Category Archive

The weekend with my mom and my grandma, and then the unexpected guest(s), Violet’s brother and eventually his girlfriend too, went well. Good actually. Nice. And at times, fun. And, in a general sense, I feel closer to my grandma in ways. She was, as expected, difficult at times, but nothing major, nothing over the top.

I watched my mom deal with her during those few moments when she was being a PIA (pain in ass) and I watched my mom be remarkably patient. I could tell that she was annoyed but she was so flawless in remaining calm and kind that I realized I had always just assumed this was a natural characteristic of my mom, when in fact her sincere, “It’s ok, no problem” is an intentionally practiced skill-turned talent. I observed (and admired) this in hopes of learning something, as patience is not free and my mom has always been bottomless.

After I dropped the two of them off at the train station my mind started to replay the last few days. I started to realize how much I don’t know about my grandma – and want to- and probably never will. There were moments where I wondered if she was apologizing for what she had said the weekend before, in her own way - or if she had just moved on and softened up that quickly? I couldn’t stop wondering about a lot.

I’ve talked to my mom about this before, and I wonder if my grandma would have been/ would be a lesbian if that was an ‘option’ for her? Despite several husbands, a few of us were never convinced. Is she a feminist? Has she ever had an orgasm? Has she ever kissed another woman? I started to see her as a whole person who has had a really big life… and I don’t know any of the internal stuff to ANY of it. I want to know but I have no idea how to know. I just can’t see her opening up that way and I also can’t see myself asking my grandma if she’s ever gotten off.

She was born in West Virginia and now in her 70’s, has ended up a fairly well off, twice widowed, retired woman living in Hawaii. How in the world did that happen? Did she MAKE that life happen or did it just go that way? She was in love with my mom’s dad, but ever again? I’m not sure. I’m not sure if she’s sure. I’m not sure that mattered.

I’m not sure how she came to think the way she does about anything. Is she a republican because of her money? Or does she really believe it that political philosophy? Does she really think gay people shouldn’t marry? Or is that just an unchecked opinion? What in the world does she really believe in? What in the world really matters to her? I don’t know. And I don’t know if I ever will.

On Saturday, while walking through Pike Place Market, my grandma asked a woman to take our picture, “This is going to be my Christmas card so sunglasses off and smile” she said to mom and me through her already ready camera smile.

The woman held the camera to her face and asked, “How do y’all know each other anyway?”

My grandma responded, “We’re three generation right here, out on the town together.” And it was right then, arm in arm in arm, that I realized I was in some pretty incredible company… and damn lucky.

I’m both, really. Ever since my cornered conversation with my grandma I’ve been reviewing my own personal relationship status with people/ friends/ family. That quick little back and forth last weekend really upset me and I feel like I need to do something, but none of my natural reactions feel right.

My usual response is to first fight a bit and then flee to whatever degree I deem necessary. Really, Violet is the first person in my life where the impulse to flee has diminished so greatly that sometimes it just takes stepping into the next room for a minute so that my rational brain can reattach to my body before my mouth opens again. But besides my relationship with Violet, if you corner me into feeling defensive I will usually bite back some and then get the hell out.

When I was 19 and found out my first love, my high school sweetheart, had cheated on me I booked a flight from Oregon to Vermont in the middle of January. It was a bold and cold (weather-wise) move bought and sold entirely by a first-time broken heart. I fled the scene in hopes of my aches staying behind, and that taking me away from her would hurt her. My plan was to go far, far away from the chaotic cloud of a break up and dance in the streets on a different coast, any street, free. And so I left. And what I thought would be a few months wandering aimlessly to pick up the pieces and come home ended up in my landing and living in Atlanta, Georgia for a few years (where my heart finally healed enough to get by and I ended up meeting my next great love. I never did move back to Oregon).

Another relationship’s end, in my mid-twenties, resulted in a one way ticket to Croatia, where I traveled most of Eastern Europe by myself for several months (Dubrovnik – go there!)

I think I must have learned this fight and flight technique from my dad, or at least that’s where it was introduced to me. When I was little, he and I got into it all of the time, over anything and sometimes everything. I’m have vague memories of spatting angry words back and forth over a two-by-four I loved, or something just as pointless, until eventually we’d both mutually retreat to somewhere away from the other, until later (the time frame that ‘later’ refers to varied depending on the individual level of injury due to insult).

