Little Author Notes: Ownership: Only copy right I have, is to my imagination. QAF, Glee, Twilight, Books and other things, yeah, don't own them.

This piece: Is going to be a collection of Tolerance and Love.

Rating: M, mature subjects, language and stuff.

Music Inspiration: Outlaws of Love, Adam Lambert from the album Trespassing. Never intentional to have music inspiration. I write first, then a piece comes on my music machine that really fits.

I don't have any association with anyone for music. I've purchased all that I listen to. I'm just letting you know about the music. If you want to listen, then do so. If not then don't. But if you're going to purchase anything, please don't go down the pirate road. Worst thing to do. I don't ship pirates.


~ Don't Call Me Debbie ~

My neighbour mowed my lawn, and I'm freaking out.

I peeked out the window, held the curtains as tight as I could. Just poked my little head between. The wind chimes ding dinged. Grabbed 'em. Shshshsh!

I've seen the guy before, he does the neighbours lawn too. But I'm too shy to do anything else about it. I close the curtains and go back to my 'studies'.

Now he's using the whipper snipper, I can tell 'cause the sound is higher pitched. I peek out again, yep. I wish he'd go away though. But I can't do anything about it, I'm paralysed with being so shy.

When I wake up, in the morning, I put on my dress shoes, I tap to the memory of a good song. When I wake up, well I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to shower, dress, slap on my Sunday happy face.

And bravely go next door and thank whoever is responsible for my nature strip looking shorter.

And that's what I did. "Hi, who's responsible for cutting my front law?"

One guy is playing with a little crawler on their grass, the other is coming out of the front door. The porch isn't too high, maybe six steps up.

Guy playing with the kid points toward him up there. "Yeah, my brother, he did it."

"Right, well thank you." And I reach up to give him a carton of eggs.

"Nah, that's ok. I don't need any eggs."

"Uh, they're from my chooks. To say thank you." I persevere to get him to take them. Perseverance pays off. "Right, well thanks." Swigs some beer down. "Do you want a hot chocolate?" I'm in my own story, I think. Blink, blink!

"Um." I hesitate. "um, yeah that'd be…., I won't say no to that. Yes please?" Can't believe I'm not blushing, normally that's what I do. Can't believe that I now use dots in my sentences too.

I've started embracing feeling uncomfortable and push through these things. But that didn't happen today. He goes inside to make me a drink.

And I can't help but wonder why guyz don't offer me alcohol based drinks?

I turn to the guy with the kid. "So, I'm Mel." He brushes down his hand and puts it out to shake mine. "Hi, I'm Mick." And I look at him thoroughly. He's like really gorgeous, clean clothes, clean face, a little stubble, beer can in hand. Umina umina, beats my little heart. This is good, I think. I could use all this info for a story. I'm more aware of so much, because of my reading and writing.

"What are you drinking?" He looks at the shiny can. "Yeah, Carlton beer. But I'm a Foster's man." And he opens his jacket and shows me his t-shirt. And all I can think, is what a good body he's got hiding under all those clothes.

Blaine, Karofsky, Kurt and Sebastian are vying for centre stage of my sight. Brian wins. And if I had a penis, it'd be getting hard. 'cause right now, something is happening with me.

We talk about him getting out of jail, how long he'd been in there. Where he was serving residence for Her Majesty. I'm not sure how he managed to get behind me, up the stairs then leaning against the bannister. But I decide to join him and his brother, and lean against the bannister.

I find out his brother is called Dazza, that's the one who is my neighbour and mowed my lawn. Mick jokes about how I'd been watching him through the curtains, and that I must've fancied him. But I acknowledge that Dazza has a missus. Which now I realize, doesn't mean I didn't fancy him.

Honestly, Micks much better looking and adorable. Much more my kind. I try to make sure I don't trip over my words. Matthew Hussey comes to my right front lobe of my brain. He taps away at me, 'Come on Mel, keep the conversation going. At least until you're certain there's nothing more to add'.

The hot chocolate is nice, we talk about who's got a fluffy machine. Then on to my favourite subject, football.

Mick goes for Richmond or was it Essendon. He talks about drugs in the AFL, drugs in the clink, wall size plasma TV's in the clink. Lots about the clink. I'm interested. We share info about Barrister's and Solicitors. I make it known what I know. I can feel them interrupt and sometimes not really listen.

And then Mick does the unforgivable. He tells Dazza how he'd seen a cross-gender and had ribbed her about being male or female. 'cause the cross-gender was holding hands with a chick.

I'm on their balcony, patio. I'm standing in their home turf. I won't disrespect them, even if they forget how to talk to a lady. Oh, you know you're getting old, when you think of yourself as an older person.

When I'd said how I go for Geelong, Mick had tried joking about whether I liked pussy. And, for the second he took to look away from me, obviously wishing he could take the question back, 'cause it was so friggin lame.

I comfortably came back with, "You've been in so long you forget how to talk to a lady." I drink my hot chocolate, and think about my grocery list and how can I exit standing here with them. I would love to have another anything with Mick. But I'm not sure if he's available.

I thank Dazza for mowing my lawn and the hot chocolate. When I asked why he'd done it, I'm disappointed with the answer. "It was annoying me."

We discuss different mowers, people driving their kidz to school on the back of monkey bikes without helmets. Mick's pretty annoyed at someone, and says he'll look for a 2stroke mower for me.

Small talk, deep talk, deeper thoughts from me. I start to feel insecure. I'm confident, but … kicks in.

I don't want to leave, really. I don't want to go back to my place. My place empty of 'lover' company. But I must and I do.

I go shopping and find the funniest aisle.

Bathroom accessories. Bedroom accessories. Condoms, lubricants at my eye height. Above them, all products relating to urinary tract problems. Below them, all products relating to fungal infections.

Seriously, am I running with Santana. To the right, hair products. To the left pain killers and muscle relaxants.

I settle on all my purchases. But for one important one. And I search all over the plaza for this one.

I want a poster, or banner that reads "I'm tolerant of your sexual preference. I'm tolerant of gays and lady-likers. I relenquish ownership of rainbows for the 'movement'. I want to join a PFLAG group."

To each their own I now say. And I want a set of big arms, from either side of my house. They reach out to hug all, transgenders alike. All welcoming.

The only people not welcome, are those who down on others. Those people who can't tolerate, who can't stop trying to upset and those who won't accept others.

Acceptance comes at a price. And that price is tolerance.