The Strange History of Don't Ask, Don't Tell

If you haven't seen the documentary: The Strange History of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, then you should.

Am I a lesbian? It makes no difference.

I don't agree or disagree with issues of basic human rights based on how I'm personally affected. I look at the "issue" of gays in the military and ask myself, "Well, they are already there . . . why should they have to hide?"

They make other people uncomfortable.

I live in the deep south . . . my marriage to my white husband makes other people uncomfortable. Yes, in 2011 this still happens. I see it. It's not in my head. So, we shouldn't be allowed to be married? We should have to hide our relationship because it makes other people uncomfortable?

But that's different! How?

Because I can't help being hispanic and he can't help being white. I have a lot of gay friends, believe me they have no choice in whether or not they are gay.

What about group showers?

Now, I can't speak to the military here so I don't know how often service men and women have to shower together in a group. But, I do know that your beer belly, saggy ass having self is in no danger of being on the receiving end of an unwanted advance.

Can't they just serve quietly?

No. "They" won't keep trying to make sense of how to serve with dignity and honor while being asked to lie.

The Pentagon formally repealed its ban on gays and lesbians in uniform on Tuesday, September 20, 2011 at 12:01 a.m., allowing soldiers for the first time to reveal they are homosexual without fear of official retribution.

I regret not marking this on the date it happened.

I know one thing for sure. I don't have the courage it takes to volunteer for military service, but I'm damn thankful for our service men and women who do: straight, gay, lesbian, bi or transgender.

Now With A Lot Less Crying

Being unemployed is weird.

I don't have to get up at the same hour I used to, but I still do. Then I lay there wondering where it is that I have to be and it's nowhere. I thought about pulling a Costanza and just show up where I used to work. Communication isn't exactly their forté so I bet I'd only get a few raised eyebrows.

But alas, I am not crazy so I'm not going to do that.

I've sent out countless cover letters and resumés. There are a few jobs that I'm genuinely interested in and a few others that would pay the bills. I am waiting to hear back on a few other leads as well.

Nothing new to say here, but the good news is I'm no longer crying once an hour. Yay!

Dog Park and Friends

Yesterday I spent most of the day crying and fretting over how we're going to pay the bills in a few weeks. Then Steve came home and reminded me that we are in this together and we are going to get through it. After a shaky inhale I nodded my head and said, "I'm going to Zumba."

So, I called my good friend Heather and said, "Let's do this!" When I arrived at the gym Heather said, "I can't believe you're here. I'd be in bed." I laughed and said that was a pretty accurate description of most of my day. The thing is, I have been severely depressed before and I don't want to go down that road again. So, even when I don't want to I have to haul my ass out of bed and rejoin the living.

After class Heather and I made plans to meet the following moring with our dogs at the dog park. My dogs are a bit neurotic and Heather's dog is a tiny bit skittish. Heather and chatted and the dogs chased, peed and chased.Again, this activity made me haul my ass out of bed. I'm grateful to friends like Heather who are encouraging without being overwhelming.

When I returned home the dogs crashed and I worked on my resume. Making yourself follow a schedule will give you something for which to stay motivated.

Up in the Air

It's been said that women write more in there diary when life changes are happening.

Lucky you!!!

So yesterday I was laid off due to a reduction in force. I did not see it coming as my performance was always regarded highly. Pardon my language, but I felt dick slapped.

The Director of HR and my supervisor walked into my office and closed the door. It is never good when they close the door. C said, "This is not going to be easy." My my supervisor, we'll call him The Albino, said, "No, it's not." I just said, "Oh."


And I thought to myself, "This is BULLSHIT." It was as if the adults from the Peanuts cartoons were talking to me: wonk, wonk, wonk, wonk, wonk.

I was given the option to pack my desk right then, or return the next day to do it. I just wanted to leave so I did. I grabbed my purse and got the hell out!.

Ahnalise Caedon Cabus - September 4, 2011

My cousin D was raised with my parents. His mom lived in our house as well so we were definitely a different kind of family. I was eight when he was born so for me, D was really more of a little brother than a cousin. I even remember at one point overhearing him tell a friend that I'm his big sister. I've been lucky to have a little brother.

