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I’m going to try an experiment. I’m going to password-protect posts (some, not all, and for now I think just future posts, not back posts). I’ve been having so much trouble figuring out how to write in this space now, with my gaze shifting from myself more to the world, and with other things going on that are not necessarily easy to write about in the public gaze. I’ve been getting more and more open here about my real-world identity, have been sharing this blog’s existence more and more with people in my real-world life, and because of that I’ve been continuing to feel more and more like I don’t know how to approach this space anymore. I know I sound like a broken record; I’ve been repeating that same thing for months now, in every post. But I think password-protecting might help, might make this space feel less exposed.
Let me be clear, though: this is mostly just a psychological trick I’d like to play on myself. I have no intention of excluding anyone at all from reading, and I ask only that you send me an email (alphafemmesf at gmail dot com) or comment on this post if you would like the password, and I will be *more* than happy to send it along. In fact I will be excited to have folks ask for the password – it will mean that somehow, y’all are still interested :)
So, in the next day or two (probably today), I will be posting two things:
- a password-protected post with what’s going on in my life lately (teasers: summer plans, ongoings in my relationship, navigating our peculiar brand of non-monogamy, family happenings, grad school, sexxx…)
- real-life photos of me! with my face! and: they are pin-up photos, so they are hot ;)
My mother reads Dear Abby religiously. She’s done it for as long as I can remember, always picking out the “Lifestyle” section of our local daily paper and turning to page B2. Some days growing up, my sister or father would abscond with the section before she got to it to do the crossword or read the comics, but she would keep her eye on it, calling dibs on the section next. As a kid, it didn’t occur to me to question her loyalty to the column, and in fact I blindly followed suit–reading Dear Abby, it seemed, was something one did if one was to be a Woman. I was never all that impressed by the advice “Abby” (Jeanne Pauline Phillips was her real name, if I remember correctly) doled out, and eventually I got bored of her predictable responses and stopped reading. The act of stopping wasn’t all that memorable or all that conscious; it just sort of slipped away, superseded by more important things.
It wasn’t until I was in college, home from a break one year, that I thought to ask my mother why she liked Dear Abby so much. I was sitting at the breakfast table with her some late morning (summer? weekend?), watched her reach for Lifestyle and turn to B2, and was momentarily struck with mild curiosity. “Mom,” I said, “why do you read Dear Abby every day?” She looked up at me, stricken, and sighed. ”Well,” she said, “I guess there’s no reason not to tell you.”
When she was 11, she told me, she’d been assaulted by a friend of her parents. At that age in 1964, she didn’t have the language to identify what specifically had happened, she just knew she’d been violated. And she was scared. She knew, vaguely, that babies were made by men “doing things” to women, unspeakable things, and she knew that something unspeakable had been done to her, because the man had told her so, admonishing her that it was their “secret.” She felt isolated, ashamed, and was afraid that it meant she would have a baby. So, unable to talk to her parents and lacking knowledge or awareness of any other resources at her disposal, she wrote to Dear Abby. Asking if she was pregnant. And every day, 11 years old, she read Dear Abby, hoping for a response.
And she got one. Dear Abby printed her letter, and wrote a warm and kind response explaining exactly what would’ve had to have happened for her to be pregnant, affirming that no matter what he’d done, it was wrong and not her fault, and telling her about some books that she could check out at the library for girls about their bodies and their sexuality. In printing her letter, Abby made a connection with my mom that she didn’t have in anyone else, validated her when otherwise in her life there was silence, unflinchingly and lovingly spoke to the fears and ignorance of a little girl coming of age in an environment so sexually repressive that she couldn’t even ask what exactly it was that made babies. In printing her letter, Abby unwittingly secured for herself a lifelong follower. It is an emotional connection, my mother told me, that hasn’t wavered, even though (she admitted) the printed responses these days seem more canned.
