Lesbian Birthday Soup

My birthday is coming up. I’ve never really been a huge fan of my birthday, but it’s not because I have a problem with getting older. I’d love to actually look older than twelve at some point in my life. That will maybe happen one day. I just don’t feel like my birthday needs to be a big ordeal. Everyone has them. It’s not like I’m special.

I know people of all types and varieties ranging from those who prefer to pretend their birthdays don’t exist to those who plan month-long celebrations to honor their single day of birth. I’m probably closer to the please-don’t-make-a-big-deal-about-it side.

Because I have a June birthday and my school year always ended before Memorial Day, I was never able to celebrate my birthday at school like the other kids. I couldn’t bring in cupcakes or cookies or dirt and worms. The benefit of the summer birthday was not having to celebrate it with all of the assholes in my class. Pros and cons.

I remember having an insane amount of pool parties. Almost every year was a pool party and then suddenly pool parties weren’t cool anymore and then I’m pretty sure I had a pool party last year because life is weird and cyclical like that. Some years I had parties or events and some years I didn’t. I don’t really remember all of them.

I know my seventeenth birthday was the greatest. My friends took me from my parents house. I had no idea where we were going or what we were doing. They drove me up the mountain to Kelly D’s where we sat in the hot tub while Kelly’s mother sprinkled chlorine on us like a seventeen year-old lesbian’s dream stew filled with girls in bikinis.

Someone bought a piñata, but we didn’t have anything to tie it up, so we pitched it to one another like a softball and swung until candy exploded across the deck. It was the best. It was simple.

Birthdays should be like that. It doesn’t matter how many people are there. What matters is spending time with those who really know and care about you. The kind of people who will buy you a piñata and let you stare at them in bikinis. The kind of people who know the best birthday cake is the 99-cent carrot cake from 7-11 with a cigarette on top because no one thought to buy candles. The kind of people who will spend hours looking at Paper! with you in the Phoenix Art Museum because they know you are really stoked about the possibility of more paper robots.

The Hidden Treasures of Spam

I don’t typically get spam email because I use decent email service providers and my email address isn’t something like goldstarlez4lyfe[at]hotmail[dot]com. My email address is my first initial, middle initial, and my last name. Super boring, professional, and unspamworthy.

Over the weekend, I received an email that could have been spam, but it also looked like an email you receive after registering for a race, a contest, an event, or something along those lines. I decided to see what it was about before flagging it as spam. My first thought was, Oh, shit, [redacted] was totally serious about doing that half-marathon. 

I held my breath and winced as I opened the email, fearing my day off was about to be devoted to training for some hellish half-marathon in Death Valley, but it was a confirmation of payment and registration for some website. A porn website. A gay porn website. A gay male porn website.

Alas, a sign from the heavens. Thank you, superior being, this is exactly what I’ve always wanted.

Now, I’m smart enough to know my bank accounts, cards, etc. were not compromised by this situation. But I was curious how the person who actually did pay for and register for this site mistyped his (or possibly her) email address in such a way that I received his (or possibly her) confirmation of registration. We’ll refer to this person as the username he (or possibly she) registered with the site because that will make everything easier from here on out.

So, mmmdick and I must have similar email addresses. Typically, when registering for anything online, you have to type the email address twice. Maybe mmmdick copied and pasted the email address after typing it the first time. I know when I am purchasing things online or registering for things, I can autofill from my address book. Obviously, mmmdick does not have a Mac. Maybe mmmdick would have a better porn watching experience with a Mac.

And how does someone not notice the email address is mistyped? I always double, triple, quadruple check these things because I am ultra paranoid and I don’t trust myself to spell my own name correctly. Obviously mmmdick was distracted by something. Probably porn related.

I deleted the email and moved on with my life. And then I began to receive hourly emails every time a new video was uploaded to the site. mmmdick subscribed to every type of update and email notification the site had to offer. Okay, mmmdick, that’s enough. How do I contact this person and let him/her know the email address was incorrect? I don’t, because I don’t have the right email address.

So I did what any normal person would have done. I visited the site– in private browsing, thank you– typed mmmdick in the username field and clicked “forgot my password”. I entered my email address and created a new password. I then logged into the site, found the account settings, while yelling “Oh, no. No. No,” at every popup offering me the chance to chat live with a real boy right now, and cancelled mmmdick’s subscription. Hopefully, the money is refunded to mmmdick’s card. I’d feel really guilty if there was some kind of termination fee.

It’s not that I don’t want mmmdick to look at porn. To each his/her own. I just don’t want to see mmmdick’s porn bombard my inbox every day. It felt like the right thing to do. What if mmmdick ever legitimately forgot his/her password? mmmdick wouldn’t be able to retrieve anything because it wouldn’t recognize mmmdick’s email address as a registered user’s. This way mmmdick can start anew. Except now that username is probably gone forever. So he/she will have to pick something else. Maybe, mmmmdick. See? New identity. You’re welcome, mmmdick. Start fresh.

