Posts Tagged ‘stories’

Where I come from.

April 19, 2013

My heritage is in listening to medical stories over dinner. This heart attack, that injury. Words spinning and dancing in the air, describing microwaving blankets to heat the up for boring night shifts. How the full moon makes everyone crazy. What this doctor said to that nurse, and always, the quiet thread of lives she has saved.

My heritage is in music, his stunning ability to sing and play the saxophone and just about any instrument he tried. Long walks in the woods, no place to go, all the time in the world to waste. Board games and letting me put make up on his face.

My heritage is lying in a bed while her older hands lightly trip across my skin, scratching my back and weaving stories together, telling me my future, the future of my sister. Sitting by her kitchen table, eating long johns and cheap hamburgers. Sitting in the dust, feet over water, fishing and listening to the rhythm of the world.

My heritage is in his books, his silences. Reader’s Digest condensed novels handed to me like some people offer seven year olds candy. Big bowls of popcorn, almond praline ice cream. Hose nose shines from my mother’s face, my sister’s.

My heritage, too, lies within myself. Hours alone in the woods, in fantasy worlds, climbing over fences into areas that were off limit. Endless filled notepads, playing with little people on my bookshelf and creating worlds for them, composing music during other empty hours and being absorbed and whole.

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The second-to-last guy I ever dated (AKA run like hell when your boyfriend shaves other men’s backs!)

September 14, 2011

The last summer I dated boys started with plans for my then boyfriend, soon to be fiance, to drop out of his PhD programme and move across the country to be with me. I broke up with him. I then dated – god help me – a gay guy. Oh yes, you read that right.

He worked at camp with me – we had very few males, and it was always a surprise to me that I always had a boyfriend when there were 60 0ther young women all competing for them. Especially when I just didn’t give a damn; I was there to have fun. And not that kind of fun. Lest you think I am big headed, let me tell you about this particular camp relationship.

You might want to make a s’more or something, cause this is a campfire tale for sho’.

Let’s say this guy’s name was Ruben – that seems suitably poncy. (Apologies to any Rubens reading this.)

His ass was stuck to me like glue. We had a lot of fun – we’d sit out all night talking under the stars, no hint of any sort of romance. Except, you know, I looked more forward to hanging out with him than I did ever seeing my boyfriend again. We were kind of shadow self best friends. We dressed up as twins for Twins Meals. We made matching baby slings for our stuffed animals. (Fuck, I SUCK! I am so gross as a human being!)

It was all gravy and rainbows and freewheeling camping weekends – right up to the point when he turned into an asshole.

That first bit happened when he heard I’d come out as a bisexual. (How I identified then, not how I identify now.) He muttered some bullshit about, ‘Having had enough of bi girls.’ Um, okay. I guess his last girlfriend was bi or something. During this time I’d broken up with my boyfriend – and remember asking him (the ex, not Ruben) how it felt to kiss me. He said the world shifted. I told him I felt like I was kissing a block of concrete. Jesus, the cruelty of the nineteen year old closeted lesbian who was pissed off.

That left me free and clear to date Ruben. Uh, mistake.

We kissed once or twice and it was…dull. It was while watching ‘Amistad’ at my mom’s house, and I actually fell asleep. Still, I think I was reeling from ending a very serious relationship and didn’t want to give up on my friend? boyfriend? Ruben.

Even when he took me to visit his friend. Now, this is the part where you put your s’more down because otherwise you might choke and die. RUBEN WENT TO THIS GUY’S HOUSE TO SHAVE HIS BACK. Or at least that’s the cover story. Yeah, his friend was so fucking hairy he needed to PAY RUBEN TO SHAVE HIM. They disappeared into a bedroom (oh, Existere, slap your forehead now) and came out like an hour later. I sat uncomfortably on a couch that smelled of dog.

And then he became more of an asshole. Bossiness, talking smack to me at my mom’s house, etc. I was so over that shit. Stopped the friendship cold – because if someone you’ve just met already treats you like a dishrag, that is not a relationship that is going anywhere. Ever. (Except places you don’t want to go. Trust me.)

My mom, not realising I’d thrown him over, fucking calls camp. I put her on loudspeaker so all my friends can hear her decry him as a potential abuser, a guy just like my dad, an asshole of the highest order. We all giggled. She also sent a six page letter outlining her concerns.

The last day of camp came, and Ruben – after me ignoring him for weeks – came over to my car, stuck his head in the window, and pecked my lips before saying we’d have to get together. Yeeeeeah, I don’t think so.

Once I got back to university and met David (the aforementioned gay best friend and computer buyer), I told him this story. He got a look on his face.

The next time I saw David, he produced what had to be the best thing I’ve ever seen: a copy of our university’s gay magazine. On the COVER was a giant picture of Ruben sitting backwards on a chair, his lumberjack sleeves ripped off at the shoulder and a dandelion stuck in his hair. Yeah.

He wasn’t just an asshole, he was a GAY asshole that hated bisexual girls. What did he think would happen – I’d run off with a chick and he would no longer have a beard to help cover up his back shaving activities??

