Friday, February 27, 2009

Eco-Rebel. I Bet She'll End Up In Garden Jail!

My friend, Jules over at Sudden Onset of Chronic Diarrhea (and a touch of irritable vowel syndrome) is sending me some cool seeds from the Arizona desert. I'm sending her some of my TN stuff.

For us green thumbs, it's cool shit. Honestly, I'm entirely too excited about these seeds and Spring in general. If you're looking for a great place to hang out, I suggest you stop by and give her a whirl.

Go bask in her desert sunshine and take a gander at her Jacaranda that's blooming. Scroll down and you'll see her Sweet Pea.

It's been 80 degrees for a while over at her place. For me, that's enough reason to stop by.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Lesbians Are Different

Our conversation during last night's dinner prep:

Me: Could you cut it into 1/2" slices.

Her: Do you want to do it?

Me: No, I want to tell you how to do it.

Well, maybe we're a little bit like other women.

Come Polyfox with Me

Last week, my mother accused me of polyfoxing around. I've heard this term all of my life, so I decided to google it. The one reference that I found likened polyfoxing to folk medicine.

from Sarah Marsden Greene's thesis, "Non-Timber Forest Products Marketing Systems and Market Players in Southwest Virginia: A Case Study of Craft, Medicinal and Herbal, Specialty Wood, and Edible Forest Products" at:

Folk medicine is also called “polyfoxing”, a term brought to Appalachia by the Scots and English in the late 1800s (Cavender 1995). During springtime after plants had budded, polyfoxers prepared a tonic which was believed to be beneficial for everyone. The polyfoxer spent two to three weeks gathering materials from the forest, washing and drying them, and extracting and mixing the juices. "

The above reference from 1989 and names for a daylily is all that I have found.

How is it that this term that means goofing off and/or screwing around has been lost? Have you ever heard of it? Or has its use been limited to my mother's family for the last 40 years?

Wanna go polyfoxin' around with us Saturday night? You can run through the Boobie Tube!

Monday, February 23, 2009

Hanging Out With Fruits

Black SatinArtist: Amanda Cook

Jeanne, over at The Raisin Chronicles smacked me upside the head the other day and told me to go read her post "Kim in Satin." She needed to. I think it's a great read! Sometimes I get busy and miss something good. Especially when I have an appointment at the accountant on Friday morning.

In my absence, I'm introducing you to Jeanne! Say hi, ya'll!

It's interesting for me to read Jeanne's perspective...the mother of a lesbian, since mine doesn't talk much. Oh to have a mother that understood....or wanted to. That wasn't afraid to say the wrong thing. That wanted to try to talk about it.

Kim in Satin by Jeanne at The Raisin Chronicles

Jim said it wasn't that he minded going to see naked pictures of his own daughter; he just didn't like driving all over the country to do it.

I reached across the console to pick some lint off his pants. "Westfield isn’t the other side of the world,” I said. “Anyway, they're not pictures. They're paintings."

He pushed my hand away. “I don’t care if they’re the Sistine Chapel ceiling,” he said. “Why is everything in Westfield?”

We drove the sixty-odd miles to the town where our daughter, Kim, had settled after college and found our way to the hole-in-the wall storefront that housed the gallery. I pushed open the beveled-glass door and caught my breath. The invitation to the show had come on a 4” by 6” postcard that featured a back view of Kim, the crenellations of her spine descending from delicate neck to narrow hips. It had provided a glimpse of one breast; the show offered so much more. I spotted a table nearby, loaded down with hors d’oeuvres and red wine in little plastic glasses. I rarely drink, but suddenly a glass of wine sounded like a good idea.

It didn’t bother me that 23 of the 32 paintings were nudes. I was an Art History major before I dropped out of college to marry Jim, so I understood the artistic value of the human form. Nor was it a problem for me that the paintings were created by Kim’s partner, Jenny. I was completely okay with Kim’s lifestyle. I worked through all that back when she was in college. Not when she was a freshman, and joined the Bi/Gay/ Lesbian Movement at the University, because she was always joining one cause or another. I mean, she belonged to PETA, but that didn’t make her a rabbit. Later, though, when she was elected secretary of BiGLM, that’s when I realized what it meant.

