Gay is Good

Well, I went to a new doctor. A gynecologist. Since I needed a reputable practitioner, I had to take what I could get as soon as I could get it. I got a man. I was dreading the experience because I don’t normally accept male gynecologists because, well, what the F#$@? By the way, how can anyone be married to a gynecologist? What do you tell your friends and family? I was pondering this – aloud – in the waiting room at the clinic when I was called in. I didn’t get to see the doctor right away; instead, I had to give a ton of personal information to some kind woman that was trying her best to use a new computer program. At one point, the woman asked me how many sexual partners I had had. “Oooh, a lot,” I told her. Then I asked her what the largest number was that you could add to the computer. She said it was left blank so that she could enter any number. “Hmmmm…” I thought to myself. “Well, you see, the thing is, I don’t know the exact number…” She told me to just give her an estimate. I gave her an (under)estimate to which her response was, “Oh, well, yes, that certainly is a lot.” I tried to explain to her that I grew up in a very incestuous small town and that I was very messed up in my twenties, looking for love in all the wrong places, trying to assert my independence…but she didn’t seem to really care. I wonder why not? Then it was time to pee in a cup and get undressed and all that. I peed all over the cup, as usual, and then got undressed. The doctor finally came in and…yes….birds starting chirping in the background and I could hear Julie Andrews singing about some hills being alive somewhere. Why? He was gay. Gay as a sunny day! I was overjoyed and wanted to French kiss him right then and there to show my appreciation. I showed him my chichi instead. “Go ahead,” I told him, “Have a look around – do whatever you need to do up there. I am just soooo glad you aren’t an old hetero.”

Also, for those of you who are wondering. I did meet my mother’s “friend”, too. For a moment. He is good looking. He’s nice. Yeah, okay, whatever. Leave me alone. He emailed me. I’ll email back. I am not rude. Besides, I can use all the friends I can get right now. That’s right, you aren’t cutting it!! I need more. I need a lot more attention and adulation than I am getting from the lot of you!

Oh, and my very expensive psychic told me that my long-term true love (because my last boyfriend was a true love – just not a long-term true love) lives on/near the Pacific Ocean and his name starts with the letter T. ???? I don’t know, people; that’s what she said. She said that I need to be willing to go online. Is she talking about online dating? ‘Cuz I started to fill out the information on several sites and then deleted each one as soon as I completed all the tests and forms. I did this five times, at least. I eventually ended up in tears as I realized that I just wasn’t ready. I am not holding on to hope for reconciliation because, at this point, as much as I loved my British boy, I could never trust him with my heart again. So, why couldn’t I do the online dating thing? I got scared. I realized that my heart isn’t ready to have hope again – to fall in love again – and to risk being let down again. This heart needs a little R & R. And so do I. Or rather, since I am in Upstate, NY, perhaps I should say, “So, don’t I.” I like it, actually. I like being a nonconformist – a linguistic rebel – a verbal attacker of the English language!! I hope my friend, Patty Pooh, isn’t reading this because she is a grammar tsar and would not approve.

Speaking of Upstate, NY and language usage, I consider myself to be politically correct when speaking and using language because I think it’s friggin’ important and powerful how we use language. For example, I don’t think it’s okay to call a guy a “girl” as an insult. I am a girl – why are you using my gender to put someone else down? I don’t think it’s okay to call someone or something “gay” as an insult. If I were gay (okay, the 21 days of my, “I am a lesbian” affirmation didn’t work), I would find it pretty demeaning to have people using my sexual orientation as a way to negatively describe things. Get my drift? But why then do I find it okay to call myself and others “retarded”? Well, I figure that if someone is retarded, then they won’t actually understand that I am using that word in a less than positive light, so who’s getting hurt here? Plus, it does have more than one meaning. I would never call someone who is developmentally delayed a retard. Why? Because that would be considered offensive and hurtful. I would only call myself and loved ones retarded because I, and my loved ones, truly are, and we are developmentally advanced enough to realize and understand this about ourselves and each other. And, actually, the term doesn’t always mean something awful…I, we, the peoples of New York (and NJ), use it often in the same way we say, “loser”. What I mean is that it can sometimes be used as a compliment. For example, when I was getting my facial done a few weeks back, I was talking to the woman about plastic surgery and what I wanted to get if I ever got it (which, let’s face it, I probably won’t ever really do). Then I mentioned my younger sister and how she looked 16 but had three kids and was 38. “Younger sister?” she cried out. “Wait. How old are YOU then?” I told her I was 40. She freaked. Her hands moved off of my face (which really wasn’t right since I was paying for them to be ON my face) and she started flailing them about. “Forty? Ohmyhod!” Then she said it…. “You are soooo retarded!” I laughed. I loved that she said that. “I AM retarded, aren’t I?” “No,” she assured me, “you really are.” If felt so good – a) to be getting a facial, b) to be 40 and look 30 and c) to be home where I can be called “retarded” by a perfect stranger.

Well, I suppose I should get off the ‘puter and go out and look for a job. Why? I dunno. Health insurance? Distraction? Or maybe because I can’t keep mooching off my aunt and uncle, where I have free 1) Internet service, 2) laundry facilities (and sometimes unsolicited service), 3) cable TV, 4) access to numerous diet sodas and varieties of Pringles, 5) use of a digital telephone to call anywhere in the United States and Canada, 6) love and support, 7) rent and 8) use of my own shower when the dog isn’t using it. Wait, why should I get a job? Oh yeah, pride and self-sufficiency. What a drag!

Well, I really should get a move on. Poop on a stick, people (I mean that in the Buddhist sense). And all my love.

Sincerely yours,

Ima U. Terrace

Homicide Recall

Hey.

I just brought in the paper and the title is "Homicide Recall". Ghod, I hope it isn't anything like Product Recall. Speaking of which, have you see that UK Lisa (Williams?) lady that talks to dead people? Does she know that you don't have to look dead to talk to them? That chick looks embalmed. It reminds me of a book I read once that stated you should look similar to the person you are trying to attract. It seems to have worked for her. That's probably why I attracted my last boyfriend so easily. I looked drunk.

Okay, truth be told, I have officially lost another two pounds. Yep! So, the total now is 12 pounds of 'hate weight' gone forever. Yeahhh!!! I do have to admit, though, that I think I lost a couple of those pounds in my boo-bays! At the least the right one. No, that's good, people, 'cuz that was the Mama breast! Now, they're twins again- yeahh!!! What? You didn't need to know that? Well, get some therapy and move on. I am.

I have to tell you that I am on my way to Syracuse now to spend the night with my mother. It's nice because my mother has a connection with someone there that has a connection with someone that writes songs for famous movies and TV shows and she wants to play him my music. Cool. Connections rock! On the down side of her connections, however, my mother has begged me once again with, "I don't ask for much from you..." to meet her male "friend" from the office AGAIN. FINE! FINE! FINE! If it will keep my mother working as my manager, then FINE! But only once. Unless, of course, he is a Warrior.

Oh yeah, I took that Jungian personality test and I am a Lover - of course - you all knew that -Hey, I said a LO-VER, not a S-LUT. There is a difference. Take the test if you don't believe me. Anyhow, a Lover needs a Warrior. It is absolutely friggin' true in my case, folks. I want to add WARRIOR to the list of my future mate's characteristics. Oh, and can you also throw in - "brushes his teeth at night"? Yeah, I know it's scary that I HAVE to add that on, but, experience has shown me this past year and half, that I DO. I am afraid to even ask for a flosser at this point. I am afraid, people. Afraid. I know, you are asking, "What the #@!# happened to her out there?" I wish I could tell you in a linear, logical way how I came to be with men that didn't brush their teeth at night or even own tooth floss, but... there is no logical explanation. I just....it was....if you had...well, I...when I try to...let's just say that some things happen to you out there on the battlefield (a.k.a. in Korea) that can't be explained PERIOD. If you weren't there, I can't help you understand. And if YOU aren't brushing your teeth at night or flossing, then maybe you can help ME understand??

Well, I think that's enough ranting for now. I am going to hit the road.

