HAPPY AND CHEERFUL AND GAY

My father was a musician.

Named Bruce.

So perhaps it is evident that I would be raised without an abundance of homophobic tendencies.

Or was it simply innocence, naivety, or sheer blindness on my part - because it never ever occurred to me that certain people might be gay?

We had a neighbor to the west of our house, a Mr. Porter.

He taught high school Spanish somewhere in southeast Los Angeles. He kept his yard very tidy, was never upset when a ball batted or thrown or kicked from our backyard ended up in his. We could use his driveway to practice our skate-boarder or roller-skating techniques (mainly how fast you could speed down the sloping concrete and still make the 90 degree turn at the bottom onto the sidewalk) with nary a complaint.

And it wasn't until years later, when my own dad mentioned the regular flow of young single Hispanic males in and out of Mr. Porter's home that it even occurred to me that he might be a homosexual.

Frank was a salesman in Michigan at a music store where my dad taught.

He had beautiful flowing black hair (I have always had a thing for men with long hair), the perfect beard, and Frank could talk to anyone who passed the store entrance with just a fleeting thought of purchasing a piano or organ into walking out with a delivery contract for a full-size grand or a theatre-size Lowry.

It was only when he died of AIDS in 1981 that I realized he probably was gay (this was back when AIDS was still very much only a homosexual disease).

I had a supervisor at a job in Maryland, Toni, who had underwent a radical double mastectomy in her early thirties. She and Beth, another supervisor, bought a house together while I was at that job, and once again, it never registered that they might be a 'couple' that way.

Why do I mention all of this?

Because it doesn't matter if someone eats buttered popcorn with sugar, sitting on their own couch, watching their DVD of "Pride and Prejudice" with two panting dogs for company.

It isn't important if a person will sleep with only 400+ thread count cotton sheets on their bed, memory-foam pillows, and Shabby Chic comforters.

If you like to wear black ankle socks with your white tennis shoes, you might not be photographed in Vanity Fair (is the magazine still around? anyone know?), but why should you be censored in general public in any manner?

Should laws be proposed to keep you from wearing black ankle socks? Even in the privacy of your own home?

I become more annoyed than is healthy with people who get frantic about gay marriage slash relationships slash eligibility for health insurance coverage under their partner's employment.

Number one - since it seems like the great majority of these anxious individuals call themselves "Christians," is it just a convenient lapse of memory that the whole "not judging others" bit is forgotten? When were they called to be judges and juries of private lives?

And number two - why the hell aren't they more frightened or terrified of all the child molesters? Sexual predators? Abusive spouses?

Talk about a threat to the basic family unit - that previous paragraph list scares me, at least, a lot more than the gay couple that lives at the end of the road, peacefully, happily, and can always be counted on to bring the largest salad to the community pot-luck dinners.

Thanks. I just needed to vent.

SNIPS OF SNAILS AND PUPPY DOG TAILS

Men, boys, or anyone of the male persuasion, please stop reading right now.

No, I mean it. Stop. You are going to get your tender feelings hurt if you keep reading.

Okay - but I warned you.

Get your hankies out then, dudes.

WHEN A WOMAN CLEANS THE KITCHEN AFTER DINNER:

- She unloads the dishwasher and takes care of the clean dishes.

- She scrapes, rinses, and places all plates, glasses, silverware in an orderly fashion that will ensure a thoroughly complete washing by the machine.

- She runs the garbage disposal to ensure no back-up when the machine runs.

- She fills the machine with detergent, sets it on the proper cycle for the load, and begins it.

- She washes by hand as necessary any large pots, pans and lids that cannot fit in the washing machine.

- She dries and puts away the aforementioned pots, pans and lids.

- She wipes down the stove, the counters, the kitchen island.

- She sweeps the floor, and wipes up any spills.

- She empties the trash, and takes it out to the container in the garage or on the street..


WHEN A MAN CLEANS THE KITCHEN AFTER DINNER:

- He sticks as many dishes as will fit, regardless of what is already in the dishwasher or if they are possible already washed, higgly-piggedly on top of each other.