The problem was her father, who was in complete denial. Although we’d visited her apartment, a two-bedroom affair where the girls shared one room and kept the other for guests, for some reason he didn’t get it. They say God never gives us more than we can handle. As I see it, denial is His mechanism for doing that. People filter out the things they can’t deal with, and Jim had constructed an entire wastewater treatment plant to keep this particular reality from seeping in.

I had tried to get Kim to sit down and talk it out with him, but she refused.

“Not until he’s ready,” she said.

“How about when I’m ready?” I asked.

“Chill out, Mom,” she said. “Not everything is about you.”

After I sampled my wine, I looked around the room and found Kim standing in the center of a crowd, which is pretty much where I’ve found her since she was about five years old. Some of the women in the group surrounding her were holding hands. Two of the men had their arms around each other’s waists. I felt Jim stiffen. Kim caught sight of us and broke away from her friends to give me a Passion-scented hug. She kissed her father and turned to me, eyes challenging.

“What do you think?”

I played for time by taking a sip of wine.

“She’s very gifted,” I said, and it was true. The paintings blended the technical skill of a Wyeth with the romanticism of a Cassat. “Where is Jenny?”

Kim nodded toward the crowd she’d just left. Standing on the periphery was her roommate. She had spiked hair and skin so fine-pored it looked airbrushed. Her eyes always seemed to be assessing something I couldn’t discern – how light played across a surface, or perhaps something more subtle. She wasn’t a talker. I’d spoken to her dozens of times in the three years she and Kim had been together, but our conversations had never gone anywhere. I once asked Kim what they found to discuss, but when she countered with the same question about her father and me, we dropped the subject.

The door opened again and Kim drifted away, calling over her shoulder, “Check out the show and let me know what you think.”

I turned to Jim. “We have to buy one of these paintings.”

He scooped up a handful of cookies with dabs of apricot preserves in the center. The room might have been wallpapered in burlap for all the attention he paid to the exhibit. He shoved two cookies into his mouth. “You choose,” he said.

I snagged another glass of wine and set off to make a circuit of the room. Jim speared some cheese cubes with a toothpick and followed me.

On close inspection, the paintings were as impressive as they’d been from a distance. The picture from the invitation was a 24” by 36” canvas of Kim’s back. You could even make out the pear-shaped birthmark at the base of her neck. One whole wall was dedicated to views of her left hand in various media – oil, pen and ink, acrylics, watercolors. Other works paid the same attention to the rest of her body. It was apparent that the artist was in love with the subject in a way that was as physical as it was emotional.

I nerved myself to deal with Jim’s reaction. “What do you think?”

He examined a line drawing of Kim’s face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open a little, as though she were snoring. Titled “Kim, Sleeping,” it was priced at twenty-five dollars.

“This one’s nice,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. Why had I even worried? For reality to break through Jim’s blockade, it would have to get past his stinginess.

A nearby oil painting caught my attention. Kim was seated on the floor with her knees drawn up. She was swathed in black satin, only her head and shoulders, feet and ankles visible. That was about 90% less visibility than most of the paintings. I wrote out a check for three-hundred and fifty dollars on the spot. Jim looked back at the line drawing wistfully, but didn’t object.

I tracked Jenny down near the refreshment table and handed her the check and she thanked me. We stood there for a moment, but before the silence could grow awkward, there was a flurry at the door. A middle-aged woman in a wool suit with a pleated skirt and a man with thinning hair and bony wrists protruding from his navy sport coat entered. Jenny’s features went still, and her pupils seemed to contract like the aperture on a camera. She made her way to the door and hugged them.

Jenny’s parents had two opposing traits that made it impossible for me to predict how they’d react to the show. Mr. Baker had supported his family as an illustrator for forty years, which meant he’d view the show as an artist would, based on its merit, which was considerable. They were also Seventh Day Adventists. Only God knew what that meant.

