Notes from the Red Bird House

She said I was contagious. Oddly enough that gives me hope. She of all people would know. I might rather be addictive, but I'll take what I can get. Contagious. Yes. In this case, it's a good thing. I'm going to assume she's right - right in her case and right in general. Meaning someone else may some day figure it out and find me infectious. Irresistible, even...and worth a paradigm shift. I'm not talking about nor asking for a permanent change. 'Forever' isn't a concept I'm even remotely interested in. I'm willing to settle for something a little bit more momentary, like today, tomorrow, and maybe the next day. Who she becomes when we're done isn't my concern. Oh, we'll be done in short order, of this I'm certain. This isn't my first (or last) Rodeo so please don't mistake my realism for negativity. I know what it is and I'm fairly confident that nothing is intended to last as long as we are told to hope it will. S

'I can't even find someone for a platonic relationship, much less the kind where someone wants to see me naked.' ~ Gilbert Godfrey Thankfully this is not me. Oh, no one wants to see me naked (I'd argue they're missing out, however that's a topic for another blog entirely), but I do have plenty of platonic relationships. I 'date' a lot and have women who love me. I even have a couple who claim to be in love with me. Platonically, of course. Damn, platonically. I'm not saying that I wish they saw me romantically. Eek. That would seriously weird me out. After so many years on the Friends' Shelf, I can't see them as anything but platonic. In many cases, it'd be like kissing my sister. My stunningly beautiful, sexy, gorgeous sister, but incestuous nonetheless. I can't go there. The die has been cast and I'm pretty sure we are well beyond the point of no return. Love is a good thing. It is. Platonic. Romantic. It really doesn&#

I measure my fear in the tiniest of spoonfuls. I learned long ago to resist. It seems so human to give in - to worry, to jealousy, to fear. It would have been easy. Instead, for eight months, I woke every morning and thanked God for the beauty He had placed in my world. My gratitude allowed me to embrace each day, each moment, each nano-second for what it was - utterly breathtaking perfection. Sure, the inevitable eventually happened, but I didn't spend our time together fearing it. I embraced her, us, and who I was with her. Maybe something in me knew it wouldn't last forever. And now, very nearly a decade later, I'm more than good with it. Because I steadfastly pushed away fear, I was free to love. Because I steadfastly push away fear, I am free to love. The spoonfuls get smaller and smaller, but I still have moments of doubt, moments when I have to consciously remind myself to be present and thankful. Because this too shall pass. Everything does. She did. They all di

I think I need to get drunk. And write. I bet you didn't see that one coming, did you? I used to do it all the time. I'd sit down to write with my drink of choice at the time - most often Bacardi and Diet Coke or Sweet Tea Vodka and Diet Sweet Tea - and write and drink and write and drink. I can't say I produced a lot of masterpieces like that (truthfully, I produced a lot that my mom told me I needed to delete the next day), but I did produce. Lately The Words have been a little sticky and tricky; writing has been painful and procrastination plenitful. This has got me thinking about getting drunk. It might be just what I need. I quit drinking awhile back. By 'quit' I mean 'cut way, way back'. I may have a drink or two when I go out, stopping far short of drunk, but I don't drink at home. I had to set some easy limits and drinking at home was the lowest hanging fruit. It has nothing to do with not wanting to drink alone or worrying about drinking too o

Saturday morning my truck still smelled of her perfume. Days later I remain undecided. I just don't know whether I like that I liked it. It's not something I planned to feel or even wanted to feel. But that scent, her scent... The scent I never realized was hers until the morning after. It wasn't supposed to be this way with her. I'd made up my mind. I wouldn't let myself think of her THAT way. Not in any kind of visceral-oh-my-God kind of way. And certainly not in the damn-she-really-did-smell-that-good-last-night kind of way. Other people, yes. Her? No. Hell no. You see, I'm trying to keep this perfect. I know it's a lofty goal, but right now it's just friendship (early morning visceral body blows aside) and has every chance to be perfect. As long as I keep myself in check. As long as I ignore how good her perfume smells. Once I let myself feel more (and heaven forbid she feels more)... That perfection will start to slip away. It always does. In

There will come a time when she will disappear. Something better will come along. Someone better will come along. Right now I'm a friend and little more than a placeholder. I don't mean that badly. I know my role and I accept my fate. I'm good with it. Good enough, in any case. She isn't the first and won't be the last. Friends come and go, go and come. When she says she'll be different; I laugh to myself. They all say that. I'm sure they think they mean it, but really it's just a mix wishful thinking and immaturity talking. This has little to do with me and everything to do with them. They are normal. And I am... Well... not. We are supposed to search for that which completes us. The Bible, fairy tales, and Nicholas Sparks tell us this. What they don't tell us is that it's all just a pipe dream. We are all out there searching for something we will never find; someone we will never find. The more we look, the more we suffer. To paraphrase Anne

'There are worse things than being told you're not pretty enough or not good enough. There's believing it.' ~ Tweeted by Stacee Harris on April 17, 2012 'If you want to be The Pretty Girl, Stacee, you need to do something about it'. ~ Paraphrased memory of a blog comment posted on a blog I wrote in August 2007 entitled 'The Cross I Bear: I'm a Girl, Part 2' 'Not everyone can stand and say what needs to be said, Stacee. Keep standing.' ~ from a text message received in response to the negative flurry of comments splashed around after posting 'I'm a Girl, Part 2' It all started in the big back room at Zapata's one evening in May 2007. 'Hey, Stacee, move over. I want to sit by The Pretty Girl.' I feigned hurt that night and I still give him crap about it, but to this day I've never truly felt the sting of that comment. I knew what my friend meant. He didn't mean that I was ugly or anything even

Invariably someone out there is going to rail at me and say I'm whining. It's the classic ' Geez, Stacee... Make up your mind. You're too damn wishy-washy'. I've gotten it a lot over the years. Fuck. Really? Forgive me for being a real person. You know... A real person, one who contemplates changing her mind and wonders if her choices are the right ones. Yes, I put everything down on paper (so to speak) and let me assure you, I always mean what I say. At the time. I do, however, reserve the right to change my mind. Or at least think about it and write about it. What decision am I ruing tonight? I don't date. I don't. I don't need it or want it. I truly believe this would be true even if I had someone interested in dating me. I fully admit at least a portion of my steadfast majority is a rationalization. I shouldn't rationalize? Fuck. Really? Be me. Deal with never (and yes, I do mean actual 'never') having anyone (other than fuck-nuts)

I may not date much in the traditional sense, but I sure do have a lot of great 'dates'. Most of the women I 'date' are dating other people. Well, either that or they're straight and not interested in dating a lesbian. Luckily, they're cool with 'dating' a lesbian (whether they know they are or not). There's a difference, you know, between dating and 'dating'. The nuances are more subtle than most think, but they are important nonetheless. Especially to the girlfriends of the women I 'date'. And to the straight girls who love going out with me, but can't go out with me go out with me. To them, it's all in apostrophes. In truth, I don't mind the apostrophes. It is what it is. More often than not, I'm ecstatic (and relieved) to have them there. You see, dating in the real sense (sans apostrophes) leads to more dating which can lead to commitment which can lead to a discussion of gay marriage vs. civil union. Generally