Sipping cheap 7-11 coffee, surrounded by piles of clothes - those needing to be washed (the sex-covered panties) and those needing to be put away - I am here, I am home.  Crap strewn about, books, jammies and scarves, jeans, hoodies and makeup galore.  This place is a god damn mess and I couldn’t be happier.

For the first time ever, I feel at home.

After 3 1/2 years and countless trips home to California, I now call this place … this place I reside, home.  It’s not the city I love.  Sure, there are things to love about it but it’s not the city.  It’s not the cockroaches and ’squitoes and the Bon Qui Quis on the bus and the douchebags in Georgetown and the ‘hose-wearing staffers on the hill.  It’s not that stuff, that’s for certain.  But it is my friends.  And it is the gorgeous architecture.  And the seasons and the walkability of it and the independent niche I have created here.  And the funny southern flair and my work.  Oh my work that I love so much.  I can’t say that I love this “place” but I love what this place has become for me.

I think for years I down-played the role the people here play in my life.  I used to say “Oh it’s a revolving-door city.  People come and go and you can’t make relationships.”  Well, I know more than anyone *ahem* that one’s ability to make relationships is a reflection of one’s efforts and emotional capacity.  A It’s not you, it’s me kinda thing. And for some reason the reality of the depths of the relationships I have built here has taken a while to wear on me.  For so long I took them as transparent and temporary when truly they have been acting out the leading role in this play I have written called my life.

So.  After 10 days in sunny wonderful California where I rehashed some things, opened some wounds, picked at some scabs and let my heart feel (*ahem* and made hot monkey love *ahem*) I have come home.  I have come home to the anxious arms of MP. And the laughter of good friends and cold whiskey on a Saturday afternoon and my little messy SFAH.

And let us not forget that I have come home to you.

Although google reader on my iPhone allowed me to read all of YOUR posts, I wanted to wait and stew and think and process and simmer before posting.  I wanted to feel it all and take it in and write some thing here for you, all of my lovely friends, my wonderful supporters in the tubes on the internets upon my arrival.

You people, this thing here, are also part of my home.  Some how, some way coming home “to you” was as exciting as anything else.

I cannot thank you enough for all of your loving supportive words upon my departure.  Thank you for posting through the holidays and keeping me sane.  Thank you for being a part of my home.  I am over-joyed today.  I cannot wait for ‘09 to get kickin.  I feel good about things folks.

I am home.

*by Kenny Loggins

Some weeks ago I was chatting with a friend about the horrific economy.  He lives in San Francisco and unlike most gay men does not have one domestic bone in his body.  He eats out every day and doesn’t believe in cleaning.  Well, like ever.  We were on the phone and he said, “I just got back from Trader Joe’s.  I know I know … I went grocery shopping!”  To which I replied, “Whhuuuuutt?”  He said, “Yeah, I’m worried about The Depression.”  I said, “Seasonal Affective Disorder sinking in already?  Gloomy skies in San Francisco makes you want to grocery shop for the first time in 10 years?  I’m not following.”  He explained, “No. The Depression.  You know, the economy.  I’m trying to watch my spending.”

It is not as though I don’t realize the horrible state of affairs here in America.  Even if I didn’t witness poverty every day living in a city riddled with those without, the news is quick to point out how shitty things are.  He asked, “Do you think it’s affecting you?”  I had to sit back and think about this for a minute.

Living alone on a salary that is not as large as my looming school debt means I am well-aware of every cent I spend.  I live in a SFAH for pete’s sake.  I only buy enough groceries that I can carry at a time and choose very wisely between fruits and veggies, proteins and very, very few snacks (those Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jo Joes were an exception, obvi).  During these abysmal times, I am deeply grateful for my job and my health insurance.  I am grateful to have my bus pass paid for and my utilities included in my amazing $600 rent.  But when a girl wants to add pita chips to her Thanksgiving salad and sees they cost $5/bag (WTF?), I can’t help but notice that things are bleak.