I may have dropped off the face of the earth.

1) I’ve been busy. I’m sorry.

2) The only things I can think to write about I can’t post here. Yet.

3) I don’t know what else to write about right now. But I’ll figure that out.

I’m pretty sure what I need to do is write the things I can’t post. I need to write them all the way out. Revise them a few times. Put them away. And then I can write more for you guys. But I need to get the other things out first.

Stay tuned.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses

My parents’ house is wrapped in windows that overlook the busy street corner. There is a window above the kitchen sink where we watch people picking their noses at the red light while we wash our dishes. There is the bay window in the “fancy” living room as well as the window in the dining room that we use primarily to survey the damage when there are accidents in the intersection.

When I was in middle school, my sister answered the door to some elderly women who wanted to talk to her and give her little pamphlets to read. The women would come back every week asking if Leslie was home. My mother called these people Jehovah’s Witnesses. I didn’t know who Jehovah was or what these women witnessed him do, but given the ominous tone in her voice I knew better than to answer the door and did my best to prevent my sister from speaking to them when our parents weren’t home.

I was walking down the hallway toward the living room. My mother was washing dishes at the sink when suddenly she dropped to the ground and yelled, “Get down!” I dropped to the ground expecting gunfire or my cousin Carol’s face to appear in the window. When nothing happened I whispered, “What is it?” The doorbell rang. Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“What do they want from us?” I asked.

“They want to preach to us about Jesus. Stay away from the god damned windows.”

—

My roommate recently bought a house. We’re almost completely settled in. We’ve met none of our neighbors surrounding us in the heart of suburbia. But that’s fine. I feel like we step out onto the street and everyone retreats into their homes like we’re daywalkers or something. Their loss.

On Tuesday morning I heard a faint sound I recognized to be a doorbell, though I wasn’t sure it was ours. I started down the stairs to greet our first visitor, probably the FedEx/UPS guy delivering the hoard of Bruce Springsteen albums Scott ordered to decorate the walls.

I saw them through the three windows lining the front entryway. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Had they seen me? No. I moved back up the stairs slowly so as not to bring their attention to any stirring within the house.

The doorbell rang again.

I needed to go downstairs so I could leave for work, but the blinds were drawn. They’d surely see me. How long would they wait for me to answer the door?

Flattened to the wall, I crept down the stairs and melted into the tile floor. I’d have to close the blinds or I wouldn’t make it to the rear of the house unseen. If they peered through the windows, they’d see me army-crawling away from them. And then I’d just feel guilty and embarrassed.

From the bottom corner of the window, I could see them making their way next door. I quickly closed all of the blinds, grabbed my keys, and ran to the garage. I opened the garage door once I was already settled in my car, started the engine and peeled out of the driveway. I laughed maniacally and waved as I passed our poor neighbor, trapped by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

On my way to work, I set a reminder: the blinds must always be closed on Tuesdays.

Until we meet again, my adversary.

Valentines from Grandma

When I checked the mail last week, there was a card addressed to me in my grandmother’s unmistakable hieroglyphics. I immediately began to wonder what holiday was coming up warranting Grandma’s special kind of love. The most likely thing was it was a birthday card, because my sister’s birthday is in February. And then I realized it was roughly a week before Valentine’s Day.

As great as the Thanksgiving and Christmas cards were, Valentine’s Day always showcases my grandmother’s desire to over-emphasize Hallmark greetings. It could be my favorite time to receive cards from her.

I’m pretty sure Valentine’s Day is a holiday made for me. Because I love pink and flowers and chocolate more than life itself. I mean seriously, if this card doesn’t scream my name at you, we can no longer be friends.

The inside of the card reads: “May you always know how much you’re loved. [Always!]” Underlined emphasis brought to you by my grandmother, as is the additional text in the brackets. Normally, she would underline “always” as it appears in the original text, so I’m having a hard time gauging how much emphasis the additional “always” deserves off to the side.

She continues: “It was sooo good to see you & have dinner & lunch with you Don’t eat too much chocolate = All my love Grandma Annie“

Her lack of punctuation is somewhat unusual but given each O in “sooo” is individually underlined, the level of coordination assures me she was not drunk when she signed this card. I’m still really confused by the equal sign. I’ve always known my grandmother to express love with material goods. I guess now, more specifically, it’s chocolate. She also superscripted the “ie” in “Annie“. This also seems to require a steadier hand than the one that drunk dials me at 7 PM.

Coming Clean: The Lamest Joke Ever Told

My father is the person who says things like “Sleep like cheese… Gouda, Gouda!” I know this is relatively common of paternal identities, but my father may be the alpha male when it comes to groan-worthy puns.

