, Madelene.”
“I’m thinking the same thing.”
“I mean, he just sits there and stares at me as if I had two heads.”
“There’s no other psychiatrist. They’re all booked up, Deb.”
“I’m going to sit there, and play with his plants like I usually do.”

Driving up the thruway heading towards my doctor’s appointment, Madelene starts sneezing her head off. By the twentieth sneeze, instead of “God bless you”—I was simply going to tell her, “SHUT UP!” She’s too cute though. Besides, she is coming along for the ride to be bored out of her skull waiting for me to get analyzed by some quack.

We get into the office. It’s a very large square office. Each door has a different type of doctor inside. You walk into this square room, full of chairs surrounding the door of each doctor. We head over to where my psychiatrist’s door is. It’s usually dismal and dark over in that corner; quite eerie to tell you the truth.

“Psst, you think he’s going to charge me for the days missed?” I whispered softly, so nobody could hear.
“No, he never does that to you.” Madelene replies in her normal voice.
“Shhh!”
“What? Who cares?” Madelene says, laughing at my ridiculous behavior, as if I were plotting something against my shrink.

Madelene fumbles through her dirty magazines. No, not porn. I mean the magazines which all the other people who were sitting there before her touched. People come in here because they’re sick or they need mental help. The magazines are rotated, so you can’t just assume that they’re the shrink’s magazines. My OCD is kicking in big time all of the sudden. Thank God when Lurch (my shrink) comes out to get me, he holds the door open for me. God forbid I should touch that doorknob. I’m safe though, I always have my anti-bacterial gel handy at all times.

Lurch appears at the door. He nods. I instantly sprint up, almost tripping over my own feet. There I sat, on that fake leather couch again, making that awful squishy noise.
“Haven’t seen you in quite some time, what’s been going on?” Lurch says.
Can you believe this? He spoke! He said the first words! I am so impressed with his progress. He is coming out of his shell, and I am happy to say that he may be coming out of his introverted world. I start noting my pad.

I basically sat there and amused this man for forty-five minutes.
“Anxiety at night and bad PMS rages per month. I can’t believe this plant is real!” I said, playing with his plants that overwhelm his office. My A.D.H.D. is now coming to a head.
“Still taking the ativan?”
“Yep.”
“Is it helping?”
“Nope.”
“Why do you think it’s not helping?”
“Because I am experiencing anxiety attacks.”

MORON!

Already he has his third party papers ready to be scripted up, and flung into the pharmacist’s basket. I love how head doctors are so itchy to get you on more medication. If it doesn’t work—take more! That’s my motto with my bloody marys, but we won’t tell him that.

The word “kickbacks” is what “t-bones” mean to a hungry German Shepherd.

“Acupuncture. What do you think of that option, Doc?”
“Well, it works differently for everyone. Sometimes it can all be inside your head though.” He replies, sounding more and more like my mother.
“So what do you suggest I do for my frequent anxiety attacks?”
“I don’t know. What’s bothering you?”
“Check please!”—Wait, wrong scene.

I walk out the door, and Madelene is sitting there all studious reading some article about GM products. She’s a car saleswoman, so whenever she gets a good read on a competitor, she’s all up in it.

I motion to leave.
“Huh?”
“Let’s go!” I say in a demanding voice.
“OH!” She says, surprised that we weren’t going to stay for a cocktail with Lurch. Did she want to stay there and read every article Home and Gardens has for her? I’m not sure.

We both ran to the truck, as the rain came down hard. In front of my car, was a very tall man getting out of a Mini Cooper. It amazes me how many tall people drive these little itty bitty cars. It’s kind of like, how many clowns can you fit in this car?

“So, did he help today?” Madelene asks.
I just gave her a look that said a thousand words.
“Yes, he did help me.” I held up my prescription and smiled. Madelene shook her head and laughed. Minutes later, Madelene has a sneezing attack while we are driving down the thruway. It didn’t stop until we got home. This was unlike her usual twenty or thirty sneezes in a row, this was more like fifty.

Now that I have recovered from being sick, I have to report that Madelene has been given my bug. The best way to get rid of your sickness, is to give it to someone else, right? Mission accomplished. Now I have to play nurse for a few days. And no—I will not wear a nurse’s outfit because I look like a big fat German tank when I wear white.

Sick & Tired

The flu? Or not the flu? It’s definitely the question as I sit here still recovering from being sick all weekend. It started Saturday afternoon. I continuously kept fleeing for the bathroom every five minutes. I couldn’t keep anything down. I kept backtracking what I ate that morning, and the night before. Madelene and I got take out from our favorite restaurant. We ordered a thing of mussels, and pasta. How wrong can you get with that? I know you can really get sick of clams, but mussels?

Anyway, that Saturday evening was horrific. I didn’t sleep. I just kept upchucking my eternal organs because there was nothing else I ate that day. My head began to pulse like a drum; as if my brain was being smacked around my huge scull. My body ached from all the hurling and coughing that night. It was awful. I don’t wish this on anyone! All I wanted was my bed.

Here’s my discoveries while being sick. Lifetime. Oh yeah. Big top ten on my list for those entire three days. If I see another wife beater, another pedophile stalking little girls, another family breaking up due to an alcoholic father—I’m going to scream bloody murder! It’s almost as if I have this morbid fixation on Lifetime. You know it’s corny and has a predictable court scene ending, but you sit there and watch it anyway.

4pm...Judge Judy. She reminds me of a mean teacher I once had in high school. You can’t help but laugh when she is reprimanding someone, but you also can’t help but go back in your own memory file, and think of that one particular teacher who used to badger you like the way Judge Judy does in her courtroom. When she reaches her high point of anger, you can almost see her dentures trying to make their way out of her mouth. One day, it’s going to pop out and smack someone right on their forehead. That’s the show I don’t want to miss.
“Excuse me, sir? What do you do for a living?”
“Err, umm, I’m in between right now, your honor.”
“So you’re a LOSER!!!”
“Umm, I’ve been trying to look for a job.” The poor kid tries to explain himself.
“Well try harder!” Judge Judy screams, as she gives Bird a look of disgust.

Bird. What a name!

Another obsession of mine even before I was sick, is COPS. I cannot stop watching this show. The sad thing is, they have marathons of it. Madelene will come home to find me sitting on the couch fixed to the TV in a daze. None of these criminals that they catch have shirts on. Their potbellies hanging out, overflowing their jeans, some wear those wife beater tees, but the rest are usually without a shirt. You always get the scruffy white guy that hasn’t taken a bath in months getting pulled out of his mobile home by the cops, screaming, “I didn’t hit her ossifer! I didn’t do nuttin’ ossifer!” It’s really sad actually. I don’t know why I keep watching this show. It’s almost become a sickness. The best scenes are the ‘set up’ ones, where the cop dresses up as a civilian, and tries to get a hooker. They have cameras all hidden in the hotel room. Once the undercover cop gives her the money, they all come busting through the door as though the hooker was a complete serial killer.

Back to my ‘sick status’. I am feeling better. Madelene has taken great care of me, but refuses to wear a nice little nurse’s outfit. She has forced me to drink a gallon of water a day and tons of Gatorade, which I am now waterlogged. I don’t think I’ll be turning on the TV for the next month or so. Ugh.

Evil Spirits---Be Gone!

WARNING!

Before you read this post, please keep an opened mind. I’m of Christian faith, and this post holds many beliefs of mine that I am sharing. If you are of another religion, please take this with a grain of salt, or you may want to skip this post.

“Honey, where’s my cream colored blouse that I just got out of the drycleaners?”
“It should be in the pile of the clothes that you brought back, Deb.”
“No… Nothing.” I said, fumbling through garments wrapped up in bags.
“Well when did you last see it?” Madelene asks.
I hated when my mother used to ask me that very same question when I was interrogating her for a lost item. That question alone has to be more absurd than, ‘Are you sleeping?’
“Never mind, I’ll just wear this.” I replied, avoiding all arguments regarding that stupid question. I wasn’t about to reply, ‘Well if I knew where I last saw it…………” (You know the drill)

At the age of twenty-three, I thought I would have a little more tolerance for life. I was agitated and way too combative for my own good. Yes, even worse than I am at the age of thirty-one. Plus, how can I start an argument right before going to church? I’ll wait until tonight. I’ll feel much better then.

Madelene and I are both Christians. We wanted to find the perfect church to go to. We didn’t expect to be 100% accepted as a homosexual couple; we just wanted to seek God more, and be surrounded by other believers. We both have our own relationship with God, so it was important that we attend church, in case there was a message that we were supposed to hear that day. We started going on a regular basis, and enjoyed it.

I was a bit taken back when I first started going. I was used to the mundane and monotone voice of my priest at Sacred Heart—which is a Catholic church. I wanted to go to a church where they had enthusiasm for God. I didn’t want to sing the “Our Father” in one single note. It reminded me much like those horror movies, when those Satan worshipers would gather around a circle and sing monotone evil tunes. It gave me the creeps to sit in a Catholic church to hear this very same song, but in different words. The whole church would sing together, like one big evil chant. Ew. If I were God, would I want to be worshipped like this? Give me some music! Give me some dancing! Let’s have a good time here! Of course, bring out the wine!

I recall the first day of attending service at the Trinity Assembly of God. It was a born again Christian church. People were greeting us at the door as if they knew us all our lives.
“Hello! Welcome! How are you?” One elderly gentleman says, holding our hands in his.
This was a bit ‘too welcoming’, but it was much better than Sister Rose snarling at us, because she saw a wrinkle in one of our skirts. These people at the Catholic church were so strict and rigid, that it made the whole ‘going to church’ such a drag.

Each Sunday, we would return. We would all sing, dance and worship for the first half hour, and then for the remaining hour and a half, there would be a sermon from the pastor. He spoke of everyday life, and his topics were very down to earth. Sometimes he would go on a rant that was quite garrulous; however we hung on every word. He was mentioning that next Sunday was a special day for the gay & lesbian community. I looked at Madelene sitting besides me in the pew like, ‘You gotta be kidding!” I was thrilled. A church that finally accepted gays and lesbians?

All week I was anticipated their dedication to our community. I was thrilled that they acknowledged us. We’re not bad people. We’re just people who ‘love’. How can that be a sin? Promiscuity is another thing. In my belief, that’s merely ‘lust’, which is one of the deadly sins. Then again, what makes one sin so much deadlier than another? I always wondered that. What about the Ten Commandments? If homosexuality is an ‘abomination’, then why isn’t it listed on the ‘top ten list’ of commandments? Why isn’t it listed in the seven deadly sins? It confuses me. In the bible, in clearly states that no sin is greater than another. What gives?

Sunday approaches, and we are headed off to church. We sat closer than usual that day. There was a woman speaker about to do this dedication for our community. I was thrilled. As she was speaking so eloquently, she said some really nice things. She went on about how we shouldn’t miss the bus. It’s like coming home, and everyone is gone. You run to the kitchen, and there’s a pot still cooking, bringing aromas throughout the house—so someone must still be home, right? Basically saying, you missed your ticket into heaven. You can't ride on the coattails of other believers.

“Huh?”

She was giving an analogy about missing an opportunity to get into heaven.
“I’m a former lesbian. I suffered for many years living a life full of sin. I knew it was wrong, and a direction that only led to a dead end. I changed my ways, and went into the ministry.”
Okay, now I was fuming. I was actually upset and angry, watching this woman walk into the aisles spewing out words that were unpleasant to my ears. She offended me. Hypocrite! They got you! The ministry has brainwashed you.

“Evil spirits! Be gone! I rebuke you Satan and your homosexual ways!” I can just hear it in my head, all the priests and pastors laying hands on her, trying to get these ‘gay demons’ out of her system. Certainly none of those ‘priests’ were gay. To even commit some sort of malfeasance in their hometown would be a disgrace to the whole community. It’s quite ironic that they call themselves, ‘former homosexuals’. Former? Okay. Isn’t it quite the same as calling an alcoholic, a ‘former alcoholic’? They make it quite clear that you are an alcoholic, even if it has been twenty years since your lips wrapped around a bottle of beer.