Have a nice Thanksgiving --- when the time comes.

Always yours,

Ima T. Uthbrusherluver

Just Say 'No' to Emotional Retardation

I hate to write about a whole culture, so I won't. I can't even write about my own. I do have to let you in on a crazy "realization", though. You see, yesterday I went to the store to purchase a slew of magazines to make a poster board collage (don't you worry you're pretty little head over what for, now, okay?). I didn't realize it at the time, but I picked up one mag that was published in England. If I had known that, I would NOT have bought it. It's a good thing that I am not too quick with the brain waves these days, though, as I discovered something very very interesting. I figured out that it wasn't published in North America fairly quickly as the articles had phrases in them such as"taking the piss", "can't be bothered", and "losing stones" instead of "losing pounds". (Ooh, ooh, ooh, and let me tell you, I got on the scale this morning and I have officially lost 10 POUNDS - not stones - since leaving Korea. It's good, people, it very very very good! The weight I had gained over there was not healthy; in fact, let's just call it "HATE WEIGHT". So, my new diet book will be about how love leads to weight loss and how Korea makes you fat. Oh yeah, and the nausea that accompanies heartbreak and realizing that you had been living a lie helps, too).

Oh, I'm sorry, did I get off topic? No, not really. Just hold on. It ties itself together. Probably. So, where was I? Oh yeah, I was going through the magazine and there was an article about how American movie stars are marrying/dating/dogging/ and all out digging British guys. Why? Well, because, they are quick witted, light hearted, well-read, have nice manners, and don't jump in to bed too quickly. THAT'S WHAT I LOVED ABOUT MY EX!! What is shocking about that is that I realized that I was in love with the fact that he was British and I gave him more credit for being unique then he actually was. I didn't realize all British men were so. If I had, I wouldn't have been so impressed with him as much as his cultural identity and upbringing. I wasn't completely in love with my ex- as an individual; I was in love, in large part, with his British-ness. Here, I thought he was different from other guys when, in fact, he was just BRITISH for ghod's sake. So, if I want those qualities, I can just date other British guys. It's an easy thing to remedy, really. I mean, I just need to be in England (and have you seen the women over there? I might look steamin' hot to some of those Brits). But I am not anywhere near the United Kingdom. And, I have no plans to go there. So, maybe it isn't that easy, after all. Hmmmm...maybe my ex- can introduce me to....no, from what I remember of his "friends", I don't think so. In any case, there are also North American men who have manners, aren't sluts, are funny, and read beyond an 8th grade level. I just have to find them. Hellooooooooo!!! Ding Dong! Knock Knock!!

The article also stated that British men tend to be emotionally retarded, live at home longer, and aren't too physically fit. I feel bad because I really thought that was about the character of my ex-, as well. Oops. With that said, however, I am not so sure I want a British boy, afterall. Emotional retardation is something that I am personally trying to overcome and is not something I want my man to aspire to and/or practice. I also want a man who, by the time he is thirty, has actually lived alone and paid his own rent. The physically fit part? I don't care if he has a little beer belly as long as he doesn't think that alcohol and air are of equal importance for the daily survival of mankind. Hmm... well...it's looking pretty grim for the British men, now. And, actually, that last one might knock out a few North American men who were in the running, as well. Sorry, boys, no heavy drinkers! They bore me!

Overall, I think I'll stick with my North American brothers who tend to be more progressive, emotionally available, physically active, and take things a little more seriously.

Note: If there is a British guy that is not a big drinker, is single, has lived alone and paid his own rent, has a job he loves, is capable of and willing to be emotionally intimate, is profeminist and over 35, comes without fetishes or major boyhood hangups, and does not think a woman is supposed to make babies for him or be second to him in any way, shape, or form, then, okay, yes, I will consider it.

In general, if anyone knows of a man that fits the above description who is not too selfish for a serious relationship, happens to be hot, and loves the outdoors, then let me know. I will most likely reject them before meeting them, but, hey, it's worth a shot.

That's all for now...Ima not feeling well, today.

Love,

Ima Q. Ponn

Don't Eat the Crab Cakes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, some of you seem to be a little upset that you haven’t had a little of the Ima mojo to keep you going the past few days. Well, let me tell you, Ima has been busy keeping people alive the past few days – first and foremost, herself.

As I said, I went to Lake G. with my mother and grandmother. Three generations of WILD, people – whoohooo! It all started on the car ride up to Lake G. where my grandmother found it necessary to read aloud every road sign, billboard, and license plate. It was an hour long trip, folks! That pretty much set the tone. Once we were there, she read the name of every hotel and restaurant we passed – and it was an entire street of hotels and restaurants! The funny thing about vacationing in Lake George is that we never actually went into the lake. You see, for me, it’s just a lake. I mean, I live in the Finger Lakes Region of N.Y., so I got lakes coming out of the wazoo!!! So, it wasn’t so different from being home except that everything that cost more money and my mother and grandmother were in my bedroom! And, I would like to state for the record that these women do not sleep! I tried to exhaust them in every which way possible, but if there is a television set in the room – and there was – they WILL NOT SLEEP! Now, Ima not trying to complain too much here, but Ima in need of sleep, people. You KNOW this! It affects Ima’s estrogen levels– so show some respect for the hormones. Because, after all, we know that HORMONES RULE (and not in the good way).

The first night there was a disaster. I was freezing and sleeping in sweatpants and a coat while my grandmother was sweating and turning up the air conditioning every hour. My earplugs were not working too well, either, as I could hear them talking until all hours of the night. The next day, I decided to take a hike up a nearby summit. My mother wanted to go. She had no hiking shoes, sneakers, or really, any shoes at all. She had sandals – a.k.a. flip flops. Flip flops! Now, what do you suppose happens to a woman, aged 60, going up a steep, rocky, incline for three miles in flip flops? To be fair, by the way, I did go for a run first and then put my own flip flops on so that I would be tired out and more at her pace. This mattered not, my friends. We got about an hour of the way up the hill (it was about two hours to get up) and BAM, she’s convinced she’s having a heart attack. Granted she was having trouble breathing and holding her chest, but she wasn’t having a heart attack – it was more like a Big Mac attack – she was just not in shape for the hike! I don’t mean to be cold here, but she was holding the RIGHT side of her chest, her skin color looked fine, and there was no unusual sweating. Plus, I had been JUST LIKE HER a month ago when I started jogging. It’s simply called, “Being Out of Shape”. It was like looking in a mirror, folks. Needless to say, she recovered and then we made the hike up and back in less than four hours time. I thought FOR SURE she would go to sleep early after that. Did she? No! I mean, she couldn't walk, but she could watch TV! And my G-ma got stuck in the hot tub and couldn’t get out, so I thought that trauma would have knocked her out, too, but NO! I remember at 1:15 am, I finally sat up, ripped my ear plugs out and the eye patch off and cried out in frustration, “You’re still up??!!!” There were some grumbles, but eventually the TV got reluctantly turned off and I got some sleep! Jeesh!.

The next day I planned a tubing trip for us down the Hudson. I thought that it would be something that people of all ages could enjoy. I thought wrong. As we got into our tubes, I was quickly carried down the river and lost track of the Ma and G-ma. I thought they would be okay, though, as all you had to do was stay seated in the inner tube and make sure your butt didn’t hit any rocks (I didn’t pass that test, by the way). I kept trying to catch sight of them, but every time I turned around to find them I got carried further down the river. Eventually I became known as, “girl in front” and a sort of pseudo leader. The trip leaders would yell out, “Hey, girl in front, head to the right after the rock” and, “Hey, girl in front, try not to hit the log,” and, “Girl in front, where the hell are you going?” Stuff like that. Finally, toward the end of the trip, we reached a swimming hole and I could hang out in an eddy (what’s an eddy?), and wait for them to catch up. All the other tubers (ha ha, “tubers”) showed up, but where was my lineage? Could it have floated away? Could they have been grounded and left to brave the wilderness on their own? I couldn’t see them anywhere! I need glasses, so that didn’t help.

