I Am Leslie Lange

Beautiful Wildflowers of Desperate Hot Springs

Who says Desperate Hot Springs ain't got no wildflowers?

(We say Desperate Hot Springs ain't got no wildflowers!)

Mystery Question of the Day: Why Do Lesbians Love Hiking?

Yesterday, Pontifica and I set out to explore Palm Springs Carl Lykken trail, one of the city's only hiking trails that allows dogs. We brought ol' Delilah, the 12-year-old dalmatian who gives a licking and keeps on ticking. The steep trail was skirted by messy, yellow-flowered weeds, unstable-looking sandstone boulders, and critter holes that swiss-cheesed the terrain. It was the kind of place that made me think of rattlesnakes.* Every 200 yards or so a pustule-like opening produced a stream of angry black ants. This trail was loads of fun! Five minutes into it, I told Pontifica I was scared and asked if we could go home, but she said no. Then I found this very cool little spider. It looked just like a daddy-long-legs (Tylenol-shaped little body, skinny long legs) except way more colorful: The legs were black-and-orange striped. Its belly was bright-orange. And there was a little red dot on its back. "Look how cute this is," I said, moved to tenderness by this sweet, small creature.
Pontifica was also charmed. "Oh, wow, how adorable!"
A bit farther up the trail, we looked down at our feet. Hundreds of these same little spiders were coursing down the trail right for us.
"Aaaaaaaagh!" we screamed in unison.
Soon Pontifica had the pleasure of having one dart right up her leg.

"Funny," she said later. "How when you find just one, it's so wonderful and cool, but when there's thousands it suddenly becomes menacing and horrible."

We pressed on. Pontifica had to keep reminding me that we agreed to go for a full half-hour before turning back. In the final minutes she counted down..."3 minutes left," "2 minutes left," and so on till the final 30 seconds. We stopped at a large boulder shaped like a stepped-on tennis ball and gazed out over the valley. "Great," I said. "That was so great. Let's run back."

And so, we ran. Pontifica in the front (I admit I preferred this out of a fear of rattlesnakes), Delilah in the middle with her happy scissoring gait, and me in back--zig-zagging to avoid the copious tiger daddy-long-legs, and high-stepping through the black ants.

Suddenly, Pontifica jolted to a stop and shouted, "Snake!"
Instantly, I crouched down--as if it weren't a snake, but a dangerous bird on the attack. "Where?"
"Right there, I don't think it's a rattlesnake though. Nope. Looks like a common garter snake. Poor thing, it's probably more scared of us than we are of it."
Given this information, I strode to the front, clapped my hands in an awkward way I'd not used since toddlerdom, and shooed the poor thing off the trail (that is, after I screeched with fear and inspected it carefully from a distance, asking Pontifica repeatedly, "Are you sure there's no rattle?")

On our return, we felt we'd had a true heroes' journey. A homeless man gave us a hearty thumbs-up as we retrieved the plastic bag of Delilah's poop from where we'd tucked it under a toppled roadside sign--a YIELD sign, by the way...Jeez, does God plant metaphors, or what?

*And when I think of rattlesnakes, I can't help but romanticize the idea of Pontifica trying to carry me on her back down the steep trail, a deep double-puncture wound just above my ankle.

Weird Search of the Moment

"smart lesbian rumps"

Surely this search is some sort of language barrier-ish accident. Some lonely across-the-globe lesbian with an English-[insert foreign language of choice here] Dictionary, who really wanted to find other "smart ass lesbians" like herself. But the word order and the nouns aren't just quite the right ones.

Also slightly possible that this is an old-fashioned priggish British fetishist, but hm...

Her rump was so smart it belonged to MENSA.
Her rump was so smart it could sit and read the newspaper.
Her rump...

Oh, never mind.