I cried when she told me this. I cried for the lonely and scared little girl in 1964; I cried because suddenly my mother wasn’t just my mother but a complete person whose life began way before I was even imagined; and I cried because I’d silenced myself, too, at 15, perhaps not so ignorant as my mother at 11 but every bit as lost and alone, when I’d been raped. I cried because I hadn’t told my mom, just like she hadn’t told hers, generation after generation recommitting itself to isolation. Wait, no, strike that — we don’t commit ourselves to isolation — isolation is imposed on us by a dominant society that reprimands and shames sexuality expressed, that awkwardly and embarrassedly approaches very limited and basic lessons about sex and sexuality, that embraces tired discourses of women as sexual “gatekeepers,” men as sexual animals, and rigid heterosexuality within the confines of marriage as the only acceptable sexual option, that does not invite questions, conversation, or any sort of genuine human connection around the topics of sex and sexuality.
My mother’s and my own fear and isolation after experiencing sexual violence is only one effect of the smothering silence. My fear in high school of being gay and praying to a god I didn’t even believe in to send me a boyfriend was another effect. My complete ignorance of any kind of sex and sexuality other than heterosexual penis-in-vagina-in-and-out-cum-done sex, including ways that non-heterosexuals have sex and specifically have *safe(r)* sex, is another. My going to the public library after I was raped to search for ways to force a miscarriage in case I was pregnant, rather than asking my mom for help or my health teacher or anyone for crying out loud, is yet another. And these are just the ways that a dearth of information and conversation about healthy sex and sexuality affected me. My heart hurts for all the other kids and teens out there now who are suffering through the silence in their own unique ways.
Scarleteen is a website that is breaking through all of that, providing a robust, inviting, kind, and healthy space for teenagers to get answers, make connections, and feel supported in all aspects of their awakening sexualities. They need support to stay on the web, and kids need them. I needed them. My mom needed them. If you can, give a little bit. If you can’t, tell people in your life, especially teenagers, that the website exists. You know, just slip it casually into conversation… teenagers don’t respond well to directions ;)
***
This post is part of the Scarleteen Sex-Ed Blog Carnival. See aagblog.com for a full list of participating blogs! There have been a lot of really fantastic posts so far.
I just went back and read it, and got carried away by how different things are right now. Two years, apparently, makes a big difference. Two years ago, I was working as a paralegal, about five months out of a major relationship, and was a big slut. (In a good way.) I was realizing that I could hook up with people I liked and/or was attracted to, have fun, learn something p’raps, and be none the worse off for it. Annika was one such of these affairs; there were others in the span of seven months between the end of my previous relationship and the beginning of this one.
This blog was born because, after emerging from the comfort and stability (and also heartbreak) of a long relationship, I was putting my feelers into the world “out there,” realizing that if I was going to get through the finality of that break-up, I would need to re-gain my footing in something outside of myself in the context of that relationship, outside of the context of her. So, well, I put my feet in other women. Well, my hands, and tongue and things, actually, not so much my feet, but that’s the general idea ;) And I figured I’d write about it, the sex diaries of a single queer San Francisco femme.
But, well, that seemed tired. I’m not sure why; maybe that I’m a product of a culture saturated with Sex and the City? I don’t know. But after Annika, I didn’t write about any more of them. It didn’t feel quite like the full picture of me, writing about my one-night stands. So, for most of its infancy, my blog stopped and started, not quite sure what it was doing. Somewhere in there, I met ML, and I think the first time I mention her is in this post, when we’d already been dating for over three months. And then I just stopped writing completely until July of 2009. Or, actually, this isn’t entirely true. I kept writing. But then in July, in a particularly low bout of depression, I went back through my archives until that point and deleted almost everything I’d posted, for no other reason than that the posts didn’t resonate with me anymore.
That was a silly thing to do, because of course when one is in a low depressive place, things from non-depressive times don’t resonate anymore. And now that I’m NOT in a low depressive place these days, those posts from the summer of 2009 no longer resonate with me. They’re so raw, so vulnerable, so needy. I was floundering. But then I got through it, with the help of medication and a move across the city to new digs, and things started falling into place.