Eventually, they showed up. Things didn’t look too good, though. G-ma was on her stomach with the Tubby Tubing visor covering her face. However, my mother didn’t seem overly distraught and then I realized that G-ma actually had a hand on the rope of the kayak that was pulling them along. My poor ancestors – G-ma thought she was heading toward the light and my poor mom had to stay with her to make sure she didn’t. It didn’t seem fair. I was left feeling ashamed of my success at becoming “girl in front” while they were literally struggling with life and death issues. I should have been with them. I never should have allowed the river to carry me so far away. I should have…I should have…Oh, screw it. I wore flip flops up the mountain! Besides, I bought that Tubby Tubing visor for her! I am a good person, damn it! I am!!

Or am I? [insert raised eyebrows here]

That night we went to dinner and all I can say is: DON’T EAT THE “CRAP” CAKES AT THE LOBSTER POT! In fact, don’t eat anything there! And by the way, why do they sell Salt Water Taffy as a souvenir at freshwater locations? Can’t they just sell “Water Taffy” or how about “Lake Water Taffy”? Is that bad? I just don’t get it! Help, help me, Rhonda! Then help me help you! After you help me, of course. And as long as it won’t take all day. Well, I have things to do, people!

I have a dream of becoming a published songwriter, and it is time, after 20(cough)+ years of songwriting, to DO something with all this Ghod-given talent! I mean, what kind of person would I be to deny the world the pleasure of Ghod’s music? Yeah, whatever. The point is that I am going to make something of myself, people. I am not going to allow my grandmother to be humiliated for one day longer by being “sickly, single, and a waste of musical talent”! This woman deserves better. By the way, do you know that she is officially the oldest woman to have gone on that Tubby Tubing trip? It’s true. We found this out as they were literally carrying her back to the bus. So, you can say what you will about my dream and my talent (or lack there of), but I am doing this for the G-ma!! It’s her dream, as well, and I am not going to let her down.

So, I hope this rather overdue entry will keep you from sending me anymore hateful emails and phone messages. I don’t do well under pressure, kids. But, I want you to know, that because you have been loyal readers, I will do my very best to check in nightly once again. Really, I will. I owe you that… and more.

All my Cliff Bars and Used Ear Plugs,

Ima G. Dawder

Some Karma, Please!

I want you all to know that I woke up early enough today and couldn't go back to sleep because I kept waiting for G-ma to show up and ruin a good dream. So I decided to beat the system and get up and go for an early morning run. When I got back, she was STILL in bed. I took advantage of this time to get everything ready for our trip to Lake G. After I showered and packed, she was STILL in bed. I was getting hungry! So, I ended up at the foot of her bed fabricating some reason for waking her up. "You said that you had a appointment this morning to get the fungus removed from your toe nails. Isn't that right?" She looked at me quite perplexed and then assured me that is was not right. "Oh well, then," I said, "should we get some breakfast then?" So, now we are off for some French toast and coffee (I am having mine with some Karma and sugar). I am planning on telling the waitress all the medications that my grandmother takes and how that means that she can't eat or drink anything that starts with the letter A.

The day is young. We probably aren't.

Wish you were here,

Ima N. Lightened

Run Down and Out of Town

Okay folks, I am back. No problem. No more crying over spilt men. I know you were worried and missed your daily jolt of Ima, but don't you fret none, I am right here. I am back and ready to do my job - make you feel better about yourself and your own life. And how do I do that? By simply sharing mine. So, with that said, let's do some Ima sharing, shall we? Alrighty then.

Well, I went to see my old chiropractor the other day. He's big and jolly and we make a good doctor -patient team: I go in - I make him laugh - he hurts me - I leave. I was actually excited to see him after a year and a half. So, I get to the office and find myself greeted by the staff with, "Oh, it's YOUUUUU...". Then out comes Pete (that's my doctor). He looks straight at me and starts to laugh. "Ho,ho, ho, oh, oh, (jiggle jiggle), hardyharhar, ohhhhhmy." He's shaking his head. He can't believe I am back in B.F., New York (no, those REALLY are the initials). "What happened?" he asks, "Did you lose a bet or something?" I quite calmly respond, "Yeah, actually, you could say that." Then I went in to his room, we hugged, I made him laugh, he hurt me, and I left. Ahhh, some things never change. Oh what? Did you think I was going to say something bad about old Pete? Did you want me to say something bad about old Pete? Well, I won't do it, dog gone it! Shame on you for even asking.

Now, this next guy is a different story. See, I also went to see the pharmacist that same day. Now, I don't have a relationship with this guy at all, so I will let you have it full on. You should know that I have terrible allergy headaches that are very similar - pain-wise - to migraines. The problem is that if I take any kind of stimulant to ward off the headaches, I can't sleep. If I can't sleep, I become a NUTBAG! On the other hand, if I take something that makes me the least bit drowsy, I can't get out of bed for days. If I take nothing, I suffer not only the severe headaches but also swollen glands, a sore throat, hoarseness, burning eyes and chest, a slight cough, and dizziness. (What was that? Yeah, well, you're not exactly Jack Le Lane, so stuff it). Anyways, what the heck can I do? Well, the obvious isn't an option - I have to stay clean and sober for a while longer - so, I went to see the pharmacist. I went in and asked a very friendly young woman if she had any idea of what I could take for my situation. She couldn't find anything. When I asked her about talking to the pharmacist on duty, she gave me a strange look. Then she told me, in hushed tones, that he was a little nuts. She said that the last time she asked him a medical question, he ranted and raved for fifteen minutes and then told her to buy new pots and pans. "Hmmmm...." I said. "Hmmmm...." I said again (because I was pondering). Then, I told her I would take my chances, seeing that I was desperate and all (and you are obviously not going to be very supportive). So, I goes up to the counter, see, and over 'gullumps' this large, very white, old man with Mad Scientist hair, Droopy Dog jowls, and a thick Eastern European accent (I don't know which one). I start to tell him my predicament. He is all over me within seconds, ranting and raving, and even accusing me of interrupting and lying. After about fifteen minutes of this abuse, I state that I have to leave. He then catches my attention by stating that there is only one solution and, do I want to hear it? Well, I dare say I do. So, when I ask what that is, he bellows, "MOVE! Just move! Get out of the house!! Leave this place!!!" I felt like I had wandered into a scary movie and was being threatened by the ghost of a man who had died there-apparently from allergies! I wasn't sure what to say, so I just improvised with, "Move? Okay, well, yeah, no, okay, great then. Uh-huh. Okay. Ummm.. Thank you, " and I walked away. What else could I do?

And you heard the man - I had to move! So, I packed my bags and left that crazy town and a little thing called love and now I am here. Where? As promised, I am in my state's capital (no, it's not New York City. You probably think I need a passport to go to New Mexico, too, don't you? Geesh!!) with my Jewish G-ma. She's a dear. There are a couple of things you should know about her up front, though: 1) She likes to tell people about me and my problems while I am right there- and she usually fabricates anywhere from 50-100% of it. She talks about me to the waitstaff, check-out clerks at the supermarket, her dentist, her home aid, all her physicians, including the one that cleans the fungus out from under her toe nails, and anyone else she comes into contact with and 2) She doesn't let me sleep in EVER.

Some of you may remember that I took a train trip with her across Canada a few years back whereby she told everyone on that train- and I mean EVERYONE - that I was "sickly, single, and a waste of musical talent". When I told her that she was negatively impacting my self-esteem by introducing me that way, she just laughed and reminded me that it was true. It was hard to argue with her; besides, it wouldn't have made a bit of difference.

So, I wasn't surprised when we went for dinner the first night here in Albany (yes, that's the capital, thank you) and she told the Pizza girl that I couldn't eat anything on the menu because I was on so many medications. I was aghast. Not just because she told her that, but because it's not even true.??? Then, we were at the supermarket buying earplugs and she tells the check out girl that I need earplugs because I have so many health problems and I am too sensitive to sleep. The clerk looked at me like, "And why do I care?" I just gave her the same helpless, "She followed me here" look that I give everyone she talks to in my presence. This has happened three other times so far: with two other waitresses and one spa receptionist. Please don't make me recall.

