ah forums. so full of useless crap.

It was either:

a) the gads of wasabi I stuffed down my throat at my Thursday Lunch with my mother that burned it out of my head

or,

b) the sweetest going away gift that I received from my Eternal Friend that melted my heart so greatly that it chased the pain away

or,

c) the love note I wrote to my migraine, leaving it no option but to abort the mission when it felt the positivity that oozed from my blood.

or,

d) all of the above, with the timing of the migraine choosing to have run its course.

Whatever it was, my head definitely feels a bit lighter today.

I can still feel it, but it's definitely not morphine worthy at this point.  I still took a tiny bit to make sure I didn't launch into puking from withdrawal.  I also didn't want that nasty rebound headache you get from taking the poison out of your system.

I don't need to write a love note to my body for going through withdrawal.  I've already met my love note quota.

Anyway, I woke up feeling a bit better, only to receive panicked texts from Papi.

You know how EVERYTHING you read on the internet is true?

Papi got a dose of it today and it scared the shit out of him, and in turn, he tried to bring my migraine back with stress and fear.

"Talked on the forums, looks like we need a guard.  They poison the dogs and then rob.  A big fence is going up!!!"

I rolled my eyes at Papi, even though he couldn't see me, because he's sleeping off the Graveyard Coma.

I decided to read on with what he wrote a few seconds later, "I think we made a mistake not getting in gated community."

Sorry Papi, but we are going to be enjoying Casa Paraíso.  No mistakes what-so-ever.

The next text showed Papi's disdain through the four little letters, "Fuck!!!"

Now I giggled at Papi, wishing he wasn't asleep so I could remind him we wouldn't have beachfront property in a gated community, nor would we be allowed the gads of dogs we want to adopt, because some control freak with a pickle up her ass wants to make sure she gains the respect now that she didn't have in high school.

Three and a half hours of obsessing later, he wrote, "Pay Albert to watch the house??"

Seems logical.  We want to employ our DR family somehow, but the way I see it, Albert will be there full time trying to teach this gringo how to garden, anyhow.

He had three more hours of consuming worry before he wrote the last text, "We should return your laptop.  It will be stolen.  I think our 2 computers is too much as it is!  I'm selling my gold necklace here.  I will make you read the DR1 thread about safety in the DR.  I will not get a safe because that will attract people.  I wish the gun shop was open on Sundays!"

Well, that pissed me off.

Papi, sell your own damn computer.

I need to make our documentary of our travels and you're always hogging your computer with your Facebook and Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land infatuation.

Seriously.

The people who are writing these things are just trying to put the fear into you that someone else put into them.

Misery loves company and bored people are everywhere.

These people need a migraine.  That would shut them up for a while.

Papi has the worst anxiety I've ever known in a person.  He's not a candidate to be going on these forums full of people trying to scare one another.

There's always 'that guy' who likes to instil panic in others.

He's probably sitting in his mother's basement, snickering about all the people he's terrified, because he's jealous of the fact that he hasn't taken any risks in life, other than eating the moldy sandwich that he stuffed under his bed for safe keeping, just in case his mother ever kicked off.  Lord knows he's never had a reason to make is own sandwich, never mind do his own laundry.

Besides, like I've maintained from the start, if we treat the 'community' there like our own family, why would they treat us any less than their own?

No, we're not going to hide away, we are going to engage in living WITH our neighbours.

Great.  The pain is back.  At least I had a good run of bitching for a few minutes there.

Bring on the morphine.

i surround myself with people who treat me well

ah, the abuse i endure ...

I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

God I hate that saying!  I would never kill any birds!  But somehow this archaic adage rolls off my tongue and finger tips, as if it were my favourite.

Anyway, I had to wake mi esposo up for a run around, complete with my handy dandy chauffeur extraordinaire, Papi.

I decided, instead of my usual repeating of my love's name, then shaking him, that it would be better to sing him awake.

What I found was, music does indeed calm the savage beast.

Sir Bark-A-Lot didn't nip and bite at me for waking up his number one person.

I'd sing Papi's name with every chromatic scale I would play, and Sir Bark-A-Lot would merely sit beside me and smile his little chihuahua smirk and I got some bass strengthening in.