As they toured the room, Jenny’s father inspecting each canvas in detail, I decided to make the circuit again. I stared at the hand paintings. They undulated just the tiniest bit, but it seemed wasteful not to finish my wine. I inched my way over to the final wall, which featured a life-size canvas of Kim lying on a settee. Jenny’s mother had disappeared, but her father came to stand beside me. He took out a jeweler’s loupe and held it up to his eye, scrutinizing Kim’s thigh at close range. I knew he was examining the brush strokes, but it was unnerving just the same. After a moment he grunted.

“Jenny says you bought that one,” he said, waving the loupe toward “Kim in Satin.”

I nodded.

“Best piece here,” he said.

I thought so, too, though I suspected we had different criteria.

Back at the refreshment table, Jim was staked out next to the cheese tray. He looked at the empty glass in my hand. “How much have you had?” he said. Before I could answer, Kim and Jenny’s mother joined us.

“Mom, Dad,” Kim said, “this is Mrs. Baker.” Mrs. Baker shook hands with Jim, then slid her fingers into mine. Her hand so light and dry it was barely present.

“Wonderful show,” I said. “Jenny is very talented.”

Mrs. Baker’s gaze ranged over the room. She looked confused, like she wasn’t certain she’d come to the right place.

“Yes,” she said, “she has a gift.”

I picked up a fourth glass of wine, earning glares from both Kim and her father.

“To Jenny,” I said.

Mr. Baker wandered up, and Kim made introductions again.

“I was just saying how talented your daughter is,” I said, waving my free hand to encompass the room. I couldn’t remember why I thought this was going to be so stressful. I swayed a little and Jim put his arm around my waist.

Mrs. Baker stood without speaking, a half-smile on her lips. From her expression, we might have been prospective mothers-in-law meeting to decide what to wear to the wedding, a wedding that would never happen, at least not in either of our home states. Her gaze wandered from Jenny to Kim, and her half-smile wavered. In her eyes I saw the ghosts of lost grandchildren.

“Kim plans to have kids someday,” I said, wanting to comfort her, wanting to break the silence. “When she’s thirty-two, she says.” Mrs. Baker didn’t seem to understand, so I added, “By artificial insemination.”

Jim’s grip on my waist tightened, but Mrs. Baker’s smile had solidified again. She had the expression First Ladies wear when the Japanese ambassador breaks wind at a state dinner. Embarrassment sent more words skidding from my mouth.

“I’ve never understood how that works,” I said. I turned to Kim. “Do you pick the donor from a catalog?”

Kim looked at her father. His arm became a clamp around my waist. I shoved at his wrist until he released me.

“That’s one way,” Kim said.

“There are others?”

“You can find a friend who’s willing to donate.”

“To donate sperm?”

“Yes, Mom, to donate sperm.”

“Do you have a friend who would do that?”

“I haven’t asked. I’d probably go with an anonymous donor,” she said.

“And then what – they give you the sperm in a little jar?”

“It’s an office procedure, Mom.”

I chuckled. “Somehow when I imagined a doctor getting you pregnant, I always thought he’d be my son-in-law.”

It was as if all the sound had been vacuumed from the room. I looked at my empty glass. Had I really said that? Jim had that long-suffering expression he gets sometimes, and Kim’s face and neck were the shade of Pepto-Bismol.

“I think I’ll go look at that canvas again,” Mr. Baker said.

Jim turned to Jenny. “Let’s go get my picture.” Kim headed off to the back room to get some wrapping materials.

Only Mrs. Baker stayed by me. Her eyes roamed the gallery, but that smirk never left her lips.

“Was this what you were hoping for?” I said. “When she was a little girl, was this what you wanted Jenny to grow up to be?”

Because it wasn’t what I’d wanted for Kim. I’d wanted her to grow up and live out the American dream, to be a housewife with a couple of kids and a minivan. I wanted her to live nearby and call me for my meatloaf recipe. I wanted to know that my life and the way I raised her were okay, and not something she had to run as far away from as she possibly could.

Mrs. Baker looked at me for a minute. “Artists experiment,” she said, dismissing our daughters’ three-year relationship with two words.


