seriously, pass the wine

OK.

So, maybe the 'rules of etiquette' are that you only pour 2 mm of wine in a glass, but why?

My mother is Miss Manners to the extreme.

Right up there with Martha Stewart.

Not sure where this debutant social grace came from.

She really is just a Yukon child raised in East Van.

Did they have this protocol in the land of flannel?!?

She was a single mom who really had nothing and had a mother who didn't really help her out much, because she chose a family over school.

Yet somehow, she got this fancy pants personality.

So, when I said I'd like to indulge in the red wine, she poured me 2 sips in a glass.

2 sips.

I asked my baby sister as to why so little, wondering if maybe it's because she's worried because I'm experimenting with drinking like a 'normal' person.

Which kinda confuses me.

When I drank many years ago, she told me I had a drinking problem, in a not so sweet way.

Then when I was clean 'n sober, she asked why on earth I'd want to do that because I never had a drinking problem.

But now that I wanted to experiment with drinking in a sane manner, she pours me a millimetre of the bevvie?

She might as well have put it in a plastic sippy cup.

Anyway, mother left after a few days here in the blistering cold and I spoke to my baby sis who explained that it's what charm school people do.

If you drink white wine, you get a half glass, if you drink red, you get a couple of sips.

Are we who like red automatically labeled the wine-o-s?

Curious.

Apparently, it's because red you sip and white you gulp.

So what!

Gimme me half glass of red wine just like your white!

You really want to keep getting up and refilling my glass until I drink my allotted amount?

That seems like a lot of work!

And besides, I want my half glass of wine goddamit!

Now, mother has left the building, back on her flight back to Vancouver, my baby sister poured me my half glass.

I don't need more than that.

It's all I want.

It's my only evil for crying out loud!

Except for the sugar I've indulged in over the past few days.

I have pimples that are rivalling my nose.

Not sure where my chin starts and my pimples end.

Really sexy.

Not the greatest femme look.

Pizza face.

But I only have a few days left of the bad food.

This size of jean is not going to be my permanent size folks!

Things are going to change when I get back.

Except for my half glass of wine.

Fuck etiquette.

Fuck manners.

Gimme my half glass of wine.

I know Papi will pour it properly.

i know i am loved by family

one more day.

"Rest." they say.

They just keep saying I need more rest.

OK.

So, today, I'm going to rest by the river.

We've been invited to a river party.

Chicken.

Potato salad.

One person who speaks English for Papi.

A different view than the bedroom walls and ceiling for me.

We're bringing the lounging chair from the pool for me to lie on like a princess.

Kind of embarrassing.

No matter.

At least I'm getting out of this bed to rest.

Because they keep saying to rest.

Fine.

Carry me to the river and I'll do so.

They better let me have this cast off tomorrow.

My good foot can't take it anymore.

Neither can my spirit.

I think what's getting to me is the fact that I spent so many years lying around after the motorcycle accident.

I fought for years to get up off my ass, but at least then I had good pain meds to keep me from losing my mind.

When we got here, I finally started to live again.

So, take that away from me and you'll have a miserable femme.

I don't want to rest.

I want to live.

I want to do things.

I want to be off my ass.

I did my time after the accident.

This is like a cruel trick.

I finally get to start having a life and I'm knocked back down.

Fuck you, whoever decided this would be a good trick to play on me.

They just keep saying to rest.

I've rested for years.

Tomorrow we find out if they take this bitch off.

I can't wait to make myself a salad and homemade, healthy dressing.

Papi's menu of hotdogs, pasta and toast is killing me.

Tomorrow.

I get to see if I'm done with this punishment.

i express my needs and feelings

drunk crutching.

... your sunday sillies ...

I didn't think it out too clearly.

Well, the party I was invited to was actually a hang out with the entire village at the Isla Gas Station.

Party At The Gas Station!!!!!

It happens every weekend.

Only this time I was on crutches.

Some people were helpful, some people would just stand in my way, while staring at the out of place gringa.

Then there were the washrooms.

Remember when I told you about thighs of steel from not being able to sit on the loo?

Alright.  So, now that I only have one thigh ...

... ummmm ...

It was something short of a comedy routine.

This time, it was a task for my triceps.

They were shaking about while I tried my best to balance and hover over a toilet, all the while keep the crutches from slipping under the neighbouring stall, then falling on the urine infused floor with my shorts around my ankles.

At least, they were giving out napkins for toilet paper this time.

Not that it mattered.

By the time I was able to balance on one foot, reach in to my shorts pocket for the paper with the one hand that WASN'T holding me up with the other crutch, and hover just a little less to be able to do a functional reach around, piddle had dribbled down my leg.

Nice.

I was wearing white shorts.

Next came the task of wobbling back through all the people on the dance floor.

Now, this is hard enough for someone who has two feet.

Now, add in crutches.

Now, add in a pint of beer in my system.

Now, add in the assault of the speaker in your ear as you try to get past the distortion as quickly as possible, but not so fast that your crutches come out from underneath you, because the floor is slippery from spilled beer, and you have a frantic femme.

My balance is not so great at the best of times.

Alcohol will make that worse, crutches will make it even harder.

But I did it.

I finally made it back to my seat, sweating once more from the task I accomplished.

I was quite exhausted from the whole scene, and it made me not want to put any more liquid into my bladder.

Every single person who asked what happened immediately says, "Moto accident?"

Seems about right.

With the amount of people who drink and moto, there are so many of them who lose a limb on an average day.

To have a broken ankle from a moto accident isn't unheard of.

No, I do special stunts.

I like to fall off a wall, tearing a ligament in my ankle.

Now I just have to be sure that while I'm on crutches, I don't incur any more injuries.

The humiliation of piddle dribble was enough.

I don't need my 2nd cast of my life time on an arm because I slipped and fell because of crutches.

No, I stopped drinking quite early to be sure I didn't have a rebound injury.

Drunk crutching.

I don't recommend it.

i know how to adequately fuel my body

haggard.

I have so much to talk about, but somehow, I don't remember what I was going to tell you.

I do remember one item; tomorrow is the first day teaching the village children's choir.

I better have songs for them to sing, don't'cha think?  I haven't even started to prepare!!!

I've been a 'tad' busy, between Mr. Lumpy, driving to Santo Domingo, volunteering with Dream Project and everything it takes to be prepared for the above.

I'm exhausted, the dishes are piling up and the dogs are being neglected.

We haven't had the Housemaid in for a week, because we haven't been around for her allotted time.

Today is the first day in almost a week that I get to blog with my coffee.

These days, it's about running out the door with travel mug in hand, and waking up on the go while that coffee gets into my system on the road.

Showering?  Ain't nobody got time for dat!

I'm sure the locals are having lots to talk about with the stinky tattooed gringa they gossip about.

I'm pretty happy that the accident occurred 45 minutes away from here.

