Friday, July 23, 2010

8:44 AM

The Thing About Closets is You Can Always End Up Inside One Again

Holla Amigas,

I want to start off this post with an apology. I realize that I have drastically slowed down my rate of posting on The Point. Friends, I am sorry! I'll make it up to you, I promise. From here on out I'll aim at posting one new entry per week on Thursdays (because I know you need that kick to get you to Friday). I know you'll accept my apology, so let's get started on a new tale from my life of awesomeness.

Today's story is about closets. In case you've never considered this, gays aren't the only kids hiding in them. Lots of people hang out in closets. Obviously, they house a number of lesbians, gay boys and transgendered friends, but they also provide a haven for republicans at liberal arts colleges, mixed race or light skinned ethnic kids who pass as white, feminists who want to grow up and be housewives, and respected public figures who love marijuana.

Lots of people hide who they are or what they love in order to fit in and be accepted by society. Maybe you've even hid in a closet at some point. If you have, you are well aware that you can't come out of the closet one time and be done with it. It's a repetative process. You also know that coming out or staying in the closet is a daily decision. It's like this: your roommate brings over some friends for a dinner party. After a few glasses of wine and friendly conversation, you all begin discussing politics. The controversial issue of same-sex marriage or legalizing marijuana (or whatever makes you part of the closet brigade) comes up. Now, what do you do? Do you share your truth and endure ignorant questions--at best--or hostility--at worst--about who you are and what you feel or do you keep it to yourself?

Guys, it's a daily mindfuck.

The Thing About Closets is You Can Always End Up Inside One Again

I came out to my parents long after I'd come out to my friends, but before coming out to my siblings. It was the summer after graduation and I'd just taken a temporary postion at my alma mater. My car was all packed up and I was preparing to take off for my new home, four hours from my parents. It was a Friday and my siblings were all at school. My dad was at work. It was just my mom and I.

Before I go any futher, I should warn you: this is not the story of coming out to my parents, but you need to know some basics to get to today's story.

Two hours before hopping on the road, I told my mom I was gay. Although she thinks it's a phase, she agreed to tell my dad and let me tell my sisters myself. As I was arriving in my new hometown, my mom called and promptly handed the phone to my father. He was more accepting than she was, but I got the vibe he thought this might be temporary as well.

That weekend I moved into my new house.  My mom called all effing weekend to ask me what being gay meant for me and for her future as a grandmother. Also, she kept saying she didn't know "how this could have happened." 

On Monday I began my job. I never hid anything during my life as a student, so I didn't figure I'd encounter any sexuality-centered problems at work. I was excited and totally nevervous as I entered my new office. On the one hand, my mom didn't have my work number so I was saved from dealing with questions on gay life for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. On the other hand, the job was temporary. I would only work there for three months and then I'd be off on another adventure or forced to move back home and deal with being an out lesbian living in my southern, conservative, Catholic, African-American household.

The workday went by realitvely smoothly. Around 3 o'clock that afternoon, all of the women in my office gathered in our lobby for their daily chit-chat. You should know that every woman in my office has been married to a man at least once and they are all well over 35. Therefore, the conversation quickly turned to men.

Before I knew it, I was fielding advice about how to choose my future husband and being bombarded with questions concerning what kind of man I liked. I was trapped. I had just come out to my parents and had been fielding my mother's ridiculous questions for the last three days straight. I didn't think I could handle dealing with the same thing at work. I choose to wiggle out of answering the questions at work by smiling a lot and acting super shy.

Once the chit-chat subsided, I went back to my desk and replayed the situation in my mind. Should I have come out? I decided that I'd done the right thing. This job was only for three months, I reasoned. It wouldn't hurt anyone if I kept my sexuality out of the workplace for three months. And at my next job, I promised myself, I wouldn't hide. Being out and visible is the best thing the queer community can do in terms of teaching America to accept us. If your mom or sister, dad or brother, son or daughter, neice, mentor, employee, crush, or friend is gay and open about it, you are forced to consider your stance on gay issues because you realize that they affect someone you care about. It is imperitive for the queer community that we be seen.

Well friends, three months came and went. At the end of month three, I was presented with the opportunity of turning my temporary job into a permanent position. With calls still coming in daily from my mother, asking "why [I] choose this lifestyle" I decided to take the offer rather than move back home.

