| Thu, 31 Dec 2009 21:47:12 |
manager |
Our Virtual Dating feature is FREE for everyone to try until January 31, 2010. So, email someone you're interested in finding out more about and setup a time to get online together to go on a virtual date. Enjoy 
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| Mon, 28 Dec 2009 16:07:21 |
manager |
Visit our new "Tips & Tricks" informational blog to help enhance your dating experience. Go to: http://lesbian.virtualdatingpersonals.com/
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| Fri, 30 Oct 2009 0:00:28 |
Random |
Well, it's been a while. All the kids are grown, the youngest now has her own baby. Just born on Tuesday, her nick name is Littlebit. It fits her just right. I'm not sure where time has gone, but it feels like I'm at high speed going no where. Having the new one and one that 's 16 months makes me feel a littlel older. My baby just had her baby, that's all she's ever wanted to do, is be a Mother. She's doing a great job with the little one. I've never doubted it...I get to go over and play Gramms for the day, this will be fun. I hope everyone is having a great year and hope to meet some of you at the next Salem Lavender Womyns event. Random 
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| Sat, 22 Aug 2009 20:39:29 |
Ariztokat |
Winter's on the way. What will we all do to be prepared? Does anyone out there have a fireplace they want to share? 
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| Fri, 13 Mar 2009 23:40:55 |
lavender |
It works!
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| Fri, 13 Mar 2009 23:39:51 |
lmpajot |
does this work? Not sure....
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| Wed, 30 Jul 2008 9:32:44 |
gulliver |
So the carousel of life continues to circle round. Each one of us is one of those painted ponies that goes up an down. I've learned many things over the last several years. And many more in the last two then I ever dreamed possible. I've seen the quote more times, and in more places than I can begin to name, though it rings truer than any other I've ever heard. It goes something like: your true friends are those you walk in, when the whole world walks out.
To my true friends. You are the best. The rest, I see you on the streets, you pretend I'm not even there. I see you in the store, you turn the other way. You haven't a clue. Some days, not even my true friends know what a single day can bring. But they are still there, they watch and reach out, knowing there is nothing they can do. BUT at least they are there.
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| Mon, 3 Mar 2008 12:41:18 |
TalkofLondon |
Okay,
I am somewhat mad at the “couples” counselor, and since she (the counselor of doom) assumes that I am a non-assertive (yes) Passive (yes)-Aggressive (NO) personality, then I think it only fair to let everyone know that her (the counselor of doom) sweater-dress (that she was wearing on Thursday)- well it was ill-fitting. That’s right, ill-fitting. Oh sure, the hair was carefully coifed as always, but the dress bagged and wrinkled in the back.
I don’t think I like her.
Sig toys with her, doing that “I’m only here because of the little woman” thing. Sig also uses an Eyore voice the whole time we are in the session, and so now the counselor thinks that this is Sig’s real voice.
That also infuriates me.
This week Sig saw a red-haired kid on her (the counselor of doom) computer screen. Sig hates kids and spends whole weekends yelling at them to get off the lawn- and that’s our kids! Okay, maybe Sig doesn’t hate kids but they aren’t a burning passion. Needless to say, it was a bit shocking to me when Sig, still in the Eyeore voice, said “Who’s that on your screen?”
She (the counselor of Doom) got all twittery and said “Oh, that’s my grandson, he was born in October…”
Sig says “Well he’s just a cutie!”
WHAT?!
WHAT?!
It was a red-haired, non-descript kid that might as well been some kind of packaged lunchmeat. Sig doesn’t talk about kids that way.
It hooked the counselor.
I knew all was lost at that moment. I could have had an aneurysm burst deep within my stomach and bled out through my mouth and she wouldn’t have noticed. I could have been attacked by a pack of rampaging serial killers and still, she (the counselor of Doom) would have been smiling at Sig. It was a moment between them, a special bonding moment, that made her forget all about the fact that in two more sessions my insurance coverage will run out and she will be at the mercy of my self-pay ass.
I really just don’t like her.
