Thursday, August 31, 2006

What's better than a top 10 list from Fully Caffeinated? Two Top 5 lists! Yahoo!

  1. It is a true non-conformist. It does not care what the style is, was or is going to be. It calls the shots.
  2. It is impervious to perms, color, bad haircuts, it still maintains its own agenda.
  3. It has strong boundaries. Where the part is, the part is. Not one hair crosses over the part line. Each side is clear about their "zone".
  4. No matter how many different hair dressers try, all cuts end up looking like some small variation of the hairstyle I've had since first grade.
  5. It defies color "labeling". It is not, nor ever has been primarily one color or another. It refuses to be put into some neat box that can be checked off, or identified on a driver's license. It's its own color.


  1. My son now tells everyone he sees that there's "not a bruise on him", since he's heard his mother boast all summer that she hasn't beaten him.
  2. My son can make the "put me in a straight jacket" pantomime like nobody's business, after seeing his mother model such behavior all summer.
  3. My son is impervious to being told, repeatedly, that he is killing me.
  4. My new favorite word is "impervious".
  5. I spend a lot of time trying to maintain sanity by devising top 10 lists and choosing my new favorite word.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

I've been trying to answer the "Why blog?" question for awhile now. It's not an easy question, and there is no easy answer. Here's where I am with that question today.
Did you watch any of the Emmy's Sunday night? Did you catch Conan O'Brien's opening monologue? He told the audience to keep their acceptance speeches brief. He told them there were some rules, one being, don't thank your parents. "If you had a nurturing childhood, you wouldn' t be in show business!" While that may not be 100% true, the point is well made. Acting is one way people deal with themselves. Many of us from alcoholic homes become gifted actors. Acting is a by-product of our childhood. For those not inclined to act, there are other ways of expressing ourselves, writing being one.
As a teacher I learned about the different ways kids learn. Traditional classrooms teach primarily to the auditory learner. There are many kids that learn visually best, others that learn by "doing", kinesthetic learners. For those of us that need to see our thoughts to know our thoughts, writing is a haven. Writing is a way to process what is in our brains, that can't be processed any other way.
When you take the two, the ability to act and the need to process through writing, blogging is born. I would say that by and large, bloggers are people that like attention and process through writing. While we bloggers are really writing for ourselves, we gain a lot from being "published", if you will.
Bloggers are people that need people. We are the luckiest people in the world.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

To Whom it May Concern:

I just want to thank you for visiting my house sometime in mid-June, and walking away without your shoes! I've tried to figure out who you are, but alas, the shoes, and the mystery remains. Nonetheless, I am happy that the purple suede clogs are just my size, and surprisingly, go with so many things in my vast wardrobe! Who knew?

Thanks for the shoes!
Fully Caffeinated

Saturday, August 26, 2006

1.) Fully commit to the process. Becoming well/fully caffeinated has no shortcuts. There is no easy way out. As with all things worth having, the perfect cup of coffee is worth waiting for.
2) There are many coffee making options out there, and many will do the job well. You will need to experiment to find the one that most suits your needs. Success can be found with the one-cup-at-a-time Melita method, French Press, Turkish coffee and coffee makers ranging from one hundred dollars to thousands of dollars. Don't be buying a Mr. Coffee, however, and expect more than it can deliver.
3) If using a filter, I find the unbleached cone filters to be the best. Trader Joe's has the best price.
4) Buy excellent BEANS. If you must buy pre-ground coffee, make sure it is good stuff. NOTE: Folgers, MJB, etc. is in no way considered "excellent". Starbucks, Peet's, Seattle's Best and Illy are all known to be great. Many local places have great coffee, too, figure out how bold you like your coffee, then get the local equivalent of that.
5) Grind your beans daily, right before use is best. You will need to grind the beans according to the method used. French presses need coursely ground beans, Melita needs fine. Coffee makers need it well ground, but not into dust. If you can find a coffee maker that grinds the beans then moves them over to make the coffee, buy it! You may have to mortgage the house to buy a Capresso maker, but it's all about priorities. Caution: The Cuisinart coffee maker that grinds and brews will make you cuckoo, avoid at all costs.
6) Measure your coffee carefully. Don't skimp! Use a 2 tbsp. measurer and heap that puppy! A "cup" is considered 6 oz. Don't be fooled! For every 2 "cups" use 2 heaping tbsp. i.e. For a 10 cup coffee maker, use 5 scoops, or 10 tbsps. Got it?
7) Don't even think about flavored coffee! Coffee is supposed to taste like.... COFFEE!
8) Use cold, filtered water. Brita, Pur, whatever, just make sure it's cold and filtered. NO TAP water!
9) Once a month run white vinegar through the coffee maker to clean it. Then run water through two times to chase out the vinegar.
10) Within 5 minutes of the coffee being done, pour it in a caraffe. Get it off the burner, people! The burner burns the coffee. You want hot coffee, right? Not cooked.
11) If you like cream in your coffee, get 1/2 and 1/2. Let me tell you a little secret about 1/2 and 1/2. It's called that because it is 1/2 cream and 1/2 whole milk. Anything that is called "reduced fat" or "fat free" cannot get by with calling itself 1/2 and 1/2! It makes no sense! It's a lie! Don't buy into this travesty! Just pour a "piff" of cream in, just enough to show the coffee who's boss. Remember, coffee is supposed to taste like coffee.
12) Easy enough? Coffee making is a time investment that pays dividends! You won't be sorry!