For years I have watched those around me live well beyond their means.  The use of the word “need” surrounding the description of a new pair of shoes or the latest MAC eye shadow or even a new car is not something I have ever understood.  I have never been a frivolous spender.  In my working days in San Francisco, well before the reality of living on loans in grad school kicked in, I certainly went shopping on my lunch hour more than any girl needed to.  But now … I don’t know if my spending habits are a product of my poverty, or a product of reality.  As trivial as it sounds, living with so little in New Orleans and being surrounded by those with NOTHING (forget ‘living with less’ … those people have NOTHING) provided me a deep sense of understanding and appreciation for the word ‘need’.  Now I go to work and see patients suffering from grave illness due to poor health choices, not disconnected from their economic state of affairs.  I understand living without.  For years as I saw my friends buying homes with u-shaped driveways and living in a constant state of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’, I never, ever understood it.

My sister’s constant spending is a very glaring need to fill the emotional vacancies in her life.  I, thankfully, find ‘emotional deposits’ in relationships, time spent with friends, introspection and personal growth.  “Things” have never ever satiated my internal needs and for that, I am truly grateful.  I am not an emotional shoppper, and thankfully not an emotional eater.

Of the million things I am grateful for this harvest season, I am deeply thankful to have a good head on my shoulders.  A fairly adjusted sense of self.  A whole sense of being that transcends my spending, my grocery bill and thankfully my waistline.  Sure, the economy is in the crapper.  But each one of us chooses how we spend, on what.  How we teach our children to seek approval and desires through toys that last a season.  Through a trendy pair of jeans that won’t fit in a year.

I have all I need.  Sometimes a sparse fridge with tortillas and peperjack cheese.  A dwindling shoe collection that this recovering Imelda Marcos-in training never, ever thought she’d see.  Maybe all of us can use these times to reflect on how we spend our money and why.  Look within my dear friends.  Instead of feeding the instant need for now, the right-this-minute craving for the new Wii game, get your ass out and volunteer for people really living without.  I promise you that that investment will last for years to come.  Beyond the next style season.

Waiting until the last minute to grocery shop on Thanksgiving is usually a bad idea.  A very bad idea.  However, considering our work schedules, MP and I had no choice.  So we headed out to the “Social Safeway” in Georgetown (where, rumor has it, if you’re there on Saturday nights you can find your way to a party or get yourself a hot date).  We were pleasantly surprised to see the place hadn’t been completely pillaged like the LA Riots had just come to town.  Our shopping list included cornish game hens with fixins, rice, salad goods, asparagus, mashed potato ingredients and of course, wine.  I can handle not making all the “traditional” things on Thanksgiving but it’s really not a meal without mashed potatoes.  Drat!  The man has no mixer so we were prepared to eat nasty pre-made or boxed mashd potatoes.  I wasn’t thrilled about it but it would have to do.

While passing by the meat section, I saw these orange patties that I assumed were salmon burgers.  Oh my goodness, they were not salmon burgers.  They were YAM PATTIES!  I had never seen such a thing but he suggested we whip them together, add some yummy topping and we’d be good to go.  It is important to note that this man has never eaten a yam in his life and generally does not eat much that wasn’t included in his Greek mother’s repertoire.  This was a big moment folks.

When it was time to start the dinner I unwrapped the orange goodness, praying to god they’d turn out as planned.  I placed all the patties in a bowl, added some margarine goodness, whipped ‘em together and spread them in a low pyrex dish.  In a bowl I poured brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, diced pecans, cut in some more margarine and then sprinkled that sweet goodness on top of the yams.  I baked that bad boy for 30 mins. at 350 and holy mary mother of god, they were amazing!  Even the picky ass Greek LOVED them!  We’ve got enough leftovers to last us 4 days and I can’t wait to sink my teeth into that sweet, but healthy goodness.  If you see these things in the market (made by Flanders Burgers out of Arkansas …. random), you must buy them.

