Notes from the Red Bird House

I guess the bigger problem with tonight was the very recent ex-girlfriend laying in my bed. I was out. Had a good time. But no matter what I thought about, there she was. Home. In my bed. My bed. Where I wanted to be. I can't say I didn't want her to be there. I did. Just not as my ex-girlfriend. I can't say I understand. It wasn't my decision. It was hers. Hers. As in not mine. And yet she is in my bed. Sleeping. I'm still out. On the way home (and writing this on my Blackberry). I want to be home sleeping and if the situation was different I would love to be home sleeping next to her. OK , no matter the situation, I'd like to be home sleeping next to her. It's not a good idea, though. Sleeping next to her. All night it hung over my head. Where to sleep? The couch? Yes. The couch. No. My bed. Next to her. No. The couch. Back and forth. I never did make a decision. I made a promise, but not a decision. I've wanted to get home so I know what I decide. So ...

Sunday is November 1st. Fuck. I'm not going to beat around it with this one. I suck. There was so much I was supposed to do this year and as of right now, I haven't done hardly anything. I don't know how I always seem to get side tracked. Life takes over, I guess. It's the same thing every year. You'd think I would have learned by now. Focus is key. Yet I have none. I'm almost forty-one (Holy Shit! In two months I have to start saying I'm forty-one. Mother-effer. Where did the year go?) and I need to get busy. I can't afford many more years like this one if I'm ever going to accomplish anything. I'm a great planner. Fabulous. And an atrocious executor. I have all these grand ideas of what I'm going to do (key phrase - "going"). I'm going to get published. I'm going to finish my novel. I'm going to go back to grad school. I'm going to teach creative writing. I'm going to work on my serve. I'm going to get a US...

I like the color gray. It's my favorite, in fact. Yes, I am well aware that gray isn't much of a color and that it really shouldn't be my favorite. I resisted for a long time. Gray is not a favorite color color. People like red, green, blue, and even black. Gray never makes the list. Even though I've always been a little obstinate and contrary, I went with the majority and said over and over again that my favorite color was blue. Then I switched to purple. Then I decided that I needed to stop lying. Hi, my name is Stacee and I like the color gray. I do. Really. All shades, but most especially charcoal gray. Call me weird (it's OK; I am weird). Alright so yes, I've come out as a lover of gray. However, here's the thing - Over the past month, I've noticed that I have a lot more gray hair. You'd think I'd be happy. Something new gray in my life. Uh, not so much. I'm not vain. I know I'm cute and fit (some call that combination "hot...

I've learned that it's easy to give fear legs. It starts as an idle thought. You know that teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy thought that crosses your mind quickly and you think that once it's gone it's gone? But then it reappears later? Then again and again at random moments? And then it's all you can think about? You think and ruminate and analyze. Ultimately you find yourself losing sleep. And once you are sleep deprived, there's no stopping it. Your head aches and your stomach ties itself in knots. You keep thinking, ruminating, and analyzing. Your ideas grow potentially more and more irrational, but you're not sure exactly how irrational they are. Because you're so tired and you've thought about it so much that you can't quite distinguish between fact and fiction. What started out as intuition and an idle thought is now a dead certain reality. And otherwise known as "fear with legs". Fear with legs is no good. It leads to all kinds of crazine...

Things not to do when in the dark, alone, and drunk... 1. Listen to "Only a Dream" by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Especially on your sister's forty-second birthday. When the song always reminds you of her and your childhood together. In a bittersweet way. 2. Reply to a text from old co-worker. The conversation may lead to a discussion of a potentially open job and a tough decison. That will probably never need to be made, but it'll still bring tears. 3. Re-read a short story that needs to be a novel and recall that once upon a time you were inspired and brilliant. 4. Reminisce with an old friend ("how do I get out of here?") and wish she was a lot closer than she will ever be again. 5. Plan a trip home next week. It'll make you wish that it was THIS week. 6. Need the arms and solace of someone too far away, but just down the road. Things to do in the dark, alone, and drunk... 1. Play a song with good memories and maybe more to come. 2. Take one last sip. 3....

