Stupid Girls

Thursday, December 30, 2004


You are reading

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I told her last night: this has been the best Christmas season of my entire life.

Oh, we had an argument on Christmas day, but we talked through it and the sky didn't fall on us.

We got a puppy, for Porkchop. She's a cocker/beagle mix. She looks like a miniature, blonde coon hound or golden Lab. Porkchop's entire demeaner has changed as a result. He loves her to death. He lets her dominate him and submits with blissful relief.

She was abandoned at Chaco Canyon, tied to a tree, left to die. When the couple found her in October, she was dying. She weighed ten pounds (she's 18 now). She couldn't walk. She's still got a delicate digestive system; her stools are too loose and she vomits from over excitement periodically. But she's very happy here and spends all of her time with Porkchop. He has become downright noble.

Last night, I threw a rib bone out front. This morning, she found it first. She growled viciously at Porky as she chewed on the bone. Porky made no move to take the bone; he just watched her eat and backed off so she wouldn't growl. Porky was starved, too, so this is a remarkable show of thoughtfulness on his part.

My girl went out on her bicycle for the 2nd time since her return. She was under the weather during her time off and came home pretty weak, needing lots of rest. But, she put her bike trailer on the bike and headed out.

We get email from the Albq. Freecycle Yahoo group. One guy had put some give-aways out in his front yard. We need smoke detectors, and he had some. So, she went to check it out. His house is half way across town, and about a mile north of ours.

Then, she went south on his cross street, to the south end of town. A lady there had a hassock: a big foot stool or ottoman. It was part of a sectional sofa. It is nearly 3x3 feet and about 2 feet tall. It's a "box spring" type bottom with a very large cushion on top. It's teal velour upholstery. She strapped it to the trailer with bungie cords. The former owners were quite impressed.

She pulled it home on the bike, in light rain and moderate wind, in the dark. It was, apparantly, quite an adventurous day for her. She called from her cell to report in and let me know when she'd return. She reported her struggles with weather, directions and lack of bathroom facilities along the route. I was laughing my head off.

When she got back, the bathroom was already warm, so she could shower. I had a fresh towel for her, helped her out of her wet clothes into her bedroom slippers, provided a clean, dry bathrobe and started dinner while she washed up.

Her previous bike trip, she'd gone to her post office box, to Smith's for a rib eye roast, and Winrock Mall for some makeup. So, we ate my favorite meat: rib eye roast. I'd baked some potatoes. We'd made a big bowl of cucumber salad (she has some bruising and swelling on her face, from an allergic reaction she had while gone; cucumbers reduce swelling), and some wheatless Yorkshire Pudding to soak up meat juices. We still have plenty left; it's a 5 pound roast. Just perfect.

There's sparkling cranberry juice, chilling in the fridge, which she brought back for New Year. She's the best friend I've ever had. We have SO much fun together.

She loves her new wardrobe. I dress her up, help her with her makeup and hair, and we go out for the day. There's a new trolly that passes right near our house. We get on that and take the new Rapid Ride bus on Route 66 to travel around town.

We went to the mall together 2 days ago. She bought me a bathrobe I've wanted my whole life: floor-length chenille, with flowers near the hem. Better than I could have imagined, it's a rich lilac color. I got an extra large, so it really wraps around with plenty of extra fabric to keep my knees and ankles warm. It wasn't cheap and it wasn't on sale. And it came from the snootiest department store in the mall. But I'd been checking on eBay, and elsewhere. The price, while steep, was reasonable.

We ate Godiva truffles and gingerbread mocha drinks at Borders. We bought matcing cardigan sweaters at a store that's closing. Hers is pink; mine is lilac. They both have appliques of sequined flowers at the shoulder. Very '50s style. All she needs is a poodle skirt. I already got one at Buffalo Exchange, the resale shop near the radio station (cost me 2 dollars. it's blue felt, with black poodles on gold leashes with rhinestone collars).

She's looking fabulous. We dyed her hair "Egyptian plum" with a temporary hair color. I cut it shorter and curlier. She's wearing makeup. She has the new clothes, jewelry, etc. When we were in the mall, even in the snooty store, people were looking at her. Not because she looked freaky or weird; they were checking her out because, in our age range, she was the best looking woman in almost every room we entered. I was very proud.