When my love actually arose from my crooning, the first words out of his mouth, after the moan of dispair were, "You know you talk too much right?"

I had to agree.

Yes.  I talk a lot.  I make up for people who are too shy to blurt things out, or occasionally battle for my voice to be heard over other extroverts.

However, I wasn't expecting this: "So, is there anything you can do about it?"

I'm glad I know my love enough to know that this is just partnered poking as opposed to my last nasty abusive ex who actually meant her horrible words.

"Piss off," I said with the most love I could muster while rounding up our things for our day of supported errand running.

This ridiculousness of a conversation was followed up by my love shuffling quickly into the living room for a panicked computer session before we left the house.

My love was in a Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land crisis!

I asked mi esposo, "Um, shouldn't we get going if we need to get everything done?"

Without breathing, my love replied, "Look.  I've got important things to do and I only have 3 days to do it."

Life can be pretty stressful.

Especially when your Sim-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land is in need of attention.

I wish my love put that much energy into his usual DIY projects.

We haven't had one to entertain us for a while, but it is getting nice out, so I'm sure there will be fun to share.

It has taken Papi months to heal from the antibiotic poisoning.

He really is getting better now.

We both are.

I'm hoping that by the summer we'll both be a power house of healing and energy that we can share together.

Here's to hoping.

And here's to a day where I haven't needed pain killers yet!

This is a great day.

And I got to talk your ear off.

i am fully present in the moment

Sorry. Try again.

I'm exhausting Papi with all the driving around I'm making him do for me.

It may be trouble for my love to drive me to all the places I need to go to in a day, but I like the non-stop company of mi esposo.

At least in the car I can have a conversation with him.

That's hard to do when we're home, because my love has put down the Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land, and taken up his extra breathing moments with Rock Band.

Which I was confused about.  I didn't realize there's more than one guitar game.

I was corrected.  It is not Guitar Hero.  It is Rock Band.  All I know is you don't want to be a musician to play this game.  It will reverse any schooling you've had in music.

Anyway, yes.

When we're home, my love flits off into never never land and plays games.   I can think of worse things to be addicted to, really.

Yesterday, we were given a blog to read about the word 'Tranny'.  Of course, I read it, while my love played with the whammy bar, and tilted his guitar up like any other rock god.

In a nutshell, the blog was asking that people refrain from using the word 'Tranny', as it can be used as a derogative term.

Kinda like when people spit out the word, "Dyke," at those deemed scum of the earth to the bigots and homophobes around the world.

I don't mind being called a dyke.  Even when it's spit out at me in hatred.

I mean really, as a femme, being recognized in my own community is like asking the world of people.

As if having long hair and wearing a skirt makes me any less attracted to butches.  I come across my own struggles in my community.

I also understand the need to keep our community safe.

However, using the word 'Tranny', and other words like "Fag," is not the problem.

Not using these words will not keep anyone safe while the world has bible thumping zealots brainwashing their children to hate those who don't follow their rules.

My love likes being called a 'Tranny'.  Why should that be taken away from him, because there are crud in the world that will stop at nothing to kill off those who think differently?

Do you really think for a second that not using that word is going to make anyone person any safer from evil?

It's not.

The only way to make this world safer is to expose to the zealots that we are living creatures who believe we deserve to live our lives with love.

Fine!

Be a zealot!

It's not going to hurt us, unless you physically use it for hate.

What if I promised a zealot that I would never ever use the word again?

Do you really think that's going to change their mind?

Nope.

They'll use the word instead while they're in the process of thinking how to kill the young transgender person, in the name of their god.

I'd rather continue saying the word and making it more common in our vocabulary, so that these hateful people can't make others feel bad when they hurl these terms at them through their venom.

Call me a dyke?

Why, thank you very much!  I'm glad you noticed.  Lord knows the lesbians in my community can't tell.

Call Papi a Tranny?

Why yes he is.

Let's see you try to use it against my love.  Sticks and stones bitches.

reality is in our perception of it ... no matter what happens externally, it's all about how we perceive and deal with whatever comes ...

So Queer!

I didn't get to write to 'you', my imaginary friend, yesterday.

To tell you the truth, I was too busy with my hair.

Yeah.

That's right.

My hair.

Hair day 2011.  The roots were pretty disastrous and my frazzled ends were a fire hazard of natty dreads.