Delilah Haiku

Oh, where have you been?
My belly echoes hunger.
Let me lick your face

Wee-yurd Search of the Year

"her air-mattress" sex

Air mattress sex is definitely lesbian, perhaps even more so than futon sex. To inflate our leaky love raft, my first lover and I (in the days before motorized pumps came included) would take turns blowing ourselves into a deoxygenated stupor. I'm not sure whether this detracted from or enhanced the overall experience.

gratuitous dog photo

WANTED: FOR CRIMES OF PINKNESS

[and for cheese-snatching, sabotage, and bed-hoggery]

Day of the Iguana

This is not a very good image since I had to use my Razor. But you get the idea. The iguana crawled all over the patio, climbed the purple-flowered lantana hedge, and bobbed his head happily as we all shrieked in terror. "He's marvelous," I said.

Pink and Pickle thought so too.

Tail of a Lizard

Lying in bed with Pontifica this morning, I receive a call from Brian on my cell. He sounds frantic, but that isn't necessarily unusual. "There's a lizard outside our window," he says. "And I think it's dead...at least it isn't moving."
"A big lizard?" I say.
"Yeah, pretty big...looks like it's almost a foot long."
"Do you want to maybe put it in a box?"
"Well...."
"That's OK, Brian. I'm on my way home and I'm not squeamish at all about these things. I'll dispose of the dead lizard. Maybe I'll even give it a funeral."
"Thank you."

So, I get home and I stride over to the window where Brian said the lizard would be. I stride because I'm all full of myself that I can deal with this lizard situation when my housemate, a grown man, an actual handyman cannot. I'm expecting a small green-grey thing, a foot long from head to end of tail, but I don't see anything. Guess it wasn't dead, I muse. And then I see this:

and this, as you can see, is just its freakin' tail.

Brian, the freakin' tail is longer than a foot, OK?

The L Word Season Premiere

As you all know, large parties are not my favorite things. Nonetheless, in the spirit of being a good kept lesbian, this past Sunday, Pontifica and I attended The L Word's season premiere party at The Factory in West Hollywood. Pre-screening, Ilene Chaiken and her show's sexy cast took turns shouting at the top of their lungs into the stage microphone. (You know you're in trouble when you look around and see you're not the only dyke jamming her fingers into her ears.) Loudest shouters were Chaiken herself, Katherine Moennig ("WHO WANTS A SEASON SIX?! WHO WANTS A SEASON SIX?!!"), and Rose Rollins, who--nothing like the self-contained “Tasha” she plays--distinguished herself by bellowing at a few co-stars, “Get up here, BITCHES!” This behavior induced a vivid flashback to the softball parties of my drunken collegiate days.

It was during this stint that the woman sitting behind me, girlfriend ensconced ever so deeply in her lap, began drumming her fingers against my ass. Pure accident? Probably--since drumming one's fingers, even against a buttock, is not exactly seductive. Still, how could she have thought my ass was anything other than my ass? Perhaps I've reached that age where ass-texture approximates seat cushion-texture and should just count my lucky stars she didn't grab a loose thread and absent-mindedly unravel my pants.

During the actual screening of the show, the acoustics were so bad, and our ears so traumatized, it was impossible to hear--so we left early to watch on our comfy sofa at home...my wish come true at last, to snuggle against my girlfriend, watch the pretty people, and soak up the soothing alpha waves.

Weird Search of the Week: wet armpit fetish

The "weird search of the week" has returned witih a vengeance in the New Year with this breathtaking combination of words:

lesbian sniff wet armpit

I find that I am at a loss for words on this one. All I can say is that it brings a big wide smile to my face.

Desert Hot Springs: I Love You

I’ve realized that in the interest of what I thought was humor, I was perhaps a bit unfair to my own beloved town of Desert Hot Springs. And as a sort of New Year’s apology, I would like to offer this short paean:

Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home of a hundred great white herons,
sailing incongruously above stretches
of scrubby bush and cactus!
Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home of a thousand great white windmills,
spinning against the rust-sky of sunset!
Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home of a wide black night,
holding meteor shower parties amid
jaw-dropping star-scapes!
Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home to lots of spayed and neutered doggies,
behaving well and hence unnoticed
as they trot by on leashes, their fat rumps bouncing

Leslie Lange on Internet Radio's "The Lesbian Lounge"

Hear ye, hear ye! Tune into THE LESBIAN LOUNGE (www.MyLesbianRadio.com) this Wednesday, January 2nd, at 9 p.m. EST/6 p.m. PST to hear Leslie Lange and hosts Donna and Denise blow off steam regarding the single most important facet of lesbian culture ever (!!!): DYKE DRAMA.

