I am not a Lesbian or a Democrat

It has come to my attention that there are some rumors flying around about me.

For years people have thought I am a Democrat. There were hints of the possibility of this rumor starting years ago when my father used to call me a bleeding heart liberal because I didn't like it when he called the boys my sister dated sissies. But then I started that job with the state, working for a community mental health agency. When I started working there I had only voted one time in my adult life. I think it was a local election and I was staying at my parents house because I had been robbed blind at my apartment in Athens. It was one of those moments where the parents had on their red, white and blue and were like, 'you're coming too right?' Turns out it was a local election so I just did a sidebar with Dad prior to going in the booth. No idea who I voted for. The next time I went to vote there was a problem with my voter registration lapsing so I went and had my nails done. It is a terrible admission I know; I am just not very political. I am more of a 'I am my neighbor's keeper' kinda gal.

Fast forward and I am working at the mental health agency and all these people do is talk about how much the Republicans apparently are completely opposed to supporting Mental Health. There always seemed to be some Bill everyone knew about except me. So my theatre training kicked in. What else was I supposed to do? I lived a small sheltered life where I grew up watching The Walton's and Little House on the Prairie; my mother belonged to The John Birch Society for God's sake.

My tolerance and slightly left tendencies come from just living my life in the world we live it in. But I am not a Democrat. I educate myself to be able to have conversations. I have seen great things happen with either party in office. It is the same philosophy I apply to being a sports fan. I like players who give the best effort and have the most heart; I don't care what uniform they are wearing. Oh and I believe Government is a group of people who should not be determining who we can love in this life; but I also believe my marriage will be between a man and a women.

Which brings me to the next rumor. Someone who shall remain nameless, recently said that he thought he had heard I was a lesbian. Or maybe he said 'I thought you were a lesbien' or maybe he said everyone thinks you are a lesbian; all I heard was me and lesbian.

My initial reaction was to kick him in the balls. But I think he was genuinely going off rumor. Then my next reaction was to flee my skin. Not because I am a prejudice person but because I have to be reminded of the  heartbreaking reality that my biggest dream of all, to be a wife and mother, has not yet come true. And here I am at 44 years old, never been married and childless. Everyone keeps telling me to pursue my dreams; how do you pursue that one? Then what do you do when a 44 year old, never been married, childless man tells you he thought you were a lesbian?

Well, if you are me, you cry a little. Laugh a bit at the irony; or as it is, a double standard? Then you remind yourself that no self respecting lesbian that you know sits at home every weekend drinking wine, listening to Vern Godson records crying over the fact that her Prince has not showed. They wouldn't be caught dead soaking in the tub with a wan look on their face struggling to not suffocate in the loneliness. Hell no, all the lesbians I know are more like 'screw that, we are going dancing!'

So, I am definitely not a lesbian!

I am just a girl trying to get by with the hand I was dealt. Every once an a while it is hard to do that with dignity and grace. But I heard a rumor that I am doing the best I can, and that one is true.


Recipes: Cucumber slices for the eyes when there is a hot bath, wine and tears.

Roadtrips: Spend more time walking in another person's shoes then spreading rumors about them.

Renovations: If I were a lesbian I would want to be just like Ellen. But since I am not, I think I make a pretty good Sharyn waiting on her Prince....who knows, the longer I wait, maybe he will be King when we meet!

Well, Note to Self

Before you quit your job and announce you are headed to the beach to go to culinary school; at least have visited the place.

Oh no, I wait until my position is filled and savings is half spent before I meander down to check out what is supposed to be my future. Half the day spent on the West side of I-95 had me in tears. It was a tad on the desolate side and reminded me of why I had got myself into this state of affairs to begin with. Moving to that house in the country those what, some eight years ago, automatically stranded me on an island for one. I forgot how to have conversations with humans and forgot that my couch didn't have to be glued to my ass at all times.

I came upon rundown questionable neighborhoods where I finally ran into people; oh wait no, I think those are gangs. Tried to shift quickly and get the hell out of there?

I suddenly began to cry and wonder if I really liked cooking at all. Five miles down the road to Woodbine I convinced myself I didn't and retraced my steps back to the hotel. I start to load the car and realize I haven't even checked out the school. Turns out it is on the East side of I-95.

I search the same street for over an hour. I go from end to end and see the sign Coastal Georgia College with and an arrow pointing one direction, then I get to the end of the road and see the same sign with the arrow pointing the other way. What the hell. Finally I just take a left, through a neighborhood, and think dang, it sure would be nice if all the sudden it just popped up out of the middle of no where. (Because then I could live in this neighborhood and walk right to school; or ride my bike like a sixth grader.)