My mother hates it when I write drunk. Usually I find an email waiting for me that pretty much says, "Honey, take it easy on the rum. It's not the answer. And did you really need to post that? Re-read it sober and you'll understand. Love, Mom". I have never deleted a drunk blog (though thinking back Mom was right on occasion) and I'm not planning to start tomorrow morning. Am I drunk? No, not quite. Keep reading. I'll keep drinking. We might just get there. The good news tonight? I'm no longer staring at the walls. I was. I caught myself. This was after I drove home from the Super Target and couldn't remember half of the trip (did I really turn at Manchaca????). I'm tired. So tired I think I may have taken a year off my life. There are those that would say I'm far too old to get so little sleep. These, of course, are the people without a hot girlfriend who loves to dance. And the ones who don't have to work on Sunday morning. Yeah, so I got...

"Together again It would feel so good to be In your arms Where all my journeys end..." ~Tracy Chapman, "The Promise" The song has no meaning connected to any of the exes. None. However, I can remember where I first heard it. I was house sitting at a really cool little cottage on a really cool little lake and found the CD. That song played and I cried. Big, fat crocodile tears. And I have nearly every time I've heard it since. Sometimes I can make it most of the way through. Until the last verse (which I kindly copied and pasted above). And then it hits. Hard. And somewhat relentlessly. Then I play the song again and maybe again. I'm not sure what it is. The idea? Yes. I think that's it. The idea of a love so enduring that a promise made is a promise kept. Across space, time, and eternity. Maybe it was my first brush with the essence of soulful love. Or maybe it was the idea of a journey. And a journey's end. "I'll find my way back to you. If...

I try very hard because I know trying is half the battle. Every time I make the very difficult decision to go to the gym, I put a smile on my face and do my best to psyche up. As I'm gathering my gym things and putting on my shoes, I start with the positive self-talk - "It's going to be a good workout", "You need to workout", "This body doesn't happen by accident", "You love the results", "It'll give you more energy". That kind of thing. However, by the time I hit Manchaca and William Cannon, I usually downshift a little bit as I will the car to continue driving toward the gym. The self-talk loses some of it's positivity - "Just go. It's only an hour or less", "If you go, you can have pizza for dinner", "You can do shoulders. You like shoulders". Then I pull into the parking lot, park, and step out into the sunshine. The self-talk slips even more toward the negative - "FUCK! I d...

I know it's late and I ought to be asleep, but I'm going to do the math anyway. I've written approximately 874 blogs. For easy math, let's just assume that each blog averages 500 words (Yes, many are longer and many are shorter. That's why I said "averages"). Ok, this means that I've written right around 43,700 words since I started blogging in October 2006. You'd agree that I'm a writer, right? Nearly 44,000 words can't be wrong, can they? Yes, I'm a writer. I know a lot of words. Certainly not 44,000 different words, but I know a lot. Given this fact, I should never be at a loss for words. I should have something to say all the time. In every instance, every situation. No matter what. Yet recently I've found myself completely unable to find the right words to say. She looks at me. I look at her. And nothing. Nothing. Seriously nothing comes out. Oh, I have a lot to say. A LOT. Plenty. More than plenty. Perhaps even too much. Howev...

I moved into my room just over two months ago. Today I made it my own. When I first got here, I wasn't so sure how long I'd stay. Now, with the sale of my house in Texarkana going nowhere and the pleasant atmosphere in the house, I'm thinking I'll probably be here awhile. I don't want to stay forever, as nice as it is. I still want to get back into my own place in the near future. I just have to wait for my house to sell so I can afford it. However, right now, this is what I have and it'll more than do for the moment. I miss my things - my bed, my desk, my big chair, my dogs. It's not awful living with "borrowed" things. I'm very thankful for the bed and the dresser and the closet and the desk that I get to use for the duration of my stay here. It's funny but I never thought about changing the room around. I was borrowing things. Far be in from me to say where they sat in the room. I was content to live as is. Until my roommate told me I co...