Christmas Eve in D-town

Christmas Eve: Pontifica is in Portland, Oregon, visiting her family, while--due to the fact that old people never stop getting out of the hospital around the holidays--I am stuck delivering care to them by way of a hot pink health care delivery truck. then heading home to my beautiful shar pei/pit bull mixes in D-Town. Ah, Desperate Hot Springs! Official Safe Haven City to paroled sex offenders, male dogs with testicles intact, and mulleted folk in monster trucks with decals of the little peeing boy kneeling low before The Cross. (Thank God, someone reined in that little bastard and he now loves The Lord!)

Ah, Desperate Hot Springs! On windy days, the poor folk chase their garbage cans down the street. When I say "poor," I don't mean "impoverished," but as in I feel sorry for that poor #$%... as in, "That poor #$%'s stuck living in Desperate Hot Springs" or " That poor #$%'s chasing her garbage can down the street again."

Whatever.

Tasty Nagel Print

"What's a tasteful Nagel print?" you ask.
Well...here's one that's tasteful and tasty.

[note the sexy mullets on these two babe-a-liciouses]

Embracing My Inner Mullet

Who's that lesbian? Why it's Leslie Lange, of course! Not only did I have a mullet, but I could not afford shoes, and wore nothing but volleyball team-issued sweatpants. And, yes, that is an iron-on patch peeling off the right knee. I am also wearing a leopard-print tank top. Hot-t-t-t! Even then I had a certain brooding joie de vivre.

Mullet Memories

Early on in my coming out phase--and no, not when I was 3, but around 1986 or so when I had just turned 21--in the rainy and depressing city of Portland, Oregon, my self-described upper middle-class girlfriend, Blair, said to me, when I proposed one day getting a flat-top for fun, "As long as you don't get one of those awful lesbian haircuts...you know, the ones where the hair is short in front and long in back."

[FYI, she had a little hair tail when I met her]

That was a lesbian haircut? I created a mental checklist, searched my memory banks for the women lounging at Bar 927* where my last gf had bartended, and a little light went on--aha! She was right! Moments later, another light went on: as I was imagining my own hairstyle about two years earlier. For shame!

Blair went on: "That has got to be the UGLIEST hairstyle I have ever seen. Whenever I see one, I cringe. It makes me ashamed to be a lesbian. In fact, it's the very thing about lesbianism I DO NOT want to be associated with."

Of course, part of me was thinking Blair was being a bit mean. But another part of me was thinking Blair was giving some good information. After all, Blair was artsy and sophisticated. She'd taught me how to use my silverware. She'd taught me only low-class people lived in apartments with wall-to-wall carpeting. She'd eased me out of polyester and into 100% cotton. Her insights were invaluable, infallible, and respecting them got me laid. My decision was easy: I adopted a disdain for all things mullet.

Years later, a friend tried introducing me to "The Indigo Girls," but I took one look at their album cover and said, "Um, no thanks." He tried playing their music for me ("just listen to these lyrics"), but all I heard was, "Mull-et, mull-et, mull-et."

Now, however, I am over it.

I am not afraid of the mullet. I EMBRACE THE MULLET!

Join me, my sisters! Free yourself from class-based shame!

Send your mullet photos to leslie@leslielange.com. I will post them. I WILL FLY YOUR MULLET FLAG! We'll get though this together.

* the rougher lesbian bar of two in Portland. The other was called "The Primary Domain" and its lavender walls wore tasteful Nagel prints.

Doggie Haiku

Prehistoric gaze
scooter pulling wrinkle dogs
noble worry-warts

Holy Mugilidae!

The definition of a mullet per Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary (10th Edition): "any of a family (Mugilidae) of valuable chiefly marine food fishes with an elongate rather stout body"

OK, I don't know if I'm crazy or what...but, how can your body be both elongate and stout?

But then again, how can your hair be both elongate and short?

Wait. Oh, my God...is that it?

One further mystery: just how valuable are these food fishes? And how can I get my hands on some nice mullet-stacked mutual funds?