D is 28 now and he is at least six feet tall. He's built like a linebacker and he has the heart of a Care Bear. He and his girlfriend just had a tiny little baby girl. She weighed 5 pounds and 18 ounces at birth. She's a wee munchkin.

All of the clothes bought for her are for a much larger baby. I went out this weekend and purchased some swaddling cloths, 5-8lb onesies and a princess blanket for her crib. I have to admit I'm not crazy about her name: Ahnalise. I think Anne Elise or even Analeigh would have been lovely. But, she's adorable no matter what her name.

Newborns make my heartache. I look at their sweet little faces, and I hurt for the unknown challenges they'll have to face. The bullies on the playground whose asses I want to kick. The mean girls who will make middle shool a nightmare. But mostly I want to keep her from getting her heart broken for the very first time. I want to tell her she's beautiful and perfect and that stupid boy has no idea of the big mistake he just made.

Sweet Ahnalise I hope your years are filled with sweetness and light. I hope you know what a strong woman you're going to grow up to be one day. And never forget, good girls don't make history.

Love,

Your Aunt Melissa

Dem Damn Bones

More than a decade ago I broke my kneecap. I was running, tripped and hit my kneecap straight on the sidewalk. It was rush hour and I fell behind some shrubs. I remember not wanting to get up because I was embarrassed. I wanted anyone that may have seen me to keep on driving by. I got up and hobbled home. What would normally have been a 10 minute walk took me about an hour. It was my right knee, and I knew I probably couldn't drive myself. I called a friend to take me to the emergency room and while I waited for her my knee doubled in size. It wasn't until the doctor told me that my knee was broken that I realized how seriously I'd hurt myself.

So, of course, six weeks ago when I rolled my right ankle I thought it was just a nasty sprain. I immediately went with Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation: RICE. I already had two drugstore ankle braces from previous sprains. I took some naproxen and called it a day.

Yes, I have sprained my right ankle several times. My feet turn out naturally, and combined with my clumsiness it is just a recipe for disaster. Typically though, the RICE method is a sure fix. This last time I took a week off from working out and when I did go back to the gym I started back with water aerobics. I didn't go back to Zumba because I didn't want to do all of that side-to-side motion. My ankle still felt vulnerable.

So, why did I finally go to the doctor? I had a deep pain in my foot that just never went away. See, I didn't connect this with the initial sprain because I thought that only involved my ankle. The pain I've been experiencing was more on the top of my foot and down by my heel. It wasn't even a constant pain. It would flair up when I was walking barefoot on the concrete at the pool, and the few times I pulled myself up the pool ladder with my right foot first. That last one there made me want to cry. I'm no waif, and hauling myself up by my injured foot (pretty much putting ALL of my weight right over the exact spot that hurt) practically made me pass out.

So, earlier last week I made an appointment to see a podiatrist. The night before my appointment I took a spin class. Even when the doctor was examining me I had a hard time pinpointing where my foot hurt the worst. Then she looked at the x-rays and said, "Hmm, does it hurt here?" She wrapped her hand around my foot and placed her thumb directly over the spot where I'd felt the most pain: then she squeezed.

HOLY SHIT! I may, or may not, have said that loud enough to be heard in the lobby.

Diagnosis: chipped bone in my heel.

I'm not sure how I was able to go six weeks before deciding to see a doctor. It might be that I have a high tolerance for pain (See walking home, albeit slowly, on a broken kneecap.) It also could be that the chip is in a location that is tucked up a little high and not always flexing like the toes. I know for sure that I've been favoring my left leg and making small adjustments to compensate for the injury.

Anyway, now I'm in an air cast that I have to wear for two weeks. I can take it off to sleep, shower and drive. Oddly, my foot seems to hurt more now. Is it because now I KNOW there is a chipped bone?

Too Much Information

Last night as I was flipping channels I came across a soccer tournament. I most definitely did not stop to watch. I've just never gotten into soccer. However, every time I see a match on tv I think about my mom.