These priests, pastors and speakers never sin, right? They never have an impure thought, or partake in any gossip. They’re perfect. They can cast the first stone, due to their righteousness.

Wrong.

We are all human. We’re all inadequate. We all fall short of God’s will. He expects us to be imperfect. Now, if God came down to earth today, and said,
“Each and everyone of you who lied, committed adultery and spread gossip about another, please stand here.”
Now there’s 70% of everyone in the world.
“Each and everyone of you who has had premarital sex, please stand here.”
Okay, there’s the other 30%. Are we all going to hell? Did God put us on earth, to just chuck us down to hell? Our carnal and physical nature weighs out our spiritual side in most cases. If you are a tough cookie and could withstand the test of sin, I commend you; however, not all of us are that strong.

For instance, did you know that eating shellfish is a detestable sin? (Quoted in the Old Testament) So, no shrimp, clams, mussels, lobster or scallops. Forget about it. They’ll serve that in hell for you. Come on!

Read this scripture:

Leviticus 11:9-12 As for marine animals, you may eat whatever has both fins and scales, whether taken from fresh water or salt water. You may not, however, eat marine animals that do not have both fins and scales. (shellfish) You are to detest them, and they will always be forbidden to you. You must never eat their meat or even touch their dead bodies. I repeat, any marine animal that does not have both fins and scales is strictly forbidden to you.

Now, here’s a thought you an ponder on. If you sit next to a woman on the same couch while she is menstruating, you will be defiled.

Read this:

Leviticus 15:19-29 Whenever a woman has her menstrual period, she will be ceremonially unclean for seven days. If you touch her during that time, you will be defiled until evening. Anything on which she lies or sits during that time will be defiled If you touch her bed, you must wash your clothes and bathe in water, and you will remain defiled until evening. The same applies if you touch an object on which she sits, whether it is her bedding or any piece of furniture. If a man has
sexual intercourse with her during this time, her menstrual impurity will be transmitted to him. He will remain defiled for seven days, and any bed on which he lies will be defiled.
If the menstrual flow of blood continues for many days beyond the normal period, or if she discharges blood unrelated to her menstruation, the woman will be ceremonially unclean as long as the discharge continues. Anything on which she lies or sits during that time will be defiled, just as it would be during her normal menstrual period. If you touch her bed or anything on which she sits, you will be defiled. You will be required to wash your clothes and bathe in water, and you will remain defiled until evening.
When the woman’s menstrual discharge stops, she must count off a period of seven days. After that she will be ceremonially clean. On the eighth day, she must bring two turtledoves or two young pigeons and present them to the priest at the entrance of the Tabernacle.

Interesting, huh? Now all of this is taken from the Old Testament which mainly has a lot of scriptures regarding homosexuality.

Old Testament
Leviticus 20:30 The penalty for homosexual acts is death to both parties. They have committed a detestable act and are guilty of a capital offense.

vs.

New Testament
Romans 3:23 For all have sinned; all fall short of God’s glorious standard. Yet now God in his gracious kindness declares us not guilty. He has done this through Christ Jesus, who has freed us by taking away our sins. For God sent Jesus to take the punishment for our sins and to satisfy God’s anger against us. We are made right with God when we believe that Jesus shed his blood, sacrificing his life for us. God was being entirely fair and just when he did not punish those who sinned in former times. And he is entirely fair and just in this present time when he declares sinners to be right in his sight because they believe in Jesus.

I no longer go to that church. I watched two women give a speech. They were together for twenty years. They are ‘former lesbians’ in the church’s lesbian ministry. I watched one lady get up to the podium, and cry her eyes out, as she said she was no longer a lesbian. Her love for her partner was evident. They still resided in the same household. To watch this lady suffer, and be tortured, to not be with her partner in a romantic way was killing her spiritually. She loved God, and she also loved her partner. You can involve God in your relationship—it’s possible.

Madelene and I decided that we will not be tortured like that; however, we will include God in everything we do. He comes first, above all. Without God, we are nothing. I’m just thankful that all the guilt that I had in the past, is gone. Being in love with Madelene with all my heart gives me happiness; having a personal relationship with God, means the world to me.

Remember, whatever it is you’re struggling with, God loves you regardless—and He loves you more than anyone can ever possibly love another human being.

That's huge!

Hard Return and Hard Come Backs

“Thank you for your patience, Debra, we do apologize for taking so long to call you back on this matter.”
“That’s no problem, as long as I get the status of where my book is, and if it is in the printing process, I’m fine. Do I need to correct any errors that you can see?”
“Not at this time, Debra. It is in the ‘acquisition’ stage, and you should be hearing back from Rebecca shortly after that.”
“That’s fine, Robert, as long as I am informed so we can get this moving, I’ll be more than happy to make additional corrections as needed.”

Having this be my third time around with my editor correcting punctuation and margin errors can get frustrating. The most challenging aspect of this all, is dealing with four people at a time who are working on my book to be published. Great, four people, right?

Wrong.

I got shuffled around to four people handling matters that were frustrating. I first went to Brian, who then sent me to Tammy, who then sent me to Susan, who then sent me to Rob. All of them say, “Please contact only me, regarding this.” Then when I do, they say, “Well so & so will be handling this from now on.”

Then I receive an e-mail.

Dear Debra,

I have reviewed the files you submitted for your title. There are a few concerns that need to be addressed before we can continue forward.

You may wish to view your formatting marks to assist you with finding the next concerns. Go to tools > options > view > formatting marks and select the box next to "all". **Please remember that if you are using a program such as notepad or WordPerfect to create your file, the following instructions will be different. Please contact me for further instruction if you are using a program other than Word and are unable to use the following instructions to make your corrections.**

We require the use of page breaks instead of hard returns to indicate places, like the end of a chapter, where the next text must begin on a new page. To insert a page break in Word go to insert > break > page break. To remove the extra hard returns, backspace through all of the blank lines until they are gone.


You have used text throughout your document that will not flow into our templates and may very well cause conversion errors during the formatting process which will result in your title being rejected during formatting. Please make sure the document is in either Times, Times New Roman, Arial, or Courier New font. The text font will then be set up according to the interior template you have chosen.
The crosses on page one of your text file will not flow into our templates. These will result in conversion errors if left in the document and must be removed.

You have used the space bar and/or tab key to center areas of text throughout your document. This is indicated in your text by a row of dots and/or arrows preceding the text. You will need to remove all spaces (dots) and tabs (arrows) that appear before the text and center the text using the align center text button on your toolbar.

You have randomly placed a hard return (pressing the enter key) at the end of a line, in the middle of sentences. You will need to remove the hard returns at the end of every line. Text must flow from line to line without interruption. You only want to enter a hard return at the end of a paragraph to begin a new paragraph. Your interior text will be formatted according to the interior template you have chosen. The extra hard returns will disrupt the formatting of your text and therefore, need to be removed.

The asterisks that you have inserted, for instance on page 169 will not format as you have intended. If you would like to insert a sort of section break that will add fleurons (symbols) in your text, you will need to use the section break notation as follows:

The proper insertion method for this notation is to place 3 asterisks, side by side on a row by themselves with no spaces before, after, or in between:
***

You have smileys inserted throughout your text, For instance page 174 after the words "Good Evening". We are unable to format these in your text file and will need to be removed.

Please make the necessary changes to your file and reupload it to your author panel for further review.

Sincerely,
Susan

Hard returns. Fine. I tried to list off a scripture from Psalms that needs to be formatted as so. Without the hard returns on the scripture, it loses it’s poetic depth to it. It’s not supposed to be jumbled up into one big fat paragraph!

“Well, it cannot fit into our templates, and it will end up making a mark or arrow in place of the hard return.”

Fine, but what year are we in? What do poets do regarding chapbooks??? I don’t get it, in this day of age, we cannot format accordingly to the author’s request? It baffles me.

I finally end up speaking to Shannon, the manager of the publishing company to discuss my concerns.
“All your reps sounds as though they are incompetent and don’t know what they’re doing- on top of that, they never call me back! To me, that’s a ‘no no’ in customer service.”
“Yes, we do understand your concern, and we will have a conference call with you. What time would you prefer?” Shannon asks, as her words were mellifluent; calming me down.
“10am. Is that okay?” I ask.
“Yes Debra, we’ll call you exactly at 10am Thursday morning with our team, and we will assist you step-by-step and get this book rolling.”
“Thank you so much, Shannon. I really appreciate this.” I said, relieved that something was going to happen.

Thursday morning. 10am. Silence. No phone call, no email, just the sound of my fingers tapping on my desk waiting for my phone to ring.
“Damn it!“ I said out loud. I call my first rep that I dealt with, hoping that he remembers me.
“Hey Deb! How’s it going?”
“Not good. No one likes calling anyone back it seems.”
“Ah man, that’s not good, let me send them an email to remind them” He says, in his 'cool dude' voice. He sounds as if he's nineteen years old.
“No, I have called their voice mails and left numerous messages. The next step is, another publishing company."
“No! Wait, let me at least get in touch with the managers and get back to you.”
“Fine.”

I have never dealt with such awful customer service. Is it the publishing company I’m dealing with? Or do any of you go through the same thing? I’m venting this, because I know that there is a writer out there who has experienced this horrible phase that I’m going through. I don’t mind making corrections, but what I do mind is lousy customer care. That makes my blood boil. I was tempted to get obstreperous like a little whiny kid who didn’t get their way, but I refrained and tried to calm myself from these idiots who seem to be bouncing off one another debating who should call her first.

If any of you writers who has had a book published—please comment and let me know your experience with your agent/publishers, etc. Does it have to be this hard? I’m getting really discouraged as a writer, and need some feedback. This whole scenario makes me discursive and agitated, so I apologize for this weird rant I’m doing today.

Help!

Do Open Relationships Leave Opened Wounds?

“I never knew Deb—you just don’t look like a lesbian.”
“What does a lesbian look like?” I ask, even though I already knew Diane’s stereotypical assumption of what a lesbian ‘should’ look like.
“You know—more masculine features, more tomboyish, and just rough around the edges.”
“This is what you go by? I asked, chuckling at how many people she has missed on her way to Naïveville.
“You and your girlfriend are really pretty and feminine.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I could definitely see myself experiencing my first with someone like you. I’m so curious, I find women to be so sensual and sexy.” She says, as she gleams at me with her big green eyes.

I knew where this was heading. To even entertain the thought of being her guinea pig for a one night experiment was inconceivable. The fact that she knew I was committed to Madelene somehow made me lose all respect for her. I felt as though she disrespected my relationship; as if it was make believe, or playing house. Diane lived with her boyfriend Pete, who happens to be a very nice man. I wonder if he even had a clue as to what Diane’s thoughts were regarding being with another woman.

One evening, we all decided to go out. Madelene and I told Diane and Pete to come in our car, due to the icy conditions. We had front wheel drive back then, and thought it was much safer than driving around in their Mustang. We pulled up to their condominium, and honked the horn. Both of them came out looking like a million bucks. We enjoyed going out with this couple because they were a lot of fun to be around, and we were all very close friends.

We pulled up to this café & cocktail lounge, and headed for the bar. The café we went to was a mixed bag. There were gays, straights, bisexuals, transgender, you name it. It was so fascinating watching all the unique people having a great time in this small quaint venue. They always had live entertainment, which brought in a huge crowd. We were lucky enough to be entertained by a reggae band that evening.

A few hours passed, a few drinks thrown back, and we were all dancing. Diane was a former go-go dancer, so her moves were quite seductive. Pete was doing his little head bopping motions, trying to get the rhythm down pat. I hear Pete say something in my ear, but I couldn’t quite make out what was being said to me.

