Let me introduce Flip Side

I recently cleaned out a desk that I'd had as a kid growing up in my parents' house. Not long ago, I had commented that I was thinking about getting a desk for my "junk room" and my mother proffered the desk up for taking. It's not like we're going for a "look" in the junk room, hence the name "junk room." We're going purely on function here, and free furniture is a nice bonus. Her one caveat: I was required to clean it out entirely and either take my stuff or throw it away. (Congenital packrat-ism: my mother plans to replace the desk's spot with file cabinets full of 3rd grade lesson plans she hasn't taught in 10 years. Plus, she's retired.)

Anyhow, in the desk, I found this essay, marked with an "A" and a note that Mrs. B, my 5th grade teacher, had written telling me that she thought I was an excellent writer. And now I feel I must share the beloved irony:

Flip Side

September 7, 1988

Let me Introduce Flip Side

I'm 10 years old and have two brothers. One is eighteen and wants to be a pilot for the navy. He went to N.M.M.I. to prepare himself for the navy. My other brother is fifteen plays J.V. football for KHS. He almost made varsity, but he sprained his knee. I'm 60 inches high, have medium lenghth {sic} hair of sandy blonde. I wear size ten shoe (and nines too sometimes) and have brownish eyes. (every time I ask people what color eyes I have I get different things.) I have a dog, springer spaniel, named Springer, who's supposed to be a show dog but didn't have good ankles. We have a tortise {sic} we got when my oldest brother was 4, and snake we found in the woods. (My dad brings home a live mouse every friday for her.)

I like to play soccer tennis and soccer. I love to read like to play with babies. I collect porcelian minitures {sic} and i have a lucky penny collection with 239 pennies in it. (I also hate to keep my room neat!)

My favorite subject is Composition even though i dont do well in it. I like to think creatively. My best subject is math. I've always had trouble with handwriting and neatness.

I'd like to be a lab scientist (like my dad) or sergeon {sic}, artist or cartoonist. I don't want to be a teacher because my mom says its to much hassel {sic}. I just hope I'm healthy and happy.

A Day of "Dick's"

Dick's, also known as Dick's Last Resort, is an interesting breed of eating establishment. They pride themselves on "service with sarcasm" and proceed to don many a patron in curious looking butcher paper headwear. The environment is typically jovial and entertaining.

D and I had attended the Dick's restaurant in Las Vegas last summer. It was a blast. There was a large server named Taco who walked around, unabashedly showing off his bright pink thong, and encouraging patrons to press the "o" (as in Taco) tattooed across his belly. By pressing the "o," the guest was rewarded with a round of extremely vocal "ooooooooooo"s from the surrounding guests, who had all been well trained throughout the course of their meals. The butcher paper hat messages included things like, "This hat covers my bald spot," and the companion hat "My bald spot is bigger!" We also witnessed a few hats about breast size and other borderline raunchy things, but kept it mostly in check, as this is a family restaurant.

Last week, lunchtime was upon us, and we ventured in to the Dick's on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. This was a monumental error in judgement. There were four of us: Me, D, D's niece Traci, and Traci's 10-year-old daughter Britany. Judging by the dark atmosphere and callous host, I knew this wasn't going to be quite the same, but we ventured on in anyway. I knew things we're going to be sketchy when we saw a woman wearing a butcher paper hat emblazoned with "I will be blowing chunks later tonight," and her male companion wearing a hat that read, "Hi, I'm Chunks." (Okay, it's funny, but this is supposed to be a family restaurant...)

Upon seating ourselves at a table, we waited at least 10 minutes for the server to show up. When he finally graced us with his presence, he stood menacingly before us, a squirrelly little man with a frizzy mini-fro and really bad teeth, probably due to a wicked crack habit. Intimidated by his generally negative attitude, we began asking questions about the menu, only to be rewarded with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "What do you think comes with the f*cking sandwich? What normally comes on a sandwich?" As person with some fairly aggressive food allergies, I thought this response was unwarranted, especially considering we HAD A TEN YEAR OLD AT THE TABLE. He seemed completely oblivious to his consistent dropping of the F-bomb around poor, innocent Britany. (Britany wouldn't even say the name of the restaurant because it was a bad word.) STRIKE ONE.

