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The past couple of days have been blah.  And now I’m gonna blog about it which won’t make me feel better at all.

Yesterday we had a party for my youngest.  She’s stubborn and hard and fussy.  She has never been an easy-going child, but we love her anyway.  Someday her strong-willed personality will serve her well I’m sure.  But yesterday was not one of those days.  She wanted a bounce house for her birthday.  She didn’t want to invite anyone except her best friend.  I made her invite all her cousins for a couple of hours just so that it was more party like.  She had fun and seemed to be glad they were there.  Until she wasn’t.  She cried because the little kids were following her everywhere.  She cried because she didn’t get any alone time with her best friend.  I could understand her being upset if those things were true, but they aren’t.  She did have cousins around for more than a couple of hours, but she had time to play in the bounce house before they arrived and for a short while after they left.  Ross, my wasband, finally asked me to take her to my place.  He had had it.  He said that she had no room in her life for others and that she was the most selfish person he had ever seen next to…  He didn’t finish his statement.  I asked if he was going to say me, and he just chuckled.  I wanted to cry.  I did get a little teary.  I know he thinks that I made a selfish decision, but I am not a selfish person.  I had been in a good mood, enjoying hanging out with the family, and I hated that he ruined it.  I went to bed feeling blah.

I got in my car this morning and started her up.  There was an awful metallic sound then the car stalled.  I waited a minute and started the car again.  Sound not quite as bad but still there so I turned the car off.  I decided to do a little inspecting under the hood.  Now I know absolutely nothing about cars, but I figured I could at least look to see if I could spot the problem.  At first glance nothing seemed to be amiss.  Then I saw what looked like the handle of a tool on top of the battery.  There was a metal wire attached to it.  It didn’t look like it belonged there so I picked it up. And out came this.

Except it looked more like this one.

I’m guessing it was left in my car by the last guy who worked on it.  I’m just thankful that it didn’t break anything.

After I determined that my car was ok to drive I went to Office Depot.  I purchased a few things and attempted to pay for them with a Visa gift card that my parents gave me for my birthday last week.  I had already spent $48 of the $100 gift card.  I knew this because I wrapped the receipt around it as a reminder about how much was left on the card.  For some strange reason the card was declined.  When I got to my car I called to check my balance and it was $0.  I’m not sure if someone stole the card number or what, but it made me sad.

Tomorrow begins the first full week back at school.  A full day of meetings and then maybe an hour of working in my classroom.

And because I’m feeling all blah I’m going to bed.

For a better read and a lighter subject here’s a conversation that happened in our house.

Jacob: Mom, what are we having for breakfast.

Me: How about cereal? Have you ever had that before?

Jacob: No, what is it?

Me: Let me show you.

At this point I proceeded to open the cabinet where the cereal is kept and tell him about the different kinds of cereal to be had. I walked away as he got his bowl and spoon and began pouring himself a bowl of cereal. A few minutes later this is how the conversation ended.

Me: Jacob, what are you doing? (asked because he was carrying his bowl of cereal into the living room)

Jacob: Trying that stuff you called cereal. (said in somewhat of an exasperated tone)

I laughed and let him eat in the living room…at the table of course!

I was born in New Orleans.  I lived in or near the area until I was 10, but my memories of my time there have faded over the years.  When Fleur de lis and I took our trip to New Orleans one of the things I wanted to do was visit the house I lived in between the ages of 3 and 8.

Time and quite possibly years of neglect from her owners had not been good to her.  The bushes were so overgrown the front door and windows were barely visible.  The driveway also seems to have suffered the same fate.

We drove around the block where I scanned the houses for the one thing that stood out in my memory.

The catwalk.  I have vivid memories of walking down this sidewalk between the houses in the middle of the block to visit a friend on the next street over.  At the time I had no idea that most neighborhoods didn’t have these built-in shortcuts.  Having the catwalk made an impression on me, but only when I moved away and didn’t have it anymore.  Strange that.