For weeks now, I have lived with this looming guilt. I don’t even know if guilt is the right word. But I said something out loud. And my father is the only witness. And he willingly took the blame for it.

In an attempt to better understand the world of technology, particularly social media, my father asked me questions about how Twitter works. He asked about the character limitations of Twitter because he hears about Twitter on the real news [Inside Edition, Entertainment Tonight, anything on E!, etc.] and most often the “news” has to do with a picture some celebrity tweeted. So he asked, “Pictures are big files, right? How can one fit within the 140 character limit? How many characters is a picture?” Which are all totally legitimate questions far above what I had assumed his level of technological understanding to be. But there was something inside me. Something I can only rationalize as a result of his blood coursing through my veins, because my response leapt from my lips before I could stop it. My father asked, “How many characters is a picture?” and I said, “Well, they say it’s a thousand words.”

And then we formed a pact where he could use this line without ever giving me credit, agreeing it would be far better for my future if he absolved me of all authorship.

I don’t even know if he’s used it. I really think the right opportunity would need to present itself, otherwise it would be way too random and feel too setup to earn the appropriate groans from his audience. And really, how often could my father possibly be talking about Twitter with his friends? He and my mother just got their own separate cellphones after sharing one for nearly ten years. Regardless of whether or not he has or will ever use my lame joke, I feel bad for allowing him to take the fall for it.

Robyn: The Gay Bat-Signal

Like many LGBT individuals, a lot of straight women, and select random heterosexual dudes, I love Robyn. Her music is the beacon that calls to every homosexual male I work with. When I play her music at work, it inevitably leads to repeated exclamations of, “Oh my god! Is this the Robyn Pandora station?!?!?! I LOVE ROBYN!” My appreciation of Robyn does not mean I haven’t laughed at this video since its release.

The dancing. Oh man. The somersault, hump the air thing gets me every time. And the multi-colored strobe light breakdown. I also enjoyed the mass confusion that broke out on Twitter/Facebook when she performed the same choreography on Saturday Night Live. Some people just don’t understand Robyn.

If, like me, you find Robyn’s videos to be pure comedy, this will bring tears to your eyes.

Thank you, Autostraddle, for sharing this gem.

Also, I’m really proud of the title of this post. Puns!

The New Year

Holy shit it’s been a long time since I posted. Sorry.

I don’t really know what to say. Other than I’ve had this song stuck in my head for 11 days now.

1. I love Death Cab.

2. I’m really happy Ben Gibbard and Zooey Deschanel are ending their marriage so he can go back to writing gloriously pained music.

3. For the first time I can remember, this year actually does feel different. Or at least, I feel different.

It’s like every year on your birthday when you realize it’s just another day and you felt exactly the same the day before. It’s not like you really thought you would feel any different, but your grandparents always pull the, “So how does it feel to be [insert corresponding age]?” at which you’re forced to either come up with some wise-ass response or admit it feels no different than every other day for the past year.

New Year’s Eve always inspired this who-gives-a-fuck lack of sentimentality in me. As we grow older the years seem to pass more quickly because they are becoming smaller and smaller fractions of our lives. Celebrating the new year, for me, is more about tradition than the actual act of rejoicing in making it through another year.

It’s totally embarrassing, but I remember the fear of the unknown that was Y2K.

I was with my parents, my sister, and all of our family friends on a ranch just outside Colorado Springs. We were somewhat isolated from the general populace. I don’t really know why this was our destination rather than the home of the usual hosts, but part of me feels like it was a legitimate decision based on safety in case the world really was going to end at midnight.

I was so fucking nervous for the ball to drop.

Nevermind the fact that every single time zone ahead of us avoided certain disaster. As the final seconds ticked away, the fear swelled in my stomach. I didn’t know what to expect. Was it true what they said? Were the computers incapable of differentiating between 2000 and 1900? Would this cause some sort of apocalypse? Would I watch my loved ones melt as acid rain burned their flesh on cue at midnight?

Even at midnight I wasn’t sure we were safe. I may have held my breath. I surveyed the people around me. They were fine. But we were also removed from civilization. What were things like in the city? Was it utter chaos?

No.

I felt like my fears of the year 2000 were totally rational because they were perpetuated by the media. And, if I’m going to be perfectly honest, it wasn’t until I started working for a technology company that I truly understood what idiots we were to think computers could not tell the difference between 1900 and 2000. When I recounted this experience to my students at Basha, they thought it was hilarious. Mind you, most of them were far too young to remember the hysteria of Y2K, but their immediate acknowledgement of this irrational fear made me feel really good about myself.

Had I been on my A game, I would have asked them how they felt about 2012. Because I was roughly the same age in 2000 as my former freshmen would be now. It’s the same story. I’m sure some of them are afraid the world could end this year. I wish I would have asked them in that moment. Because then I could have made fun of them and shown them we had the same irrational fears in 2000. Except 2000 was the fear of technology. 2012 is the fear of a calendar created by an ancient civilization.