I'm sure you can guess where this is going: I've now been working this job for ten months. Chit-chat still occurs every day at three and I'm still fielding advice on how to date men and choose a husband. Despite the poster of an equality sign on my office door and the fact that I took time off to get to Capitol Pride early, no one's picked up on my homoawesomness.

Last week I went out of town with my boss for three days. For her, it was an opportunity to get to know me better as a person as opposed to as an employee. For me, it was three days of listening to relationship advice and wondering why I was continuing this charade of being straight. I could tell the women in my office about my sexuality now, but then it looks as though I've been lying and hiding who I am for months. However, with my beliefs on the importance of queer visibility, is it ethical for me to keep hiding who I am? Friends, it's a mindfuck.

Fin

Todays Point: It is a struggle to be authentic. To be transparent and true to who you are as a person, you've got to push to be the most sincere and honest you that you can be every effing day.
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Wednesday, July 14, 2010

3:15 PM

Beware of Plastics

Dear Friends,

Remember when I said that one day we'd start Tarantino-ing my life stories? Well today we're only moving forward by a few months. Welcome to my eighth grade year. This story disturbs me because it makes me remember myself at my worst, but at the same time it's a story that I LOVE to tell people. 

So now I'll tell it to you.

Beware of Plastics

My final year of middle school I belonged to a clique that ran itself like it's own mini country of baddassery.  We had an army of boys, a nation of hanger-ons and groupies who followed our orders, and a number of alliances with our fellow cliques. At the time of this tale, I was part of our clique's government.  It was a government constantly in flux due to constant revolution and metaphorical assassination.  At the time, there were three of us heading the clique: Nikki, Pandora, and myself.

I can't tell you why we thought we were so cool because I really don't know.  Maybe it's because we snuck out a lot, but at 13 we were only walking around town in the dark.  Maybe it's because we went roller skating every single Friday night and hung out with high school kids who provided us with CDs sporting parental advisory stickers. Or maybe it's because wore embellished flare jeans and put on makeup every morning as soon as we got to school (we had no choice: our parents didn't permit us to wear anything other than Lip Smackers). Maybe it was all of these reasons. Whatever it was, it obviously isn't a standard for measuring "cool" nine years later. 

Anyways, Nikki, Pandora and I had English class together. The three of us were the only students in the class with assigned seats. Our teacher, Ms. McMillian swore that if we sat together, we would pass notes constantly. On a balmy day in April, Ms. McMillan stood in front of the class and introduced a new girl.  Her name was Jody and she was--in a word--a mess. Jody was taller than anyone else in the class by at least five inches, but her eyes surveyed the room with genuine fear. Her hair was brittle yellow and fashioned into an uneven bowl cut that looked as though she'd used safety scissors to cut it herself. Jody wore a pink plaid shirt that was at least two sizes too large and she had braces.

When Ms. McMillan finished introducing Jody to the class, she told Jody to pick a seat.  Jody's murky brown eyes whirled around the room cautiously. Eventually they landed on the seat next to me.  I smiled, said hi, and scooted my book to the corner of the desk to share it with Jody.  Rule number one of being an "it girl" is to make those below you effing love you. You've got to be kind before you can be cruel, otherwise they'll never stand for your ridiculous behavior.

Class went on without a hitch and afterwards Pandora, Nikki, and I walked to lunch. We had a table outside which everyone understood was our table. As we sat down to eat we saw Jody standing in the pizza line, crying. Because of the laws of  It Girl World, Nikki approached Jody to ask her what was wrong.  Of course, Jody didn't have any friends yet and therefore had no one to eat with. Nikki invited Jody to join our table: since it was her first day we could afford to be nice.

Jody ate with us for the next two weeks. And soon she began following us around all of the time. From English class to our lockers to secret meetings after school, Jody was with us. Her fashion didn't change at all in those two weeks, which was a problem. But even worse, she didn't take advantage of the gift we were offering in letting her hang out with us: Jody never contributed to the conversation. By week three we still didn't know what kinds of boys she liked or what her hobbies were, we didn't know how she got along with her siblings or what kind of music she listened to, she didn't even talk to us about whether or not she got along with her parents. We didn't know much more about her than we did on her first day on campus.

So, we decided to break up with her. All of the eighth graders had PE at the same time; first thing in thing in the morning. We decided that would be the perfect time to let her go.