Shit, all the sudden, there it was. Literally in the middle of no where. This beautiful, new, fancy building with a Taj Mahal top roof in the center. I imagined students chopping the holy trinity and perfecting their risotto. Which by the way; I have never seen on a menu as an appetizer the way it is in Hell's Kitchen. Oh no, I panic. This won't be like Hell's Kitchen will it?

I decide I will only take left turns for the rest of the day and will worry about Gordan Ramsey later.

I head into St. Mary's, and begin to look for a living space in my price range. Which is funny. I don't have a job; so what exactly is my price range?

There is something very strange about this place to me. I thought I would feel different here. Like, excited and drawn to it. I imagined it would feel like I belonged but I am worried I don't. I feel no connection; the water isn't even calling me. Actually, I can't figure out how to get to it; really get to it; to dip my toes in, how ironic.

The sound of the song Fear plays in the background and creeps into my senses and I start to sweat. Wait, that could be because the air is out in the car. I want to be 8 years old again. I hate the heat. Why am I thinking of moving further South? Why can't I just bloom where I am planted like everyone else. Oh, that is right; we all don't; most of us just gasp for water and sunlight and make the best of the flora we become, even if it is just weed flora. Hey, it is a form of being alive.

I am not sure what to do. I can no longer tell the difference between my panic for moving forward and my panic for staying stuck in the familiar.

Note to self; get the air fixed. You are in for a long ride.


Recipes: "A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety." Aesop

Roadtrips: I need a map. I can't keep wasting time going right when I should be going left; or East when I should be going West.

Renovations: You can learn to cook anywhere. But where do you go to learn how to become the best that you can be? Your personal legend. Or do you even have to go anywhere? Maybe the journey is from the heart, to the brain to the soul. And not from Athens, to New York to Dillard to St. Marys to Battleview. Or maybe it is both. Either way, you have to face your Fear.

Vincent's Son and Francis' Daughter

I have struggled these past few weeks. The panic, anxiety and fear of what I have just done has taken over and I have found my spirit frozen. So, what I have done to remedy this is to move constantly.

This weekend I went to the mountains to see my friend Cindy, the one with the super model legs, infectious laugh and heart the size of Texas.  It is impossible to feel negativity around Cindy, unless I think about how much I want to deserve her as a friend. Then, I think of all the things I am not and need to work on becoming. Which is still a good thing.

Her house is nestled on the side of a mountain and it is so inviting and cozy. An extension of the occupant herself. Her dog liked my dog and my dog liked her dog. The breeze was nice coming through the windows and the wine was just as good on this visit as it had been in past visits. Cindy's authenticity is the best thing about her and the thing I most envy. People like her don't often come into your life so I highly recommend you keep your head out of your own ass when they do and hold on tight to the opportunity.

We ran into Paul. He was there in high school too. And just like Cindy and I, that may be where we met but we didn't really know a damn thing about each other there. To look at him now you can see time has been good to his physical being. And being around him for a few hours you can hear that time has also been cruel. He wears both outfits with equal dignity. He is tall, salt n peppered and handsome, seems to like the f-word and says what you see is what you get with his hug and conversation. And I feel suddenly like I have missed him all these years.

We hang out all day as if we have hung out every Sunday this way for years. They are forgiving of my ability to drink more wine then I should and they are interested in me and there is nothing more remarkable then knowing someone is interested in what you have to say or what you are doing.

For some reason we load in the car to go to Paul's house to dip into the Sunday stash of beer. Three 40 something year old teenagers with the windows rolled down. Paul's house is his family home and I know that weight and warmth. The house is open and sturdy, like the man Paul has become.

There is a picture of both his mother and father, who have been called home in recent years and I think, damn, they must be proud. Paul and Cindy have both lost their parents.

As I drive home today it all overwhelms me. I think about my own Dad in heaven and wonder if he is proud of me. I wonder if he is rolling tumultuously in his grave as I go jobless and damn near penny less into a future of the Great Unknown.

But this is what I do know. Paul and Cindy, are damn fine people. Teenagers that grew up to be really good human beings. And though I may never know for myself, I would think that is all a parent can ask for. I would like to tell Vincent and Francis what fine kids they raised.

Recipes: Bloody Marys, Brie and Peaches make for a really nice breakfast in the company of the beautiful people.

Roadtrips: From Dillard, to Wiley and back again. You can always go home.

Renovations: Paul said something to me the other night that makes me want to run. Run away from this person I have become, lazy, unattractive and stuck. And, because I am Wade's Daughter, I know I will run in the right direction.