The first night here she said to me that I looked very tired and that I should "sleep in" in the morning. I said that sounded great. And, people, I WAS really tired. Now, I know I shouldn't have fallen for this trick. In fact, I suspected it was just a universal gag of sorts because this "sleeping in" thing is not possible. What she does is she comes in my room repeatedly all morning long to "find out" if I am sleeping, which, of course, wakes me up and makes me very, very irritable. The only reason I considered that THIS time I might actually be able to sleep in is that I was going to sleep in the upstairs apartment and she has a lot of trouble getting up the stairs. I thought that this would deter her from checking on me from sun up until I got up. Silly me. Come morning, after a long night of insomnia, she managed to get up those stairs and wake me up by fabricating a tale of how I had told her the night before that I needed to get up early, which I never in my right mind would have said EVER! "Oh, I thought you said that you had to get up early for some reason. Isn't that right?" No, it's not right. I tell her it's not right. Oh, she thought it was. So, then, well, why don't we go out to breakfast then?

The second night, she does the same thing. I tell her I have an appointment at 12:15 pm. I tell her this several times so that she understand that I do NOT need to get up early by any means. I have another restless night and, only a few hours after I fall asleep, she is yelling up the stairs for me to get up because, "You said you have an early morning appointment. Isn't that right?" No, it's not right. I tell her it's not right. Oh, she thought it was. So, then, well, why don't we go out to breakfast then?

Tomorrow my mother is coming and the three of us, God rest my soul, are taking a trip to Lake George. Now we aren't leaving until 4 pm so you can be assured that she will be at the foot of my bed when she gets hungry tomorrow morning to remind me that I had to get up early to do something, "Isn't that right?" At this point you can only imagine what that might be. No, really, unless you are a psychic or something, you don't know. You can guess, though. Go ahead, take a guess. What are you chicken? Fine. Don't guess then.

What? Hmm? Oh, I am sorry, I can't hear you.

Fondly,

Ima N. Dangered

Flavors 19-21 Have Now Been Tasted...

Without getting into it, I have just tasted the final three bitter flavors #19-21. They were absolutely the worst ones. I am still trying to scrape what is left of it off my tongue. These caused me to wretch, vomit, swallow, and re-vomit for hours. I am absolutely convinced that there can be no worse poison than that which I have had in my mouth today.

With that said, I think it's time for a lengthy station identification break.

And I look forward to speaking with you all again soon...and I shall see some of you sooner than later.

Thanks to all of you who have been there for me through this very crazy time in my life. I have truly been blessed with the holiest of friends. Not only are all of you insanely talented and amazing, but you also have heart, humility, and true compassion. I am always in awe of every one you.

You are my favorite music.

Sincerely,

Ima

Psychic Pain Leads to Psychic Gain

Okay, so, I am like desperate to feel better. I admit it. I was suffering for so long in Korea. I never felt more alone and more diseased in my life! Having lost myself, my sanity, and my pride, I was really looking forward to a fast recovery. I know, I know…it doesn’t work that way. I get, according to my friend Bill, three months of pain – the healing time! Why does it hurt when you get your heart and your soul ripped in two and then hurt again while you mend them? That doesn’t seem fair?!! Oh, I see, THAT’S why people drink and do drugs and have sex when they are hurting. I get it now!! But doesn’t that just prolong the healing time? I believe so. I think that, for people who love deeply and can emote easily (raise your hands), you have to strike a balance between expressing those feelings fully -screaming, crying, swearing, creating a blog - and distracting yourself in positive and fun ways – hiking, biking, hanging with friends, and talking to a world-renowned psychic.

Yep, you heard me. I went to the psychic that psychic’s go to. Oh, I won’t divulge her name. Oh no. It’s between me and… some other people that I told about it. Now, although I indulged, I am still highly skeptical and, believe it or not, a rather critical thinker. At least I WAS skeptical. Even my family members – and they are SUPER skeptical – couldn’t deny that this reading was impressive. Let me just start you out by saying that the only thing she knew about me was my name. The entire first half the reading was about her telling me what she was getting and hearing from her spirit guides. I asked no questions, I gave her no information WHATSOEVER. In fact, she had no idea why I was talking to her. Why was I talking to her? Well, I was curious about my upcoming biopsy. I was curious about my recently ended relationship. I was curious about where to go next. I was curious about putting music back into my life. Again – I told her none of this!

The reading began. She described my recent experiences and my current situation with astonishing accuracy. I was bought and sold and humming along with the *Monkees* by the time she finished. So, when it came to the future, I was quite happy to hear what she had to say. It’s all good! It’s all better than good – it’s about dreams coming true. I could go into details that would blow your mind, as well, but I don’t want the mess on my hands. She did have quite a lot to say about my recent relationship, however. She confirmed and validated what I had suspected was true all along. It hurt. It hurt like a mutherplucker. But it was so right on and there were things she said that she couldn’t have known about him. In fact, I never told her his name, age, or birth date, and yet….WOW! In fact, she brought it up. I never even said that I was dealing with a breakup – she did. What she told me about him helped me let go – that’s for sure. If that’s not worth $150 dollars, I don’t know what is!

Oh, I know. Some of you are saying, “One hundred fifty dollars? Are you crazy? Do you know what you could do with $150.00?” No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? What could I do with $150.00 that would help heal my broken heart once and for all? Go ahead – tell me! Mind you – I can’t drink alcohol or do illegal drugs for the next couple of months – I don’t own a monster truck or a dirt bike – my diet currently consists mainly of broccoli and goat cheese – and there really aren’t that many funny movies out there. So, what other bright ideas do you have? Come on, let’s face it – all the good ones cost a lot more than $150.00. Yeah, I know, I could come over to your house for free. It’s just that, well, it’s not that you aren’t entertaining and interesting, it’s just that, well, sometimes you aren’t really that interesting or entertaining. Hey, look, it’s a big job. It’s not for everyone. Don’t take it personally. Okay, hey, look, I’ll come over. No really. I’ll come over now, okay? I’m coming!!!! Just leave the door open.

Okay, I gotta’ go! They’re waitin’!

See you all laters (and see YOU ALL in a minute).

* The 1995 release of their greatest hits including “I’m a Believer” would make a great holiday gift (for me).

p.s. I didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag too early, so let me tell you now. Tomorrow, I am heading out to spend several days with my 80+, Jewish grandmother. I sure hope you aren’t vegetarian because there will be plenty o’ blog meat to digest!!

Sincerely,

Ima U. Nick

On Being Organic and Unable to Count

Well, I had a good night’s sleep…THANK GHOD! That’s not to say that I didn’t wake up throughout the night because I was dreaming of reconciliation…but, still, I shed not one morning tear. Not one!! And to that, I say thank you to Moses, Jesus, Mohammad, Matt Damon, and all the Latter Day Saints you can find. In celebration of my early morning success, I made myself toast. Not just ordinary toast. I made toast with Organic Sprouted Grain Low Sodium Ezekiel bread (the only bread worth eating and approved of by God), topped with Organic Butter, covered with Organic Almond Butter, and then topped off with Organic Apricot Fruit Spread. It was organically delicious.

After breakfast I made an attempt to meditate on the back patio. At first it was the usual noise of the birds in the back yard and the woods next door. For some reason, they were noisier than usual and some of their sounds are downright annoying. As I tried to quiet my mind through all the squawks and complaints from my feathered friends, “B.B. Gun” kept popping into my head. Then the dog decided to join me, leaving a pile of “dog gravy” at my feet. Just how much noise does a dog need to make in order to clean his genitalia, people? Good Ghod! “Snort, lick, slobber, chew, snort, lick, snort some more, make more dog gravy for me to step in,…” Now I have the words, “Castration” popping into my head. This meditation thing is not going well! Finally, the dog takes a rest and the birds seem to calm down a bit. I take a deep breath, ready to start again, and guess what? The neighbors start to cut down a tree in their back yard with a chainsaw. I kid you not!!! Then, to top it all off (again, I am not making this up), the Fire Station siren goes off. Now, look. This area is small. The town I am sitting in at the moment isn’t more than a few miles from here to there and back again…yet we seem to have fires a few times a day. Fires I don’t see, smell, or hear about. In fact, I checked the local papers and things have been pretty quiet as far as fires go, so WHAT IS THEIR PROBLEM? Needless to say, with a tree killer, a fire department with an active imagination, an obsessive-compulsive dog, and a few birds that are able to be heard through the din, I did NOT get my meditation done this morning.