Primping and dressing up has been very good for her. She's not dry and fussy anymore; she's more sweet-natured, sexy and girly now. I really like it...grin.

She wonders what the people at her job will think, when she gets back there next week. I'm reasonably certain they'll be very impressed. I also know of at least one woman there, our age, who will be jealous. I've already warned Ma; that woman hates to be seen next to another woman her age who might look better than she does.

Ma was never the good looking one in the room. She was nondescript, muted, nearly apologetic for her appearance. She looked like a librarian, really. Sorry librarians.

Well, now, she's rosey and curly and elegant and sparkley. She's lookin' pretty hot, for fifty! We've brought out her inner elegance, sense of fun and playfulness. She looks like her temprament, now. She looks great. So, I'm thinking of showing up at her job and just hangin' in the hall, her first day back, so I can hear people's reactions when she walks in.

Well, I have chickens to feed. And I need to warm some coffee. Ma's asleep right now. We're going to the Barret House thrift store later today. I need a new coat. If we can't find one there, we'll try WalMart's after xmas sale. I hate that place, but don't mind buying stuff there, as long as they're not making profit from me. We'll also check there for marked down xmas crap, including replacement lightbulbs for night lights.

Barret House has VERY nice clothes, very cheap. Rich ladies donate their clothing. The thrift store helps fund a shelter for homeless women and kids. I love shopping there.

Ma bought me a crosscut paper shredder at Big Lots the other day; we shred junk mail and I use the shreds for cat litter! Works great!

Later today or tomorrow, I'll post my recipes for cucumber salad and for wheatless Yorkshire pudding over at Hood Life. I'll also put them on my domain.

Hope everyone's having a safe and happy holy days season.

I sure am!

Sunday, December 19, 2004

one, more nite!

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Dear Ma,

I kept waking up all night, thinking you were back. I'd try to push my back against you. I only found pillows.

It would wake me up. I'd blink and try to remember where I was and what was different.

My mind is getting so accustomed to the concept of your return, that she thinks you're already here.

For five weeks, she's resigned herself to sleeping and living alone again. Back to the habits of scrunching pillows around to keep cold drafts from seeping under the covers. Back to planning only for me.

My mind bridges both realities with awkward ambivilence. You're supposed to be here; I'm supposed to be alone.

I feel relieved at the idea of not having to spend another Evil Christmas alone with the forced hillarity of mass media merchandising.

I'd like to bake a batch of gingersnaps with you. I bought some egg nog.

Other than that, and playing my flute to any music specials on PBS, I have no plans for holy days.

We have a tree, thanks to the generosity of the neighbors and my ability to squirrel away decorations others discarded.

Your presents, and there are nearly sixty of them, are not for Christmas. They're for your birthday. They're welcome home gifts. They're my attention to the details of your life that needed filling in. They're celebrations of your beauty. They're tributes to your new beginnings.

Your mother died so young, so soon in your life. You never had a woman to fuss over you, to attend to your grooming, to show you how to decorate your space.

This is your first bedroom as a woman. You've lived in cramped quarters that had to serve as living-bed-kitchen-bath-garage-office spaces. Or you've shared bedrooms with lovers.

I want you to come home to a space that's easy to operate, cheerful, feminine, happy and a little elegant. I want you to come home to a space that speaks of you and your needs. I want you to have a place to play, explore, examine and investigate yourself.

So, I've tidied up, accented, added, arranged. You can easily change any thing I've done that doesn't suit your needs. Or I can.

It could take you days to discover everything I've tucked away for you.

Thirty six hours from now, I'll be hopping from foot to foot at the airport, waiting for the announcement that your plane has landed.

I'll be carrying mistletoe.

Food's cooked. Everything's clean. The beds have fresh linens. There's plenty of toilet paper.

We have toys and projects available.

I have no plans. I just created space in which we can decide what each of us needs and wants.

I see some bike rides, trips to stores, walks by the river, dollar movies.

But I'm waiting to see how you're feeling adn where your energies lie.

I have no expectations.