Friday, August 25, 2006

Hey! Take a look at this new blog:

I hope I don't offend anyone with my profanity, but my nearly 76-year-old mother dropped the "F-Bomb" on me yesterday, and I can't shake it. Yes, it's true, the mother of Fully Caffeinated is now drinking FOLGERS! Yikes!

Wednesday, August 23, 2006


My husband had been talking about planting a garden. There was a lot more talk than actual planting, until one day he stuck approximately six seeds in some dirt, and called it "good".

Since that day I have faithfully watered and weeded the "garden". For weeks nothing came up but weeds. Still, I watered, weeded and waited. Out of the blue pumpkins started growing. These puppies started growing at the rate of three feet a day, I swear on a stack of Bibles. I continued to water, weed and whisper to the pumpkins sweet nothings.

Today, standing in the pumpkin "field", as it is now, watering and weeding, literally covered head to toe with mud and scratches, my husband's parents stopped by.

"My! He's quite a gardener!" they exclaimed proudly.

"He stuck three pumpkin seeds in the ground two months ago. That's it," I corrected.

"Well then, he sure has a green thumb! Just look at this! He missed his calling! He should have been a farmer!"

"Yea. I'm sure he'd be quite a farmer if his deep involvement with this pumpkin patch is any indication."

"Absolutely! He'd be the best farmer."

Realizing that I would not be making my point with these people, I simply smiled.

Might I just say this, why is someone else getting credit for my work? Huh? And, more importantly, why am I smiling when I should be planning a parade in my honor?

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

That old Nat King Cole song has been running through my head the past few days. One might even say it is driving me crazy, if not for the fact that it is August 21st, and I have been home with bored, unmedicated children for WEEKS, so am, thusly, already crazy. It's led me to wonder, why are some things so darn hard to remember, and some stick in our craw forever?
I am so forgetful, if I don't write it down, it's forgotten, instantly. Case in point, one would not think it necessary to write oneself a note as to why one is opening the pantry. Alas, one would be wrong. From the time one has thought of what one needs, to the time one stares blankly at the shelves of the pantry, one has forgotten why one first went to the pantry, entirely. One might even repeat said process two or three times before "scoring", and completing the whole retrieval process.
Thus being said, I can tell you all about the girl in my first grade class, Pia Porche Paisley, who preferred that we all address her as Anna Feather. I can tell you about the third grade girl who bragged, daily, that her parents didn't care if she swore. In fact, this girl could shout, at the top of her lungs, "G.. D... F.....H...S...B....A.." and they wouldn't do a thing about it. Not a damn thing.
I can tell you how to make bloody Mary mix, if you don't have the mixer. I learned this skill at age six. I have never once made it, but I know the recipe by heart.
I can tell the names of every teacher I've ever had, what they looked like, what they wore, and something significant that they taught me. I cannot speak ten words of French, and I took the subject for more than two years.
When it comes to those who have "wronged" me, I've got a mind like a steel trap. I could win awards on my recall ability. Why are those painful experiences so locked in, and so difficult to exorcise?
My friend told me a story a long, long time ago, and I've never forgotten it. Her grandparents had a fiesty marriage, a nasty divorce and everyone thought "their" story was over. Everyone was wrong. Years after they divorced, the ex-husband had an accident, was in a coma, and when he woke up he was amnesiac. His ex-wife had been coming to the hospital to visit him. When he woke up and saw his ex-wife, he had forgotten they were divorced! She went along with it, and as the story goes, they started all over, with his clean memory and her clean slate, and stayed together happily ever after.
I'm thinking I could use a well-placed brick to the head. There are definitely some memories that could use erasing, and some new experiences coming in that might be nice to remember.
The point is, oh darn, where was I going with this, I forgot.