“So, what do you think about all four of us getting a hotel?”
“What? I can’t hear you—the music is too loud!” I screamed back at him.
“What do you think about all four of us getting a hotel, Deb?” He repeats.
“Oh, I’m fine to drive, thank you for being so thoughtful, Pete!” I replied, putting my arm around him in a friendly manner.
“Deb—no, that’s not what I meant. Would you and your girlfriend consider being with us intimately?”
At that moment, I heard him loud and clearly. My expectations of “Pete’s such a gentleman” went straight down the drain. I was so disappointed that he asked me this horrific question. I really liked him. I wonder if Diane knew about this.

“Awe, thank you—I’m flattered, I really am, but Madelene and I are monogamous.” I said, trying to defuse any feelings of rejection on his part.
“No, that’s cool Deb, I totally respect that. I just wanted to ask.” He said, and then left it alone.

Fine. Done.

Wrong.

As we were all on the dance floor having a good time, Diane and Pete sandwiched us; making us feel really weird. Their moves were a bit too much, and we knew that this party needed to end now. He totally disrespected my answer, was now is gyrating up against my backside. Contemplating whether or not I should kick up my leg and crush his nuts, was a more than satisfying thought, but I refrained. I noticed Diane doing the same thing to Madelene. Madelene and I both looked at one another in shock and motioned our heads indicating, “Let’s move over to the bar.”

“So, what do you think? I bet you two would be a blast in bed!” Diane comes over and blurts out really loudly.
“Thanks Diane for considering us candidates in your love fest, but we’ll have to pass.”
“Well f*ck you b*tch!” She yells out, having the whole café hear these words spew out of her possessed demon-like mouth.
“Diane! Calm down! We’re just not into that scene.” Madelene says, in a calming tone.
“Well, Debbie cheats on you anyway! She looks at me like she wants me. She’s not loyal to you. She’s a whore!”
“Diane! Stop! You had too much to drink, just leave it alone!” Pete says, trying to get her to calm down.

At this point, I was ready to leave. I wanted to go home and drop them off. We were an hour away from our town and it was below zero outside. God knows why we even decided to drive that far on a night like that, but we were young and stupid.

“Come on, let’s just go home now.” I suggested.
“Sounds good Debbie, I’m so sorry for my girlfriend acting up like that, I really am.”
“That’s okay, Pete. Alcohol can do that sometimes.” I said, chuckling to make him feel a little better.

“WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT? I’M NOT GOING HOME!” Diane shouts, in a drunken state of delirium.
“Please stop Diane, I just want to go home, stop, please.” Pete begged her.
“She’s nothing but a whore! You’re a b*tch Debbie! I can have any girl I want! It’s your loss!”

I decided not to say a word. We started to make our way and slide over to our car. The parking lot was a complete sheet of ice. I don’t know how we even made it there. The night got colder, and so did Diane’s mood. We started to pile in the car. I revved the engine a bit more, so the heat would kick in. Pete and Diane were sitting in the backseat arguing. Diane was now cursing off Pete at this point, being irrational and nutty.

“You’re an @sshole too for evening siding with them! She’s a b*tch Pete! A b*tch!”

Now at this point, she is in “my” car, and now my blood was starting to boil. It was below zero, the roads were very icy, and I was not about to drive in these conditions listening to her curse at me the entire time. I made a conscious decision that evening.

“Get out!”
“Huh?” Diane had a wake up call.
“Get out of my car, now!” I said, staring at her from the driver’s seat.
“It’s below zero!” She pleads.
“I don’t give a rat’s @ss, Pete can stay if he wants, but you have to get out now!”
“Please Diane, don’t do this, please just tell her your sorry.” Pete begs her.
“FINE!”

Diane bolts out of the car, and back into the club. Pete sat there in shock.
“I am so incredibly sorry for this evening guys.” Pete says, in a sincere voice.
“Pete, I really feel bad for you. I would gladly drive you home, but I cannot have her in my car like that. I hate the fact that I am leaving you two in this type of weather, but maybe you should just call a cab or a friend. If you want me to take you home, I will. I just can’t have her in this car.”
“I understand, please forgive me for all of this.” He says, as he struggles out of the back seat to make his way back in the club.

I sat in the car for a while with Madelene.
“I hate leaving them here, I really do.”
“I know you do, but she was really acting up Deb…”
“I’ll be right back, let me see if I can at least try to calm her down so I can drive the both of them home. I’m doing this for Pete’s sake.” (no pun)

I walk into the club, trying to push through the crowd. I saw Pete, but he looked sad. I bypassed him and went straight for the bar, where Diane was. I went to go touch her shoulder.
“Hey, listen, let’s be friends again, and let me drive you home.”
“F*ck off!!!”

She turns around and starts making out with this tall Haitian man. No wonder Pete looked sad. Did he approve of this ‘open relationship’? Or did he only approve when it was Diane pursuing another woman? I never understood open relationships. I don’t condemn them, I just never understood the concept and how people dealt with them on an emotional level. Does an open relationship mean, only the woman can be intimate with another woman? Or did it imply that all sexes can be involved? Did anyone get jealous? I’ve heard people say that it’s more of a trust factor. Okay fine. However, I once knew a couple who had an open relationship. The husband let his wife go off with numerous women. She was bisexual.

What happened?

She left him, for the other woman. They are still together till this day. The husband had no inclination that something like this could happen. It ended in divorce. If they had so much trust, so much love, why did this happen? Truth remains; you will always have some sort of risk being in an open relationship. I know this can be debated, but in “my opinion”, when you throw more people in the mix, you end up with competition. Why add confusion to an already complicated relationship? That’s what I wanted to know, regarding Pete and Diane’s relationship.

On the other hand, I know straight women who feel that being with another woman intimately is technically ‘not cheating’ on your boyfriend or husband. How can they even think this? It’s still sharing intimate moments with someone other than your lover. Would it be okay if their boyfriend or husband were to have sex with another man?

Amazing.

Cocktail Hour

Fumbling around, tossing old shoes out and rummaging through old clothes, I made my way into the closet to discover the those four words blurted out by every woman alive,
“I HAVE NO CLOTHES!”
The leather boots from last year were crinkled up from being sat upon by other shoes.
“I can’t wear these!” Tossing the pair of shoes that I loved so much.
“Madelene!!!” I call out.
“What’s wrong sweetie?”
“We have to go shopping.”
Subconsciously, Madelene starts to put her hands above her pockets, holding them tightly, as if I were about to attack her for the plastic. I know what you’re thinking--you mean her purse, right?

No. She doesn’t carry a purse. She carries around a little folder-like wallet. This thing is so packed (not with money) but with business cards, receipts, credit cards and other miscellaneous items. She keeps it closed with a headband. When we go out for dinner, she throws her ugly wallet inside my nice purse. It’s a lesbian tradition I guess. I'm just thankful she doesn't have one of those chain wallets.

“We’ll go Monday on our day off, how about that?”
“Sure.” I replied, as I sat there on the floor of my closet on a Saturday evening, exhausted from the discoveries I made. The thought of shopping for new fall clothes, and new boots, made me feel ten times better. I felt as though she had just given me a shot of euphoria. Madelene always knows what to say at the right time. Nothing is impossible for this woman. If something is wrong, let’s fix it. If you’re not happy with this, let’s do that. Okay, so she babies me a tad; well, okay, a lot, but who doesn’t like being pampered once in a while?

Monday rolls around, and I’m rolling on the other side of the bed. I bump into Madelene who is snoring away like a lumberjack.
“Mad? You up?” I ask, knowing that is the stupidest question someone can ask.
She lifts her little night mask up to her forehead, so she can see me. Yes, she wears one of these lovely satin night masks.
“Huh? You okay? What time is it?” She rubs her eyes, trying not to absorb the light so quickly.
“10am.” I said. We never sleep in that late, however the night before we were enjoying some cocktails with my sister and her boyfriend. Madelene was clearly hungover. I need a fast remedy for her, ASAP! Now if you all know me personally, or have been reading my blogs, you know what that ‘quick fix’ remedy is…
Yep. Deb’s famous bloody marys. I decided to go downstairs to invite my mother to come outside with us on this beautiful ‘almost afternoon’, to have a cocktail with us. She was more than willing to join us. I waited for Madelene outside on our patio. Mom and I were talking and already starting our quick fix, although we had no problem to fix. We don’t like others to drink alone. Madelene comes galloping downstairs and opens the door to come out. It took her nearly thirty minutes to come out of that bathroom. Her hangover remedy was there to greet her hello. Whenever Madelene and I bring my parents to the beach house in the Hamptons, we usually end up drinking lots, and playing scrabble. We could sit out on that deck, overlooking the ocean and playing scrabble for hours on top of hours sometimes.
“Scrabble ma?”
“Alright!” She says.
By that time, I was almost done with my drink, the sun was shining brightly, and their was this fall-like breeze that was enough to make my thoughts turn around to,
“Ugh, I can’t imagine being inside a mall on a day like this.”
I think Madelene had that thought as well. We ended up staying outside the entire day enjoying the beautiful weather. It won’t be too long until the blistering cold makes us prisoners of our own home, so why not take advantage? We’ll go shopping next Friday evening.

We all start playing scrabble. Madelene and my mother are brains. They can get any crossword puzzle, and trivial question answered, and they usually end up making me look like a big loser at the end. Shush- don’t even say it… Maybe it was the alcohol or the little sleep that Madelene got, but she got up the nerve to put this word out on the scrabble board. “I can’t believe you placed those letters down in front of my mother!!! Madelene!” I said, laughing and crouching down low in embarrassment at the same time.
“Oh come on Deb! We all know the real Madelene’s a sick pup.” Mom said, as she chuckled.
I was relieved that she didn’t give Madelene a cross-eyed look trying to figure out what really was on Madelene’s mind that morning. I’m still trying to figure that one out.

Occasionally I would run behind Madelene and take a peek at her letters. Happy to report, I was first place, leaving mom & Madelene in the dust! Results: (Please take note of the notepad and the name of where we got it.)
Shopping still awaits me, but I’m glad I gave that up to spend time with mom and Madelene. Later that evening, I felt as though I had a slight hangover from the afternoon cocktails. Do I keep drinking? Or do I just call it a night? I popped a Maalox and went to bed.

Little things such as spending time with family & loved ones mean much more than trekking down to the mall, doing errands, or finishing up small tasks at home. Things like that can wait. I feel that God intended for us to enjoy this life we have on earth; to enjoy the journey. It doesn’t matter how rich you are, what your job status is, or wishing for things that you don’t have—it’s “now” that’s important. To appreciate what we have 'today'.

Some good quotes from the bible:

Even so, I have noticed one thing, at least, that is good. It is good for people to eat well, drink a good glass of wine, and enjoy their work—whatever they do under the sun—for however long God lets them live. ~Ecclesiastes 5:18

Enjoy what you have rather than desiring what you don't have. Just dreaming about nice things is meaningless; it is like chasing the wind. ~Ecclesiastes 6:9

You probably think playing scrabble may be quite boring and dull. To me, it wasn’t about the game; it was about spending time with two people I care about. When we go out for dinner, it’s not about the food or the wine list; (although that wine list may come in handy!) it’s about the company you’re in. The fact that it can be taken away from us so quickly can blind us; leaving us to take for granted the blessings that God gave to us.

If you’re one of those people who have too much on their plate, you’re bombarded by work and other tasks in life, stop and spend some time with a loved one. Ask them to have lunch with you; take them out for a nice dinner—remember, we’re here for a short time; we may never get this chance again.

Dysfunctional, But I Love Them

“How can you tell who's calling?”
“Ma, you look on the screen.”
“What screen?”
“The one that is on the receiver of the phone.”
“Do the callers know I can see their number?”
“Not unless you tell them…”
“When will the number display.”
“WHEN YOUR PHONE RINGS MA!”

Fancy gadgets and high tech computerized equipment are apart of our lives now. Or is it? For some, they are still living in the dark ages. Most prefer living back in the day where it was just as if you received a wrapped up present from someone, when your phone rang.