We worked through that debacle, and Squirrel Man proceeded to take our drink orders. As I often do, I asked for water with no citrus. I tend to say "no citrus" as opposed to "no lemon" since limes are significantly cheaper these days, and many restaurants are using them instead of lemon to garnish water glasses. Squirrel Man had a field day with this, insulting me and and my use of "citrus" as opposed to "lemon" and claimed that NO ONE in the food service industry EVER garnished their water with lime and I must be a total social degenerate. Additionally, Traci ordered tea, and asked for sweet 'n low. He acted like we had asked him to climb to the polar ice caps to retrieve the little pink packets, when in actuality, they were sitting 10 feet away at the bar. He never did bring them, and D eventually wandered over to the bar to get the sweetener. STRIKE TWO.

After another significant wait, we finally did get our beverages. Both Britany and I had ordered glasses of water. Mine came looking crystal clear. Hers came looking like he pulled the water out of the river (aka drainage ditch) flowing outside the front door. It was brown and cloudy, but Britany sipped it anyway. She immediately spit it back out and told us that it tasted funny. I gave her my water, and she was contented that the other glass tasted much better. We waited for Squirrel Man to resurface, and when he did, he threw a fit, claiming they had both come from the same tap, that the glasses were merely different colors (which they were not), and that we were just trying to make his life more difficult. At this point, I was getting fumed. I calmly explained that yes, we knew we were at Dick's, and yes, we expected "service with sarcasm," but there is a substantial difference between "service with sarcasm" and just plain being an asshole. He got in face and responded with, "Well, I'm just an asshole." STRIKE THREE!

Although he reluctantly agreed to change out the water, I had had enough of his bullsh*t. I got up from the table with the enormous glass of clear water in my hand, walked over to where he was standing, and dumped the entire glass on his head. (he ducked, so I didn't get him very well. In retrospect, I should've gone underhanded like they do in movies.) As I stormed out of the restaurant, I spoke with the manager, who agreed that Squirrel Man's actions were not consistent with the "Dick's" philosophy.

I went on to enjoy an adult beverage and solo meal and at a very nice Italian restaurant across the river, while D, Traci and Britany enjoyed very thorough service for the remainder of their meal. (Ironically, the waiter at Italian restaurant brought me water garnished with a lime as he greeted me at the table. I took a photo with my phone and sent it to D.)

At the end of our 4 day adventure, when asking Britany what her favorite part of the trip was, we heard about the river rafting, and the wild animals poking their heads in the car, the waterslide at the Hyatt Wild Oak Ranch, and the playground at Hemisfair Park. But mostly, we heard that one of her favorite parts of the trip was when Flipside dumped the water on the waiter's head.

I would tend to have to agree.

I love my rainbow flipflops

Not long ago, i made the break and unearthed my technologically dysphoric self long enough to get a facebook account. I've been teased for it by a few friends, but i do enjoy being able to keep in touch with people. The multitude of "applications" is obnoxious, but hey, they gotta make their money somewhere.

This tool of "social networking" has helped me to become more unfettered by my ubiquitous self-consciousness. Today i even let the (facebook) world know that I was considering attending the 30th annual Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride Festival and Parade that will be taking place this weekend.

Now, if you know me at all or have read anything I've written, you will know that I do NOT profess to belong to one of these categories. (I'm sexually ambivalent - i fell in love with a person despite of the genitalia, not because of it...) Here's the thing. I used to hang out with the gay crowd in Montrose ALL the time. It was fun to be a straight girl around gay guys. I felt a whole lot more comfortable hanging out at JR's pre-relationship than I do now.

But I really, REALLY want to go to Pride this weekend for one reason and one reason only. I have the most AWESOME pair of rainbow flipflops. I think I can handle being labeled a lesbian for the weekend if it means I get to wear my flipflops.

Superficial, whatever.