When I would storm off, usually to my bedroom before he could tell me to go to my room, I would hide in the closet (yes, literally) and make and hang signs on my door that read things like, “Anyone can come in this room unless you have a mustache” or “All welcome, except for guys named William”. He thought this was cute, but it was my anger finding a way out. If I couldn’t leave I would keep him from coming in.

The first time I really upped my ability of flight was after a big blow out with dad. I can’t remember how old I was exactly, maybe 8. We were yelling aimlessly at each other and I remember it originated with a fight I was having with my brother and my dad taking his side. I stormed off yelling, “Fine. I don’t want to live here then! I’m running away!”

There was no response from dad, which was typical, meaning he was pissed, which was exactly what I was looking for. I packed a t-shirt, a pair of shorts, a yoyo, my rubik’s cube, a few marbles, a little notebook and a small pencil into a handkerchief, that I would later tie to the end of a stick, just like in the movies, and walked out of my room, nervous and prepared for more battle.

“Ok, I’m leaving now!” I yelled, kind of wondering why he wasn’t right outside of my door.

“Wait. Here.” Dad said, coming out of the kitchen holding two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut diagonally, the way I liked.

And I left, right out the front door. I walked down several blocks in our subdivision until I got to a point where I would have to cross a pretty busy road. I stopped and stared. I was so torn. I wasn’t allowed to cross that road without an adult… but I needed to run away to prove a point… but I really didn’t want to break that rule and the road kind of scared me.

So, I stood there until finally I sat down there, at the edge of that busy road. I ate one of the sandwiches dad had made for me and then became really thirsty – too much peanut butter like always! I stared at that road and started to obsess over the idea of a cold glass of milk. Eventually, the milk won and I turned around to go home.

I walked back in the house, having been gone all of 45 minutes and went back to my room to unpack. Dad came inside from the garage and said with a surprised voice, “You’re back, huh?” which made it all feel worth it to me for some reason. (He told me years later that he had secretly followed me, just in case, and when I came back he acted like he was in the garage doing something).

Later that evening we were all watching TV, Scarecrow and Mrs. King to be exact, and I asked my dad if I could sit on his lap. He patted his legs and said, “Get up here,” and that was that.

There’s no point to this I guess, except that I am realizing that I need to learn how not to leave, or I need to pay more attention to my intentions for leaving. When I’m arguing with Violet I usually leave so that I don’t say things I don’t mean. The other night when my grandma cornered me I left with Dog for a walk and when that didn’t work I left by drinking my way out of the situation so that I wouldn’t have to accept what she said as something she really said.

But thus far, every conflict I’ve ever been in with someone I love has either worked its way out or it hasn’t - and that’s just the way things go and will go whether I’m there to see it through or not. So, my grandma is going to be here this weekend, and in every way I can figure out how to, I’m going to try to be too. We’ll see.

“Happy Independence Day”, I said to Dog as soon as I unlocked the front door to our house Sunday evening, “you hear me, don’t you girl.” She and I both plopped down in the back outside and stared at Fraidy swim around and around… and around for a while. It was warm and quiet. It was nice.

Dog and I are having our issues ‘getting in’ with the dog park crew. Three houses down, at the end of our block, is an unofficial dog park. It’s a big open field set up for soccer or baseball games but is mostly used as an off leash area for pups and peeps of all kinds.

We’ve been there several times now and each time has been it’s own individual adventure but I’ll start at the beginning. The first trip to the park…

A few weeks ago on a Tuesday:

We get there at 6:45 a.m. Sun is shining and the park is empty. At this point I had had dog for all of 4 days. Dog and I play fetch and chase each other and are having a great time when, all of a sudden, a herd of 7 humans and 5 dogs come marching in. The peaceful field is all of a sudden over-run with foofy AKC dogs and well dressed, perky, already showered and caffeinated humans (dog and I are none of these things).

I thought, ‘Ok, we’ll just see how dog does with this. Personally, I am totally overwhelmed and now, overly aware of my sweatpants, slippers, and rainbow coffee mug but dog will be fine. Dog did pretty well but got a little nervous with all of the different noses all up in her business, as did I. The first few minutes were a sniffing free for all. No genitals went unchecked… and then double checked. Dog and I made it through that but when the balls began to fly she became completely indiscriminate and started to chase them all.