I can’t be the only person this has ever happened to. Can I?

High School Musical.

August 29, 2010

I’m pretty certain that earlier in the week, for no discernible reason, I was thinking about the Steve Miller Band. This morning I woke up with a craving to hear the CD. While I supervised breakfast, TMD went hunting for it (‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I think it’s in that CD case labelled Existere’s bullshit music from high school!’). Next thing you know, we are motherchucking ROCKING IT OUT.

Crazy people dancing, in other words. Like sort of bouncing up and down, doing our own thing, only to extend our arms and wiggle our spirit fingers in time with the music. Coconut was smiling and clapping. Snort’s eyes sort of glazed over (I think he was in self protection mode).

It got me to thinking: in high school, my First Love – let’s call him Redneck…no, that’s mean. How about …no, hmm. Okay. Let’s call him Steve, courtesy of the Steve Miller Band.

Anyway, when we broke up several things happened. One is that I turned into a crazy Catholic whore who kissed a lot of boys. Two is that my father offered him a job for the summer (Ultimate Betrayal Number One). Three is that I went to a Steve Miller Band concert with some friends.

It had been a raw summer. I was getting ready to move away from home at the tender age of seventeen and very scared about university. Steve, my boyfriend of two years who I was convinced I would marry had just dumped my ass – and on that same day, I threw a bowling ball at his head.  I was living at camp most of the summer, but this one weekend I hooked up with my high school friends in order to Party! It! Up! at this concert. (Our idea of partying is probably radically opposed to most people’s.)

Well, now, who should I bump into but my pal Steve?? The heartbreaker, the ‘I know I’ll always love you but I can’t be with you’ bastard who dumped me two weeks before prom. Oh, Steve.  And who was Steve at the concert with? MY FATHER. (Ultimate Betrayal Number Two.)

Oh, I got so fucking bummed out I spent most of the concert walking around with my pal Fishy. This concert place was outdoors on a big hill, and I spent most of it on the other side of the big hill, endlessly talking about the fact that my father had invited my ex-boyfriend to a fucking concert.

Meeeeemmmmmories. Sweet memories.

Incidentally, my ‘father’ has not sent so much as a card for Snort & Coconut’s birthday (Sister, I know you act out of love, but please don’t remind him of this. Just don’t mention us, okay?). In a way it’s a terrible relief.

Relief because I’d said to TMD that if he failed to acknowledge their birthday it would be further proof (if I needed it) that he has no place in my life. Terrible because it feels like he is rejecting me and my babies, and really I want to be the one rejecting him.

At any rate, Snort is asleep. Coco has shat herself magnificently, but I can’t leave him as he’s sleeping on the couch. I type as I wait for TMD to come in from installing their new car seats and change Coco.

When everyone wakes up, I’m putting on Jimi Hendrix.

A hunka hunka burning brain.

November 2, 2008

That is a picture of Opposite Gender Soulmate around the time I met him, which I think is just about 10 years ago. Not that I’m keeping track.

I was going to put up a bigger picture (is this the beginning of the end of anonymity?), but thought it might funk up my blog somehow. Hope you have your magnifying glasses at the ready.

I met Opposite Gender Soulmate in a screwy way, actually: I was on my last ever date with a boy, and my first ever blind date. The guy was named Eric, and so help me god, I don’t know how I met him. Online, I suspect. He was a perfectly nice guy, but there was no chemistry. I was bored.

Into the coffee shop walked Crazy Bisexual Gal, a girlie I’d had the slow burning hots for. This was a time when we were all fueled by activist anger, pink hair, and copious amounts of rainbow accessories. Crazy Bisexual Girl walked right over and plopped herself in the middle of my date (sorry, Eric). With her, she brought O.G.S.

He was, quite simply, a life-mate within the first three seconds. I’d never looked at someone before and felt this way, this immediate connection and rightness. Within days (it might have been that evening, actually), we were dancing together at a Gay Pride event, and he shouted in my ear, ‘If we were straight, I would have already proposed to you!’

And you know what? I would have said yes.

He lit up my life in lots of little ways, and I definitely had a big friendship crush on him. The first time I went over to his dorm room, I said, ‘Listen, I just put a used pad in your garbage can. I felt I should warn you.’

His reply? ‘Well, I’ve got a lot of Kleenexes in there filled with my sperm.’  From this, we imagined a world where a Pad Baby could be created in the garbage, fueled by his sperm somehow hitting my egg on a bed of cottony goodness. (Biology didn’t seem important.) This eventually evolved into wanting children together, ideas of co-parenting and communal living, elaborate schemes to help keep us in a fantastic mutually created world where everything seemed deeper, brighter, scarier – where everything was, simply, more possible.

I thank him for that, for the ways he created new neural pathways in my brain, more forgiveness in my heart, more drama in my home. I have a lot I could say about him, but for now it feels enough to say that this time period was, to me, what life must’ve been like for Dorothy when things switched from black-and-white to colour.