Little Lillian Rene  

Melissa

My first little sister.  We loved and hated each other with as much ferocious intensity as any other pair of sibling girls separated by two years.   We were born from the same parents, lived in the same house, ate the same food and managed to turn out to be complete polar opposites.  Melissa played with her dollies and wore pink dresses.  She gave her Barbie’s haircuts and had tea parties for her stuffed animals.  I rode my bike down canal embankments and climbed trees.  I refused to shower regularly or wear a shirt.  I allowed my hair to be cut only because it kept it out of my face while I was playing tackle football with the boys in the front yard.

She insisted on tagging along with me and asking questions when I would go to my best friend Brian's house to play Super Mario.  She always wanted to play, but she could never figure out how to do anything on her own.  She would get bored and want us to play house with her, and then she would get mad when we refused.  She would often run home crying, feelings hurt and tattle on me for being mean.  Maybe I was mean.  I was practically her big brother.  Big Brothers are supposed to be mean. 

We both managed to struggle through our individual and parallel childhoods, survive the tragedies of our teen age years and emerge on our feet.  We have both shaken the dust of our years of conflict and rivalry, and allowed that dust to fertilize a close and loving friendship.  We talk every day, and I do my best to be a good big sister for her now.  I love both of my little sisters more than anything else in this world, and would do anything for either of them.

Melissa has two little ones of her own now, and I worry about and love them just as much as I worry about and love my sisters.  She is a good mother.  She constantly amazes me with how intuitive and wise she is in the ways of parenthood.  If I ever have children of my own, I hope to be a wonderful parent, just like my little sister is. 

Independence hall, liberty bells, and Rocky steps

So here I am in Philadelphia visiting Kate. 

She introduced me to her favorite watering holes in the city.  The first place we visited was a quaint and hideously decorated lesbian bar staffed by wry and surly lesbians.  The pink walls were lined by rails of pink neon lights the same way a drunken drag queen might line her stubbly lips the moment before her number in the local drag show.  The décor reminded me of a flowery-frilly dress on a large stubble-chinned, tight-muscled, butch lesbian. 
We ordered a drink, and Kate introduced me to “Her Bartender”, Natalie.  Natalie quickly pointed out that she pours drinks for other patrons, but that she actually belongs to Kate. 
We were at the girl bar for "one hot minute" (according to one witness) before we moved on to Woody's.

Woody’s is the same type of bar, but for boys.  Woody’s didn’t have even one strip of pink neon lighting.  There was a lot of… well, wood.  The booths near the bar were made of wood, the walls were paneled by wood, and all three bars were made of wood.  Hard wood.  Fags like hard wood.  It was dark enough on the inside to not really draw a whole lot of attention to the décor… or maybe I was just drunk by then.  
I was astounded to find out that Woody’s has two-step night.  I thought that I would never see another line dance after the day I turned my back on Texas.  I guess I was wrong.  Texas line dancing and two-step has tragically infected the East Coast.
We weren’t really at Woody’s for very long either… we had pressing business to attend to.

We did go back to Woody’s a few nights later, and I met two of the sweetest, handsomest and nicest gay boys that I think I have ever met… and Gary.  Gary was nice and handsome, but he was too butch to be sweet.  Gary kept telling me that I look like Kirsten Dunst.  (Maybe in the dark and after a few cocktails…)
Ryan and David were both gorgeous, with beautiful skin.  Ryan has gorgeous blue eyes and a manicure, David has big brown eyes and an earthy school-boy look about him.

Kate needed to do some things at her house, so I tagged along with her.  I had the pleasure of meeting her wonderful pup, Murphy (named for Murphy Brown).
Murphy is a nine year old golden retriever who loves belly rubs and her big flat basketball.  I think that Murphy is high in the running for best dog in the world.  I fell in love with her instantly. 

So far, I love Philadelphia.  Everything is old and beautiful here.  There are stout granite buildings dressed in ivy, old churches and cathedrals adorned with intricate stone carvings and stained glass, beautiful parks and winding tree lined streets.  I am in awe of the historical significance of this place.  Many of these buildings have been around since the late 1700’s.  The fact that they are still standing is just amazing to me.