“Oh! My phone is ringing! I wonder who could be calling!”

No surprises anymore. We know who’s calling, and if you don’t want to show your number, then we just block your call. Simple as that. The thrill of the phone ringing, has now lost its novelty. We now leave the phone ringing four to five times into our voice mails, because we saw who was calling. It was no surprise, it was just a dreadful thought that we may have picked this phone up, if it weren’t for our caller id.

Do we even utilize the old fashioned phone anymore? We resorted to email communication. No one wants to talk *live* on the phone anymore, they want to just email whenever they get the chance. It’s just easier, and you don’t have to hear them answer you back. And you thought call waiting was rude.

I remember when I got my first laptop years ago. I got sick of the monster PC that was sitting on my very small desk. Wires hanging all over, this huge monitor almost taking up the entire width of the top of the table. Awful. I decided that I needed more room, and I wanted to go anywhere I wanted while I worked. I didn’t want to be chained up to my desk anymore. I would show my mother neat things on the laptop, because I would go downstairs with my new computer and show her movies, let her listen to music and show her how to purchase things online. (That was torture)

“Deb?...Can you bring down your blacktop?”
“What?”
“You’re blacktop. Bring it down, I want to show your father something.”
“You mean, my laptop??” I replied, as I uncontrollably laughed at her cute mistake.
“Sure, be right down.”

Don’t even ask me if she uses a VCR---that is now obsolete. I will NOT buy her a DVD. Forget it.

I love the fact that my mother is old fashioned in a sense. She relies on simple things to make her happy. She is not overwhelmed by the amount of emails she gets, or how to reply to them, and she doesn’t get agitated when she can’t find something located on Google’s search engine. Her happiness comes from cooking good food, spending time with family face-to-face, and of course, enjoying a potent cocktail with me.

“Ma, it’s hot in here…Can you put on the a/c?” I ask her, as we’re sitting downstairs talking.
“Yeah, let me get that big stool.”
She walks over to this big stool that sits next to the bar, and climbs on top of it, to reach this fifteen foot high air conditioning unit. Now, I know what you’re thinking...
“WHY don’t YOU do it?”
I am so afraid of heights or climbing up on ladders, I would just faint. Now here’s the tricky part about this scenario. I have asked my mother if I could buy her a new air conditioning unit with a remote control, so that she doesn’t have to climb on this high stool to reach for the stars.

“No. This is a very good air conditioner. I have had this unit for years and it has never let me down.” She says, as she climbs back down from her pedestal.

Now that we have covered our central air controls in the summertime, let’s focus on the winter days. Living in upstate New York can sometimes leave you in the blistering cold of below zero. This is a great opportunity to use your heating sources. We have an oil burner. Red flagged. Yes, an old oil burner that has been red flagged. The repairman came in, and evaluated it for himself.

“I wouldn’t ever use this again, time for a new oil burner.”
“Oh, okay…well thank you for taking a look at it.” My mother replies.
Off the oil burner repairman goes, and on goes the oil burner as if he had just said it was in perfect condition.

“Did you NOT hear that it was red flagged? We can literally blow up!”

Okay. That’s that. Our other source of heating is the old fashioned and most desirable way to heat your home are the two fireplaces in our home. We usually use the one wood burning stove, so that it can heat the whole house. The problem with this stove is that the smoke blows into the house, not up the chimney. Great. My asthma is also “all in my head”… I fear the smell of wood that originates from downstairs, as they blaze a nice cozy fire. The smoke literally engulfs Madelene and me, as we are trying to relax upstairs. I start coughing like a mule and gasping for air, because my asthma is smoked induced, or sometimes triggered by a simple cold. It gets so bad sometimes that I have to be rushed to the emergency room. Yes, folks know me very well. EMT workers and I go way back.

“Ma! You gotta stop using that stove or get it fixed. Let me get you a new oil burner or have a professional take care of this.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the wood burning stove Debbie. It’s a fireplace, you’re going to smell smoke!” She says, as if I’m crazy.
“My clothes are literally black from soot!” I said, as I cough my way up the stairs to my apartment.

When all else fails, we have a ton of space heaters to supply us with enough forced air to make you gag. Below zero weather, all sliding glass doors wide open, I try to breath in the crystallized air. Sometimes Mad will run the hot shower for me, so I can breathe in the vapors. Inhalers and piles of steroids for breathing problems are a must in this household; even if you don’t have asthma. Tons of black coffee is prepared for opening up my bronchioles. The summer is a much better time for me. Air conditioning is the best thing. I dread the winter months. I’ve decided that I’m going to live inside a bubble. You can visit me, and use those attached gloves to hand me something, this way I don’t get contaminated air molecules or germs. (For the OCD part)

My parents are my best friends, even though I poke fun at them. I even bring them with me on vacation sometimes. They’re simple people, with big hearts. My mother loves to cook for a large army (our family) and my father is also a great cook. Both of them together spell out, “Anti-Weight Watcher’s”. You cannot be on a diet when you are around them. They won’t have it. “Here Deb, have a meatball.”
“Ma, no thanks, I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”
“But you have to taste this to see if I need to add anything else.” She says, in this pitiful voice.
“Alright.” I say, as I eat her delicious meatballs that she knows damn well they are incredible.

Meatballs are the heal all. If you have a headache, here, eat a meatball. If you have a pain in your neck, here have a meatball. Even if you have a stomach ache for the love of God—have a meatball! This meatball was touched by Christ! It has to heal! It’s an insult to even decline as she is already serving you one of these puppies.

Sunday afternoons, around 2pm, the whole family still gathers at the dinner table to eat mom’s ‘all day prepared’ food. I try my best to stay upstairs in my apartment when I am trying to be ‘good’. It’s just too tempting! I can’t stay away from my family though, because they’re so much fun to be around. So inevitably, I go down, and spend time with them, which leads into cocktails, which leads into food, which then leads into, “WHY DID I EAT SO MUCH?”

I have to say, that I wouldn’t have it any other way. My mother and father are my best friends, as well as my three older sisters. I’m just grateful I was born into this family, regardless of how many meatballs clog up my arteries. I’ll die happy.

Hair on My Chinny Chin Chin!

“Have a good day sweetie.” Madelene says, as she kisses me goodbye to leave for work.
“You too, got your phone?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s on.”
“Ok, call me later.”

I walk into the bathroom to wash up. Barely seeing a thing, I put some drops in my eyes, and splashed some cold water on my face. I look up in the mirror; my face puffy from too much sleep, my eyes almost closed, and there were a few ‘pillow lines’ drawn on my cheeks. I start rubbing my face to get those pillow lines off. I can’t walk around looking like this.
“What the???” I say out loud, staring at the unknown object in the mirror.
“Where the hell did you come from?” It was a hair! On my chin! And from the length of it-- how long has this sucker been there? I immediately try to tug on it. It was so long, that I didn’t even have to pinch my two fingers together tightly to get a good grip. Forget the tweezers. This puppy was long and mean. I grabbed it with my hand, and closed my fist, and tugged hard.

No lie- this ‘chin hair’ was the size of the palm of my hand. Question remains:
“Why hasn’t anyone told me I was walking around with this long @ss hair?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh, get angry, or cry! I quickly took off my shirt to make any other discoveries.

“Shweew----no chest hairs! Thank God!”

All I could think of was that old episode of Rosie O’Donnell a few years back. She had a chin hair growing a bit too long. She decided that she would put some beads on it when it got to a certain length. I should have let the hair remain on my chin, and then took a picture of it while it was beaded. Thank God I’m not single. (I may be soon)

Was my nightmare over? No.

The HGH that I was taking claimed to have a positive affect for your skin. My face was beginning to look really nice, had a certain glow, and it was much smoother. The past few days, my neck began to develop these little red bumps. I’m not talking pimples here; they look much like chicken pox. Face is clear, the neck is not. This is not good.

No HGH today. No HGH any day.

I recently found an article that said this:

"What are the dangers?That depends on when you took hGH and from what companies. Up until 1985 hGH was a human brain derived product. Unfortunately that year it was linked to Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD) which is a variant of what is now called mad cow disease.”

Lovely. So I stay away from red meat for this purpose, to only go and get it straight from the source. I’m secretly on a suicide mission here.

It continues:

“After 1985 synthetic versions of hGH were developed that don't expose the user to CJD, but long-term studies pointed to other risks. Specifically a significant risk of cancer, especially colon cancer and Hodgkin's disease. This does not mean that people with medically diagnosed hormone deficiencies should stop taking hGH, but otherwise healthy people should definitely avoid it."

I’m glad I went through the process of experimenting with this hormone, so that I can be the guinea pig I always wanted to be. I had fun the first few days, but then suddenly I started getting ~out of control~ dizzy spells, where I would fall. Can I definitely say that it was from the HGH and not my sinuses or vertigo? Maybe the lump on my head? No. I have to just assume for right now that it has something to do with this product. I am stopping it today, and seeing if I have the ability to walk, instead of feeling as though I drank about ten shots of tequila.

I also noticed that my chest size has decreased. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with the measly two pounds I lost, but they did go down in size. (Or I’m just transforming into some hairy man with a goat tee.) Great. Lose weight. Decrease chest size.

Okay. Now I’m back to the agitated Deb that you all know. The person who gets upset at the slightest thing- the most sensitive soul that you can imagine. I feel it already. Something is telling me that I am not going to be a happy camper today. Hmm.

I live upstairs in an apartment above my parents. It’s quite spacious, and it’s enough for Madelene and I right now, in order to save for our own house. It’s nice, because I love my parents, and we usually have cocktail hour set at a certain time. Don’t ask. Okay—11am.

I walk downstairs to say hello to mom. I trudge down the stairs with my long work out pants and some platform flip flops on. Working at home has its benefits, no business suits. The smell of coffee was wafting through the air, almost making me feel alive again. My mother makes percolated coffee in one of those old tin pots. It’s the same one that Alice uses on the Honeymooner’s. This coffee is amazing, and yes---will put a few hairs on your chest. Hmm. (Makes me wonder about that chin hair.)

“Deb, want some coffee?” My mother says, as she walks into the kitchen.
“Oh! You made some? Great!” I say, knowing already that it’s been brewing for the last twenty minutes or so. No instant anything with my mom.

I’m finally feeling alive. Downstairs, they have two living rooms, and her bedroom is set between the both of them. I hear two T.V.s going at the same time. This is increasingly driving me insane. I try to block it out. I can’t. Two newscasters spewing out blabber at the same time about the same thing probably. My mind is flustered now. I’m agitated. I take my coffee and run upstairs to my apartment.

Ahh… Silence. Everyone knows that when they come up to my place while I am working during the day, my T.V. either has the ‘atmosphere music channel’ on, or the T.V. is off. I wonder if mom even notices that the two T.V.s are on. I wonder if she listens to both of them simultaneously getting information from two sources. She must be a talented little woman. I guess I didn’t get my A.D.D. from her. I’ll blame dad for that, and mom for the OCD. Have to blame someone for my disorders.

That leads me to therapy. Literally. Therapy is like watching grass grow, especially with my guy. He is a spitting image of the father who died on “Six Feet Under.” He wears the same long business suits, usually dark brown or back, with some brown tie on and always wears brown leather dress shoes. He is slightly balding and he is about six foot five or so. Very tall and thin.

“Oh Mad, I am so not in the mood today to sit there for an entire forty-five minutes to watch him stare at me. I just want my ativan and I wanna get the hell outa’ there!”
“He doesn’t help you?” She asks.
“Eh. I don’t know.”

He opens the door from his office and stands there, staring at me, indicating that he is ready for session. I walk in. I feel as though I’m about to attend a funeral. His entire office has three huge rooms. The first room you walk through is dark and dismal. Then he shows you the way into the room where you’ll be diagnosed and evaluated. It’s bright and shiny, and full of life. There is this huge plant that takes up almost one quarter of the room. I always sit there and touch it, to see if it’s real. I know it’s real, but who takes care of it? How did they get this monster plant in here? Okay, enough. I don’t want to waste my therapy time talking horticulture.