She (the Counselor of Doom), was actually flirting with Sig right in front of me. “Well, you will be back next week, won’t you?”
Sig sat there in a lump, arms folded, defiant, nonchalant expression and said “Maybe.”
She (the Counselor of Doom) nearly wet herself she was so happy.
Where is that other counselor, the one that tells you what to do?
That’s the one I want.
I want the one that tells Sig that it is not okay to leave underwear on the floor and dishes in the sink while watching reruns of the 1998 Seahawks season and spitting pumpkin seed shells into a plastic cup that will end up in the garbage disposal.
I want the one who has a jar of dried bamboo shoots and bottle of scorpions up on the open-doored cupboard just so the non-communicators can know what they are in for.
I want Doctor Phil, and embarrassing video tape segments of Sig, raiding the fridge, driving too fast and drinking too much, and I want it played on national television with Doctor Phil stating “Well Sig, your partner’s a saint- and if I could say the f word on TV, I would say she’s an f-ing saint.”
That’s what I want.
I don’t want some coiffed-haired, sweater-dress-wearing, secret dominatrix, Jungian -Jezabel flirting for twenty minutes and then telling me to go have a relationship with my inner child! Do I look like a pedophile?! How insulting can she be and still retain a license?! She didn’t tell Sig to have a relationship with any inner child. She told Sig (in a low, throaty voice) “Well, I understand what your saying, Sig, and I’ve often wondered that myself” then she sucked a maraschino cherry into her mouth, tied the stem into a knot, and crossed and uncrossed her legs several times while facing Sig.
I, of course, couldn’t see much as I was fainting from the massive blood clot that had hit my brain- the lights were dimming so fast I couldn’t see if she was wearing underwear or not.
I just don’t think I like her.
And finally, don’t sit there and tell me to play with my inner-child, commit to the process, live in the present moment, flirt with my partner and spit out double-tied maraschino cherry stems at me and then ask me to describe how I am feeling in one word. I chose-
HOMICIDAL.
I panicked. It seemed nothing else would come to my Non-Assertive, Passive-Aggressive little mind.
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| Fri, 29 Feb 2008 12:30:30 |
TalkofLondon |
Do you ever find yourself trying something new- then wishing you had not? I am not talking about the great stories you hear most, like:
“I went skydiving for the first time — at 57! It was exhilarating!”
“My first time rafting the Amazon was on a whim, I had never even stepped into a boat before!”
“I had no idea that bungee jumping off of a platform that high, deep within the Congo, could be so freeing!”
NO. Not those stories. Those are success stories. Those are stories told by true adventurers, dressed in loosely folded fabrics, stretched languidly across an Ethan Allen Hemmingway Collection settee at someone’s Wine Party and Benefit For the Homeless Who Long To Read “The Secret”- event. Those people are children of a protected destiny. They are the chosen ones, who are destined to do new, adventurous things and do them successfully.
I am not one of those people. Usually if I do something different and adventurous, it is on a whim, by the seat of my pants and 50 per cent of the time, it turns out disastrous. Sig says I hop from thing to thing, living life out loud and embracing the ideal of “come what may”. Well, that is what Sig meant to say anyway. I’m sure of it. So what if it actually came out like
“You just take on things suddenly and if they don’t work out, oh well! But, by that time you have dragged us all into it and it causes stress like you can’t believe!”
This was a postscript to our long and rather unfulfilling counseling session. (By the way — that therapist has to have a loved-one on a chain at home. No one is that controlled without some sort of REALLY DEVIANT {and possibly intriguing} behavior.)
However — as I said — it isn’t as if I mean to be that way. Opportunities just come a knocking and I don’t have sense enough not to answer the door!
“Brain Surgeon for a day? What? It's first prize in a contest I won? Oh sure. I’ll be right over, what hospital?”
I’m not kidding. Fear of failure is not a built in protective mechanism in my little, delusional world. I am pretty invincible and, pretty apt to stay that way. (I had to tell Sig the bad news about that this morning.)
But yes, there is definitely a huge margin of error in my state of being- a couple of weeks ago was a prime example.