[Below...what appears to be a rather stout lesbian sporting an elongate rather stout mullet]

Mullified2

OK, so no one thought I had even close to a mullet at Pride. Turns out gf and I were suffering from "lesbian mullet hypersensitivity syndrome," wherein short-haired (or even fairly short-haired) lesbians and their friends and girlfriends, fairly freak when they see even the slightest wisp of a hair inching its way down the back of the neck.

It's time we all joined hands to fight this disorder. Start by sharing your own mulletophobic story with your friends--analyze how shame played a part in leading you to loathe only the mullet at first, but gradually yourself, and your own wisps of hair, even your own lesbianism.

Sigh.

Soon I will share my own sad story.

And a picture of myself when I used to have a real mullet.

Palm Springs Pride: out, proud, and drama-free

Visit Leslie Lange (me) sporting her new almost-mullet this Saturday at Palm Springs Pride, where she'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive. November 3rd. at 2 p.m.

Mullified

Whoa! Lots of stuff's been going down in Los Angeles lately: Fires, poor air quality, a pending writers' strike (always a writers' strike, never an authors' strike), my favorite Dia de los Muertos celebration at the Hollywood cemetery, and the Murakami exhibit opening at MOCA.

But I'm going to talk about my hair.

I went to my stylist, Viva, in Palm Springs, sipping decaf while enduring the application of numerous highlights, then skimming a whole stack of fluff magazines as my scalp baked in the surround-swelter of 3 discoid radiant heat lamps. Then Viva took up her shears and razor and commenced doing what she always does, which is chop through my thatch of Bushman-like locks, giving it her best shot to produce something akin to "texture" so that I don't look like I'm wearing a brown bike helmet all day.

"I think I'm going to try something new," Viva said, gesturing across the top of my head. "I'm going to cut it short-to-long over here, and long-to-short over here."
"Cool," I said. "Go for it. Make salad."
"Oh, and what about this?" she said, pulling on the wisps at the nape of my neck.
"Um," I said. "I like those."
"Good, because everyone always wants me to cut them off, but they're my favorite."
"OK, leave 'em."

When I got home that night, Pontifica--on her way to kiss me--stopped dead in her tracks.
I found myself unwilling to register her expression. "What?"
Pontifica took me by the shoulders, and made very grave eye contact. "I'm sorry, honey, but that is darn close to a mullet."

I ran to the mirror, turned to look at my profile, and...AAAK! Indeed it was...darn close to a mullet.

But was it still an attractive sort of mullet? Or even better, a subtle, pushing-the-boundaries sort of naughty self-referencing wink, maybe, to the mullet, without actually being one? God, I hoped so.

Help me decide, please! Come visit my table at Palm Springs Pride, November 3rd at 2 p.m., where I'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive, a book I wrote in my pre-mullet days.

Buy Dyke Drama!

Lesbian Haiku

#2

White cottonelle wipe
blooms like a rose in my hand
erasing our quarrel

Maisie the cat

When the cat and I are alone together, and I'm reading on the couch, which I've covered with a sheet to protect myself from dander (or I've put on a hoodie sweatshirt and pulled the hood up over my head), she rolls on her back near my feet and lets me rest the entire sole of my size 10 against her striped furry belly. To me, this totally counts toward time spent "communing with nature." Why, if not because of love, does this wild creature not sink her teeth into my toe?

click here to prevent Dyke Drama

Maisie the Cat

Maisie and I, we have our own special sort of play that involves rough-up-the-cat belly rubs, kitty armpit stretches, and games such as the "fake flea paw tickle" and "fanny pat." These brief encounters end with my nose full of snot and my hand covered in little kitty-inflicted welts that I hope (creatively visualize) are mini-innoculations against further allergy attacks. It's fun and nice, but I have to run to the sink to wash my hands immediately or risk having my eyes turn red and start burning. God forbid if I accidentally rub an eye because then a tiny membranous bubble forms around my tear duct. You'd think I would learn to keep my hands off the cat, but I CAN'T BECAUSE I LOVE HER! I am probably her stalker.

Dialog from the novel never written...not yet at least

"So," she said from her piano bench, hoping to be impressed by him, "do you play an instrument?"

