Now ya’ll well know nothing about me is at all odd, so I really had to search my un-weird soul… haha.

1 – I am a huge homo, but those pretty lil’ faggy twinks are so beautiful to look at … especially charming when sweet youth pretends to be sultry and brooding … as if darkness = fashion. Wish I had a boy-pet to spoil!

2 – I have collected antique photographs for several decades – daguerreotypes, tintypes, and lots of faded old images of Butches and Femmes. People ask if these photos are my ancestors. NOPE. I just think most all rusted, discarded, utilitarian, remnants of forgotten people are magical. Wonder if these pictures will be discarded again when I am gone?

3 – I have an obsession with horror: dolls and clowns and things that aren’t supposed to be scary; chilling but true tidbits that cause girls to make awful faces; reminders that we are indeed made of meat; the psychology of murder, ect. Why? I very, very, very nearly drowned when I was five. Death had gripped my throat. I so remember the sun through the water, a panicked struggle and then that cold, quiet moment of realization. The living probably aren’t supposed to be that aware of mortality.

4 – Arrgh! The noise pollution of idle humans. I love people and will swap pleasantries and small talk with strangers. Yet I have this eye-twitching quirk that is my own and really has nothing to do with others. Random smacking, gum popping, boisterous babble, loud cell phone yakking… these noises rattle my peace of mind beyond what I can handle. I start to grind my teeth and squint if the jangle is incessant. I know I make noises myself but sometimes I feel like I must escape the cacophony or go mad!

5 – When I get a sudden creative spell, I look off into the distance, scribble in notepads, look off into the distance again, and then scribble some more. The scrawling hieroglyphics swirl around each other all over every inch of the page! LOL No one but me knows what these hmmmmm-lists, little drawings and sidenotes mean. Even years later, I know exactly what I meant and sometimes have the “a-ha” all over again.

6 - I prefer to mosey wide eyed through life. My mind is always distracted by all the colors and the beauty and the tragedy. As you might imagine, to mosey causes huge problems. That is why Chris does not like it when I drive.

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Tonight I tried making a healthy smoothie… cuz I am all treadmillish like that. So I bust out some pineapple chunks, a banana, oj, yogurt, soy milk (I know… I have already gone to the other side), coconut extract, Splenda, and Organic Fat Free Ice Cubes “fresh” from the ice maker.

I want cha’ll to know the first sip proved to be *gotdamn downright decent*.

Just to burn off any stray fruity calories and whutnot, I generously poured in several glugs of Capt Morgans Spiced Rum, plus a couple-three flammable splashes of Grey Goose. YESSS! Hurry to scribble that shit down, good people. Cuz Phat Daddy’s jaw is jackin’ ’bout some smooo-0-0-0-oooveee! I could drink these for breakfast every morning. Heh heh.

To your health!

Salut!

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I am no longer wishing for a cottage garden, ya’ll. After years of learning by killing, at this point I would be simply tickled over a few scattered perrenials and some shrubs that will stay green all year. Those spindley-tired-ass azaleas? Jerked by the roots. Shrivel ugliness! I am tired of babying you! Got some out new plants front. We’ll see how they do.

Had a relaxing, fun weekend with people I adore. Sexy sweet Femme friend that I can’t stop smiling at. Smart Butch bud that I can’t stop jawjacking with. Babygrrl dressed in pink. Going place to place and remembering why I love my city.

Week 4 on our 12 week commitment to a strolling visit through Healthy World.

Still not weighing myself at all, but the weight therapist is working miracles between Chris and I. What a sensible lady! To avoid our decade long power struggle over all things great and small, Chris is doing her thing and I am doing mine. Agreeing to unravel. Scary since we are like a set of salt and pepper shakers, but it feels so right… so good… so far.

The trainer? Why pay someone to stand around while you jog in an exercise pool? (no offense to any of my buds who are trainers) Also, boots aren’t great on the treadmill, so I bought some Official Exercise Shoes. They are fucking ugly as hell! Love being at the gym so far once I roll my ass over there.

Food? Fish. Shrimp. Vegetables! I have missed fresh, simple food. I tried to be mindless while eating a cheeseburger over the weekend and I didn’t always make the BEST choices when we were eating out. We have guests often so I am going to have to figure out how to honor my new habits when our routine varies. I don’t think it should be that hard, and I definitely shouldn’t take the oppurtunity to “fool” myself.

Me and Charlotte are in love. The puppy is full of play, but she has finally learned that she can get all kinesa sweet, calm, quiet time with Daddy… instead of just boxing, play biting and using my head as a launching pad. Put it this way… if my little girl wore jeans, they would have no knees.

Babygrrl got her cap and gown today.

Miss all ya’ll.

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(That’s not my nasty ass closet though.)

No. Really.