Anyway, to get my trim and roots done, it takes 4 hours.

grateful again for pain killers ...

So I was a bit busy.

Then, I came home to my dearest Papi not feeling so hot.

Again.

Poor thing couldn't get the goods outta the back door and now it's coming out in droves.

Sharts to be exact.

We don't want to make Papi laugh at inopportune moments.  It might mean there's an emergency toilet visit, along with donning of clean drawers.

Anyway, as we were relaxing together, I happened to see something really fancy.

Yes, folks, I am listed as one of the ten top queers in Vancouver.

Pretty fucking shwanky I'd say.

Shwanky enough, in fact, that my love took a break from Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land to talk to friends about it.

Today, while I was sitting in that chair at the my hair stylist's salon, Moods, and I was thinking, "Damn!  I always get my hair done when there's nowhere to go show it off."

As much as I didn't get my Golden Globe moment from my fancy hairdo, it was like I was virtually given an opportunity to brag.

You have to have good hair in order to brag.  That and a really good lipstick shade.

I also am in regrets every time I go, because I never remember to get a picture of my Honky 'Fro in my foils.  It's truly a sight to marvel at.

So much so, that while my ringlets have been separated and combed out into a nasty Honky 'Fro from hell, people will stop at the salon window, point and stare.

I just smile a great, silvery, Brace Face smile.

Now I owe you 2 pictures!  One for my straight hair, and one for my foil head.

It's not that I'm lazy, I'm just too slow on the draw.

Anyway, I had good hair to accept my place as one of the top ten queers in Vancouver.

I'm a super something now!  Not just one of The Hector-Browns!

Only 2 days left until we say goodbye to 2011 and be grateful for our year that has passed, and made us who we are.  The good, the bad and the ugly.

I'm grateful that today I feel emotionally better than I did 2 days ago.

I'm grateful that I live in a part of the world where I am so privileged, that I can have a pampering day.

I'm grateful for my Fuzzy Family, who keep me realizing what the only important things in life are food, love and shelter.

I'm grateful to be supported by my friends, who help me feel worthy.

I'm grateful that I laugh, almost every single day.

Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land

So here I sit, waiting for pain killers to set in, and letting brain settle from 2 days of catch up on the most current film score.

I wanted to chat about what I forgot ...

... who me? forget? ...

... to do: I failed to take a picture of my straightened hair.

Some people got confused, and thought that perhaps I'd accepted my role in this transgender relationship by letting go of my butch loving title.

Nope.  I'm not straight.

My hair was.

Emphasis on was.

My hair didn't take too long beat the heat of straightening.

It started to curl without permission of the chemicals, and from there it became a free-for-all of which of my locks could be the fuzziest on my head.

Anyway, I'll be heading back to my cousin's salon to get it done again, and I'll take pictures for sure.  I just didn't realize how quickly my hair would shoot back to Honky 'Fro status.

But as I sit trying to write about my hair, I am bombarded with notifications on Facebook.

Every last one of them has been for the Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land.

Yes.

It gets an excessive title, as it seems to be the most important happening in Papi's world.

next to me of course ...

Mi esposo loves Sims so much, that he has 2 personalities' games he plays.

One of them is from my Facebook account.

People who are in my friends list may think that it's me playing.  I mean really!  I could be playing Sims the whole time I just gorged on film score composing.

It could happen!

I could have so little to do in my life that I've built a house in the Sims world.

But, no.

It's Papi.

I feel like I need to set this record straight.

Unlike my hair.

yes ... i will take any opportunity to talk about my hair ...

Anyway, the whole point of this was to talk about that little red notifications alert that comes on our Facebook pages.

So.

Here I sit, watching notification after notification come for Papi, under the guise of me.

sigh ...

If only I was as popular as my 'wack job' character that Papi has developed for me.

No really.

My love asked me what the name of this Sims person should be, and it happened to be on a day when I was having giggle attacks about being called a 'whack job' here on my blob/blab.

So, if you're out there in Sims-O-Rama-Banana-Fana-Ding-Dong-Land and you're telling 'wack job' that her mama is a llama, well, it's not me.

I will now return to my brain drain relax, where the only thing my noodle can handle, is to watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.