I agree it seems frightfully over-the-top lesbian. If it were true, I mean. OK, it's true. Just not how you think it's true. My girlfriend had a toothbrush at my house in the toothbrush holder before she was my girlfriend. Now, now... Before you go thinking all kinds of strange thoughts, let me explain. No, I did not buy a toothbrush and put it in my bathroom in the hopes one day I would find a girlfriend who would one day use it. I'm not that crazy. Or that hopeful. OK, and what if a prospective girlfriend found the toothbrush in the bathroom? It could give the appearance that I already have a girlfriend. God knows, I need all the help I can get. I don't want to scare away some girl because she thinks I'm a typically morally challenged lesbian or because she thinks I'm nuts for having a toothbrush waiting at the ready. I'm telling you that toothbrush was there the day I moved in. I went to put my purple brush in the holder and there it was. Pink, but otherw...

It's in my head. It's imagination and memory. It's her. It's me. It's a feeling I can't wait to feel again. It's skin against mine and arms around me. It's a subtle kiss that becomes more intense. It's being. It's knowing. It's breathing in a moment, the only moment that matters. Right then. Right there. When nothing exists except the space between us. It's living. It's desire. It's a minute that may transcend the moment. Or not. It's a whispered thank you she'll never hear. It's now. Not later. It's softness and warmth, comfort and contentment. It's being neither lost, nor found. It's fingers laced and legs intertwined. It's a scent, a dream, a memory. It's this. Not that. It's a sweet ache and a tender smile. It's my eyes closed and my eyes open. It's a crowded room and the silence in my soul. It's what it is and not what it's not. It's here, now. In my head. And in the bea...

I had a great time Saturday night. So great that I came home with what was left of a six pack of beer and a surprise. Most people probably would have cracked a beer and gone to check highlights on ESPN before going to bed. That thought never occurred to me. Not only do I hate the taste of beer, but I had to work on Sunday morning. I knew that if I was lucky and dozed off right away, I'd be able to get five and a half hours sleep. Oy, but the night was so worth the impending sleep deprivation. So yeah... The beer was headed for the fridge, no question. For some reason, I set the half-empty container on the counter and looked down in the seemingly empty holes. Hmm... What's this? I pulled out a small, red bottle of perfume. Very Sexy. That's what it was called. And that's what it was, what she was. She must have put it in there for safe keeping, not sure how I found it. I looked at the bottle and held it to my nose to smell the scent. Yes. Light, sweet, and unmistakably h...

I'm going to tell you the best part about "dating" straight women. I've dated lesbians and straight women both. I tend to talk more about the straight girls. I think they excedingly intriguing and thought-provoking. Plus who really wants to hear about the girl who looked way much like my sister or the girl who cheated on me twice with her best friend? Of course there were a few who stradled the murky line between gay and straight nicely. They said they were gay when we met, but went back the other way shortly before we broke up. I'm not sure how to reference them. They had girlfriends (and boyfriends) before me, but assured me that they would never ever, ever, ever, ever be with a man again. One of the ones I'm thinking of was incredibly hot, beautiful, and had a rockin' jump shot so I didn't care much at the time. Eight months later, I cared. A lot. Now, nearly seven years later, I wonder how she and her husband with the hairy back are faring. But I d...

About a month ago, I went out for one drink after tennis with my Texarkana tennis peeps. One very small, yet frightfully strong, Bacardi and Diet with lime. OK, so the bartender at Amigo Juan forgot the lime. Which might be why that damn little drink seemed so strong. Of course it might have been because it was the first drink I'd had since my drunken vacation to Alabama a month before. Or it might have been due to dehydration. I'd just finished three tough sets and I never drink enough water when I play. Needless to say, I drove out to a friend's house in Genoa following dinner and that one drink with my hands at ten-and-two and wishing to God that I had some Michael Bolton to listen to. Thankfully the slightly off-kilter me, sans Michael, and my shitty night vision made it there without incident. Immediately I wanted another drink. In fact, I wanted to be drunk. And not for all the right reasons. No, I wanted to numb the numb. I wanted not be for a few minutes. I was sort...

A friend sent me a quote last night that has me thinking. "When you love me, love me for me so that when you hate me, it's clear why". The close relationship between love and hate has long fascinated me. They are both hard-charging, intense emotions that happen to live right next door to each other. Oh, and there's no fence between the yards. Not even one of those electric doggy shock collar ones. No, Love and Hate are free to mingle. They may stay mostly on the right side of the property line, but every now and again one or the other (usually Hate) decides to go a little left and trespass. Where once there was Love, now there is Hate. I wrote a blog years ago about this very same issue. It was called, "Hate Me Yet?". In it I discussed how each and every one of my girlfriends had grown to hate me. How do I know this? Easy. Them screaming, "I hate you, Stacee Harris", at the top of their lungs was kind of a clue, don't you think? Did they hate m...