And, here I am. Living with ML, in the first semester of a graduate program in anthropology, working part-time still, at that same law firm. This blog has carried me through so much, through growing into my femme identity, through beginning to explore my sexual desires and landscapes, through navigating a healthy and committed relationship. And this blog is one of my favorite things now, and although I have so little time these days with school and work and relationship all piling on thick, I always have posts sitting half-written in drafts, or partially composed in my head, and I count myself very, very lucky to be here and to have you all, my readers, who somehow, inexplicably, care.
Here’s to two more years… And hopefully more!
PS: I finally created a Facebook page, since several of you have kept inviting me … see over on the right sidebar, down below my tweets? There! Click there to facebook-like me! :)
A best friend. That’s what the purpose of this space is supposed to be. Best friends love unconditionally, but give you a good wake-up slap in the face when you need it. You can call a best friend in the middle of the night – either because you’re laughing hysterically, sobbing uncontrollably, or having a ranting jerkfest.* You tell a best friend anything or everything or whatever the hell you feel like. Maybe you don’t tell them anything for a while but that’s okay because they know you’re still there.
The other thing about a best friend is that it’s reciprocal. A best friend isn’t just there for me. I’m there for her. I want to be here for this blog. I’m not sure how exactly to articulate what that means, but I guess it’s like this: my relationship with this blog needs nurturing. I need to be true and honest with it, even when it’s giving me a hard time. I need to present my whole self, not just my queer/femme/sexual self. I need to give back to it, as much as it’s given to me. I guess giving back to the blog means giving back to you guys, everyone who reads and cares about me. I am so grateful to all of you — I read every single comment, even if I don’t respond to it invidually. I check out every single one of you who follows me on Twitter, and am in awe that I have a new follower. I don’t even remotely take you for granted. I wish there were more I could do to say thank you to all of you! Maybe there is … I’ll think on it ;)
Having my blog know my name helps a lot, in a weird way. I can say, “hi blog!” and it can say back “hi Eva!” and it’s magic! I’m no longer a faceless pseudonym. Well, ok, I’m still faceless. Not sure if/when that’s going to change. But y’all can hope!
Anyway, now I just need a purpose for my life and I’ll be all set. I wonder if I can be a professional best friend?
In other news, I just exfoliated and did a facial mask, and my skin now feels like butter. Win!
*I’m really going to try not to have embarrassing midnight-phone-call-type blog posts here. You know what kind of embarrassing phone calls I’m talking about. The ones that you cringe at the next day, when you call your best friend back and say awkwardly, “erm, ooooooops, sorry ’bout that…” I’d really rather not have cringe-worthy posts glaring at me from my computer screen begging for deletion, wondering who on the worldwideweb has already witnessed that embarrassing display… Yeah, let’s keep this a mature best friendship, mmkay?
I’ve been in a bit of a weird mood the past two weeks. Hence the prolonged quiet here. I’ve been having trouble pin-pointing its origin, but whatever it is is making me feel dull, listless, uninspired, disconnected. And the mere fact that I’m in this funk is making me cranky on top of it all, because I’m on summer vacation, dammit. I have time and energy out the wazoo, so what’s wrong with me? Ye olde depression is raring its ugly head.
I’m lacking process. I started seeing a career coach because I’ve been having cold feet about graduate school and feeling in general like following my gut doesn’t do it for me. I need more of sense of order in my life about things. And I’m worried that grad school will turn out just like undergrad — I’ll love it, and I’ll be super happy while there, but then once I’m spit out, degree in tow, I’ll just land haphazardly. I need more of a sense of purpose.
That’s it. Purpose. I lack purpose. And so I’m sort of drifting aimlessly this summer. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really nice. I read a lot, I go on lots of walks/hikes around the city with a friend who has afternoons off, I cook (a LOT) and bake (a LOT) and organize my home… I planted an herb garden and harvested the first basil last week. I found an artisan no-knead bread recipe that’s easy as pie (which, come to think, isn’t that easy… so maybe it’s easy as … brownies-from-a-mix?). I’ve been working at the rape crisis center several days a week, and I love the people there. On the surface, everything seems like it’s perfect. Idyllic.