My mom has been a lifelong soccer fan. Her youngest brother played for a team in Honduras. I think this is how we fall in love with something. Someone we care about is involved in an activity, so we attend their events. A fondness for the activity just seems natural. (It's marching bands for me.)

I knew my mom liked soccer, but only recently did I realize she loves soccer.

When my mom started dating my father, going to soccer matches was definitely one of the things they did together. In fact, when my mom was seven months pregnant she was still attending matches.

I'm not surprised because I remember while we were growing up she watched televised matches; specifically the FIFA World Cup. The World Cup only runs every four years during the summer and since its location changes sometimes the matches are televised late at night or early in the morning. My brother and I would be on summer vacation and we'd be woken up by the sound of adults screaming at the tv. It was startling, and it was annoying.

The FIFA World Cup is set up like most tournaments. There's a bracket and you have to keep track of what happens in all of the matches to know who is going to move to the next round. You also have to track the point table. During the last World Cup I realized my mom was keeping track of the bracket and point table . . . in her head.

To say that I was impressed would be an understatement.

My dad was watching the matches, but I think he was just watching each match. Meanwhile, my mom had this computer in her brain telling her who had how many wins and losses and what this meant for the teams she was watching play.

My mom always undersells her intelligence. And this was a great reminder of what a smart cookie she is. Two years later I still can't sort out the point system.

Kicking Ass with the Paddle Board

Today I had an Ah-Ha moment. I tread water in the deep end. I'm slowly but surely getting comfortable in the deep end.

After that I grabbed a kick board and did a few laps. For thirty minutes I kicked and kicked and raised my heart rate as I moved from one side of the pool to the other.

I loved it. I don't know that I will ever be skinny, but I'm definitely in a better place with regards to my depression.

Hydrocize - Water Aerobics is NOT for Sissies!

I walked into the pool for my water aerobics class and took note of the instructor. She looked close to seventy. The other attendees looked just as ancient. My friend Heather and I felt this was going to be a cakewalk. Then I looked toward the deep and and saw one of the attendees doing pull-ups on the diving board . . . Fuuuuuuuuck. Needless to say, those
ladies smoked us. We very well may have wandered into one of those cocoon pools!

Summer is here!

I really don't have a thing to blog about. The sad thing is, I know even that is not an original blog idea.

I read a couple of different blogs and most of them have at least one post about being unable to write. I don't even think it's writer's block. I think it's some sort of Facebook related degeneration.

See, even that is not original. I, like most bloggers, have been using Facebook as a substitute creative outlet. It's so convenient. Also, it doesn 't require much preparation and I know I have an audience.

As I mentioned in the title: summer is here! I say that because I struggle with depression and the dark winter days really wear me out. By the time Spring peeks around the corner The Bell Jar has a vaccuum seal. But, I feel good right now. The vegetable garden is full of ripening vegetables, and the pool at the Y is open. I am determined to get my money's worth out of the pool this summer.

I was there this afternoon for an hour, and it was delightful. I bailed on Body Pump (lifting free weights in an instructor-led environment), but a friend of mine was in there. It turns out her instructor skipped, and one of the "woo girls" tried to lead the class. I call them that because there is a group of women in every class at the Y. You know, when the instructor asks,

"How is everyone tonight?"
Response: Woo!

"How are ya'll doing out there?"
Response: Woo!

"Can ya'll here the music?"
Response: Woo!


The Woo Girls - from How I Met Your Mother:

What's a Woo Girl? A Woo Girl is a type of young woman, who like the cuckoo bird or the Whip-Poor-Will, gets get name from the signature sound she makes.

"Wooooo!"

A woo can be elicited from a certain song coming on the jukebox ("Sweet Home Alabama" plays); to half-priced shots; from a ride on a mechanical bull; to, well, pretty much anything.

The world absolutely needs Woo Girls. If there were no Woo Girls, there would be no 'Girls Gone Wild,' no bachelorette parties, no Las Vegas poolside bars. All of the things that you hold dearest would be gone.