I just want to feel your warm belly and cold toes, next to me in the bed, as we kick off the dog and tell each other the adventures between our ears.

I even got us some chocolate!

Thursday, December 16, 2004

PTSD: the benefits

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It has always been my belief that anything which generates a lot of energy can be harnassed into something beneficial, no matter how threatening and potentially dangerous it seems. And, the more energy, the more potential for creativity.

This has tremendous, potential advantages for you, as my lover, you realize.

I have a tremendous capacity to feel. And I have an inate talent at empathy. I directly experience what others feel. I, therefore, work very hard at not inflicting pain. I also work very hard at nurturing.

As you've experienced first hand, I'm good at finding people's hidden talents and encouraging them to the surface. It's how I know you're beautiful, even when you don't, and enhance your beauty with little grooming tricks that delight you.

Well, the real energy of my PTSD is my passion. I have suppressed that. I've seen the consequenses of my rage and terror in my life, and have tried very hard to avoid those.

What I need to do is face that energy, head on, and convert it to positive uses.

As you may have noticed, I'm a very sexual, and sexually-accepting, person. I have a tremendous capacity for exploring pleasure and arousal. I have few inhibitions or taboos. If it's consentual, and between responsible adults, it's on the table (grin).

I have gone from pre-orgasmic, through orgasmic only under the influence of mind-altering substances to multiorgasmic and easily aroused, under safe circumstances.

And I have a vivid imagination.

Channeling the energy I automatically produce (be it a byproduct of overactive adrenaline production, or whatever) into more creative outlets needs to be a high priority for me.

It's why I'm always building things, moving earth for gardens, walking long distances while pulling burdens, etc.

I need to be physically active, to release the energy.

You have, shall we say, certain needs in that regard.

I have been suppressing my impulses toward psychotic outbursts. It's very stressful for me to do so. I'd much rather use the desire toward physical acting out on another person in a more satisfying and loving way.

Hence, the "butch lessons." I need to be more assertive and more blatant around you. You excite me. I crave you. I have a tremendous urge to satisfy you, to watch you surrender to feeling me loving you, to seeing you open up to me.

You need to be very well and thoroughly loved: emotionally, intellectually, spiritually and physically.

I can give you that. I can give you as much as you're willing to take. I am completely convinced that I can bring you to places you never knew you needed and teach you beautiful things about yourself you've never even imagined.

I get very enthusiastic about loving you, when I see myself not holding back and not protecting my ego.

Butches, in general, put the needs of their ladies first. I'm not talking about self sacrifice; I'm speaking of etiquette, perhaps even a smattering of chiviry. It is the sacred duty of the butch to protect, nurture, satisfy and adore their women.

Butches always know when their women need a cigarette lit, a jar opened, a loving shoulder, protection from harm and a righteously wet fucking.

It's not that butches think their women aren't completely independent, self-sufficient, capable people. Oh, no. Not any of that.

A good butch finds a good woman who has complete autonomy, who has life experience, who knows herself. And a good butch empathizes with the struggles, trials and hardships her woman has endured to get there.

So, a good butch honors her woman by relieving some of that extra burden.

If her woman is treated like trash in every other aspect of her life, a butch elevates her woman to the status of great adoration and respect.

A good butch creates a place in which her woman is above the petty dirtiness of mundane life.

A good butch creates sacred space for her woman and herself.

A good butch worships at the alter of the Goddess as embodied in her companion.

I have tremendous reserves of energy for you.

I'm learning what satisfies you and am learning new ways to get there.

This isn't just sexual, you know.

But your sexuality has been badly neglected by other lovers to the point where I don't think you really know what you want, what you need, and how much you can feel.

I want to find out, Princess.

I can't leave it up to you. As you've said, if you're uncomfortable in a new situation, your tendancy is to avoid it. And anything new, especially making love with another woman, is uncomfortable, at first.

It gets a WHOLE lot easier with practice, so you'll know.

So, I'm taking the lead. I'm taking the initiative. I'm going to be more insistant that you at least look at yourself as a sexual person. I'm going to be asking you what you want more often. I'm going to be initiating play more often, and in more variety.

I'm completely willing that you refuse when you need to.