Due to the high school drama a couple weeks ago at the wedding, MP and I are spending Thanksgiving alone.  This has me a bit sad but we just don’t feel ready to hang out with those friends.

Of the many things I am thankful, today I am thankful for YOU!  As DGMS has become a staple in my life so have each and every one of you.

Thanks for listening and laughing alongside me. I don’t know what I’d do without this silly little blog.

I hope you all have a great day of food and football and it’s as family drama-free as possible.

Te quiero mucho

The minute I put on that wraparound lavender skirt and matching leotard in the 3rd grade I knew I had arrived.  Much like my professional ah ha moment, walking into the local rink with carpeted walls, pinball machines and enough mullets to terrify the local NAMBLA chapter, I knew roller skating and me were in it for the long haul.

As a young lass in the 80s, the roller rink was the place to be.  Not only did I get to sport that wraparound skirt and shake my ass (er, whip my hair) to Whitesnake, but the roller rink gave me a chance to hold hands with boys.  Before the years of junior high dances roller skating provided the opportunity at a very young age to do the unthinkable … the couples skate!  After a romantic lap around the rink to Journey we’d share a red rope and a giant pickle.  Maybe a brick of pink popcorn if he was feelin’ lucky.

Once high school approached and kids were too cool for school to be seen at the rink, I bought a pair of my own skates.  My best friend and I roller skated all day every day around town.  In the hilly streets of the Bay Area we’d get sundaes at the local ice cream parlor and practice our sweet moves in any parking lot we came upon.  When other girls were gettin’ busy with boys, I was gettin’ busy with my skates.  My LTR with the skates came to an end sophomore year of high school when Jenny and I decided to “shoot the duck” on the way home.  You know the move … at an indoor rink you go ’round and ’round, building speed and when the music stops you crouch down on one leg and hold out your ankle with your hands.  This trick should not be completed on a busy street, nor while traveling downhill.  My jean shorts were a tad too short to prevent my ass cheeks from scraping on the asphalt when things went awry. My legs slipped out from under me, I left a DNA sample on the street and Jenny was beside herself in hysterics.