Highlights of the Game

I am the kind of sports fan that is more about being the last fan in the seats then I am about being the one who has to have the best seats. Maybe I say that because I have never had the best seats. I have never been in the 100's or on the 50 yard line. I am usually up above the clouds but not in a sky box.

No, my section is inherently the 300's. But, I like the view.

For Saturday's Georgia vs Boise St game my seating arrangement was no different. From these seats I can see all of the families that started their day out much the same way mine did. We were all in a hurry, excited and some were running late. Put extra food and water out for the cats and dogs. We need a map to Marta; who is is charge of the tickets?  Put some hand sanitizer and band aids in a baggy. Where is your football son? Get a sharpie from the junk drawer. Comfy shoes; fashion; it goes back and forth. Girls, get your hair clips, it is hot; you will want to put your hair up. Water bottles marked V go in the big purse; kids, remember only one treat at the stadium. I'll put the room on my card; use your cash for the parking, peanuts and PBR.

I get chills every time I hear the Battle Hymn swell up from the bugler in the corner (another member of the 300 section). I don't know stats and I don't know greatest plays of all time; but tradition I do know. And that tradition says to me hey section 100, club level and section 300; hey you on the bridge; you between the hedges, you at home, let us all gather here today and appreciate the opportunity to have a few moments to yell, cheer, cuss, support, cry, and embrace our team. The extention of our family where we can say what we want about them; but you better watch your back if you bash them.

My two young nephews are pumped. They know the drill; remove the cap, swirl to the rhythm of Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo Dawgs, Sic 'em, Woof, Woof , Woof, in perfect harmony to the pigskin flying through the air. From my vantage point; everyone in the stadium is in sync, even the visiting team is standing and doing their own version of kickoff tradition.

The game begins with some of the worst opening plays of a major game I have ever seen. Now the night becomes about praying to Jesus to take time off from war and famine to come spend time with the young men on the field; preferably the ones dressed in red and black. When I pray at a game; and I do pray, I am not going to lie; I pray that the team who digs the deepest gets the biggest rewards. Which doesn't always work in my favor. I used to pray that the kid who digs the deepest gets the biggest reward; but I realized if the kid didn't go get with their teammates and agree to dig deep then they were missing the point. The kid who digs deep alone on a team should be a marathoner; not a running back.

The game goes from bad to worse. The team from the Midwest is in Jesus' ear all night long. He is chowing on corn and potatoes like its an all you can eat buffet. No craving what so ever for boiled peanuts.

Eventually, somewhere around 21-7; I feel disappointment for all the red and black fans in the stadium; not because the team is loosing so much as because I know the effort they have put out to be here. In these hard times; the money, the sacrifice to take their families to a ball game at the Georgia Dome; the parents in every other seat wondering how they will pay the electricity bill they dipped into; calculating if they have enough gas money to get home and it is 21-7, not in our favor...

Come on Dawgs! Jesus?

The fans are leaving.

I briefly think; well this will make the ride home easy.

But then I focus back on the field. I can feel the life being sucked out of number 2, 7 and 11 as the stilettos, tennis shoes and boots make way for the exit. I don't look left or right because even though my brother's legs are hurting and my sister has to be to work in 4 hours I don't want to abandon these boys. And we are related; so we don't.

We sit through bad call after embarrassing play after scores that aren't ours. And we watch the seats empty. I can't focus on the game any longer I just think of these kids on the field seeing the seats stare blankly back at them and how that must make them feel. Where can they find their legs in rows of empty Steve Maddens, Nike's and Nine Wests. I think about how they are class mates of my niece and though she may self impose a lot of pressure to succeed in OChem; she doesn't have 70,000 ticket holders walking out on her.

You 100's, 200's and club levels should be ashamed. You sky box, 50 yard line level should be ashamed. You of all attendees should be there till the end. I realize that there is little distance at all between the young men on the field and the 300 level.

The game ends and the young boys jog off field with a shell shocked cadence of sadness. I see them approach the tunnel and think I still owe them a dept of gratitude. Because of them I am out with my sister and my brother; hardly ever get that chance; my two nephews and earlier my niece and her college friends, and we had fun. So much joy.

The highlights of the game are more then the ESPN clips; the score board finish or did we get on the jumbo-tron. It is about the opportunity to spend time with the ones you love; escape from the life that is weighing us down and lift up some young people who are pouring their hearts into the same life you yourself are trying to live.



Recipes: Vodka from the purse and lemonade from the hot dog stand = a savings of $50

Roadtrips: Turn around on the Marta train and you just might see three boys (Wade, Lil Wade and Nick) with sleepiness in their eyes but a full day in their hearts. Even if their hearts are slightly broken from the 35-21 score.


Renovations: If you are lucky enough to have seats for the game; stay in them! Don't take that for granted.