But I'm not willing to sit here and wait for you to make the decision to initiate play. If I do that, we'll be twiddling our thumbs for a very long time.

You know now that I won't exploit nor hurt you sexually. At least, I hope you know that by now. We've spent months, after the initial passion, cuddling harmlessly.

But, Princess, I have some succulent and sparkling ideas about what I want to do to you, if you're willing.

I think it's best, at first, that you experience woman loving with me being the assertive one. It'll give you a first hand experience at how truly delightful woman loving is. It's very liberating. The possibilities are amazing.

Once you're more familiar, less inhibited, and more eager about the whole concept, I'm willing to bet you'll be initiating a good deal of play between us.

So, there's definately an "up" side to having a lover with PTSD: I'm fiercely protective; I've got eyes in the back of my head; I'm resourceful; I'm stubborn; I'm assertive; I'm compassionate; I'm brave and I'm VERY passionate.

You need that. I can give it to you.

My reward is your gentleness, your humor, your obvious loyalty, your wickedness, your playfulness and how sexy you are.

My reward is that the most interesting person I've connected with in a long time looks forward to coming home to me.

post traumatic stress disorder

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My problem with therapy is that modern psychotherapy relies too heavily on psychotropic medication: better living thru modern chemistry.

And the drug therapies available are very primative, with many side effects and reactions.

My brain chemistry is different from normal people's. My hypothalmus is supposed to be smaller and less-well developed. I metabolize that brain chemical, starts with a "c," that creates feelings of well being, before it has a chance to activate in my brain. I produce FAR more adrenaline than normal. My dopamene receptors are over charged, as my brain secretes massive doses of opiates, trying to relieve the terror and rage.

So, there's a lot going on in my brain that so-called "normal" people don't deal with.

In addition, I have accute sensitivities to mood altering chemicals. Very little of any drug can have extreme consequences on my mood, ability to function, physical coordination, memory and tendancies toward psychotic outbursts.

I'm addicted to caffeine because I was force fed ritalin for many years as a child. I constantly crave "speed" type chemicals: sugar, caffeine, and even nicotine (which, first thing in the morning, acts as a stimulant).

I have issues with alcohol because I used it in an attempt to self medicate, reduce anxiety, and reduce adrenaline production. I was self medicating in order to function.

Now, I just can't function, under some circumstances which other people consider "normal." For me, they're stressful and toxic situations. I'm the "canary in the coal mine," with regards to how disfunctional and poisonous our modern culture has become. It all affects me more directly and profoundly than it affects others, apparantly.

And, psychotherapy as counselling is not sufficient for me. I'm "high functioning:" I'm more intelligent and better self-educated than most people. SImple "bumper sticker" fixes, such as 12 step programs, don't work for me. I see through the placebo effects and can't force myself to believe things I know aren't true.

And most counsellors rely on such tricks and gimmics.

I also can't be hypnotized, which frustrates therapists to no end. Modern gimmicry relies heavily on the power of suggestion, meditation-type exercises and even mimicing REM sleep eye patterns in sessions. None of these work on me.

The BEST thing I've learned for myself, over time, is to "act as if:" BEHAVE as though I'm not affected by trauma.

I try to operate in the world as normally as possible. I don't indulge depression, suicidal ideations, psychotic impulses, etc. I don't hit myself or others, lie around saying, "what's the use?" etc.

I have learned that I don't HAVE to feel like doing things, in order to do them. I have also learned that, even though I may be in an acutely painful, existential crisis in which I have NO rational motivation to continue, if I DO continue to take care of my business, the episode WILL pass and I'll eventually be glad I didn't submit to it.

Such has been the case during your absence. And I'm very glad I haven't indulged my "demons." I've accomplished a lot while you've been gone. I've made our home a more user-friendly, sheltering and nurturing environment. I did this in the midst of a spiritual nightmare, where it would have been very easy for me to either give up or, even worse, to destroy rather than create.

I feel very good about myself for this.

I will never be able to function at full capacity. I have finally come to terms with that now. I will always have serious limitations.

There's no point in berating and punishing myself for that, as I have in the past. I have survived literal hell. It took a toll on me. There are certain aspects to life which will never be comfortable for me, and I will probably never go through these gracefully.