"Why, yes," he replied. "In fact, I am a virtuoso of the sphincter horn." And with that he tooted out, most expertly, the first nine notes from "The Blue Danube Waltz."

The Cat

Right now, as I sit here typing, a very cute cat is walking back and forth across my hands, artfully stepping over my forearms, tightroping along the tiny edge of desk in front of the laptop's keyboard, and running her tail along my upper lip, which is to say up under my nose. The cat's name is Maisie and she's filled with love for me, and I for her...except for one problem: I am allergic.

Weird Search of the Moment

"new anaesthesia lesbian story"

It's true...lesbians are famous for discovering new anaesthesias, as many pursue the pleasure of "going under" on a fairly regular basis.

Perseid Meteor Shower

Last night, the three of us Desperate Hot Springs desert rats drove out to Joshua Tree National Park to observe the Perseid Meteor shower. Pontifica brought her air mattress and her Dalmation Delilah. Brian brought his best boxed Franzia crisp white table wine and some blue plastic cups. And I generously brought my house keys (so we could get back in once we got home). We met up with our friend, Mark, and hung out on camping chairs exclaiming at the sky.

"Whoa!"
"Whoa-ho-ho!"
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah, I saw it."

Later, the 4 of us lay side-by-side on the air mattress, reminiscing about--and singing the theme songs of--our favorite childhood TV shows, playing 20 questions, and trying to stay awake because the meteors were supposed to get even more spectacular as the night went on. By 1:00 a.m. we were all asleep. (Though our spotty dog sat awake nearby, ever the noble sentry.)

The bright comet-like projectiles, streaking across the sky like giant fingernail scratches, were beautiful and awe-inspiring--but the best part was getting to feel so childlike in my forties.

Tonight's light show is supposed to be even more spectacular. Check it out if you can.

Urning a Living

In Elmira, NY, a woman sold her husband's previous wife's ashes at a garage sale for 50 cents. The purchaser planned to use the urn, which was shaped like a turtle, as a cookie jar. According to The L.A. Times, Anita Lewis made a mistake and didn't know the prior wife's ashes were in there. Not sure I believe that, but the real question is: Who puts anybody's ashes inside a ceramic turtle? What, was she slow to respond or something?

Dog Love

OK, actually, I hate being separated from my dogs. I think about how they curl up against me when they say hello, their perky faces, their little yelps of joy, and so on... . If only I could afford to get a place in L.A. big enough to hold all our animals--Pontifica's dalmation, her cat, my two dogs... sigh.

I am jealous of Brian.

Mi Vida Loca

Four days per week, I live with Pontifica in a tiny but sweet, high-in-the-sky, tree-surrounded studio apartment. On weekends, we drive out to Desperate Hot Springs, where my dogs Pink and Pickle reside with their caretaker, a professional handyman named Brian. On Wednesdays, I go out there by myself, and at 5:30 in the morning, the dogs haul me around the desert on an off-road scooter. (When I’m gone, they haul Brian around.) During the day, while the hounds sleep, I do laundry and putter around the yard till the heat makes me dizzy. It’s a bit of a hectic existence, carting myself back and forth from L.A. to the desert and back again—but it’s worth it to have the luxury of waking up each day with Pontifica.

Still, it’s hard putting your dogs in the hands of a stranger. You don’t know if he’s going to beat them or yell at them or neglect them…or worse, do the unspeakable. It took about 3 months for me to be totally comfortable with Brian. Now, he’s like family. I always wanted the sort of close gay male friend other lesbians have, the kind who gives you fashion advice and who you can walk around naked in front of—well, finally, I have one!

Weird Search of the Moment: WARNING! EXPLICIT LANGUAGE

Today's weird search of the moment is....(drum roll)........."lady dog fuckers"

To the one who typed these three little words in, only to be disappointed by a giant picture of Christ...so sorry. Perhaps the photo below is enough to stoke your salacious fantasy. It certainly stokes mine. (Gotta love those Pekingeses! Hot! hot! hot!)

Thanks to you, sir or ma'am, I have the words "Lady Dog Fucker" going through my head repeatedly to the tune of "Lady Cab Driver" by the artist formerly, but now currently, known as Prince.