While Jim and Jenny wrapped our painting, I followed Kim to the cloakroom. Her movements were so jerky her skirt made a swishing sound when she walked.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” I said.

She sighed and turned to face me. “You’re really not okay with this, are you?”

“I’m okay with you,” I said, “and whoever you are. It’s just hard for me, knowing how people judge. I want everyone to see how wonderful you are, and for a lot of people, this is all they can see.”

She smiled, but it was a lopsided smile.

“I don’t need to be wonderful to everyone,” she said. “Just a few people. You, Dad, my friends.”

“Sometimes I think, ‘what if she’s gay because we made marriage look so awful?’”

I tried to say it lightly, and I must have succeeded, because she laughed. “It’s true you two aren’t poster children for the perfect marriage, but it’s no different with Jenny and me. We fight every time I want to spend money, and she drives me crazy, ignoring the dysfunctional stuff that goes on with her family. She came out to them a year ago, and they’ve never discussed it since. Not once.” Then she frowned. “Is that what you really think, Mom? That I chose to be gay?”

I thought about what she’d been like as a teenager, popular, dating a lot, but always with a distance, a distaste for physical intimacy, that smothered relationships at birth. I thought about her preference for the company of her girlfriends. She’d always seemed like a good candidate for a harem, where she’d perform her connubial duties maybe once a year, then be free to spend the rest of the time spending time with other women.

Twenty-five years ago the doctor had placed her, bloody and squalling, on my belly. Her hair had been almost transparent, plastered to her scalp by amniotic fluid. I had reached out my hand to cap her head, and felt her pulse fluttering against my palm. She was a miracle then, and she was still a miracle today.

“No,” I said. “I think this is who you are. I think this is who you were born to be.”


Jim steered me back to the car, one hand on my elbow, the other clutching our painting. He released me to fish his key-ring from his pocket and poke the key into the door-lock, then stood there for a moment, staring at the lock without turning it.

“I don’t understand why Kim hangs out with so many fruits,” he said, sounding irritated. He seemed to be speaking to the keyhole.

I looked at him, the evening air cooling my cheeks and scalp. I sighed. For thirty years he’d been there to prop me up and care for me and stand beside me when I made a fool of myself. I pressed my palms against my face, letting the breeze fan away the last of my buzz.

“Really?” I said. “I’ve never noticed.”

If you like mullets, check out Jeanne's post Club Diva as well.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Act Your Age, Not Your Shoe Size

Backstory: Mandy is one of my best friends. If you'd told me a few years ago that my best friend would be a butch girl with a faux hawk, I'd have laughed myself silly. I'm a girly girl. I like lipstick and pedicures. She's butch. She likes hockey and video games.

And SO....
Last weekend, we head up to my family's lodge. It's a big ol' place and I invited a bunch of girls, but only the four of us could go. Me, my love, Mandy and Becky.

As soon as we plan the trip, Mandy says, "I'll borrow somebody's Nintendo Wii and we'll take Rock Band and play games all weekend." I roll my eyes and began planning other things. I don't DO games.

On Saturday, we get back to the lodge from the day trip to Muddy Pond. Mandy proceeds to take out a drum set, microphone, and guitars from this big ol' bag. Ahhh crap. Seriously, Mandy? Now I have to remember all that musical stuff I learned taking piano lessons against my will for umpteen years?

Mandy insists that I at least try. On the guitar. I die within about 20 notes. She assures me that I'll do better on the drums. I make it. I don't die. It's actually kinda fun.

We rock all night Saturday. Get up Sunday morning, cook breakfast and start playing. Wash the sheets. Rock out some more. Fold towels. Continue rocking. We played every song on the game and would have played more if we had an internet connection.

I'm a 43 year old Rock Star and I just asked my mom for a Wii for my birthday.


When people assume...well, you know what happens. That's why I let the dust settle after the episodes back in October where the bullies tried to shut me up.

I thought I'd tell ya'll why I call my ex, My Ex The Redneck.

Number one? It rhymes. I'm simple like that.
Number two? I didn't want to use her real name.
Number three? She actually calls herself that. But that's hard to explain to a couple of high-falutin' Yankees that consider it insulting and are trying to defend her.