As I skated into the driveway shaking from the pain, the blood dripping OUT of my shorts and down my legs, my parents knew my daredevil days had come to an end.  I walked in the door and dropped trou as my parents stood in disbelief.  My mom ran to the other room and grabbed the bactine.  I bent over and pulled my underwear in my ass crack while my mom sprayed that acidic shit on the wounds and my father tried to blow cold air on it to help soothe the pain.  Wouldn’t ya know my sister walked in the door and almost pissed herself at the site before her.

~~~~~~~

Two months ago for birthday my friends organized the most amazing surprise ever!  We ordered pizzas, made cocktails and headed to the local rolller rink.  Although it had been years since I made a lap in a set of quads, I could barely contain my excitement!  Sandwiched between a store front church (don’t ever trust a ‘church’ in a strip mall) and a fried chicken/chinese food/hot subs takeout place (claaaasssy) stood the D’Light Skate Palace.

This place was a FAR cry from my days of acid washed jeans and side ponytails.  The place was PACKED with people of all ages who had the most amazing moves I had ever seen in my life.  HOLY.SHIT.PEOPLE!  That place was like a rolling, rotating Soul Train expedition!  Most were practicing for a competition later that night (with a $25k prize) and I thought … “hmmm, who knew roller rinks were like dance floors?”  Here I spent my childhood slow skating to Air Supply and these cats were creating moving pyramids and jumping over each other ON SKATES to ‘Lil Bow Wow.

Damn times have changed but me and the roller rink are still in love. 

They lied, they gossiped, they stabbed in the back.  They spoke in hushed tones, they judged behind my back and to my face.  There isn’t a chapter of my life unmarked by the ugly side of female friendships.

Growing up I had Michael, Michael and Kevin by my side.  Sure they farted and looked at my boobs and constantly had filthy detritus flowing out of their mouths in the form of jokes and sick stories.  But they never gossiped or judged or stabbed in the back.  I have been friends with these boys for 25 years and although we’ve had our drunken arguments and political screaming matches, never once have they made me feel the way women have.  And any person with a rudimentary knowledge of math would look at this equation and think, “Hmm, go with the lesser of two evils.”

And so I carried on in life, carefully skeptical of women in my life.   I tiptoed lightly, I watched and proceeded with caution and I am happy to report that the gaggle of girlfriends in my life has improved.  But the conflict is never far from reach.  Just when I think I am in the clear, I am swiped across the face with a pair of nasty women claws, sadly reminding me why I was cautious all those years.

DC has been good to me in the girl friend area.  I’ve met a handful of amazingly intelligent, caring, inspiring, supportive friends.  And alongside that group of friends was the MP.  With all male-female friendships came the questions, the hushed whispers, the assumptions and confusion.  “What’re they doing?”  “Are they together?”  “God they’re like the Costanzas, they should just get married.”  So he and I treaded lightly and shared in our “partnership” at a snail’s pace.  As we struggled within ourselves to define our relationship, doing so under the glaring, watchful eye of a dozen others certainly didn’t help matters.

Eventually we warmed up to taking the MP-LilSass show on the road.  The more comfortable we became in our own “skin”, we let others see the funny, quirky side of us.  We have been told on many an occasion how fun it is to be with us.  How damn funny we are.  And how great we are in the kitchen together and “Man, you really do finish each other’s sentences.”  Our relationship is solid.  Solid like a rock.  We are the best of friends and sure, it’s a bit more complicated at times because well …. yeah … we’re best friends in a male-female relationship who continue to be single and not seek out partners and only share and grow and trust within the context of our own relationship.  But as you know, I’ve grown a lot and am happy to have finally reached the “we’re never dating place” of my own accord.

Two weekends ago while in New York he and I were verbally accosted on the dance floor at the wedding reception.  Ya know, a perfect time for a relationship assault.  It went something to the effect of, “What are you guys doing?  I don’t get it.  You’re either together or you’re not.”  (Pretend you’re on Jeopardy …. “I’ll take awkward and inappropriate for 500 Alex!”)  While half-cocked he and I had to defend the nature of our friendship to one of our dearest friends.  One of our friends who was so completely filled with rage that her face and chest was the color of beets.  Our friend who clearly has some unresolved issues about a past male-female friendship of her own and apparently that evening, right there on the dance floor amidst the helf-nekkid samba dancer, was the time to tell us to FIGURE.IT.OUT!

I’m exhausted.  I’m tired of “defending” what this relationship is.  I am tired of hearing how “uncomfortable” it makes people feel (um, she took it upon herself to speak for others who apparently feel the same way.  The evidence (read: post-conflict interrogation of our friends) says otherwise).  So here I am with a bad taste in my mouth.  I have battled the demons that are our friendship.  I am so great with him being in my life.

It has taken me a long, long time to utter the words, “I have trust issues” and here I am being reminded why I can’t trust women.  Because if they’re not whispering in hushed tones behind your face, they’re drunkenly screaming at you on a dance floor.  About shit that is NOT their business and not their problem.  I don’t know how much more I have in me to give and love and support of women in my life to be thrown under the god damn bus time and time again.

~~~~~~

You can g’head and say, ‘never trust a woman with no female friends.’  And g’head and try to psychoanalyze why I am the ‘common denominator’ in said female conflict.  I am not wired like most women and quite honestly girls, I’ve got more of you on the interwebs than I do IRL.  I don’t get it and I don’t know if I ever will.  I am hurt and frustrated.  I am already skeptical of relationships (in all forms, apparently) it sucks to be reminded why I should just keep going this alone.