- He leaves any large pots, pans and lids that do not fit on the counter or the stove.



- He doesn't even think about running the garbage disposal, checking the dishwasher settings, or taking out the overflowing trash.



- And if having a really good day, begins the dishwasher.



What prompted this sexist post?

It wasn't even washing the dishes.

My husband, bless his sweet little heart, browned the hamburger for our sloppy joes while I was driving home from the doctor's appointment yesterday.

And when I, the female in the house, did the dishes that night, I didn't understand why the skillet was so incredibly encrusted and difficult to clean.

Then I realized something.

He had obviously browned the hamburger and stirred it... maybe twice in the entire process. Burning the pan.

Why are men so difficult... nay, impossible to house-train?

WHEN YOUR DOCTOR LOVES YOU

Arizona is where people used to move to when they had allergies.

This is no longer true.

Before cattle and/or ranchers moved into Arizona from Texas and New Mexico, an entirely different kind of landscape existed.

And it may have been horrible for allergy-sufferers back then; some day some prehistoric Native-American hieroglyphics may be uncovered that show figures sneezing and taking antihistamines.

(Sidebar here: saying "Native Americans" is extremely politically correct, but even Native Americans call themselves Indians, so it's kinda silly)

(Second sidebar: and who the heck decides what is prehistoric? If there is a record of some sort, then isn't it history, not pre-history? Who decides how far the date gets pushed back?)

Then the cattle brought in mesquite trees through their dung (gross, but true), and then ate the native grasslands out of existence.

Okay, now it becomes the "No-Allergy Land Of Retirees And People Who Can't Take The Humidity of Florida," and the city of Phoenix is born (I live almost as far as you can be from Phoenix and still be in the state of Arizona).

But then, as the P.W.C.T.T.H.O.F move in, they bring with them their favorite plants.

And plant them. And water them. And they GROW.

Hello again, pollen, spores and allergies.

I didn't have allergies until I moved here.

And for the past five or six years, I have been taking 1 -2 allergy prescriptions, nasal spray and OTC allergy meds.

Today, my doctor proved once again what a wonderful physician he is.

Instead of giving me another prescription, he gave me an injection.

And not JUST an injection, but a STRONG injection; his wording was "Let's just go right to the really good stuff."

He rocks.

Although now I have an injection site on one buttock, and a biopsy site on the other buttock (results already back - that pre-cancerous deal again).

I am typing this standing.

PEEKING OVER THE FENCE

When I stop and look back over my day, I realize my neighbors must think I am clinically insane.
(No comments necessary from you who actually know me)

I walk outside, turn on the water hose, and start yelling my horse's name.

(He normally responds, not because I am such a incredible horse trainer, but because he is an absolute pig, and is continually optimistic that I will have something, anything, for him to eat).

He takes one look at the running water, and immediately heads in the opposite direction.

The mare, however, simply adores being hosed down. I'm certain it's because when she was on the track, it was a regular deal to be rinsed after a race, and it felt GREAT.

And a 95 degree Arizonan day like today, she knows it's also going to feel good.

So she trots over, and immediately and happily moves herself right into position to be drenched.

Now my horse simply can NOT stand for ANYone or anything else to get more attention than him. He will nose or push or trample into any situation where he is not already the main center of attraction.

So, with the water still running, he dashes over, pushes the mare aside and gets under the water stream.

Now here begins the quandary - my horse does not particularly like the sensation of cold water running over his back... or his legs, or his side or any other portion of his body.

But he cannot possible give up the position of POWER.

However, he does not WANT to be in the middle of the stream of water.

So, mentally conflicted, and psychologically confused, he alternates between:

1) Hosed down or 2) Running away.

Perhaps my neighboors don't think I'm nuts - but now they know that one of my horses is.

YADHTRIB YPPAH

POSITIVE:

- Getting my hair cut by my favorite stylist, and feeling about 25 degrees cooler immediately as approximately 7.5 lbs. of hair hit the floor.