Monday, August 21, 2006

From a Tibetan refuge camp in rural India, to the childhood home in which he grew up, my brother brought his wife to join him. They "met" through a mutual friend. A friend that had crossed the world and landed at my brother's feet. A friend that knew two people that were made for each other, even if they spoke different languages, were a decade apart in ages, and had nothing of a shared past.
From this union a child was born, half Tibetan, half caucasion, fully miraculous. As is the custom with Tibetan babies, a Lama named this child. Because this baby would not be making a trek to India prior to birth, the naming would need to be done long-distance. With only a four inch ultrasound picture, the family's revered Lama named the child Kunga Zsheunu. Kunga meaning "joyful", Zsheuno meaning"youth". Perfect. Both parents loved the name, and all that it implied.
The fireplace where once my brother rushed to see what surprises Santa had brought, Kunga now runs to do his prostrations. Where once a father sat, drank and brewed, his grandson points to Buddhist dieties and makes offerings. The house has changed, the people have changed, the future will not replicate the past. This boy's youth is to be joyful.
A joyful youth.
Once upon a time there was a grown woman that lived in a glass house. She loved her glass house, all the windows, all the light, all the love. She grew up in a house that was not made of glass, it was made of concrete blocks. It was dark, and scary, and sad.

Years passed and the girl grew up and moved away. She did not ever want to return to the dark house, but she had to. As long as her father was alive, she was obligated to visit the dark house. When her father died, she was no longer obligated, and the woman stopped visiting.

More years passed and the dark house was remodeled. The girl's brother became a Buddhist. The house became a center for Buddhist practices. Light began to enter this house that had been so dark, for so long. Windows were added, walls were subtracted. Doors were removed, Buddhist hangings were hung in their place. Air and light and love moved freely in this house.

Where once only sad people lived, now three happy people lived. The girl's brother married, they had a child, the house was no longer a house, but a family's home.

The woman was now drawn to visit this house out of love, no longer obligation. The woman was able to replace sad and dark memories with new memories of laughter and joy. The woman was able to take her children to this house so that they could have their own experiences within its walls. New experiences, pure experiences.