Early in our relationship, My Ex The Redneck and I realized that we were both descendants of rednecks, country folk, or whatever you want to call them.

During a trip for Thanksgiving Dinner at my cousin Sara's house, she walks us outside to show us her birthday present. Glass packs for her classic Boss muscle car (it makes it real loud). That's the first time I remember My Ex The Redneck calling my family redneck. I called her family redneck right back and the games began.

Every year we would make mental notes of the redneck things that our family did and compare at the end of the year. Who ever had the most redneck family events won.

The first year, my cousin Sara won with the glass packs. Mostly because we didn't spend much time with My Ex The Redneck's family.

The next year, My Ex The Redneck won at Easter. Very early in the year to be winning, but you'll see why.

We dressed in pastel and brought a side dish for Pudd and Bubba's (YES, those are their real names.) Easter Covered Dish Dinner. They COULD have won on names alone, but they didn't have to. After dinner, I walked onto the front porch.

Me: Pushes open the aluminum screen door and let's it slam. (Somewhere from inside: Don't slam the door!")

Bubba: "Hey Julie, grab that cooler or flip that bucket upside down and siddown with us." Do not believe everything you've heard about Southern gentlemen.

Me: Flips five gallon bucket over and perches on it. "What's that smell?"

Bubba: Aw, that damn cat of Pudd's crawled up under the porch and died last week. We cain't reach 'im to get 'im out.

They all sat on the front porch talking, laughing and smelling the dead cat. I went back inside. Somebody else got the bucket.

The Universe Is Messin' With Me

I'm terrible at going to the hospital and nursing home. It's not that I don't want to go. I do. I want to be there for them. The part of me that is painfully shy takes over. What if I say the wrong thing? What if there's nothing to talk about? What this? What that?

Just last week, I asked my cousin to let me go with her to visit her mom, my Aunt Gladys. Ok, I'm going. I fully intend to keep visiting her. I've made the first step in getting more comfortable with this. I have two weeks to think and fret about it. Get some pictures together. Have things to talk about. Ok.

Over the weekend a very dear friend of mine was in a very bad accident. He's in the Trauma Unit and in critical condition. I have to go see him. He's being moved to Atlanta to a Spinal Rehab clinic in a few days.

I guess the Universe thinks that it's time I learn how to do this.

Yesterday afternoon, my mother, my love and I went to visit. We checked in at the nurse to get a pass. His mom came out and handed me one of the two passes.

His mom: Your Ex The Redneck is in there with Josh, you can go on in.
In my head: Seriously, I have to do this with HER?
Me: Thanks. I won't stay too long.

My ETR was in the restroom when I went in. She kinda looked like she'd been poked with a sharp stick when she came out and saw me there. We were cordial.

I guess the Universe decided to kill two birds with one stone. Make me be nice to my ETR and visit someone in the hospital.

P.S. I really do realize that this isn't about me. I know that I'm fortunate to be the one visiting.

Monday, February 16, 2009

You KNOW I Don't Do This

But Sage asked me and he's got some kind of weird control over the ladies.

Rules to Isabella's Naughty Meme of Firsts:
1. Please post these at the beginning of your meme.
2. Please include a link to
Sex Talk For Men.
3. Please include as many sordid details in your answers as possible -- if you haven't got any, make them up!
4. Tag 3 people. (Yeah, there's anyone left that hasn't done this meme.)

1. First French kiss?
I was *such* a late bloomer. I didn't kiss a boy...for real...until I was 15. It was Cameron, I'm sure, but I can't tell you more than that because I honestly don't remember anything other than he was a good kisser. When I was dating boys for that brief year, I was mostly trying to figure out what was missing. Now, I know. It was boobs.

My first girl kiss was with my first girlfriend. At the first sleep-over at my house.

Me: I'm going to do something to you that you've never had done before.
Her: Ok.
Me: Kisses her passionately.
Her: Are you gay?!
Me: No, are you?
Me: No
Us: Continue kissing.