We also drove around the corner to another place I walked to on a regular basis.

My elementary school.  Despite the building being the same nothing about the place looked familiar really.  Only the name and it’s location.  I spent the better part of 3 years there, and I don’t really remember what it looked like.

After visiting the places I called home those many years ago we crossed the river to visit Fleur de lis’ memories of the Upper Ninth Ward.  Years ago Fleur de lis had family who lived in the shotgun houses that dotted the landscape there.  They were her home away from home.  I was so excited to see the houses and the streets that were the setting for the story of her youth.  While the Upper Ninth had changed quite a bit since her relatives moved away the houses were still there.  I saw the stoop where she sat and waited for the Roman Candy man.  I saw the corner store and heard tales of trips down the street.

Later we drove to the town she had lived in to see more houses and schools that were part of her past.  I heard about college days and grocery stores and TV shows that filmed there once upon a time.  And finally, with tears in my eyes, I met her parents in a cemetery in that same town.

I loved being there in those places and connecting like that.  I had no idea how important this trip would be to me.  It was something I didn’t even realize I needed.  And I came home full and deeply satisfied.

Ok…I just imported my old blog to this blog. Now there are hundreds of posts here. I’m going to work on culling them down over the next few days/weeks/months. I honestly have no idea how long that will take me. In the meantime enjoy a blast from my past.

I was cleaning out my email folders this morning, and it made me sad.  I miss having friends.  I miss intimate conversations, silliness, and dinner guests.  I miss one line emails and inside jokes.  I miss sincerity and thoughtfulness and just because.

It’s the nature of the beasts though.  The beasts being a job AND a lifestyle change.  When I was a stay at home mom I could go to lunch with friends or have them over for dinner.  Now lunch is in the teachers’ lounge, and dinner is not a recognizable event most days.  Hopefully that will change this year.  Hopefully I won’t be quite so worn out after work.  Hopefully teaching will be my job not my life.  Hopefully I’ll have time for friends.

Before I decided to come out as gay and divorce my husband I had friends to call on and hang out with.  Most of them know about the divorce, but very few know about the gay thing.  I haven’t given them the chance to reject me.  Divorcing my husband and changing churches took care of most of them.  Oh I could still call them to hang out, but it would be awkward and none of us want that.  Besides I hadn’t known most of my local friends for long since we had been overseas for so many years.  The friends I had from before we moved overseas have moved on so the landscape here is completely different.  My college roommates have known me for 22 years, but for 20 of those years I was part of a couple.  And they were his good friends as well.  They aren’t local so I haven’t had a chance to see them yet.

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I started this post on August 2nd, and today is August 6th.  I’ve reread what I wrote 4 days ago and I think it’s explaining things.  I’ve been moody lately.  I celebrated a birthday this past week, but I don’t think that has anything to do with it.  At this point 40 and 41 are the same thing as far as I’m concerned.  I think my mood has more to do with what I was writing here.  It has to do with missing authentic interaction with people.

I know I’m just in an in between stage of life.  I’m in between my comfortable old job and my new job becoming comfortable.  I’m in between homes.  I’m in between living my old life and freely celebrating my new one.  I’m in between places where I can really invest myself.  I’m in between old and new friends.

Fleur de lis helps tremendously, but right now our busy schedules don’t often lend themselves to much quality alone time or much celebrating each other over drinks.  But even that’s part of an in between stage and will be changing soon.

Two years ago I couldn’t imagine where I would be in a year much less 2 years.  The thought of that place filled me with dread.  Today I am there, and it’s not so bad.  I’m thankful for everything I’ve been through and all I’ve learned over that time.  But the best part of all is that I don’t dread the next few years of my life.  I am looking forward to them with hope and faith.

I took the kids on one last summer vacation this past week.

What we saw and did in pictures.

I guess we can go back to school now.