But yeah, purpose. I’m missing inspiration, drive. A reason to get up in the morning. Something that makes me really excited, something beyond the insular projects I do that don’t have a particular direction (like cooking, volunteering, going on walks). I need goals. Something to work towards.
And I guess because of that lack, I’ve been having a hard time writing. I’ve lost my sense of purpose about this blog, too. What am I doing here? Writing a personal journal? Stream of consciousness, whatever comes to mind? Am I writing a coherent series of personal essays about queer and sexual identity? Am I writing an ode to my relationship? What? I’m confused, and I’m worried I’ve gotten off track, started writing to fulfill expectations (but whose?) rather than writing to capture an essence of something real. This isn’t an issue so much of what I have written, but rather of what I haven’t written. Everything I write here is genuine, it’s me. But I haven’t been writing as much lately, largely because I get stymied, paralyzed by self-consciousness. It’s only when I successfully box the self-consciousness that I manage to write a post.
But here’s the thing. I love this place. I love it too much to leave it, and so instead I’m going to try to re-establish a sense of purpose for myself here. A purpose will give me a sense of direction, a reason to write. So while I’m not sure at the moment what the purpose is, I had an idea of where to start. I’m going to start by putting something real here, something to help me re-connect.
I’m discovering that contentment is rather boring, or maybe it’s just that I’m not skilled enough as a writer to make it sound interesting. Suffice it to say, my life has been pretty, well, content. I’m doing pretty much exactly what I was hoping to this summer: cooking every day, baking, reading, working at the women’s building, cleaning and organizing, doing statistics work… It’s all pretty dull, really. There are a few things, though, that I haven’t been doing that are frustrating me.
1) I haven’t been writing here nearly enough, and I miss it. Originally, I had thought I would start every day by writing, but that hasn’t been possible mostly because I’m still too groggy in the morning to sit down and write. And not only that, but a post will often take me an hour or two or three to write up, and once I’ve done that and looked at the clock and find out it’s already 11, I feel guilty that I’ve been sitting around for that long. I haven’t yet gotten to the psychological place where I see this blog as a job, rather than as an indulgence. Last week I figured out that what might help is starting out my mornings with exercise, instead of writing, so that by the time I sit down to write at 9, I’ll have already gotten moving and burned some energy, and I’ll feel more ready to focus on writing. I’m going to try that.
And, gee, this is still boring, isn’t it?
2) I haven’t been getting out and about enough. I’ve been staying pretty occupied at home, it’s true, but no matter how productive I’m being and no matter how much I’m doing that I want to be doing, it still feels unproductive to spend the whole day around the house. I need to get out more. And although I know that intellectually, I have a really hard time putting that passive knowledge into immediate action. The truth is, I’m not quite sure what to do about this. I’ve tried setting specific times to do specific things (“at 2 o’clock I’m going to go up Bernal Hill with my camera”) but often, 2 o’clock comes and I’m engrossed in something else and I think “oh I’ll just do that tomorrow.” Then the end of the day comes, and I feel guilty and frustrated that I didn’t just do it. I’m a creature of inertia, I guess. I tend to just keep moving in the direction I’m already moving. If it keeps going like this, all these vague ideas I’m having about Things I Want To Do This Summer (start a back porch herb garden, climb as many staircases as I can, take free walking tours of the city) are going to wind up in my Not Done pile at the end of the summer. That depresses me. How do I combat this?
I have several things that I’m going to put into effect in the next week, and maybe they’ll help. One is, a friend of mine has reduced summer hours, and has asked if I want to be her “activity buddy” in the afternoons. Not every afternoon, maybe twice a week, but that’s enough that I will feel more active and adventurous. Not to mention social. So we can make plans together and be accountable to each other in keeping them. (Why do I have such a hard time being accountable to myself?)
Another is, I’m going to plan to post here three times a week, on the days that I don’t go to the women’s building — Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Planning that way makes posting here concrete, something specific to accomplish on those days that I’ll be at home in the mornings. Maybe some days they’ll be short posts, if I’m working on another project that day, or have afternoon plans. But I really want to try to stick to that schedule, and by stating so here, I’m hoping to cultivate that sense of accountability in myself.