2. First boyfriend/girlfriend.

Do you really want to know about my first boyfriend? He sang bass in the church choir and my mother LOVED him. Thought he was the perfect gentleman and he was. He would always say "Yes ma'am" and "Thank You" to my mother as we were on our way out the door to go screw ourselves silly in the back of the car or on the picnic table at the park.

My first girlfriend was Michele when I was 16. She was my first friend at my first job. I wore lots of silk dresses and she wore chinos with white shirts. We'd go for rides in her jeep and talk for hours on end. My boyfriend at the time said, "I don't like you hanging out with that butch-girl, Michele."

I promptly dumped him.

3. First type.
Butch girls with jeeps and bandanas tied around their heads. Give me a break, it was the 80s! Or just butch girls. As a matter of fact...that's still my type!

4. First time you had sex.
Gary was a star on the basketball team and damn he was built! Tall, muscular, dark, handsome. My parents went to a hockey game and we did it on the couch. Clumsy and ok, clumsy just about sums it up. WTF was I thinking having sex on the living room couch KNOWING my parents would be coming home SOMETIME.

5. First celebrity crush.
David Cassidy or any other boy with long hair that looked like a girl. Then came Kristy McNichol. *swoon*

6. First sexual fantasy.
Kristy McNichol chooses me to play on her softball team. Then we have a sleepover. Just me and her. That still kinda gets me going!

7. First person you fell in love with.
My first girlfriend. I still have one of her red bandanas with cowboy hats and boots on it.

8. First proper sex toy.
My....oh let me count....fourth girlfriend and I ordered a vibrating strap-on from Good Vibrations back in the early 90s. That was the only time I've gotten to be on the boy side of the strap-on. That was FUN! It's straps were made out of elastic. Yes, the white stuff. Tres sexy!

9. First porn video.
I worked for a management consulting firm when I got out of college and everyone knew I was a lesbian. The financial consulting guy and I were good friends since we travelled together a lot. He asked if I would buy him a "real" lesbian porn video. He knew that the women with long red nails and pink mirabo pumps waiting for the repairman weren't legit. I gave it to him and the very next day he brought it back. It totally destroyed his lesbian fantasy, because those women would kick his ass and go right back to what they were doing!

10. First sexy lingerie item/sexy briefs owned.
I had a black lace teddie that my first girlfriend bought me. Snaps at the crotch are very convenient!

11. First time giving oral.
I don't even remember. How bad is that?

12. First time getting oral.
I was 15 years old and on a fishing tournament trip with my parents, who were apparently horrible judges of character when it came to guys. The guy in the cabin next to us kept flirting with me while I was out on the deck. I went for a hike and found a nice place to read in the woods. He just "happened" to be hiking on the same trail and invited me to go down to the marina with him later and hang out. My parents agreed to let me go play video games with him. He was about 25 and I knew he wasn't wanting to play Ms. Pacman.

We walked upon the hill overlooking the marina. He laid out a big blanket under the stars and promptly went where no one had gone before. Right then, I gained an appreciation for older men.

13. First orgasm given by someone else.
Sadly, not any of the guys that I had sex with. My first girlfriend got that pleasure. Over and over and over...

14. First one night stand.
I was between girlfriends and shooting pool at a long gone lesbian bar downtown. Oh wait...I think that the 25 year old that I picked up on the fishing trip gets this honor! I keep forgetting about the boys.

15. First dirty book/dirty mag read.

In my cousin's closet were a slew of Playboys, Penthouses and Hustler magazines. I don't remember the first time. But every time I was left alone....I would head upstairs to that bedroom closet. Hours of fun!

And just in case your blog looks as lame as mine, you might be interested in THIS:

Rules for
Isabella Snow's February blog makeover contest! Entering is easy! Just copy and paste this blurb to your blog (make sure the links still work!) and then email Isabella a link to your blog post. The contest deadline is at midnight GMT Feb 28. One winner will be selected the following day by a drawing of names; the name will be posted here; and the winner will be emailed, as well. New blogs will be completed within two weeks of winning. One entry per blog. customization only, see the Blogbunnie Blog Design portfolio for options.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Just In Case No One Tells You ...

