Sunday, August 30, 2009
Our conversation started out as the one every mother dreads.
"You will still love me, won't you?" He started.
"Of course I love you." Says I with a sinking heart.
"I mean, you'll love me, whatever..." his voice trailed off.
Oh dear Goddess, thought I. Take a deep breath and face the disaster.
"I mean, you will..."
"Boy, it's late. You have school in the morning, I have to go to work. Spit it out!"
"I'm gay." He says in a small voice.
"Oh, is that all," I say, relief pouring through me. "I thought you were going to say something awful."
My Boy. My wonderful, bright Boy.
It's a feeling words do not adequately express. I am so proud of him. It has taken awhile to post about this, because it's such a personal thing. We have talked about the fluidity of sexuality at this age and that he may change in the future. At the end of the day, it's who he is, and all that matters is how much I love him and how proud I am of him.
Could I have been more proud when he marched with the Norwich Pride this summer? No, I really don't think so.
Pretending to be heterosexual would have been the easiest course for him. But no. My Boy has the courage to be himself. There are adults of my age who deny themselves and I am saddened for them.
This is a new world for us both. I don't have the gay best friend to guide us, and actually that's fine. The Norwich Pride has welcomed us both. It's meant I've had a lot to adjust to, after all, but it's all good. This is probably the best time in this society to be gay. What has been amazing is the support of our friends and family. His dad loves him to bits.
It is such a shame that coming out is such a heartbreaking experience for so many people. This is a wonderful world in which we live and there should be enough space for everyone. There has been so much I've taken for granted. For me to walk down the street, holding hands with the one I love. I can't imagine what it must be like, not to be able to express my love.
In a way it's quite ironic. I am now the black sheep of my family. The marginalised. My birth mother is gay, my son is gay. I'm the only heterosexual. Ach, the shame!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I spend about an hour yesterday fighting with the bindweed and just about filled my brown bin. I can't tell you how satisfying it was creating havoc all by myself. I'm sure the neighbours think I'm bonkers, talking to the weeds as I pulled them off and out of the garden beds. Over the weekend I made a list of the plants I want to have in there, and designing the shape of the garden. It's not going to be a neat, manicured affair. It's going to be wild and bushy, with lots of colours. I want it to smell absolutely amazing and it hopefully will attract lots of butterflies and bees.
Today, I spent a stupid amount of money in Homebase getting some decent tools. I also took the opportunity to look at the lovely bedding plants and bulbs. Come next spring, there will be such colour; I love spring bulbs so much. Tulips, daffodils, crocus, snow drops and iris. They will be growing through winter pansies, violas and wall flowers.
It will look amazing. All wild and bushy.
I'm going to make the beds bigger, so I can get more plants in. I'm not keen on grass. When I first moved in I thought I'd get rid of the lawn, just plant it all up, with a garden path meandering round. Now, having spent most of my time lying out on it, I know I need enough grass to enjoy the sunshine.
I don't want any pots. I'm crap at watering them, even with a hose. There is absolutely no point in spending good money on plants, just to watch them die. I want plants that will self-seed everywhere, be hardy, smell fabulous, attract the birds and bees, have herbs growing next to roses. I just shiver with the pleasure of it. I wonder if it will look as wonderful as I imagine it. I suspect I don't have the space for all the plants I want to put in there, but I still have more lawn to dig into if necessary.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I have a task to do.
Therefore, I have:
*tidied my house
*watered my plants
*been on facebook
*been on facebook
*checked out other blogs
*left comments on other blogs
*been on facebook
*checked whether anyone has replied to my comments.
Ah yes, the bitch is back!
PS. Now added more links to fabulous new blogs I've found. Life is truly good.
PPS. Of course I had to stop for lunch.
PPPS. The sun is shining so *of course* I have to lie in it, while I can.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Bearing in mind that I'm happy to buy into the whole Vampire thing. Bram Stoker's Dracula is my idea of soft porn. Darkly sexual, predatory and scary.
I'm also a fan of the early works of Anne Rice. Interview with a Vampire etc. Queen of the Damned is one of my favourite books, though I can happily leave the movies.
I'm a big fan of Buffy. Joss Whedon writes bloody good dialogue. Last night I spent happy hours on Wikiquote reading through the best quotes from the series.
The Vampire mythology, darkly sexual and predatory. Emotionally unavailable, sexy, strong what woman wouldn't want to try and tame and be tamed by tall, dark and handsome? Count me in. I'm there with my corset and black eye-liner.