She is part retriever and this instinct is unstoppable. If she sees you make something go away she will bring it back, regardless of who or what. I can tell that she thinks this is her duty in life, and she loves her job. She is so proud to bring it back to you, whatever it is, who ever you are, like, “Hey, you dropped this. Here you go. Found it. Found it for you, cause you had it and then you didn’t, but now you do again cause I went and got it and brought it back for you as fast as I could. I can do that again if need be. Actually, I would really like to do that again. Go ahead, try me… throw it, hide it, toss it, drop it, anything! Seriously, I’ll run as fast as I can and bring it right back. It’s what I do. Ok, ready!?!”

I thought it was hilarious, and although it was rude in the human world to be chasing ODB (other dog’s balls) in dog’s world she was multitasking and doing everyone a great service. Plus, the other dogs were having a blast chasing each other and trying to catch her. Anyway, I couldn’t stop her from doing that or get her to focus on her own ball and decided we had had enough for our first morning at the park.

When I went to put her leash on I crouched down and asked her to sit, which she usually does on command. However, this time she took my asking her to sit as a request for a big bear hug and as her paws lifted for my shoulders I lost my balance and she sort of knocked me over with a big kiss, which, again, I found totally adorable and amusing. I laughed, gave her a kiss back and then this woman standing less than ten feet away loudly mentions to the man standing next to her, “That dog needs obedience school!”

I wish there was a way to recreate the tone she used. It was so loaded, so snobby. It was like this exclusive, members-only, doggy-mommy group and dog and I snuck in. I was the new, uninvited, mom- the sloppy, careless dyke mom with the new, hyper, out of control kid. And I don’t know where this woman comes from but the way she said it made it feel like we were having one of those sitcom moments, where the people in the living room are talking about the people in the kitchen, and even though there is no barrier between the rooms and they are less than ten feet away the people in the kitchen magically can’t hear the people in the living room talking about them… only I could hear her, because we are not on tv and I was right freakin’ there.

Bad! Rude woman! No! No barking at the new folks just because her dog is faster than your dog! It took me off guard enough that I didn’t respond, which is still driving me crazy.

I got home, recounted the whole event to Violet and we spent the rest of our morning coming up with witty, snippy, come backs. The way that Violet was just as offended as me over something so silly was great and made me feel like we were very much in this together. And ooh, did she have some things to say to that woman! Dog and I are well equipped to run into her again, let me tell you.

My routine with Fraidy has been much the same every day, including weekends. Only now it involves Fraidy, dog and me. And on the weekends I switch things up a bit and go out to see him right after I’ve made myself a cup of coffee.

I grab the mug, the fish flakes and dog and I go out to the back yard. I clean the pond with a net, which gets Fraidy all worked up, dog watches Fraidy flip around, which makes dog’s ears perk up and flip around, I toss in some flakes and watch the fish-shark hunt his flakes.

This Saturday, I woke up a little earlier than usual, made my jo and out to the pond we went. There is a little wire fence around the pond that becomes electric at night so that Marcus and his crew cannot go midnight skinny dipping. This fence has obviously worked… until this Saturday. Dog and I stood over what was an unusually still and clear pond and could see all the way to the bottom. I looked around, which is not much to look around at and saw no fish. I panicked for a second and continued to look under the few hiding places - poked the net around and no fish flipped.

No fish.

I panicked even more. I looked around and noticed that part of the wire fence had been knocked down and it looked as though someone (Marcus?) had made a little ruckus around where the fence had been knocked down. My disbelief admitted to my brain that Fraidy had been found… and potentially eaten. My heart and the plastic can of fish flakes fell to the ground. I looked at dog and asked, “Where’s Friady!?! Huh?!?!” She galloped around the yard, nose to the ground and looked everywhere, including under the deck, which made me wonder if Marcus was under there sleeping with fish on his breath.

I stared at the pond for what seemed like too long before I just started to chant, in a whisper, “He’s gone. Fraidy’s gone!”

I went inside and immediately Violet asked why the long face. I told her. Her first reaction was light hearted denial. “No, he’s just hiding. That’s what he does.” I told her I looked everywhere, which wasn’t a whole lot of anywhere to look and he just wasn’t there.

I got on with my day as best as I could. Every few thoughts or so my brain would say, “Your fish is gone! Is he really gone?… Knock it off, he’s just a fish.”

My heart hurt. It really really hurt. He was such a good guy. And although I’ve battled with whether or not Fraidy gave a shit about me or not, he did. He really did. When I would come out there he immediately swam to the surface and smiled at me. I know you’re wondering if a fish can smile and I’ll tell you, right here, right now, yes, they can.