The souvenir shot-glass industry would collapse; so would the body-glitter industry -- and, the stretch Hummer rental industry. Tiny cowboy hats would be worn only by tiny cowboys. And when 'Brown- Eyed Girl' would come up on the jukebox, all you would hear ... would be silence .... and 'Brown-Eyed Girl.' But who would "woo"? Who would "woo"? Would you? Would you ... "woo"?

I tried to define The Woo Girls to a woman I know her response was, "What's wrong with being a Woo Girl?"

Unsurprisingly, we're not close.

Stolen Glances

For the most part we see people for who they are now. But sometimes, if you're paying attention, you can see a flash of who that person was as a child.

A few months ago I was having a conversation with a co-worker and I made him laugh. It was a head thrown back, mouth wide open laugh that doesn't hold anything back. In that instant I saw what he looked like as a 10-year-old boy. For that one moment he was free.

This happened again recently. I saw a video of a man I knew as a boy. He has grown up to be a fine specimen of a man. But in this video, he was trying to set up a video conference with his parents. There is a moment where he's struggling with where to put the camera. His eyes shifted from left to right and you could see the frustration/worry in them. It caught me off guard because in that second I saw the boy I once knew.

I don't know if anyone ever sees the girl I was once. I've got to start looking for her.

Funky Feet

A friend that works with me has stanky feet.

Right, not stinky feet . . . feet so rank they are stanky.

After sloshing through the puddles in the parking lot, she walked into my office\and said, "My feet are stinky." I said, "You didn't have to announce it. I was well aware."

So we got into this argrument trying to determine if it's her feet that stink or her shoes that stink. She said, "No, it's because I don't wear socks with my shoes (women's dress shoes), and that is why my feet stink."

"Okay," I said, "So all of the shoes that you put your feet in are stinky." She said, "Yes, it's the shoes."

I said, "Girl, if all of the panties that you put on were stinky would you blame it on the panties?"

Her, "No, that means my pussy stinks. Wait, what . . . oooooooooh."

Me, "Yeah girl, it's not the shoes."

Crazy Train

Lately I've felt a bit manic.

My emotions are all over the place, and I've fallen back on some old, unhealthy behavior patterns. I've written about my history of trich, and I've recently relapsed. I'm even pushing my sweet husband with my cray-cray mood swings.

I'm working hard to figure out the source of this latest episode, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Is it work stress? Is it my 36th birthday looming before me? Is it the epic fail that was Valentine's Day? I don't know.

I know I need to figure this out before my sweet husband runs out of patience.

C - please don't go blabbing about this to mom and dad.

I Am What I Am

No mother fucker, you are who you choose to be. Who the hell do you think you are? Popeye!

I've met so many people who try to excuse their shitty behavior by trying to say they just can't help it. It's who they are. Assholes.

My dad is a gruff, rude, son-of-a-bitch who has rarely said an encouraging thing to me. He says he doesn't mean any harm, it's just who he is.

I work with a woman who is an attention whore that likes to throw shade. But you know, that's just the way she is.

Listen up people: YOU ARE WHO YOU CHOOSE TO BE.

I'm not perfect. There is shit I say and do that I'm not proud of, but I don't ask you to accept it because that's just who I am, and I'm not going to change. I work every day to make conscious decisions that affect my behavior. Being a bitch comes easily to me. Remarks that can cut you to your core are always geing formed in my head. But I'm an adult and I don't just come out and tell you, "Honey, I've known dozens of girls like you and you all think you're special. Your laugh is brash and your looks are flashy, but there is at least one of you at every trailer park. Get a ladder and use it to get over yourself."

I think these things, but I don't let myself be that heinous person because then I'd be Janice Dickinson.

I'm just so tired of this "I can't change" attitude.

It's bullshit.

We'll Have a Gay Old Time

I didn't intentionally set out to marry a closeted man, but I do have a long history with gay men. I have in fact been referred to as a f@g h@g. I hate that term.

I hate the word f@g, and I would definitely never refer to myself as a h@g.

Instead, I prefer to think of myself at the center of an amazing coterie of men.

It's My Life

If this blog were my child, I would have been reported to Child Protective Services a long time ago. The charge? Neglect.