I love you. I appreciate you coming by. I love reading your comments and am grateful to have you in my life.

I love reading what you write. Keep it up. You're doing a great job!

Smile for me and have a wonderful weekend knowing someone cares about you!

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

My Aunt Gladys

I haven't been to visit her in the nursing home. It makes me feel like shit.

I've reconnected with my cousins, her two daughters and one of them is accompanying me to see her in two weeks. I didn't ask for her to go with me. She offered when she found out that I'd like to see her. Knowing that I needed someone to hold my hand.

I want to go visit her mother, but I just don't know how. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know what to take. I'm scared.

She has Lewy Body Dementia. I don't know what to expect. Will it be a good day for her?

Will she remember that she was the first person to comfort me in the ER when I tried to kill myself? Or will I just be a person that came to visit her with tears in my eyes?

Do Me A Favor

Last Saturday, I finally convinced my coach and friend, Wade Johnson to start a blog. Actually, I kind of stood over him and forced him into it. Well, as much as anyone can force a 345 pound powerlifter to do anything.

This man is just amazing. I don't say that about many men. But he really is.

Wade has such a way with words. I guess that's part of being a coach, but since I've never been coached before, it's new to me.

He'll be talking about his day and what supplements he takes and how much he lifts. You WILL be amazed. His workouts are staggering. But more importantly, he'll be talking and encouraging people like you and me who just want to get in shape or stay in shape.

Stop by and see Wade. Give him an atta-boy for getting started and perhaps some tips on setting up his page. I promise you'll find yourself going back for some positive vibes and motivation. That's just the kind of guy he is.

Wade Johnson Powerlifter

Monday, February 9, 2009

My Best Friend Says I Look Drunk...

in this picture. That's because I was....or well on my way.

Saturday night, after killing a perfectly good iPhone, we had friends over for a pasta making dinner. From semolina flour to the table. We started from scratch and ended up with honestly the best pasta I've ever put in my mouth!

It started off kinda rough. I wasn't sure that we'd end up with anything at all the way things looked in the beginning. The dough was too dry. It was a pain in the ass to knead for 15 minutes by hand. Then it had to rest for 2o minutes in the fridge. Hell, after all that kneading, WE needed the rest!

When things looked like they were going to really work, I whipped up some Wild Mushroom Vodka Sauce for the fettucini and some Browned Butter Balsamic Sauce for the Caramelized Butternut Squash and Parmesan Ravioli. Yeah, it was fabulous.

But what really made the dinner wonderful was the amazing friends that love to laugh and cook. Looks like we'll be taking that pasta machine to their condo on the beach in April, because frankly, we ROCK at making pasta and getting smashed!

P.S. Yes, that's my circa 1985 log cabin kitchen with the Z cabinets. Pray that I win a kitchen makeover!

Saturday, February 7, 2009

IPhone God Help Me!

Dear iPhone God,

Please forgive me for getting up extra early this morning to put on laundry and vacuum before I worshipped at the devil gym. It was that action that made me miss the call telling me that the love of my life had left her love of her life in her jeans pocket.

Oh dear iPhone God, I promise not to swear or kiss girls ever again if you'll let the trick that I found on the internets work. I shall place your progeny into a vat of dry rice and cover it. I will then warm the entirety in a gentle oven until I am forgiven or until the iPhone turns on. Amen.

My Love sounded calm enough when I told her the bad news. BUT, if I go missing and you don't hear from me in a few days....

P.S. I know someone's gonna ask and no, I do not check pockets. That's your job if *I* do the laundry.

Friday, February 6, 2009

How Many Licks Does It Take?

Last Sunday, I was sitting on a friend's leather couch turned around talking instead of watching the Super Bowl. Typical Lipstick Lesbian.

That's when I started chatting with two of my best friends. One of which has an affinity for straight girls, or they have an affinity for her. It's hard to tell which.

Mandy: Becky had her first date with a straight girl last night!

Me: How'd it go?

Becky: Great! I cooked dinner for her. I always tell Mandy that you can't fuck 'em gay, but I'm kinda hoping I can.