The woman was very happy to have lived long enough to witness the transformation of a house, and a family. A family that moved from the dark, to the light.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Several months ago an important, life-changing book fell in my hands, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. LIFE CHANGING! I have given it and recommended it to lots of people, its goodness rippling. Just this week my friend, Val, with whom I first shared the book, gave me the companion, Warrior of the Light. It is DEEP! It is SHORT! It is divided into bite-sized pieces, one-a-day kinda thing. You could pick it up and open randomly (no such thing), and find some "aha". Some of them seemed to have been written just for me, some, not so much, but each one was a wow experience.
Paulo Coelho has a website you may want to visit. You'll get more of an idea whether this book is right for you or not. I hope you find it as "right" as I did.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Give 'em the Squeeze
I recently had my annual mammogram. I have "suspicious" breasts. Is that overshare? Anyway, I have had two lumpectomies, and now, because these breasts of mine are up to no good, I check them with all the obsessive/compulsive tendencies I lean towards naturally.
As the technician and I chatted merrily, I thought to myself, "What is it about a mammogram that women fear?" She told me the by the time some women come in, they have obvious cancer, but if they'd been coming in routinely, they could have found it early, and easily rid themselves of the disease. Now, I know this is not always the case, that there are weird, fast-growing, out-of-the-blue cancers, but by and large, most can be detected early.
I asked the tech why women put it off?
"Fear of finding something, and afraid it will hurt to have the mammogram."
There's that word again.
I told her that personally, I found the whole procedure more comical than anything. You are in ridiculous positions, and your breasts are squished like a pancake, literally. However, it is brief, BRIEF, and the techs have all had their own breasts squeezed like pancakes, themselves. I've yet to meet one that isn't super sensitive, gentle, kind, considerate and sympathetic.
She told me that most lumps are found by lovers. That's great for all the women out there getting some lovin', but for those that aren't, please, check yourself! Really! Give 'em the squeeze! Have a laugh! For a real chuckle do it in front of the bathroom mirror! Make a game of it! Do it. Please. For yourself, and those that love you.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Not sure if it was the tone in my voice as we spoke on the phone, or the actual words, but none-the-less, my friend was able to detect a sense of angst. She called back a little later and said, "Are you feeling trapped?"
"Why?" I answered, by not answering.
"No, don't ask another question. Let me ask again, and tell me what comes up for you when I ask it. Are you feeling trapped?"
"YES!" I nearly screamed.
She suggested I get a piece of paper, and on that piece of paper, write "I am free" 25 times. Then, go to the mirror, look at myself, and say, "I am free" 25 times.
"Great! Good idea, I'm on it!" I assured her, and myself.
1. I am f...
"MOM! That's my phone and he won't give it to me!" My daughter enters the room I am in and screams.
2. I am...
"Mom! I want to hold that phone! I love that phone! It is blue! I love the blue phone! I hate the black phone! I need to hold the blue phone so I can answer it when someone calls me!" (NOBODY calls this boy - it ain't gonna happen.)
3. I am fr..
Telephone rings, it's my husband, wants me to talk to him, brighten his day, give him a little pick-me-up. No can do.
4. I...
Phone rings again, it's my mother, needs me to check something immediately on the Internet, life or death situation.
5. I am fre...
"MOM! He still won't give me the blue phone! Will you just get him his own phone! Why does everybody use my phone? It is my phone, I don't understand why it can't just be for me!"
As I launch into how pitiful her story is, and how my heart f'ing bleeds for the state of her life, the doorbell rings. It's DHL dropping off something, but the dog goes crazy and my son does not accept that I don't need to go talk to the delivery person, that it is OK if he just leaves the package by the door. We argue for what seems like an eternity, before I remember the more important task at hand.
6. I am ...
7. I am trapped.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Why is it so much easier to say, "Love you," than "I love you."? Why? The difference is in a one-letter word, one letter, not even a consonant, just a poor little ol' vowel. Why the big difference in difficulty? I feel the hesitancy to throw the "I" in there myself, yet always wonder why. What's under that hesitancy, that holding back, that piece of commitment that you reserve for later?
My son, *Rojo, he tells just about everyone he meets that he loves them. "I love you! Don't forget!" He cheerfully exclaims. He doesn't stall for a moment, there is always the "I" in his pronouncements. I've been told my son has a soul like the Dalai Lama's, almost pure, that he has no ego. I think the answer lies within this concept. I am thinking that it is our ego that keeps us from using "I". When you use that I, you are committed. You are putting yourself out on a limb. You are a taking a risk, a chance, you are completely vulnerable. You might get hurt. You might get rejected. You might be embarrassed, or sorry, then what. What can you do then? The "I" is already out there, too late to pull it back in.
If none of us had egos, what would the world look like? Big question, no answer, for we are so ego based as humans, for the most part. Imagine, though, if you will, how different your life would be if you operated from your higher self at all times, and zero from an ego stand point.
I love you.
* No, my son's name is not Rojo, that is his nickname. No, I don't go around naming my children the Spanish names of colors, but if I did, my daughter would be Verde.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

  1. You know every child in your children's classrooms
  2. You know how to make breakfast, according to very specific directions, for each kid
  3. You put your kids to bed at night, say prayers, read or tell stories, and kiss them good night
  4. You kiss your children, appropriately and frequently
  5. You tell your children you love them, appropriately and frequently
  6. When you are angry, you seldom raise your voice
  7. You think about fatherhood a lot, and are very deliberate and intentional in your approach
  8. You work hard to provide for your children
  9. You do not give your children what they want, you give them what they need
  10. You play with your children, and actually seem to enjoy it

Note to Kario - best I can do, hope this helps!

Friday, August 11, 2006

1) Does your husband read your blog? Yes. He is not allowed to have an opinion, however.
2) Can we change the term Preferred Spouse to Spousal Support Team Member? Yes. Consider it done.
3) Can the SSTM be the same sex as you, and if so, does this create a homosexual relationship within a heterosexual "marriage"? Yes and no. The relationship with the SSTM remains sexless, thus, ensuring it will last.
4) I was just kidding about the homosexual in a heterosexual relationship question, can't you take a joke? Yes, but I retain the right to declare a joke "funny" or not. No funny, no laughie.
5) Do you ever get sick of yourself? Yes, all the time, in fact, I'm on my own last nerve right now!