People in Nagua don't know us and I don't have to bow my head in shame in my own area.

Somehow, I have to look presentable for the children's concert today.

Those little beans at Dream Project are going to perform for a jazz band today.

I look forward to seeing the jazz band, as well as seeing them play for the pros.

The MusicMan is well connected and I'm very happy I've been able to be his assistant for the past few weeks.

The day before, I realized my Spanish has so far to go.

Sometimes, when I'm so tired that I can't even be bothered to shower, I just don't have the energy to study, or for that matter, REMEMBER Spanish.

Yesterday, I had a tough time at the school, and I had a tough time in my Spanish lesson last night.

Thinking that hard is difficult with limited energy!

Well, I might as well tell you about my corn.

I planted some seeds along the wall at the very front of the yard against the wall.

I didn't realized they're like banana trees, in that they're typically like a weed.

You plant in one area, and they spread out.

I have corn popping up in various areas of the yard!

I was wondering why Dominican Daddy wasn't plucking them from the ground, until I realized that they look identical to the other ones I planted.

I hope corn looks pretty, because they're invading our yard and it seems that they'll be spread out in no time.

But I know it wasn't corn I wanted to talk to you about.

Here I am, almost done my blog, and I still don't know what it was I was going to tell you.  It couldn't have been that exciting or I would have remembered right?

Wrong.

My poor injured brain has selective memory when I'm tired or stressed.  I could forget the most important of items.

I'm sure I'll remember later, when I'm in the middle of trying to understand someone's Spanish shpeel and have no idea what they just said, because I was daydreaming about some event of days past.

It will be another moment of me cocking my head, raising an eyebrow with a pained face, saying, "Que?"  That's my go to now for everything.

I was so happy to be able to get up and blog with coffee, thinking it would be a lovely writing session today, then I just sat here staring out at the ocean, watching and listening to waves crash, stunned.

If it weren't for the coffee, eggs, toast and lime infused water I was stuffing down my yak, that bewildered gaze probably would have been accompanied by me drooling all over the dogs that jump on my lap the moment I sit down at this table to write.

Ever have a donkey on your lap?

The Donkey honestly believes she's little.

Anyway, maybe tomorrow will be a little more informative and I'll remember the news I was going to share.

Until then, all you get is puppies, corn and one haggard femme.

i feel good about myself and the lessons i learn from life

new world

2 beds.

That's all they have in the emergency room in the city of Gaspar Hernández that our village borders.

All the new mothers with their babies are lined up for their immunization, and when they're done with immunization, everyone waits in the hallway with about 40 other new mothers.

Everyone thought the baby was mine, but I was only there to be part of the Little Angel's very first immunization.

They all laugh when I tell them I'm the godmother.

I suppose it's just a novelty to most to have a gringa for a godmother.

But the Little Angel is quite comfortable with me, and Our Favourite keeps offering for us to take him home for good.  Make him OUR baby.

I tell him, "I want to!  But your dad needs him."  Papa is VERY proud of his boy.

2 pediatric doctors tag team with all the mothers who need them.

There are signs everywhere that say to wash your hands with soap and water to ward off disease, but obviously that only applies to your own home, because there is no soap with which to do so in the hospital.

Newborns are everywhere, and dirty hands are touching them.

Not that we have it much better here at Casa Paraíso.  We have soap, yes, but no water.  However, we have electricity.  It seems we get a choice of one or the other.

Today, I'll be the smelly gringa who tries to cover up my BO with more pit shit.

I've given up on trying to feel fresh and pretty.  I'll leave that up to all the other lovely ladies here.

I might as well become a hippy.  My hair is definitely long enough now.

I just tie it back all the time, or up in some kinda do with my hair rags.  What's the point if I can't shower?

Anyway, Our Fave's Mom is in Gaspar Hernández with her sister who cares for them with all the love of the mother herself.

She's a great help.

They're grateful when I come, because they get a break and pass the Little Angel off to me.

I fawn over him as they clean and giggle at me speaking to him in English.  Baby doesn't care.  He can't understand Spanish either, so I'm good.

The people in the tiny little dwellings where Our Fave's Mom is staying are starting to get to know me and vice versa.

A few of them make sure I'm safe.  They watch over me as I walk, talk between people for me and surround me with their presence.

When they're not there, I have to say, it's like putting a young, pretty, naive girl in the pit with a gaggle of construction workers back home.

The leers, ogling, cat calling, attention sucking sounds and words I don't have to understand to know what they mean, really make me MUCH more than uncomfortable.

I know how to handle those creeps back home now, as I'm not the spring chicken I used to be, not to mention, not being the spring chicken, they leave me alone now.

There are good things to be said about aging for this femme ridden with P.T.S.D.

Still, I have visions of the poor woman who died from a gang rape in India.

I try my best to put on the 'don't fuck with me' face, but just like my intuition doesn't work here, neither does my Pissy Face.

I keep my stun gun in my purse.  I don't carry any cash.  I dress down.

It's a new world, and it's not MY world.

It's not the same when Papi is with me.  The men don't bother me as overtly.  But today was too early for mi esposo to play The Godfather.

It's a world that I have to adapt to, learn how to survive and most definitely, seek out the better hospitals.

No matter how bad off I am, I won't be visiting the one in Gaspar Hernández.

No toilet paper or soap, and only two beds with every sick person in the city lined up against the wall.

Nope.

I come home and clean myself pronto after a visit to that building.  Today, with water we bought from the local store.

New world, new dangers.

New life.

i maintain my self-confidence at all times in all places

Mission in mind.

No coffee in the world is going to wake me up today.

Last night we had a little problem with the garage door, and Papi and I went to work to fix it.  It meant lifting way more weight than either of us should have.

Hence, I had to embark on a Pain Med Party.

I'm doing much better today, as the heat really relaxes my damaged muscles, and they don't go into full spasm.

However, now I'm groggy and not really into accomplishing much today.

Still, I don't have that choice.  There are a few different workers coming.  One to build our bed frame, another to work on our car and a third to come fix our damn washing machine we've had for 3 weeks but haven't been able to wash any clothes with.

Yesterday at the PriceSmart in Santiago, they weren't willing to make the customer happy when I had 4 items that were not working properly, because I didn't have a receipt.

I told them that I KNOW it's in the computer, because that's where they checked when our washing machine we had just bought wasn't working.

The guy went on and on about how much time it's taking to look through the computers and how I'm taking all his precious time that could be used for something else.

I told him, "It makes up for the fact that I'm still waiting for your technicians to come and fix our washing machine.  My clothes are all dirty and I'm being patient, so maybe you can be patient with me?"

Things got much nicer after that.  We got everything I asked for and apparently, they're coming this morning.

We'll see if they get to see the crankiest, groggiest, gringo femme they've seen in their lives.

My eyes are half slit and I look about 100 years old.

Anyway, yesterday, we had a really good day getting things we needed and I'm only one step away from being able to make music again.