The Spectrum

I started writing a book, but I don't think it's going to take. This is the gist of what I wanted to say in one of my as-yet unwritten bestsellers.

I believe that sexuality has a sliding scale.
There are currently 5 definitions in which to fit every individual's personal sexuality.

1) Straight. We know this one: the man prefers women, the woman prefers men. Simple enough.

2) Gay. Man prefers men.

3) Lesbian. Woman prefers women.

4) Bisexual. Man or woman prefers either men or women. I hate this word. It has terrible insinuations and implies promiscuity.

5) Transgender. Usually man (but sometimes woman) feels as though he or she has been born in a body of the wrong gender.

Somehow or another all 18 cajillion people on this planet are supposed to fall squarely in to one of these 5 categories. I find this simply impossible. Its like trying to categorize all of mankind in to one of five clearly defined ethnicities or even better, one of five clearly defined shoe sizes.

Here's where the sliding scale comes in; Imagine a spectrum if you will. At the one end, you've got your reds. These are the people that are 100%, without a doubt, dyed in the wool heterosexuals. The men want women and only women. The women want men and only men. Nothing else has ever crossed their minds, not even once.

At the other end, you've got your violets. These are your 100%, can't do anything about it (though throughout the years, sadly, many have tried) were born that way homosexuals. These are the people who grew up knowing something was different about them, and may or may not have known what was different about them. My girlfriend, D, for example, began proposing to her sister-in-law with the rings that come out of a gumball machine at the age of 3. Every trip to the gumball machine revealed a new ring to be presented to her brother's then girlfriend, now wife. D claims she probably went through over a thousand of the tin rings over the course of those early years. She knew she was not like the rest of the world, but tried anyways. She dated a few boys in high school, but did not fully embrace her sexuality until college. Many, many homosexuals feel this way. This how God made them, and this is how they are meant to live their lives.

I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. I refuse to call myself a lesbian - I am not a bright violet who has always known there was something different about me. I enjoyed relationships with men, and quite frankly, should anything happen to D, I'd have to say that I'd begin looking for a partner with a penis when I decided I was ready to get involved with someone again. Not that I wouldn't be open to another relationship with a woman, but I really can't see myself hanging out at Chances trying to pick up chicks. If I must fall into a label, then I've created one of my own: Sexually Ambivalent. I fall in love with the heart and soul of a person, rather than the definition of a person by his or her genitalia.

I wonder if it will catch on. Maybe I should call Ellen.

The sweetest thing

Yesterday, two little old ladies, Del and Phyllis stood before the mayor of San Fransisco and got married. They have been together for 55 years. Fifty-five years!

Yeah, the gay thing kinda weirds people out sometimes. I used to be one of them. [I STILL have no desire to EVER go to a melissa etheridge concert again (scaaarrry...)]

Chances are, the extreme right will figure out a way to change it back, but it amazes me to read stories of couples travelling from all over to marry after 20, 30, 40 or more years of loving each other. (Unlike Massachusetts, California has no residency requirements.) Even my uncle hinted at me that he and his partner of over 25 years may even head over the border from Arizona sometime soon.

I don't care who you are, the most conservative of conservatives, how can one not see how sweet it is that two little old ladies, who have loved each other for fifty five years are finally able to unite themselves in that love? How can it not be? Love is love is love. You can't help what kind of package that love comes in...

10 months later, I still dislike Hillary Clinton...

...But it's been damn close to a year since I wrote anything here. I've been thinking about doing this for a while, but I think its time to resume the therapeutic process once again. I plan to go through and filter out some of the more meaningless mumbo jumbo, leaving mostly the gems behind. Admittedly, there area few gems. (check out Birthday Bash...)

And, yes, I still dislike Hillary Clinton, though not as vehemently. However, it does make me want to vomit that D drives around with that damn sticker on her car window, even though Hillary lost the nomination. ("The sticker doesn't have a year!" she says. Argh!)

So here we go...

Besides the fact that I can't stand her...

I believe Hillary Clinton as president is the worst thing that could happen to our country right now. I've got my personal reasons, and despite my current "lifestyle," I still feel like a republican at heart. But the following train of thought is irrefutable, no matter your political leanings.

