Notes from the Red Bird House

I'm writing what may be my last 'blog' of 2011. I'm a little stuck this morning. Yes, I want to be writing, but I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to rise to the occasion. Last night I wrote once again about 'fuck-nuts'. I most certainly don't want that to be my final commentary of the year. That's why I'm up early (that and I couldn't sleep for whatever reason), sitting here, and hoping something significant comes to me. 2011 was a good year. I wrote well and (self) published my first book. I re-started my running career and won a couple races. I changed jobs (within the four walls of The Worlds Largest Home Improvement Retailer) and re-found my calling as an advocate for my co-workers. I made the painful decision to rent out my house in Wake Village and the happy decision to move my dogs to Austin. I started the year a newly minted Christian and ended it with a deeper spiritual connection to God than I ever thought possible. I made

I appreciated the condolences from friends this evening, but they were far from necessary. I've been down this road before and, if I'm being honest, I'm used to it. I hesitate to say that I expect it because I like to think I'm a little more positive than that. Still I consider it a crap shoot at best. I'm magnetic to fuck-nuts. What can I say? I asked a girl out earlier this week and she said yes. We texted a bit the next day and she even called me the day after that. Then she disappeared. The following day I texted twice with random crap like I'm fond of doing. No response. When I tried to confirm tonight's date yesterday afternoon and again got no response, I began to see the writing on the wall. By this afternoon, my 'what's up?' was merely a token gesture and her absolute last chance to reconsider blowing me off. Her non-response didn't shock me. By that point, I'd already made other plans with myself and had more or less written h

A lot, a lot. I've been think that a lot lately. It's a shade different, subtle to most, but clearly evident to me. A lot, a lot beats a lot. And really it's not like I use a lot all that often either. I'm usually much less effusive and seldom this forthcoming. More often than not, I live within a murky, gray area that leaves most things largely inconsequential. I'm non-committal and frustratingly illusive when it comes to such matters. I refuse to be pinned down and vociferously choose to retain a truckload of deniability. Hmm... Seriously? I mean because it sure seems like I tell a lot, a lot about myself, doesn't it? Yeah, about that. It's not really the case. At least not in this instance it's not going to be. Right now a lot, a lot is mine and mine alone. I'm not willing to share. Sharing might bastardize it or give it wings or make it run and I can't chance it. Not now, not yet. Because a lot, a a lot is different, special, and potentiall

I'm currently waiting on the cusp of confused. Oh, it's not my confusion. I know decisively who I am and who I want to be. It's just that others aren't quite as sure as I am. I don't blame them. I wasn't always this way. It took nearly all of my forty-two years to become this confident and this certain. The 'others' I speak of are younger and seemingly years from figuring it all out. I love young people, but they can be a beating at times. Thank God, I learned enough patience over the years to keep me from beating them. Sexual confusion is a tough one. I can't say I was ever too confused about it. That's not to say that I was born waiving a rainbow flag because the thought that I might be gay never occurred to me until shortly before I officially came out. I hemmed and hawed a little, but when I thought deeply about it, I knew who I was. That was all it took. I knew my family and friends would be cool, so it wasn't a potentially life changi

I haven't said the word out loud yet. It's been in my head and I've written it, but I haven't said it. Oh, I've said it before, just not in this context and most certainly not about her or to her. And really, maybe I'll never have to say it. Maybe the reality I see in the distance like an approaching Cat 5 hurricane won't turn out to be real. Maybe we'll escape it this time. Maybe life will go on as it always has. It's not that I'm afraid because I'm not. I have God on my side, on our side, and as such I know everything will be ok. Not 'miracle cure' ok, but ok nonetheless. There will be Grace. My faith and trust will create it even if it doesn't apear on its own. I wasn't given a choice, not a real choice anyway. God knows what I will do. He does. He knows, as with everything else that's been thrown at me or created by my own hand, I'll stand. I'll choose strength over weakness and weather the storm. Eventuall