When I started this blog I was a fucking mess. I had left my ex and I was falling in love with Steve.Oh, and yeah, I'd just quit my job and didn't have anything lined up. I had a lot going on, but things have calmed down considerably: thank god. However, I'm going to try to be a better momma and check in more often this year. So - every Tuesday evening I'll submit a new post.

I'm in a better place now. I'm married to my dreamboat husband, and I have a job that I absolutely adore. No really, I am thankful every day that on my drive to work I don't burst into tears. I've done that before and it's no fun.

I still deal with depression. It's something that I'll always have to fight. I don't just take meds. I try to get plenty of sleep, eat well and exercise. I still engage in bouts of trichotillomania. If I let things slide at work for too long I get anxious and I start to pull at my hair. I know my triggers at least so I'm managing my time better and lessening the frequency with which I feel behind at work.

When I'm not at work I'm kicking it at home. Steve is the best match for me. He appreciates laying in bed for hours on Sunday morning. We wake up, have breakfast and sometimes crawl back into bed with our coffee. He watches Headline News and I eventually fall back asleep with my head on his chest.

On Saturdays sometimes we go to estate sales - he looking for antique tools and me looking for vintage kitchenware. If the weather is nice we'll go to the Farmer's Market and take the dogs to the park. If we have a little extra in the account we take another step towards completing our kitchen remodel.

We live a quiet life, but it is our beautiful life.

Choosing a Major, Making a Life

This is only tangentially related to my minor.

I majored in English in college because it was the coursework that I felt I could pursue without failing. I enjoy reading, and I enjoy discussing what I've read. I knew for sure that I didn't want to teach. Maybe somewhere along the way while watching Thirtysomething I thought, "I could go into advertising." My family never ]encouraged/acknowledged our adolescent career desires so I kept this to myself. I never actually thought, "There are industries where good writers are needed."

Hell no! I literally thought I can read and write . . . English it is!

Of course, you aren't allowed to take classes in only your concentration. Part of the benefit of being college educated is that you have a well-rounded world view and take courses that challenge and push you. But, I tried my damndest to choose electives that would just let me keep reading, writing and talking.

Once I got through the Requirements I was free to take the classes I wanted as long as they fit under my curriculum. My last two years of school were the best ever. I had to take an ass load of electives in an area of approved concentration. The feminist in me gravitated towards Womens' and Gender Studies. Also, this program cross-referenced a lot of courses with the English Department. As a result, I graduated with a Women's and Gender Studies Minor.

I loved it!!! I was with a group of women who revelled in their femaleness. They WERE NOT MAN HATERS, they simply refused to be seen as "lesser than" because they had ovaries. It was a wonderful time to be a young woman in my 20s. We weren't Gloria Steinem or Betty Freidan or Belle Hooks, but we sure felt we had the potential to be.

So here I was surrounded by all of this amazing female energy and I don't ever remember being exposed to: L7, The Indigo Girls, Lucinda Williams, Ani DiFranco . . .

What the fuck happened to my musical education?

Things you never forget

In 2004, New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey held a press conference to announce that he is a gay american. That wasn't really the BIG bombshell.The issues here were that he was married to Dina McGreevey and McGreevey had given his Israeli lover, Golan Cipel a key position as New Jersey's Homeland Security Advisor. Ruh roh.

What I remember about McGreevey's coming out is that his wife Dina was on stage WITH HIM during the press conference. From the look on Mrs. McGreevey's face you KNEW that even she hadn't had enough time to process the information. Maybe she was thinking, "Is this really happening? Am I in the middle of an awful dream?" There were allegations that Dina willingly engagned in threesomes with her husband.

Here is Dina's statement regarding how she felt when he told her privately: Dina says she was in shock after what Jim had told her. "It was all so new, and it just hit me like a ton of bricks, and I wasn't absorbing it," she says. "I just started to cry, and I said to him, 'What does that mean for us?' And he said, 'I need you more than ever.' … He had tears in his eyes, and I was just sobbing."

This is how I remember finding out about my ex-husband. He's there saying these words and you just sort of here this buzzing sound that you hope is not a warning sign that you are about to pass out. You hear it and you think, "I can't handle this right now." You can't handle what you are hearing, how you have to process it, or how you have to react to it. It's impossible.