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Welcome to Pet Peeve of the Day! Today's pet peeve is call waiting! PLEASE don't make me paranoid by putting me on hold to see if whomever is calling in might be more important than ME! They aren't, just by virtue of the fact that I got here first! It's called first come, first served!
While we're at it, if I am in your home, do not answer the phone. They can't possibly be more important than me, I am in your home, they are not! You are allowed to have Caller ID, even Caller ID with Call Waiting, then you can surrepticiously check who is calling, and only answer if it is the Queen of England, Dubya wanting your opinion on something, or the school calling to tell you one of your kids is puking.
Oh, and yea, if I am in your retail store, standing in line to PAY YOU MY MONEY, you are not allowed to be on the phone, either! Again, I am in the store, the person on the phone is not. Period.
Share your pet peeves with me, dear readers!
T or F: You laugh harder than anyone at your own jokes.
Tor F: You don't give a shit about what you wear, if you love it, everyone should love it too.
T or F: You march to the beat of your own damn drummer.
T or F: You are opinionated, outspoken and a clanging gong.
T or F: It's your world, and the rest of us just get to live here.
T or F: People have strong feelings about you, love/hate kinda stuff.
T or F: People write mean comments on your blog, but send them anonymously.
T or F: If you don't like something, you'll set out to change it, come hell or high water, and to hell with anyone that stands between you and your goal.
T or F: You would do anything, absolutely anything for a true friend.
T or F: You are a work in progress, and you take this progress very seriously, very loudly, and very openly, possibly ruffling feathers along the way. You don't care.
The Aussies are IN! Thank you for the networking, dear readers! Only one more continent to go and I can call "Blackout!"

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

I've been getting some interesting feedback on my concept of the preferred spouse. I've had everything from "the whole term sucks" to "go bigger with that", and everything inbetween.
This week a friend called and suggested the concept be extended like this:
1) Couples entering into marriage/partnership identify the preferred spouse(s).
2) Each person then embraces this preferred spouse as their best ally, their optimum counselor, shepherd through the marriage, advocate.
3) If men, in particular, could maximize the info. contained within the P.S.'s knowledge base, they could skip a lot of unnecessary guessing/fuming/pouting/etc. and get some great ideas on how to go about rectifying the situation at hand.
4) Think of the savings of time, energy, therapy, and wear and tear on the psyche.
5) The key is to embrace the P.S., and not compete.
What do you think? Is this possible? Would men ever go for this? Would women? Would preferred spouses? Huh?

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

PC or MAC?
It's been like 24-hours since I really pissed someone off, and frankly, I'm bored now. I thought I'd start a new fight, and it goes a little something like this...
Have you ever met a PC user that HATES Mac? Me neither. Have you ever met a Mac user that doesn't hate PCs? Yea! I know! What's UP with that? Why the venom? Why the histrionics? You'd think the subject was really "touchy", like homesexuals in heterosexual marriages, or whether or not I'm a mean, self-involved know-it-all! (Actually, that last one's a fact, not so much a controversy.)
So I ask you, dear readers, help me understand. Are Macs really the only way to go, are PCs really "the dark side"? If you can convince me I need a Mac, I'm totally taking this blog to Apple and getting me a freebie.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