'It's never too early for an 'I love you''. I believe this because I do, not because I have to. I opened this morning with an 'I love you'. I often do. This morning, I think, it was needed more than any other morning in recent memory. I'm not sure who needed it more - me or her. We might be even on that one. I needed to say it and I suspect she needed to hear it. That's the cool thing about 'I love you'. Both sides win. Hearing it feels good, but so does saying it. The other day following a phone conversation about a mutual friend who had been injured in a car accident, a friend said 'I love you' as she hung up. I'm not sure she'd ever said that to me before. Usually it's 'hugs' which I've always taken as an expression of love. I, of course, said 'I love you' in return and meant it. I do love her. Not in a romantic, I-want-to-marry-you kind of way, but in a sweet, I-can't-imagine-my-life-without-y

Me: She's 25. 25. 25. Do the math. Ok, I'll do it for you. I'm 17 years older than her. 17. 17. I'm too much older to even have been her babysitter. Seriously. Friend: Lord, Stacee, you're not that old! Me: I'm not old. I'm older. I have no illusions about this one. And she professes to be straight. Of course so was I when I was her age. And that's about when I started to feel like Demi Moore. Or better yet, Diane Keaton in 'Somethings Gotta Give'. Older is ok. In some of life's arenas. Dating just happens to not be one of them. Someone, usually the younger and not-quite-as-wise half, repeatedly says that age doesn't matter. Until it does. Older is older for a reason and younger is, well, young. Invariably, age does matter. It does. At some point, the age difference becomes glaring. This may be five minutes, five months, or five years into the 'relationship', but it always ends up rearing it's ugly head eventually. Wh

Well, it's December and I have slightly less than one month to avoid the O-fer. Today is officially the second so I have twenty-nine days left to make a few changes to my year. I'm not talking about finally coming through with the New Year's Resolution. Nope. I did that and quite successfully I might add. I cut way back on Aspartame, the killer diet sweetener that had me losing my mind. I'm allowed one diet beverage (usually Diet Coke) a day which I manage to do 90% of the time. So, what do I have left to do this year? What O-fers am I trying to avoid? Simple. Tattoos and sex. I've written quite a bit about tattoos and sex over the years. However, if we read back over 2011, we will see that I haven't written much about either. I feel that this is mostly because I haven't done either. In fact, I haven't gotten a new tattoo since early 2009, so last year was also an O-fer also. I planned to rectify that situation many times, but never seemed to get aroun

Most nights I want to go to bed. Tonight isn't necessarily one of those nights. I'm tired but I'm off tomorrow and kind of want to take advantage of that. My life has near constant purpose from getting up early to planning my runs and workouts to squeezing in a little writing here and there to working a wild and often crazy retail schedule to going to bed early so I can get up and do it all again. Sometimes, like tonight, I really, really wish I could fuck it all and just stop. Maybe stay up late and watch a movie I've seen a dozen times or a documentary on some channel I didn't know I had. I love my life and, don't get me wrong, I know it's a hell of a lot easier and better than the lives of most people I know (the ones who are married with kids or miserable with chronically chaotic girlfriend). I'm blessed with strength, wisdom, and fierce independence. I do what I want when I want. I'm free. It's just that sometimes I'm not sure if I

Something in me wants to move to a country where I don't speak the language. While random, it's not as random as it seems. I've made a few long distance moves in my adulthood, so moving seems to be in my blood. Perhaps I'm making up for lost time because I didn't get to move around much as a child. I lived in the same house from age three until I left for grad school in Kansas, a total of nearly twenty years. Life was stable and, really, I don't think I ever thought about moving. I assumed I'd go 'away' to college, but I don't know where I planned to go after that. Maybe I dreamed of moving far away, maybe I didn't. I simply can't recall. My parents were both transplants. My dad was from L.A. and my mom was from Michigan. They moved to San Diego for my dad's work in 1972 and then they just stayed. Well, until they divorced in the early 90s. My dad chose to remain in San Diego and my mom moved back 'home' to Michigan (she now