And the last thing is, I’d really like to start an exercise routine in the mornings. ML gets up at 6:15 after all, and I’ve been waking up with her. I hate those hours between 7 and 9, when I feel like I’m too sleepy and half-awake to do anything productive, and besides, the streets haven’t woken up yet. (I’m not a morning person, y’all. Although I am remarkably cheerful in the mornings. Just ask ML who, by the way, is totally cranky-pants in the mornings.) But going out for a run or to an early-morning yoga class or even just for a brisk walk would be a good way to start out the day. I’m going to plan to do that on the same days I blog. Three days a week. Should be doable, yeah?
I’m boring myself to tears now. This post sounds a bit melancholy, doesn’t it? No? Yes? I feel a bit melancholy at the moment. It’s 9 o’clock, Tuesday evening, I just had my neighbor for dinner, cooked risotto with green onions and peas. She left half an hour ago, and now I’m all alone. ML is in Baltimore on a business trip. Pathetic, isn’t it? Not being able to look forward to her coming home to me at the end of the day, the day kind of loses its spark. Come back, spark! Come back, ML! I want you here with me.
I know: I’m going to go make cookies. (That’s a really good recipe, by the way.) That’ll give the evening at least *some* spark. ;)
Tomorrow, even though it’s Wednesday, I won’t be posting. I’ve got a full day: waxing in the morning, Frameline volunteering in the afternoon, and then burlesque in the evening (hence waxing in the morning :)). And then Thursday, more Frameline during the day, and then in the evening, she comes back to me. I’m such a sap.
Thank the freakin Lord — I have internet. (For the past few days, I’ve been bumming off my neighbor’s unsecured (but very weak) signal.)
I ordered internet before I left for the East Coast back in May from a local service provider, hoping to avoid the likes of Comcast and AT&T. Great idea, but it meant there needed to be two installation visits, rather than just one. Since I was going to be gone, I left it for my girlfriend to deal with. She tried, but with the logistics of trying to let people in and blah blah blah it’s not interesting, nothing actually got done while I was gone. So when I got back on Sunday, we still didn’t have internet, and there were still two installation appointments ahead.
Fast forward to today — final installation appointment happens, and hooray! The green light is on! And I have internet.
…Sort of. Turns out, I managed to scramble something in my computer by resetting the router the wrong way, and it took me all day and finally a frustrated (and expensive — $35, since my warranty had expired) call to NetGear’s tech support to figure it all out.
Long story short: I HAVE INTERNET, YO.
Which means … posting resumes … TOMORROW! I’ve got so much to say! Phew.
A long, long time ago, both Jude and FemmeFairyGodmother anointed me as a Beautiful Blogger. I have been remiss in not acknowledging and passing the award along, as I ought to have done, according to the rules, which are as follows:
1. Thank the person who gave you this award.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Pass the award along to 15 bloggers who you have recently discovered and who you think are fantastic!
4. Contact the bloggers you’ve picked and let them know about the award.
Okay, so, first things first. Thank you Jude and FFG so much for thinking of me as a beautiful blogger, and sharing it with your readers! I appreciate the love :)
Now, 7 things about myself. Hmmmmmmmm.
1) I have mild scoliosis. It makes me kind of self-conscious about my back, because I know it’s not symmetrical. Yeah, I know, fuck that shit, celebrate uniqueness, yay! Still self-conscious about it.
2) I’m very much a book person. Love looking at them, reading them, holding them, smelling them, being surrounded by them. Libraries and used book stores are my favorite indoor spaces. I have a very, very hard time getting rid of books, and when I moved to California, about 2/3rds of the stuff I shipped were boxes of books. I could never feel quite at home in a place without shelves and shelves of books.
3) My favorite color is mustard yellow.