Maybe that’s why I had such a strange day. I was attacked today be several insects. It was the theme, in a sense. When I went out for my run, a large insect flew into my ear. We had a bit of a struggle, but no one got hurt. Then, when I took the dog out for a walk, something stung me, ever so lightly, on the neck. After we got home from the walk, I opened the door to my bedroom and something that looked like a large brown moth, but with the body the size of a bee, hit me in the forehead, causing me to fall back into the door. I realize now why these insects were taking a liking to me. Just look at my breakfast. I am too organic! Perhaps it’s a sign from the universe letting me know that I need to eat more pesticides.

Speaking of pests, let me just get a few things off my chest, okay? Going back to the idea of who I will or won’t date, I would like to present you with Brad. Let me start by saying that Brad is real, although his name has been changed from Bill to Brad for anonymity’s sake. Okay? Okay. So, a good friend of mine, and Brad, and I are hanging out one night. We have to pay an admission fee of 12.00 dollars for the three of us to go look at some well-groomed cows or something. So, it’s $4 each. Brad hands the man at the gate a twenty. So, I give Brad $10 for me and my friend. Given that it’s $4 each and I am paying for two of us, that totals…? Come on, you can do it? Yep. $8. So, if I give him $10, how much change should I get? Well, tell that to Brad! As I looked in disbelief at the $1 he gave me, he said, “That’s right, isn’t it?” I couldn’t help but smile. “Yep, that’s about right,” I said. “And yep, you are so fired” I thought to myself. Ah, my first smile of the evening. Then, within the first fifteen minutes or so he tells me that in the summer, because it’s so hot, he rides his tractor naked. What am I supposed to say to that? Now, I don’t have a problem with nudity, but did he have to say the T-word? I just can’t go there. I won’t bore you with the rest of the evening, and believe me it WAS boring, but I will say that at the end of the night, after once again giving me the wrong change (this time in my favor – second smile of the evening), my friend had to drive Brad home because, yep, you guessed it, he wasn’t allowed to drive anymore. I just want to point out that this is what girls who grow up here have to date if they are going to date at all. Can you feel my pain? Can you see the injustice of my childhood flashing before you eyes? Can you?

Then there’s my mother trying to pawn off someone that SHE wants to date. The sad thing is that this guy is probably the nicest guy, but after getting a million emails with HIS email and HIS phone number in the body, and my mother trying every trick in the book to get me to contact him, I consider him my arch nemesis. It started out with her talking me up and then getting him all excited to meet me. Bad idea. Why would I want to burst someone’s bubble? Then, it went to, “I just think you guys would be good friends.” Yeah, I am sure that he just wants to be friends. And, in any case, I have a lot of friends right now that I need to spend time with and catch up with. So, then it went to, “Well, he could really use a friend.” What am I? A charity rental? Why can’t he call the psychic hotline like every other lonely person does? Then, it got even more vicious as it moved from, “His dog is dying and he is all alone,” to “His cat is dying now, too. You have cats, right?” I mean, how can all this happen to a guy within the first two weeks I am home? Maybe someone should make sure animals are safe with this guy. Then, she tried to get me to make contact by telling him how I saved my cats from leukemia and so maybe I could help his cat, too. Um…hello…no. That’s what Google is for! Now, I am told his cat has died (my fault, I suppose) and I am expected to send condolences. Look! Enough! She is playing the guilt card now. And do I feel guilty for not being there for someone who is grieving and all alone? Sure. I know how awful it is to feel alone when you’re grieving, but he has made his own life choices, people. And besides, when someone is using my grieving to try to hook me up with someone so that they can vicariously date them, it’s sick! First of all, I don’t want to share my grief with somebody else – it’s mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. And, to be honest, I don’t want to share his. And you can’t make me! PERIOD.

So, to sum up: I need to eat more pesticides, stay away from farm boys, and block my mother’s emails.

Thank goodness for the existence of space. Otherwise, everyone would be in the same place and it would probably smell bad.

Rock on,

Ima D. Coy

The 21 Bitter Flavors of Heartache

I think that there might be 21 flavors of heartbreak and they all taste like something floating in the public restroom. I haven’t tasted all of them, yet, but I am sure they don’t get any better. It’s funny because initially I thought, “Wow, this is so absolutely disgusting that it can’t possibly get any worse.” That just isn’t the case. Each is equally as difficult to swallow. Each is equally acrid and nauseating. And I can’t believe that there’s still more to come. Each taste is a new, but, nevertheless, obscene type of bitterness. It's 1) bitter because of the ending you didn’t see coming, 2) bitter because there was an ending at all, 3) bitter that you seem to be hurting more than the person you love, 4) bitter because you have to face the truth about the relationship as it was and as it is, 5) bitter because of all the injustice and pain you went through that never got resolved, 6) bitter for staying with someone that wasn’t able to admit that there is no difference between intentional and unintentional hurt when you are the receiver, 7) bitter because you did not pay attention to warning signs, 8) bitter because that person wasn’t able to love you the way you needed them to, 9) bitter because you blame yourself for a premature ending, 10) bitter because you blame them for a premature ending, 11) bitter because they didn’t want to try to work things out, 12) bitter because they let you blame yourself when it was a farce, 13) bitter because maybe you left too early and were too rash in purchasing that plane ticket, 14) bitter because when you did they didn’t ask you to stay or tell you that they weren’t ready to let you go, 15) bitter because you had to shut them out of your life completely in order to let go of the hope that would just prolong the pain, 16) bitter because they won’t tell you anything you need to know, 17) bitter because you are left to deal with the fear of losing a part of your body to illness and they are living their lives healthier than they were when you met them, and 18) bitter because you can’t stop yourself from crying when you wake up each morning as you relive the disturbing reality of their absence. That's 18. That's where I am today.

Bitter sorrow 19) – 21) are yet to be experienced. I suppose that I should count my blessings as there are only three more subtle shades of bitterness that I have to have shoved down my throat before I can face the day without missing him; three more heaps of heartache to survive before I can not wonder if I could have done something differently; three more psychically painful meals of shit on a stick before I can stop asking myself if he has any regrets and if he loved me at all. I can’t wait until I get there because maybe then I can start tasting something besides bile.

I can’t wait for the day to come when I don’t rise with tears in my eyes and a pit in my stomach because I miss him. I can’t wait for the day to come when I don’t think about him for 24 hours straight. I can’t wait for the day to come when, if I do think about him, I think of him fondly and comically, the way I did when I first met him. And most of all, I can’t wait for the day to come when I can let myself acknowledge that he did love me in his own way and that it doesn’t really matter, anyway.

How is that for a depressing excerpt from my autobiography?

In truth, I just can't be bothered to hide the truth today. Things are not bright and sunny. Things are dark and sickening. I haven't slept for more than two hours each night for over a week. I should be thinking about me. I should be thinking about you. I should be thinking about music. I should be focusing on my future and all the opportunities I have in front of me. But, I don't. I think about him. It's cruel and evil and masochistic, but even as I beg myself to stop, I can't. I have too much to flush out, to sort out, and so many perspectives from which to view it all. I am in hell. But fear not, I know it will pass - I know it's just a phase - par for the course, but I feel bad because, today, I have nothing to offer you. I am so sinfully caught up in self-pity that I can't even make you a spinach burrito.

Please forgive me, and may we all get a good night's sleep.

On a positive note: I am thankful for impermanence, because even though it leads to loss, it also leads to healing as nothing, not even the bitter flavors of heartache, are allowed permanence.