But I can protect myself from some possible damage. And the foundation of that protection is that I acknowledge my limitations, not push myself into situations where I'm vulnerable and unprotected, and stop forcing and punishing myself for not being like other people.

I am a very high functioning person. I work at a capacity which those unaffected by PTSD don't even reach. I'm not lazy. I'm not crazy.

I'm a very good person, with a very bad trauma history.

I'm sorry my damage has spilled over onto you. And I will make every effort at healing myself, both for my own sake and for yours. You don't need any more crap in your life, either.

I love you very much and I'm very committed to this relationship. If I thought, really thought, that I was too damaged, too broken or too dangerous to build on this foundation we have, I'd leave you in a heart beat.

But I'm firmly convinced I have a huge capacity to love, nurture, shelter and enhance the lives of others.

IF I stay within the bounds of my own needs.

This seperation, the issues it raises, my incapacitated attempts at forcing things, etc. has really shown me where I need to work and how to get there.

I refuse to isolate myself from love. And I refuse to isolate myself from you. You're one of the kindest, smartest, silliest and most interesting people I've met in a VERY long time.

I'm highly motivated to make this work.

And I know I can.

That's Butch Lesson #1: taking responsibility for my own damage, taking care of it, and not dumping it on you.

Thursday, December 09, 2004

it's after 11pm

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No replies to my email. You just went right back to sleep after I called, without even looking, didn't you?

Well, I'm taking the phone off the hook until I get back. I don't want people knowing I'm not home.

I don't know when I'll be back, of course.

I'm going to try to beg off overnight observation.

I need to take care of the house and my animals.

Why I'm bothering to tell YOU this is beyond me.

You've made your stance pretty clear: I'm just crazy, and I'm on my own.

I'll make my decisions accordingly.

Independent Lens

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Independent Lens"Girl Wrestler"
Tuesday, December 14, 2004 10 - 11:00 pm

Follow Texas teenager Tara Neal through the last year that state guidelines allow her to wrestle boys, amidst family conflict, pressures to cut weight and fierce policy debates over Title IX, which grants women's athletics proportionality in public schools. (CC, Stereo)

Log on to the companion Web site and find out what the future holds for girls' wrestling.

This is a Game, Ladies
Wednesday, December 15, 2004 9 - 11:00 pm

For more than two years, the producers of this documentary journeyed with Rutgers University's women's basketball team and their legendary coach, C. Vivan Stringer. One of the most successful basketball coaches of all time, Stringer is a survivor, a visionary, a mother and a widow. The game she teaches her players is the game of life. This film is not just about basketball. It's not about winning and losing. It's about growth, about coming of age, about girls becoming women. (CC, Stereo)

Curious about the life of a scholarship athlete? Think you have what it takes?

Take our online quiz and find out.

Monday, December 06, 2004

'Moral right takes us back to dark ages of sexuality'

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John Patterson: 'Moral right takes us back to dark ages of sexuality'
Date: Monday, December 06 @ 09:56:31 EST
Topic: The Religious Right

Hypocritical puritans hounded a leading US sex researcher to the grave. Now they're after his movie.

By John Patterson, Sydney Morning Herald

Bill Condon's biopic Kinsey would be an important movie at any time, but right now, with the "moral values" crowd in the ascendant and thirsty for the blood of heretics in the aftermath of George Bush's re-election, it's an absolutely essential movie.

Dr Alfred Kinsey, played by Liam Neeson, was the Harvard-trained entomologist who pioneered research into the sexual habits of Americans. After interviewing tens of thousands of men and women, he collected his findings in two books that changed the way Americans comprehended sex.

Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male, published in 1948, and its female counterpart (1953), revealed the bedroom (and locker room and barnyard) habits of Americans in a way that blew the lid off puritanism forever. "God, what a gap between social front and reality!" was the conclusion he came to. Kinsey's been dead for nearly half a century and now, thanks to the movie, the religious right want to dig him up and kill him all over again.

Working at the University of Indiana - about as "red" as you could hope to find nowadays, and sponsored by that well-known fifth-column, the Rockefeller Foundation - Kinsey and his team developed as precise an interview formula as was possible in a country still mired in sexual ignorance and fear.