It’s weird for me to admit 2012 feels different. It may be because I haven’t been home since June. July? It’s been at least six months. The weather feels like there was no Christmas, so it couldn’t possibly be a new year yet.

In the first seconds of 2012, my mind jumped back to the same day in 2011 and how different things were then. I never expected things to be the way they are now.

On the first day of 2011, I was blissfully happy. Everything was perfect.

Writing that I realize I sound depressed. And I used a Death Cab video to begin this post. Two strikes. But I am far from depressed. Things may not be what they were, but for me, 2012 is about learning. It is about growth. It is about going (or staying) places I didn’t expect to be and doing things I hadn’t imagined. It’s about taking risks. It’s about realizing I may not go back to what was comfortable as soon as I had once dreamed because the exciting newness of this place is finally coming alive. I am testing the waters. I am making mistakes without my previous safety nets.

I’ve wanted to move back to Portland since the day I packed my belongings into a U-Haul and drove away. And now, almost three years later, I don’t know if I’m ready to go back just yet. I know I will go back. Just not yet.

Immaculate Conception

After attending the Feast of the Immaculate Conception at her church, my grandmother went to our family’s restaurant to drink wine and harass my mother like she does a few times a week.

My grandmother recounted the service and told my mother she had a realization while she was sitting in the pew that she just didn’t get it. My mother agreed, “Right! If this is the day Jesus was conceived, Mary would have only been pregnant for three weeks, or over a year depending on how you look at it.”

My grandmother continued, “I just don’t get it. How was Mary pregnant if she and Joseph never had sex?”

“…What?”

So the mystery is solved. My grandmother has no basic understanding of Christianity even though she raised my mother and her two sisters in the Catholic church. Somehow my entire existence makes more sense now.

Why I Will Forever Hate DragonHeart and Junior Mints

There’s something about the experience of seeing a movie as a child that is both magical and spectacular. The act of leaving home to go to a movie theater. Rotting teeth with a combination of candy, soda, and buttery popcorn. The giant screen and loud speakers. Getting lost in a magical universe for an hour or two. It’s awesome. It doesn’t even matter if the movie is noteworthy, seeing a “family-oriented” movie as a child just makes it seem better.

The best example I can think of is The NeverEnding Story. It is a movie that defines the children of my generation. But, watching it again recently as an adult, I found myself asking, “What the fuck was wrong with me that I thought this was a good movie?” and “How the hell did my parents sit through this piece of shit as rational adults?” A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have made it through the entire film without the aid of alcohol. Maybe that was also my parents’ secret.

It got me thinking about other movies I saw and loved when I was a kid that probably suck. Overall, I feel like we had some of the greatest kids’ movies to grow up with– Hook, E.T., Hocus Pocus , Edward Scissorhands (which isn’t really a kids’ movie but is easily one of my favorite movies of all time), Homeward Bound, The Goonies, etc.– unlike those who grew up with Snow Dogs and Racing Stripes. I do not envy those kids. However, I do remember hating one movie I saw as a child: DragonHeart.

IMDB tells me I was approximately ten when I saw DragonHeart, but I feel like I was younger, like eight or maybe even seven. There’s no way I was ten. It’s just not possible. So maybe it wasn’t DragonHeart… but I’m pretty sure it was. Dragon-something. Whatever. It’s really not that important.

Anyway. I hated DragonHeart. I have never watched it again because it was such a traumatic experience for me. The film itself wasn’t that traumatic. I don’t remember anything about the premise of the film. And I don’t care enough about the movie to read the brief synopsis on IMDB because it wouldn’t trigger any enlightening memories.

I attended a showing of DragonHeart with my mom and sister at the small independent movie theater in downtown Colorado Springs. Pretty sure my sister loved the movie. Her reasons for liking the movie are probably somehow psychologically linked to my reasons for hating the movie.

All I remember about DragonHeart is being in the dark theater and dropping a few of my Junior Mints. I looked for them, but it was too dark and the flickering of light from the movie screen wasn’t enough for me to locate them. I assumed they fell to the floor and gave up my search. When we left the theater, my mother discovered I had melted Junior Mints caked and smeared on the ass of my light-colored jeans. It looked like I explosively shit myself during DragonHeart. My humiliation didn’t end until long after my mother made me strip in the public parking lot in downtown Colorado Springs before getting into the backseat of her car. Because that really helped preserve the Is-It-Chocolate-or-Shit Mystery for spectators.

Though traumatic, I grew enough from my experiences to learn: 1) if I ever drop anything in a movie theater and I do not immediately locate it, stand up and shake/dust it off; 2) do not ever, for any reason, consume Junior Mints in poorly lit environments.