I learned to walk when I moved to Austin. I'd never liked to walk. It was too slow and didn't burn enough calories. Besides, I was an athlete and a former competitive distance runner. Walking was for people who couldn't or for people with dogs who lived in apartments. I was too busy and needed a more efficient form of exercise. Then I moved to Austin. Too poor for a gym membership and not willing to begin running again, I started walking. A friend took me to the Hike and Bike Trail at Town Lake my second day in Austin. I started going there a few times a week. I'd walk an hour at a pretty good pace, listen to music, and finish feeling good about myself. Life in Austin sucked. I was alone in a world with too much noise and too many distractions. I was unfocused and lost. My sanity hung on single thread. Except when I was walking. The crunch of gravel under my feet and the music blasting in my head gave me a silent place where I could just be. I walked, I thought, and

It's no secret. I dislike Christmas. I hated it when I was non-Christian and I haven't changed my stance since becoming Christian. I've written on the topic many times, but I've never laid out the many reasons that color my opinion. To make it easy, I decided to put together a Top Ten list. As usual, the order has nothing to do with importance. 1. 'As Seen on TV' products. They define the inanity of Christmas retail. No one needs these products. No one. So why are people buying them? Because they need to buy gifts for everyone and have no idea what to buy. News flash - if you don't know what to buy someone, you don't need to buy them anything. 2. The proliferation of re-gifting. If you didn't like/want/need it, what makes you think someone else will? How about you just skip the gift giving all together? 3. Jesus in a Santa suit. I'd rather see Santa in a Jesus suit. 4. Let's be honest and call it what it is - Santa Claus Day. No one

I don't wish for much. Just peace really. It's not something Santa can bring or that my mother can send for Christmas. I mostly believe that if I wish hard enough, I'll get it. I'm mostly right. And completely thankful. I've been a non-celebrator for awhile now. It started because I was broke, non-Christian, and far away from my family. It didn't help that I worked retail. Religiously, Christmas didn't fit and I refused to go into debt to buy gifts I couldn't afford. It's an easy holiday to get away with not celebrating. Once you say you're non-Christian, people tend to walk away and not ask too many questions. They don't get it and have no inclination to. Distance is their polite way of coping with something so far beyond their reasoning and ensures that they avoid the lightening bolts they feel will inevitably rain down from the sky at me. Thanksgiving isn't as easy. I'm not a vegetarian nor an anorexic and refuse to pretend eve

'Pray that ye not fall into temptation.' ~ Luke 22:40 Can I get an 'Amen'? I'm on Day 3 and I can't say I'm struggling, but I'm not skipping along with confidence either. I'm tired - just plain tired and tired of it. I feel like I've been doing this awhile now and I have, with piss poor results. That's why while on vacation (never a good time to plan anything, by the way) I took a cold, hard look at the landscape of my life and decided I needed a change. I've gained nearly eight pounds in the last year, most of them in the last six months. After I started running. I don't quite understand that very frustrating connection, but needless to say the weight gain has to stop. Two weeks before my vacation (a horrid time to make changes, by the way), I made a few changes. I cut back on a couple random excesses that had become habits - no more french vanilla creamer in my convenience store coffee and no more donuts.  Unfortunately such m

I am determined that Grace happens. Whether we want it to or not. Whether we see it or not. It's there. Happening. Right before our eyes. Maybe I'm biased somehow, though I'm not sure how that could be. God didn't pluck me out and make me a 'glass half full' person. I'm not unnecessarily special or unusually buoyant. I refuse to be Suzy Sunshine and, believe me, I've seen my share of shit. Perhaps it's my view from the high road, which I seem to take more often than not. It's the long view, not the short sight, that makes Grace happen. At least for me. And remember, I'm nothing special. Others aren't me. They are determined that the world is a rough place. Shit, not Grace, is prone to happen. It's everywhere, just look at the bottom of their shoe. They've slogged through plenty and stepped in their share. Life sucks. They may not always lose, but they never win either. Happiness is as elusive as the sun on a cloudy day and sadne

I realized something last night as I put on a sweater that I know is at least a decade old. I want it on the record that I'm not a hoarder. If I haven't used it or worn it or looked at it in a year, I toss it or donate it. When I finally moved all my things out of my house in Texarkana a few weeks ago I took four trips of crap to the Goodwill. So no... I'm not one to hold onto things. The sweater, though, is different. I've worn it every fall/winter for the past ten years and apparently still have use for it. I'm sure styles change and I probably look like I'm a few years behind, but it's not something I worry about. Why not? The answer to that leads us back to my realization. I've been on the cusp of broke for most of my adult like. Not ramen-noodles-every-night-for-dinner broke or where's-my-next-meal-coming-from broke, but broke nonetheless. I've worked hard but made some interesting choices with my money. I've chased women to other st