So, my day went as it did. Violet and I, ironically enough, went out for sushi that night and it was a wonderful date. I tried to get him out of my head over a few shots of sake but as soon as we got home dog and I ran back outside to stare into the still, lifeless pond… and… there he was. That little shit of a fish was just swimming around like, “Oh hey Jesse, wassup with you? Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

Jerk.

And thank the fishgods.

As a kid, my animistic behavior and attitude towards everything was rather active. I invented a personality for everything and could empathize with anything: frustration for trees trying to grow through cement sidewalks, burning muscle aches for cars going faster than they wanted to, stomach aches listening to baby birds squawk and squawk because they didn’t know exactly where their mom was, and disdain for the doorway that bumped my funny bone.

As a kid, after seeing The Red Balloon, I made it my duty to rescue all less than fully inflated helium balloons from restaurants. When the server would ask me if I wanted a balloon I would say, of course, and then deny the big healthy one being offered and ask if I could have all of the sagging, drooping, or nearly dead ones, please. I would take them home and put them in our hall bathroom. The hall bathroom was the warmest room in the house and usually the sagging balloons would perk back up again for a day or two. This was enough for me to feel as though they were getting a fair second chance at life.

I had way too many stuffed animals as a kid. They all had names, of course, a family history and an awesome adventure story as to how they became a part of my life (I got busted for “lying” in Kindergarten over one of these stories… another post for a different day). At one point I had so many stuffed animals that I started sleeping on the floor so that they could all fit on the bed at night. Eventually my dad caught me, asked me what the hell I was doing sleeping on the floor and I explained. Our compromise was that either some of the animals had to go (not an option!) or that I had to find a way to make room for myself in my own bed. I worked out a pretty simple rotation for my animals and not one of them got any more time than any other. Teddy Ruxpin carried no priority over the Gremlin or that little Red Bear I got from my grandma on Valentine ’s Day. They were all loved and equally important to me, and this was obvious to them, I was sure.

And then there was the time I screamed bloody murder so loudly that the neighbors came running over and busted the door in to see if they should call the police when I caught my dad carving my 2 week old Halloween pumpkin.

I remember the night my dad finally drew the line with my affection towards everything. That night he came to tuck me in only to find a four foot tall two-by-four under the covers with his daughter. The wood’s name was Charlie and he was cool because he was just as tall as me. Charlie had 3 big knots: one was an eye (the other was closed so you couldn’t see it), one was a belly button, and one was a bruise on his knee. Dad found me in bed with Charlie only a few weeks after he had caught me sleeping on the floor next to a pile of teddy bears sleeping soundly all over my bed. He stayed pretty calm and simply asked, “Jesse, sweetie, why is there a large piece of lumber in your bed?”

I said, “Dad, it’s Charlie! He’s as tall as me! He’s fine, he fits. Pleeeease let me keep him. We all fit, see.”

The next morning I woke up and Charlie was gone, never to be seen again. I wasn’t terribly invested in Charlie and never really dwelled on his disappearance. Plus, with my new rock, Sylvester, weighing in at 16 pounds, covered in little petrified shells, I was all, Charlie who?

I mention all of this because I was thinking about it on Sunday while I was watching my fish swim around and around… and around, waiting for my raccoon to show up, and worrying about my avocado plant’s loss of leaves lately. I realized how much of that part of me I still carry around. With my head hanging over the pond, all of a sudden it dawned on me that Fraidy probably doesn’t even care about me. And this is most likely BECAUSE HE IS A FISH. And for a moment Fraidy became just a gold fish and that’s it. Chances are he doesn’t even have enough conscious ability to have feelings about anything, let alone me in particular. It didn’t really hurt to realize this, it was just a bummer. Like when you think you’ve made a new friend in a college class and then the class ends and you never hang out again. Well, no, it’s not really like that at all, but that sucks too. I guess the bummer is that I’m too old now to be able to re-convince myself that everything matters and that everything knows that everything matters, like I believed as a kid. Fraidy matters to me but besides the fish flakes I have to offer, it’s likely that I’m just another big object that blocks his sunlight every now and then.

Or maybe not. Maybe when he sees me his little fish heart flutters and his fish face smiles and his little fish brain thinks, “Jesse! Damn, it’s good to see you again.”