The other day my kids and I had an interesting conversation.  They didn’t understand how someone could be married for so many years and then just decide that they are gay.  (Now keep in mind that I still haven’t told my kids that I’m gay.  I mean I’m pretty sure they have an idea, but this conversation wasn’t even about me.)  I explained that when I was in high school I didn’t know anyone who was gay.  If someone was they certainly wouldn’t ever say anything to anyone about it, because they would probably be bullied, beat up or even killed.  People were scared to admit it to others and even to themselves.  They did everything they could to not be gay so they could be accepted by their peers.  Many gay teenagers lived a heterosexual lifestyle.  They dated people of the opposite sex, got married and had kids hoping that if they acted straight they would become straight.  This was a shocking revelation to them.  They couldn’t believe it.  They started naming people that they knew at their schools were were either openly gay or bisexual.  They said that some of the kids might make fun of them a little, but mostly no one cared.  Relationships formed and dissolved just like normal heterosexual relationships and everyone at school knew.  Wow.  Things have definitely changed.

Dear Waco IHOP customers who happened to be eating at this fine establishment at 12:30 am on Wednesday night,

I want to formally apologize for the noise that came from that table.  You know the one.  There was a mom and her 4 kids…although now that I think about it the mom looked way too young and amazing to have 4 kids over the age of 10….but I digress.  That was us.  Those were my kids who hadn’t seen their mom, aka me, in 13 days.  We had just been reunited moments before we walked into IHOP.  The noise/loud hum you heard was them telling me every detail of their trip all at the same time.  It was quite the spectacle I’m sure.  If you were lucky enough to have been seated near us you might have heard snippets of conversation such as

“and then I peed in my pants.”

“because my neck muscles were sore from making faces…”

“we were so close that we got dirt in our teeth.”

“and then I buried him.”

“in a trailer behind the house…”

“she rescued me and then he kept knocking on the window.”

and the ever popular and far overused

“I need a big boy cup!”

All in all they had a good time as I’m sure was evidenced by the sheer number of giggles and guffaws you heard from our table.   I hope you were able to enjoy your food despite our very loud presence.  I can guarantee you that we won’t be visiting that particular IHOP again any time soon seeing as we don’t live in Waco.  You can be assured that the next time you get a hankering to eat pancakes and chicken fried steak in your pajamas you won’t have to worry about meeting us there.

Thank you for your patience.

And you’re welcome.

Natalie

Originally appeared on my old blog in July of 2008 back when we were living in Turkey.

Tonight for dinner I made biscuits and gravy. Not the most healthful thing we could have had, but it was the requested meal. When we lived in the states I never made biscuits from scratch. Oh there was a time I used Bisquick and called them homemade, but now I know that they really weren’t. There is no such thing as a can of biscuits here. You can’t find them frozen or premade in any shape or fashion. In fact biscuits aren’t something Turks even eat. I mean they would if they had them, but it isn’t a normal bread form here.

So the biscuit recipe I usually use is this…2 cups of self-rising flour and 1 cup of heavy cream. That is it. Mix it together roll or press them to about 1/2 inch thickness and cut out with a glass. Now they don’t have self-rising flour here so I add 2 1/2 tsp baking powder and 3/4 tsp salt to the flour and mix before I add the cream. The biscuits are to die for in my opinion. So easy and so yummy. If you want you can add some sugar…maybe 1/4 cup to the dry ingredients if you like your biscuits sweeter.

But tonight I had to use a different recipe. I was out of cream, and I had already started mixing up the other ingredients. I quickly found a recipe for buttermilk biscuits and since I had ayran which is a yogurt drink similiar to buttermilk I decided to go that route. After mixing the dry ingredients I started to cut in the butter. Wow…memories flooded over me. Then I added the buttermilk and almost started to cry. My grandmother made buttermilk biscuits every time I went to visit her. She mixed them with her hands…exactly like I was doing. The smell of the buttermilk as I mixed it in was like stepping back in time. The movement of my hands as I slowly formed a ball of dough in the middle of the bowl…picking up more and more flour from the sides as I moved my hand around transported me back to her kitchen in the tiny town of Emerson, Arkansas.