At the very moment you say you don't wanna, God says you do. I've spent the better part of two days trying not to remember. It's not that I want to forget. I don't. I've held on for nearly ten years and I'm not going to give it up now. I simply like to pick and choose; in other words, I like control. Not always, but when it comes to her, I have no choice. Control is the only way. If I don't have it, she does. Sort of. I'm sure it's not something she wants. It's just that when it comes to her, it's never easy. I've been good. Strong even. I told the latest part of the story to a friend tonight and I felt completely in control. Clinical. Yes, clinical. Matter of fact. It's not that I don't care. I do. Potentially too much. Still. This is why I choose to leave her behind. She is part of my past, one of the best parts of my past, but my PAST nonetheless. Gone. Done. Over. Not forgotten, but not often remembered either. I'm not

I'm different off the meds. Sanity takes a lot of vigilance, which in turn takes a lot of energy, which in turn leaves me with absolutely zero tolerance for anything that smacks of bullshit, which in turn makes me incredibly anti-social. I haven't yet decided if this is a good or bad chain of events, but it is a necessary one. I like not having to take a pill every day. Sure, I probably forgot to take them almost as often as I remembered, but either way I was medicated and sanity came easier. At least I think that was 'sanity'. I was easier going on the outside and far more social. I guess that's normal/sane. Now I'm easier going on the inside and far less social. I guess that's abnormal/insane. I'm good with the unmedicated me; I just don't think the rest of the world (at least the close-by world) is cool with it. I get disappointed comments, questioning looks, and the occasional guilt trip. They don't get it. They say they do, and maybe the

 Kelli Giddish...Stolen from Google Images Amy Matthews...Stolen from Google Images  What do these two women have in common? Other than a moderate amount of fame in certain circles (Amy hosts various shows on DIY Network and Kelli currently has a supporting role on 'Law and Order: SVU') and a coveted position in a Stacee Ann Harris blog? Let me explain. For years, people have asked me 'my type'. Traditionally, I don't have one. I like who I like and there's no explaining that. Essentially, I date who I date (usually the ones who want to date me, regardless of hair color, body type, or sexual orientation) and I seldom find myself blown away by attraction. I like to say it's more about 'energy', though I'm not sure that's correct either. Right now sitting here, it all seems like a bunch of half truths and partial lies. Kind of like when I used to 'crush' on boys is high school and college; it was more to seem normal and

It's out there in the garage. It is. I know this only because I know this, not because I've checked or looked at it. I suppose it's nothing more than an assumption at this point. I stashed it in a footlocker full of other memorabilia and keepsakes years ago. This, of course, hasn't been important for better than two years. You see, up until last weekend that footlocker was in a closet in my house in Texarkana. Now it's in my garage in Austin. It's purely coincidental. Everything I own is here now, including the footlocker and everything stashed in it. If Lori hadn't been late, I doubt I would have thought of it. Lori was my moving help last Saturday morning and she arrived an hour later than scheduled. Bored while I waited, I dug through a couple boxes. I found my old journals and my teddy bear collection. Then I moved onto the footlocker. What could it hurt? I knew what was in there, but I didn't think about what was in there. Right on top was a stack

Six years of coming here and I'd never had a margarita. Until now. I moved away and found a tolerance for tequila and Everclear margaritas. Today I'm back and having my first Zapata happy hour margarita. The bill will fool you. The price is the same; it's just double the size. The week before we figured that out my best friend drank three, got a hangover, and I almost got kissed. From that day on, there was a limit. One. Ok, maybe two. And I did end up getting kissed eventually (she had two that night). It was then that I decided that I loved a Zapata happy hour margarita. I'd never drank one (I was strictly Bacardi and Diet or just Diet in those days), but I sure did enjoy them. Not only have I been almost kissed and kissed (by more than a couple straight girls), I've had my boobs grabbed and been yelled at for not grabbing back. I've also been the photographer when a friend decided to flash the camera and been told I have a super power (to make women fall

