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