It went down like this: Pandora, Nikki, and I rolled into PE fifteen minutes late. After getting thoroughly reamed out in front of the whole class for showing up late, we picked a corner spot in the gym and waited for Jody. No less then thirty seconds later, Jody scooted across the room to sit with us. She smiled as she approached. "Hi," she said.

Nikki, Pandora, and I all met eyes. Nikki nodded towards me, "Do it." 

I placed my hand on Jody's calf, in an effort to seem compassionate. Her legs were unshaven and I swallowed to keep from recoiling. "Jody, this really isn't working for us anymore." 

"What isn't working?" Jody's smile started to fall.

"You and us," I said, motioning towards Nikki, Pandora, and myself. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be our friend anymore."

"What?" Now Jody's eyes were panicked and I thought back to her on her first day of school in Ms. McMillian's class. "Why not?" Jody asked.

Pandora twirled her hair around her finger as she took over the conversation, "Look Jody, it's not that we don't like you, but we don't know anything about you. You never tell us anything. You never talk with us about boys or music or class or anything."

Nikki pretended to look bothered, "I think other friends would suit you better."

By this point, tears rolled down Jody's cheeks. Pandora, Nikki, and I looked at each other, trying to decide what to do next.  Finally Jody spoke up, "I can talk more.  I'll start to tell you things.  I like listening to Britney Spears and my parents are in the military." She took a deep breath, "I know you all. I know that Abernathy doesn't even like the boys you eat lunch with-"

"Yes she does," Pandora interrupted. 

"No," Nikki said, agreeing with Jody, "she doesn't. But that's okay; Abernathy speaks up, she dresses like the rest of us..." Nikki's eyes roamed over Jody's mismatched gym uniform as her words trailed off.

Jody sobbed even harder, "I'll let you give me a makeover. It's okay, we can fix this."

Nikki shook her head, "No Jody, we can't.  It's too late."

Jody looked at all of us pleadingly, "I don't have any other friends."

Pandora shrugged and Nikki and I rose to head to the locker room. "Make some."

***
The next day in English class I did my best not to say anything to Jody. She looked over sadly through most of the class, but I did my best not to return her gaze.

At lunch that day, I was the first to reach our table and was surprised when Jody approached me.  I looked up from my meal to see Jody wearing a green plaid dress. It would never fly with my group of friends, but I could see she was making an effort. "Can I eat with you today?" She asked, "I mean, until I find new friends."

This seemed fair enough to me, but I knew better than to make a decision without first running it by Nikki and Pandora. Rule number two of It Girl World: you cannot make your own decisions.  I told Jody to hold on, then I went and found my friends in the lunch line and explained the situation.  Nikki shook her head, "Absolutely not. We said she's out and I mean that; she's out."

Slowly, I walked back to Jody. I shook my head, "I'm sorry." Jody walked across the courtyard, sat down against a wall and spent the rest of the lunch period sobbing.

***
I never talked to Jody again. She ended up becoming good friends with two girls who didn't care what she wore and didn't judge her for not talking about boys all the time. I always thought she looked genuinely happy with them and I hope that she's just as happy wherever she is today.

That summer (about six months after this story takes place) I received the Jody treatment and was dumped from the clique as well...but I'll save that story for another day. 

Fin

The Points of Today's Story: 
(1) Karma will get your ass. 
(2) Being cool is not necessarily the same as being happy. 
(3) When you do horrible things to nice people, it haunts you and you'll still feel horrible about it nine years later. So just be a nice girl.
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Tuesday, June 29, 2010

6:31 PM

My First Kiss


Hey Friends!

I was just thinking that this blog keeps going backwards in time.  Luckily, I don't really have much of note to share before this story, so we'll start to Tarantino this shit soon. It'll be effing awesome.

As for tonight's tale.  It's about my first kiss, which funnily enough was with a little lady. Unfortunately, I don't think you're going to hear about my first boy kiss which was probs only a few months after this story. It was really awkward and embarrassing and actually pretty disturbing once you know all the facts. I feel I need a shower just thinking about it, ick.

Now on to my cutest tale yet...


My First Kiss
Up until eighth grade, I was a Girl Scout.  So I went camping every summer at least  once.  Friends, I need to share with you that I effing hate camping. But you know what I do like? Lock-ins. You and all your friends gorge on soda and candy and stay up all night giggling and running around a church/gymnasium/rec center/series of classrooms and in the morning you get to hate your parents for waking you up before noon. It's so fucking awesome.