As the usual routine commute home goes: I get a seat in the back of the bus and spend the bus ride staring out the window. As I watch all of the bustling of the city streets begin to fly by me I imagine that my eyes are the camera for a scene in a movie. The song playing on my ipod dictates the entire placement and reason for the scene. If it’s a mushy, slow love song then the scene my eyes are filming is the end of the movie, where, for whatever reason I have invented at that moment, the camera is either filming the broken hearted lover returning or leaving – forever.

If it’s a happier, folky guitar song then sometimes it’s the beginning of the movie, opening credits rolling, and we don’t know why she’s on the bus yet. Sometimes it’s the pivotal point in the middle of the movie, where the character has been liberated somehow and a dramatic life change is happening as we watch the world fly by her. The camera stays so still that the audience feels this urge to look back, but that’s the point, the character doesn’t and doesn’t need to.

But yesterday I forgot my ipod and so I was soundtrackless. This made my observations about the world around me far more grounded in what was actually going on. Boring.

But then, all of a sudden, one stop away from my stop a truly beautiful and romantic scene really happened. No soundtrack. No script. No actors. Just a spring evening on a north Seattle street covered in cherry blossoms with two strangers waiting at a bus stop.

And their story went: Young happy guy talking to young giggly girl at bus stop. Their body language made it obvious that they were strangers and that he was flirting. Our bus pulled up. He took so long to finish what ever he was saying to her that there was an uncomfortable exchange between guy and driver when he finally stepped on. He was standing up as the bus pulled away. She was staring at the ground smiling, obviously trying not to look up. He was staring at her for as long as he could, obviously trying to get one last exchange. I pulled the tab, the next stop was mine. Four blocks later the bus stops. I get off the bus and realize that the guy who had just gotten on at the last stop also got off. At first, he walked away calmly, like this was his stop too, but the driver and I both knew it wasn’t. His stride was confident and excited and he was wearing a huge grin. I turned left at the corner while he kept walking back down the street where he had just come from four blocks earlier. I hoped that I had realized what was going on, or at least what my romantic movie mind was guessing and so I walked back and snuck a peak around the corner to see what he was up to.

This is where it got end-of-the-movie-perfect:

At this point he was walking down the street so quickly he was practically jogging. And then I caught the moment where, now only three blocks away, she saw him coming back, stood up, arms folded, frozen. He crossed another street with a skip and now, only two blocks away he hollered down the street, “Hey!… I forgot to ask you something!” I couldn’t see her face, but that’s the point, I didn’t need to.

(Yes, I could have made this up – but I didn’t.)

    It’s interesting to be so incredibly immersed into my queerness that my immediate response to seeing a picture of a pregnant guy, like Thomas Beatie, makes me ooh and ah at how sweet his little tum looks. A sort of cultural relativism maybe?

When I was traveling in Mexico, people there thought that eating fish out of a tin can mixed with mayo on bread (with celery, pickles and onions) was the weirdest thing ever. I listened to this claim again and again while drooling. After having spent several months living off of corn tortillas and white cheese dishes, my internal dialogue sounded much like Homer Simpson, “mmmm, tuuuuuuna.” But yeah, I get that this could sound yuck.

Regaining/renewing/reinventing perspective on perspectives makes my head spin, and I like it.

In my first Atlanta pub I asked the bartender what the light and dark beer selection looked like and she said, “Bud liiiiight… or Buuuud. What’ll it beeee darlin?” Many of my friends there also considered Chalk Full of Nuts to be coffee.

Walking around in France I spent my time with my head down so not to step in the dog shit… that is everywhere. The French think that we are ridiculous for picking up our dog’s poo. “I mean, who owns who here?” I heard one Frenchy explain. And when I thought about it that way, yeah, picking up your pets crap is kind of strange. But here of course, I would (if I had a dog!)…and if I lived in France, I wouldn’t.

Janet J’s bare boob is just another boob for most of Europe and probably  a lot of the bluer states here. But the majority of the US says, “Pure blasphemy!” That big devilish tit poked a lot of Americans right in their Christian crossed eyes without warning. And damn her for infecting their pure thoughts with her naughty, naughty titty! (It was Justin that unveiled the nip, but what’s a guy to do? I mean, it was right there in front of him, and he is a guy after all, and she didn’t say no)

I know tuna fish sandwiches, dog poo, Bud Light and naked boobies don’t hold quite the tour de force that a man having a baby does… but the point is I always get excited whenever we have good reason to re-evaluate/reinvent/create new definitions for what is normal, or should I say, acceptable in the physical location that defines your social norms for you.