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Them scary bisexuals tried to corner me in the locker room at the gym. This one gal with the devil glimmering in her eyes has been cutting me a dimpled smirk for going on three years now. She says “Where’s your girlfriend? She is your girlfriend, right? Where is she? Did ya’ll break up?” So in the exercise pool I am quietly doing some sort of synchronized swimming thang with some old ladies in shower caps, and every time I look up, the nosy woman turns red and looks away. Guess my secret is out. Someone from the housewifey crowd who isn’t bothered by my obvious perversion asks “Hey Rhon, are you coming with us to the hot tub?” (!!!) I ain’t into that nekkid thang — no way in HELL — plus I know it makes some of the ladies really uncomfortable when I even walk by the hot tub with my eyes straight ahead. So I says, “Nahhhh, I’m just gonna swirl around over here like I am doing some sort of exercizin.” And then another suburbanite splashes over and starts talking me up ’bout how she rides bitch on her husband’s Harley and whatnot. She says, “That’s my girlfriend over there.” (points to dimpled devil-eye). I say, “Ah, is she your best friend?” She nods, “She’s my girl.” “Hmmm, do you mean like GIRLFRIEND? I thought you said you had a husband?” Cat. Canary. Leer. She says, “Heheh. Oh, I have **both**.”

Oh heyullll no. Now wait a minute, ya’ll. I ain’t into swinging.

Hee hee. Kidding with my tone there. Outside of the Butch-Femme bubble I mostly live in, sometimes I do get tickled over people and at my own naiveté. Quiet as I am, I am the target boo-dagga in any situation. “Queer” as in “peculiar” situations often ensue. I never see it coming.

The other day in my writing class people were chatting about Scooby Doo and Velma. I am trying to make friends n’ all so I am happy to fill the straight people in: “Velma was a dyke!” Silence. Oh my god. Oh my GOD. That big fat dyke is talking out loud about dyke stuff… Hee hee hee. Clear your throats now. Someone’s father tapping and twirling his pen. I wasn’t trying to mess them rich lil school girls up. Really. (Southern Methodist is a very conservative, hootie university) I especially like it when str8 people make a big deal out of making sure they aren’t making a big deal.

I was out (way way out) and proud at 15 in a small nitty-gritty town of oil refineries and rednecks with blue collars. There was no where to hide had I wanted to. When I go back home, people I barely knew decades ago come up to me to tell me they too are big homos now. My mom has called me more than once from a honky tonk and handed her cell phone over to some old school acquaintance of mine… just so they can come out to me on the phone. WTF? Well, good for you for finally joining the army! I’d buy you a drink, except I am not really in a bar. My queer eye is focused on trying to microwave some damned popcorn here in my kitchen at the moment. Mmm hmm. Buh bye.

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Swiped from http://illusionsetc.blogspot.com/

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I have stopped waiting until like 7 in the evening to eat. Crazy how my body rumbles with real hunger if I eat sensibly every few hours! Crazy (for me) to be aware of my body at all. Some dealio called “metabolism”? Who knew.

Today I was out all day, so I had this NARSTY veggie burger at Burger King. They looked confused and apparently had to consult the burger manual. The sandwich was hard like rind and I chunked that shit out the window. (Don’t assume I littered the landscape with a non-bio-degradable hockey puck — “out the window” in redneck means into the bed of my truck)

I worked out with the trainer tonight. And man, I forgot once I roll my fat ass over to the health center, I always enjoy it and I come home feeling all cozy n’ rosy. Then I made a really tasty parmesan-crusted fish filet. I also forgot it’s often quicker to cook at home than to eat out. Chris doesn’t like to eat at home so I only made dinner for myself. So that we don’t sabotage one another, we are trying to just shrug off one another’s quirks and patterns around food.

I spent parts of my life actually starving for real, so I am starting to look at how being “wasteful” will nag my mind to no end. It is irrational. We had a freezer in the garage with a huge chain and bolt lock because my mom really struggled with providing for her kids. My brothers stole meat from the grocery store and cooked it while she was at work because we were fucking hungry. I had similar experiences when I was too young to be out on my own. Looks like I am going to have to unravel some more, I think.

See. People everywhere work out for an hour and eat fish all the time but I haven’t yet realized how I can regularly incorporate healthier ways into my life *for the long term*. When I think about how poor my habits are and how my size is now starting to affect my health, real change seems insurmountable. I have committed myself to 12 weeks. But I dunno… I increase my awareness each time I try, but I don’t know if I have the luxury to stroll like a visitor.

I haven’t weighed in the few weeks I have been at this, but while I was walking to class last night I had to hold my jeans up with one hand like a pervert. Not going to let weight be the factor of success, only a factor of whether or not I need to wear a belt with my jeans.

Ha.

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She is wittle. You can cup her entire rib cage and pink tummy in your palm.

The last few days Charlotte has been finishing up a major project — ripping the fins off a stuffed Nemo. She also attacked Christine’s flip flops and made sure them suckers would never flop again!

The scamp tries to work that fluffy, cute stuff. But I ain’t havin’ it up in my home!!! Her ears do receive most of cable channels so we are keeping her.

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I am susceptible to catching unwelcome grief like a cold. A stricture around my throat presses into my chest. Sorrow wells up like a sudden sneeze. It isn’t romantic when poetry dies behind this grey sheet of silent rain. I can see my life outside of the window.

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