Morning Femmetation: 9 Times Out Of 10


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Today is as bleak as an empty cup of coffee. They tell me that the numbers don’t lie. They say that to appease the stunned silent…and yes, I know what I did there. Not today grammarians. Not today.

emptycupThe optimist in me left somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, right around the time the electoral college shat red numbers all over common sense, hope, sanity and balance.

There is no solace in knowing that the very same who voted for Donald Trump will find out soon enough that they are not the right kind of American.

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Forever Hers


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“Write, woman. And, don’t get fluffy – keep it down to three syllable words.”  ~ **The Rack**

It’s been a month since I lost my beloved. An ugly four week splotch of grief, thrown against the canvas of my soul.

Fuck cancer. Fuck undetected cancer. Fuck undetected cancer so aggressive it steals life before it can be found out. Kiss my grieving ass heart.

Diphylleia GrayiFor ten years, for three thousand six hundred and fifty days (give or take a leap year or two), we were together.

Laughing together. God, shi had the best laugh, genuine and filled with all things jovial.

Learning together. My heart did a somersault when I learned she was attracted to femme lesbians. Hers did too when, despite my affinity for queered-up butch pronouns, shi learned that I was attracted to the woman she was and there was no need for stereotypical affectations.

Most of all, loving together. Always loving each other, when life was good and not so good. And, strange though it may be I still feel hir love.

I hope I always will.







Morning Femmetation: Who Said That?


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morningbrewA confirmed early riser am I. Morning is my favorite time of day, especially on the weekend. Without the daily grind to hustle off to, I ready a few to-do lists for the week and chat with the dog while the coffee brews.

This Saturday was like any other. Shower-fresh and wearing a soft, comfy royal blue lounger and matching footies (a femme always has to match it’s in the rulebook), I watched the coffeemaker drip a day’s worth of congeniality. I’m all about manners, you know.

Like clockwork, Louis shuffled in and nudged the back of my leg. “Mornin’, big boy.”

“Good morning, Beautiful!”

Did you know that whiplash can occur inside of the home? I’m Black-Irish – and none of my ancestors have been partial to haints and ghostessess. Great-danes either ’cause he hid behind me…and when his cold nose touched my elbow, I jumped high enough to get my hair tangled in the ceiling fan.

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It’s Just Emotions, Right?


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As I become more and more invested in my own type of online community, I’ve come across a number of authentic friendships based on shared experiences and common interests such as T.V. and movie fandoms, music and message boards. Many of these cyber communities can evolve into well established daily routines, serving as a safe, fun and harmless part of one’s social life.

Don’t misunderstand me, these cyber connections are not meant as a replacement for  actual real life relationships. Rather, they can become another avenue of our socialization.

Given human nature as it is, daily interaction probably includes lots of witty banter and  some form (or forms) of flirtation resulting in “intimate” cyber-evoked connection(s).

In this age of online living, when two people become enamored with one another can an otherwise committed person be guilty of emotional cheating? Even in the non-cyber world, is emotional cheating just as harmful as physical cheating?

What’s your view?

Morning Femmetation: When Ponds Attack!


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Today began as really lovely day. A morning perfect for making the kitchen sing in delectable mouth-watering aromatic harmony. For reveling with the joyful folks across the pond at news of the sweet little princess whilst (see what I did there) enjoying a cupful of caffeine goodness. A day tailor-made for – gaak! What the holy-trying-not-cuss-on-a-Sunday is that?

Either my myopia was deceiving me or there was a king cobra in the backyard. And it was after our goldfish…and our dog. Our geriatric, slightly arthritic, near-sighted dog that was on his way to woof good morning to the koi like he always did.

Quick decision time. Do I wake my fearless woman up to get rid of the snake? Naw, I already know shi would have none of that. Call Animal Control? The police? Whistle and cross my fingers that my deaf dog heard me?

He didn’t hear me – and was headed straight for that venomous slithering killer. Nothing left to do but take the ginger-cumin chicken out of the oven, keep the oven mitts on in case the viper tried to sink its fangs into me and go outside to rescue my thirteen year-old great-dane baby.

After ever so cautiously opening the sliding door,  I tip-toed with coffee pot in mitted hand (I needed a weapon!) toward the pond – and the cobra’s head followed my every move!

[channelling my butch-wife] Fuck a good duck. [/channelling] I meant, “Don’t worry big boy. Mama’s coming!”

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