Yours (whether you like or not),

Ima T. Rying

What? What? What? What? What? What?

I'm sorry, but I can't write tonight. I drank way too much coffee and now I can't type...or stop running in circles. Must go. Can't breathe. Dizzy! What? What's happening? Who said that? Is that you, Ghod?

Hey, why doesn't someone write a sequel to, "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret", called, "Hey God, It's Me, Margaret, Again." Only, this time instead of Margaret getting her period and going through puberty, she stops getting her period and goes through menopause. What do you think? Did Judy Blume already do this? Is she still alive? Did I spell her name right? Should I email her? Huh? Yeah, well, you got somethin' better? Let's hear it then. What? Huh? Nothing? No? Well, then maybe you should close your little flap trap, hmmmm? And if you think of something, let me know.

Look, I gots to go...I have a few more laps to make around the room before I pass out.

Yours truly,

Ima Rhea Todd

Indulging and Donating

Well, today was about indulging myself. "Why?" Because I can and you can't stop me.

What did I do, you ask? Well, I got a manicure and pedicure as well as a full-body massage, AND I went to see The Bourne Ultimatum and ate TWO, count 'em TWO, Reece's Peanut Butter Cups! Oh yeah, I really went all out today, folks!!

Let me start by saying that today was only the second time I had paid a man to give me a massage. I was hesitant because the only other time I did that, I ended up dating the guy and I never got any more massages! It was a scam!! Much like that Seinfeld episode.

This time, however, I wanted it to be different. Special. So, I showered, shaved, got my mani and pedi and made sure my underwear didn't have holes in them. I wanted to do this right. And folks, let me tell you, it was right. Oh, was it right. After an hour of being touched in all the right places in just the right way...all I can say is, "I sure hope I'm not pregnant!"

And my date with Matt was just as I had dreamed it would be -a wild ride from start to finish. It was yummy and dark! All that vicarious violence, for the first time in my life, pleasured me. It was sinfully delicious. I don't know what it is about him, but I just want to shave him from head to toe and lick him all over. Is that wrong?

What I loved most about today, however, was when I got my manicure and pedicure. I returned to the place I used to frequent when I worked here a couple of years back. The same Vietnamese woman was working there. We got to talking and I learned that she returns to Saigon every October and stays for one month. You might think she goes back to visit family. But does she? No. She has no family there now. You might guess that she goes for vacation. But you'd be wrong again. I mean, come on, who in their right mind would vacation for one month in Ho Chi Minh City? What this woman does, though, is she saves all her tip money and then takes it to Vietnam and gives it to the less fortunate - the orphans, the blind, and the sick rural folk that can't get medical care. She does this all on her own. She isn't part of any organization. She is just...awesome. I was inspired. Yeah, I donate every year a little of this and that and I write letters to help get people out of prison in foreign countries, but this woman really goes out of her way. I do most of my charity work from home. She flies half way across the world to do it in person because that's the only way she can get the money to these people. Let's face it, this woman truly rocks! And she does damn good nails, too!

So, if you are in the Finger Lakes Region and want to get your nails done, please go to the Mall and see Nancy and give her a big tip (yeah, yeah, I already told her about not eating yellow snow).

Let us be thankful today that not EVERY man wears that hideous cologne that screams, "I'm gay and pretending to be heterosexual!" Stop living the lie, dude,'cuz you're making me gag! (As if I don't have enough to deal with right now. Hello??)

Hanging in there and sometimes out there,

Ima P. Brayne

Poop Soup

Okay, the title sounds a bit raunchy, I know...but, "I didn't start it!" You see, I did as promised and went to the Lake and played with my younger family members. Now, let me prep you by saying that I'm the aunt that gets reprimanded by getting the kids all riled up. This is SOOO unfair. Do you know what I do? Nothing. I just try to get to their level to play with them because what fun is it for them to play with someone that they can't even relate to? I'm not their Mom! No one asked me for permission to get pregnant and call me aunt, did they? That would be a big fat NO. No, an even fatter NO. More like a NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Because if they had asked me, guess what I would have said? Ohhhh, you're pretty smart! But I am getting off the point, which is that I like to play with kids at their own level. (Note: Comment was removed here about the similarity of the last statement and my last relationship. Why? Because although sarcasm can be funny, it would be wrong.)

So, I get myself to the Lake where I am told that there is little seaweed this year and that the water is warm, so why don't I go in for a swim. I test the water with one toe - okay, it's pretty warm (suspiciously warm) - then I look around for seaweed - okay, not too much. I sniff a bit to make sure things don't smell too fishy - it's not bad. Okay, they win. I go in.

My niece and nephew are in the paddle boat which is tied to the dock. Apparently, they are waiting for their mother to return from the cottage and take them for a ride. So, I swim up next to them to keep them company and bond for a bit while they wait. While I am there, being all aunt-like and stuff, we start to play. I get seaweed dumped on my head and water splashed in my face, and so they get seaweed dumped in their mouths and...well, never mind, I don't want to incriminate myself any further. Then, at some point I say, "You'd better watch out!" to which my preschool aged niece follows up with, "You'd better not cry," and then we start to sing the rest of, "Santa Clause is Coming to Town". The only twist is that instead of singing, "Santa Clause is coming to town," at the end, she sings, "Aunt Shell is going up Santa's Butt". This puts her and her brother into hysterics, naturally. I realize instantly that this would make for a completely inappropriate game. So, wasting no time, I aid and abet them in finding things can go up our butt's or butt's we can go up into all to the tune of a sweet Christmas carol. Soon enough, this game takes an even sicker turn as my niece and nephew manage to incorporate all bodily functions into the "song". It gets so out of hand that after just five minutes, Sadie has an ending that lasts for three minutes whereby she states such spiritually moving concepts as, 'God's pooh, the Angels boogers, Santa's diarrhea, Rudolph's pee, and my entire extended family's puke are all going to be put into a bowl' and I am going to have to eat it. Because she is so taken with herself and her little creation, she can't hear the Jaws tune that both her brother and I can hear as her mother approaches from behind. We don't bother to tell her, either. We just start pretending to whistle ('cuz neither one of us can actually whistle) and look around as if we have no idea WHAT she is going on about. In fact, I try very hard to look shocked and put on the, "I just don't know where she is getting this from," look on my face.

Less than impressed by her daughter's disgusting deluge of filth, her mother gets to the helm of the paddle boat and starts paddling backwards into the open seas. You can tell by my sister's face and posture that somebody is going to get a little talking to. At this point, before she has been properly castigated, Sadie pipes up and yells to me (and all on shore), "One time I ate an olive out of my poop!". This causes my sister to begin furiously paddling to turn the boat around, but she isn't fast enough to stop my nephew from getting his two cents in with, "Oh yeah, well, one time I threw up and there was broccoli, and corn, and peas and a pickle. So, I ate the pickle." While my sister ups her efforts in what looks like an attempt to become bionic, the rest of us are left feeling quite nostalgic. The locals are looking back on their childhoods and recalling what items they too ate out of their pooh and puke. And me? I am just happy that they're going to get in trouble. :)

(Note: The original final comment about how I was left reminded of my last boyfriend was deleted. Why? I ALREADY TOLD YOU! Because although it might have been witty to end it that way, it would have been wrong. Got it? Please try to remember this for future blog readings, okay? Thanks. No, really. Thanks.)

Today is Sunday, so I shall rest for the rest of the day. Shall the rest of you rest today? Whatever you do, do it with love and compassion in your heart, and don't eat too many beans...pleeease!?

You know, I am really glad you're supposed to seize the day and not your neighbor.

Sincerely,

Ima C. Weed

Cars and Confessions

Look, this isn’t going to be about illicit behavior conducted in automobiles, so if you are looking for that, look elsewhere. That’s right, move along now. For those of you who are staying, this will not be like my other entries, so be prepared.