Jesus and Social Phobia

For those who have recommended Jesus to me as the route to freedom from pain, shame, and fear--wow, thanks! That's really good advice. Personally, I find Jesus to be even more effective when taken in conjunction with Omega 3 fatty acids and Vitamin B12.

It's quite possible Jesus was the original social phobe. Why do you think he spent 40 days and 40 nights in the desert by himself? After that he "preferred" hanging out with those of lower social status. Social phobia is characterized by intense fear of public humiliation or peer disapproval.

Hey, who could blame him? I mean, look what happened once he finally threw a dinner party.

Lesbian Haiku

#1

The cat vomited.
Do you think we should cancel
our vacation?

Paris is my friend

I have to say, I find the whole Paris prison drama very very satisfying, and I fully intend to watch her interview with Larry King.

Sometimes I fantasize that if I were in prison, and she was lonely, they would choose me to be a companion for her.

EMDR and Wine

Pontifica pointed it out to me last weekend. We'd been wine tasting in Santa Barbara. "Boy," she said. "If you have social anxiety, you could've fooled me." Apparently, the way I had chatted up--in the course of a mere twelve minutes--our wine server (the part-time jazz singer), two refreshingly happy teenagers hawking gourmet mustards as their summer job, and the owner of a fat toy poodle, led her to believe this EMDR stuff had maybe done some good.

Of course, all those sips of wine didn't hurt either...

Let's see what happens if I try a little more...and this time lay off the wine.

How proud I would be if I could conquer this fear!

Strange Friends: Weird Search of the Moment...

"lesbian model fuck woman"

wow, just picture the neanderthal who typed that in...

I can see him now in my mind's eye...hunched over his desk in the wee hours, puffing some gubernatorial cigar as he pounds the keyboard with his stubby index...oh, my god! it's Arnold Schwarzenegger! No...wait...Maria???

The Effects of EMDR

Considering its lack of any vibrating handheld devices, my first EMDR session felt a little anticlimactic. I sat  across from my therapist and talked about the time I flipped the bird at my mother and she responded by trying to break it--that is, my finger. At various points, Dave would pause, ask a few questions, then repeatedly move two of his fingers back and forth in front of my face, as if operating the return of an old-fashioned typewriter.

Example: "So...there you were, doing the Italian "Mama Mia That's a Spicy Meatball" gesture, and you inserted your middle finger in there behind your mother's back, for the amusement of your sisters, but then your oldest sister tattled on you--when she knew what your mother was capable of--and how did that make you feel?" "Um...betrayed...and like I can't trust anyone." (envision the fingers going back and forth for about, oh, twenty seconds or so). And so on...

A friend of mine told me she'd bawled during her EMDR session, but I had an oddly unemotional experience. Sure it was hard to talk about, but enough to burst into tears?

Afterwards, I asked myself: Has anything actually changed?

I'm always thoroughly amazed where vibrating hand-held devices lead me...

Regarding my recent foray into EMDR therapy, a reader sent this comment: "I started that last week...she uses these little vibrating hand-held devices instead of the rapid eye thing. At the end of the session, I was thoroughly amazed where it led me...." Wow! If only my therapist were a) a hot Pontifica-resembling female and b) used vibrating hand-held devices on me! I may not be surprised where the treatment led me, but I'd be sure to get my money's worth. Social phobia? What social phobia? I'm too...ahem... busy, OK?

Curing Social Phobia...one lesbian at a time

 

This afternoon I will begin my first session of EMDR to treat my social anxiety problem. According to my therapist Dave, some sort of childhood public humiliation may be at the root. He asked me for a list of possible early traumas, and hours--and an 80-page spiral-bound notebook--later we selected a few incidents to "relive" so that I might "get over it and move on."

EMDR or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing seems a bit new-agey and gimmicky. It's all about the "mind/body connection" and the need to free oneself of "blockages." But, hey, I'm desperate--and at least I'm not signing up to have scads of decaying fecal matter flushed out of my large intestine by some wacky colonics specialist. Phew.