I sit down on the hard fake leather love seat, making a squishy, unpleasant noise. Lurch (my therapist) falls down on his plush chair and always puts his coffee right near his foot. I always wondered why he put his coffee there when he has an end table right next to him. Baffles me. He crosses his daddy long legs, then just stares at me. No smile, no anything, no comforting words—not even, “Hello.”

“So doc, what brings you in my office today?” I ask.
He starts chuckling, gets nervous, and reaches down to take a sip of his coffee. He always does this. If I ever put him in an uncomfortable situation, down he goes reaching for the java. Freak.

“So what’s new?” He mumbles, as if he just shoved a bunch of muffins in his mouth.
“I won the lottery, my sex life is great, and I’m off to by a yacht right after therapy! And you???”
What does he want me to say? Yes I have problems, but therapy is so awkward. He is an old fashioned kind of guy who knows I’m gay. He wonders why my partner has to assist me to go to therapy. She waits for me like a little angle reading boring magazines to pass the time.
“Doc, I get anxiety at night before I go to sleep. Is there anything I can do other than take a little magic pill to relieve my panic attacks?”
“Hmm…well we can increase the medication.” He mumbles.
Did he hear me? Was I speaking another language? I want to get off the ativan and start living a normal life, with no sleeping aids.
“Doc, I want to eventually get off the meds and treat my anxiety in a more efficient way, other than putting a band aide on it.”
“Well we have to keep you on the ativan, so that we can limit the amount of anxiety attacks that you have, and treat it at the same time.”
“So what do I do now? What do you suggest?” I ask.
He lifts his eyebrows up.

Where did you get your psychiatry license? (I feel like screaming at him) He doesn’t even suggest cognitive behavior therapy or any sort of relaxation techniques whatsoever.

Believe me, I tried every psychiatrist around my area. They are all booked up. The whole county must be going crazy! I need a good doctor and I can’t get one, so I stick with Lurch who absolutely has no impact on treating my anxiety disorder. He stares at me and keeps asking questions about my ex-girlfriend from years ago.

Okay. I give up. The clock shows it’s been forty-five minutes, and I am glad he is taking his third party prescription papers out.
“So two weeks?”
“Sure.”
“Alright.”

That’s it. No help. Just meds.

Time for a cocktail!



PSYCHIATRIST WANTED
If you know a psychiatrist that is available in the general area of Orange County, NY—please contact me at the e-mail address provided. I need professional help. (Shut up Tara, Bleu & Lp)
If not, you can reach me at the Mid-Hudson Psychiatric Center in a few weeks.

The Power of 'Two' (HGH update & more)

Going into my second week of this growth hormone, I have lost two pounds! Okay, so I’m not a supermodel yet, but it’s a start. I’ll let you know when I start taking laxatives and heroin for additional weight loss.

Two whole pounds. Hmm. I used to be one of those people sitting in the midst of overweight women, holding up a sign that said “2”, to indicate that was the number I lost for the week. Yes, I was in Weight Watcher’s thirteen years ago, when I was eight-teen years old.

The down side: I worked in a pizza shop as the delivery girl and sometimes even helped making the pizza. This was not a good atmosphere for me to be in. I used to date this guy who was the pizza maker. Watch out girls—I’m a real gold digger! Ron used to make fun of me, because after a real serious Weight Watcher meeting, I would go into work, and Ron (being a funny little man that he was) would hold up a small pizza box over his head that had the number zero on it.

“Big zero! That’s right! Zero!” He says, in his nasally voice of his. He started giggling and then ran over to hug me. He was hysterical, so you had to laugh. The man knew how to poke fun at the enemy, and yet make them laugh. Amazing.

I used to run in the kitchen for dinner and make myself a nice big salad. I could have had a slice of pizza; however, the way they made their pizza was alarming. They used to smear their pans with globs of lard—the old fashioned way. What year are we in??? I knew that if I just had “one” slice, it would cost me my whole point system, and I would have been going into my meeting holding up a sign that said +20!

Back to the HGH weight loss. I have been eating normally, which is my usual, chicken/fish/salad/oatmeal/egg white type of diet along with my occasional wine or beer. I’m hoping that it’s not just water weight that is fooling me here. That kills me.
“Well how do you get rid of water weight?”
“Oh, well drink more water so you can pee it out”
(Doesn’t this create more of a ‘balloon effect’? I never understood that.)
“Well if you’re going to have salt, drink lots of water.”
“Great! Now I can see if I can apply for that sumo wrestling position!”

Baffles me.

What a nightmare when I had to walk into GNC to see if I can purchase some sort of natural weight loss vitamin. I walk into the store, and they all know me. I had a dilemma when I started taking weird pills my personal trainer was giving me at the gym. He was giving me pre-testosterone pills that were basically STEROIDS! Hello? I know muscle burns fat, but let me at least burn it off first before I start bulking up like a beast here buddy! Not only did I discover a few more chins, but my neck was the size of a tree trunk. I needed to deflate, NOW. Anyway, I go into GNC, and walk up to the lady behind the counter. People, let me tell you, now I am not poking fun at her at all, but this lady behind the counter is 400+lbs----no lie. I wanted to ask someone which diet supplement would help me lose weight the natural way. How am I going to ask her that?

“Err, umm… Yeah, I was wondering if you knew which natural supplement would help me lose weight…” I said, as a plucked away each cuticle.
“Oh! Sure! I know just the thing for you! Let me show you!” She said, all excited, as she struggled to lift herself off from the chair she was sitting on.
Oh my God, I feel so bad. How can I be so insensitive and ask this poor woman to help me find a weight loss remedy, when she hasn’t found one of her own? I feel like an evil woman right now. She must hate me.

She handed me a supplement and told me that it would work effectively and that it was all natural. The secret ingredient to this was ginseng and some sort of tree bark. Don’t ask. I took it. I thanked her many times as I was walking out. She is now my buddy when I walk inside there. She calls me ‘her little girl’. (I’m not so little) This makes me feel good though. See the psyche behind that?

Negative side effect to the HGH. I am experience dizzy spells. It started out as one every three days, so I just chucked it up to sinuses, but now it is happening more frequently. Maybe it’s from that unknown bump on my head that three doctors already saw? Doctors aren’t perfect, I can have some sort of ~thing~ going on and no one would even know! Could it be my sinuses? Vertigo? Cell phone related tumor? It is near my right ear. Or, can it be the result of a side effect from the HGH hormone spray? I don’t want to stop taking it, due to the wonderful other side effects; however, I don’t want to go to the gym, be running on the treadmill, to realize I’m being pulled out of there on a gurney heading off to the emergency room.

I can hear what you are saying already, so I will dialog our conversation.

You: “Well get it checked out by a doctor again.
Me: “Did that. Went to three. Next?"
You: “See another doctor.”
Me: “My plan only covers three. Will you pay for the next doc?"
You: “Fine, be a jackass. Then stop taking the HGH.!”
Me: “No.”

Now here is the serious side of this all. My whole family, including my friends think I’m a hypochondriac. I am in a lot of ways. Now, I have this bump the size of a golf ball behind my head. Doctors have seen it, felt it, manipulated it, (I feel violated now)… Madelene has felt it, acknowledged that ‘yes’ there is a bump there. Everyone feels this awful growth on my head. No one takes me seriously though.

Rachel Bertoni, who I help out at the gallery down in Sugar Loaf, NY explained to me how someone she knew had the same thing. It got to a point where they had to shave her head to take biopsies and discovered that it was fatal. The lady died.

I’m thinking about making out my will. Madelene will be very rich due to my life insurance, but everyone else will be stuck with my computerized gadgets and music equipment.

My prized possession. My Takamine guitar. Can’t live without it. Madelene better start taking lessons, because I don’t want this guitar mounted up against some wall for show.

Okay, morbid request...

My Funeral: The people who attend this event will most likely wear black or dark colors, however, I do want them to show a little red if they can. Red’s my favorite color, so if you can display an article of clothing to show you are wearing red, this will make me happy and I will never haunt you.

Funeral Festivities: I want a band, I want music, I want dancing, I want lots of food and lots of spirits...(besides my newfound friends on the ~other side~) Get drunk. Have a ball. I will be amongst you all having a great time before I head into the ~light~. This would make me happy.

Also, on my tombstone, I want the words, “I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK!” engraved for all to see. No one ever believes that my ‘so called’ sicknesses are real. They claim it’s ‘all in my head.’ Tell it to my stone! I’m going to place a picture on the tombstone pointing to the lump on my head. “TOLD YOU SO!” That's it. If I see a wolf, I promise not to cry to you about it. (FYI--This is directed mostly to my family members)

This day is starting off on a positive note, huh? I’m signing off. Don’t send flowers yet—I’ll update you on this blog. If you don’t hear from me on this blog…it definitely has something to do with this lump.

END OF RANT

She Confesses

Madelene finally confesses!

They were hers. Straight from her mouth, she has grudgingly admitted to purchasing these Geritol vitamins one year ago. Hmm. I thought taking these anti-aging hormones were bad enough, but Geritol? I want to see her birth certificate ASAP! She has conveniently lost it.

As we speak, she is in the bathroom “brushing her teeth”… I suppose you can brush dentures if you take them out, right? I am dating a senior citizen who claims she is only forty one years old.

That is my update on the Geritol mystery. Now for your regularly scheduled program.

Why on Earth?

Evening ‘get ready for bed’ rituals have always been a time consuming task, especially when I used to wear contact lenses before my eye surgery. I could spend fifteen, twenty, to thirty minutes in there just getting ready to hit the hay. Tasks include: Washing my face with different solutions, moisturizing, brushing & flossing and sometimes whitening, to exfoliating to end up looking like I just ate ten strawberries, and broke out.

While entering the bathroom, I notice something strange ‘left’ in the toilet. Have you ever seen those little miniature hot dogs? (Pigs in a blanket—but without the blanket) Well, there were a ton of these ‘miniature hot dog’ looking things in the bottom of the toilet. They were light brown, with little red cracks all over them. Instantly, I thought, “Wait! Madelene has blood in her stool! Oh my God! She needs to see a doctor! And why is she crapping like a bear?”

I walk out of the bathroom instantly.

“Mad! You okay? What’s wrong? Why do you have blood in your stool?”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That’s not blood you fool! It’s Geritols.” She replies.

What’s my next question? Can you even imagine?

WHY do we have Geritols in our home? Who’s taking them? I know Madelene is ten years older than me, but I’m starting to think she fibbed about her age. I went back into the bathroom to flush this pile of miniature hot dog looking vitamins. I watched the water swirl around them, and leave the pills left behind. They were not ready to leave. They wouldn’t budge. This is not good.

I walk back inside the bedroom.

“Madelene! The pile you left in there is now stuck. What’s wrong with you? Are you flushing down feminine napkins as well? I know that city people think all toilets have strength of a bull, but come on! We’re up in the country here!”
“What? I would never! My mother always told me to throw away pills in the toilet.”
“She meant pills, not vitamins.” I replied, as I stormed out of the bedroom to face these tiny wiener looking vitamins.

Madelene walked into the bathroom, looked at me, and we both started to hysterically laugh.
“You thought that was mine! Ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!”
“You idiot! Why are you taking Geritols?”
“I’m not.”
“Then who is?”
(Both scratch our heads)

To be continued…

Hormonal Harmonies Part II (Update)

From strange and wacky dreams, to getting the giggles all day, I’ve discovered that this hormone works for me. (For now) I was hesitant to take it this morning, due to my overindulgence of wine last night, but I bit the bullet and decided to see what would happen. Yes-- just for 'blog' purposes I guess. Those of you, who have been faithful readers of my blog, know that I have my hangover remedies in the archives. I now have a new one. The HGH is much more powerful than any sports drink, bloody mary, vitamin C’s or the last resort, ibuprofen.