I want to start out by saying that when you come back to the country and you are single, everyone wants to set you up with someone they know: their co-worker, their gynecologist, their brother, some guy they met at a yard sale…You’d be surprised. But to those who think that I want to date one of their ex-lovers, all I can I say is, “EWWWWW”. There is a reason they don’t talk about 1 degree of separation, folks –because you need more degrees to keep it from being incestuous!! I am not doing someone that you already did! Got it, Mom? And you can’t make me. So, please, I know you mean well, but, “EWWWWW”.

Since everyone is eager to help me out, let me help YOU out. I have some rules that THIS TIME I will not budge on. So, to save you time, let me start by saying he needs to be no younger than 35 and no older than 45, and to Xenobia and the rest, this time he needs to have a driver’s license! Why is this so important you ask? Well, the way I see it, based on my own experience, if someone doesn’t have a driver’s license, we are probably incompatible. Generally, there are several reasons a person won’t have a license:

a) He is too young to drive (in which case it is illegal to date him).
b) He is too old to drive (in which case, “EWWWW”!)
c) He has some impairment such as he is blind (in which case he can’t see how hot I look in my Hanes all-cotton boxers), deaf (he can’t ooh and ahh over the music I write), he has Asperger’s (I already tried that one – it wasn’t a good fit!), or he can’t read (in which case I can’t send him preachy, self-righteous emails when he pisses me off).
d) He is lazy and/or spoiled so he has relatives and friends who drive him everywhere (can I pleeease have a MAN this time?).
e) He is an alcoholic or drug addict and so he knows he can’t drive under the influence (while I appreciate the concern for safety of others, I really don’t need another alcoholic in my life, thank you).
f) He lost his license for one of the reasons above.
g) He was born and raised in a city (zzzzzzz….).
i) He’s just too stupid to pass the test.

So, if he can’t pick me up in his car, he ain’t gonna’ pick me up at all! Got it? Good.

Now, here is where some of you might want to stop reading because it isn’t biting or angry. Go ahead. Don’t worry. You don’t have to feel guilty. We’ll see each other again. I promise.

Last chance….

Okay then.

I am currently reading the book Bonds That Make Us Free by Warner. The beginning of this book is about how we betray ourselves and the poison of being and being with those who are self-absorbed. Unfortunately, for the last 12 months I was in Korea and up until yesterday, I had been guilty of just such a thing. Why am I telling you this? Because you need to know that I know that the disgust I felt at being back “home” WAS about me, and not about them. I was and still am disgusted with myself because I knew early on in Korea that I was being exploited and that no one was going to take care of me but myself…yet I forfeited that responsibility. Why? I didn’t trust myself.

These people here in Upstate, NY are good people. They didn’t vote for Bush (hell, they probably didn’t vote at all), they don’t care what I wear or what I look like (there isn’t that superficiality you find in places like Korea), and they aren’t out to use me (I have nothing to offer them, really). These are people who are not self-absorbed and sinful like the people that I let into my life and my heart over the past few years. These aren’t self-absorbed people who are insecure, resentful of others’ success, self-centered, selfish, guarded, manipulative, or obsessed with quantity (they don’t count how many people come to their birthday parties to determine how worthy they are). Sure, we don’t all share similar interests or world views, but these are people who actually delight in others’ success, are sincere, supportive, peaceful, trusting, and willing to share themselves…these people see you as a friend, not an enemy. I saw being here as a sign of failure and it’s because I failed at being true to myself. Now I have a chance to get back to who I was before all this started. My values and beliefs got distorted by romantic love and the resulting self-betrayal only exacerbated my sickness. I will never go back there again – literally or figuratively.

So, is it my fault that I am physically ill now? Absolutely. Is it my fault I was betrayed? Of course. Is it my fault I came home completely heartbroken? Most certainly. Why? So, who do I really need to forgive each day? It’s not the people that abandoned me and used me over the years– it’s me because I abandoned myself and let myself be used. And I hope that others can forgive me as well, for in the pain and confusion I felt, I judged them harshly when the only person I have the right to judge is myself. Am I guilty? Yes. Do I deserve to be punished? Yes. But will I serve my time and then begin again a better person? I am sure of it.

That said, I am still not dating anyone without a license.

I am off to the Lake to play with children and ask repeatedly, “Have you caught anything, yet?”

Have a nice bath,

Ima G. String

Hobbies and Hanes

Today I thought I would browse the phonebook, the local papers, and some online sites to find some hobbies I could engage in during my incarceration. I was happy to see that there were horseback riding lessons not too far from where I am. Upon closer inspection of the advertisement, I discovered that the lessons include grooming the horse. Now, people, forgive me here, but why would I pay hundreds of dollars to brush a horse and pick dirt out of its hoofs? I can't believe that TammySue and BillyBob are actually getting people to pay THEM to take care of their horses. SUCKERS!

Oh, there's sky diving! How pretty would it be to sky dive over the lakes? Now the only problem I have with sky diving - seriously - is dying. Not from falling, but from a heart attack. I honestly believe that if anyone out there wants to do me in and not get busted for it, just get me to bungee jump or sky dive and I will go into cardiac arrest within the first 30 seconds of free falling. It's that easy folks.

I got bored with looking for hobbies pretty quickly and decided to stick with activities that would allow me to wear my Hanes all-cotton boxer shorts as part of my outfit. You see, I love them. I love the way they feel. They are soooo much more comfortable that regular shorts and regular women's underwear, if you ask me. I know, you didn't ask me. Whatever. I ruv 'em. I wear them jogging, swimming, biking, hiking, sleeping, bowling...It's too bad I can't use that front door on 'em, but I find that they slide up and down so easily that a trip to the bathroom is a genuinely pleasant and satisfying experience. Sometimes I pull them up and down for minutes on end just 'cuz it feels so good. What? And I know that people THINK that because they are underwear they should be worn under something...but people, please, have I ever cared? Uh, that would be a "no". I am the girl that embarrasses you by wearing long johns as pants to the pub in the middle of winter. I am the girl that takes off her high heels at the wedding and goes to the reception bare foot. And now, I am the girl that wears men's underwear as outerwear. I have them on right now in fact, and they feel GOOOOOOD!

And you know what? I am glad that I don't have to wear animal bones in my nose.

That's all for now, 'cuz Ima tired.

You know the number...

Fondly,

Ima P. Drinker

Gettin' Things Fixed

I have had to get some things fixed lately; fortunately, my attitude is not one of them. The first thing I had fixed was my mountain bike. Now, where do you suppose I took it? That's right, I took it to the bicycle repair shop. And why did I take it to the bicycle repair shop? That's right, because it's their business to repair bikes. So, I pulled my mountain bike up from the cellar, strapped her and her flat tires onto the back of my car, and then I drove her to the shop. When I got there, I lay her frame and the deflated tires at the saleswoman's feet and told her that I need the tires checked out and the bike fixed up to get her back on the road. The woman smiled sweetly in that, "I'm a Mormon" way, and asked, "Okay, so, let me get this straight, do you want to fix it yourself or do you want us to do that?" I stood there dumbfounded - my eyebrows hit the ceiling. Why the hell would I bring my bike to the bike REPAIR shop if I was going to fix it myself? Why, people? Why did she ask me that? I am SURE she was a Mormon!

Then, I emailed a Canon Online Repair Shop and I told them that my display window on the camera didn't show any images. "John D." from the online repair shop wrote back to me and asked if I had tried pushing the display button. What kind of an asinine question is that? Of course, I tried. Are people really so stupid that they HAVE to ask that question? It annoyed me so much that I emailed John back and said, "Why no, John, I didn't push the display button because it scares me." He replied that he didn't understand. I told him that I was afraid to touch it and then asked if I could just mail it to him so that he could try pushing the display button for me. He never got back to me. ???? Thanks a lot,John!