I’ll never forget that place. That house. That kitchen. Where so many memories were cooked up. Memories of homemade sweet pickles…juicy and sticky. Memories of fried fish. Memories of chicken and dumplings, turnip greens, purple hull peas, cornbread, and chocolate pie. There were lots of other memories made there, but tonight it was the thought of the food that overwhelmed me. And even though I have learned to make many of those things they still don’t taste quite like hers did.

I went to church yesterday for the 3rd week in a row!

Once upon a time not too long ago I was in church every time the doors were open, and I wanted to be there.  Then I acknowledged my struggle and that I couldn’t do it within the confines of a church building so I didn’t go at all.  Well that’s not exactly true.  When necessary I drove through the parking lot and pressed the brake long enough for the kids to jump out hoping that nobody I knew would stop me.  But while I didn’t go to church I also didn’t abandon my faith.  It was too important to me.  Once things started settling down some I knew it was time to start looking for a place where I would feel comfortable being myself yet challenged to be who God wanted me to be.

The first church I tried seemed promising.  The pastor actually went to the same Baptist University I did.  The church was inclusive and liberal and Baptist according to their website.  All were welcome.  I walked in the doors to a very friendly group of people.  Most seemed straight, but there was a smattering of gays around the room.  That’s what I was looking for.  Then church started.  The pianist played familiar hymns but the words weren’t the ones I had grown up singing.  The new words didn’t mention God or Jesus at all, but they were full of the words compassion and humanity.  And while those are both excellent words and even ok church words because God was left out they felt quite empty to me.  The subsequent sermon and prayers were the same.  Lots of love and uplifting stuff, but God was no where to be found.  Even communion was a watered down version.  Instead of the bread representing the body of Jesus broken for us it was just referred to as “the bread of life”.  The wine wasn’t ever related to the blood of Christ, just “the cup of healing”.  I left there feeling like I had been to some club meeting, but I didn’t feel like God was anywhere in it.

The next week Fleur de lis and I went to a church together.  This time we went Methodist.  The church claimed to be a reconciled Methodist church where not only was everyone welcome, everyone was celebrated.  We walked in the doors and were greeted immediately.  Again there were gay and straight alike sitting around the sanctuary.  The pastor was making his way through the room and came over to greet us.  He asked us our church background so we told him.  He told us what to expect as far as the service went.  He was very nice, very welcoming, and just about perfect.  Church started and was more formal than I’m used to, but it was definitely something I could get used to.  The hymns weren’t really familiar, but they weren’t watered down versions of the old hymns either.  God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit were there.  Giving God the glory was preached.  I couldn’t believe it.  This is what I was looking for.

Yesterday I went back to that same Methodist church.  This time I went alone because Fleur de lis had something else she needed to do.  This time I went early.  According to their website they had Sunday School and/or fellowship before church started.  I wanted to see that.  I walked in the door and again felt welcomed there.  Everyone was friendly and warm.  I saw gay and straight talking and laughing with each other.  I talked to several people about the weekly bible study the church does during the school year.  I talked to a minister about the Vacation Bible School planned for next week.  I felt very comfortable and at home there.

About the same time I arrived another visitor walked in.  She was given a name tag and invited to participate in the conversation.  Everyone was warm and friendly with her as well.  She and I talked quite a bit about what we did and where we were from.  I watched how they treated her to see if they really were inclusive.  To see if everyone was not only welcome, but celebrated like the pastor said.  I watched, because you see she was a he.  She was big and tall and hairy.  She was wearing a skirt and blouse and heeled sandals.  She had painted her toenails and fingernails.  Her face was clean-shaven, and she wore make-up and a wig.  Based on her appearance I imagined that she probably lived her everyday regular life as a man.  This one day she dressed how she felt and came to church.  And they welcomed her just like Jesus would have done.

Oh yeah, I’m definitely going back.