So, if you were immortal, craved human blood, tell me...why would you want to spend your time in high school? I mean, not being funny or anything, but the worst part of reincarnation has got to be going through puberty yet again (ad infinitum)? Being spotty, horny, inarticulate, socially dodgy and smelly. Bleugh.
Why would you, a tall, dark and handsome immortal, want to do that? Voluntarily? Is Edward just thick? He's 90 years old and he still can't get the hang of algebra? American history? He can't manage to figure out prepositions, clauses and split-infinitives? Is this his punishment for drinking human blood? Having to repeat Grade 10 over and over again? Since when is thick as two-short-planks, sexy?
I'm as open as the next woman, to eye candy. But the thought of being seduced by a 90 year old, thick, vampire, it just doesn't work for me. Darkly brooding or no. I just can't suspend my belief enough to forego the 3 hours or so to read the book(s) or see the film. As I'm not immortal, my time is too precious for that.
Monday, August 10, 2009
You Suck at Craigs List.
Craig's List, for those not in the know is an internet listing for goods, services and personals and there's pretty much one for every major city.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
So I went to see my very dishy osteopath yesterday. What can I say? He's gorgeous, gentle...and expecting the arrival of a little osteopath in February with his long-term partner. Sigh. Anyway, we have a 10 minute catch up and then he asks me to take my top off, which I do. Voila, pretty M&S bra. He asks me to take off my belt. I say to him I wore my big pants just in case. Relieved he invites me to take my jeans off. Voila, pretty M&S Big Pants.
All professions have their 'story'. A classic tale only other people in that profession will understand. When I worked with NHS Direct it was the sex-calls ('you're the only person I've ever told about my erectile disfunction', while their file shouts 'frequent flyer'), when I worked in fragrance it was find the fragrance with the most obscure description of bottle or scent. With osteopaths, it seems to be the teeny-tiny pants story. It turns out he used to treat dancers. They would turn up in teeny-tiny pants to be crunched. He said he had to ask a few of them to put their trousers back on the pants were so teeny-tiny. In fact, they were more like shoe-strings he said. Made my eyes water just thinking about it.
There is a difference in having an osteopathic treatment when everything is locked up tighter than a debutant's virginity, and having a treatment when your muscles have gone into spasm; death seems to be the only comfort to be had, as sitting, lying and standing is excruciating.
In order to loosen up the neck, the osteopath gently takes your head in his hands, lifts your neck, stretches very gently while probing the locked vertebra. Then he'll suddenly wrench it to the left. It's just like hearing a gun go off in your head. When the echos have died away, you have to smile because you can still feel your toes.
My step-father was a huge fan of war movies. Black and White, WWII, featuring death to the Nazis (who can only say 'schnell' and a bunch of gibberish which always had my mother, a German who survived the Blitz of Berlin, rolling her eyes). The heroic British soldier would creep into the enemy camp, sneak up to the nasty Kraut perimeter guard, grab him by the head and twist. Crack. An ex-perimeter guard. The perimeter guard is no more. He is pushing up daisies. You get the picture.
The first time I ever had that neck-wrench done, I was in agony. Real unabatable agony. That osteopath wrenched my neck without warning. I was rather fond of him. He was obnoxious, opinionated about everything, and I fancied him something rotten. Last I heard, he married a patient and was living in marital bliss in a barn conversion in South Norfolk. After he wrenched my neck, I was too scared to even squeak. It took me years to talk about that manoever without automatically wiggling my toes to check everything still worked.
Yesterday, when my dishy osteopath wrenched my neck. It was bliss. He dug his thumbs into the two inch knots hiding under the scallops of my shoulders, and I practically purred. Going to him before things got any worse was such a good idea.
By the way, can you spot the comic references I liberally sprinkled about?
Monday, August 03, 2009
Three names I go by (besides given name):
Three Jobs I have had in my life:
Three Places I have lived:
Port of Spain, Trinidad
Three Favorite drinks (NOT IN ANY PARTICULAR ORDER):
Three TV Shows that I watch right now:
Star Trek (anyone that's on)
Three places I have been:
People that call me regularly:
The Tax Office
Three of my favorite foods:
Cheese on anything
Three Things I am looking forward to:
Three Things that are always by your side:
So there. Feel free to emulate. Let me know in the comments section if you do.