- Drinking a Starbucks Double-Chocolate Frappuccino with extra EXTRA whipped cream (I know Patty, the manager, well) while reading "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" (the movie's coming out this summer, so I need to become reacquainted with the plot).

- Getting 30 minutes of professional massage from a woman who worked with a chiropractor and gives SERIOUSLY deep massage - not quite shiatsu, but I left the studio feeling like the Pillsbury Dough Boy - all soft and squishy. It was great.

- Having a Frosty from Wendy's literally handed to me mid-route on the drive to a church meeting; my husband had picked one up for me, and since I had to leave for the meeting before he got home, there was this very motion-picture sequence hand-out a couple miles from the house.

- Returning home to eat the Oriental Chicken Wrap from Applebee's waiting for me.

- Watching (and recording) a two-hour episode of "LOST" with a LOT of face-time with Sawyer (sigh) and Sayid (double-sigh) and Juliet ending up at the bottom of a. SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT.. oh, sorry, shouldn't give that away, should I?

NEGATIVE:

- Having to take my daughter to the local you-no-longer-can-watch-regular-cable-television digital-cable-conversion shops, signing in as #87 on the list, and finally having to depend on a mutual friend to give her a ride home.

- Receiving an email invitation from one of the sweetest women I know for an early dinner to celebrate my birthday... eight hours before the 'event.'

- Being called by the same daughter, frantic that she cannot get her digital-cable-conversion-system working - told her to call the apartment complex office and have them help her.

- Having to send a polite refusual for the early dinner invitation early enough to be realistic but late enough that it was obvious I could not make it.

- A hysterical call about the digital-cable-conversion-system that still doesn't work; spent twenty minutes on the phone walking her through the most common mistakes I could think of.

- Fighting the urge to scream and/or throw away my cell phone when it was discovered that the new system did not work because IT WAS NOT PLUGGED IN.

OVERALL: A most enjoyable birth day.

MIDNIGHT MADNESS

The other night I had a soda explode in my face.

Ungainly is a polite expression, but an honest description of me would include gawky, clumsy... well, I tend to drop things.

Easily.

And frequently.

So it wasn't entirely shocking that the can slipped easily from my grip.

But, like the true solider I am (see title of previous post), I immediately threw myself on top of the grenade (sidebar: did you know the word 'grenade' is derived from the French word for 'pomegranate'?) in order to absorb the detonation.

Well, actually, I picked up the foaming, spitting and hissing can, resulting in sticky, sweet fizzy soda flowing all over my hands, my arms, my legs AND getting into my hair (I'm getting it cut Wednesday, but it is actually pretty long ... for me, at least)...

... and proceeded to get more over the refrigerator, the kitchen island, and most of the cabinets until I got it into the sink.

And THEN the thought came to me of the brilliant concept of COVERING the can with any one of five readily available dish towels and thus stopping the insane leakage.

It was with a certain kind of surreal quality to be cleaning the kitchen floor at 1:15 a.m.

Now - what did YOU get to do last night?

HBP

My body is extremely confused. About more than one thing, to own the truth.

Well, so is my mind, but that's a whole 'nother story.

I have low blood pressure - which is great for my heart, but bad for almost everything else in my body.

Picture your average, run-of-the-mill garden hose, with water moving through from the faucet.

When you tighten the hose, like with a nozzle, the water shoots hard and fast. If that's blood instead of water, that means your heart is having to work really, really hard to force the blood through that narrowed hose.

Now if you make that same water hose larger, the water sloshes through real sloppily (yeah, that's an interesting image), which means your heart doesn't have to work as hard to move the blood through.

However, it also means, when you point the hose in an upward direction, the water doesn't rise as fast.

Which, when it's your blood that can't move fast enough, can cause you to pass our when you stand up quickly - because the brain isn't getting enough oxygen via the blood.

Or at the very least make your vision a little blurry for a couple of seconds.

My blood pressure is low - a sloshy, slow hose - and in complete opposition to most adults, mine continues to drop.

So I'm just thinking - should I begin to smoke, gain weight, get stressed about every little thing - all the things that are supposed cause high blood pressure?