I am a very fair person. No, not fair as in “well, I see your point— and your point,” but fair as in lily white- white as a swan- white as the moon in winter- white- you get the point.
It gets depressing sometimes. Yes, it is true that blondes have more fun. That part I like, but the summer tan — only ever looking like results that come from toasting your bread on setting number 4 on your standard Kitchen aid toaster — not so fun.
I hate it. I long for the bronzed body that I so richly deserve. Inside of this Nordic princess is a Grecian southern-Italian woman just screaming to get out! And this is where my not-so-adventurous-adventure comes in.
I decide, not with the help, advice, or knowledge of anyone I know, to take advantage of the coupon I have received in the mail and get a spray-tan.
On a whim and completely without thought, I drive 1.2 miles down the road; park the minivan with the personalized license plate that says DOM MOM and walk in as if I have spray- tanned thousands of times before.
The woman who took my coupon made me nervous. She was young, bronzed and (might I add), bronzed in places that maybe you shouldn’t be bronzed — like underneath your fingernails. Hmmm.
I decided I had better tell her I was a Spray-Tan virgin.
“Hey, I am a spray-tan virgin.” (Well, now was no time to mince words.)
“Okay,” she says, “we’ll go easy on you since this is your first time.” I would have laughed but she wasn’t laughing.
“I don’t want to walk out of here looking tanned. I want it to look natural.”
“Oh, it does. And because you are so fair, we will use the lightest setting and no bronzer. You will just look healthy- not all tanned.”
In hindsight, I probably should have been offended at the healthy reference, but I was too nervous about the outcome and was also parting with money- a bad combination for this stodgy ol' Capricorn.
She led me to the isolation booth, explained that it would spray, told me some stuff about jelly, said it was okay to breathe, gave me a horrible looking shower cap and left.
Hmmmm.
Hmmm, Hmmm, Hmmmm.
So all I needed to do was get in “like this” and push the white button “like th-“ “HOLY CRAP AND THE CRACKERS TO GO WITH IT!” I WAS BEING EXTERMINATED!!!
I COULDN’T BREATHE-
THERE WAS A TOXIC PLUME INSIDE THIS CUBICLE!
(Moment to regain senses)
“OKAY. OKAY. I can breathe. I don’t know what I am breathing or how much it is shortening my life span- but I can breathe.” I had my fingers splayed like a little frog, which was the last direction she left me with that I could remember. I began to twist while this hideously cold jet of foul-smelling spray sort of tried to “mist” me “evenly”. It reminded me of the rides at small-town fairs like “House O Horrors,” where the scariest thing about the whole ride was wondering if it was so worn out and dilapidated that it wouldn't make it all the way through the final swinging doors.
Finally, it was over and I could get the (h-bomb) out of there. I gently patted and regained composure. That’s right. Now I remembered- I just got an instant, subtle, golden- HEY-
I looked in the mirror.
Nothing.
There was nothing different about me except two brown streaks that looked like drip marks, across my stomach.
I couldn’t believe it. Nothing.
I got dressed and went out.
“Well, it looks like you did fine.”
“Really?” I said, “Because I don’t see any difference.”
“Oh sure there is” she smiled, “plus it will get a little darker as the evening wears on. Remember not to shower for at least 8 hours.”
I left dejected and $35.00 poorer. I was hoping to be bronzed and beautiful as I was showing a dog in a dog show the next day. I could see it wasn’t gonna happen though.
I called my friend Violet and told her what an idiot I had been. She was on her way to visit and I made her promise not to tell anyone as we were having dinner with a bunch of dog show colleagues.
At approximately 8:45 that evening, just after we moved from the darkened restaurant where we had dinner, to the lively neighborhood coffee shop, violet started to sing the UmpaLoompa song subtly and shifted her gaze back and forth from my eyes to my hands until I finally looked.
MY HANDS WERE THE COLOR OF A RIPE NAVAL ORANGE!
To make a long story short, spray-tans will continue to develop over the course of two days- even with showering, oatmeal baths, bleach and resurfacing by the Department of Transportation Emergency Road Crew.