Because I seem to be surrounded by a new group of people who steadfastly believe that I'm either rationalizing or kidding myself about my enjoyment of being single, I'm going to explain all this one more time. I'm not like other people. Let's just start there. I dated only slightly in high school, never in college, and reverted to 'only slightly' in grad school. It took me three years after coming out to get a date. This means that HISTORICALLY I'm single and apparently pretty good with it. I like to believe I could have dated at any point in my life if I'd wanted to date (if I'm rationalizing anything, it's probably this fact) and I've simply chosen not to. I can take this a step farther and say that at any point in my life I could have been in a relationship if I'd wanted to be in one and I've simply chosen not to. This is where I am right now today. I suppose I could date or commit (Lord, don't make me), I just don't want

I discovered yesterday, in the middle of a super long run on a treadmill at Planet Fitness, that I'm attracted to blonds. Given that I was at least an hour into the run, this may have been caused by oxygen depletion and/or low blood sugar. There's really no telling. As a rule,  I don't like blonds. I don't. Never have. Sure, I've dated a few and even crushed on a few, but I always stand by my rule. I don't like them. And it's not because I haven't had much luck with them. Truly, I haven't but then again I haven't had much luck with brunettes or red heads either. It's just that if I'm going to be instantly attracted to someone, it's not going to be a blond. Ever. Of course, all that changed yesterday morning. I saw a woman I was immediately drawn to. And she was blond. Like really blond. Not dishwater, almost blond. Blond blond. Really blond. And pretty and smart and put together. How could I tell this from a momentary 'interac

I'm only moderately ashamed to admit that zebras are helping my sanity. As I wrote a few days ago, I'm unmedicated and busy. I have little to cling to. Yes, yes... Hope floats. It's just that I'm a little to strung out on work and running to make hope a reality. At this point, it's enough to know Hope exists in the abstract. It's partly because of the zebras. They make me happy and calm my soul in a way that little can these days. Once upon a time, God communicated with me through animals. Interestingly enough, He's apparently back to His old tricks. Now given that I'm a newly minted new-fangled Christian, this may seem weird, blasphemous even. God and animals? Isn't that a little too 'Native American primitive'. God doesn't talk to modern people through animals, Stacee (He does it through mysterious pictures of Jesus on garage doors and statues that cry.....skepticism intended). Well, I'm from a different spiritual school. I beli

Where to start? I want to talk about drama and why I hate it. I'm sure to many all that is self-evident. Drama sucks. Why would I want to be a part of it? Ah, good question. I ask that one a lot to my friends who never seem to shake the drama that consistently envelops their lives. Their answer? I hate drama, can't stand it, try to avoid it. My answer? Really? Seriously, you try to avoid it? Well, I'm here to tell you that you suck at it. And that's where the rubber meets the road. I'm not going to make this a gay vs straight blog, not intentionally anyway. Gays have a lot of drama and I'm sure straights have an equal share. It's just that gay drama seems to splash in my direction while straight drama (as long as I'm not giving the impression that I'm pursuing someone's girlfriend or wife) keeps it's distance. I think it has to do with guilt by association or something. I'm gay so gay drama wants me. On the other hand, straight drama ap

There comes a point when I just can't do it anymore. Do what? Talk. I may give the impression that I'm a social person. I'm not, not in the truest sense anyway. I like people and I enjoy hanging out. Until I don't. My 'quota' gets filled and I'm done. Done done, as in 'not going to answer the phone' or 'go out for a drink' done. In these moments, I'm perfectly content to text. Until I'm not. At some point all my words and my complete ability to be social disappear and I'm left happily silent. I love silence, even crave it. I don't mind hearing the wind in the trees or my dogs chewing on their bones. That to me is it's own kind of silence. In a way it's peaceful. Mostly, I think because I can't hear anyone speaking. As I said before, I get to a point when I don't want words or conversation, whether I'm directly involved, over hearing it, or watching it on TV. To say I have no patience is probably an unde