Let's think about this for a minute. Our greatest international challenge right now? Radical extremist Muslims, Al-Qaeda, etc. Now let's think about some of the tenets of the radical Islamic faith. (Not all Muslims, just the ones who hate us...) Where do women rank with these wackos? Somewhere between the sludge in the sewers and the homeless three-legged mutt that begs for scraps. Women are not to be taken seriously. Any progress that we might otherwise make on this front could never be made with a woman at the helm of our nation. She would never be taken seriously.

While I think it would be great to have a woman in the white house sometime in the near future, I firmly believe that NOW is NOT that time, and Hillary Clinton is not that woman.

A letter to Wayne Dolcefino and the local ABC affiliate I will henceforth be boycotting

So maybe you've heard about this heinous story. Maybe not. My letters have already been mailed.

To Whom It May Concern:

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

In case you were unaware, education is not a field for everyone. Teaching requires a sense of dedication and commitment not required for other occupations. Teaching takes heart. Teaching takes being spit on by a student, getting called a “bitch,” and then having the strength of character to come back the very next day with a smile, to encourage and support that same child who would rather be doing anything else than sitting in your classroom.

Teachers do not choose their profession for the glory. Teachers certainly do not choose their profession for the financial gain. We are the last remaining stronghold of hope for many, many children.

A huge problem I find with the media is the constant need to find someone to blame. When something goes wrong, the reports immediately turn to “who can we blame? Who is at fault?” For some reason, your ignoramus of an “investigational reporter” has chosen to place blame on some of the hardest working, most dedicated individuals left in our society. Some of those individuals may have stumbled along their path, but they persevered until they attained success, a quality not often found in our youth, and one that is certainly not being emphasized at home. How can you blame them for continuing to work until they’ve achieved success? What message are you sending to our kids? That if you fail at something a few times, you might as well give up because some day the media will tear you down for your determination?

If you are looking for someone to blame, why don’t you start by looking at some of the children’s parents? More than half of my 7th grade students cannot tell time on a traditional clock. Most of them have never read a book that wasn’t required reading for school. I have some who have never turned in a homework assignment the entire school year, despite repeated phone calls home. Why is this happening? Because to many parents, their child and their child’s education is in no way a priority. I talk with my students. I hear what they have to say. Many of them don’t even see their parent every day. They go home unsupervised, they watch some TV, play some video games, and hang out with their friends. Many of these kids live a life in which their parents are at no point taking an active role in their education.

Education begins and ends in the HOME. If a child has no encouragement or reinforcement from their parents, why should he or she care that he or she is earning a 44 in my class? Why should our kids care about their education if their parents don’t? Parents: Open a book with your children. Talk with them, not just to them. Care about them: their development, their character, their future! But for God’s sake, don’t go blaming their teachers because the schools can’t miraculously fix what you did to them by ignoring their development the majority of their lives.

So what was the purpose of your story? To humiliate us? Embarrass us? Destroy our fortitude? Quality educators are retiring or leaving for other careers at an alarming rate because the education field has become too challenging. The children have become too unruly and disrespectful, the strenuous standards have become unattainable without parental support and, and as an added bonus from the media, we are now rapidly losing the respect we deserve. I once slept well at night because I knew my job mattered, and because I care about the lives of children who might not otherwise be cared about. I’m a role model and a confidante.

And you have the audacity to tell me that I might not “make the grade.”

Sincerely,

Ms. Flipside
7th grade math teacher

My fingernails are finally clean, though

I stayed home today because I can barely move.

I woke up yesterday, thrilled because I finally got to assemble my pot project - one I have been looking forward to for nearly a year. (I found this thingy at an antiques shop in a touristy little fringe town, but I needed to wait until spring to plant anything in it.)

I woke up eager to start, having aquired the plants in advance, Iwas able to jump right in. I guess my girlfriend wanted to play with dirt, too, because all of a sudden, we had decided we needed to have a flower bed in the backyard, too.