4) I used to love dollhouses and collected miniatures. This was maybe from about the age of 8 until the age of 14. I built my own dollhouse when I was 8 and then became fascinated with furnishing it and decorating it. Foreshadowing? My favorite thing to do was re-arrange the furniture. I rarely played story lines with it, but I loved to take everything out, eliminate the clutter, put things back in and re-decorate. Also foreshadowing?
5) The hardest thing about my parents’ separation right now is that when I’m visiting them, as I am now, I no longer have time where I’m just hanging out on my own at their house. I can’t just be here anymore. I have to be spending time with them. So when I’m visiting my mom, she thinks it’s borrowed time and tries to cram all our time with activities and conversations and meals (tomorrow though? mother-daughter mani-pedis — not going to complain about that!). And when I’m visiting my dad, he thinks it’s borrowed time and though he’s not an activities person, we’re definitely actively hanging out whenever I’m there. It’s tiring. Love my parents, but it’s tiring.
6) The first time I ever kissed a girl, I wasn’t identifying yet as a lesbian. So afterwards, I thought to myself, “well, now I can say I’ve kissed a girl!” and I felt very accomplished, akin to the feeling I get when I cross something off a list. Little did I know…
7) I do not support the institution of marriage on an intellectual level. And yet I really, really, really want to get married, and I even want some parts of my getting-married process to be somewhat traditional. I want to have an engagement ring and a wedding ring, I want to have a ceremony where we exchange vows, I want to wear a beautiful (maybe even white) dress and have my best friends and family there, I want to symbolically and publicly commit myself to my spouse. Hypocritical? Yes, certainly. And I do intend to be absolutely intentional about everything that goes into it. But, well, it remains an institution I don’t intellectually support. I’m banking on coming up with some sort of compromise in the next few years before it would ever even come up.
And now! Part 3: pass the award along to 15 bloggers I have recently discovered who are beautiful. Well, let’s be honest: I don’t read more than a few dozen blogs, and there certainly aren’t 15 that I’ve discovered recently and committed to reading on a regular basis. But there are a few, and I’m really thrilled to take this opportunity to tell you all to GO READ THEM. NOW. Some of them are newer bloggers, and some are just bloggers I hadn’t read until the past year. Without further ado:
1) Mackenzie blogs at Queer Grrl in the City and she is one of my absolute favorite blogs now. She’s the kind of writer who not only has a way with arranging words, but also has a way with using them to really reach you. And she’s an absolute sweetheart. I want every one of you to add her to your blogrolls.
2) JB at To the FemmeMobile is another one I have in my Google reader. She’s funny, candid, adorable, and so fucking astute I can’t handle it. Everything she writes, I’m like “omg! yes!” She writes about things butch/femme, things sexy, things gender queery, and things like getting bitten by a dog.
3) Kaitlin writes at Not Just a Femme and she is one of the loveliest, funniest, sweetest people I’ve met online thus far. I was Twitter friends with her first, and when she moved to her current blog home, I started following her blog, too. She doesn’t post super often, but her posts are just as personable as her tweets and her comments on other folks’ blogs (including mine!) and I *almost* feel like I know her in real life, even though I don’t. YET.
4) Kara, who writes at The Adventures of Kara and Jessica, is one of my new favorites too. She leaves some of the sweetest, most supportive comments here, always so supportive and positive and encouraging. She blogs about sex, kink, fashion, and “regular” things (music, life, etc.) over at her and her girlfriend’s blog, and I’ve gotten some great ideas from her, both sexual and fashionable. She’s kind and generous and really smart to boot!
And lastly, I’d like to throwback to both Jude and FFG, since they’re both relatively new reads of mine as well. Jude hasn’t failed to make me laugh once in the time I’ve been reading her blog. She has the amazing ability to put a hilarious spin on daily life. On top of that, she’s got an amazing relationship with her wife which has been proof for me that yes, marriages can work, commitments can last. I wish I could adopt Jude as my lesbian aunt.
And FFG really is like a femme fairy godmother. I love her posts doling out relationship advice and cosmetic preferences. She’s the type of person to envelope you in love and warmth and goodwill. And her Butch Swoon list, featuring real-life butches, is, well, swoon-worthy.