More news at 11:00

July 21st at 2:58 AM...

My little sister had a beautiful baby girl.  Her name is Lillian Rene.  She is seven pounds, eleven ounces and nineteen inches long.  She has beautiful blue eyes and dark red hair.
This is her second child.  She had her first four years ago on August 6th 2000.  My nephew, Bradley is a handful, but I love him dearly.  It always makes my day when he feels like talking to me on the phone.

The conversations are never too deep, but that's okay.  It always goes something like this: Me: "Hey Bradley!  How are you today?"  Bradley: "Good.  I watch Sponge-Bob and mommy spank my butt for putting my peanut butter in the PlayStation." 
Me: "Wow! It sounds like you've had an exciting day!"  Bradley:  "What's your name?" Me: "I'm your Aunt Audrie, remember, from Texas?"  Bradley: "Oh yeah!! Shister! From Texas. I need to go to Chuckie Cheese REAL BAD!" Me: "Well, if you are a good boy, I'll take you next time."
Bradley:  "I'm a big brother, I help with diapers, but mom cleans the poop, because poop is nasty."  Me: "Yes, poop is nasty."  Bradley:  "Okay, I love you, bye bye!"  Me: "Don't hang up I want to talk to your mo-"
Dial tone.

Kids are great, as long as you can give them back when they start to get bitchy or smell bad.
I love my nephew, and my new neice, and I look forward to watching them grow up into teenagers, get busted for smoking pot, graduate from high school, go to college, get busted for smoking pot, and then someday get a job and support me.

Actually, I look forward to spoiling them rotten and driving my little sister nuts.  Big sis knows best, and she best not forget it.

The littlest sis has yet to make much comment, other than to "ooo" and "awww" at the cute little clucking baby noises coming from the other end of the phone.  The littlest sis is on the serious track.  She's going to be a forensic pathologist.  Sounds spooky eh?  It is.  She wants to work with dead people and their gory remnants.  Quite the odd profession for one so committed to her religion and cute, sweet boyfriend.  Pictures of new babies, and four year olds will be posted, as soon as they are available.

I've had two beers.  Its midnight.  I'm tipsy.  Goodnight.

Fruitless Tree Bears Fruit... Finally

About once or twice a month, sometimes twice a week certain political issues arise and I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. Normally I just unleash a diatribe of immature insults in the direction of president@whitehouse.gov (side note: If I disappear soon, it may be because it’s illegal to call the president a baby-killing pig-fucker.)

A few months ago, I stopped writing carefully crafted and thoughtfully edited arguments to support my political opinions in my correspondence with our nation's Village Idiot.  I'm not sure what I expected to happen-- actually, I didn't expect anything to happen.  Then one day I got some bull-shit form email in response to some issue I had written to the President about. That pissed me off.  I was okay with the probability that my comments will simply go unread, and most likely get filtered off into some top-secret email trash bin.  I did not, however, want confirmation of that assumption.  That was just insulting. So now I just write and call him names.  It actually feels pretty good.  I would recommend it to anyone who can't afford therapy.

Anyway, I also frequently write to the Senate and Congress.  They actually write back! Normally, they just write back to tell me why they vote/believe/support what they do, and why, and then effectively and very politely (in not as many words) tell me to go fuck my liberal and insignificant self.  Then they always thank me for my thoughts and opinions. How sweet of them.

So, about a month ago, I wrote to Senator Hutchinson (R-Texas) about some fascist, brainless, irritating drone that Bush was trying to appoint to the federal bench.  I expressed my opinions, stated my reasons, and did so as politely and eloquently as I could. This is Senator Hutchinson's thoughtful reply:

Dear Ms. Dugger: Thank you for contacting me regarding the nomination of Leon Holmes.  I welcome your thoughts and comments on this issue.
 
Dr. J. Leon Holmes was nominated on January 29, 2003, by President Bush to serve on the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Arkansas and confirmed by the Senate on July 6, 2004.
 