I am not a competitive person, really, but I hate to leave things half done. Therefore, with that in mind, I implore you, dear readers of my blog, to help me get "blackout" on my ClustrMap!
I don't know WHAT is up Australia's butt, nor why Africa continues to give me the cold shoulder, but I know between all of you, you must have contacts. Network, people, network! Two entire continents are missing all the fun we have here at Fully Caffeinated!
And, if you care to make it interesting, we can take wagers on which continent buckles first! The Aussies? The Africans? Which one will become Fully Caffeinated next? The race is on!
It's already been established that I am the worst mom ever, so it won't surprise you to know that I have my kids on the all-junk food diet. I figure with the number of preservatives they consume in a day, they both ought to live to 1,000. A friend suggested that I try to get EFAs (essential fatty acids) into their systems, one way or another. I could give them supplements, I could massage them directly into their skin, or if nothing else, pour a little in the bathtub.
Off I went to the nearest health food store, I was told to get cod liver oil from Norway, the purest/most expensive one they had. Check, check, found the bottle, mortgaged the house, and away I went. That night I poured the smallest pour imaginable in my son's bath. He took the bath, none the wiser, and I swear, his hair had a sheen to it that wasn't there before.
"This is a piece of cake!" I thought to myself.
"I'm a f'ing genius! Who knew it could be so easy?"
I tried to towel him off, but the towel kept sliding off his oily body. He jumped into clean pajamas, and eventually into his nice, clean, fresh smelling bed.
The next morning every time anyone got near my son, they commented on his stench.
"Why does he smell like fish?" My husband inquired.
"Oh, just a little experiment gone wrong," I answered, trying to avoid all mention of fish oil.
"Oh my God!" my tween daughter shouted each time she summitted the steps. Why does the whole upstairs stink like fish?
"It's not that bad, is it?" I answered, while simultaneously dousing the tub with bleach.
Still, the stench continued. I washed the towel, pajamas, the boy, the bedding, the tub. I again washed the towel, pajamas, the boy, the bedding and the tub. The "stench" was definitely down graded to an "odor", but was in no way gone.
Now it has been well over a week. The bathroom window has been open the entire time. Scented candles have been lit. Bleach, hot water and prayers have been offered to the fish smell, but it refuses to part. It loves it here. It has made our house its home.
Tarter sauce, anyone?
  1. When heading out of town to do nothing but write, take the power cord to the computer, and/or extra battery packs.
  2. Next time I buy a computer, make sure it is one that accepts a universal AC adapter and doesn't require over-night delivery.
  3. Next time I spend the extra dough on over-night delivery, read where it says "next business day". Remember that at 6:00 PM Friday night, you are toast until Monday, at least.
  4. Remember, before you cut your trip short due to no computer power, that in the olden days, people used something called paper to write.
  5. Remember how time to read books used to feel like a luxury, and you didn't even own a computer? Try that!
  6. Remember how you used to fantasize about a quiet house, no demands on your time, and nothing to do but sleep? Stop obsessing about the computer and take a nap!
  7. Remember that you love people more than your computer. Say this to yourself until you believe it.
  8. When you think you're going to be able to sneak home, grab the power cord and sneak out before anyone hears/sees/smells you, think again. The jig is up. You're a total loser mom/wife with only one true love in this world, and his name is Dell.
  9. Tell yourself it could always be worse, you could be addicted to heroin, then they'd really have something to complain about.
  10. Tell yourself you'll quit tomorrow, you just need to get through tonight.