I just need a keyboard to talk to the computer and make music.  I may have to order online.  Here, they don't have anything that works with midi that I can find.

Hell.  It took me all this time to find a monitor with the correct hookups for my computer.  Everything is old school and about 40 years behind.  But I found the monitor.

I also finally found the synagogue!!

But dammit if they didn't have services, nor did they even have a rabbi.

I emailed Rabbi Laura about the possibility of having someone give me my jew lessons from afar.  She said she had info and would send it.

Papi asks me why I need this, and honestly, I don't have a good answer for it, other than the pride I feel for knowing that my great grandparents escaped the holocaust and I feel the need to redeem my heritage for the sake of all the years it's gone without recognition, as my family kept our heritage a secret.

I suppose I'll have to work extra hard at it, being alone without much instruction.

We all know how I feel about the g*d issue, however, having learned that we really aren't supposed to say g*d's name, it pleases me.

Besides, I'm free to talk to my angels and my Great Grandmother as my spiritual guides.

Oh!  I met the woman who gave me the baby shower invite!!!

She's very shy and I couldn't tell if she was just too shy to talk to me, or didn't understand a word I was saying, but she really didn't say much at all, but she seemed sweet non-the-less.

All I could really do was tell her I would be there, smile the biggest smile of thank you and left, because the silence was way too awkward.

Papi said she's probably not used to gringos being nice and didn't know what to say.

No doubt.  Sometimes, white assholes treat the people awful here.  I want to smack them upside the head.

But I get similar treatment from people who don't like that my Spanish isn't good enough for them.

There's one guy in particular at the hardware store who does that thing people do when someone doesn't understand the language enough.

He yells the words really loud, aggressively and slowly at me, invading the space in my face.

All I do is laugh at him and tell him I'm practicing and will get better, then tell him that people here speak Spanish fast, but he's the fastest one out there, so it's hard for me.

He doesn't care.  He just can't stand helping me, yet he's the guy I always need to talk to.

I'll win his heart over.  You watch.

I now have a new mission.

i make powerful and enjoyable business relationships and many of my business contacts are now my friends

thieves among us

AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!

So, I just finished the newest Sunday YouTube show, and it wouldn't export because my poor little laptop was too full of movies.

So, I went to town deleting all the files that I thought I didn't need and dammit, I really screwed up.

I deleted the ones from the recent show!

I suppose while all the files are loading again, I'll take a moment to tell you about Dominican home delivery.

5 heads of butter lettuce and 2 bushels of cilantro, delivered to my door, fresh and organic.

It cost 75 pesos, which is about $1.85 Canadian, but in Canada I would have paid about $8 for all these beautiful, organic greens to be delivered to my door.

Beat that Spud!!!

Now don't get me wrong.  Spud is awesome.  It was especially so, when I couldn't move from the La-Z-Boy after my motorcycle accident.

That was worth the money I'll tell ya.

If I sent Papi to buy me food he'd come back with chips, chocolate bars and pasta.

Anyway, the Housemaid brought some by from a local farmer for me to purchase this week.

This morning, the farmer came by our house with more!

For a femme who loves salad, this is seriously the most beautiful thing in the world.

Oh, speaking of the Housemaid, she stole from us again.

We had the wall painted, and when we asked where the excess paint was, she lied, "Oh, it was all finished."

We knew she was lying, but how do you catch someone in that lie without any proof?

She's a well seasoned thief.

Well, she arrived yesterday with a nice fresh streak of white paint on her cheek.

I was so taken aback that I couldn't even say anything.  I had to think about it for a day.

Now, we'll be having a talk about theft and honesty.

I'll tell her I saw the paint on her cheek and that if I went to her house, I'd find fresh paint on her walls.

That extra paint was going to be used to finish the job, as we hired her husband, the Dominican Daddy, and his cousin, who was our previous security to do the job.

You know the one?  Who would beg for more money, the minute after we paid him fairly for his job he did every night?

Well, we thought, "Hey, they need the money," so we hired them.

We wanted the pros to do it properly the first time, but no, we hired them because we wanted to help them out, but they missed a bunch of spots.

So, we wanted to fix what they didn't do to make it look finished.

But they stole our paint, then lied about it.

I'm so sick of it.

I just want to live without looking over my shoulder and counting everything.  I don't feel safety in my home.

We're back to considering we'll fire them.

Which sucks, because the Dominican Daddy is the best yard worker ever.

I can live without her house 'cleaning', however.

I have to rewash all the dishes she 'cleans' before I use them, even though I've spoken to her about it 3 times now.

So, to you all who judge me for not giving away everything, especially the most outspoken one who owns her own store ...

... tell me ... what do you do when people shoplift?  is everything in your store free? ...

... tell me again how many chances you think I'm supposed to give the thieves.

Because, clearly, 2nd, 3rd and 4th chances really aren't working.

And now, back to recovering footage I go ...

i respectfully communicate

more than scared. way more.

This could prove to be the scariest day I've had here.

I have to go into town in a 'taxi' alone.

It's one thing to sit on Papi's lap, or be in a car with Papi while I sit on someone else's lap, but by myself is a whole other story.

We have no more time on our archaic, pay as you go 'phones' (circa 1990), and we have to see the lawyer whom I can't call to cancel the plans with, because we have no time on the phones!!!

Then there's the person who is taking us to get our placard for our car.  I can't call to cancel him either.

Lastly, we need to pay the man who's building us 2 new wells, and Papi is sick.

SOMEONE didn't trust me that the water is bad.

Yesterday, they showed us just how bad the water is.

Have you ever seen a septic tank that is full?

No?

Trust me, there's no need.

It will make you gag just as bad as I did.

"Andréééééééa ... come heeeeeeeeere ..." in a tone of Lost Boys 'come out to playyyyyy'.  I should have known by the way they called me.

I strolled up with caution, unsure of what I was about to face.  They were all smiles as they lifted the lid off.

The stench hit me and my gag reflexes kicked in.

Then the sight of sewage piled high to the top of the well was the next wave of nausea that floored me.

I ran away trying to compose myself and everyone thought it was funny.

Yeah.

Real funny.

Make the city slicker sick.

Buggers.

We had to pay some dude with a hose to come and suck it all out, and now we're told the well is much too small for our house, so we're building a 2nd reservoir to take up the slack.

Not to mention a 3rd well for clean water.

I was correct in thinking that we were showering in shit.

Now, Papi has been brushing his teeth with the water for the month we've been here and guess who's got the trots?

Poor thing.

I'm pumping salted lime juice into his body, as much as he grimaces.

However, the point is, now I'm alone in this day of doing the deeds.

I'll ask the well man to drive me to the bank, because I really don't think a li'l gringo femme should be coming back home in a taxi all alone with RD $31,000 pesos in her pocket.

