Notes from the Red Bird House

When I was in my early twenties I was a competitive distance runner. By competitive I mean that I raced every other weekend and seldom lost. I was good. Some said I was very good. Still others said I was "Olympic Trials" good. My coaches pushed and I responded. I put in the miles, withstood the pain, and improved with every race I ran. I was fast, but knew I needed to be faster. And faster still. I did speed work, strength training, and ran more and more miles. Then I decided to quit the speed rat race and started training for a marathon. I skipped the speed work (the scariest and most painful part of my week) and focused on miles. At the apex of my training I was running more than 100 miles a week. A sample week would be as follows - Monday AM - 8 miles Monday PM - 4 miles Tuesday AM - 10 miles Tuesday PM - 8 miles (I called it "going double long") Wednesday AM - 8 miles Wednesday PM - 4 miles Thursday AM - 10 miles Friday AM - 8 miles Friday PM - 4 miles Saturday

'We all live. We all die But the end is not goodbye The sun comes up, and seasons change But through it all, love remains.' ~ From Collin Raye, "Love Remains" I know what I know and I believe what I believe. And I have to. I just have to. I can't go through life thinking that The End is the end, that there's is nothing beyond this life. I can't live in fear of dying, of no longer living. I can't live knowing that my soul is mortal, no better than flesh. I must believe this for me. And this week I learned that I must believe this for Armando. And everyone else, I guess. I am very lucky to be a stranger to death. I lost all my grandparents by the time I was thirteen and we lived so far away that their deaths didn't impact me that much at all. My mother told me that my grandmother was above the clouds in Heaven and I assumed in my early childhood notions that was where everyone went when they died. In many ways, my theories about death and d

I can hear my mother now. It'll be in the form of a voice mail because she'll call far too early on a Sunday morning. "Stacy Ann (she hasn't quite adjusted to the new spelling), I know you like to drink and I know you like to write, but did you have to post THAT blog last night???? Please cut back on your drinking and please, please don't post ANYTHING until you've sobered up and re-read it in the morning!!" I've gotten this voice mail so many times over the years that I assume she has it recorded and simply pushes a button when my phone prompts her to leave a message. Several things could happen to ensure that I never again get this voice mail - 1. I can stop posting blogs written while drinking, 2. I can tell my mother to stop reading my blogs, 3. I can stop writing while drinking, or 4. I can stop drinking. I can tell you that #2 is never going to happen (it would beg far too many questions for her and make her want to read them even more; she'd

I wasn't aware that Pterodactyls had been rescued from extinction until I washed my truck last weekend. Let me back up a bit. I washed my truck last weekend. I know I've now said that twice in two consecutive sentences. Let me back up a bit more. I hadn't washed my truck in a long time. In fact, I hadn't washed it since moving to Austin and that'd been almost ten months. Before that? Well, there's just no telling. Suffice it to say that I don't wash my truck very much. It's not that it's not dirty or that I'm lazy (OK, maybe I'm a little lazy), I simply never think about it. And much like any cleaning chore, I figure it's a waste of time. How long is it going to stay clean anyway? I can't park it in the garage and leave it. For some reason, last Sunday afternoon I decided to do it. I was just back from a road trip through the deep South and I taken on a lot of dead bugs. I probably could have washed my windshield and been done with it

In this life I have been loved, liked, hated, and ignored. Love is by far my favorite, followed closely by like. I very lucky to be loved and liked by many. Hate, though, has it's place. When I finally decided to stand in my truth, I faced quite a bit of hatred. It's shocking, I know, but not everyone in East Texas likes a matter of fact non-Christian, lesbian who refuses to hide or run. Hate always reminds me that I'm doing something right. Being ignored, though, sucks on every level. Because I am different, I am either easy to categorize or impossible to categorize. This leads people, many of whom don't like to think about much besides what's for dinner and who's fucking whom, to overlook and ignore me. It's simpler that way. They pigeon-hole me or just simply move on without giving me a second thought. Either way, I'm not a fan because they form an ignorance without even knowing me. I'm sure it sounds strange that I'd rather be hated than igno