Since President Bush took office in 2001, I have voted to confirm 197 of his 198 nominations that have reached the Senate floor.  I am gratified he has seated a number of judges with conservative backgrounds, because none were appointed during the eight years President Clinton was in office.  I am particularly pleased when a nominee has a strong religious foundation as well as a deep respect for the rule of law.  On the rare occasion when I have opposed a judicial candidate during my time in the Senate, it was because the nominee failed to show the proper judicial temperament or, if questions about judicial philosophy arose, there was no judicial record on which to base a vote of confidence.
 
I take seriously my responsibility to advise and consent on individuals nominated for lifetime appointments to the bench.  Federal judges do not answer to the people after they take office, and when Senators make a mistake, the results can be devastating.  When a nominee's views raise a question or concern, and there is no record as a judge to show he or she can set aside personal views, I believe caution is warranted.
 
I am convinced Dr. Holmes is a gifted man and capable attorney, with a strong career and commitment to his community.  His rich spiritual conviction and work ethic are to be commended.  However, after meeting personally with Dr. Holmes, reviewing a number of his public writings and statements, and listening to his supporters, I reluctantly decided that he lacks a fundamental commitment to the equality of women in our society.  My vote against Dr. Holmes was not in any way related to his views on abortion or his personal religious beliefs.  It was based on his body of statements over a 25-year period that led me to conclude he does not possess the judicial temperament necessary for a lifetime appointment to the federal bench.
 
I appreciate hearing from you and hope you will not hesitate to keep in touch on any issue of concern to you. Sincerely,
Kay Bailey Hutchison
KBH:cfh
 

Ugh...

I feel like I got swallowed by a coyote and pooped off a cliff...
I must have caught a cold.
 
It's Saturday.  Morning.  The family is still here.  I am still relegated to the dungeon- erm, basement.  It sounds like they are playing jack hammer bowling in the room directly above where I'm sleeping.  This is an issue.  Small children wake early in the morning for some reason.  I guess they don't know yet that it's way more fun to sleep in past noon on Saturday. 
 
Little kids have germs.  They carry them wherever they go.  They bring them to your house and infect your weakened and aging immune system.  *sniff.  Sure, they are cute for a minute.  (The kids, not the germs)  And then they leave their weird Nickelodeon green slime in puddles on the floor in the bathroom.  I think I'd rather step in dog shit.  Even with my socks on.
 
 

From aoartworks.com 

Three cubic inches...

It’s so quiet here today.  Everyone has gone off on some sight seeing adventure.  I'm reveling the opportunity to just sit here and be blank.  The problem with being blank is that there isn't much to write about, which is also just fine. 
 
Even in the midst of all of this serenity, certain excitements, questions, worries and pressing issues are still bouncing around between my ears.  I suppose I should either acknowledge them, or learn some meditation technique, which will allow me to let them all flutter away.
 
One thing that's almost constantly on my mind is my tender new love interest.  I suppose that's normal, but it makes it difficult to focus on more practical things like making sure I have clean clothes to wear and not leaving dirty dishes in the sink. 
 
When happy feelings for someone fresh, wonderful and new begin to blossom, I become increasingly paranoid that I'll repeat the same mistakes from my last disastrous relationship.  I'm informed this is normal, and as a footnote, certain mistakes are very difficult to avoid repeating without a lot of work.  The wild card is the person that I am becoming involved with...
 
I ignored the warning signs last time, and kept the fact that I had observed said warning signs at all to myself.  The result was that I ended up in a relationship with an unhappy, unhealthy and self-destructive person.  It was like happily agreeing to carry around an anvil on my head.  Except that most anvils I know aren't overly judgmental, angry, paranoid, possessive, untrusting and dishonest.
 