So much of this is about time and critical thinking. Time for the folks that really, really like the way things are to join in with the critical mass of collective conscience that wants to make room for new ideas and change.

Maybe I’m an optimist that way, but I feel quite sure that if you have kids under five, by the time they’re adults they’ll find it just as strange that two women couldn’t get married as I find it ridiculously strange that white people used to have their own drinking fountains and bathrooms.

Speaking of bathrooms, man, the day I walk into a public restroom, with Thomas’s wife in the corner using the diaper changing station, with all of the other women giving me the same head nod hello thing that women give each other while in the waiting space for a stall… instead of gasping at me… because they naturally assume that I am an adult who is aware of her gender and not some pervy 16 year old boy… what a relaxing pee that will be.

      A lot of things about the computer confuse me and are simply over my head. If it weren’t for Sinclair I’m not sure that email would be a thing I did, let alone having a blog (which, for quite awhile, I thought was the term for when someone responded to an email- like, “Hey, I blogged you back”). But my newest confusion is this facebook/myspace thing. I have an account on both sites for the purposes of allowing people to find me and also to have the ability to screen which persons of my past that I will and won’t make contact with. But as it should turn out these spaces are used for much, much more.

Yesterday I checked myfacespacebook for the first time in quite some time. I checked it because myfacespacebook emailed my gmail email account to tell me that I should check myfacespacebook because it had something to tell me. So I did. And so, in myfacespacebook I had over 22 “requests” waiting for me.

Two of these “requests” were the familiar “friend requests” from people I did not know but who claimed to know “friends” of mine on my facebook space.

Ok, sure – click- accept - we are now “friends”- great- fine.

The other 20 requests were beyond me. Just a few to note were as follows:

• take a ‘how hot are you’ test
• past life invitation request
• six degrees of gayness quiz
• special blessings invitation
• what flower are you test
• lil’ green patch request

 …and several more that I clicked “ignore” on and they just went away. 

By the time I got through looking at all of them I wished there was a way I could have forwarded the whole thing to Sinclair (and I tried), like I do with stuff like this, with a simple little email titled “WTF. Please fix.” (Sinclair is the one that taught me what WTF means. For quite awhile I thought it meant “white tall femme.” Turns out this is not the case.)

On myfacespacebook I saw that one of my “friends” had purchased a thing for me to have on this space of mine. She paid money. This “gift” that I received was a “golden egg.” And herein lies another fine example of my ongoing frustration and severe ineptitude for this computer cyberness:

I did not receive a golden egg. What I received was a 1 inch by 1 ½ inch, 2 dimensional picture of a golden egg on my facebook space. This leads me to two very simple questions: Why? And white tall femme? My hope and assumption is that you know you did not actually send me a golden egg. Regardless, I am so confused by this foggy line of distinction between real golden eggs and small computer generated pictures of golden eggs that I have no idea what to say. I haven’t blogged you back yet and my plan at this point is to just let it go. Or maybe I should write a quick ‘thanks for the egg’ on your “wall”.

I also received a request to slay zombies with a “friend” that I haven’t spoken to (on mutual purpose) for a few years now. So, again, white tall femme? How does one respond?

“Um, thank you for the invitation to slay zombies with you, however, no thank you.”

Or the truth:

“We have not spoken in over two years now. The reason you are my “friend” is because you “requested” to be on my facebook space and I felt like this strange cyber forum allowed for nothing won, nothing lost. But because we are “friends” does not actually mean that I think we should be friends.
p.s. even if we were friends there aren’t really such things as  zombies, and even if there were you know I won’t even kill spiders, thus making zombie slaying totally out of the question.”

Another repeated “request” included sending “plants” back and forth to help stop global warming. What? We both know you did not send me a plant, right? Much like the golden egg, what I received was a very small, cartoon like picture of a ground-cover-looking plant. And it is my understanding, which could be off (I will ask Sinclair later), but as far as I have ever found, global warming is not influenced, effected, helped or hurt by computer generated pictures of plants sent back and forth to facebook spaces or any other cyber destinations.

Point is: My dear “friends” on myfacespacebook,
Find me here, let’s potentially reconnect, let’s use this space for reminding each other of upcoming birthdays, invitations to our next art gallery show, cool new music venues. But seriously, can we be clear on the line here? Like, a real line? Not a two dimensional computer generated picture of one. The line that seperates myfacebookspace from all of the moments where I am a real, eggless, person not staring at a computer? If we can mutually agree on that I will take your hotness quiz.

jj