I'm not quite sure how it's supposed to work, but supposedly the therapist coaxes out your story while moving his finger back and forth in front of your face like a windshield wiper (which makes me wonder if I could relive my traumas out loud inside my car while driving in a rainstorm and get the same benefit for FREE!) This afternoon at 4 p.m. I will be tracking Dave's finger as if watching a casual game of ping-pong. Vivid images of my trauma will arise and I'll emerge free of anxiety in the post office.

Wish me luck.

Frisbee Comment

He told me: "If you reach out for it aggressively, it can't hurt your hand." This is probably the best advice he ever gave. Unfortunately, I've never been smart enough to apply it to anything other than frisbee catching.

Regarding the above from last post...some of you will (but most of you won't) be surprised to learn that I suffer from social phobia. Merely entering a book store to shop for a friend's gift inspires an acute discombobulating fear, a fear so irrational that my tendency is to ignore it--but as I ignore it, I get more and more disoriented till I find myself clueless and stumbling about the language studies section, or asking Pontifica repeatedly, with a voice that escalates, "Soooo...ready to GO YET?" Locales that scare me include: post offices, street fairs, parties, farmers' markets, public restrooms, and, of course, the DMV.

Essentially, people--especially lots of them--are exactly the sort of frisbee I don't want to catch.

Unless, of course, I'm speaking in front of them--in which case, it's OK, because I don't have to turn my back on anyone.

Dad Winning the Chicken Toss

Not really surprising for my dad to win the chicken toss. He was a great bowler and a phenomenal frisbee player. From the time I was around six until well into my teens he was always up for a marathon game of frisbee. We started out playing on our front lawn in San Jose. When we moved to Southern Oregon, there was nothing more fun than hurling the frisbee back and forth across the pasture. It was WAY more fun than whacking golf balls. All through high school, I had frisbee calluses on my fingers. For my 14th birthday, I received Whamo's three-disc package: one red, one sky-blue, and one yellow. All different sizes: the red one was huge for distance (also heavy and hard to catch), the blue was middle-sized for accuracy, the yellow one was little and for "tricks." I lost the blue one in the Touvelle river, tossing it stoned one school-skipping afternoon.

As a little girl, I was timid about catching my father's beeline tosses. He told me: "If you reach out for it aggressively, it can't hurt your hand." This is probably the best advice he ever gave. Unfortunately, I've never been smart enough to apply it to anything other than frisbee catching.

Strange Friends "Weird Search of the Week" Revived

Sorry, but I killed it before it was dead. The winner is:

"free stories of lesbian wet nurses"

Oh, those lesbian wet nurses!

My Dad 2

 

Back in the day, my dad had an ever-growing collection of golf trophies. This is him warming up his putter for the Senior Olympics, where he won first prize in the hole-in-one contest.

When I was a kid, we lived on a little farm in Southern Oregon, and he taught me how to drive golf balls with a 7-iron. He'd use his woods and we'd hit ball after ball, deep into the cow pasture, then go out and gather them all up together. To this day, I can hit really hard and far with a 7-iron--but I can't do anything else related to golf...which, for a lesbian, is rather odd.

See my dad's gray hair? Once he had white wings like Pauly on The Sopranos.

My Dad

Years ago, my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Once he stopped being able to tally up his own Yahtzee scores, Mom left him, and he moved in with my sister in a town near Austin, Texas. This year he finally had to be placed in a facility that could care for a big strong Italian guy who sometimes throws temper tantrums and has panic attacks. This week he went to the Senior Olympics and won two trophies. One for the "chicken toss" and one for putting.

Volkswagen

old blue volkswagen
rusting under morning sun
desert dogs look on

Asscrack Powder Spritz

Today, I was asked by a 97-year-old man: "Please, help me pull up my diaper." (Not so unusual at the hospital where I work.) I grabbed the back of his Pamper, hiked it gently, and...poof! A puff of baby powder billowed into my face. I then laughed merrily. Why, I do not know. Maybe it was simply the element of surprise. But there was something sweet about it too.

But also something tangy.

Pink Counts Kiwi: a doggie haiku

Dog sniffs fruit, thinking,
Oh, yes, little friends, I would
eat you if you moved.