He interviewed single and married straights, gays, lesbians, incarcerated rapists and sex criminals, even those who had sought congress with beasts of the field and farmyard, all without surrendering scientific objectivity or passing moral judgements.

Before he published his work, Americans assumed that sex occurred only after marriage, that homosexuals and lesbians were demonic inverts, and that masturbation led to godless communism, hairy-handedness and imbecilised high-school quarterbacks drooling on college jackets.

Kinsey's two books were bestsellers, but he became entangled in the neuroses of his time. The Rockefeller folk were hounded into dropping their support, and J. Edgar Hoover demanded - but didn't receive - Kinsey's assistance in witch-hunting gays at the US State Department. That Hoover was a cross-dressing, closeted homosexual who lived with his overpromoted pretty-boy assistant, FBI director Clyde Tolson, speaks volumes about the grotesque hypocrisy of public figures in those days. Kinsey's detractors lined up around the block to get their licks in, then as now, and it's possible that their efforts helped speed his early demise in 1956 aged 62.

Condon's movie does a splendid job of recreating the quasi-Victorian sexual politics of a time when people scarcely knew what to do or feel about their ungovernable sex drives. The film shows interview subjects startled to learn that babies do not emerge from the female bellybutton or that there's more than one position for coitus.

Kinsey is one of the inventors of our modern sex lives. He stands with Margaret Sanger, who agitated for birth control and backed research that gave us the pill by 1960 - which in turn gave us the unzipped sexual revolution and the bra-burning women's movement - and with Hugh Hefner, who 'fessed up and said flat out that, yup, he was hornier than a dog with two dicks and didn't care who knew it. If you've ever had a guilt-and-fear-free orgasm, you owe them all big time.

And because of that, the religious right still fear and despise Kinsey and his works. Check out some of the responses to the movie. "Kinsey's proper place is with the Nazi doctor Josef Mengele," says Robert Knight of Concerned Women for America, inadvertently showing us what he thinks of the Holocaust. Robert Peters of Morality in Media: "That's part of Kinsey's legacy: AIDS, abortion, the high divorce rate, pornography."

Focus on the Family's film critic, Tom Neven, calls the movie "rank propaganda for the sexual revolution and the homosexual agenda". And Judith Reisman, who has waged a long war against Kinsey's memory, refers to "a legacy of massive venereal disease, broken hearts and broken souls". These people are of a piece with new Republican congressmen who have sex on the brain, such as Tom Coburn of Oklahoma, who thinks there is an epidemic of lesbianism in Oklahoma schools, and South Carolina's Jim DeMint who wants gays and pregnant single mothers barred from teaching decent, God-fearing folk.

At the dawn of a digitised, globalised millennium, these creeps want the clocks turned back to when the church held sway over our sexuality. They prefer us ignorant and terrified, alone in the dark, the better for them to control us through fear and guilt. Too bad for them that we live in the bright, vivid light of our incandescent dirty dreams.

Copyright 2004. The Sydney Morning Herald.

Reprinted from The Sydney Morning Herald:

The URL for this story is:

oh, dear

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Dear Ma,

y'know how people with black hair sometimes have those blue highlights, because of the way light refracts from the hair shafts?

Well, to darken hair, dye manufacturers are careful not to use actual black, for brown shades.

Most hair has a reddish cast to it, particularly dark brown hair.

Black would look very unnatural.

To counteract the reddishness in dark hair colors, manufacturers use purple in dyes.

It's a dusty, dark, plum purple.

Well, I forgot about that, when I decided to leave the dye in, almost twice as long as recommended on the package.

I have purple hair.

It isn't a really obvious purple, mind you. I have to be standing right under a pretty strong light. And people have to be really paying attention to see it.

But I definately have purple hair.

Now, last night, I wore the purple and black Pakinstani dress. And I was in the KiMo Theater, with subdued lighting.

So, my hair didn't really show very much, and blended into my clothing.

But my hair really is purple.

It'll calm down, after a few shampoos and a couple of weeks.

But, right now?

My hair is purple.