'Words fall through me and always fool me and I can't react.' ~ from 'Falling Slowly' by Glen Hansard I talk a good game about being fearless. I know what to say and when to say it. About being fearless, I mean. In the battle of love versus fear, you have to go with love every time. Love loves. Fear destroys. Let love lead and leave fear behind. Blah, blah, blah. Sounds great. And it is great. If only I could walk my talk. Last night I was given an opportunity. It was laid out for me, the perfect opening. All I had to do was walk through and speak my truth. Of course, doing so required me to stand up to my fear and put aside my cowardice. What did I do? I didn't just retreat. I ran. And ran and ran and ran. Until I was out of breath, hands on knees gasping, looking over my shoulder, and praying (PRAYING) that I'd out run the danger. In truth, there was no danger, just honesty and vulnerability, nothing that a little courage couldn't have cured. Instead,

I think this is going to be one for my female readers. Not that the guys can't read it. I just that the subject matter may make them a bit squeamish. They can read on if they wish, but they can't blame me if it's too much for them. Where to start? OK, right here. I cannot wait until menopause. I know some women piss and moan about the horrible inevitability of it, but I'm excited for it. I'm only forty-one and I've been reassured that it's still several years away. However, I've been doing this thing every month since I was eleven years, nine months, and seven days old (yes, I remember the date - January 2, 1981). That's a long time. Too long, in my opinion. And it's not like I ever wanted to have children. If I did, I could see how the monthly foray through Bloody Hell might be worth it on a certain level. For me, it's always been absolutely pointless. I don't even need it to tell me I'm NOT pregnant, because the chances of getting p

I am currently procrastinating. Procrastinating what? Not writing, per se. I did, however, do that most of the morning. When I found myself downloading Miley Cyrus songs and reading the Wikipedia article on Colin Hanks, I knew I'd reached a whole new level of procrastination. I also knew that I had to stop. Even if it meant writing about procrastination. I intended to write something important, maybe even meaningful, today. I have some really good thoughts in my head about Jesus and, given that it's Sunday, I thought it would be the perfect day to write them. I had it going really well in the shower, but when it came time to actually write my ideas down, I made lunch (a lean pocket and Oriental-flavored ramen noodles). And after doing my lunch dishes, I decided to write this. By my count, I've spent the past six months procrastinating writing in general and the past three years procrastinating writing anything truly challenging (read: fiction). Moving to Austin threw me off

So last night I had a sex dream about one of my straight friends. I've tried to spin it every which way, but there is simply no way to make it seem anywhere close to appropriate. No, I don't care how hot she is (and she is HOT!). And no, I don't care that it was just a dream. It's not right. I've always drawn very firm lines when it comes to my friends. I'm talking about 'Friends' Shelf' friends, not 'Rodeo' friends. There's a huge difference there. I'm allowed to have sex dreams (and actual sex, if the occasion arises) with Rodeo friends. Friends' Shelf friends are 192% off limits. No thoughts, no actions, no nothing. Not even dreams. I stay on my side of the line and they don't even know there's a line. It's simple math and it has worked perfectly for years. Until last night apparently. The friend I dreamed about is definitely a Friends' Shelf friend. Always has been. I have never thought of her in any way beside

'We'll fast forward to a few years later. And no one knows except the both of us. And I have honored your request for silence. And you washed your hands clean of this.' ~Alanis Morissette, "Hands Clean" Today is May 8th. It is the eighth anniversary of the most pivotal day of my life. Every life has a couple. And if you are lucky, you can remember and celebrate. I am lucky. I remember this day all those years ago like it was yesterday. How she looked when she opened the door. What it felt like when the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen told me that she liked me too. It was the best day of my life. Absolutely. But today, May 8, 2010, isn't about her. Well, it is, but it's more about everything that came after her. She was the start, the turning of a page. Without her and all that came next, I wouldn't be who I am and where I am today. For the first few years, today was a bittersweet day for me. I missed her. It was about her. All about her. Everyth