Just a Boring Old Tooth Story

So, anyway, Friday, I have this tooth pulled—a tooth that has for a long time given me trouble. Since I was in high school, at least three different dentists have tried their hands at saving it. It has never felt right. It has always been a bitch to floss. In its general vicinity, my jaw has always vaguely ached. My gangsta tooth…it has a gold crown. The last x-ray showed a huge pocket of inflammation/infection (?) and—gasp—some bone loss.

 I have a lot of anxiety leading up to my big day. Due to a few experiences with dentists that were not so good--typical childhood quack-dentistry fuck-ups—I’ve chosen to be put under with a general anesthesia.

 The night before, I dream of being led to a white stall gate--like for race horses, but clean, with pale-gray carpeting, and walled off. Very sanitary, but small. There is no dental equipment. There are about 50 stalls in a row, all filling up with patients, their bare feet poking out.

I follow the nurse into the stall, and she says, “Here’s your room. You can put your things over here and the doctor will be with you shortly.”

“Wait a minute, here. Let’s not call this a room, OK? This is not a room.”

The nurse looks at me.

“This is a stall.”

“OK, whatever,” she says.

“I don’t even know how you could even think of calling this a room.”

The nurse walks out.

Suddenly the stall is open on one end, and the opening looks out on an eternity pool. I walk out onto some grass and hear several dental patients screaming under the drill.

 When I wake up, I do not exactly feel happy. Pontifica drives me to the dentist’s office. There, they tell me that they “just found out” (huh?) that my insurance won’t cover general anesthesia for merely one tooth. I can either pay out of pocket, or go for "the local." Thrown into a complete state of terror (financial terror, that is) I go for "the local," reminding myself that Great Grandpa Choate the Mormon Killer used to pull his own teeth. All he needed was a good bottle of whiskey and a strong pair of pliers.

 The tooth extraction takes less than 30 seconds. So your jaw wobbles around a little bit. Big deal! I feel like a million bucks now. A superstar on a liquid diet.

Great Grandpa Choate would be proud.

Oh, yeah! My hood's turning gay!

Two gay guys are moving into the house right next door to me. I’m jealous of them because, for my hedge, I could only afford to put in these short little cherry shrubs, and only every three feet, while they went all-out with six-foot ficus trees every six inches. Their pool is lined with multicolored tile and the concrete edge is stained chocolate-brown. My pool is a photo, cut out of a magazine and pasted on a yellow piece of poster board--plebianly deemed a “dream board.” (Also on the dream board: A guy smoking a cigar, holding a typewriter—symbolizing a book deal. A picture of lettuce—symbolizing my need to eat more leafy greens this year. A cherry-red “womb chair” from Knoll—symbolizing my need for this identical piece of furniture in my living room. And other things.) They need the ficus trees, one of them told me, "Because we plan on running around naked a lot." And I said, “Whatever! You could do it now and it wouldn’t bother me.”

(Yes, I’m kissing their asses in hopes of being invited to use the chocolate concrete pool. Anyway, who knows if the pool on my dream board isn’t that very one?! if the universe did not conspire to bring these gay boys to me, ME SPECIFICALLY, because I set my intentions on a pool?)

Their lawn is long, lush, and green. Mine is short, scrubby, and has yellow patches. Their two majestic date palms—one in each corner of the yard--were hoisted in by crane. My two minimalist barrel cacti were toddled in by wheelbarrow. They also have a phallic rock sculpture with a scrotal bench at the base…it’s actually a fountain! I have a couple of big rocks to sit on—who knows where they came from!

I’m so glad these guys are moving in next door. Gay neighbors sooo always make one’s property value go up. I feel guilty, too, because I want to be responsible for soaring property values too. Perhaps I can contribute by starting a local homeowner’s association…I could spearhead a movement to get a certain household to stop letting their German shepherd run wild in the street, or to get you-know-who to re-seed their lawn every winter, or to tackle the widespread problem of  garbage cans blowing down the street. Yeah! The garbage can thing would be a great place to start! Who can’t relate to that? I'm thinking: a great big net at the end of all the blocks...we'll call it...we'll call it...the can catcher.