While she dug up the sod, I built my flower tower. (How you ask? Well very carefully, that's for sure! Har har... No really - its a cool little pole-like gadget that you basically string the pots on... I fell in love with it the first time I saw it.) Anyhow, she spent most of her time doing hard labor, whereas only a fourth or so of my time was spent doing any heavy stuff. If anyone should've been down for the count, it should've been her, not me.

Eleven hours and only one additional trip to Lowe's later, we had: my amazingly cool little pot project with at least twelve varieties of blooms, a few other freshly potted plants, and, of course, lovely a 15 foot flower bed complete with 3 gardenia bushes, one spiffy new hibiscus, and one formerly potted veteran hibiscus.

It feels great to have accomplished so much, but I really feel old today. I have this back injury from over 10 years ago (a herniated something - sound like an old person yet?) that still incapacitates me once in while, usually when I do something stupid. I hadn't thought I'd been that stupid.

Maybe 11 hours was a little stupid.

So here I am, where one hard day's work sends me hobbling stiffly toward the emergency pain killers...

Ugh.

But isn't it all so pretty?

Look under "B" for "Best Seller"

I have always wanted to write a book. The only problem has been that I have had no clue as to what to write about. As a teacher in a very low socio-economic part of town, I often wonder what shocking tales I could relate about the awakenings I've had, and how I really feel as work my ass off to reach these children. My experiences have led me to firmly agree with the girl who mailed her post-secret postcard under the title of "FREEDUMB: 'I believe apathy and self interest will be the death of our nation and it will happen sooner than anyone can imagine'"

I've often said that I could write a book about these tales and call my book something stupid like, "What's wrong with U.S., and how do we fix U.S.?" My biggest issue was that I didn't know how to fix us.

Then I saw a video, (which for some reason, I am unable to link...) featuring Roy Beck, in which he outlines one of the hugest problems in the U.S. - uncontrolled immigration. If you have 15 minutes to kill, copy and paste to watch it {http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4094926727128068265&q=roy } and you'll find this video to be a dramatic, eye-opening wake-up call.

It's clear (at least to me...) how much these issues relate. As to just how clear, you'll know when you get the advance copy of my manuscript... be on the look out!

Birthday bash

Disclaimer: this post is in NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM meant to offend anyone. I love everybody, and this story just cracked me up. Hopefully no one will take offense.

I'm a germ magnet. If there is a bacterium, virus, protozoa, or fungus that could potentially make me ill within a 10 mile radius of my location, there is no doubt that I will contract some sort of infliction. Whether it’s the projectile vomiting that usurped my visit to see Reba McIntyre at the rodeo last month, or the Great Dane-style cough I developed with the bronchitis cultivated during my trip to Seattle a few weeks ago, I often find myself feeling under the weather. Even my girlfriend claims that I am “the sickest person” she’s ever met. Whether its chalked up to that evil random virus that nearly killed me when I was 19 and consequently instigated the crapiness of my immune system, or the fact that I work in a tightly enclosed space with many grubby children who also tend to carry disease, I have simply learned to accept the fact that I get sick more often that the average person.

However, my immune system, or lack thereof, is not the purpose of this entry. My purpose is to tell you about a birthday party, and a delicious cake.

An old friend of mine and his wife recently held a birthday party for their adorable 2-year-old. The theme was Jojo's Circus, and all of the adornments were coordinated with the Jojo theme: the cups, napkins, tablecloth, balloons, even the expensive bakery cake, which was hand-frosted with the circus theme, not airbrushed like many you see these days. At the party, my girlfriend and I stood around awkwardly for a while, as having not brought an ankle-biter to the festivities made us feel somewhat out of place. Munchies were consumed, gifts were opened, and finally, the cake was ready to be cut.

Both of the child's grandmothers were present for the fete, and appeared to be in charge of the cake cutting. Grandma #1 asked Grandma #2 if she would like a spatula for the serving. Grandma #2 replied no, the knife was wide enough to serve the purpose. (Sidebar: at last year's party, the memorable First Birthday party, Grandma #2 had gotten impatient waiting for the child of honor to dig in to the cake. The child had spent considerable time dragging finger after finger through the frosting, tasting a bite here and there. Grandma #2 wasn't having it. She grabbed the child's hands and pretty much shoved them into the cake in order to make the appropriate mess that a child at his or her own first birthday party should make. It was an awkward moment, but humorous nonetheless....)