I attended the dog show looking like the end stage of liver failure.
Sig finally noticed me after 36 hours or so- and now, three weeks later my nails are still bright orange. But hey, it was an adventure. Just not the kind of adventure you will here at a wine and blah, blah benefit, stretched languidly across the Ethan Allen Hemingway Collection Settee.
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| Thu, 28 Feb 2008 12:19:33 |
TalkofLondon |
Is it just me, or is the world getting meaner?
I mean, I don't want to start anything, (Lord knows that I have been known to be grumpy myself on RARE occasion) but I'm talking downright mean.
The kind of mean that makes you keep the extra money when a seven year-old girl scout gives wrong change in your favor.
The kind of mean that makes you pretend to listen and be interested in a telemarketer's spiel about "Opportunities For Retirement In Brazil", leading him/her on for forty minutes and then, conveniently not "owning" a credit card.
The kind of mean that makes you shove past the old, the ill, and anyone else that is in your way. THAT KIND OF MEAN.
It's like it's in the water or something. Even the presidential candidates seem extra mean. Okay, maybe not as mean as in some past years, but mean none-the-less. Both H and O (which, by the way, if they ran on the same ticket could be the "HO" ticket) are getting mean. Then they publicly announce that they aren't going to be mean.
Well, what is that?
My kids do that.
"He's being mean to me," screams Em-
"I'm not!" shouts back El.
"He's pulling my hair on purpose!"
"No I'm not, I am just trying to get a piece of lint out of it. It looks like a nit. Do you want to go to school looking like you have nits? What does that say about children in America?"
"Okay, guys- save it for a televised debate." I shout from the bathroom.
And maybe I'm meaner than I think, come to realize. For instance, the bathroom thing. I'm not really using it, It is just a small space that I can escape to.
It has it's own natural resources, value by it's sheer location and one very prime product. It doesn't take much to overpower so I have claimed it as my own. I don't admit to this, of course. I publicly declare that I am occupying the space temporarily, in order to clean it up and restore it. I insist that my presence there is temporary and I apologize for my presence explaining that it is just a matter of time before I will have finished my clean-up and restoration, and I will be gone. Oh sure, there are insurgents occasionally- someone hiding in the shower, a tricky ploy to use the toilet, and once or twice I have been hit by a blast of water or rubber ducky from a rebel terrorist- but for the most part, I have occupied this little corner of our world much to the dismay of the rest of the family, who is powerless to overthrow me as they have not figured out (yet) how to combine sources.
Now I wonder why?
Is it the right thing to do, or have i just gotten caught up in this "mean thing" that seems to spread like warm butter on toast.
I mean, look at some of the things that have gone on in the last little while-
-The Brittney thing- that was mean.
-Making us listen to it on a daily basis- meaner
-Packaging our food smaller and calling it "new, convenient, size"- mean
-That shark who bit the man's leg off- mean, very mean.
-The hard, clear plastic packaging that smart disks come in (you know, the ones that are impervious to scissors, fingernails, teeth and a drop from a 40 story building- plain mean.
-Gas prices-MEAN
-Those fake ads about increasing you libido (no it does not work) that flood the internet, causing unsuspecting readers who get a great idea to spike their partner's coffee with it, to waste money only to have the whole thing fail miserably -not that I know anyone who has done this, still- It's mean!
I think meanness begets meanness!
So, next time you are just tripping merrily along life's little yellow brick road- stop for a minute and look around. Are Angelina and Brad really breaking up? Does "no trans fat" but "430 calories per serving" seem right? And what about the number of bicyclists and pedestrians that are being run over in Portland, Ore? I don't want to be a pessimist, but the world is getting meaner I tell ya, and I don't think a rousing chorus of Kumbya and "hands across America" is going to fix it this time.
As for me- I'm too far gone. In the last 10 minutes I have hired a small border patrol to man the entrance to the bathroom while I am at work. Their instructions: "No one gets across the threshold- tell them to go outside." Now that's mean.
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