However, that still doesn't change the fact that we need contact with the outside world and we have plans to get a placard via our lawyer.

Someone has to do it.

That someone is the person who isn't currently attached to the toilet.

I'm terrified!!!!!

Alone!

I'm going to look as homely and unassuming as possible.

Hair back, hat on.

Glasses, no makeup.

Capri pants and a t-shirt that will cover me up best as possible, along with hiking sandals.  No cute little pink sandals with a slightly raised lift to make my calves stand out.

Terrified.

Alone.

If there is no blog tomorrow, I didn't make it home.

That or the internet isn't working again.

I'll just let you have the drama in your head as to why I'm not here.

It's good for entertainment.

i bet today will be a day to remember.  let us go greet it

here we go ...

Today, to make things simple, we have disposable underwear.

No point draggin' that stuff around.

It's time to say, "Oh, my fucking g*d!!!!!"

This is the day.

And I'm mother fucking sick with some fucking virus.

Lovely.

Anyway, I may be off the grid for a few days.

The next time I write to you, it will be from the balcony of Casa Paraíso with a view of the ocean, or from my hammock while I'm going through withdrawal from morphine.

Without bitch of a back pain.

It's feeling so damn weird, I can't even tell you.

Sadness was the big feeling yesterday.

I will miss this beautiful city, but not the chill.

I will miss my wonderful, loving friends, but I won't miss the cliques, 'mean girls' and their gossiping.

I will miss the restaurants, but not the fast food ones everywhere.

I will miss the accessibility on transit, but not the little bastards who don't respect their elders, refusing them a seat.

Goodbye Ethiopian restaurants.

Goodbye buses I don't have to take anymore.

Goodbye my favourite Canadian coffee, JJ Bean.  You are now being replaced with the best coffee on the planet!!!!  Dominican coffee!!!

I wish I could say more.

I'm just a little speechless.

Exhausted.

Overwhelmed.

And yes, finally excited!

In no time at all, we'll be there, and there will be so much to talk about.

But here's the thing, we'll have to get our internet when we get there.

That could take a few days.

They're on Dominican time.

Their time.

When they get to it.

But I will be back to talk to you about everything, and hopefully, I'll have the new YouTube show for you the moment they get us hooked up!

I'm scared.

But I'm excited.

Well folks, here we go ...

I now have to pretend I'm a straight girl.

Goodbye femme.

this is the dream

i am insignificant

I feel bad for The Yank.  She couldn't have come to visit at a worst time.

It's not good when Papi and I are depressed at the same time.

Usually one can pick the other up, but we both have shit going on.

Papi is feeling like he has no purpose.

That when he left his job, he left his intent in life.

I've reminded him that when he gets to the Dominican Republic, he will have MANY people to help and he will not feel pointless in this life any more.

I feel insignificant.

Like I just don't matter.

There was a time when I used my music to feel like 'someone'.

I needed that.

I needed to feel like I was loved, even if it was through my craft.

I felt needed that way.

That option left me after the motorcycle accident.

Gone.

I was ok with feeling like 'nothing' for a long time.

However, yesterday really made me realize just how 'nothing' I really am.

I am insignificant.

I'm not needed.

There are a handful of people who love me, and for that I'm grateful, because if I didn't have them, it's times like this that I'd surely disappear.

I tried to say goodbye to a few people at the synagogue yesterday, but soon realized, not too many people cared, so I left in tears.

"We'll miss you," they lied, with a smile on their face.

No, you really won't.

Maybe one day, you'll look at that seat and remember when I'd sit there, but you won't miss me.

I'm not important enough.

That seat will be filled with someone else.

Probably the passive aggressive guy who likes to comment that it used to be his.

Yeah, buddy?

Well, then get your ass there on time and it can be yours too.

Early bird gets the worm.

It was mine.  Not any more.

He can have it with his daughter who really believes the world revolves around her.

Imagine how she's going to feel when she realizes it doesn't?

She'll feel insignificant.

She'll feel like nothing.

She'll feel just like I do right now.

Not very fucking important.

I have no place and it doesn't matter, because there's always someone to replace me.

I just fade into the woodwork like the pretty little wallflower femme I am.

Nothing.

I used to hold people's attention.

Last night, the saddest words I dread to hear came from Papi's mouth, "I wish you were with it like before the accident.  I wish you were lively again."

I had to remind him, "Yeah, morphine will do that to ya."

It's really not good when Papi and I are depressed at the same time.

He hides it so much better than I do.

I just want to disappear.

Oh yeah, right.

That's what we're doing.

Sometimes, I wish I could really believe the positive daily mantras I write here.

i matter and what i have to offer this world matters

Here's your Sunday morning bitch.

Getting a new computer is time consuming.

Not only do you have to make sure you've successfully transferred everything from your last computer, but you also have to play around to find all the new bells and whistles!

I've been sucked into the vortex of the new computer netherworld!

Yet, it's not all fun and games, and I'm sure you'd know I have something to complain about or I just wouldn't be me, now would I?

So, here's a few beefs I have about my new Mac computer.

Why the fuck doesn't Apple have a 'Word Document' option?

They won't even let me use my old 'Word' application from my last computer, because it's too out of date.

What do they care?

Why make it useless if you're not even going to give us another one?  Everyone who uses Mac uses Microsoft Word anyway!

Oh.  They'll give us the good for nothing 'GarageBand'.

Ok.

I guess it's not meaningless for people who can't play an instrument or compose.  It's good for them to be able to use the generic sounds that the rest of the world who doesn't know how to make music uses.

But, to me, it's a waste because I don't want to sound like the rest of the world.

Not to mention 'Photo Booth'.

Have we become so fucking lazy and narcissistic that we can't even take the time to use a proper camera while we take pictures of ourselves?  And do we REALLY need a picture of ourselves sitting at the computer?!?!

Who the fuck needs this?!?!?

When I'm sitting at the computer, I don't want anyone to see me!

My hair looks like a brillo pad atop my head, I've got my coffee stained t-shirt on and no pretty femme make-up on!

No thank you.

No, you don't get to see me while I write my blog.

Still, they give you 'Notes'.  Another impractical item.

You can't send them to anyone.  I might as well use the one in my phone.

Which I don't, because it's of no use!!!!!!

I've now put all my documents into 'Google Docs'.

I will gladly share them with you, if you need them, but only if you also have a Gmail account.

Fuck Apple and their lack of documentation ability.

I don't mind the 'Face Time' option.  It's going to come in handy when we're abroad.  However, not everyone has a Mac computer.

It's kinda futile unless I know someone with a Mac.

Really, the only reason I needed a new computer was so that I could get to work on editing my documentary about our move to Casa Paraíso.

The iMovie app is working out just fine.

People who know how to use the fancy professional apps like Final Cut Pro would probably feel the same about iMovie as I do about GarageBand, but I'm not a pro movie maker.

Yet!

... enter evil 'i'm going to take over the world' laugh here ...