Luckily Girl Scouts do lots of lock-ins. We did all our lock-ins in the council building which was a giant fortress complete with it's own Girl Scout store, gymnasium, kitchen, and dance studio.  The lock-in around which this story centers was for the older girls from all over the region.  It took place the summer between seventh and eighth grade, starring me as a super arrogant 12 year old. (Wholey mackerel friends, that's ten effing years ago!)  

We had a fantastic turn out for the lock-in and our council building was jam packed with pink duffel bags, poofy sleeping bags, and oversized teddy bears.  We played lots of get to know you games and crafted with yarn and sparkles and glitter.  I had a fabulous time.

Eventually, the time came for lights out.  Now friends, my mom was a Girl Scout leader, meaning I was accustomed doing whatever the fuck I wanted.  Obviously, this meant I wasn't going to really go to sleep during lights out.  At first a bunch of girls stayed up with me to play truth or dare, but we got found out and scolded.  Then most of the girls went to bed.  Alone in a sea of lame-os, I got up and decided to head for the kitchen and see if there was anything worth salvaging.

I got the kitchen and heard someone moving in one of the hallways nearby.  I dropped to the floor and began crawling towards the island, thinking I'd just hide behind it in the shadows.  But when I reached the shadows, there was already someone else there. She was a fellow Cadette, (for those of you who never made it past a week or two in brownies, the pecking order back in the day was Daisy, Brownie, Junior, Cadette, Senior)  with long auburn hair and big brown eyes. We hadn't really gotten to know each other earlier, but with the noises coming closer we exchanged a look of desperation and silently agreed to share the hiding spot.

The ruckus turned out to be a few of the troupe leaders stealing what was left of the oreo cake (so much for that plan.)  After the adults left, I sat in the dark with my new partner in crime for quite a while.  Finally she looked up and said, "I think the coast is clear."  Slowly, we crawled out of hiding and decided to keep on with our night of debauchery. 

Our next stop was the dance studio. We chatted for a while and I learned her name was Mackenzie. I'm not going to lie and tell I know what Mackenzie and I talked about because I don't.  What I do remember is that she suggested we take our sleeping bags and migrate to the hallway, where no one would bother us or think to look for us.  So we snuck back into the gymnasium of sleeping girls and snagged our sleeping bags.  By now everyone was asleep but us.  We tiptoed back to the hallway and set up camp by the water fountain, so it's hum could hide our whispers. 

I remember getting deep into conversation (what on earth do 12 year olds talk about? Does anyone remember?)  Mackenzie and I were both sitting cross-legged and we were so excited about whatever we were talking about that our knees were touching and our faces were only inches apart.  At some point, Mackenzie leaned in and kissed me.  I mean, by my standards at 22, it was only a peck.  However at 12, all I could see was that another girl had kissed my lips. It was like my whole world shifted.  I remember mumbling something and running to the bathroom and having a What The Fucking Fuck moment.  I then returned to my sleeping bag and Mackenzie ran off to the bathroom.  When she came back, I was already in my sleeping bag.  She whispered my name a few times, trying to get me up, but I just stayed snuggled in my bag, pretending to be asleep.  Finally she gave up and went to bed.

The next morning when I woke up, Mackenzie was gone. I never saw her again.

When my dad came to pick my mom and I up the next morning, I told him that some girl tried to kiss me (like I was going to admit that I let her) and said that obviously, she must be a "dyke."  I made sure my tone showed how grossed out I was by Mackenzie's behavior the night before.

I will never forget my dad's face when I said that.  He grabbed my arm, looked me dead in the eye, and said, "Abernathy, don't ever say that word ever again. Ever.  We don't hate people and call them names just because they're different."  I think my mom was just as flabbergasted by my dad's reaction as I was, because she didn't say a freakin' word.  

And you know, I was so ashamed of calling Mackenzie a dyke and having my dad yell at me that I never talked about my first kiss again.

Fin

Today's Point: I'm not really sure... ideas from the peanut gallery? But my dad is pretty effing legit in this story, isn't he? YEAH dad!

Are you guys seeing the theme I'm seeing? What's up with this whole kissing girls and letting them walk off thing? What the fucking eff have I been doing for the last ten years? Obviously, not improving my game at all.
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Sunday, June 27, 2010

5:30 PM

Aahhh, Real Monsters

Hola mi amigas,

Today's story is about MONSTERS.  It's a about a battle between the glittery good and fucking evil.  This is a story that will haunt your mind for weeks after reading it.  