I have also had to fix MYSELF, people. After one hell of a year in Korea and making a very large number of mistakes (one of them being that I went to Korea), I am in a period of rebirth. In order to refresh and make a clean exit from this metaphorical womb, I have been given homework which, among many other activities, includes exercise, daily affirmations, and letting go of the past by forgiving those who have harmed me along the way (you know who you are). This is part of my homework for a healthy future. So, I run and do my affirmations daily. As I trot around the neighborhood I am supposed to repeat the same thing to myself repeatedly for 30 minutes. After 21 days - yes, that's right, 21 days - there is supposed to be a wonderful change that will take place in my life. So, for example, for 21 days I should say, "I am healthy and happy" and after 21 days I should be feeling pretty darn good and get a thumbs up from the doctor. Got it? Okay, so I've taken some initiative here and changed, "I am healthy and happy" to "I'm a lesbian." Just 20 more days to go! Let's cross our fingers, shall we?

In order to let go of the past, I have to listen to a meditative hypnotherapy tape where I picture those I need to forgive standing in front of me. You know, people like bullying family members, ex-lovers that never told me they had sexually transmitted diseases, my elementary school bowling team, etc. I usually just tie them all together and pour gasoline, I mean, forgive them all at once just to save time. It seems to be working. Shhh...it's going to be okay.

I also have to read books like "The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work" by Gottman and "Coming Apart: The Cure for a Broken Heart" by Kingma. My favorite one so far has been, "Getting Your Self-Esteem Back After Giving Your Heart Away to a Competitive, Spoiled, Lying, Self-Obsessed, Adolescent Who Thinks that Having a Relationship Means Finding a Trophy Girlfriend Who Will Dote on Him, Feed His Gigantic Ego, and Ask for Nothing in Return." That last one is my favorite because there is this neat little ritual involving a male doll, some pins, and a lighter. It's very healing. Oh, come on now. Shhh...calm down. Do you need a nap?

Okay, look, like I said, I am in the process of fixing things - I am not THERE yet. It's hard to be THERE when I am HERE. Then again, there really is no where else I should be right now and deep down I know that. At least I was starting to think that until my dear friend, Xenobia, dragged me to the local fairgrounds tonight. We are talking about ungodly displays of reptile-human breeding (oh yeah, and SOME of those were the exhibits, too), dirty carnies, and captivating events like watching pigs run through mazes. They funniest of all was one of the display cases which had numerous pieces of stale bread and cookies that had been entered into a cooking contest much, much earlier that day/week/month. Why would I want to look at fifteen different pieces of old bread? Am I SUPPOSED to want to do that? And they offered DEEP FRIED OREO COOKIES, folks. Now, if you read any of my previous blogs about the folks in these here parts, you know that the LAST THING these people need are DEEP FRIED OREOs! I'll just summarize by saying that the workers, the attendees (accept me and X), and the poor animals that were brought there from other countries all made me want to cry. No, really, I almost started bawling about ten minutes into it. I would have cried earlier but I was eating my fried dough with butter and cinnamon sugar on it (Hey, I CAN!). Look, I think it's great to have a festival where the less intellectually and socially inept can frolic and play; the fact is, mainstream folk like myself should not be treading on their turf...it's cruel. Therefore, because I care, and only because I care, I promise to never ever ever ever ever attend another local fair (someone will just have to go in and get the fried dough for me - oh yeah, and could you also pick up some lemonade?).

Well, that's enough pancreatic juice for tonight.

On a positive note: I am very happy that most people around here only have one head.

99,

Ima D. Lishuss

I am Looking Gooood!

Seriously, I am one of the least vain people I know. Mostly because I have given up...at least I had until the dream of Plastic Surgery invaded my dreams, my soul, and my heart. Since I can't afford it, though, I just try not to look in the mirror. At least I USED TO...but, friends, let me tell you...my body is looking GOOOD these days. I mean it. I went swimming today and wore a two piece for the first time in YEARS because, well, I could. The response from the masses was an overwhelming, "What the h-e-double-hockey-stick have you been doing??" The most inspiring part of my body these days seems to be my extremely flat stomach. If I turn sideways, all you see is my big nose and a mane of curly hair. Everyone wanted to know how I got in shape and how my stomach got so gosh darn flat. I told them quite frankly that it was due to running, in an attempt to escape my current surroundings; swimming, in an attempt to drown myself; and crying, because I have been unable to do either. I also think it has a lot to do with the fact that I quit drinking alcoholic beverages. Yes, women get beer bellies, too.

Where did I go swimming? At one of the many "gorges" natural swimming holes we have located at the bottom of a number of waterfalls here. Yes, this place is stunningly beautiful, folks. I have been all over the world - well, not really - and all over the U.S. - well, not really - and this place is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been during the summer. I ruv it!! I was up in Ithaca. Ah..Ithaca...where men can hold hands and rich hippies can pretend to be poor. I really used to like it there - ruv it there, in fact. These days, things don't sit with me quite as well. There seem to be a lot of people pretty full of themselves - it's jam packed with writers talking about their latest books, musicians performing their latest musical creations, poets spewing off some shit they should probably keep to themselves...see, the thing is these aren't MY books, or MY songs, or MY poems, so why would I care?

There's Cornell, too. I ruv geeks, I really do, but these days, most of them are foreigners so the school is really jam packed with nonnative English speakers. I have no problem with that, but I came home for a reason, people. I want to have intelligent conversations with people that I can understand. Also, the place is overrun with those "hippycrites" I was talking about, too. Real hippies have grown up and become rightfully bitter and have remained poor. I respect those guys. It's the rich hippies that never had to grow up and remain blissfully clueless because they can and THAT pisses me off. Why? For many reasons, one of them being that they are stingy motherpluckers! The real hippies were kick ass guitar players that are now regrettably working in computers and trying to figure out how to keep their shirts tucked in...if these guys had two dimes in their pocket and you needed one, they would give you a dime...or at least a dime bag. On the other hand,the rich pseudo hippies would have a hundred bucks in their pocket and they would be asking you for a dime. Hippycrites, my friends, hippycrites. The rest of the place is full of townies that are made of the same multi-colored trailer trash that you find anywhere else these days. But, boy, it sure is pretty, and they do compost, support organic farming, and have their own barter system in place...that truly rocks. But not enough to get me to move there. So, where to go? Where to go?

Another thing I love about being home is that I can jump in my car and go anywhere, anytime that doesn't require crossing an ocean or a sea. I can because a) I have a car and b) I have no job. So, I can drive on up to Ithaca and go to Wegman's and get all the gluten-free, corn-free, sugar-free, dairy-free foods that I need. I can even get FYFGA - Food You Can Feel Good About - if I want to. That's meat that is free of antibiotics and hormones and comes from animals that are treated fairly and fed organic feed. They also have veggies and fruit that are pesticide free that come from plants that are treated fairly, as well. Hopefully, the same goes for the employees 'cuz I don't want some dude full of antibiotics, hormones, and pesticides handling my goods, if you know what I mean?!

People really are nice to you here. When I am out running, they wave to me from their cars, and they smile and call out hello from their sit down lawn mowers (ah hem). They seem sincere. It's nice. I think they might be happy. I have to admit, it makes me happy that they are so happy, so maybe being happy is contagious, after all.

It got me thinking, though...hmmm...yeah, they SEEM nice, but there are two types of people: those that unintentionally hurt you, and those who are out to get you. The first group is the most dangerous, naturally. Why? Well, duh, because you usually fall for their honest appraisal of themselves as darn nice people. They are so darn well-meaning that they can't imagine anyone ever getting upset with them. These people make you feel safe and so you let your guard down, becoming more vulnerable and naked. Then you find out the hard way that they are not harmless - just the contrary. So, you get stung and you get stung hard. You end up confused and feeling stupid for not seeing it coming. Worse yet, these people have no idea what you are so upset about because they really are clueless - these are not "people smart" people. Danger Will Robinson..Danger!! The other group of people are obviously quite aware that they want to hurt you and anyone else that threatens them. These people are the ones you should hang out with. Why? Because they are obvious and easy to read, so you can protect yourself and plan your moves accordingly. There are no surprises, so you don't get your heart ripped out when you turn a blind corner. If neither group appeals to you, then just hang out with me.

That's all for now.

I am really thankful that we don't have to pedal our cars with our feet.

It's 93 degree,

Ima D. Railed