Anyhow, Grandma #2 proceeds to slice the first few pieces of cake, and despite her earlier claims that she did not need a spatula, ended up using her fingers to support each slice before it made it to the plate. At one point, no plate was available, so instead of putting the cake back down on the tray, she held the slice in her hand while setting down the knife with the other hand and using that hand to secure another plate. I was a little disgusted at first, but I just assumed that obviously, she would have washed her hands first. Then, after about 4 slices, Grandma #2's fingers were getting a little sticky and full of icing. So she did what any one else with icing filled fingers would do. She licked them clean. And THEN, she proceeded to keep slicing and serving cake with her saliva coated fingers. Every 4 or 5 slices, she would lick her fingers clean, and would continue to do so until nearly every slice had been distributed.

My girlfriend and I watched in horror as we shared a a mutual shock.

When it was our turn, Grandma #2 presented us with our choices,"White or chocolate?" My gut instinct was to say, "Which ever one has less of your spit on it..."

But I didn't. Instead, I graciously took a piece, scarfed it down, and soon cut myself another slice(no spit on that one...) The cake was delicious.

That was three days ago, and I haven't gotten sick yet. Here's to hoping that all those illness-carrying microbes drowned in the sugary sea of frosting.

saying goodbye

My grandmother is 97 years old. Over the past few years, she's been a little frail, but her mental acuity is astounding. She can recall a tale from 1935 and tell it with such stunning accuracy that it would make your head spin. She reads the newspaper every day, always does the word search, and knows more about the epic-romance-slash-mystery-novel genre than any person I've ever known.

On my birthday last year, the last day of December, her health made a turn. Her bowel had become convoluted, and she underwent surgery to fix it, as well as removing her gall bladder and appendix. Since then, she has spent her time either in the hospital or in a nursing home to "recover."

It looked good for a while, but now, everything is caving in at once. She has pneumonia, is in congestive heart failure, has open infections, and is so weak she can't even feed herself. My uncle, her caretaker, has told me to "brace myself" for the worst.

We were planning a trip to visit her this summer. We were going to drive to Arizona and stay with her for a week while my uncles took a well deserved vacation. It doesn't look like that is going to happen.

We went to visit last summer, too. We wore her out, taking her to the movies and shopping. We spent no less than a week bonding with my grandmother, yet somehow, the only photo I have to remember that trip is a picture of my grandmother admiring the lingerie in Lane Bryant. No family photo of us with grandma, no photos of my uncles and her. Just the lingerie shot.

My grandmother is dying, and I’m falling apart, crying every day. I never imagined it would happen like this. I imagined she would simply die in her sleep, happy and comfortable in her own bed. I imagined I would get a call one random weekday, letting me know that she was gone, and I would bawl my eyes out, and it would be over. I never imagined it would be this agonizing, drawn out ordeal. I can’t even talk to her on the phone because her hearing is so poor. I can’t even tell her how much she has meant to me.

I've never lost anyone in my family before, at least not that I remember. My mom's parents both died by the time I was 6, and my dad's father passed away long before I was ever born.

I'm trying not to fall to pieces. I love you Grandma. I wish I'd been a better granddaughter.

But we'll always have Lane Bryant.

dazed and confused: a closer look at denial and distress

I'm having an identity crisis.

Okay, well, technically, I've been having an identity crisis for well over a year now.

As I've grown up and am now pushing my extremely late 20s, I've dated a lot. With the exception of one boy I dated in high school and early college, I never really felt like I was in love with anyone that I dated. My relationships rarely lasted longer than 6 months. I just figured I hadn't found the right guy yet. I assumed when I least expected it, the right guy would take my world by storm, and I would just know that he was the one for me.

The right guy.