Are you ready?  

You guys, this is a story about SPRICKETS!

...You know what a spricket is right?  A spricket is a terrible combination of a grasshopper and a spider.  I'm not sure that's technically correct, but that doesn't matter.  What matters is that they are horrifying.  Usually, I don't mind crickets and I'm not a fan of spiders. But imagine a spider that can freaking jump to great lengths and bite you! Whoa.

So grab your teddy bear and get prepared for the the tale of...

Aahhh, Real Monsters
In the summer between my junior and senior years of college, I elected to live in an apartment with one of my friends.  We'll call her Ria.  Ria was only a year older than me and throughout college she had easily become my favorite partner in crime.  Basically we did two things when we got together: we got drunk and then we had the best heart to hearts known to man.  I'm not really sure why, but these heart to hearts always resulted in a lot of judging from our friends.  They also resulted in a ton of stupid ideas that no one was kind enough to stop us from testing out.

Luckily, living together was not one of those ideas.  Ria had a super sweet two bedroom apartment. She owned the bigger room and had her own half bathroom.  I got the smaller room and for the most part, the main bathroom was my territory.  Ria only ever entered it to use the shower.  We're both girly-girls from our petal pink toenails to our bedazzled headbands, so having personal dressing stations suited us perfectly.

One night, Ria came home to find me sitting on our couch, wrapped in my towel and chugging a Natty Light (classy, right?). "What's wrong?" she asked as she dropped her purse and rushed to my side.  "There's a monster spider in my bathroom!" I shrieked. "It jumps. It jumps really fucking high." Ria waited a moment, before tightening her jaw and looking me dead in the eye. "Spricket." 

Up until that point, I'd lived a charmed, spricket-free existence.  After Ria explained sprickets to me, she took a shot of tequila, grabbed a broom and headed to my bathroom.  I wish I could lie and tell you that I grabbed the fly swatter and joined Ria, but I didn't.  I hid behind my door frame and watched her like the scared chicklet that I am.

Ria cautiously turned the doorknob and cracked open the bathroom door. She nudged it open with her shoe.  I'd left the light on and as Ria peered inside she declared that there was no spricket. Bullshit!  But when I came out from behind my door frame and attempted to show her the spricket, I was embarrassed to admit that my spricket was gone. Friends, I felt like a five year old who had just made her mom check under the bed for the Boogey Man. Humiliated but determined to save face, I took a shower (as quickly as I could; I knew that fucker had to be hiding somewhere) and called it a night.

The next evening I came home to find Ria standing outside of my bathroom in her towel.  She was looking straight into the room and as I walked up to her, I could see the spricket perched on the bathroom rug.  "I told you so," I whispered to her. She reached into the bathroom and turned on the light. Surprisingly the spricket was even creepier once we could see it in detail! We screamed like five year olds and slammed the bathroom door before running to the security of the couch.

Half an hour and a glass or two of wine later, we were ready to deal with the spricket, which we had now named George. I was armed with a broom and a dustpan, Ria had a dictionary and a knife (I'm serious. I don't know how we survived a whole summer together once you consider our combined brainpower).  We closed the doors to our rooms and stood on either side of the bathroom.  George would have no escape.

I turned the doorknob and kicked the door open.  Ria and I rushed to enter the room and kill George, but just like the night before, he was gone!  After searching the bathroom with utmost care, George was still MIA.  Ria and I both took showers with the bathroom door wide open that night...In case George jumped in and we needed to run out.

In fact, we took every shower that week with the door open.  I spent the week peeing with the door open.  It was a little bit ridiculous.  What we surmised was that George didn't like the bathroom light and so whenever we left it on, he went into hiding.  As you might guess, we didn't turn off the light for days.  


About a week into out standoff with George, I came home to find Ria lining up bottles of household cleaners on the counter top.  As soon as I walked through the door she handed me two, grabbed two for herself, and said it was time to say goodbye to George. We sealed off the hallway and positioned ourselves outside of the bathroom, aimed our spray bottles like guns (I imagined we were the Boondock Saints), and kicked the door open.