I just wanna get the silliness of choosing to uproot our lives out to the world.

Anyway, to make MY life simpler here's what I want the world to do.

Everyone run out and get a Mac computer so that I can talk to them on 'Face Time', and I want everyone get a Gmail account so that I can share my docs with you.

This will please me.

We all know you don't wanna piss me off.

I'm a cranky li'l bugger.

i love being cheerful and i love smiling

don't mess with the femme.

And in other news, I've decided to wean off the pain meds early.  I'm pretty sure they are the culprit of this never ending migraine.

Yeah, it's a toss up.  A debilitating migraine from the pills, or back pain without them.  Which would you choose?

My choice is to take the pain relief out of my body to stop the migraine, and I'm really hurting.  I've dealt with back pain for 4 years, so I'm used to it.  I'm not used to the migraine, so fuck it.

Yesterday, my pain was so bad that I gave Papi a 'wee bit' of a hard time.

I dragged him out of bed to get some of my shopping done.  Of course, I don't have a license, so when I need to do my major run around, I need my chauffeur.

However, my dearest love is healing from a sinus infection from overworking himself.

... i've already given him the 'i told'ja so' treatment, so don't worry ...

I dragged him out anyway.  He didn't look as pale as he did the last few days, so the fresh air would do him good.

There we were at the mall, and he decided that as long as he was already here, he'd get some well needed shoes.

I was done with getting what I needed.  I was also cooked from walking.  My bitch of a back was killing me, and my was head pounding, so I took a seat.

Did I mention we were outside?

I was holding his old shoes in the new shoe box for him.  They made a good chin rest for my throbbing head.

Then the time came where I really had enough of my bitch of a back screaming at me for sitting and wanted Papi here NOW!

Only I waited, and waited.  Then I waited some more until I was fed up and in so much pain, my devil horns were sticking out of my head.

I tried to go walk to find him, so I could get the keys to the car.  No point having keys to a car you can't drive, right?!?!?!

Well, I got a few yards and realized even the weight of the box of old shoes was too much for my back to carry.

I dropped them.  Right then and there beside a garbage can, and they gave a loud 'THUD'.

Two rather tall, black men with an American drawl, were a wee bit concerned, "Hey girl!  What's going on?  What happened?"

In full, short, white girl attitude I flipped my hand and told them, "I'm not carrying his fucking shoes no more!"

They didn't know they were old, stinky, beaten ones.

They just thought I was a little firecracker who had enough of whatever my man did, and my man was going to pay for whatever it was he did wrong.

Once for dissing his little lady, and twice for having to buy the shoes a second time because someone would have stolen them by the time we got back to them.

The laughter I heard behind me was so awesome that I wanted so bad to turn around.

My back would prevent me of this.  I already knew that, so I didn't bother looking to join in with my honky girl giggles.

Not to mention, I didn't have an iota of giggle in me.

I just carried on and gave a wave of my hand and off I went to find Papi.  The Limping Lesbian, complete with sour face.

Every human that had ever felt back pain was giving me the look of, "Oh you poor, poor soul."

I looked in a couple of stores, then decided I was about to cry from the pain and couldn't walk any further, lest I would just have to walk back that same amount to get back to the car.

As I turned back to walk to the car, I heard my sweet love call my name.

Oh, poor Papi.

When I turned around, I must have looked like Medusa, because he almost froze in his tracks.  "Are you mad at me?"  Oh, I was hopping and let him have it.

Leave your femme waiting in the cold with a limp and no car keys?  Oh, you'll get it all right.

My sweet love really didn't know how much pain I was in, but when I am to that point, not even a sighting of Mother Teresa would bring back an ounce of positivity to my spiraling negative state.

Once I was in recline mode in our car, I apologized to mi esposo for dumping his box of old shoes, which also had his new belt, only my fucked up memory from brain injury declined me of this information.

That's when I said to myself, "3 weeks.  In 3 weeks I won't be in this pain."

That's when the anxiety of just how little time we have left here set in, and here I sit, a wee bit scared.

Frozen, to be exact.

the anger does not reflect who i am

grant me the serenity ...

Ah, the holidays.  A chance to be with ones you love, and practise tolerance for the ones you don't.

Alas, both we and them are human, and we can only tolerate so much.  Especially when they say things like, "Why do you have to move all your cats when you go?  Can't you just get more there?"

... love and tolerance andréa ... keep it together ...

The only thing that got me through that one was the grace to give my mother a nice evening and not start an all out brawl.

How do you explain to someone what family is, if they don't have any concept of love?

Every day, I write my gratitude list to My Gratitude Buddy, the Sweet Ex and my MC Guru.

At the end of the gratitude list, we give forgiveness, which most of the time includes ourselves.

After last night, I've decided that the once in a while forgiving isn't going to work on this guy.  I'm going to have to do it every day to try to grant myself peace concerning him.  Every day, I will forgive this person, in hopes that I will let go of my anger towards him.

It's very hard, especially when they belittle your mother, but you know you have no option but to let her be in that relationship.

She wants to be there.

So, here I am, just on the cusp of learning what it is to 'pray' in my own way.

I won't call it 'pray', because it reminds me too much of my upbringing and makes me wanna toss my cookies.

I'd say it's more like talking to the angels that surrounded me the day of my Soul Activation.

So, I started with, "Please, do you think you could help him be a better person?"

Then it went to, "Please, do you think you could help my mom see that she deserves better?"

And then, it started getting really un-spiritual, "Do you think you could just kill him off?  The world would be a much better place and my mom would be free."

That's when the anger set in and I had to get out of bed and hang out with Papi watching television re-runs.

"I'm having anxiety."

"About the DR?"

"No, about Mr. Homophobia."

Seriously.  Papi stuffed a clonazepam down my yak pronto.  The 'talking' to my spirits caused me to roll out of bed and feel my migraine come back to haunt me.

This morning, I remembered that when I talk to the angels for anything, it should be strength for myself, so that I don't allow my anger to brew.

Anger only hurts me.

I also remembered a saying in that group of anonymous drunks that came into play: the only person I have control over is myself.

I need to be stronger and not allow people's crap to infiltrate my well being.

I suppose my lack of peace also came when I ate my allergy food.

There I was, snacking on ginger bread angels, snowmen, candy canes, then moved on to the shortbread and finally finished it all off with a great piece of apple pie.

That binge had my poor little brain inundated with the poison running through it once more, and Hurricane Andréa was in full swing.

Especially when someone said Papi and I looked alike in a recent photo.

I lost it!  I hate it when people say that, and now that's 3!!!!  How could we look alike?!  Papi's all handsome like, and I'm all femmed out!

But I calmed down after I did a poll and found more people don't see the resemblance than do.

I'm going with the majority.  I'm on their side.

Papi just says, "Well, if we look alike, then I guess we really dig what we look like."