So, that concludes my Beautiful Blogger awarding. This turned into quite a lengthy post! But if there’s anything you’ve gotten from it, it’s this: add these folks to your list of blogs to read.
Well, that post on sexual violence was supposed to be Part I of IV, and I was going to do all four this month, in April, partly because it’s Sexual Assault Awareness Month but mostly because I thought it would be easier for me to write it all at once and altogether and then get right back to my regularly scheduled ruminations about my life and my relationship. I also sort of felt insecure about it, like maybe people wouldn’t want to read something so serious and harsh on my blog, so it’d be better for everyone if I just hurried up and got it all out of the way. Except that something happened that I wasn’t planning on, and what happened was I sort of ran away. I hit publish, and then turned off the internet for a week and a half. I mean, I was reading other people’s blogs and doing other stuff on the internet. But I didn’t look at any comments and didn’t check my email or post on twitter or poke my head above ground at all. But the weirdest part is I didn’t even realize I was doing that until a week later.
I guess it just needed time to sit there and have its own life for a minute before I came back to it. And it’s fine, I’m totally fine, I’m glad I wrote it and glad I shared it, and thank you all so so so much for your comments. You can’t possibly know how much they mean to me. In a funny sort of way, my healing in the past few years has been much aided by all the love and support I get now from people in my life; it’s like I can remember that time of my life but also picture the warm and loving spirits of people now saturating the air around the 15-year-old me who had no idea they were there at the time because she was hurting too much to see them, but knowing they were there all along somehow helps me now in a way that doesn’t feel entirely retroactive. It actually is almost as if I’m beginning to learn how to re-remember, re-live that time a little less lost. Memory is a funny thing.
Anyway, to get back to the original point of this post, I don’t think I’m going to be writing parts II, III, and IV quite yet. It will happen, but not this month, and for the time being I’ve got plenty of other things to write about.
Beginning with:
We have a new home! I tweeted a few weeks ago about how disappointed I was that the perfect little garden home we wanted went to another applicant — and Jen told me that it must’ve happened for a reason — and was she ever right! Back story: I currently live in a sexplex (you know, a house divided into six units, duh, minds out of the gutter people!), two flats per floor, and the flats on each floor are flip-flops of each other. The landlord’s son and daughter-in-law have lived in the flip-flop flat to mine for the past few years, and they mentioned at the beginning of April that they might be moving somewhere bigger soon. My roommate and I got excited for a hot minute about the possibility of me and the lady love taking over their flat, but then we never heard another whisper of them moving and figured it wouldn’t be happening for a while, and promptly forgot about it.
Until last week, when suddenly, one day, they were gone. The very next morning I called our landlord, and said (more or less), “hey, you know, my girlfriend and I would be totally happy to move into that flat for you, if you could keep the rent where it’s currently at. It would be so easy for you, you wouldn’t have to renovate it or show it or anything, and you know me already, and I’m already a part of the building family, and, you know, we’re awesome tenants, so how’s about it?” And WHADDOYAKNOW? He fell for it! Well, almost: he did bump the rent up a bit, but it’s still well below market rate for our neighborhood, and it’s got TWO BEDROOMS. So much space! A guest room! A music room! A library! An office! A ballroom! So many possibilities! It’s a mansion you guys, and for so cheap. No, it doesn’t have a garden, but it has a sunny little back deck of sorts, and I’m going to see about having a little herb garden back there. And moving is going to be CAKE. I just have to drag everything next door. Like, three feet.
We’re so excited. May 15th will be the first day of our lease, so that I can move everything before I travel for two weeks starting May 18th. I think I’m going to die of asphyxiation from holding my breath until then, I’m so excited. Our OWN PLACE! :)
I’ve written about enough for now, so I’ll just leave you with a little souvenir of a fun photo shoot I did yesterday. The lady love, who isn’t even a photographer, snapped about 100 shots of me in my bedroom, and they came out so lovely! The lighting is just the gorgeous sunlight filtered through my translucent insulating blinds.