I turned on the light and there was George...in the middle of the floor, unaware of his fate. "GET HIM!" Ria yelled.  We began blindly spraying 409, Windex, Lysol, and Green Works.  We must have hit George because he got angry and jumped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Ria was backed into a corner and honestly, for a minute, I thought she was going to cry.  But she just kept spraying and George the fucking spricket KEPT JUMPING. After about three minutes of non-stop spraying (and terrified squealing) on our part and freaky jumping on George's, George jumped back into the bathroom.


Exhausted, we closed the bathroom door and gave up.  If George could survive the volley of chemical warfare we had just dispensed, we figured he was here to stay.  Annoyed, Ria and I went to bed.  


The next morning I woke up and - out of curiosity - entered the bathroom.  Floating in the toilet was George.  I screamed my victory cry and woke Ria, who had a totally different response: she wanted to pray for his soul.  Friends, I cannot make this shit up.  So we did. We prayed for the spricket named George.  And then we flushed him away.

Fin


Today's Point: Today's story is worth two points; 1. Don't live in spricket infested lands. 2. You've got to learn the enemy's game before you can take him down.
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Wednesday, June 16, 2010

3:31 PM

I'll Be Just Like You... Only Better

Hi Friends!

I'm home sick today with the flu. So I figure, why waste this opportunity to share more of my crazy life with you?

Today's story hails from college.  This is a simple, short, and sweet story that gives you insight into the attitude that shaped my entire college career. Here we go!

I'll Be Just Like You...Only Better
During my first month or two on campus I totally thought my orientation leader was the bomb-dot-com.  Our college was a very small, Southern woman's college so there were a lot of unwritten rules (with girls, there always are).  My orientation leader lived in the senior dorms, which were completely off limits to little first years like myself.  Completely. If you wanted to walk through those French doors and partake in the magic of hanging out with seniors, you needed to be invited in and possibly escorted.  No lie.


Thanks to my orientation leader, I was one of two or three first years to get that invitation early on. I was 17 and new to college, so I totally felt like a badass. I was invited with my (then) best friend whom (for her safety) we will call Minnie.  Minnie was a total suck-up.  Unfortunately, when I hung out with Minnie, I became a suck-up too.

Despite this, all of the seniors all thought we were super cute. I mean, we baked them cupcakes.  Of course they liked us. One night, Minnie and I found ourselves invited to a party in the senior dorms.  This was a Big Deal. We were mere first years who had somehow been granted entry to a senior party within weeks of being on campus.  A number of our freshman classmates approached us to figure out how we did it (I blame the cupcakes).  Some classmates were jealous. Others couldn't care less. 


Minnie and I were in a whirlwind of first year controversy.  Obviously, this just made us feel twelve times more awesome than we did before.  


We holed ourselves up in my dorm room to figure out our outfits for the night and then we headed over to the party. It was crazy. The theme was Pimps and Hos.  You've heard of it, I'm sure.  However, remember, I was at a woman's college. I was 17 years old surrounded by girls in suspenders and slacks, zuit suits and mini skirts, plaid jackets and catsuits.  There was drinking and flashing and kissing and it was literally system overload.  I had to walk away.

Minnie and I sought refuge in my orientation leader's room. She was in there with her girlfriend and they were arguing.  After all of our evenings hanging out in the senior dorms with them, it kind of felt like mom and dad were having it out in front of the kids...only this time it was mom and mom. Girlfriend (GF) wanted to leave the party so she could study. Our orientation leader (OL) wanted GF to stay at the party until the sun came up.

GF:      "Baby, don't you want good grades?"

OL:      "Of course I do, but in twenty years, when I look back on my college career I'm not going to remember the paper I wrote at two am.  I will remember this night and partying with all of my friends."

Friends, I saw the words of OL as words of wisdom.  However, OL wasn't impressing me at all with her GPA. Obvs, she was going about this all the wrong way. Of course, friends and memories are super important.  But so is graduating and being proud of your GPA.

So from then on, I made a pact with myself: "You can never go below 3.0."  It became my mantra.  And wouldn't you know it, I graduated with a 3.26.  Is that phenomenal?  Of course not.  But you know, those drunken evenings spent at parties and hiding out from the Resident Assistants as they patrolled the dorms for drunken underclasswomen  led to friendships I wouldn't change for anything the world.

Fin




Today's point: Throughout life, make sure you allot time in your schedule to party 
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Monday, June 14, 2010

3:37 PM

One Rainbow Fish in the Sea

Hi friends!

I know this is our first time meeting each other but I'm optimistic about our future together.