I didn't get it at first, but after it made me chuckle when I realized it means we look in the mirror and we each say, "Damn, I'm hot!"

Then when we found each other we said, "Damn!  You look like me and I'm HOT!  Wanna fuck?"

I guess it's sorta funny now.

Certainly wasn't when I had the evil sugar and wheat pumping through my veins at high velocity!!

Anyway, I'm feeling much better now, and all I want to do is ask my angels for strength.

Strength to stay away from the sugar.  That's really all I need.

The rest will fall into place after that.

i release all anger

a day in the life ...

The game is, whomever gets to The Countdown first in the morning gets to rip a tab off.  Sometimes it's Papi coming home from a Graveyard shift, sometimes it's me waking up from slumberland.

 

I usually piddle a little from joy when I get to look at this:

 

Papi gets a boner when he looks at this:

 

Then, before I hit the washroom to clean up the mess I made from excitement of getting my braces off, I light The Golden's candle to say good morning and stare at the love we've given him over the past 2 weeks.

 

I've been writing him love notes and begging him to come show me he is OK.  He finally did last night.

He came bounding through the door of my dream, jumped all over me and I told him I love him so many times.  He kissed me over and over and I woke up with a healed heart.

He's happy, youthful and very, very well.

Then I went back to playing in a band with Keith Urban.  I'm not sure why I dream about that guy so much, but I do.

Anyway, then I stagger to the kitchen to make my coffee, and this is the first thing I see:

 

Chaos of preparation.

However, there is one cute thing to look at.

 

You'll have to look really close to see it, but in the depths of this darkness, there is a kitten that goes by the name of The Mrs.  She's decided this is her new home.

She's gonna be pissed when she finds out she has to share it for 8 hours with The Bastard Prince.

After I've fed all the Fuzzy Family, a certain member doesn't want to go outside for his morning tinkle.

This is where he hides, because he actually thinks he's invisible here:

 

Don't ask me why.

But dammit!  It would sure be nice if the li'l puto used it for it's purpose, instead of me walking him outside in my worst outfits possible and skanky hair to go along with it!

A femme should never have to look that horrible in public!

So, there ya go.

Our Closet.

Our life.

i feel radiantly full of abundant energy and health

my, what big balls you have, papi!

Oh, the mischief Papi gets into!  Only this time, he's a hero.

I've told you about The Beast, right?  She, who rendered me homeless with a 'packing party', changing the locks so that I returned 'home' from a 16 hour shift to being 'homeless'?

Her hideous behaviour is no less loathsome than the people who stood on the balcony, barfing out their obscene loyalty to The Beast.  They were looking down at me snickering as if to say, "Ha ha!  Na-na n'na-na!  We fucked you up, bitch!"

Who does that?  Who has that kind of evil in them that they would think this is OK?

Oh yeah!  Right!  The kind that have so much hideous hatred, that they would laugh at my misfortune of being in a wheelchair after the brain injury from my motorcycle accident.

That's who.

Anyway, Papi and I saw one of them at a store today.

Wait!  I have to back up before I tell you the punchline of this story.  Oh, let's see if I can do this in a short version.

The reason The Beast dumped me, was because she was getting back together with her ex-girlfriend.  That's why she made me homeless; to make room for the new relationship.

Now, I feel so sorry for this woman getting caught in the web of The Beast.  She didn't know what she was getting into!

Anyway, they got married after I sued The Beast, and now, the Sweet Ex is now suing her as well!

Oh, but wait!  It gets better!

I've become very close friends with this Sweet Ex.  She is one of the most loving friends I have.  We're so very similar, but then, that makes sense, ya know?  Predators only go after a certain 'type' they know they can abuse.

OK.  I hope I've set up the scene for you.  Let's get back to one of the Balcony Barfers we saw in the store today.

This one tried so very hard not to 'notice' me.  Oh, come on!  Everyone was staring at me because of my ridiculous leg warmers I was wearing.  That and I had my hair out and proud.  I looked like a walking cartoon of a full on femme.

I was most definitely seen and was most definitely avoided.

Papi said to me, "I feel like I need to say you deserve an apology."

I texted the Sweet Ex to giggle with her about the Balcony Barfer experience, and she said, "Oh, Papi should do it!"

We didn't expect it, but as they neared around the corner, Papi did it.

I couldn't believe it!

He just spurted it out like he knew the Balcony Barfer, "You should be ashamed of yourself and for how you all treated her!"

"Excuse me?" was all that could come out of the Balcony Barfer's mouth.

Papi continued, "You should apologize for what you did."

Unfortunately, the Baclony Barfer hasn't grown enough to apologize.  All I got was a shake of the head combined with an, 'Oh, come on!"

Nope.

I still don't get an apology.  I probably never will.  This clique will stand by their actions as they terrorize the Sweet Ex as well.

Some people can never admit they've been an ass.  If I get an apology, I'm usually more than happy to give someone the benefit of the doubt, because I know how much of an ass I've been in my life and I'm the first to admit it.

Of course, I had to call the Sweet Ex and tell her that Papi is our fearless lion!  We had such a playful time bobbing in Papi's wake!  Nobody ever stands up to these people.  Somehow, to the weak, they're admirable?

Hell no!

Admirable is my hero husband, calling out one of the Balcony Barfers for what they are: a shame.

Indeed, that male transformation is complete.

Papi has big balls.

i forgive every person who has undermined my self-esteem

let's make a deal.

So, Papi comes home, bright and early from a long graveyard shift, and announces, "Ok.  We need to make a will."

Fair enough.

We now own property together, and I've been given the green light to start a retirement savings plan that is for people with disabilities.

It's really cool!

I'll tell ya, it isn't too often the government will actually give us money, so I jumped on it.  They will actually match up to $3,500 I put in.

So we did some wrangling with our finances and got'er did!

Not to mention, Papi has the nest egg from his partial early inheritance.

Oh, and the fact that we're taking some big risks soon is another reason we perhaps should be thinking about it.

So, I agreed, "Yeah, we need a will."

But then he continued, "If you cheat on me or leave me, I get The Mrs."

Not the house.

Not the RRSP, or the nest egg.

The Mrs.

He believes that he loves that cat more than I do.

Let me tell you, with the fucking animal kingdom we have to deal with in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft, she really is the only good one.

Perhaps, it's because she's the only girl and the rest of the orangutans are boys?

... like we need to ponder the nurture vs. nature theory ...

It's just her and I in this male soup.

Anyway, he really only wants to make a will because he wants The Mrs.

Now, the other half that made me giggle, was the 'fooling around' or 'leaving him' part.

People just don't get the depth of my monogamy.

I am probably the most monogamous person on the planet.

Honestly.

Once I fall in love, there is only one person my heart is given to and with all the P.T.S.D. this femme has to deal with, 'fooling around' isn't taken lightly in my books.

No, there has to be trust in my bed.