For those of you who are nondrinkers, I will report other benefits of this wonderful spray. Not only have I been ~randy~ all day, looking much like that guy “Bob” on those ‘male enhancement’ commercials with that ear-to-ear smile, but I am also experiencing shorter recovery time from working out. My muscles don’t ache like they usually do. When I run, my joints in my ankles aren’t clicking away like two silverware spoons. I think I found my alternative to Prozac!

Another great quality of this wonder hormone is that I’m thinking clearly. Yes, those of you who know me, realize that I do things without thinking sometimes. I finished an entire crossword puzzle, (hate those things) and I have been successful at cryptographs lately. Totally puzzles me. I also have been doing a lot of math in my head, oppose to grabbing the ol’ handy calculator.

I have to make note of yet another wonderful quality. I don’t care about things that usually would bother me. I blow it off quite easily now. Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but my attitude in things that once upset me, now have no affect on me whatsoever. I’m definitely out of my character these days. I think I like it!

I’m happy to report that Madelene has started taking the HGH again. She has been winking at me all day. Not a clue as to why, but it’s a good sign!

I’ll keep you “posted”…

Hormonal Harmonies

Isn’t it bad enough that I go through chaos and emotional break downs while I PMS? I’ve done it. I’ve started taking HGH. (Human Growth Hormones) It’s a spray that you apply under your tongue. Twice in the morning, and four times at night, before you go to bed. No extra chest hairs.

Why am I taking this? And what does it do?

No, it’s not to make me grow larger. That is definitely not the direction I want to take. It actually aids in losing weight, giving you more energy, burning fat, it helps memory and intellectual capacity (which I need desperately) and it also gives you a higher libido. Hmm. It’s a hormone that wanes off as we get older. When we get older, we tend to gain a few more, our muscles and bones ache a bit more, and our sleep gets less and less. HGH helps with insomnia- I have never slept so well before! It also helps with cholesterol and reduces wrinkles, giving your face a nice glow.

I’ve only been using this for a week, and I am already feeling the benefits from it. Madelene was on it for a while, she started feeling great after three months, and then decided not to take it because it wasn’t FDA approved. Neither are herbal products or certain vitamins though.

Anyway, I’m going to test this out. I’m hoping this doesn’t make me more of a mess during PMS time. You’ll be updated with the latest hormonal news on my part. I'm hoping Madelene doesn't leave me if this stuff makes me a complete mess!

My sister bought this stuff for me, because she wanted me to try it. It helped her a lot, and it took away her anxiety. I have been suffering from anxiety attacks a lot lately. Before I would go to bed, I would stay up a bit longer due to my panic attacks. Since I have been taking this HGH, it has been like a miracle worker. I feel so calm, and I don't worry as much as I used to.

You can use me as a guinea pig and see how I do after three months, or you can try it for yourself and see the effects. There are no side effects other than slight water retention occasionally. Like I’m not used to that??? A pinch of salt and I blow up like a tick. Big deal. Nothing new… The only thing you have to do is check with your doctor if you are taking certain prescriptions. Read up on it. I’m excited about this stuff.

I think this company should pay me for practically advertising their product!

Okay, I am off to enjoy my hormones…

It's Still 'In Us'

Where were you on 9/11 8:48 a.m.?

Everyone seems to remember exactly what they were doing at this time on 9/11. For some reason, we recall the smallest details of whatever it was we were doing. Do traumatic events such as 9/11 leave permanent sketches in our minds? Even my mother can recall every single little thing she was doing when World War II was going on. She still hears the air raid sirens blaring through her head when she tells her story of where she was. Mom was only a little girl in school. They had to run out in the hallway, and crouch low, hugging their knees. My mother never forgot how frightening all of this was. It’s still ‘in her’. When she was home, the screaming whistles of the sirens made her shiver with fear. She’ll never forget it.

The same holds true with us. We will never forget 9/11. We can recall each miniscule detail of anything we were doing. It’s engraved in my mind. We always think, “Something like this can never happen to the United States, we’re too intelligent and powerful.” Wrong. It takes one small crack to make a huge catastrophic disaster to take place.

It was 8am, on that Tuesday morning. That was Madelene’s day off. I was getting ready for work, scrambling around to see what I was going to wear. Madelene and I ate breakfast together, and then I headed off to the office. I remember walking outside thinking how beautiful it was. The sky was so blue that day, and the air was crisp. I drove down the road and got stuck behind a school bus. All the kids were back to school, and all the busses were stopping at each single house next to one another.
“Can’t they just all meet somewhere in the middle and make it one stop???” I said to myself, frustrated with this stop-and-go ride. I was jacked up on caffeine and anticipating the arrival of 5pm.

I swiped my card through the security doors at my job, and walked up the three flights of stairs—because their elevator was an old rickety-crickety box, that shook uncontrollably as you rode in it. One of my managers got stuck inside of it, while smoke started filling up the confined space. No way. You will never catch me in that thing. I’d rather walk. Besides, I needed to lose a few pounds anyway. Couldn't hurt to actually do something physical, right? Sitting at a desk all day for eight hours or more, is enough to give you secretary’s spread. (Ladies you know what I’m talking about!)

I got to my desk, huffing and puffing, turned on my overhead light and booted my computer up. Packing my purse and other belongings away, I kept thinking what a bad idea it was to beg my managers for a window seat. It was way too beautiful outside to be sitting in this cubical full of sunshine. I’m going to wish this workday away for sure! Maybe I can play sick, start coughing or something. Hmm. They were on to me though; I always weaseled my way out of things. I worked for a telecommunications company selling phone products, long distance calling plans, as well as internet and DSL lines.

8:30 am, I went into my inbox and faxed over some information a customer requested. As I was walking through the office full of cubical jail cells, it’s so fascinating how everyone is so fricken cheerful with their fake “Good mornings”.
“Good morning Debbie!”
“Good morning.” I reply, grudgingly.
“Good morning Deb.”
“Hey.” I start losing my ‘good mornings’ to a basic, unprofessional, “hey”.

I run back to my desk, sit down, and put my phone headsets on. As a customer service rep, I was ready to take these angry customers head on. My caffeine buzz was wearing off, and my grouchiness was moving in its place. A senior rep was sitting next to me to show me the new interface system we were working with. They changed the whole format of their computer mainframe. I needed help. (Not just mentally) I couldn’t answer calls just yet, until this lady showed me the ropes. As she was teaching me, my mind got overwhelmed with each command and tons of options to choose from on the screen.
“I’m never going to figure this out, and by the time I do, the customer will already have my head on a platter for being so damn slow!”

Heads are popping out of the cubicles one by one. People seemed to be socializing. Hmm. My manager is going to rip them a new one. Some people were walking out of their cubes without headsets on. My senior rep teacher and I were still at my desk going over the system as I took notes. Our heads turned each time one of the customer service reps whizzed by frantically to another rep that was still on the phone.
“Oh my God! Really?” I heard the rep behind me say to another girl giving her some sort of news. I chucked it up to gossip. This office was literally a henhouse. If someone was biting their cuticles, the person on the next floor would know about it. God forbid someone received roses, the whole office started clucking like wild hens in heat. Awful. Are offices that ‘kept in’ from the world that they have to thrive off of other people’s lives? I have to admit, sometimes it was tempting to partake in these gossiping hen fests.

9:05 am. “A plane hit the World Trade Center!” The rep behind me blurted out to us.
“What?” Molly, the senior rep said, in disbelief.
“It must have been by accident, but my husband just called and saw it on the news.” She said.
“Oh my God…I wonder how that happened!” Molly replied.
Shaking our heads, we started working again. Now, our office was always delayed with news. We never received phone calls through our extensions. We were never allowed to use the call center phones. There was a public phone that anyone could use for emergencies. All our calls were usually monitored by a supervisor and/or tape recorded; so even if we weren’t being tapped into, we still had that fear of ‘someone was listening’ in our heads.

9:10 am. “Another plane hit the second World Trade Center building!” I heard a rep say this from behind the cubicle wall. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her clear as day.
“Oh this is an attack! This wasn’t an accident!” Another rep said, four cubes down.
“They’re still missing three other planes!” Someone else screamed out from another cubicle.
I dropped my headsets and ran to the phone, but there were too many people waiting for it. I needed to get in touch with Madelene. I wanted to be home with her. I was scared. My office was under strict rules; you couldn’t just run off anywhere you’d like, unless you signed off your phone under a project number, a bathroom code, or to ‘see a manager code’. I just dropped everything. My mind was focused on getting to Madelene. I didn’t want her home alone in fear. I wanted to be with her. My mind instantly delved into thoughts of, “What if this is a chemical warfare, or something worse, a suitcase nuclear bomb?”

I finally got my hands on the phone. No time for over analyzing how germ infested this phone receiver was. I didn’t care, because I was going to die from a nuclear holocaust anyway. I started to dial Madelene.
“All lines are busy, please try your call again later.” A recorded operator said in such a non-caring way.
My fifth time, I got through.
“Mad? Mad? Did you see the news?”
“Yeah! Some drunk pilot hit the trade center!” She said to me.
“What? Mad, there was a second air plane that struck the second building too.”
“I know.”
It baffled me that she didn’t think this was a war. She actually thought these airplanes were filled with intoxicated pilots. I think she was in shock. She had the, “this can’t possibly happen to the United States” type of mind frame.

She then heard President Bush’s speech, and then realized after he said we were being attacked, that we were in fact, at war.

It amazed me that my company didn’t let us go into a conference room to hear Bush’s announcement, or to watch the news being unfolded. Many other companies offered this to their employees. Some companies even let their employees go home. Many of the customer service reps had family members inside that building. We had other call centers from other states that helped take our flow of customers, so we could have at least rotated employees to go into the conference room. Our company only cared about ‘call volume’ at our site. They wanted to be number one. Even a tragedy couldn’t stop them. I seriously thought about dropping everything, and running home. All of us, regardless if we didn’t have a relative or friend in the trade center, were in distress. We couldn’t focus on our work.

“The lines are down; no one can make calls in or out. You can only make local calls.” One of the mangers yelled out from some cubicle afar.

Instantly, the office was silent. Not only were our phones silent, but the fear had suddenly sunk into our minds, leaving us speechless. Our long distance cable lines were located under the World Trade Center. They were also owned by AT&T, so that trickled over to many other customers. It had such a ripple affect, that it left us scared to know that our communications were down. We were unable to get in touch with loved ones. We were left with only silence.

Later that evening, when I got home, I hugged Madelene—thanking God I was with her now. We watched the news coverage in fear. Not one station was concerned with a television sitcom or their regularly scheduled programs. We were more silent than usual. Even the sky was silent. No airplanes, hardly any cars; everyone was fleeing to their home. No planes were permitted to fly into, out of, or within the United States until September 13. With this knowledge, we knew that we wouldn’t hear a plane while we slept—or tried to sleep.

Tossing and turning that evening, while trying to get some sleep, I heard a loud plane fly over my house. It was so loud that I jumped out of bed in fear and ran outside on my deck.”They said that there aren’t supposed to be any planes flying!” I yelled out to Madelene.
“Deb, it’s probably the military crafts. That’s why they are so loud.”
I realized she was right, but never before did I have such fear while trying to go to sleep. That night, I didn’t sleep. I was awake, in fear.

I think all of us have a detailed story of that grim day. Some stories are more horrific than others, some stories like ours, can only be sympathetic and heartfelt to the people who lost their loved ones in this tragedy. Nevertheless, I think it’s a day where nearly everybody shed a tear, and was filled with anxiety.