Last fall, I celebrated the one year anniversary of when my girlfriend and I first started seeing each other. I was leaving the karaoke bar where we were hanging out, and before I knew it, she followed me out the door and she kissed me in the parking lot. From that moment, I knew my world would never be the same. I fell in love, and it certainly happened when I least expected it. She took my world by storm, and somehow, I just knew this was it for me.

It still shocks the hell out of me, but here I am, madly in love with a girl. Friends have told me that I shouldn't be so concerned with the label, but I don't have a choice. Society labels me a lesbian. But I refuse to be one. I REFUSE.

I still think Matthew McConnaghey is the hottest creature alive, I still over-accessorize, I take far too long to get ready to do anything, and I refuse to leave the house without makeup. I've been to a Melissa Etheridge concert and felt so out of place that I wanted to cry. I refuse to watch the Comets or any other WNBA team. I carry purse with 18 kinds of lip gloss inside, and primp every time I use the restroom. Rosie O'Donnell still bugs me quite a bit, and uber-butch women creep me out a lot. And I certainly don't want to watch the parade of naked breasts that was installed on my screensaver by the somewhat butch Sponge of a woman who once lived in my guest room.

Part of my crisis also lies within the fact that I can never picture myself being with any other woman. I grosses me out a little. But then again, the thought of being with a man again grosses me out a little, too.

And of course, there's the fact that I cry each time I think about the fact that I'll never get to have that first dance with my daddy at my wedding, or have him walk me down the aisle. I'll never get to plan the soiree with mom, and fight over seating arrangements and invitations. (I know we've covered this before, but it's a biggie...)

It still shocks me to the core. I'm completely and totally in love with a girl, and I plan to stay in this for the long run.

But don't you dare call me a lesbian.

It's not a popularity contest. their voting by you're qualifications

Recently, I was nominated for my school’s teacher of the year. Not really a big deal, just someone else in the building must think highly enough of you to nominate you.

Although I had no delusions of winning, this being only my third year and first eligible year to run, I submitted my application for candidacy, complete with three very well written essays. My writing received compliments from many who read my submission. (As well it should have – I worked and reworked those essays until they met with my total satisfaction.) I was quite proud of the results, and despite my inexperience, the literary masterpiece held its own as it was posted on the wall with the other nominees’ submissions.

The eclectic crowd of contenders included my air-headed department chair (who turned in her application complete with grease stains), an art instructor, a health teacher, a literature teacher, a PE teacher, and the two language arts teachers who made it to the run-off.

Again I reiterate that I had no delusions of actually winning. (Despite what some might call my clear verbal superiority…) I must also mention that I am quite sensitive to the mutilation of the certain grammatical basics. For example, I cringe when I witness the likes of “your cool” or “it’s you’re turn.” It physically pains me. I’m also not rather fond of the “there, their, they’re” triple threat that baffles far too many of us.

In less than a week before the elections, one of the language arts candidates sent an email proclaiming “your the best.” I cringed and sighed, and tried to shake it off as what was hopefully a fluke. A few days later, the second language arts candidate sent an email to the entire faculty mentioning that “students should be in there classes” after a certain time. The author of the latter error ended up winning the honor.

Did I mention that they were language arts teachers?

I had actually decided to vote for the art teacher, as it is most likely he’ll be moving up to administration next year, and this was his last chance to win. (That, in addition to the fact that he’s a fantastic teacher, and goes far beyond the call of duty in his services for the school…) Ironically, shortly after I cast my vote this morning, he alerted me to the winner’s egregious grammatical error that I would find when I checked my email.

I knew I liked him. I’m glad I voted for the art teacher. If nothing else, at least he has his grammar.

tears

Last night I went to a wedding. When it was time for the bride to dance with her father, I bawled my eyes out, knowing I'm not ever going to have that moment.

Then I came home and pretty much cried myself to sleep, knowing that I've I've given up everything I thought I ever wanted for the love of my life, who came in the most unexpected of packages, and is everything I never knew I wanted, and more...

I'm ridiculously happy with my relationship. I hit the jackpot when I found her. But sometimes it's just so hard to be the one in love with a girl.