I'm lucky in the fact that even though I've had numerous partners cheat on me, I've never been jaded by it and turned into a cheater myself.

I just kept on keepin' on until I found the one that wouldn't cheat.

So, Papi, you're safe there, and I trust you like nobody else.

As for the leaving thing.

Did you not hear the first part?  I mate for life.  I've only left because I wasn't treated like I deserve to be, or I haven't found what I want in a relationship.

Seriously.

Do you not see how much we've endured since the beginning of our relationship, not to mention the past few years of all we've toughed out?

Oh, I think you know I'm not going anywhere.

I'm pretty sure it was only a joke about the will.

Besides, this isn't a will we're talking about here.

We're talking about a contract or a post-nup.

Ok.

Here it is in black and white for the world to witness.

"I, Andréa Hector-Brown, do attest that if I ever leave or cheat on my dearest Papi, I will relinquish all rights to The Mrs."

There ya go baby.

Oh how I love you, Papi.

i am loved

no, not she/he, asshole.

Maybe I'm just bitchy and short fused because I'm sick, but seriously, people really piss me off.

Someone thinks I'm a lazy ass and that Papi does everything.

Really mother fucker?!?!

Papi and I do different things, because I can't lift heavy items or walk for long periods, but I pull my weight.

I promise you.  I pull MORE than most people with my bitch of a back would.

I work my ass off just to keep up, so relatively speaking, I do more than most.

When I was healing in the chronic time from my motorcycle accident, people would say to me, "You know, most people only choose one area of rehab to work on then move on to the next."

I said, "Fuck that.  I've got to get better now."

So, when someone says that they feel bad for Papi, because he has to do everything, I really want to slap them upside the head.

I really want to scream at them and tell them to take their judgement somewhere else.

Go look in the mirror and tell me that you're working just as hard as me.  I can almost guarantee I'll win that game.

I know this because I'm a stubborn mother fucker.  I will win or hurt myself trying.

Earlier on in the day, another asshole pissed me off because he wouldn't respect that Chaz Bono is a male.

Can you believe it?  Me!!

This femme was pissed off because someone wouldn't give the proper respect for a trans person.

Who is that!?!?  Definitely not the same girl from two years ago, that's for sure.  That absolutely blew me away.

Then I realized, we all have a path of learning.

Really though, what it comes down to, is that we all pass judgement, whether we want to admit it or not.  We get really pissed when someone passes judgement upon us, but we turn around and do it straight back at them, tit for tat.

We're all human, but we can all learn to keep our minds open to things we don't understand.

This girl has no idea how hard I work just to keep up with everyday life like a healthy able-bodied person does.

This guy has no idea how hard it is to be a trans person and be disrespected in being called by the wrong gender, even by the person they love the most.

I mean really, look at Chaz Bono.  Is there anything in there that you can say is female about him?  The only way this person could say 'she' about him was because he had prior knowledge.

The other day, Papi and I were in the cop shop getting our fingerprints done for the consulate of the Dominican Republic, and there was a spot for previous names or aliases.  Papi had put his previous 'female' name in this spot like a law abiding citizen.

The woman thought my love had put my name in there by accident, because there's no way he could be named with such a feminine name.

When mi esposo proceeded to explain that he is a transgender person, the woman stated, "Wow!  Good for you!  I would have never known!"

That made Papi proud.

However, then she had knowledge.  She knew a secret; that Papi was called by a former pronoun.  She respected him though, and treated him like a male being.

Unlike this crud of a Facebook guy that called Chaz a she/he and a she.

As much as I'm pissed, I realize, we all pass judgement.

As soon as this girl assumed I do fuck all for our relationship, I jumped straight to judging her path, in an energetic way to hurt her back.  Good thing I didn't text her and say anything I would regret today.

I had a chance to sleep on it and realize that she only sees one side, because I never allow her to see mine.

We all judge.  Nobody is exempt from it.  But perhaps, we can try to see another person's view in the story.

It's far better than being pissed off.

i balance my self-confidence with modesty

what doesn't kill ya, stinks.

How is it, that when we get sick, we smell like something died?

Seriously.  I can't stand myself right now.  If I had a hot tub, I'd jump in and make femme stew.

Well, maybe not.  I actually don't have the strength for more than sitting here on the La-Z-Boy in my pseudo solitary state.

I'm sure Papi can smell me from the couch while he sleeps off the Graveyard Coma.  That may account for the mumbling I don't understand.  "Maxc, mvrvfjfjlkhg! Kajlkhaoiudrknha!" could be translated to, "Please, stop the smell!  I can't take it!"

I'm sure the animals love it.  You know.  They like stinks.  Dogs roll around in miscellaneous odours they find in the grass, and the cats like to stink things up as fast as they can on any surface, especially beds.

Speaking of stinks, The Bastard Prince has a reeky, kitty poo box right behind the La-Z-Boy, which is beside his cat tree pedestal, which is crammed in front of the crates the Fuzzy Family will be in for their flight to the Dominican Republic, that are in the corner of Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

This placement is so that he can get into the biz box, work his magic turds out, then scoot out and up the tree faster than Psycho Kitty can get to him.  I can also protect him with a spray bottle as I lie here like death.

You see, this is because Psycho Kitty has decided that ALL the stink boxes are HIS and he will protect HIS property to the death.

So, there's more than just my putrid stench that emanates, as I listen to The Bastard Prince scratch at the sides of his very own fetid bin.

I'm just too weak to go mining for gold in the stink box.

I also don't feel like getting into the shower.  I don't have the strength to get up, never mind the energy to de-stink-ify myself.

I'm very grateful for Papi, who was sweet enough to go buy me a soy latte.

When I slithered out of bed at a weak noon hour, I asked him to make me a coffee so I didn't have to suffer a caffeine headache on top of a flu.

He's always too uncomfortable to make my Dominican coffee, so he decided he'd go stand in line on a Sunday morning instead.  Off he went in his pajamas, hanging with all the hipsters waiting for their fix, so they can commence being 'seen' on the wooden patio at the Main Street JJ Bean.

I guess it's still warm enough for most people to sit outside.

Not for me.  I'm in flannel pajamas, wrapped in a flannel housecoat, with a blanket covering all my layers.  I'm seriously making my own sauna.

I suppose that could explain me winning the stench puppy award.  However, there's no point in taking off any layers.  I'll just complain about being too cold, and the stink.

We all know what comes next; boredom.

We're too sick to get up and do anything, but we're finally tired of bad T.V. and wish we could partake in any kind of activity that makes us feel alive.

We stand up in a delirious huff of, "Fuck this shit," and head down the hall to the washroom.

The closest we get to doing any activities is checking out our new hair style in the bathroom mirror, then peeing out the virus we've watered down with orange juice, water and ginger tea.

Well, maybe YOU don't drink ginger tea when you're sick, but you should.  That's the only preaching I'll do.