Because I like lists (like David Letterman but without the adultery) and because I've learned a lot recently, here's a Top Ten List for Today, October 9, 2009. 1. The parking lot at the HEB (at Slaughter and Manchaca) slopes nicely downward if you come out the right door. One little push off and you can ride your buggy downhill all the way to your car, if you have a fairly decent parking place (Yes, I am forty. And yes, assumed I'd stop riding buggies long ago). 2. Alone is preferred unless you have someone other than yourself you prefer being with. Of course, alone is still cool. You just won't want to do it as much. 3. Truly what you resist persists. For the most part. Not always. However, in this case, for me, it's true. Last Friday I decided that I was (once again) happily single. Then on Saturday night, I had what turned into a first date. Now a week later, I'm happily not single. 4. If you don't want to cry, don't ask a friend to post Happy Hour pi...

They say it's like riding a bike. You learn and you never forget. Yeah well, I'm not so sure. I'm confident. I am. I swear. With most things. Just apparently not this. You see, this seems like way more than riding a bike. I truly feel like I've been asked to play a clarinet solo at the next Austin Symphony concert. For the record, I don't play clarinet. Not since roughly 1983, in any case. I'm thinking I could probably get it out of the case and put together, but as for making anything that remotely sounds like music? Yeah, no. Not a fucking chance in Hell. I played the clarinet in middle school. I wanted to play the drums. I'd always wanted to play the drums, like since I was about four years old. However, when it came time to choose an instrument for Fifth Grade band, I was told, by my usually progressive mother, that girls don't play the drums. I think she thought it might turn me into a lesbian or something (Good call, Mom. That worked out real well ...

I bought a book for a dollar today. Strange purchase, I know, considering I don't read. I do like bookstores, though. I love the smell of books I can spend hours (OK, half hours) looking at all kinds of books, most of which I have absolutely no intention of ever reading. I do have a short list of books I'm planning to read. I'm currently struggling through my first Anne Rice novel. It'd actually be pretty decent if it didn't tell the same part of the story over and over. Next up is "A Lesson Before Dying" by Ernest Gaines which will be followed by "A World Without End" by Ken Follett which will be followed by the latest novel by the author who wrote "The Red Tent" (which incidentally I have never and probably never will read). This little list of books will probably take me better than a year and a half to finish. Because I don't read. I'm not illiterate (obviously), but I just don't find pleasure in reading. I used to. When...

I'm three days from a year since. I feel like I should know what to say. I'm a writer. I know a lot of words, a lot of good words. Yet none of them feel right. For the last week or so, I've been thinking and wondering. A lot. Not all the time. Often. And still I have no idea. A year ago I had an idea. I did. Maybe it was just an inkling, but it was there. My world, my life, my essence were about to change. Somewhere deep inside I knew this. I didn't fear it. I accepted it. It, whatever "it" was, was on the way. I was happy, happier than I'd been in a long time. "It" was not shadow. "It" was light. "It" was good. "It" was going to change everything and "it" was going to be okay. I saw her a year ago. It was a Wednesday. In three days "it" would all begin. If asked then, on that Wednesday, I would have said she was "it". Her. She was going to change everything. It turns out she wasn't ...

I don't write much about current events. This is true. I pay attention to the world around me, but only in limited doses. I probably should care about the tsunami that hit Samoa or about the status of the talks with Iran their nuclear capabilities. However, I just don't. It's not that my world is full. Not hardly. It's just that prefer to worry about those things that lie within my sphere of influence. Why get my panties in a wad about something I have absolutely no control over? I'd rather expend my brain power on something that matters. To me. Call me selfish. It's OK. I am. The other reason why I don't pay much attention to the world around me is that it pisses me off. The news broke this morning that Nike was re-issuing it's sponsorship of Michael Vick. A guy goes to prison on felony charges and he gets free shoes and zillions of dollars? It's bad enough the NFL let him back in. If I got a felony and spent 20 months in prison, I assure you my com...