In an interview given on Good Morning America Dina McGreevey says, "You know he had the entire day [that he resigned] scripted. His entire life had been choreographed, and even as his world was falling apart, he was still trying to script everything and making sure that day went as he wanted it."

This infuriates me. You are, after all, still an actor in his play so he is going to tell you how this is going to go. And you go along with it. Maybe because he is a master-manipulator, but mostly because you are so shell-shocked you don't know what to think. You ask yourself, "How can I handle this with dignity." What you really want to be doing is beating the mother fucker on the back of the head with an iron skillet.

I've been in Dina's shoes. I wonder what she was thinking while she stood next to him on that stage. Was she thinking, "Awwwww, helllllls NO! Somebody better come take my earrings cuz this here is about to get nasty!" I really thought she looked frightened. But now, she's been asked to stand by him and that she has to be "Jackie Kennedy" during this. I love the occasional pictures of Dina off to the right and just behind McGreevey. She is totally giving him the side-eye!

Oprah asks Dina: Did Jim apologize? "If that's what you call it," Dina says. "It was a pathetic attempt at an apology."

A few days after the news conference, Dina says she and Jim went away for the weekend to escape the press. "I had complained to some of his friends that he had never apologized," she says. "And he came back into the room and said, 'For the record, I apologize.' And that was like a slap in the face. I mean, I rather would have had him not say anything."

I did this. I asked, "Are you sorry?" He said, "Yes." I said, "But you're really sorry you got caught, not that you did it." He said,"Yes." A slap in the face indeed.

At some point my ex made some sort of remark about how he had never allowed me to get to really know him. That he had hidden such an essential part of himself that he had never really been himself with me.

I can look back at this time in my life and see that the "essential part of himself" is pretty clear to me now. If I had known he was so incapable of remorse I would never have entered into that relathionship much less that marriage. But a good manipulator never lets you see his tricks. You just fall for the illusion.

Why write this now? Because this is a difficult time of the year for me. Without realizing what is going on, I start to feel this nebulous anxiety. As if at an moment I'm going to crash into another brick wall. I'm just trying to acknowledge the feelings, process them and move on.

First Anniversary

It's the first anniversary of my employment where I work. I'm excited, but mostly relieved because I work at a place where people like and respect me. I'm also comfortable there. I really do love my job, but I'm still asking myself, "Is there more?" What am I waiting for? Is it passing me by without me realizing it?

I think I may have mentioned this in an earlier post. When I was in college I did a research paper on women's diaries. It was interesting. What I found was that:

* Women write in their diaries in spurts.
* If there are significant life events happening, a woman will write, write write
* If life is plugging along at a normal pace then women don't pick up their diary as much.
* Women don't tell the truth in their diaries. Not the entire truth.

The thing of it is, if you write it down then you have placed yourself in a vulnerable position by committing to paper your private thoughts.It's worse if you are using something that looks like a like a diary or journal. What's more tempting for a snoop that someone's deepest darkest thoughts.

So, even in a journal women still feel too inhibitied to speak the truth. Writing our thoughts means it's out there for someone to find. It's no longer theirs.

What do I do now? Really tell the truth? Mention that sometimes I really do wish I could just lay down and die. I'm not suicidal, I don't think. But I do just want to check out.

I look at my fat body and even though it continues to amaze me in its adaptability, I wish I was in someone else's skin. I hide when I see a camera or mirror. Is this really what you want to hear? That sometimes just the thought of dishes in the sink or laundry in the basket completely overwhelms me.

Sometimes I don't feel like my life fits me. I love my husband, I enjoy my job, but I'm itching to do something else.

Some friends would tell me it's time to write my novel . . . I don't even know what I'd write. I can barely put words together for this blog.

This blog . . . blogging . . . it feels so over. I guess it matters. Sometimes it gives me a little sanity by letting me empty out the worries that are cluttering my brain.

I just don't know who where I'm supposed to be right now.

Should I be writing more? About what? Just writing?

Blergh!