Okay, so maybe I've picked up more baggage in the past year than I have in my entire tragic life.  It’s taken a few weeks of introspection, and a few hours of conversation with a trained professional to sort through it all and come out healthier in the end.  I have also learned a few key lessons:
 
1. "I'm not ready to be involved again" means just that.
2. Relationships are juiciest with reciprocity and dry up when there is only one-sided giving.
3. Baggage handling is better left to the professionals at TSA.
4. Its possible to show someone love without giving away the farm.
5. People can't be fixed or healed unless they want to be fixed or healed, and they have to do it themselves.
6. Never eat from a dented can.  Oh, wait.  That one belongs on another list of lessons learned.
 
At any rate, I have lots to learn, as we all do.  I just want to be healthy and happy. 
 
As far as new love interests go, I think I'm on the right track.  I feel good, I'm not ignoring any warning signs, I'm crazy about this girl and she likes me too, just the way I am.
 
You have to crack a few eggs to save your bacon... or something.

Street Politics in our Nation's Capitol

A few months ago while living in Austin, I finally conquered my mini-tragedies and made the decision to relocate to Silver Spring, Maryland for the summer. Silver Spring, Maryland is an affluent and sleepy little suburb at the end of the Metro Red Line just outside of Washington, DC. When I first turned the corner and saw the long quiet street decorated by mansion like houses and neatly manicured lawns, my heart sunk. I suspected that I would be surrounded by middle-aged republicans. I suppose I should back up for a moment. Why Silver Spring, Maryland? I didn't toss a dart at a map; I actually came here to spend time with my very close friends. (The thirty-something, disgustingly functional breeders from my previous post.)

What I found when I arrived here was surprising: Bush supporters seem to be few and far between. I have seen only one Bush/Cheney sticker since I've been here, and they had Texas tags. I thought Austin was fairly liberal, but I saw three or four Bush stickers a day while I was there. Maybe that's just because the imbecile is from Texas. Texans are weird about their pride. I think that some of them support Bush just because he's from Texas.

I'm not basing my observations solely on the presence or lacking presence of stickers, but on conversation as well. I have been riding the metro, hanging out in coffee shops, eating in restaurants that range from the local dive that barely passes health inspections, to fancy French joints with more than 3 forks per place setting. In all of these places, I have heard conversations in all of these places. The tone is always the same. Sometimes people sound angry, sometimes they sound weary, but they are all sick of Bush and would be happy to see him gone. I thought that people would be more supportive of him here, in the Nation's Capitol.

I even heard one older man on the subway talking about who he will vote for. He pointed across the isle to a stranger and declared "I'd vote for that guy before I'd vote for Bush."

Maybe its just wishful thinking, or maybe I'm only hearing what I want and filtering the rest out, but I think its refreshing to witness political descent on the streets of Washington, DC. Maybe there is still hope.

Influencing Minors

...So I have been staying with my thirty-something, perfectly functional, disgustingly healthy breeder friends for the past month or so. In the course of this month, we have had two separate visits, by two separate families; both of which have small children.

I've rapidly learned that my natural speech and behavior are not G rated, that said behavior needs to be drastically modified with a quickness when little eyes and ears are present. This is a fucking pain in the fucking ass. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Shit. That felt good. Its like my mouth and brain have been all constipated all day and the effects of the ex (pletive) -lax have just kicked in. There is a little tongue cramping at first, but after an explosion of dirty language, I feel nice and regular again.

These three little kids who are here are so good! I can hardly believe it. It is so completely disgusting and irritating. They don't have a t.v. at home, so when they are here, they get to watch exactly one hour of t.v. a day. They don't even bitch about it. I took the little four year old to get ice cream after dinner one day, and while we were there deciding which ice cream to sample she informs me: "I'm not allowed to have chocolate, it keeps me up at night." How many four year olds willingly divulge such information to a perfect stranger who has no idea that they aren't supposed to have chocolate!

They are very intelligent too. I asked the eleven year old what she wanted to for dinner. The only reply I got was the obligatory 'tween shrug. I said: "So you're indifferent." She just looked at me. I remembered that sometimes children don't understand the meaning of some words, so I asked. "Do you understand what indifferent means?" She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms at her chest. "Duh! It means I don't care." Touché.

I am never having kids. I can't deal with eleven year olds who match or surpass my wit. It makes me want to stomp my foot and stick my tongue out.