It’s still ‘in us’…

Psalm 91

Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare of the Lord;
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
he is my God, and I am trusting him.
For he will rescue you from every trap
and protect you from the fatal plague.
He will shield you with his wings.
He will shelter you with his feathers.
His faithful promises are your armor
and protection.
Do not be afraid of the terrors of the
night,
nor fear the dangers of the day,
nor dread the plague that stalks in
darkness,
nor the disaster that strikes at midday.
Though thousand fall at your side,
though ten thousand are dying around
you,
these evils will not touch you.
But you will see it with your eyes;
you will see how the wicked are punished.
If you make the Lord your refuge,
if you make the Most High your
shelter,
no evil will conquer you;
no plague will come near your dwelling.
For he orders his angels
to protect you wherever you go.
They will hold you with their hands
to keep you from striking your foot on a
stone.
You will trample down lions and
poisonous snakes;
you will crush fierce lions and serpents
under your feet!
The Lord says, "I will rescue those who
love me.
I will protect those who trust in my
name.
When they call on me, I will answer;
I will be with them in trouble.
I will rescue them and honor them.
I will satisfy them with a long life
and give them my salvation."

Bertoni's Gallery

Deep colors from the mystic shores of Cape Cod to the rustic view of Provincetown’s historical houses, Mae Bertoni has captured each essence of these images. An exhibit of realism art of water colors, to photography, Mae has used her artistic skills to enhance nature’s best features.

(From the left to right, Mae, Robert, Rachel, Donna and Theresa. )

Tonight was Mae’s reception for her exhibit at Bertoni’s Gallery. Rachel, her daughter is the owner, along with her husband Robert Finstad. Both Robert and Rachel work hard to keep the gallery alive. Rachel uses her own style to create unique and one of a kind jewelry, as well as create many sculptures and paintings. Robert has a talent with framework which enables this to all come together. Rachel Bertoni Finstad has been making jewelry since 1982. She has a BA in art/ education with a MFA in sculpture. Over the years she has worked with many different materials. She primarily works with silver and gold, semi-precious & precious stones in her unique handmade jewelry items.

Please visit www.bertonigallery.com
P.O. Box 563
1392 Kings Highway
Sugar Loaf, NY 10981
Tel: (845)-469-0993
Open Thurs-Sun 11-6

Laid back, and a relaxed atmosphere, Ariel plays her guitar and sings like an angel, while her percussionist taps a majestic beat on his bongo. It sounded absolutely beautiful. It drew other wanderers into the gallery, as well as entertain the guests that were already there. Cheese, wine, strawberries & grapes, people were having a good time. Nothing better than good friends, good wine and great music to enhance an exhibit for a talented artist.

After the exhibit, Madelene and I stopped off at the Barnsider to see our favorite bartender, Debbie. She knew exactly what drinks to make. Madelene and I sat down at our regular seats and had our dinnner and drinks as usual. Debbie never fails to refill our empties. Not only is she a good bartender, but she's a great friend. Thank you Deb for making us feel right at home!

Below is a picture of how my vision was---after Debbie made me some potent drinks.

If you want to get the best drinks in town and the best food, visit Debbie on Saturdays and Sundays at the Barnsider in Chester, NY.

Play Ball!

Bottom of the ninth, questions are loaded, Madelene tries to antagonize a Boston Red Sox fan at a local bar in Provincetown, MA last year in October 2004, as we all watched the World Series. Half Sox fans and half Yankee fans, it was a pot not to be stirred. Sitting at the bar having my dinner, I would secretly cheer (in my mind) when the Yankees would score. Madelene?....I’m surprised she didn’t bring her fricken pom poms. She cheered so loudly, as if she didn’t care that there were burly looking women who were Red Sox fans were surrounding the entire bar. I certainly cared.

“Oh how sweet, look’id’ dis, two little feminine New Yawkas’ ova here cheerin’ da Yankees on.” One girl said, sporting a very long “Joe Dirt” type of mullet.
“You know, they can’t beat the Yankees, it’s just a fact, they always win the World Series.” Mad replies, as if this girl couldn’t take her on.
“Oh wait- don’t choo worry—we’re winning dis one baby.”
“You know, I think Red Sox is a great team, I wouldn’t mind seeing them win this year for the World Series, it’s been quite a long time anyway.” I said, trying to defuse the situation that was brewing between Joe Dirt Dyke and my girlfriend.
“Awe, what do we have here? A Red Sox sympathiza’? Awe, that’s precious. Even more precious when a femme gets all up in da’game.” She says, as she rolls her eyes over to the big plasma T.V. in disgust.

Okay, now my blood was boiling. This was not supposed to be an argument for me to have. Hell, I sometimes can’t figure out if it’s a homerun or a touch down after three beers, so why even consider me a good candidate for this argument? After all, I’m “just a femme”. *grr*

Let me take you one year before that. October of 2003. Madelene and I are vacationing at Provincetown, MA, with a couple of other friends. We were at a club this time. They had the game on, as well as the music. Some people were gathered at the bar watching the game, while me and the rest of the crew were out dancing having a good time. I just can’t focus on the game if there is no sound. It baffles me how some people can do that. I’d rather listen to the game, without a picture. Not that I’m going to be walking around with an A.M. walkman anytime soon trying to get the latest scores.

“What the f*ck is your problem? You’re going to not serve us because the Yankees won?” I heard Madelene screaming.
I look over, to see Madelene’s butt in the air, leaning over the bar trying to yell at the bartender who was a little tiny feminine girl, with a big mouth. Madelene’s foot was propped on one of the stools, as she was leaning over the bar counter giving this girl a piece of her mind. This was so out of character for Madelene. I then realized the Yankees won, and Madelene was upset over the fact that anyone can even cheer on the Red Sox. It wasn’t a matter of the woman not serving her; Madelene was the one with the big mouth! She needed to be cut off...now!

It looks like this year, we will be in Provincetown again. Yankees won eight to four last night, defeating the Red Sox. The Yanks are now three games behind. Although I love the Yankee’s playing, I am kind of hoping they don’t go to the World Series, for the sake of Madelene not starting a bar room brawl. Then again, she would just cheer on the other team, just to piss the Red Sox fans off. No one knows this side of my sweet, loving girlfriend, but beware, do not cross her path with a Red Sox hat on. Last year, I went to buy a Red Sox hat, not only because red is my favorite color, but it would make me appear less threatening. People wouldn’t have to think, “Hmm, is she for ‘us’? Or is she the enemy?” For the love of God we’re in their state! I’m a coward! I can’t run around wearing a Yankee hat! They’ll attack!

Back to current times. Last night, Madelene and I come home from dinner so we can watch the game. I went into the kitchen to get us both a beer, and hear her clapping like a crazy lunatic that just got out of an insane asylum.

“They won! They did it! They won!” She screams and chants as she swings me around the room. Didn't realize she had the strength! See picture below.

I’m thinking about booking my October trip in Manhattan, with my fellow Yankee friends. I can’t go through another baseball war between a mob of dykes and my girlfriend.

God help us all.

Your Mind vs. the Truth

Obsessive and controlling thought patterns can totally set your mind to make things appear more extreme than they really are. Have you ever experienced a major crush on someone? You finally have your first date with them, and to your surprise, you made them out to be this ‘celebrity’ of some sort, when they are actually just normal everyday people like you & me? I always wondered why the mind worked that way. We tend to put certain people on these pedestals that are so high, that we can’t even fathom the thought of being in their presence. No one should put any human on that level.

Okay. I’m placing you into a time machine. We’re going back eleven years. This was when I was first starting to see Madelene. We were dating here and there. I had just got out of a really stressful situation. I was dating my supervisor, who happened to be married. We fell for one another, and it came crumbling down. I was heart broken. I learned my lesson. It is true, they never leave their husbands or wives, no matter how miserable ‘they say’ they are.

It was one year since the day I had seen Lynn, (my ex or whatever you want to call her)… She invited me out for a drink, so we can catch up and possibly be friends. I was really nervous, because I did have lingering feelings in my heart for her. I was so afraid that it would all come to the surface. I remember talking with my oldest sister, Dawn. She said to me, “You’re making this more than what it is in your head Debbie. Remember, don’t put anyone that high up on a pedestal.”

How can I not? I was once head over heels for this woman. She made my heart palpitate, she drove me nuts, this woman had an affect on me that no one else ever had. How was I supposed to ‘not’ be nervous? Easier said than done. There were a lot of moments in our past relationship that were special, and there were a lot of moments where it was nothing but turmoil and chaos. I was the first woman she ever fell in love with—so she said to me once. I kept that tidbit in the back of my head. Kept telling myself, “Remember, I’m her first, she must be nervous to see me too.”

Our meeting was for 7pm at this place called Goodfella’s where I live. It was an Italian restaurant/bar type of place. I started getting ready. Each little ritual of mine, from putting make up to doing my hair took me double the time. I was in that bathroom for nearly two and a half hours. I am not exaggerating here. I had new clothes I bought for this occasion, I even lost a little weight, and I wore a very fitting top that was more revealing than I typically wore. I wore jeans, but I dressed it up nicely. I didn’t want to show up ‘too dressy’. I wanted to appear relaxed and calm, even though I was a wreck inside.

I came out of the bathroom—finally. It was literally a chemical warfare in that bathroom due to the perfumes, hair sprays and nail polish remover scents. It was enough to take down an entire village. The funny thing when you are all done getting ready, there's that second, third, fourth, and fifth time look in the mirror before you leave. It’s enough to drive you insane! It’s torture on your mind, because you are actually telling yourself, “Hmm, you may look like a bag of laundry, better change that top or fix your hair a certain way.” That would take me another hour or so before I leave. One more sprits of that perfume she loves so much.

I pack up my purse, making sure my compact powder is in there, (in case my nose starts shining up) and my lipstick is handy at all times. I keep that in a special pocket in my purse. Let me just say, normally I am not a ‘primper’ when I go out somewhere. Once I am done getting ready, there’s no fixing anything in the mirrors any longer, but this evening, it was different. This evening, drove me nuts. I was a walking nerve. Thoughts that consumed my mind like, “Oh wow, she’s going to think I look ugly, she’s going to think I gained weight, she’s going to even wonder why she even dated me or gave me a chance with her. I feel so ugly!”

Driving in my car, I put on the radio to get my mind off these obsessive thought patterns that were making me batty. I finally drive on the road that the bar and restaurant is on. I turn the radio down and peek at myself in the rear view mirror; hoping my mascara didn’t take a turn for the worst.

I pull up to the place, and I see Lynn standing in the front. “Hmm, her hair looks mighty high tonight.” I thought to myself, looking at her while I was trying to park the car. Thank God I didn’t hit the car next to me. I was trying to be calm and collective. I took my time getting out of the car, just to give her the extra ‘jitters’.
“What’s this? She is smoking? Little Miss Healthfreak is smoking? She never smokes!” I said to myself. I was now actually talking to myself. This concerned me. I was going nuts. Keep in mind, Lynn is a very conservative looking, professional type of woman. She is very attractive, but she looks like one of those sexy librarians that have that potential to just let her hair down, throw her glasses off, and become Cindy Crawford for the rest of the evening. Yes, and that reminds me, Lynn was not wearing her usual glasses tonight. She was wearing contact lenses.

I walk out of my car, and towards the building, where she was waiting for me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” She says back.
No hug. No nothing. Just awkwardness.
“So? Wanna come in for a drink?” I said.
”Sure.” She says, as she drops her cigarette on the floor and smashes it with her three inch heel shoe.

THREE INCH HEELS? Lynn?? What the &@(%???? Okay… This is very interesting. I have never seen her in this type of ‘costume’ before. She was wearing ripped jeans (very tight) high heels that would be seen only in a strip club, a shirt so tight that you can actually determine if she was a little ‘cold’ or not. This was so out of character for her. Lynn’s hair was done up in a different way, almost ‘drag queen’ style big. Her make up---her make up—she was going to need a fricken shovel to get that first layer off later that evening when she goes home. Total different person. Or was she?