Friday, August 04, 2006

I thought I'd take the heat off me, and write something "fluffy" today. I've recently covered religion and sex, and am in no position to talk politics. The problem is I've stirred up a hornet's nest talking about "Brokeback Mountain" and "Transamerica", and I'm kinda proud. I am proud that we have a forum like the Internet to sound off on our opinions. I'm proud that in America in 2006 people have more freedoms and choices than they've ever had before. I'm proud that my blog has brought out some touchy subjects and made me think long and hard about what I think long and hard about.
First, let me make a correction, I spelled evangelical wrong in my "Reverse Discrimination" posting. I apologize. I appreciate all the comments generated by that posting. I am again encouraged by my readers' open-mindedness on the issue raised. I also apologize if I over-shared, and made any of the people mentioned in the posting uncomfortable. I again appreciate that we live in this day and age where religion can be debated intelligently in this country, and not violently, at least on the Internet, but I am not going to get political here.
What I am choosing to take from all the homosexuality in a heterosexual marriage controversy, is that compassion must be applied liberally. I am not gay. I am not married to a gay man, true. I have been the love interest of more than one gay man, however, and am the offspring of one. I know that pain. I do not know the pain of living in a culture that is threatening to one's nature. I am not in a position to know if one pain is harder than another. I do know that pain is pain, and the only anecdote to pain is compassion.
If I sounded uncompassionate, I am truly sorry. I'm passionate about compassion. I am also passionate about living in love, and not fear, and still maintain that choosing fear over love is selfish. Do I completely understand why someone would choose to make a choice out of fear and not love? Absolutely. Do I have compassion for that choice? Yes. Would I most likely make the same choice myself? Maybe. We truly don't know what we would or wouldn't do unless we walked a mile in another's shoes. Would I wish the pain of living in a culture that is not readily accepting of all people, on anyone? Never. Do I hope that I am raising children that will markedly make a difference in the world, and be compassionate, passionate, loving and fearless humans? Every day, all day long.
With that, I passionately apologize to all the people put-out by my postings, and passionately appreciate all those that took time to comment. I have learned from this, and I thank you.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Wow! I've started a ruckous amongst my blog readers! Check out all the comments on the Transamerica posting! I'll just say this about that...
I am the child of divorce, twice. Divorce is hell on everyone. People get divorced for many different reasons, all of them hard on children, but not all of them due to selfish reasons. When one spouse is abusing the other, and the victim takes the kids and gets out, is that selfish? Or self-preserving and ultimately, protective? When one spouse just "doesn't love the other anymore", is that a selfish reason to get out? I think so. If one spouse just doesn't love the other anymore because they are in denial about, or closeted about their homosexualty, that goes beyond selfishness, and straight to cruel. To not own up to why you don't love your spouse the way they deserve to be loved, but lead them on to think they are inherently faulty and unloveable, is unconscionable. That is what I find fault with. If one spouse marries, tries to live a hetersexual life, cannot anymore, and comes clean with the spouse and children, that is taking the high road/the harder road, the "right" road, the road far more kind and honest. That road leads to understanding, compassion, and forgiveness. Being lied to leads to distrust in self and others.
I'm all about people being whoever they are. This is not a question of whether being straight or gay is "better", this is about whether honesty is better than dishonesty. And with that, I've gotta go "the truth will set you free" route.
Do I recognize that rural Wyoming and urban Texas were hard places to be "out" in the early 1960s? Of course! Yes, in fact, open homosexuality may have cost them their lives earlier than it did anyway. Would two wives and three children have had their lives ruined too? No. That's what I'm saying.
Best acronym ever, B-T-S, Back-to-School, problem is, I'm the one having all the first day of school nightmares. What's with that? I am neither a student, nor a teacher returning to the classroom in September, like so many Septembers before, but the dreams are coming in fast and furiously.
First there was the one that I was going into sixth grade with my daughter, but I was the mother. I made it half a day before throwing down my books and announcing to the class and teacher, "You know, People, I don't have to be here. I've been in 6th grade, I've even taught 6th grade, and my daughter is supposed to be in 7th this year, so ha!"
Then there was the dream where I was in college, I knew I had a full schedule, but I could never remember what all my classes were, or where I was supposed to be going. Each day I skipped at least two classes because I just didn't know enough about them. Hmmmm...
Last night I couldn't find all the parts to my test, and all the staples kept coming out. I wrote my name on every page, but that took up so much time I didn't have time to finish the test, plus someone kept singing, and I couldn't concentrate, and I just kept re-reading the same question over and over.
I was also part of some college group last night, not sure what, a sorority? A commune? A co-op? I don't know, but I was supposed to clear all the tables and take the dishes to the kitchen. Everytime I picked up an empty plate, someone said, "Hey! I'm not done with that!" Wow.
So, I guess what these dreams all have in common is my neurosis, my sense that I don't know what's going on, nor do I know what I'm supposed to be doing about the whole thing. OK, now I get it, those weren't dreams, they are metaphors for my waking life!

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

One faithful reader, as well as fantastic blogger,, suggested I rent "Transamerica" after reviewing "Brokeback Mountain". While still taking advantage of my husband's weakened state, we watched it last night. Wow. As Go Mama promised, it portrayed a human dealing head-on with her gender and sexual orientation. The movie had a lot of heart and honesty. Within a week or two, Felicity Huffman learns she is a father, meets her son, and shares her secret with him.
Where "Brokeback Mountain" "failed", if you will, is that no good came from the love the two men shared. Lives were broken, lies perpetuated, the status quo was left unchanged. "Transamerica" showed a woman choosing a difficult, but beautifully authentic, life for herself, and thus, her son. Toby, the son, has the opportunity to know, love, and understand his "father". The children in "Brokeback Mountain" remain confused, misled, and I would venture to say conflicted over their feelings for their fathers. This is no legacy to leave one's children. Don't we owe it to our children to first know ourselves, and then be this knowing self to one's children? How convenient to "believe" children can't handle honesty. What children cannot handle is feeling they are somehow responsible for their parent's unhappiness. To be something other than you are, and to maintain this myth for the sake of your children, is utter selfishness, and really, child abuse. Children thrive when they are loved unconditionally. When parents don't love themselves, how well can they love their children?