Come on!  It feels good on the throat!  And builds your immune system!

OK.  That's definitely the last preach, I promise.

So, as I watch another free, bad movie and try to figure out how Papi can snore in tandem with The Golden through all my shows, not to mention, as I have to listen the whining of Psycho Kitty wanting dinner, I wonder, "Why do we stink so much when we get sick?"

More than anything, I await the energy that finally helps me arise from my Pit of Doom and walks me into the shower to cease the smell.

For now, I'll just cuddle with The Bastard Prince.

He likes l'Aroma d'Andréa.

every day i'm getting better and better

no lectures. please.

I can dream can't I?

I can dream that one day, one FINE day, they'll make a wheat free bread option that isn't so dense, that Papi will actually eat it.

I'm fine with it, but then when I was a drinker, I used to drink thick beer.  Mind you, I would drink any beer, or wine, or hard stuff all in one shot.

Whatever you had to offer, I was in.  And yes, I'm still grateful I'm clean 'n sober.

Wait!  I got off track and it wasn't even about my hair!

Anyway, off I went to the bakery, to look for wheat free bread for myself.  Not for Papi.  My dream hasn't come true for him yet.

I got to the yellow and brown sign, and in I went to look for my kamut bread.

The young lady tried to tell me, "I don't think we make that here."  I was positive they did and that maybe she was nippin' at a few brew herself.

I let it go eventually, and went to the front to see what kind of wheat free, dairy free, processed sugar free, quick goodies they had to offer.

... today i found out she was right ... it was from a totally different bakery with the same damn colours! way to fool the brain injured femme bitches!  aaarrrggghhh!!!  get your own damn colours for chrissakes! ... end rant ...

When she heard 'dairy free', off she went on a vegan tangent about how cows should really only be giving milk to their babies.

I had a flashback of another vegan friend who gave me the same lecture, back when I was putting cream and honey in my coffee.

That of course was back when I was clueless as to why I kept getting sinus infections.  I soon found out that it was the dairy.  It was a sad day when I had to let go of my Havarti cheese.

G*d, I'm really out to lunch on this staying on track thing today!

Ok.  Back on track.

So, the old vegan friend told me that milk was for the cows' babies and honey was not for our consumption.

Yeah?

So then, try telling the birds in the park that our cars are meant for driving, and not for using to their advantage.

You know?  They fly up with a clam shell, then drop it on the road as the cars drive by, in hopes that our cars will crush the shell and they can get to the goodies!

As much as I can't have dairy because of allergies, I really don't appreciate being lectured to about veganism.

I appreciate that vegans can be vegans.  If I could, honestly, I would.

However, my food allergies don't allow me the pretend meats, turkeys and chickens vegans can consume, because they're made with wheat.  My sugar imbalances don't allow me to chow down on grains (aka: carbs) all day long.  I'm only permitted a cup a day, or I'll be passing out all over the place.

I was vegetarian for 13 years and I was always sickly.  Not to mention, because of the fact that I was anorexic at a younger age, I was delayed in the muscular growth I needed to build muscles around my knees to hold my knee caps in place.

I tried every vegetarian, food combination option I could, but nothing was going to build my muscles until I ate the meat.

As soon as I started to eat meat, my physio, doctor and boxing trainer all jumped up for joy!  I would finally get the right foods for me into my body.

Next, every single person I knew started to tell me I was looking so healthy!  I couldn't tell them I started to eat meat, because I was so embarrassed that I had let go of my vegetarianism.  I was so humiliated that all my politics of eating had to be ignored.

Of course, to be fair to myself, I now only eat meats that are properly treated when they're alive.  No cooped up chickens, or animals who have been shot up with every hormone and antibiotic known to us.  Not to mention, eating foods they should never be eating, just to give us foods that feel good for our spoiled rotten taste buds.

My body needs proper protein, or I'll get anemic, and my body won't function properly.  Especially now that I'm still bloody well healing from that fucking motorcycle accident 4 years ago.

So, I don't need some snotty little brat to make me feel guilty about eating the foods I need to be healthy here on planet earth.

It's survival of the fittest bitches!

Now, pass me the organic, grain fed steak, with a side of wheat free toast.

i think before i eat

Shit kickin' boots.

I channeled my inner redneck for Ladies Night.

I dressed for the part, right down to my dog tag I wear every day with utter pride.  It's the one I received from the Queer Arts Festival this summer.  You remember the one?  The Queer As Fuck award!

One this day, I felt it was the perfect accessory for my power suit.

Every day, I dress in my prettiest clothing, sometimes wackiest colours, to make my femme presence known.

This time, I didn't want to wear it for shooting guns.

I did the last few times.  It's fine to wear a skirt, but from this point forward, I feel that I must don my jeans and boots.

I pulled every little eyelet of my 'Sidekick' Dayton Boots taut.  I exerted myself, as I wrapped that stout leather around my ankles and shins.

That of course was after I'd slithered into my tightest, most badass jeans I have.

This was not a night for my Dominican jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets.

No, this was a night for Diesel Indian, Bootcut jeans.

They pull my figure into a tiny little package of strength and 'don't mess with me' attitude.

You could never pull the femme from me, so I still felt pretty with my locks hanging down around my shoulders.

In order to fit in the with the bio-boys, I especially chose my camo sweatshirt to wear nice and snug under my riding leather.

Of course, I no longer have a license to ride my motorcycle, or any other vehicle for that matter.  Even if I did, my dearly departed bike was killed in the motorocycle accident.

Still, I kept my leather jacket.  Only problem is, as I went into the closet in Our Closet, I realized it's in storage!

I had to settle for my black jean jacket with a few lacy bits behind the buttons.

No matter, because all together, they give me a certain amount of strength.

My boots hold my feet firm on the ground, with their sturdy heels.

Not to mention their pointy tips, that are seriously good for the off-chance that I may need to kick someone in the balls.

Strength.  I'm searching for my strength.

It's my power suit.

She means business.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I walked in with confidence.  Every boot step sounded as I crossed the floor.

It was like I was wearing a red dress.

It was my space.

My night.

When I shot those tiny silver bullets from my .22, the gun ranger realized he didn't need to help me, saying, "you're really doing good!" then turned his focus on My Gratitude Buddy and my friend I got to know a little better.

They're another member of the Pariah Club.  They fit in just fine.

The only thing I needed the gun ranger to do for me, was load me another cartridge so it was ready for my next round.

Of course, my two buddies were in it for the fun, as they shot their 357 Magnum.  I stuck to my .22 and 9mm.

If you didn't see the outcome of my new shooting expedition, you have to take a peek at it from yesterday.

I'm getting better.

I'm finding my strength.

I'm finding more confidence.

I'm finding that I WILL be protecting myself without any hesitation.

With that, I'm finding more peace.

I'm also finding a new bond with my shit kickin' boots.

i have only positive mental pictures