At that time, I used to be a smoker. We walked into the bar, and my friend who was the bartender, Freddy came up to us.
“Wow ladies, well don’t we look like city girls tonight.” He comments, as he throws us a coaster, indicating there was a drink in our future.
“And who do we have here Deb?” He asked.
“Oh Freddy, this is Lynn.”
“Hello Lynn.” He takes her hand, and kisses it. He had no clue we were 'together' once. He had no clue I was even gay.

We start talking about how we used to work together, and brought up funny events that took place. This seemed like the ‘ice-breaker’. As we were speaking, Lynn tried to light her cigarette in such an awkward way. She first put the cigarette down on the bar, and then went to light the match---to only pick the cigarette back up again into her mouth. She did this unsuccessfully. I watched her in amazement, realizing she wasn’t really a smoker. I took it upon myself to take my lighter and just help her out a bit. I think I embarrassed her, but it was so embarrassing watching her struggle with her newfound habit. Did she think she would make herself look sexier by smoking? I didn’t get it. Miss Healthnut!

“I didn’t know you smoked.” I said to her inquisitively.
“Well, a lot of things have changed since you haven’t seen me in a year.” She said in this weird type of 'black & white movie' type of way. (know what I mean???)
All she needed was one of those huge @ss filters on the end of her cigarette and some finger curls in her hair.
“I bet.” I said, as I chuckled and took a large gulp of my cabernet.
“I didn’t know you drink wine now.” She retaliates.
“Change is good, I guess...” I replied.
“You lost weight, you look good.” She said to me, as her eyes were latching onto me.
“Thank you. You look great yourself.”

Awkward. Period.

Is this the girl I used to be in love with? It felt as though there was so much anger on her part. Even though she rarely gave away any compliments, it was apparent she still had some resentment towards me for whatever reason. Wasn’t ‘she’ the married one? I broke it off with her, only because I realized that her relationship with her husband, was better than what she made it out to be. She gave me ‘hope’ that it wasn’t working out. She led me on big time, and I felt so guilty for even attempting to go out with a married woman. Was I just a guinea pig to her? An experiment? Did she need some sort of weird excitement in her life that she had to drag me into her mess? Then again, I made my own choices, and unfortunately, I chose poorly. Young and stupid; I can only chuck it up to that.

I have to say, after seeing her, I realized that I made myself incredibly nervous, for no reason. My mind made her out to be some sort of special human being. She was just “Lynn”. Although she put on some façade, I saw right through that. I saw an insecure woman, who put on clothes that weren’t her style; I saw someone tried her best to impress me with things that were so unnecessary. I loved her the way she used to be. I didn’t like this ‘new person’ she tried to be.

My whole point of this story is, I tried to be friends with a love from my past. I wanted to make things work out, and try to establish a friendship that I once had with her. Her mind made me out to be something I wasn’t at all. She tortured herself by thinking she was going to be constantly nervous in front of me. I did the same, but realized that it was ‘all in my head’. I still wanted to be friends, but she was way too nervous to even speak to me.

Don’t let your mind take control over you. If you really want to have someone in your life, make them out to be for who they are, not what you ‘think’ they are. Till this day, I still think I could have had my best friend again, but her mind took over and it was just too much for her. It’s a shame, because I still feel she’s apart of me, and now a huge part of my past. I still think of her, and hope she’s doing well.

We’re all human.


I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again
Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide
I'm quiet you know
You make a frist impression
I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind
Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide ~Howie Day

Stringing the Bee Along

I finally got him. Who? The bee who wouldn’t let me and Madelene sit outside on my deck all through the summer days. We had to wait till the nightfall in order to sit out there. This son of a b*tch would fly over to us, terrorizing us till we went inside. We gave up. Simple as that. That little mutha! Not only did he torment us just by his presence, he started building a nest right outside on my chair out on my deck. He'd fly over with this long piece of string. This string was ten times the size of this bee. I would then see all his friends roam around, and to me, the thought of bees are much like the thought of cockroaches---it gives you the heebie-jeebies. So it's not only the threat of being stung, it's just gross to see them swarming all over my deck.

Well, today, I am happy to report, that I got that sucker! Smack dab in the face. Above is a picture of his remains.

Since I was being attacked by this bee, Madelene decided to pull some strings of mine. Hmm. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I wonder. Maybe the 'red' attracted the bee from the beginning, but it certainly lured my girlfriend in.

Hmm...

AA Meeting

I'm back. I told you I would supply pictures of our interesting evening of festivities between three friends, just hanging out.

Got a hangover? Don't feel like hanging out having a few beers with us? I know just what'll fix that. Here. Have a bloody mary. I always greet my hungover guests with a delicious blend of tomato juice, vodka, and my special secret spices. It's sure to get rid of any hangover you may be suffering from.

Tara (aka City Mouse) was out the night before on a date. She had way too much to drink, and wanted something to cure her ~wooziness~.

Tara felt much better, as she relaxed on the hammock, enjoying her bloody mary. This was a start of a very long night ahead. She thought her sunglasses would hide those bloodshot eyes.
"Hey, why don't you bring the hammock into the sun and get some color." I suggested.
"No Deb, the sun is so bad for you. SPF 100 is what I use." She said, as her skin glowed so brightly, I had to put on my sunglasses too. Who am I to talk though??? I'm a poor excuse for an Italian--I would blind anyone with my white sheen.

Madelene fired up the grill with a huge blaze. Night was drawing near, and we were ready to celebrate the last day of summer. The three of us always have a good time when we get together. Madelene thought it would be a good idea for us to eat something, since City Mouse and I were slugging them down a bit too fast. Madelene was a bit concerned.

For some odd reason, I thought it would be a great idea to put two softballs down my shirt, and parade around as if I just got implants. Holding the two softballs within my shirt, they somehow got away and went rolling down the lawn.
The neighbors were shocked and appauled. This beer was really potent. Now if only I had my blonde wig on, I could have pulled some sort of drunken @ss version of Ana Nicole Smith. Is there any other version of her though? I wonder.

Now there is one way you can definitely give me a bad case of A.D.D. Just talk about the stock market. Blah blah blah blah blah. Now, granted, City Mouse works in the market, so she talks shop a lot with Madelene, who is always needing 'market taWk'---which to me, ...~yawn~......Below is a picture of these two going on and on and on and on and on about market jargen. "Come on guys! It all sounds Greek to me! Stop talking shop already!!!"

They stopped, thank God and returned to being normal human beings again.

After the initial shock of having me run around with two huge softballs in my shirt, City Mouse decides to parade around with them as well. One thing though, they're a bit floppy looking. She is going to sport this look when she goes to Provincetown, MA for Women's Week. Lovely. I hope she wears a good support bra.

Just a tad crooked, right?

We still love you City Mouse! Just try not to wear those puppies out on your next date.

For the Birds

Crisp, cool and quiet. That’s how the day greeted me. From being in the presence of many friends that I haven’t seen in a while, to a quiet and still morning; it was a dramatic change. I just drove my buddy Tara (aka City Mouse) to the bus terminal, so she can get back to the hustle and bustle of the crowded city streets, sirens blaring throughout the smoggy air that flows between the buildings, and of course, back to her job.

I have to say, it was so nice to see friends I haven’t seen in so long. It’s great to see that some friends can pick up right where they left off, even though some time may have passed. That’s a true friend.

Tara has taken many pictures that are quite amusing---which she will be sending me via e-mail, so I can display this embarrassment to you. That’ll be later in the day. Drunk pictures are always fun.

Back to this morning. I’m obsessed. I have this fascination with birds lately. I have literally become that old fart next door that watches birds with her binoculars. Sad? Yes. Definitely. These aren’t your everyday birds though. I have this fixation with owls. I buy them from all over. I get them for gifts, and I even just recently purchased a sculpted owl at the gallery I work at. They say owls are good luck. Hmm. There were two owls sitting on my tree outside. They were magnificent, they were huge, and they were just hanging out in the middle of the day. Aren’t they nocturnal? A bit of insomnia, maybe?

While I work in my office, there are two humming birds that peck at my window; as if they were trying to get me to come outside and hang out with them.
”Hey! Deb! It’s great out here, come outside!”
I just stare in amazement, as these two beautiful birds peck for me. It’s flattering. This morning, I saw two doves outside my window looking back at me. To me, this signifies “God”. He visited me today. Hmm. I feel bad I haven’t visited him lately. Busyness can be a bad thing sometimes.

Yesterday, while hanging out with my friend Tara and Madelene, the two falcons that always come near my house were back again. I tried putting my arm out to see if they would land, but they just swirled and circled over my head. They were hesitant, but, at least they thought about it. I would have ran if they did swoop down to land. Their claws can literally lock up on you and tear your arm apart. Not a good idea I suppose, but I love to flirt with danger. (ha) I’m getting old. I need more adventure in my life, I know. Shut up.

I just had a thought. All my favorite birds come to me in pairs. They all have a significant other. It makes me feel better that my favorite bird is paired up with another feathered friend. It makes me feel good to know that they’ll be taking care of one another till they’re old. I believe if you love a particular animal, (or) human that much, you would much rather see them living their lives with someone they love, and being happy---if you cannot have them for yourself. You wouldn’t want to cage them, or keep them as a pet. Let them go. Let them run wild. They’re not meant to be kept, but it’s nice when they do come back to visit. And if it’s meant to be that you’re supposed to have them forever, they’ll be back for good. Love isn’t possessive.

I need coffee. I’m getting way to sentimental with my blogs. I need to lighten the hell up here folks! I’ll be back when my buddy Tara forwards me these awful pictures. Why do I love to embarrass myself so much?

Goodbye to Summer

The last day of summer, the beginning of autumn. A fresh new start to the year, as we all prepare for cooler days ahead. This is my favorite time of year, however it's sad to see summer go. The last day to rest on the beachside...to put your feet in the sand. The last day for a really nice cook out with friends & family. Enjoy every moment, regardless if summer has passed.

THIS IS A SPECIAL REPORT

MISSING!!!

Runaway bride gets cold feet while heading to the alter. If you see this woman walking around the streets, please report this to your local police department right away. We believe she may have joined the Orange Pride Cult in order to 'play the field'...and we're not talking softball here.

We'll keep you updated on the latest details.

Side Effects Include:

“If you experience swelling of eyelids, face or lips, CALL YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY!” That’s just one of the many warnings listed on my antibiotics. The doctor at the ER gave me 500mg of Cephalexin to take four times a day. Great. This will relieve me of that horrendous lump on my head.

Nope. Now my entire head is a tremendous lump.

“Medwin, Medwin, wik up, wik up.”
“Deb? Are you okay?” Madelene says, trying to open her eyes from her deep slumber.
“Ma fiz is swollen and I kint’ opin ma’eyes.” I struggled with my words holding on to Madelene as if she would reduce the swelling.
“Don’t take anymore!” Mad says. It was apparent that she didn’t know what else to say.
“No more? Awe c’mon!” I said, chuckling through my big fat lips and muffling my words out like the elephant man.

I got out of bed, and walked into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I chuckled a bit. Should I be scared? This was funny, but at the same time, alarming. I should really take a picture of this. Naw… I decided to stay up a little bit longer, just so I can see where this big head of mine was determined to go; inflate or deflate. It had to be one or the other.

Idea! Ibuprofen. It’s an anti-inflammatory, right? I take three. (600mg) After taking the ibus, the main side effects are facial swelling. Oh lovely. Let’s just see how high this pie can rise. I felt like I loaded up my face with yeast. Well, with the strength of those antibiotics, I am hoping that ingredient is NOT a problem. Girls?... Get me?

Hours later, my face goes back to status quo. (well almost) I had my morning coffee, and I feel like I lost about twenty pounds due to the swelling going down a tad.. My head felt like a huge bowling ball. My eyes could hardly see out because they were swelled shut. Funny thing, Madelene ran out of the house to go to her job a little quicker than usual. Hmm…I think she saw a side of me she never wants to see again. I hope she comes back, because it’ll be a nightmare trying to get a date looking the way I do.

Yours truly,
Deflated Deb (almost)