When I meet people irl (in real life) I always say, "tell me a story." And then they either come through or they fail. Most people when prodded enough will tell you a story. When you get down to it, that's what life is right? Bunches of stories?

The point of this blog is to chronicle my life via my stories. Hopefully, together, we can also figure out what the point of it all is. I am a firm believer that everything in life has a point.

And so, without further ado, here's the first story:

One Rainbow Fish in the Sea
This story starts at DC's Capital Pride. For those of you who may not know, every summer, the queers in most major cities host a series of events for their LGBT community. These events are lumped together and called "Pride". Pride can range from a six hour picnic in the park, to a full two weeks of parties, parades, lectures, workshops, and festivals.

Pride is my favorite holiday, by far. It's like God took Christmas and Halloween and the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving and rolled them into a giant glittering ball of happiness and stuck it in rainbow wrapping paper. I fucking love it.

Capital Pride lasts for approximately 13 days and ends with a parade on the second Saturday and a street festival on Sunday.For me, Pride doesn't actually start until the parade. The parade is like the Christamas tree; you need it to make the holiday real. This year the parade started late and lasted quite a while, but I'm not complaining: I drank, I hung out with my friends, and I was lost in a sea of rainbows.

After the parade, you can feel the sexual tension in the crowd. I mean, you're standing in a crowd of gaymos who are all super aware that the girl or guy next to them is actually a potential hookup or relationship. If you're gay, you know how rarely you get this experience. When I go to Pride, I know the girls like girls so I'm not wasting time trying to figure out how straight anyone is. It's magical.

This year, I was all about the sexual tension and I made sure I was in the dance club by 10:30pm. The first few hours were typical: drink, dance with friends, drink some more, take a break to talk to the cops who are hanging around the block, dance waaaaay more. Around 1:30am, all of my friends left except my lesbi-bestie, Arla.

At this point, we got a little crazy. We began by dancing with all the gay boys. It's so much fun because gay boys + lezzies = surprisingly awesome dance partners with no filters. I also began critiquing the other kids on the dancefloor. That's when I noticed this girl who was standing in a circle of friends. She was wearing a baby blue handkerchief. She was kind of cute. So I grabbed her. I said, "hey, dance with me." She did...and I knocked her beer right out of her hand. I am such a spaz! So of course, I apologized and Baby Blue Hanky said, "It's okay; I loved every minute of dancing with you." Super cute, right?!

So I waited a bit, and I turned around to check her out some more. And wouldn't you know it, that girl wasn't dancing! So I grabbed her wrist, I said, "Dance with me! It's PRIDE! You have to dance." So we did. Song ended. She went her way, I went mine.

Two songs later, I'm dancing with my bestie, Arla, when Baby Blue Hanky shows up behind me, grabs me by the waist and pulls me really close. So we're dancing. And I notice Arla is gone, and Baby Blue Hanky's friends are gone, and we're all alone on the dancefloor (apart from all the lovely gay bois).

Baby Blue Hanky gets really chatty. And I learn she's 23 (I'm 22, we're perfect!), she's an English major (oh snap, I minored in Creative Writing), she graduated college (that's important!), in her free time she writes poetry (oh hay, girl, so do I), and finally, that she lives in Silver Spring, MD (only 20 minutes from the city center...4 hours from my house, but whatevs, you know lezzies know no boundaries. Besides, I'm already in DC at least once a month).

So we exchange numbers. Now here's where I fucked up. I lied. Yeah, friends, I lied to the girl in a Baby Blue Handkerchief. I mean, I gave her my real number. But then she told me to take out my phone and put her number in. And I said, "Hey-yo, I left my phone at my friend's house to charge. Sorry!" even though it was totally in my purse, but it was turned off and I just didn't feel like digging it out. So being the smarty she is, Baby Blue Hanky called me, just so her number would go to my phone.

And then we made out on the dancefloor. That was awesome. Then we danced some more and parted ways.

The next morning, I woke up. I turned on my phone. Baby Blue Hanky's number wasn't there!!! And now it's been 3 days, and I'm sitting around hoping this random girl, whom I met at Pride and made out with in a dance club, calls me up because I actually am interested in talking to her more. It's frustrating.

So Baby Blue Hanky, if you're out there, you've got my number, CALL ME.

Fin

Today's point: Don't lie to sweet girls on the dance floor.
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